Beyond the Starline

  Beyond the Starline

  Book One in the Dark Sea Trilogy

  Austin Hackney

  Newcastle, UK

  http://clockworkpress.co.uk

  Beyond the Starline first published in the UK by Clockwork Press 2016

  Copyright ©Austin Hackney 2016

  First Smashwords Edition

  Austin Hackney asserts the moral and legal right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalog record of this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-0-9935367-0-0

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935367-1-7

  Editor: Eve Merrier

  Cover design and formatting: Streetlight Graphics http://streetlightgraphics.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  To Ashlin and Tanith – for making all the adventures worthwhile

  Publisher’s note: As most readers of this book are outside the UK, American spelling has been used throughout.

  Chapter One

  Harriet inched nearer the edge of the bed, hardly daring to breathe. Her mother stirred, muttering something in her sleep. Don’t you go waking up, Harriet thought. You might think Sibelius is dirty an’ dangerous, but he’s me only friend, so you can stuff that where the sun don’t shine. She’d never speak like that to her mother’s face, but thinking it now made her grin.

  She slipped out of bed, bare feet finding the cold floor. Wish we could afford heating. This nightdress might as well be made o’ cobwebs for all the good it does keeping the drafts out. She pulled on a shawl and crept towards the door.

  Following her usual zigzag route, she avoided the creaking floorboards that had betrayed her in the past. Harriet didn’t mind harsh words - and she’d tolerate a cuff round the ear - but she’d rather avoid trouble if she could.

  At the door, she ran her fingers over the hinges. They were greased with butter she’d snaffled at dinner last night. She lifted the latch and slipped out. A cast-iron walkway skirted the inner walls of the tower. Harriet ran, barefoot, unworried by the absence of a railing and the dizzying drop into darkness. Balloons floated up and down, with baskets beneath carrying messages and supplies. No people at this time of day, though. She climbed a ladder to the level below and pulled back the door to the Laundry.

  This was her time; no one to tell her what to do or say; no one to tweak her ear or shout at her for day-dreaming. Aside from the bubbling boiling-pots and the distant clanking of engines, the laundry room was quiet.

  Harriet pushed the window up. The city of Lundoon spread out below and around her. The city’s fumes mingled with the scent of detergent flakes. There was no sign of Sibelius. She stoked up the fires under the boiling-pots. Best to make meself useful. A smog-horn boomed above the rapid chugging of an airborne engine. Skipping back to the window, she leaned out. He’s late. Wonder what’s keeping him.

  Between the towers opposite hers, a merchant vessel lifted from its mooring. The vast structure of the dirigible’s gas chambers dwarfed the cargo hold suspended beneath.

  The airship rose through the yellow smog, propellers turning lazily. Emerging above the layer of cloud and into the bright morning air, the silvered surface of the ship glowed. The engines roared, firing to full throttle. The propeller blades sped up until they were no more than a blur and the airship moved upward towards the pale disc of the Moon, still visible in the deep blue of the Dark Sea above.

  Harriet grinned. That’s beautiful, ain’t it? She imagined the grease and steam in the engine room, polished brass pistons pumping. She fancied herself the captain, taking command at the controls. Looking up, she saw a multi-colored air-balloon draw closer to the window. “Sibelius!”

  Beneath the balloon hung a wicker basket covered with a tent of painted canvas stretched over a bamboo frame. Around the basket bags of ballast, pots, pans and supply sacks were hung. The craft’s propeller idled as the balloon came level with the window.

  “You’re late!”

  A large monkey, much the same size as Harriet, dressed in a leather jerkin and striped pantaloons, leaned on the basket’s edge. His cap was cocked to one side in a jaunty fashion and his brass goggles were pushed up onto his forehead. He wore a loosely tied neckerchief, a necklace of shark’s teeth and a copper talisman. A brass ring pierced his left ear. A long-healed scar ran down the side of his face.

  “Bonjour mademoiselle,” he said, agile fingers grasping one of the ropes. He pulled himself up and sat sideways on the basket’s edge. One leg dangled lazily over the side. He appeared entirely nonchalant about the vast distance of sky between himself and the teeming city below.

  “You’re late,” said Harriet again.

  He pulled out a clay pipe and a smoking pouch and began stuffing dark tobacco into the bowl. “I have arrived en retarde only because I was delayed by adventure.”

  “Tell me all about it, then,” said Harriet, settling down to listen. Then she added, grinning, “Or I’ll burst your blooming balloon.”

  “Tu es très charmant, mademoiselle,” he said, his tail flicking. He tamped down the tobacco with a dirty-nailed thumb and fingered a packet of matches from his jerkin pocket.

  The monkey grinned, flashing a golden tooth. His intelligent eyes watched her brightly a moment before returning to their usual languid expression. He struck the match, lit the pipe and puffed swathes of pungent smoke into the morning air.

  “Three times in the year The Monkey Nation meets. Sky monkey families gather from all over the city. It is an airborne empire of multi-colored balloons. Qu’une vue pour voir, mademoiselle! You should see it!”

  “I’d love to!”

