“Outil!” Marguerite shouted, “It’s here!” She eagerly peeled off the wax seal and unrolled the thick off-white paper. Her automaton came up behind her and placed a shining silver hand on each of Marguerite’s shoulders, peering over to the words below. “What does it say, miss?” the bot asked quietly. Marguerite read quickly then let the paper snap closed again in her hand. She turned to face Outil, biting her lower lip.
“What is this racket?” her father cried.
“Father, I have an assignment on The Renegade!” She was breathless with excitement.
“I’m hoping that’s the name of an aership?” Her father puffed into the entryway, Faulks and a human servant trailing a safe distance behind. “It is!”
“And is it Laviolette’s ship?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“And this is what you wanted?” His voice was lower now, despite the acoustics in the vaulted room.
“Yes, Father. It is.”
“Well, then, I suppose we must celebrate.” Marguerite shoved the letter in the pocket of her dress and threw her arms around him in a very un-ladylike embrace. He grumbled and grunted and patted her back, then started barking orders at the servant to prepare a feast for dinner that evening.
“Would you like to invite Captain Laviolette to join us? Give him the good news?”
“No.” Marguerite didn’t hesitate for a moment. She felt a longing for him deep in her belly, but she would rather see her plans through to the end than give into a moment of girlish silliness. Besides, she hadn’t told her father that Jacques was completely against this plan of hers.
“Suit yourself. I will invite a few of the neighbors, and we will make a party of it. Outil, you will assist Faulks today,” he said.
“Of course, sir.” Outil looked to Marguerite for a moment. Marguerite nodded her head. She got the distinct feeling that the bot had something to say but couldn’t do so in her father’s presence.
“I’ll come find you later,” Marguerite added.
“Very good, m’lady.”
Marguerite found herself alone in the great foyer. She reached in her pocket and squeezed the thick creamy paper in her hand. She gave a little hop for joy, then called out to her father, “I’ll be back in an hour. I’m going to go officially register.”
“Good, good,” he called out from somewhere deep in the house. She gathered her cape and hat and strained to open the massive doors for herself. She took a deep breath of the springtime air and set off. No time to lose. At the registry a girl, not much older than Marguerite, greeted her with a tired expression. Marguerite produced the paper in her pocket and slid it across the glossy wooden counter.
“Hello, miss. How can I help you today?”
“Lady Marguerite Vadnay reporting for duty,” she beamed.
The girl took the piece of paper with one hand and looked Marguerite over. “Lady Vadnay?” she questioned. Then she opened the paper and stared at it for moment before looking back up. “Assigned to The Renegade?” Her disbelief was palpable.
“That is correct. I’m the new second officer of ballistics.”
“Ballistics?”
“Yes. See, right there.” Marguerite reached over the counter and pointed to the assignment on the paper before spreading her fingers wide and adding: “Boom!”
Her antics did not amuse the girl. She verified Marguerite’s paperwork, showed her to the outfitting station, gave her a very itchy uniform and a small trunk for personal items, then she showed her to the door.
Chapter Eight
Marguerite awoke to grey all around her. Clouds blanketed the normally bright spring weather, and a constant drizzle tapped on the floor to ceiling windows and dampened her spirits—but only a bit. She bounced out of bed and commanded Outil.
“Today is the day! Are my bags ready?”
“Yes, m’lady.” Outil indicated a small trunk at her feet.
“Seems ridiculous, doesn’t it?” Marguerite stared at the little box with handles. “To have come from so much in France to so little, and yet, I’m so much happier.”
“I am truly grateful for your happiness, m’lady,” Outil said.
“What was it you wanted to tell me the other day, Outil? I feel like I haven’t seen you at all lately.”
Since Marguerite received her commission, she had been busy with her father’s party and preparations at the office of military affairs. Then she’d wound up spending all day the day before with Jacques. It had been wonderful. Just like the old times, even though Marguerite felt she may burst with the news of her job on his ship. He hadn’t mentioned it, so she figured he hadn’t seen the ship’s manifest yet. All in good time. She knew he could have her removed from service if he wanted. As captain of The Renegade, he had the right to choose his crew. Marguerite hoped he left that duty up to his first mate and wouldn’t take note of her until they were well on their way.
Outil hesitated a moment then asked, almost shyly, “M’lady, it’s just that you never let me see what your actual assignment was on the ship. You folded up your missive before I was done reading.”
“Oh, dear Outil. All you had to do was ask. I’ve been assigned as the second ballistics officer. Even though my eventual goal is to work on the bridge, I’m quite happy with this assignment. You know I’m an excellent shot and my knowledge of weaponry, both old and cutting edge, is quite extensive. It’s a perfect fit, don’t you think? So much better than the galley. Ugh. I can’t imagine spending my whole voyage below deck preparing ship food for a bunch of aerman!” Marguerite finished her speech and began to dress for the day. Outil remained silent.
“Outil, aren’t you happy for me?” Marguerite was suddenly annoyed by the bot’s silence.
“Yes, m’lady. It’s just that, I believe there is more to this mission than what he has told you.”
