Episode Twelve: What Fresh Hell

Behind them, a raging conflagration formerly known as their airship, the Gamut. Before them, a rather large man with a rather large gun.

“You with Pomeroy?” the man behind the double barrels inquired. Rainwater dribbled off the brim of his hat. A younger, smaller man stood behind him, equally armed. 

Feeling a prodding nudge from Colonel Pell, Amelia stepped forward, empty hands visible. “I am Amelia Br – er – Captain Amelia Brinkley, and these gentlemen are my crew. We’re Argonauts. We were on our way home when our airship was shot down, just back there. We mean no harm; we’re only trying to get home before someone succeeds in killing us.”

As fitting punctuation, a gush of smoke and fire bloomed through the forest canopy. The ground shivered as the last of the Gamut’s engines exploded.

“The queen is dead,” Monty intoned. “Long live the queen.”

The younger man lowered his weapon. “’Nauts, here?”

“You’re familiar with us then?” Amelia asked, grateful she needn’t bother with explanations, and gestured to the men around her. “My First Mate, Colonel Pell, Pilot Richard Eckhart, Defender Manuel Guerrero, Mechanic Jonny Monterrey, and Chronicler Gavin Graves.”

The elder man looked at the crew in drenched uniform, suspicious, and adjusted his aim. “Then you’re not with Pomeroy.”

Eckhart inched up beside Amelia. “If I may, Captain? Sir, we arrested Jackson Pomeroy and his men yesterday. He won’t bother you anymore.”

The man shook his head, but lowered the gun. “Not that dandy Jackson. I mean Silas.”

Eckhart cursed under his breath.

“Another cousin?” Colonel Pell asked.

“Someone needs to chop down your family tree,” Monty growled.

***

“Silas and his gang have driven out or killed every other freedman farmer in the area,” Mr. Douglas said. “Will and I are all that’s left.”

The shivering crew occupied every available sitting surface in front of the hearth in Mr. Douglas’s blessedly warm and dry home. Mr. Douglas stood on the porch clutching his triple-barrel shotgun, scanning the horizon while Will took similar position at the back of the house.

“I sent my wife and children away north about six months ago, to keep them safe,” Mr, Douglas continued. Will left his apprenticeship to help me defend my home.”

“You fought in the wars?” Guerrero asked, admiring a neatly brushed Pax uniform, complete with medals, arranged outside of a well-traveled steamer trunk tipped on end.

“I did,” Mr. Douglas said with a perceptible lift of the chin. “My battalion won our freedom even before Emperor Pax declared Liberation.”

“Not that it mattered,” Will grumbled. “People haven’t changed. They still call us n-”

“Will!” Mr. Douglas warned. Amelia startled a bit from the edge in his voice.

“Names,” Will shot back. “Even up by the lake where I’m from. People like Silas are everywhere. They’d rather see us dead than as equals.”

“And the burning wreckage of the Gamut is a beacon to your location,” Pell said. “I’m afraid we’ve brought our mutual adversary down upon your head, Mr. Douglas.”

“It was a matter of time, Colonel,” he said, turning back to the horizon. “I put everything Will and I know into building and defending these acres. But it may not be enough when Silas finds us.”

“Perhaps we can draw his attention away,” Gavin said. “He’ll be too busy chasing us to bother Mr. Douglas.”

Pell shook his head. “When he doesn’t find us his retaliation will fall here. We cannot allow our friends to suffer for our misfortune.”

“But - if you’ll forgive me, sir - we can’t raise a defense without weapons.”

“We have weapons,” Will said. “I salvaged a few from the war machines. Ammunition, too. And a few surprises I’ve almost got working. We aren’t defenseless.”

“A few salvaged guns from derelict war machines against someone who can shoot down aircraft from the ground? Let’s be reasonable. Strategy only goes so far. Am I right, Mr. Guerrero?”

Guerrero declined comment, instead leveling a look of caution to Gavin, which the younger man chose to ignore.

“I’m only suggesting we seize the opportunity to find our way home, where we have no end of resources at our disposal,” Gavin continued. “We can return with the Argo - the whole fleet for gods’ sake - and lay waste to the uprising in one swipe.”

“But not before Silas kills Mr. Douglas and Will and levels this home,” Eckhart added. “They need our protection now.”

Pell raised a hand for silence and looked to Amelia. “Captain Brinkley, we await your orders.”

Gavin huffed in derision, earning himself a sharp glare of rebuke from Pell and an equally venomous one from Amelia. New she may have been to her role as captain, but inexperience in no way made her incompetent.

“I believe, under the circumstances, it’s best to defer to Mr. Douglas for direction. We are at your disposal, sir. Put us to good use.” She could feel Colonel Pell’s approving gaze, which eased the knot in her stomach, somewhat.

Mr. Douglas hesitated. “This isn’t your fight. Like my nephew said, we can take care of ourselves. You can go home if you need to. The train water stop isn’t two miles from here, you can jump on while it refills.”

Amelia needn’t look at Pell to know escape wasn’t an option. Even as initiates they had a responsibility to uphold the Society’s values of honor and integrity, even if - especially if - doing so jeopardized their lives. Besides, she didn’t want to give Gavin the pleasure of including a coward’s leave in the first entry of The Chronicle of Captain Amelia Brinkley.

“Silas destroyed our ship and almost killed us in the process,” Amelia said. “We will have satisfaction in some manner; if we happen to assist you in the process, all the better. We’ve already established drawing his attention away will provide no significant benefit to you, so I’m afraid we must draw swords together.”

“Will could use your mechanic,” Mr. Douglas said with a smile.

“Glad to help,” Monty said, rising from his seat. “All this sitting around doesn’t suit me, anyway.”

Will fairly beamed. “You won’t believe what I found,” he said as the two gearheads plunged into the rain toward the barn.

“In the meantime, you should know a few things,” Mr. Douglas continued, pulling a map out of a hidden space and unrolling it on the table. “For one, goods aren’t all smugglers bring through here.”

“People?” Eckhart asked. Mr. Douglas nodded.

“Before Liberation, I was smuggling slaves out. Now, it’s freedmen and their families on the run from men like Silas Pomeroy. I’m the last outpost of this territory. The westernmost boundary lies about 10 miles from here, through some rough terrain.” He traced a jagged line on the map. “The smugglers bring them to me, and another guide will take them the rest of the way. So I can’t leave my home, and I can’t let Silas take it.” 

***

A mechanical roar burst the silence, then sputtered, replaced by Monty’s colorful metaphors punctuated by violent metal clangs. Will and Monty would allow no entrance to their sanctum, and Amelia couldn’t imagine  what great beast they struggled to resurrect within the barn’s wood and stone walls. Various noises and expletives had often emanated from the building during the general hubbub of preparations. Monty occasionally emerged from the barn with the grim countenance of a field surgeon, but never made the feared pronouncement.

Guerrero, however, quickly dismissed the machine as useless as he paced the compound’s central path, picturing the battle to come, anticipating problems. Amelia wondered how one could devise a plan against an unknown threat.

“Every threat is unknown,” he explained. “But our mind, our resolve, our fortitude, those we know.”

“But will they be enough?” Amelia asked. She doubted her reserves of all three. “Silas bests us in men and machines. All we can boast is high ground and dwindling daylight.

“Perhaps,” Guerrero replied, “or perhaps not. We prepare ourselves for every eventuality.”

“Did the Sphinx teach you to speak?”

A hiss and clamor in the distance, deep in the woods. Gavin shouted and beckoned toward the tree line from the lookout atop the squat silo. A pack of treaders and motorbikes broke from the forest, headed for the compound. One spotted Amelia and Guerrero and veered off toward them and the open iron gate. The others followed, shooting. Guerrero grabbed a handful of Amelia’s jacket arm and tugged her after him as he ran toward the cabin. The treaders and bikes raced through the opening behind them.

Mr. Douglas stepped out of the cabin, a gun in each fist. He fired at the driver of a closing treader with one hand and tossed the other shotgun to Guerrero, who took out the treader’s other passenger. The machine peeled off toward the stone storehouse, and sputtered to a halt. The machine behind it, then, bore the brunt of the steel spikes that jutted out of the ground at an angle, lancing the treads and sending driver and passenger hurling into the ground. Two more shots by Pell from the cabin’s loft window ended their threat.

Other vehicles whined around the compound, lobbing torches into the buildings. Some of Will’s surprises erupted beneath the unsuspecting, launching men and machines several meters through the air.

Amelia claimed a rifle from within and checked for her own small handgun concealed under the tails of her uniform coat before sneaking out the back of the cabin and heading toward the barn. She crept against the silo in the shadows, where Guerrero had showed her, to target the machines that wandered too close to the barn.

She didn’t have to wait long. A treader tore through the chaos on a collision course with the barn’s doors. The passenger sprayed fire in all directions from the nozzle of a makeshift flamethrower. Amelia took aim, but pulled high. Gavin managed only to wound from his silo vantage point as well. Undaunted, Amelia targeted the passenger’s fuel tank strapped to his back, exhaled, pulled the trigger.

Did she miss again? I’m useless with a gun!

Yipping and cheering, the man spurted a shower of flame around, then shrieked as the leaking fuel from his pack ignited, engulfing him, the driver and the treader.

Someone rammed into Amelia, forcing her down and dragging her behind the silo. She struggled, managed to plant the butt of the rifle into her attacker’s knee. Then the ground shuddered and chunks of  metal whizzed past where Amelia had stood not a few seconds before.

“Your stupidity will get someone killed,” Gavin hissed, yanking her to her feet, favoring his right leg. “Preferably yourself.”

Before she could apologize, a high-pitched blurt, like a burping train whistle, blasted over the motor whine. Treaders and bikes banked and sped away toward it.

