Wind Dancer: Secret War Steampunk Series - Adventure, Mystery + Mad Science (15 page)

 “Safe landing and Queen Victoria!” The room rang with the
chorus. Almost as one, the room upended their drinks.

Abigail took a drink, feeling the dark sweet liquor burn its
way down her throat. It was strong enough to bring tears to her eyes, but she
held her dignity. Everyone sat again and the musicians took up where they left
off.

“Abigail,” Will said over the music, “this is some of the
bridge crew that you haven’t met yet. Let me do introductions.” He pointed to
the blonde who was wearing a fancy dress in dark blue. “Naomi Walters, our
bridge talker. It’s her voice that you’ve heard over the speaker horns.”

“Lady Hadley,” Naomi nodded towards her over her bottle. Abigail
had a good ear for accents; Naomi’s speech had the sound of a British finishing
school.

“Will was just telling me there’s no rank in the mess, so call
me Abigail, please.” She smiled over the music. The younger woman blushed a
deeper red and nodded, smiling shyly back.

“Michael McGuire, Our Aetherwave operator,” Will pointed to
the ginger haired man.

The man tipped his bottle in an ironic salute. “Abigail,” the
man said in an Irish brogue you could cut with a knife. Clearly, he had already
had more than one of the potent bottles.

“That fearsome looking man under Saira is Jarro, our
helmsman”. The dark skinned man’s face was covered in elaborate tattoos that
made a snarling mask. He silently waved a hand.

“Our Arms-Master you already know, of course.” Saira lifted a
bottle in salute towards Abigail.  Will gestured towards the man on his left, “This
old scoundrel,” Will finished, “is Bobby Marsh, our Chief Rigger.” The old
man’s dark face split into a wide grin as he spoke to her over the noise.  

“Abigail is it?” Marsh said in a lilting voice.  “Wots’ this
I hear from Devi that you’ve saved us all from a deep problem?” Abigail
couldn’t place his accent, but took his meaning clear enough.

“Well,” she started, taking another much smaller sip from her
bottle. “It was nothing much really. A drift in the magnetic resonance of one
of your Tesla engines. Chief Neelam, I mean Devi, would have dealt with it
fine. I simply happened to have a tool to make re-balancing easier.” The old
man looked at her with new respect.

“You could re-balance the resonance while the engine was
running?” Bobby remarked in wonder. He shook his head at the thought. “I be
thinking that it was more than simple, my sister.”

“Not at all,” Abigail said to him easily. Because she found talking
of herself uncomfortable she changed the subject. “Please forgive my ignorance,
as I know little of airships,” she said, “but what do you do as
Chief Rigger
?
I know of the term from sailing ships, but we have no sails.” A wide smile
again split the black face.

“Well, riggers mostly work on the open spaces of the upper
hull,” he explained. “We patch leaks in the gas cells, fix the wiring, handle
the cargo, and go topside when it’s needed, course.”

“Topside?” Abigail asked curiously.

“He means they go outside on the top of the ship while we’re
in flight,” Will explained to her.

“Oh,” Abigail said, in a subdued voice. She could imagine how
dangerous such a thing would be flying thousands of feet above the ground.
“That must require very strong nerves,” she observed. Bobby shrugged.

“It no happen that often,” he said, “exceptin’ when we gets
in fights. Then we have holes to patch, or the damn running lights to fix. They
are always gettin’ shot up.” He tipped his bottle up to his lips, then grinned
at her.

“Besides is nothing like it in all the world,” he said still
grinning. “You are walkin’ in the clouds like a god. I will take you out on the
ship sometime if you like.”

“Forgive me for asking, Lady Abigail,” Naomi said from across
the table, “but I don’t know much about Tesla engines. Drift of what
resonance?” Abigail looked at the woman.

“Just Abigail, please,” she said with a smile. “You know how
Tesla engines work yes?”

“Sort of,” the woman replied, “something about how the ball
inside takes energy from the earth, correct?” Abigail nodded. The young woman
had a better understanding than many she had been to a party with.

“Essentially, yes,” Abigail agreed. “The
ball
is really a
series of special loops suspended in a magnetic fluid that is tuned to the same wave’ as the earth herself generates,” she explained. “The loops
capture
this energy and spin with what they’ve captured in a magnetically
induced tension. We then…”

“Use that energy as electricity,” McGuire finished for her.

