by Sulivan, Tricia; Nevill, Adam; Tchaikovsky, Adrian; McDougall, Sophia; Tidhar, Lavie
“It must end now.”
“Patience, Branwen. Your balance shall be gained. When the Wheel of Fate runs deep enough to find better purchase.”
Grainne toyed with her braided hair, its legendary red now streaked with grey. She looked around the deck, content despite a need for rubbing comfrey into the white scar on her right wrist that ached so damnably these past few years. Wind snapped extra canvas above her, and deck-boards creaked beneath her feet as the masts took up the strain, and her fast brigantine, The Grace, flew toward her prey.
Finding Eivan’s small sloop was a surprise. She had followed his pirating trail for weeks now, and although she admired both his panache and appetite for spoils, she didn’t like the cut of his jib on any other score.
“Load up the chain-shot,” she roared. “Fire when ready, Master Gunner.”
“Aye, sir.”
Salvos of shot, chained in pairs, swirled toward the sloop’s rigging. Whilst most fell wide, one coupled-missile swung its way into the mizzen, cracking the mast mid-length.
“Catch every breath, boys. She shan’t gain port ahead of us. Earn your crust you slack-jawed vermin! Work your useless backsides or feel yer boson’s lash!”
The gunners found their range: chain-shot smashed around the main mast and swept into the crowded mid-deck, cutting a swathe through the crew. The main-mast wavered, slowly arching downwards, its inexorable fall slowed by ropes and ladders and the damaged mizzen’s wind-filled canvas. The sloop listed to port, trailing its broken mast in the ocean: a huge sculling oar, slicing water which was turning red with the blood of the fallen.
The Grace moved in for the kill, her slim hull skimming nimbly toward the crippled sloop, ploughing through smashed wood and human flotsam alike. The gunners had abandoned the cannons, not wanting to damage their prize more than necessary, and took to the deck guns, sending deadly blasts of metal fragments toward their wounded prey. Smoke wafted across the deck and stung Grainne’s nose and she snuffled at it gleefully, allowing that distinctive and oh-so-familiar odour to taint her vision and sting her blood.
The sloop could not even limp for safety and was jerked around in a lazy spiral by the trailing masts. Shot peppered The Graces’s decks now as Eivan returned fire in the only manner left to him.
Gunpowder haze hung too thick for the light wind to disperse quickly. Gunshots merged into a contiguous chorus with the curdling, agonised cries of the wounded together.
“Prepare to repel boarders,” Eivan bellowed as the ships slid alongside. Boarding ropes and hooks snaked from The Grace’s rail.
Grainne checked her belt for her precious pistols and then hefted her sword and dirk in respective hands. The Grace’s crew were already swarming toward the sloop’s deck and she was eager to join them.
“For, not to the age do I strive, nor for ever am I wroth, for the spirit from before me is feeble…” she quoted grimly. “And the souls I have made…? For all the souls I have made … are about to be joined by their brother!”
She dashed forward, clambering onto The Grace’s rail. She teetered there, looking toward the sloop… and down the barrel of a well-oiled pistol.
Eivan mouthed a last farewell as he pulled the trigger.
Grainne had no time to wonder. She was down between the hulls; sucking in blood-tainted brine with her final breath.
“The tides are turning, Branwen. He has found a current that can sweep him back.”
“As he has done so often before. He seems always to find a way, and I am tired, Bran ap Llyr.”
“The quest is yours to pursue, sister. Or not.”
“A blood oath I made, Brother. I must succeed. Given time.”
“Time is all you have, Branwen. Now at least he is out of his element.”
“If that be the case, then so am I, and we will both stand at risk.”
“Enough.” Mercy held a hand up for silence and listened intently for signs of life along the next corridor. It was oddly still beyond the engine rumble. Even the hubbub from the concourse had died away. She did not believe in coincidences; to her suspicious mind engines firing up the moment she stepped aboard smacked of arrogance and challenge.
