Lightspeed Magazine Issue 21

by Lucius Shepard;Brooke Bolander;Chris Willrich;Genevieve Valentine;Robert Silverberg;Keith Brooke;Gregory Benford;Kristine Kathryn Rusch;Carrie Vaughn

  “Ah, no. Not just the Channel.” She raised a brow, and he continued. “They’ve blockaded the entire British Isles.”

  A bit of a problem, indeed.

  The battle had been raging for a week—naturally, the Queen and the Empire could not let a blockade of the home country stand. Marlowe had spent the time, while Harry had been infiltrating the volcanic tunnels in Iceland, hiding the Kestrel in valleys and ravines, going aloft at intervals to intercept wireless transmissions to try and get some kind of news.

  They were too far away yet to see signs of fighting. Knowing the respective strength of each of the forces, though, Harry was certain she and Marlowe wouldn’t be able to avoid the battle for long. They weren’t at all equipped for it—the Kestrel was a courier ship, built for speed and agility. She had no armor and little in the way of weapons. Perhaps they’d do better to find a safe port and wait out the blockade.

  Except they had to get the coil to Prince George, and to Marlowe’s laboratory. The artifact could change everything. She thought through a multitude of plans—land elsewhere, make their way home by some other route. Make for the Americas and rendezvous with a more capable warship. Or did they dare attempt to run the blockade? She knew what Marlowe would say.

  “So, do we go above or below the fray?” she asked.

  “Above. They’ve got surface ships on the water.”

  “Right, then.”

  She went to the safe in the back, a square of thick steel tucked over the driveshaft, put her satchel containing the artifact inside, locked it tight, and tied the key to a cord around her neck. Even if the ship didn’t make it through, no one would be able to gain access to the box without destroying its contents. Not without her.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  “Don’t jostle the boat,” he said. “Or if you’d like you can pour us some brandy.” He glanced over his shoulder and quirked a grin.

  “I’m your maid, then?” she said.

  “I stashed the bottle in the cupboard under the seat there.” He nodded to the bench by the hatch.

  The bench seat was hinged, revealing the promised cupboard, packed tightly with boxes, slots, canvas bags, blankets and fur coats for high altitudes, provisions for an extended journey, and her own package of supplies. Good. In a slot that looked as if it had been specially made to enclose it, she found the bottle of brandy and a pair of glass tumblers.

  She joined him at the front of the cabin. The dashboard had enough of a ledge for her to set the tumblers on it and pour. After, she tucked the bottle in a pouch on the wall to keep it from sliding or falling. Marlowe took the glass before she could hand it to him.

  “Cheers,” he said, and they clinked glasses.

  The liquid went down smoothly and warmed her blood in an instant. Marlowe always kept the good stuff on hand.

  Before them, through the thick glass at the front of the cabin, the ocean extended. This had become the simplest part of the journey. Marlowe’s piloting would manage the ocean winds and unpredictable weather. She had no idea what awaited them once they reached home. Harry squinted, searching for the haze of gunsmoke and fires.

  Best to drink up while they could.

  “How high are we going to have to get to avoid it, then?”

  He frowned. “They’ve got rockets that reach higher than anything that flies. We’ll do what we can, but it probably won’t be high enough.”

  “Rockets? How?”

  “They stole them, in the time-honored fashion,” he said.

  She slumped in the chair. Had the entire journey been wasted? “It’s all been for nothing,” she murmured.

  “If that were true, I wouldn’t have bothered coming for you.” He gave her that smile again. And it was true. She imagined herself waiting at the cave entrance, the horde of cultists coming up behind her. Having to jump …

  She drained the brandy and poured herself another glass.

  “That bad?”

  “I hate this,” she said.

  “Amen,” he murmured.

  The sun set, and the air grew cold. Below them, the ocean was the color of pewter and seemed still, frozen, like a painting. No moon shone.

  Harry slept for an hour or so, then offered to watch over the ship while Marlowe slept. That he didn’t hesitate to take the offer, she took as a great compliment. He stretched out on the bench in the back of the cabin, rolled a blanket around him, and instantly fell asleep in the way only long-time soldiers could manage. He snored, softly, the noise like just another exhaust or gear on the airship. If she told him he snored, he wouldn’t have believed her.

