Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
OP
OP
Madam Mim
One Big Medieval Mess
- Joined
- May 30, 2013
- Location
- right behind you
Keywords: automaton, obedience, period piece, scifi, steampunk, surreptitious
Keywords: modern, scenery, supernatural
Keywords: automaton, fantasy, future, multiple characters, scifi, steampunk,
Keywords: period piece, scenery, unhappiness
Keywords: breeding, feisty, future, scifi, scenery, trickery,
Keywords: evil, fantasy, magic, period piece, scenery
Keywords: crime, feisty, period piece
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. It was still a conscious process for her, but it got easier the more she did it. Tilt head. Smile. Funny thing, smiling: you had to show all your teeth, but only in the correct circumstances. She didn't know whether this was the correct circumstances, but people on the street seemed to be responding. Left foot. Right foot. The parasol was useless, of course. Her skin could become neither burned nor tanned, but this appeared to "be the fashion," as he had put it. What that meant she had yet to learn. A man shifted his body between her and the woman he was with and she pulled her lips back to smile more widely. It seemed as though the wider you grinned, the happier you must be to see someone. She wasn't certain how closely she could approximate the sensation of happiness, but it seemed to be a cornerstone of London society, from what she'd learned. Amber eyes which seemed to glow if you looked too closely--or if it was dark--stared disconcertingly from above the smile which never reached her eyes. Left foot. Right foot.
"How do you do?" Widget turned her smile to a woman with exposed, ripped stockings and worn-down shoes who was leaning against a brick wall as they passed.
"You wot?" she demanded around the cigarette hanging loosely from her lips, straightening a little and throwing her chest out. Widget didn't detect the aggression in her stance, but stopped and inclined her head the way she had been shown.
"How do you do?" she repeated in the same tone and cadence, still grinning. The woman's dress sagged off of her shoulders and she pushed off the wall, slouching toward them.
"So yer wanna 'ave a go, do yer?" the woman demanded. "Fink yer better'n me wiv yer fancy clothes an' yer fancy gent, hm?" She jerked her chin toward Master. "If you'da been done the same wrongs wot I been done, you'd be in the 'zackt same place 's me. Dun fink you wouldn'."
Widget tilted her head, unsure how to respond. This was not something he had prepared her for. "All I said was 'how do you do,'" she finally replied before moving on, leaving the bedraggled whore shrieking impotently at their backs, aware that if she'd torn a society lady's face of like she threatened to do there would have been coppers on her like that. Left foot. Right foot. Widget tilted her head to look at her companion, her gears clicking as she attempted to work out what had just happened. Even so the entire time she grinned in her best attempt at politeness, unblinking.
"I'm not sure why you've brought me out, Master," she admitted after a few moment's thought. Right foot. Right foo--no. Left foot. Right foot. "You don't want me to be discovered for what I am, and yet you insist on teaching me these 'manners' and taking me out for walks. I'm afraid I don't see the point. If you would rather me not be seen, I would just as much rather not go out." It wasn't that she wasn't enjoying herself. She didn't have the capacity to enjoy walks, not yet anyway, but inasmuch as she could she didn't entirely mind them. But if Master didn't want her coming outside, she wasn't sure why he brought her out anyway.
"We've been sent beautiful weather, haven't we, Master?" Widget said suddenly, turning her uncanny smile and unblinking stare onto him from beneath her parasol. "Was that good 'small talk,' Master?"
Master assured her that she wasn't the one who had done anything wrong in her interaction with the street woman. He had taught her common courtesy, and apparently no one had taught the woman the same. It didn't occur to Widget, as it didn't seem to occur to him, that she had been perceived as rude and condescending. It also didn't occur to her that this mixing with whores--she hadn't been taught yet about social classes, nor about prostitutes--might bring scandal upon her or her master, should anyone recognize him. Master assured her that he didn't want to keep her hidden away indoors and she nodded.
"I shall become greater than humanity, then," she affirmed. Left foot. Right foot. It was becoming easier to delegate that process to background noise. Widget made an attempt at small talk and was pleased to know she had succeeded. When Master asked whether she had a follow up, she thought for a minute. "It is not raining," she attempted, though the sky was dull and cloudy, "and you look very handsome today, Master." She didn't know what it meant to not look handsome. All Widget knew was that she found his sharp cheekbones and tall, narrow stature aesthetically correct, and that he seemed pleased when she said that he was handsome. And whether it was successfully imitating then surpassing humanity or telling him he looked handsome, that was the point, wasn't it? To please Master?
"And remember, when we are out and about, address me as Lachland. Master is only for the confines of the house," he reminded her and she nodded.
"Yes, Lachland," she assented, her manic grin not moving as they stopped and he stared at her. Widget stared back, her eyes boring into his, lips unmoving, teeth exposed, smile never reaching her eyes. Master Lachland ordered her to blink and she tilted her head again. "Blink? I'm sorry, Lachland...I don't understand." She understood what blinking was, of course, but she didn't understand why it was done or why she specifically had to do it. She had also privately tried blinking once or twice, and had wound up with her eyes closed for five minutes; the nuances of blinking still escaped her.
"How do you do?" Widget turned her smile to a woman with exposed, ripped stockings and worn-down shoes who was leaning against a brick wall as they passed.
"You wot?" she demanded around the cigarette hanging loosely from her lips, straightening a little and throwing her chest out. Widget didn't detect the aggression in her stance, but stopped and inclined her head the way she had been shown.
"How do you do?" she repeated in the same tone and cadence, still grinning. The woman's dress sagged off of her shoulders and she pushed off the wall, slouching toward them.
"So yer wanna 'ave a go, do yer?" the woman demanded. "Fink yer better'n me wiv yer fancy clothes an' yer fancy gent, hm?" She jerked her chin toward Master. "If you'da been done the same wrongs wot I been done, you'd be in the 'zackt same place 's me. Dun fink you wouldn'."
Widget tilted her head, unsure how to respond. This was not something he had prepared her for. "All I said was 'how do you do,'" she finally replied before moving on, leaving the bedraggled whore shrieking impotently at their backs, aware that if she'd torn a society lady's face of like she threatened to do there would have been coppers on her like that. Left foot. Right foot. Widget tilted her head to look at her companion, her gears clicking as she attempted to work out what had just happened. Even so the entire time she grinned in her best attempt at politeness, unblinking.
"I'm not sure why you've brought me out, Master," she admitted after a few moment's thought. Right foot. Right foo--no. Left foot. Right foot. "You don't want me to be discovered for what I am, and yet you insist on teaching me these 'manners' and taking me out for walks. I'm afraid I don't see the point. If you would rather me not be seen, I would just as much rather not go out." It wasn't that she wasn't enjoying herself. She didn't have the capacity to enjoy walks, not yet anyway, but inasmuch as she could she didn't entirely mind them. But if Master didn't want her coming outside, she wasn't sure why he brought her out anyway.
"We've been sent beautiful weather, haven't we, Master?" Widget said suddenly, turning her uncanny smile and unblinking stare onto him from beneath her parasol. "Was that good 'small talk,' Master?"
Master assured her that she wasn't the one who had done anything wrong in her interaction with the street woman. He had taught her common courtesy, and apparently no one had taught the woman the same. It didn't occur to Widget, as it didn't seem to occur to him, that she had been perceived as rude and condescending. It also didn't occur to her that this mixing with whores--she hadn't been taught yet about social classes, nor about prostitutes--might bring scandal upon her or her master, should anyone recognize him. Master assured her that he didn't want to keep her hidden away indoors and she nodded.
"I shall become greater than humanity, then," she affirmed. Left foot. Right foot. It was becoming easier to delegate that process to background noise. Widget made an attempt at small talk and was pleased to know she had succeeded. When Master asked whether she had a follow up, she thought for a minute. "It is not raining," she attempted, though the sky was dull and cloudy, "and you look very handsome today, Master." She didn't know what it meant to not look handsome. All Widget knew was that she found his sharp cheekbones and tall, narrow stature aesthetically correct, and that he seemed pleased when she said that he was handsome. And whether it was successfully imitating then surpassing humanity or telling him he looked handsome, that was the point, wasn't it? To please Master?
"And remember, when we are out and about, address me as Lachland. Master is only for the confines of the house," he reminded her and she nodded.
"Yes, Lachland," she assented, her manic grin not moving as they stopped and he stared at her. Widget stared back, her eyes boring into his, lips unmoving, teeth exposed, smile never reaching her eyes. Master Lachland ordered her to blink and she tilted her head again. "Blink? I'm sorry, Lachland...I don't understand." She understood what blinking was, of course, but she didn't understand why it was done or why she specifically had to do it. She had also privately tried blinking once or twice, and had wound up with her eyes closed for five minutes; the nuances of blinking still escaped her.
Keywords: modern, scenery, supernatural
Clouds hung heavy, pregnant and ready to burst. They lumbered darkly over the low-slung brick buildings occasionally broken up by tell-tale municipal granite, picking and choosing which ones to victimize like a man at a feast deciding on the dishes he most anticipated. Who would lose power? Who would lose control of their car? Who would lose everything? A keening wind threaded up the side streets, spilling over onto Main and sending leaves skittering end-over-end across the pavement and brick. The old gods of the bare-wooded mountains watched the village impassively.
Main Street itself was largely abandoned at three in the afternoon the day before the first real snowstorm of the year. It had come early, and so even the winter crickets who had procrastinated on winterizing had their milk and bread and had gone home for the afternoon. The sun hadn't dared to show itself all day and for all anyone knew the fog shrouding the town and hiding the river from view marked the end of the known world. Businesses and city services were open, but there was only a handful of citizens and half a mouthful of tourists downtown to meander in and out of the quaint shops and restaurants. Main Street, Montpelier was a place clearly designated for and dependent upon the tourism industry, described by nearly all visitors as "adorable" while they ignored the feeling of being watched from between the buildings. Even flatlanders knew, somewhere in the way backs of their minds where they never looked, that what lived in the woods didn't always stay there. It was best to be polite or, at worst, pretend you didn't know they were there.
From behind the counter of Bagitos Bagel And Burrito Cafe, Emily Gale felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. There was nothing in the cafe; she had checked, as she always did at the beginning of her shift. Still, something about the day felt off, and Em had a feeling that the only thing protecting her was the glass of the storefront. For what felt like the millionth time she scanned the empty restaurant. Same number of differently-shaped tables with mismatched chairs crowding the narrow room; same wall plastered with both new and years-old fliers for live performances, art festivals, and political rallies; same antique hutch modified to serve as a coffee-station-slash-trash-station against the wall; same even antiquer piano in the far corner opposite the door. But the sign had blown over. Again. With a sigh she pushed a bit of hair out of her face and stepped around the counter, hesitating only for a moment at the door.
Em had lived a rootless life to this point, often describing herself as a tumbleweed for more reason than one; her mother had trucked her all over the Southwest, and it wasn't until Dot had called it quits and Em had taken over the camper that she had struck out for more varied climes. Vermont had taught her quickly that while dry heat was more of a relief, dry cold was not. It was a maliciously biting dry wind that pierced her bare arms and whipped her hair while she straightened the sandwich board sign ("Now serving authentic Indian dishes!") and bolstered it with praise and encouragement against the weather. Five more hours, she told it. That's all it had to do was five more hours. With a frown she noticed that the flier the owners had allowed her to tuck into the board had flown off. Again. Once she was back inside, Em took another flier from the stack in her bag in the closet-sized breakroom and, instead of attempting to stick it to the board, taped it to the inside of the door. Let's see the wind steal that!
