Sexy Steampunk Babes

“It’s so smooth!” William’s muffled voice came from within the confines of the Basilisk’s rear-gunnery position, the bulbous pod twisting back and forth in time with his manipulation of the foot pedal controls. “And responsive.”

Twenty minutes or so ago, that kind of praise would have filled Clarice with pride. And to an extent, it still did, but said swelling only served to equal that lost by her feminine ego.

“What gave you the idea for a pneumatic control scheme over hand power?” The second year continued.

“Landing gear,” Clarice said. “Marcille was complaining about how difficult it was to move the guns about in our original design, and how limited the firing-arcs were.”

Marcille chimed in, her own voice barely audible from outside the Basilisk, standing as she was, just behind William as he manipulated the controls. “At which point one of our law-mothers started complaining about how soft our generation was and how hers had to hand-crank their landing gear up and down while trying to land.”

“Which got us thinking about how we now had pneumatic systems for that – and if they might be applicable in other circumstances,” Clarice finished.

At this point, neither twin much cared that, in showing their guest all this, they were essentially giving away the ‘secrets’ of the Basilisk’s design. Over the past few minutes they’d come to realize that William Redwater’s reputation as some kind of scientific savant wasn’t just hype. As evidenced by the way he’d been correctly able to guess at pretty much all of the methodology behind each aspect of the design just by laying eyes on them.

It was… pretty intimidating in a way. Given their role in designing the Basilisk, neither sister could be considered ‘unintelligent’, but seeing William in action has served to remind them how wide the gulf between merely ‘gifted’ and true ‘genius’ really was.

Which only made it all the more imperative that they secure his support before the Summerfield Succession Crisis truly kicked off. Never mind his cruiser, having someone of his insight aid with further development of the Basilisk design would be worth the cost of admission.

Of course, before any of that happens we kind of need him to stop focusing on the Shard for a second and notice the two hot girls all but draped over him, Clarice thought heatedly.

Unfortunately, despite the ‘show’ she and her sister were putting on for the second year’s benefit – they’d both already lost their jackets and were each down a button or two on their shirts, exposing an immodest amount of cleavage – their paramour for the evening only seemed to have eyes for their ride.

It was… mildly infuriating.

Not least of all because both sisters took some not insignificant pride in their respective abilities where the opposite sex was concerned. They weren’t first or second years. This was their fourth year in the Academy and the capital and as such were no longer blushing virgins.

Because for all that many of the noble boys around the academy were watched like a hawk by their paramours, the same was less true for those of the more common variants of masculinity one might find on a brief tour around the city.

Indeed, it was an open secret that a number of ‘establishments of ill-repute’ formed an almost perfect ring around the academy itself – catering to the many cadets who were both flush with coin and enjoying their first taste of life without the parental oversight of their family’s estates.

Fortunately for their own pockets, neither Clarice nor her sister cared much to patronize said establishments.

More than once at least, she thought with a frown as she recalled her first and last visit to one such locale last year.

Sure, she was as randy as the next woman, but all said visit had done was leave her feeling distinctly in need of a shower. A sentiment awkwardly echoed by her sister the morning after said visit.

To that end, while Clarice had nothing against the practice of prostitution in and of itself - and had never gainsaid those of her year who flocked to the places as frequently as a horse to water – she was of the opinion that the transactional nature of the thing was a poor facsimile of a proper night of passion with a truly willing body.

She smiled at the thought, even as William shifted the guns again over, requiring a bit of strategic reorientation on her part to keep her tits in his sightline.

Yes, a truly willing body was significantly more difficult to come by for even a woman of her stature, and usually involved roughly the same amount of coin, but in her opinion it was all the sweeter for the very real possibility of failure. As any woman worth her salt would tell you, a buck you hunted yourself was infinitely sweeter than any one might purchase from a vendor.

To that end, over the years she’d wooed many a man while prowling the nearby drinking establishments for lonely souls looking to indulge in a bit of whirlwind romance with an attractive noble girl with coin to spare.

Sailors. Farm boys. Serving staff. She’d carved more than a few notches into her bedpost.

