Stars and Steam: Five Victorian Spacepunk Stories (Victoria Eternal)

by Anthea Sharp

  After the bruises had faded, she had secretly applied to the university. But her dream had as much hope of surviving here on Korbos as the poor roses in the foyer.

  Meanwhile, her family awaited. What would it be this time?

  Her father, hell-bent on interrogating her sisters to discover any shred of wrongdoing, and so punish them accordingly? Her mother, desperately searching for the truth of love among the footmen and grooms? Or her entire family, each with their demands and accusations, thrusting her into the midst of schemes and rebellions of which she wanted no part?

  Marianne smoothed her yellow hair back with both hands, thankful the color would at least hide the dust, and entered the parlor.

  As she had feared, her entire family was gathered. But instead of strident voices and furious pacing, she was met with an uncanny silence. Her younger sisters perched on the green velvet settee, their faces pale. They were holding hands, their fingers clasped so tightly together that their knuckles were robbed of blood. Their mother, lips pinched, sat in the adjacent wingchair, the redness of a slap still fading from her cheek. Wearing black, as usual, Father stood with his back to the door, staring out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, his right fist clenched in the green satin drapes. Muddy yellow light filled the room.

  “Oh, Marianne!”Anna, the youngest of them, cried. “We were so worried. Mother wanted to dispatch all the footmen to find you, but—”

  She swallowed the rest of her words, her eyes flicking to the grim figure standing before the window. Marianne knew the rest, however. Father had forbidden it.

  She wet her lips, tasting grit. “What is happening?”

  If it was enough to so completely quiet her family, it was dreadful indeed.

  Her mother twitched her head, half-turning it to look at her husband, then wrenching her face forward again.

  “Queen Victoria is dead,” her father said.

  He let his hand fall from the drapes, and turned. His blue eyes were flat, even more devoid of emotion than usual. Father was the one person she could not read.

  Perhaps he never lied. Or perhaps he believed all his lies to be the perfect truth.

  Marianne blinked. “Then they shall just crown her again. The fifteenth Victoria.”

  “There are no more Seeds,” her father said.

  The thick carpet lurched beneath her feet. For a moment, Marianne felt as though she were aboard the ship again, docking at the station high above the planet. A shiver washed over her, the same ominous sense of a dangling, dangerous future ahead.

  “But… surely the Yxleti created enough?”

  The alien race that had descended to Earth in 1847 had demanded to be taken to the reigning monarch of the planet. Queen of her vast empire, Victoria was the obvious choice. On that day, humanity had not bargained for hundreds of years of Victoria’s reign. Yet continuous rule had brought immense strength and stability to the world—to the universe, in fact—as the empire spread, for the betterment of all.

  “There were enough Seeds.” Father’s voice was edged with rage. “Those damned traitors, the Underground, somehow managed to destroy them. Queen Victoria is no more.”

  He stalked over to the chair and gripped the back of it. His wife shrank away, like a plant wilting on one side, but remained seated. Anna and Emmaline leaned their shoulders together, the sleeves of their gowns mashed into hopeless wrinkles.

  “What happens now?” Marianne folded her hands at her waist to hide their trembling.

  Dizziness smudged the edge of her vision. She desperately wanted to sit down, but to do so meant walking too close to Father. She might make it past him unscathed, but it was not a chance she was willing to take. Not with such brittle, breakable tension filling the air.

  “We will all assume mourning, of course,” Father said, his voice implacable. “But the empire continues.”

  “I smelled smoke, as I was returning,” Marianne said. “I fear there may be rioting in the marketplace.”

  “Oh dear,” her mother said. “We must evacuate.”

  “Nonsense.” Father’s voice was a blade. “I am the governor. My task is to keep order here.”

  “But the girls—”

  “We will be perfectly safe. The local garrison is well-equipped to deal with a few hot-headed Rubium miners. This corner of the empire, at least, will continue on as it should.”