While she felt better about her advertisement, it didn't put her at ease about whatever had been watching her all afternoon. And now it had her name.
Em Gale, Spiritual Adviser
Tarot
Palm Readings
Auras
Chakra Realignment
Seances By Appointment Only
galeofthewest@zoho.com
Main Street itself was largely abandoned at three in the afternoon the day before the first real snowstorm of the year. It had come early, and so even the winter crickets who had procrastinated on winterizing had their milk and bread and had gone home for the afternoon. The sun hadn't dared to show itself all day and for all anyone knew the fog shrouding the town and hiding the river from view marked the end of the known world. Businesses and city services were open, but there was only a handful of citizens and half a mouthful of tourists downtown to meander in and out of the quaint shops and restaurants. Main Street, Montpelier was a place clearly designated for and dependent upon the tourism industry, described by nearly all visitors as "adorable" while they ignored the feeling of being watched from between the buildings. Even flatlanders knew, somewhere in the way backs of their minds where they never looked, that what lived in the woods didn't always stay there. It was best to be polite or, at worst, pretend you didn't know they were there.
From behind the counter of Bagitos Bagel And Burrito Cafe, Emily Gale felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. There was nothing in the cafe; she had checked, as she always did at the beginning of her shift. Still, something about the day felt off, and Em had a feeling that the only thing protecting her was the glass of the storefront. For what felt like the millionth time she scanned the empty restaurant. Same number of differently-shaped tables with mismatched chairs crowding the narrow room; same wall plastered with both new and years-old fliers for live performances, art festivals, and political rallies; same antique hutch modified to serve as a coffee-station-slash-trash-station against the wall; same even antiquer piano in the far corner opposite the door. But the sign had blown over. Again. With a sigh she pushed a bit of hair out of her face and stepped around the counter, hesitating only for a moment at the door.
Em had lived a rootless life to this point, often describing herself as a tumbleweed for more reason than one; her mother had trucked her all over the Southwest, and it wasn't until Dot had called it quits and Em had taken over the camper that she had struck out for more varied climes. Vermont had taught her quickly that while dry heat was more of a relief, dry cold was not. It was a maliciously biting dry wind that pierced her bare arms and whipped her hair while she straightened the sandwich board sign ("Now serving authentic Indian dishes!") and bolstered it with praise and encouragement against the weather. Five more hours, she told it. That's all it had to do was five more hours. With a frown she noticed that the flier the owners had allowed her to tuck into the board had flown off. Again. Once she was back inside, Em took another flier from the stack in her bag in the closet-sized breakroom and, instead of attempting to stick it to the board, taped it to the inside of the door. Let's see the wind steal that!
While she felt better about her advertisement, it didn't put her at ease about whatever had been watching her all afternoon. And now it had her name.
Em Gale, Spiritual Adviser
Tarot
Palm Readings
Auras
Chakra Realignment
Seances By Appointment Only
galeofthewest@zoho.com
Keywords: automaton, fantasy, future, multiple characters, scifi, steampunk,
A warm wind blew out over the bay, carrying the scent of salt and sand off of of the harbor. Mersong drifted across town on the breeze. Travelers and tourists were beginning to converge on Port Mazanca in anticipation of the solstice, but the Merfolk had started early. They always did. Tamsyn smirked; the Merfolk knew how to have a good party, and more than once she'd snuck out to the pier in the middle of the night to follow what her father only half-jokingly called the "siren song." He would be keeping a closer watch on her until after the solstice and for that reason alone she highly suspected that Julen knew of her adventures.
She wiped the sweat off her brow and glanced sullenly up at the sun, then wiped again. She had stepped out of the stuffy mechanic's bay to get some air, but not even the breeze had cooled her despite the early hour. With a sigh Tamsyn began to turn back toward the shop, but paused as an aeroship began docking. She scowled at it for a moment before turning her head to call inside.
"Hey Pa!" While she waited she never took her eyes off of the ship. "Whad'ya think?" she asked as Julen emerged. "Some sorta Confederation junker?" She folded her arms across her chest as they watched.
Tamsyn bore no physical resemblance to her mother; Minette--long since passed--had been wide-hipped, with soft curves and soft chestnut eyes and hair and a voice like nightwaves. Nor did she bear resemblance to her father, tall and broad Julen with thick forearms and strong shoulders, with hair black where it wasn't gray and his piercing gaze. They had never discussed the fact that she was adopted, but she knew it for a fact nonetheless. Twiggy, freckle-faced Tamsyn whose only notable curves came from the ripe blossom of womanhood--and those only average--whose vulpine coloring always made her easy to find in a town like this, had known from a young age that anyone would have to be blind or stupid not to see that her mother had not birthed her. But as they stood at the bay of their garage in nearly identical stances, arms folded the same way, chins tilted up, eyes squinting against the sun, there could be no doubt whose daughter she was. As they watched the new ship, a stranger in a port which saw few of those, she nudged Julen with her elbow and pointed.
"That figurehead, hey?"
It was difficult to spot from here, but those with sharp eyes might be able to make out the flowing, maned figurehead of a dragon. The newcomers were recklessly brave, fools, or dangerous. Or some combination of the three.
"What'd you figure they want?"
"Lady Nyrissa, huh?" Tamsyn continued to squint up at the ship as it berthed. "Welp, something tells me that wherever she's lady of, they don't know she's here. Where better to get something fixed or manufactured when you want to keep it a secret than somewhere like Port Mazanca?" With a sniff and a shake of her head, she rolled up her sleeves, pulled her goggles back down over her eyes, and headed back into the garage bay. "Whatever you agreed to do for her Pa, I sure hope you know what you're getting into."
~*~
"Widget darling, this is no time for games. We're already late as it is." Lady Nyrissa wasn't actual nobility; far from it. But Madame Nyrissa had always seemed too crass, too on-the-nose for her tastes. She pushed the back onto her earring and glanced in the mirror at the gyndroid. "I realize your programming has told you that it's appropriate for midmorning but we really must work on your discernment. Do put some clothes on please."
Widget frowned slightly and tilted her head. "But it is 10:15," she pointed out. "You always have need of me at 10:15."
"Nearly always," she corrected, smoothing down her skirts. "Sometimes our routines are interrupted, dear. And for the last time, put on some clothes. I won't parade you naked down the street like that." She gestured vaguely to the automaton, whose dress lay pooled around its feet. "It isn't respectable, and you know my feelings on respectability."
This was the primary reason they had come to Port Mazanca. Nyrissa had asked around for a mechanic who knew what they were doing, but who was also subtle. That had led them to this little nowhere tourist town and to Maza Mechanical. Widget had, in addition to a few physical issues, been questioning and second-guessing. It was irritating at best, but it had also meant that she'd had to take her out of port rotation until the issue was fixed. It wouldn't do, after all, for it to get around that Lady Nyrissa had a disobedient automaton who questioned her customers. She was losing money now with Widget out of the equation but it would be bad for business in the long run if she allowed the defect to continue in front of patrons. Once the bot was finally dressed Nyrissa strode briskly across the room and took her hand, opening the door impatiently with the other and almost immediately nearly tripping.
"Gwenner." She raised her eyebrows in mild surprised and looked down at the dwarf. "You're coming assure with us?"
Gwenner shrugged. "Is Solstice." This seemed to be enough explanation for her.
The Last Dwarf in existence was in general a woman of few words, at least without copious amounts of alcohol to pry her open. She also seemed to struggle with grasping Common, even after five years out of the ice which had preserved her, but what could you do? Language changed a lot in 12,000 years. Her face was generally a facade of craggy stone, and watching her moved to expression was a bit like watching water trickle along a mountain face, carving rivulets and canyons across eons. Even now as Nyrissa watched she thought she saw a fractional upturn of the corner of Gwenner's lips, perhaps a dull sparkle of excitement in her slate-colored eyes, but one could never be certain.
~*~
"So what exactly do you plan to do for Solstice?" Nyrissa inquired as they moved through the crowd. People stared at Widget, but she hadn't the capacity to care and Nyrissa had long since grown accustomed to it.
Gwenner shrugged. "Eat. Drink. Bed strange mens end be kicking out of them in mornink." She looked up at Nyrissa. "Is still how Solstice is of doing, yes?"
She inclined her head briefly. "Generally. Here, this is it."
Maza Mechanical Garage and Repair wasn't a large operation by any means, but it looked like they had their fair share of business. An airship was docked in one bay while in the other a security bot waited for attention. They really did do all sorts, didn't they? Nyrissa closed her parasol hooking it over one wrist and taking Widget by the hand with the other as they stepped into the mechanics bay where it was shadier but no cooler. With instructions to the robot to stay, she carefully stepped over to a pair of legs sticking out from under the airship and tapped them gently so as not to startle the mechanic. To her surprise a girl rolled out, no more than seventeen, and pushed her goggles up onto her forehead.
"Help you?"
"Yes, I'm looking for Julen minCarlile?"
"You Lady Nyrissa?" At a nod, the girl tilted her head back and her chest inflated before bellowing, "PA!! Lady Nyrissa's here!" The call echoed in the high rafters of the garage. With a grunt she sat up, then pushed herself to her feet and wiped off her hands. "Tamsyn monJulen," she said, sticking out her hand to shake. Widget provided a handkerchief once Nyrissa had done so. Tamsyn turned and looked down, and her eyes went wide. "You're a dwarf!"
"The Lest Dorf," Gwenner confirmed, shaking her hand firmly. "End you are gorrel."
Tamsyn nodded. That was fair enough. "The only girl," she returned, "here, anyway. And you are...?" She stuck her hand out to the pale woman.
"I am Widget." The answer was somewhat stilted and Tamsyn thought she caught a glimpse of displeasure in Lady Nyrissa's expression. Widget shook her hand. "Pleased to meet you." The smile was unsettlingly stiff, and she didn't blink. Her eyes seemed to glow slightly, but surely that was just a trick of the light coming into the bay of the dim garage.
How many posh ladies does it take to visit a mechanic? The opening of the joke made Tamsyn's lip quirk a little in amusement, and though she was quick to hide it she suspected Lady Nyrissa had caught it. The Lady's dress with its coppery-iridescent sheen put her in mind of a bug. Maybe something in the beetle family, Tamsyn mused, or a grasshopper.
"Widget is why we are here," Lady Nyrissa informed her in a very businesslike manner. "But I think it best if we wait for your father." The information was met with raised eyebrows, which was as much as Nyrissa had expected. A town like this she didn't imagine saw many pleasure bots, and certainly none as sophisticated as Widget. Nyrissa had built her herself, after all; a better, more advanced gynoid. She had a few of the cheap, mass-produced Xen bots lying around...but they weren't as lifelike and they broke easily. You got what you paid for. Widget was her primary moneymaker, usually even outearning her flesh-and-blood girls.