“Yes, essentially,” Abigail acknowledged, while trying not to
be annoyed at the redheads’ interruption. “Sometimes the magnetic resonance of
the loops ‘slip’ for lack of a better word, in relation to each other, we
really don’t know why. When that happens the electricity generated begins to
oscillate, spiking and then falling. Then we must realign all the loops
magnetic resonance such that they flow smoothly again.”

“What happens when you don’t do that?” Naomi asked, sipping
at her drink.

“The engine goes boom in a most spectacular fashion, it
does,” McGuire said taking a large swig from his bottle. “And takes yon ship
with it more often than not,” he set his bottle back down with a thump.

“That can happen,” Abigail allowed. “Although it’s usual to
take the engine off line before matters reach that far.” She looked at the
operator over her bottle mouth. “Are you interested in Energetics, Mr.
McGuire?” He shrugged, taking another deep pull from his bottle.

“I’ve learned a bit here an’ there,” he said shortly. “Are
you interested that your fancy title comes from stealing the food of starving
Irish children, Lady Hadley?”

“McGuire,” Saira hissed, “the woman is a guest,
and
has
done us a good turn of her own will, as well.” Abigail blinked, and looked from
Saira back to McGuire. She narrowed her eyes at McGuire.

“I’m afraid that I don’t know what you mean by that
statement, Mr. McGuire,” Abigail replied coldly. “I have never stolen food from
anyone.”

“Is that so?” McGuire challenged, “But you still uphold and
serve the Famine Queen don’t you? The self-same one who tried to turn back the
food ships in ’40, and then dragooned the men of Ireland in ’77 at bayonet
point to be grist for the Invaders? There be a lot of blood on that throne you
take your title from Lady Hadley.”

Abigail looked around the table. Most of the faces where
blank, Will returned her look with an up raised eyebrow as if interested in her
reply. Saira looked as if she could kill McGuire. She would receive no help
there. Abigail turned her gaze back to the Irishman.

“First of all, Mr. McGuire,” she began tartly, “I’m afraid
that I know very little about the famine of 1840, although from what I have
read, I believe that there was incompetence and error on both sides of the sea.
As for the events of ’77, I have only second hand knowledge of those. With my
mother dead, and my father aiding the science effort, I was at the Blackpool
Relocation Camp.”

There was a moment of silence at this revelation. Blackpool
had become infamous for its horrible conditions during the war. Starvation and
corruption were only the start of it. It was talked about that nearly as many
people had died in the relocation camps as had been killed by the Invaders.

“Although,” Abigail continued, “if what I have heard of the
Irish brigades is even half true, they surely fought as magnificently as they
could drink,” she paused to drink from her own bottle. “Which, if you are any
example,” she continued, “must have been truly magnificent indeed.” Low
chuckles from around the table greeted this.

“Finally, “Abigail continued with some force, “
Her Majesty
Queen Victoria made possible the gathering of the Savants who, led by Dr.
Tesla, created the science that defeated the Invaders in Britain. Then she gave
that knowledge to the whole world so that everyone might defend themselves
against the invader’s depredations, rather than hoard it exclusively for the
Empire.” She made a great show of looking around the airship mess hall.

“A fact which I believe means that without Her Majesty’s good
rule we would not be here having this discussion. And which I also believe you
yourself just acknowledged in the toast Will gave.” She took another drink from
her bottle and set it down looking at McGuire in challenge.

The table burst into spontaneous applause at her conclusion
while McGuire had been getting increasingly red−faced at her lecture. He
threw back his head and howled in approval while slapping the table.

“I will say this for ye, girl,” he gasped. “You’ve got some
brass ones that’s for sure and all!” Finding his bottle empty, he waved it in
the air signaling that he wanted another. “But surely being an intelligent
person, can you not agree that…” He was interrupted by Devi Neelam coming up to
the table. She was barefoot, and dressed in a flowing robe of a deep blue that Abigail
knew was called a sari.

“Paddy McGuire,” she scolded him. “Do not be telling me that
you have been haranguing Lady Hadley with your politics after she has worked
for days to save your worthless posterior!”

