Wind Dancer: Secret War Steampunk Series - Adventure, Mystery + Mad Science (4 page)

Chapter Three

Wind Dancer, Bengal Province

Free India States

“Very well,” Saira Brighton, Arms-Master
of Wind Dancer, pronounced, “That finishes our meeting.
Good work
out there everyone. I will expect you all at drill in the morning where we will
work more on guard formation. You may go about your business or…” she pulled
the cork from her own bottle again. “You may finish your drinks, if you haven’t
already.” She took a healthy swig, feeling the rum burn comfortably on the way
down.

With differing versions of “Aye Aye,” some members of the
landing party stood up to leave, while others shifted on the benches to talk to
their neighbors. She watched her Tigers with satisfaction.

The landing drop had turned out to be uneventful. Save for
the shooting of the Captain and finding the bodies of the
Raja Goh’s
crew that the herders had played with, she added to herself. They had found the
ship’s strongbox and hauled it back to the ship without further incident. It
had all been in a day’s work and no one had been hurt, she thought in satisfaction.
Briefly, she brushed the aura of her newest Tiger, Ravin, with her spirit
senses to find him more settled than before. It was his first exposure to the
evils men will do one another, and he had naturally lost his stomach over the
tortured bodies. He had then straightened up and carried on, as she knew he
would. He would do, she thought with approval.

“Mind if I sit for a moment?” Saira looked up at the
question. She saw Michael McGuire, the ship’s chief wave operator, gesturing
with his mug at the empty bench space across from her. Saira thought it better
to hold her after−action meetings in the mess. Everyone could relax, have
a drink, eat, or smoke as they liked, to unwind. She found that the meetings
went much better so, despite what Mr. Rogers pronounced.

She smiled at him, teeth gleaming in her dusky face.

“Please,” she pointed with her bottle. “We were finished with
the meeting. Are you not on duty though?”

McGuire nodded, sliding onto the bench.

“Cap’n is on another Aetherwave call with Calcutta. He told
me to take a long break.” He sipped from the mug and sighed. “Wu does make a
good cup of tea once you get used to the spices and all. How went it down
there?”

She drank again from the small rum bottle, and then shrugged
as she lowered it. “Well enough. We had no more trouble from the locals.
Blowing up their rockets seems to have sent them running. So, the Cap‘n did not
want you listening in, did he? Is it about our next job?”

McGuire managed to look offended, his brogue thickening.

“I am shocked lass that ye would even think such a thing.
Running the aether is a sacred trust, it is.”

Saira laughed. It was no secret that McGuire was, or had
been, a ‘wave tapdancer’. Tapdancers made their very illegal living by
listening in on supposedly private transactions on the Aetherwave, then selling
the information to others. Both governments and companies used them covertly, all
the while casting doubts that such ‘tapping’ was even possible. She knew that
McGuire was very intelligent; he had to be to do such things. She also knew
that he had no such scruples as he protested.

“Come now, Michael,” she purred, moving so that her open vest
revealed more of her unbound breasts. Saira had always disliked wearing more
clothes than she had too, and the ship’s temperature was still tolerable for
her. “Surely you can tell a shipmate?”

McGuire looked at her for a moment and swallowed. He saw a
short, olive-skinned woman with an angular face and startling blue eyes crowned
by close-cut ink black hair. Her body was all taut muscle and round curves. His
own body stirred at her implicit invitation. Even though this was a game they
had played before, he knew that she would freely share her favors with him if
he ever said yes to one of her offers. He also knew she was the deadliest
person he had ever shared a table with, which dampened his ardor somewhat. Then
there was the whole spooky mind-reading thing, even though she vowed that she
didn’t actually read minds. He had grown up on tales of mortals mixing it up
with the fairy folk. No good ever came to the mortals. Even though she wasn’t
really a fairy, the principle was the same. Besides, he thought, there was
Naomi to consider. Even if Saira took such things lightly, Naomi certainly
didn’t. He gave a great regretful sigh and focused back on his tea.

“You can be a most vexing woman at times, you know,” he said
in mock exasperation.

“But it always gets your attention so nicely!” Saira laughed.
What would Naomi say?”

