Lightspeed Magazine Issue 49

by Seanan McGuire

  • • •

  Some little time and a good deal of quiet exertion later, Genevieve perched atop the highest dormer window. Ladies did not pant, of course, but all the same she had to own that a few minutes’ rest was a refreshing luxury. Even with the very latest in retractable wall crampons and a stealth-charged safety line, there was no respite to be found in the middle of scaling the redoubtably ancient wall of such a large mansion as this. Genevieve had been forced to complete her climb in an uninterrupted exercise, making certain all the while that she made no sound loud enough to escape her hair ribbons’ sound-dampening field.

  At length, having recovered her breath, Genevieve double-checked her gloves and pockets, and then swung noiselessly down to open the window sash.

  Three steps into the hallway, she froze, her heart doubling its tempo. There had been a sound—yes, and now a figure emerged from one of the dark doorways. Genevieve held her breath, praying that camouflage circuits and immobility would preserve her from discovery, even though they stood nearly face to face. How ignoble, how socially damning, to be caught mid-raid, and on her debut, no less!

  But no, she realized, as the other figure froze too in maidenly silence. A servant or inhabitant of the house would have shouted, peered closer, reached for a light, or at least asked uncertain questions. She could see, now, the feminine silhouette and the kilted-up burgling frock. This was another young woman, perhaps even another debutante, on the same mission as herself.

  Genevieve closed her fist tight, making up her mind, and pressed the concealed button on her forefinger’s knuckle that triggered the gloves’ faint luminescence. With the gesture newly visible, she pointed to the roof, and made the hand-sign of invitation.

  For an awful instant, she thought perhaps she’d read everything wrong. Then the other’s gloves lit dimly, and she signed back, yes.

  • • •

  Soon they were perched on the gable, masks set aside, and bracing their slippers against the decorative chimney for greater comfort. Genevieve had politely taken the lead in climbing the roof, which meant that this was her first chance to study the other young lady. She did so unashamedly.

  By the dim illumination of Pemberley Colony’s simulated moon and the brighter sweep-lights of the estate, it took some study in any case to discern the other’s features. She was perhaps Genevieve’s age, with dark, tight curls in a fetching tousle and dark skin, with high, strong cheekbones that caught the little light available. But her face was familiar; what on earth was her name? Catherine, or Anne, or perhaps Catriona? Her only memory of the other girl was of vague impressions across a dance floor, and tidy but unremarkable steps.

  Talk, hear, the other signed, and reached into her hair for a small barrette. She pressed down until something clicked, and set the device on the shingle between them. A sound-dampening field, Genevieve noted with approval and some sheepishness. She hadn’t thought to bring one that would extend beyond her own person. But it spared them the need to communicate with thief-signs, which was laboriously slow for any matters beyond terse exigencies.

  “I am Catherine Menzies,” her new companion said, and with relief Genevieve recognized the name and its possessor. She was a lord’s daughter, whose ancestors had come to Pemberley Colony half a generation after Genevieve’s, and whose family was in consequence somewhat lower on the social scale. They comported themselves very respectably, however, and her father made four thousand platinum a year from shipping businesses according to Important Personages, several chapters of which Genevieve had been required to memorize before she was deemed ready to burgle. That was slightly more than the Tadmas could claim, though of course status was not a matter of mere funds, as Genevieve had been taught in the cradle. It was quite within the bounds of reasonable ambition—audacious, but not scandalously so—for Catherine to steal from a marquis in her debut year.

  “I am Genevieve Tadma,” she said, and they both murmured, “Charmed.”

  “Have you already stolen?” Genevieve asked, with what she suspected was unbecoming hope. If Catherine had, then it would be neither disobedience nor shame for Genevieve to cede the field to her and make an attempt elsewhere. She could equally have continued in her burglary without censure, but it signaled a fine humility to do otherwise, and suited Genevieve’s plans nicely to acquire an unlooked-for excuse to abandon the Marquis to his history books.

