Sexy Steampunk Babes: Chapter Fifty One

Absently, as he clambered off the wing, William glanced at the line of flower shaped wax stains that had been stitched along the side of the Drake he’d just dismounted.

“S’alright kid,” the instructor called from her position in the co-pilot seat. “You flew as well as you could. Sometimes the odds just aren’t in your favor.”

William nodded seriously at the very rare show of encouragement. Instructors, as a rule of thumb, were sparing with praise and generous with criticism. Before he could dwell on it though, he was forced to shuffle out of the way as a small swarm of servants descended on the shard brandishing mops and other tools. Stepping away from them, he started walking towards the hangar. 

As he did, he was a little surprised by how frustrated he was with how the last thirty minutes had gone.

Olzenya had gone down to an early head on and he’d been pretty systematically hunted down afterward. Now, if his opponents had been in Drakes, perhaps he might have been able to turn that around. Maybe. Unfortunately, this week marked the start of inter-house matches and as such his opponents were in a Harpy Three and a Firebird.

In short, the kind of high agility craft that were impossible to shake once they got on your tail.

Now, if that added nimbleness was their only advantage, he might have been able to make things work. But it wasn’t. They were also lighter, more responsive and retained energy better while climbing and in turns. By contrast, the only thing Drake had going for it was a higher wing tear speed and a higher top speed in a straight line.

Which he could have leveraged to gain some distance to maybe turn things around, if hadn’t been forced to keep making course adjustments to avoid long range fire. Which killed his speed and allowed his two pursuers to catch up and riddle him.

Running his hand through his hair as he stepped into the slightly cooler, warmer interior of the hangar, he mused that while this reminder of his own mortality was frustrating, it was hardly the end of the world. After all, you learned more from loss than victory, and while he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to learn from this particular lesson, other than the fact that his opponent’s had been flying craft which were infinitely better designed for this kind of small unit engagement than his Drake, he was sure he’d eventually think of something.

“Sorry William,” Olzenya called out to him as she jogged over, her flight helmet still on but with her goggles up and mask down. “I swore I had her.”

William shrugged as he grabbed a wooden cup of water from a nearby table of refreshments. “You’re not wrong. The Drake has better guns and armor. You should have had the advantage.” He sipped his water. “You just got unlucky.”

The high elf’s expression was still slightly sour, but she at least seemed somewhat mollified by his words.  “My instructor didn’t seem to think so. She gave me a right bollocking for pulling off such a ‘brain-dead maneuver’.”

Bollocking?

William smirked a bit at the incredibly un-Olzenya-like language. Maybe she’d picked it up from Xela or Bonnlyn? He could easily imagine either of the two using it.

“I mean, the Academy has rules against that sort of thing for a reason,” he said carefully. “Planes crashing into each other in mid-air is bad for their reputation.”

Healing magic could cure a lot of things, but being reduced to a puddle in a high speed aerial collision wasn’t one of them.

“I wouldn’t have crashed,” Olzenya scoffed in a rare show of rebelliousness.

He shrugged. “Our lessons say that against an aluminium frame, aether cannons are considered effective at three hundred and fifty meters. And while they can be dangerous at over six hundred meters, we only have so much ammo, so it’s best to save our shots until we’re likely to do more than scratch paint.”

Plus, at six hundred meters you really needed to start arcing your shots. And the travel time for said shots would start reaching the point where an enemy pilot could actively dodge the incoming rounds.

You’d also need to worry about convergence if you were in one of the designs he was making back at Red Water, with the guns in the wings. Which meant you’d only be hitting with half your guns, while the other would be spraying off into the clouds. But given everything here had rear mounted propellers, guns were in the nose so setting a convergence distance wasn’t a factor.

He shook his head to dismiss that strange side tangent – even as he made a note to remind Xela of the issue, even if she likely already knew it.

Like she already knew about wax rounds, he thought.

Last he’d checked, the woman had already got a rotation set-up to make enchanted ammo belts for the upcoming practice duels for the plebian pilots.

