Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (20 page)

"Fine." Fowler rolled his eyes. "Be at the Soho airfield an hour before dawn. Bring the money and whatever luggage you'll need. Will you be requiring return passage?"

"Perhaps." Aldora folded her arms. "It depends on how quickly we find what we're looking for."

"Oh? And what might you be looking for in Calais?"

"Answers, Captain. Answers."

***

They departed the next day, before the financial centres of the city woke, when the first shift of working men were starting their toils. The steam and smoke from these factories blended with the morning fog to create a cover that the pair hoped would conceal them from the dangerous warships lurking in the skies above. Fowler had greeted Aldora with his lopsided smile and aggressive bravado, but even his voice faded as they edged out over the water. He'd doused the ship's running lights, and his small private airship, the
Persephone
, slid through the ominous early morning with only the pale grey morning light to guide her.

A dark shape loomed out of the mists above them, crossing broadside. Ominous green lights shown from the portholes in its hull, and dim figures could be seen observing the
Persephone
. Electrical arcs crackled the length of the lightning cannons mounted to the ship's fore.

"
Stirner
," Aldora read the ship's name off of its hull. "Why does that sound familiar?"

Fowler slowly turned the ship's wheel to angle away from the ship crossing their path. "Sounds German. Suppose they belong to the Kaiser?"

"Supported by him at best," Aldora shuddered. "If the man wanted to start a war he'd just start it." But that wasn't it.
Stirner
. It was a man's name, she knew that much, but she wasn't able to associate it with any face. Not directly, at any rate.

The
Stirner
drifted back off into the industrial fog, letting the
Persephone
continue on across the channel.

***

The
Vieil Métis
was a typical dockside Calais tavern. While lacking the desperation of the East End pubs in London, it never-the-less attracted many of the same calibre of rough and dangerous men, sailors all, on leave while waiting for their vessels to take them to London, or northeast to the Danish fish markets, or south to the warmer French ports. The disruption of shipping across the Channel had been terrible for the city and not much better for its taverns; those who tried to make the voyage had died, and few wanted to wait in port for the situation to resolve itself.

The solitude suited Milos just perfectly. He'd told his story several times to the largely unbelieving ears of the tavern's audience, and now just wanted to be left alone with his solitude and his wine. The former he had plenty of, the latter... his coin was running thin, and he could barely afford enough drink to keep the tavern's keeper from throwing him into the streets. He was deeper in his sorrows than in his cups, and failed to notice the Englishwoman approaching until she'd sat down at his table.

He wiped his nose on his sleeve and glanced around at the rest of the empty common room. "Plenty of seats away from my malaise,
bonne dame
."

"I've not come for the plentiful seating," she said. Her associate, an American, was ordering a drink from the barman. "I've come to hear you speak."

"Speak?" he asked, uncorking his bottle of wine and drinking a few precious drops. "What could I possibly have to say that would be of interest?"

"Want me to persuade him for you?" Captain Fowler, joining them at the table.

"No." The Englishwoman was dressed for the docks, dull coloured clothes, sturdy and serviceable. She spoke French without an accent, but Milos could see the English in her spine, could see the blueness of her blood in the tilt of her face. "Rumour has that you've been telling a tale I'd much like to hear."

"It's not a tale I care to tell anymore."

The man grabbed the bottle away from him. "Spill it, old salt."

"
Non non non
!" he said, reaching for the bottle. "Don't spill it, I haven't much left, and when I am out the taverner will kick me out into the cold!"

The Englishwoman took the bottle from her companion and placed it back in front of Milos. "There's another bottle for you if you tell me your story."

Milos's eyes narrowed. "More than a bottle, perhaps."

"Sir, I do hope you are not implying anything beyond the bounds of propriety."

Milos was quick to hold up his hands. "Non,
belle-fille
! Do not get the wrong idea! I simply can see that what I know is somehow important to you. Surely it is worth more than the price of a bottle of cheap wine!"

"A bottle of wine now, and if your story tells me what I need to know... then, well, I will pay your room and board in the finest of Calais's inns for a week."

"You are too generous,
bonne dame
, and I pray what I tell you is worth your while."

***

Milos had been enticed into a life of piracy by his boyhood friend, Jacques. The pair enticed a number of like-minded young men into buying into an airship, and they set about preying on shipping and passenger routes throughout Western Europe. Most airships lacked any defencive weaponry, and it was a trivial matter to escape over the nearest border when they ran afoul of any nation's military. The webs of rivalry and alliance made cooperation between states over a matter of simple piracy unlikely, and the crew of the
Libertine
prospered greatly over the next decade.

"Most of the time we'd put the passengers and crew ashore," he said. "Jacques knew that if we started to kill, we would only draw the full attention of the nations of the world. As long as we remained a minor menace, it was not worth the bother to hunt us down, you know? It was more fun to be gentlemen pirates than cutthroats anyway."

"You and I have very different ideas of what the word 'gentleman' means," Aldora said, but bade Milos continue.

One year ago they had captured a passenger liner travelling up the coast of France. The passengers were relieved of their belongings and most were set aground. "There were a few that were important enough to be ransomed off, if their families had the money." One of these men, an Englishman, declined the opportunity for ransom and instead petitioned to join the crew.

"In the air we are a democracy," Milos said. "When at arms, then it is the captain's word that is law. But for matters such as this, the crew had to agree."

