by SM Reine
Tipper braced his palms against the trapdoor.
She tugged his ragged trouser leg. “Wait. Not yet.”
She’d been counting the steps, the ebb and flow, the pattern swirling in her head in elliptical shapes. A rise, a smoothening, a dip as the traffic diminished. Soon, soon.
“Now,” she said. “Quick!”
Tipper heaved the hatch open and flung himself out. She was right behind him. The door banged against the floor, and the three people in evidence turned, staring. One, a woman in a long, ruffled gown, began to scream.
Moving in accord, Diana and Tipper flipped the hatch closed and raced away, deeper into the spaceport. The woman’s shrieks echoed behind them. Unlike the alleys of Southampton’s rookery, there were no side passages, no dark places to duck into. Just flat, straight walls. Diana’s breath burned in her chest, her eyes darting from side to side, barely registering the looks of shock as she and Tipper dashed past.
They had to find a hiding place. Behind them, she could hear the rough commands of Port Security, ordering people out of the way. Her blood iced as she considered the very real possibility that she and Tipper might get shot.
“Stop!” a deep voice bellowed. “Stop those two!”
Diana sidestepped a man in a bowler hat, then wrenched out of an older lady’s grasp. The wild exhilaration of breaching the spaceport had curdled to panic. She and Tipper were in trouble deep.
“Hey!” Tipper yelped.
She whirled to see him caught, arms pinned against his side by a tall man wearing tweed.
“Tip!”
Could she pull him from his captor’s grasp?
That moment of hesitation cost her freedom. Before she could dash away, a woman in the blue uniform of Spaceport Security grabbed her wrist and slapped a shackle on it. The man holding Tipper thrust him into another guard’s custody, and their mad adventure came to an end.
“It’s over,” the policewoman said. “Come quietly.”
Diana pulled in a deep breath. At least she’d seen the inside of the spaceport—however briefly. She didn’t try to pull away. Though she’d never been in stun shackles before, she knew how they worked, and had no desire to feel that current race through her.
Tipper shuffled his feet and hung his head low, but Diana looked everywhere, soaking in the sights and sounds. The officers led them down the hallway. Ahead, doors whooshed open and closed, the brighter light of day spilling through.
The security guards took them outside, onto a partially enclosed walkway, and Diana nearly forgot she was a captive. On the right-hand side of the walkway, ships spread in a half-circle in their berths. She slowed, staring, cataloguing. There—a Xeros Two-thousand, sleek as an arrow. Beside it, the crablike shell of an older hauler bound for the asteroid mining belt.
On the far left, another freighter rose, engines wheezing, but holding. Overloaded, by the way it listed slightly in the air, and not with legal goods she’d wager. She frowned. Couldn’t the authorities tell when smugglers freighted contraband out right under their noses?
At the midpoint of the freighter’s arc, a Class A Cruzline ship began ignition. The fore engines fired, and then the aft. Slowly, the ship rose, gleaming and no doubt full of important and moneyed passengers.
Diana halted. Something was wrong.
“Keep moving,” the policewoman said. Her name badge simply read Nails.
“Wait… wait.” Diana leaned forward, listening, watching, calculating the arc of the Cruzline as it began its ascent.
“Stop that ship!” She lifted her shackled wrist and pointed at the gleaming passenger ship.
The policewoman’s hand fell to the stun unit. “Don’t make me use this.”
“They’re going to crash!” Diana strained forward. “Contact the control center—it’s a direct collision course in… twenty seconds.”
The policewoman narrowed her eyes, but the edge of panic in Diana’s voice must have convinced her. Her gaze went unfocused as she activated her nano-comm and spoke hurriedly, using lots of acronyms and letters.
Twelve seconds.
Diana half-listened, her attention fixed on the gruesome calculation unfolding overhead. It sounded like the policewoman was getting through. The bright ship tried to veer, but it was going too fast. Too fast. Eight seconds. Seven. Six.
The Cruzline’s engines stalled, and Diana sucked in her breath. Three. Two.
* * *
The edge of the Cruzline nicked the freighter, then spun out, but beautifully slowly. The pilot was good enough to control the move, steering his craft into a shining silver loop. The freighter wobbled, the collision barley nudging the massive ship off-course.
Diana watched, heartbeat bumping back to normal as the Cruzline steadied and returned to its berth. A security bugship, lights flashing, buzzed the freighter, leading it back to the customs screening pad.
She glanced up at the cloud-specked blue overhead. In a different universe, the air would be full of fire and death and a hundred personal tragedies. But not this world. Not this day.
Diana lifted her hand to rub the back of her neck, the motion cut short by the cuff on her wrist. With a resigned slump of her shoulders, she turned back to the security guard.
“Right away, sir,” Nails said. Her gaze cleared and she looked at Diana. “Taking you upstairs.”
“What about my friend?” Diana nodded to Tipper, who stood uncharacteristically silent. “He comes, too.”
The security guard hesitated.
“I mean it.” Diana put the steel of truth in her voice.