"She's very advanced," Tamsyn said, stepping forward to get a better look. "I mean, I've never seen one in real life before, but I've seen pictures of the Xen line. One of the guys had a calendar up in the office." She blushed a little. Julen had told Garreth to take it down because he didn't want his daughter seeing "that trash" in the shared office, but it was one of the few sources of ideal feminine beauty she had seen. "But you can still tell they're bots, even in pictures. It's in the eyes, and they hold themselves too stiff. May I...?" She gestured to the tiny nick in synthetic skin at the nape of Widget's neck. Without a mechanic's eye, no one would have seen it if they hadn't already known it was there.
Nyrissa nodded. Carefully Tamsyn removed the hair and peeled back the synthetic skin, revealing smooth musclework held together and functioning by thousands of tiny gears. Gradually she peeled back more and more, down to Widget's waist, and as she uncovered the skull she found the multifunction; pleasure bot, weapon, fixer. Tamsyn breathed in sharply as she counted all the functions in the skull alone.
"She's beautiful," she murmured, admiring the gearwork.
"Thank you." The voice was the same, but it was disturbing to watch her talk without lips to form the words.
Tamsyn looked up at Nyrissa, pausing as she circled Widget. "Steam?"
She inclined her head slightly. "And a bit of magic."
"So what's--Pa!" She stood on her toes to look over Widget's shoulder as Julen appeared. "You didn't tell me it was a bot like this!"
She wiped the sweat off her brow and glanced sullenly up at the sun, then wiped again. She had stepped out of the stuffy mechanic's bay to get some air, but not even the breeze had cooled her despite the early hour. With a sigh Tamsyn began to turn back toward the shop, but paused as an aeroship began docking. She scowled at it for a moment before turning her head to call inside.
"Hey Pa!" While she waited she never took her eyes off of the ship. "Whad'ya think?" she asked as Julen emerged. "Some sorta Confederation junker?" She folded her arms across her chest as they watched.
Tamsyn bore no physical resemblance to her mother; Minette--long since passed--had been wide-hipped, with soft curves and soft chestnut eyes and hair and a voice like nightwaves. Nor did she bear resemblance to her father, tall and broad Julen with thick forearms and strong shoulders, with hair black where it wasn't gray and his piercing gaze. They had never discussed the fact that she was adopted, but she knew it for a fact nonetheless. Twiggy, freckle-faced Tamsyn whose only notable curves came from the ripe blossom of womanhood--and those only average--whose vulpine coloring always made her easy to find in a town like this, had known from a young age that anyone would have to be blind or stupid not to see that her mother had not birthed her. But as they stood at the bay of their garage in nearly identical stances, arms folded the same way, chins tilted up, eyes squinting against the sun, there could be no doubt whose daughter she was. As they watched the new ship, a stranger in a port which saw few of those, she nudged Julen with her elbow and pointed.
"That figurehead, hey?"
It was difficult to spot from here, but those with sharp eyes might be able to make out the flowing, maned figurehead of a dragon. The newcomers were recklessly brave, fools, or dangerous. Or some combination of the three.
"What'd you figure they want?"
"Lady Nyrissa, huh?" Tamsyn continued to squint up at the ship as it berthed. "Welp, something tells me that wherever she's lady of, they don't know she's here. Where better to get something fixed or manufactured when you want to keep it a secret than somewhere like Port Mazanca?" With a sniff and a shake of her head, she rolled up her sleeves, pulled her goggles back down over her eyes, and headed back into the garage bay. "Whatever you agreed to do for her Pa, I sure hope you know what you're getting into."
~*~
"Widget darling, this is no time for games. We're already late as it is." Lady Nyrissa wasn't actual nobility; far from it. But Madame Nyrissa had always seemed too crass, too on-the-nose for her tastes. She pushed the back onto her earring and glanced in the mirror at the gyndroid. "I realize your programming has told you that it's appropriate for midmorning but we really must work on your discernment. Do put some clothes on please."
Widget frowned slightly and tilted her head. "But it is 10:15," she pointed out. "You always have need of me at 10:15."
"Nearly always," she corrected, smoothing down her skirts. "Sometimes our routines are interrupted, dear. And for the last time, put on some clothes. I won't parade you naked down the street like that." She gestured vaguely to the automaton, whose dress lay pooled around its feet. "It isn't respectable, and you know my feelings on respectability."
This was the primary reason they had come to Port Mazanca. Nyrissa had asked around for a mechanic who knew what they were doing, but who was also subtle. That had led them to this little nowhere tourist town and to Maza Mechanical. Widget had, in addition to a few physical issues, been questioning and second-guessing. It was irritating at best, but it had also meant that she'd had to take her out of port rotation until the issue was fixed. It wouldn't do, after all, for it to get around that Lady Nyrissa had a disobedient automaton who questioned her customers. She was losing money now with Widget out of the equation but it would be bad for business in the long run if she allowed the defect to continue in front of patrons. Once the bot was finally dressed Nyrissa strode briskly across the room and took her hand, opening the door impatiently with the other and almost immediately nearly tripping.
"Gwenner." She raised her eyebrows in mild surprised and looked down at the dwarf. "You're coming assure with us?"
Gwenner shrugged. "Is Solstice." This seemed to be enough explanation for her.
The Last Dwarf in existence was in general a woman of few words, at least without copious amounts of alcohol to pry her open. She also seemed to struggle with grasping Common, even after five years out of the ice which had preserved her, but what could you do? Language changed a lot in 12,000 years. Her face was generally a facade of craggy stone, and watching her moved to expression was a bit like watching water trickle along a mountain face, carving rivulets and canyons across eons. Even now as Nyrissa watched she thought she saw a fractional upturn of the corner of Gwenner's lips, perhaps a dull sparkle of excitement in her slate-colored eyes, but one could never be certain.
~*~
"So what exactly do you plan to do for Solstice?" Nyrissa inquired as they moved through the crowd. People stared at Widget, but she hadn't the capacity to care and Nyrissa had long since grown accustomed to it.
Gwenner shrugged. "Eat. Drink. Bed strange mens end be kicking out of them in mornink." She looked up at Nyrissa. "Is still how Solstice is of doing, yes?"
She inclined her head briefly. "Generally. Here, this is it."
Maza Mechanical Garage and Repair wasn't a large operation by any means, but it looked like they had their fair share of business. An airship was docked in one bay while in the other a security bot waited for attention. They really did do all sorts, didn't they? Nyrissa closed her parasol hooking it over one wrist and taking Widget by the hand with the other as they stepped into the mechanics bay where it was shadier but no cooler. With instructions to the robot to stay, she carefully stepped over to a pair of legs sticking out from under the airship and tapped them gently so as not to startle the mechanic. To her surprise a girl rolled out, no more than seventeen, and pushed her goggles up onto her forehead.
"Help you?"
"Yes, I'm looking for Julen minCarlile?"
"You Lady Nyrissa?" At a nod, the girl tilted her head back and her chest inflated before bellowing, "PA!! Lady Nyrissa's here!" The call echoed in the high rafters of the garage. With a grunt she sat up, then pushed herself to her feet and wiped off her hands. "Tamsyn monJulen," she said, sticking out her hand to shake. Widget provided a handkerchief once Nyrissa had done so. Tamsyn turned and looked down, and her eyes went wide. "You're a dwarf!"
"The Lest Dorf," Gwenner confirmed, shaking her hand firmly. "End you are gorrel."
Tamsyn nodded. That was fair enough. "The only girl," she returned, "here, anyway. And you are...?" She stuck her hand out to the pale woman.
"I am Widget." The answer was somewhat stilted and Tamsyn thought she caught a glimpse of displeasure in Lady Nyrissa's expression. Widget shook her hand. "Pleased to meet you." The smile was unsettlingly stiff, and she didn't blink. Her eyes seemed to glow slightly, but surely that was just a trick of the light coming into the bay of the dim garage.
How many posh ladies does it take to visit a mechanic? The opening of the joke made Tamsyn's lip quirk a little in amusement, and though she was quick to hide it she suspected Lady Nyrissa had caught it. The Lady's dress with its coppery-iridescent sheen put her in mind of a bug. Maybe something in the beetle family, Tamsyn mused, or a grasshopper.
"Widget is why we are here," Lady Nyrissa informed her in a very businesslike manner. "But I think it best if we wait for your father." The information was met with raised eyebrows, which was as much as Nyrissa had expected. A town like this she didn't imagine saw many pleasure bots, and certainly none as sophisticated as Widget. Nyrissa had built her herself, after all; a better, more advanced gynoid. She had a few of the cheap, mass-produced Xen bots lying around...but they weren't as lifelike and they broke easily. You got what you paid for. Widget was her primary moneymaker, usually even outearning her flesh-and-blood girls.
"She's very advanced," Tamsyn said, stepping forward to get a better look. "I mean, I've never seen one in real life before, but I've seen pictures of the Xen line. One of the guys had a calendar up in the office." She blushed a little. Julen had told Garreth to take it down because he didn't want his daughter seeing "that trash" in the shared office, but it was one of the few sources of ideal feminine beauty she had seen. "But you can still tell they're bots, even in pictures. It's in the eyes, and they hold themselves too stiff. May I...?" She gestured to the tiny nick in synthetic skin at the nape of Widget's neck. Without a mechanic's eye, no one would have seen it if they hadn't already known it was there.
Nyrissa nodded. Carefully Tamsyn removed the hair and peeled back the synthetic skin, revealing smooth musclework held together and functioning by thousands of tiny gears. Gradually she peeled back more and more, down to Widget's waist, and as she uncovered the skull she found the multifunction; pleasure bot, weapon, fixer. Tamsyn breathed in sharply as she counted all the functions in the skull alone.
"She's beautiful," she murmured, admiring the gearwork.
"Thank you." The voice was the same, but it was disturbing to watch her talk without lips to form the words.
Tamsyn looked up at Nyrissa, pausing as she circled Widget. "Steam?"
She inclined her head slightly. "And a bit of magic."
"So what's--Pa!" She stood on her toes to look over Widget's shoulder as Julen appeared. "You didn't tell me it was a bot like this!"
Keywords: period piece, scenery, unhappiness
CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of domestic abuse
Keota, Colorado
Summer, 1885
The tall grass rustled with the wind as it came curling down from the distant mountains, clashing with the prairie breeze. It was a dry sort of rustling, with the memory of April rains already long gone; not even July and green was starting to fade into dry, dead brown. Lenora missed the rain. Growing up in Ohio she had always found rainy days dreary and dull, and the snow endless and heavy, but now what she wouldn't give for a good deluge or a blizzard. Sure it got plenty cold in the winter, but the old timers said a drought could last for years here. Years. Well, it hadn't been years even though it felt like it, but the little frontier town seemed to dry up and blow away every May to October with nary a drop to spare. Thank God this year the trains had started bringing in water to pump into the new water tower to get them through it, she reflected as she wistfully watched the clouds hovering over the distant mountains. Even if they didn't rain themselves out entirely over the peaks, they'd never make it here.
Her husband Leroy had moved them out here two years after they got married. He'd been a dashing, heroic sort of figure, twenty years her senior, a war veteran though he'd neglected for several years to mention that he had fought alongside his brothers back in his native Arkansas. As a friend of her father's and with a decent education it was a smart match; nobody doubted he would be able to take care of her, especially not when they were heading for California and the riches of the coast. But their ox had died in Keota, and they knew they would never be able to make it over the mountains with nothing but a sack and a mule, so here they were...and Keota had little use for lawyers. So Leroy had improvised his trade and made his living as a wagoner, something his wife secretly rather resented for all the mobility it presented to strangers but none for her. Still, they were well-respected and well-liked, and Leroy made enough as a wagoner and lost little enough at poker that they were able to take care of themselves.
