10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
Zimmerman's got some sensible flesh, there are worse reasons to be afraid than to be attached to a madwoman like her.
AND THE THIRD BROUGHT FIRE (Animist Atomic Steampunk)
- Thread starter DragonCobolt
- Start date
- Original Mature Alt. History
- Location
- Minnesota
- Pronouns
- She/Her
this threw me off a bit? Not sure what it unpacks into. Is it internalized racism or something?
Still, this presses a lot of buttons very hard. Every scene with Zimmerman is very hot, and has a half life that will linger in my head for a long time.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You know, I can't quite remember what I was going for, lol.
samdamandias
Apprentice Plane Wizard
Well that is some absolutely fascinating theology.
And gaydar.
Hey hey, actual theology! :D
She's also tol and works out, so...
Huh. Running down the coast and around Florida instead of going Hudson River->Erie Canal->Great Lakes->Chicago River->Chicago Canal->Mississippi River->Gulf?
I have a feeling that the first meeting with Colossus is going to be interesting, but most of the continental US is radioactive, so I imagine people consider that area Trinity's land, not theirs.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I haven't worked out the exact boat route yet, but I do know that the most direct route is probably gonna have more Imperial security than going along the coast, so that's why they might swing wide.
Either way, it's faster than poor old Weetamo.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Oh, sorry, no update this week! And there may be slightly spotty updates in the near future, since my focus is primarily on THIS kickstarter that I am running!
It's very stressful!
View: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/heat-ttrpg/heat-high-excitement-action-tabletop?ref=discovery
It's very stressful!
View: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/heat-ttrpg/heat-high-excitement-action-tabletop?ref=discovery
No worries, DC, thanks for letting us know (I tossed what I could in when it launched).
Chapter Eight
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The dockside port of Burned York was small compared to the ancient bustle from before the Fire – but small was not small in any human sense when you were actually there. Zimmerman walked past the bobbing fishing boats, her boots thumping on the wooden slats – pausing occasionally at the ominous creak. She was suddenly aware of the extra weight of her implants and her sacrament, and wondered how much of Genevieve's desire to have her sent by boat was for her secrecy...and how much of it was in the hope she might be pulled under the water by robes, brass and plutonium. She pushed the thought aside as she came to one of the intersections of pier that gridded this area. Around the nose of a fishing trawler, she could see two figures in the blue and black of York police officers, their caps on and their torches in their hands.
She remained in the shadows – and heard one of them grumbling. "I've seen neither hide nor hair of this Radwalker we're supposed to be keeping an eye out for."
"Quit your bitching," the other said. Their accents were American – but their colors were British and their hearts were traitorous. Zimmerman pursed her lips behind her mask, then stepped back. She rapped twice on the side of the boat that floated near her. The reverberations were just loud enough – she could hear the scuffing of shoes.
"Who goes there?" one man asked, and he started towards the corner. He came close…
Zimmerman sprang out. She grabbed onto the chest of his shirt, bunching it in her fist. His eyes widened, mustache bristling wildly, as she shoved him back towards his comrade who was fumbling – torch clattering to the wooden slats of the pier as he reached down for the revolver at his hip. They crashed together and she bore them down onto the ground. Her free hand drove down – knuckles cracking into nose, jaw, the side of the head. None of the blows were overly damaging, but they were oh so satisfying, the crunching sound of them reverberating through her arm, into her bones. It left both men stunned as she took her robes off and slung them over them.
Their struggles were more pointed now – but she moved quickly.
"This guise no longer serves the Lord, and so, shall be your whale," she said, her voice pitched low.
Zimmerman used her boot and rolled both men over the side of the pier. Wrapped in her leaded robes, they plunged in with a splash. She stood, tugging her mask off and tossing it down with them. While she felt the pain of losing her vestments, she knew...she was still walking with God now. She knew it in the depth of her being, a bright core of certainty. After all, had she not, she would never have been given the clothing she wore now underneath. Genevieve had made sure to have her sent out with a long sleeved white shirt that now mostly covered her implants. The lack of leading made it feel as if she wore nothing at all – and she made sure that she would pray extra.
Trinity would keep those around her safe, she was sure of it.
It took another few minuets before she found the boat in question. It was a modern motorboat – a small steam engine was tucked into the back, and the ship's spirit was sitting on the prow, kicking her legs and humming quietly. There were three crew members waiting: Two burly men who Zimmerman surmised she could handily dispatch if need be, and a stripling blond boy with a furrowed scar along his cheek. Zimmerman was about to speak to the men, but the boy piped up first.
"You Ven?" he asked – his voice high and unbroken.
"Yes, boy," Zimmerman said. "You can-"
"I'm not a boy, Ven," the blond boy – no, the blond girl said. "The name's Rudi Cut Nuts, I'm in charge around here. Miss Chapel said, if you even think of goin' screwy, I'm to make sure you don't get anywhere. Got it?"
Zimmerman frowned at her. "Your name is Cut Nuts?"
"Cause I cut the balls off the last man who touched me without my permission," Rudi said, smirking slightly.
"She did," one of the men said.
Zimmerman was not sure if Genevieve was trying to keep her happy with a treat, tossed to her like she was some rabid dog, or if Genevieve had wildly miscalculated in choosing her agent for this mission. No. She tightened her jaw. She had sinned once, far too recently. She wouldn't...be tempted to sin again. Even if, as she watched, Rudi turned to start snapping orders to the men and the evening twilight sparkled along her pale throat and her short, short cropped blond hair and-
"So, Venny," Rudi said. "Is it true you're a big carpet munching dyke?"
Zimmerman blinked, then snorted. "I am a servant of the Lord," she said, firmly. "And the Lady."
Rudi spat. "Well, I don't know about the Lady. The only Lady we care about here, is Sparky. Innit that right, Sparky?"
The spirit at the front of the ship jerked her head around. "Heya!" she said, waving. Her body was slim and wooden, with steely-gray along her back and shoulder blades. Her eyes glowed with an inner light, as if they were coals themselves. "Oh, dang, she looks heavy. Make sure you stay right in the middle of me – don't wanna capsize!" She giggled. "...seriously, though, if we capsize, we're in serious trouble. Restarting my boiler is not easy."
"Listen to her," Rudi said, narrowing her eyes at Zimmerman. "Come on."
Zimmerman followed the slender girl – how old was she? Twenty? - and found that the interior of the motorboat was as cramped as it had looked: A narrow corridor led down into the guts of the ship, where a cargo hold was stuffed with huge crates. They were marked with no labels and Zimmerman couldn't smell anything. Zimmerman made a face, while Rudi scowled at her. "Officially, we're pulling over the bits and bobs you turn into telephones and radio – consumer electronics, they calls it." She smirked, slightly. "Unofficially, it's guns. Even more unofficially, it's you."
Zimmerman grunted. "How are we going to make it to New Austin? Through the rivers?"
"Nah," Rudi said. "With the number of locks and checkpoints, plus the bribes, it'd be longer, more expensive, riskier. We're going down the coast, around Florida, and into the Gulf."
"And the pirates?" Zimmerman asked, frowning slightly.
Rudi led her back up to the deck. She whistled. "Sparky! Show her the thing."
Sparky giggled, then twitched her nose from side to side and wiggled her rump. Zimmerman had to admit, watching a nubile spirit wiggle around like that was pleasant – but before she could remark on it, the prow of the boat swung a panel around, revealing a pair of heavy water cooled machine guns. They swung back shut again a moment later. Rudi grinned at Zimmerman. "We got teeth, Venny."
"And you have me," Zimmerman pointed out.
"Mmm, no offense," Rudi said, then slapped her shoulder – yanking gently on the cybernetic prosthesis hidden right beneath her filmy white shirt. "The last thing I want is you going overboard."
Zimmerman snorted.
***
Sparky sat at the head of the ship, humming along with the buzzing, puttering noise of the high speed boiler in the back of the ship that shared her namesake. The prow of the ship hit every wave that was coming their way and sent them skimming smoothly over it – or, at least, that was how it felt to Zimmerman. As a woman used to trains and to airships, the sudden realization that vehicles could rock and sway this much was...unpleasent. She gritted her teeth, kneeling above the john in the back of the ship, her head ducked forward near the metal rim of the bowl. She wouldn't vomit. But...if she was going to vomit, she'd at least be in the right place. She put her hand on her belly, her eyes half closed as she breathed slow. Shallowly.
"Some big badass you are, eh?" Rudi asked from around the doorway.
Zimmerman lifted her head to glower.
The first two days of travel passed in that misery – her stomach perpetually on the verge of rebelling, her legs stumbling under her with every jounce, every bounce. Despite her misery, though, Sparky cut along the coastline of North America. Glittering cities were rarities and towns were sparkled but thinly between the wilderness that stretched along New England. The further south one got, the more one could see settlement, as the Empire had been quite eager to rebuild land that had once produced the most valuable crops in the world. With the Fire long behind and the Empire bringing in fresh colonists and tenet laborers, those crops flowed again – but in the sky now. Zimmerman and Rudi both watched the immense cargo airships drifting by overhead as they skimmed down the coast.
Like immense, pregnant whales, they bobbed through the air, their holds stuffed with cotton, tobacco, coffee, sugar, all of it flowing towards Albion – a vile heart beating at the center of an empire of debautchery. Zimmerman's lips curled and she muttered. "How I wish I had thee, Midway…"
"What was that?" Rudi asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Nothing, nothing. Just thinking to myself," Zimmerman said – but she didn't convince the young girl. But still, images of what Midway could do up there. The flight of a hundred fixed wing airplanes, diesel burning, pulled from the ether like God splitting the fishes and loaves in the hands of Christ's Son. The idea of it blazed in her mind – the ships burning, their spirits crying out in lamentation and fear, as Britain began to starve without her imports. Her lips curled up in a fierce smile.
The Sparky stopped several times on its journey. The boiler could be pushed till it ran on fumes by the eager spirit that served it, but she could not burn nothing at all. When they stopped between towns, the two burly men sprang off the ship with hatchets and downed small trees, then chopped them into pieces as quick as they could. Here, Zimmerman turned her brawn to the skill, carving up wood and branches with the same eagerness. The chips were fed into the boiler – and despite not being as good or easy to burn as coal, the Sparky was able to once more move again.
They stopped in a village here and there. Tiny, no-name places that had grown up after the Fire, when people had fled smoldering cities and blasted ruins to try and find security. Their English was as queer and strangely accented as any of the free cities of the Wastelands – but rather than flying a patchwork quilt of state flags and local flags, each had a flapping Union Jack, like a slap in the face of the Founders and their sacrifices. Zimmerman remained aboard ship, watching as Rudi handed over silver and copper for coal and other odds and ends.
But after the first three days, the trip ran into its first danger.
They were nearing what had once been Savannah – if Zimmerman didn't miss her guess – and swinging wide away from the rebuild city. Even from a distance, Zimmerman could see the British airships hanging over the city had a different character and design than the cargo ships from earlier: These were sleek, dark, and deadly. Warships. Zimmerman watched them with such a fierce glower, she almost forgot that she was sea sick.
"Oh shit," Rudi muttered.
"What is it?" Zimmerman asked, drawing her eyes away...and there she saw it.
A fisher trawler was coming their way.
Rudi had navigated carefully – dipping close to land near wilderness, even pulling them up a river from time to time, whenever it seemed they would get close to fishing ships. It would just take one to mistake them for a pirate or smuggler...or...well, to accurately determine they were a smuggler…
"Turn aside!" Zimmerman snapped.
"And go where, you galoot!?" Rudi snapped, her eyes flashing, her scar pulling her scowl into an almost smirk. "We're in open fucking ocean!"
The fishing trawler turned aside. Zimmerman could see the crew – mostly American natives like herself from their build and postures and clothing – peering over at them. The captain and the spirit of the fishing trawler stood nearest to the back of the ship, and as it slowed, the captain eyed them curiously. He was a burly looking, red faced man with a thick beard, while his spirit was even smaller and slighter than Sparky – she had the kind of simple smile of a spirit from something just on the edge of awareness. It made sense – their trawler had complex fishing machinery, and a steam engine within, but it was otherwise simplicity itself.
The captain had a pipe clasped in his mouth. He pulled it free, tapping it with his finger. "You there!" he called down. "What ship be that?"
"I'm the Sparky!" Sparky said, waving. "Hi!"
"Hello!" the fishing trawler spirit – she came up to her captain's chest and had to stand up onto her toes to wave back. "Hi! I'm a boat!"
"I know, I'm a boat too!" Sparky said.
"Well, they get along at least," Zimmerman rumbled, while Rudi put a big smile on her face.
"We're from Chatagone, up north – taking a load of their pottery to New Miami," she said, casually.
"Chatagone, eh?" the captain asked. "Never knew they could afford such a nice little ship. Yer spirit looks almost like an airship."
"Thanks!" Sparky said.
"We just, uh, paint her real good to be honest," Rudi said, chuckling.
"Hey!" Sparky pouted. Zimmerman leaned in, whispering in her ear.
"Be good," she said.
"You're not my mechanic, you can't make me do anything I don't wanna," Sparky said, wriggling in her grasp. Zimmerman gripped her tighter, while Rudi hurriedly continued.
"Still, we're just heading along-"
"I was just wondering," the other Captain started at the same time.
"Lemmi go!" Sparky whined. Zimmerman wished she knew how Nix had done what she did. Machines were so...finnicky. She shook her slightly, hoping that joggling her would get Sparky to be quiet. Instead, Sparky started to whine louder. "Let me go, you big radioactive...galoot!"
"Did she say radioactive?" The other Captain asked, his brow drawing together.
"Uh…" Rudi snapped her head around to glare at Zimmerman.
Zimmerman released Sparky. Sparky harrumphed, then turned to the captain. "Yup, she's really radioactive. She's got cybernetics too."
The other Captain's brow's drew in even harder while Zimmerman frowned intently at Sparky. Rudi groaned, then shouted. "Sparky! Fast! We go fast! Now! Now! Now!"
Sparky nodded, then the boat leaped forward with a roar of propellers. The fishing trawler started to recede behind them and Zimmerman grabbed onto the railing, watching them fade moment by moment. She spoke hurriedly. "At least they didn't seem to be complicated enough to have a telephone, or a mobile telephone. Maybe-"
Something whistled up from the ship. It flared bright red overhead – a flare.
"Fuck!" Rudi hissed under her breath. "Ven, put those muscles to work. Miss Chapel said to me that if we were gonna get caught, we dump the fucking guns. So, dump the fucking guns!"
Zimmerman grunted, then turned and started down the stairs. Her legs had more surety than she expected – she took the steps easily, coming down to the cargo hold. She drove the knife of her forearm into one of the locks on the chests, shattering the metal with a clang against her hardened muscle and the edge of her cybernetics, hidden under her shirt. Then she yanked the chest up – having judged that she didn't have the time to lug them out of the stairs, if that were even possible. The entire roof of the cargo hold opened normally. The guns within were mostly the sacred Thompson, but there were also the glorious Browning, and even bouquets of grenades. It was enough American weaponry to make her heart sing – and then sink when she knew what she had to do.
Zimmerman crammed guns under her arms and hurried up the stairs. She threw them overboard, splashing into the water. When she turned back, she saw that the men were going down below as well.
Sparky was humming a song she did not recognize. She was clearly having fun at least.
They had gotten the cargo hold half emptied – and the ship was noticeably faster – when Zimmerman saw the airship heading their way.
"Hell, hell, hell, hell!" Rudi was swearing again and again as Zimmerman came to the wheel. "That's a fast destroyer – a pirate hunter. They're going to swoop over us, drop surface charges, and then threaten to blow us out of the water with the guns…"
"Can we get into shore, head to ground?"
"Not before it reaches us," Rudi said.
"We can make it," Zimmerman said. "They will not know where to shoot us."
"Oh, and you can just make it rain? Plunge is into night? You're nuttier than I thought!" Rudi snapped.
"Simply head inland. The Lord shall provide the rest," Zimmerman said, her voice firm.
Rudi shook her head, clicked her tongue, then swung the wheel.
The next few minuets were eerily calm. They were cutting with the waves, rather than against them – things smoothed out and the Sparky ran as fast as Zimmerman had ever seen her. Sitting on the prow, leaning forward into the wind like a dog at a train window, her spirit beamed and let her glittering, silvery hair tumble into the wind behind her. And all the while, the fast destroyer drew closer and closer, running along a perpendicular route to their own travel. The ship was a sleek knife of a craft, black armored with a pair of engines running off an atomic steam engine that could get it around the world ten times before she'd ever need to stop and rest. She had two heavy cannons mounted on the belly, arranged so that they could fire in a hemisphere around and to the sides of the ship, while her armored balloon was protected by a pair of heavy machine guns mounted on sleek towers. She had a pair of lifeboats attached to her aft sides – tiny gliders that could be brought down to ocean or land, to float or to scrape to a stop.
