Shannon Delany - Thunderstruck

“Like none other,” Rowen said, arching an eyebrow.

“Another weapon,” Marion whispered. “Can we not do this peacefully? Can we not finesse this revolution without bloodshed?”

Jack, Evie, and the Wandering Wallace exchanged a look.

“I will also have at least one lightship repaired…” Jack tried.

Rowen glanced down at the table and Jordan pursed her lips. Miyakitsu quietly traced a finger along the inner edge of her kimono’s collar.

Marion rapped his knuckles on the table, beating out a frustrated rhythm. “I want this to be a bloodless revolution. A coup d’état can be that, can it not?”

The Wandering Wallace turned to face him. “Yes, but only if the opposition allows that sort of overthrow. Frankly, such a thing will be up to them. If they allow a peaceful transition, I will certainly accept it.”

“ You will … ?” Jordan twitched in her chair. The clouds darkened around them. “Please do remind me just how it was determined that you would be the one in charge?” she whispered.

The Wandering Wallace bridled at Jordan’s insinuation. “Do you wish to take the reins then, young Lady Astraea?”

She shook her head, short dark hair rippling in the air’s caress. “No, I want no such responsibility—I feel no such calling. But even I am wise enough to know there should be more than one man leading things.”

“And there will be,” the Wandering Wallace soothed. “There will be what we establish in Philadelphia and what still holds in other major cities as we sort things out. There will be a new, more inspired and forward-thinking Council.”

“The last Council surely believed they, too, were forward thinking,” she challenged. “Even if they held on to some of the past—even the worst bits—still I believe when those men entered the Council they hoped to make a better and brighter future.”

“Perhaps for themselves,” the Wandering Wallace murmured.

Jordan’s fingers rolled into a fist. “My father was a part of that Council….”

“ Was, ” the Wandering Wallace emphasized.

Rowen’s hand reached out for Jordan’s, perhaps in an attempt to soothe—but she pulled her fist away, still seething.

Marion shifted in his seat. “Surely you do not think the current Council succeeded in crafting the brighter future you suggest they desired …”

Jordan’s head snapped up. “No. Not at all. Certainly not for our kind. But replacing a group with one man makes no sense—it returns us to a kingship—a sovereignty. We should not have slaves, but we should not have that either.”

“I said I would include others….” The Wandering Wallace said, his tone going glum, like a boy pouting.

“You will,” Jordan agreed. “We will see to that.”

“And to a peaceable revolution,” Marion added, giving the Wandering Wallace a firm look. “As peaceable as we can make it, yes?”

From within the depths of his rhino mask, the Wandering Wallace seemed to glance down at the table. “Yes, yes. Of course yes.

“If you have additional forces,” the Wandering Wallace said, looking at Evie, Jack, Marion, and Rowen, “rally them. I do not care where they come from, nor their heritage—I only want assurance that they fight for us.”

“I only want everyone to get settled in their cabins and get some rest,” Jordan retorted. “Yes, we are on the brink of revolution, much must be done, but sleepless nights will come soon enough.” She stood and looked at all of them—except for Rowen. “Go, eat, drink, sleep.” She stared at them until they rose from their seats.

The Wandering Wallace, of course, had something to add. “I must deliver the headlines and sing,” he said. “We must maintain and build trust.”

Jordan shook her head, but, resigned, she pointed toward the small communications center with its flywheel and its horn intercom. He spoke into the horn, relating the headlines and news to the people stuck and static in locked cabins.

In all of her life, Jordan had never heard headlines such as the ones he delivered, things that sounded more fantastical than the reality she’d always been part of—things that seemed so foreign in form they might as well be dreams. Throughout Europe it sounded as if steam contraptions were on the move—and moving far more safely than the government of the United States wanted citizens to think was possible.

“And, in international news, The Baba Yaga has traveled into Moscow to discuss the terms of her surrender, leaving her steam-powered house to stand on its chicken-like legs outside of St. Basil’s Cathedral.”

The rest of their group made their way toward the elevator, while Jordan adjusted the ship’s controls and listened to the Wandering Wallace’s song. Finally she, Miyakitsu, and the Wandering Wallace joined the last few of them riding the elevator into the Artemesia ’s gut.

*** Philadelphia’s Below

George slapped his hands together, looking up and down the street. All was quiet here at the edge of the Below. Wiping his brow with a rag before pressing the cloth back into his waistcoat’s pocket, he headed home.

The falling rain, falling only Tuesdays and alternating Fridays, ran into his face again, undaunted.

There was nothing easy about his job. Not the searching out of the renegades and rebels who made steam contraptions, not the finding them at times no one else would be around, not the wanton destruction, not the fire-starting, not the need to cover his tracks.

He patted the belly he’d started to grow. All for a good cause. He assured the safety and sanctity of his son through his secret dealings with the Council. He assured his son would not be taken away, that what was left of his family would not fall due to Harboring a Witch.

Though, what could you fall from when you lived like church mice in an old woman’s attic? There was no great honor left to his family name, no power he wielded in neither market nor government, nothing special about him unless one counted his son.

Todd was all he had—a clever child with a mind for artistry and design and a curiosity that George had never seen rivaled. Why, he’d be an inventor great as any, if George knew anything about anything. Which he was certain he did.

If only there were more inventors to model himself after …

George knew of da Vinci and his flying devices, of Franklin and his—everything. Franklin tried it all, from printing to music-making with his glass armonica, to devising the postal service itself! Da Vinci’s ideas were all used up, if you asked anyone in the businesses of building and design. And George had. The men he had spoken to assured him. Either da Vinci’s ideas failed when tested or they had already been used to their full potential.

All good and godly things that could be invented had been invented—now was a time of revision, not creation.

And Franklin’s remaining ideas were deemed worthless, Franklin earning himself quite a diabolical reputation—causing his inventions to be locked away in a cellar beneath his prized post office, if the rumors were to be believed. Locked away to be forgotten.

It was hard enough protecting a son who was a Witch, but a boy who might invent things akin to those that destroyed Franklin’s reputation and eventually his life? To be guilty of diabolical dealings—how else did man manage such strange things as Franklin made except by dealing with devils or Wildkin? Had he not taken some Native as his lover at nearly the same time he’d been Ambassador to France? That was where the temptation and taint were found—the Wildkin or French.

Both had quite the reputation.

It was wiser—safer—to follow the crowd than test the government. Wiser to stay the path than stray and test your own abilities.