In short, seduction was a skillset she’d honed.

She took some pride in that.

And she knew the same was true for her sister – though they’d long since come to the unspoken agreement to avoid whichever hunting ground the other happened to be frequenting on any given evening.

Indeed, now that she thought about it, she realized she’d never actually seen her sister ‘attempting to put the moves on a guy before’ and was more than a little surprised by how different they were in their approach.

Where she’d been all subtle comments and eyeline direction, Marcille seemed more focused on ‘casual’ brushes and brazen innuendo.

…Not that either end of the spectrum seems to be availing us with this target, she thought.

“Well, you’ve done an incredible job with it. Honestly, the Basilisk has none of the jank you’d normally expect from the first iteration of a design like this”, William continued happily.

Indeed, Clarice had a feeling her twin’s tits would be smushed against the back of the boy’s head by now if the movements of the turret didn’t make such an action foolhardy at best. She knew that, because, despite her best attempts at giving him an equally spectacular view of her own assets from his raised position, she couldn’t actually get close enough to do so without fear of being smacked by the turret’s guns.

“I’ve just one question, if you don’t mind?” he asked as the whirring of the turret’s pneumatics finally stopped.

“Just the one?” Marcille teased as she leaned forward, draping her arms over him as she pressed her assets against his back.

…Which was perhaps a bit more of an escalation than Clarice herself would have engaged in, but at this point she could hardly hold it against her sister.

“This thing is supposed to take hits, right?” he asked, seemingly utterly unbothered by the fact an older girl had practically draped herself over him.

Ignoring the hint of irritation, that flitted across Marcille’s features, Clarice nodded. “That’s the idea. Not for long mind you, just long enough to get the payload off before returning to land.”

“Aren’t you a little worried, Marcille?” he asked, turning to gaze up at the surprised girl. “I mean, as the two of us are demonstrating, it’s pretty cramped in here. A round punching through would struggle not to hit you. And with the turret positioned where it is, you’re right in the firing line.”

Marcille’s face went through a series of emotions, before she leaned forward – seduction momentarily forgotten – to tap the reinforced armored plate that protected most of the enclosure from the chest down.

“That’s what this is for,” she said.

It was a weak defense – in more ways than one – and neither twin expected the boy to buy it after the insights he’d shown already. The fact of the matter was that while said armor offered some protection, it wouldn’t stand up to sustained fire. More to the point, even if it did, any round that went through the glass above it, even if it missed Marcille’s head, had a decent chance of catching her with a ricochet.

In short, the turret was vulnerable. A fact that had kept Clarice herself up a night or two.

“Plus, it’s the most efficient spot to shoot back at an attacker,” her sister continued. “The fact of the matter is that the Basilisk can’t out-turn planes, so unless we give them a reason to break off, once they get on our tail they’ll be able to stick there indefinitely.”

Clarice expected a few responses to that statement. None of which he actually gave.

“Sure, if your sister flies like a moron.”

Both twins froze at those words, unsure if they’d just head the second year correctly.

“I’m sorry,” Clarice said, struggling not to let her irritation show. “Could you expand on that a bit?”

Uncaring or unbothered by the sudden shift in mood, the boy continued on blithely. “I mean, I’m not wrong. Am I? You said this thing isn’t supposed to dog-fight because it can’t turn. So don’t dogfight and you won’t have the issue of things sticking on your tail.”

Marcille’s eyes caught Clarice’s as the twins stared in incomprehension. Something – miracle of miracles – their guest actually seemed to pick up on.

As opposed to the hints they’d been shoving his way for the past twenty minutes…

“Look,” he said, voice still muffled by the pane of glass between them. “You said this thing is heavy. Which is why you have two cores to give it enough power to carry its payload, armor and turret. Unfortunately, more power or not, all that extra weight means it shits away energy in a turn?”

“…Yeah?” Marcille said hesitantly.

“So don't turn,” he said. “Put this thing into a dive, even a shallow one and it won't take long to reach top speed. Then just don't lose it.”

