by Anthea Sharp
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.”
~*~
Victoria Eternal
In the 14th reign of Queen Victoria, the British Empire stretched from Earth to the Rings of Epsilon, and beyond. Even a tiny moon like Wendover was not immune to the spread of empire—not when its lush jungles held treasures beyond imagination.
Or might, at any rate. Jessamyn Pershing was not so sure.
She rested her chin in her gloved hand and squinted out the plas-glass window at the dense foliage outside. An odd violet light lay over everything—the dimness that passed for night here on Wendover. She wished she could see the stars. On the passage out, the bright points of light had seemed like promises, scattered across the universe. Now they were hidden, occluded by an atmosphere of bruised photons.
Jess was equally fascinated and repulsed by the alien jungle, the close, moist air, the overpowering smell of rotting vegetation that permeated every molecule of recirculated oxygen. But it was alive. Far preferable to the sterile habitat, the curving walls that had sheltered and constrained her since their arrival one week ago.
Behind her, a handful of couples turned and wove in the formal patterns of a quadrille. By London standards, this Welcome Ball was a dismal event.
“Dance, Jess,” her mother, Lady Pershing said, pausing beside the window. “As the daughter of the outpost’s commander, you must set a good example. Accept the next gentleman who approaches you.”
Jess let out an invisible sigh. There were a handful of minor peers among the employees of the British Universal Company, but she did not consider any of them gentlemen.
Still, she should count herself lucky that there were eligible young men here on Wendover. Her cousin Mary frequently pinged her long, anguished communications bemoaning the utter lack of romantic prospects on the desert planet where her own father was posted.
Jess’s mother was staring at her, dark eyes impatient.
“Very well,” Jess said. “I will dance.”
She scanned the figures standing within the curved walls of the ballroom, hoping to catch Derek Goodwin’s eye. Of all the Company men, he was the kindest. The least taxing. Not the best dancer, but she was nimble enough for both of them.
A tall, silent figure snagged her attention—the impassive Yxleti ambassador, a requirement of every British outpost. The creature kept to itself, but it was always watching from its fathomless black eyes. Its respirator obscured most of its face, but Jess had seen pictures of a Yxleti’s thin nostril slit, the mouth formed of sucker-like appendages. Her shoulders prickled, and she turned her head away.
A servbot coasted past, bearing a tray of ratafia, and Jess snatched up a glass. She despised the sweet drink, but it would keep her hands occupied. Perhaps it would make her appear too busy to engage in dancing.
“Miss Pershing,” said a voice at her shoulder. “May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
Jess pasted a smile on her face and turned. “Good evening, Mr. Smith.”
She desperately wanted to make some excuse. Of all the men in the room, Nathaniel Smith was the one she least wanted to dance with. The Company botanist was too handsome for his own good—and hers. But her mother was watching, so Jess keyed his name into her dance card. Worse luck yet, the next dance was a waltz.
The synth-band began the opening strains of music, and Mr. Smith held out his hand. Jess hastily set her glass of ratafia on the slick white windowsill. She placed her gloved palm over his, inwardly cursing the flare of her senses. She was not still infatuated with the fellow—most emphatically not!
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True, she had made a fool of herself over him during the journey, but she had learned her lesson. Men like Nathaniel Smith could not be taken seriously. They were inconstant, as fickle as a daylily—blooming once, then gone.
Why, since their arrival on Wendover, he had been keeping company with at least two of the maids. Not that she had paid any particular notice to his comings and goings.
They danced in silence at first. The nanolifters in Jess’s skirts made her feel almost as if she were flying. It had nothing to do with Mr. Smith’s assured hand at her back, the firm way he guided her through the swooping turns.
“Have you read the most recent issue of the Times?” he asked. “What do you think of the assassination attempt? They were almost successful this time.”
“‘Almost’ carries no currency,” she said. “Besides, even if they kill this queen, there will simply be another Victoria after her.”
