The voice that called out as I passed was female, soft, and sultry as hell. I paused to toss a grin at one of the two women who were occupying the big kidney-shaped desk that graced the front lobby of the Nordic Tech building. “Morning, Karin. Would it be against human resources policy if I was to tell you how much I liked that top?”

The red-haired receptionist giggled and leaned forward, giving me a better-than-normal view of her cleavage in the skimpy tank top that she liked to wear on casual-dress Fridays. “Probably, but I’m not going to tell anyone. You know my rule, Jack.”

“What happens in reception stays in reception?” I asked, winking.

She giggled again. “You’re so naughty. You look really yummy yourself in khaki. Is that the new Airship Pirates shirt?”

“It is. Saw them last night at the Foundry,” I answered, naming a local hot spot favored by bands that were a bit out of the mainstream. I turned around so she could admire the design on the back of the T-shirt.

“Oh, and I was hoping you would ask me to go see them,” she said, pouting just a little, and leaning over a bit farther. She traced a finger down my arm as I turned back to face her. “We had such fun the last time we went out. Well, until I got sick and had to go home, but I just know we would have fun again.”

She paused, clearly waiting for me to do my duty and ask her out again, but the memory of her lying in a drunken stupor in the back of my car—not to mention the money I had to pay to have the vomit cleaned up and the car deodorized—was enough to warn me against any such thing.

That wasn’t the Jack Fletcher she wanted, however. It was the fake Jack she was appealing to, the fictional Jack who had somehow garnered a reputation as a wild ladies’ man. I did what was expected and slapped a quasi leer onto my face as I leaned in close. “You know I would snap you up in a minute if it wasn’t for your boyfriend.”

“Oh, him,” she simpered, brushing my hand with her fingers. “Jerry’s jealous of everyone.”

“He threatened to rip my head off and spit down my throat the last time he saw me,” I said, dropping my voice. “I think he meant it, too.”

“I don’t for one minute think you’re scared of Jerry,” she said, looking both pleased and coy. “Not you. Not the famous Jack Fletcher. Oh, Jack, this is Minerva. She’s going to take over for me while I’m in Cancún for two weeks.”

A girlish face hove into view, her eyes wide and somewhat vacant. “Hi, Dr. Fletcher. I’ve heard so much about you from Karin.”

“Don’t believe a word of it,” I cautioned, giving her a wink, as well. I had a reputation to maintain, after all. “I doubt if any of it is true.”

“Of course it’s true,” Karin said, squeezing my arm as she heaved herself a little farther over the counter so her breast could press against my arm. “Everyone knows you’re a hero! You’re just too modest to admit it.”

Or perhaps resigned to people’s determination to ignore the truth in favor of more attractive and entertaining fiction that had started several years back.

“Karin said you tracked down a notorious ring of industrial spies in Cairo,” Minerva said, breathless with excitement. She started to lean toward me over the counter, but a gimlet-eyed glance from her friend warned her off.

“He didn’t just track them down—he beat the crap out of them, and got secret plans back for the government.”

Minerva ooohed appreciably, her eyes filling with hero worship. Honesty prompted me to correct that particular fallacy. “I didn’t actually track anyone down so much as accidentally ran into a meeting of some folks selling proprietary information. They thought I was following them, but I was really just lost and trying to find my way back to my hotel so I could rejoin my tour. In fact, I wasn’t even in danger from them, since Interpol had them under surveillance, and the Cairo police were hidden around the bazaar, but it was exciting for a few minutes until everything was straightened out.”

“And then there’s Alaska,” Karin said, ignoring the boring truth just as everyone did when I tried to explain what really happened in Cairo.

“Alaska?” Minerva asked her. “What about Alaska?”

Karin turned to her friend. “It was so amazing! It’s all over the Greenpeace Web site.”

I groaned to myself and prepared to explain that incident, as well.

“What happened?” Minerva repeated, a rapt expression on her face.

“I was on vacation, doing some fishing, and my rented boat had engine trouble. I got picked up by some animal-activist people, and they—”

“He hijacked a whaling ship!” Karin interrupted, a triumphant note in her voice as she beamed at me.

“Ooooh!” Minerva breathed.

“I wasn’t even part of the group,” I said quickly, wondering why no one was ever willing to believe that I had been the victim of odd circumstances. “My engine had died and the Greenpeacers picked me up on the way to attacking a whaling ship. It was just the purest of coincidences that I was even on the ship at the time, and that picture of me holding a gun on the captain was totally misleading. He’d dropped it and I was going to hand it back to him when a photographer took a picture of us—”

“You went to jail for that, didn’t you?” Karin asked, squeezing my arm a little more insistently now, her face filled with sympathy.

“Three months,” I said, resigned. “It took that long for my lawyer to convince the judge I had nothing to do with the whole whaler fiasco.”

“But the really amazing thing was in Mexico,” Karin told Minerva.

“I love amazing things,” she said, grasping my other arm. “What happened? I’m dying to know!”

Oh, Lord, not Mexico. “It’s really not worth talking about—”

“Jack was in Mexico City with Mr. Sawyer on some business matters, and Mr. Sawyer was kidnapped by radical Mexican antitechnology fanatics!” Karin said, her gaze earnest and fervent as she told the story to her friend. “Jack rescued Mr. Sawyer right as the fanatics were about to sacrifice him on a Mayan altar! He saved his life!”

“Saved Mr. Sawyer’s life!” Minerva gasped.

The addition of the Mayan altar to the whole crock of bullshit was too much for me. “There was no altar, Mayan or otherwise,” I said firmly.

“Mr. Sawyer totally swore his undying gratitude,” Karin answered her, nodding vehemently.

“And it really wasn’t so much a group of radical fanatics as it was a couple of people who had been unemployed and took Mr. Sawyer’s limo for that of the labor secretary.”

“He told Jack that he would have a job at his company for the rest of his life,” Karin added in a confusion of pronouns.

“They drove us straight back to the hotel after they realized their mistake,” I said, a hint of desperation entering my voice. Why the hell did no one ever listen to me?

“Well, I would promise that, too,” Minerva told her. “Being sacrificed on a Mayan altar would scare the bejeepers out of me! That was so brave of Dr. Fletcher!”

“The whole thing got blown out of proportion when the police had a report of a kidnapping, and brought in some military troops to try to find us, which was ridiculous because by then we were back at the hotel, safe and sound, having margaritas next to the pool. It wasn’t until the next day that we realized they were looking for us,” I finished, but I knew my breath was wasted. People, I have frequently noticed, hear what they want to hear.

“Well, you know, Jack was in the military,” Karin said, her voice dropping to a confidential level, apparently forgetting I was standing right there. “Secret military research.”

“Wow,” Minerva said, her eyes huge. “What sort of research?”

“I don’t know, but it has to be something pretty juicy because Jack never talks about it.”

I sighed, gathered up my leather satchel and the morning’s paper, and headed for the stairs.

“He’s just like Indiana Jones, isn’t he?” I heard Minerva say as I started up the stairs to the fourth floor, where my office was located. “Right down to the hat. I wonder if he has one of those long whips he could wrap around his waist.”

“He should totally get one. . . .”

“Hey, Jack.” I entered the first in a connected set of rooms that were our research labs, unloading hat, satchel, and newspaper onto my desk. A tall man with curly black hair emerged from the far room. “You’re late.”

“Had a late night.” I slumped into the chair behind my desk and pulled out my laptop.

“Foundry?” Brian, the graduate student who was interning for a year, plopped down on the corner of his desk.

“Yep. Airship Pirates were playing last night.”

“Airship . . .” His face screwed up in thought for a few seconds. “Oh, that goth band?”

“Part steampunk, part goth, part industrial.” I frowned as the e-mail started loading into my in-box. “You should go sometime.”

“Like I have time to go hang out at the Foundry? You may, but I have work to do.” He nodded toward the clean room behind him. “If I don’t get those dots set today, I’ll be out of an internship. Speaking of that—Dr. Elton’s been asking for you. He says that latest version of the quantum gate you sent him refuses to reverse, and could you fix it by noon so he has a working model to show Sawyer.”

“It’s on my list of things to do today,” I murmured.

“Feeley called and said if you don’t get that budget to him by the end of today, he’ll sauté your balls in garlic and wine sauce.”