Whatever was going on—and she suspected it had to do with the averted crash—she and Tipper were in it together.
“Very well—the both of you. Don’t try anything.” This last was directed at Tipper, with a narrow-eyed glare.
He put on his wounded face, and Diana hid her smile. His expression wouldn’t get him anywhere with Nails, but at least the two of them wouldn’t be separated.
Nails and the other security guard led them through a paneled door that took a special key code, and then to a grav lift tucked in a corner.
They stepped inside, and Diana tried not to show the jittery nerves pulsing through her. But this was posh—the marble floor and polished wooden walls of the lift far above the normal trappings of the Spaceport. The smooth, fast rise left her courage sinking to her feet. Tipper shot her a look that showed too much eye, clearly as nervous as she about wherever they were going.
The lift slowed and halted, the doors slid open, and Diana blinked at the view. She barely noticed the plush burgundy carpeting and wingback chairs, the wide desk or the gray-haired man sitting behind it. Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the huge bank of windows on the wall opposite the lift.
They were at the very top of the Spaceport. Ships dived and flew, and she could see the near neighborhoods of Southampton spread out beyond the silvery wall. The rookery, of course, was behind them—a view no one wanted to contemplate.
“And so.” The man behind the desk stood, revealing a portly figure dressed in well-tailored clothing. “Our heroine of the hour. Come, come.”
He gestured to her, and Diana took a step forward.
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Remove her cuffs, Nails, if you please. I would like to shake this young woman’s hand without fear of a shock.”
He laughed, and the security guards guffawed along with him.
“Apologies, Director.” Nails quickly took the cuff off, with a warning look at Diana. Her hand grazed the lightpistol holstered at her side, the message clear.
The luxurious surroundings made Diana acutely aware of her own grime and stink. She lifted her chin. If this director fellow wanted to talk to her, he’d have to take her as she was.
Somewhat to her surprise, he stepped forward and took her hand, giving it a firm shake.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Diana.” She didn’t think he’d like her street name of Diver. “Diana Smythe.”
She shook her head, but it didn’t surprise her. Who else but the toff gentry would book passage on that kind of ship?
“Without your acute observational skills, a very messy incident would have occurred. Tell me—how did you know the ships were on a collision course?”
“It was clear as glass, least to me,” she said. “The liftoff arcs intersected, and the freighter’s smuggling something. They were too slow to clear the line of flight.”
Nails prodded her in the back, and she added a belated, “sir.”
“And you could tell all that at a glance?” He did not sound dubious, just curious.
“Yes.”
“She’s always been good at such things, sir,” Tipper said. “Knowing how a mark moves through a crowd, or the fall of dice, or—”
He broke off as Diana elbowed him in the ribs.
“I notice suchlike,” she said.
“Hm.” The Director gave her a keen look. “Join me at the window, if you would.”
Diana followed him to the expanse, and couldn’t help smiling once more at the view. The whole port spread out below her feet. All those lives and dreams and arrows to the stars, shot right from here—the busiest port in England, the center of Empire— into the heart of the stars.
“What do you see?” he asked. “Describe the ships to me as they come and go.”
It was a test, though she wasn’t sure what the penalty for failure might be. She narrowed her eyes and rolled forward on the balls of her feet, focusing on the geometry, the arcs and parabolas forming and re-forming outside the window.
“That ship—the Tellium X class, just landing. They’re coming in a little too fast. Bet they get a warning. And the Aristo there needs a tune-up. They should have better lift, especially a later model like that.”
She continued to scan the spaceport, pointing out holes where ships were too slow or too fast, speculating aloud on destinations and cargo, flagging possible smugglers and lazy pilots. All the while, the Director nodded and, judging by his slightly unfocused stare, accessed his data.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Diana’s throat tightened from talking so much. Behind her, she could hear Tipper fidgeting and coughing, and finally, the Director spoke.
“Impressive,” he said. “You have quite a gift, Miss Smythe. Along the lines of a mathematical genius. What would you say to putting it to official use?”
She took a step back, her torn boots sinking into the plush carpet. Did they mean to barter—no jail time for her and Tipper, in exchange for her servitude here?
“What do you mean?”
The Director must have seen the suspicion on her face, for he let out another hearty laugh.
“No, no, it’s not what you think. You and your friend’s misdemeanors have already been dismissed. A bit of a youthful lark, what?”
Diana heard Tipper let out a theatrical sigh of relief, but she kept her gaze focused on the man before her. Distrust warred with hope, churning together uneasily in her belly.
“On behalf of Spaceport Authority, I would like to offer you employment, Miss Smythe. What would you say to that?”
“What would I need to do?”
“Exactly what you just demonstrated. Watch the ships, calculate the trajectories and arcs. Help us all achieve the stars to the best of our ability, and put your rare skills in the service of the greater cause of humanity.”
It was a pompous speech, but it stirred her all the same. There was a glint of truth in the Director’s eye that swayed her, even more than the grand words.
“How much?”