The engine thrum slackened and she nodded satisfaction. “With me,” she snapped, initially taking the companion way toward the cabin berth she retained on T’uga. Once clear of the concourse, however, she doubled back through the maze of corridors toward the bridge, with Sheyn close at her expensive boot heels.
They halted just one turn short of the bridge ladder. The engines were still idling, the soft shush and kashomp of the turning pistons slow and steady and, at this proximity, also very loud. The smell of soot was heavy in the air, and over that the dank, musty, unmistakable odour of ectoplasm. T’uga was preparing to fly.
At the sound of footsteps on the ladder, they hid in the nearest cabin. Mercy kept the door open a crack, pistol at the ready, watching as two sailors passed by. Both were trim and lithe, shaven-headed, clean-jawed and all-round well-washed. They could only be Navy; and her blood curdled.
“Trouble,” she grunted. “Brace of Jack Tars.”
Sheyn crowded her shoulder for a glimpse. “Just the brace?” he said.
“So far. Where the hell have they sprung from?”
Sheyn spread his hands. “We’ve had no sightings of Admiralty ships for weeks.”
“We should’ve known that was odd just on its own.” Mercy opened the door a little further and checked the corridor. The crewmen had rounded the corner. They would be setting up sentry duty on the bridge ladder. “So Hicksey is expecting us,” she said. “I am going to skewer that little rodent.”
“Unless I get to him first,” Sheyn replied.
“We need another way up to the bridge.” She grinned at her companion. “Through the Captain’s Sea Cabin. Hicksey’s own state rooms. Follow me.” She slipped away from the bridge ladders toward the officer’s quarters.
The further they crept along strangely deserted corridors the more Mercy’s instincts were rattled. If the Admiralty truly had taken the bridge then T’uga was no longer a safe haven. The question she asked herself was: had they come in with or without Hicksey’s help? He would do almost anything to rid himself of Mercy and her hold both on him and T’uga. But handing over his biggest asset and risking arrest? Whatever the whys and wherefores of her ex-partner’s involvement, it was certain she would not be allowed off the ship voluntarily. Which brought her to the next question: how many were there? Doubtless a naval vessel somewhere hidden nearby, but they had to have arrived in a small ship. Which meant a small task force. Her most obvious option was to cripple the command and then make a run for open space.
Near the end of the final ladder leading into Hicks’s rooms stood a sentry in naval slops and bellbottoms. So Hicks’s own domain was under guard. Did that mean the Navy weren’t here by invitation?
The engines’ hum changed once more: turning faster, approaching running speed. Whatever her business partner’s situation, the Navy seemed set to reinstate T’uga as Victoria’s Dreadnaught.
“With or without you, Hicksey my old shipmate.” Mercy drew her small knife and inched forward, signalling Sheyn to cover the far side of the corridor. She needed the ensign to look away, however briefly; a raised voice from the deck above gave her the chance she looked for. He looked up, his well-shaven throat exposed, and Mercy lived up to repute by showing none of her name’s sake. Sheyn helped her drag the twitching corpse into the nearest doorway, propping it there. The blood trail could not be hidden, but she hoped this would not matter very soon.
Tweaking out the dead sailor’s pistol and knife, Mercy tucked them into her belt and ran to the ladder. Climbing silently, she reached to the top and peered across the bridge to assess her opponents. There were three naval ratings on deck, and two officers. And Hicksey – standing close to the helm. That answered her first question.
Mercy slipped up the last few steps and dodged into the deserted Coms recess, followed
swiftly by Sheyn.
One rating rested his hands on the wheel while the others stood ready at the engine controls. The officers were gathered together, their attention fixed on the small bank of screens to the helm’s left, and away from Mercy.
“I see nothing of her, Hicks.” The Commander was young. His pips and braid achingly new on jacket and hat. So young that she wondered how he was ever worthy of rank at all.
“Eivan Bransson,” she muttered. “Viscount Bransson’s youngest brat. Damn his blood.”
“The Honourable Eivan,” Sheyn added. “A sneakier rat never walked any deck! Honourable –”
Mercy motioned him to silence, intent now on the room’s occupants.