Her name?
The HMS Speedy.
"How appropriate," Zimmerman said, her voice wry.
"Oh ha ha so funny," Rudi grumbled, her hand brushing her sweat soaked hair slick to her head.
They were getting closer and closer to the coastline – and there was a large river running inland, though Zimmerman didn't know how deep it went before it became too narrow for their ship to traverse.
One of those cannons spoke. A roar of white water bloomed ahead and to the left of the Sparky, shooting froth upwards like a fountain. The other cannon tracked them and Rudi snarled to Zimmerman. "That's English for shut the fuck down or we blow you- what are you doing!?"
Zimmerman had started to unbutton her shirt.
"Now is not the time!" Rudi said, her cheeks flushing as Zimmerman exposed her broad, muscular shoulders, her pale skin, her scars, her cybernetic implants, her breasts. Her eyes widened even more as Zimmerman rolled her shoulders and cricked her neck – and as she tightened her muscles, let them ripple under her skin, the plutonium implants whirred and clacked, lead lining sliding back to reveal dull gray and the Latin inscriptions upon them. Rudi's jaw dropped. "W-Wha...what the fuck are you doing you maniac?"
"Providing a miracle, Rudi," Zimmerman said, smirking.
She grabbed onto one of the many ropes the ship had, one fastened firmly to the aft mooring point, stepped up, then dropped into the Atlantic ocean.
Oh Lady, thy Fire brings warmth to the world – thy touch spares all from the curse of thy anger. The burn of radiation is a balm to the faithful. Thy shall see we never suffer the cancer, the rot of gums, the withering of hair… Zimmerman focused on the prayer as she felt scalding hot water flare and hiss and froth around her arms, her shoulders, her back. Then the rope drew taut and dragged her forward. She could hear the thrumming propeller – and she knew not how close her head was to it. Instead, she dragged herself up the line – pushing her head above the water. She drew in a sharp breath, but that breath was rich with steam and hissing froth. When she opened her eyes, they near scalded. She was in the midst of brilliant white vapor.
The cannons roared again...then again and again, but while she felt a distant hammering against her skin, Zimmerman felt no killing shockwave, no ripping shrapnel.
The long hell of sizzling and frothing continued – and through it all, she prayed…
And then the rope drew taut and she was hauled up. The two burly men heaved, their muscles straining, their teeths clenching. They sagged and dropped as Zimmmerman used her arms to clamber the rest of the way onto the ship. Her body smoldered with thin wisps of smoke, and while the blessing of the Lady Trinity were mighty, even she could not entirely still the fury of boiling water. Bright red blisters gleamed here and there on her body where the protection had faded, and pain ached her from her head to her toes. Zimmerman stood tall despite that, her breasts gleaming with moisture as she looked down at the gaping Rudi. They were under trees – and behind them, a vast curtain of mist still hung over the Atlantic.
The cannons roared once, twice more.
"Enough of a miracle, Rudi?" Zimmerman asked.
"Y...You're insane," Rudi whispered.
Zimmerman smirked.
Then she, much to her shame, passed out.
***
When Zimmerman woke, it was with a groan, her eyes fluttering open. She was still at sea, more the pity. She was laying back in the narrow cot in the larger room that was reserved for Rudi, who Rudi had quite pointedly disallowed her from entering. When she sat up, she saw that her body had been touched all over with ointments and tinctures. The burns had started to heal, though she was still heavily bandaged. Zimmerman grunted quietly, then blinked as the door opened and Rudi entered, scowling as she did so. She was holding a tray with some simple hardtack and water – all that Zimmerman had been able to keep down.
"You may be a maniac," Rudi said. "But at least you're our maniac."
She thrust the tray at Zimmerman. Zimmerman took it, one handed. She paused, then said: "What happened?"
"We hid upland in a cove. They dropped some marines to search the bushes, but Sparky can bring us in closer and ride lower than most people expect. Doubly so when she feels so bad about getting you hurt." Rudi smirked slightly. "She practically did Mechanic's work for you, Ven. Once the marines were far enough away and night had fallen, we slipped back out, went along the coast...I don't think they're going to find us. Bragg is up at the wheel, we should be hitting the Gulf soon. Then New Austin after that."
Zimmerman grunted. She took a bite of the hardtack. To her surprise, she didn't feel the urge to wretch it up immediately.
Rudi looked away, then said. "...so, you're always hot?"
"The Lady protects me and mine," Zimmerman said, her voice firm. "Radiation is no danger." She smirked. "My attractiveness is the real threat to my virtue."
Rudi's cheeks flushed. "I'm not a...fucking carpet munching bitch like you," she snapped.
Zimmerman's hand lashed out. She caught Rudi's slender wrist and her voice grew soft. "Do not call me a bitch or a dyke or a carpet muncher again," she growled. "I may prefer the touch of women. I may have been cast from my order. I may, even, sin from...time to time…" Her eyes flashed. 'But I have my limits, even for girls as pretty as you."
"Pretty as me!?" Rudi squeaked, tugging – weakly, oh so weakly – against Zimmerman's hand. "Do you think I...I'd be insane enough to...to...mmmph!" She gasped as Zimmerman pulled her in close with a jerk, mashing her mouth to hers. The scarred blond squirmed. So Zimmerman caught her by the hair, pulled her in close, forcing her tongue into her mouth. Rudi squirmed and made muffled noises...first of protest. Then of eagerness. Her head tilted and her mouth opened and Zimmerman tasted her with a quiet rumble of pleasure. She ignored the pain of her healing burns, the tug of her bandages, and pulled Rudi into the tight confines of the cot. Rudi's body squirmed against her and Zimmerman rolled around, so that she was on her back.
Rudi panted, softly, her eyes wide, shocked. "W-What are you doing!?" She hissed. "Miss Chapel will skin me alive if I...if we...she warned me about you."
"Did she tell you that I fucked her too?" Zimmerman crooned.
"Miss Chappel could give me orders. But you're mine."
Rudi squeaked.
But she did not complain very much.
TO BE CONTINUED
She remained in the shadows – and heard one of them grumbling. "I've seen neither hide nor hair of this Radwalker we're supposed to be keeping an eye out for."
"Quit your bitching," the other said. Their accents were American – but their colors were British and their hearts were traitorous. Zimmerman pursed her lips behind her mask, then stepped back. She rapped twice on the side of the boat that floated near her. The reverberations were just loud enough – she could hear the scuffing of shoes.
"Who goes there?" one man asked, and he started towards the corner. He came close…
Zimmerman sprang out. She grabbed onto the chest of his shirt, bunching it in her fist. His eyes widened, mustache bristling wildly, as she shoved him back towards his comrade who was fumbling – torch clattering to the wooden slats of the pier as he reached down for the revolver at his hip. They crashed together and she bore them down onto the ground. Her free hand drove down – knuckles cracking into nose, jaw, the side of the head. None of the blows were overly damaging, but they were oh so satisfying, the crunching sound of them reverberating through her arm, into her bones. It left both men stunned as she took her robes off and slung them over them.
Their struggles were more pointed now – but she moved quickly.
"This guise no longer serves the Lord, and so, shall be your whale," she said, her voice pitched low.
Zimmerman used her boot and rolled both men over the side of the pier. Wrapped in her leaded robes, they plunged in with a splash. She stood, tugging her mask off and tossing it down with them. While she felt the pain of losing her vestments, she knew...she was still walking with God now. She knew it in the depth of her being, a bright core of certainty. After all, had she not, she would never have been given the clothing she wore now underneath. Genevieve had made sure to have her sent out with a long sleeved white shirt that now mostly covered her implants. The lack of leading made it feel as if she wore nothing at all – and she made sure that she would pray extra.
Trinity would keep those around her safe, she was sure of it.
It took another few minuets before she found the boat in question. It was a modern motorboat – a small steam engine was tucked into the back, and the ship's spirit was sitting on the prow, kicking her legs and humming quietly. There were three crew members waiting: Two burly men who Zimmerman surmised she could handily dispatch if need be, and a stripling blond boy with a furrowed scar along his cheek. Zimmerman was about to speak to the men, but the boy piped up first.
"You Ven?" he asked – his voice high and unbroken.
"Yes, boy," Zimmerman said. "You can-"
"I'm not a boy, Ven," the blond boy – no, the blond girl said. "The name's Rudi Cut Nuts, I'm in charge around here. Miss Chapel said, if you even think of goin' screwy, I'm to make sure you don't get anywhere. Got it?"
Zimmerman frowned at her. "Your name is Cut Nuts?"
"Cause I cut the balls off the last man who touched me without my permission," Rudi said, smirking slightly.
"She did," one of the men said.
Zimmerman was not sure if Genevieve was trying to keep her happy with a treat, tossed to her like she was some rabid dog, or if Genevieve had wildly miscalculated in choosing her agent for this mission. No. She tightened her jaw. She had sinned once, far too recently. She wouldn't...be tempted to sin again. Even if, as she watched, Rudi turned to start snapping orders to the men and the evening twilight sparkled along her pale throat and her short, short cropped blond hair and-
"So, Venny," Rudi said. "Is it true you're a big carpet munching dyke?"
Zimmerman blinked, then snorted. "I am a servant of the Lord," she said, firmly. "And the Lady."
Rudi spat. "Well, I don't know about the Lady. The only Lady we care about here, is Sparky. Innit that right, Sparky?"
The spirit at the front of the ship jerked her head around. "Heya!" she said, waving. Her body was slim and wooden, with steely-gray along her back and shoulder blades. Her eyes glowed with an inner light, as if they were coals themselves. "Oh, dang, she looks heavy. Make sure you stay right in the middle of me – don't wanna capsize!" She giggled. "...seriously, though, if we capsize, we're in serious trouble. Restarting my boiler is not easy."
"Listen to her," Rudi said, narrowing her eyes at Zimmerman. "Come on."
Zimmerman followed the slender girl – how old was she? Twenty? - and found that the interior of the motorboat was as cramped as it had looked: A narrow corridor led down into the guts of the ship, where a cargo hold was stuffed with huge crates. They were marked with no labels and Zimmerman couldn't smell anything. Zimmerman made a face, while Rudi scowled at her. "Officially, we're pulling over the bits and bobs you turn into telephones and radio – consumer electronics, they calls it." She smirked, slightly. "Unofficially, it's guns. Even more unofficially, it's you."
Zimmerman grunted. "How are we going to make it to New Austin? Through the rivers?"
"Nah," Rudi said. "With the number of locks and checkpoints, plus the bribes, it'd be longer, more expensive, riskier. We're going down the coast, around Florida, and into the Gulf."
"And the pirates?" Zimmerman asked, frowning slightly.
Rudi led her back up to the deck. She whistled. "Sparky! Show her the thing."
Sparky giggled, then twitched her nose from side to side and wiggled her rump. Zimmerman had to admit, watching a nubile spirit wiggle around like that was pleasant – but before she could remark on it, the prow of the boat swung a panel around, revealing a pair of heavy water cooled machine guns. They swung back shut again a moment later. Rudi grinned at Zimmerman. "We got teeth, Venny."
"And you have me," Zimmerman pointed out.
"Mmm, no offense," Rudi said, then slapped her shoulder – yanking gently on the cybernetic prosthesis hidden right beneath her filmy white shirt. "The last thing I want is you going overboard."
Zimmerman snorted.
***
Sparky sat at the head of the ship, humming along with the buzzing, puttering noise of the high speed boiler in the back of the ship that shared her namesake. The prow of the ship hit every wave that was coming their way and sent them skimming smoothly over it – or, at least, that was how it felt to Zimmerman. As a woman used to trains and to airships, the sudden realization that vehicles could rock and sway this much was...unpleasent. She gritted her teeth, kneeling above the john in the back of the ship, her head ducked forward near the metal rim of the bowl. She wouldn't vomit. But...if she was going to vomit, she'd at least be in the right place. She put her hand on her belly, her eyes half closed as she breathed slow. Shallowly.
"Some big badass you are, eh?" Rudi asked from around the doorway.
Zimmerman lifted her head to glower.
The first two days of travel passed in that misery – her stomach perpetually on the verge of rebelling, her legs stumbling under her with every jounce, every bounce. Despite her misery, though, Sparky cut along the coastline of North America. Glittering cities were rarities and towns were sparkled but thinly between the wilderness that stretched along New England. The further south one got, the more one could see settlement, as the Empire had been quite eager to rebuild land that had once produced the most valuable crops in the world. With the Fire long behind and the Empire bringing in fresh colonists and tenet laborers, those crops flowed again – but in the sky now. Zimmerman and Rudi both watched the immense cargo airships drifting by overhead as they skimmed down the coast.
Like immense, pregnant whales, they bobbed through the air, their holds stuffed with cotton, tobacco, coffee, sugar, all of it flowing towards Albion – a vile heart beating at the center of an empire of debautchery. Zimmerman's lips curled and she muttered. "How I wish I had thee, Midway…"
"What was that?" Rudi asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Nothing, nothing. Just thinking to myself," Zimmerman said – but she didn't convince the young girl. But still, images of what Midway could do up there. The flight of a hundred fixed wing airplanes, diesel burning, pulled from the ether like God splitting the fishes and loaves in the hands of Christ's Son. The idea of it blazed in her mind – the ships burning, their spirits crying out in lamentation and fear, as Britain began to starve without her imports. Her lips curled up in a fierce smile.
The Sparky stopped several times on its journey. The boiler could be pushed till it ran on fumes by the eager spirit that served it, but she could not burn nothing at all. When they stopped between towns, the two burly men sprang off the ship with hatchets and downed small trees, then chopped them into pieces as quick as they could. Here, Zimmerman turned her brawn to the skill, carving up wood and branches with the same eagerness. The chips were fed into the boiler – and despite not being as good or easy to burn as coal, the Sparky was able to once more move again.
They stopped in a village here and there. Tiny, no-name places that had grown up after the Fire, when people had fled smoldering cities and blasted ruins to try and find security. Their English was as queer and strangely accented as any of the free cities of the Wastelands – but rather than flying a patchwork quilt of state flags and local flags, each had a flapping Union Jack, like a slap in the face of the Founders and their sacrifices. Zimmerman remained aboard ship, watching as Rudi handed over silver and copper for coal and other odds and ends.
But after the first three days, the trip ran into its first danger.
They were nearing what had once been Savannah – if Zimmerman didn't miss her guess – and swinging wide away from the rebuild city. Even from a distance, Zimmerman could see the British airships hanging over the city had a different character and design than the cargo ships from earlier: These were sleek, dark, and deadly. Warships. Zimmerman watched them with such a fierce glower, she almost forgot that she was sea sick.
"Oh shit," Rudi muttered.
"What is it?" Zimmerman asked, drawing her eyes away...and there she saw it.
A fisher trawler was coming their way.
Rudi had navigated carefully – dipping close to land near wilderness, even pulling them up a river from time to time, whenever it seemed they would get close to fishing ships. It would just take one to mistake them for a pirate or smuggler...or...well, to accurately determine they were a smuggler…
"Turn aside!" Zimmerman snapped.
"And go where, you galoot!?" Rudi snapped, her eyes flashing, her scar pulling her scowl into an almost smirk. "We're in open fucking ocean!"
The fishing trawler turned aside. Zimmerman could see the crew – mostly American natives like herself from their build and postures and clothing – peering over at them. The captain and the spirit of the fishing trawler stood nearest to the back of the ship, and as it slowed, the captain eyed them curiously. He was a burly looking, red faced man with a thick beard, while his spirit was even smaller and slighter than Sparky – she had the kind of simple smile of a spirit from something just on the edge of awareness. It made sense – their trawler had complex fishing machinery, and a steam engine within, but it was otherwise simplicity itself.
The captain had a pipe clasped in his mouth. He pulled it free, tapping it with his finger. "You there!" he called down. "What ship be that?"
"I'm the Sparky!" Sparky said, waving. "Hi!"
"Hello!" the fishing trawler spirit – she came up to her captain's chest and had to stand up onto her toes to wave back. "Hi! I'm a boat!"
"I know, I'm a boat too!" Sparky said.
"Well, they get along at least," Zimmerman rumbled, while Rudi put a big smile on her face.
