Excerpt: Antigone's Wrath

As she took a final glance around the room, making sure she’d left nothing behind, the figure in the bed moved slightly. She froze, not wanting to wake him. She’d already stayed too long. When his chest resumed its rhythmic rise and fall, she released her held breath and backed into the hallway, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

The night’s happenings had been what she had come to expect from this back alley trade city. The main cargo had sold quickly once word had spread that Antigone’s Wrath had made port. The undeclared goods had been whisked away quietly by her trustworthy first mate, and at dinner Iris had informed her of the successful transaction with an unnamed party. These “undeclared goods” always left her on edge. Their very presence on board her ship rankled her in ways she did not fully understand. It was only Iris’ efficiency at offloading them for astonishing prices that motivated her to keep them secure, rather than pitch them overboard. While she did not share Iris’ fascination with these so-called relics, she always appreciated the extra weight they added to her coinpurse.

It was never very difficult to find a buyer for the unusual trinkets she came across. Despite the fact that items that possessed magical qualities had been banned from all markets for two decades now, those of means seemed to find ways around these laws, calling themselves “private collectors” and “historians” who collected them with only the purpose of sealing them away from those who would use them. She no more bought that line of dung than thought jewels fell from her nose when she blew it into a handkerchief. Regardless, money was money. What people did with their trinkets meant nothing to her once they left her possession.

As she made her way down the wooden stairs of the Hound and Stag Inn, she pushed her fingers into her worn leather gloves and adjusted her ammo belt. Only one shell was missing, being snugly cradled in magazine of the strange pistol that was strapped beneath her jacket under her right breast. Her quick-draw weapon, a tiny pistol rigged on her right arm that was ready with a flick of her wrist, was her preferred weapon as it provided the subtlety she preferred, but her pride and joy was the gun she kept closest to her. It was a one-of-a-kind piece, having been created by her grandfather, modified by her father, and updated with her own two hands. With a single, specialized bullet, she could fire off twelve bursts of compressed air, each one strong enough to cleanly knock a hole through a man’s chest at five paces, followed by a thirteenth shot of shrapnel she endearingly called “the kicker”. While it wasn’t the most ladylike of instruments, it did the job well enough when she needed it to. Most knew to steer clear of the Antigone’s Wrath, but on the rare occasion a privateer would attempt to make a name for himself out of her hide, she had taught them a deadly lesson.

It was incidents like that which had earned her nicknames like Neptune’s Mistress and The Scourge of Horus’ Kingdom. The Antigone’s Wrath was undisputed champion of both the skies and seas, and she, Captain Rachel Sterling, was its master. This thought always brought a smile to her face. She answered to no one, save for the odd Air Transport Authority or Royal Navy ship that she crossed paths with, and this was how she liked it.

This was precisely why she now crept, catlike, away from the bed of the man she had called lover during the previous night. Men were so awkward in the morning. They always felt as though they owed her something for her company. Quite the contrary, she often felt guilty for so easily taking advantage of their assumed masculine role. They would sum her up in a look, either judging her fair game or out of their league. They would approach her with a swaggering confidence, which she allowed them, to a point. After a drink or two their tongue would be loose enough for them to tell her exactly what sort of man they were. If they were too vulnerable, she would leave them with a smile and a bar tab for their efforts. She did not abide fools. Too macho often proved to be a cover for what they lacked in the bedroom, and so those too would find themselves with an empty purse and massive headache when they awoke the next day. The lucky ones that made the cut were neither too dull to keep her entertained with their banter, nor too smart as those generally bored her with prattle about politics or obscure economic literature. She had honed her selection process down to an artform. Her consorts never disappointed her, and the favor was always reciprocated. A fine lover should be treated as well as he treats.

