by Various
“They remain pirates nonetheless,” Morrow cautioned. “LeMaire likely does not have his own alchemist aboard, but he’s sure to have laid hands on whatever alchemical workings his victims may have possessed, along with their stores of shot. And boarding her will be difficult as well. We will most certainly be outnumbered when the time comes.”
Weatherby nodded gravely. Morrow’s plan called for him to lead the boarding party should the opportunity arise. Ideally, this would happen once Chance was fully disabled, but that would be a close thing—the pirate was evenly matched against the combined firepower of both Daedalus and Badger. Only the coordinated effort between the two ships would give them a chance at success.
It was a tense hour before the English ships drew close enough to fire a warning shot. The Chance was still well ahead, but protocol called for the warning, regardless. All the officers had their glasses at the ready, peering out ahead to see her reaction.
A moment later, a red flag went up over the enemy ship’s stern. Upon it were a white skull and a heart with an arrow piercing it—LeMaire’s colors.
“Very well, then,” Morrow said grimly. “We have a known pirate in our sights, and that is more than enough. Mr. Weatherby, signal the Badger to begin.”
Weatherby quickly had a pair of crewmen run up the signal flags necessary to cue Badger. Within a minute, the little ship’s royals and stud’sels unfurled, and Nelson sped ahead of Daedalus to engage the Chance off her starboard side.
“This may not work,” St. Germain cautioned. “Cagliostro will want to get to the surface at all costs. He may not wish to engage us here.”
“Ideally, he will have no choice,” Morrow said. “If he turns to engage, so much the better. If not, we have a very good chance to catch up to her before she enters the Martian aurorae. Better to engage us here, in the Void, rather than be swept along the currents to the poles.”
Indeed, it seemed LeMaire and Cagliostro had worked through the same calculus, for the Chance began to turn to starboard, her guns run out to meet the approaching Badger.
“Excellent,” Morrow said. “Mr. Plumb, full sail. Royals, stud’sels and planes, if you please.”
Plumb barked out the orders, and soon every bit of canvas on Daedalus caught the solar wind, speeding the frigate forward. Morrow angled the ship slightly to larboard and ten degrees lower, hoping to catch Chance’s underbelly.
Weatherby and Foster were ordered to their divisions, and the young lieutenants walked along the gunnery line to ensure all was well. They were still several minutes away from Chance, so Weatherby took the opportunity to duck into the alchemical lab, where Finch was preparing to receive wounded. To his surprise, Anne was there as well.
“Miss Baker, your place is in the hold,” Weatherby said sternly. “It is the best protected part of the ship.”
“My place, Lieutenant, is where I can do the most good,” she said simply, yet coldly. “And that place is here, assisting Dr. Finch with his workings.”
Weatherby grimaced and looked to Finch, who merely shrugged. “She’s a competent alchemist. Even if all goes to plan, I could use the help.”
“A woman’s place is not in battle,” Weatherby said sternly.
“I’m not leaving,” Anne said, pausing from her preparations to look Weatherby squarely in the eye. “And you’ve neither the time nor manpower to lock me in the brig.”
God Almighty, she was stubborn, Weatherby thought. It was oddly attractive. “Very well,” he relented. “Do try not to get yourself killed… Anne.”
She gave him a little victory smirk and returned to her work, leaving Weatherby to rejoin his division on the gun deck, where Plumb was inspecting the men.
“There you are,” the first lieutenant said. “All’s well forward?”
Weatherby saluted. “Miss Baker has insisted that she remain there to aid Dr. Finch, sir.”
Weatherby was surprised to see Plumb smile, gently and most incongruously. “Lost the argument, did you, Tommy boy?”
Weatherby shifted his feet. “Most decisively, sir.”
“She’s a brave girl,” Plumb noted before casting his eyes along the line of men at their stations. “Your division’s in good form, lad. All goes well, you’ll get the first shot. Aim true.”
“I will, sir. Thank you,” Weatherby said as Plumb nodded and returned to the quarterdeck.
