Skies of Fire: The Ether Chronicles

by Archer, Zoe

  The navigator snapped to attention. He pointed to a section of the map spread on the table before him. “We should find a safe pocket here, sir. It’s far from towns of any real size, and the mountains should keep us screened from the enemy.”

  “There’s a military installation in that area,” she said. “Five hundred troops, and they’ve got ether cannons, so you wouldn’t be safe from bombardment. However,” she continued, pointing to a different stretch of mountains, “this region is all but uninhabited, and what populace does live there are poor peasants with no access to telegraph lines. If my airship were damaged and I needed someplace to drop anchor for repairs, that’s where I would go.”

  Mr. Herbert glanced at Christopher, uncertain.

  “Your intelligence is reliable?” Christopher asked.

  “Of course. I gathered it.”

  The corner of his mouth threatened to curve upward. Once, long ago, when they had been watching the night sky from the warmth of his bed, he had confessed that he found her confidence enthralling.

  Not maddening? she had asked. The night had been cold, especially with the balcony doors thrown open to better see the stars, and she and Christopher had snuggled together beneath a fur blanket taken from a captured Russian ship.

  D’you think I joined the Navy because I want an uncomplicated life? It’s challenge that I want. And challenge you give me.

  Ready for another challenge? She had rolled atop him, straddling him, and pinned his wrists to the bed. Try and get free.

  He had grinned, that wide, spectacular grin that never failed to captivate her. Get free? Why would I want to?

  A sharp throb of loss resonated through her now, as she and Christopher stared at one another across the map. It seemed an appropriate measure of the distance between them—the map and its depiction of thousands of miles.

  “Give Mr. Herbert the precise coordinates of the installation and the isolated area,” he finally said.

  She hid her exhalation of relief, then told the navigator precisely where to avoid and where to find the safety she had described.

  “Have everything you need, Mr. Herbert?” Christopher asked, once the lieutenant had finished transcribing her notes.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Come with me, Miss Shaw.” Hardly had these words left his lips than he paced from the navigator’s room.

  She struggled to keep up with his long-legged stride. He had the advantage of knowing not only the layout of the ship, but the movement of the crew, so he neatly wove past crewmen going about their duties without breaking pace. Her mouth firmed with determination. If he sought to make her feel awkward, he’d have to do better. She moved just as nimbly, skirting past crew carrying equipment, never hesitating when the companionways seemed a complex maze.

  She’d spent long hours poring over the schematics of every airship in Her Majesty’s Aerial Navy. Including the plans of the Demeter, knowing full well that Christopher was its captain. She had pictured him walking the decks, direct and unfaltering in his pace. Or she’d thought of him in his cabin, reviewing his log and absently rubbing at his jaw, as he always did when he read.

  Of course, when she’d thought of him then, he’d looked the same. Whipcord lean, quick to smile. Not the man he was now.

  Knowing the schematics of the Demeter, she understood without being told when they approached his quarters. He pushed open the door, startling the cabin boy. The young crewman stopped in the middle of picking up books scattered across the floor.

  “Dismissed,” Christopher said, entering the cabin. She immediately followed.

  The boy saluted and hurried out, closing the door behind him.

  She and Christopher were alone.

  He paced to a heavy cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, then poured himself a glass. After downing it all in one swallow, he poured out another measure and held it out for her.

  She took the glass, noting how careful he was to keep their fingers from touching. Uncertain what to say or where to begin, she sipped the whiskey, feeling its welcome burn. As she nursed her drink, she examined his quarters. They were located in the aft of the ship, with a long window running the length of the cabin. There was the carved cabinet, a desk, and a narrow, solitary bed. All standard issue. Much as she’d imagined it.

  But she saw that the books the steward had been gathering were not all treatises on naval policy or advancements in shipbuilding. Bending down, she picked up a book near her feet and smiled.

  “Still chasing birds,” she murmured, holding the book open to an illustration of a song thrush. He had never kept specimens, only watched the birds in the wild. It seemed a shame, he’d said, to admire a living creature and then shoot and stuff it. Or worse, cage the poor thing, depriving it of the open sky.

  He stepped forward and plucked the book from her hand. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “Same as you. Fighting to keep the Hapsburgs from claiming the world’s supply of telumium.” Should the Hapsburgs acquire all the source of the rare metal, found only in a few remote places, they would construct a fleet of Man O’ Wars capable of conquering every nation, from Britain to the Americas and beyond.

  She finished her whiskey, needing its courage to say what she must, then set the glass down. After taking a breath, she said, “And now I need your help.”

  AN IMMEDIATE REFUSAL sprang to Christopher’s lips. Force of will kept it back, however. For all her audacity, Louisa wasn’t foolish. She wouldn’t ask for help unless she truly needed it.

  If she hadn’t spotted his airship, if he hadn’t been there to see her distress signal, she would be dead. Either from enemy gunfire or by her own hand. His implants kept him from reacting to cold, yet the thought of her sprawled in the dust, dead, was a bitter chill.

  Men who were selected to become Man O’ Wars underwent thorough testing to ensure they had strong willpower and self-control. They needed it, for the implants amplified emotions.

