Manners & Mutiny

by Gail Carriger

  “So what are you getting out of this arrangement?”

  “Enough money to set up my own household, if I want.” Agatha was purposefully not looking at Pillover.

  “No!” Dimity gasped. An unmarried woman setting up house was the mark of a mistress.

  Agatha looked at Sophronia, but she was talking to Pillover. “I would be an independent woman of means. I could love as I willed without consulting my family. He even promised me an allowance, if I continued to pass on information.”

  Pillover looked at his feet.

  As riveting as this all was, Sophronia finally recovered from her shock enough to bring them back to the point. They hadn’t time to process Agatha’s revelation further now. The string of students was ambling away, and Sophronia had a ship to save.

  “So you can get a message to Lord Akeldama, and he’ll alert the dewan.”

  Agatha nodded.

  “You’d do that for me?”

  Agatha nodded again.

  “And Dimity, you’ll check on Soap?”

  Dimity nodded, although she was still staring at Agatha, eyes wide.

  Pillover seemed genuinely afraid. “You aren’t going to give me an assignment, are you, Sophronia?”

  “I wouldn’t insult your personality.”

  “Aw, Sophronia, you care.” Pillover looked almost happy.

  Sophronia nodded. “I’ll follow when I can. If you haven’t heard from me by morning, send help or come back yourselves?”

  They didn’t discuss what or how, but the two girls nodded.

  “Good luck,” said Sophronia.

  Dimity rushed over and hugged her hard. It was most unladylike. Bumbersnoot was crushed between them, the side of his carapace digging into Sophronia’s hip bone.

  It was wonderful.

  “I trust you, Dimity.” For Sophronia, this was as near as she got to an admission of affection.

  Dimity sniffled. “Don’t do anything too drastic, please?”

  Then Dimity let her go and trotted after the other students, back set against Agatha.

  Sophronia looked at Agatha. She felt a change in the order of things, a new respect between them. “She’ll come around.”

  “But you aren’t angry with me?”

  Pillover, perturbed by the prospect of sentimentality, made a hasty bow and drifted after his sister.

  Sophronia examined her feelings. She hated talking about them, but she intended to hit Agatha with the honesty that Agatha hadn’t afford her. “I feel betrayed, but I would have done the same thing, in your position.”

  Agatha paled but took it like the intelligencer she was. “That’s fair.”

  “You really will send to London for help? I can trust you in this at least?”

  Agatha was in grave earnest. “Absolutely.” Perhaps she would be a good match for Pillover. If they married, they’d have a wedding as near to a wake as might be. For some reason this thought cheered Sophronia.

  “Take care of them?” Sophronia’s hand gesture took in not only Dimity and Pillover but also Vieve and Soap in town.

  Agatha smiled and turned to catch up to the others.

  Pillover paused to offer her his arm.

  They followed Dimity into the night.

  Sophronia returned to the school in a roundabout way. If she were the infiltrating Picklemen, she’d have guards posted at the wreck. Taking into consideration that fact, plus their previous interest in the pilot’s bubble, she angled to come around the stern of the airship.

  The moon was bright enough for her to assess the damage as she crept through the underbrush. It wasn’t pretty, but it also didn’t look fatal. Some splintered wood, a balloon or two damaged, rigging dangling free.

  She kept getting distracted by the fact that her chest area was freezing. Her stupid dress was too full and too low for clandestine activities not involving seduction. She fervently wished for a nice set of breeches and a man’s shirt. In the end she settled for shedding her top petticoat and constantly tugging up on the neckline. The liberated petticoat she tucked under a gorse bush, where it sat like some sad forgotten fluffy creature. In one respect, she was grateful for the dress—dark red with black brocade was perfect for fading into the heath.

  She shifted Bumbersnoot to lie across her back. The little mechanimal stayed silent but for the faint tick-tock of his tail. As she inched closer, she checked to make certain her carnet de bal and bladed fan still hung securely from her waist. She was as equipped as a ball gown allowed. She stripped out all the pretty frills and fripperies from her hair and used a ribbon to tie it tightly back and out of her eyes.