“…then worry,” Hicks was saying. “When it comes to survival, Mercy Benks has the instincts of a cockroach. Once we’re all stardust, there she’ll be, plying the stars.”
“One woman against Her Majesty’s Navy.” Eivan’s tone left Mercy in no doubt what he thought of that idea. “No matter. The Resistance is our goal, Mr Hicks. Mercedeys Benks can wait.”
Hicks made no further comment but grinned and shook his head slowly.
Eivan signalled the ensign. “Are we ready to cast off, Mr Lane?”
“Yes, sir. Warlocks are powering up the engines and awaiting your orders. The Reliant has left cover and is moving into position as escort.”
“Excellent. Then lift off; and slow ahead, if you please.”
The young officer turned, his face pale. “But sir, the exiles are still leaving. You gave your word on their safety…”
Eivan stared back – a cold glance. “I said we would leave when it was safe for us to do so. We needn’t concern ourselves with a little scum floating above decks. Most would be bound for the gallows in any event.” He stepped back to get a full view of the screens forward. “Mr Lane?” he prompted.
“Casting off, sir. Engines slow ahead.”
As he spoke the engine note changed, deepening, guttural and laboured. The decks juddered, rocking wildly for a moment; lurching to port.
From outside Mercy could hear faint noises of tearing and grinding and shouted warnings. She could imagine the pandemonium in the concourse as those attempting to flee T’uga hurled themselves clear; many to certain death as The Resistance rose quickly, ripping free of its camouflage of silt, debris and squalor – built up over its many years aground.
The view on screen changed from crags and rifts to clear, dark, sky.
“Full ahead,” Eivan snapped.
“Full ahead, sir.”
Engines vibrated as the reborn HMS Resistance leaped upward and forward. The screen darkened to the eternal night of space.
Mercy signed to Sheyn: which of the Navy men should be the first to die – which of them she wanted. They needed no words after so many battles, so many brawls; so many ships.
Now it was time. She could feel it.
The Resistance was heading into ectopic-slippage. In a few minutes it would slither through the universe in a pale wave of ectoplasmic shimmer. If she did not act, The Grace would be left far behind, and regardless how much affection Mercy had for T’uga she loved The Grace – and loved her freedom even more.
With a howl she bounded forward, despatching the steersman in one move. Whirling around, she brought her cutlass slashing across the Number One’s throat before both of her booted feet had returned to deck.
She saw Sheyn plunge a knife in another crewman’s kidneys before leaping toward the second. She had time to think how efficient he was for his age, when a shot rang out at close range. Lead ripped through her; she felt it tearing her gut out through her back. The controls would be covered…
A second shot struck her. .
Eivan was gaping, wild-eyed and terrified; still pointing a pistol at her belly. She eyed the space between them, wondering if she was still capable of making a lunge at him before he got off another shot. She could see Sheyn across the room, holding Hicks at bay, just waiting for her to give the word to finish him.
“Hold!” Eivan shouted. “Or your captain dies.”
Mercy raised her hands slowly to shoulder height, palms out in the traditional gesture of surrender. “You fire again young pup, and we may all die.” She smiled grimly, wincing at the pain her raised arms gave to her shattered gut.
“I take no orders from a pirate.”
He was shaking; she could see the tip of the barrel waver, almost smell his fear. She lowered her hands as slowly as she had raised them. “Don’t be a fool, Eivan.”
“From your lips, Benks, it’s Lord Bransson,” he replied.
“Oh, Eivan, such formality. After our last meeting I hoped we could be friends.”
“I am no friend to a thief and a pirate.”
“Then I am sorry for you, lad.” She let her hand slide toward her belt and the dagger concealed there. “You might want to put the gun down.”
“You are not in a position to dictate.”
“Perhaps not, but I can try to even the odds a little.” Mercy flipped the dagger from her belt, sending it stabbing through the space between them, piercing Eivan’s chest and heart.
Maybe it was muscle contraction; perhaps instinct. Eivan’s finger jerked the pistol’s trigger, returning a sphere of lead toward his killer.