“Your point?” Olzenya asked, drawing his attention back to the topic at hand.

“My point.” He coughed. “Is that in real combat, in a head-on-engagement, you’d only realistically start shooting at someone when you’re all of two seconds or so from actually colliding with them - assuming they’re also engaged in a head on. At that range, even if you kill the pilot, shred the props and dislodge their core, there’s a decent chance the possibly flaming wreckage of their shard is either going to miss you by the slimmest of margins as it flies past, or it’ll slam into you with the force of a vengeful god. At which point, you’re both dead.”

In short, getting used to taking head-on-engagements was not a good practice for anyone.

“I’d dodge.”

He scoffed. “What if the enemy has damaged your flight surfaces during the head on you’ve just engaged in? It’s pretty much a given they’ll have clipped you a few times at least. And I’d wager the first warning you’ll get that your plane now turns just that little bit slower would come moments before your opponent’s slammed into you.”

Olzenya grimaced at his words and the image they presented.

He continued. “I wasn’t lying before. That head-on might have been a move that advantaged you in your Drake, but head-on engagements still aren’t smart. Because they’re more likely to kill both pilots involved than not.”

Hell, shards here didn’t even have the ‘advantage’ of having a giant fuck off engine shaped mass of metal to hide behind when taking a foe head on. The shard-core was usually kept just under the pilot seat, so the only thing in the nose was the guns and forward aether ballast. Neither of which were well suited to stopping rounds.

“Alright. I get it,” the high elf grumbled as she turned to look at where the craft they’d just landed in – now cleaned and with fresh cadets in them – took off again. “Maybe the old bag had a point.” She sighed. “Still, what else are we supposed to do? Can’t out-turn a Harpy or Firebird. Definitely can’t out climb them. Void, we can’t even outpace them unless we stick to a straight line, at which point we’re an easy target even if they have to arc their shots. You proved that.”

William frowned because he didn’t have an answer.

…Or rather, he did, and he was doing his level best to ignore it even as they ate at his brain like a million adrenaline fueled inchworms.

Detachable rocket boosters.

Turn the aether-cannons into budget spell-bolts by moving the explosion to the back of the round to act as a magical version of a chemical propellent.

Supply the team with handheld radios so we can communicate better.

Those ideas and more started racing through his mind unbidden. Like lightning across the skies of his psyche.

But he resisted all of them.

Because while they were a solution to his problem, they were… too much.

Too much.

People would see them and they’d develop their own. Either by themselves or by stealing the designs. Sure, they’d not be able to use them either way without running afoul of the stigma against stealing family-magecraft, but they’d still develop them in private. Then use them in the upcoming civil war.

…And part of him didn’t care.

It just wanted to win.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Olzenya groaned.

“So, to avoid thinking about our likely to become ongoing pasting during inter-house practice bouts, what kind of food do you think Verity’s family would like?”

“Food?” she squawked. “You just admitted to the fact that we’re likely to keep losing and you’re thinking about food?”

William shrugged. “Better than driving ourselves nutty thinking about a problem without easy answers. Besides, they’re just academy rankings.”

“Just academy rankings!?”

--------------------

William had a feeling Olzenya still hadn’t forgiven him for that comment even four days on.

“Huh, this is actually quite nice,” William opined as he stepped out of the carriage and into the morning sunlight.

Behind him, Olzenya and Verity made noises of disagreement and agreement respectively. Neither of which surprised him.

Located barely a few miles outside the capital walls, the land in front of him was little more than cottages and farms for as far as the eye could see.

Small farms, he noted as the trio started to walk the stone road. Just big enough for a family to support themselves while garnering a small profit each season.

Perfectly sized for retiring royal knights and their families. Or, in Verity’s case, a place to put the families of knight-trainees for the duration of their service term. Assuming she both graduated and survived the entirety of her service, the land given to her family on a temporary basis would become hers in full.

It was a very Roman approach to military service and compensation, but with a few unpleasant caveats.

