Manners & Mutiny

by Gail Carriger

  The two girls made their way swiftly through the halls of the dirigible. They worked unfortunately well together—settling into a pattern. Sophronia would take one knee, and Monique, who was taller and uninjured, would stand on Sophronia’s bent leg with a hand to her head for balance, knocking out the gas valves and fixtures in the hallways with a closed fan. They got good at it, like some weird acrobatic dance. They left behind them the redolent smell of gas and the fallen remains of knifelike chandeliers and parasol-shaped light covers. Dangerous indeed.

  Professor Braithwope was nowhere to be found. They had no time to figure out where he had gone. Sophronia was, as a result, unexpectedly grateful for Monique’s company, even though the older girl rarely said more than two words in a row. At least Sophronia had someone with her at the end.

  She tried once to start up a conversation. “How long has Felix Mersey been working for your hive?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Did you recruit him?”

  Monique became all enigmatic, but she didn’t outright deny it. That was confirmation enough.

  “What are you after, Monique? What have you been instructed to collect?” The carpetbag wasn’t empty, but it was suspiciously floppy. Even so, Sophronia was careful not to let the girl out of her sight, and, because she was no fool, not to let Monique get within fifty paces of the record room. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Sophronia was certain that frustrated the blonde.

  Together they attained the forward squeak deck. Sophronia ran to the small brass box affixed to a railing on one side. She opened it with the gold key from Mademoiselle Geraldine, reached inside, and toggled the switch exactly as the headmistress had instructed.

  A loud bell began clanging—a bell with hundreds of sister bells throughout the airship. Now, if the Picklemen knew anything about the workings of the ship, they would know Sophronia’s location. This squeak deck was the only place that particular alarm could be activated.

  Sophronia turned to watch. The soldier mechanicals were stored in the rear upper deck, but she’d never seen them emerge before. Tracks telescoped out from the side of that deck. The soldiers made their way not through the ship, as she had always thought they would, but out onto the rear squeak deck and onto these bridges as if into nothingness, the tracks forming under the first mechanical’s wheels as it moved. They rolled across the middle squeak deck and then over a second set of telescoping tracks that arched in over the railings and split into the multiple tracks inset in the wood under Sophronia’s feet.

  At each stage, a set of mechanicals stayed behind, so that the tops of all three decks were ringed with soldiers by the end.

  In a synchronized movement, the mechanicals all settled back onto their rear wheels, locking down to each deck with a clunk. Hatches opened in the chest area of their carapaces, the whole upper torso sliding back. Each ejected the barrel of a small cannon. Then, in one smooth motion, they all swiveled and pointed their little cannons at… her.

  Sophronia had been expecting it. After all, she held the tiny crossbow, and the bolts to go with it, but it was still unnerving.

  Monique stared at her with mouth open.

  “Never witnessed this, did you?”

  “I was always inside as ordered. I knew the school had protections in place, but these are remarkable.”

  Sophronia took a deep breath. “Here we go.” She slipped out of her arm sling. Her shoulder screamed in protest, but she did have some dexterity and mobility on that side. She would need both hands from here on out. Besides, her shoulder could always be fixed later, if there was a later. She pointed the small crossbow at the back balloon. Do three bolts mean that each mechanical has three cannonballs? Or that only one-third of the mechanicals fire at a time? Either way, she had to aim carefully.

  Sophronia fired. The bolt whistled and thunked. A half dozen cannonballs all shot out at the same time. Right, that’s one-third for each bolt, two shooting from each deck. Still, even with only a few shooting, Sophronia and Monique were surrounded by smoke and the smell of powder. The noise was deafening. If that didn’t get the remaining Picklemen’s attention, nothing would.

  The six balls tore through the back balloon of the airship, leaving it in tatters, outgassing both its air and its helium. That end began to sag downward, the school now dangling from only the two front balloons. There was no explosion, but there were hot-air compartments, and the fueling mechanisms for these fell to the deck and caught fire. Not a very big fire, but it was a start.