The ceiling fan swung in lazy circles in the general store, doing little to cool either owner or patrons. Lenora glanced reproachfully up at it before stepping up to the counter with a smile. Mr. Hoskins, the proprietor, and his wife were an older couple who always had a smile and a kind word for everyone, but especially, it seemed, for Lenora. They reminded her a bit of her grandparents. Today it was Mrs. Hoskins, rosy-cheeked and steel-haired, behind the counter.
"And what can I get you today dear?" she beamed.
Lenora couldn't help but grin back. "Five pounds of beans, a pound of fatback, a pound of cornmeal, and lard if you've got it. Please," she added.
Mrs. Hoskins put a finger to the side of her nose. "Sounds like some of that delicious cornbread of yours. What's the occasion?"
She shrugged. "No occasion. Just got a hankerin'." Hankerin'. It was a word she had picked up from Leroy, and a word that made her sound like she fit in better here. Most of the people Out West, it seemed, were from the South. The Hoskinses themselves were from Kentucky.
"Will that be all honey?" Mrs. Hoskins began wrapping the bundle as the door open and closed behind Lenora. "I'll be with you in a moment, sir," she called over Lenora's shoulder. As she looked back down to her work, her eyes found the younger woman's exposed forearms. Lenora covered them quickly with her shawl, but it wasn't quick enough to avoid Mrs. Hoskins from studying her more carefully and catching the corner of another bruise at her collarbone and along the curve of her neck. "Need anything else?" she asked again. "Bandages? Compress? No charge..."
"Thank you Mrs. Hoskins, but no," Lenora said quietly with a weak smile as she laid out her money on the counter. "Think I might take a look at those books on the circular though. I'm not out of your hair just yet." After tucking her purchases under one arm Lenora made good on her promise, ambling over to the circular rack to look at the new shipment of paperbacks that had just come in.
Everybody knew about the Browns and their...troubles. They knew that Leroy was at the saloon nearly every night, drinking and whoring. They saw the bruises along Lenora's arms and neck and speculated about what horrors her clothes might hide. They knew his patterns, and they knew when not to expect to see Lenora for a few days, until the swelling had gone down and the majority of the bruises had faded enough for people to pretend that their eyes hadn't wandered to her cheek or her lip more than once. Nobody said anything though; what a man did in his own home was his business, and it wasn't like he'd ever broken bones or anything. (Dr. Fisher had once set a finger for Lenora, and gently pushed her nose back into place so it would heal mostly-straight, but that was doctor-patient confidentiality wasn't it?) Chances were that sweet as she was in public she was a scold behind closed doors; while women expressed sympathy, the menfolk often joked amongst themselves that Leroy set an example for them all and they ought to do the same if only they weren't worried that their wives might run off. So thusly, the Browns remained well-liked among members of their respective sexes and suspected among those of the opposite. It was for this reason that Mrs. Hoskins would offer Lenora compresses for free while pretending to Leroy that they had run out of corn liquor, but Mr. Hoskins would sell it to him gladly.
Lenora had stayed in the store for more than one reason, however. She had caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of the man who had walked into the general store behind her; he was a stranger. While Keota itself was a stop on the Prairie Dog Express, it was one of the last stops and strangers in these parts were few and far between, and untrusted. Anyone who got off for more than a stretch instead of going on to Denver was suspect at best. The good folk of Keota looked after their own and closed ranks whenever someone new rolled through town. With Mr. Hoskins out of town to fetch a shipment of flour and sugar from the city after unexpectedly running low, his wife was here all on her own. She knew she couldn't do much, but Lenora felt it her duty to stay with Mrs. Hoskins and "browse" while the dust-covered stranger in the black hat filled his order then, hopefully, went on his way.
Keota, Colorado
Summer, 1885
The tall grass rustled with the wind as it came curling down from the distant mountains, clashing with the prairie breeze. It was a dry sort of rustling, with the memory of April rains already long gone; not even July and green was starting to fade into dry, dead brown. Lenora missed the rain. Growing up in Ohio she had always found rainy days dreary and dull, and the snow endless and heavy, but now what she wouldn't give for a good deluge or a blizzard. Sure it got plenty cold in the winter, but the old timers said a drought could last for years here. Years. Well, it hadn't been years even though it felt like it, but the little frontier town seemed to dry up and blow away every May to October with nary a drop to spare. Thank God this year the trains had started bringing in water to pump into the new water tower to get them through it, she reflected as she wistfully watched the clouds hovering over the distant mountains. Even if they didn't rain themselves out entirely over the peaks, they'd never make it here.
Her husband Leroy had moved them out here two years after they got married. He'd been a dashing, heroic sort of figure, twenty years her senior, a war veteran though he'd neglected for several years to mention that he had fought alongside his brothers back in his native Arkansas. As a friend of her father's and with a decent education it was a smart match; nobody doubted he would be able to take care of her, especially not when they were heading for California and the riches of the coast. But their ox had died in Keota, and they knew they would never be able to make it over the mountains with nothing but a sack and a mule, so here they were...and Keota had little use for lawyers. So Leroy had improvised his trade and made his living as a wagoner, something his wife secretly rather resented for all the mobility it presented to strangers but none for her. Still, they were well-respected and well-liked, and Leroy made enough as a wagoner and lost little enough at poker that they were able to take care of themselves.
The ceiling fan swung in lazy circles in the general store, doing little to cool either owner or patrons. Lenora glanced reproachfully up at it before stepping up to the counter with a smile. Mr. Hoskins, the proprietor, and his wife were an older couple who always had a smile and a kind word for everyone, but especially, it seemed, for Lenora. They reminded her a bit of her grandparents. Today it was Mrs. Hoskins, rosy-cheeked and steel-haired, behind the counter.
"And what can I get you today dear?" she beamed.
Lenora couldn't help but grin back. "Five pounds of beans, a pound of fatback, a pound of cornmeal, and lard if you've got it. Please," she added.
Mrs. Hoskins put a finger to the side of her nose. "Sounds like some of that delicious cornbread of yours. What's the occasion?"
She shrugged. "No occasion. Just got a hankerin'." Hankerin'. It was a word she had picked up from Leroy, and a word that made her sound like she fit in better here. Most of the people Out West, it seemed, were from the South. The Hoskinses themselves were from Kentucky.
"Will that be all honey?" Mrs. Hoskins began wrapping the bundle as the door open and closed behind Lenora. "I'll be with you in a moment, sir," she called over Lenora's shoulder. As she looked back down to her work, her eyes found the younger woman's exposed forearms. Lenora covered them quickly with her shawl, but it wasn't quick enough to avoid Mrs. Hoskins from studying her more carefully and catching the corner of another bruise at her collarbone and along the curve of her neck. "Need anything else?" she asked again. "Bandages? Compress? No charge..."
"Thank you Mrs. Hoskins, but no," Lenora said quietly with a weak smile as she laid out her money on the counter. "Think I might take a look at those books on the circular though. I'm not out of your hair just yet." After tucking her purchases under one arm Lenora made good on her promise, ambling over to the circular rack to look at the new shipment of paperbacks that had just come in.
Everybody knew about the Browns and their...troubles. They knew that Leroy was at the saloon nearly every night, drinking and whoring. They saw the bruises along Lenora's arms and neck and speculated about what horrors her clothes might hide. They knew his patterns, and they knew when not to expect to see Lenora for a few days, until the swelling had gone down and the majority of the bruises had faded enough for people to pretend that their eyes hadn't wandered to her cheek or her lip more than once. Nobody said anything though; what a man did in his own home was his business, and it wasn't like he'd ever broken bones or anything. (Dr. Fisher had once set a finger for Lenora, and gently pushed her nose back into place so it would heal mostly-straight, but that was doctor-patient confidentiality wasn't it?) Chances were that sweet as she was in public she was a scold behind closed doors; while women expressed sympathy, the menfolk often joked amongst themselves that Leroy set an example for them all and they ought to do the same if only they weren't worried that their wives might run off. So thusly, the Browns remained well-liked among members of their respective sexes and suspected among those of the opposite. It was for this reason that Mrs. Hoskins would offer Lenora compresses for free while pretending to Leroy that they had run out of corn liquor, but Mr. Hoskins would sell it to him gladly.
Lenora had stayed in the store for more than one reason, however. She had caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of the man who had walked into the general store behind her; he was a stranger. While Keota itself was a stop on the Prairie Dog Express, it was one of the last stops and strangers in these parts were few and far between, and untrusted. Anyone who got off for more than a stretch instead of going on to Denver was suspect at best. The good folk of Keota looked after their own and closed ranks whenever someone new rolled through town. With Mr. Hoskins out of town to fetch a shipment of flour and sugar from the city after unexpectedly running low, his wife was here all on her own. She knew she couldn't do much, but Lenora felt it her duty to stay with Mrs. Hoskins and "browse" while the dust-covered stranger in the black hat filled his order then, hopefully, went on his way.
Keywords: breeding, feisty, future, scifi, scenery, trickery,
Final approach commencing.
The cool voice interrupted Tamsyn's thoughts and she glanced out the window before immediately regretting it. She hadn't even liked flying on Earth; what made her think she'd be able to tolerate looking out the window of a space shuttle? She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, taking slow, deep breaths through her nose. She had saved up a little extra for the cryosleep class, keeping a couple years on her lifespan and saving her unnecessary views of the maddening infinity of space, but they had woken everyone in cryosleep nearly an hour ago to ready them for landing on the colonized planet. Ararat was what they called it...a place for new beginnings. A place she desperately needed.
Anthropology had been...well, it had been a stupid decision was what it had been. It wasn't as though she could have gone down to the anthropology factory, put in a hearty blue collar 9-to-5 building anthropologies, then cracked open a cold one with the boys after work. But it had been her passion and her mother, whatever else she had been or done, had always encouraged her to pursue her passion. Don't matter if you make a million bucks a day if you're miserable doing it. It was sound advice and for a time, Tamsyn had been happy. Sure, she hadn't been looking forward to the publish-or-perish world of academia once she'd completed her PhD, but that was years off. She had been perfectly content working as her professor's assistant.
It had been specializing in cults where she had gone wrong.
Well, that wasn't entirely true either. Where she had really gone wrong was underestimating exactly how dangerous the leader was and embedding herself in the group for academic purposes. Not realizing that Dr. Philips had been compromised hadn't helped either. In danger, needing a place to get away, uncertain whether she would survive another attempt on her 19-year-old life, Ararat had seemed like a good idea at the time. It had seemed like a good idea all the way up until the point Tamsyn had found herself sitting in a chair pointed face-first toward the sky with a maddeningly calm countdown coming through her pod speakers.
Initializing docking sequence.
Thank Christ! Tamsyn risked opening her eyes and swallowed nervously, unable to see anything out the window anymore except for the shuttle next to them. With a deep breath she unbuckled herself and waited for her pod to open.