  They’d reach Ireland by dawn. Then, Marlowe would ascend as high as the Kestrel was able. Breathable air would fail before the engines did, yet they had to climb high enough to avoid the blockade and not draw attention from scouts; they had to skirt that boundary without crossing it and blacking out.

  She wouldn’t have to touch the controls unless something went wrong—the winds changed, or they were attacked. She watched pressure gauges, altitude monitors, and compass readings. Their course remained steady; she had to add a little gas to the bladders to maintain altitude. Marlowe had left his goggles hanging on a hook above the window.

  The cabin was dark except for a dim lamp near the control board, the faint glow of the engine in back, and a tea light for warmth near the cage where a pair of carrier pigeons slept. Too much light—a fire in the stove, for example—would make them a target. And it was only going to get colder, this high up, at night.

  Once the sky darkened, the first signs of battle became visible. On the eastern horizon, tracers arced, distant shooting stars, orange, yellow, green. Fireballs rose up from unseen explosions and dissipated into raining sparks. At the moment, the scene was a remote tableau, an unreal moving picture. She could imagine the hint of pyrotechnics was a harmless show put on for her benefit. Except for all the thousands of people dying underneath it.

  Dim lamplight turned the cabin ghostly, flat, unreal. She wrapped the blanket more tightly around her. For the moment, she could believe she drifted between worlds, and oddly enough the sensation came as a relief. In this suspended place, she could breathe easy, let down her guard, and pretend that all was well.

  At dawn, Marlowe’s snoring stopped, and soon after he shifted, the blanket rustling as he pushed it away, the cabin shivering with his movements. He pulled a pair of heavy fur coats from the storage cupboard and brought them to the front.

  “How are we doing, then?” he asked.

  “Steady as she goes, captain.” She smiled at his crazily ruffled hair.

  He gazed out the cabin’s front window. The sky had grown hazy with the smoke of battle. A particularly large explosion bronzed his face for a moment, even at this distance. That would have been one of the larger airships going down, hit by a rocket maybe, all its gas and munitions igniting. Debris fell after the initial fireball, flaming bits of fabric and metal plunging to earth, like diving birds.

  He said. “God, would you look at that. I wonder if that was one of ours or one of theirs?”

  “We’ve no way of knowing, and nothing we could do to help even if we knew.” She tried to sound offhand about it, but only managed bitter.

  Marlowe put his hand on her arm, where it rested on the edge of the pilot’s chair. Warm, comforting, an anchor. They both looked at it there. The impropriety of it seemed very distant, and she imagined everything she might do—touch his cheek, turn his face toward her, kiss him—and her brother and grandmother would be none the wiser.

  He quickly pulled his hand away—but not before she could catch it, squeeze it, then let it go. Just a moment of contact, gloved hand to gloved hand. It would have to be enough. They had more important things to think about.

  “We’ve got to get over this before the scouts see us,” he said.

  She moved out of the way so he could take over the pilot’s seat. They bundled up in the coats. He pulled back a pair of levers, the engines buzzed, and t
he cabin tipped back, pressing them into their seats. The Kestrel climbed, and climbed.

  The battle climbed with them. It wasn’t just rockets reaching this height; airships climbed with them, exchanging broadsides. Harry was already panting for breath, using her whole chest to suck in too little air. She couldn’t imagine fighting like this. But they were headed for the thick of it.

  “I thought coming in from the north would avoid most of this mess,” Marlowe said, the words punctuated with gulps for air.

  “What must it be like on the Channel?”

  He pointed. “See there, at two o’clock. Is it coming closer?”

  The triple-motored airship wasn’t just coming closer, it was set to intercept them. “We can’t let them stop us, even if it’s one of ours.”

  “Especially if it’s one of ours,” he said, giving half a grin.

  “Do I dare hoist a signal flag?” she said.

