War had left plenty of boys and girls in Kitty’s unenviable circumstance. The modestly retained corporal had been thoroughly moved, but in the end was forced to give up Kitty to the state’s care. Britain’s deficits during the war were well documented, and it had been a miracle the military even managed to build their flagship dirigible fleet, the Knights of the Round, which won the Partnership the war.
Orphans who could contribute nothing were summarily shipped to the filing c abinets of military orphanages.
A s early as the age of six, were sent into the reserves as yeomen and engineering apprentices, where their deft fingers were made to mend the engines of war.
Kitty Desperado nearly never met with her gallant rescuer, not until she was well into her service as a knocker-up aboard the pressed-helium medical carrier Lionheart .
The job was simple: at the appropriate times, according to the shipboard clock, she had to run down to the appropriate officers or midshipmen and wake them at any cost. These hardened officers worked twenty-hour shifts, and were hard drinkers. Often she had to pick the locks, or wriggle in through the heating vents, to slap the man or woman awake with hands stinging from another officer’s stubble. She was so good at it, pretty soon the officers learned to wake at the sound of the bell on her wrist, lest Kitty give them a good licking.
It was the sound of the bell that alerted Kitty’s corporal, then a major by the name of Topher Kien, to Kitty’s existence.
Fate was not kind. By the time Kitty received the major’s message, Kien had succumbed to bullet wounds in a quiet corner of the Lionheart’ s patient quarters.
He had been shot in the head, and the bandages were so thick beneath the breathing apparatus, Kitty never saw what the man looked like. The only image she retained was the large, round lenses atop the breathing apparatus, sat there like a toad on his face.
Kitty could not have known, but as she knelt at the feet of the rescuer she imagined day and night, the military was preparing to jettison its orphans out into the world.
The new Baleanopteron-class airships, spearheaded by the Knights, were large, well armored, and could punch holes the size of lakes in an aerial blockade. By the time Major Kien passed, the peace was well under way, with the remnants of the Eastern forces driven back behind the riveted partitions of the Neo Ottoman Empire.
Standing in the busy dirigible port with her few belongings in a satchel on her back and the military’s meager pittance in an envelope in her pocket, Kitty found herself abandoned. She didn’t know the name of the port, even, or the city it was situated near. The shops sold unfamiliar goods, and the water tasted foul, slimy, compared with the clean precipitate of dirigible runoff.
Even at such a young age, she had some idea how a young girl could make a living in the world. She could see them flitting about in the shadows of the alleys and taverns, the hint of garters like frilled creatures peering out from the lager-scented undergrowth. The idea made her want to run to the bog and wretch.
Her deliverance came in a most unprecedented form- in the conversation between two airmen, recently detached from a Salvation Army aid ship.
Kitty had sat herself at a table across them to figure herself out, in a cafe not far from the Lionheart . Funny- it had seemed something like a home yesterday. Today it was merely a ship, one of a thousand moored far overhead. The airmen took no notice of them, instead discussing something that seemed of all-encompassing import.
“I’m telling you, Eriksson, they’re all right. They never target our ships, only the stoolies.”
“Maybe not the ones you’ve heard about Bernard, but they’re pirates all the
Orphans who could contribute nothing were summarily shipped to the filing c abinets of military orphanages.
A s early as the age of six, were sent into the reserves as yeomen and engineering apprentices, where their deft fingers were made to mend the engines of war.
Kitty Desperado nearly never met with her gallant rescuer, not until she was well into her service as a knocker-up aboard the pressed-helium medical carrier Lionheart .
The job was simple: at the appropriate times, according to the shipboard clock, she had to run down to the appropriate officers or midshipmen and wake them at any cost. These hardened officers worked twenty-hour shifts, and were hard drinkers. Often she had to pick the locks, or wriggle in through the heating vents, to slap the man or woman awake with hands stinging from another officer’s stubble. She was so good at it, pretty soon the officers learned to wake at the sound of the bell on her wrist, lest Kitty give them a good licking.
It was the sound of the bell that alerted Kitty’s corporal, then a major by the name of Topher Kien, to Kitty’s existence.
Fate was not kind. By the time Kitty received the major’s message, Kien had succumbed to bullet wounds in a quiet corner of the Lionheart’ s patient quarters.
He had been shot in the head, and the bandages were so thick beneath the breathing apparatus, Kitty never saw what the man looked like. The only image she retained was the large, round lenses atop the breathing apparatus, sat there like a toad on his face.
Kitty could not have known, but as she knelt at the feet of the rescuer she imagined day and night, the military was preparing to jettison its orphans out into the world.
The new Baleanopteron-class airships, spearheaded by the Knights, were large, well armored, and could punch holes the size of lakes in an aerial blockade. By the time Major Kien passed, the peace was well under way, with the remnants of the Eastern forces driven back behind the riveted partitions of the Neo Ottoman Empire.
Standing in the busy dirigible port with her few belongings in a satchel on her back and the military’s meager pittance in an envelope in her pocket, Kitty found herself abandoned. She didn’t know the name of the port, even, or the city it was situated near. The shops sold unfamiliar goods, and the water tasted foul, slimy, compared with the clean precipitate of dirigible runoff.
Even at such a young age, she had some idea how a young girl could make a living in the world. She could see them flitting about in the shadows of the alleys and taverns, the hint of garters like frilled creatures peering out from the lager-scented undergrowth. The idea made her want to run to the bog and wretch.
Her deliverance came in a most unprecedented form- in the conversation between two airmen, recently detached from a Salvation Army aid ship.
Kitty had sat herself at a table across them to figure herself out, in a cafe not far from the Lionheart . Funny- it had seemed something like a home yesterday. Today it was merely a ship, one of a thousand moored far overhead. The airmen took no notice of them, instead discussing something that seemed of all-encompassing import.
“I’m telling you, Eriksson, they’re all right. They never target our ships, only the stoolies.”
“Maybe not the ones you’ve heard about Bernard, but they’re pirates all the
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