“What of slaves?” Annabel said. “How do you justify slavery? Where are all those children from?”
“All great civilizations are founded on slavery,” said Cranestoft, waving his hand as if batting away an irritating fly. “Without slavery you’d need people to care more about each other than they do about themselves.” He jabbed his finger at her. “You may dream of that ideal, but you’ll never have it. If you want this standard of living someone has to pay. They always have and always will, whatever your ragtag bunch of youthful dreamers may think. Besides, we only took children who were poor and homeless. Many of them have better lives here than they had before.”
Annabel could not believe what she heard.
“You’re insane,” she breathed. But was there truth in what Regent said? She rested her hand on the workbench, feeling its textures beneath her skin, hoping she might somehow gain inspiration from this talisman of her father’s memory.
Cranestoft leaned forward in the chair, resting his chin on his fist. “Princess, I understand why you long to be queen. But should you wish to retain the power that role would give you, you’d be wise to understand that teaching scientosophy and liberating slaves would undermine your ambition. Your father understood. He kept his practice secret not from fear of discovery, but because he wanted to keep his crown.”
“You are trying to trick me. You have always deceived me in the past. Why should I trust you now?”
“Because killing you would be expedient and easy. I might as well tell you the truth.” The Regent tapped his fingers against his lips, eyes closed. When he opened them again his expression had changed. A slight smile curled his lips. “In the current circumstances,” he said. “Perhaps killing you is not the only option. Getting your cooperation would be far more elegant and useful. You’ve often complained I have not schooled you in the art of Statecraft. Well, perhaps I should.”
“What do you want from me? Speak plainly if you want me to answer you plainly.”
Cranestoft rested his palms on his knees and, easing himself forward, stood to his full height. He stepped toward Annabel. This time she didn’t flinch or move away. She held his gaze. He rested a hand on her shoulder. His eyes seemed sad and full of weariness.
“Your Highness,” he said. “I may have made a mistake. I considered your murder to be the only secure option for safeguarding the welfare of our kingdom. If you will forgive me for such a grave error, I will tell you the truth. It is not for me to shoulder the responsibility of the monarchy. I felt it forced upon me. You were only a child – and a dangerous child if I am honest. But now I see you are as wise as your father. You would be a good queen, open to wise counsel and proper guidance. Statecraft most often means striking bargains; making compromises. I would like to strike a bargain with you now.”
Annabel’s mind raced. Her life depended on her response.
“Cooperate with me,” said Cranestoft. “You will be Queen. You will rule. We will win the battle outside. We can close the door on this laboratory. You may continue your hobby in peace. Of course, I will know your little secret. But as long as you comply with my wishes you will find me open to making reasonable compromises with you.” His hand tightened on her shoulder. “Princess, it would be easier to kill you.” He released her. “Do you agree?”
Annabel clasped her hands together to stop them trembling. She looked around at the laboratory, once so full of fond memories, of intellectual excitement, of love, of passion for knowledge and endeavor shared with her father. It wasn’t only scientosophy which mattered to her. The laboratory represented her identity. It is who I am, she thought. Without this, even if I become queen, I may as well be hanged. I have nothing else in all the world.
And yet…
Her heart shrank in her breast as she formed the words with her lips, but she raised her head, and looking Cranestoft in the eye she said, “No.”
The Regent sneered. “Then you leave me no option but to fulfil your execution.”
Annabel looked around wildly. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She edged to the right, further behind the scientosophical workbench. Cranestoft raised the gun. His finger squeezed the trigger.
“Goodbye, Princess,” he said.
Annabel flung herself forward, knocking the gun from his grasp, glassware shattering, books thudding from the table. Cranestoft cursed. He struck her hard with the back of his hand. The blow rang in her skull. She tasted blood.
The gun landed on the edge of a copper plate, part of a large device. Cranestoft lurched towards it.
“No!” Annabel screamed, reaching out to take his ankle. He kicked free of her. “It’s not safe!”
But she’d unbalanced him. As his hands closed around the gun he slipped forward, slumping over the center of the copper plate.
The crystal glowed. An electrostatic bolt sizzled through the arms of the device. In an instant, a blue current of energy pulsed along the copper tubes. The needle points sparked and crackled. Cranestoft yelled, his body thrown back several yards, crashing through glassware and knocking over brass instruments. His clothes and hair were on fire. He thrashed about, screaming, the gun tossed to one side.
Even hating him as she did, horror filled Annabel at the sight of the man’s suffering. She snatched up the gun and aimed it at him. She grasped one hand with the other to control the shaking. Tears pricked her eyes. But she did not need to pull the trigger.
Cranestoft looked at her, his eyes wide in terror. “Damn you,” he said. And fell limp to the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At first Harriet thought the palace was still being bombed. But the throbbing in her head was from the blow Cranestoft had dealt her. She dragged herself to her feet. Fallen stones and charred timber blocked the Throne Room. Thick smoke fogged the air. Harriet clawed at the rubble blocking the entrance. She only dislodged dust and plaster.
“Annabel!” she shouted. “Annabel!”
Tears wet her cheeks. S’no good. This is her tomb now ain’t it? No way she could’ve survived.
A chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling, narrowly missing her. It shattered on the tiles, sending up a cloud of white powder. I’d best get meself out before the place falls in on me, too.
She emerged from the building into the Place of Assembly. The fighting was over. The battle won. The ruined palace was blackened with soot. Rafters, doors and window frames smoldered, acrid smoke rising into the blue sky. Men, women and children, freed slaves, surrendered guards and citizens of the island went among the wounded and the dead trying to help.
Harriet stumbled through the devastation, picking a way over bodies, rubble and broken machinery. The odor of blood and sweat permeated the air. The cries and sobs of the injured and bereaved echoed among the ruins. Harriet felt numb, devoid of feeling. I s’pose I’m in shock, she thought.
She found her crew organizing survivors and taking care of the wounded. Sibelius saw her. He loped toward her. His eyes had a look she had never seen before; their brightness dulled by sorrow. No spark of humor remained. His movements, usually sprightly even in dire circumstances, were sluggish.
They embraced. They clung to one another amid the chaos and destruction. Harriet buried her face into his thick fur. She listened to the pulse of his brave simian heart. When they pulled apart, Harriet said, “Are the others all right?”
Sibelius took her hand. She walked with him to where the others stood.
“Cap’n,” said Davy. His arm was bleeding, but he’d managed a rough bandage. Sam was bruised but well. Barney had come through scarred but alive. They didn’t look like the victors of a battle. Something was wrong.
“What is it?” Harriet said, her palms sweating.
Her friends stepped back.
“She fought bravely to the last,” said Sibelius.
Harriet looked. The strength bled out of her. She slumped to
her knees. “No,” she whispered, cupping the girl’s cold face in her hands. “No! Josephine! No!” Harriet buried her head against the rebel leader’s neck and sobbed.
When she stopped weeping, Sibelius lifted her to her feet. “Come, mademoiselle,” he said. “The living still need us. First, we help the others, and then we will see what we can do to help ourselves.”
For the rest of the day Harriet and Sibelius helped the wounded. Davy and Barney organized a clean-up operation and Sam helped with repairs to machinery and equipment.
In the evening, Harriet called the crew to a meeting. They had eaten and had time to rest. She led them to the remains of the warehouse where the starship was held. They stepped over rubble and twisted fuselage. As if the damage that the palace authorities had already done was not enough, the damage inflicted in the battle made the vessel irreparable.
Harriet crouched down on one knee and picked up a piece of the starship’s broken hull. She could find no words and let the debris fall back to the dust.
Sibelius’s hand closed gently over her shoulder. She stood, turning to the others. They looked at her for guidance, for leadership, for reassurance; but in that moment she was mute. She rubbed her hand over her face. Her crew stood with her: ragged, burnt, and covered in dried effluent; cut, bleeding, tired and demoralized.
And she laughed.
It was a hard, dry laugh, devoid of mirth. And even as she laughed, the laughter turned to tears. She slumped in the dust among the debris of her destroyed starship, of her broken dream.
Barney crouched beside her and hugged her. “It ain’t that bad,” he said. “Who wanted to go back to Lundoon anyway?”
A wave of sound, of people cheering, swept over them from the Place of Assembly. They looked at one another. The cheer gave way to applause and then, abruptly, to silence.
“What’s going on back there?” Harriet said. “It don’t seem there’s much to be cheering about.”
“Shall we find out?” offered Davy.
Harriet stood. “Let’s all go. There ain’t no reason to stay here.”
As Harriet turned to leave, she saw something poking out from the tangled remains of the fuselage. She picked it up.
“Stone me,” she said. “Look at this.”
She held the coded star chart and the mechanical chart reader they had used to find their way to the Island of Birds.
“It is fortunate, mademoiselle,” Sibelius said. “We have that, at least.”
She nodded and stuffed them in her jerkin. They walked on, stepping over the rubble and back to the Place of Assembly.
The survivors, or most of them, gathered, their necks craned upwards, faces intent, listening. Harriet led her crew as they pushed their way to the middle of the gathering. They looked up together.
Princess Annabel stood on the balcony. “She’s alive!” said Harriet, her heart thumping. The princess’s hair was in disarray, her face blackened and bleeding, her dress torn and ragged. But she held a golden orb in one hand, and she wore a crown of gold and jewels. She stood straight and proud, her mouth to the speaking tube, as her words rang out loud and clear over the heads of the crowd.
“…and so,” she was saying, “I know what was happening here. We are all party, witting and unwitting, to a wicked trade in children between the island and many other worlds. We were kept in fear so we would accept the aggression of our rulers. We have lived richly at the expense of others…” Her voice cracked, but she drew a shuddering breath and continued. “Now I know this I no longer want it, I never wanted it. The Regent is dead, his authority reduced to nothing. Today is my birthday, and I claim the moral right to the Throne.”
A ripple of applause. Annabel raised her hands. “No!” she said. “Listen: I want our island to be an island free of slavery. I want an island where the will of each of us is for the common good: where cooperation replaces competition; generosity replaces greed; and peace takes the place of war; an island of freedom and equality.”
Harriet looked at Sibelius but his face was impassive, intent on Annabel’s speech.