"We're from Chatagone, up north – taking a load of their pottery to New Miami," she said, casually.
"Chatagone, eh?" the captain asked. "Never knew they could afford such a nice little ship. Yer spirit looks almost like an airship."
"Thanks!" Sparky said.
"We just, uh, paint her real good to be honest," Rudi said, chuckling.
"Hey!" Sparky pouted. Zimmerman leaned in, whispering in her ear.
"Be good," she said.
"You're not my mechanic, you can't make me do anything I don't wanna," Sparky said, wriggling in her grasp. Zimmerman gripped her tighter, while Rudi hurriedly continued.
"Still, we're just heading along-"
"I was just wondering," the other Captain started at the same time.
"Lemmi go!" Sparky whined. Zimmerman wished she knew how Nix had done what she did. Machines were so...finnicky. She shook her slightly, hoping that joggling her would get Sparky to be quiet. Instead, Sparky started to whine louder. "Let me go, you big radioactive...galoot!"
"Did she say radioactive?" The other Captain asked, his brow drawing together.
"Uh…" Rudi snapped her head around to glare at Zimmerman.
Zimmerman released Sparky. Sparky harrumphed, then turned to the captain. "Yup, she's really radioactive. She's got cybernetics too."
The other Captain's brow's drew in even harder while Zimmerman frowned intently at Sparky. Rudi groaned, then shouted. "Sparky! Fast! We go fast! Now! Now! Now!"
Sparky nodded, then the boat leaped forward with a roar of propellers. The fishing trawler started to recede behind them and Zimmerman grabbed onto the railing, watching them fade moment by moment. She spoke hurriedly. "At least they didn't seem to be complicated enough to have a telephone, or a mobile telephone. Maybe-"
Something whistled up from the ship. It flared bright red overhead – a flare.
"Fuck!" Rudi hissed under her breath. "Ven, put those muscles to work. Miss Chapel said to me that if we were gonna get caught, we dump the fucking guns. So, dump the fucking guns!"
Zimmerman grunted, then turned and started down the stairs. Her legs had more surety than she expected – she took the steps easily, coming down to the cargo hold. She drove the knife of her forearm into one of the locks on the chests, shattering the metal with a clang against her hardened muscle and the edge of her cybernetics, hidden under her shirt. Then she yanked the chest up – having judged that she didn't have the time to lug them out of the stairs, if that were even possible. The entire roof of the cargo hold opened normally. The guns within were mostly the sacred Thompson, but there were also the glorious Browning, and even bouquets of grenades. It was enough American weaponry to make her heart sing – and then sink when she knew what she had to do.
Zimmerman crammed guns under her arms and hurried up the stairs. She threw them overboard, splashing into the water. When she turned back, she saw that the men were going down below as well.
Sparky was humming a song she did not recognize. She was clearly having fun at least.
They had gotten the cargo hold half emptied – and the ship was noticeably faster – when Zimmerman saw the airship heading their way.
"Hell, hell, hell, hell!" Rudi was swearing again and again as Zimmerman came to the wheel. "That's a fast destroyer – a pirate hunter. They're going to swoop over us, drop surface charges, and then threaten to blow us out of the water with the guns…"
"Can we get into shore, head to ground?"
"Not before it reaches us," Rudi said.
"We can make it," Zimmerman said. "They will not know where to shoot us."
"Oh, and you can just make it rain? Plunge is into night? You're nuttier than I thought!" Rudi snapped.
"Simply head inland. The Lord shall provide the rest," Zimmerman said, her voice firm.
Rudi shook her head, clicked her tongue, then swung the wheel.
The next few minuets were eerily calm. They were cutting with the waves, rather than against them – things smoothed out and the Sparky ran as fast as Zimmerman had ever seen her. Sitting on the prow, leaning forward into the wind like a dog at a train window, her spirit beamed and let her glittering, silvery hair tumble into the wind behind her. And all the while, the fast destroyer drew closer and closer, running along a perpendicular route to their own travel. The ship was a sleek knife of a craft, black armored with a pair of engines running off an atomic steam engine that could get it around the world ten times before she'd ever need to stop and rest. She had two heavy cannons mounted on the belly, arranged so that they could fire in a hemisphere around and to the sides of the ship, while her armored balloon was protected by a pair of heavy machine guns mounted on sleek towers. She had a pair of lifeboats attached to her aft sides – tiny gliders that could be brought down to ocean or land, to float or to scrape to a stop.
Her name?
The HMS Speedy.
"How appropriate," Zimmerman said, her voice wry.
"Oh ha ha so funny," Rudi grumbled, her hand brushing her sweat soaked hair slick to her head.
They were getting closer and closer to the coastline – and there was a large river running inland, though Zimmerman didn't know how deep it went before it became too narrow for their ship to traverse.
One of those cannons spoke. A roar of white water bloomed ahead and to the left of the Sparky, shooting froth upwards like a fountain. The other cannon tracked them and Rudi snarled to Zimmerman. "That's English for shut the fuck down or we blow you- what are you doing!?"
Zimmerman had started to unbutton her shirt.
"Now is not the time!" Rudi said, her cheeks flushing as Zimmerman exposed her broad, muscular shoulders, her pale skin, her scars, her cybernetic implants, her breasts. Her eyes widened even more as Zimmerman rolled her shoulders and cricked her neck – and as she tightened her muscles, let them ripple under her skin, the plutonium implants whirred and clacked, lead lining sliding back to reveal dull gray and the Latin inscriptions upon them. Rudi's jaw dropped. "W-Wha...what the fuck are you doing you maniac?"
"Providing a miracle, Rudi," Zimmerman said, smirking.
She grabbed onto one of the many ropes the ship had, one fastened firmly to the aft mooring point, stepped up, then dropped into the Atlantic ocean.
Oh Lady, thy Fire brings warmth to the world – thy touch spares all from the curse of thy anger. The burn of radiation is a balm to the faithful. Thy shall see we never suffer the cancer, the rot of gums, the withering of hair… Zimmerman focused on the prayer as she felt scalding hot water flare and hiss and froth around her arms, her shoulders, her back. Then the rope drew taut and dragged her forward. She could hear the thrumming propeller – and she knew not how close her head was to it. Instead, she dragged herself up the line – pushing her head above the water. She drew in a sharp breath, but that breath was rich with steam and hissing froth. When she opened her eyes, they near scalded. She was in the midst of brilliant white vapor.
The cannons roared again...then again and again, but while she felt a distant hammering against her skin, Zimmerman felt no killing shockwave, no ripping shrapnel.
The long hell of sizzling and frothing continued – and through it all, she prayed…
And then the rope drew taut and she was hauled up. The two burly men heaved, their muscles straining, their teeths clenching. They sagged and dropped as Zimmmerman used her arms to clamber the rest of the way onto the ship. Her body smoldered with thin wisps of smoke, and while the blessing of the Lady Trinity were mighty, even she could not entirely still the fury of boiling water. Bright red blisters gleamed here and there on her body where the protection had faded, and pain ached her from her head to her toes. Zimmerman stood tall despite that, her breasts gleaming with moisture as she looked down at the gaping Rudi. They were under trees – and behind them, a vast curtain of mist still hung over the Atlantic.
The cannons roared once, twice more.
"Enough of a miracle, Rudi?" Zimmerman asked.
"Y...You're insane," Rudi whispered.
Zimmerman smirked.
Then she, much to her shame, passed out.
***
When Zimmerman woke, it was with a groan, her eyes fluttering open. She was still at sea, more the pity. She was laying back in the narrow cot in the larger room that was reserved for Rudi, who Rudi had quite pointedly disallowed her from entering. When she sat up, she saw that her body had been touched all over with ointments and tinctures. The burns had started to heal, though she was still heavily bandaged. Zimmerman grunted quietly, then blinked as the door opened and Rudi entered, scowling as she did so. She was holding a tray with some simple hardtack and water – all that Zimmerman had been able to keep down.
"You may be a maniac," Rudi said. "But at least you're our maniac."
She thrust the tray at Zimmerman. Zimmerman took it, one handed. She paused, then said: "What happened?"
"We hid upland in a cove. They dropped some marines to search the bushes, but Sparky can bring us in closer and ride lower than most people expect. Doubly so when she feels so bad about getting you hurt." Rudi smirked slightly. "She practically did Mechanic's work for you, Ven. Once the marines were far enough away and night had fallen, we slipped back out, went along the coast...I don't think they're going to find us. Bragg is up at the wheel, we should be hitting the Gulf soon. Then New Austin after that."
Zimmerman grunted. She took a bite of the hardtack. To her surprise, she didn't feel the urge to wretch it up immediately.
Rudi looked away, then said. "...so, you're always hot?"
"The Lady protects me and mine," Zimmerman said, her voice firm. "Radiation is no danger." She smirked. "My attractiveness is the real threat to my virtue."
Rudi's cheeks flushed. "I'm not a...fucking carpet munching bitch like you," she snapped.
Zimmerman's hand lashed out. She caught Rudi's slender wrist and her voice grew soft. "Do not call me a bitch or a dyke or a carpet muncher again," she growled. "I may prefer the touch of women. I may have been cast from my order. I may, even, sin from...time to time…" Her eyes flashed. 'But I have my limits, even for girls as pretty as you."
"Pretty as me!?" Rudi squeaked, tugging – weakly, oh so weakly – against Zimmerman's hand. "Do you think I...I'd be insane enough to...to...mmmph!" She gasped as Zimmerman pulled her in close with a jerk, mashing her mouth to hers. The scarred blond squirmed. So Zimmerman caught her by the hair, pulled her in close, forcing her tongue into her mouth. Rudi squirmed and made muffled noises...first of protest. Then of eagerness. Her head tilted and her mouth opened and Zimmerman tasted her with a quiet rumble of pleasure. She ignored the pain of her healing burns, the tug of her bandages, and pulled Rudi into the tight confines of the cot. Rudi's body squirmed against her and Zimmerman rolled around, so that she was on her back.
Rudi panted, softly, her eyes wide, shocked. "W-What are you doing!?" She hissed. "Miss Chapel will skin me alive if I...if we...she warned me about you."
"Did she tell you that I fucked her too?" Zimmerman crooned.
Zimmerman takes Rudi in a womanly fashion
Rudi's eyes bugged. Her shocked protest was lost as Zimmerman leaned down. She kissed her mouth. Her jaw. Her throat. Her teeth teased her throat and Rudi bit her own lip almost hard enough to draw blood. Zimmerman drove her hand down, questing. She pushed Rudi's pants down, just enough to slide her fingers along her cunt. She had a wild mane down there – but damp, eager dew. Zimmerman thrust her fingers into her and Rudi's arms gripped at her shoulders. She squeezed with a desperate eagerness, her own hips bucking. Her eyes were wide. Shocked.
"W-What are...you...hnn!" Rudi gasped as her cunt clenched around the fingers filling her. Zimmerman's thumb found her clit, rubbing. "What are you doing?" Rudi gasped.
"This is how women make love," Zimmerman chuckled. "I take it you've only ever had a man putting his prick in you." She smirked fiercely. "They don't know what they're doing." She rubbed more intently, adding a second finger. Her fingers, scarred and calloused as they were, remained gentle as she quested out for Rudi's center of pleasure. She found it, she knew she had found it, thanks to the mewling gasp that escaped Rudi. She squirmed and her hips bucked up against Zimmerman's hand. She was seeking her release...so Zimmerman eased off, drawing her thumb away from her clit.
Rudi whined, low in her throat. "Oh come the fuck on!"
"I'm getting my money's worth from you," Zimmerman said, grinning. She leaned forward, and used her teeth. One by one, she unhooked button after button, exposed Rudi's flat chest. She had more scars here than just on her face: A jagged chunk from her shoulder, which Zimmerman kissed, then licked. Two puckered bullet wounds, narrowly missing vital organs. She kissed each, planting a warm pair of lips against wound after wound. This all led her down, down, down, to where she could pull Rudi's pants down. This left her half off the bed, her legs scrunched up against the wall. She didn't care. She grabbed onto Rudi's hips as the slender girl gasped, whimpered, even mewled.
She didn't stop her, though.
Zimmerman thrust her tongue into her cunt. She feasted on her, far more eagerly than she had on hard tack. Her tongue swept up, down, up. She sucked on her clit.
And as Rudi started to clap her hand over her mouth, Zimmerman felt a warm pleasure – maybe the rest of the voyage wouldn't be so bad? She grinned, drawing her mouth back, glistening with Rudi's juices as gleaming tears beaded in Rudi's eyes, unshed tears of pure bliss. As she quivered, Zimmerman got ready to lean in and start licking her...but then a rapping noise came at the door.
"Captain!" One of the men called through – Zimmerman wasn't sure which. She wasn't even quite sure what their names were. "We're gonna be heading near the pirate lanes soon – just thought I should warn you."
Rudi drew her hand away from her mouth. She breathed in, slowly. Trying to keep herself calm. Controlled. She spoke, evenly. "V-Very good, Grant. Just keep on!" Her voice grew sharper as, smirking, Zimmerman leaned forward and started to suck on her clit again.
"You okay cap?" the man asked, whatever his name was.
"Fine!" Rudi gasped out.
Her hips bucked and her juices flooded Zimmerman's mouth. And Zimmerman drank and drank well. Her eyes half closed and she licked her lips smugly as footsteps started to ring along the ground – fading away as the man left. Rudi gasped and panted, her cheeks flushed. "Y-You bitch," she whispered. "You fucking bitch, I...I can't let the crew know!" She wriggled, squirmed, then managed to get to her feet. She wobbled against the wall, panting, as Zimmerman crawled onto the bed. She was feeling the aches of her wounds.
She didn't care.
"Where are you going?" She murmured.
"I am...I have to-"
Rudi squeaked as Zimmerman's arm looped out. She was drawn back into the bed, a slip of a girl pressed against Zimmerman's chest. Her arms locked around her and Rudi squirmed – but not very hard. Oh no. Not very hard at all. Zimmerman's croon was hot in her ear.
"W-What are...you...hnn!" Rudi gasped as her cunt clenched around the fingers filling her. Zimmerman's thumb found her clit, rubbing. "What are you doing?" Rudi gasped.
"This is how women make love," Zimmerman chuckled. "I take it you've only ever had a man putting his prick in you." She smirked fiercely. "They don't know what they're doing." She rubbed more intently, adding a second finger. Her fingers, scarred and calloused as they were, remained gentle as she quested out for Rudi's center of pleasure. She found it, she knew she had found it, thanks to the mewling gasp that escaped Rudi. She squirmed and her hips bucked up against Zimmerman's hand. She was seeking her release...so Zimmerman eased off, drawing her thumb away from her clit.
Rudi whined, low in her throat. "Oh come the fuck on!"
"I'm getting my money's worth from you," Zimmerman said, grinning. She leaned forward, and used her teeth. One by one, she unhooked button after button, exposed Rudi's flat chest. She had more scars here than just on her face: A jagged chunk from her shoulder, which Zimmerman kissed, then licked. Two puckered bullet wounds, narrowly missing vital organs. She kissed each, planting a warm pair of lips against wound after wound. This all led her down, down, down, to where she could pull Rudi's pants down. This left her half off the bed, her legs scrunched up against the wall. She didn't care. She grabbed onto Rudi's hips as the slender girl gasped, whimpered, even mewled.
She didn't stop her, though.
Zimmerman thrust her tongue into her cunt. She feasted on her, far more eagerly than she had on hard tack. Her tongue swept up, down, up. She sucked on her clit.
And as Rudi started to clap her hand over her mouth, Zimmerman felt a warm pleasure – maybe the rest of the voyage wouldn't be so bad? She grinned, drawing her mouth back, glistening with Rudi's juices as gleaming tears beaded in Rudi's eyes, unshed tears of pure bliss. As she quivered, Zimmerman got ready to lean in and start licking her...but then a rapping noise came at the door.
"Captain!" One of the men called through – Zimmerman wasn't sure which. She wasn't even quite sure what their names were. "We're gonna be heading near the pirate lanes soon – just thought I should warn you."
Rudi drew her hand away from her mouth. She breathed in, slowly. Trying to keep herself calm. Controlled. She spoke, evenly. "V-Very good, Grant. Just keep on!" Her voice grew sharper as, smirking, Zimmerman leaned forward and started to suck on her clit again.
"You okay cap?" the man asked, whatever his name was.
"Fine!" Rudi gasped out.