“That once again you’ve proved that I’m not dead yet, as you
well know,” he replied grinning back. Shifting back to a serious expression, he
leaned forward, lowering his voice. “All I know is that something has gone bad,
and that we’re moving back to Calcutta as fast as we can. Cap’n has had Devi
crank up the engines to full.”

Saira frowned at that, opening her mouth to say something,
when a huge hairy paw of a hand landed on her shoulder. Restraining herself
from responding by immediately cutting off the offending hand, she looked up to
see a swaying giant, leering at her with a mug in his other hand.

“You’re the one they call Saira, the darkie sorceress aren’t
ya? They tell me that you like to do it as part of your spells.” The giant
slurred at her in accented English, while leering.

“Look here man…” McGuire began hotly. Saira held up a hand,
stopping McGuire.

“That is all right Michael; our friend is clearly new here.”
She turned on the bench towards the drunken giant. She saw two of the rigger
crew stagger drunkenly into the mess. They stopped with dismay as they saw what
their new friend was doing.

“Yes, I am called Saira,” she replied sweetly. “Yes I am a
sorceress and yes, I ‘do it,’ as you say, for both the spirits and my Goddess.”
McGuire’s face paled where he sat across from her. He knew that tone in her
voice. “What is your name, tall and manly,” Saira cooed.

“Olaf Anderson,” the giant said with a grin, his speech
slurred with drink. “I wan’ you ta know that I aint afraid of no darkie
spirits.” He squeezed her shoulder harder. “So let’s go do it then.”

“Why that is a most kind offer, Olaf Anderson,” she replied
coolly. “I think that you should look down though.”

Puzzled, the man blearily looked down to see a very large
blade pointed at his crotch. He stared in astonishment, as he’d not seen her
draw the knife. He froze as the blade touched his pants.

“Now listen carefully, Olaf Anderson,” Saira speared his gaze
with her eyes, ensnaring his soul in their entangled gazes. She carefully
ignited a nameless terror deep within him that froze his muscles, while
continuing to speak. “You signed Articles when you were hired on this ship. One
of them stated that you not push yourself on a shipmate unwilling, remember?
You may nod your head,” she ordered. Olaf found that he could no longer move
his lips to reply to this nightmare in front of him. In fact, he couldn’t move
a single muscle in his body of his own will. He silently began gibbering inside
as his head moved up and down of its own accord.

“I could gut you right now, and not a soul here would stop
me,” she stated sweetly. “I suspect, however, that you fell in with bad company.”
She glanced over at the two riggers who were rooted to the spot in horror. “Is
that right? You may nod your head again.”

Olaf nodded again, the whites of his eyes showing. Saira
nodded in mock sympathy.

“As I thought,” she said calmly. “Now remember Olaf Anderson,
the women of this ship, and even some of the men, are much fiercer than I, and
not as understanding.” She shook her head as the razor edge parted the cloth of
his pants with ease. Olaf dropped his mug. “Can you remember that Olaf?” He
nodded again.

“Good,” Saira smiled up at him again. “Now remove your hand
from my shoulder, slowly, and say you are sorry for interrupting.”

His hand did so, otherwise his body would not move. Then
wetting dry lips, Olaf mumbled what sounded like an apology.

“Good boy!” Saira replied with a grin. “You can go sleep it
off now.” She released her hold on his spirit, while moving the knife away.
Olaf’s eyes rolled up into his head as he collapsed on the floor with a thud.
There were hoots and laughter from the other patrons in the mess as the giant
fainted away.

“You two,” she ordered, pointing her knife at the two
riggers. “Take him back to his berth.” The two came forward each taking one of
the giant’s arms. They hauled him up between them. “Arms-Master…” one of them
began.

“Do not even try,” she said coldly. Saira made a cutting
motion with her forearm-long knife. “I know what has happened here. Be grateful
I do not turn my eye on
you
. Now git,” she waved the knife. ‘Git’ was
one of Cap’n Wills’ expressions which she approved of completely. Nothing in
English quite said the meaning so well. The two hapless men swiftly took their
burden away. Entertainment over, the watchers in the mess returned to their
previous conversations. Saira made the knife disappear and picked up her bottle
again.

“My fault,” she said ruefully to McGuire. “I should have been
here to meet the new hires in Calcutta.”