“Whatever could you mean by that?” Marguerite snatched her military issued underthings from the bot and pulled them on only to throw them back to the floor. “These are horrid. I refuse to wear them. They will wear the hide right off my thighs. Give me the silks from Paris.”
Outil obeyed and retrieved the light pink silk underthings. She helped her mistress dress, as she continued to explain. “It’s nothing he has said directly. It’s just a few clues I have picked up on while listening to your conversations.”
“What clues?”
“I have also done more research into the foes we will be facing, m’lady.” Outil pulled at the waist cinch of Marguerite’s flight suit. Unfortunately, she had to wear the military issued suit.
“And what did you find?”
“They are more than just the common Mediterranean corsairs that attacked our ship. These seem to be a ragtag group of outlaws from several countries, most originating in the Caribbean and the British Colonies. The news I could gather on them suggested England might even have backed them.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there.” Marguerite waved Outil’s concerns away with her hand. “Pirates are pirates no matter where they come from. All of them are wicked law breakers.”
“If England has backed them, they will be a much more formidable opponent,” Outil protested. “They would be considered Privateers and will be protected by maritime and aerlaw. That greatly limits your options for stopping them and avoiding war.”
“What about Jacques? What clues are you referring to?” Marguerite changed the subject as she sat at her dressing table and waited for Outil to plait her hair.“Nothing in particular. I just get the feeling that he didn’t want this commission, but that he didn’t have a choice. You realize that a man of his ranking doesn’t get much say, if any, in where he is assigned to serve?” Outil expertly pulled a stiff bristled brush through her dark, wavy tresses and began to weave them up and back out of her face, forming a neat arrangement at the back of her neck.
“Yes, but he knew that when he signed up.” Marguerite admired Outil’s work and turned to face
her mechanical friend.
“Forgive me for saying this, m’lady, but he also didn’t know you when he signed up.”
“Outil, unless you have something of substance to tell me, I think we are finished with this conversation.” Marguerite was tired of Outil playing the devil’s advocate. Plus she didn’t believe her bot could actually intuit or research more about the situation than she already had. True, she’d been busy with studies the past few weeks, but not that busy. If there were something more that Jacques wasn’t telling her, she felt certain that she would have noticed it.
“Very well,” Outil meekly stepped back from Marguerite’s chair as she rose and headed for the door.
“Bring my trunk downstairs, will you?”
“Of course, m’lady.”
After a quick meal, Marguerite bid her father farewell.
“Be careful, young lady.” He had both hands on her shoulders; his face just inches from hers. “You are my greatest blessing, my greatest joy, and my only true treasure. It pains me to see you go, especially in this fashion. Are you certain you won’t stay with me? We could have so many lovely days on the river and in the countryside.”
“Oh, father. Of course, I will be careful. And you know that I would lose my mind if I had to sit here, idle and aging, as we took in the scenery together. I will make you proud while I’m saving the world, and bring home a uniform dripping in medals.”
“Just bring home a uniform without any gunshots in it, eh?” He pointed to her neckline. “And cover that up, for goodness sake.”
Marguerite reached up and felt a bit of pink silk peeking out from beneath the scratching blue wool. “Right.” She blushed.
“Take care my girl. Remember that I love you.”
They embraced only for a moment, long enough for Marguerite to whisper: “I love you, too.”
And then she was off. The autocar delivered girl, automaton, and small case to the landing just off the St. Lawrence River at the Port of Montreal. The drizzle had stopped, and the sun threatened to break through any moment. Everything was damp and glistening, despite the grey light of morning.
Marguerite gasped as she took in the spectacle before her. It was so much grander than she remembered. So many more ships than back home in La Rochelle. Gleaming new dirigibles and aerships anchored side by side with older, more weather-worn vessels. Fishing rigs and ancient cargo ships filled the river below. There were people and officers and crates everywhere. Marguerite couldn’t help but think of the first time she’d arrived at a dock like this, just a little more than a year ago with her friend Vivienne. Bittersweet emotions flooded her chest. What an adventure that had been. She allowed herself to miss Vivienne for just a moment, and then she turned to Outil.
“Here we go, Outil! Which ship do you suppose is The Renegade?”
“It seems fairly obvious, m’lady.” Outil lifted a shining silver finger and pointed up river. Amidst a circus of ships in the air and the water, surrounded by busy bots and workers, was moored a gleaming black and silver aership of epic design and proportions.
“Yes, you are most likely correct.” Marguerite agreed, and the two set off.
Despite the aership’s massive size, it was a sleek and practical design. The body was slim and very pointed at either end. The stern and bow both sported razor sharp ramrods—for puncturing envelopes— Marguerite guessed—and the lower decks only showcased very small portholes and weaponry access. The whole ship gleamed like an autobot, bright silver in the morning sun. The envelope was painted black, and the royal seal had been emblazoned on the giant swaths of fabric making it look like one enormous flag.
If there was any doubt left in her mind, large letters were painted in black along the back edge of the ship: Renegade.
Marguerite turned to grin at Outil as they approached the ship. There was a flurry of activity beneath. Aermen and soldiers chatted and checked off lists. Lifts ran up and down as fast as the crew could load and unload them. Marguerite looked for someone in charge but was at a loss. Almost everyone had a uniform, and no one looked like they were in charge of new arrivals.
