Steamed (6 page)

“Sir,” I said, addressing the man with both words and the weapon. “You will regulate your movements. I am holding a firearm, and the setting is on sensitive.”

“What?” The man rubbed his face, then opened his eyes, squinting at me. “What’s sensitive? Ow. Other than my head. Would you mind me asking who you are, and just what you’re doing in my lab?”

“Could be he’s not so much a revolutionary as he is lackin’ in wits,” Mr. Piper murmured.

I couldn’t help but wonder if that was true. A lab? What was the stranger talking about? He certainly appeared befuddled, his face expressing a combination of pain and confusion. Perhaps he was just a poor soul who had wandered onto the ship by mistake? No. That would be too much of a coincidence. He had to be there for a reason, a reason I was sure to dislike intensely.

“Jupiter, Mars, and all the little planets,” the man said in a manner that indicated he was swearing. He rubbed his head, then turned to look at me. With a start, I realized his eyes didn’t match—one was brown, while the other was mossy green. Oddly enough, it was attractive on him, not discordant, as I would have supposed. In fact, his face was attractive, too.

What the devil was a handsome spy doing on my ship?

“Did I ask who you were?” he asked in a voice that was still a little thick.

“Yes. I am Octavia Emmaline Pye.” I bit back an oath at my words. What on earth was I doing giving him my full name with such casual disregard? Captains in the Aerocorps demanded and received respect; they did
not
engage in common chitchat with suspected criminals. I strove to put the stowaway in his proper position, saying in a stern voice, “You may refer to me as Captain Pye.”

With a sudden move that had me scrambling backward, the man swung his legs over the edge of the crate and got to his feet. He wobbled for a few seconds, then straightened up to his full height. He blinked in surprise at me for a few moments; then a smile curled his lips. “Did I miss the memo about a masquerade party?”

 

“
E
r ...” The man rubbed his head as if it pained him. His Efingers moved around from his forehead to the side, causing him to wince. “Sins of the saints—that’s a hell of a goose egg.”

“You’re injured? We didn’t see any signs of that. Allow me to look,” I said, cautiously moving around to his side. I held the Disruptor firmly in case he was attempting to fool me, but he made no move other than to duck his head when I gently parted his hair.

“Careful. I don’t know what happened to me, but it hurts like hell.”

I sought, and found, the source of the pain—a lump on the side of his head the size and approximate shape of a quail’s egg.

“What’s the fancy dress about? Ow! That hurt!”

“I’m sorry.” I stopped gently probing the injury, taking a step back from the man.

He grinned at me, a lopsided grin that tugged on something inside me. “ ’Sokay. It’s just that the pain is kind of ebbing and flowing, although at least it seems to be clearing now. Kind of. Sorry, did you tell me what the occasion is? I seem to be a bit rummy, still.”

“Occasion?” I tried not to openly examine the man, but he seemed quite different now that he was animated. He seemed much . . . well, much more. More handsome, more alive, more vital. And oddly endearing, which was a very odd emotion to feel about a person who could turn out to be a spy or worse.

He waved a hand toward me. “For the costume. Is there a con going on?”

“Con?” I mentally chided myself for repeating his questions in such an idiotic manner, but I didn’t for the life of me understand what he meant.

“Convention.” He touched the lump on his head, winced again, and rubbed his jaw, instead. “Like a cosplay one? You heard of cosplay?”

“No. Mr. Piper?” I glanced at the bosun. He looked as confused as I felt.

“Nay, Captain. Codsplay, now, that I have. There’s a whore in Marseilles who can wrap her tongue all the way around a man’s cods and still have enough left over to—”

“I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage, sir,” I said loudly, interrupting Mr. Piper before he could go into any further detail. I gave him a sharp look, but he was too busy staring at the stranger to notice it. “What I would like to know is who you are, and what you are doing on my ship.”

“That sounds like a useful sort of woman to know,” the man said to Mr. Piper with one of those male-to-male knowing looks.

“Aye, that she was,” he agreed, propping himself up on the crate again. “She could milk a man dry with both her mouth and her—”

“I think I’ve heard just about enough of your . . .
friends
. . . in Marseilles,” I interrupted again, this time managing to catch the bosun’s eye.

He grinned. “Sorry, Captain. Forgot ye was a woman.”

“Indeed.” I transferred my gaze from him to the stranger, who was examining me with a look of admiration that would have, had I been a lesser woman, had me blushing.

“That’s a hell of an outfit,” he said, and, before I could say anything, moved around behind me, examining the back side. “Incredible. It’s just incredible. I love the scarlet coat. Steampunk, right? You don’t see much scarlet in steampunk outfits. Most folks go in for browns and blacks, but the scarlet looks really good, even though you have red hair. I was always under the impression that redheads weren’t supposed to wear red, but it looks good on you. And I
really
like the corset.”

I gasped a little gasp, looking down at myself, fearing for a moment that I had forgotten to don a blouse, but no, all was well.

“I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t,” he said, winking at Mr. Piper. “I mean, what man wouldn’t love the effect of a corset on a woman’s . . .” He made a gesture toward his chest.

I straightened up and glared at him.

“Although I thought you were supposed to wear the corset on the outside?” he continued, tipping his head to the side as he stared at my breasts. “Not that the lacy top isn’t pretty and all. It really frames your . . . er . . . breasts nicely. But every other woman I’ve seen had hers on the outside.”

“Her tits?” Mr. Piper asked, his eyes bugging out a bit as he, too, stared at my chest.

I hurriedly started buttoning up the long row of brass buttons on my coat.

“No, corset. You know how ladies are—they go to all the trouble of making a corset, and they want to show it off. Don’t blame them at all,” the stranger answered.