What followed next was a cacophony of voices, all of them shouting different instructions at her. At one point she was physically hustled along into a line where she stood with other women. A tall man in fatigues came down the line as they waited, grabbing each woman's arm in turn and pressing something similar to a piercing gun to her skin. Tamsyn frowned when he reached the woman next to her. Some sort of immunization?
"Arm." He sounded bored as he reached for her wrist, then scowled when she pulled away. "Gimme your arm, Miss."
"What's it for?"
"It's required." The soldier looked down at her, then pointed at the shuttle when she didn't budge. "Look, you don't want it fine. You can get right back in that shuttle and go back to whatever shithole you just came from. Otherwise, give me your goddamn arm. I got shit to do today."
She only hesitated a moment longer before sighing then sticking her arm out with a sneer. "You still haven't told me what it's for." She jutted her chin out stubbornly, but hissed with pain when the needle went in.
"It's in your blood, kid, not the tissue. So don't get any fuckin' ideas, alright?" The soldier moved to the next woman without explaining further what he'd meant or what was in the needle. Needles, plural; when Tamsyn looked at the mark on the inside of her elbow there were three pinpricks.
"Next!"
She hefted her pack—it seemed strange to her that all of her worldly possessions now fit in a single rucksack—and stepped forward.
"Name?"
"Camden," she said, and peered over to read the names on the list upside-down. "Tamsyn Camden." The woman with a severe bun looked up at her and arched an eyebrow, to which she shrugged. "Yeah I'm pretty sure my parents hated me, too. I'm here for anthropology assignment."
The soldier scanned the list before marking her name off with a pencil. "You're assigned to Lieutenant General Faro. Your residency breeding quota is two. Next!"
"What?" Tamsyn laughed nervously then reached into her pocket. "No, I'm sorry there's been some mistake. I've got a breeding waiver." She unfolded the slip of paper the recruiter at the dock had given her and slid it over to the soldier. "See? Just here to work, that's all."
She took it, glanced it over, then snorted. "Yeah this is fake. No such thing as a breeding waiver. Next!" She crumpled up the waiver and tossed it into the waste bin at her knee.
"What?" Her head swung wildly back and forth as she shrank away from approaching soldiers and bumped into the woman behind her. "No, there's been a mistake! I didn't sign up for this, I—Get your fucking hands off of me!"
Tamsyn struggled against the men with Security Forces patches on their arms. They were bigger than her, and certainly stronger than her, but she wouldn't allow them to do this to her. If she couldn't fight, she would have to run, and unfortunately her only option was deeper into the docking station. The one holding her arm apparently didn't expect this, as he wasn't holding her that firmly and she managed to slip under his arm and sprint down the hall. Boots thudded behind her on the polished linoleum. Or was that just her pulse? It didn't matter: she only made it about twenty yards before she felt the full body weight of one of the beefy MPs against her back. They went down together with a grunt and she more heard than felt her skin make an almost cartoonish squeaking sound against the linoleum as they skidded a few feet.
"Let go of me! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" She looked around wildly as she squirmed under the soldier's thick body, but nobody moved. Rather, they watched as though she was a particularly interesting animal at the zoo.
The soldier had managed to push himself to his knees and turned her onto her back, where held the wriggling girl by the bicep while his other hand went for his cuffs. "Tamsyn Camden, you're being detained for trying to—oof!" He let go in surprise when she brought both boots squarely into his chest with all of her strength. Tamsyn tried to scramble to her feet, but tripped and nearly faceplanted when he managed to catch one of her ankles and drag her towards him. "Tamsyn Camden," he began again, "you're being det—motherfucker!" He reeled back, clutching his face as his blood dripped onto the clean powder blue tile. She would have a hell of a headache once the adrenaline wore off, but headbutting him had seemed like the right thing to do in the moment.
Again Tamsyn scrambled to her feet and this time managed to get some traction. Another twenty yards. Fifty. One hundred. She was just starting to think maybe she could outrun them when her entire body exploded in pain and she was left twitching and dazed on the ground. Above her the two soldiers swam into view, one of them still holding the taser and the other—the one with the bloody nose—sneering and gripping his baton.
"You're lucky we're not allowed to leave bruises," he snarled before kneeling at her side. "Tamsyn Camden, you're being detained for trying to enter the planet illegally and evading your contractual obligations. You will be remanded to the custody of your legal guardian…"
~*~
She was late. SSgt Ramirez glanced nervously at her watch, then at the General. She had served with him at the battle of Thule. He was a good man. At first she hadn't understood why he was here of all places, surely a man like him could… Well, but that was it, wasn't it? Married to the job, and not the type to fraternize. She supposed that made a sort of sense. Still, it wasn't a good look that she was late.
"The shuttle was a bit slow in docking," she lied. "She should be here any minute." Ramirez glanced at her watch again, then up the gangway where other so-called Colony Brides met their sponsors with smiles and cordial handshakes or sometimes hugs. Fifteen minutes. Where the piss was she?
Cahill and Abel came down the gangway, frogmarching a girl between them. She was cuffed and sullen and…muzzled? Ramirez frowned and strode to meet them.
"The fuck is this?" she demanded. "Cahill, the fuck happened?"
"She happened." Cahill sniffed uselessly. This apparently ripped free the fragile clot in his nose and blood started leaking again. "One of the recruiters told her about the breeding waiver."
Ramirez rolled her eyes. "Christ on a bike! LT needs to do something about them. Give her to me." She took Tamsyn's arm gently and looked at her with what Tamsyn supposed was the closest approximation of kindness she could manage. "You alright sweetie? They hurt you?"
"Did we--!" Cahill bit down on his outrage at an impatient gesture from his NCO.
"Why's she got this?" She gestured to the muzzle. Cahill and Abel glanced at each other and shifted uneasily.
"She uh...she bites, ma'am." Abel held his forearm out, where there were several imprints of teeth. Most were bruises, but one had managed to draw a little blood.
"And that, Abel, is why you don't roll your sleeves." Ramirez smirked up at him before looking at Tamsyn. "Let's make a deal, sweetie. I'll take that off, and you don't bite me. Deal?" When she was met with only a glare she sighed and rubbed her face. "Look, work with me kid. If you're here, means you ain't got nothin' left back home. There's no such thing as a breeding waiver, and even if you could go back research has started coming out that multiple cryo rounds shorten your telomeres by like 50%. You know what telomeres are?" When Tamsyn nodded she sighed again. "Look, I'm sorry you were lied to, but this is where you are now. General Faro's a good man. You could do a hell of a lot worse." Reaching around, she unlocked the muzzle and hooked it to her belt. Tamsyn spat. Ramirez sighed. "Fine, whatever. I'm done playing nice."
Gripping the center of the cuffs, she dragged the girl over to General Faro. "You want the muzzle too, sir?"
The cool voice interrupted Tamsyn's thoughts and she glanced out the window before immediately regretting it. She hadn't even liked flying on Earth; what made her think she'd be able to tolerate looking out the window of a space shuttle? She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, taking slow, deep breaths through her nose. She had saved up a little extra for the cryosleep class, keeping a couple years on her lifespan and saving her unnecessary views of the maddening infinity of space, but they had woken everyone in cryosleep nearly an hour ago to ready them for landing on the colonized planet. Ararat was what they called it...a place for new beginnings. A place she desperately needed.
Anthropology had been...well, it had been a stupid decision was what it had been. It wasn't as though she could have gone down to the anthropology factory, put in a hearty blue collar 9-to-5 building anthropologies, then cracked open a cold one with the boys after work. But it had been her passion and her mother, whatever else she had been or done, had always encouraged her to pursue her passion. Don't matter if you make a million bucks a day if you're miserable doing it. It was sound advice and for a time, Tamsyn had been happy. Sure, she hadn't been looking forward to the publish-or-perish world of academia once she'd completed her PhD, but that was years off. She had been perfectly content working as her professor's assistant.
It had been specializing in cults where she had gone wrong.
Well, that wasn't entirely true either. Where she had really gone wrong was underestimating exactly how dangerous the leader was and embedding herself in the group for academic purposes. Not realizing that Dr. Philips had been compromised hadn't helped either. In danger, needing a place to get away, uncertain whether she would survive another attempt on her 19-year-old life, Ararat had seemed like a good idea at the time. It had seemed like a good idea all the way up until the point Tamsyn had found herself sitting in a chair pointed face-first toward the sky with a maddeningly calm countdown coming through her pod speakers.
Initializing docking sequence.
Thank Christ! Tamsyn risked opening her eyes and swallowed nervously, unable to see anything out the window anymore except for the shuttle next to them. With a deep breath she unbuckled herself and waited for her pod to open.
What followed next was a cacophony of voices, all of them shouting different instructions at her. At one point she was physically hustled along into a line where she stood with other women. A tall man in fatigues came down the line as they waited, grabbing each woman's arm in turn and pressing something similar to a piercing gun to her skin. Tamsyn frowned when he reached the woman next to her. Some sort of immunization?
"Arm." He sounded bored as he reached for her wrist, then scowled when she pulled away. "Gimme your arm, Miss."
"What's it for?"
"It's required." The soldier looked down at her, then pointed at the shuttle when she didn't budge. "Look, you don't want it fine. You can get right back in that shuttle and go back to whatever shithole you just came from. Otherwise, give me your goddamn arm. I got shit to do today."
She only hesitated a moment longer before sighing then sticking her arm out with a sneer. "You still haven't told me what it's for." She jutted her chin out stubbornly, but hissed with pain when the needle went in.
"It's in your blood, kid, not the tissue. So don't get any fuckin' ideas, alright?" The soldier moved to the next woman without explaining further what he'd meant or what was in the needle. Needles, plural; when Tamsyn looked at the mark on the inside of her elbow there were three pinpricks.
"Next!"
She hefted her pack—it seemed strange to her that all of her worldly possessions now fit in a single rucksack—and stepped forward.
"Name?"
"Camden," she said, and peered over to read the names on the list upside-down. "Tamsyn Camden." The woman with a severe bun looked up at her and arched an eyebrow, to which she shrugged. "Yeah I'm pretty sure my parents hated me, too. I'm here for anthropology assignment."
The soldier scanned the list before marking her name off with a pencil. "You're assigned to Lieutenant General Faro. Your residency breeding quota is two. Next!"
"What?" Tamsyn laughed nervously then reached into her pocket. "No, I'm sorry there's been some mistake. I've got a breeding waiver." She unfolded the slip of paper the recruiter at the dock had given her and slid it over to the soldier. "See? Just here to work, that's all."
She took it, glanced it over, then snorted. "Yeah this is fake. No such thing as a breeding waiver. Next!" She crumpled up the waiver and tossed it into the waste bin at her knee.
"What?" Her head swung wildly back and forth as she shrank away from approaching soldiers and bumped into the woman behind her. "No, there's been a mistake! I didn't sign up for this, I—Get your fucking hands off of me!"
Tamsyn struggled against the men with Security Forces patches on their arms. They were bigger than her, and certainly stronger than her, but she wouldn't allow them to do this to her. If she couldn't fight, she would have to run, and unfortunately her only option was deeper into the docking station. The one holding her arm apparently didn't expect this, as he wasn't holding her that firmly and she managed to slip under his arm and sprint down the hall. Boots thudded behind her on the polished linoleum. Or was that just her pulse? It didn't matter: she only made it about twenty yards before she felt the full body weight of one of the beefy MPs against her back. They went down together with a grunt and she more heard than felt her skin make an almost cartoonish squeaking sound against the linoleum as they skidded a few feet.
