Lady Mechatronic and the Steampunked Pirates Read online

  ady echatronic and the teampunked irates

  y

  rabella yatt

  To Gill K

  England has abolished slavery, but not all are willing to let the lucrative trade go without a fight. The Royal Navy is charged with keeping the Caribbean clean of slavers, pirates and privateers… but even in the Navy, there are those who put profit before principle.

  Captain James Hartwell rebels against the abhorrent plans of his commanding officer to run a private slave trade. In doing so, he seemingly signs not only his own death warrant but that of his sister and loyal crew. All seems lost, until a blazing fireball hits the ocean.

  Escaping on an obsolete galleon, Hartwell must evade the chasing English forces, protect his sister and his crew and deal with his near-overpowering attraction to a flesh and metal woman found floating in the ocean where the fireball fell.

  Can they survive on the ancient, rotting galleon? What is happening to the crew as they develop frightening, almost demonic, powers? What part does the enigmatic Lady Mechatronic play in their transformation?

  Pirates, flying saucers, a cyborg alien, steampunk and passion collide in the Caribbean. At least Hartwell has some absinthe to keep him sane. But this is just the beginning.

  The first book of a brand new series.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Lady Mechatronic and the Steampunked Pirates

  Copyright © 2011 Arabella Wyatt

  ISBN: 978-1-55487-960-1

  Cover art by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Devine Destinies An imprint of eXtasy Books

  Look for us online at:

  www.devinedestinies.com

  hapter ne

  lthough the sun had risen in the blue Caribbean sky, it had failed to burn off the early-morning sea mist from around the wooden hulls of the Morning Star and the Pride of Plymouth, the largest and most powerful ships of the line of the English navy. The mist, according to the Plymouth's second lieutenant, Roger Fleetwood, was a portent of ill omen.

  "It's a sign is what it is, a sign from the sea gods," he declaimed. "We'd do well to heed the warning and turn back the way we came."

  "If you wish to signal Admiral Johnson and tell him of your concerns," replied First Lieutenant Reginald Fitch, who was looking out at the thick fog, "I'm sure Captain Hartwell will be happy to provide assistance."

  "It's not right," insisted Fleetwood. He was on the upper deck with the rest of the crew, attending to the ship and their duties. Despite being told by the captain that he should set an example in discipline and hard work, Fleetwood spent most of his time complaining and provoking the superstitious fears of the crew. Their overactive imaginations populated the mist with sea devils, mermaids, sirens and, of course, the slave traders and pirates they had been charged with hunting down.

  "It's not right, being sent out here alone," continued Fleetwood, a small weasel of a man who owed his position to family connection rather than ability. "Why are we out here, away from the rest of the fleet? We'd be a sitting target for any pirate."

  The majority of the men agreed with a low rumble.

  Fitch gave up trying to see anything in the fog and glared at Fleetwood, who smirked and turned away. The second lieutenant had long been a source of anxiety and tension on board the ship, but he had the protection of Admiral Johnson, the head of the English fleet in the Caribbean and there was little Fitch could do about the man's determined attempt to stir up trouble. Besides which, Fleetwood did actually have a point. Why had Admiral Johnson ordered the flagship of the fleet, and its sister craft, out into this deserted area?

  "And I'll tell you what else isn't right round here," said Able Seaman Warren Richmond, taking up from where Fleetwood left off. The two often worked as a team, each man encouraging the other.

  "And what might that be?" asked Danny O'Rourke, a small, cheerful Irishman, who was determined to keep his spirits up despite the oppressive atmosphere.

  "You know as well as I do," said Richmond as he looked round hurriedly, fearing that the captain was in earshot. His voice sank down to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's not right having a woman on board."

  "The captain's sister?" shrugged O'Rourke. "She's just a girl. Nothing but skin, bone and gristle."

  "It's against nature," muttered Richmond darkly.

  "And it's against sense," added Fleetwood, his eyes hungry with his troublemaking. It was no secret that he yearned to be in command. He loathed his lowly position of second lieutenant. He wanted total control over the crew, not to work under the watchful eyes of Fitch and the captain. "But what should we expect from a captain who drinks so much of that devilish green liquid each and every evening, and who—"

  "Ship ahead!" cried a voice from the bow of the ship, cutting off Fleetwood's insurrectionist mutterings.

  The crew jumped and looked ahead. Perspiration dripped down the faces of the men as they strained to see what lay ahead through the wet, heavy mist. The dangers they faced ranged from slavers to pirates to privateers, who were often little more than officially recognised pirates, paid by various governments to do work considered too dirty for official business.