“An island without slaves must be an island without slave masters; an island without subjects must be an island without rulers.”
A murmur spread through the crowd.
The princess continued. “I offer you my apology for the terrors imposed upon you by the Royal House. And now,” she lifted the crown from her head and held it out over the edge of the balcony, “I declare the island a republic. I renounce my crown! We are free!”
Annabel opened her fingers, and the crown fell. The people below parted, scuttling to make space. The crown landed in the sand with a dull thud.
First one, and then another, clapped and stamped and applauded until the sound thundered and roared and echoed around the remains of the ruined palace. Harriet looked about at the people. When she looked back at the balcony, the princess had gone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The rubble was cleared away. The dead were buried. Those areas of the palace which were not destroyed had been re-purposed for the benefit of the community and meetings were organized to debate how best the new, emerging society should be run.
Harriet sat just outside the city gates, on a rocky outcrop that gave her a view over the island, and beyond the island, above the blue atmosphere to the Dark Sea.
She gazed at the alien sky. None of the star patterns were ones she knew. She longed to see a glimpse of the Moon or the greenish blue orb of the Earth as she remembered seeing it when had set out into the Dark Sea on this extraordinary quest.
Her mind wandered back over the adventures of the last few years to her tower home in Lundoon. “I was ready to leave,” she thought. “I had to go. But I never thought I’d be stuck this far away. I always thought the starship would be the only home I’d need, but… I dunno. What kind o’ life can I make here? It’s beautiful, but…”
She closed her eyes. I wish… Someone was standing next to her. She looked up into Annabel’s eyes.
“Hello,” Annabel said. Harriet smiled, shifting to make room for her. Their knees touched as Annabel sat down next to her. She didn’t move away. They sat in silence. Harriet felt the breeze in her hair. It was growing longer again. Annabel spoke.
“Everything has changed,” she said. “For both of us.”
“Yes,” said Harriet. She looked into the former princess’s eyes. They’re beautiful, she thought. “For you more than me, most likely.”
“Yes,” Annabel said. “Perhaps. I mean, yes. I was a princess and now I’m… I don’t know what I am.”
“I know what you mean,” said Harriet. “Being the captain of me own ship, me crew; being an adventurer. The starship was me home, see? Those boys and Sibelius, they’re me family.”
“You still have them,” Annabel said. Harriet looked back at her. Annabel was crying. Harriet enfolded her in her arms. The girl sobbed and sobbed as Harriet hugged her fiercely and stroked her hair.
“What will you do?” Harriet said at last.
Her head nestled in Harriet’s arms, she shook it and snuffled. “I don’t know.” Then she said, “You?”
“Here?” Harriet said. “I dunno, either. There’s a lot to do to get the island back on its feet. But I ain’t never thought I’d be stuck here without me ship. And I promised to help them kids get back home, didn’t I?”
Annabel straightened. She took Harriet’s face in her hands, gently, between her palms. “Listen,” she said. “My laboratory is intact. The books survived the fire. We have all kinds of parts the children salvaged. We have the steam engines from the factories.”
Harriet didn’t get what Annabel was aiming at.
“We can use the parts, the engines, and the technology. We can build a new ship.”
Harriet shook her head. “You reckon we can build a starship?”
“Yes,” Annabel
said, smiling. “I’m sure of it. My father and Dr. Ravensberg had already drawn up plans for such a thing. It will take time. Years, perhaps. And I can’t leave until I am sure that the people of the island will be well.”
“What?” Harriet said. “You want to leave?”
Annabel smiled. “Couldn’t you use a practical scientosphist on your crew, Cap’n?”
“But your island, your people, your kingdom…”
“There’s no more kingdom,” she said. “We are a republic now.” She sighed. “I don’t think I ever wanted to be a ruler, not really. I wanted freedom. Belonging. Being a princess is not a thing you choose. You’re born to it. From the day you’re born you’re taught, disciplined, guided, molded into the role demanded of you. But what I said on the balcony is true: a country without slaves must be a country without slave masters; a country in which people are free must be a country in which no one is considered to be good enough to be another’s master; we will no longer be governed, we will have no need of it. We will cooperate. If we have any ruler at all it will be goodwill and goodwill alone.”
“Then why do you want to leave?” said Harriet. “That’s what I don’t get. Your people maybe ain’t your subjects no more, but they still need you, just like a crew needs a captain, don’t they?”
“These people don’t need me. They need each other.”
“Are you running away?”
“No. Listen. When a cage is left open and the bird escapes, is it flying away from the cage or toward the sky?”
“When I left Lundoon I was running away and chasing my dreams.”
Annabel nodded. “Then perhaps both. But it’s what I want. I don’t belong here anymore. I long for adventure, for freedom; and to be known only as Annabel. Not Your Highness, not Princess, loved or hated. Just known and accepted for who I am. Look.” Annabel reached into the bag Harriet had only just noticed she was carrying and lifted out the clockwork sparrow. “I kept it,” she said. “I held on to it as I held on to my father – or his memory – to the hope of being crowned and, I think, to my childhood. But real freedom demands making decisions; taking risks, leaping into the unknown.”
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