"Let go of me! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" She looked around wildly as she squirmed under the soldier's thick body, but nobody moved. Rather, they watched as though she was a particularly interesting animal at the zoo.
The soldier had managed to push himself to his knees and turned her onto her back, where held the wriggling girl by the bicep while his other hand went for his cuffs. "Tamsyn Camden, you're being detained for trying to—oof!" He let go in surprise when she brought both boots squarely into his chest with all of her strength. Tamsyn tried to scramble to her feet, but tripped and nearly faceplanted when he managed to catch one of her ankles and drag her towards him. "Tamsyn Camden," he began again, "you're being det—motherfucker!" He reeled back, clutching his face as his blood dripped onto the clean powder blue tile. She would have a hell of a headache once the adrenaline wore off, but headbutting him had seemed like the right thing to do in the moment.
Again Tamsyn scrambled to her feet and this time managed to get some traction. Another twenty yards. Fifty. One hundred. She was just starting to think maybe she could outrun them when her entire body exploded in pain and she was left twitching and dazed on the ground. Above her the two soldiers swam into view, one of them still holding the taser and the other—the one with the bloody nose—sneering and gripping his baton.
"You're lucky we're not allowed to leave bruises," he snarled before kneeling at her side. "Tamsyn Camden, you're being detained for trying to enter the planet illegally and evading your contractual obligations. You will be remanded to the custody of your legal guardian…"
~*~
She was late. SSgt Ramirez glanced nervously at her watch, then at the General. She had served with him at the battle of Thule. He was a good man. At first she hadn't understood why he was here of all places, surely a man like him could… Well, but that was it, wasn't it? Married to the job, and not the type to fraternize. She supposed that made a sort of sense. Still, it wasn't a good look that she was late.
"The shuttle was a bit slow in docking," she lied. "She should be here any minute." Ramirez glanced at her watch again, then up the gangway where other so-called Colony Brides met their sponsors with smiles and cordial handshakes or sometimes hugs. Fifteen minutes. Where the piss was she?
Cahill and Abel came down the gangway, frogmarching a girl between them. She was cuffed and sullen and…muzzled? Ramirez frowned and strode to meet them.
"The fuck is this?" she demanded. "Cahill, the fuck happened?"
"She happened." Cahill sniffed uselessly. This apparently ripped free the fragile clot in his nose and blood started leaking again. "One of the recruiters told her about the breeding waiver."
Ramirez rolled her eyes. "Christ on a bike! LT needs to do something about them. Give her to me." She took Tamsyn's arm gently and looked at her with what Tamsyn supposed was the closest approximation of kindness she could manage. "You alright sweetie? They hurt you?"
"Did we--!" Cahill bit down on his outrage at an impatient gesture from his NCO.
"Why's she got this?" She gestured to the muzzle. Cahill and Abel glanced at each other and shifted uneasily.
"She uh...she bites, ma'am." Abel held his forearm out, where there were several imprints of teeth. Most were bruises, but one had managed to draw a little blood.
"And that, Abel, is why you don't roll your sleeves." Ramirez smirked up at him before looking at Tamsyn. "Let's make a deal, sweetie. I'll take that off, and you don't bite me. Deal?" When she was met with only a glare she sighed and rubbed her face. "Look, work with me kid. If you're here, means you ain't got nothin' left back home. There's no such thing as a breeding waiver, and even if you could go back research has started coming out that multiple cryo rounds shorten your telomeres by like 50%. You know what telomeres are?" When Tamsyn nodded she sighed again. "Look, I'm sorry you were lied to, but this is where you are now. General Faro's a good man. You could do a hell of a lot worse." Reaching around, she unlocked the muzzle and hooked it to her belt. Tamsyn spat. Ramirez sighed. "Fine, whatever. I'm done playing nice."
Gripping the center of the cuffs, she dragged the girl over to General Faro. "You want the muzzle too, sir?"
Keywords: evil, fantasy, magic, period piece, scenery
Druimkinneras, Scotland
1573
Stories about witches. They always began with "it was a dark and stormy night." They always took place in the middle of winter, in the dead of night. And they always ended with the wicked, ugly hag drowned or burned or hanged by the righteous townspeople for her sins against God and Man. Time would tell whether this story would end the same way, but it was most certainly destined to at least begin differently.
It was not a dark and stormy night, nor was it the dead of winter. It was, in fact, in the bright days of a waning summer. The end of August had occasional days warm enough to make a man sweat, but often it was pleasant during the day and cold enough for a coat or a shawl at night. A wagon trundled along the long road from Glasgow, pulled by a donkey and laden with tinker goods and a man who had paid for passage crunched up in the very back. The driver had been humming "The Bonnie Banks O' Loch Lomond," or at least the one verse he knew, since yesterday, but the alternative was walking the remaining twenty miles. As they passed fields along the increasingly steep hillsides, the passenger could see farmers in their fields harvesting and putting crops up for the coming winter, and the smell of new-mown hay was pervasive on the golden air. The sun seemed to set earlier here, though, with the mountains hiding it from view, and the tinker agreed to continue at least a little while after dark so that they could make good time to Druimkinneras.
Druimkinneras. The little town a day's walk from Inverness, quickly becoming known as Baile Buidseach in the Highlands, was the passenger's destination. The bishop of Glasgow had sent him to investigate, to save the mortal souls of the poor villagers and root out any brides of Satan that might be lurking. Six witches had been found there in the past four years, and it was his duty to intervene before it got any more serious. They had even sent a letter begging for help, signed by the magistrate, the priest, and all five members of the village council. For nearly a week he had been traveling: walking, buying or bartering passage on boats going up river or across the loch, walking some more, and finally a ride on the tinker's cart to save his feet or at the very least his boots. Not long now, he was assured; the woods always got thicker before you hit Druimkinneras proper.
Warm, golden noonlight flooded over them as they broke through the trees and the cart track took them along the river. A woman stood in the river, singing as she bathed, standing waist-deep in the gently flowing water. Long, dark, soft hair covered her breasts from sight as she turned to look at the source of the noise, and she made no attempt to hide her nakedness at the sight of two men traveling so near to her. Her voice was honey-warm, and she didn't stop singing when she spotted them. Instead she locked eyes with the passenger of the cart, singing in a language few yet knew, the ends of her hair floating on the gentle current. Crystal blue and gimlet-sharp, her gaze held his steadily as she sang to him in that same entrancing voice.
He blinked. She was gone.
The driver seemed to have never noticed the woman in the river.
It was another hour to Druimkinneras, trundling along the river, and as they neared the village center more and more people looked up curiously at the stranger. Some children dashed off to spread the news. With the way he was dressed there was no mistaking it; the witch finder had arrived. Finally the tinker's cart reached the village center and, without ceremony, the tinker himself set out to ply his trade, leaving the witch finder to get his own bearings. He had paid for a ride, after all, not a grand tour and a who's who. But three men waited there for him already. The position of one was obvious: the priest's vestments gave him away, but the earnest Father Turnbull introduced himself anyway. Another, tall and athletic even in his middle age, with a broad-brimmed hat, identified himself as the magistrate Mr. MacCabe. The third who stepped forward identified himself as Alastair Carlisle, a councilman. Carlisle was average height, perhaps slightly on the tall side, and wiry, but that didn't keep him from having a slightly menacing air about him. Government men tended to be dangerous sorts anyway, but the difference between MacCabe and Carlisle was clear: the former traveled in shadows and fought with words, the latter knew between precisely which ribs he ought to slip a knife. They both, however, knew when such actions were called for and when to show restraint. With poor Father Turnbull standing slightly behind the other two, slightly bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet, it called to mind the image of a labrador puppy standing between a rottweiler and a doberman.
"Lacking an inn as we are," said Mr. MacCabe, "Mr. Carlisle had graciously offered to open his home to you." MacCabe pulled his lips back and showed his teeth, and if the witch finder squinted and turned his head a little it might look a bit like what MacCabe probably thought a gracious smile was supposed to be. His lips covered his teeth again and fell into a smirk with which he was very clearly much more comfortable.
Alastair Carlisle was a bit more successful at the welcoming smile as they shook hands. "It will be my honor, sir, really. Anything to help the church in these trying times, beset by devilment on all sides. Here, allow me." He took one of the witch finder's bags before gesturing across the square. "My wife has been anxious for your arrival," he said by way of making conversation. "Two of the witches were her friends. We couldn't believe it, not really. But all the evidence was there, plain as day, and it couldn't be helped. When she heard the diocese was sending a true witch finder, she nearly cried with relief. Here we are."
The house was larger than many in the village, though certainly not the largest, and made of good, sturdy stone covered in whitewashed plaster. The gate opened onto a small path, on either side of which was a garden full of vegetables and herbs although most of those seemed to be put up already. Upon hearing the front door open a servant girl appeared with a smile and a curtsy, taking the witch finder's bags upstairs while Carlisle took him through to the room beyond. The windows of the well-appointed parlor were open, letting in some of the last warm air before autumn came, and a woman sat in a chair facing the window which overlooked the hills beyond, her head bent to needlepoint.
"Magda?" Carlisle tapped once on the door frame so as not to startle her. The woman raised her head and stood, turning to greet the men with a curtsy. "My wife, Magdalene."
Magdalene Carlisle was quite short, barely clearing five feet, and her clothes allowed for curves which a hand might find easy to rest upon, never having been graced with motherhood. Her smile was warm and reached her eyes as she greeted the stranger, nodding her head in another quick greeting before setting her embroidery down on her chair and stepping around it to greet the witch finder. Her hair was pinned into a tidy braided updo, but her eyes still sparkled and seemed to peer through him, inside him, as though she could see to his very soul. Her hands were slender, soft as she took his hand.
"You can't know how grateful we are to have you, sir." Her voice was soft, honey-warm, and she had a habit of maintaining eye contact as they shook hands and spoke. "It feels already as though a great cloud has lifted from us!"
1573
Stories about witches. They always began with "it was a dark and stormy night." They always took place in the middle of winter, in the dead of night. And they always ended with the wicked, ugly hag drowned or burned or hanged by the righteous townspeople for her sins against God and Man. Time would tell whether this story would end the same way, but it was most certainly destined to at least begin differently.
It was not a dark and stormy night, nor was it the dead of winter. It was, in fact, in the bright days of a waning summer. The end of August had occasional days warm enough to make a man sweat, but often it was pleasant during the day and cold enough for a coat or a shawl at night. A wagon trundled along the long road from Glasgow, pulled by a donkey and laden with tinker goods and a man who had paid for passage crunched up in the very back. The driver had been humming "The Bonnie Banks O' Loch Lomond," or at least the one verse he knew, since yesterday, but the alternative was walking the remaining twenty miles. As they passed fields along the increasingly steep hillsides, the passenger could see farmers in their fields harvesting and putting crops up for the coming winter, and the smell of new-mown hay was pervasive on the golden air. The sun seemed to set earlier here, though, with the mountains hiding it from view, and the tinker agreed to continue at least a little while after dark so that they could make good time to Druimkinneras.
