The Rotter's Rose, 1.6

Tamsin shook herself awake and tried to blink past the overwhelming sense of bluntness she felt all over. Nothing felt broken. Nothing felt terribly wrong. She thought maybe she had bruised her thigh at most.

She was lucky. She had fallen on a great mass of rubber cables and ropes, and they had broken her fall. Some of them were surging with electricity and others were as dull and lifeless as a corpse.

Tamsin grunted softly to herself as she stood up. She began to notice tiny lights winking from the brass plated walls and the high-pitched song of machinery. No doubt she had fallen to the Difference Room—one of the lowest and most important decks on an airship. It was here that the men worked magic on their gargantuan difference machines. Tamsin had never really understood the equipment, but understood that these machines and the endless strings of numbers they spooled out were responsible for keeping air ships afloat and navigation in order.

Usually there were large cargo holds close to Difference Rooms. They were there to move equipment on and off easily. Tamsin hoped she could find one quickly and maybe pinch a parachute or steampack while she was at it. The sounds of the battle had abated, and that was bad, because it meant she had to get off the ship before Torrance’s triumphant crew found her or the victorious Roberts shot the ship out of the sky.

Adrenaline pushing her on, Tamsin rushed through the hold’s door hoping to find her exit. Instead, she only found further complications.

Five Difference Men were hunched around their equipment. Two were working with screwdrivers trying to pull apart panels and another two were hurriedly disconnecting wires and flicking brass switches in despair. The fifth, whose back was still to Tamsin, was surveying the others.

“Hurry! Hurry!” said one, “Torrance is dead! We’ve got to clean the tapes before the pirates get wind of this!”

Another said, “I still can’t believe Torrance is dead.”

“Well believe it,” said the first, “and hurry…if this falls into the wrong hands…well…Operation Turnstile is booched!”

“Quiet!” snapped the fifth man. “We’ve got company.”

Tamsin shuddered in dread as the difference men slowly turned around and faced her.

“What did she hear?” asked the first in a panic.

A new one questioned, “Who is she? Is she one of them pirates?”

But the leader said nothing. He only drew out a pistol and began to shepherd Tamsin against the now closed door behind her.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re all doing, and frankly, I don’t care. It sounds like my side of the fight won, and now I just want to get off this ship and meet them…okay?” Tamsin explained in the most diplomatic terms she knew.

One of the younger men laughed. “A girlie pirate…and I thought I’d seen everything!”

“Eh…she’s probably just the Captain’s wench…a little fun on the side.”

“I could use a little on the side, if you know what I mean…”

The leader had said nothing, but he was looking at her with amusement in his eyes. She was some sport for him to play, and the rest of the men seemed to want in on the action. Now, all five of them surrounded her and pinned her to the cold steel door with the threat of closing space.

She cried venomously, “You all better get back. You better let me off this ship, or you’ll have me to answer to!”

One of the men piped up, “Lookie here, fellers…a real shot of sassy-frass.”

Tamsin blinked furiously. The man was belittling her. He was refusing to take her seriously as a warrior—as anything other than a piece of meat to devour.

“Mebbe we be nice to you—if mebbe you find the right type of persuasion…” the leader said with lechery dripping like drool from his mouth.

Tamsin began to slowly hike up her petticoats, revealing her scarlet garters and milky white thighs.

“I gotch your persuasion right here,” she mewed.

The men’s rapture turned to fear as they suddenly realized she had two neat little white leather holsters strapped to both of her thighs. With a flash, her dainty hands had found the coral handled pistols in each one, aimed the barrels at the men and pulled the triggers.

The brains of two of the men now lay splattered across the hull plating—blood and bits of flesh mixed in. A second later and two more men had collapsed. This time she had aimed for their hearts, and her victims had been left with dark circles on their chests. Red was quickly spreading from the wounds’ dark centers, chasing the blue fabric of their shirts. It looked as though the men now wore bullseyes on their chests.

Now, only the leader remained. Tamsin drew her aim left of center and blew off his hand. She smirked as his gun clanged on the iron floor. The man, once gruffly arrogant, was bent over in pain—sobbing like a little boy and clutching the bleeding stump that was once his right hand.

Tamsin returned her guns to their concealed holsters and began to strut forward, chasing the crying man backwards until he was pinned against the wall. She leapt up and grabbed hold of a pipe above her and let her body dangle for a moment. Then, she swung herself backwards and used that inertia to pull her legs up. She climbed her feet furiously up his torso, digging her spurs into his flesh with every step. Finally, she tore her left spur into his shoulder and held her right spur to his throat.

“Now sir, would you please be so kind as to tell me which is the way out?” she asked.