I made a face. I hated dealing with the yearly budget.

“Oh, and a woman was here to see you.”

“A woman?” I looked up in surprise. “Who?”

Brian shrugged and picked up one of the small canisters of liquid helium we use to cool down the computer equipment. “Didn’t say. Said she’d be back, though.”

“I wonder who it could be.” I racked my brain for any female acquaintance who would be willing to brave the geekified air of Nordic Tech.

“Someone you met last night?” Brian offered as he headed for the clean room.

“Doubt it. I went with a couple of Friends last night.”

He paused at the door, his eyebrows raised. “You went with Quakers? To see a goth band? Isn’t that like a sin or something?”

“Of course it’s not a sin,” I said, giving him a quick frown. “It’s not like they decapitated a bat.”

“Yeah, but Quakers! At a goth concert! It’s just so wrong!”

“Hardly. I’ve been a part of the church my whole life, and I assure you, there’s nothing anywhere in the Bible that says goth concerts are on the forbidden list,” I answered, quickly scanning an e-mail from the CEO, Jeff Sawyer.

“I know you’re one and all, but you’re kind of like Quaker Lite, aren’t you? I mean, you drink, and you swear better than my old man, and he was in the merchant marines. You go out with women. And you were in the army. I thought that was, like, totally anti-Quaker.”

“Many of us are conscientious objectors, but still manage to be useful in ways that don’t compromise our beliefs.”

“That’s right. Karin at reception said you did research in the army in lieu of seeing action in the Middle East. High-tech stuff, huh? Spy technology and all that?”

I looked up and cocked an eyebrow at him. “I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you.”

His jaw dropped a smidgen.

“You don’t see the irony of that statement, do you?” I asked, unable to keep from smiling.

“Well, I see the irony in you threatening to kill me when I’m the only intern you’ve got,” he answered quickly, edging closer to the door.

“Tempting as it is to explain, we both have work to do. If you expect to get those quantum dots down before the afternoon, we’ll have to forgo a discussion of my personal philosophy for another time.”

He glanced at the clock, uttered an expletive, and bolted into the changing area for the clean room beyond, where we did the bulk of our construction on the quantum computer we were building.

A half hour later, when I was doubled over a minute circuit board, soldering on a tiny circuit, the door opened.

“Good morning, Indiana. What adventures have you had this morning? Rescued a damsel in distress? Saved a priceless amulet from being stolen by ruffians? Smuggled innocent baby seals from a fur-processing plant?”

“Hallelujah,” I said, looking up and waving a small soldering iron at her by way of greeting. A minute piece of silver solder flew toward her. “What are you doing here?”

“Avoiding internal injury, evidently,” she said, sidestepping the solder. “And don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”

“Not nearly as much as I hate being called Indiana.”

“He who weareth the hat shall be calledeth by the name,” she said, grabbing a stool and hauling it over to my worktable. “At least you haven’t gotten a bullwhip. Yet.”

“You’ve been talking to Karin.”

“Bah,” my sister said, waving away the subject. “I hope you’re not serious about her, because she’s totally the wrong type for you.”

“I’m not serious about anyone, not that it’s any of your business,” I said, looking through the microscope for placement of a minuscule part.

“Ah, but it is, big brother. I am here in my official capacity to hook you up with an absolutely terrific woman.”

I set down the soldering iron. “Not another blind date, Hal? You promised me you weren’t going to set me up on any more of those hellish experiences.”

She picked up a piece of circuit board and toyed with it as I went across the lab to grab some wire. “Trust me, you’re going to like Linda. She’s different. She likes all the things you like.”

“Such as?” I took the piece of circuit board from her. Absently, she picked up a pair of forceps meant to position small pieces, and used them to poke at my notes.

“She has a laptop that she takes everywhere, so she’s clearly a computer geek, just like you. And she likes reading, and you always have your nose in a comic book.”

“Graphic novel. They’re called graphic novels.”

“Whatever.” She forcepped a piece of muffin left over from my breakfast and popped it in her mouth. “She likes those—she was reading one that she said was a retelling of a Jules Verne book, and it sounded just like something you’d read, what with all those Victorian rocket ships to the moon, and people marching around with ray guns and goggles.”

“I’m delighted that you have a friend who enjoys steampunk and computers, but I fail to see why you would want to match her up with me. I’m perfectly happy as I am.”

She slid off the stool and moved around the lab, tidying papers, rearranging boxes of computer components, and generally doing what she referred to as “straightening up.” “It’s . . . well . . . you see . . .”

“Spit it out, Hallie,” I said, squinting through the microscope as I wrapped wire around a semiconductor.

She took a deep breath, then said very quickly, “I promised you to Linda.”

I looked up at that. “You did what?”

“I promised you to Linda. That is, I sold you to her.” She held a small canister of helium in her hands, absently twisting the top as she watched me with anxious eyes.

“You sold me? Like a slave or something?” I asked, completely confused. “What do you mean, you sold me?”

“No, not like a slave, don’t be stupid,” she said, biting her lip. “It was an auction. A charity auction.”

I closed my eyes for a moment before shaking my head. “Which charity?”

“Now, don’t you get that tone of voice,” she said, adopting a defensive attitude. She shook the canister at me as she spoke. “I know what you think about my charities, but this one is fabulous, Jack, just fabulous. It’s for care and rehabilitation of released parakeets.”

I was so surprised by what she said, I stopped worrying about whether the top had been loosened on the helium. “Released what?”

“Parakeets! Do you have any idea how many parakeets each year are shoved out of their homes and left to fend for themselves? Hundreds, Jack! Hundreds and hundreds of poor little innocent birdies just tossed out the window, and they have no idea how to forage for food, or where to sleep, or even where to live. It’s a horrible, senseless tragedy, and we at the People for Humane Treatment of Parakeets are doing what we can to try to rescue parakeets, and rehome them with good people who will take care of them.”

Hallie always had a cause. Ever since she was a little girl, she had been a joiner of causes. When she grew up, she had taken to throwing herself wholeheartedly into whatever cause appealed to her at the moment.

“What happened to that group you belonged to that was supposed to knit sweaters for hairless dogs who lived in animal shelters?”

“Oh, that fell apart months ago,” she said, twisting the lid of the canister again. “We couldn’t decide on whether mohair or acrylic yarn was best. This group is totally rock solid, Jack. And you like animals!”

“That doesn’t mean I want to be sold into slavery on their behalf. What did you sell me for?”

“Five hundred dollars! Can you believe it? No one else’s husband or brother went for as much. It was a shame you couldn’t be there to model yourself, but I took that picture of you that was in the paper that time you and Jeff Sawyer were in Mexico, and you rescued him from being disemboweled by crazed Mayans.”

I sighed to myself again. It was pretty sad when my own sister refused to listen to me.

“Anyway, everyone loved that picture, and lots of ladies bid on you, only Linda won, and that’s so perfect because she’s just the woman I would pick out for you. She’s smart and she likes the things you like, and she paid five hundred dollars just to spend some time with you.”

“I wasn’t asking how much she spent; what services of mine has she won?” I asked suspiciously.

“Oh, well, that’s up to Linda,” she said, waving the canister at me.

“Stop shaking that!” When I realized what she was doing, I jumped to my feet and lunged toward her in the hopes of getting the canister before it blew up.

“Now, I know you’re a bit peeved that I sold you without telling you, but really, it’s for a very good cause—” Hallie skirted the lab table, keeping just out of my reach as she pleaded with me.

I cut her short, worried about her safety. “No, you idiot! The lid is off and you’re shaking the canister. It’s very volatile!”

“This?” She looked down at the helium. “It’s just a thermos of coffee. How can coffee be volatile?”

“It’s not coffee—it’s liquid helium.”

“Helium?” She held the canister up as if she could see through the stainless steel walls. “What on earth are you doing with helium?”

“We use it to cool the core of the chip when it’s being tested. Now set it down very carefully.”

“Oh, like canned air? I use that all the time at home on my stereo. I like the way the bottle frosts up when you use it for a while. You’re not mad at me about the auction, are you?” she said with sublime unawareness of what she held. She reached for the lid, jamming it down on top of the canister.

“My emotions at this moment are rather indescribable,” I said, moving around to take the canister from her.