  A shiver tightened the back of Marianne’s neck—a premonition of disaster that scraped along her nerves until she could no longer keep silent.

  “But father—”

  “Silence.” In two strides he reached her. He grabbed her hair and twisted, hard. Tears sprang, hot and unwanted, to her eyes. “The Fordham family is made of stern stuff. We will not turn our tails and run at the first sign of trouble.”

  “Let her go!” Her mother leaped from the chair to slap at her husband’s shoulders.

  Anna joined the fray, tugging at Father’s arm—which had the unfortunate effect of wrenching his grip even tighter. Marianne clutched her head, biting her tongue against the pain.

  “Stop it.”

  “Let go!”

  “You—”

  “Enough!” her father roared.

  He released Marianne and took a step back. His color was high, and his nostrils flared with agitated inhalations. His wife ceased slapping at him, and Anna scurried back to her place beside Emmaline.

  “Enough,” he said again. “I expect you all to don mourning. Immediately. No one is to depart the mansion, unless I give you leave. Understood?”

  Marianne nodded, as did all the women in the Fordham family. They would flock together for protection, when necessary, but even with the four of them united there was no changing the Governor’s mind. Ever.

  ***

  Marianne opened her eyes in the night darkness of her bedroom. What had woken her? She lay perfectly still beneath the covers, breathing shallowly.

  Her first thought, that it was the looters and rioters breaking into the mansion at last, was quickly banished. It was too quiet for that.

  A weak light filtered from her sitting room, then the thin beam of a torch set on low swept across her bed.

  “Marianne?” Her mother’s voice, thin and tremulous.

  “I’m here.” Marianne pushed back the bedclothes and sat.

  “Get dressed,” her mother whispered from the doorway. “Gather up anything you need to take with you. We are leaving Korbos.”

  “Father?” She slipped from the bed and hastily donned her stockings, then her petticoats.

  Her mother shook her head, her face faintly lit by the torch. There was no need for her to speak—Marianne could see the truth of it written in the line of her mother’s mouth, the shadows beneath her eyes, the dark bruise marring her cheek.

  “I am going to wake your sisters. Hurry.”

  As the light faded, Marianne grabbed her dress and yanked it on over her nightshift. There was no time for the corset, no maid to do up her buttons. One of her sisters would have to fasten it for her.

  Hands outstretched, she crept to her dresser, praying she had left her handkerchief on top. Her fingers landed on the square of linen cloth, and she let out a breath of thanks. Next to the kerchief sat her silver-chased jewelry box, the metal cool under her hands. She opened the lid and carefully upended the contents onto the cloth.

  She did not have much—a sapphire pendant, a brooch set with diamonds, a few rings that could be melted down for the metal. Despite his fondness for ostentation, Father had been stingy with the jewelry. Still, it was better than nothing.

  With her fingernails, she pried up the silk at the bottom of the jewelry box, and slipped out the acceptance from Victoria University. She folded it even smaller and laid it on top of the jewelry. By feel, she knotted the corners of her kerchief together, then slipped the small bundle into her bodice.

  Moving more quickly now, she snagged a pelisse from her wardrobe and wrapped it about her. Once they left the mansion, she would be too warm,
but for now it covered the gape of her dress.

  She slipped into the hallway, still in her stocking feet. Hurry, hurry, urged the rush of her blood.

  Her boots had been set just outside her door, to be taken for cleaning in the night. Luckily, the upsets of the afternoon had prevented the maids from doing so.

  Upon hearing that an armed and angry mob was headed toward the Governor’s Mansion, many of the servants had disappeared. Whether they were in hiding or had turned coat to join the uprising, Marianne did not know.

  Soldiers from the garrison and a few gallant footmen had held the rioters at the gate, while the governor and his family had dined. It had been an excruciating, silent meal. Every so often, the chandeliers above the table had shivered and chimed. The food had tasted of ochre dust in her mouth.