  Alas, Catherine shook her head. “I have not,” she owned. “I was engaged in scouting for the object, but I have not yet laid hold to it.”

  “I have only a few minutes ago arrived,” Genevieve admitted in her turn. “I had only begun my scouting when you came across me.”

  “Ah.” Catherine’s tone was perfectly correct, perfectly polite, and yet there was something—something reserved about it, Genevieve thought. She was masking something. The silence grew long. Genevieve fidgeted, and stilled herself too late. “To tell you the truth,” she blurted, “I don’t give a fig for the marquis.”

  “What! But he’s so—” Catherine shut her mouth. “You must be mad for adventure,” she offered instead, weakly. The motives that spurred thieves to burglary on other colonies, such as monetary greed or espionage, were out of the question for a well-bred lady. There was certainly no reason to burgle other than flirtation or an adventuresome spirit; if Genevieve wasn’t here for one, she must be here for the other.

  “He seems a nice enough fellow. Of course I don’t object to the adventure. This is my first raid, you know, and he seems a perfectly adequate burglee. That razor wire was a bit of a challenge, wasn’t it just! But—well—if you must know, he was Mama’s choice.”

  “Ah,” said Catherine again, in quite a different tone.

  “You do see.”

  “Of course I do. My own mama was so pleased when I told her I wanted to steal a crystal bowl from the Marquis of Battleboro. All she seemed able to speak of was his income.”

  “You chose,” repeated Genevieve, with some interest.

  “Yes.” Catherine’s head ducked in the moonlight. Genevieve fancied she might even be blushing, but the dim lighting and Catherine’s fashionable complexion made it impossible to tell. She sounded, though, as if she were choosing her words carefully. “I’d never steal from anyone of whom my parents didn’t approve, of course, but—oh, he has such a lovely library! And he discourses on it beautifully, you know, not at all like these young bucks who can speak of nothing but phaeton shuttles and shooting.”

  “I suppose,” Genevieve replied.

  She meant it to sound politely interested, but some of her true sentiment must have leaked into her tone, for Catherine laughed merrily (albeit in an undertone appropriate to their surroundings—she was well-trained, if she kept such good habits even inside a sound-dampening field. Genevieve had been scolded a dozen times for the gaffe of relying too much on one piece of equipment.) “Oh dear, how terribly dutiful you sound! I know it’s not the done thing. I’m sure phaeton shuttles are marvelous if one doesn’t get flight-sick, but I do, you see.”

  “And I get heartily bored in a library,” Genevieve admitted, laughing in her turn. “I would much rather have robbed the Yendarias, if you must know. They’re only a very little older than us, so Mama believes them an altogether unambitious target. But Mr. Yendaria, young James, I mean, is so dashing! I suppose you’d find him dreadfully boring for all the reasons I don’t. Mama wouldn’t hear of it, though, and Papa always takes her part even when he pretends to be above it all, and here I am.”

  “Here you are,” Catherine agreed, rather less merrily. “Well,” she continued, audibly rallying, “perhaps you’ll like him better once you’ve seen his treasure-rooms. Rumor doesn’t exaggerate a bit.”

  “I don’t think I shall, though I should enjoy the tour extremely.” Genevieve hesitated. Her mama’s instructions had been exacting, and if it was rebellion to disobey them, it was rebellion and foolishness both to boast of that plan. But it was nothing short of silly to flirt in burglary with a
man she had no interest in, no matter his title and fortune—especially with a new friend sitting here, with her own genuine interest in the fellow! “But I think,” she said, “I shall take care to leave a very minimal token for the marquis. He may send a servant to fetch his silver candlesticks, if he likes. It will give him time to pay a second call on you, and we shall all be the happier for that.”

  Even in the darkness, Genevieve could see Catherine’s face light up. “Oh, do you truly mean it?”