“Stupid thing won’t go on,” she grumbled, trying to force the lid on, but the inner valve had been jostled and was out of position enough to keep the lid from screwing on properly.

“Just set it down, Hallie, and I’ll deal with it.”

“Maybe it’s got an air bubble or something that’s keeping it from closing properly.” She tossed aside the top, right on top of the circuit I had been finishing. Several tiny LED lights lit up, indicating the computer’s brain was receiving power.

“No!” I yelled, lunging for her. Just as my hand closed around hers, she flipped up the valve, sending liquid helium boiling out to the circuit below. Hallie snatched at the precious circuit, obviously to save it from being harmed, but it was too late. A brilliant silver light filled my mind as she grabbed the circuit board. In the dim distance, I could hear voices talking, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The light expanded until it seemed to fill the room, filling me with a soothing, calming presence.

Hallie screamed as the light erupted around and through and inside me.

“Aye, Captain.”

I sat back on my heels after examining the valve in question. Cracked, my three-legged uncle. It was no more cracked than I was.

“Captain Pye, Mr. Piper, he says you’re to come to the forward hold immediately!” Young Dooley fairly danced with agitation as he spoke, but that was nothing new. Dooley was a quicksilver sort of lad, always moving or talking, apparently unable to sit still for even the shortest amount of time. In a way, he reminded me of a hummingbird I’d seen in the emperor’s aviary, for Dooley flitted and dived around the ship just as the hummingbird had done in the high-domed aviary.

“Can you fix the valve, Mr. Mowen?” I asked the chief engineer, fully confident of an affirmative answer. “Or will we need to land at Lyon?”

“An unauthorized landing?” Mr. Mowen looked scandalized at the thought. “That would put us off schedule, lass. Er . . . Captain.”

“Captain Pye—” Dooley tugged at the sleeve of my new scarlet-red Aerocorps jacket.

I quelled both the tugging and the excited dancing with a look, one I had honed on lesser crew members for a decade. “I will be with you in a moment, Dooley. Mr. Mowen has my attention now.”

“But Mr. Piper said you must come quick—”

“Mr. Piper would never condone your interrupting an important discussion about the ability of the Tesla to fly, Dooley. You have delivered your message, and may return to your duties.” I spoke in what I hoped was an authoritative, yet kindly, tone. I didn’t want to be perceived as an ogre to the crew, not on this, my first assignment. Yet the seven other individuals on board must acknowledge my position of command, or it would all end badly. Firm but tempered, that was the key.

“But, Cap’n—”

Mr. Mowen watched me with interested, somewhat amused eyes. He was waiting to see how I handled the overexcited teen who was the bosun’s mate, no doubt curious to see whether I would let him ruffle me. Ah, but had he known I had long since lost that ability . . .

“You have duties, Dooley, do you not?”

“Aye, miss. Cap’n. Captain. I’m to be cleaning the galley, then tending to the boilers as Mr. Mowen likes.”

“You are excused to attend to your duties.”

Dooley responded to the voice of authority, reluctantly tugging on his smart black cap as he left the cramped quarters of the aft boiler room. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“That wasn’t nearly so bad as you thought, now, was it?” Mowen asked with the hint of a smile beneath his big salt-and-pepper walrus mustache.

“Not at all, and how did you guess?” I asked, a little surprised by the perspicacity in the older man’s eyes. “Is it that obvious that I was expecting such a test?” One of several that were laid all ready for me, no doubt.

“I’ve been sailing the skies betwixt Rome and London long enough to see a full score of captains come and go,” he answered, his eyes now twinkling with amusement. “The first run is always entertaining, with the crew watchful, waiting to see what sort of man the company has saddled us with.”

I glanced at him, curious as to the meaning behind his words. “I can’t believe that no one from the Aerocorps told you anything about me. I received a dossier on the crew; surely you had something about me?”

“It wasn’t so much a dossier as it was a note telling us that you were taking command of the ship.”

I waited, sure there was more to come.

There was. “Mr. Francisco has a mate in the Corps offices, and he told us a bit more about you. He said you were a woman, which we’d guessed from your name, that you had red hair and brown eyes—not that it matters, you understand, but Mr. Francisco, as you might have noticed, has a bit of passion for redheaded ladies, so he was particularly overjoyed about that bit of information—that you joined the Corps when you were sixteen, and have been in it just as many years, and that you have some friends in high places.”

My brows rose just a smidgen. “The Aerocorps files say that?”

“Ah, well . . .” Mr. Mowen slid me a sidelong look. “Perhaps that was my own speculation.”

“Indeed.” I made my voice as neutral as possible. “On the whole, that is an accurate summation. I hope the crew will not be disappointed with me.”

“Time will show,” he said, nodding, idly rubbing a spot of grease on his cuff. “Good or bad, there’s naught we can do but accept.”

“Oh, I imagine there are all sorts of things a crew could do to make an unwanted captain feel less than welcome,” I answered, deliberately keeping my tone light. “Food that is oddly inedible when compared to the crew’s fare, unpleasant surprises of the insect and rodent nature to be found in the captain’s bed, repeated rousing during the sleeping hours to examine strangely malfunctioning equipment that was sound only a few hours before . . . Yes, I have heard of such dealings, and imagine it would be quite easy for a dedicated crew to take care of an unpopular captain.”

Mr. Mowen gave me a long look. I allowed myself a little smile, at which he relaxed. “True enough, Captain, true enough.”

“I trust that this valve, which strangely appears to have been wrenched to the side and thus is no longer seated properly rather than cracked, can be returned to its proper position without delay, Mr. Mowen.” A light of respect shone briefly in his eyes. I waved away his offer of help as I rose to my feet, dusting off my long navy wool skirt and the edges of my knee- length jacket. “I also expect there will be no further tests to determine if I am familiar with the workings of an airship steam engine and boilers. I assure you I am.”

The engineer saluted me. “And right glad I am to hear it, ma’am. It’s about time the Tesla had a captain who understood her.”

“Even one who is female, Mr. Mowen?” I couldn’t help but ask as I made my way along the narrow metal catwalk.

He replied after a few moments of silence. “I would be prevaricating if I was to say that, Mr. Francisco aside, we did not have concerns about having a lass as a captain.”

We reached the gangway. I gave the engineer a considering look. I had expected a token amount of resistance when I took over as captain, but surely in these enlightened times no one could protest the fact that I was a woman. “There are several female captains in the Southampton Aerocorps, Mr. Mowen. It is not at all uncommon.”

“Aye, but those captains are limited to domestic routes. You are the first we’ve heard of taking command of an international route.”

“An oversight on the part of the Aerocorps, I’m sure. I served for several years under Captain Robert Anstruther, and he, as you might know, commanded the largest passenger airship to travel the empire. I am quite familiar with both the routes and the duties of a captain, even those that fall under the domain of a small cargo transport, such as the Tesla.”

“Captain Anstruther will be well missed,” Mowen said, his face now somber. “Those damned Black Hand revolutionaries have much to answer for, killing as fine a captain as ever sailed the skies.”

“Indeed they do,” I answered, squaring my shoulders at the pain that always followed the memory of Robert Anstruther’s last hours.

“You knew him well, did you?” Mowen asked, watching me closely.

I made an attempt to present a serene expression. “I did. He was my guardian, and a very great man. I consider him my father.”

The engineer’s eyebrows rose above the steel rims of his spectacles. “Then I am sorry for your loss, Captain.”

I acknowledged his sympathy, the pain that rose at the memory of Robert’s sacrifice a familiar burden. “I was given into his care when I was very young, and both he and his wife treated me as if I was their own child. I miss them very much.”

“The captain’s lady—she died, too, in the airship explosion?”

I closed my eyes for a moment as once again the vision of the burning aerodrome rose in my mind’s eye, the figure of Robert Anstruther silhouetted against the flames licking the black sky stark and hard.

“There is no other way, Octavia,” he had said, and I felt again the pain in his voice. “The emperor will not be appeased this time. If it was just myself, I could bear what would follow. I am old, and my time has almost run its course. But there is Jane and you to consider. I will not let my shame destroy your lives.”

“I will go with you,” I had begged at the time. “Let me go with you and Jane. I can help, I know I can.”

He had merely smiled sadly, and cupped the side of my face. “I bless the day the old emperor brought you to me. Do you remember it, Octavia? You were just a wee little girl, lost and confused, talking of wild, impossible things, and trying so very hard to be brave and not cry. Jane called you our little miracle, coming as you did right after our son died.”