  No Picklemen were in sight, but there were sooties everywhere, busy making repairs. Two greasers yelled instructions, one from the midship squeak deck and another from the balcony above boiler room level.

  Two of the balloons had lost a great deal of helium. Despite the resulting limpness, they were solid enough to withstand the weight of sooties crawling over them, applying slap patches. That was causing the airship to straighten, like a student caught slouching and chided into proper posture. Still, the school wasn’t floating anywhere without a refill, and that was going to be a challenge so far from the train tracks.

  If anything, the whole operation was going suspiciously well. The attackers never intended to cause permanent damage, but instead to force a grounding. Did they want an evacuation also?

  Sophronia almost slapped her forehead with her hand, she felt so stupid. They are after the airship itself! They want the school, and they’ve wanted the school all along. That’s what the pilot’s bubble infiltration was all about. They were surveying the darned thing, learning how it worked, determining whether it would fill their needs. They weren’t after war airships—they were after our school. It’s the biggest dirigible in the country.

  Sophronia scanned the surrounding landscape. She gasped—quietly, of course. For riding low and coming in fast toward them were three flywayman airships… big ones.

  ABANDONED SHIP

  One of the sooties noticed the incoming ships and shouted, pointing. There was nothing they could do. They were sitting ducks. Or more precisely, one great big huge sitting duck.

  At that moment, three large men appeared, one on each squeak deck. They held fierce-looking guns, which they swung around, pointing from one sootie to the next.

  The sooties reacted instantly. They were not fighters and had no cards in this game. They were merely laborers, and the lowest of those. Grunts in the boiler room. They, quite rightly, thought only in terms of saving their own skins. Most of them froze where they climbed, then turned to face this new threat.

  One sootie panicked and jumped off the lower deck. He ran off across the moor, fortunately away from Sophronia’s hiding spot.

  The forward deck Pickleman took aim and fired.

  The sootie cried out and fell dead.

  The man who had shot him raised a speaking tube to his mouth and shouted through it, loud enough for Sophronia to hear. Even though the leaking helium caused his voice to squeak, there was no mistaking the menace in his words. He sounded like a very angry mouse.

  “And the same to any others who run. Now, you six, finish the repairs. The rest of you, prepare the fizz tube. We’re bringing in helium. Greasers, you’re with the boiler contingent. Don’t even think about plotting to countermand my orders. You work for us now, or you die, simple as that. Prepare the boilers to burn up. I’m with you to keep you on track. Do as ordered and you may even be rewarded for your troubles. Now move!”

  The sooties—street-smart and blood-wary—did as instructed.

  The man with the speaking tube vanished below. The two others stood firm, weapons at the ready to ensure no others broke for freedom. No other sootie tried.

  The six chosen sooties dutifully finished up repairs and assembled amidships, shoulders hunched and movements cautious.

  Sophronia wanted to go to the fallen boy on the moor, but she did not doubt the Pickleman’s aim. The boy�
�s path had no cover under the moonlight. That poor lad was likely beyond what little aid she could offer. The living needed her now.

  She continued toward the ship. The men with the guns were focused inward, concerned with holding prisoners, not checking for possible infiltration.

  Sophronia ended up directly below the aft section with the propeller and its lone smokestack above her. It was odd to see the airship so near the ground. The bottom part of the propeller almost touched the heather. Above her was the hold storage area, with the glass platform she’d ridden up the first time she came to Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. That platform was locked into place, and there was no other point of entry.

  She turned her attention to the middle section, the lowest level of which was where mechanicals were stored and serviced. The kitchens were above that. This section had a loading bay with massive doors that opened like a cellar’s. Manned by mechanicals, these were too heavy for one person to push open. However, along the side between this and the hold, servicing the kitchen and dining hall above, ran a tube of dumbwaiters. There were rungs on the outside of the tubes, because the waiters often required maintenance. Sophronia shot out her hurlie at the lowest rung. She pulled back to get a grip and then climbed up. The incoming flywaymen were out of sight, and she was shielded from view by the bulk of the ship.