  “But you may not, ma petite. We gather not only for celebration but...for business.” He leaned towards her and lowered his voice, “C’est un très grand secret. We trade in information passed between gentlemen merchants Up Top and Groundlings below the smog. We trade in secrets, conspiracies, lies. This makes it dangerous work, tu comprend?”

  “Yeah, you told me before hundreds o’ times. What happened today?”

  “I received information that would compromise the reputation of a very important gentleman. To verify the story I had to venture into the most dangerous back-alleys of Lundoon. There, I was set upon by a gang of cut-throats...”

  “Did you have to fight ‘em?”

  “Mademoiselle, I was out-numbered six to one, and every man of them a heavy-weight.” He paused, and then winked. “Of course I had to fight them...”

  Several boiling-pots bubbled over at once. Copper lids rocked and clattered. Hot suds exploded into the air, splashing slippery patches over the laundry room floor.

  Harriet swore. “Now look!” she said, jumping up. “Mum’ll throw a dicky fit if she sees this.”

  “Quelle domage, mademoiselle. It is my fault for distracting you.”

  “Nah,” sai
d Harriet, busy lifting up the steaming-hot lids, hands wrapped in towels. “It ain’t your fault. It’s mine for being such a dreamer.”

  “Ah, but it is our dreams,” called Sibelius, swinging back into his basket and firing the engine, “it is our dreams that give meaning to our lives, mademoiselle.”

  Harriet mopped vigorously. “You’re a bad influence, you are! I’ll have no life to give meaning to if she sees this mess. Can you come back later? Tonight maybe, after she’s abed?”

  “I will do my best. Au revoir, mon amie!”

  Sibelius tapped out his pipe, pulled down his goggles and started the propeller. His balloon chugged out of sight just as the laundry room door flung open and Harriet’s mother stormed in, still in dressing gown and slippers, her hair in disarray.

  Harriet stood in a puddle of hot suds, nightdress damp at the hem, mop and bucket in hand. Through the fog of steam, her mother’s face was pale and angry. Blimey, she thought, the colors of adventure rinsed from her mind, I’m in trouble all right.

  Having endured a lecture underlined with a cuff round the ear, Harriet spent the day up to her arms in soapy water, scrubbing, rinsing and hanging out until her body ached and her hands were raw.

  After supper, with a look that silenced her protests before they had even formed on her lips, her mother sent her to bed.

  She lay beneath the blankets feeling pretty miserable. Before long her mind wandered to the countless stories Sibelius had told her during their many secret rendezvous at the window: Tales of ancient worlds lost among the stars of the Outer Archipelago, of creatures unknown on Earth or Moon, of pirates and adventure. She rolled over, pulling the blankets around her, and smiled. One day I’ll go to the Moon, she thought. An’ I’ll be the captain of me own sky ship!

  Through the bedroom window she could see the Starline marking the flight ways between Earth and Moon. Just twinkling lights from this distance, she knew they were as big as towers and home to crews of hundreds who kept the crackling electrostatic lanterns alight and re-fueled ships on their long voyages back and forth.

  This blooming Laundry’s my whole world, she thought. I ain’t even been to the foot of the tower. I wonder what it would’ve been like if me dad was still alive. Mum would be happier. Maybe we’d live in one of them houses Up Top, with trees and flowers and fountains …

  Violent crashes sounded below. Harriet cursed and sat up. Now what? I set everything to rights before I come up to bed. Another crash. Raised voices. Sounds like someone smashing up the furniture! Harriet zigzagged silently to the door. She opened it just a crack. Her skin was cold. Her heart pounded like a foundry hammer.

  “Where’s the girl?” snarled a gravelly, masculine voice.

  Her mother said, “I don’t know what you mean. There’s no girl here.” A sharp slap followed and a stifled scream.

  “Listen, lady. We can make this easy or we can make this hard. It’s up to you. We know you’re hiding the girl here and we can go an’ find her but it would be easier for all of us if you just...Urgh! Kneed me in the pods, the wicked …!” Another crash. “Don’t let her get away! And find that girl...”

  Harriet shut the door, panicking. Another shout of pain followed.

  Mum!

  Footsteps rattled along the iron walkway.

  Harriet backed away from the door, pressing herself against the opposite wall. She breathed hard, limbs trembling. The door crashed open and a dark figure loomed against the sudden flood of light.

  Chapter Two

  The figure hurtled into the room, grabbing Harriet’s wrist. “Quick, you’ve got to get away from here!”

  Harriet shot out a breath of relief. “Mum!”

  “Harriet! Out!”

  “What’s happening?”

  Her mother didn’t answer. She dragged her along the cast-iron walkway, her wrist in a white-knuckle grip. “These men want to kill you,” she said, breathless, knocking open another door and bundling them both inside. One of the men shouted, “There they go! I see the girl – get her!” Harriet’s mother slammed the door shut and looked about wildly.

  “Mum, you’re hurting me! Why do they want to kill me?”

  Her mother released her wrist. “Help me push this chest in front of the door. Hurry!”