Across the crowd she suddenly spotted Jacques. He was wearing his finest uniform, hat and all, and was shouting orders to those surrounding him as he approached a lift. The men cleared the way and let him enter with a few crates. He slammed the door, accompanied by a smaller man with a newer looking bot, and the lift pulled them off the docks and into the air. Jacques carefully surveyed the scene below him as he rose.
“Hurry, Outil! Hide me!” Marguerite ducked behind the bot. If he saw her in uniform, he would pounce at once. Her lunch with Jacques the afternoon before had been so wonderful; Marguerite had pretended that none of this was about to happen. She’d allowed herself to just enjoy his company. He did not propose; she did not argue. It was bliss.
Being at the docks and watching him ascend like a king to a floating throne, left a pit in her stomach. She had to keep her head down and her wits about her, at least until the battles were over.
“It is safe to come out,” Outil said softly. “And I believe we must speak to that man over there. Marguerite looked up and saw a man with a paper and quill calling out names and pointing people to different areas of the dock. The pair made their way through the crowds of humans and bots to the frantic man who seemed to be in charge. He was speaking to a younger boy, maybe fourteen years old, and directing him to his station. Marguerite wondered at such a young lad going off to fight on the open seas. Then again, she was but three years older than that. She had no room to argue.
“Hello, I’m Lady Marguerite Vadnay,” she said much too loudly at the man’s face. He winced a bit and adjusted his spectacles. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go to the end of the line—er, um, m’lady.”
“What line?” Marguerite looked around her, but all she saw were throngs of men and bots. Until she realized that part of the throng did indeed form a serpent of bodies winding back away from the man with the papers. “Oh, dear. I’m ever so sorry.”
“She can go in front of me,” another young lad with sparkling blue eyes and a red dusting of shaggy hair spoke up. He smiled at Marguerite in obvious appreciation. “I don’t mind giving way for a lady to pass.” He held his hat in two hands and gave an awkward bow.
“Aren’t you a dear?” Marguerite rewarded him with an appreciative smile.
The organizer grumbled but flipped quickly through his pages. “Just hurry yourself, m’lady. Let’s see, ballistics?” He looked at her and the paper, alternating a few times.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“And this is Outil, the automaton?”
“Yes.” Marguerite nodded. “Alright, you are to report to the first officer of ballistics to the left of the ship, there where they are loading powder and such. Officer Vuitton. Safe voyage.”
“Thank you ever so much.”
Marguerite gave a little dip herself and was off to meet Officer Vuitton. Behind her, she heard the voice of a young man squeak, “I’m Louis!”
She turned to look at the red-headed boy. Just as she suspected, he was yelling at her. She smiled and waved. “Safe voyage, Louis!”
“Enough,” the organizer grunted. “Louis what?”
As their conversation faded behind her, Marguerite focused her sights on the ballistics team. They seemed a sturdy bunch, each one hauling, at least, two crates to a lift and returning to the pile to get more without hesitation. An older man with sandy brown hair peeking from under a first officer’s hat was calling out orders and hauling the odd crate himself. Marguerite approached him triumphantly, bursting with pride at having found her position.
“You must be First Officer Vuitton?” she chirruped.
The man stopped, a bulky crate in hand, and regarded her with annoyance. “And may I presume you are Lady Marguerite Vanday?”
“Yes, sir. You may.”
“Thank heaven.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm as he turned and
continued to load crates of ammunition. “Get yourself and that bot in gear and give us a hand here. You may be a lady, and we’ll make sure you are treated as such, but you have volunteered to serve His Majesty, and right now His Majesty needs his ship loaded as quickly as possible. That goes for all of you!”
He hollered at the rest of the crew who had stopped to stare at Marguerite and Outil. They jumped back into action and Outil followed suit. She stepped up to the dwindling pile of crates and picked up four to add to Marguerite’s personal trunk and carried them to the lift. “Now that is what I’m talking about.” Officer Vuitton cried. “You work as hard as your bot, m’lady, and we will be in business.”
Marguerite huffed over to the pile and grabbed the handles on either side of a crate. She jerked back, trying to lift it, but only succeeded in getting it balanced on her knees. Outil was back in a flash and helped her get the crate into her arms securely, and Marguerite proceeded to the lift. Hers was the last box on before the lift was yanked far over their heads.
“That’s it boys, and er … um … Lady. Take five minutes to rest and grab a drink. Last load in fifteen minutes. You—” He pointed at Marguerite. “Walk with me.” He set off at a quick pace heading down to the end of the dock. Marguerite scrambled to keep up, Outil at her heals. They caught him a few paces from the edge of the water. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at the massive schooner above. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Quite.”
“I was told that you know a thing or two about computations and weapons?”
“Yes, sir.” He turned and looked her over carefully.
“I was also told your bot is capable of much more than the average automaton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has it a name?”
“Yes, her name is Outil.”
“Huh, fitting.”
“Outil, it’s been reported that you answer to no one but Lady Vanday here. Is that correct?”
Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl Page 5
