by Jeff Wheeler
The men all looked up at her and realized their error: she’d heard every word they’d spoken. The broad-shouldered man caught her wrist, pinning it to the table none too gently.
“I trust you won’t be saying nothing to any authorities, miss?”
Juliet smiled serenely, trying to still the pounding of hot blood through her veins. “What’s there to tell, sir? All’s I’ve heard here are fairy tales.”
* * *
That evening, Juliet wiped the tables until they gleamed, washed the dishes, and counted the copper coins in the rusted old register. She threw her coat over her shoulders, snatched up her cycle goggles, and stepped out the back door. The mongrel was there, waiting for his evening meal with sad eyes. Juliet tossed him the remains of a crumbly tea biscuit that she’d rescued from beneath a table.
Her cycle was still leaning against the alleyway lamppost where she’d left it, but someone tall was standing beside it, his face hidden in shadows.
“You ought to know, I have a blaster in my jacket,” she said loudly, with more confidence than she felt.
“Well, I sincerely hope you find no reason to use it.” The voice was familiar, though it took her a moment to place it.
“You’re the air pilot, the young one, from the teahouse today.”
“Tyler Brenton, at your service.” He bowed low with a cordial sweep of his arm. “Though I’d prefer you’d use a lower voice if you’ll be speaking so candidly of my occupation.”
“At my service? Indeed?” Wouldn’t that be a change, for someone to serve her for once?
“I’m here to offer you a proposition.”
Juliet reached into her jacket for the purely theoretical blaster.
“A business proposition,” Brenton clarified. “It would pay quite well, I assure you.”
Juliet narrowed her eyes, but pulled her hand out of her jacket, which Brenton obviously interpreted as an invitation to continue.
“You see,” he said, “the authorities have come down hard on air pilots as of late, and we’re getting a mite anxious to get back in our ships. Life on land doesn’t suit us so well. We’d arranged our meeting today to discuss plans to put an end to this embargo. See, the chancellor believes he is protecting the citizens and their goods by putting a ban on all air flight.”
“Protecting them from what?”
“Why, from the Wispers, of course. We were losing at least a ship a week, sometimes more, before they closed down the ports. Bad weather, poor piloting . . . all terrible excuses, but the people believed them. The chancellor has been covering up the true threat for years. You didn’t really believe they were fairy tales, did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Exactly. That’s why you’ll do quite well indeed.”
“Do what?”
“Why, fly, of course.”
“That’s preposterous. Now if you’ll excuse me—” Juliet reached for the handlebar of her cycle, but Brenton placed his hand on hers.
“I know how to stop the Wispers.”
“Oh, do you?” Juliet raised her eyebrow and slapped his hand away.
“I do. Like I said in there, I watched what happened, and I’ve been studying them, trying to work it out ever since.”
Juliet pulled her cycle upright and started walking, but she couldn’t bring herself to fire up the engine and drive away. “So? What did you find?”
Brenton jogged to catch up. “Well, for one thing, the Wispers haven’t been around long—only the past few decades. Before Gerald Hoffenstein created the flying particle disrupter, folks flew these skies for generations without ever spotting them. They’re nowhere in history, myth, or legend.”
“So you think that they have something to do with the particle disrupter?”
“I think they have everything to do with the particle disrupter. A friend of mine is a scientist, and I’ve asked him to study the disrupter’s effect on cloud masses. He succeeded in creating a very small Wisper under isolated conditions in his laboratory, solely from the fumes of the disruptor.”
“Why can’t the pilots just stop using the particle disruptors in their ships, then?”
“That’s the plan. Most of us have already outfitted our ships to run without them. The problem is that the chancellor still won’t lift the ban until all the Wispers are gone. They’re still too big a threat, traveling out there in that massive formation and driving men to insanity.”
“What makes them so hostile?”
“We do.”
Juliet drew back. “Pardon?”