  The chest was heavy mahogany edged with brass. Harriet pushed and shoved until she thought the muscles in her back would snap. Her mother’s face was purple with effort. The chest squealed over the tiled floor as it scraped into place.

  “Up again,” panted her mother. “Up there!”

  Harriet looked up. She’d never been in this room before: a store filled with chests, boxes and upturned furniture. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling above a mountain of chairs and tables. The men were outside the door now.

  “Hurry, child!”

  She scrambled up the loosely stacked furniture. Balancing on top of an upturned chair, she shoved at the paneling with both hands. Below, the men were shouldering the door open, the chest screeching across the tiles again. Her mother tried to hold them back. She called up to Harriet, “Quickly!”

  Harriet shoved again at the trapdoor. “It ain’t no good,” she breathed. “It’s stuck.” She looked down. Her mother stumbled backwards as the chest gave way. The door opened far enough for one of the men to start squeezing through.

  Harriet’s mum slammed herself back against the door. The intruder spat a curse as his hand was crushed against the jamb. Her mum scrambled backwards to the rickety pile of furniture.

  Wood splintered as the men tumbled into the room: a hot, cursing rabble of fury; tattered tri-corn’d hats, scarred faces, leather baldrics and tarnished brass buckles; the smell of machine grease and brandy; the flash of a scimitar, the barrel of a flintlock pistol. Fag me, thought Harriet. They’re blooming pirates!

  She rammed and rammed at the trapdoor. At last it punched open and fell back with a dusty thud. A pistol shot cracked the air. Wooden paneling exploded around her head. Harriet dragged herself through the hole and scrambled around to help her mother up, but the pile of furniture gave way.

  Her mum fell back with a violent jolt, dangling in the air, desperately clutching Harriet’s wrists. Tears stung Harriet’s eyes. “I can’t hold you, Mum,” she said. “I ain’t strong enough. I can’t do it!”

  The woman’s eyes met hers. “I’m not your mum, Harriet,” she said. “And your father’s not dead. Let go my left hand – let go!” Harriet freed her hand. The woman shoved it into her apron pocket, pulling out a small, brass hemisphere. She thrust it towards Harriet. “Take this device. Find Professor Poliakoff. Poliakoff, you understand? He’ll help you. He’s …”

  There was another crack of pistol fire. The woman opened her eyes wide in sudden shock. “Poliakoff,” she breathed as a droplet of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. Harriet’s strength gave out. The woman fell to the floor with a thud. Harriet was left empty handed but for the weight of the brass device.

  For a moment the world and time stood still.

  She saw grizzled pirate faces glaring up at her, framed in the trapdoor opening. The leader stood astride the woman’s body. He smiled. It was a dangerous, twisted smile.

  “Now listen, girl,” he said. “See what trouble you caused? All we want is what you got there. It’s a pretty bauble but it ain’t yours. You drop that down now and we’ll clear out and give no more trouble. You hear? Just drop me that thing there and it’s all over, right?”

  Harriet felt the warm brass against her palm: warm with her mother’s heat, her mother’s life. But the woman was not her mother. And now she was dead. Harriet fought back the hot sting of tears. No time for that, Harriet, she thought. Not ‘less you want to go the same way. But her breath was ragged.

  “D’you hear me, girl?”

  She said me old man’s still alive. Find this Poliakoff and he’ll help me, she said. Me da
d ain’t dead!

  The pirates had started stacking tables back up towards the trapdoor. The leader reloaded his flintlock and pointed the weapon up at Harriet. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “Drop that damned thing or you’ll go the same way as this wretched wench!” He growled and kicked the woman’s lifeless body. “Drop it!”

  “All right,” said Harriet, looking the pirate in the eye. “I’ll drop it. You ready to catch?”

  The pirate gave a black-toothed grin. He shoved the pistol into his baldric to free his other hand. That’s got your blooming gun out the way, thought Harriet. “Right. I’ll drop it on three,” she said. “Ready?”

  The pirate’s eyes glinted with greed, fixed on the device, his cupped hands outstretched. “One...” she began, hoping he wouldn’t see her other hand moving round to grab the trapdoor. “Two...”

  She pulled back, slamming the heavy panel into place with a bang! Clouds of dust exploded into darkness. Grit stung her eyes. Dust dried her throat. Ignoring the pirates’ muffled curses, she crawled away from the trapdoor as fast as she could.

  “Blooming heck,” she mumbled. “Can’t see nothing.”

  Furniture was being piled up again and angry voices rose among the rafters. The floor was covered in a layer of dust and grit that grazed her hands and knees.

  Now what? I’m a rat in a trap, that’s what. Well, I’ve set traps before what’ve gone off with no rat in them. Let’s hope I’m THAT kind of rat.

  Her head collided with something hard. Ow! She reached out and felt cold metal, rough and rounded. It’s a big cylinder with tubes and pipes coming off it. Cautiously, she stood up. And a big lid...a valve just here. Feels all rusted up... it’s an old trasher! I’d recognize a trasher anywhere – lord knows I’ve emptied ours out often enough.