“Now Devi,” McGuire pleaded, raising both hands as if to ward
off a blow, “I was just exchanging views with our distinguished guest is all.”

“It’s all right, Devi,” Naomi said to her. “Paddy here was
just going to apologize, weren’t you Michael?” The woman followed this with
another poke in McGuire’s side. McGuire opened his mouth working it as a fish might,
then closed his jaw with a great sigh.

“Truly Lady Hadley, if my…impassioned discourse has given you
any offense, I do apologize,” he said drunkenly. He even sounded sincere.

“Accepted Mr. McGuire, we need speak of it no further,” Abigail
replied in the ritual words that said they would not go to dueling over what
had been said. Dueling had become very popular since the War. Even Her Majesty,
Victoria, approved of it in certain circumstances.

McGuire’s eyes widened at the ritual phrasing that indicated
that there would be no duel over the conversation. Clearly, he hadn’t
considered that she might actually call him out over what he had said. She
smiled at his astonishment.

“And please, call me Abigail at this time,” she finished sweetly
with a smile.

“Indeed, then let us speak of it no further,” he smiled back
as he gave her the ritualistic dueling response, indicating that the matter was
finished between them while acknowledging his wrong. “And I’d be pleased if
you’d call me Paddy at this time, for I’m surely drunk.”

Another bottle was slapped down on the table at his elbow. He
went to open it, and announced to the table in general, “Damn me, but I think I
like her.”

Devi, still standing at the end of the table, gave an
aristocratic snort at this pronouncement and turned to Saira.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked. Saira looked at Jarro, who
nodded. She leapt up from Jarro’s lap. The helmsman followed her in standing.
The first thing that Abigail could see was that he was very tall.

“Ready and more than,” Saira said gratefully. “Politics gives
me a rash.” She removed her robe, followed by the man, Jarro. Both of them were
naked save for something like a loincloth, their skin gleaming with oil. Saira
also had a band of cloth restraining her ample breasts, a necklace of old
silver around her throat. Seeing Abigail’s look of surprise, she gave a saucy
wink at her.

“Enjoy the show,” she said, and swayed off towards the stage.
The crew, seeing the pair, began to call out encouragement. The table pounding
resumed building in a rhythm that drowned out everything else. Abigail shot a
look of inquiry at Will, wondering what she was about to see. He smiled,
pointing at the stage, “Watch,” he said.

Suddenly, the electric tubes went dark, leaving the room
illuminated only by the flickering light of the gas mantles along the walls.
The table pounding cut off as suddenly. A few notes from Devi’s stringed
instrument sounded as Saira entered the center of the cleared space. Her
pantomime appeared as graceful as any ballerina that Abigail had even seen.
Saira was a hunter, weary from the hunt, the spear she mimed leaning against
seemed almost real to Abigail as she watched. A flute took up a winding harmony
as Saira stretched, looked about to see there was no danger, and then gracefully
sank to the ground in mock slumber.

A small drum began a faint snarling rhythm that grew louder
as Jarro, on all fours now, stalked into the clearing. Clearly he was a lord of
the beasts, powerful and cunning. Discovering the sleeping hunter, he crouched,
preparing to spring. The drum was joined by another as the flute sang notes of
distress. The hunter jumped up, spear held before her. The two faced off,
crouching. Then accompanied by a crescendo of music, they attacked. Spinning
and lunging, twirling and stabbing the two fought back and forth across the
cleared space of the floor. Abigail watched, spellbound.

With a final amazing leap through the air, the hunter’s spear
pierced the beast, and he collapsed, with the hunter standing over him.

Silence.

Stillness.

Then the notes of a flute solo wound through the air as the
hunter raised arms to the heavens as if in an offering. Slowly, a winged bird appeared
to rise from the body of the beast. Jarro moved incredibly lightly for one so
large. He danced, his form flying around the hunter. She lowered her arms and
turned towards him, arms outstretched, trying to capture him. But the bird managed
to flit away, always at the last possible moment.

The hunter followed the bird as the two danced around and
around each other, skin gleaming in the gas light. Touch, whirl, touch, the
music complex and plaintive, until at last, the bird opened wide his wings to
the hunter. She entered his embrace, head flung back in surrender as the music
soared. His wings enveloped her. The two, entwined as one, floated to the floor
on the last note.