My throat ached as I fought vainly against tears. Robert considered me for a long moment, ignoring the wetness that rolled down my face and over his hands.

“You have a bright future ahead of you, my dear. If we are lost to the fire, nothing will taint that future.”

“Am I to never see you again?” I asked, my voice cracked with pain.

“No. We cannot come back to England. We are too well-known. But you will always be with us, in our hearts.”

I bowed my head, overcome with the grief, wanting desperately to cast aside all my burdens and flee with the two people I loved best in the world.

“Fight for what is right, little Octavia. Do what Jane and I cannot.”

Those were his last words. No more had been needed—I stayed behind to do my duty while Robert Anstruther, decorated three times by the emperor himself, and a hero to the entire empire, walked toward the burning aerodrome, and into the pages of history.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I did not mean to distress you.”

The voice had softly spoken, but pulled me from my dark memories back to the present. Robert and Jane had been gone for almost a year. It had all come to pass as he predicted—the inquiries that had swirled around his activities had withered to nothing, and a nation mourned its lost hero.

I squared my shoulders and gave the engineer a little nod. “Thank you, Mr. Mowen. If any other issues arise, I will be in the forward cargo hold seeing what it is that has Dooley in such a swivet.”

He touched his cap in a salute as I moved down the narrow gangway, past the two rear boilers that powered the steering engines. The low thrum of the engines as they turned the propellers sounded in time to the throb of movement felt in the metal framework structure that ran the length, breadth, and height of the ship. It was a familiar sensation, one I didn’t even think of now, and certainly not one I noticed until I was on land, and it was missing. Indeed, the feeling of the ship as it sailed through the air was as much a part of me as breathing was, and I could tell instantly—as could every man on board the Tesla—when something was awry with the engines. A slight change in tempo in the vibration, or a higher tone in the thrum, was enough to have the crew looking to me with concerned eyes.

“You’re not going to have any problems, though, are you?” I asked the ship softly as I made my way down a small metal ladder to the lower gangway. “You know how important this trip is. You know how valuable the cargo is. You know what will happen should we fail.”

The ship didn’t answer, but I felt an odd sort of kinship with it. The engineer might find it remarkable that an international route had been given to me, but I knew better—it was a payment for services rendered, nothing more. My silence had been bought with the most insignificant, smallest cargo supply route in all of the Aerocorps. The Tesla was a minnow when compared with the new airships that graced the skies, an outdated model that showed visible signs of her age, from the stained fabric that made up the envelope, to the forty-year-old engines that were far from the highly efficient machinery that ran the bigger, longer, sleeker airships.

I knew all this, and yet I was proud of the Tesla, proud to be commanding her. If only everything would go right. If there was the slightest delay or problem that kept us from landing the ship in the small aerodrome outside Rome, all would be lost. I had argued with Etienne that such a tight timeline was tempting disaster, but he ignored my warnings and pleas, as he always did. “The man may be the leader of the Black Hand,” I murmured as I strode the gangway toward the forward hold, “but he’ll always be a presumptuous, stubborn idiot when it comes to listening to me.”

I pushed down the worry of what might happen should things go awry, and focused instead on ensuring they didn’t. “That includes unwanted problems,” I grumbled to myself as I arrived at the hold, one of four compartments that filled the middle section of the gondola.

“Captain Pye.” An elderly, grizzled man who shuffled with an almost-crablike walk moved forward in his peculiar gait to greet me. I knew from perusing the crew dossiers that his odd method of movement was due to injuries sustained when he’d flung himself from a burning airship. “I was hopin’ ye would come soon. We have a great hairy bollock of a problem, we do.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Piper. I assume the hairy bollock must be very great indeed if Mr. Christian is unable to deal with it.” I kept a mild expression on my face, despite the urge to laugh at his colorful language, well aware that it could be another test or an attempt to rattle me.

At the sound of his name the tall, very thin redheaded man who was my new chief officer jumped, his pale blue eyes wide with distress as he stammered out an excuse. Amusement faded as I considered him. There was no denying I was a bit disappointed in my right-hand man—thus far, he seemed ineffectual and totally unsuited for the job—but I reminded myself that everyone deserved a chance to prove himself, and that he might grow into the job. I certainly hoped that was so.

“. . . and I only just arrived here before you, Captain. Didn’t I, Piper? I just arrived here. A matter of seconds, isn’t it? I couldn’t know what’s going on when I only just got here myself, could I?”

“Aye, that ye did, arse-backward and shittin’ coal.”

Aldous Christian looked almost panic-stricken, and I was quick to absolve him before he worked himself up any further. He looked on the verge of an apoplectic fit as it was. “My apologies for my false assumption. Since we are both here now, perhaps we could know the extent of the situation?”

“But I don’t know!” he all but wailed, his face turning beet red.

“I was directing that comment to Mr. Piper,” I said in a soothing voice, giving the chief officer’s arm a reassuring squeeze. He stopped blushing, but looked as high-strung as a racehorse before the wire. “Proceed, Mr. Piper.”

“It’s bodies, Captain,” the bosun answered with brevity.

“Bodies?”

“Oh, mercy,” Mr. Christian said, looking for a moment as if he was going to swoon. He clutched at the edge of the nearest stack of crates and weaved for a moment.

“What sort of bodies?” I asked, eyeing the chief officer lest he suddenly totter toward me.

“Bloody great bodies, that’s what sort,” Mr. Piper answered, scratching absently at his crotch. “Gettin’ in me way, they are.”

“There’s blood?” the chief officer wailed, his eyes filled with horror as he grabbed the bosun. “I . . . I . . . faint at blood.”

“Where exactly are these bodies?” I asked, almost positive that I was being tested again.

“Over yonder, behind the barrels of salted meat.” Piper nodded toward the far side of the hold, where stacked neatly were three dozen barrels of salted venison, pork, beef, and fish destined for the emperor’s troops in the south of Italy. “Neptune’s salty cods, man, let go of me arm! Ye’ll have me uniform wrinkled.”

“Dead or alive?” I asked.

“Alive, we think,” Piper answered, plucking Mr. Christian’s hands from his arm. “That is, there ain’t no great big pools o’ blood soakin’ into everything.”

“Urk!” Mr. Christian said, swallowing hard.

“And no severed limbs that we could find, nor any entrails or guts spewed out everywhere.”

“Entrails,” Mr. Christian whispered, his voice hoarse with horror as he groped blindly for the stack of wine barrels. “Entrails would be the end of me.”

“Aye, and they’re a right shiv up the arse to clean up, too,” Mr. Piper agreed, sucking his teeth for a moment before he continued. “Ye need sawdust to proper clean up after entrails, ye do. An arseload of sawdust. And sodium carbonate, and we don’t be havin’ much of that on board.”

“It’s good, then, that we will have no need for it,” I said, finding it difficult to keep my lips from twitching.

“ ’Tis the truth ye’re speakin’,” he agreed, before adding, “It’s hard to tell if they be alive or dead, Captain. Ye’ll just have to be lookin’ for yerself.”

“An excellent suggestion. Mr. Christian, you will come with me, please.”

I took three steps, but paused when the chief officer made an inarticulate noise of horror in his throat before falling over in a dead faint.

It was going to be a very long trip.

“Son of a whore’s left leg,” Mr. Piper swore, looking with interest at the chief officer’s prone form. “He’s light in the ballast, that one is, Captain. Ye should have seen him carry on when Auld John—he were the steward two seasons ago, before Mr. Ho joined us—when Auld John had three toes drop off.”

I paused on my way toward the cargo in question. “His toes dropped off?”

“Aye.” He sucked his teeth for the count of three. “We’d been to Marseilles, and ye know how it can be there—lads’ll go out lookin’ for a good time, and get mixed up with a strumpet or two, and the next thing ye know, someone’s lopped off a few of their toes.”

I stared at him in growing horror. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of anyone losing their toes because of promiscuous activities, even in so rough a city as Marseilles. None of the crew I’ve sailed with have ever done so.”