She felt the control panel behind her warming with the sudden leaking of ectoplasm, and she had time enough to wonder how so much valuable fuel came to be amassed so far from Earth before the bridge erupted into quivering and insubstantial shadow. The ship wavered between the solidity of present existence and its far-distant destination, before becoming a mass of swirling debris ringed by dissipating ectoplasmic shock waves, eddying out toward the void.
Cold; the intense chill of nothingness all around her. Adrift amid the flotsam that had been The Resistance, she turned slowly and watched the hulk drift away from her, spewing chunks of metal and wood into the universe, like breadcrumbs strewn across a pond. Her hat had drifted away, and her red hair floated free in a blood-red halo that wrapped around her pale face; her last – her final – vision.
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Emma Coleman
I was standing on a bridge looking out across open fields and blue sky. I was at peace. The stream below was busy; the water tumbling and hurrying over rocks; the insects buzzed and two tiny birds chased each other back and forth over the stream.
“Pretty as a picture, in’t it?”
The man appeared out of nowhere. He was at my side, pressing softly against my arm, before I was even aware of another person nearby.
“I could look at this view all day,” he said, sighing.
I edged away as discreetly as I could but the man sidled up to me; his bony shoulder nestling by my own.
“The only problem is finding someone to share this with, someone who appreciates what I mean.” He sighed again.
I tried to forget his presence and concentrated on the tranquillity before me; the sunlight soaking into the fields and the vivid green was inviting.
“Yep, I could happily have this view forever. That grass looks so vibrant doesn’t it? Fair makes me want to roll about on it, naked.”
I slid across once more. The man did the same. Silence followed but my concentration had gone; I couldn’t enjoy the scenery anymore and so began to inspect the stranger instead.
He was younger than I expected; his skin was smooth and his hair was a thick, mahogany mane. He wore a dark brown coat and a skinny tweed scarf hung from his neck. He didn’t look at me while I blatantly stared at him; he simply smiled at what was in front of us. I was beginning to wonder if the man was blind; his mind’s eye painting the beauty he described, when I noticed something poking out of his pocket. It was a bag of mint humbugs.
“Would you care for a sweet?” The man asked, fumbling for the bag, “They’re crunchy.”
He offered the humbugs and I put my hand in; I felt about in the packet, enjoying the texture and sou
nd, then pulled out one shining sweet. I was puzzled.
“This is no mint humbug.” I whispered.
“I never said they were mint humbugs.” The man said, popping one of the sweets into his mouth. He sucked on it hard; swallowing and grunting quietly.
I peered at the thing held between my thumb and finger; it was struggling to get free, the little thorny legs wriggling about and the antennae straining.
The stranger started crunching loudly and I dropped the June bug out of fright. It fell like a pebble and clattered on the wooden planks. The man stamped on it, grinding the beetle into the bridge.
“Past its best that one, try another.” He shook the bag; he still hadn’t looked my way and he was smiling broadly.
I looked back to the view of fields and sky; clouds were gathering to cast dark blue shadows on the bright green pastures. I ignored the stranger’s attempts to entice me with his bag of hideous treats; he shoved it towards my face and scrunched the bag as if the action would make me take another one.
“Suit yourself,” he said, and launched the packet into the stream. I watched it sweep back towards me on the current, bobbing along, and a couple of June bugs clambered out. I was saddened to see the bag get overwhelmed with water and sink slowly down.
“What did you do that for?” I asked quietly.
“They weren’t as good as I remember them and I don’t handle disappointment very well.”
I looked to the fields again; the clouds had gathered together menacingly, dark grey and blue with tinges of violet, and I felt a cool breeze. My teeth chattered.
“Oh dear, that doesn’t look too promising, we might be getting a spot of rain. Shouldn’t be out here when a storm’s raging, we’d better get going.”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me along the bridge. His grip was rigid and cold – as if his hand had been left in a refrigerator all night – and I tried to wrench myself free but the stranger simply tugged sharply.
“Don’t be silly, I told you, you don’t want to be out here when there’s a storm. Too dangerous.” And he led me on.