Her hips bucked and her juices flooded Zimmerman's mouth. And Zimmerman drank and drank well. Her eyes half closed and she licked her lips smugly as footsteps started to ring along the ground – fading away as the man left. Rudi gasped and panted, her cheeks flushed. "Y-You bitch," she whispered. "You fucking bitch, I...I can't let the crew know!" She wriggled, squirmed, then managed to get to her feet. She wobbled against the wall, panting, as Zimmerman crawled onto the bed. She was feeling the aches of her wounds.
She didn't care.
"Where are you going?" She murmured.
"I am...I have to-"
Rudi squeaked as Zimmerman's arm looped out. She was drawn back into the bed, a slip of a girl pressed against Zimmerman's chest. Her arms locked around her and Rudi squirmed – but not very hard. Oh no. Not very hard at all. Zimmerman's croon was hot in her ear.
"Miss Chappel could give me orders. But you're mine."
Rudi squeaked.
But she did not complain very much.
TO BE CONTINUED
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
I feel like eventually Vengeance Zimmerman is gonna come across I dunno Viscountess Honoria Harrington, Grand Dame of the Order of the Garter and Commanding Officer of the pirate-hunting and anti-slavery East America Squadron, and then their homoerotic duels becomes her sole further contribution to the Great Yank Rebellion
- Location
- My own little world...
I came all the way here from a certain...other literature site to say how freaking amazing this story is.
It's like the entire Moe Mecha genre dressed up in steampunk cosplay and proceeded to have a lesbian orgy with Hellsing and the entire Fallout franchise, and I love it.
The tiny references hidden in the background text are genius. From digs at AI art to fucking Thomas the Tank Engine, it's so fun to reread and see what I missed. I'm still certain there is stuff I haven't gotten yet.
The setting itself feels so vibrant and alive. As has been mentioned before, it feels like it should be an RPG setting because of how big and adventurous everything is. There are so many different types of characters, from insane nuclear nuns to tantric technomancers to intrepid reporters to living warship(?)s, and they're all perfectly part of the setting. There are so many adventures that could be had in the things and places this story doesn't have time for.
It's the best way sort of world building, the kind that keeps people wanting and imagining more, so you may consider my muse well and fully kicked.
An utterly amazing job thus far and I look forward to whatever comes next!
It's like the entire Moe Mecha genre dressed up in steampunk cosplay and proceeded to have a lesbian orgy with Hellsing and the entire Fallout franchise, and I love it.
The tiny references hidden in the background text are genius. From digs at AI art to fucking Thomas the Tank Engine, it's so fun to reread and see what I missed. I'm still certain there is stuff I haven't gotten yet.
The setting itself feels so vibrant and alive. As has been mentioned before, it feels like it should be an RPG setting because of how big and adventurous everything is. There are so many different types of characters, from insane nuclear nuns to tantric technomancers to intrepid reporters to living warship(?)s, and they're all perfectly part of the setting. There are so many adventures that could be had in the things and places this story doesn't have time for.
It's the best way sort of world building, the kind that keeps people wanting and imagining more, so you may consider my muse well and fully kicked.
An utterly amazing job thus far and I look forward to whatever comes next!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Thank you so much!
What's funny is, like, the basic inspiration for this setting was itself, an RPG setting that I don't think anyone else heard about: Broken Gears!
I think I took it in a different direction - primarily because I went, "Okay, but technology isn't just stuff with gears on it, guys."
What's funny is, like, the basic inspiration for this setting was itself, an RPG setting that I don't think anyone else heard about: Broken Gears!
I think I took it in a different direction - primarily because I went, "Okay, but technology isn't just stuff with gears on it, guys."
- Location
- My own little world...
My muse has an endless hunger for world-building, and I couldn't resist playing around in this particular sandbox.
Everyone has permission to use all or part of this for whatever purpose they'd like, but it's still non-canon fan content. Unless @DragonCobolt decides to canonize it, I guess, but that wasn't the intention when I wrote it.
Monastic Order of St. Turing
Sometimes derogatorily referred to as "Math Monks", "Number Nuns", and "Calculator Kooks", the Order of St. Turing is a common sight throughout the Empire. It was founded on the belief that, as the will and designs of Christ are divine and ineffable, the universe must by its very nature be deterministic. If the universe is deterministic then all things within it can be calculated, including the Divine Plan. Thus was the prophet Turing's true divine testament: God speaks not in words but in equations. Lady Colossus is proof of this Divine Calculus, and the Order seeks to follow in Saint Turing's footsteps and know God through the mysteries of mathematics.
Those sworn to the Order deliberately sequester themselves from ordinary lives so that they can focus on the theoretical mathematics they believe will lead them to Divine Understanding. Though it is not required, many have sworn off material comforts to help them remain focused on their calling. The most fanatical sometimes undergo castration in emulation of Saint Turing, so that like him they will not be distracted by weaknesses of the flesh*.
The Order keeps its own records, mountains of proofs and mathematical theories. Though its members frequently isolate themselves to focus on the purity of the theoretical, it is agreed that knowledge of the world and its workings are critical to true understanding. Creation itself is Divine Calculus in action, so members of the Order study everything from physics to psychology in an effort to understand and calculate God's Plan. Entire shelves are full of semi-mad ramblings that connect seemingly random events into conspiracy-esc chains and patterns, then attempt to translate these patterns into math. The resulting equations are almost entirely contradictory and mostly useless, but the research poured into these failures has provided the Order with a treasure trove of knowledge for those able to make sense of it.
Members of the Order are a common sight in most major cities in the Empire, and are very distinctive. Their signature robes and chattering analytic engines make them easy to spot, and they frequently hang around docks, train stations, and other areas with predictable patterns of traffic. Others can be found near complex machines, natural phenomena such as rivers and waterfalls, or on windy rooftops. They linger for hours on benches, balconies, and other out-of-the-way areas, watching and constantly scribbling notes.
The purpose of these endless observations is to seek patterns. Patterns in the water, patterns in the wind, patterns in machinery, patterns in behavior, patterns in people. All initiates are taught to see the world as an endless number of variables in the most complex equation imaginable. As they observe the world and its patterns, they can get closer to defining these variables and understanding the equation itself.
Initiates are taught that they too are a variable, the only one they can fully control. Considering their scholarly reputation, many would be surprised to learn that the Order prizes physical fitness and many study martial arts. They study martial arts not for use in combat but as a way to gain mastery over their bodies.
A member of the Order knows exactly how many steps it will take them to get from one place to another and how long it will take. They can estimate the stride of a man from the length of his legs and will quickly notice limps or other abnormalities that will impact this number. They know how many bullets are in a gun, how quickly it can fire, and roughly how long it will take to swing the gun to a new target.
This talent when coupled with their endless observations have given the Order a reputation for prescience. A layman might be shocked that a random monk knows his name, his profession, that he plays darts, and his marriage is on the rocks because of his drinking problem, and might attribute this knowledge to magic or divine revelation. In reality the monk has just been watching him get on and off trains for a month and happened to be within earshot of the man's conversations.
Members of the Order are rarely found outside of cities, but it isn't unheard of for some to go on long pilgrimages to study something they believe will give them important insight. Some travel on airships to observe the mechanisms of the ship and the patterns of the crew. Some scour irradiated ruins, measuring melted beams and craters so that they might know God's Wrath as much as God's Love. Some simply wander the world, analyzing the twists in their personal journey the way a meteorologist might use the path of a balloon to study an air current.
-
*: The intended implication here is that Colossus made some creative liberties to better frame Turing as a holy figure instead of a persecuted minority. It is intended to mirror and highlight real-world examples of LGBTQ+ erasure, not add to it.
My first draft included a heretical sect that discovered the true story of Turing, just to make it clear, but it cluttered things up and tied the Order much more closely to Colossus than I felt a non-canon background group should be.
Everyone has permission to use all or part of this for whatever purpose they'd like, but it's still non-canon fan content. Unless @DragonCobolt decides to canonize it, I guess, but that wasn't the intention when I wrote it.
Monastic Order of St. Turing
Sometimes derogatorily referred to as "Math Monks", "Number Nuns", and "Calculator Kooks", the Order of St. Turing is a common sight throughout the Empire. It was founded on the belief that, as the will and designs of Christ are divine and ineffable, the universe must by its very nature be deterministic. If the universe is deterministic then all things within it can be calculated, including the Divine Plan. Thus was the prophet Turing's true divine testament: God speaks not in words but in equations. Lady Colossus is proof of this Divine Calculus, and the Order seeks to follow in Saint Turing's footsteps and know God through the mysteries of mathematics.
Those sworn to the Order deliberately sequester themselves from ordinary lives so that they can focus on the theoretical mathematics they believe will lead them to Divine Understanding. Though it is not required, many have sworn off material comforts to help them remain focused on their calling. The most fanatical sometimes undergo castration in emulation of Saint Turing, so that like him they will not be distracted by weaknesses of the flesh*.
The Order keeps its own records, mountains of proofs and mathematical theories. Though its members frequently isolate themselves to focus on the purity of the theoretical, it is agreed that knowledge of the world and its workings are critical to true understanding. Creation itself is Divine Calculus in action, so members of the Order study everything from physics to psychology in an effort to understand and calculate God's Plan. Entire shelves are full of semi-mad ramblings that connect seemingly random events into conspiracy-esc chains and patterns, then attempt to translate these patterns into math. The resulting equations are almost entirely contradictory and mostly useless, but the research poured into these failures has provided the Order with a treasure trove of knowledge for those able to make sense of it.
Members of the Order are a common sight in most major cities in the Empire, and are very distinctive. Their signature robes and chattering analytic engines make them easy to spot, and they frequently hang around docks, train stations, and other areas with predictable patterns of traffic. Others can be found near complex machines, natural phenomena such as rivers and waterfalls, or on windy rooftops. They linger for hours on benches, balconies, and other out-of-the-way areas, watching and constantly scribbling notes.
The purpose of these endless observations is to seek patterns. Patterns in the water, patterns in the wind, patterns in machinery, patterns in behavior, patterns in people. All initiates are taught to see the world as an endless number of variables in the most complex equation imaginable. As they observe the world and its patterns, they can get closer to defining these variables and understanding the equation itself.
Initiates are taught that they too are a variable, the only one they can fully control. Considering their scholarly reputation, many would be surprised to learn that the Order prizes physical fitness and many study martial arts. They study martial arts not for use in combat but as a way to gain mastery over their bodies.
A member of the Order knows exactly how many steps it will take them to get from one place to another and how long it will take. They can estimate the stride of a man from the length of his legs and will quickly notice limps or other abnormalities that will impact this number. They know how many bullets are in a gun, how quickly it can fire, and roughly how long it will take to swing the gun to a new target.
This talent when coupled with their endless observations have given the Order a reputation for prescience. A layman might be shocked that a random monk knows his name, his profession, that he plays darts, and his marriage is on the rocks because of his drinking problem, and might attribute this knowledge to magic or divine revelation. In reality the monk has just been watching him get on and off trains for a month and happened to be within earshot of the man's conversations.
Members of the Order are rarely found outside of cities, but it isn't unheard of for some to go on long pilgrimages to study something they believe will give them important insight. Some travel on airships to observe the mechanisms of the ship and the patterns of the crew. Some scour irradiated ruins, measuring melted beams and craters so that they might know God's Wrath as much as God's Love. Some simply wander the world, analyzing the twists in their personal journey the way a meteorologist might use the path of a balloon to study an air current.
-
*: The intended implication here is that Colossus made some creative liberties to better frame Turing as a holy figure instead of a persecuted minority. It is intended to mirror and highlight real-world examples of LGBTQ+ erasure, not add to it.
My first draft included a heretical sect that discovered the true story of Turing, just to make it clear, but it cluttered things up and tied the Order much more closely to Colossus than I felt a non-canon background group should be.
- Location
- My own little world...
Did you think I was done? Not yet! Have some more fan-created-non-canon background lore!
I have the second part of this to go, followed by Gunslingers and finally a strange myth handed down through the centuries.
Enjoy!
---
Part One: The Highways
Before Trinity's wrathful judgment, the United States Numbered Highway System was a critical part of the American Leviathan. While major freight was transported via train and ship, everyday travel was done through the Highways. Every day vast rivers of steel and rubber flowed across more than 150,000 miles of concrete and asphalt, everything from big trucks hauling cargo to shining sports cars on casual drives. It was a simple thing of signs and asphalt rather than cogs and wires, a vast and ponderous beast made powerful by its sheer size and ubiquity.
Trinity burned the head from the Leviathan with her fire, but even in its death throes its blood still pumped. The train stations collapsed and the docks burned, but the Highways endured. As Lot and his family were guided by angels from the ruins of Sodom and Gomorrah, those spared by Trinity used the Highways to flee their former homes.
In the years following the Fire, the crumbling Highways were the only option for long-distance travel. The Immortal Empire soon returned to reclaim her prodigal colonies, however, and under the Empire's "benevolent" guidance the major railways were repaired and the ports rebuilt. With the exception of the coastal roads that connected farms and other settlements to the various trade hubs, the Highways were ignored and left to rot.
Travel to, from, and within the restored Colonies is facilitated by civilized, modern means. Virtually all Imperial traffic takes the form of ships, trains, or airships. Travel within Burned York and other large cities is sometimes facilitated by motorized carriages, but these carriages were never intended for long-distance travel. Farmers use trucks and tractors to bring their harvests to port, but such crude transport is suitable only for the most rustic of common folk.
Official trains, heavily armed and armored, make regular trips to surviving cities like Broken Arch and New Austin, but the preferred method of travel (if one must travel over such a desolate place) is by air. Most Imperial citizens, when they think of the American Interior at all, imagine it as a desolate, dead place populated by primitive scavengers and sinners made crazed by Trinity's wrathful judgment.
The American Interior is better known as the Wasteland, at least in the Empire. The official line is that it is nothing more than thousands of miles of deadly badlands filled with bandits, criminals, mutated wildlife, and worse. There were initial attempts to bring the Wasteland to heel, but the land west of the Mississippi was not friendly to the cash crops British overseers mandated. Trinity's fires and the Empire's poor attempts at agriculture caused radioactive dust storms that lasted two decades, and with a few exceptions the entire region was written off as unlivable for any civilized person.
The truth is quite different.
With Trinity's favor, it is entirely possible to farm the Wasteland. The land is only hostile to those who would exploit it. Those who understand the soil they plow and grow only what they need are able to make a perfectly sustainable living from it. These farms form communities of necessity, bartering, trading, protecting, and aiding one another to ensure everyone is able to survive the harsh wilderness.
Other settlements date back to the Fires themselves. Those who survived America's collapse formed their own communities from the wreckage. They learned to live in the Wasteland, pooling their skills and resources to defend themselves from the many dangers that surrounded them. These eventually grew into stable towns and even minor city states. Some of these communities, especially those near the coasts, were absorbed by the Empire's colonial "benevolence". Others remained largely independent, either because they weren't important enough for anyone to care or because they were deep enough in the Wasteland to be beyond the Empire's easy reach.
The many scattered communities and settlements that exist beneath Imperial notice largely rely on trade to survive. The larger settlements require food from the surrounding farms, and the farms need the blacksmiths, doctors, and other specialists that ply their trade in the fortified towns. For things that can't be produced in the Wasteland, such as precision machinery and medicine, they must trade (officially or unofficially) with the Empire.
Those fortunate enough to be located along water or the old railways utilize boats or trains to bring in what they need. These vehicles are largely unnoticed and unregulated, since for the most part the Empire only cares about the primary trade routes running between the rebuilt cities. It can't be bothered to police every small merchant boat going up and down the rivers and lakes and every private train trying her luck on the old rusting tracks leading into the Wasteland. It's an open secret that many of these "merchants" are at least part-time smugglers, but they're profitable enough that British officials normally look the other way…for a small demonstration of local gratitude, of course.
Not everyone has the good fortune to be located near a river or railroad, however. Isolated settlements have no choice but to rely on the same savior that carried them into the Wasteland in the first place: the Highways.
Trips of a day or less are common and usually rely on roads (both old and new), with horses, mules, oxen, and other beasts of burden carrying any goods or cargo. Such journeys are relatively safe: a farmer taking a wagon of hay to a neighbor is hardly worth robbing, so bandits rarely ever stake out the local roads. Travelers still go armed, but their weapons are only to ward off wandering predators.
Trips that take days or weeks are another story. Night in the American wilderness is not a safe time: most wilderness creatures see better at night than humans, and those driven mad by Trinity's lingering scorn are known to violently attack anything they stumble across. Bandits also become a threat on longer journeys, since travelers are now far from help and anything worth risking many days of dangerous travel to transport is likely worth stealing.
