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.”

Episode Five: A Treaty and a Tragedy

“So, which of our mothers claims this feat of prognostication?” Amelia asked as she and Alexander wandered Electo Park.

“Mine,” Alexander confessed, his smile grim. “Part of a multi-pronged assault comprised of disinheritance and threats of uncloseting Eli should I continue to resist.” His jaw clenched. “He takes orders next month. He has more to lose than I do.”

Alexander rarely spoke to her of his love life, preferring to keep his social and romantic spheres separate. Never the twain could meet without devastation. But the buoyancy in his demeanor the past several weeks intimated a lover, and he recently confirmed her suspicion. She felt sickened knowing their parents pitted his affection for Eli against him.

“They would ruin another man’s reputation?” Amelia flared.

“They know I would rather comply.”

“They’re tightening the noose, then,” she said, skewering fallen leaves with the tip of her parasol. “Will you separate from him?”

“He separated from me, actually,” Alexander replied with a bitter laugh. “By telegram.”

“How gutless!” Amelia said, astonished. “He should at least have the decency to break your heart in person.”

“I can’t blame him. Discretion is the better part of valor and all. It’s…cleaner this way. We don’t have the luxury of public sentimentality.”

“No, I suppose not.” She’d never considered the logistics of clandestine romance or the stealth required to love in secret. But then, she’d never felt toward anyone a particular regard that required concealment. She couldn’t imagine what her friend suffered, but she grieved for him, nonetheless.

“Their only demand is that we wed,” Alexander said. “So, we allow them this single victory. Once we are married, their threats lose potency. We can pursue our separate endeavors if we choose. And at least we have the benefit of friendship, which is more than many others can boast.”

“I see no alternative solution,” Amelia replied. “But this retreat will only mark the beginning of our misery unless it establishes our independence. Otherwise, there will always be another demand, another limitation. I have no qualms with marrying you; indeed, I can think of no one I’d prefer. It’s the addenda I oppose.”

“We propose a compromise, then,” Alexander said.

Negotiations commenced that evening at dinner, and concluded to general satisfaction before the arrival of tea. Amelia agreed to quit the boarding house within the week and the paper after the obligatory two-week notice she contrived for the occasion. She and Alexander agreed to wed in one month, fulfilling their mothers’ demands in return for guarantees of independence and cessation of manipulative tactics in perpetuity.

Having accomplished their objectives, the mothers made little fuss about treaty details and moved on to wedding plans.

***
Anonymous no more, Amelia’s name spread quickly in the realm of Adventuring ladies clubs. In one week, she attended a womens fencing demonstration by Lady Pell, a ballooning excursion, two innovation and engineering seminars taught by visiting Sennas from the Imperial Academy, and a steamcar derby. At each function, either her article or a reference by Lady Pell was mentioned as reason for requesting her attendance.

The whirl of activity provided an excuse for postponing the most odious part of the Wedding Compromise - actually quitting her position. Moving out of the boarding house had been difficult enough. She didn’t relish the prospect of relinquishing an occupation she found rewarding and challenging. She waited until the second week to tell McGoffery of her imminent resignation.

The telegraph machine’s announcement bell brought discussion to a halt. McGoffery waved for her to follow him as he exited his office, his lens apparatus bobbing from his forehead.

“What’s happening?” Amelia asked.

“Argonaut press release,” he said. “I thought you could work it up a bit, if you’re interested.”

“Not anonymously.”

He pushed through the crowd gathered around end of the almost three meter long machine. The chittering Morse code gave way to a cascade of clacking as the machine translated the code into words on the roll of paper.

“These can take a while to finish,” McGoffery said to Amelia. “But that was when the historiographer was writing them. You might have to flesh out the story some. Just keep the details consistent.”

“You mean I might have to-” Amelia began, her voice louder than she anticipated.

The machine had stopped.

“Fill in a lot of blanks,” McGoffery finished. “What’s wrong now?”

“Is it broken?” someone asked.

McGoffery flipped a lens over one eye and fiddled with the dials and switches on the machine for a moment. “Everything’s in order. What does it say, Miss Stodge?”

Amelia peered down at the message’s two lines of vibration fuzzy text, wondering how much of the story she would need to fabricate. “Argo,” she halted at the next word. “Argo...destroyed.”

McGoffery silenced the crowd with a bellow. “Keep reading,” he said.

“Argo destroyed,” she repeated. “Merriday and crew lost. Await details.”

Episode Four: Checkmate

Amelia found her usual machine at the Metropol office and clacked out what she had devised in her head on the way. She could hardly write about the Metropol’s ingénue punching an elderly man, even if word of the event would spread quickly anyway through the dozens of eye witnesses.