What fresh hell…

****

A massive rolling cylindrical steel cage encased a maw of gnashing grinder plates, propelled by the altered steam and diesel tractor on treads behind it. The goliath creaked to a stop and gushed a billow of vapor into the air. At the top of the razor wire-wrapped cage, a man emerged from the cloud and gazed down at his prey from a platform as more treaders and motorbikes fanned out from behind the machine to surround their prey.

“Cousin Dick,” the man oozed from his great safe distance.

“That would be Silas, then,” Amelia said. Whatever Guerrero’s strategy, this gang and this machine defied it. 

“How tall is that cage, you think?” Eckhart asked.

“Big enough to run us over and chew up our bones,” Guerrero said. Not the kind of language a captain hopes to hear from her Defender.

“How do you like my Reaper?” Silas continued. “Oh, and Jackson and his men send their regards, safe at home. You’ll find we hold the majority opinion in these territories. None of us would let ‘em rot in jail.”

All of that for nothing. Amelia’s head and bandaged hand throbbed. Somehow, her mind dredged up the memory of  the lascivious insurgent’s foul breath as he pinned her body against the boulder. Her stomach lurched. Not for nothing, she remembered. At least Eva was safe.

“And Jonah Douglas,” Silas continued, “leader of a slave smuggling enterprise, and harboring wanted murderers.”

Amelia sucked in a breath to protest, but Pell nudged a warning. She settled instead for silent, indignant seething. It settled in her gut better than terror.

“I should have you all arrested, but that would alert your Argonaut associates,” Silas said. “So, we’re just going to engage in some backwoods justice, right boys?” His companions jeered, revved their engines and cocked their guns in agreement.

Douglas pointed his shot gun on handed at Silas. “I’m not leaving my home. And you won’t be leaving my land a whole man, Pomeroy. I swear it.”

“We have no intention of removing you from the land, boy,” Silas said, gripping the machine’s frame and gesturing. The machine lurched forward with a snarl of grinding metal. The Argonauts and Mr. Douglas took a few steps back as the cage rolled forward again. “Blood is good for the soil.”

The cage crept further, gears and grinding plates whining and clanging within, unfazed by the stones it chewed and spit. All of the traps within the compound had already sprung, and none of them would do much damage to that hulk of a machine anyway. Amelia couldn’t imagine anything that would match it.

“Mr. Guerrero,” Amelia asked as the team began backing away, stumbling over rocks. He didn’t answer.

“Into the breach!” Pell shouted, followed almost immediately by the others. Except Amelia, who felt foolish.

Douglas fired a double-barrel shot toward Silas that pinged off the tumbling metal maw instead. Crew and farmer whirled around and ran through the gate toward the barn. Eckhart closed the gate and sunk the iron  locking post deep in its casing embedded in the rock bedlayer. The first treader tried to crash through it but wrapped itself around the pole instead. The next tried to penetrate the perimeter wall through sheer momentum, but met a similar fate, its passengers flung headlong several meters to bounce off the unforgiving ground.

Another pair of vehicles crossed in front of the machine, lobbing dynamite at the wall. The blasts shot rock and scrap in all directions and opened a gap wide enough for the other vehicles to pass through, but not the cage. 

But the Reaper didn’t slow. With a groan and shriek, and the Reaper’s cage began to rise. In a matter of seconds, the rolling, gnashing cage nearly cleared the wall to either side, shooting stones out and backward. One stone cracked the skull of a nearby driver, sending the vehicle on a tangent as the other passengers tried to regain control.

“Phase Two,” Guerrero shouted. Amelia and Douglas split off toward the house. 

“Let’s hope they’re ready,” Amelia said, yanking the barn’s alarm bell cord a handful of times before  she helped Douglas roll the crankbow into position.

“Remember,” Douglas said, pointing back toward the Reaper, “only shoot that direction. Anywhere past the well, you’ll kill someone you shouldn’t.”

“I’d prefer not to kill anyone else today,” Amelia said. “If it can be helped.”

“When it’s you or them, you shoot first,” he said. “’Cause they won’t hesitate. And we both know they won’t stay in jail, whether they kill us or not.”

Amelia nodded and wished him luck. Douglas kicked the chuck off the crank and moved to his next station.

The first shot bucked, taking Amelia by surprise. The bolt sailed over the heads of the men on the passing treader. She wrenched the gun lower and fired off half a dozen rounds that also critically missed. Finally, one of the steel-tipped bolts pierced the pressure tank of another treader, producing a profoundly satisfying explosion.

The patio and front of the house, already aflame, disintegrated into fiery schrapnel as the ends of the Reaper’s cage ground into the structures. Amelia ducked behind the crankbow’s iron box for protection as spikes and shards whizzed overhead and pelted her shield. She looked up toward the crankbow shield’s small window as the Reaper lumbered past, slowed by the effort of grinding up stone and wood. Parts of the cage’s frame looked mangled from the repeated abuse, but didn’t slow its carnage. It chewed through what remained of the well housing, spitting stones in every direction.

Once the cage cleared the house, Amelia took a peek over the shield. Silas still stood in full view on top of the machine’s frame, directing the Reaper’s driver and the other vehicles from on high. She wrenched the crankbow down, hoping to target his legs, but the bolts lodged into the metal frame beneath his feet as he passed into the crossfire zone. Amelia cursed under her breath and hoped Pell or Gavin had better luck.

One of Guerrero’s traps warned her of coming trouble from behind the house. The wood shed burned, like most of the structures in the compound. She had nowhere to hide, but she was no safer from detection cowered behind the crankbow. Still crouched, she pulled her handgun and peered into the shadows where two looming shapes emerged.

“Shoot first,” she said to herself and pulled the trigger. No recoil, nothing but the gut voiding click of an empty chamber. Had she forgot to load it? Surely not! She muttered curses to herself for her foolishness as the men, emboldened by her imbecility, approached. In a panic, she cocked and fired again, this time feeling the recoil shiver up her arms. One man dropped, clutching his stomach. The other saw the error of his ways, lay down his gun and backed up, empty hands forward.

A nearby explosion caused Amelia to flinch and lower her gun. The man jerked his arm, and a small pistol concealed in his sleeve shot out. His bullet pinged of the crankbow shield. Without a thought, Amelia reached up and fired three more times one after the other. Two shots went wild, one found purchase in the man’s upper thigh. He stumbled, then collapsed, gripping his thigh, blood streaming between his fingers. Amelia stood, picked up the man’s double-barrel pistol, took aim.

Shoot first.

Episode Eleven: Plunge

With hostage rescued and rebels imprisoned, all that remained was returning the woman to her people. The young woman had rescued herself, really, shooting her guard and beating him senseless with the rifle while Amelia could only watch in barefaced awe. All the crew had done was speed her journey home, and that hardly merited recognition.

And considering her own state of dishabille after the rebels removed her disguise, Amelia feared shocking the tribal leaders. If she as captain was the face of the Argonauts, then at the moment, the face of the Argonauts looked like a tuppenny strumpet. Half undressed and tattered, hair in wild disarray, face smeared with dirt, pallid from a resounding thump of a headache, and a throbbing, sliced palm inflicted during the initiation ceremony that took place less than 24 hours prior.

Was this still the first week of her honeymoon? She’d lost track of time.

The gentle jolt of the landing brought Amelia back to the present. She joined her beleaguered crew at the hatch to await Director Marsters’s arrival.

Failed attempts at adequately pronouncing the young tribal woman’s name resulted the crew calling her Eva. She tolerated the compromise with the same scrim-veiled derision she’d shown when Amelia “rescued” her. She had spent the whole of the journey in front of the viewport or attached to the periscopes, transfixed by the landscape gliding under the ship and asking dozens of questions. Now, however, Eva paced the floor in front of the loading hatch, agitated, impatient.

“Let’s get this over with,” Monty grumbled. The hatch wheel groaned and whined, the mechanism stuck. Muttering imprecations, Monty thunked the door open with a solid kick and it flew down. “Welcome aboard, Marsters.”

“Mister Marsters, if you please, Mr. Monterrey. We must always remember our social protocols,” the Director admonished, then looked about with admiration. “Miraculously in one piece. Crew and ship. You’ve exceeded our expectations,” he said.

Monty leaned in as he rejoined the group. “Except they expected us to…” He made a discrete gesture of explosion.

Miss Loft joined Marsters, leading a line of assistants bearing special rolling steamer trunks bearing each crew member’s name emblazoned on the front in gold lettering. Once matched with appropriate crew members, the accompanying assistants opened the trunks like elaborate origami puzzles to reveal uniforms and accouterments.

Amelia’s stomach sank at the sight of the bustled skirt of her costume, but appreciated the accompanying concealed pistol holster Ms. Boon had contrived. She watched the hatch, expecting Alexander to enter at any moment beaming with relief and pride. She imagined, quite unironically, running into his arms, trading witty, heartfelt barbs. Instead, more assistants with boxes and paraphernalia filed aboard. Stung and disappointed, she asked sotto voce when they’d become a traveling circus side show.

“Become?” Monty asked in reply.

Marsters bowed to Eva, who eyed him suspiciously, but nodded in return.  “Shall we return you to your people, my dear? All in good time. Our physician will see to your injuries, first, while we prepare for your reunion.” He spoke overly loud and slow, compensating for lack of language with abundance of noise.

“I am very grateful for your help. But I’m not deaf,” Eva said, her frustration evident. Nonetheless, she followed the medic. Had she been left to her own devices, Amelia speculated, she might have returned hours ago.

Slightly stung, Marsters moved on to his plan for the reunion ceremony, including uniforms, rank order for disembarking the ship, and an address he had arranged for Amelia celebrating the partnership between tribe and Society.

“Why all the hullaballoo?” Monty asked, frowning at his uniform display with disgust. “Can’t we just walk her home and float off into the sunset?”

“The Council has impressed upon me the importance of good relationships with the various tribes should current circumstances…well, that is beyond the point,” Marsters said. “A ceremony solemnifies the occasion and demonstrates our dedication. We mustn’t scrimp.”