Mr. Piper considered me speculatively.

“I assure you that I did
not
make my corset, not that it is apropos to anything,” I said in a voice that sounded aggrieved. I never realized how many buttons the uniform jacket had until that moment. Both men watched with what seemed to be disappointment as I buttoned it across my breasts. Immediately after the last button was slid into place, I began to sweat under the effect of all that heavy wool bound tightly around me.

“Nothing wrong with an off-the-rack model, either. I bought a great Victorian frock coat that way, although I haven’t had a chance to wear it to any steampunk events yet. I don’t have much in line of a costume, to be honest. You know, I have to say that your modded gun is awesome. I’ve tried my hand at converting a couple of Nerf guns to something steampunk, but they never turn out. That looks really authentic. I particularly like the brass tubing. Can I see it?”

“Sir!” I said, perhaps louder than was strictly polite, snatching back the Disruptor that he had managed to take from me, so baffled was I by his speech. I pointed the gun at his chest, and donned my most austere expression. “I am bound by the laws governing the Southampton Aerocorps to inform you that you are under arrest for unauthorized presence on a ship under contract for imperial business.”

“Wow, you have the whole persona down and everything,” the man said, little lines around his eyes crinkling as he laughed a rich, deep laugh that I could swear I felt reverberating in my bones. I told my bones to stop being so susceptible, and frowned at the stranger. “That’s really great. And what about you?”

Mr. Piper straightened up as the man turned to him. “Piper’s the name. I’m bosun here.”

“Wait a minute—Aerocorps? Bosun? Captain?” He looked at me again, delight filling his mismatched eyes. “You’re an airship fan, too? I know a lot of steamy folk consider them way too overdone, but I have to admit, I’ve always had a fondness for them, and although I don’t have a persona, I always thought that if I did, he would have something to do with an airship.”

“Are you daft?” The words slipped out of my mouth without my brain agreeing they were at all right and proper to say, which of course they weren’t. I rubbed my forehead, a small headache starting to blossom there. “Sir, I fear we are talking at cross-purposes. Perhaps if we were to start with a few simple facts, we might proceed to those of a more strenuous nature. What is your name?”

“Jack. Jack Fletcher.”

I examined his face, mentally trying out the name. It suited him. He looked like a Jack.

His smile faded into a frown as he looked around. “Hey, where’s Hallie?”

“Would that be your female companion?” I asked, ignoring the prick of sweat that formed under my arms. I did not normally wear my coat buttoned except when required by protocol, and certainly not in the warm, airless confines of the hold.

“My sister. She was with me. I think. We were . . .” He touched his head as his voice trailed off, a puzzled look on his face. “We were talking about something.”

“Your companion is here,” I said, moving aside so he could see behind me.

With a cry of, “Hallie!” he rushed over to the prone woman. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing that we could see, although I must admit that we did not notice the injury to your head,” I answered, moving around the woman’s feet.

“Hal? Wake up!”

“Nrrng.” The woman frowned, licking her lips for a second before rolling over onto her side.

“Come on, Hal, make an effort to wake up.” Jack tried to roll her over, but she mumbled something incoherent as she slapped at his hands. He looked up from her to me. “What have you done to her?”

There was ire in his voice, ire and an unspoken threat. I straightened my shoulders. “We have done nothing but move you both from where we found you.”

“Found us?” He looked around again, his gaze this time taking in the visible contents of the hold, his expression growing more and more dark. “What the hell? Where are we?”

“You are in the forward hold of His Imperial Majesty’s
Tesla
, an airship that is under my command,” I said, allowing a little sting of irritation to sound in my voice. “Perhaps, Mr. Fletcher, you would be good enough to tell me how your sister and you happened to be found behind a crate of salted beef?”

“Jack,” he said, moving away to examine a crate of surveying equipment.

“Mr. Fletcher,” I repeated, a bit more forcefully, following after him as he suddenly jetted down a narrow aisle between crates. “Sir, I must remind you that I am armed.”

“Wow, this is really impressive. What is it, a warehouse?” he asked, pausing next to the salted meat, tracing the logo of the Aerocorps that had been painted on the wood. “I have to say, your group has gone to a tremendous amount of trouble to create an authentic setting.”

I cast a glance behind me to Mr. Piper, who hobbled over to us. “If you could please answer my question, Mr. Fletcher, we might be a little forwarder.”

He grinned at me, his laugh lines crinkling at me in a way that made my stomach flutter. With stern determination, I ignored the sensation.

“You even talk like something straight out of a Victorian book. Brava, Octavia.”

“Captain Pye,” I said sternly, taking a good firm grip on the patience that was fast slipping through my fingers.

“But Octavia is such a pretty name,” he said, winking at me. “It fits you well. This isn’t by any chance a film set, is it? I hadn’t heard through the grapevine that there was a new steampunk movie being made, but this—” He turned around, gesturing toward the stacks of crates in the hold. “This is really amazing.”

I gasped at the sign painted on the back of his undershirt, staring at it in disbelief. “You dare?”

“Satan’s stones!” Mr. Piper gasped, as well, as soon as he caught sight of it. “Aw, lad, and ye seemed like such a nice fellow.”

I leveled my gun at the man as he spun around. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What do I dare?”

“Your arrogance,” I said through a tight jaw. “Well, at least we know what you are now.”

“I’m a nanoelectrical systems engineer,” he said, giving me a puzzled look. “I don’t see how that’s overly arrogant, although I have to admit to being labeled as a nerd once in a while. But usually the stories about Alaska and Mexico get out, and that reputation wipes out anything else. If I was to tell you that I was accidentally swept up in a group that hijacked a whaling ship, but had nothing to do with the whole thing, what would you say?”