For one thing, the land wouldn’t be Verity’s permanently. It would belong to her family for no more than three generations, at which point said family better have produced another mage capable of garnering a knighthood or they were out on their ass.

A condition William couldn’t help but note advantaged elves tremendously given that the timescale was in ‘generations’ rather than ‘years’. Three generations of elves could span three to five hundred years. Three generations of orcs, humans or dwarves might only take less than a hundred. And half-elves varied depending on which direction their blood was thickest.

In short, this system, while ostensibly a form of social mobility, served to favor the nation’s ruling caste most of all. Just one structural issue amongst many William intended to solve once he had enough power to do so.

“I know, right?” Verity opined loudly as she practically jogged in place. “Though, uh, I’m sure the spot you’ve picked out for my family will be just as nice, William.”

He smiled. “Nicer.”

Or at least, bigger. He could do bigger. Nicer was subjective.

For one thing, the land around Redwater wasn’t too kind to crops. The ground was too tough. Hence why most of the industry prior to his arrival had been in mining, hunting and sheep.

…He could provide sheep. And if Verity’s family were farmers, then surely they’d be able to figure out sheep.

“Nicer, eh?” Olzenya murmured as she came up behind them. “Is that a promise you’re making to everyone who enters your service?”

Ah, he’d been somewhat curious as to why Olzenya had offered to come along. If he hadn’t offered to pick up her contract, she’d have been set to inherit a plot of land around her just the same as Verity.

And while said land was definitely a step up for a former slave, it was something of a step down for a noble daughter – even if she was something like sixth in the line of succession.

“It is,” he assured the elf. “We can discuss it in more detail once we get back to my estate if you want? Maybe tour around the territory to find something that appeals to you both?”

Both girls nodded with varying levels of eagerness.

William made a mental note to speak with Xela on the subject, given she had a similar deal with him. He had no idea where it was, but he knew she owned a plot of land on his territory, given to her when she was installed as interim governess. Technically, he could revoke it at some point, given said land was granted by the crown rather than him prior to his instatement as count.

At which point the Crown would be obligated to reimburse her said land from an estate here. Ironically, she and Verity could end up switching places.

Not that that would ever happen. Xela was simply too competent for him to lose, and regardless of her former affiliations, Xela had made it clear through her actions and words that she was loyal to the Redwater – and by extension him – beyond them.

Loyalty he was hoping to strengthen before long. He’d had an idea in that direction, but he needed to air it out with Griffith first.

And the twins, he supposed.

Walking down the road, the trio passed workers laboring in the fields as Verity led them in the direction of her home. They didn’t garner much interest as they walked, said workers likely used to the coming and going of Academy students. Indeed, it wasn’t impossible some of the older women William could see might well have been academy students once upon a time.

To that end, it wasn’t long before they found themselves before a set of otherwise nondescript wooden doors – the noise from within giving no doubt as to the presence of occupants.

“Uh,” Verity said hesitantly, a feeling that had only grown the closer and closer they got to her home. “I, uh, I’m sorry if my family is… uh…”

It was clear she was searching for something to describe them with and coming up short.

“It’s fine, Verity.” He patted her on the arm. “I’m sure if they’re anything like you, I’ll love them.”

He knew those were the wrong words to use the moment they left his mouth, given the way the orc flushed deeply.

Ah well, there was nothing he could do about it now. Instead of clearing up the subtle misunderstanding, he turned to wrap three times against the wooden door. It didn’t take long for someone to answer, the sound of his knocking translating beyond whatever bedlam was occurring within the small cottage.

Though it’s not really that small is it, he thought as someone started to open the door. Huge families in this world means big houses.

The cottage was only small by the standards of this world, and that couldn’t have been made more evident as the door opened and William came face to face with no less than four sets of eyes.

“Verity?” the slightly frazzled orcish woman standing there said, the three green-skinned children literally gripping her skirts remaining silent. “What are you? Oh-”

“Hey Ma,” Verity said sheepishly. “I’m back for the weekend. And I brought friends. This is Olzenya and William.”