  “Truly,” Genevieve told her firmly, and found she was smiling, too. “I don’t care a fig for history books, and you do. If Mama believes he’s slighting us with strictest courtesy, she can hardly reproach him for it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll do the polite thing, if he believes you chose him out of high spirits,” Catherine assured her earnestly. Happiness colored her every word, making Genevieve doubly glad of her decision. “It’s perfectly proper to choose an estate like this, for a debutante who hasn’t yet set her eye on a particular fellow, and he has no reason to know you have. It speaks well of your taste.”

  Genevieve laughed. “Do you think so? I hope he is scrupulously distant. Mama shan’t be able to say a word against either of us.”

  “She shan’t,” Catherine agreed stoutly, then hesitated. Genevieve tried to stifle a frown. Surely Catherine didn’t have an objection now? “I—oh, Genevieve, this is terribly forward of me, but you know, the Menzies family is some decades younger than the Yendarias.”

  “I do,” Genevieve agreed, for lack of a better comment. What was the girl about? She couldn’t mean to flirt with James, too, could she? That would be poor repayment of Genevieve’s friendly gestures, and not at all in keeping with the Catherine whom Genevieve felt she already knew.

  “So Mama would be happy to give me her blessing to rob them, if I asked, and if you liked—if you brought a spare handkerchief or something of the sort, my dear, I could leave that in place of mine. I’d steal something for a lark for myself, so Mama wouldn’t suspect a thing, and I’d have my turn giving candlesticks to a serving man. Your mother couldn’t complain if James showed up, could she? My girl Hannah would be happy to slip you whatever-it-was in the morning before the gentlemen’s calling-hour.”

  It was a perfect solution—a perfect plan, and a noble offer. “Catherine! You can’t mean it.”

  “Of course I can. Do say you brought tokens!”

  “Naturally, I did—Mama thinks I’m here to burgle the marquis for his ten thousand a year, after all. Oh, Catherine, you are a gem.”

  Catherine beamed. Impulsively, Genevieve squeezed her new friend’s hands—though lightly, mindful of the circuitry they both wore. “Come,” said Catherine, and squeezed back. “Let’s case the rooms together, shall we? And when we’ve absconded with our debuts, we’ll ride the same bus-roof out, and you shall tell me all about your dashing James.”

  “I shall,” Genevieve promised, “though you must stop me if I gush on so much that you regret the offer! You can repay me by telling me all about the wonders of the marquis and his library. I shall appreciate them for your sake, if not for my own.”

  © 2014 by Elizabeth Porter Birdsall.

  Elizabeth Porter Birdsall spent much of her childhood pretending her way into Sherwood Forest and alien worlds, and transforming an overgrown backyard into a saga-worthy wilderness. Nowadays, she does much the same thing on paper. She divides the rest of her free time among teaching Scottish dance, studying languages and folklore and science as a hobby, and hanging out with other imaginative folk both online and off. A child of the American Midwest and Northeast (but mostly the rural Northeast), she lives in Boston with two excellent friends, two cats of very little competence, and a nigh-innumerable quantity of books.

  Canth

  K. C. Norton

  The Canth moves slowly, somewhere beneath us—an amalgam of rib cages and jutting dorsal columns, parts of parts moving together to create a thing so intricate she is almost alive. Her six crablike legs tear channels in the coral as she passes, and her low belly scrapes the seabed. Her claws are hauled in, tucked along her bow; one long window wraps nearly to the back of her, only as tall as a human face, while the great rotating periscope of her single eye extends above.

  I know this, because she is my ship, and my mother and I built her together. She is my home, my inheritance, and she has left me.

  “Do you see it?” asks Anselmo Rios, peering over my shoulder at the console.

  In front of me, the screen pings concentric circles, showing the dot of the Canth as she roams the reef below. I am unmoored—I am ruined—my ship has mutinied and spit me out. Now she trawls without me, guides herself by some inexplicable means in search of something I cannot guess. At night, I dream myself as Ahab, chasing the leviathan that is my submersible. A captain without a ship. What would my mother say?

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I see her.”

  • • •

  For seventeen days we have followed the Canth on her journey. She is getting farther away—we are right on top of her, and yet she is always descending, following the slope of the ocean floor.

  “We’ll catch her,” Rios assures me.