  Seeing Louisa again, hearing her voice, and even, God help him, touching her—he needed every ounce of his self-discipline to keep himself from sinking into a vortex. Anger, fear, desire. He felt them all at once. Yet he knew in the depths of his heart that what he felt now had nothing to do with his implants.

  It was her. She’d always brought out feelings in him, feelings that a lifetime of naval discipline had all but beaten out of him.

  And she was here now, on his ship, seeking his help.

  “To complete your mission,” he said. It wouldn’t be for anything else. “Which you still haven’t disclosed to me.”

  “Before we were surrounded, my contact gave me this.” She gripped the hem of her skirts and lifted.

  Two choices: look away like a frightened prude, or torment himself by seeing her legs. Self-preservation had never been one of his qualities.

  Her dark wool stockings hid her bare flesh, but the shape of her legs beguiled him. Louisa’s legs were long and sleek, temptingly muscled, the limbs of a woman seldom at rest.

  He’d first seen her, and her legs, one night at the Admiralty’s ball. He’d been a sea captain back then, with the Man O’ War program in its earliest stages. Having grown up at sea, he hadn’t yet thought to look toward the skies.

  At the Admiralty’s ball, however, his attention had been fixed solely on the terra firma. On Louisa. Compared with the officers’ wives and daughters, she had been a restless flame, more electric than the recently installed lights. She had been different from the other women who worked for the Navy, as well. Those women seemed compelled to conduct themselves with an excess of gravitas and spoke in quiet, restrained voices.

  In her sapphire silk gown, Louisa had circled the room, her gaze alert, an intriguing half-smile playing about her lips. She had watched the dancers waltz to the clockwork orchestra as though observing the rituals of primitive animals.

  “Who is that?” Christopher had asked a fellow captain.

  “Louisa Shaw. Intelligence operative. Surprised
to see her here. She never comes to these little fêtes.” The other man shook his head. “Don’t bother, Redmond. Every man who asks her to dance winds up cradling his stones and howling for mercy. Metaphorically.”

  Even if Christopher hadn’t been instinctively compelled to go after a challenge, resisting the allure of Louisa Shaw would have been impossible. He’d crossed the width of the ballroom, steering around the mechanized servers handing out flutes of champagne, until he had reached her. Women often appreciated the sight of him in his ball-dress uniform, but, given that almost every man in attendance had been wearing ball-dress uniforms, he hadn’t been able to rely on that advantage.

  At his bow, the first words from her had been, “What makes you think you’ll be any more successful than the others?”

  “None of them is me.” He had offered her his arm.

  She had laughed, a rich, low sound that made every man with functioning hearing and a pulse turn and stare. She had taken his arm, and together they had walked onto the dance floor. He’d felt the strength of her, then, as they danced, how she moved with a swift feline power.

  But others at the ball hadn’t been as graceful. A lieutenant and his dancing partner had collided with them, sending both Christopher and Louisa crashing into one of the mechanical servers. Champagne had spilled across her skirts.

  He’d growled at the stammering lieutenant, but Louisa had merely smiled and walked away. He had followed her out onto a night-draped balcony.

  “There are maids in the retiring room,” he’d offered as she brushed at her skirts. When it came to commanding warships bristling with weapons, he was entirely confident. He’d been in the Navy since he was a boy. He knew everything about ships and maritime warfare. A woman with champagne staining her gown, however, was a conundrum.

  “Serves me right for coming to this blasted ball,” she’d said without anger. But when she lifted her skirts to examine the damage, revealing those gorgeous legs, shock and heat had pulsed through him. Seeing how he stared at her, she laughed and let go of the yards of silk. He’d all but howled his disappointment at losing sight of her legs.

  “I spend too long out in the field,” she’d said. “It makes me forget rules like ‘Don’t show a stranger anything below your waist.’ ”

  “Depends on the stranger,” he had answered.

  She’d laughed again, and he had been lost.

  Now he pushed these memories out of his thoughts. Or tried to. But the vision of Louisa lifting her skirts for him threatened his control. Even if he hadn’t been a Man O’ War, his need to claim would still pound through his veins.

  From a pouch strapped to her thigh, she pulled out a piece of folded paper and handed it to him. The document was warm from being pressed close against her.

  “Plans for a military structure,” he noted after unfolding the paper.

  She lowered her skirts, thank God. “A munitions plant.”

  He spread the document out on his desk. “If the scale of this drawing is correct, the plant is enormous.”

  “It’s the major supplier for Hapsburg munitions. Which is why I was sent to destroy it.”

  “It would be impossible for one woman, or man, to destroy this structure.”

  “My contact was going to give me the plans, then take me to a secret faction who’d help me build and carry in the necessary explosives. The Hapsburg troops took exception to our collaboration,” she added dryly.

  “Did they ever find out the nature of the intelligence your contact gave you?”

  She shook her head. “Someone informed on us but only told the soldiers that two spies were in the vicinity. This intelligence,” she said, pointing to the plans, “remains active. And my mission is ongoing. I need to destroy this plant.”

  “Thus the request for my assistance.”

  “With the major supplier of munitions obliterated, this could turn the tide of the war. Save hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. There could finally be peace.”