  Now Sophronia knew why the soldier mechanicals clamped down, because the deck on which she stood was tilting. She and Monique slid toward the rear side until they each came to rest behind one of the soldier mechanicals.

  The deck wasn’t overly steep. They could still brace themselves and stand.

  “Now what?” wondered Monique.

  Sophronia pointed her second bolt at the inside lowest visible part of the back section. It wasn’t an easy shot. The bolt had to fly between rigging, but it hit where she hoped, about a third of the way down the gondola of the school proper.

  As one, the soldiers swiveled, cannons pointing downward. Six of them fired again.

  They obviously had no protocols against self-destruction. The two on the rear deck fired at their own feet. It was a good thing the airship was tilted, or the one on the far side of the deck from Sophronia might have hit her. As it was, the ball zipped directly over her head. Monique watched in delighted awe as the wood of the back section splintered while catch lines and belay ropes flapped free. The flames licked higher, provided with scraps of aged, lightweight, oiled wood to consume.

  Because Sophronia wanted to keep Monique away from the record room, they hadn’t liberated the hallway gases in that section, so this was nothing more than basic destruction. But as the gondola there crumbled—shedding weight as mechanisms, furniture, rigging, and other items fell—the whole ship began to bob about.

  “Look.” Monique pointed up. “Shearing wind.”

  The ship was no longer floating safely within a breeze. Instead, the surviving balloons had caught in one wind, while the broken section and gondola were in another. Under normal circumstances, there were mechanisms, balance devices, ballast, and sooties to keep this from happening. Now these were failing or gone. As a result, the surviving balloons were caving in on one side and the whole ship was beginning to spin.

  “Stop where you are!” The Chutney, his two bully boys, and the Pickleman recorder from the dining hall appeared on the squeak deck. All of them had guns, and all of them were pointed at Monique and Sophronia.

  Now that Sophronia was facing him and not looking down from above, there was something awfully familiar about that dark-haired gangly recorder. What was under that trimmed beard and mustache?

  Sophronia was pleased to see there were no flywaymen with them. Either they were needed elsewhere or they had given up this lark after the exploding wicker chicken and abandoned the cause.

  The recorder with his too-black hair looked hard at Sophronia. His posture changed. He seemed to get taller. Sophronia shook her head, staring at him. His hair had been longer and silver last time she saw him. Also, he’d been clean-shaven and in a very nice suit.

  “Miss Temminnick, I should have known,” said the Grand Gherkin, otherwise known as Duke Golborne.

  “Why, Duke Golborne, I only recently spoke with your son.”

  “Little traitor. What about him?”

  “Oh, nothing, I’m certain he sends his regards.”

  “Have you been on board all along?”

  Sophronia tilted her head at him in acknowledgment.

  “Those disappearances. The sabotage!” He glared at his companion. “I told you our little flywayman infiltrator didn’t have enough time. And for an intelligencer of that caliber to take herself out of the game like that, she’d have to have been protecting someone. That someone is Miss Temminnick here. I don’t know the blonde.”

  Monique looked upset at that but
wasn’t suckered into revealing anything. She stood, having produced a little gun from somewhere. She was holding it with a remarkably steady hand, pointed at the Picklemen.

  Sophronia felt introductions were in order. “Miss Pelouse, may I present the Duke of Golborne, also known as the Grand Gherkin, and—I believe—this is the Chutney. Forgive me, sir, I do not know your real name. Gentlemen, Monique de Pelouse, Westminster Hive.”

  Monique gave her a sideways glance that suggested she felt Sophronia needn’t have included her affiliation, but she didn’t comment. She swiveled a bit to make certain she had the Chutney covered.

  Does everyone always have a gun but me? wondered Sophronia. Lacking any other projectile, she hoisted the crossbow, already loaded with the final bolt, and pointed it at the duke. She palmed her last exploding fake pastry in her injured hand.

  The duke was not impressed. “I am not a vampire, Miss Temminnick, to be threatened by a flying wooden stick.”

  Sophronia didn’t say anything.