“Well, not you, of course. But men. They only began wreaking havoc when men started hunting them, trying to find ways to blast them out of the sky. A useless pursuit: up until a few weeks ago no one could find anything that would harm them, but they still try, nonetheless. Sir Leon Bartholomew was the first to do so, about twenty years back, with an electrical current that only seemed to infuriate the creatures. Since then, it’s as though they’ve gone on the attack, and they target those who they believe will harm them: men.”
“And just how do you plan to stop these destructive, vengeful creatures that are impervious to harm?” Juliet asked. They were approaching the little run-down apartment where she lived, and she suddenly felt rather ashamed of its rusted wrought-iron handrail and the door with the locking mechanisms that you had to strike just right to get them to work. “You’ve discovered how to stop them?”
“Oh, no, not me.” Brenton shook his head. They stopped at the bottom of the apartment steps. “But my friend has. It’s a reverse particle disruptor. He tested it on the Wispers he created in his lab. The problem is, we can’t use it so long as the ships are grounded. If I could only get close enough to the creatures, I could try it on them, and it ought to reduce their size, if not eliminate them entirely.”
“Sounds like you have it all figured out. What do you want me for?”
“The Wispers hate men. Not women. Not children. They left me and my mother both alive on the Perdition, though they killed off the rest of the crew. I have a ship. I have the device. I even have a way past the blockade. All I need now is someone by my side up there—someone who isn’t a man—to help me keep a steady head and ensure that the job gets done.”
“Well! Good luck with that, then.” Juliet leaned her cycle against the rusting handrail and pressed the button on its handlebar. A spring uncoiled. Gears shifted and strained as the mechanical padlock wound itself around the metal bars. As soon as the cycle was secure, Juliet started up the steps. It was late, she was tired, and although the air pilot’s story was fascinating, if they kept talking like this, right outside Mrs. Perogi’s window, the grouchy old landlady would surely ream her out in the morning. Besides, try as she might, Juliet couldn’t imagine herself doing what Brenton described, being that person for him. It sounded daring—brave—too much so for a simple teahouse girl like her.
“Wait!” Brenton pleaded. “Hear me out. The other air pilots have made a pact. Whoever can get rid of the Wispers and lift the embargo gets ten percent of the other air pilots’ earnings for the rest of their lives. That’s ten percent of twenty other air pilots’ income. I’ll split it with you. Fifty-fifty. It’s still plenty for either of us to live on.”
Juliet paused and stared at the exposed mechanisms of the door frame. From this close, she could clearly see the problem: one small gear had gotten bent out of shape, causing a whole series to loop around the same track over and over. Only a hard thunk would knock it out of its rut. Maybe this young pilot with eyes as blue as the sky was just what she needed to knock her out of hers.
“All right.” She clenched her fists. “Tell me what I need to do.”
* * *
The sky was bright and cloudless as the Realm of Impossibility launched skyward. Persuading the blockade guards to look the other way must have come at a rather great cost. Juliet tried not to think on the price of that or anything else, not now that she’d turned in her serving belt to Ms. Chari and moved her meager
belongings out of Mrs. Perogi’s small second-floor apartment.
The berth Brenton offered her was twice the size of her old room, and the bed was so large that Juliet worried she’d become lost deep in the thick fluffy blankets and mountains of pillows. But when she tried to protest, reminding him that she had no money for fare, he shook his head and refused to hear it.
“You’re part of the crew,” he said. “Your room and board is part of your pay.”
“The crew sleep in bunks downstairs, not in fine state rooms like these.”
“I certainly can’t have a woman sleeping in the crew quarters. It wouldn’t be proper. Besides, it’s not as though we have passengers for this trip; it’d be a shame for these rooms to remain empty. Wasteful, in fact.”
Juliet liked how he made it sound as though she were doing him a favor, so she shrugged and set down her bag.
“I’ll let you settle in,” he said. “If you need anything, I’ll be just down the hall; my cabin is nearest the bridge.”
“I thought the captain’s cabin was traditionally in the back of a ship.”