He eyed Clarice through the glass. “You just have to fly straight. Sure, some shards might catch you with a few rounds as you go past, but they wouldn’t be able to catch you.” He shrugged, tapping the armored plate. “And that would be what all the armor on this thing is for. To let it absorb a few rounds as you fly past enemy escorts.”

Clarice wet her lips as she considered his words. “So you’re saying…”

“Climb on approach. Enter a shallow dive towards our target. Make minimal adjustments on approach to maintain speed. Drop the bomb. Then just… keep going,” Marcille breathed, glazed eyes clearly imagining it. “This thing can reach, like, six hundred kilometers an hour in a dive. And it can maintain it pretty decently. Our issue was that we always lost it all the moment we started trying to fight. S'not a problem if we just... don't fight."

Clarice could see it too. And William wasn’t wrong. They'd already noted that other Shards couldn't keep pace with the Basilisk in a straight. Even when they dove with him, those other shards couldn’t retain their speed for long once they leveled out - while the Basilisk just needed to open up his two massive engines."

Absently, she heard William speaking, a wide grin on his face. “Exactly. Then you just keep going straight until you’re outside of any pursuer’s weapons range – and only then do you start pitching up again. Rinse and repeat.”

“That’s…” Marcille’s muffled voice murmured.

It went against doctrine. Shards were to either secure aerial superiority before bombing airships or make a bombing run before turning back to rearm and repair at their airship before relaunching to secure aerial supremacy.

A strategy like this? It was new. More than that, many would decry it as cowardice. Not insofar that engaging in such a way left a foe no real means to meaningfully fight back, but that in order to fight effectively with such a doctrine a shard would need to, in effect, abandon its airship while it fled the combat area.

It’d be a hard sell. Assuming said strategy even worked in practice. Because if nothing else, her time spent working on the Basilisk had shown her that theory and reality were two very different beasts.

Still… the idea wouldn’t leave her – no matter how politically unpalatable it was.

“So you think we should do away with the turret entirely?” Marcille said, drawing Clarice from her thoughts as her twin and the second year clambered out of the Basilisk. “Maybe use the spared weight to increase the bomb payload?”

For all that the girl was trying to sound analytical, Clarice knew her sister well enough to pick on the faint hints of bitterness she was trying to hide.

Bitterness that was all too understandable. The pair of them may have been twins, but it wasn’t hard to remember that Clarice was the heir. All as a result of being born but a few minutes earlier. Certainly, Marcille handled that reality with aplomb, but Clarice knew it ate at her sister sometimes.

Indeed, part of the reason the pair were aiming for the Summerfield seat was that it provided an opportunity to… rectify that issue on some level. It was far from the only reason, and Clarice knew House Whitemorrow would be pressing their blood-claim regardless of the existence of her or her sister, but it was a factor in the decision.

“Well, no,” William said, once more surprising the pair – Marcille’s downcast expression shifting to surprise. “Because battles tend to be messy and there’s no guarantee you’ll always have an altitude advantage at the start of an engagement.”

Glancing back at the machine, he continued. “As your sister said, the Basilisk can’t turn for shit. Which means that it’d be a sitting duck if you were ever caught low to the ground and slow. Sure, the double engines means you’ve got more power, and you’ll pull away from any other craft eventually so long as you fly straight, but that’ll take time. Time in which they’ll be able to cut you to pieces if you don’t have some means of keeping them honest. And all of this is only compounded if your enemy is the one to start with an altitude advantage.”

“On top,” Marcille muttered in realization. “It’d mess with the aerodynamics a bit, but I’d have a lot more metal between me and any attackers.”

Clarice’s eyes widened. “You’d also have a three sixty degree view.”

“Albeit with two blind spots where the two vertical stablizers sit,” William pointed out, his own enthusiasm rising to meet theirs. “But they’re already off center, so you could still shoot directly behind you. Just wouldn’t be able to shoot down. Which, as stated, is less of an issue for you because if someone’s below you then you already have the means to escape them.”

Clarice stared. First at the Basilisk as her mind whirred with possible changes she could make, before flitting back to William. Then to her Sister. Who was staring back at her.