“Aye, well,” he said shrugging, and poking at the inert form of Mr. Christian with the highly polished toes of his boot. “Could have been the pox, too. He had that right enough. He thought his rod was going to drop off one time, but it turned out to be the clap.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but there was just nothing I could say to that, so instead I gestured toward the unconscious officer, and asked, “Would you see to him while I view these bodies of yours?”

“They ain’t me bodies, at any rate,” he said, shuffling over to the door. “As if I’d leave them lyin’ about me hold. I’ve been on airships for the last forty years, and never once have I left a body in the hold where anyone can trip arse over ears on it. Dooley! Where are ye, ye useless sod? Mr. Christian’s taken one of his fits again.”

The old man bellowed as I moved off, carefully picking my way around the stacks of scientific equipment and supplies, wondering what on earth bodies were doing on my ship. If they were dead, I would have some explaining to do before the emperor’s men in Rome. If they weren’t . . . I gritted my teeth. Stowaways would spell disaster. Either it was someone Etienne had sent to watch me, or a spy for the emperor. The former I could deal with, but the latter? It didn’t bear thinking about.

A foot came into view as I hiked up my skirts and scrambled over a long packing crate. The crate had shifted slightly during the last day, and now rested a good yard from the wall of the hold. The foot lay in plain view, with the rest of the body assumably wedged between the crate and wall.

I didn’t usually carry firearms, preferring instead the blade hidden inside of the walking stick that Robert Anstruther had given me on the occasion of my thirtieth birthday, but that was unfortunately in the tiny captain’s cabin, whereas the standard- issue Empyrean Disruptor that was given to all captains was strapped to my hip. I pulled out the small weapon, turning a switch that would allow the galvanic charge to be released upon firing.

“I am armed,” I told the foot in what I hoped was a calm voice. “If you intend on attacking me, please be aware that I will defend myself.”

The foot didn’t move, nor did its owner respond. I edged closer to it, frowning at the foot. It was clad in a strange sort of half shoe, with only the front of the foot covered. The rest was bare, as was the ankle. I moved around the crate, leaning over it to peer behind, my grip firm on the Disruptor. “Are you injured?”

It was a man. He lay half-propped-up against the wall, half-flung across another person, a woman. Both appeared to be asleep—or dead—although there was no blood to be seen, and no sign of injury.

“Has Mr. Christian been roused?” I called over my shoulder, straightening up.

“Aye, but he looks as pale as watered piss.”

I counted to ten, then said, “Tell him there is no blood whatsoever, and ask him to come forward.”

Both the chief officer and Dooley appeared, the former looking as if he was going to be sick.

“Are they . . . dead?” he asked in a thick voice. I wondered if he was likely to keel over again.

“No. Their chests are moving, and there is no sign of injury. I believe they are merely unconscious.”

His eyes widened as he glanced around wildly.

“Mr. Christian, please remember you are an officer in the Southampton Aerocorps,” I said purely to brace him up. “Officers do not panic when faced with unconscious stowaways. Nor do they faint repeatedly, or vomit willy-nilly.” That last bit was added in reference to the green cast to his face.

He swallowed hard, his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbing a bit wildly, but in the end he squared his shoulders and gave a nod. “Aye, Captain. I’m ready.”

Oh, I had my doubts as to whether he was ready for the stresses and strains of life aboard a Corps airship, but that was something I would have to deal with at a later time. Right now I had to figure out who the stowaways were, and what it would mean to me. Etienne would kill me if anything happened to mess up the Black Hand’s plans. “Help me move them out from behind the crate. Perhaps they swooned due to lack of air.”

It wasn’t a horribly good theory, but I didn’t dwell on that as we pulled out first the man, then the woman, laying them tidily on the two long crates near the door Piper indicated as suitable resting spots.

“Where’s their velocipedes?” Mr. Christian asked as we stood back to gaze down on the inert man and woman.

I stared at my chief officer. “Their velocipedes?”

“Aye.” He gestured toward the woman. “She’s wearing bloomers, so she must have been riding a velocipede.”

I glanced at the woman, wanting to point out the obvious. But I was captain now, and I had a duty to my crew. “Those are trousers, Mr. Christian, not cycling bloomers.”

“But . . . she’s a lady.” A puzzled frown pulled his eyebrows together.

“There’s more to a lady than a pair of titties,” Mr. Piper offered as he eyed the woman.

“Mr. Piper,” I said, goaded into admonishing him.

He gave an odd little half shrug. “I’m just sayin’ that a woman ain’t necessarily a lady.”

“I do not have argument with your sentiment, just your method of expressing it.” I moved around him to consider the man lying on the crate.

“I’ve heard tell that some ladies wear trousers,” the earnest Dooley offered. “In America. Before the war. I don’t know that they do now, but I did see pictures of ladies in trousers walking in a parade.”

“You aren’t old enough to remember the time before the war,” Mr. Christian scoffed. “It’s only been over for four years, and it was on for eighteen before that.”

“I’ve seen pictures!” Dooley said stubbornly, and I knew the two would get into what I feared were perpetual arguments about trivial matters.

“Dooley, please ask Mr. Ho to join us. Perhaps she can ascertain if there is any injury to the stowaways.”

“You think they really are stowaways?” Mr. Christian asked, looking both scandalized and thrilled. “Will we have to throw them in the brig?”

“Considering we don’t have a brig on board the Tesla, that might be a little difficult. Let us first find out who they are and what they were doing in the hold. Perhaps they had some sort of an attack while the cargo was being loaded, and are here by mistake.”

I didn’t believe that for one minute, but I couldn’t bear to contemplate the repercussions of the pair being spies.

Mr. Piper gave me a long look, but said nothing, just cocked his hip up on a nearby barrel and watched silently as I made a cursory examination of the two.

“Well, they don’t seem to have any weapons upon them,” I noted as I finished my examination of their pockets. The man was wearing an undershirt, and dark gray trousers. The woman was clad in a long blue tunic made of silk, and matching trousers. It was beautiful material, and I couldn’t help but touch the hem of the tunic with longing. Reality returned quickly, however, and I surreptitiously brushed down the heavy wool of my uniform jacket and skirt before turning to the bosun. “I wonder why the man is wearing nothing but an undershirt?”

“And a black one at that,” Mr. Piper said, squinting at it. “Black as the devil’s cods, it is. Ain’t never seen one that color.”

“Could be he’s a thuggee,” Mr. Christian piped up.

I looked at him in surprise. “A thuggee? The Indian thuggees, do you mean?”

“Aye.” He nodded, his expression earnest. “My mum used to tell me tales of the thuggees. Before the Moghul imperator took it over, the whole of India used to be ruled by these thuggees. They were dangerous men, very deadly and skilled in the ways of murder. My mum said that they all ran around in naught but their underthings, on account it made them silent and stealthy.”

We all looked at the prone man. “He certainly is silent, but I don’t know how stealthy he is,” I commented. “He doesn’t look particularly Indian, either.”

“That’s probably part of his clever plan,” Mr. Christian said, nodding as if it all made sense. “He wouldn’t want to look like a thuggee, now, would he? That would warn you to beware of him. They’re cunning, those thuggees. My mum always said they were as cunning as a cat.”

“What would a thuggee be doing in the hold of my ship?” I asked, making another quick search of the man for weapons. I found none.

“Well,” Mr. Christian said, making himself comfortable on a wine barrel. “What if he was a master thuggee, and had a job to do in Rome to kill someone important, say one of the emperor’s representatives? There’s a lot of them there now, what with the wedding and all.”

“That is true,” I said slowly. The very reason Etienne had chosen my ship to hide his cargo in was the opportunity it presented to strike a blow against the number of imperial representatives who were in Rome. “I’ve heard that there is a large delegation in Rome to work out the terms of the treaty with the king of Italy.”

“So the thuggee needs to get there, but with everyone watching all the passenger ships, he can’t take one of those,” Mr. Christian continued, clearly warming up to his theme. “So he stows away on an insignificant cargo ship, intending on catching the crew—that’s all of us—by surprise one night, and killing us all in our beds. That way he can land in Rome without anyone knowing he was there. His plan is no doubt to slip away once he lands, and conduct his nefarious affairs.”

“God’s bollocks!” Mr. Piper said, looking askance at the still-unconscious man. “The brig’s too good for him! Let’s toss the murdering son of a scabby whore over the side, Captain.”

