Captain Albion Clemens and The Future that Never Was: A Steampunk Novel! (Lands Beyond Book 1) (37 page)

The
Nidhogg
sank- and she rose, as well, for the severed portion containing Mordemere’s study flew doggedly upward, drifting further and further up. It drew a strand of debris along, like the cut head of an insect, trailing entrails. The majority of the evil machine disintegrated on the spot, in a fantastic burst of light. It was like a turquoise starburst in the sky.

If anybody saw the four tiny figures, one weighed down by a lump on its back, fall from the wreckage, it went unremarked amongst the crew of the
Gwain
.

Even if it were possible to separate shrapnel from flesh, what were four casualties amongst the millions Mordemere might have inflicted on the world? Certainly not a soul noticed the bulbous shape flitting daringly into the rain of metal, diving like an eagle, then slowly drifting back up and out of danger. What kind of madman might attempt a rescue in midair?
Like picking a feather out of a bundle of falling arrows. Some things were just too impossible, even for the worst kind of penny dreadful.

18: Teatime

“So that was it then? The whole story?” Queen Victoria III asked Inspector Hargreaves later, in the sunlit beauty of Her Majesty’s private tea parlor. The greenhouse windows looked down on a London just flowering in the early spring growth, matching the Queen’s verdant sundress. Hargreaves might have picked out Arturo’s idling Eleanor below, if she wished. She did not. “Whatever happened to those intrepid adventurers then? It sounds like I might like to knight this Clemens fellow.”

Hargreaves gave an involuntary shudder, triggering peals of laughter from her Queen. No royal ‘we,’ no regalia, just two ladies taking tea in the pleasant April sunshine.

“I am still recovering from the ordeal, Your Majesty,” the Inspector admitted. “Pray, no shocks to my system, not yet.”

“Oh posh. It is in the tradition of our Pax Brittania to knight those of value to the country: musicians, inventors, even writers,” Victoria said offhandedly. “Now stop stalling.”

“Cezette Louissaint is under my care, for now. There are technicians working on making ambulatory appendages based on Valima Mordemere’s steamcrafts. There’s talk of opening a new department, to deal with quite extraordinary steamcraft crime. I take it you have nothing to do with this development?” Hargreaves’ question was a tactical maneuver, to put the Queen on guard. There were aspects of the case she still did not wish to reveal, such as how the numerous air pirate dirigibles assisting the European alliance in the final battle, all of which had managed to escape before their eventual victory. She also neglected to mention former pirate Cid Tanner was building Cezette’s new legs.

The Queen left it alone, feigning innocence.

“And the writer?”

“Found a venue for his work immediately. Our adventures will be serialized starting in this week’s Strand magazine. I daresay he will have plenty of material, as he will be extending his research trip indefinitely.”

“I say. That Nessie Drake character ought to be worth a trio of stories, at least. Drake… Drake… I daresay the girl might be related to an actual Countess, somewhere along the line.”

“As for the pirates… “

“Say no more. I know you would tell me, if I asked, but there are advantages to having agents on the other side of the law,” the Queen said magnanimously.

“You are always masterful at the game,” Hargreaves conceded. “You will need it for the days ahead, Your Majesty. Although, I can tell you this.”

“What is it? Hmm?” Victoria purred, the curious cat. It was odd o
n a matriarch, to say the least, but female cats were called Queens. Hargreaves giggled, and relented.

“The Manchu Marauder has a lot of work ahead of him. A girl’s wiles are much harder to ply than all the skies of the world.”

Somewhere, floating in some beam of tropical sunshine or other, Albion sneezed. Hard.

“Wei! Have you been talking about me behind my back?” He asked the luxuriously reclined Rosa Marija. She was getting a full-body tan, and there wasn’t a stitch on her.

“Nah. But you might be tired of
all this relaxation, gorgeous. You haven’t purloined a single freighter in days,” Rosa suggested, rolling onto her side.

“I don’t think so,” Albion answered. His goggles were on. Rosa knew he would get pale rings around his eyes, but she thought it was funnier that way. “Just wondering how to go about my new life of piracy.”

Now the problem of Mordemere was taken care of, the skies were clear, the
Berry
purred warm beneath them, and best of all, the Incognito were off their back. It had been touch-and-go for a moment there, surrounded by their ships hidden amongst the final battle. They would have struck at the
Nidhogg
if Clemens hadn’t gotten the job done, riddling it with anchors until it looked like the body of Julius Caesar.

Albion busily twirled something in his fingers as he mused on the problem, something that refracted the light in dizzying patterns onto Rosa’s soft skin.

It was about as long as his palm, and thin across, the width of the scar in his shoulder.

“Put that away and come here. It hurts my eyes.”

“All right, gorgeous.”

             
He started to put the shard of crystal away, realized he wasn’t wearing pants, and just set it aside on his folded-up aeronaut jacket. Then he rolled over into his helmswoman’s arms, pinning them down as he did so.