  No, I want to say, we won’t catch her, she will climb into some deep crevice we cannot reach and bury herself alive, but never do.

  I am not a rich woman, and my debt to the crew of the Jerónimo is adding up. If I am not careful, I will spend the whole of my savings on recovering my ship. And what if we cannot recover her? I will have nothing to live on, to live in. I do not allow myself to consider this too carefully, not just yet.

  In the morning I crawl from my bunk, I braid my hair, apply my bindi, button every button on my uniform from the bottom up. I still wear my captain’s uniform, even on this foreign ship. I am not yet ready to admit defeat.

  When I am finished, I stand at attention before the mirror. Below me, three hundred and eighty meters down, where the filtered light swims with plankton, I imagine that the Canth pauses for a moment to imitate the action.

  Rios is waiting for me in the galley. Breakfast is one orange, two ladlefuls of hashed potatoes—from the supplies we took aboard at St. Ubes—and cod. I am well sick of cod. I was raised on fish, I have lived on fish, I will eat anything that comes from the sea, but cod I have had enough of.

  The Portuguese, they say, have a cod recipe for every day of the year. I now believe this includes leap years, too.

  “We are barely keeping up,” says Rios, peeling his orange. “She moves fast, that little beast of yours.”

  I nod. “She is the fastest of her kind.”

  “Small,” says the other captain. “A single-woman vessel. Did you build her yourself?” He has asked this question every day in one form or another. I have not answered, because the answer is too painful.

  “We must be nearly out of cod,” I say instead.

  Rios grins at me. “There is always more to be caught.”

  I say, “I will leave as soon as I can.”

  He says, “The cod is not that bad.”

  “No,” I say. “I am wasting too much of your time.”

  Rios looks around the tiny galley, then shrugs. He begins to divide his orange into sections. “We don’t mind.”

  “You must have other duties.”

  “Nothing pressing,” he says. “And you are in trouble. If we had lost our ship, you would help us.” He puts a segment of orange in his mouth, indicating that the conversation is over.

  He does not mean to hurt me, I know, but the way he says it … If we had lost our ship. As if I misplaced her. The truth is worse: The Canth abandoned me. She is my home, now reduced to a pinging point on a navigation console. Sometimes, I cannot help but think the Canth is not running toward something but from someone. From me. That the Canth is doing her utmost to escape me.

  I eat every bite of cod. I do not believe in waste.

  • • •

  All day I watch the screen. Occasionally Rios’ first mate looks up from
his book to adjust the controls.

  “She’s getting fainter,” I say.

  The first mate—who I know only as La Boca—fiddles with the knobs. “We won’t lose her, Miss Pearce. The captain promised.”

  He turns back to his book. The cover shows a busty young woman in air goggles and brown leather wrapped in the apparently sweaty arms of a shirtless Moor. I don’t read Portuguese very well, but it seems to be titled The Warm Damp of Miss Eulalia.

  “Hey, Miss Pearce, don’t worry so,” says La Boca. “We’re here as long as you need us.”

  I want to thank him, though I’m not reassured, but I don’t know what to call him, so I don’t say anything at all.

  There are only four of us on the ship: me, Rios, La Boca, and Isidore. Isidore cooks and cleans and navigates. La Boca steers and fishes when the cod runs low. Rios—well, I’m not sure what Rios does. Back on the Canth, where I am captain, I was responsible for everything. Now I sit still as a useless sponge and let the others drift around me like charitable angelfish. My very presence is a cry for help.

  At lunchtime, I go down to the mess hall to bring up lunch for both of us. Lunch consists of chickpeas, rice, and cod.

  Tonight, I tell myself, I will give up if she is still moving tonight. I will ask them to take me to the coast and then … I cannot think past this point. The Canth has been my life, my world, and now I am trapped abovesea with strangers. I am done asking for pity and for help. That’s the only part I can control.

  • • •

  It is late afternoon when La Boca finally turns me out. “I will not lose her,” he says. “Go occupy yourself.”