Furthermore, foraging for food and especially water can be a dangerous dice roll even with Trinity's protection. The ruins of the Fire seeped into the ground, lead, oil, and other chemicals poisoning many things that might at first appear safe. The weather is its own hazard. Depending on the region and time of year, travelers may need to deal with freezing blizzards, scorching heat, biting wind, sticking mud, deadly floods, and even tornadoes. The hazards of travel have claimed far more lives than any animal or bandit.
Whether driven by profit, necessity, or both, there are still some willing to brave these dangers. Seeking safety in numbers, large wagon trains roll across the Wasteland, connecting isolated towns and settlements with those fortunate enough to be on more conventional trade routes. They have the experience and supplies to survive the natural dangers of the wilderness, and such large groups are enough to ward off all but the most maddened animals. Their pooled funds are enough to hire mercenaries to protect against bandits, and most hired guns work almost exclusively as caravan guards.
The many large wagons of merchant caravans make travel across smaller roads difficult, especially when rains turn dirt paths to mud pits. The Highways are a much better alternative. Most American settlements are located on or near a Highway, so the Highways provide a very direct route of trade. While they are sometimes rough due to decay, they are far safer and easier than trying to go off-road. Merchants often cut back the plants and fill in the worst of the holes and cracks when they can, to help preserve the Highways for future trips.
Roving merchant caravans are the primary method of large-scale trade in the deepest parts of the so-called Wasteland, and they are the most common travelers on the Highway. They are merely visitors to the Highway's crumbling stretches and curves, however. The Highway was never meant to be traveled by shod hooves and wooden wheels. It was made for roaring steel and screaming rubber, and there are those who have not forgotten this.
The true inheritors of America's forgotten heartways, those whose lives begin and end with the Road, who crave the growl of the engine and the speed of the chase, are known as…
The Highwaymen.
I have the second part of this to go, followed by Gunslingers and finally a strange myth handed down through the centuries.
Enjoy!
---
Part One: The Highways
Before Trinity's wrathful judgment, the United States Numbered Highway System was a critical part of the American Leviathan. While major freight was transported via train and ship, everyday travel was done through the Highways. Every day vast rivers of steel and rubber flowed across more than 150,000 miles of concrete and asphalt, everything from big trucks hauling cargo to shining sports cars on casual drives. It was a simple thing of signs and asphalt rather than cogs and wires, a vast and ponderous beast made powerful by its sheer size and ubiquity.
Trinity burned the head from the Leviathan with her fire, but even in its death throes its blood still pumped. The train stations collapsed and the docks burned, but the Highways endured. As Lot and his family were guided by angels from the ruins of Sodom and Gomorrah, those spared by Trinity used the Highways to flee their former homes.
In the years following the Fire, the crumbling Highways were the only option for long-distance travel. The Immortal Empire soon returned to reclaim her prodigal colonies, however, and under the Empire's "benevolent" guidance the major railways were repaired and the ports rebuilt. With the exception of the coastal roads that connected farms and other settlements to the various trade hubs, the Highways were ignored and left to rot.
Travel to, from, and within the restored Colonies is facilitated by civilized, modern means. Virtually all Imperial traffic takes the form of ships, trains, or airships. Travel within Burned York and other large cities is sometimes facilitated by motorized carriages, but these carriages were never intended for long-distance travel. Farmers use trucks and tractors to bring their harvests to port, but such crude transport is suitable only for the most rustic of common folk.
Official trains, heavily armed and armored, make regular trips to surviving cities like Broken Arch and New Austin, but the preferred method of travel (if one must travel over such a desolate place) is by air. Most Imperial citizens, when they think of the American Interior at all, imagine it as a desolate, dead place populated by primitive scavengers and sinners made crazed by Trinity's wrathful judgment.
The American Interior is better known as the Wasteland, at least in the Empire. The official line is that it is nothing more than thousands of miles of deadly badlands filled with bandits, criminals, mutated wildlife, and worse. There were initial attempts to bring the Wasteland to heel, but the land west of the Mississippi was not friendly to the cash crops British overseers mandated. Trinity's fires and the Empire's poor attempts at agriculture caused radioactive dust storms that lasted two decades, and with a few exceptions the entire region was written off as unlivable for any civilized person.
The truth is quite different.
With Trinity's favor, it is entirely possible to farm the Wasteland. The land is only hostile to those who would exploit it. Those who understand the soil they plow and grow only what they need are able to make a perfectly sustainable living from it. These farms form communities of necessity, bartering, trading, protecting, and aiding one another to ensure everyone is able to survive the harsh wilderness.
Other settlements date back to the Fires themselves. Those who survived America's collapse formed their own communities from the wreckage. They learned to live in the Wasteland, pooling their skills and resources to defend themselves from the many dangers that surrounded them. These eventually grew into stable towns and even minor city states. Some of these communities, especially those near the coasts, were absorbed by the Empire's colonial "benevolence". Others remained largely independent, either because they weren't important enough for anyone to care or because they were deep enough in the Wasteland to be beyond the Empire's easy reach.
The many scattered communities and settlements that exist beneath Imperial notice largely rely on trade to survive. The larger settlements require food from the surrounding farms, and the farms need the blacksmiths, doctors, and other specialists that ply their trade in the fortified towns. For things that can't be produced in the Wasteland, such as precision machinery and medicine, they must trade (officially or unofficially) with the Empire.
Those fortunate enough to be located along water or the old railways utilize boats or trains to bring in what they need. These vehicles are largely unnoticed and unregulated, since for the most part the Empire only cares about the primary trade routes running between the rebuilt cities. It can't be bothered to police every small merchant boat going up and down the rivers and lakes and every private train trying her luck on the old rusting tracks leading into the Wasteland. It's an open secret that many of these "merchants" are at least part-time smugglers, but they're profitable enough that British officials normally look the other way…for a small demonstration of local gratitude, of course.
Not everyone has the good fortune to be located near a river or railroad, however. Isolated settlements have no choice but to rely on the same savior that carried them into the Wasteland in the first place: the Highways.
Trips of a day or less are common and usually rely on roads (both old and new), with horses, mules, oxen, and other beasts of burden carrying any goods or cargo. Such journeys are relatively safe: a farmer taking a wagon of hay to a neighbor is hardly worth robbing, so bandits rarely ever stake out the local roads. Travelers still go armed, but their weapons are only to ward off wandering predators.
Trips that take days or weeks are another story. Night in the American wilderness is not a safe time: most wilderness creatures see better at night than humans, and those driven mad by Trinity's lingering scorn are known to violently attack anything they stumble across. Bandits also become a threat on longer journeys, since travelers are now far from help and anything worth risking many days of dangerous travel to transport is likely worth stealing.
Furthermore, foraging for food and especially water can be a dangerous dice roll even with Trinity's protection. The ruins of the Fire seeped into the ground, lead, oil, and other chemicals poisoning many things that might at first appear safe. The weather is its own hazard. Depending on the region and time of year, travelers may need to deal with freezing blizzards, scorching heat, biting wind, sticking mud, deadly floods, and even tornadoes. The hazards of travel have claimed far more lives than any animal or bandit.
Whether driven by profit, necessity, or both, there are still some willing to brave these dangers. Seeking safety in numbers, large wagon trains roll across the Wasteland, connecting isolated towns and settlements with those fortunate enough to be on more conventional trade routes. They have the experience and supplies to survive the natural dangers of the wilderness, and such large groups are enough to ward off all but the most maddened animals. Their pooled funds are enough to hire mercenaries to protect against bandits, and most hired guns work almost exclusively as caravan guards.
The many large wagons of merchant caravans make travel across smaller roads difficult, especially when rains turn dirt paths to mud pits. The Highways are a much better alternative. Most American settlements are located on or near a Highway, so the Highways provide a very direct route of trade. While they are sometimes rough due to decay, they are far safer and easier than trying to go off-road. Merchants often cut back the plants and fill in the worst of the holes and cracks when they can, to help preserve the Highways for future trips.
Roving merchant caravans are the primary method of large-scale trade in the deepest parts of the so-called Wasteland, and they are the most common travelers on the Highway. They are merely visitors to the Highway's crumbling stretches and curves, however. The Highway was never meant to be traveled by shod hooves and wooden wheels. It was made for roaring steel and screaming rubber, and there are those who have not forgotten this.
The true inheritors of America's forgotten heartways, those whose lives begin and end with the Road, who crave the growl of the engine and the speed of the chase, are known as…
The Highwaymen.
Chapter Nine
- Pronouns
- He/Him
By the time the little speedboat had reached the docks of New Austin, Zimmerman was almost ready to face the world again – despite the ferocious burns she had received.
It had helped that in that time, she had been able to grab onto Rudi and drag the young, scarred girl into the cramped, tight confines of the officer's bedroom and have her way with her whenever she had wanted. Zimmerman knew, in an abstract sense, that she was falling into bad habits. The same habits that had gotten her exiled from the sisterhood and sent to walk the wastelands of America. She knew it was a sin, before God and Christ and the Lady Trinity, to find female flesh so deliciously appealing. She wished every evening, kneeling before the small shrine in the back of the motorboat's cargo hold, that the Lady Trinity might excise this sin from her, as her radiation could excise a cancer.
Then she would fuck Rudi again.
So, it was with a mixed sense of relief and longing that she saw New Austin approaching – and heard Rudi mutter under her breath. "Finally."
The Sparky had taken them around the edge of Florida and into the Gulf proper. There, they had had three close run-ins with pirates running old style steamships, but no matter how fast a paddlwheel spun, it couldn't match a modern ship like the Sparky. They still had a few hairy moments when a steamship flying the jolly roger had gotten within long-gun range and shells had crashed into the water to either side of their ship. Sparky, being a spirit, responded to being shot at by sticking out her tongue and shouting rude words at the slower, simpler spirit of the distant steamship while Rudi swore every oath and curse that Zimmerman had heard in English before switching to heathen tongues and languages she was fairly sure were deader than French.
The other two run-ins hadn't involved any shooting, but they had stressed the speedboat's fuel reserves and required a several hour layover in the wilderness coast, trekking into marshy wetlands to cut down trees to feed into the boiler. By then, Zimmerman's burns were nearly completely healed, and Rudi was making grumbling comments about not being able to carry on like a 'dyke alley-cat' and so the extra physical exercise was enough to sooth some of her sin.
Some.
"I won't say I'm going to miss you," Rudi said as she slowed the Sparky's engine as they approached the docks. There was an open berth, but before they had even arrived, several Imperial customs officials were waiting. The Union Jack still flew over New Austin, much as it made Zimmerman grit her teeth. Rudi frowned, then shook her head. "Shit we don't even have anything to fucking smuggle…" She frowned. "Don't be too weird about them, Ven." She glanced at Zimmerman. "Those are ours."
Zimmerman blinked as the ropes on the Sparky were tossed to the docks by the two other members of the crew. Sparky herself sat on the prow, arching her back to demonstrate her slight curves and glittering silver and wood paneled body to all the dockworkers and fellow travelers. The other boats in the docks were mostly sailboats – none of them had spirits animate enough to be walking about, so she did draw more than her normal share of looks, admiring whistles, and a few calls from wags: "I'd love to service you, honey!"
"Only mechanics!" Rudi shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth – while one of the Imperial officials stepped up and planted his boot on one of the pylons of the dock, grinning down at them thanks to his exalted position – Zimmerman stood a bit taller and was smug that even with the docks, she still came up to his stomach.
"Well, well, well, looks like Chappel's sent her best little ship out," he said, casually – his accent American, despite the blue and gold uniform.
"Little!?" Sparky harrumphed, her arms crossing over her petite breasts.
"I did say best too," the 'official' said, chuckling.
"Come on, lets make this quick," his friend said.
"Aight, we need to make a show of searching your ship," the first 'official' said. "Then we pass off your cargo as being right and proper and you can enjoy this wonderful day in New Austin."
Zimmerman grunted.
"Not very talkative is he," the 'official said.
Zimmerman scowled. "He?" she asked.
"Oh holy shit you're a woman?" the first 'official asked.
The second sighed, then dropped down onto the speedboat. He headed to the cargo hold, stomping down. Rudi gulped and shifted from foot to foot, glancing at Zimmerman. "So, uh, Vee, these fellows work for Don Miguel," she murmured, quietly.
"Miguel isn't an American name," Zimmerman muttered.
"No, he's Cubano," Rudi whispered back. "They hate the Limeys as much as we do, don't get all 20th century on us."
Zimmerman frowned. It was an article of faith to her that no one could hate the English more than the Americans. But she supposed that the Cubanos and Mexicans had their own reasons to dislike the Empire and her eternal ruler – even if the Fire hadn't touched their lands quite so fiercely. She saw Rudi was chewing her knuckle now, worry twisting her scar up. "What's wrong with that?" she asked.
"Well, the guns weren't just to make Miss Chappel money – they were to get us into New Austin without a problem," Rudi said.
"...ah," Zimmerman said.
The first 'official' came stomping up. "Rudi," he said, his voice flat. "Where the fuck are the guns?"
"We had to dump some of them," Rudi said, holding up her hands. "Only some, though."
"Half! Half the fucking guns are gone!" The official thrust back with his palm towards the cargo hold, leaning in so close he almost touched his nose to Rudi's. Zimmerman grabbed onto the back of his shirt and yanked him back, frowning at him.
"Don't threaten Rudi," she said, her voice firm. She shifted her grip around, grabbing the front of his navy blue jacket with one bunched up palm.
"Or what?" the official sneered at her. "I'm an official customs inspector of the Empire. You're...you're...uh…"
His eyes, crossing together, peered down at the imprecisely muscled arm that had him in its grasp – and as her sleeve rolled down, he could see the gleaming brasswork implanted into her forearm, including the leaded shielding for her blessings. His eyes widened and he started to raise his hands. His comrade reached down towards a pistol hanging from his belt.
"W-Whoa, uh, we don't want any trouble here, Radwalker," the man said.
Zimmerman smiled the smile of a shark. Finally, someone recognized what she was. She was worried losing the vestments would ruin the intimidation factor – a lot of people in the Southern and Western wastelands knew to recognize the heavy leaded apron and plague doctor's mask of the Radwalkers. Fewer could recognize them from the implants alone. She pitched her voice low. "Do you know what Sainted Slotin saw, when the Lady revealed herself to him before his martyrdom?"
"N-No?" the lowly scum stammered.
"The flash of light when the Demon Core reached her blessed criticality...it was radiation striking the water in his eyes…" Zimmerman leaned forward. Her voice was quiet. "If you see that flash, scum...you are already dead. Now. Do you wish to see eternity?"
His head shook so fast that it nearly started to rotate.
"Then you will take the guns we have brought." She released him and he stumbled backwards, almost knocking into his friend. "And you will tell Don Miguel to be happy with what he gets. Understood?"
The 'official' nodded. He reached into his vest, pulled out some official looking documentations, signed it using a clipboard hung from his belt, then threw it at Rudi and ran so quickly that she nearly dropped the whole pile. His less cowardly comrade remained behind to glower at Zimmerman. "We'll remember you, Radwalker," he said, levelly.
"My name is Sister Vengeance Zimmerman," Zimmerman shot back. "Yours needs only be remembered by the Lord – for only he will care when I send your soul to him with my bare hands."
The less cowardly 'official' left hurriedly. But he did only walk – even if it was as quickly as he could.
Rudi stood stalk still beside Zimmerman. Under her breath, she muttered. "T-This doesn't mean I have to like you."
Concealed by Rudi's slender body and the rocking of the boat, Zimmerman's palm reached down and squeezed her ass. Rudi bit her lip so hard it nearly bled. Zimmerman's smirk was akin to a tiger's.
***
The city of New Austin had accreted over the years after the Fire – and it looked it. Refugees from Houston and Austin had fled towards the coastline, burned and burning, while radioactive fallout had drifted from from the skies. Many of them had died there, but enough had managed to survive to build and then rebuild the ruined towns that clustered along the beach. Bit by bit, as the East was recolonized by the British Empire, New Austin grew by trading with Vejas and other Free Cities. The ramshackle buildings had never quite been replaced. Instead, they had been expanded and added too. The outer edges of the city grew in straight lines and orderly patterns, while the innermost sprawl was made of tall buildings of cinderblock, metal and wood that looked nearly grown, interspersed with the newer buildings that grew up in the place of old ones that came crashing down – either on schedule, or in a random flurry of death and destruction.