Druimkinneras. The little town a day's walk from Inverness, quickly becoming known as Baile Buidseach in the Highlands, was the passenger's destination. The bishop of Glasgow had sent him to investigate, to save the mortal souls of the poor villagers and root out any brides of Satan that might be lurking. Six witches had been found there in the past four years, and it was his duty to intervene before it got any more serious. They had even sent a letter begging for help, signed by the magistrate, the priest, and all five members of the village council. For nearly a week he had been traveling: walking, buying or bartering passage on boats going up river or across the loch, walking some more, and finally a ride on the tinker's cart to save his feet or at the very least his boots. Not long now, he was assured; the woods always got thicker before you hit Druimkinneras proper.
Warm, golden noonlight flooded over them as they broke through the trees and the cart track took them along the river. A woman stood in the river, singing as she bathed, standing waist-deep in the gently flowing water. Long, dark, soft hair covered her breasts from sight as she turned to look at the source of the noise, and she made no attempt to hide her nakedness at the sight of two men traveling so near to her. Her voice was honey-warm, and she didn't stop singing when she spotted them. Instead she locked eyes with the passenger of the cart, singing in a language few yet knew, the ends of her hair floating on the gentle current. Crystal blue and gimlet-sharp, her gaze held his steadily as she sang to him in that same entrancing voice.
He blinked. She was gone.
The driver seemed to have never noticed the woman in the river.
It was another hour to Druimkinneras, trundling along the river, and as they neared the village center more and more people looked up curiously at the stranger. Some children dashed off to spread the news. With the way he was dressed there was no mistaking it; the witch finder had arrived. Finally the tinker's cart reached the village center and, without ceremony, the tinker himself set out to ply his trade, leaving the witch finder to get his own bearings. He had paid for a ride, after all, not a grand tour and a who's who. But three men waited there for him already. The position of one was obvious: the priest's vestments gave him away, but the earnest Father Turnbull introduced himself anyway. Another, tall and athletic even in his middle age, with a broad-brimmed hat, identified himself as the magistrate Mr. MacCabe. The third who stepped forward identified himself as Alastair Carlisle, a councilman. Carlisle was average height, perhaps slightly on the tall side, and wiry, but that didn't keep him from having a slightly menacing air about him. Government men tended to be dangerous sorts anyway, but the difference between MacCabe and Carlisle was clear: the former traveled in shadows and fought with words, the latter knew between precisely which ribs he ought to slip a knife. They both, however, knew when such actions were called for and when to show restraint. With poor Father Turnbull standing slightly behind the other two, slightly bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet, it called to mind the image of a labrador puppy standing between a rottweiler and a doberman.
"Lacking an inn as we are," said Mr. MacCabe, "Mr. Carlisle had graciously offered to open his home to you." MacCabe pulled his lips back and showed his teeth, and if the witch finder squinted and turned his head a little it might look a bit like what MacCabe probably thought a gracious smile was supposed to be. His lips covered his teeth again and fell into a smirk with which he was very clearly much more comfortable.
Alastair Carlisle was a bit more successful at the welcoming smile as they shook hands. "It will be my honor, sir, really. Anything to help the church in these trying times, beset by devilment on all sides. Here, allow me." He took one of the witch finder's bags before gesturing across the square. "My wife has been anxious for your arrival," he said by way of making conversation. "Two of the witches were her friends. We couldn't believe it, not really. But all the evidence was there, plain as day, and it couldn't be helped. When she heard the diocese was sending a true witch finder, she nearly cried with relief. Here we are."
The house was larger than many in the village, though certainly not the largest, and made of good, sturdy stone covered in whitewashed plaster. The gate opened onto a small path, on either side of which was a garden full of vegetables and herbs although most of those seemed to be put up already. Upon hearing the front door open a servant girl appeared with a smile and a curtsy, taking the witch finder's bags upstairs while Carlisle took him through to the room beyond. The windows of the well-appointed parlor were open, letting in some of the last warm air before autumn came, and a woman sat in a chair facing the window which overlooked the hills beyond, her head bent to needlepoint.
"Magda?" Carlisle tapped once on the door frame so as not to startle her. The woman raised her head and stood, turning to greet the men with a curtsy. "My wife, Magdalene."
Magdalene Carlisle was quite short, barely clearing five feet, and her clothes allowed for curves which a hand might find easy to rest upon, never having been graced with motherhood. Her smile was warm and reached her eyes as she greeted the stranger, nodding her head in another quick greeting before setting her embroidery down on her chair and stepping around it to greet the witch finder. Her hair was pinned into a tidy braided updo, but her eyes still sparkled and seemed to peer through him, inside him, as though she could see to his very soul. Her hands were slender, soft as she took his hand.
"You can't know how grateful we are to have you, sir." Her voice was soft, honey-warm, and she had a habit of maintaining eye contact as they shook hands and spoke. "It feels already as though a great cloud has lifted from us!"
Keywords: crime, feisty, period piece
CONTENT WARNING: Depiction of corporal punishment
1690
Somewhere in the Atlantic
Blood smeared the deck and Miri's hands. Her knuckles ached and the rope cut painfully into her wrists. The pirate captain paced in front of her, the crew circled around them like a makeshift court, but she refused to break eye contact. Break now and she would never earn their respect. She tightened her grip behind her back, digging her nails into her already sore palms, and at least part of it was out of spite.
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't throw you over the side right now." Captain Shrike bent almost double to look her directly in the eye.
She glared directly back. Miri lifted her chin and rolled her shoulders back. Her grip tightened. "Because if I was a man this would be a clear-cut case of self-defense," she snarled. "What man here would have allowed himself to be raped?" The emphasis curled over her tongue and forced its way out between her teeth as she hurled it at him.
"You're lucky Donnelly has actual surgical training!" the captain spat back.
Miri shrugged without concern. "Plenty of men here what's missin' a couple fingers."
It had been two weeks since she had come aboard the crew of the Widow's Wail, to no little amount of attention from the others. All of the other women, those poor African souls being transported as cargo, had all gone ashore at some island whose name she didn't know. Most of the others on the beach had been as Black as the slaves she'd been in the hold with, so she didn't worry too much about them. The other prisoners transported with her from England were all men, and those who had stayed aboard had integrated into the ship just fine. Of course as the sole woman on the ship Miriam Leitner had expected to deal with men being, well...men, and at their very worst at that. But she had been on watch in the wee hours of the morning with a man named Black who hadn't taken no for an answer and it had come to blows. She had held her own, much to Black's surprise, but while she wasn't in the habit of starting fights with men that much bigger than her she was in the habit of finishing them. In the flash of a knife Black had lost the same fingers he'd been too free with, and the ship's surgeon and the captain had been woken by the rest of the overnight skeleton crew. Word traveled fast in such a confined space, and now the stars weren't the only ones standing in judgement.
Shrike sighed and rubbed his face, and Miri suppressed a smile. She had a point and he knew it. They all knew it. They were pirates; what they did ashore, she was sure she didn't want to know. But for now at least, she was their crew mate. Order and justice had to reign between them, or Shrike wouldn't be able to keep control of his own ship. And once the captain lost control, there went the prizes. He stared at her. Hung his head. Rubbed the back of his neck. Finally he looked at her.
"Three lashes." He ignored her indignant cry and looked out at the crew. "Three lashes, one per finger. What say you?" There was a general cry of approval, and Miri cried out and struggled against the bosun and the quartermaster.
"I've done nothing wrong!" she shouted. With her hands bound at the small of her back she wasn't as strong, but she was just as slippery. She managed to slide out of the officers' grasps and charged after the captain's retreating back. "What the fuck justice is this?"
Shrike spun on his heel and leaned into her face. "My justice!" he shouted back. "You took your own when you took his fingers, bully for you, girl! But I can't have my men settling their debts with blood." He stepped back, out of her face just as she lunged to bite at his nose, and jerked his chin to the nearest mast. "Tie her up."
Miri shrieked and cursed, wriggling and kicking against the bosun and quartermaster. Finally her bonds were cut, but the quartermaster's strong grip kept both of her wrists in one large, callused hand as he lashed them to the mast. Captain Shrike's expression betrayed no emotion, neither anger nor pity, as he stared at her. He didn't look away as he handed the whip to his first mate.
"Whether you go easy on her is up to you," he said sotto voce, "but at least make it look good. She has to bleed, you understand."
Miri struggled even as they lashed her to the mast, but it was mostly for show. One man bigger than her she could handle, but two? With more ready to jump in? It would be suicide, especially when she was no stranger to pain. The first mate, one Mister Sullam, chose to get theatrical with his whip. Wind whistled as he swung and it took concentration to keep the muscles in her back and shoulders relaxed. The first blow stung, of course, but not as much as it could have. Miri flinched but didn't cry out, instead letting out a slow breath.
The second lash was another matter. It burned across her back, especially where it crossed the angry welt of the first blow. Sullam slashed through her shirt with the tip of the boiled rawhide and this time drew blood. She clenched her teeth so hard she thought they might crack and squeezed her eyes shut tight. A choked squeak of pain escaped from her throat, lost under the chant of the crew, and she was grateful for the dark of the night. It hid the flush of pain and the look of concentration. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of crying out if she could help it.
The third blow nearly broke her resolve. A small yelp as the leather burned across her back and she felt blood run warm across her flesh. With her shirt ripped open by the second blow, there was nothing to stem the bleeding as it seeped slowly down her abused back. The bosun was cutting her down even as Sullam barked orders. She wasn't paying attention to what he said; she didn't care.
"You better sleep with one eye open, Leitner." The old navigator took her gently by the arm and helped her stagger down the stairs. Most of the men went by their last names unless they were close friends, or sometimes by nicknames of origins unknown to her. But Martin, quiet, gentle Martin, was always just that: Martin. He'd so far treated her no differently than he did the other men, though neither had he sought her out. "Donnelly and his lot'll be out for blood. In here." He jerked his chin toward a door.
It was a store room, where he directed her to sit on a barrel with her back toward him and politely turned around while she shed the remnants of her ruined shirt. Miri flinched and hissed at a cool, stinging sensation on her back. He was as gentle as he could be with the ointment. The navigator turned around again while she ripped up the fabric of her shirt and fashioned it into a bandeau of sorts, pulling the fabric back around and tying it in front between her breasts. She readjusted her head scarf in a feeble attempt to preserve what little modesty she had left after working with her skirt girded and bare feet for the better part of a fortnight and now making do with a destroyed shirt. At her word Martin turned back around and gave her a dipper from a water barrel.
"Mr. Sullam wants a word," he said. "When you're ready." It was a small kindness, and Miri nodded her thanks for it.
Topside, Jonathan Shrike clapped a hand on his first mate's back as he watched the girl go. He had suspected before that Miri Leitner had more to her than met the eye, and now it seemed that she had a bit of bite to her.
~*~
"Miriam. 'S a good name. Like the Bible?"
"Like the Torah."
Shrike nodded, and looked her up and down from across the desk in his cabin. "Is that why you were being transported?"
"Of course it is," she sneered. "Haven't you heard? My people dance in the woods at night with your Devil, and we steal Christian babies to drink their blood. I've always preferred toddlers, myself. I just didn't know the baby I stole belonged to a judge."