So it had been, for nearly five-hundred years—ever since the Yxleti had descended from the sky and demanded an audience with the reigning monarch of Earth.
Mr. Smith drew her closer, his breath feathering against her ear. “Ah, but this time there was also a try for the Seeds.”
Jess felt her eyes widen. “But no one even knows where they are kept.”
Mr. Smith pulled back and gave her a sly smile—a smile that promised secrets. His brown eyes sparked. “The Underground does.”
“The Underground does not exist. A secret society dedicated to ending Queen Victoria’s reign? The Yxleti would never let a threat like that survive.”
Just as they did not let the queen’s offspring stay on earth. It was generally assumed that “royal transportation” meant a trip to the outer darkness. Whether that darkness was literal or metaphorical, the fact remained that there were never any heirs vying for power. Victoria succeeded Victoria, the Empire flourished, and everything stayed as it should.
***
At the end of their dance, Nate bowed low to Miss Pershing and took his leave. He never should have danced with her—not after the near-disaster on the journey to Wendover. How many times had his elder brother told him to steer clear of ladies of good breeding? Ladies who could betray their cause.
And yet, he could not help thinking of Jess’s flashing eyes and dark curls. He had not been able to resist, when her saw her standing alone at the window. Those stolen moments of waltzing had been worth it, despite the hot burn of regret now itching through him.
She was smiling up at that oaf Goodwin now, as they danced a Mazurka. Nate winced as the couple narrowly avoided colliding with the Viscount and his wife. No use pining after what could not be his. Turning on his heel, Nate strode out of the ballroom.
Halfway down the gently curving hall, he tugged off his tie. Fancy dress and enviro-suits didn’t mix. He balled up the length of fine silk and stuffed it in his pocket. When he reached the airlock, he slipped inside and quickly suited up. He was late for his meeting with Betts.
Wendover was a backwater—which made it the perfect place to hide. He had lost the men tracking him two systems back, but had continued on. This moon was odiferous, perhaps, but secure. And his training in botany, plus forged papers, had made it relatively easy to slip in as an employee of the Company. Plus Betts’s help. The engineer had been invaluable.
It didn’t take long for him to reach the low, bubbled compound that housed the maids. As he unsealed his helmet, the chaperone, Mistress Hatch, raised her severely plucked eyebrows.
“Ten minutes, Mr. Smith,” she said, her voice crisp.
He nodded, and continued down the hall to Betts’s room.
“You’re late,” the maid said when he stepped inside her cubicle. She didn’t raise her eyes from the equipment spread out on the floor.
The bed was piled with pieces of gear—metal housings and curls of cable that made no sense to Nate’s more organically-trained eyes. Betts twisted two wires together, then gave them a scowl.
He stepped over a partially dismantled comm set. “Have you been able to secure a transmission frequency yet?”
“Patience, yer lordship. I’m doing what I can.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said, but the words held no heat. Betts spoke how she pleased, but she had proved her discretion and loyalty long since.
Nate pulled the single chair over, and straddled it. The thin material of his suit crinkled, a faint scritch of sound.
“Edward almost succeeded in this most recent attempt,” he said. “If only we had some way of destroying the Seeds.”
“I s’pose the Yxleti will move them, now the Underground has found out where they are.”
“Maybe—but that’s a human assumption. Maybe they’ll just leave all those little Victorias dormant. After all, we haven’t figured out how to damage the casings. The Yxleti material is impervious to everything.”
“Made a right mess, trying.” Betts prodded another wire.
“My brother is doing his best,” he said.
“Well, he’s got to do a sight better. Or nothing will change.”
The door slid open, admitting a small woman with black hair and tilted eyes.
“Good evening, Ako.” Nate rose and offered his chair. “Seat?”
“I can’t stay.” Ako knelt beside Betts and planted a warm kiss on the other woman’s mouth. “My shift starts in a quarter hour. I’ll be late tonight, sweetheart.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Betts said, lifting her hand to cup her lover’s cheek.
Nate turned his head, giving the women what privacy he could.