This beating heart of American industry was not independent. Not anymore. As fisheries rebounded and piracy was turned into a double edged sword by the free-wheeling Majes of New Austin, it looked for a time that the city would be the nexus of a new power, something that could stand against the Empire that was taking Washington and Burned York and Georgia.
Then, several years before, British airships had arrived. They had not needed to fire a shot – their cigar shaped, grayish bodies had simply taken up position above the city proper and their demands had been sent down to the last Maje and she had quietly surrendered the city to them. Now the docks were full of English ships, and the airship pylons took their places up in the highlands of the city. Imperial ships and trade airships were moored there, casting shadows down in sharp, defined circles that stretched over the sprawl.
Zimmerman's lip curled as she looked it over from the side of the dock. Rudi stood beside her, her arms on her backpack straps.
"So, we need to avoid the Don now," Rudi muttered under her breath. "The original plan, mind you, was to actually get him to help us. Or are you going to search a city of a hundred thousand people by your-" She saw Zimmerman was already walking along. Rudi grumbled, then hurried after her. When she had caught up with the long-legged woman's stride, she continued. "Oh yeah, just search a city of a hundred thousand people by yourself! What a genius plan, Ven."
"Quiet," Zimmerman said, flashing her a grin. "I have a plan."
"If this plan isn't to depend on dumb luck…" Rudi muttered.
They walked through the streets – where tall trees were planted to provide their shade, where water was piped through narrow brass tubes that ran over and under the streets. They sprayed out water to feed hungry plants, and they ran into boilers that used focused mirrors to use the sun's heat rather than coal to create steam. Steam powered compression pumps seemed to run on every building, and when the doors opened to let out customers or residents, Zimmerman felt a cool breeze on her face from within. Finally, though, she found her destination.
"Town hall?" Rudi asked, panting. "I suppose the Don won't think to look for us here…"
She followed after as Zimmerman stepped inside. Here, too, the sun ran steam that, itself, ran compressors. The air was shockingly cold and soon, Zimmerman felt gooseflesh rising along her forearms as she came to the front desk of WATER, STEAM AND RECORDS. The woman who came to the front was no human – she was a brass faced, gear-jointed, camera-eyed spirit. She started when she saw Zimmerman, her eyes widening as her head whirred and clicked slightly. "O-Oh, uh, hello," she said. "I'm the spirit of the punch-card system of New Austin's Department of Water, Steam and Records. You may call me Punchie!" She spread her arms and took a pose, then blushed and hurriedly tried to look professional. "How can I assist you today, ma'am?"
Zimmerman smiled. "My name is Marion Nixon, and I am looking for my niece, Josephine Dour. Where does she live?"
"D-Don't you already know?" Punchie asked.
"I live out of town," Zimmerman said.
"W-Well, um, I will need some evidence of your personage," Punchie said. "Date of birth, identification code…"
Zimmerman reached into her pockets, then clicked her tongue. "Ah, I forgot my wallet back home."
"O-Oh," Punchie said. "I suppose I should ask my manager."
"Well, do you really want to bother him?" Zimmerman asked, her voice firm as she tried to sound like Nix. The little minx had always been gentle and calming with the spirits. So, she just had to sound that. She pitched her voice like she was trying to spread the thighs of a newly arrived sister at the nunnery. "It's just an address I need – why bother him?"
Punchie bit her lower lip, teeth sinking into rubbery flesh. "...okay," she said. "But only cause you asked so nice, hehe!" She giggled and then closed her eyes. Whirring and clicking came from her head. She smiled. "She lives in a home in Surfside Beach, 981 Seawide Avenue. Do you need a map?"
Zimmerman's smile was predatory. "Not at all, Punchie."
"Okay!" Punchie said, beaming.
Zimmerman and Rudi left.
Punchie remained still for a few more moments, then glanced left and right. She blushed, then turned and hurried back, her hips rolling as she came to a closet. She opened it. Her mechanic was tied up, his mouth gagged, and the horrible gun still pressed against his temple. Punchie stammered. "Z-Zimmerman arrived! I think! She was j-just as big as you said, now, c-can you please not...not not…" She wrung her hands, buzzing nervously, her eyes close to tears.
Miss Young's ice-cold smile did not reach her eyes. She kept the pistol aimed at the side of the mechanic's head.
"Was she alone?" she asked – and drew the hammer back on the bound mechanic.
Punchie shook her head hurriedly.
"Tell me everything," Miss Young said, quietly, shifting slightly to show the gleaming metal arm that attached to her stump. The claws built into it clicked in eagerness as Punchie gulped, then started to tell her every detail about the companion of Miss Zimmerman.
***
"...and then...you came here…"
Jessie was holding a tea cup in the proper style for an English gentlewoman, sitting in the air conditioned parlor of her home, and looking owlishly at her young auntie, Marion Nixon, as if she had never seen anything quite so remarkable. In her defense, she might not have. Marion Nixon was dressed in a short jacket, a broad brimmed hat that still had the dust from the trail, denim and boots. At her left was a robed spirit, hood thrown back to reveal the gleaming metal of an airship or navy going ship. At her right was another robed spirit, who was busily reaching out to pluck up some of the sliced ham that Jessie had laid out for her aunt.
The other spirit's hand was green and she smelled faintly of wildflowers, even through the robe.
"I didn't exactly have a choice, Jessie," Nix said, sighing as she slouched back in her chair. "They're coming to hurt you."
"I...I need to talk to Ed," Jessie said, then set down the tea cup. "Can I call him on the telephone?"
"Yes, it'll...wait," Nix said, then stood. She walked to the kitchen, where a telephone was hung to the wall. She took it down, then put the earpice to her ear. She waited, and when she heard a shy 'hello?' from the telephone, she spoke. "Hi, honey, I'm Nix...I'm a Technician. Do you trust me?" She smiled, slightly, cocking her head a bit to the side. "...yeah, my hair's dark, why do you ask cutie? Heh, you do? Well, maybe we can meet up later. But right now, I just want you to make sure no one hears what's about to get sent along your lines, can you do that for me?" She nodded. "Two taps, huh?" She frowned, slightly, but kept her voice sugary sweet for her. "Thanks for telling me, honey. Now, uh...here." She held the earpiece out to her niece, who took it and shook her head, frowning intently.
Nix stepped over to Enterprise and Makhá, her voice pitched low. "She's taking it well so far."
"Why is your niece almost the same age as you?" Enterprise muttered back.
"The family was a bit spread out," Nix muttered. "And my sister got married young."
"I'd say," Enterprise grumbled.
Jessie returned, frowning. "Ed's on his way back from the docks – but what are we supposed to do? We can't just...pick up and move out of town because of this."
Nix sighed. "You might have too."
"We have family here," Jessie said. "We're trying for children."
"I know, but...these people are serious, Jessie," Nix said.
"I can't believe this," Jessie said. She rubbed her palms against her face. "I always thought you were amazing, Nix. You ran off, you broke all those laws. Sumptuary laws, guild laws, even decency laws, just to...to be a technician." She slid her hands away from her face. "I'm not that brave."
"Well, you'll-"
Enterprise lifted her hand, frowning.
"Something's coming."
Nix gestured for Jessie to move away from the broad windows that looked out on the sun bleached streets of the suburbs. She put her own back against the wall, sighing softly. Ever since the meeting with Makhá, ever since Nix had realized that Enterprise wasn't Enterprise...there had been a question lingering in the air. If Enterprise wasn't the ship, Enterprise...then what was she? Nix wasn't sure. She had some ideas on how to find out – but the threat to Jessie loomed over it all. So, they had focused on getting here.
Now that they were here, Nix felt a cold chill run along her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning: What if Enterprise loses control again?
She didn't want to imagine ghostly planes over this bustling city.
When she peeked out, her brows furrowed...and she whispered. "You have to be bloody kidding me."
"Her?" Enterprise asked.
"Oh my, who brought the mountain and the wolf?" Makhá asked, whistling quietly.
"Who is that?" Jessie whispered, peeking out with Nix, her hands gripping the curtains.
"Vengeance Zimmerman," Nix growled.
The burly woman wasn't as easy to recognize as Nix would have liked. She had discarded her leather lined habit and her crow-mask. In its place, she wore a tunic and leggings that left her muscular arms exposed, her brasswork cybernetics wrapped by the thinnest camouflage of a working woman's bindings. Her face, Nix saw, was as beautiful as ever: Broad, with generous lips, an arched nose, and dark, brooding eyes. She had a face Nix could easily find herself wanting to kiss – if only it wasn't placed before a head filled with lunatic nonsense. At her right and slightly behind, fidgeting with every step, was a slip of a girl with an impressive scar on her cheek.
Nix reached down to where her colt would have rested. She made a face. Enterprise, subtly, reached out under the windowsill. She held out a wood paneled pistol – a 1911 – which she took and hefted. It felt real. It felt as real as Enterprise's ice cream tasted.
The front door rattled with a heavy knock.
"Should I...answer it?" Jessie whispered to Nix. Nix imagined what Zimmerman might say upon seeing her twenty year old niece – young, newly married, beautiful and untouched. She shuddered.
"Wait here," she said, then stepped around and headed for the door. She opened it and aimed at Zimmerman's chest, keeping her hand low and close to her side – so anyone walking by wouldn't see it. She glared at her. "Give me one good reason to not shoot you?"
"We are allies in the struggle against perfidious Albion," Zimmerman said, without missing a beat.
Nix scowled at her. "I am not seeking to overthrow the bloody Empire, you lunatic."
Zimmerman pursed those kissable lips, her palms spreading as she shrugged broad, muscular shoulders. "Then we are allies in keeping Enterprise safe."
"You want to use her as a weapon," Nix snapped.
"At the right time," Zimmerman said, her voice gentle.
"Can we fuckin' come in already?" the scarred girl snapped. "They're letting out all the hot air. You can fucking shoot us inside, okay?" She fidgeted, looking back over her shoulder.
"Why so nervous?" Nix snapped.
"Cause the Don's mad at us," Rudi muttered.
"The Don?" Nix's eyes widened. "How the fuck did you piss off a Don, Zimmerman? Fuck their daughter?"
"No, she's only done that once," Rudi grumbled.
"I was joking," Nix grabbed the door – but before she could shut it, Zimmerman shoved past her, throwing Nix's arm wide. Rudi ducked in after her and Zimmerman slammed the door shut. Nix, seriously tempted to shoot the other woman, scowled...but then, through the small window pane on the door, she saw why Zimmerman had moved. A pair of sleek steam automobiles had driven down the street. Both of them parked across the road. Jessie, peering out the window, turned back to look at her aunt.
"Auntie Marion," she whispered.
"Who the hell are these people?" Nix mashed her face against the window. The car doors opened and several men – swarthy but well dressed with sleek suits that they wore despite the intense heat – stepped from the backs. They were openly carrying Thompson sub-machine guns with sleek box magazines. They fanned out, approaching the house in a half-circle. As they walked forward, another man stepped out. He was a bit shorter than the others, with a bright white suit, a youthful face, and a cigar that he held in his hand.
"Rudi, Rudi, Rudi!" He called out. "I'm Donald Miguel Junior. My father…" He tapped at the cigar, sending bits of ashes drifting down. "He's not a happy man, Rudi."
"Ah shit," Rudi whispered.
Makhá pick up a piece of ham and started chewing it. Her eyes widened. "Oh that's some good spices."
Nix opened the door a crack. She called out. "Who the bloody hell is Rudi?"
"She's the scarred dame that went into this house," Miguel Junior called back. "We're not stupid, Mr. Nixon."
Nix froze. "How do you know my name?"
"Lets say...Rudi! All will be forgiven if you just give us the Enterprise," Miguel Junior said, taking his cigar to his lips. He started puffing on it. "You give us the spirit, we all go our separate ways. No one gets hurt."
Nix swore that for one, dizzying second, she could see the lines running from the gangsters back to…
What had the other Mechanical Turk been called?
Miss Young.
"Giving you to a count of ten," Miguel Junior called out.
"Send her out!" Jessie hissed, grabbing onto Nix's arm.
"We will not send the Enterprise out to these criminals," Zimmerman growled.
Nix hated how much she agreed with Zimmerman right then and there. Enterprise herself was looking concerned – her brows drawing in, her lips turning down. She looked half ready to get up and go, to walk out immediately. Jessie, frantic, shook her head. "No, no, no!" she breathed, her eyes widening as she mashed her face against the same window Nix was peering out of – pushing her auntie out of the way. Nix blinked, and saw that the situation had just gotten far, far worse.
A tall, broad shouldered, red cheeked blond man was walking down the sidewalk. He was wearing a set of suspenders, a broad straw hat, and a big smile. He slowed down as he came to his home – then he froze as he saw the guns.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" he asked.
Jessie grabbed at the door. She flung it open, shouting. "Don't shoot him!"
Two gangsters had half turned to aim their guns at Ed.
Nix felt the situation sliding from her fingers – like a plate, too hot in the oven.
Zimmerman yanked Jessie back, yanking her out of the way and leaping out in the same motion. She landed on the stoop and brought her wrists smashing together with a crash. The brilliant blue-white flash of a criticality event hit the gangsters looking her way like the rising second dawn of a atomic bomb. Two recoiled. One opened fire – bullets stitched their way into the wall, blowing through thin plaster. Nix slammed her shoulder into the wall, aimed, and fired. Her pistol leaped in her hands and one of the half-blinded men sprawled backwards. She shouted over her shoulder. "Get down! Get down! Get down!"
Ed flung himself into some shrubberies. Rudi scrambled at her belt behind Nix in the corridor. Jessie flung herself flat with a scream, her shoulders bumping into Nix's shins. Rudi got out a revolver – then grunted. She stumbled backwards, blood blooming on her white shirt as bullets whipped past Nix's thin cover. She dropped onto her back, blood frothing and bubbling around her mouth. Nix fired a few more wild shots, but the gangsters were rushing for cover – some used a tree that grew in the front yard, others drew back towards the cars, pulling Miguel Junior between them like a shocked child.
Zimmerman was...well, Zimmerman. She had taken advantage of the flash to get her hands around one of the gangsters – snapping his neck with a single brutal twist. Then she had kicked his tommy gun into her hands and was spraying down the retreating gangsters, bullets kicking up off the ground and splintering bark. Two were downed – one clutching his arm, one laying completely still, his hat knocked off his head, a bloody exclamation point between his eyes. Zimmerman's tommy gun went empty almost immediately and she hurled it directly at a gangster that stepped out to open fire on her. The wooden butt of the sub-machine gun crashed into the man's nose, causing him to stumble backwards.
Nix plugged him with two quick shots, her heart hammering in her chest. One hit his knee, the other his shoulder – the recoil on this damn gun! - and he went down.
The two cars started to pull back. A gangster leaned out of one and opened fire with his tommy gun – bullets slamming into the walls and shattering the glass. The cars squealed and pulled away as Zimmerman sprinted back towards the front door. She stood there, looking fiercely around.
"You are well, Marion?" she asked.
"Rudi's down," Nix snapped.
Zimmerman's face grew ashen. Nix hadn't thought that Zimmerman could look so concerned. She dropped to her knees and took hold of Rudi's hand, squeezing her intently. Her eyes were wide. "N-No, no, you're too young!" she whispered. "The bullets should have found me – they should have found me, damn it!"
Rudi was trying to breathe. Every sound she made was an agony. But as Zimmerman squeezed her tightly, Nix felt a bump against her back. She glanced over her shoulder – and she saw that Enterprise was moving up behind her. She knelt down and Nix stepped out of her way, her eyes wide. She had never seen this before. Ed came jogging over, panting.
"What in the blue blazes is going on here!?" he said. "I...I...Christ…"
Jessie was watching, her eyes wide as saucers.
Enterprise had her hands raised above Rudi. Her eyes were closed...and the space they were in felt as if it had grown more crowded still. Ghostly figures shimmered from the walls – greenish witchfire outlining masked figures, stern men who leaned over. An outline of a wheeled gurney appeared beneath her, raising up, and the ghosts pushed her away. Men in broad, Atlantic and southern accents spoke – catechisms of a time gone by. Their voices came not to the ear, but deep inside of the mind, echoing and reverberating.
She's lost a lot of blood…
Get some plasma in her!
Lets start working on getting the bullets out!
Scalpel.