  At last, the rabble had given up and retreated, hurling stones and insults behind them. A lucky throw had sent a chunk of unpolished Rubium through the dining room window. Glass had shattered like a trail of stars behind it, and then the hot wind, whistling in through the jagged hole.

  Father had stood, declared the emergency over, and excused them from the table.

  It was not safe, though. Her sisters might have giggled in relief and gone to fix their hair, but Marianne knew better. There was a dangerous, brooding quality in the air, a heaviness that signaled only a lull in the violence, not an end to it.

  Taking up her boots, Marianne crept down the hallway, toward her sisters’ rooms.

  A frightened-looking Emmaline hovered just inside the door.

  “Stop wringing your hands,” Marianne whispered, “and do up my buttons.”

  She presented her back, glad to feel less vulnerable as her sister fastened the dress up. Although muslin provided very little practical protection, at least she was properly attired.

  “Where is Anna?” Marianne asked.

  Emmaline sent a wide-eyed glance toward their sister’s bedroom door. “She won’t get up. Mother is threatening to leave without her.”

  Even in the face of danger, her family was incapable of functioning sensibly. Frustration kindling through her, Marianne hurried into Anna’s room.

  Her mother stood beside the bed, hissing demands. The torchlight wavered, but it was enough to see a mound of covers where Anna lay. The foolish girl had completely buried herself—as if that would solve her problems.

  Marianne took the edge of the covers in both hands and yanked.

  “Eek!” Anna cried, grabbing for her bedclothes. Her face was red from crying, her hair a wild tangle. “Leave me alone.”

  “We are,” Marianne said. “Goodbye, Anna. Please do not raise the alarm until we are well away.”

  “What? Wait!” Her sister pushed her hair out of her face.

  Marianne took her mother’s arm and pulled her, protesting, toward the door.

  “I can’t abandon her,” their mother said.

  “You have to,” Marianne said. Then added, in an undertone, “She’ll come—but we must convince her we’re leaving her behind.”

  As they stepped over the threshold, there was a flurry of motion behind them on the bed, followed by a wild lunge for clothing. It would not take Anna long to join them.

  Marianne paused in the darkened sitting room to pull on her boots. Indeed, by the time she had finished lacing them up, a subdued Anna had crept in to stand beside Emmaline.

  By the thin torchlight, Marianne saw the tight lines in their mother’s face ease. Her gaze traveled over each of her daughters in turn, and she nodded.

  “Follow me,” she said. “Quietly.”

  ***

  They left the Governor’s Mansion without incident, slipping out the servant’s entrance into the dry, hot night. Marianne half-expected at any moment to hear her father’s voice booming out of the darkness, forbidding them to go—but it never did.

  Instead, a soft-faced man wearing a uniform waited for them just outside the mansion’s walls. Their mother kissed him, warmly. Anna and Emmaline climbed into his battered barouche, then stared at their hands, but Marianne turned her gaze up to the double moons.

  She had wished on those moons, when they had first arrived two years ago. Wished for peace, wished for solace. Secretly wished she could leave Korbos and return to Earth. Although she had yearned for it, she had not expected that desire to be granted so violently.

  The garrison was a hive of light and movement. Unlike the governor, the local commander did not believe the rioting was at an end. As they moved through the hubbub, Marianne listened. Beneath the rough-shouted orders, the curses of soldiers shifting heavy equipment, she heard dark words. Deadly rumors.

  The Underground was here, on Korbos. The miners’ uprising had not been by chance—they had been ready, led by a mysterious criminal recently shipped in for hard labor in the mines. The rebels were hoarding incendiaries. They planned to demolish the Governor’s Mansion, and the governor along with it, then set up a new, independent government in its place.

  Marianne swallowed, her throat thick with dust. Her father had been a fool—and he would die a fool—but she still wished it could have been otherwise.

  “This way, milady,” the soft-faced soldier said to her mother. “The transport off-planet is ready. I’m sorry it’s so small, but it’s the best we can do under the circumstances.”