And while the idea that twins had some kind of magical link was as bogus as much of the other superstitions that seemed to float around her and her sibling, the fact was that they didn’t need to speak to know what the other was thinking.

If they’d wanted William for his resources before, they needed him for his mind now.

Well, that and the cruiser, she thought.

That thought in mind, she was about to do something… reckless, when a small noise had her pause. Turning quickly, a rebuke on her tongue for whoever dared to enter her House’s private hangars at this hour, she qualled when she saw now just one of the Academy’s Instructors, but an entire squad of the Academy’s guards.

Said rebuke died on her tongue as her heart skipped a beat.

What were they doing here!? Sure, technically neither none of them were supposed to be in here after lights out, but people broke that rule all the time! Even when they got caught, most just a small smack on the wrist.

They certainly didn’t get entire squad’s sicced on them.

“Ah, Instructor Griffith,” William said, entirely too relaxed for a second year staring down an angry Instructor. “I assume ‘she’ wants to speak with me?”

Instructor Griffith, that was the woman’s name. And she more than lived up to her reputation as her scowl somehow deepened. “You’d be correct, cadet. Urgently. To that end, I’ve been sent to collect you.”

Wait, so this wasn’t about them breaking curfew?

“Well, I won’t argue, ma’am,” the boy said, taking on a more serious tone before he turned to Clarice and her sister. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure. And I really do mean that. Alas, it seems that I’m needed elsewhere.”

Stepping in the direction of the Instructor, he paused just short. “Oh, and before I forget. I’d love to meet again to speak about the Summerfield issue. I remember you raising it before I got… distracted. Needless to say, it’s a topic of some interest to me as well.”

“Of course,” Clarice nodded nervously, glancing in the direction of the Instructor’s party. “We’d be happy to. Whatever time is convenient for you.”

“Delightful,” he said before he left, the Instructor’s and guards leaving with him.

Clarice and her sister stared after them, realization dawning that the woman had really come just for William and wasn’t sticking around to give them shit for being out past lights out.

That was… worrying. Not least of all because it suggested that whatever William was being called away for, it was above the usual rulings of the Academy.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m a little worried about who ‘she’ is,” Marcille said quietly from her right.

“Yeah,” Clarice breathed.

Because whoever ‘she’ was ‘she’ had the authority or connections to have an Instructor sent to collect William.

After hours.

…Hopefully he’d be ok, though given how relaxed he’d been about the whole thing, she couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t be.

Either way, it was time for them to skulk back to the dorms themselves given that their bribe to the door-guards was apparently now moot.

Though even as the pair of twins made to do that, both of them found their thoughts whirling with ideas and designs for the Basilisk. Nothing concrete, yet, just ideas that needed to be tested. After all, William’s thoughts, while interesting, required testing.

To that end, Clarice made a mental note to request some free flight time for the weekend.

…Maybe if they were lucky, they’d be able to entice William to come along.

And next time, Marcille and I are going to make sure that his attention is on something other than the Basilisk’s flight profile, she thought firmly.

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

William looked through the window of the carriage he’d been stuffed into as it trundled through the moonlit city streets. He was idly aware that he was missing out on valued sleep right now, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. Hopefully this would prove to be a short meeting.

Fortunately, the palace wasn’t far from the academy and soon enough he was being escorted through the halls of the massive building by Griffith and a quartet of palace guardswomen.

“So, the Whitemorrow twins?” Griffith said idly as they maintained their pace. “They seemed interested.

“Jealous?” he asked.

The woman scoffed. Truth be told, she was probably a little jealous, but it wouldn’t be outstated. In this world there were always going to be other women. More to the point, their relationship, such as it was, was of the more nebulous variety.

Indeed, if one were to call it friends with benefits at this point, William wasn’t entirely sure he’d have been able to argue.

“Aren’t they a little young for your tastes?” she said.

He laughed, amused that his predictions were known to the woman even if he’d never actually spoken of them.

“Perhaps,” he admitted.

Twenty-three was on the absolute lower end of his personal spectrum after all. Still, it wasn’t as if he found young women repulsive or anything. He just hated how it made him feel like a creeper to be around them.

