Of Steel and Steam: A Limited Edition Anthology

by Pauline Creeden

"Aye, Ma'am," the mechanical ensign said. "Full stop. Blowing forward tanks and reversing engines."

  The airship shuddered and pitched forward. Robert's grip kept him upright. Stockbridge, however, did not grab for the guide bar, but kept her balance nevertheless.

  I have to learn how to do that, Robert thought.

  "Beckett, begin docking procedures," Stockbridge said when the airship settled. "Zephyrs on deck. COB, you have the conn. Raen'dalle, with me."

  They repeated the orders verbatim, and the Chief of the Boat, the senior enlisted aeronaut, took his place beside Beckett at the helm and barked out the orders to secure the airship to the dock. Dull thuds reverberated through the steel of the hull, and announced the launching of the grapnels that secured them to the platform. Robert followed Stockbridge off the bridge, making sure to stay a proper distance behind her. She climbed the ladders in silence, and only stopped to secure her pistol and sword from the quartermaster, who waited for her topside. Robert retrieved his weapons as well. He ran through a quick inspection of his braces, the pair of pistols he wore, and strapped his sword to his waist.

  "The Captain of the fortress was killed by sniper fire two weeks ago," Stockbridge said when she continued across the upper deck. "His second Lieutenant took over his command and awaits a replacement. We have no idea what sort of shit backward disarray is waiting for us, because that replacement should have been here by now. Shoot first. We'll sort it out afterward."

  "Aye, Ma'am," Robert said.

  Without acknowledging his reply, Stockbridge descended the gangway.

  Introductions

  A platoon of soldiers waited at the end of the dock in full battle rattle. They held their weapons in the ready position. With a given command, they could drop into firing position within a second. Before the troops stood a pair of officers, the only favorable sign of peaceful intentions.

  Robert appraised the formation, noted their numbers and armaments, and cast his gaze to the surrounding pier. Soldiers and civilians moved about the wharves, loading and tending to the different craft tethered to the multi-level station. Hundreds of feet below them, at the shores of the river, fishing and transport boats plied the waters. He returned his scrutiny to the immediate environment, and noted the solitary figures atop the parapets of the fortress. More stood on the buildings closer to the piers, with others positioned in the scaffolds.

  "Spy glasses on the leeward buildings," Robert said. "Snipers on the scaffolds and battlements."

  Stockbridge did not respond. She kept her swaggering pace measured and brisk.

  They stopped several yards out from the platoon and waited. One of the officers stepped forward. He pressed his fist to his chest, and extended two fingers in a sweeping salute.

  "Welcome to Sharil's Forde," he said. "I am Gunnery Sergeant Masters."

  Stockbridge returned the gesture, as did Robert.

  "Captain Stockbridge of the H.M. Battlecruiser Dreadnaut," she said. "This is my Second Lieutenant, Robert Raen'dalle."

  "Raen'dalle?" Sergeant Masters looked taken aback. "As in Count Raen'dalle?"

  "My father is the Count." Robert continued his appraisal of the fortifications. "I am simply an officer in His Majesty's air fleet."

  "An honor, nevertheless, Sir." Sergeant Masters offered a brief, truncated bow, which Robert acknowledged with a slight nod. "Captain, if you will follow me. The commanding officer awaits your pleasure in the citadel."

  The inner ranks executed a smart half turn to create a corridor and Stockbridge waved him forward.

  "Must get tiring," Stockbridge said to Robert once past the guard. "All that bowing and scraping when you enter a room."

  "There's a reason I prefer life aboard ships." Robert kept his eyes on their objective and fought back the show of emotion on his cheeks. "Keeps things in perspective."

  "Enough time on land," Stockbridge harrumphed, "and we won't need helium in our tanks. We can tie the lines to your feet. Your head will swell enough to give us all the lift we need."

  "Not true, Ma'am," Robert said. "You remind me of my place on a daily basis."

  "Well, we all need a hobby."

  Robert chuckled and resumed his circumspect inspection. The soldiers fell into step behind them and kept their weapons at the ready. Robert approved of the tactic, but could not help feeling like a prisoner escorted to the gallows. Another platoon held position at the end of the dock, and kept the area clear to the citadel. The grand doors stood open with the portcullis raised, offering them a view into the Keep.