  "Status, Mister Fitch," said a quiet voice. The crew jumped afresh. Despite the months at sea, they still hadn't adjusted to the captain's disconcerting quietness as he prowled the vessel.

  "Unknown ship sighted, Captain Hartwell," replied Fitch, nodding his head in respect to the man who stood taller than any of them. Hartwell's long hair, drawn back in a ponytail, was almost white despite his relatively young age, while his navy uniform of dark blue was always crisp, clean and unruffled, much like his demeanour, despite the burning heat of the Caribbean.

  "What is the admiral's course of action?" asked Hartwell.

  "What's happening, Mister Tench?" bellowed Fitch to the man at the bow. Tench had the best eyesight on board and was often used by the captain as an early warning system.

  "A boat has been lowered from the ship and is heading for the admiral's vessel," Tench shouted back.

  "Whatever it is, it's turning toward us," said Fitch, squinting into the fog. "We should get a better view of her soon." As he spoke, the mist parted and the crew caught a glimpse of the strange vessel as the sun hit it and illuminated the craft in silhouette.

  Hartwell caught his breath. For a brief second, he saw the ancient shape of a galleon, Portuguese or Spanish given the size, with the old-fashioned castle design prominent. Four huge masts reared up into the fog and the massive sails fluttered in the wind. At the very front of the ship, a faded carving of a mermaid looked out over the sea. The figurehead looked as incongruous as the rest of the vessel when compared to the modern and more powerful design of the Plymouth and Morning Star.

  "Look at that wreck," sneered a voice. "It must be a century old."

  "We'd blow that out the water with one cannon," laughed another voice.

  "No need," added a third. "Look at the way its listing—the thing is half sinking already!"

  Hartwell and Fitch exchanged glances. The sight of the old galleon had moved both men, valiantly ploughing through both the ocean and time despite being left behind by developments in ship design and naval warfare.

&
nbsp; "Orders, Captain?" asked Fitch gently.

  "We wait," said Hartwell quietly. "Ensure the ship is ready for any eventuality, Mister Fitch."

  "Aye-aye, sir," replied Fitch smartly, who in their time together had come to respect the captain's learning, ability and character, as well as his ability to down several glasses of absinthe each evening and remain vertical.

  hapter wo

  ome two hours later, the small rowing boat that had crossed from the unknown vessel to the admiral's ship reappeared and struck out toward the Pride of Plymouth. As it neared, the crew saw in consternation that Admiral Johnson himself was in the boat, along with Lieutenants Flavell and Bennett. At the other end sat a tall, well-muscled black man and it seemed to Captain Hartwell that the navy men and their passenger were anxious to leave as much space between themselves as possible. Hartwell turned his attention to the muttered speculations of his crew.

  "The admiral coming aboard? That is a bad sign."

  "It is a sign from God!"

  "Yes, Pastor White, it probably is." The crew had already found that the best way of dealing with the pastor was to agree with all his theological pronouncements.

  "Ar, the admiral never leaves his command ship unless he has to," said another voice hurriedly, before the pastor could say anything more.

  "And why bring the two lieutenants with him? I've never heard of such a thing."

  "You've never heard of most things, William Sporrit."

  "And who is that Moor with him?" asked another voice as the nervous laughter faded. "He must have come from the other ship."

  "Darkies on our ship? It shouldn't be allowed."

  The crew fell silent, apart from a few muttered agreements or protests at the last statement. Hartwell had no problem recognizing the slimy voice of Edward Fleetwood as the originator of the remark and he resolved to have a quiet word with Mister Fitch to have a quiet word with Fleetwood about his attitudes.

  By this time, the rowing boat had reached the Pride of Plymouth. A rope was thrown down, the craft was tethered and the admiral, followed by his lieutenants and the incongruous passenger, climbed aboard. Hartwell briefly wondered if the admiral would observe etiquette in asking for permission to board. He wasn't surprised when he did not.

  "Ready your crew, Captain," said Johnson as soon as he was on deck, where he began prowling in agitation. The admiral was almost as tall as Hartwell, but whereas Hartwell was lean and taut, Johnson was running to excess flesh. His great, beak-like nose dominated the small, beady eyes and thin lips, in contrast against Hartwell's green eyes, full lips and handsome, symmetrical face.

  "Our orders, Admiral?" enquired Hartwell.

  "Your orders are as they always have been—to do as I tell you," snapped the admiral. Flavell and Bennett snickered quietly while the dark man stood silently observing everything in front of him.