The shower apparatus on Marsters’ ship the Benedict caused several moments’ consternation as Amelia figured out how to start warming the water. Once working, it fairly sang with hums, hisses and soft whistles. She made the mistake, however, of turning on the water too soon. The shower head issued a faceful of frigid water that caused an immediate cry of alarm followed by a frenetic fit as Amelia tried to escape. The water warmed up quickly, though, and the tangle of pipes and instruments overhead that supplied the hot water provided an ample source of contemplation as she washed away the reek of ripe rebel with sweet-scented soap.

As a woman, Amelia’s more specific needs apparently included an array of mechanical oddities. One article, labeled Automatic Corset Adjustment (Every Shape and Size!), like a rampant spider, all spindly arms and reels, filled her with dread. It guaranteed a specific waist size and fashionable shape, though, without needing two people and a sturdy bed post to achieve it. Miss Loft assured her all women would soon rely on such machines, as they saved time and allowed for more independence.

Her assistant also insisted upon using a hot air bonnet to hasten Amelia’s hair to dry, despite all Amelia's warnings against it. She then lamented the frizzy and untamable result for a full quarter hour when her barrage of products failed. The Automatic Corset Adjustment (Every Shape and Size!) tightened the laces so quickly and with such vigor as to render Amelia breathless for several moments until Miss Loft could adjust the tension and release her.

Death by corset, she thought as she gasped for air. What a legacy.

Once more smelling alive and female helped her tolerate the stiff and uncomfortable uniform, all bustle and brass buttons, clearly intended for show rather than functionality. It even included a jaunty hat she loathed immediately. She looked forward to filling the dress’s clever hidden sheathes and practicing with the bustle holster, though, and once fitted with ceremonial saber, she had to admit she looked and felt quite dashing. As long as she didn’t have to move.

“Is all this really necessary?” Amelia asked Colonel Pell once she returned to the Gamut. “I’m sure Eva would like to return to her family as soon as possible.”

“Marsters appreciates a ceremony,” Pell replied. “And it should look and read well in the papers. Of course, our part will remain anonymous until after our official debut.”

The pair of photographers were setting up their cameras and equipment nearby.

"Papers," Amelia said. "Of course."

“So, this was an elaborate publicity stunt,” Eckhart said, his hat cocked at a roguish angle Marsters would likely frown upon.

“It’s all an elaborate publicity stunt, airhead,” Monty said, gesturing to Everything. “Always has been. We risk our lives, the Council counts the cash.”

“We’ll have reunited a young woman with her family,” Amelia said, “Eventually. And her captors are behind bars. I can rest with that knowledge.”

“Keep track of the easy outcomes, captain,” Monty said. “They’re few and far between.”

Marsters directed his assistants off the ship once preparations concluded and carefully inspected the results of their handiwork. “Right,” he frowned. “Hats should be worn at their proper angle, Mr. Eckhart, and jackets should be fully buttoned, Mr. Monterrey. These uniforms are to be properly worn at all times when on duty.”

Breathtakingly unlikely, Amelia thought.

“Not long now,” she said to Eva as they waited to disembark. She couldn’t imagine what Eva was thinking or feeling, finally being so close to home, only to be hindered by someone else’s bureaucracy. Well, perhaps she could a little. But then she remembered watching the woman plant the butt of a gun against her guard’s head and figured she would take matters into her own hands if necessary.

“Thank you,” Eva replied without her usual derision.

When all preparations finally met Marsters’ approval, he ordered the hatch door opened. Daylight and fresh air spilled in. “Remember, decorum at all times.”

The ramp hadn’t fully deployed when the young woman darted for the opening, dropped to the ground and ran to the cluster of people waiting for her.

Marsters gaped, dumbfounded. “Perhaps she didn’t understand the timing.”

“Or she didn’t care about your ceremony,” Monty said, unbuttoning the neck of his jacket. “No point in pageantry now.”

The crew disembarked as a group and headed into the camp, leaving Marsters and his elaborate plan behind.

***

Once more aboard the Gamut, after an afternoon of celebration, the crew found a box of food and wine with a note of congratulations from Marsters, as well as the admonition to return to headquarters posthaste to conclude the initiation process. Gathered on the deck for an impromptu picnic around an empty crate they grazed on nibbles and drink and toasted each other for their cleverness, the grand dilapidated ship, the tribe, and the insurgents’ demise.

“I would like to thank the man who saved me today,” Amelia said, raising her glass. “Which of you shot the rebel who attacked me in the woods?” The men looked at each other, confused. “It had to be one of you. The man had me pinned to the boulder, choking me.” Her throat constricted at the memory. “I’m sure he intended to kill me. But someone shot him in the head. Mr. Guerrero? Gavin? Surely, if you had saved my life, you’d want to hold it over me for eternity.”

Both declined.

“Fine,” Amelia said. “Keep your secret if you must. But know that I’m indebted to you all the same.”

An explosion rocked the ship, tilting it on its nose and sending bodies and repast reeling.

“That was from the back,” Eckhart said, struggling with the wheel to right the vessel. Monty headed to the engine room at the center of the ship while Pell and Guerrero took to the top and bottom periscope viewers.

“I can’t see anything from the ground,” Pell said. “We need illumination, Mr. Eckhart.”

“I’m trying, sir; I think the floods are out.”

Another explosion bit into the ship.

“Is someone trying to shoot us down?” Amelia asked.

“Trying, hell, they're doing it,” Eckhart said. The ship lurched, then began a precipitous drop. “They’re taking out the balloons, and we don’t have mail to deflect them.”

“Crankbow bolts,” Guerrero said from the lower periscope. “And cannon. I can see them.”

“Monty, can you compensate for the lost balloons?” Pell shouted into the bell. The ship dipped and lurched as more balloons burst.

“I’m doing the best I can, but flyboy should get ready for another crash landing,” Monty replied.

“Already on it,” Eckhart muttered, pulling levers with one hand, gripping the spokes of the wheel in the other. “I’m taking us down as slowly as I can, but you’ll want to hang on to something.” He yanked the bell toward him. “Monty, I’m releasing the sweep wings. Direct everything to the central balloons and get up here fast as you can.”

In a series of drops and glides, the ship approached the ground at a staggering pace. Another hit rocked the ship to the side.

“They’re targeting the wings now,” Pell said.

“We need to close the iris,” Eckhart said. “Unless we want to be skewered. I’m aiming for the woods if we can make it, and the glass isn’t going to hold.”

“Crank won’t move,” Gavin grunted. Guerrero and Pell added their hands to it, but it wouldn’t budge, locked with disuse.

“One balloon left before we fall,” Monty said through the bell as the ship dropped faster.

“Get your ass up here, now!” Eckhart shouted at him.

“On my way!”

Another blast took out the other wing. No longer gliding, the ship shuddered and lunged forward. Amelia clung to the map table attached to the floor, unable to keep her feet. An arm wrapped around her waist and hauled her to the wall, thrusting her hand through a leather strap attached there.

“Now you owe me for saving your life,” Gavin said.

Like a death knell, the last balloon ruptured.

Episode Ten: The Gamut, Part II

Amelia’s legs felt strange in trousers and the boots engulfed her feet, making a clumpfing sound when she walked. Her dead assailant’s shirt and coat also reeked in ways she dared not identify as she hid her long hair under the battered cap. Ignoring the nausea from her throbbing head, she slung the rifle on her back, fit the pistol in the holster and slipped the knife in the boot’s side pocket.

Pilfering a corpse wasn’t how she envisioned the first week of her honeymoon. She smiled. It was much better.

Near death experience aside, or perhaps because of it, she felt more alive than ever. And grateful to whomever it was who dispatched the rutty revolutionary. Guerrero, most likely. She would need to thank him for watching over her so closely.

The attack had reopened the knife wound across her palm, and the pain had crept up to her elbow. Bleed together, fly together, die together, Monty had said on the ship. In precisely that order? Amelia wondered, trying to resecure the bandage around her hand. She crept along the rocky face toward the jumble of boulders obscuring the cave opening. Men clamored and crouched behind boulders trying to stay out of sight. They must have returned from chasing Pell and Gavin while she stripped the body and donned her new wardrobe, she thought. The guard that had ducked behind the cart when the attack began received a ghastly bullet hole in the forehead for his pains. 

She followed the steep but stable path between the boulders down into the dim cave. She hadn’t progressed more than six feet when a crack of gunshot inside the cave left her ears ringing. She dove behind a rock outcropping for protection. Hearing furious shouts, she peeked around the side of the rock to see the hostage kicking and stomping on her immobile captor’s head.

“Good for you,” Amelia mumbled, impressed. An angry hostage with a gun changed the equation in their favor. She stepped from behind the rock.

The woman whipped the rifle up, ready to fire.

“Oh, no, no! I’m on your side!” Amelia implored with empty hands, then pulled off the hat and let her hair fall. It wouldn’t do to be shot by the person she’d risked her life to save. “I’m here to, er, rescue you? But you’re doing a splendid job on your own. Bravo. Can you even understand me?”

The woman eyed her with a mixture of wariness and skepticism, but lowered the gun. “I don’t need your help,” she said.

“Evidently not,” Amelia said, taking in the guard’s bloody and mangled visage and holding down the urge to wretch. “But I’m here nonetheless, and I have an airship ready to take you home. That is, if you’ve finished here.”

Muttering in derision, the woman landed one last solid crack to the man’s head with the butt of the rifle before scrambling up the ramp. The man groaned.

“Wait,” Amelia hissed after her, following as quickly as her clompfy boots would allow. She found the woman crouched behind a boulder. Rebels shouted and scattered as cannon fire bombarded the perimeter, splintering trees and blasting boulders into projectile shards. Above it all, the chopping drone of an airship.

“That is yours?” the woman asked.

Amelia cringed. To say the Gamut looked like a floating wreckage would underestimate the impression. It looked like a floating patchwork of several wreckages held together with creative riveting and dumb luck. “That explains the blindfolds,” Amelia murmured.