  If the sooties had been ordered to prep the boilers, then her assessment of the situation was correct—the Picklemen wanted to kidnap the school. The incoming ships must be intending to provide cargo and crew. She would also lay very good odds that they intended to cannibalize the helium they needed from those balloons to reinflate the school’s.

  She didn’t need to watch it happen. Soon as she could, she pulled out a hairpin and picked the lock of a maintenance hatch at the top of the dumbwaiter tube. It was relatively easy to climb down the inside. It was the right size for a girl bracing herself back and forth, although her wide skirts—even tucked up—gave the tube a thorough cleaning. Her climb was more an undignified waddle, but no one was watching. She felt that the kitchen was the best access point, since it was likely abandoned. Picklemen would think it beneath them to congregate in such a menial area.

  The kitchen was indeed empty.

  Sophronia found a small knife and, cursing her lack of pockets, fed it to Bumbersnoot. She filched a few apples, some bread, and a wedge of hard cheese, which she wrapped in her handkerchief, attaching it to her chatelaine. Lady Linette was very firm on the matter of nicking food. “A lady must always be prepared. Snacks are an essential part of espionage.”

  Sophronia used the stairs out of the kitchen, emerging into the middle-level hallway. This was the section with the assembly deck and drop-down staircase, as well as some of the bigger classrooms.

  It was quiet enough to be unnerving. This area was normally crowded with students, teachers, human staff, and mechanicals. People rushed from tumbling class, or stage-to-street performance lessons, or flowerpot transplanting and tossing practice. Now there was nothing but empty stillness. Even the mechanicals were missing. Her obstructor was entirely unnecessary.

  She heard the boilers start up—the airship was once again fully upright.

  Sophronia sniffed the air and caught no lingering smell of gas. She kept out her obstructor just in case, and moved through the school on silent feet. There was a faint lifting sensation, and a quick glance out a porthole showed the moor retreating. It also showed three grounded flywayman ships with flaccid balloons. All of their helium had been transferred to Mademoiselle Geraldine’s.

  Should I check on the sooties or go see what is happening in the pilot’s bubble? Do I try to find Mademoiselle Geraldine, or should I assume she’s been taken hostage? And what about Professor Braithwope? Sophronia was overwhelmed with options. Lady Linette’s voice rang through her head.

  Never enter a situation, social or strategic, without understanding the personnel and protocols in place. In other words, it is always better to know the state, color, and number of handkerchiefs in a room before you blow anyone’s nose.

  Sophronia took that to heart, partly because it gave her an objective. First she would search the airship, count the number of Picklemen and flywaymen on board, and note their positions. She’d already seen the three with guns, and two of those were still up on the squeak decks. If she were in charge, she’d keep them as lookouts. The third was down in the boiler room. There had to be someone in charge of the infiltration, and he’d want a command chair. Would he station himself near the pilot’s bubble or on a squeak deck? No, safer somewhere inside the ship. He’d need at least three runners to carry orders to the others. Then there were probably two in the pilot’s bubble. Plus an assorted number of heavy lifters—bully boys. They’d have to spread out, with one to keep an eye on the headmistress and another to track Professor Braithwope. That was a lot of men to account for. Sophronia estimated a total—she wouldn’t take on a ship of this size without at least a dozen men.

  Now let’s find out if I’m right.

  She felt the propeller crank up. That meant they had one Pickleman and half a dozen sooties working the auxiliary propulsion boilers. It also meant they were now high enough up to start the guidance system.

  Sophronia dove into a classroom and out onto a balcony to see. Somehow she wasn’t surprised to find they were heading toward London. And they weren’t doing so under steam cover. The Picklemen didn’t care that they would be seen by every small town they floated over. The secret of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s airship school wasn’t going to be a secret much longer.