The first syllable of his name had barely left the girl’s mouth before Verity’s mother – though clearly not biologically given the older woman’s short stature for an orc – was taking a knee, her other hand forcing her children to do likewise, her flour coated brown dress brushing across the floor.

“My lord, my, uh, greatest apologies for not saying hello with all the, uh, proper courtesies and… stuff.” She was clearly floundering in both surprise and attempt to speak ‘properly’.

 And if William hadn’t already spent nineteen years in this world, that might have discomfited him. As it was, he was used to it.

“It’s not a problem at all, ma’am,” he said softly, making sure to smile. “Please don’t feel the need to stand on the usual courtesies. I’m not here today as Lord Redwater, but as a student and friend of your daughter.”

He knew better than to try and throw out social convention. Instead, he found it was usually better to reframe his position when talking to his social lesser.

“I, uh,” the woman said as she glanced over at her daughter, who looked faintly mortified. “If that’s so, then please let me welcome you to our home. We don’t have much, but anything you might wish to have that is ours we can offer. It’s only suitable repayment for the kindness you’ve shown our daughter.” She paused as she carefully clambered to her feet, pulling up the youngest child with her, before hastily adding. “And to you as well, young lady.”

Olzenya, who’d been slightly annoyed at being ignored in favor of him, nodded. Not that she could complain. Theoretically, she held the same rank as Verity right now – though only in theory - whereas he was a titled lord.

Sighing, Verity stepped forward, absently ruffling one of the younger girl’s hair as she did so. “Well, you heard Aunt Franny, please come in. Grab a seat at the table in the room on the left and I’ll start gathering the family.”

The older woman, caught somewhere between wanting to reprimand her daughter and glancing nervously at him, had her eyes widen at her law-daughter’s words.

“Family?”

Smiling as comfortingly as he could, William refused to take the final step across the house’s threshold quite yet. “Just so. While I’d normally need no excuse to want to visit a teammate’s lovely family, on this occasion there’s a topic I’d like to discuss with the clan as a whole.”

The woman started to pale, who knew what kind of scenarios flashing across her mind, before Verity took pity on her and gently grabbed her arm. “It’s fine, ma’. It’s a good thing, I promise.”

That at least, seemed to calm the woman some, trust in her daughter finally making headway against her panic at the thought of hosting a ranking noble. “I, uh, if you say so, your, uh, lordship.”

Amused a little at the way the youngest child was gazing at him with wide eyes, William just nodded as he turned to the woman.

“Lordship is fine, but Count William or Lord Redwater or also perfectly acceptable.” He gestured to the room Verity had indicated. “With your permission, may my teammate and I make use of your dining room?”

“Of course! Of course!” Franny said eagerly as she stepped back, allowing him proper entry.

Nodding in thanks, William and Olzenya stepped inside.

The interior of Verity’s home was… homely, or at least, those were William’s thoughts as he strode towards the dining room. For all that they’d not been here long, they’d clearly made it their own. Various knickknacks, tools and rustic toys were strewn about the place, but not in a way that suggested untidiness, merely a result of the place being lived in.

Everything seemed both worn but well cared for in a way he respected. In short, it was exactly the sort of home he imagined a girl like Verity growing up in.

“A lot of chairs,” Olzenya noted idly as she took a seat at the frankly massive table dominating the center of the room.

“You’re an elf and a noble besides,” William said back quietly, more than aware of the curious eyes even now gathering in the doorway – more young and older kids.

The elf considered her words for a moment, before nodding as if that was a sufficient explanation. Which, admittedly, it was.

William didn’t know whether there was magic involved, a lack of interest on the part of elven males, or just low fertility on the part of the elven race, but by and large elves didn’t reproduce all that fast.

Not like humans, dwarves and orcs who inevitably ended up as huge clans as multiple women gathered around the few available men.

Despite that, it wasn’t long before the adult members of Verity’s family were all gathered up. Sweaty from the fields and looking keenly aware of it as they sat across from him, each and every one of them looked nervous as they regarded him. A sentiment that clearly wasn’t shared by the multitude of girls peeking through the doors of the dining room, whispering loudly back and forth while occasionally giggling.