“The Southampton Aerocorps frowns heavily on tossing people out of airships,” I said mildly, adding, “And even if they didn’t, I would not suggest that as a course of action in this case. There are two flaws in your reasoning, Mr. Christian.”

“Oh? What’s that, Captain?”

“One,” I said, ticking the item off on my finger, “you did not account for the woman’s presence. If this thuggee was sent to kill one or more of the emperor’s men, then why is the woman with him?”

The young man’s face fell while he eyed the woman. “Well . . . mayhap she’s his accomplice?”

“Doubtful,” I said, shaking my head. “Not knowing any assassins—or thuggees—personally, I am forced to rely on the testimony given by those who have, and never have I heard of assassins roaming the countryside in packs. They are solitary folk by nature, I believe, especially those who strive to achieve an unsurpassed level of stealth.”

“What’s the second flaw?” Mr. Christian asked, a touch acidly, I thought.

“He’s not armed. Not only would that make it impossible for a man to single-handedly kill the eight people on the Tesla, but it also leaves him at a distinct disadvantage when trying to assassinate an imperial official.”

“The captain has a point,” Mr. Piper said slowly, nodding his grizzled head. “I’m not saying the lad isn’t a murderin’ bastard, but it’s a damned sight harder to throttle people by hand than it is to stick a shiv in their heart, or blast their brains out the back of their head with a Disruptor, or shove a red-hot poker—”

“Thank you, Mr. Piper,” I said, quickly cutting off his gruesome catalog.

“Course, there’s nothin’ to say he couldn’t be gettin’ a knife from the galley, and spillin’ all our guts on the floor. Nothin’ is easier than a quick disembowelin’, says I, though it takes ye a bit to die—”

“Thank you,” I said louder, giving him a gimlet look.

He pursed his lips and said nothing.

“Mayhap we should toss him over the side, just to be sure,” Mr. Christian said, clutching his abdomen.

“I don’t think such an extreme action will be necessary. The simple fact is that we have no proof that this man and woman are thuggees.”

“Then who are they?” Mr. Christian asked, and I had to admit that there he had me.

“We will have to wait for them to wake up to ask them,” I said calmly.

“Could be the murderin’ sod is from the Corps, sent out to watch you,” Mr. Piper said, absently picking his ear. “But he’s not wearin’ a uniform, so I don’t think that’s likely.”

“I know!” Mr. Christian said, raising his hand as if he were in the schoolroom. “He’s from the emperor, and he’s in disguise as a thuggee.”

I ignored him, my eyes once again on the strange man. “It is a very curious thing, no matter who he is. As for his companion . . . I wonder what Mr. Mowen would make of this.”

I held up a small rectangular white-and-black object. It was made of some sort of chrome, smooth and rounded at the corners, with dangling black wires.

“What is it?” Mr. Christian asked, craning his head to peer at it.

“I don’t know,” I answered, turning the object over. It was about the size of my hand, and cool to the touch. “There is a maker’s mark here: iPod. How very odd. I have never heard of such a company.”

“Do you think it’s a bomb, then, miss?” Mr. Christian’s eyes came close to popping right out of his head.

“It’s not ticking, and doesn’t appear to be active, but it does have wires, and everyone knows bombs must have wires. However, I’ve never seen one like this. It’s quite dainty.”

Mr. Piper leaned over my shoulder to examine it. “I wouldn’t be thinkin’ a thuggee would carry a dainty bomb. A wicked-sharp shiv, now, that I could see. But a wee little bomb like that?” He shook his head. “Don’t make sense.”

“I’m inclined to agree, but despite it appearing to be inactive, I believe we should get it off the ship. Since we are almost to Marseilles, we will drop it over the side into the Étang de Berre, where it will not harm anyone should it explode.”

Mr. Christian’s gaze swiveled to the couple still draped over the crates. “A petite bomb! That must mean . . . Captain, do you think they’re”—his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper—“revolutionaries?”

Mr. Piper sat up a bit straighter, but his eyes were on me, not the strangers. I didn’t mind him looking to me for direction, but the speculation in his eyes was a bit daunting.

“I doubt that,” I said slowly, looking back at the man and woman, picking my words carefully. “I did not find the Black Hand insignia on them, nor do they have any weapons. It’s been my experience that revolutionaries always carry weapons.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s so,” Mr. Christian said, his face falling. “Still, would have been exciting to have caught some revolutionaries, wouldn’t it? I’ve heard that the emperor himself rewards those who turn them in. I’d love to see him, just once.”

“I’ve seen him,” Dooley said as he reentered the hold, his chest puffing out with self-importance. “He rode by when I was on leave in London. He was in a beautiful black carriage, made of glass it was, and there was a lady next to him, a glorious princess all dressed in gold, glittering and sparkling in the sun just like my brass buttons.”

“Your buttons are a disgrace to the Corps,” Mr. Christian answered, his lip curling as he gestured toward Dooley’s jacket. “And that wasn’t a princess next to the emperor—it was the Duchess of Prussia, the one he’s marrying in ten days’ time.”

I ignored their banter as I chewed over a possibility that had just struck me—could it be that Etienne had sent the couple to assist me? It wasn’t unknown for him to send assistance when he thought it necessary, but he knew me well. A memory rose of him pulling on his clothes as I lay tangled in the sheets, exhausted and sated, his gray eyes warm with amusement as he said that he could always count on me to be proficient in all that I did.

A faint blush rose at the memory. The knowledge that I had given myself to a man who was using me for political reasons was not one of my finer moments, but I had survived it, just as I had survived everything else. No, Etienne would be confident in my ability to do my job. Besides, he would tell me if he was sending a couple of members incognito—and he hadn’t said anything of the sort the last time we’d met. Although it was true we hadn’t had more than a few snatched minutes, it not being at all the thing for a captain in the Aerocorps to be seen in the company of the head of the revolutionary force determined to overthrow the emperor.

I sheathed the Disruptor. “Dooley, did you find Mr. Ho?”

“Aye, Captain. She’ll be along directly,” he answered, hovering around the bodies.

I directed a pointed glance at him. “Then please, about your duties. Mr. Christian, would you be so kind as to ask Mr. Mowen if he could spare a moment to examine the device we found?”

“Aye, aye,” he answered, giving a brisk salute as he hurried out of the hold.

I waited until the sound of their footsteps on the gangway faded into nothing before I turned to my companion. “Well, Mr. Piper?”

“Well, Captain?” the old man said, his gaze skittering away from mine with cagey awareness.

“Do you think they’re revolutionaries?”

His eyes met mine again for a moment before turning to the two people. “What ye said about revolutionaries never bein’ found without weapons ain’t true, it ain’t true at all.”

“No, it isn’t, but it’s better if Mr. Christian thinks so.”

“Aye, the lad’s been dropped on his head once too often,” the old man agreed, idly scratching his rear end. “Could be they are revolutionaries. They have the look of strangers about them. But what would such as them be doin’ on the Tesla?”

“Doing what revolutionaries do best, I suppose,” I answered, contemplating a miserable future that started with the people in front of me, and ended in disaster, possibly death. Probably my own. Or, God help me, worse. “Sowing dissent, attempting to overthrow the emperor, and destroying all things imperial. It’s going to be a nightmare when we land.”

He slid me another odd look. “Perhaps.”

Before I could ask him just what he meant, the unconscious man moaned, and lifted his hand to his head. “What the hell hit me?”

His words were slurred slightly, but that wasn’t what concerned me—it was his accent. An American accent.

“Ratsbane!” I swore, pulling out the Disruptor. “He’s American!”

“I ain’t never heard of an American revolutionary,” Mr. Piper said meditatively. “Is there such a thing as an American thuggee?”

“Sir,” I said, addressing the man with both words and the weapon. “You will regulate your movements. I am holding a firearm, and the setting is on sensitive.”

“What?” The man rubbed his face, then opened his eyes, squinting at me. “What’s sensitive? Ow. Other than my head. Would you mind me asking who you are, and just what you’re doing in my lab?”

“Could be he’s not so much a revolutionary as he is lackin’ in wits,” Mr. Piper murmured.

I couldn’t help but wonder if that was true. A lab? What was the stranger talking about? He certainly appeared befuddled, his face expressing a combination of pain and confusion. Perhaps he was just a poor soul who had wandered onto the ship by mistake? No. That would be too much of a coincidence. He had to be there for a reason, a reason I was sure to dislike intensely.

