Steamed by Katie MacAlister Page A

been the wisest of women in my choices of male partners, but I was not stupid. I would learn from my mistakes.
    “Oh, man,” he said, rubbing his face. “You’ve heard those absurd stories? I swear to you, I was just a victim of circumstance, nothing more. I’m not an adventurer. I’m not dashing and romantic. I’m not Indiana Jones.”
    “But you are an airship pirate,” I said, gesturing toward the entrance to the hold with the Disruptor. “You will please return to your sister.”
    “Airship . . . Oh, you mean my T- shirt,” he said, the puzzlement in his face fading into amusement. “It’s a band. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them. They’re pretty good. You should listen to their latest CD—I bet you’d like it. It’s got some goth overtones to it, but it’s still very listenable.”
    “Sir, I have had quite enough of your conundrums. You will return to the entrance now, or I will be forced to use the Disruptor.”
    “Knock yourself out,” he said easily, looking interested. “Does it have working parts?”
    My patience was gone. With a silent oath, I pointed the gun toward the edge of the crate nearest him, one containing uniforms, and fired. The weapon spat out a single pulse of charged aether, blasting the corner of the wooden crate into a thousand little slivers. The smell of scorched wood drifted back to me as Jack examined the results.
    “That’s pretty impressive. Did you have one of those special effect squibs rigged to blow up?” he asked slowly, reaching out to touch the still-smoldering remains of wood. With a yelp, he jerked his hand back, blowing on his fingers as he looked up to me. “That’s hot. How did you do that?”
    “Am I to assume, Mr. Fletcher, that you deny the fact you are an airship pirate when the sign on the back of your undergarment states the opposite?”
    “I got the T-shirt last night at the concert,” he said, looking back at the destroyed crate corner. “It wasn’t a squib you used, was it? It looks like the wood was hit by a high-temperature bullet.”
    “Pulse, not bullet. The Mark 15 Empyrean Disruptors use pulses of heated aether rather than bullets,” I corrected him. “And now I’ve had enough of this farce. Please return to your sister.”
    “You really are taking this to quite a length, aren’t you? Well, I’m afraid that I’m not going to be able to play along with the whole thing much longer. I’ve got a lot on my plate today, and my boss will be on my back if I don’t get some things done. Hal? Wake up. We’ve got to get going.”
    “Will you see to it that Mr. Christian has the brig arranged properly, Mr. Piper?” I asked the bosun.
    He eyed Jack for a moment or two. “Ye sure ye’ll be all right with the blighted bastard?”
    “Bastard?” Jack said, frowning at him. “Look, I don’t want to pick a fight with you, but I don’t appreciate being called a bastard when I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”
    “I will be perfectly safe, Mr. Piper,” I reassured him, nodding toward the Disruptor.
    “Aye, Captain.” Piper scurried around Jack, careful to give the younger man a wide berth.
    Jack watched him go with a disgruntled look that he turned upon me as the door closed behind Mr. Piper. “OK, it’s just you and me and my addled sister, so you can drop the act. What’s going on here, Octavia, if that is really your name?”
    “It is. I’ve told you repeatedly, Mr. Fletcher—you are my prisoner. It is you who seems to have trouble accepting that fact. There you are, Mr. Ho. I have been waiting some time for you.”
    “My apologies, Captain,” the woman who was our steward’s mate said hurriedly, a bit out of breath. “I was up in the starboard stabilizing plane, helping Mr. Mowen. Dooley said someone was injured?”
    Beatrice Ho, a slight woman of Asian descent, gazed at Jack with frank appraisal. Although I had been with this crew for only a few days, I had marked the steward’s mate out as someone