A hand gripped Amelia’s arm and she froze. Astonished by the sight of the FrankenGamut, she hadn’t paid attention to her surroundings, allowing one of the miscreants to sneak up on her. Again. Did she learn anything from the attack in the woods?

Refusing to become a defenseless victim for the second time in one hour, Amelia jerked her elbow back into the man’s face. He released her arm and bellowed.

“My wife has trained you well,” Pell said, holding his bleeding nose. “Follow me.”

Amelia grabbed the woman’s hand and guided her after the colonel.

“Eckhart, you idiot, cease fire!” Pell screamed into the BRIC. He pulled Amelia and the woman into the woods, holding their heads down. “Maniac!”

“Did I miss this part of the plan?” Amelia asked.

“I think we all missed this part,” Pell replied. “Eckhart, we have the hostage! Quit pommeling the rebels and meet us at the rendezvous.”

“Have you seen Guerrero? Or Gavin?” Amelia asked.

Pell shook his head.

“CAPTAIN BRINKLEY, COLONEL PELL,” an incredibly loud Eckhart boomed from the sky. “MY COUSINS AND I WOULD LIKE TO WELCOME YOU TO OUR HUMBLE HOME. WE HAVE YOUR CREW.”

Amelia and Pell cursed.

“We’ve been double-crossed,” Pell said.

“IN OUR TERRITORY, WE DON’T APPRECIATE THIEVERY. SO TO PROVE WE’RE MEN OF HONOR, WE’LL RETURN GRAVES AND GUERRERO TO YOU WHEN YOU HAND BACK THE WOMAN YOU STOLE. YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO COMPLY OR WE’LL START TESTING SOME OF THE KNIVES ON YOUR DEFENDER.”

Another round of merriment from the camp. A blur of movement beside her caught Amelia’s attention and she turned. The hostage was gone.

Does nothing go according to plan?

***

Captain and First Mate stepped into the small camp, empty hands visible. A pair of smirking colonials confiscated the BRIC and their weapons to hearty applause. Another tied Pell’s hands behind him and spit in his face. Aside from the initial flinch, Pell remained stoic.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Eckhart,” Amelia said, voice more wobbly than she liked. Ropes dug into her wrists and she grimaced.

“Keep wishing, bitch,” the man fumed in her face.

Hygiene, gentlemen.

“WHERE IS THE HOSTAGE?” the Gamut thundered. A rebel held the BRIC to Amelia’s face. An earsplitting screech emitted from the Gamut’s speakers.

“You wanted to talk,” the man smirked. “So talk.”

“She escaped while you were making demands,” Amelia said into the device.

“Jackson, see that she’s found,” Eckhart replied.

A man in a pre-Imperial military uniform took the BRIC. “My pleasure, cousin,” he said, looking at Amelia with a sneer. He gestured to a few nearby men, who disappeared into the woods.

“This is quite a dilemma, isn’t it, captain,” Eckhart’s tin-boxy voice from the BRIC still dripped sarcasm. “You killed their men and released their hostage. That can’t settle well with them. And we both know that the Council won’t raise a finger for your rescue.  So, you should pray to whatever gods hear your pathetic whimpers that Jackson’s men find the woman within the hour. Otherwise, these fine gentlemen can deal with you.”

The men, who had gathered close to listen, leered at their potential playthings.

***

It was fitting recompense, Amelia supposed. She had stripped her dead attacker in the woods; it was only fair that the clothes should return to his comrades. Though she may never wash the stench off.
Claiming to be a gentleman, Jackson prevented his men from removing all Amelia’s garments, however, leaving her tied up on the cave floor in corset, half-shredded bloomers, and grubby stockings.

She imagined Gavin would relish chronicling this particular turn of events.

The man who had spit in Pell’s face received the great honor of guarding the new captives. He leaned back in a chair in front of them, rifle on his lap, raking his eyes up and down Amelia’s exposed skin for a while. Every so often, he looked at his clobbered compatriot lying in agony and vowed recompense. When the silence dragged on long enough, though, he dipped into a doze.

Something Monty said the night before puzzled Amelia.

“Monty told him not to crash ‘this one,’” she whispered to Pell. “What was he referring to?”

“I’m not familiar with details, but Eckhart crashed during a mission. There were…casualties. It happens quite often, really.”

“And he’s our pilot?”

“None of us except Guerrero meet the Council’s standard for the ‘Nauts.”

“Not even you?” Amelia asked. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I’m married,” he replied. “But my appointment as your First Mate is temporary, until we find a suitable replacement. I gave Elenor my word.”

For what must have been the hundredth time since the previous evening, Amelia wondered what Alexander must think - or fear - about her sudden disappearance during initiation. She imagined Alexander remaining in a strange house, no matter how fine, not knowing what danger befell her and when or whether she would return. “She must have iron nerves,” she said.

“That she does,” Pell said. “She’s the strongest and bravest woman I know.”

The scrape of boots on the path announced visitors. The guard snuffled to consciousness.

Eckhart and Jackson swaggered up to their prisoners.

“Ah, Brutus,” Amelia said. “How kind of you to descend among us. Have you killed your crewmates already, or will you stab us in the back simultaneously?”

“Your hour is up, and the native woman can’t be found,” Eckhart said. “Now, I made an agreement with these fine men, and the Code demands that I keep my agreements. Ladies first, of course.” He gestured to the guard.

With knife clamped between his teeth, the guard loomed over Amelia and started unbuckling his belt. “I’m gonna take my time, gents,” he said. “But she’ll be alive when I’m done.”

Pell tried to lunge at him. “Touch her and you die.”

“You’ll get yours soon enough,” the man said.

Amelia tried to scoot back, but met the wall. “You killed your other crew, didn’t you?” she blurted at Eckhart’s back as he walked away.

“Shut your mouth, bitch,” the guard said, backhanding her across the mouth.

Amelia tasted blood. Tears stung her eyes, but she willed them back, furious. “You crashed a ship,” she continued in a rush. “Your crew died, and everyone blames you. ‘Don’t crash this one,’ Monty said. That’s what he was talking about, isn’t it?”

Eckhart shoved the guard aside and crouched in front of his captain, his face a mask of fury. “Aren’t you a brave, clever girl?” he sneered, tracing the top of Amelia’s breast with a fingertip. “But these men can make you cry and they’ll enjoy every pump. That’s why a woman can’t lead the ‘Nauts. Men like breaking you.”

“You will never break me,” she seethed through clenched teeth.

He winked. “I certainly hope not.” 

In an instant, Eckhart slit the ropes around Amelia’s ankles, then pivoted up to plant the blade under the guard’s chin. Wrists already free, Amelia grabbed the guard’s rifle and passed it to Pell, whose previously severed bonds fell away. Pell pressed the barrel of the rifle against Jackson’s head as Amelia returned the small serrated blade to its hiding spot inside the back of her corset.

Eckhart tied Jackson’s hands behind his back and wrenched him toward the cave entrance. “Shall we, cousin?” Jackson sputtered and fumed up the ramp.

Daylight stung Amelia’s eyes when she stepped out and she shaded her eyes with a hand. Jackson’s remaining men were iron-bound hand and foot in the shot-riddled carcass of the cart, along with their dead comrades. Guerrero aimed two large revolvers at them to prevent tomfoolery while Gavin stood guard just outside of the cave mouth.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Monty boomed from the Gamut’s speakers. Amelia waved her reply.

Eckhart changed Jackson’s ropes for proper iron shackles and added him to the cart, mouth tied to stanch the flow of vitriol.

Amelia stopped her pilot as he walked by. “I apologize if I said anything cruel back there.”

An expression flickered across Eckhart’s face. “Part of the mission, captain. I wasn’t exactly gentle, either.” He started to pat her on the shoulder, but hesitated, awkward. “Or appropriate. We should find some clothes for you.”

“I don’t know,” Amelia said, rolling her shoulders and swinging her arms. “I rather like the freedom of motion.”

“It definitely provided distraction,” he replied.

“Indeed,” she grumbled. The memory of the guard’s leer made her stomach heave.  “And the hostage?”

“She would distract them as well dressed like that.”

Amelia shook her head, amused despite herself. “I meant, we need to find her.”

“We already have,” Gavin said. “While you and Pell were lazing in the cave. She’s aboard the Gamut with Monty.”

“Bad idea,” Eckhart muttered.

“I HEARD THAT, AIRHEAD,” Monty replied from above.

“How can that…” Eckhart muttered.

Pell held up the BRIC. Monty’s low, mocking laugh rolled out of the speakers.

“Well, then, what shall do we do with them?” Amelia asked, looking over her shoulder toward the rebels.

Jackson and his men spent a leisurely quarter hour at the points of Guerrero’s pistols aboard the Gamut before falling upon the graces of the local Pax magistrate. Eckhart elected to remain on board while Amelia and the rest of the crew turned in the prisoners via an obliging farmer’s wagon and team of donkeys and a bit of paper and ink.

We trust you know what to do with these. Regards, The Argonauts

“We aren’t officially Argonauts yet,” Gavin said.

Amelia held up her thrumming, bloody-bandaged hand. “I believe we are. Bleed together, fly together, die together, right?”

Episode Nine: The Gamut, Part I

“He is a surgeon. You can trust him,” Colonel Pell said.

Amelia looked rather than spoke her lack of trust in the good surgeon’s skills as he held the (quite keen!) blade against her naked palm and spoke in a somber, dusty tongue. Then zip! The edge sliced through her tender skin. She clenched her hand closed instinctively and gasped more in shock than in pain. The Councilman Amelia nicknamed Berserker drew her dripping fist over a small bowl to catch the blood for a few seconds, then pressed a chunk of cloth-wrapped ice against the cut to numb the pain.

What happened to Do No Harm, she thought, as she dipped the ceremonial raven feather quill into the pool of blood.