“Alright, your lordship,” a woman who’d introduced herself as Deadra said as she sat at the head of the table. “Verity says you’d like to speak to us.”

Despite being inwardly pleased at the fact the head of the family seemed less terrified than her law-sister, William would admit to being a little distracted by the man sitting next to her.

And he was a man. No doubt about that.

During his time in this world, he’d gotten if not comfortable with, then accustomed to men being less… manly. Not effeminate, per se, just less classically masculine. The builds were typically slimmer. Boys took less risks. Men didn’t have scars.

Just… less manly. It wasn’t like they were wearing dresses or anything.

Clearly though, Verity’s father didn’t get that message.

Regarding scars and muscle, not dresses, William thought as he blanched a little at the mental image of the massive man in a dress. Is this what a man looks like who grew up without the protection of nobility in a slave pen?

Belatedly, he realized he was staring, a frown passing over his face as the behemoth of muscle opposite him deferentially lowered his gaze.

That just felt… wrong.

Not least of all because said deference wasn’t born of cowardice. Just good sense.

Determinedly keeping his feelings off his face, he smiled lightly as he turned to the clan matriarch. “I do actually, though nothing onerous I assure. And this is an offer, not a demand or anything like that.”

Some of the tension seemed to bleed out of the room at his words, but that wasn’t to say Deadra or her sister wives relaxed fully. “We understand.”

“Right, well, I suppose I’ll just come out and say it. I was hoping to buy out Verity’s contract with the crown,” he said simply. “In doing so, I’d be obligated to provide her with an estate of similar quality to this or better somewhere within my own territory. And I can assure you, it will be better. In return, once she graduated she would come to serve me in a similar capacity to what she would have done the crown. Something she’s assured me is not abhorrent to her.”

Practically enveloped at the back of the room amongst her relatives, his teammate nodded eagerly. “It wouldn’t be. Assuming abhorrent means what I think it means.”

“It does,” Olzenya drawled absently.

Ignoring the two, Willliam continued. “To further sweeten the deal, I’d also be willing to extend the three generation leasing of the land chosen for your new home into outright ownership – not to be voided or interfered with by me or any of my descendants.”

Which he could see being a problem for someone in his line a few generations distant, but to be frank, he didn’t give a shit. Hell, ideally his descendants wouldn’t even have a claim to the land by that point, given his end goal was a democratic society.

His bit said, he waited patiently for a response.

One that wasn’t forthcoming. There was nothing but silence in the room. Even the girls in the doorway had ceased their whispered gossiping.

Which was when he heard it. Growing in volume at the barest edge of his hearing.

A low whistle, one which didn’t take him too long to pinpoint the origins of.

Huh, he thought. Turns out it’s her dad’s side of the family she gets the whole… whistling thing from.

That was… surprising.

“Perhaps you should pull out that cake you brought?” Olzenya whispered. “While Verity’s family… think over your proposal.”

He glanced down at the box he’d brought with him.

“Ok.”

Though he’d barely reached for the clasps before a number of people started shouting at once, all thoughts of decorum forgotten.

“We accept!”  “Please!”  “Thank you!” “Ancestors be praised!” “Please take care of Verity!”

-------------------

Yotul scowled as she awoke to the familiar sight of her cabin’s ceiling. Climbing out of her bed, she cursed the sticky heat that made the sheets attempt to stick to her skin.

“This continent is no place for a free orc,” she muttered as she started throwing on her clothes for the day.

Moving through the halls of the Blood-Oath, she tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of passing tribeswomen. Even after being here for weeks, it seemed that not a member of the crew was adapting well to the heat. Not after a lifetime in the soothing chill of the Razorbacks.

Stepping onto the bridge, she noted the relief in her second’s eyes at the thought of being relieved of watch.

“How many attempts during the night?” Yotul asked without preamble.