“Did you know they designed the ball-turret themselves,” he said, changing the subject. “Sure, it was the aid from a few other scholars in their estate, but it was mostly their own work.”

He’d been impressed by that. No doubt. Prior to that discovery he’d thought of the two young women as essentially just… tools for him to get an in with a future duchy. But their enthusiasm for Shard design had been… infectious. So much so that it was hard to see them as just tools.

It certainly made the thought of forming some kind of marriage alliance more tolerable than it might have been otherwise. Say whatever else one wanted about the two, he’d not do them the disservice of thinking of them as ‘just’ kids.

“Hmmm.” Griffith hummed thoughtfully. “That’s not totally surprising. Whitemorrow is a small house but they also have their name on a shard workshop here in the city as well as one on their estate. They’d have been all-but raised on the workshop floor.”

Whatever else William might have said to that became moot as their party came to a stop in front of a pair of imposing double doors.

“Try not to get into any more trouble,” Griffith whispered as the doors started to open. “And… good luck.”

Then he was through, the doors closing behind him as he strode toward the throne – and the woman sat atop it.

And she looked pissed.

“Do you have any idea why I’m annoyed?” the elven queen asked as he sketched a quick bow.

Yes. Definitely.

“Nope,” he lied, head still bowed. “If anything, I’d have thought you pleased. After all, the problem presented by my family is now resolved. Bloodlessly I might add. And much quicker than the two year deadline you presented.”

Which still somewhat surprised him. The bloodless bit, that is.

“Possibly,” Yelena allowed. “Or perhaps, now that they’ve been tipped off, the problem of your family has now escalated beyond my or your ability to resolve. Indeed, there’s a decent chance that, as we speak, your sister is being placed into a two-seater shard along with one of your treacherous aunts and will soon be headed North. Beyond your reach and mine.”

…That was entirely possible. After all, just because he hadn’t thought his mother was lying when she claimed to believe his threats of what would happen if she attempted such, didn’t mean she actually did. Given they were talking via orb, she’d have known the Queen was listening so it was entirely possible she was lying to buy time.

Not that it would help. After all, his last visit home had shown Olivia’s future betrothal to be an imminent threat to the queen’s rule. And while there weren’t so many invisible agents that she could have positioned one everywhere, she certainly had enough to place at least one near his sister.

“All because you went over my head and risked the fate of our entire nation to warn your family of a threat they themselves created through their treasonous actions,” Yelena finished.

He nodded, acknowledging the point. “Except we both know there’s no way your people would let my sister board a shard unexpectedly. Unless you think that your invisible watchers in Ashfield territory are so incompetent that they’d not consider my sister being bustled into a shard in the middle of the night sufficient criteria to fulfill whatever contingency plan you have for her.”

Yelena stilled at the rather unsubtle accusation there.

“You don’t know that I have people watching your sibling.”

He nodded again, head still down. “No, but given the threat she presents, if you didn’t have people in place to watch her, I’d say you kind of deserved to fail. And so would I for trusting you.”

“Have a care for your tone, William. Greater men and women have been beheaded in this hall for less than you’ve done today.”

Finally he raised his head, regarding the queen dispassionately. “If that is your decision, then I implore you, bring out the headswoman’s block. I’ll wait.”

Yelena said nothing, regarding him coolly. When she spoke, it was less angry and more… calculating. “And the possibility that I might do that very thing does not worry you?”

He had no idea what she was getting at, but he answered all the same. “It’s more that I know that the contingency I put in place to keep such a thing from happening is still a factor in our ‘negotiations’.”

Yelena blinked slowly. “The recipe for explosive powder? The one I already have? As a result of the last time I chose to spare your sister’s life?”

He acknowledged the point, before continuing. “And your enemies don’t. Something I imagine you’d prefer to keep that way.”

Again, the monarch seemed to regard him. “Very well. Since threats are pointless, I will speak plainly. Do you know why I am annoyed?”

He did. “I went over your head to warn my family of your knowledge of their plans. In so doing, I undermined your authority and might possibly have given them cause to transport my sister north, where you will be unable to reach her and thus will have no means of keeping her from seizing the Summerfield duchy in time.”