  "I don't know this new commander," Stockbridge said. "Be ready for anything."

  "Discipline appears stricter than on our last visit," Robert said. "Their ranks are tighter, more uniform."

  "All the more reason to be on our guard." Stockbridge cast him a confiding glance. "Sharil's Forde is the cesspit of the army. Only the dregs get stationed here. The lot of them are murders, thieves and deserters. Either the new commander is a genius, or working for the enemy."

  "I suggest we assume the best of intentions on their part," Robert said. "At least until they prove us wrong."

  "By which time we'll be dead and the Dreadnaut commandeered." Stockbridge flicked a scowl at him. "What part of 'trust no one' do you not understand?"

  "I grasp the concept fine," Robert said. "I only object to it on moral grounds."

  "For my peace of mind, and your continued existence," Stockbridge said, "let's avoid another discussion of morality, Raen'dalle. We've read the same books, and I disagree with most of them."

  "Yes, Ma'am." Robert suppressed a smile and spared a glance at the citadel's defenses.

  The lack of funding for the derelict garrison showed in the cracks that ran for great lengths along the outer walls, and continued beneath the entryway. A decent artillery division would breach its defenses within an hour. When they passed under the entryway, Robert reassessed his initial impression. A steam engine powered the portcullis, and he craned his head to appreciate the gears when he passed under. Murder holes showed numerous cannon muzzles protruding from the darkness, and two sandbagged gunner batteries held position on the inner courtyard. The gunners tracked their movements with the barrels for the length of the passage.

  "Definite improvement," Robert said when they passed the batteries.

  "Don't get complacent," Stockbridge said. "This all suggests the garrison has changed hands."

  Similar gunnery batteries held position at the steps leading up to the Keep, and dotted along the upper palisades of the wall. They kept their weapons trained on the approaching pair.

  Stockbridge snorted. "They need to keep their guns trained on the enemy. Two souls crossing the threshold is hardly a threat."

  "We're Sharakeen initiates," Robert said. "If we wanted to, we could rip through their defenses. Their strategy is sound to me."

  "Well said," Stockbridge said. "Keep this up and I might have to promote you."

  "No thanks, Skipper," Robert said. "I like the Dreadnaut. I just got accustomed to my bunk."

  "Your bunk, or aeronaut Hajek's?"

  Robert chuckled.

  "Here I thought my visits were a secret."

  "There are no secrets on my ship," Stockbridge said. "At least not from me. I meant to counsel you on your choice of bunkmates."

  "That an offer, Captain?"

  Stockbridge offered him a rare smirk.

  "Put some weight on first," she said. "I like my men bigger, and I don't want to break a promising officer. "

  They ascended the broad steps, and stood before the iron bound doors to the Keep. The soldiers encircled them. Stockbridge tapped her nails on the hilt of her sword while she waited. The doors cracked open, and slid aside with the grinding of gears and an exhalation of steam.

  An officer within stood wreathed in the exhaust, his blonde hair cropped short and styled in the latest fashion. His shoulders bore two bars of a lieutenancy, but the medallion resting on his broad chest attested to his command of the station. He s
aluted when Stockbridge presented herself.

  "Welcome to Sharil's Forde," he intoned with a click of his heels. "Acting Captain Lyle Rassnaren at your service."

  "Captain Stockbridge of the H.M. Dreadnaut." She returned the salute in her casual fashion. "May I present my second lieutenant -"

  "Raen'dalle!" the officer shouted, and spread his arms wide in invitation. "As I live and breathe. What are you doing here, you rascal?"

  Robert let out a laugh and embraced the acting commander.

  "Who'd you kill to get this spot?" He clapped him on the back and stepped back.

  "Unfortunately, my Captain was killed by sniper fire two weeks ago," Lyle said, and his tone turned grim. "I hoped your ship was transporting my replacement."

  "I'm sorry, Lyle," Robert said, "I didn't realize you were the one holding it all together."

  "If it's not too much trouble, Lieutenant," Stockbridge said, "would you mind explaining yourself?"

  Robert stepped back and stood at attention.