“Just the one,” Olga responded. “The invisible ones again, presumably, given Arka’s claims of something trying to get into the screamer-room despite there being two orcs on the door. Two orcs who corroborate that something they couldn’t see was pulling at the handle.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“No,” the orc shook her head. “At least, not from our side. Kraka claims she felt something when she lashed out with her spear, but no amount of shuffling found blood or an invisible body, so clearly said strike hit armor and the invisible spy got away.” The former navy woman chuffed.

Yotul shivered at the thought of what such a foe could do if they chose to stop playing ‘nice’. Rumors had always persisted of invisible assassins back in the Razobacks, but most considered them tall tales used to scare young pups.

Now it seemed, they were real – albeit, not in service to humans.

“They know the price of truly testing us,” Olga said, seeing her discomfort. “They need the screamer for their scheme.”

Yotul nodded as she slipped into the captain’s chair. “We can only then hope that their interest in the Kraken Slayer remains higher than that of our Screamer.”

More to the point, she hoped that their ‘hosts’ continued to believe that she would destroy the screamer before allowing it to fall into their hands.

Unfortunately, such a threat was rather all or nothing – and thus why their hosts continued to test her through their attempts to gain access to the device.

Though as attempts went, this one was rather clumsy. The one involving the wood elf stuck to the outer hull had been far more inventive. It was almost enough to make her believe their liaison’s paper-thin excuse that these attempts came from a multitude of rogue elements within the royal court seeking an advantage.

The end result was that Yotul and her crew of free orcs were in a ship essentially under siege. And that would remain the case for months more.

Naturally, tempers were running high as a result of that, the heat and being so far from home.

Fortunately, while Yotul couldn’t leave the ship unguarded or even undermanned, she had managed to negotiate the possibility for limited shore leave for the crew. They just needed to go in shifts.

Unfortunately, allowing her people some freedom from the Blood-Oath had helped less than she’d hoped.

Because the Blackstones took slaves but didn’t keep them. Nor did New Haven. There was too much risk.

No, they sold them.

To places like here, Yotul thought as she glanced out the recently restored bridge windows.

Outside, through the blinding sun, she could see the city of Mirahesh, westernmost city of the Lunite Khanate and gateway to the New World. Gleaming towers and sleek looking airships dominated the skies, while the city below was a riot of different colors as traders from across the known and unknown world plied their trade. Humans. Elves. Dwarves. Some manner of fish people she’d since been informed weren’t wood elves but were from some land across the sea – or under it, according to some of her other crew members who’d crossed paths with the strange scaley people.

It was fascinating. It was beautiful. And it was horrifying. Because even from here she could see them. Orcish slaves working the docks in place of their elven masters. Loading and unloading ships. And more still would be manning the many shops and taverns that made up the trade district.

It was a stark reminder of the kind of wyvern she’d lashed herself and the Blood-Oath too.

Needless to say, enthusiasm for her plan dipped considerably since her people had also been given that reminder. That just because these new elves weren’t their usual oppressors did not mean their hands were free of orc blood.

Unfortunately, we’ve little choice now, Yotul thought as she reclined in her command throne. The Empress won’t let us leave. Even if we gave her the Screamer, she’d kill us all to keep us from spreading it to her enemies.

For better and worse, they were stuck on this path. Her only consolation was that at the end of it lay a poisoned chalice.

Until then, she still needed to work with people she’d sooner have stabbed through the guts.

“Get some rest, Olga,” Yotul said. “Just be ready to take over command again when our liaison deigns to show himself.”

“As you command, my chieftess,” her second said before leaving the bridge.

Watching her go, Yotul wanted to sigh. She hoped Olga got a long rest, because that would mean her own ‘tour’ of the refit yards would be put off that much longer. And in turn meant she could avoid having to hear her liaison’s snide remarks as she was forced to watch orcish work gangs being whipped by uncaring elven masters as they worked on designs created by free orcs.

“Freedom. From the Blackstones. From Lindholm. From Lunites and Solites,” she murmured to herself.