Bullets came free – solid objects, suspended between flickering, flame-outlined forceps. They clattered into a bowl that wasn't a bowl. Compresses and stitches were laid on with the ferocious speed of men that had been dead for two hundred years – men who had once needed to patch up crew at war. Nix watched with wide eyes, unable to tear her eyes from the ghostly shapes, to ignore the echoes and whispers. When they faded away, Rudi slowly drifted down towards the ground – the gurney vanishing into green sparks. She was left on the ground, her chest bandaged and her breathing slow and steady, her eyes closed. She was not dead. But she also didn't look as if she would be on her feet any time soon.
Zimmerman crossed herself. "By Christ and her Clockwork," she breathed. "Deus Ex Machina."
Jessie and Ed, who had moved to cling to one another in uncomprehending awe, walked forward. In the distance, police sirens started to wail. Nix's hands shook as she reached down, then squeezed Enterprise's shoulder.
"She was aboard the Comfort…" Enterprise whispered, her eyes half closed. "The best doctors and surgeons, the most advanced ship. How did I get her there? How?"
"It was a miracle," Zimmerman whispered.
"Well, yeah, she's not a boat," Makhá said, nodding.
Everyone looked at her. Even Nix.
"There are spirits of things," Makhá said, smiling. "Then there are spirits of people. People are stronger than things – many hands make mountains. She is a spirit of people."
"...who is she?" Ed whispered.
"Quiet," Zimmerman snapped. She was looking at Makhá like she had never seen a woman before, like she had never seen a spirit before. And, in her defense, Makhá was nothing like any spirit that had ever lived before...or...or was she? Nix felt as if she was standing on a precipice again. And then…
She took the plunge.
"She's Midway," Nix whispered.
Everyone looked at Nix now. "Is that a ship?" Jessie asked.
"Three carriers, dozens of smaller ships, hundreds of planes, an island with hundreds more planes," Nix said, the words spilling from her mouth. "The hospital ships. The ice cream carrying ships. The logistics, the organization, the...the technology it takes to get tens of thousands of men into a single place on the Pacific and to use those men and those machines all to destroy their enemies in a single battle, one of the most lopsided victories in all of the Ascension Wars...all in three days." The words felt like a pure, ringing bell of truth in her mind. She looked into the spirit's eyes, and she saw the truth burning there as well.
"You're Midway," Nix whispered.
"I'm...Midway…" Midway breathed.
"And we need to go," Zimmerman growled. "Or do you think the police will not be commanded by that Miss Young?"
Nix frowned.
It seemed she was going to have to put up with Zimmerman again.
For some reason, she didn't hate this as much as she thought she should have.
TO BE CONTINUED
It had helped that in that time, she had been able to grab onto Rudi and drag the young, scarred girl into the cramped, tight confines of the officer's bedroom and have her way with her whenever she had wanted. Zimmerman knew, in an abstract sense, that she was falling into bad habits. The same habits that had gotten her exiled from the sisterhood and sent to walk the wastelands of America. She knew it was a sin, before God and Christ and the Lady Trinity, to find female flesh so deliciously appealing. She wished every evening, kneeling before the small shrine in the back of the motorboat's cargo hold, that the Lady Trinity might excise this sin from her, as her radiation could excise a cancer.
Then she would fuck Rudi again.
So, it was with a mixed sense of relief and longing that she saw New Austin approaching – and heard Rudi mutter under her breath. "Finally."
The Sparky had taken them around the edge of Florida and into the Gulf proper. There, they had had three close run-ins with pirates running old style steamships, but no matter how fast a paddlwheel spun, it couldn't match a modern ship like the Sparky. They still had a few hairy moments when a steamship flying the jolly roger had gotten within long-gun range and shells had crashed into the water to either side of their ship. Sparky, being a spirit, responded to being shot at by sticking out her tongue and shouting rude words at the slower, simpler spirit of the distant steamship while Rudi swore every oath and curse that Zimmerman had heard in English before switching to heathen tongues and languages she was fairly sure were deader than French.
The other two run-ins hadn't involved any shooting, but they had stressed the speedboat's fuel reserves and required a several hour layover in the wilderness coast, trekking into marshy wetlands to cut down trees to feed into the boiler. By then, Zimmerman's burns were nearly completely healed, and Rudi was making grumbling comments about not being able to carry on like a 'dyke alley-cat' and so the extra physical exercise was enough to sooth some of her sin.
Some.
"I won't say I'm going to miss you," Rudi said as she slowed the Sparky's engine as they approached the docks. There was an open berth, but before they had even arrived, several Imperial customs officials were waiting. The Union Jack still flew over New Austin, much as it made Zimmerman grit her teeth. Rudi frowned, then shook her head. "Shit we don't even have anything to fucking smuggle…" She frowned. "Don't be too weird about them, Ven." She glanced at Zimmerman. "Those are ours."
Zimmerman blinked as the ropes on the Sparky were tossed to the docks by the two other members of the crew. Sparky herself sat on the prow, arching her back to demonstrate her slight curves and glittering silver and wood paneled body to all the dockworkers and fellow travelers. The other boats in the docks were mostly sailboats – none of them had spirits animate enough to be walking about, so she did draw more than her normal share of looks, admiring whistles, and a few calls from wags: "I'd love to service you, honey!"
"Only mechanics!" Rudi shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth – while one of the Imperial officials stepped up and planted his boot on one of the pylons of the dock, grinning down at them thanks to his exalted position – Zimmerman stood a bit taller and was smug that even with the docks, she still came up to his stomach.
"Well, well, well, looks like Chappel's sent her best little ship out," he said, casually – his accent American, despite the blue and gold uniform.
"Little!?" Sparky harrumphed, her arms crossing over her petite breasts.
"I did say best too," the 'official' said, chuckling.
"Come on, lets make this quick," his friend said.
"Aight, we need to make a show of searching your ship," the first 'official' said. "Then we pass off your cargo as being right and proper and you can enjoy this wonderful day in New Austin."
Zimmerman grunted.
"Not very talkative is he," the 'official said.
Zimmerman scowled. "He?" she asked.
"Oh holy shit you're a woman?" the first 'official asked.
The second sighed, then dropped down onto the speedboat. He headed to the cargo hold, stomping down. Rudi gulped and shifted from foot to foot, glancing at Zimmerman. "So, uh, Vee, these fellows work for Don Miguel," she murmured, quietly.
"Miguel isn't an American name," Zimmerman muttered.
"No, he's Cubano," Rudi whispered back. "They hate the Limeys as much as we do, don't get all 20th century on us."
Zimmerman frowned. It was an article of faith to her that no one could hate the English more than the Americans. But she supposed that the Cubanos and Mexicans had their own reasons to dislike the Empire and her eternal ruler – even if the Fire hadn't touched their lands quite so fiercely. She saw Rudi was chewing her knuckle now, worry twisting her scar up. "What's wrong with that?" she asked.
"Well, the guns weren't just to make Miss Chappel money – they were to get us into New Austin without a problem," Rudi said.
"...ah," Zimmerman said.
The first 'official' came stomping up. "Rudi," he said, his voice flat. "Where the fuck are the guns?"
"We had to dump some of them," Rudi said, holding up her hands. "Only some, though."
"Half! Half the fucking guns are gone!" The official thrust back with his palm towards the cargo hold, leaning in so close he almost touched his nose to Rudi's. Zimmerman grabbed onto the back of his shirt and yanked him back, frowning at him.
"Don't threaten Rudi," she said, her voice firm. She shifted her grip around, grabbing the front of his navy blue jacket with one bunched up palm.
"Or what?" the official sneered at her. "I'm an official customs inspector of the Empire. You're...you're...uh…"
His eyes, crossing together, peered down at the imprecisely muscled arm that had him in its grasp – and as her sleeve rolled down, he could see the gleaming brasswork implanted into her forearm, including the leaded shielding for her blessings. His eyes widened and he started to raise his hands. His comrade reached down towards a pistol hanging from his belt.
"W-Whoa, uh, we don't want any trouble here, Radwalker," the man said.
Zimmerman smiled the smile of a shark. Finally, someone recognized what she was. She was worried losing the vestments would ruin the intimidation factor – a lot of people in the Southern and Western wastelands knew to recognize the heavy leaded apron and plague doctor's mask of the Radwalkers. Fewer could recognize them from the implants alone. She pitched her voice low. "Do you know what Sainted Slotin saw, when the Lady revealed herself to him before his martyrdom?"
"N-No?" the lowly scum stammered.
"The flash of light when the Demon Core reached her blessed criticality...it was radiation striking the water in his eyes…" Zimmerman leaned forward. Her voice was quiet. "If you see that flash, scum...you are already dead. Now. Do you wish to see eternity?"
His head shook so fast that it nearly started to rotate.
"Then you will take the guns we have brought." She released him and he stumbled backwards, almost knocking into his friend. "And you will tell Don Miguel to be happy with what he gets. Understood?"
The 'official' nodded. He reached into his vest, pulled out some official looking documentations, signed it using a clipboard hung from his belt, then threw it at Rudi and ran so quickly that she nearly dropped the whole pile. His less cowardly comrade remained behind to glower at Zimmerman. "We'll remember you, Radwalker," he said, levelly.
"My name is Sister Vengeance Zimmerman," Zimmerman shot back. "Yours needs only be remembered by the Lord – for only he will care when I send your soul to him with my bare hands."
The less cowardly 'official' left hurriedly. But he did only walk – even if it was as quickly as he could.
Rudi stood stalk still beside Zimmerman. Under her breath, she muttered. "T-This doesn't mean I have to like you."
Concealed by Rudi's slender body and the rocking of the boat, Zimmerman's palm reached down and squeezed her ass. Rudi bit her lip so hard it nearly bled. Zimmerman's smirk was akin to a tiger's.
***
The city of New Austin had accreted over the years after the Fire – and it looked it. Refugees from Houston and Austin had fled towards the coastline, burned and burning, while radioactive fallout had drifted from from the skies. Many of them had died there, but enough had managed to survive to build and then rebuild the ruined towns that clustered along the beach. Bit by bit, as the East was recolonized by the British Empire, New Austin grew by trading with Vejas and other Free Cities. The ramshackle buildings had never quite been replaced. Instead, they had been expanded and added too. The outer edges of the city grew in straight lines and orderly patterns, while the innermost sprawl was made of tall buildings of cinderblock, metal and wood that looked nearly grown, interspersed with the newer buildings that grew up in the place of old ones that came crashing down – either on schedule, or in a random flurry of death and destruction.
This beating heart of American industry was not independent. Not anymore. As fisheries rebounded and piracy was turned into a double edged sword by the free-wheeling Majes of New Austin, it looked for a time that the city would be the nexus of a new power, something that could stand against the Empire that was taking Washington and Burned York and Georgia.
Then, several years before, British airships had arrived. They had not needed to fire a shot – their cigar shaped, grayish bodies had simply taken up position above the city proper and their demands had been sent down to the last Maje and she had quietly surrendered the city to them. Now the docks were full of English ships, and the airship pylons took their places up in the highlands of the city. Imperial ships and trade airships were moored there, casting shadows down in sharp, defined circles that stretched over the sprawl.
Zimmerman's lip curled as she looked it over from the side of the dock. Rudi stood beside her, her arms on her backpack straps.
"So, we need to avoid the Don now," Rudi muttered under her breath. "The original plan, mind you, was to actually get him to help us. Or are you going to search a city of a hundred thousand people by your-" She saw Zimmerman was already walking along. Rudi grumbled, then hurried after her. When she had caught up with the long-legged woman's stride, she continued. "Oh yeah, just search a city of a hundred thousand people by yourself! What a genius plan, Ven."
"Quiet," Zimmerman said, flashing her a grin. "I have a plan."
"If this plan isn't to depend on dumb luck…" Rudi muttered.
They walked through the streets – where tall trees were planted to provide their shade, where water was piped through narrow brass tubes that ran over and under the streets. They sprayed out water to feed hungry plants, and they ran into boilers that used focused mirrors to use the sun's heat rather than coal to create steam. Steam powered compression pumps seemed to run on every building, and when the doors opened to let out customers or residents, Zimmerman felt a cool breeze on her face from within. Finally, though, she found her destination.
"Town hall?" Rudi asked, panting. "I suppose the Don won't think to look for us here…"
She followed after as Zimmerman stepped inside. Here, too, the sun ran steam that, itself, ran compressors. The air was shockingly cold and soon, Zimmerman felt gooseflesh rising along her forearms as she came to the front desk of WATER, STEAM AND RECORDS. The woman who came to the front was no human – she was a brass faced, gear-jointed, camera-eyed spirit. She started when she saw Zimmerman, her eyes widening as her head whirred and clicked slightly. "O-Oh, uh, hello," she said. "I'm the spirit of the punch-card system of New Austin's Department of Water, Steam and Records. You may call me Punchie!" She spread her arms and took a pose, then blushed and hurriedly tried to look professional. "How can I assist you today, ma'am?"
Zimmerman smiled. "My name is Marion Nixon, and I am looking for my niece, Josephine Dour. Where does she live?"
"D-Don't you already know?" Punchie asked.
"I live out of town," Zimmerman said.
"W-Well, um, I will need some evidence of your personage," Punchie said. "Date of birth, identification code…"
Zimmerman reached into her pockets, then clicked her tongue. "Ah, I forgot my wallet back home."
"O-Oh," Punchie said. "I suppose I should ask my manager."
"Well, do you really want to bother him?" Zimmerman asked, her voice firm as she tried to sound like Nix. The little minx had always been gentle and calming with the spirits. So, she just had to sound that. She pitched her voice like she was trying to spread the thighs of a newly arrived sister at the nunnery. "It's just an address I need – why bother him?"
Punchie bit her lower lip, teeth sinking into rubbery flesh. "...okay," she said. "But only cause you asked so nice, hehe!" She giggled and then closed her eyes. Whirring and clicking came from her head. She smiled. "She lives in a home in Surfside Beach, 981 Seawide Avenue. Do you need a map?"
Zimmerman's smile was predatory. "Not at all, Punchie."
"Okay!" Punchie said, beaming.
Zimmerman and Rudi left.
Punchie remained still for a few more moments, then glanced left and right. She blushed, then turned and hurried back, her hips rolling as she came to a closet. She opened it. Her mechanic was tied up, his mouth gagged, and the horrible gun still pressed against his temple. Punchie stammered. "Z-Zimmerman arrived! I think! She was j-just as big as you said, now, c-can you please not...not not…" She wrung her hands, buzzing nervously, her eyes close to tears.
Miss Young's ice-cold smile did not reach her eyes. She kept the pistol aimed at the side of the mechanic's head.
"Was she alone?" she asked – and drew the hammer back on the bound mechanic.
Punchie shook her head hurriedly.
"Tell me everything," Miss Young said, quietly, shifting slightly to show the gleaming metal arm that attached to her stump. The claws built into it clicked in eagerness as Punchie gulped, then started to tell her every detail about the companion of Miss Zimmerman.
***
"...and then...you came here…"
Jessie was holding a tea cup in the proper style for an English gentlewoman, sitting in the air conditioned parlor of her home, and looking owlishly at her young auntie, Marion Nixon, as if she had never seen anything quite so remarkable. In her defense, she might not have. Marion Nixon was dressed in a short jacket, a broad brimmed hat that still had the dust from the trail, denim and boots. At her left was a robed spirit, hood thrown back to reveal the gleaming metal of an airship or navy going ship. At her right was another robed spirit, who was busily reaching out to pluck up some of the sliced ham that Jessie had laid out for her aunt.
The other spirit's hand was green and she smelled faintly of wildflowers, even through the robe.
"I didn't exactly have a choice, Jessie," Nix said, sighing as she slouched back in her chair. "They're coming to hurt you."
"I...I need to talk to Ed," Jessie said, then set down the tea cup. "Can I call him on the telephone?"
"Yes, it'll...wait," Nix said, then stood. She walked to the kitchen, where a telephone was hung to the wall. She took it down, then put the earpice to her ear. She waited, and when she heard a shy 'hello?' from the telephone, she spoke. "Hi, honey, I'm Nix...I'm a Technician. Do you trust me?" She smiled, slightly, cocking her head a bit to the side. "...yeah, my hair's dark, why do you ask cutie? Heh, you do? Well, maybe we can meet up later. But right now, I just want you to make sure no one hears what's about to get sent along your lines, can you do that for me?" She nodded. "Two taps, huh?" She frowned, slightly, but kept her voice sugary sweet for her. "Thanks for telling me, honey. Now, uh...here." She held the earpiece out to her niece, who took it and shook her head, frowning intently.
Nix stepped over to Enterprise and Makhá, her voice pitched low. "She's taking it well so far."
"Why is your niece almost the same age as you?" Enterprise muttered back.