“Of a sea ship, perhaps. Things tend to go wrong more slowly at sea. An air captain must be prepared for trouble at any moment, even while he slumbers.” With another of his jerky salutes, he left Juliet alone wondering what sort of trouble he expected to befall them.
A large, bowed window took up most of the side wall, and when Juliet drew back the curtains, she felt like a bird. She was flying through white clouds as thick and plush as her pillows, with small snatches of blue bursting through. The sun shone more brightly than she’d ever seen, and way, way down beneath her buckled boots, was the solid ground she’d left behind.
“It only just occurred to me,” Brenton said, leaning back into the doorway, “I don’t believe I know your full name.”
Juliet focused on a silver scribble of river far below, glimmering as it made its way to the sea. “Silver,” she said. “Juliet Silver.”
For the briefest of moments, Brenton looked puzzled, almost as though he somehow knew it was a lie. Then he nodded. “Good. In that case, welcome aboard, Ms. Silver.”
* * *
The following morning, Juliet was woken from a beautiful dream of white-feathered swans by the dinging of a bell. It took her a moment to discover its source: a pneumatic delivery chute beside the door.
She pulled herself from bed with a stretch and a yawn, wondering how she’d ever again go back to sleeping on a lesser mattress. The delivery chute’s latch popped open at the slightest touch of her finger, and out dropped a brass ball. She turned it over in her hand, and it snapped open, revealing a paper folded in fourths.
“Juliet,” it read. “I hope you had a restful sleep. When you’ve woken and breakfasted, please come find me. We have much to discuss. Sincerely, Ty Brenton.”
Since the note didn’t seem terribly urgent, Juliet took her time bathing in the deep tub, whose metal surface and plethora of knobs and spigots made her feel as if she were in a submarine. She ate her breakfast at the window seat—along with a cup of bitter black tea, the crew’s favorite—before making her way down the corridor to find Brenton.
He wasn’t among the uniformed men calling out to one another on the bridge, but his cabin door was ajar, so she knocked politely and waited for an answer. Silence.
She hesitated, but her curiosity compelled her to press gently on the door until it swung open, revealing a state room not terribly unlike her own, though with the personal effects of someone far more at home on the ship than she was. Beside the door stood a round wooden table whose single leg, bolted to the floor, reminded her a bit of the peg leg of pirates in the stories of old. The table was cluttered with letters, memoranda, and telegraphs, but among them, Juliet spotted a tintype image of Brenton’s smiling face. She glanced around, then snuck the picture out from underneath the other letters.
Ty Brenton was crouched beside a group of small children who clung to him like rust on old iron. Their faces, though smudged and messy, all shone with bright smiles, and above their heads was the archway of an old building with a crooked sign whose letters Juliet had to squint to read.
“Portmouth Children’s Home?” she whispered.
Juliet flipped the tintype over but only had time to decipher a few words—Thank you again for your generosity—before the jingling of the washroom handle startled her. She slid the photograph back under the other papers and called aloud. “Mr. Brenton?”
Brenton didn’t seem surprised to see her there, though his hair was still wet and rumpled from bathing. “Good morning, Ms. Silver. I hope you’re well rested. We’ve a lot to do today.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course. Many of my men spent years learning to pilot a ship such as the Realm of Impossibility and fend off pirate attacks in the process. You’ve a matter of days or weeks, depending upon how quickly we can find the Wispers. Or rather, how quickly they find us.”
“Pilot the ship? Fend off pirate attacks?” Juliet’s voice wavered, betraying her sudden, crippling apprehension. It was one thing to linger over customers’ tables as they spoke of such terrible, exciting things, but the thought of taking part in them herself was, to say the least, unnerving.
“If Wispers drive all the men insane, and you’re forced to tie us belowdecks to keep us from leaping to our deaths, you’d better be able to steer us out of harm’s way.” Brenton must have read her surprise, for he turned to her with a crease worrying his brow. “You didn’t imagine that you’d be spending the voyage sitting in your cabin, sipping tea and reading penny novels, did you? You’re here because I need your assistance.”