“So you do not think friend Anderson will be with us long?”
McGuire knew that she had been off ship for several days, but didn’t ask where
she had been. You didn’t pry into what others did in their off-time. If she
wanted to say, she would have.

“Oh, his spirit is not truly bad,” she replied. “He was full
of drink and stories from the riggers. We will have to see what he does with
what has happened to him when he wakes.”

“Well, I be afraid that you have a true challenge coming your
way,” Michael said looked over her shoulder, “one named ‘Rogers’.” He stood up,
draining his mug. “I was on the bridge when he learned of your shooting feat,
and he was mad as a wet chicken.”

“Mr. McGuire,” Rogers said crisply, coming to stand at the
table. In his hands were two bottles. “I believe that your presence will be
required on the bridge shortly.”

“Aye Aye, Mr. Rogers, I was just on my way.” McGuire gave
Saira a look as if to say ‘good luck’ and hurried off.

“Arms-Master Brighton,” he began, and then stood there
awkwardly with the two bottles.

“Mr. Rogers,” Saira said coolly. She raised an eyebrow at the
bottles. “Two? I know it has been a difficult day but I think that you would
want to make a better example to the crew. Two fisted drinking so lacks
discipline.”

“Damnation Mr. Brighton,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
“Can we at least do this with a modicum of decorum?”

“But you have assured me repeatedly that I have no decorum,”
she stated. “And why do you persist in this custom of calling me a ‘mister’? I
know that it is done in the British Air Navy, but as you can see we are not in
the BAN.” She gestured around the room. It was watch change and rapidly filling
with a sea of profane airdevils of both sexes, all wearing a rat bag of clothes
that in no way would ever be mistaken for a uniform.

“Nor,” she continued, casually opening her vest wide to
expose her breasts, “could anyone mistake me for a ‘mister’, except perhaps
you.”

“We have discussed this at great length,” Rogers replied
frostily. “If female veterans of the War can accept proper shipboard courtesy,
so can you. Not that you know anything about proper discipline; if you did you
would not have been off station today!”

“If I had not the
discipline
to listen to the spirits
today, we would not be here!” She snapped back at him. “I was checking the side
guns when I just
knew
. She shrugged, “It is hard to explain to someone
like you. I ordered the port open and shot it down myself.”

“Even when the ship was set to receive coil blasts!” Rogers
hissed. “You know what could have happened if you were wrong!”

“I know what would have happened if I had not done so.” Saira
looked at him with a basilisk gaze

“That was luck, blind luck!” Rogers retorted, forgetting the
surrounding mess crew. “Do not think that your
hocus pocus
is an excuse
for not taking your duties seriously.” Saira straightened in her chair, the
sound a hissing snake makes exploding from between her teeth.

“I apologize for that last,” Rogers said, taking a hold of
himself in an attempt to keep his dignity, as he remembered where they were. 
“The fact remains that your shooting did save the ship today, and you do
deserve the recognition you’re about to receive.”

“I do not want it,” Saira voiced coldly. “Who would wish for
fake ass-kissing?”

“You will accept it,” Rogers replied equally as coldly.
“First of all, because it is your duty as a ships’ officer. Second, because it
is the Captains’ order.” He continued stiffly, “I suspect that the Captain
wished for me to use this as an opportunity to mend bridges between us. I
believe I have failed at that. Now, may we carry out the Captains wishes with
something like grace?”

Saira nodded reluctantly, unaccustomed to Rogers actually
apologizing for his pig headedness.

“With the Captains compliments,” Rogers placed a bottle in
front of her. “He apologizes for not being able to present it in person. Ship’s
business.” Saira noticed that the bottle was Russian vodka, one of her
favorites. He placed the second bottle next to it. “Please accept this from me
as well, for a job well done.” He held out his hand. Saira reluctantly took it.
Rogers stepped back.

“I must return to the bridge now, Arms-Master.” He nodded
briskly, and turned to go. Saira held up a hand.

“Wait,” she said. “Will you have a drink with me?”

“Thank you, but I am still on duty,” Rogers smiled his tight
smile. He nodded shortly to her. “Enjoy.”

It was only after he had left that Saira looked at the second
bottle’s label. It was a pre-war Scotch. She knew from her merchant days the
bottle was worth more than her ship−share for the entire mission. She
shook her head in wonder. The English were all insane.