  “Give it a moment. Let’s see if we can outrun ‘em.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Marlowe started throwing levers, and the motor’s humming changed in pitch. The ship rose, and the horizon tilted as they changed course.

  Their ship was small and fast, but their opponent was an interceptor, all lift and motor and guns, specifically designed to stop ships like this one.

  “It’s one of theirs,” she said. “Look at the flag.”

  When the sun hit it directly, the red field with the black eagle painted on the bladder was clear. Marlowe would crash the ship rather than let them be boarded now. Though they’d most likely get blown from the sky before it came to that. They couldn’t risk letting the Germans take possession of the coil.

  “You said all we have is a pair of rifles?” she said.

  “I would never lie to you about my weaponry, Harry,” he said, eyebrow arched. And why exactly did she want to laugh at a time like this?

  She grabbed Marlowe’s goggles and put them on, adjusting the strap. Then she found the rifle and checked that its charge was full. “Where’s the harness?”

  “Hanging across from the door, there.”

  She found the gear and hooked the leather straps over her shoulders and around her chest, checking the buckles three times. The straps and hardware were all well-oiled and in excellent repair—but of course they were, this was Marlowe’s ship, after all. One end of the line hooked to the front of the harness. The rest of it she hung coiled around her forearm while she opened to the door to cabin.

  Wind tore at her. She hadn’t buttoned the coat all the way, and the collar flapped around her neck, sending a freezing draft across her skin, but that didn’t matter. The other end of the line hooked to the track ringing the outside of the cabin. Normally, the track and harness were used as a safety measure for mechanics making repairs. But she’d always thought it looked like fun.

  She gripped the rifle, and jumped.

  The line caught, and she swung out as the harness caught, dug into her shoulders and ribs, and arched her toward the cabin’s side. Sticking her feet out, she landed and ran until the line came up against the first bracket. Leaning forward, she had a view across the nose of the Kestrel. Bracing, she held the rifle steady to her shoulder, aimed along the barrel and waited for Marlowe to swing the ship around and give her a shot. She wished she’d thought of tying her hair back first; it whipped behind her, catching on the line.

  Her best chance would be to rip a shot through the enemy ship’s air bladders. Even if she didn’t start an explosion that destroyed the airship, it would lose lift and maneuverability, giving Marlowe time to get them out of this. The Kestrel’s motor droned, increasing in pitch, and the craft lurched upward, the nose tipping down, as if the whole thing had been caught in an updraft. Harry shifted her feet to keep her balance.

  There it was, the Kaiser’s black eagle staring at her with contempt, or so it seemed. Cannons mounted on the base of the cabin swung around. They were still too far away for Harry to bother firing at them. But soon.

  An explosive scream cut through the air, and in spite of herself Harry flinched back. When she looked, she saw the long trail of black smoke, but never saw what made it. The trail led to the enemy airship, which transformed into a fireball a moment later. The heat of it washed over her, and she ducked, clinging to her line, pulling herself close to the cabin for shelter. The Kestrel rocked with the shockwave, but Marlowe increased altitude yet again and got them above the worst of it. Breathing was very difficult now; blackness flashed at the edges of her vision. It was all wind and no air up here.

  Below her, gas from the German ship ignited in blue flames that quickly faded to yellow and dispersed, munitions vanishing in bursts of orange fire; the ship disintegrated and fell, pieces trailing arcs of smoke and sparks. Bodies fell. Harry saw one man, still alive, limbs flailing as he tumbled through air. She imagined she could hear his screams, but of course could hear nothing over the roar of the wind.

  There was only the one fortuitous rocket, sent to destroy their enemy. She might never learn if that had been by chance or design.

  Marlowe waved at her through the front window, his expression showing concern. He was too sensible to actually yell at her to come back inside. Clutching both her safety line and the rifle, she didn’t have a free hand to wave back. Carefully, she braced against the harness, freeing herself to signal back at him. He pressed his lips and nodded. He moved a lever. The nose tipped down, beginning a descent. She made herself stay still and focus on breathing, imagining she could tell that the air grew thicker. The goggles brought her eyesight to a narrow focus, and she sought to see beyond the edges of her vision.