The Englishman, who had given his name as Max ("An obvious pseudonym."), was personable enough about the crew so as to gain approval. He became fast friends with the captain, and offered much good advice regarding tactics and practises.

"I did not trust him as easily," Milos recalled. "He had an edge to him. A hard edge. Always pushing for more, and agitating."

"Agitating?" Fowler asked.

"Talking like a socialist," Milos dismissed. "Going on about class, class, class. About how we working men were exploited by the nation-states and the bourgeoisie and such. To talk to pirates of such things! Those of us who had been with the Libertine from the start, we laughed him off, but some of the younger men, full of fire and the spirit of the age, they listened. But what did it matter? Jacques trusted him, and his ideas were good. Within a year we had purchased a second vessel, and Max was working on getting us better cannons."

"This second vessel," Aldora asked. "The
Stirner
?"

"
Stirner? Non
. It was
La Justice
. Why?"

"No reason," Aldora said. "You were saying about cannons?"

"Yes, Max's idea. He was always petitioning a greater use of force, and more of the men were listening. Jacques and I were opposed, of course -- greater weapons only means greater temptation to use them -- but the men outvoted us. Max made a deal with some American inventor for some sort of lightning cannons. It was shortly after that that he led the mutiny. It was a quick battle... he threw Captain Jacques over the railing one night after dinner, and had those of us loyal to him put to the sword."

"How did you survive?" Fowler asked.

"I was wounded, see?" The ex-pirate lifted his shirt, showing a pattern of healing scarlet wounds on his chest. "Gruesome, non? Max was an excellent swordsman. He'd pierced me seven times before I'd so much as cleared my scabbard."

Aldora peered closely at the pattern, biting her lip, her face going a little grey. "The
Sette-Punti Stella
."

"
Quoi
?"

"I've seen that pattern before," Aldora said, her voice a whisper. "The 'Seven-Point Star.' I've seen that manoeuvre performed."

"It was painful, let me tell you."

"It's a secret technique of the Castgnaga school." Aldora stood.

"Whatever it was, when he had struck me so, I dropped my cutlass and fell to my knees in shock. They threw me over the side, and only the cold salt water revived me. It was my great fortune that a fishing boat found me before I drowned."

"It wasn't shock. The Seven-Point Star targets the nerve clusters of the major muscle groups and induces paralysis. There are only six men alive today who can perform it." She paused. "Five men. Thank you for your tale, Milos. I'll set you up for the week wherever you'd like to stay."

"Merci. This place is as good as any."

***

Out on the street Aldora turned and handed a parcel to the Captain. "I need you to return with this to London."

"What, you're not heading back with me?"

"No. I'm off to New Jersey, and then New York."

"I don't like the idea of leaving you to your own devices, Miss Fiske." Fowler took the parcel reluctantly.

"Believe me, this is a matter of utmost importance, Captain. I need you to go to my home -- what's left of it -- and retrieve a package for me from the hope chest in the closet of my sleeping quarters. A bundle of envelopes tied with a blue string. Can you do this for me?"

"Yeah."

"This parcel contains the address in New York that I will need the bundle shipped to, as well as sufficient postage and with the pay you've been promised."

"As you like it, Miss Fiske. Be careful."

"What I need is expedience. I cannot afford careful."

***

"You are one of the most revolting men I have ever met." The words left Aldora's mouth almost conversationally, as if she were discussing the weather.

"I've no doubt that a woman of your charms has known a great many men," Thomas Edison said with a sneer. "But I am afraid that those charms won't avail you here. I'm a happily married man, Miss Fiske--"

"You're an appalling bore."

"--and an honest businessman. Many clients come to me seeking innovation, and these clients appreciate the discretion I provide them with."

Aldora sat across the large Mahogany desk from Edison. Papers littered the desk, some of which were patent applications, others financial documents and ledgers. Thomas Alva Edison himself was in excellent shape for a person of sixty years. His wealth and success had not made a soft man of him.

"These men are pirates of the worst sort, Mr. Edison. They've killed a great many merchant airmen and members of the Royal Armada."

"It's none of my concern what my innovations are used for, I simply care that they work." Edison opened a box on his desk and removed a cigar.

"That's a monstrous indifference!"

He pulled a cigar clip from his pocket. "That's capitalism, Miss Fiske. American ingenuity knows no bounds."

"Not the bounds of decency, that's for certain."

Snip! went the clip, and Edison stuck the cigar in his mouth. "Your bleeding-heart humanism smacks of Communist sympathies, Miss Fiske. Such is the speech of Unionisers and anarchists."

"And you sold powerful galvanic weapons to pirates!"

"Capitalist pirates!" Edison lit his cigar, taking a puff, and blowing a ring of smoke into the air.

"So you condone piracy? I'm surprised, even for you that's a new low."

"I condone the Capitalism. Tell me, Miss Fiske, how do you suppose that the other houses of Europe will respond when they see that one ship armed with Edison Electro-Cannons held the entire British Sky-Armada at bay? I'll be swamped in orders. Drowning in money."

"You're disgusting."

"There's a war coming," Edison was suddenly serious, sitting forward in his desk. "A great war. War like this Earth has never seen. The alliances of old in Europe permit nothing less, Miss Fiske."

"And you intend to profit from it."

"I intend to survive it. America isn't bound by Europe's tangled skein, Miss Fiske. When Europe burns, America will emerge as the greatest nation, untouched by war, an industrial giant to usher in a new era of prosperity and enlightenment."