  He led them to the launch area, toward a tiny silver pod that did not look big enough for two, let alone all four of them. Anna made a squeak in the back of her throat, but said nothing.

  The side door was open, and it was clear the vehicle was mainly used for cargo. The bays were rigged with hasty harnesses. The pilot was already wedged inside, at the nose of the craft. She gave them a wave, and the soldier lifted his hand in return.

  “Anna and Emmaline, enter first,” their mother said. “When you are securely fastened, Marianne and I will follow.”

  Her eyes huge in her face, Emmaline ducked her head and entered the craft. Anna looked about to bolt, but instead she took a gulp of air, coughed, and followed her sister. The soldier followed, to help them with the harnesses.

  “Mother,” Marianne said in a low voice. “Are you quite sure?”

  Uncertainty flickered across her mother’s face, followed by an instant of grief. Then her features hardened.

  “Yes.”

  It was the unmistakable truth.

  Marianne had her foot on the threshold of the ship, when a flash of light illuminated their surroundings. For a single instant, a second prised out of time, everything around her was etched in stark white and black.

  Then the blast wave hit.

  Thunder roared through her as she was slammed to the pavement. Her breath whooshed out, her lungs slamming closed. Pain radiated along her entire right side—her face scraped raw, the point of her shoulder flaring, her hip a blue-black pulse. Terror tore her thoughts to shreds.

  She looked up to see her mother, fallen to her knees. At the edge of the launch pad, the buildings were on fire. Vicious flames erupted, reaching for the moons.

  Her mother’s lover emerged from the tiny craft. He was shouting something, his mouth moving forming wide words, but Marianne could not hear him. Taking her mother by the arm, he dragged her into the transport.

  Dark figures emerged from the shadows beside the burning buildings. They ran, smooth and low, more agile than the soldiers. Marianne blinked. She knew her mother was calling her name, although she could not hear her, could not see her through the metal skin of the ship.

  She had to get up. Smoke and pain and fear stung every sense as she levered herself to her knees. The soldier, his eyes wide with panic, hauled her to her feet. He was not gentle.

  The running figures grew closer. The pilot fired the engines.

  Marianne’s throat ached with the aftermath of screams.

  The soft-faced soldier thrust her into the transport. She fell against her mother, who threw the web of the harness over her. Behind them, her sisters huddled in the cramped bay. The door slid shu
t, an eyelid closing. It would not open again until it was safe to see.

  A shudder ran through the craft, like a woman wrenched with weeping. The hull vibrated against Marianne’s ribs, adding another note of agony.

  Between one pained heartbeat and the next, the ship leaped into the sky. Gravity clawed at them, hooking its claws into their skin and pulling down, hard. But the ship was too small, too fast.

  After a slow, ticking eternity, the heavy pressure on her chest eased. Marianne drew in a shuddering breath. They had escaped.

  She closed her eyes. It did not matter that she could not see the ochre ball of Korbos shrinking beneath them. It did not matter that her bones screeched with every breath. It did not matter that her family was fragmenting, spinning away from her like refracted light.

  It would take determination and speed, but she would go. No matter how her mother tried to hold her, with her white hands and weeping. No matter how her sisters trembled and begged. She would go.

  Even if the empire was crumbling—especially if the empire was crumbling—they would have need of ambassadors. They would have need of her, Marianne Fordham, and her particular talents. No gravity, no sucking familial tendrils, could hold her now.

  She would fly far away, buy passage back to Earth on a gleaming metal ship. She would fly—a single teardrop, shed between the stars.

  ~*~

  Thank you for reading the stories in Stars & Steam! Please leave a review: your honest opinion (even just a sentence or two) is always appreciated~

  For more Victorian-set romantic adventure, check out Anthea’s historical romances, written under the pen name Anthea Lawson. If you love reading shorter fiction, Anthea has a collection of fantasy novellas and short stories – Tales of Feyland and Faerie – in addition to her full-length fantasy/sf books on Amazon!