  "Of course, Ma'am," he said. "This is Lieutenant Rassnaren. We were cadets together at the academy. He's one of my closest friends, Ma'am. We can trust him."

  "Can we now?" She stepped closer and appraised him. "You command the 101st?"

  "Aye, Ma'am," Lyle said.

  "Would you care to explain the difference in discipline I've observed in your ranks?" she said. "I was here less than a year ago, and there was a decided lack of decorum."

  "Of course, Ma'am." Lyle waved the way into the compound, and they entered the citadel proper. "I have been stationed here for the past eight months. Lieutenant Geron was called up by Major General Gelross for the guards, and I took his place after his departure. Captain Munro saw fit to implement several of my suggestions regarding daily drills in company mechanics, prior to his assassination. Since I assumed command, I have also adjusted the duty roster to increase perimeter patrols and man the batteries on a rotating twenty-four-hour basis."

  "You're the fourth commander of this garrison in less than two years," Stockbridge said. "Would that have anything to do with the changes?"

  Lyle laughed, but he nodded, nevertheless.

  "How could it not? Munro was killed by a sniper, Rayner was stabbed on the docks, and Cargus' throat was slit in his sleep. I plan to return home after my tour."

  "How are Merial and the girls?" Robert said.

  "The girls are running their mother ragged on a daily basis." A smile blossomed on Lyle's visage when he spoke of his family. "But they're well. The girls were asking about your next visit. You did promise to come for dinner on the Feast of Night."

  "And I never break a promise," Robert said. "As soon as the war's over it will be my top priority."

  "This one doesn't look old enough for his daughters to hold much appeal to you." Stockbridge quirked an eyebrow at Robert.

  Robert grimaced and shook his head.

  "Lexi is two." Lyle's brow furrowed from the comment. "Valerie is four. He spoils them when he visits. Expensive toys."

  "What's the point of great wealth if you can't lavish it on your friends?" Robert shrugged the matter off.

  "You must have a beautiful wife." Stockbridge smirked.

  Robert shot her a glance, and held out a calming gesture to Lyle. He caught the movement, but retained his frown.

  "She is beautiful, thank you," Lyle said. "And Robert is a perfect gentleman. Tell me, any letters from Emilia? She attends on Merial often in my absence."

  Robert touched his waistcoat, where his gold pocket watch rested.

  "There are always several waiting for me in the mail drops," Robert said. "She sometimes writes two a week. I'm afraid I haven't been as courteous, what with my duties aboard ship."

  "And below decks," Stockbridge whispered, though Lyle did not appear to hear.

  They entered the commander's private dining hall, and Lyle ushered them inside.

  "I've taken the liberty of having dinner laid," he said. "I hope you're hungry. The provisions might be meager, but the chef is excellent."

  News from the Front

  Robert, Stockbridge, and Lyle retired to a spartan hall for a modest, but well executed dinner. On board the Dreadnaut, meals featured a tablecloth, silverware, servers, and a buffet to hold the food. Here, each dish sat on the great wooden slab of a table, and the officers served themselves. The three of them occupied one end, where they continued their conversations.

  Lyle still retained his table manners, Robert noted, and handled his cutlery like a gentleman. A soldier approached the table and whispered in Lyle's ear, to which he nodded and excused himself.

  "Emelia?" Stockbridge said to Robert when Lyle left. "So now we have a name to put with the portrait inside your watch case."

  Robert tasted the wine and took a moment to appraise its qualities. A passable red, but only a few weeks away from vinegar.

  Stockbridge chuckled, and skewered a roasted potato.

  "I take it you have not written to her about your adventures with aeronaut Hajek?" she said.

  Robert took a bigger swallow. The wine tasted better if it went down quick.

  Stockbridge chuckled. "You should know I say what's on my mind, and decorum be damned. I thought you'd be used to my ways by now, Lieutenant. "

  "I am Ma'am."

  "So no comment?"

  Robert set his glass down and folded his hands in his lap.

  "My affairs are my own," he said. "I'm not accustomed to discussing them over dinner."