All three of them were breaking the law in dozens of ways, right here in this room. If Betts and Ako’s relationship was made public, they would be dismissed, separated, then transported to some penal colony filled with backbreaking work, where laborers died within the year. And that was for the least of their transgressions.
Modifying government equipment in order to communicate clandestinely with the Underground was beyond dangerous. Consorting with known traitors was cause for hanging.
But the worst offense of all lay just under Nate’s skin. The very blood that beat in his veins was a threat to Victoria’s endless reign.
He and Edward had been saved by the Underground when they were infants, and their identification chips destroyed. Still, there were factions within the government that suspected their existence. He had survived three assassination attempts, and his brother nearly twice as many. Nate lifted his hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the crushed chip embedded at the base of his skull—the evidence that marked him for instant death.
The thirteenth queen had been his grandmother.
***
“Surely my training ought to be of use, father,” Jess said at breakfast. She gripped the silver handle of her fork, the embossed acanthus leaves pressing into her thumb. “Please.”
If she didn’t do something, anything, soon, she felt she would go mad. Back home in England, at least she’d had her friends. The passage out to Wendover—the portion she’d been awake for—had passed quickly, full of novelty. Not to mention her brief flirtation with Nathaniel Smith.
But once here, there was nothing to do. Nothing except uphold her status in Society, dance and smile and be a pretty talisman—a reminder of the nobility that kept the Empire running smoothly.
“Now, Jessamyn, it’s dangerous outside.” Her father set his cup of coffee down on the damask tablecloth with a solid thump.
On her right, Jess’s mother stirred sugar into her tea. Her expression remained serene, the agitated clink of spoon against china the only clue to her mood.
“You venture out every day with the exploration corps,” Jess said. “The maids and Company men go back and forth to their housing constantly, yet I’ve barely seen anything of Wendover.”
“While I admire your spirit of adventure—”
“Isn’t that spirit what our Empire is built upon?” Appealing to his patriotic side was always a good strategy. “Besides, every hand
is needed as part of the colonial effort. The queen herself has said so.”
A pity that Jess’s own training had been in the botanical field. She would much prefer to avoid Mr. Smith altogether—but it was the best use, the only use, for her skills. Even his company would be better than sitting with her mother every afternoon, working on her embroidery.
Embroidery! When there was a whole new world to discover outside—a plethora of exotic plant life to study.
Viscount Pershing frowned, and she could feel him wavering. Her mother took a sip of tea and said nothing. It was not very ladylike, to suit up and go out into the thick jungle, but perhaps Lady Pershing was equally weary of Jess’s company. At any rate, she did not object. Jess let out a silent sigh of thanks.
“I want you to stay inside the habitat,” the viscount said.
“I needn’t go outside.” Jess gave her father her best wheedling smile. “I’m sure there is plenty to occupy me within the conservatory.”
She had not promised to stay inside—but hopefully her father would not notice that omission. Her mouth was beginning to hurt from holding her smile.
After a ticking eternity, he gave a nod. “Very well. I will speak with Mr. Smith. But do not raise your expectations, Jessamyn.”
“I cannot say I entirely approve,” her mother put in. “Your maid, of course, will accompany you. The proprieties will be observed.”
“Of course.”
Lady Pershing wrinkled her nose. “If Mr. Smith breathes a word of complaint, that will be the end of it. And remember your station. Even if you are engaged in labor, you must be a shining example to the lower classes.”
***
No curled in the pit of Nate’s stomach, but the word that issued from his lips was more sibilant.
“Yes,” he said to Viscount Pershing, who looked quite at ease behind his wide desk. “I have some small tasks your daughter could fulfill. Her help would be welcome.”
Nate knew of her background. It was one of the reasons she had first approached him aboard the ship—their shared training in botany. At first he had thought her one of those lady dabblers, but it seemed her education was sound, although limited by the bounds of what Society deemed appropriate. Well, it could not be helped. There was experience aplenty to be had on Wendover.