Juliet pursed her lips shut, for that was precisely what she’d been imagining. When he’d spoken of her keeping the Wispers from driving him mad, she’d imagined herself directing him where to maneuver if the creatures somehow altered his perceptions, making him tea and wiping the perspiration from his brow, or perhaps even so much as slapping the sense back into him, if it came down to that. He’d never said anything about piloting the ship or defending it from marauding pirates.
“One moment.” Brenton opened a trunk at the foot of his bed and sorted through the contents, pulling one particular item free. It was made of leather and brass plates, with nets of chains hanging over the top like the glimmering of diamonds in the sun. Juliet drew nearer, trying to discern its purpose.
“Here.” Brenton held it up. “You’ll feel much braver with this on, I assure you.”
Juliet took it from him and examined it. It was armor, but with a delicacy and lightness that surprised her. “I’m to wear this?”
“It’s designed to slip on quickly over your clothing.” He lifted the armor piece and slid it over her head in one smooth, deft motion. It fit snugly around her torso and arms and down past her hips, with a hood in the back that could cover her entire face, save for a long eye slit. The layer of leather nearest her skin was soft, yet allowed air to pass through it. The individual links of chain clattered in and out of their rows and columns as she shifted and moved, so that the armor never bunched up or pulled too tight. Between the layers were thin plates of brass.
“This is incredible.”
“Each of the crew has armor to don if the alarm goes out that there is danger nearby. The pirates have many tricky ways of boarding an airship from nearly any direction, so once they’ve been spotted, there’s no time for muddling about with tricky clothing.”
A ding of the delivery chute interrupted, and Brenton read the message to himself. “It seems that your first lesson will have to wait. Will you meet me again after dinner? Good. Keep that armor with you. I doubt we shall need it before reaching the Mage Sea, but better to be safe.”
As he turned to leave, his eyes still on the note in his hand, Juliet spoke up. “How is it that you happened to have a set of women’s armor lying about?”
Brenton looked up and gave her a melancholy smile. “It was my mother’s.”
* * *
From then on, Juliet trained with Brenton every moment that he wasn’t eating, sleeping, or flying the Realm of Impossibility. She attacked each lesson as a challenge, a test of her might and daring. Brenton was a tough instructor, giving her the same firm commands that he would any other member of his crew, but every once in a while, Juliet’s keen eyes would catch a poorly concealed look of pride—and perhaps something else—and she took secret pleasure in these small glances.
By the end of the first week, she knew all of the parts of the ship, from the sharp bowsprit protruding from the front all the way to the powerful rudder on the stern; from the crow’s nest high over their heads to the holds that carried their cargo far below.
The second week, she learned how to tell when bad weather was coming, the speed of the wind, and what rain smelled like from above the clouds. She learned navigational skills in the third week: how to read a compass and the stars.
By the fourth, Brenton determined that she was finally ready to learn the crewmen’s duties. The two of them dangled high off the ground in leather harnesses and goggles, with nothing to hold them but a pulley and rope as he demonstrated how to repair minor tears in the ship’s giant bladder.
After that, she learned to pilot the ship, to single-handedly man the bridge, to maneuver the ship to fend off pirate attacks, and all the ways they’d try to stop her.
Throughout these weeks, Brenton taught her swordplay as well—something for which she had a natural aptitude—so that as the sun set on the fourth week, and they finally reached the notorious Mage Sea, Juliet finally, for the very first time, found herself poised over Brenton’s body with her blade pressed against his throat, instead of the other way around. Her eyes met his sky-blue ones, and for a moment, the two simply remained there, breathing shared air.
Juliet lowered the blade.
“Well,” Brenton said, pulling himself up from the floor. “If I didn’t know you quite so well, I’d be concerned that you’d try to seize my ship out from under my nose. You’d make a fearsome pirate, Juliet Silver. I daresay you could beat half the lugs on this crew. Have you ever considered a life in the clouds?”