Two illuminated linen scrolls lay before her on the altar awaiting her signature: the first, her Compact designating her as a member of The Argonaut Society, and the other, the crew’s Charter. Amelia signed both without hesitation, afraid if she paused even for a moment, she would realize how mad she had become and fly the Mazarine back home. She didn’t know which madness was worse.

Colonel Pell, Monty, Guerrero, and Gavin followed suit, each with their own bowl and small crimson pool. Once all had signed the Charter, the Councilman poured all of the bowls into one, mixed in some sealing wax that turned an unappealing rust color, poured it on a space at the bottom of the Charter, and pressed the ceremonial seal into the wax, binding the team for life.

“Argonauts, step Into the Breach.”

Three sharp cracks of stone on stone. Before Amelia could move, her head was wrapped in a cloth and her hands bound behind her.

“From now on, you are more than a team. You are brothers bound in blood,” Councilman Glower said. “Your success depends on your ability to function as a cohesive unit. Solidarity forms through trial. The Gamut is a sacred crucible,” Glower said.

***

Footsteps slow, measured, circled Amelia and her bound and blinded crew. With her thumb, she rubbed the ornate relief pattern on the heavy metal cylinder someone pressed into her hand while en-route to wherever they were now.


“Aboard the Gamut, you will prove your worthiness to be called ‘Argonaut.’ In a moment, we will leave the ship,” a Councilman’s voice said. “The Captain will read your Charge, your sacred mission. You will then have ten minutes to clear the hangar doors before they close, locking you inside. You will not be given a second chance.”

A beat of silence.

“A life hangs in the balance. You and you alone can fulfill this Charge. Into the Breach!”

“Into the Breach!” the Argonauts replied, Amelia a scant second behind the others. Amelia’s hood whipped off her head and the cabin door closed and latched a moment later. She blinked, trying to take in the unfamiliar deck.

“Read our Charge, Captain,” Colonel Pell said.

With trembling fingers, Amelia unscrewed the cap on the cylinder and drew out the rolled parchment.

Captain Brinkley and Argonauts,

As you may be aware, the territories are not entirely satisfied with the elimination of the slave trade ordered by Emperor Germanus Pax. There have been numerous demonstrations of their dissatisfaction recently, including raids on native camps in an attempt to turn the tribes against the empire. One raid in particular involved the daughter of the tribe’s spiritual leader. The Society has been commissioned to retrieve the woman from captivity and return her to her people, preferably alive.

Your mission is simple. You are to fly to the provided coordinates, where territorial malefactors hold the hostage. Rescue the woman and return her to her father at the second set of coordinates.

The Council

“Captain?” Colonel Pell prompted.

She didn’t know where or how to begin, what to say. Though her eyes read and her lips formed the words, she comprehended none of it. I can’t, she thought. I’m not an airship captain; I’m a society darling with delusions of grandeur! She stood paralyzed, silently begging the scroll for assistance.

Pell gripped her arm, jolting her to the present. “Mr. Eckhart, Mr. Monterey, get us airborne immediately,” he said. “Mr. Guerrero, please see to munitions. Captain, come with me.”

The men jumped into action. Pell guided Amelia through the door and into the hallway.

“I can’t do this, Colonel,” Amelia said, struggling to hold back tears. “I don’t know what I was thinking, what I was expecting, but…” she leaned against the wall and gestured in frustration. “This isn’t it.”

“Forgive my impudence, Captain, but too bad. Gather yourself, madam. I will assist you, as will your crew, but you must take command. More than a young woman’s life is at stake.”

“What should we do? Where do I start?” Amelia asked. The engine whined to a higher octave. The floor rumbled. Amelia’s stomach lurched as the craft lifted off the ground.

“Your crew know their roles. All you must do is direct them and make the final decisions should the need arise. Your crew are resources. Make use of them.” Pell guided his captain back into the cabin.

“We’ve has cleared the roof, Captain,” Eckhart said, pulling levers and repositioning instruments. The hangar roof clanged and groaned into motion as the cabin cleared into the night sky.

“Thank you, Mr. Eckhart,” Amelia said. A large contraption nearby captured her attention. “What is this?”

“A BRIC,” Eckhart said. “Bilocational Radio Inter Communication device. You can use it on the ground to communicate with me here on the ship.”

“Extraordinary,” Amelia said.

“The Gamut,” Monty said with a smirk. “They’re making short work of us.”

Eckhart gestured to the parchment, still clutched in Amelia’s hand. “May I, captain? I should plot our course.”

“Yes, of course,” Amelia replied, distracted, then turned her attention to Monty. “What do you mean, ‘Making short work of us?’”

“The first mission any new Argo crew undertakes is on the Gamut. It’s a test to see how the team functions together,” Gavin explained. “Usually, the whole crew have trained for such, but most of the Gamut missions have been catastrophic.”

“Surely you’re exaggerating,” Amelia said with a halfhearted laugh.

“Men have died.” Monty tapped on a dial on the instrument array. Eckhart shoved his hand away with a murderous glare. “The ship exploded in midair once. I think this might be the third or fourth Gamut.”

“Fifth, actually,” Gavin corrected. “Long may she reign.”

“Amen,” Amelia muttered. “Are you implying they want us to die?”

“They don’t want a woman leading the Argonauts, I know that much,” Monty said. “If you die on the first mission...”

Amelia looked at her First Mate. “Lady Pell said our first mission was to meet the Emperor.”

“This is not official Argonaut business,” Pell replied.

“Then what was this for,” she said, holding out her throbbing hand and blood-soaked bandage. “Pigment?”

“Obedience to the Council is the foundation of the Argonauts,” Pell said. “That is a reminder of your obligation and your bond with your crew.”

"Bleed together, fly together, die together," Monty intoned with mock gravity.

Eckhart hissed something under his breath.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Eckhart?” Pell asked.

“I know where we’re going,” Eckhart replied, his face sour. “It’s in the forest near my uncle’s home. I expect my cousins are involved in the rebellion.”

“Then you know the territory?” Guerrero asked.

“Well enough, I suppose." Eckhart half-shrugged and pushed the wheel forward to lock it into position. "We weren't exactly close. One of my cousins is a sharpshooter, by the way. One of the best marksmen in the territory.”

“Then we should have an unanticipated advantage,” Pell said.

“How?” Amelia asked.

Gavin huffed in derision from his seat.

Ignore the neanderthal, she thought, remembering Ms. Boon’s advice.

“Unless the cousins know Mr. Eckhart is part of our crew, which they shouldn’t,” Pell began, looking at Eckhart, who shook his head, “we’ll know more about the terrain than they expect, and we know about their sharpshooter.”

“Then we have a chance of success,” Amelia said, tamping down her hopes.

Guerrero nodded. “But we will need a plan.”

***

Full skirts and evening shoes made for significant difficulties navigating the underbrush, even without the miserable cold mizzle.

“Blast,” Amelia muttered, tugging the last vestige of her dirty lace ruffle out of the brambles. Her hair, nearly soaked through, clung to her face in sopping strands. Altogether, she was in foul spirits, indeed. “Every dress I own will be shredded if I’m forced to traipse through the verge in this manner,” she grumbled. “At this rate, I might be better attired for tuppenny trash by the time we arrive at the cave.”

“I’m sure we can find you a suitable house of ill repute,” Gavin said behind her.

Guerrero shushed them from the front of the line.

“Or maybe our captors will trade the hostage for you,” Gavin muttered after a few minutes’ muddy slog.

“You’re prettier than I am,” Amelia shot back, “and I would pay them to keep you.”

Guerrero whirled and pointed between Amelia and Gavin. “They will hear your infernal bickering,” he spat.

“Forgive me,” Amelia said. Only it would be better had we left my eternal peanut gallery behind on the ship. But they needed everyone for the plan to work, even Gavin Bloody Graves.

“My apologies, sir,” Gavin said.

Once the Gamut had landed a safe distance from the coordinates, Guerrero had performed some dark-of-night reconnaissance based on information from Eckhart. The woman was held in the cave, watched over by a small group of rebels. A guard or two manned the front of the cave, and another inside guarded the woman. Others went about other duties. Guerrero had estimated 10 malfeasants in all.

Guerrero stopped just below the crest of a hill and looked down on the camp once more with his binoculars. Satisfied, he communicated to the others through gestures that he was going on to deal with the sharp-shooter. According to plan, Gavin and Pell would remain to draw the rest into the forest once the marksman was down. When the way was clear, Amelia would sneak into the cave and secure the hostage. All of them would meet once the hostage was in-hand and make their way back to the Gamut.

It seemed simple enough. Though Amelia doubted her ability to sneak into anything, nearly undressed as she was and female.

“I still wonder why we don’t just fly in the Gamut, swoop down on the camp and use the element of surprise. We can easily clear the area with the cannons,” Gavin said while watching the tiny camp, watched over only by the sharp-shooter and a single, droopy guard.

“Except we would risk injuring or killing the hostage,” Amelia said. “Guerrero already dismissed that idea as too risky.”

“Did it occur to you that maybe Guerrero has ulterior motives?”

“Not everyone is like you, Gavin,” Amelia huffed.

“More than you’d suspect.”

Pell hushed them and pointed toward a tree along the edge of the camp, where a single flicker of reflected sunlight told them Guerrero had taken out the sharp-shooter. He and Gavin went separate directions, leaving Amelia alone. She slung her rifle in front of her and clutched it close. The heft and solidness offered little comfort, since she had no idea how to use it aside from aim-and-pull-trigger. Guerrero had warned her that she might need to kill someone to ensure the success of the mission, but she didn’t know if, in the moment, she would be able to take a life. Murder wasn’t covered in the Code of Conduct.

Gunshot exploded into the camp from Gavin’s direction. The guard grabbed his shoulder and ducked behind a cart for protection. A group of rebels scrambled out of the cave and crashed into the woods in search of the shooter.