Weatherby turned to see Lt. Foster standing next to him. “What was that all about?” the third lieutenant asked.
“I’ve not the slightest,” Weatherby remarked. “Perhaps the moments before battle can soften even the hardest man.” He then extended his hand toward Foster—it seemed that now, of all times, the gesture was appropriate. “Best of luck to you, John.”
Beaming, the younger lieutenant shook Weatherby’s hand eagerly. “And to you, Tom. Let’s get these bastards this time!”
Weatherby nodded and released Foster’s hand, then turned toward his men, who were already in fine form, waiting for the first shot. He found he had little more to say to them now, or perhaps the words he might have chosen simply didn’t do the moment justice. So he settled on one final inspection, going from gun to gun and finding something kind to say to each group, or just a hand on a shoulder. Rooney, Lamb, Smythe… they all had fear in their eyes, certainly. But more than that, there was determination. They knew they had a legendary pirate in their sights, and while not all the men could even grasp the greater evils they were about to battle, they knew well enough that a mad alchemist was no simple miscreant.
Weatherby looked out one of the gunports. Badger and Daedalus had closed quickly on Chance, which continued to tack to starboard to bring its guns up against Badger. That would leave its stern and underside unprotected as Daedalus approached to join the fray.
The plan seemed to be going well—until Chance turned harder still, until it had swung completely around. This served to push the ship against the sun-currents, slowing it considerably. However, it also pointed the pirate directly at the incoming ships, making it a smaller target and potentially allowing it to fire off a broadside as they passed her.
“Damn,” Morrow said. “Signal the Badger, hard to larboard. Mr. Plumb, hard to starboard for us.”
Badger quickly turned in front of Daedalus, even as the larger ship turned in the opposite direction. While they surrendered the opportunity to immediately fire upon the Chance, they forced LeMaire to decide which ship to fire upon first, ideally giving the other vessel a chance to rake the pirate’s weak points.
Chance chose Badger, continuing to drift further starboard to bring its guns against the vastly out-classed brig. Weatherby could see Nelson bring his planes sharply lower, trying to avoid the onslaught and potentially cutting under the larger ship. However, Chance pulled in its starboard planesail, which rotated the ship and allowed its guns to track Badger as it dove.
“Ready the larboard side guns!” Plumb ordered. “Come about hard to larboard, hard down on the planes!”
The men scurried across the main deck to the larboard side, even as the ship tilted and swayed as it pursued Chance. Weatherby prayed they would get there in time to distract the pirate from Nelson’s little ship, but he knew it was a fool’s hope.
The sound of cannon crashed across the Void as Badger and Chance opened fire upon one another—five guns against twenty-two. The result was horrible in both its predictability and its carnage.
As the cloud of smoke dispersed, Weatherby saw Badger floating adrift in the Void, her entire bow nearly shot away, both her masts down and three gaping holes in her midsection. He hoped he was only imagining the faint screams coming across the Void.
At least Badger’s sacrifice would not be in vain. “Hard upward on the larboard plane!” Plumb ordered as they closed on the stern of the Chance. “Prepare to fire!”
Daedalus swiftly closed on Chance from under and behind, and while the pirate attempted to complete its turn, its guns had just fired on Chance, and it was a poor angle besides.
Daedalus had the gage and a nearly free shot at its enemy.
“FIRE!”
Morrow’s order was echoed by every officer on board, but their shouts were drowned out by the roar of Daedalus’ guns. Sixteen lines of green alchemical shot raced toward the Chance, with at least twelve hitting their mark cleanly, by Weatherby’s count. Daedalus raced by before Weatherby could see the damage, but the lookout on the quarterdeck reported several holes in her hull, along with at least four guns damaged. Hopefully, the shot had done its job inside the Chance as well, where the damage could not be so readily assessed.
“Hard to starboard!” Plumb ordered. “Ready the starboard guns!”
Weatherby raced to the other side of the ship, along with some of the gunners; the others remained to reload the larboard side guns for another shot if needed. Morrow clearly expected the Chance to continue to turn larboard, thus bringing the two ships around so they could face each other with a broadside. With its speed, Daedalus stood a good chance of making the turn faster, leaving the larger ship without a sound shooting angle once again.