  “No need to convince me. I don’t live for war.”

  “Despite all your . . . changes?” she asked quietly.

  “It’s my body that’s altered. Not my soul.”

  Now that he had said it aloud, the fact sat between them like an unexploded bomb. Silence stretched out. She gazed at his shoulder, where his implants had been surgically grafted. All Man O’ Wars had their implants located in their left shoulders. Minute telumium filaments were attached to the undersides of the implants, weaving into their flesh and encircling their hearts.

  “When?”

  “Two-and-a-half years ago.”

  Six months after she had left him. They both knew it. “Because of me.”

  “The procedure took seven hours, and none of it could be under anesthesia.” He forced out a laugh, but inwardly winced at its bitterness. “You broke my heart, Louisa, but not enough to drive me into the arms of that agony.”

  Her face paled. “I didn’t know the operation took so long, or was so painful.”

  “It’s not information that’s readily supplied. They only tell you after all the tests and screenings. Almost no one opts out.”

  “Certainly not you.” He didn’t miss the faint note of pride in her voice, nor how his pulse kicked in response. Damn it, he didn’t want to take pleasure in her respect. He didn’t want to feel anything when it came to her.

  Telumium implants made him strong—yet they did nothing to protect his heart.

  “I wanted to serve my country,” he answered. “Half a day’s pain meant little in comparison with what would be gained.”

  “But what was lost?” she whispered.

  “You’ve got no bloody right to ask that,” he snarled. He stalked to the window and watched the rough mountain peaks passing below the ship like stone waves. The lowering sun set alight the very tops of the mountains, as though rock could burn. The beauty of the scene touched him not at all. His awareness was confined only to this cabin, and the woman within it, whose voice and face and form conjured up old hopes.

  He’d thought the wound had healed. All it had done was crust over, leaving the injury to fester and poison his blood. Only now, with the wound opened again, did he realize how deep the sickness went.

  Her footsteps were light upon the floor as she approached him. Light and wary.

  “Tell me more about this munitions plant.” He turned and strode past her to the table, then stared at the plans.

  For a moment, she did not speak, and he waited for her to try to take up the thread of their too-intimate conversation. Yet instead she moved to stand beside him and said, “Very little, outside of what this plan tells us.”

  “The location?”

  She exhaled. “Unknown. The faction my contact was taking me to, they would’ve led me to it. All I have to go on is drawn here.”

  Bracing his hands on the table, he studied the plan. “This only shows one wall.”

  “They’d never build such an important structure out in the open. Too exposed, both to the elements and to the enemy.” She planted her hands on her hips.

  “This diagram could be incomplete.”

  “An operative gave his life to make this drawing. He wouldn’t have left anything out.”

  “Except the rest of the walls.”

  “Unless . . .” She pulled a pair of spectacles from her pocket, then set them on her nose. She looked at him with curiosity, light glinting off the lenses. “No remarks? Jibes about me getting old or looking like a data-scroll archivist?”

  “I’d never disparage a data-scroll archivist.”

  She gave him a sour look and returned her attention to the plan. He sure as hell didn’t want to admit that he liked her in spectacles, how they framed her face and gave her a scholarly appearance that contrasted alluringly with her windblown hair and sleek curves. No, he wouldn’t admit any of this outside of his own traitorous thoughts.

  “Perhaps,” she continued, studying the drawing, “this illustrates the single constructed wall, but
not the others.”

  “If they weren’t built, they have to exist somehow.”

  “They could be naturally occurring.”

  “Such as a forest or—”

  “A mountain.”

  Her eyes gleamed behind the lenses of her spectacles. “A fortress, carved right into the side of a mountain.”

  “Making it impregnable, even to airship attacks.”

  She slapped her hands on the table, as she often did when excited by an idea. Did she even know she did it? “The perfect location for a munitions plant. Well hidden, easily defendable, all but indestructible.”

  “Then we’ve two tasks ahead of us,” he said. “The first: ascertain the plant’s location.”

  Nodding toward the window, and the mountains beyond, she said, “A challenge, given the size of the territory. But it can be done.”

  He’d always admired that quality in her—the utter confidence that she would accomplish even the most insurmountable endeavor. She refused failure, just as he did.

  “The second,” he continued, “is finding a way to actually destroy the site.”

  “Clearly, it’s heavily fortified.” She traced the line that delineated the perimeter. “There’s only one way in. This wall will be thick, and protected by armaments, both ordinary weapons and, I’m guessing, ether cannons. Once that wall is breached, it would be a matter of finding the proper location to plant the explosive.”

  “Fighting off enemy troops all the while,” he said. “And there will be hordes of them.”

  “We won’t be able to fight our way in. It’s impassable by force.”

  “How else are we supposed to get inside?” he asked.

  “Not through an overt fight. Stealing into places is what I do best. Which gives us a better chance of getting in. Getting out, however . . .”

  “There’s no getting out. No means of withdrawal.” He straightened and held her gaze. “It’s a suicide mission. But you already knew that.”

  “It’s almost certain that the plant will be too heavily fortified to make a retreat possible—I only need your ship to get me close,” she added. “The rest I can do on foot.”