A shouted greeting snagged her attention, and she turned to find McGoffery carrying a bundle. She winced, hoping it wasn’t the writer’s cuff. Still, best to address the issue immediately rather than wait for him to approach her. She squared her mind and knocked on her editor’s office doorjamb.

McGoffery’s many-armed lens apparatus was pushed up on his forehead, and he glared at Amelia with two normal-sized eyes that still managed to wring her gut.

“Good morning, sir,” Amelia said in her most awake and energetic voice. McGoffery put his bundle on the desk with a clunk and a clatter that made her wince again with recognition.

“Thought you would be home sleeping off your evening,” he said.

“Not until the job is done,” she replied too brightly. “I’m afraid we had a little mishap with the cuff last night.”

“That what this is?” he jutted his chin at the bundle.

“Gavin punched Mr. Mordrake, who pulled me down with him. A stroke of luck, though; I was able to interview Merriday.”

He glanced up at her from his desktop of papers. For a moment, he looked impressed. Then he pulled his lens apparatus over his eyes as dismissal.

The page in her machine had been empty, she was certain, when she left to speak to McGoffery, but someone had typed a single sentence in her brief absence.

Write about it as an ignorant socialite, because you are one. G

She ripped the page from the machine and crushed it in her fists.

Fatigue and frustration had sapped all of her considerable stores of composure by the time McGoffery approved her article. She spent the majority of her homeward journey in a fog, still nettled by Gavin's snide writing advice. She received more than a little unwanted attention in her evening dress, ink-and grease-stained gloves, and haggard appearance as she made her way to the Kettery. She tried to ignore the smirks and amused glances of her fellow passengers, especially when, lulled by the warmth of the trolley carriage, she slumped into a momentary doze, only to wake herself with a less-than-graceful snore. So it was with immense relief that she flumped onto her bed at the boarding house and fell into an instant deep sleep.

Daylight streamed through the window the next morning. A plate of small edibles sat on the desk beside her, along with newspaper clippings and a note from Miss Kelley.

Eager to hear of your evening as once you’re conscious.

The first clipping, composed of three columns, was of her article, Gala Launches Latest Argonaut Expedition. She gazed at her name in the byline for several moments, then set the clipping aside without reading the article, knowing she would only tear it to pieces in her mind. The second, smaller clipping erased all thought of her article. Mind whirling, she quickly dressed and went in search of her friend and sole female housemate. She found Miss Kelley in the solarium fussing over an orchid.

"Have I gone mad?" Amelia asked without prelude.

"I should think so,” Miss Kelley said. “I thought you had no intention of marrying each other."

"Our intentions have little to do with this fracas." She gave a quick description of Alexander's proposal. "I should have suspected something when my mother decided to cut me off.  I asked Alexander to give me a day or two to consider, especially since we had long ago agreed not to actively pursue matrimony. He asked only that I make my decision quickly, before a week had passed at the latest."

"That was only two days ago," Miss Kelley said. "The announcement must have been submitted under the assumption that you would accept him."

"But I didn't accept him and I gave no indication that I would." Her legs felt unstable and she sat on a small nearby bench.

"Except you have, for several years, led your families to believe you would marry," Miss Kelley supplied. "Under the circumstances, it isn't difficult to imagine both families believing they only sped along proceedings that all believed inevitable and desirable. You can’t deny the majority of this situation is your own fault."

Amelia gaped at her friend’s betrayal. "Our fault? We had no choice! Even if we had told them from the start that we didn't want to marry, they would have pressed it, anyway. It's what they are doing to us now. We were only making the best of a situation over which we had no control."

Miss Kelley looked at her friend with a mix of resignation and reproach signaling the end of that discussion. Her friend had a knack for playing devil's advocate. Sometimes Amelia found her friend's bluntness refreshing, especially when aimed at Kurt. She felt less satisfaction when her own actions were scrutinized.

She was still in the solarium silently pondering the ramifications of the engagement announcement when her mother descended in state upon the boarding house. Mrs. Stodge appeared significantly less impressed with the establishment than she had the day Amelia moved in, and she had deemed it squalid then. Amelia introduced Miss Kelley, then invited her mother to the common room, mentally willing her housemates to stay away.

Mrs. Stodge didn't hide her disgust with the somewhat tattered appearance of the furniture and sat as close to the edge of the chair as possible, holding her posture erect with the help of her cane. Dark circles already began to form around her eyes. The strain of the trip taxed her already depleted stores of energy, and Amelia knew she wouldn’t have gone through the trouble for anything less than vital business.

"I trust you have seen the papers," her mother said, confirming her suspicions.

Amelia took a calming breath and nodded. "Did you see my feature article? On Colonel Pell's gala?"