“Yes,” Yelena said. “So, given you understand that much, why didn’t you speak to me or Griffith about this plan before you undertook it?”

He cocked his head. “Because you’d have said no if I asked? And you’d have been right to. As I said, from your perspective, warning my family is an unnecessary risk. Hells, the only reason she’s still breathing is her importance to me – and my role as a strategic asset to the crown. If it weren’t for that, she’d already be dead.”

The queen hissed as she massaged her temples. “And here I was somewhat hoping that I’d have an opportunity to dress you down for being a short-sighted fool. But no, the reality is worse.” She eyed him. “Do you even realize how much worse it is that you understand all that and did it anyway?”

He shrugged. He’d given his reasoning.

The queen actually groaned. “What am I to do with you William? Brilliant inventor or not, I can’t have a subordinate who undermines me, blackmails me, and shifts the balance of power in the realm on a whim.”

Once more he shrugged, though his tone was at least apologetic. “With all due respect, your majesty, I don’t really see what choice you have. You need me. Or at least, what’s in my brain.”

She laughed humorlessly. “I can’t argue that. We finally finished installing your ‘radios’ onto those royal ships chosen for them, and the captains and admirals that have been sworn in on them can’t praise them enough. My daughter included.”

There was a hint there, but given his lack of reaction, she moved on. “Between that and the Kraken Slayer enhanced munitions we’re now churning out, the war situation is looking a lot less dire.”

William resisted the urge to snort. Less dire wasn’t the same as ‘good’. It was just that.

Less dire.

And perhaps that was good for him because if the Queen didn’t need him he had little doubt she’d have done away with him. Perhaps not in the biblical sense, but a shotgun wedding and house-arrest was amongst the kinder possibilities.

Fortunately for him, while explosive shells were useful, it wasn’t like the locals didn’t have them already. One just needed to enchant a cannonball with fireball or lightning spells. Sure, said enchantment would initially be one third as potent as said spells, but that just meant you needed to layer the enchantment three times for the same effect.

Then repeat that a dozen more times and soon enough you’d have a shell capable of blowing holes in the armored hull of even a steel framed ship.

…Of course, even a single layering of enchantments would take up the spell casting capability of a mage for a few days – just to make just one cannonball with that capability.

Which was exactly what most ‘combat’ mages spent their days doing when they weren’t using said spell slots to train. No, most combat mages spent their time enchanting munitions for the next war.

Indeed, while not quite on the level of their airship or shards, a house’s stockpile of enchanted munitions was usually its next most valuable asset. Which made sense, given that it was oftentimes the result of generations of work.

He frowned as he recalled his own house’s stockpile. Hundreds of rounds. More than enough to see the Indomitable up-armed for at least a few battles.

The sad fact was that while his gunpowder munitions did away with the ‘mage’ bottleneck and would theoretically allow the queen to keep lobbing explosive shells long after the other houses were reduced back to solid shot, that advantage didn’t mean much if she lost the war before things even reached that stage.

All it would take would be a few good battles and the North would be able to reach the capital.

And while that dynamic might change if he raised the idea of using said explosive powder to propel munitions further than compressed aether could, he really wanted to keep that in his back pocket for the day when the Queen was less an ally against slavery and more of an obstacle to democracy.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said finally.

Yelena continued to stare before she sighed. “It’s late. I’m tired. Consider this your last warning William. I can tolerate some degree of rebelliousness in return for a talented subject, but there is a limit. Pray you do not find it.”

It was a non-threat and they both knew it. Still, William said nothing, as he stood up and turned to leave, the dismissal obvious.

Still, as he stepped through the outer doors, a thought did occur to him.

If his mother had been truthful when she agreed to send Olivia to him and not North, would she know to do so via ship or carriage rather than something more… alarming?

Like a shard.

…He should probably get to an orb to make sure she knew that. He’d hate to have to commit regicide because of something as silly as a mistake.

Fuck me, I’m never going to get to sleep tonight, am I? He thought as he resisted the urge to break into a jog.