“Ever practical, aren’t you?” He named a sum that stilled her heart for a moment.
But only a moment.
“A month?” she asked, half in jest.
This time it was the Director’s turn to blink. Then he laughed again.
“And why not? Do we have an agreement?”
She pulled in a breath and glanced once more at the spinning arcs and sines weaving outside the window. The sum she had named would keep her in grand style. Even better, it would send Tipper, and any other alley rat who wanted out, a ticket to the stars. In style.
Slowly, she gazed up, past the blue, to where the stars gleamed and shone. The stars were a wonderful dream. But not, as it transpired, the best dream of all.
She extended a grimy hand to the director, and smiled when he took it without hesitation.
“Yes,” she said. “We surely do.”
* * *
Want to read more Victorian Spacepunk? Scoop up the STARS & STEAM collection for more tales set in the universe of Victoria Eternal!
A USA Today bestselling author, Anthea writes Victorian-set romantic adventure under the pen name Anthea Lawson and Science Fantasy featuring cyber-punk elements and treacherous faeries as Anthea Sharp.
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Blood Ties
A Story of the Gaian Consortium
Christine Pope
Blood Ties
A Story of the Gaian Consortium
Author’s note: This story takes place approximately six months before the beginning of Blood Will Tell.
Even through the closed door of her bedroom, Miala Fels could hear the deep voices of the men who’d gathered in the main room of the flat she shared with Lestan Fels, her father. She hated the sound, since she knew those voices signaled yet another opportunity for Lestan to get himself into trouble.
He never intended to cause trouble, of course. All he wanted was to provide a more stable life for his daughter. Unfortunately, his particular skill set was one Iradia’s crime lords found valuable. And since they could pay far more than any legitimate employer….
She’d been sitting in front of her computer, staring at the old-fashioned flat display — they were too poor to afford the heads-up style — when the men arrived. Her father had given her the order to hide herself in her bedroom well before the time the visitors were due to arrive. Well, it wasn’t really an order; giving orders wasn’t Lestan’s style. But he’d made the suggestion, casting a nervous eye toward the front door of their flat, and she hadn’t argued. Right around the time she’d turned seventeen and had begun to leave a somewhat awkward adolescence behind, she’d begun to attract the kind of attention she really didn’t want from the men who did business with her father, men who cast flat, leering glances at her and even started to suggest that Lestan might make more money by loaning her out rather than setting up their security systems or hacking their rivals’ computers.
After deflecting those outrageous suggestions on two or three occasions, Lestan and Miala had mutually decided it was better that she not be present at these meetings, even though he’d been training her ever since she was eight years old, and she knew almost as much about computers and making them impervious to outside attack as her father did. Too risky for her to be anywhere near those men, he’d said, and she knew he was right. According to Gaian laws, she had still been underage at that point, more than three years ago now, but the Consortium’s laws didn’t mean a hell of a lot out here in a backwater like Iradia.
Miala abandoned the project she’d been working on — setting up a secure payment system for Nala, who owned the coffee house down the street, and who had been hit by hackers several times during the last few months, draining her meager profits — and headed over to the door of her bedroom. She didn’t even need to press her ear against it to hear what the men were saying.
“…sure you can do it?” one of them asked.
They hadn’t given their names, but she’d seen the two men around town more than once while she was out running errands. Aldis Nova was one of Iradia’s larger settlements, but even so, it was small enough that you got to know who was a resident and who wasn’t, even if you’d never exchanged a single word. One o
f the men was tall and well-dressed, with faintly lavender skin that spoke of Eridani heritage a generation or two back. The other one was shorter and heavier, with dull dark eyes that had made a shiver go down Miala’s back the one time she’d made the mistake of making eye contact with him on the street. Somehow, her bedroom door seemed like a flimsy barrier when she considered that it was the only thing standing between her and the black-eyed stranger.
“Of course,” Lestan replied. His voice sounded calm…on the surface. Beneath that apparent composure, however, Miala could hear an underlying tension. He needed this job. He’d delivered on the last one, but the man he’d done the work for had gotten himself shot up in a dispute with one of his fellow “silk merchants” — all right, smugglers — and the work had never been paid for. That financial blow had been enough to wipe out their meager savings, and they now had only enough left to buy food for another week or so. Paying the rent on their dingy little flat would be impossible without a fresh infusion of funds.
“What about the girl?” the shorter man asked, and Miala held her breath. Of course he couldn’t know she was there listening, since she hadn’t made a sound, but still….
Right then, she wished her door had a lock that worked.
“What about her?” Lestan replied.
“Heard she was doing some work for you. If she is, I think she should be in on this discussion, don’t you?”
Oh, hell no, she thought. But she didn’t move. The last thing she wanted was for them to know that she was right there on the other side of her door.
“I’ve had her perform a few simple tasks, debug a few routines.” Lestan was doing a decent job of sounding casual and unconcerned, but Miala didn’t know if that would be enough to move the conversation in a safer direction. “But I’d never trust her with something this important.”