  Behind the Picklemen, one-third of the dirigible continued to fall apart rather spectacularly, and something exploded. Then a few more somethings.

  “Propeller boilers?” Sophronia suggested this conversationally to Monique.

  Monique inclined her head. “Most likely.”

  “There’s no way out of this, ladies.” Duke Golborne was forcing himself to be casual, but he wasn’t as good as Geraldine’s girls. “You are outgunned and outmanned.”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Gherkin, we aren’t manned at all.” Although Sophronia had thought there would only be three facing them. A slight miscalculation. Still, there was no time like the present.

  “Now!” She dropped to the deck.

  Monique was a split second behind her.

  The Picklemen fired at where they had been standing, but Monique was already shooting from a prone position, and Sophronia was throwing food.

  Before the Picklemen could reload, the fake pastry—a delectable-looking strawberry shortbread—exploded at their feet. The duke cried out in pain, falling over. One of the bully boys lay facedown, not moving.

  The Chutney stumbled back. Monique had shot him in the upper right shoulder. A bloom of wetness appeared on his immaculate black coat.

  Before the Picklemen could regroup, Sophronia shot at their side of the deck with her crossbow.

  What happened next was so fast and yet, at the time, it felt like everything moved through pudding.

  The Chutney had some inkling of what that bolt meant, for he grabbed the duke and slid with him down the deck to where Sophronia and Monique crouched. The surviving bully boy followed.

  The soldier mechanicals directed their cannons and fired.

  Meanwhile, the three Picklemen engaged the two young ladies in fisticuffs. Monique was fighting the Chutney with teeth, nails, and elbows, like a vicious caged cat. He didn’t seem to know quite what to do with her and certainly couldn’t get a grip.

  Sophronia struck out at the duke and the remaining bully boy with her fan. She dropped the now useless crossbow to the deck. It slid out under the railing and over the edge. While the duke was no fighter, the bully boy was good. He came in on her injured side and managed to wrap both his arms around her in a bear hug from behind. He began squeezing as tight as he could.

  Sophronia couldn’t get in a decent slice with her fan with her arms locked against her waist. The pressure against her shoulder was agony. Nevertheless, she kicked and struggled.

  Then the upper portion of the deck exploded, wood showering down on them.

  Sophronia was shielded by the man holding her. He took the brunt of the flying splinters to his back. He screamed and stumbled to the side.

  The duke dove and flattened himself against the rails, protected in part by the very mechanical that had just fired.

  One of the cannonballs had gone wide—since the ship was bobbing and swaying so much—and hit the pilot’s bubble. It exploded into a gout of blue flame and orange sparks a few seconds later.

  One of the soldier mechanicals across the deck had been hit by friendly fire. It, too, exploded into flames.

  Below them, the hallways were flooded with gas. With the massive cannonball holes, it was only a matter of time before a spark set everything off.

  The bully boy let go of Sophronia. Too injured from the blast, he fell back.

  The duke was occupied trying not to fall off the ship. The Chutney had collapsed to his knees and was bleeding profusely from a shredded side. The other bully boy—Sophronia swallowed bile—had been lying right about where one of the cannons landed.

  Monique twirled out of the Chutney’s reach and in a graceful movement crouched down. Unslinging the carpetbag from her back, she pulled out two square packs. They looked like wrapped foot warmers, only with reticule tops, and each had two straps.

  She tossed one to Sophronia, who caught it with both hands, dropping her fan in the process.

  “Parachute.” Monique’s smile was feral. “Latest design out of Paris. Put it on like so.” She donned hers with the two straps around her arms and the boxy part over her back, reticule mouth up. “Jump over, and when you’re well clear of the ship, pull the ribbon there. Should deploy like a great big parasol.”

  “It should?”

  “They haven’t been tested yet.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “You have a better idea? I know you want to be all noble and go down with the school, but Sophronia, who will be left in the world for me to dislike as much as you?”

  “Why, Monique, I didn’t know you cared.” Sophronia tried hard to get the parachute on over her bad shoulder.