  If the Picklemen had any major cargo, it would be stashed in the hold with the glass elevator. Sophronia decided to check that first. She nipped around the dumbwaiters and down the access stairs. At the door, she put her ear to the jamb and heard minor thudding. She pushed it open a crack.

  The hold was full of mechanimals. Bumbersnoot, passive until that moment, began upticking his tail in interest. His alarm did not sound, and he showed no particular eagerness to be put down to go to his compatriots. But he certainly was aware of them.

  Sophronia’s stomach sank and her cheeks tingled. These were no small dachshund-shaped creatures. These were huge monsters, similar to the massive mechanimal she had encountered in her mother’s gazebo the night of Petunia’s ball. They bore little resemblance to any specific creature, looking more like wingless gargoyles. The hold was crammed with them. One squatted, as though waiting, on the glass lift. They did not move, but they looked like they could at any moment.

  There was something terrifying about a mechanical construct that did not need a track. Sophronia had not realized that until she saw them all assembled before her. With the most prevalent mechanimal in her life being Bumbersnoot, she hadn’t thought the law making them illegal at all sensible. Now she understood. In that hold squatted a small but mighty army.

  Shaken, Sophronia closed the door and continued with her assessment of the school.

  She moved toward engineering, which, combined with the boiler room, took up the two lower levels of the front of the airship. She couldn’t easily sneak in there, because the main entrance was at the top, and no doubt the Picklemen would station themselves there to oversee operations. With a resigned sigh, she made her way out onto a balcony and began climbing down and around the outside of the airship toward her standard entrance—the sooties’ hatch.

  There were no sooties waiting to help her inside this time. The massive room was suffused with the flickering orange of flames and a general smoky cloudiness Sophronia had grown to expect and find rather comforting. She made for her favorite coal pile, the one upon which she and Soap had spent many happy hours practicing reading and occasionally practicing smooching. Ordinarily, this part of the boiler room was humming, off-duty sooties mingled with those sent to tap the coal reserves. With only a kidnapped skeleton crew, there were no breaks, and the area was abandoned. Occasionally, Sophronia could pick out a strange new sound—a loud crack.

  She peeked o
ut from behind the coal pile to where the sooties were working the fireboxes. Or, to be more precise, where the sooties were slaving. They were running their normal patterns—feeding, stoking, checking the smooth motions of the main boilers—but they were doing so under ready punishment. The speaking-tube Pickleman was not on the supervisor’s platform, but down among the workers. He stood armed with a bullwhip in one hand and his gun in the other. If any sootie slackened his pace or did anything the Pickleman considered amiss, the whip flashed out, striking the unfortunate boy across the back.

  The sooties were grim-faced and sweating, working as hard as they could. When the whip flashed, the poor unfortunate would wince and grit his teeth but not cry out. They were tough boys who’d started on docks or up chimneys. Sootie to a floating school was a cushy job by comparison, but that didn’t mean the lads had never before felt the kiss of a whip. They simply hadn’t expected to do so again.

  Sophronia, on the other hand, had never witnessed such a thing. Her parents weren’t ones for harsh punishment, and she’d never visited the plantations of the West Indies, where, rumor had it, caning was commonplace. Every time the bullwhip struck, she winced and swallowed down a cry of sympathetic distress.

  She watched as one small sootie got a second lick, right near the first. His shirt went ragged under the blows. He stumbled forward, and Handle jumped to his aid. She caught Handle’s expression. It wasn’t one of meek servitude. He was absolutely livid.

  Whatever else her plans entailed, she had to determine a way to get them out.

  Sophronia assessed the security. Apart from the Pickleman with the whip, she counted two others overseeing the carnage from above. Without a projectile weapon, she couldn’t do anything right away—plus, she had to obey her training and assess the shipwide situation first. But she made the sooties a silent promise to return and free them as soon as possible.