“Jupiter, Mars, and all the little planets,” the man said in a manner that indicated he was swearing. He rubbed his head, then turned to look at me. With a start, I realized his eyes didn’t match—one was brown, while the other was mossy green. Oddly enough, it was attractive on him, not discordant, as I would have supposed. In fact, his face was attractive, too.

What the devil was a handsome spy doing on my ship?

“Did I ask who you were?” he asked in a voice that was still a little thick.

“Yes. I am Octavia Emmaline Pye.” I bit back an oath at my words. What on earth was I doing giving him my full name with such casual disregard? Captains in the Aerocorps demanded and received respect; they did not engage in common chitchat with suspected criminals. I strove to put the stowaway in his proper position, saying in a stern voice, “You may refer to me as Captain Pye.”

With a sudden move that had me scrambling backward, the man swung his legs over the edge of the crate and got to his feet. He wobbled for a few seconds, then straightened up to his full height. He blinked in surprise at me for a few moments; then a smile curled his lips. “Did I miss the memo about a masquerade party?”

“You’re injured? We didn’t see any signs of that. Allow me to look,” I said, cautiously moving around to his side. I held the Disruptor firmly in case he was attempting to fool me, but he made no move other than to duck his head when I gently parted his hair.

“Careful. I don’t know what happened to me, but it hurts like hell.”

I sought, and found, the source of the pain—a lump on the side of his head the size and approximate shape of a quail’s egg.

“What’s the fancy dress about? Ow! That hurt!”

“I’m sorry.” I stopped gently probing the injury, taking a step back from the man.

He grinned at me, a lopsided grin that tugged on something inside me. “ ’Sokay. It’s just that the pain is kind of ebbing and flowing, although at least it seems to be clearing now. Kind of. Sorry, did you tell me what the occasion is? I seem to be a bit rummy, still.”

“Occasion?” I tried not to openly examine the man, but he seemed quite different now that he was animated. He seemed much . . . well, much more. More handsome, more alive, more vital. And oddly endearing, which was a very odd emotion to feel about a person who could turn out to be a spy or worse.

He waved a hand toward me. “For the costume. Is there a con going on?”

“Con?” I mentally chided myself for repeating his questions in such an idiotic manner, but I didn’t for the life of me understand what he meant.

“Convention.” He touched the lump on his head, winced again, and rubbed his jaw, instead. “Like a cosplay one? You heard of cosplay?”

“No. Mr. Piper?” I glanced at the bosun. He looked as confused as I felt.

“Nay, Captain. Codsplay, now, that I have. There’s a whore in Marseilles who can wrap her tongue all the way around a man’s cods and still have enough left over to—”

“I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage, sir,” I said loudly, interrupting Mr. Piper before he could go into any further detail. I gave him a sharp look, but he was too busy staring at the stranger to notice it. “What I would like to know is who you are, and what you are doing on my ship.”

“That sounds like a useful sort of woman to know,” the man said to Mr. Piper with one of those male-to-male knowing looks.

“Aye, that she was,” he agreed, propping himself up on the crate again. “She could milk a man dry with both her mouth and her—”

“I think I’ve heard just about enough of your . . . friends . . . in Marseilles,” I interrupted again, this time managing to catch the bosun’s eye.

He grinned. “Sorry, Captain. Forgot ye was a woman.”

“Indeed.” I transferred my gaze from him to the stranger, who was examining me with a look of admiration that would have, had I been a lesser woman, had me blushing.

“That’s a hell of an outfit,” he said, and, before I could say anything, moved around behind me, examining the back side. “Incredible. It’s just incredible. I love the scarlet coat. Steampunk, right? You don’t see much scarlet in steampunk outfits. Most folks go in for browns and blacks, but the scarlet looks really good, even though you have red hair. I was always under the impression that redheads weren’t supposed to wear red, but it looks good on you. And I really like the corset.”

I gasped a little gasp, looking down at myself, fearing for a moment that I had forgotten to don a blouse, but no, all was well.

“I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t,” he said, winking at Mr. Piper. “I mean, what man wouldn’t love the effect of a corset on a woman’s . . .” He made a gesture toward his chest.

I straightened up and glared at him.

“Although I thought you were supposed to wear the corset on the outside?” he continued, tipping his head to the side as he stared at my breasts. “Not that the lacy top isn’t pretty and all. It really frames your . . . er . . . breasts nicely. But every other woman I’ve seen had hers on the outside.”

“Her tits?” Mr. Piper asked, his eyes bugging out a bit as he, too, stared at my chest.

I hurriedly started buttoning up the long row of brass buttons on my coat.

“No, corset. You know how ladies are—they go to all the trouble of making a corset, and they want to show it off. Don’t blame them at all,” the stranger answered.

Mr. Piper considered me speculatively.

“I assure you that I did not make my corset, not that it is apropos to anything,” I said in a voice that sounded aggrieved. I never realized how many buttons the uniform jacket had until that moment. Both men watched with what seemed to be disappointment as I buttoned it across my breasts. Immediately after the last button was slid into place, I began to sweat under the effect of all that heavy wool bound tightly around me.

“Nothing wrong with an off-the-rack model, either. I bought a great Victorian frock coat that way, although I haven’t had a chance to wear it to any steampunk events yet. I don’t have much in line of a costume, to be honest. You know, I have to say that your modded gun is awesome. I’ve tried my hand at converting a couple of Nerf guns to something steampunk, but they never turn out. That looks really authentic. I particularly like the brass tubing. Can I see it?”

“Sir!” I said, perhaps louder than was strictly polite, snatching back the Disruptor that he had managed to take from me, so baffled was I by his speech. I pointed the gun at his chest, and donned my most austere expression. “I am bound by the laws governing the Southampton Aerocorps to inform you that you are under arrest for unauthorized presence on a ship under contract for imperial business.”

“Wow, you have the whole persona down and everything,” the man said, little lines around his eyes crinkling as he laughed a rich, deep laugh that I could swear I felt reverberating in my bones. I told my bones to stop being so susceptible, and frowned at the stranger. “That’s really great. And what about you?”

Mr. Piper straightened up as the man turned to him. “Piper’s the name. I’m bosun here.”

“Wait a minute—Aerocorps? Bosun? Captain?” He looked at me again, delight filling his mismatched eyes. “You’re an airship fan, too? I know a lot of steamy folk consider them way too overdone, but I have to admit, I’ve always had a fondness for them, and although I don’t have a persona, I always thought that if I did, he would have something to do with an airship.”

“Are you daft?” The words slipped out of my mouth without my brain agreeing they were at all right and proper to say, which of course they weren’t. I rubbed my forehead, a small headache starting to blossom there. “Sir, I fear we are talking at cross-purposes. Perhaps if we were to start with a few simple facts, we might proceed to those of a more strenuous nature. What is your name?”

“Jack. Jack Fletcher.”

I examined his face, mentally trying out the name. It suited him. He looked like a Jack.

His smile faded into a frown as he looked around. “Hey, where’s Hallie?”

“Would that be your female companion?” I asked, ignoring the prick of sweat that formed under my arms. I did not normally wear my coat buttoned except when required by protocol, and certainly not in the warm, airless confines of the hold.

“My sister. She was with me. I think. We were . . .” He touched his head as his voice trailed off, a puzzled look on his face. “We were talking about something.”

“Your companion is here,” I said, moving aside so he could see behind me.

With a cry of, “Hallie!” he rushed over to the prone woman. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing that we could see, although I must admit that we did not notice the injury to your head,” I answered, moving around the woman’s feet.

“Hal? Wake up!”

“Nrrng.” The woman frowned, licking her lips for a second before rolling over onto her side.

“Come on, Hal, make an effort to wake up.” Jack tried to roll her over, but she mumbled something incoherent as she slapped at his hands. He looked up from her to me. “What have you done to her?”

There was ire in his voice, ire and an unspoken threat. I straightened my shoulders. “We have done nothing but move you both from where we found you.”

“Found us?” He looked around again, his gaze this time taking in the visible contents of the hold, his expression growing more and more dark. “What the hell? Where are we?”

“You are in the forward hold of His Imperial Majesty’s Tesla, an airship that is under my command,” I said, allowing a little sting of irritation to sound in my voice. “Perhaps, Mr. Fletcher, you would be good enough to tell me how your sister and you happened to be found behind a crate of salted beef?”