  Monique gave her a look. Then she climbed over the bleeding Chutney, kicking him in the face hard with her burgundy leather boot, leapt over the railing, and with a tremendous heave, shot herself forward into the air. She’d need to clear the other decks as she fell.

  Sophronia scrambled to see if she made it.

  But the duke was on her, his hands around her throat. “Give me that parachute, young lady.”

  The Chutney struggled to his feet, nose bloodied by Monique’s heel. He heard those words and then he, too, closed in, eyes desperately fixed on Sophronia’s back.

  One thing at a time, thought Sophronia. She heaved hard, trying to shake the duke from her throat. She’d dropped her fan. She hadn’t any more explosives. Her nails scored at the duke’s wrist.

  He was yelling and punctuating each word with a shake. “You. Are. Not. Permitted. To. Marry. My. Son!”

  If Sophronia hadn’t been struggling to breathe, she would have disabused him of the notion. The very idea!

  Then the Chutney was on her as well.

  The men were fighting her but also fighting each other.

  “It’s my parachute,” yelled the duke.

  “Come now, Golborne.” The Chutney sounded cool and reasonable. “I outrank you. Think of the good of the Picklemen. By rights the chute belongs to me.” He shoved at the duke’s face with one hand while with his other he tried to rip the pack from Sophronia’s back.

  The ship lurched.

  Any moment now, thought Sophronia, the gas below us will ignite. She had no idea how fierce an explosion that would be, or how it might affect the decks above and below. But now that Monique had provided her a means to escape, she actually wanted to live.

  Her original plan had been to run to the midship and ride out the crash there, it being the least damaged part of the school. The whole point was that they crash down on the belly of that section, on top of the hold full of mechanimals, destroying their ability to function, but keeping them in one place for the authorities to find as proof of the Pickleman plot.

  But right now, the parachute felt like a much better idea.

  Sophronia twisted around and got a look up into the sky, or rather down toward the ground. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it certainly looked like the lights were getting closer. They were falling faster than they had been.

  Then
there came an animal scream. Like nothing Sophronia had ever heard before, human but not. Not werewolf, either.

  Something hit the Chutney full force and landed atop him, carrying him backward.

  Professor Braithwope’s lips were stretched wide, his fangs impossibly long. His mouth seemed to split his head in two—a black maw slashed with sharp pointed death. Above it the mustache was all spiky menace.

  The Chutney screamed, “You can’t! You can’t! We haven’t been introduced!” But the vampire was beyond introductions. He bit down on the man’s fat neck and began to suck.

  Sophronia had only a brief moment to take this in, as the duke was still on her, trying to get one arm around her neck while the other tore at the pack on her back.

  Not that I want you up against a strangler, ladies, Lady Linette’s voice said in her head, but remember one thing—if they are very earnest in their concentration, they forget to protect elsewhere.

  Sophronia wasn’t wearing skirts. She kicked back, not at his gentleman’s area, but hard to the inside of the man’s knee. An unexpected strike toward a questionable choice of leg wear—yellow hose indeed!

  He cried out in pain and his hold loosened.

  Sophronia turned in his grasp so they were face-to-face. She scraped with her good hand, trying to claw out his eyes, but she couldn’t get her arm up far enough. The most she got was an ear, which she yanked as hard as she could. Desperately, her bad hand searched her pockets for something, anything, a weapon, a… small bottle.

  Almost of its own accord, her hand remembered what her brain did not, the execution of the fan and sprinkle maneuver. With her thumb she popped open the lid of her perfume container, specially designed by Vieve to be opened one-handed. She dashed the contents into the duke’s face. The world smelled briefly of grain alcohol and lemon. The duke squealed, piglike, and let her go, more, she thought, in surprise than in pain.

  Sophronia took several quick steps away, leapt over the railing of the squeak deck, and launched herself, as if she were diving into a lake, out into the star-studded night. Well, to be less poetic and strictly truthful, it was a damp, misty night, full of smoke and the sparks of a dying dirigible.