Chance, however, had other ideas.
“She’s also coming ’round to starboard!” cried one of the topsmen.
The move would prevent the next broadside from happening quickly as the two ships sailed further apart. And Morrow’s turn had the effect of turning Daedalus into the sun-current, slowing it as it had Chance moments before.
“Ruddersail amidships!” Morrow shouted. “Planes down full!”
The result of Morrow’s order was that the ship kept its bow directly in the face of the current, further slowing it, while the currents pushed on the planes to allow the ship to nose upward to a great degree. It was a canny ploy, Weatherby thought. So few commanders thought to fully employ the third dimension available to them in the Void, but Morrow would essentially turn the ship on its stern, where it could pirouette in place and then meet Chance in whatever direction it came.
“Tack larboard planesail!”
By drawing one of the planesails in, Daedalus began to rotate around, until its underbelly faced Mars directly. Morrow then ordered both planesails deployed at an angle, which not only allowed the ship’s sails to catch the sun-current again, but also to get the ship parallel to the orbital plane once more.
Thus, in the space of two minutes, Daedalus had turned completely around in place, had regained the current, and now faced its opponent head on.
Except that Chance had been busy with its own maneuvers as well.
LeMaire had continued his turn so that his broadside now faced the bow of the Daedalus. It wasn’t the best angle, but the pirate could get off a free shot at the English ship without much reprisal.
Weatherby looked through the cargo hatch to the quarterdeck, where Morrow stood stoically, assessing the situation. The captain’s calm was oddly unnerving, but Weatherby assumed he would possess such a placid demeanor in time. As of now, however, the young officer’s stomach was in knots, his nerves on edge.
“Full sail! Prepare to ram!” Morrow shouted. “Boarders at the ready!”
Weatherby rushed up the stairs and onto the main deck to gather his boarding party, some seventy men strong, led by himself and the marines aboard. Pistols, cutlasses and pikes were hurriedly distributed as the two ships closed. Chance did not alter course at all, apparently welcoming the coming collision and the bloody battle that would ensue. The damage inflicted by little Badger and Daedalus was not as much as anyone would have hoped; the boarding would be difficult indeed.
“Twenty degrees to larboard!” Morrow shouted. Weatherby looked up from his preparations to see Chance altering course slightly. Morrow responded in kind, and the two ships danced closer together, trying for the best angle in the now-inevitable impact.
Royal Navy ships often drill at ramming and boarding, but few practice such brute tactics as frequently as pirates. A series of minute course changes—dodges and feints, really—gave the Chance the upper hand. Instead of plowing cleanly into the side of the pirate, Daedalus skittered alongside her, prompting her side to come in contact with the Chance’s starboard hull.
“FIRE!”
“INCENDIE!”
Weatherby could hear the Frenchman’s order as cleanly as his own captain’s. And a moment later, their hulls mere feet from each other, the two ships’ guns tore into each other with a fury.
The deck shuddered beneath Weatherby’s feet, knocking him to the ground. He felt the impact of cannon shot against wood beneath his feet, and knew that the incoming fire was wreaking havoc throughout the interior of the ship. The screams of men echoed across the Void, but there was no way of telling whether they were friend or foe. All men die similarly, he thought in an odd moment of clarity.
He looked up to find little damage above decks—the Chance’s guns were lower than the Daedalus’. But he could already see that the planesail was in tatters, and he had little hope for the ruddersail as well.
Hauling himself to his feet, he tried to peer through the haze of smoke toward the enemy ship. Most of the cries were coming from the other vessel; the main deck there bore the brunt of Daedalus’ barrage.
Then, out of the fog, he saw a number of lines being thrown from the Chance, grappling hooks attached. Whatever damage Daedalus may have inflicted on the enemy crew, it was not enough to deter them greatly.
Weatherby quickly drew his sword with his right hand, his pistol with his left. “They’re coming!” he shouted. “Prepare to repel boarders!”