Swallowing her heart, Amelia crept around toward the tumble of boulders forming the mouth of the cave. She hadn’t noticed if the guard inside the cave had left, and the shadows in the cave’s low mouth revealed nothing. Guerrero would advise her to assume the guard had remained. She would need to be stealthy and quick. She was preparing to dart for the narrow opening when someone grabbed her from behind and pitched her backwards. She stumbled against a boulder and cracked her head, dropping her rifle. Her vision blurred. Something fleshy and foul slammed her against the rock, forcing the air from her lungs. A hand crushed against her mouth, silencing her as another hand pawed at what remained of her skirt. Warm, fetid whiskey breath huffed against her ear.

“A little far from the whore house, aren’t you?” he sneered as he kicked the rifle away. “No other tricks?”

Amelia shook her head, eyes wide as she tried to pull his hand off her mouth, pounding on him with no result. The man seemed to generate appendages that groped everywhere, no matter how she thrashed and kicked.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t meddle,” he said, jamming a hand between her legs. “You won’t like what we do to meddlesome cunts.”

Panicked and furious, Amelia clawed at the man’s eyes, her ragged nails leaving deep, bloody gashes on his face. The man yowled in pain and cracked Amelia’s head into the boulder in retaliation. Something zinged between them and ricocheted off the stone. Not a second later, another bullet tore through the man’s head, spraying blood and bone. He crumpled to the ground.

Amelia fell to her hands and knees, dragging in searing lungfuls of air, and looked her assailant’s grimy, wide-eyed corpse.

“You’d better not be Eckhart’s cousin.”

Episode Eight: Crash Course

With no further reason for delay, the Hesperus set out on its three-day transcontinental journey to the eastern seaboard. Colonel Pell took the opportunity to show Amelia and Alexander the basic layout of an airship and taught them the fundamentals of navigation. Lady Pell focused her lessons on self-defense and diplomacy, often simultaneously. Amelia also received a copy of the Code of Conduct to learn by heart and a history of The Argonaut Society for continual study and finished both en route. By the time the party arrived at headquarters in the afternoon of the third day, Amelia felt less fundamentally unqualified for her station than she had upon departure. In fact, the ease with which she learned provided much-needed encouragement.

A small, solemn group waited outside the hangar as the landing cradle lowered the ship to the ground and the roof slid closed. Amelia tried and failed to ignore the workers and machines that sprang to action around her. It wouldn’t do to gawk. Captains never gawk, she decided. The landing cradle staircase that folded down and in as the party descended didn’t astonish her. The sheer magnitude of the hangar itself left no impression. Her eyes weren’t wide as saucers and her heart didn’t flutter like a giddy school girl. Her hands were not shaking. Her hands were not shaking. Her hands were not shaking.

Colonel Pell introduced her to the Councilmen, whose names she immediately forgot and replaced in her memory with their dominant personality traits: Bombastic, Glad-Hand, Shrew, Glower, and Berserker. Bombastic presented her to Director Marsters, whose demeanor reminded her of an overworked but dedicated nanny minding her wayward and tiresome charges.

Her impressions of the men deepened over dinner. Despite all attempts by Marsters and Colonel Pell to steer conversation toward safe topics, arguments and antagonisms still flared, died and rose again many times over. Her opinion was irrelevant to the belligerent few commandeering first the dinner table and then the den when the party changed locations. Lady Pell remained largely silent for the duration of the gathering, and Amelia recognized in her compatriot’s weariness the capitulation after a long and fruitless war. She began to understand why it had taken them 32 days to decide on a course of action. Twenty-seven of those days were likely spent at each other’s throats.

“Gentlemen, I must retire for the night,” she sighed, rising (not satisfied when the men immediately shut up and scrambled to their feet). “The truth is, I am here because a majority of you decided it should be so, and I intend to move forward as planned until the majority opinion changes. You may continue the debate if you desire. You know where to find me.”

Alexander hid a smirk finishing his drink.

***
The next morning, brighter and earlier than necessary, the curtains snapped open. Daylight streamed across Amelia’s eyes and she growled her displeasure. The suite of sleeping quarters included two bedrooms attached by a common sitting area. After three fitful nights sleeping together on the Mazarine and Hesperus, Amelia and Alexander quickly decided sleeping separately would prevent midnight homicide. Since neither of the couple rose early, Amelia knew her beloved husband couldn’t have been the culprit.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” a young woman chirped as she unleashed another onslaught of sunlight. “I’m Bridget Loft; I’ve been assigned as your lady’s maid and assistant. If you don’t mind, I took the liberty of having your breakfast sent to the patio. It offers a glorious view of the sunrise and the lake. I didn’t know if you preferred coffee or tea, so I ordered both. I’ve also procured suitable attire for today’s activities. If you require anything else during the day, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

“How thoughtful, thank you,” Amelia mumbled, attempting a groggy smile. She’d never had her own lady’s maid before, let alone one possessing so much alacrity. But then, she’d never been an airship captain, either.

“I hope you don’t mind the early hour,” Loft continued. “Lady Pell trained me, and she’s quite the morning person. In fact, I expect she’ll have already returned from her dawn ride. She will join you for your first appointment this morning with the clothiers and weaponeers. That will take all morning and resume after luncheon. Then you will have the remainder of the afternoon to rest before dinner at seven when you will meet your crew and complete initiation afterward.”

“During which I sign away my soul with my own blood,” Amelia said, only partially in jest.

“Among other things,” Loft said.

Alexander’s revivified corpse joined her on the patio just as she was gulping down the last of her coffee. A quick kiss on the cheek, and Amelia dashed off.

After a series of measurements for wardrobe, an excruciating three hours passed under the appraising eyes of Master Weaponeer Mr. Plummer and Concealment Specialist Ms. Boon. While Plummer determined which overt weapons Amelia would wield, Ms. Boon demonstrated how smaller weapons could be hidden and where: a bustle-concealed pistol holster, knives slipped up long sleeves and down special sheaths in boots, poison jewelry, throwing sticks and stilettos in hair or used as hatpins.

“Sticking grown men with pins?” Plummer asked Boon. “Isn’t that what your people call acupuncture?”

“Ignore the neanderthal,” Boon said, cutting her eyes at Plummer. “He thinks he can beat people into submission with his big stick. A gun is the first thing your enemy will remove from you. Your knives next, if they know where they’re all hidden. But the cleverly concealed weapons will slip an enemy’s notice. And as a woman, anything you wear can hide a weapon.”

“Or you can just shoot them when they try to take your gun,” Plummer said. “You don’t want to get close enough to a sky pirate to use a dagger, no matter where you stick it.”

“Your first assignment as a new crew will include meeting Emperor Germanus Pax,” Lady Pell interrupted. “Guns aren’t allowed in the imperial palace, but that won’t prevent enemies from attempting to remove you, given the chance. Ms. Boon’s skills hold immediate precedence, then. We can begin overt weapons when you’ve returned.”

Unlike the sessions aboard the Hesperus, Lady Pell didn’t pepper Amelia with both strikes and diplomacy riddles. Instead, she and Boon focused on tricks to draw the gaze while unsheathing a blade, maintaining poise and patience so as not to attract attention, and mind-numbing amounts of repetition to make actions automatic and lightning quick.

“You must never think yourself helpless,” Boon said after she knocked Amelia’s stiletto out of her hand. “Find solutions. Even when these weapons are gone, you still have your mind and your body. Fingers to the eyes, a chop to the throat, an elbow into the solar plexus, a heel ground into the toes can incapacitate or give you space to escape. Use psychology. Let your enemies think you’re defeated. Then twist what hurts them most.”

***
Amelia and Alexander arrived early to the drawing room to await the arrival of the new crew members. Colonel and Lady Pell joined them soon after they arrived, followed not long after by two men deep in conversation. One, a middle-aged man whose attire met Code standards but barely, spoke to the other quite heatedly about the Argo’s speed and capacity. His interlocuter, or, rather, his willing ear, stood straight as a pin in a Pax Terran military uniform. His movements as he poured drinks for himself and the other gentleman were precise, efficient, and fluid.

“Captain and Mr. Brinkley, your Defender Lieutenant Manuel Guerrero, and your Mechanic, Mr. Jonny Monterey,” Pell said as the two men joined them. “Captain Amelia Brinkley, and her husband, Mr. Alexander Brinkley.”

Amelia extended a hand in greeting. Guerrero hesitated, seemingly perplexed, then bowed. “Forgive me. The Code does not address how subordinates should greet a female in command. We are in uncharted skies.”

“’Cause we’ve never had a woman in command, have we? But she isn’t curtsying, is she?” Monterey said, extending his hand to Amelia. “And you can call me Monty.”

“Monty,” Amelia said, taking his hand firmly, then Guerrero’s. "Lieutenant."

"Guerrero, please," her Defender said.

Another gentleman joined not long after, fitting all of the visual criteria for a pilot, including swagger to rival that of Gavin Graves without the plume of booze vapor. He introduced himself as Richard Eckhart.

“Mr. Eckhart has trained to be an Argonaut pilot for many years,” Colonel Pell said.

“I’ve dreamt of flying the Argo since I was a boy,” Eckhart said with a lopsided grin.
         
“I’m glad you have your opportunity,” Amelia said.

Monty leaned toward Eckhart with a conspiratorial smirk. “Just don’t wreck this one, a’right?” Eckhart’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply. Monty’s smirk deepened.

“So,” Amelia said as a diversion, “we have our Defender, our Pilot, our Mechanic, and our Captain-hopeful. We’re missing the first mate and the Chronicler, I believe.”

Colonel Pell made a short bow. “First mate, Colonel William Pell, at your service,” he said.

Amelia couldn’t express her relief. “And the Chronicler?” she asked.

“That position has caused me no end of consternation,” Marsters said as he joined them. “Merriday has thrown the Argonauts into a tailspin with his little stunt,” he said. “But I don’t blame you in the least, Captain. It might have been time for some new life in the ranks. With a new captain comes a new crew and a new vision.”

