Dreadnought by Cherie Priest Page B

Or greater machines, built on a similar template.”
    “People already go coast to coast with them, but it’s all merchants moving goods here and there, not people. Did you see thearmored dirigibles earlier? The ones that came and went from the commerce docks?”
    “No, I only just arrived.”
    “They’re war machines, and there are only a handful of them—for a real good reason,” she informed him. “The hydrogen’s as flammable as the devil’s knickers, and that don’t work so good with live ammunition flying all over the place. Not a month after the first dirigibles took to the front, antiaircraft guns were up and running, shooting them down like carnival balloons.” She was parroting someone now, and she wasn’t certain whom. One of the soldiers at the hospital? One of the doctors?
    “But they’re such impressive instruments. And armored, like you said.”
    “Yeah, but the more armor that covers them, the less weight they can carry. The trade-off makes them a losing bet on the field. Though I heard from one of the retained men that a CSA dirigible was stolen a few years ago, and that people sometimes talk about seeing it out West, flown by a pirate and outfitted for his trade. Maybe it’ll be the frontier pirates, after all, who will show the East how to make them into proper riding vessels.”
    “Pirates
do
tend to be an innovative lot,” he murmured. “By the way, I fear I haven’t introduced myself properly. I’m Gordon Rand, lately of the good Queen’s service, but recently discharged to my own recognizance.”
    She almost responded with “Vinita Lynch,” but instead opted for, “I’m Mrs. Lynch.”
    “Mrs. Lynch?” He glanced at her hand, which was covered in a tight leather glove and therefore hiding the wedding ring she still wore. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He took her hand and gave it a perfunctory kiss.
    She let him do it, then reclaimed the hand and asked, “What business of the Queen’s takes you west, Mr. Rand?”
    “I believe I’m going to write a book,” he informed her. “Andthe subject matter takes me west. It might take me farther south later on, and maybe even into Mexico, if time and health permit. But we shall see.”
    Mercy gave him a noncommittal, “Hmm,” and gazed again at the ship, which heaved gently back and forth in its moorings as bits of luggage were loaded up through a rear hatch with a retracting ladder.
    The indefatigable Mr. Rand asked, “Keeping an eye on your bags?”
    “No. I’m holding my bags.”
    “Traveling light. That’s an admirable trait in a woman.”
    She was on the verge of saying something rude when the captain came strutting by like a fat little game hen in his tailored uniform.
    “My fair passengers!” he addressed them, opening his chubby arms to indicate the group. “I’ve just been informed by headquarters that we’ll be taking off in less than a quarter hour. If you would all be so kind as to board at this time, find the seat that’s marked on your ticket, and make yourselves comfortable. If you have not checked your luggage for rear-well storage, then please stash your items at your feet, or secure them in any empty seats that might present themselves. We’re traveling at only two-thirds capacity today, so there should be plenty of room for everything.”
    “Oh, this is so
exciting,
” the older woman cooed in an upper-class accent that Mercy thought might come from farther east, maybe on the coast, or maybe she only thought that because the woman’s companion was wearing a jacket that reminded Mercy of an ocean trade. But she would’ve made a bet that they hailed from Savannah, or Charleston.
    “Exciting!” repeated the husband, who was entirely too thin for his clothing. He rattled around inside it when he took his wife’s arm and let her lead him over to the accordion stairs.
    Mercy couldn’t shake the impression that the poor old gentleman wasn’t all there. But his wife was still