Kate Maruyama became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of Harrowgate (2013), from 47North.
Visit her website at katermaruyama.wordpress.com.
* * *
Novel: Harrowgate (excerpt) ••••
HARROWGATE
(excerpt)
by Kate Maruyama
First published as Harrowgate (2013), by 47North
• • • •
CHAPTER ONE
MICHAEL SHIFTS in the cab seat, which causes his leather jacket to creak uncomfortably. How long has it been? Sarah called a week ago last Friday. He’s tired of sitting. His left leg has gone numb again and the occasional shooting pain in his lower back has grown into a ceaseless throb. The cab smells of a brand new pine-scented air freshener, a claustrophobic spoof of an open-air scent. He’s almost home. Why doesn’t she answer the phone? Why can’t he get a hold of anyone? The rain comes down so hard outside that he can’t see where they are. This trip has been less a journey than an odyssey: hike to jeep to base to helicopter to plane to plane to plane to cab. His work as an environmental geologist takes him to pristine locations in the farthest reaches of Canada, but this appealing aspect of his work has now turned into the nightmare keeping him from his pregnant wife.
Sarah called a week ago last Friday, but how early does that make the baby?
Michael tries breathing deeply. What started as a low hum of anxiety when he got on the first plane has become a clamor of worries since he reached New York. He tried calling Sarah’s sister Anna from Nome. No luck. Answering machine. He left messages, “Call me. You know the number. Is Sarah okay?”
If the baby is too early, there will be problems, complications. No, don’t think complications. It sounds too awful. There will be concern about underdeveloped lungs. Will the baby be on a respirator? How is Sarah, having done all this without him? A wave of guilt comes over him, so he goes back to calculating the time. A week ago last Friday makes it almost two weeks. And he hasn’t been able to get her on the phone. He jiggles his leg and stomps his foot a few times, hoping to bring it back to life.
The cab driver has been muttering to himself for about two miles now. He’s an older white guy with a strong Bronx accent. He looks like a character lifted from a 1940s movie. Thomas Mitchell might play him, Ernest Borgnine if it were the fifties. There’s anger in his tone, so Michael doesn’t talk to him; he’s got enough crazy, he doesn’t need someone else’s. A week ago last Frid
ay would have been the twenty-second of April… thirty-four weeks. Thirty-five the following Monday. Thirty-five is so much safer than thirty-four.
They’re stuck in the Midtown Tunnel and things aren’t moving. He’s trying hard to remember the part of the book about the development of the fetus’s lungs. There was an all-clear week. Was it six weeks before the birth or thirty-six weeks of gestation? Why hadn’t he read that part more closely?
He and Sarah frequently referred to the pregnant woman’s bible, What to Expect when You’re Expecting, to check the baby’s development. Pea size. Kidney bean. Apple. Grapefruit. Sarah called it her mutating garden. The mention of the word “mutating” always made Michael uncomfortable.
Pregnant, Sarah was so changed and new in an alarming, but beautiful way. Her tall, slim body had filled out, giving her more presence. Her usually pale skin glowed a peachy-amber and her straight, dirty-blonde hair got fuller, almost curly. The angles of her face, which he always thought betrayed the sharpness of her humor, softened (the humor did not) and her green eyes seemed to grow bigger and warmer. Her gaze, which before darted from one thought to the next, now held people with a steady, intense, electric energy. The overall effect made her Sarah to the tenth power. Michael was a little jealous watching her go through this transformative experience without him. Even her sounds changed: a new, deeper timbre to her laugh, snoring when she hadn’t before. Her sudden hungers and abrupt moods made him uneasy; she could be immediately overwhelmed by any emotion from sadness to hilarity or fear.
Maybe she knew something would go wrong and that’s why she changed her mind about me leaving?
The cabbie asks, “So where on the Upper West Side?”
Michael says, “Riverside Drive and Seventy-Sixth Street.”
The driver turns to glare at him a moment. “What’s the matter with you?”
Michael says, “Excuse me?”