  "Not entirely accurate." Stockbridge laid her knife and fork down and leaned toward him with her elbows on the table. "Let's put aside the immorality of your liaisons, despite having a girl at home pining for you. And we can also ignore the impropriety of you dallying a subordinate, for the moment. We'll deal with that when and if it becomes an issue. What we cannot ignore is your hypocrisy. I detest liars, Lieutenant. If you want to sleep with every member of our crew, please feel free. But do not lie about it and hide behind the facade of a gentleman. Such behavior will get you tossed overboard at a thousand feet."

  "Understood, Ma'am." Robert resumed his meal.

  "Oh, you are well-bred, indeed," she said. "Not even bothering to defend yourself. Just ignore the issue. I forgot. Such discussions are beneath a gentleman."

  "Not at all." Robert trimmed the gristle from his meat and chewed for a moment. "I grew up in Count Raen'dalle's house. As you know, he's one of the premier nobles of Patheran, and an honored member of society. Their drawing room discussions are quite raucous and racy. You'd be quite at home, especially with your penchant for cards."

  "So why are you refusing my choice of conversation?"

  "Because there's nothing to discuss." Robert took another swallow of wine. "Remember your scriptures; reality is what we make it. Our upbringing, our experiences shape it, and so we see what we expect to see. Suffice it to say, what you interpret as the truth, might not be at all real."

  "So enlighten me as to your truth."

  "Or," Robert continued, "if you'd prefer, you might want to remember I was sent to the Temples at age ten. I escaped at seventeen and enlisted in the academy."

  "I'm well aware of your history." Stockbridge leaned back in her chair, all trace of humor gone from her visage. "I accepted you on my deck despite the inquisitors demanding I turn you over."

  "And I thank you for that." He raised his glass to her. "But you should know I'm a simple man, not given to plots and schemes, secret rendezvous or salacious gossip. Such things are frowned upon at the Temples, remember?"

  "You and I have different recollections of the Temple, I'm afraid."

  "That's what you get for choosing the Red caste," Robert said. "The Black are much more somber."

  Lyle's return silenced Stockbridge's rebuke, and she glowered at Robert while he took his seat.

  "My apologies." Lyle folded his napkin across his lap. "The scout ship sent word by relayed communication. I make it a point to receive each report in person, but they are having tr
ouble deciphering it. Damned relay machines have been acting up all week. I swear someone is deliberately gumming up the works."

  "Ah the concerns of leadership," Stockbridge spared a frown for Robert. "Our conversation will wander into floor polish next. Tell me, what news from the front?"

  Lyle paused with his cutlery held aloft, and sighed.

  "It is not good," he said. "A small Aeresian delegation crossed the sea yesterday afternoon. Two cutters, with a capital ship and a pair of destroyers as escort."

  "So we are suing for peace," Robert said. He laid his fork down, his appetite vanished.

  "The peace accords will be signed in three days' time, at Selkirk," Lyle said. "There's no avoiding it. We lost the majority of the navy and most of our air fleet in the ill planned assault on Antrim. Be glad you weren't there. Current estimates hold thirteen thousand souls lost. Infantry and marine forces among them. Your squadron is the one of only five left to us. Our factories are months away from raising another fleet. Even with an increased infantry conscription, we can't field a large enough force to hold the Mohar line against a protracted assault."

  Stockbridge tossed her silverware on her plate, and the echo ran about the barren room.

  "So after five years of war, we roll over and give in," she said. "I'll scuttle the Dreadnaut before I raise an Aerisian flag on its masthead."

  "A noble sentiment, but such appears to be our fate," Lyle said. "My scouts report the enemy force pulled back from the Mohar line two days ago, in accordance with the armistice."

  "Last I heard, the crown planned on a full conscription for anyone under forty," Stockbridge said.

  "How long have you been in the air?" Lyle filled his glass with wine from the crystal decanter.

  "Three weeks," Robert said. "Since before Antrim. We effected the landing to secure Helonshore and its libraries."

  Lyle nodded, and chewed his food longer than necessary.

  "You haven't heard. Helonshore's one of the points of concession," he said. "A draft of the accord was forwarded to all command posts this past week. It arrived by horse, not airship. Control of Helonshore will go to Aers. Hells, the new border is fifty miles behind our line. It wasn't explicit, but I expect an Aeresian delegation here within the month to take control of the Forde. "