"The family was a bit spread out," Nix muttered. "And my sister got married young."
"I'd say," Enterprise grumbled.
Jessie returned, frowning. "Ed's on his way back from the docks – but what are we supposed to do? We can't just...pick up and move out of town because of this."
Nix sighed. "You might have too."
"We have family here," Jessie said. "We're trying for children."
"I know, but...these people are serious, Jessie," Nix said.
"I can't believe this," Jessie said. She rubbed her palms against her face. "I always thought you were amazing, Nix. You ran off, you broke all those laws. Sumptuary laws, guild laws, even decency laws, just to...to be a technician." She slid her hands away from her face. "I'm not that brave."
"Well, you'll-"
Enterprise lifted her hand, frowning.
"Something's coming."
Nix gestured for Jessie to move away from the broad windows that looked out on the sun bleached streets of the suburbs. She put her own back against the wall, sighing softly. Ever since the meeting with Makhá, ever since Nix had realized that Enterprise wasn't Enterprise...there had been a question lingering in the air. If Enterprise wasn't the ship, Enterprise...then what was she? Nix wasn't sure. She had some ideas on how to find out – but the threat to Jessie loomed over it all. So, they had focused on getting here.
Now that they were here, Nix felt a cold chill run along her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning: What if Enterprise loses control again?
She didn't want to imagine ghostly planes over this bustling city.
When she peeked out, her brows furrowed...and she whispered. "You have to be bloody kidding me."
"Her?" Enterprise asked.
"Oh my, who brought the mountain and the wolf?" Makhá asked, whistling quietly.
"Who is that?" Jessie whispered, peeking out with Nix, her hands gripping the curtains.
"Vengeance Zimmerman," Nix growled.
The burly woman wasn't as easy to recognize as Nix would have liked. She had discarded her leather lined habit and her crow-mask. In its place, she wore a tunic and leggings that left her muscular arms exposed, her brasswork cybernetics wrapped by the thinnest camouflage of a working woman's bindings. Her face, Nix saw, was as beautiful as ever: Broad, with generous lips, an arched nose, and dark, brooding eyes. She had a face Nix could easily find herself wanting to kiss – if only it wasn't placed before a head filled with lunatic nonsense. At her right and slightly behind, fidgeting with every step, was a slip of a girl with an impressive scar on her cheek.
Nix reached down to where her colt would have rested. She made a face. Enterprise, subtly, reached out under the windowsill. She held out a wood paneled pistol – a 1911 – which she took and hefted. It felt real. It felt as real as Enterprise's ice cream tasted.
The front door rattled with a heavy knock.
"Should I...answer it?" Jessie whispered to Nix. Nix imagined what Zimmerman might say upon seeing her twenty year old niece – young, newly married, beautiful and untouched. She shuddered.
"Wait here," she said, then stepped around and headed for the door. She opened it and aimed at Zimmerman's chest, keeping her hand low and close to her side – so anyone walking by wouldn't see it. She glared at her. "Give me one good reason to not shoot you?"
"We are allies in the struggle against perfidious Albion," Zimmerman said, without missing a beat.
Nix scowled at her. "I am not seeking to overthrow the bloody Empire, you lunatic."
Zimmerman pursed those kissable lips, her palms spreading as she shrugged broad, muscular shoulders. "Then we are allies in keeping Enterprise safe."
"You want to use her as a weapon," Nix snapped.
"At the right time," Zimmerman said, her voice gentle.
"Can we fuckin' come in already?" the scarred girl snapped. "They're letting out all the hot air. You can fucking shoot us inside, okay?" She fidgeted, looking back over her shoulder.
"Why so nervous?" Nix snapped.
"Cause the Don's mad at us," Rudi muttered.
"The Don?" Nix's eyes widened. "How the fuck did you piss off a Don, Zimmerman? Fuck their daughter?"
"No, she's only done that once," Rudi grumbled.
"I was joking," Nix grabbed the door – but before she could shut it, Zimmerman shoved past her, throwing Nix's arm wide. Rudi ducked in after her and Zimmerman slammed the door shut. Nix, seriously tempted to shoot the other woman, scowled...but then, through the small window pane on the door, she saw why Zimmerman had moved. A pair of sleek steam automobiles had driven down the street. Both of them parked across the road. Jessie, peering out the window, turned back to look at her aunt.
"Auntie Marion," she whispered.
"Who the hell are these people?" Nix mashed her face against the window. The car doors opened and several men – swarthy but well dressed with sleek suits that they wore despite the intense heat – stepped from the backs. They were openly carrying Thompson sub-machine guns with sleek box magazines. They fanned out, approaching the house in a half-circle. As they walked forward, another man stepped out. He was a bit shorter than the others, with a bright white suit, a youthful face, and a cigar that he held in his hand.
"Rudi, Rudi, Rudi!" He called out. "I'm Donald Miguel Junior. My father…" He tapped at the cigar, sending bits of ashes drifting down. "He's not a happy man, Rudi."
"Ah shit," Rudi whispered.
Makhá pick up a piece of ham and started chewing it. Her eyes widened. "Oh that's some good spices."
Nix opened the door a crack. She called out. "Who the bloody hell is Rudi?"
"She's the scarred dame that went into this house," Miguel Junior called back. "We're not stupid, Mr. Nixon."
Nix froze. "How do you know my name?"
"Lets say...Rudi! All will be forgiven if you just give us the Enterprise," Miguel Junior said, taking his cigar to his lips. He started puffing on it. "You give us the spirit, we all go our separate ways. No one gets hurt."
Nix swore that for one, dizzying second, she could see the lines running from the gangsters back to…
What had the other Mechanical Turk been called?
Miss Young.
"Giving you to a count of ten," Miguel Junior called out.
"Send her out!" Jessie hissed, grabbing onto Nix's arm.
"We will not send the Enterprise out to these criminals," Zimmerman growled.
Nix hated how much she agreed with Zimmerman right then and there. Enterprise herself was looking concerned – her brows drawing in, her lips turning down. She looked half ready to get up and go, to walk out immediately. Jessie, frantic, shook her head. "No, no, no!" she breathed, her eyes widening as she mashed her face against the same window Nix was peering out of – pushing her auntie out of the way. Nix blinked, and saw that the situation had just gotten far, far worse.
A tall, broad shouldered, red cheeked blond man was walking down the sidewalk. He was wearing a set of suspenders, a broad straw hat, and a big smile. He slowed down as he came to his home – then he froze as he saw the guns.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" he asked.
Jessie grabbed at the door. She flung it open, shouting. "Don't shoot him!"
Two gangsters had half turned to aim their guns at Ed.
Nix felt the situation sliding from her fingers – like a plate, too hot in the oven.
Zimmerman yanked Jessie back, yanking her out of the way and leaping out in the same motion. She landed on the stoop and brought her wrists smashing together with a crash. The brilliant blue-white flash of a criticality event hit the gangsters looking her way like the rising second dawn of a atomic bomb. Two recoiled. One opened fire – bullets stitched their way into the wall, blowing through thin plaster. Nix slammed her shoulder into the wall, aimed, and fired. Her pistol leaped in her hands and one of the half-blinded men sprawled backwards. She shouted over her shoulder. "Get down! Get down! Get down!"
Ed flung himself into some shrubberies. Rudi scrambled at her belt behind Nix in the corridor. Jessie flung herself flat with a scream, her shoulders bumping into Nix's shins. Rudi got out a revolver – then grunted. She stumbled backwards, blood blooming on her white shirt as bullets whipped past Nix's thin cover. She dropped onto her back, blood frothing and bubbling around her mouth. Nix fired a few more wild shots, but the gangsters were rushing for cover – some used a tree that grew in the front yard, others drew back towards the cars, pulling Miguel Junior between them like a shocked child.
Zimmerman was...well, Zimmerman. She had taken advantage of the flash to get her hands around one of the gangsters – snapping his neck with a single brutal twist. Then she had kicked his tommy gun into her hands and was spraying down the retreating gangsters, bullets kicking up off the ground and splintering bark. Two were downed – one clutching his arm, one laying completely still, his hat knocked off his head, a bloody exclamation point between his eyes. Zimmerman's tommy gun went empty almost immediately and she hurled it directly at a gangster that stepped out to open fire on her. The wooden butt of the sub-machine gun crashed into the man's nose, causing him to stumble backwards.
Nix plugged him with two quick shots, her heart hammering in her chest. One hit his knee, the other his shoulder – the recoil on this damn gun! - and he went down.
The two cars started to pull back. A gangster leaned out of one and opened fire with his tommy gun – bullets slamming into the walls and shattering the glass. The cars squealed and pulled away as Zimmerman sprinted back towards the front door. She stood there, looking fiercely around.
"You are well, Marion?" she asked.
"Rudi's down," Nix snapped.
Zimmerman's face grew ashen. Nix hadn't thought that Zimmerman could look so concerned. She dropped to her knees and took hold of Rudi's hand, squeezing her intently. Her eyes were wide. "N-No, no, you're too young!" she whispered. "The bullets should have found me – they should have found me, damn it!"
Rudi was trying to breathe. Every sound she made was an agony. But as Zimmerman squeezed her tightly, Nix felt a bump against her back. She glanced over her shoulder – and she saw that Enterprise was moving up behind her. She knelt down and Nix stepped out of her way, her eyes wide. She had never seen this before. Ed came jogging over, panting.
"What in the blue blazes is going on here!?" he said. "I...I...Christ…"
Jessie was watching, her eyes wide as saucers.
Enterprise had her hands raised above Rudi. Her eyes were closed...and the space they were in felt as if it had grown more crowded still. Ghostly figures shimmered from the walls – greenish witchfire outlining masked figures, stern men who leaned over. An outline of a wheeled gurney appeared beneath her, raising up, and the ghosts pushed her away. Men in broad, Atlantic and southern accents spoke – catechisms of a time gone by. Their voices came not to the ear, but deep inside of the mind, echoing and reverberating.
She's lost a lot of blood…
Get some plasma in her!
Lets start working on getting the bullets out!
Scalpel.
Bullets came free – solid objects, suspended between flickering, flame-outlined forceps. They clattered into a bowl that wasn't a bowl. Compresses and stitches were laid on with the ferocious speed of men that had been dead for two hundred years – men who had once needed to patch up crew at war. Nix watched with wide eyes, unable to tear her eyes from the ghostly shapes, to ignore the echoes and whispers. When they faded away, Rudi slowly drifted down towards the ground – the gurney vanishing into green sparks. She was left on the ground, her chest bandaged and her breathing slow and steady, her eyes closed. She was not dead. But she also didn't look as if she would be on her feet any time soon.
Zimmerman crossed herself. "By Christ and her Clockwork," she breathed. "Deus Ex Machina."
Jessie and Ed, who had moved to cling to one another in uncomprehending awe, walked forward. In the distance, police sirens started to wail. Nix's hands shook as she reached down, then squeezed Enterprise's shoulder.
"She was aboard the Comfort…" Enterprise whispered, her eyes half closed. "The best doctors and surgeons, the most advanced ship. How did I get her there? How?"
"It was a miracle," Zimmerman whispered.
"Well, yeah, she's not a boat," Makhá said, nodding.
Everyone looked at her. Even Nix.
"There are spirits of things," Makhá said, smiling. "Then there are spirits of people. People are stronger than things – many hands make mountains. She is a spirit of people."
"...who is she?" Ed whispered.
"Quiet," Zimmerman snapped. She was looking at Makhá like she had never seen a woman before, like she had never seen a spirit before. And, in her defense, Makhá was nothing like any spirit that had ever lived before...or...or was she? Nix felt as if she was standing on a precipice again. And then…
She took the plunge.
"She's Midway," Nix whispered.
Everyone looked at Nix now. "Is that a ship?" Jessie asked.
"Three carriers, dozens of smaller ships, hundreds of planes, an island with hundreds more planes," Nix said, the words spilling from her mouth. "The hospital ships. The ice cream carrying ships. The logistics, the organization, the...the technology it takes to get tens of thousands of men into a single place on the Pacific and to use those men and those machines all to destroy their enemies in a single battle, one of the most lopsided victories in all of the Ascension Wars...all in three days." The words felt like a pure, ringing bell of truth in her mind. She looked into the spirit's eyes, and she saw the truth burning there as well.
"You're Midway," Nix whispered.
"I'm...Midway…" Midway breathed.
"And we need to go," Zimmerman growled. "Or do you think the police will not be commanded by that Miss Young?"
Nix frowned.
It seemed she was going to have to put up with Zimmerman again.
For some reason, she didn't hate this as much as she thought she should have.
TO BE CONTINUED
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
Love how Zimmerman continues to keep pushing forward to her goals despite or even directly because of immediately ruining the sensible plan
Also, I feel like if Sister Vengeance took only like, 10% off the self-flagellation and the Ahab-like need to burn herself in the engine of "smashing the British Empire", she'd both have more than enough of that dog in her for continuing her great work, while also having the time and space to actually process the trauma of her time in the Sisterhood and meditate on the unhealthy though patterns of castigating herself for normal human desires as part of the same cycle of latching onto much younger women with innocent exuberance of the flesh, and of displacing her real sins and hurt into just the carnal and thereby constantly breaking off relationships and the guilty start-stop feeding into being a serial Don Juanita. In conclusion, girls will armor their uranium hearts in the lead of guilt and fanaticism before going to therapy, or something.
Also, I feel like if Sister Vengeance took only like, 10% off the self-flagellation and the Ahab-like need to burn herself in the engine of "smashing the British Empire", she'd both have more than enough of that dog in her for continuing her great work, while also having the time and space to actually process the trauma of her time in the Sisterhood and meditate on the unhealthy though patterns of castigating herself for normal human desires as part of the same cycle of latching onto much younger women with innocent exuberance of the flesh, and of displacing her real sins and hurt into just the carnal and thereby constantly breaking off relationships and the guilty start-stop feeding into being a serial Don Juanita. In conclusion, girls will armor their uranium hearts in the lead of guilt and fanaticism before going to therapy, or something.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
In my mind, if Zimmerman ever found a way to process her religious issues and stopped seeing being gay as a sin, she would start doing some other crime to feel guilty about - drugs maybe, or betraying confidences, as her main kink is doing wrong things.
- Location
- My own little world...
Don't worry, Zim. There's always "Thou shalt not kill." I mean, she could also try wearing mixed fabrics or eating shellfish, but she is so very good at murder...
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Unrelated question, but if it isn't a spoiler: is belief/faith a component in the existence and strength of a spirit, or is it just the complexity of the system?
Put another way...is Midway a powerful spirit purely because the Battle of Midway was such a logistical achievement, or is it also because the battle is so famous?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It's entirely a mechanical thing - so there are probably spirits out there for similarly complex battles, keeping their heads down, their memories scattered and incoherent thanks to the passage of time and the erosion of the systems that once birthed them.
Some might have died - their spirit bodies torn apart in one way or another. But most are just being quiet, as they're not…happy spirits.
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
This does imply that there exists a spirit of the Exchange, for little else is more complex than the complex interplay of alliances, death man's switches, launchers and interceptors, and it sure as hell hasn't faded.
I wonder what's she up to.
(Anyway, there's probably a bunch of spirits of people around. For example, Santa Claus is probably real, but cross dressing).
I wonder what's she up to.
(Anyway, there's probably a bunch of spirits of people around. For example, Santa Claus is probably real, but cross dressing).
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bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
post-apocalyptic mythology amalgamating the Berlin Airlift with Operation Christmas Drop and NORAD's Santa track, creating Santa's Sled, the spirit of C-47s and the American aviation industry and also coca-cola brand awareness?
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- Location
- My own little world...
This suggests then that Midway might not be compromised entirely of American ships? It takes two to tango, and while the Japanese showing was less impressive it was still a significant mechanical feat. Unless Midway would more accurately be named "the US contributions to the Battle of Midway", and there is/was a Japanese version? ...which implies not only the existence of logistical battle spirits but two sets for each campaign/major engagement?
Also, what's the difference between the spirit of Midway and the spirit of the Pacific Naval Campaign? Since it's mechanics and not opinion that matter, Midway is ultimately just one part of a much larger machine. Though I suppose we have proof that sub-spirits are possible since Midway is a spirit comprised of ships and planes that presumably had their own spirits back in the day...
Either way, now I really wanna see Overlord. Though since "Fortress" has yet to be conclusively identified perhaps that's her? Seems more like she's the Battle of Britain and/or the European bombing campaigns though.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
She actually quoted some Japanese death poetry earlier - in English, so you might have missed it