  "But specifically, our orders?" enquired Hartwell, levelly.

  Johnson looked at him sharply, suspecting that the captain was being disrespectful, but his smooth face showed no hint of emotion. Johnson bared his teeth as he turned on the two tittering lieutenants. "What's so funny?" he demanded, sweat dripping from him. The two men stopped giggling and looked dead ahead, standing stiff and upright. Johnson swung around and glared at the black man, who folded his arms and stared back impassively.

  "This, Captain Hartwell," sneered Johnson, "is Madrigal. It is through his betrayal that we have the location of the pirate cove. Honour is not known amongst these people." A few muttered agreements went round the crew behind Hartwell, whose scalp was beginning to tingle in an

  unpleasant manner.

  Madrigal bridled. "What I have revealed to you was done to help put a stop to the slave trade. We are being taken from our homes, cut off from our families and sent to work as slaves. What I have done is for our protection and to give us our independence."

  "Independence?" echoed Johnson in disbelief. "The day the Negro race can determine its own future will be the day that all sense disappears."

  "The day is closer than you think," growled Madrigal. "And that is partly why the English government has deployed you here, to oversee the abolition of the slave routes."

  "I know why I'm here," snarled Johnson. "And it has nothing to do with the weak policies of a weak government. You are fit only to be a slave and a slave you will be. Why do you think I organised the rendezvous so far from the fleet? I am starting my own slave trade, right under the nose of the navy and once I have eliminated the competition, the monopoly will be mine!"

  "I will never be a slave," replied Madrigal, his voice low with suppressed fury and disgust.

  "Then you have no purpose in life," hissed Johnson. "Lieutenant Flavell, hang this dog from the yard arm. Now that we have the location of the pirate cove, we have no further use for him. Then you can blow his ship from the water."

  "I will not permit that, sir," said the quiet voice of Captain Hartwell.

  hapter hree

  strange calm fell over the scene. The fog curled around the rigid players, entwining its way around legs and torsos, while below, more mist curled in toward the three ships, lapping against each hull and clambering up the sides.

  "What did you say?" snapped Johnson finally, staring at Hartwell's impassive face.

  Hartwell lifted his eyes and for the first time, Johnson was aware of the deep emotions flashing down beneath the calm exterior.

  "I will not permit any such thing, Admiral," replied Hartwell. "I suspected something was wrong when you ordered us out here, but, fool that I am, I did nothing, instead trusting to the chain of command. No doubt the majority of each crew is with you as you chose them over other, more experienced men, but I will stand against any behaviour that is so repellent and against all codes of honour."

  "I suspected you would take this attitude and I have prepared for it," snapped Johnson. "Both crews are mine and will obey me. Out here, I am the admiralty and can decide your fate as I see fit. That fate is execution as a traitor."

  "You do not have the right or authority to execute anyone without due process," replied Hartwell, his tone as precise and even as when he had ordered coffee that morning.

  "I have the authority here and now and that is all that matters," replied Johnson. "Flavell, Bennet, hold him." Johnson's lackeys moved forward and took Hartwell's arms. They held him tightly despite the fact the arrested captain made no movement of any kind. Instead, he continued to gaze levelly at the admiral.

  "This is illegal, second to the pirate curse we came here to eradicate," he said. "You are an officer of the crown and you owe allegiance not just to the crown but also to the mission that brought us here—the freedom of all peoples from tyranny and oppression."

  "Hurrah!" cried a few voices, including Sporrit and O'Rourke.

  "Disgrace," replied many other voices in dispute, led by Fleetwood.

  "It is all God's Will," opined Pastor White nervously.

  "And God would be ashamed of your actions, Admiral Johnson," snapped a young female voice. Everyone turned and saw Hartwell's sister and ward, Susanna, standing on the deck behind them. Her features were very similar to those of her brother, though rather softer in outline. The big difference lay in her eyes, which flashed with the fire and emotion, which her brother always kept ruthlessly suppressed.

  "Miss Hartwell, it is your brother who is shamed, for he brings destruction upon you and the few fools stupid enough to follow him," shouted Johnson, who felt safer in bullying a young girl of eighteen than he did with any of the crew.

  "Everything my brother has said has filled me with admiration," replied Susanna. "The esteem I hold him in has only grown with his actions today."

  "His actions today have condemned him and you, too, if you are not careful," leered Johnson. Hartwell's head snapped up.

  "My sister has nothing to do with this," he replied, his voice still quiet but now with a tremor hidden deep beneath.