Her mother dismissed the questions with a wave of a gloved hand. "Mister Alexander Brinkley has agreed the ceremony should take place as soon as possible, within the month."

"But I haven't accepted him!" Amelia said.  "Aren’t plans premature?”

Mrs. Stodge replied with a tight smile. "We understand his proposal was, perhaps, rather badly done. He is not what one would call romantic. But you are hardly unaware of his intention; I rather wonder why he waited this long."

"Perhaps because we don't want to marry," Amelia said, her chest tight from controlling her rising anger.

Her mother's sharp grey eyes held hers from an inscrutable face. "You will not refuse him."

"Why not? Because you say so? Because somehow it improves your chances of attending the Regent's Ball?"

"Because I refuse to die uncertain of my daughters' welfare." Her expression didn't change or falter when she spoke of her death, a topic Amelia knew she had learned to discuss with a level of detachment attained only with practice.

Amelia choked back her impertinent reply and drew a deep breath to compose herself. The conversation had reached a familiar juncture. She couldn’t argue with her mother’s dying wish. Even if the deathbed loomed on the horizon, it loomed large and immutable, and had done so for the past two years.

“But you accept death knowing that your daughter is in a marriage neither party desires?” Amelia asked.

“Don’t be a fool,” Mrs. Stodge replied. “You are not a child, allowed to chase fantasies and white rabbits. You and Mister Brinkley have played this charade to its end, and we have reached the limits of our indulgence. He understands his responsibilities, but you appear to have forgotten yours. He is the only eligible young man who will have you after this,” she indicated everything in general, “and now the folly is ending.”

“Mister Brinkley,” Amelia said, her words measured and deliberate, “has no interest in women.” She watched her mother’s expression, certain the information would pierce the alabaster mask.

Mrs. Stodge sighed. “We know.”

“And you still insist that we marry?” Amelia asked, dumbfounded.

“For the sake of your continued well-being and provision, yes. Proclivities notwithstanding, Mister Brinkley is still functional, and while the prospect might not meet your romantic sensibilities, you are still capable of bearing children. How the two of you fulfill your differing desires is up to you.”

“Mamma, you know as well as I do that this marriage will only bring misery for both of us. I would much rather take my chances with the newspaper than put Alexander through the torment he will inevitably face. You cannot know what you and his mother require of him.”

“We know precisely what we require. Obedience, whether he or you understand the intricacies of the situation or not. Your scholar revolutionary friends have painted a glorious image of squalor and toil, the majesty of the laborer. They are fools, too drunk on absinthe and philosophics to know what a life of labor really entails: pain, hunger, penury. Someday, your scholar revolutionary friends will come to their senses and realize there is no glory in labor. Only suffering. I will not allow my daughter to endure such a life.”

Mrs. Stodge trembled as she leaned more on her cane to hold herself up, her skin paler than only minutes earlier. Amelia had never before witnessed that depth of feeling in her mother. She rarely discussed her life before marriage, and had even gone so far as to declare that she had not lived prior to meeting Mr. Stodge. What others viewed as charming, if not melodramatic, marital devotion was, in fact, sincere gratitude and truth. He had saved her. And now she looked to her daughter’s marriage with the same amount of idolatry.

Amelia prepared a cup of tea for her mother, if only to give herself time to consider. She needed to speak to Alexander again, and decided to send him a message as soon as her mother left. What she really wanted was to get on the sky trolley car to the Kettery, stow away on an airship, and never return. But she knew she wouldn’t.

“I will speak with Alexander again,” she said at last. It provided a degree of latitude without promising any particular outcome. That small amount of promise satisfied Mrs. Stodge for the present, and mother and daughter drank tea in what might be construed as companionable silence.

A clamor in the hallway announced Kurt and his friends had returned, somewhat elevated from the sound of it, just as Mrs. Stodge rose to leave. Amelia tried to stop her mother from leaving the room, but too late. Mrs. Stodge and Kurt nearly collided in the narrow hallway.

Kurt made a low and obsequious bow. “Madame,” he said, then looked up at Mrs. Stodge with an impudent wink. Amelia held her breath and gave Kurt a look of murder which he ignored. Mrs. Stodge glowered at Kurt and his company with evident disgust.

“I understand that you are stalling,” Mrs. Stodge said to Amelia before boarding her carriage. “And I understand why. But none of us are in a position to be particular anymore.” She lay a gloved hand against her daughter’s face and smiled weakly. “You will be comfortable, and well looked-after. And loved, in a sense. That is the best anyone can hope for.”

Amelia watched the carriage clatter away, one of the few vehicles on the street with real horses, she noticed absently, confused by her mother’s rare and unexpected demonstration of affection.

A folded telegram page was tucked into her bedroom door jamb when she returned.

AS We must meet. Electo Park. AB