It was this philosophy that had put her in the habit of leaving before rays of the morning sun awoke her partner. Too many times a skilled lover had found kinship in her and mistaken the passion of night for the illusion of love. Before she had learned that lesson, not once, but twice young men had tried to keep her with them, as though she was now tied to them in some way. She had been loathe to, yet had no choice but to introduce one of them to the business end of her boot knife. One sweep of her leg and the man had gone down, the tendons behind his knees severed as he lunged for his gun. She did not enjoy killing, and did so with no passion, but when left with no other options, she would take care of business. He had cursed and spat at her as she left, but when she told him her true name, he went silent and she heard nothing from him again. Honestly, if the entire Royal Navy had yet to keep her under control, what made a single man think he could do so on his own?

After tossing the bleary-eyed innkeeper an extra coin for his troubles (she always compensated staff for their discretion on her whereabouts), Rachel tossed her cloak about her shoulders and mounted her oversized leather newsboy cap atop her tied-back red tresses. The attached goggles and earflaps were her own modifications and came in quite handy during air travel. Flipping the deep maroon cloak over her shoulder, she opened the door and stepped out into the pre-morning fog. She took a deep breath of the cool, moist air and held it for a moment. No matter the town, this time of day was always special to her. The potential of the day was untapped during this quiet hour. She could feel its energy unfolding before her, daring her to channel it into concrete plans. If she could find a way to bottle this energy, she could power a thousand ships for a thousand days.

“Sleep well, my Captain?” the sweet, chiding tones of her First Mate’s voice seemed perfectly timed to startle her in a moment of reflection, but Rachel did not react.

“‘Twas a fine night with fine company,” she smiled as she hooked her thumbs inside her belt. “A pity you didn’t join us, Iris. My companion’s friend seemed quite disappointed at your early departure.”

Iris stepped to Rachel’s side, her heather gray cloak concealing a dark fall of curls beneath its hood. “I do not find the company of men as desirable as you, Captain. My entertainment is found elsewhere.”

Rachel grinned. “Ah yes, it does slip my mind that you do not share my taste in R&R. What was it last night? A poetry reading? Tea sampling? Or perhaps something more macabre, given our location. A seance at a stately residence?” A sideways glance at Iris’ reddening cheeks told her she had guessed correctly. She clicked her tongue in reproach. “Honestly. Such parlour games are far more dangerous than any dalliances in which I might take part.”

“That depends entirely on the participants of either, and, have we not had this conversation before?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“And you are beating a dead horse. Are we to be off today?”

She knew better than to press the point. Iris was steadfast in her ways and would not be moved by begging, brow beating, or bribery. It was one of the qualities she both valued, and drove her mad with frustration at the same time. Iris, once convinced of something, would not sway so much as a particle in the direction of the opposing view. While this made her very loyal, it also resulted in many arguments that went unresolved. Rachel sighed and clasped her hand on Iris’ shoulder. “We shall see where the winds take us this morning. There are fresh cargo and supplies to be loaded still, but more importantly,” she paused and sniffed the air dramatically, “I’ve caught the scent of something in the breeze, and I intend to follow it to its end.”

Iris groaned. This generally meant that she would be dragged along on some sort of chase for some odd thing or another. Rachel often said that phrase when restlessness stirred in her bones. “What is it to be this time? The best chowder in the port? The softest bed? Most coveted calling card?”

She cocked her head to the side and gazed off into the air. “No,” she muttered, “no, nothing so mundane this time, I think.”

“Then what?” Iris crossed her arms impatiently.

After a few moments pause, she gave her answer. “I don’t know, Iris.” This ambiguous answer was unusual for the decisive Captain, and gave the First Mate pause. “I don’t know, but I think we shall find something interesting. We have only to look for it.”

“Are you sure you are not still drunk?”

Rachel narrowed her eyes at her. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t explain it, I just have this feeling. Something will come our way, don’t doubt that.”

“It is not whether or not something will come our way that I doubt,” Iris muttered quietly as the Captain strode off towards the market district. “it is your definition of interesting that has me concerned.”