“The Director has wanted to shake things up for years,” Monty said, pouring another drink. “He finally gets his chance.”

“Merriday’s team was the oldest in Argonaut history,” Marsters said. “And public interest in the Argonauts decreased as a result. If the Society hopes to endure, it needs to evolve with the times.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Monty said.

“What wouldn’t you drink to?” Eckhart mumbled.

“Your health, windbag,” Monty retorted.

Marsters glared at them. “We had an individual set aside, but he declared himself incapable of taking commands from a woman. He flatly refused and relinquished his membership in the Argonauts in protest. In fact, all but one of our initial Argo crew candidates followed suit. I believe Merriday named you as his heir not to demonstrate his support of initiating women into the Society, but as a way to make his parting all the more destructive. It worked.”

I’m the wrench in the works, Amelia thought, her stomach sinking. Merriday intended me to fail and take the Society down as a result.

“There’s a reason we’re the team,” Monty said. “We aren’t exactly the Society’s prime stock. Except Guerrero here. But we’re all willing to follow your orders if it means joining the Argo.”

“The exodus meant we had to make some concessions when choosing the new Chronicler,” Marsters continued. “Some transgressions had to be overlooked.”

Colonel Pell scoffed.

“So our Chronicler has broken the Code enough to make him questionable as a member of the crew?” Amelia asked through another wave of panic.

“Haven’t we all,” Monty joked.

“Ah, here he is,” Marsters said, waving toward the door, but not quite hiding the tension in his face. Unadorned and uncharacteristically somber, Gavin Graves approached the group.

“That horse’s ass is our Chronicler?” Monty asked, then laughed and slapped Gavin’s back jovially. “Knew you’d weasel your way in somehow.”

“They let you in,” Gavin retorted. “Their standards have slipped a bit.” He turned to Amelia and extended his hand. “Mrs. Brinkley, please accept my most humble apology for my actions a few days ago. I had no reason to question your virtue. I allowed my anger to override my good sense. I would be honored to serve as your Chronicler.”

Amelia hesitated. He didn’t appear or smell drunk, but she hoped rather than believed his apology sincere. That meant he held all that rage coiled tight inside, set to a hair trigger.

He’s going to eviscerate me.

Episode Seven: An Infant Monster

The final guest for the evening's impromptu tete-a-tete had already arrived, the colonel said as he led the Brinkleys to the drawing room.

A Society official, Amelia thought, here to assess me. She imagined disappointing the man enough to overturn the Society's resolution and withdraw the offer of the inheritance. Her own disappointment and shame at the imaginary failure wounded so much she feared them inevitable. She took Alexander's hand.

Before opening the drawing room door, the colonel took a deep breath. The Brinkleys shared a look. If Colonel Pell found what waited inside to require such resolve and internal fortitude, what dread awaited them?

"I believe you know Mister Gavin Graves," Pell said, leading them in.

Gavin quickly masked his confusion and offered his congratulations to the newlyweds with unusual gallantry that Amelia could once again smell on his breath. "But what business could divert you from your honeymoon floatabout?" he asked. "If you hope to be Historiographer, I have some damnable news for you."

"We might as well come to business, then," the colonel said, severing their conversation, "since we're all gathered."

Gavin settled back in his seat with an air of triumph that set Amelia's nerves on edge.

"As we are well aware," Pell began, "Captain Merriday left us rather suddenly. On the night of the gala, he made significant alterations to his will prior to his departure and left the documents in my care. The amended will names Miss Stodge - Mrs. Brinkley, now – as his heir in entirety," Pell said, clearly weary. "Including his title of Captain of the Argonauts."

Gavin laughed with scorn until he noticed the gravity of the room. His good humor turned sour in an instant. "Impossible,” he spat. He leaned forward toward Amelia, resting his forearms on his knees, his usually handsome face demonic with malice. "I've been training and waiting for this opportunity for years. Years. The Councilmen chose me to succeed Merriday," he said to Pell. "I shouldn't need to remind you of this. I don’t care what this upstart socialite has convinced you of."

"The Councilmen relied upon the Code to form their decision,” the colonel continued, ignoring Gavin’s intimation. “We as the Society could not dishonor ourselves or our friend by ignoring his last wishes, no matter how inexplicable."

“So you’re giving the Argo to her?” Gavin sat still for a moment, then exploded to his feet and filled his glass with whiskey. "Merriday couldn't have been in his right mind!" he shouted. "He knew me for years, trained and groomed me for the position. You’re telling me he spoke with her for an hour and determined she qualifies to lead expeditions and negotiate treaties? And the Councilmen concur? It’s preposterous!"

"On that we all can agree," Amelia said, attempting to quell his anger. "I'm as astonished by his choice as you are, and fear myself entirely inadequate for the task."

"Then how did you convince him?" Gavin hissed, an expression of sudden clarity crossing his face. "You bedded him! Does your husband know you’re a whore?"

In her mind, she slapped Gavin Graves hard enough to send him reeling over his armchair, a string of imprecations streaming from her mouth. Fatigue and breeding took the helm, instead. She laughed. “Really, Mr. Graves, you have an imagination to rival penny dreadfuls, especially when drunk. If I recall, you spent quite a bit of time in the Green Room before you assaulted an elderly man and rounded on Merriday himself, in front of hundreds of witnesses. But of course, I must have seduced the captain for him to think you unqualified for his position.”

"Gavin, with me," the colonel growled.

"Fine." Gavin gulped the last of his drink, pretended to honor Lady Pell with a curt bow, and stormed out of the room.

"There was absolutely no excuse for his behavior," Lady Pell said, refilling teacups. Occasional shouts from down the hall punctuated the silence. “Obviously, the Councilmen had more to consider than simply complying with the will," Lady Pell said. "They and many others in the Society have become increasingly wary of Mr. Graves' antics."

A door slammed down the hall. Moments later, Colonel Pell returned to the drawing room, his face cracking with fatigue and anger.

"Argo captains interact with monarchs, ambassadors, generals," Lady Pell continued, drawing attention away from her husband. "These relationships are complex, and built on trust. Volatility is a flaw easily manipulated in our line of work. Imagine what would happen if Mr. Graves were to lash out so during a treaty negotiation. He could jeopardize the meetings, even start a war. The Terra already finds its territorials backward and brutish; we would rather not prove them right in an official capacity."

Pell took a seat with a heavy sigh and brushed aside suggestions of postponing discussion until the following day. "The Captain of the Argo must possess an even temper and stores of patience and fortitude in extremis. Navigation, weapons, self-defense, strategy, those skills come with training and practice. No one can teach a person to have a quick, steady mind, and an adventurous spirit," Pell said. "Those come from the marrow. And if you did not have them, you would not have come here today."

"I thank you, sir, for your kind words, but I'm afraid I am not here without," she hesitated, "limitations. Namely, my family."

"They would not approve," Lady Pell stated.

"Were their approval the only factor, I could easily dismiss it. I've become rather resigned to disappointing kith and kin. No, the difficulty lies in my mother's declining health. Our physician can find no explanation for it, but he warned us her death is likely. I could not abandon her under such circumstances."

Colonel and Lady Pell shared a look. "Would you find your decision easier were she in better care?" the Colonel asked.

"I confess, I would." 

Lady Pell produced a small notebook from her writing desk and flipped the pages quickly, musing. "Senna Bridger, perhaps?" she suggested, to which the Colonel nodded his approval.

"We do not mean to pressure you in any way, only to address your concerns. Through our involvement with the Society, my wife and I have had the good fortune of making the acquaintance of many Sens and Sennas of the Imperial Academy. One in particular, Senna Bridger, is one of the foremost medical experts and physicians in the Terra, and treated the dowager regenta of the New Amsterdam city state. If she is amenable, I would like to offer her services in formally diagnosing and treating your mother."

Amelia's jaw slackened in shock for a moment before dignity and pessimism reasserted themselves. "You are truly gracious, I thank you. But should I suppose this offer depends upon my accepting the captain's inheritance?"

"It does not," the Colonel said. "I am merely removing the obstacles from a decision you very clearly desire to make."

"I'm afraid understanding eludes me," she said. "You seem anxious to have me installed as captain despite my lack of qualifications. And I desire to accept, despite the same. Your motivations are less opaque than mine - I cannot understand myself at all."

"Perhaps you recognize where you belong, as I did," Lady Pell said, returning to her seat. "We're not all made to negotiate marriages and navigate salons. Some of us are made to navigate airships and negotiate treaties. I'll send the telegram immediately. We should have Senna Bridger's reply in the morning."

***

"A regenta's personal physician?" Mrs. Stodge asked, sitting up in bed with some difficulty. "To treat me?"

Amelia nodded. "She can be here within the week, if you approve. If all goes well, you may have the means and endurance to attend next Season's Regent's Ball."

Though weak and pale, Mrs. Stodge smiled with a warmth Amelia hadn't seen in years. "I'll settle for not dying. Or going mad."

"Then, we need only to secure your consent before the deal is struck," Amelia said, not bothering to hide her tears.

"This doesn't make up for your vagrancy into journalism, you know. And don't speak in trade terms. It's common," Francine chided.

Holding up her left hand to display the ring, Amelia waggled her fingers as she had at the wedding. "I'm married now, sister dearest. I need no more of your lessons."

"I agree," Mrs. Stodge said. "To your proposal. I agree."

"But who are your benefactors?" Francine pressed. "We mustn't rush into an agreement with charlatans."

"Our benefactors have sterling reputations in the territories and in the Terra, but request anonymity," Amelia replied after a settling breath. "To mutual benefit, I assure you."

"Then they're in trade," Francine said with a sneer of disdain. "Someone you met during your Bohemian phase, no doubt. And why would they do this for you?" Francine added.