  The horizon was a distant smudge; the gray haze made it impossible to see where ground ended and sky began. She could imagine seeing the curve of the Earth from here. When she looked up, the sky became like night, shifting from pale blue to a deep indigo, then darker still, to the black of twilight. And beyond that, stars.

  If man were ever to travel to the upper reaches, past the atmosphere and into Aetherian spaces, they had a serious problem to solve: They had to learn to bring their air with them. Or they had to learn to stop breathing. There was some debate about which alternative the Aetherians had used. Finding a solution for these reckless airship pilots venturing forth, as far as they could until they couldn’t breathe at all, that was the key to all. If only …

  Marlowe knocked on the window this time, and she brought herself back.

  Sliding the line along its track, she walked along the cabin hull to the door and tried to pretend that her legs weren’t shaking. Marlowe was waiting for her. Handing the rifle to him, she swung inside, unhooking herself from the track. When he shut the door, she finally breathed easy again.

  “You all right?”

  “I didn’t even get a chance to fire,” she said, pulling the goggles off, handing them back to him. Her legs were still trembling, and she lowered herself to the bench.

  “Never mind that we’d never have gotten close enough before they blew us out of the air.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed. You’ll have to find out who I ought to send a bottle of wine to for that rocket.”

  “A bottle of wine? Seems this would be worth at least your first born.”

  “I’m afraid my first born, should such a person ever exist, is already promised to my grandmother and brother.”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  She fumbled with the buckles, and Marlowe managed to pretend not to notice, but still helped, coiling the rope and pulling the harness off her shoulders once she’d finally managed to unfasten it. She sighed and rolled her shoulders—they were going to be very sore for a couple of days, and she’d probably have bruising around her ribs. Not anywhere that anyone would be likely to notice, so they didn’t matter at all.

  “I think I could use another finger of your brandy, Marlowe.”

  He was already reaching for the bottle.

  They had managed to circumvent the worst of the blockade, and reached the shores of Scotland.
There, they put up their flags and lit the cabin lights, to prevent any misunderstandings. In friendly territory now, Marlowe felt comfortable using the wireless. He posed as a standard military courier ship that had been damaged in fighting and was seeking the safety of a mooring in Liverpool. He used the coded phrase that would, in fact, get them permission to continue on to London.

  Harry’s preferred choice of communication was more primitive, but less prone to eavesdropping than the wireless. This would go straight where she wanted it, and there was little chance someone could intercept She wrote a note on a strip of paper, using her and her brother’s code, rolled it tightly, and put it in the tiny canister that she then fit to the leg of one of the pigeons. She held the cooing creature gently to her chest, smoothing its feathers and whispering comforts to it, before throwing it out the open portal window, into the bright sun. Its white wings flashed as the bird dipped around the ship, then seemed to vanish as it raced on.

  Harry went back to the front of the cabin, where Marlowe sat.

  She sighed. “I don’t think I’m ready to be back just yet.”

  “I could turn us around, head toward the battle,” he said.

  “Do you really think that piece of metal will help us end the war?”

  “Strange, isn’t it? So much hope in that little thing. But I do think it’s worth it.”

  Not strange at all. Little things had often changed the world. Whatever it was worth, this was better than sitting at Marlborough House, waiting for something to happen.

  They reached the Thames and followed it to the mooring station outside Windsor.

  “Well then,” she sighed. “I suppose I ought to make myself presentable.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t got anything like a decent room for you—”

  “Nonsense. We’ll make do.”

  He blushed, pointedly turning away.

  She retrieved her luggage from the bench. From it, she unfolded her proper lady’s attire and all its attendant architecture. She ought to have a good wash before putting it on, but there was no chance of that. She would have to make do. She stripped the old rugged shirt and trousers she’d been in for the last week and donned the crisp linen shift, smoothing out the wrinkles as best she could. She’d had the corset made with fasteners in front for just such occasions as this. Her sisters would be scandalized, to see her dressing herself. In front of a soldier, even. She had her back to Marlowe; he could have been sneaking glances at her all this time. Of course, the worse scandal was that she rather hoped he was.