“Jack,” he said, moving away to examine a crate of surveying equipment.

“Mr. Fletcher,” I repeated, a bit more forcefully, following after him as he suddenly jetted down a narrow aisle between crates. “Sir, I must remind you that I am armed.”

“Wow, this is really impressive. What is it, a warehouse?” he asked, pausing next to the salted meat, tracing the logo of the Aerocorps that had been painted on the wood. “I have to say, your group has gone to a tremendous amount of trouble to create an authentic setting.”

I cast a glance behind me to Mr. Piper, who hobbled over to us. “If you could please answer my question, Mr. Fletcher, we might be a little forwarder.”

He grinned at me, his laugh lines crinkling at me in a way that made my stomach flutter. With stern determination, I ignored the sensation.

“You even talk like something straight out of a Victorian book. Brava, Octavia.”

“Captain Pye,” I said sternly, taking a good firm grip on the patience that was fast slipping through my fingers.

“But Octavia is such a pretty name,” he said, winking at me. “It fits you well. This isn’t by any chance a film set, is it? I hadn’t heard through the grapevine that there was a new steampunk movie being made, but this—” He turned around, gesturing toward the stacks of crates in the hold. “This is really amazing.”

I gasped at the sign painted on the back of his undershirt, staring at it in disbelief. “You dare?”

“Satan’s stones!” Mr. Piper gasped, as well, as soon as he caught sight of it. “Aw, lad, and ye seemed like such a nice fellow.”

I leveled my gun at the man as he spun around. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What do I dare?”

“Your arrogance,” I said through a tight jaw. “Well, at least we know what you are now.”

“I’m a nanoelectrical systems engineer,” he said, giving me a puzzled look. “I don’t see how that’s overly arrogant, although I have to admit to being labeled as a nerd once in a while. But usually the stories about Alaska and Mexico get out, and that reputation wipes out anything else. If I was to tell you that I was accidentally swept up in a group that hijacked a whaling ship, but had nothing to do with the whole thing, what would you say?”

“That you were a scoundrel, rogue, and the worst sort of adventurer,” I said, indignant that my inner workings seemed to be wholly at odds with my brain. For some inexplicable reason, the confounded Mr. Fletcher seemed to hold an attraction for me. Well, I would have none of it. I had not been the wisest of women in my choices of male partners, but I was not stupid. I would learn from my mistakes.

“Oh, man,” he said, rubbing his face. “You’ve heard those absurd stories? I swear to you, I was just a victim of circumstance, nothing more. I’m not an adventurer. I’m not dashing and romantic. I’m not Indiana Jones.”

“But you are an airship pirate,” I said, gesturing toward the entrance to the hold with the Disruptor. “You will please return to your sister.”

“Airship . . . Oh, you mean my T- shirt,” he said, the puzzlement in his face fading into amusement. “It’s a band. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them. They’re pretty good. You should listen to their latest CD—I bet you’d like it. It’s got some goth overtones to it, but it’s still very listenable.”

“Sir, I have had quite enough of your conundrums. You will return to the entrance now, or I will be forced to use the Disruptor.”

“Knock yourself out,” he said easily, looking interested. “Does it have working parts?”

My patience was gone. With a silent oath, I pointed the gun toward the edge of the crate nearest him, one containing uniforms, and fired. The weapon spat out a single pulse of charged aether, blasting the corner of the wooden crate into a thousand little slivers. The smell of scorched wood drifted back to me as Jack examined the results.

“That’s pretty impressive. Did you have one of those special effect squibs rigged to blow up?” he asked slowly, reaching out to touch the still-smoldering remains of wood. With a yelp, he jerked his hand back, blowing on his fingers as he looked up to me. “That’s hot. How did you do that?”

“Am I to assume, Mr. Fletcher, that you deny the fact you are an airship pirate when the sign on the back of your undergarment states the opposite?”

“I got the T-shirt last night at the concert,” he said, looking back at the destroyed crate corner. “It wasn’t a squib you used, was it? It looks like the wood was hit by a high-temperature bullet.”

“Pulse, not bullet. The Mark 15 Empyrean Disruptors use pulses of heated aether rather than bullets,” I corrected him. “And now I’ve had enough of this farce. Please return to your sister.”

“You really are taking this to quite a length, aren’t you? Well, I’m afraid that I’m not going to be able to play along with the whole thing much longer. I’ve got a lot on my plate today, and my boss will be on my back if I don’t get some things done. Hal? Wake up. We’ve got to get going.”

“Will you see to it that Mr. Christian has the brig arranged properly, Mr. Piper?” I asked the bosun.

He eyed Jack for a moment or two. “Ye sure ye’ll be all right with the blighted bastard?”

“Bastard?” Jack said, frowning at him. “Look, I don’t want to pick a fight with you, but I don’t appreciate being called a bastard when I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

“I will be perfectly safe, Mr. Piper,” I reassured him, nodding toward the Disruptor.

“Aye, Captain.” Piper scurried around Jack, careful to give the younger man a wide berth.

Jack watched him go with a disgruntled look that he turned upon me as the door closed behind Mr. Piper. “OK, it’s just you and me and my addled sister, so you can drop the act. What’s going on here, Octavia, if that is really your name?”

“It is. I’ve told you repeatedly, Mr. Fletcher—you are my prisoner. It is you who seems to have trouble accepting that fact. There you are, Mr. Ho. I have been waiting some time for you.”

“My apologies, Captain,” the woman who was our steward’s mate said hurriedly, a bit out of breath. “I was up in the starboard stabilizing plane, helping Mr. Mowen. Dooley said someone was injured?”

Beatrice Ho, a slight woman of Asian descent, gazed at Jack with frank appraisal. Although I had been with this crew for only a few days, I had marked the steward’s mate out as someone I would enjoy knowing. She seemed a sensible young woman, hardworking, and knowledgeable in her job. I had no doubt she would rise in rank within the Aerocorps . . . but that didn’t explain why I was taken with an idiotic urge to shove her out of the room.

“Mr. Ho?” Jack asked, giving her a considering look.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

“It is a custom in the Aerocorps to refer to all members of the crew in the masculine form, regardless of gender,” I said, annoyed with how stiff my voice sounded. I would not be influenced by this scoundrel! “It is an archaic rule, I agree, but we are bound to follow the traditions of the Corps, and thus Miss Ho is referred to as Mr. while she serves on board this ship. Mr. Ho, this gentleman’s sister is indisposed. She appears to have no injuries, but I would feel more comfortable if you were to examine her.”

“Certainly.”

“Mr. Fletcher, perhaps you would step out into the gangway while Mr. Ho works,” I said, gesturing toward the door.

Jack gave the steward a long look, then nodded and opened the door, waiting for me to go through.

“You will precede me, please,” I said, fighting the urge to brush back a lock of his hair that had fallen forward on his brow.

“For God’s sake . . .” He went through the door, stopping abruptly just beyond it, moving only when I gave him a gentle shove between the shoulder blades.

“Good God in heaven . . .” His voice held an odd mixture of awe, surprise, and disbelief as his head tilted back, his gaze going upward.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, trying to hold on to a shred of patience. I had to admit that one part of me was dying to know what outrageous thing he would say next. What came out of his mouth wasn’t at all what I expected.

“This is an airship,” he said, spinning around to face me as he gestured toward the aluminum girders and struts that made up the framework containing the balloon envelopes. “It’s really an airship.”

“What did you expect?” I asked, confused by the honest astonishment visible on his face. I searched his eyes, but found nothing there but profound surprise.

“But . . .” He turned slowly in a circle, his gaze darting from the balloon envelope directly above us to the six others that spanned the length of the airship. “But this is real. It can’t be, but it is. I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life.”

“You’ve never been on an airship before?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“No.” He turned back to me, his gaze earnest as he took my free hand. “Octavia, what’s happened to me? How did Hallie and I get here?”

I stared at him, not wanting to believe the evidence before me, but I couldn’t deny the truth—he was genuinely confused.

“I wish I could answer that, but I cannot,” I said, strangely touched by the way he clung to my hand as his gaze rose once more to the supporting structures of the airship. “But we will find out, Mr. Fletcher. You may rest assured that we will find out.”