Amelia swallowed a retort. Her mother dashed the argument away with a weary wave of her hand. 

"I see no harm in benefiting from a relationship with the lesser classes, as long as they don't demand recognition in public. To be rid of this infernal illness, and at the hand of no less than a regenta's personal physician...please express our deepest gratitude."

"Papa won't approve," Francine snipped.

"Leave your Papa to me," Mrs. Stodge said.

Francine stopped in the hallway as she accompanied Amelia to the door. "This arrangement concerns me. No one bestows such attention without a price. I expect we shall find something to regret in the bargain."

"If you look for the bane in the blessing," Amelia said with a sigh. "Mamma will be well, able to play with her grandchildren and entertain every night if she desires. Isn't this worth any disadvantage, should one exist?"

"And if this new physician determines Mamma is, indeed, dying? What then? You'll have got her hopes up for nothing and Papa and I will be left to console her while you are worlds away in your flying machine. Isn't that your way? Selfish girl!"

Amelia lay a hand on her sister's arm. "Take your tonic, darling."

Episode Six: Death Knells and Wedding Bells

Cinched, tied, and buttoned into her dress, Amelia waited out of sight of the wedding guests seated in the church. Her sisters in a swirl of motion around her unpinned the bustle of her dress to let out the train and fretted with the diadem and a few errant strands of hair.

Queen for a day, she thought. But at least not slave for a lifetime, she added with a modicum of relief. She at least had the good fortune to marry a friend in possession of a kind nature and sincere affection. And the agreement they made together with their parents ensured some independence from social and familial demands for the time being.

She surfaced from her thoughts when Mrs. Stodge grasped her daughter’s hand and kissed it.

“You will find happiness,” her mother said. “You must.”

Amelia bit back a tart rejoinder and tried to smile. Only half her face complied. A brief bluster of encouragement from her father, and her parents left to take their seats. Alexander would join her momentarily to lead her hence. Her heart faltered and her eyes stung with tears she willed back. Her sister would berate her for weeping.

“You look lovely, you know,” Margaret said to Amelia, handing her the bouquet.

“I feel like a dog’s breakfast,” Amelia said.

“You need to breathe,” Francine urged. “You look pale, and your complexion doesn’t support it.” She lightly pinched Amelia’s cheeks to bring color back, but frowned in dissatisfaction. “Those freckles. Do you even know what a parasol is?”

“Leave her be, Francie,” Margaret said. “She’s a flight risk as it is.” She hugged Amelia tightly, encouraged bravery and wished her luck before departing.

“One more thing,” Francine said. “Drink this quickly,” she pressed a glass of what looked like champagne into her hand, followed by a sprig of mint. “Then chew on this.”

Amelia did as directed, her mind in a state precluding any course but obedience. The bitter, sour taste of the drink made her ponder the plummeting quality of champagne. “What is this?” she almost choked.

“A little concoction to settle your nerves,” Francine replied coyly. “A godsend in these circumstances. You’ll thank me.”

“If I don’t die. It tastes like patent medicine.” Amelia hesitated to take another mouthful, not sure if the mild floating sensation was altogether desirable in her current situation.

“You’re half correct,” Francine smiled. “Now finish the glass and chew the mint so no one will smell the medicine on your breath.”

A soft knock at the door announced the groom had come to collect his bride. Having been medicinally harnessed, Amelia’s heart barely fluttered. Her head felt loose on her neck, and her body performed actions before her mind commanded, complying with every direction Francine gave. In the liquid muddle, Amelia wondered if this was Francine’s plan to prevent her from bolting out of the chapel at the first unattended opportunity.

“Ready?” Alexander asked, visibly anxious.

“No,” Amelia replied, swiveling rather than shaking her head.

“Me neither.” He stood taller and squared his shoulders. “Right, into the breach then?”

“Into the breach.”

***
The ceremony in its entirety took no more than thirty minutes. Amelia could remember little enough of it to confirm it had actually occurred. Francine’s tonic wore off in time for the torture of the receiving line however, which persisted for nearly two hours. Amelia’s face ached from the constant smile, though she was delighted to see Miss Kelley and Kurt among the throng, as well as Mr. McGoffery and his wife. By the time the last of the queued guests congratulated the new couple, Amelia’s feet ached, her mouth was dry, and she desperately needed to hide somewhere remote and silent.

Francine offered her sister a glass of champagne. “If I may steal your bride from you for a moment,” she asked Alexander and guided Amelia away from the disbursing crowd. Amelia eyed the proffered glass warily.

“Only champagne this time,” Francine said. “Can’t have the bride completely sozzled. It’s just not done. The tonic carried you through, though, and in tolerable spirits.”

“For a moment, I almost felt magnanimous,” Amelia quipped, taking a small sip, then a larger one once satisfied it didn’t contain laudanum. “Then I remembered what was happening and how many guests attended.”

“You performed admirably, and the trial is nearly over.”

Amelia marveled for a moment at her sister’s compliment and wondered if she hadn’t indulged in her tonic as well.

“Truthfully,” Francine said, “I didn’t expect you to go through with it. I anticipated finding your bed empty this morning save a letter begging for forgiveness. I was up all night worrying.”

Ah, that explains it, Amelia thought, sleep deprivation. “All that anxiety for naught,” she said instead, waggling the fingers of her left hand to show the simple gold band. “I know when I’ve been bested.”

“It isn’t as bad as you think,” Francine said, “being married under these circumstances. It’s...a necessary formality. I don’t find Mr. Grimpson particularly attractive as a man, or as a human being for that matter.”

Amelia remembered her first impressions of Mr. Grimpson - words like vapid and vain and useless sprang immediately to mind and never warranted replacement - and she wondered how her sister could tolerate such a creature. Perhaps her tonic played a bigger role in her life than she let on.

Francine continued. “But he holds a significant position in society and in the city’s government. He is rarely home, and he cares little for the details of how our home is run, so I rarely have cause to speak with him for more than a few minutes. I know our marriage is a formality. I know he doesn’t spend all of his free time at his clubs and he finds company and solace in various locations. But he is discreet, I am comfortable, my children will never know want, and we dine in the highest circles. That is all I truly desire from a marriage. You, on the other hand, have the luxury of a husband who highly esteems you, who supports your desire for freedom, and as neither of you have social aspiration, you possess the liberty of doing whatever you want. All our families ask is, at some point, you make an effort to fulfill the biological requirement of the union. And if circumstances prevent it, one can easily find assistance elsewhere.”

Amelia had no time to contemplate the implications of her sister’s advice before guests interrupted.

Two hours later, the couple finally completed the requisite wedding rituals. Alexander asked when she would like to depart.

“Immediately, please,” Amelia whispered. ““I can’t sit without an entourage and an act of Parliament. And I begin to resent people in general.” She shifted from one throbbing foot to the other.

Alexander chuckled and put an arm around her waist and kissed her temple. The embrace surprised her at first, but she relaxed into it and leaned against him.

“How are you fairing?” she asked.

“I haven’t quite reached the point of general resentment, but then again, I’m not laced into whalebone and several meters of cloth and beads.”

“This corset is so tight I can neither breathe nor eat. We have food on the Mazarine, I hope.”

“Plenty, and more champagne.”

“Little felicities,” Amelia sighed.

After what seemed an insufferable amount of time, perhaps another ten minutes, all parties involved decided the moment had arrived for the new Mr. and Mrs. Brinkley to embark on their celebratory floatabout. Francine and Margaret helped Amelia into the less restrictive traveling suit. Then, a final toast, a chorus of cheers, and the newlyweds escaped in the carriage that would take them to Kettery, where the Mazarine was docked.

***

Colonel Pell waited the couple inside the Spire’s glass terminal. Once the introductions, formalities, and felicitations concluded, he asked for a private interview with Amelia, wherein he began directly with his business.

“The weeks following Merriday’s death have uncovered some...complications...regarding his will. He may have informed you that he has no children, nor immediate family. His legal will on file directed the entirety of his substantial estate to the Argonauts. It seems, however, that on the night of the gala, before he set off for the Amazon, he amended the will, witnessed by his assistants, wherein his estate is bequeathed to...you.”

“Me? Impossible!” Amelia sputtered. “Did Gavin put you up to this?”

“The matter of the estate is only a small part of the matter, however,” Pell continued. “Having named you as his heir, Merriday has passed his placement to you as well. You would take his place as Captain of the Argo.”

Amelia opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, bewildered. Despite all reason, she couldn’t make herself utter the words to decline. “I should like to consult with my husband before I make any particular decision, if I may.”

“Of course,” the Colonel chuckled. “Only, if you would permit me one indulgence? This business has kept me in the air, literally, for weeks. If you and Mr. Brinkley would like to join myself and Lady Pell at our home, we can discuss the whole matter in more detail there.”

Amelia considered this information for a moment, then excused herself to confer with her husband. She found Alexander pacing in the library of the Mazarine. The situation in which she found herself was so ludicrous that she had no idea how to explain it. Considering, however, the urgent nature, she decided to be as straightforward with him as possible.

“Captain Merriday left his estate to me. All of it. Including his position in the Argonauts.”

Alexander watched her for several moments, his expression inscrutable.

“Well, say something,” Amelia said. “I don’t know which way to turn.”

“You’re serious,” he said, sitting down. “I thought for a moment that you were joking. But why would he do that?”

“No, I’m quite serious, and I’ve no idea what he intended. The whole of our interaction occurred during the interview at the gala, and he demonstrated no particular interest in me at the time. I mean, aside from being perhaps a little more honest with his answers than I had anticipated. But nothing to suggest that he considered me anything at all, much less his heir!”

“What did you say to the Colonel?”

“I told him I needed to speak to you.” She began pacing the few steps across the library, rubbing her forehead.  “I mean, I’m perfectly capable of deciding for myself, but I didn’t want to make that kind of decision for you.”

“Well then,” Alexander grinned. “We should tell our pilot to burn the travel plans.”