He didn't dignify the biting sarcasm with an answer. Instead he sat with her in silence for a very long minute. "I can't have a woman distracting my crew. I'll set you off at the next port, you can make your own way from there. I won't have your hanging on my conscience."
Miri shrugged. "Conscience or not, I'm hanged either way. I'm a hard worker. Give me six months on half shares and I'll prove it to you that I'm worth keeping on."
He shook his head. "Two weeks."
"Three months."
"One."
"Fine." With a flash of that green glare and the jangle of jewelry, she shook his hand.
~*~
"Do you know why women are bad luck on ships, Jackson?" the captain said in his characteristic quiet tone. "It's not because they've angered the sea or any rubbish like that. It's because on a shipfull of men they're a distraction. It leads to situations like this, and worse." He looked sideways at the first mate. "I want you to keep an eye on that one. And keep her on night crew for now, until the lads get used to her. Til then we'll keep 'em too busy to bother her." With a final pat on the shoulder, he turned on his heel and stalked back toward his cabin to try and salvage what he could of the rest of the night's sleep.
Twenty minutes later, Miri joined the first mate quietly at the railing. She hauled line without being told, and without saying anything herself. The light of the full moon told the story of her naked skin: in addition to the glistening ointment across the lashes on her back and the abrasions from the rope, bruises the size and shape of Black's hands mottled her arms and throat. Thick, ropey scars crisscrossed her back, and smaller scars of various shapes, sizes, and depths decorated her arms and legs. An old burn rippled the flesh of her neck, just below her right ear. With her shirt tied as it was, a small tattoo was visible between her breasts in stark contrast to her pale skin under the moonlight, just under where the fabric crossed over itself. She offered commentary on none of this, but silently hauled line.
"Thank you," she said eventually. "I know you didn't have to go that easy on me, and I do know that that was going easy." She glanced over at him, and with a flourish and the flash of a grin produced a pack of cards from somewhere in her tied-up skirts. "One good turn deserves another," she said. "I can tell you your future, if you want. It's only fair."
If she was going to be called the Witch of Threadneedle Street, after all, she was going to earn the title. And earn it she had. Three months ago she had drawn Death followed by the Eight of Cups, and the Three and Two of Wands, respectively. Since then it had been nothing but Swords and Hanged Men, and she hadn't understood it until she'd come up in front of the judge. Miri herself wasn't always certain she believed fully in the cards of Marseilles...but they sometimes had the habit of being uncannily accurate.
"Martin said you wanted a word?" she prompted, already shuffling the deck regardless of Sullam's response.
1690
Somewhere in the Atlantic
Blood smeared the deck and Miri's hands. Her knuckles ached and the rope cut painfully into her wrists. The pirate captain paced in front of her, the crew circled around them like a makeshift court, but she refused to break eye contact. Break now and she would never earn their respect. She tightened her grip behind her back, digging her nails into her already sore palms, and at least part of it was out of spite.
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't throw you over the side right now." Captain Shrike bent almost double to look her directly in the eye.
She glared directly back. Miri lifted her chin and rolled her shoulders back. Her grip tightened. "Because if I was a man this would be a clear-cut case of self-defense," she snarled. "What man here would have allowed himself to be raped?" The emphasis curled over her tongue and forced its way out between her teeth as she hurled it at him.
"You're lucky Donnelly has actual surgical training!" the captain spat back.
Miri shrugged without concern. "Plenty of men here what's missin' a couple fingers."
It had been two weeks since she had come aboard the crew of the Widow's Wail, to no little amount of attention from the others. All of the other women, those poor African souls being transported as cargo, had all gone ashore at some island whose name she didn't know. Most of the others on the beach had been as Black as the slaves she'd been in the hold with, so she didn't worry too much about them. The other prisoners transported with her from England were all men, and those who had stayed aboard had integrated into the ship just fine. Of course as the sole woman on the ship Miriam Leitner had expected to deal with men being, well...men, and at their very worst at that. But she had been on watch in the wee hours of the morning with a man named Black who hadn't taken no for an answer and it had come to blows. She had held her own, much to Black's surprise, but while she wasn't in the habit of starting fights with men that much bigger than her she was in the habit of finishing them. In the flash of a knife Black had lost the same fingers he'd been too free with, and the ship's surgeon and the captain had been woken by the rest of the overnight skeleton crew. Word traveled fast in such a confined space, and now the stars weren't the only ones standing in judgement.
Shrike sighed and rubbed his face, and Miri suppressed a smile. She had a point and he knew it. They all knew it. They were pirates; what they did ashore, she was sure she didn't want to know. But for now at least, she was their crew mate. Order and justice had to reign between them, or Shrike wouldn't be able to keep control of his own ship. And once the captain lost control, there went the prizes. He stared at her. Hung his head. Rubbed the back of his neck. Finally he looked at her.
"Three lashes." He ignored her indignant cry and looked out at the crew. "Three lashes, one per finger. What say you?" There was a general cry of approval, and Miri cried out and struggled against the bosun and the quartermaster.
"I've done nothing wrong!" she shouted. With her hands bound at the small of her back she wasn't as strong, but she was just as slippery. She managed to slide out of the officers' grasps and charged after the captain's retreating back. "What the fuck justice is this?"
Shrike spun on his heel and leaned into her face. "My justice!" he shouted back. "You took your own when you took his fingers, bully for you, girl! But I can't have my men settling their debts with blood." He stepped back, out of her face just as she lunged to bite at his nose, and jerked his chin to the nearest mast. "Tie her up."
Miri shrieked and cursed, wriggling and kicking against the bosun and quartermaster. Finally her bonds were cut, but the quartermaster's strong grip kept both of her wrists in one large, callused hand as he lashed them to the mast. Captain Shrike's expression betrayed no emotion, neither anger nor pity, as he stared at her. He didn't look away as he handed the whip to his first mate.
"Whether you go easy on her is up to you," he said sotto voce, "but at least make it look good. She has to bleed, you understand."
Miri struggled even as they lashed her to the mast, but it was mostly for show. One man bigger than her she could handle, but two? With more ready to jump in? It would be suicide, especially when she was no stranger to pain. The first mate, one Mister Sullam, chose to get theatrical with his whip. Wind whistled as he swung and it took concentration to keep the muscles in her back and shoulders relaxed. The first blow stung, of course, but not as much as it could have. Miri flinched but didn't cry out, instead letting out a slow breath.
The second lash was another matter. It burned across her back, especially where it crossed the angry welt of the first blow. Sullam slashed through her shirt with the tip of the boiled rawhide and this time drew blood. She clenched her teeth so hard she thought they might crack and squeezed her eyes shut tight. A choked squeak of pain escaped from her throat, lost under the chant of the crew, and she was grateful for the dark of the night. It hid the flush of pain and the look of concentration. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of crying out if she could help it.
The third blow nearly broke her resolve. A small yelp as the leather burned across her back and she felt blood run warm across her flesh. With her shirt ripped open by the second blow, there was nothing to stem the bleeding as it seeped slowly down her abused back. The bosun was cutting her down even as Sullam barked orders. She wasn't paying attention to what he said; she didn't care.
"You better sleep with one eye open, Leitner." The old navigator took her gently by the arm and helped her stagger down the stairs. Most of the men went by their last names unless they were close friends, or sometimes by nicknames of origins unknown to her. But Martin, quiet, gentle Martin, was always just that: Martin. He'd so far treated her no differently than he did the other men, though neither had he sought her out. "Donnelly and his lot'll be out for blood. In here." He jerked his chin toward a door.
It was a store room, where he directed her to sit on a barrel with her back toward him and politely turned around while she shed the remnants of her ruined shirt. Miri flinched and hissed at a cool, stinging sensation on her back. He was as gentle as he could be with the ointment. The navigator turned around again while she ripped up the fabric of her shirt and fashioned it into a bandeau of sorts, pulling the fabric back around and tying it in front between her breasts. She readjusted her head scarf in a feeble attempt to preserve what little modesty she had left after working with her skirt girded and bare feet for the better part of a fortnight and now making do with a destroyed shirt. At her word Martin turned back around and gave her a dipper from a water barrel.
"Mr. Sullam wants a word," he said. "When you're ready." It was a small kindness, and Miri nodded her thanks for it.
Topside, Jonathan Shrike clapped a hand on his first mate's back as he watched the girl go. He had suspected before that Miri Leitner had more to her than met the eye, and now it seemed that she had a bit of bite to her.
~*~
"Miriam. 'S a good name. Like the Bible?"
"Like the Torah."
Shrike nodded, and looked her up and down from across the desk in his cabin. "Is that why you were being transported?"
"Of course it is," she sneered. "Haven't you heard? My people dance in the woods at night with your Devil, and we steal Christian babies to drink their blood. I've always preferred toddlers, myself. I just didn't know the baby I stole belonged to a judge."
He didn't dignify the biting sarcasm with an answer. Instead he sat with her in silence for a very long minute. "I can't have a woman distracting my crew. I'll set you off at the next port, you can make your own way from there. I won't have your hanging on my conscience."
Miri shrugged. "Conscience or not, I'm hanged either way. I'm a hard worker. Give me six months on half shares and I'll prove it to you that I'm worth keeping on."
He shook his head. "Two weeks."
"Three months."
"One."
"Fine." With a flash of that green glare and the jangle of jewelry, she shook his hand.
~*~
"Do you know why women are bad luck on ships, Jackson?" the captain said in his characteristic quiet tone. "It's not because they've angered the sea or any rubbish like that. It's because on a shipfull of men they're a distraction. It leads to situations like this, and worse." He looked sideways at the first mate. "I want you to keep an eye on that one. And keep her on night crew for now, until the lads get used to her. Til then we'll keep 'em too busy to bother her." With a final pat on the shoulder, he turned on his heel and stalked back toward his cabin to try and salvage what he could of the rest of the night's sleep.
Twenty minutes later, Miri joined the first mate quietly at the railing. She hauled line without being told, and without saying anything herself. The light of the full moon told the story of her naked skin: in addition to the glistening ointment across the lashes on her back and the abrasions from the rope, bruises the size and shape of Black's hands mottled her arms and throat. Thick, ropey scars crisscrossed her back, and smaller scars of various shapes, sizes, and depths decorated her arms and legs. An old burn rippled the flesh of her neck, just below her right ear. With her shirt tied as it was, a small tattoo was visible between her breasts in stark contrast to her pale skin under the moonlight, just under where the fabric crossed over itself. She offered commentary on none of this, but silently hauled line.
"Thank you," she said eventually. "I know you didn't have to go that easy on me, and I do know that that was going easy." She glanced over at him, and with a flourish and the flash of a grin produced a pack of cards from somewhere in her tied-up skirts. "One good turn deserves another," she said. "I can tell you your future, if you want. It's only fair."
If she was going to be called the Witch of Threadneedle Street, after all, she was going to earn the title. And earn it she had. Three months ago she had drawn Death followed by the Eight of Cups, and the Three and Two of Wands, respectively. Since then it had been nothing but Swords and Hanged Men, and she hadn't understood it until she'd come up in front of the judge. Miri herself wasn't always certain she believed fully in the cards of Marseilles...but they sometimes had the habit of being uncannily accurate.
"Martin said you wanted a word?" she prompted, already shuffling the deck regardless of Sullam's response.
Last edited: