1.
Jack Cason sat alone in her computer closet, her head sagging above her knees. The darkest shape in the white room, she covered her eyes and stared into the false dusk of her cupped palms until her vision adjusted to the darkness. Iris had told her that this exercise would protect her eyes from the damage caused by staring at a computer screen, and Jack stared into her hands because she believed her. Iris would have known; her father was a native of the New Age Sector.
Jack blinked into the shadow of her hands, remembering that Edward Cunningham had contracted her to kill Iris’s father.
It was an easy assignment. The man already lay sedated in Chestern Memorial, a hospital deep in the Anglo-Isles in the Britton Sector, just outside the Victorian Sector. He was scheduled for a minor throat surgery, preformed by a doctor across a continent and a small ocean in the Edo Sector. Just a routine solution to a routine disease; Jack would add the fatal glitch that would cause a microscopic scalpel to slit the man’s throat from the inside out. An easy assignment.
Jack sighed, blinking at the bright glow from her computer screen and setting her hands back on the keys. She knew the letters to type that would cause an accidental slip of the scalpel. She knew the letters to type that would carve ‘Jack the Giant Killer’ into his neck. Yet her fingers were still.
In a moment, she would do what she’d done a dozen times before and fulfill her contract with Cunningham. Cunningham wouldn’t be pleased that she hesitated. Even if it was just a moment. Jack never broke a contract with a Cunningham.
Not even for Iris.
2.
Before Jack met Iris, she never hesitated, running two or three assignments a week. Not many were assassinations; most were disarming security alarms or moving money from one pocket to another. The night she met Iris, Jack was picking up more assignments. The contractor was Sorcier, some kind of second-hand mystery who owned a pleasure resort called La Masque. Jack usually avoided the fairytale-for-hire, because she’d never actually met Sorcier, just Sorcier’s favorite minion, the man who ran La Masque. Everyone called him Ice.
He was meeting her in the Preferential Lounge, a place classy enough to make it difficult for Jack to order her favorite beer, which was too low-class for the establishment to carry. She arrived in time to catch the end of the midnight show. The last singer was different than the other girls. She didn’t rely on the mild spectacles of light and smoke available to her. The omni-piano was softened to the sound and pitch of one instrument.
Jack was not a particularly musical person, but the last singer dazzled her. There was nothing bawdy or blaring about her song, just a subtle seductive music stolen from the same jazz era that had styled her long black dress. As sensual as it was simple. Her voice soared over La Masque’s highest standards. She obviously deserved to be more than a lounge singer.
“She is very beautiful, isn’t she?” Jack startled at the accented voice and the sliding hand on her shoulder. The man – slender, pale, and exceptionally graceful – oozed into the stool across from her.
“Ice, you sceered me nearly to death.” Jack grumbled into her beer mug, her eyes darting back to the stage and the glittering singer. “It’s ‘bout time you got here. Where’s my ‘signments?”
“Why do women only want to speak of business?” Ice leaned on one arm. “Why can’t they be more concerned with little things like hair-styles, nail polish?”
“You’re too jealous of women to be sexist, Ice.” Jack answered, glancing at anything but the man across the table and allowing her eyes to fall on the bar that sparkled with elegance and glass. “An’ if you give me away, I’ll be mighty sore at you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. No one here suspects your sex. You look more like a man than me.” He stole her drink and sipped at the cold mug. Then he winced, “This is disgusting. Do we serve something this disgusting at La Masque?”
“Nope, you don’t. Ever’time I come here I have to get it run over.” Jack turned her eyes back to the graceful half-dance of the performer. “Give me my ‘signments, Ice, and tell me about that girl?”
Jack didn’t like Ice’s enigmatic smile. Ice dropped a tiny case on the table and slipped off of the stool. “I cannot afford to stay and gossip tonight, Jack. Adieu.”
“I ain’t here for gossip. Now tell me about that girl.” Jack grabbed his arm and held him. Ice straightened the purple silk scarf around his neck as if she were not gripping his arm, ignoring Jack as she asked, “What’s her name?”
“I’ll tell you because I know you’re worth the effort.” Ice replied. “She is Monique. She is very beautiful, isn’t she? What else do you want to know?”
“Nothing.” Jack answered his entrapping gaze with automatic defensiveness. She shrugged, idly. “Maybe I want to meet her.”
“Monique does not meet people.” Jack sat straighter, when Ice leaned closer and whispered soothingly. “I could persuade her to make an exception, perhaps?”
Jack glared at him and then back to the woman on the stage. For the briefest moment, the singer’s eyes glittered out from beneath her long bangs and noticed the distant figure watching her from the corner of the lounge. Jack chewed on her lip then said. “Well…I’ll owe you a favor, I guess.”
“So pleased to hear that.” Ice chuckled and tapped the table. “Send her an iris.”
He vanished into the greater darkness of La Masque before Jack could demand further explanation.
3.
Jack visited La Masque every night for two weeks to see the midnight show. She brought a single iris every day, and every day she crushed the flower in her own dirty hands before Monique even appeared on stage. The night before she entered into the third week of her obsession, Jack again sat at her high table in the back, perched on a polished stool, twirling an iris, and drinking the beer so cheap a waitress had to be sent out to purchase it.
The midnight show hadn’t begun yet, and this iris was about to meet the same fate as the others. Jack set the flower on the table, resolved not to tear up the flower until she saw Monique sing. She took a great gulp from her mug.
Looking over the top of the mug, she recognized the man who played the omni-piano to accompany the singers walking past her table. She lurched forward to grab his shoulder. The man was taller than she was and looked at her with an angry curiosity. His gaze gentled when she pushed the iris at him and stuttered. “Could you kindly give this to Miss Monique, if you get a moment?”
Jack spent the rest of the night hoping that he didn’t get a moment. Just before intermission ended, the accompanist passed her table again and said, “Wait in the alloy garden after the show.”
Jack broke into a sweat and swore that she would not go.
But half-an-hour later, Jack was sweating and swearing because it had taken so long to find the garden. The alloys glinted in the dark, glass vines chiming against each other as the bell-petals of metallic flowers plinked the same melody-less song. The breeze sparking the flowers did not to cool Jack.
Jack saw her sitting quietly on a bench looking out at the dark waters of the Middle Seine, a man-made section of the river that separated the lower and upper regions of the Parisian Sectors. From where she was sitting, Monique should have been able to see the lights of the elite opera houses and fashionable restaurants sparkling off the water. La Masque’s Preferential Lounge was a shoddy imitation of the grandeur across the river.
Jack stepped closer, trying to think of something clever to say about the distance between the shores and the social structure on either side, but instead of speaking, Jack tripped on the loose stones and cut her hand on the petals of a tin rose.
Jack raced against gravity to stand, and Monique laughed, as light and tinkling as the bells hidden in the bushes. Jack cleared her throat and tried to deaden her blush. Men blushed differently than women. “It’s uh… nice to see you, Miss Monique.”
“One would expect a man named Jack the Giant Killer to be a little lighter on his feet.” Monique spoke with a delicate accent rooted in the Anglo-isles. She smiled and turned on the bench, a regal queen welcoming a guest into a magical garden of metal and glass. “I’m glad you didn’t surprise me.”
Jack wandered closer, careful of her feet, and held her cap between her fisted hands as if to strangle the grime from the rim. “I’m the clumsiest kinda man.”
“Clumsiness becomes you.” Monique replied, her eyes drifting over Jack’s features if she were assessing a purchase. “I knew you were short; your shoes never quite touched the footrest on those stools. But you look… so different up close. Softer.”
Jack bristled at the words and felt her lip curl in disgust at imminent disaster. “Someone named Jack the Giant Killer ain’t exactly used to being called soft.”
Monique laughed and twirled the iris, turning further on the bench until her feet slipped over the stone between them. She was still wearing her transparent stage heels.
Jack cleared her throat. “I was told you never met with gentlemen.”
“Well, you know my favorite flower. You must be Ice’s friend.” Monique lifted the iris to cover her face and stared out over the petals. She stood when Jack did not reply. “And I’ve decided that I like you. You seem different than other men. I find you more attractive for some reason.”
There was a flicker in her pale brow that told Jack the lovely girl knew exactly what it was she had seen that she found attractive. Jack had not expected Monique to be so coy and it was a surprise that Monique was from the Anglo-isles; the Anglos were not known for being lounge singers.
“Shall we go inside?” Monique offered her arm, genteelly.
Jack stumbled over the words, her eyes slipping down Monique’s glittering neckline and then darting back to her face, ashamed. “Actually, I… I’d just as soon take up your time walkin’ ‘round this sector. I don’t know it well and… um.”
Monique continued to smile and did not lower her arm until Jack found the confidence to curl their arms together and say, “I’d be much obliged to have a pretty lady to escort me.”
“I’d be obliged to oblige.” Monique smiled, hugging closer.
4.
Jack had never been near the back stage of a theater and she wandered into the dressing rooms of the Preferential Lounge with her hands in her pockets and her eyes on the floor, a physical promise not to touch and not to see. That did little to protect her from the tall, dark woman who suddenly appeared before her and smashed a hand into Jack’s chest.
The guard, broad woman with uncertain language and expressive features, towered over Jack and demanded. “Who is you and what you want in backstage?”
Jack lifted her hands soothingly. “I’m just lookin’ for Monique. I meet her for… to walk through the city a couple times a week. She said I’d find her here.”
The tall woman glared and Jack smiled and asked, “How ‘bout I just wait here for her.”
The guard pointed to a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, by a clothing rack stuffed with dresses. “You sit.”
Jack nodded, vigorously. “I’ll sit.”
The guard returned to looking at her mirror and opened a plain box. Jack watched as the woman drew out glittering beads and laid them on the counter. When the tall woman tugged open her heavy cotton shirt, changing for the show without shame, Jack realized the blue and green pebbles were a costume and the guard was a singer. “Oh, you’re that mermaid act. I recognize you now.”
The tall woman swung around but her gaze turned from anger to indifference and she nodded. “Panya sing. You sit other way.”
“I’ll sit the other way.” Jack turned the stiff metal chair to face the wall of dresses. The neutral clothing staring at Jack didn’t have the requisite luster for the Preferential Lounge; this was where the performers left their day clothes. Jack glanced over the dresses, counting the different sectors. The sari belonged to the belly dancer from the Persian Sector. The simple skirt of plaid and patches looked like it was from the Eyre Sector. The jeans and t-shirt probably came from the Empire Sector.
When Jack noticed a heavy dress and bustle, she leaned forward to touch the lace and ruffles. “There’s a girl from the Victorian Sector workin’ here?”
“No.” Panya replied instantly. “Is cheap costume.”
Jack looked over to the woman still threading the beads around her arms and neck. “No, I’ve seen mock Victorian’s and this ain’t one. Even her little boots are tailor-made.”
“Just costume. Ice buy. Very cheap.” Jack slipped farther into the seat when Panya stalked back and picked up the dress to take it away. “It belong here. Not there. Stop feeling up dresses.”
Jack put her hands beneath her thighs to prove her innocence and stared at the wall, trying to imagine Monique in a Victorian bustle.
5.
“It’s a shame I only see you once a week.” Monique said, taking Jack’s hand as they walked the snowy streets of the Lower Parisian Sector. “I must be dreadfully boring, since all we ever do is talk.”
“I like talking with you.” Jack shivered in her coat. “Are you cold?”
Monique nodded and replied faintly. “Just a little.”
Before she could protest, Jack’s coat nestled around her shoulders. Monique laughed, “Now you’ll be cold. And you’re from a sector more Southern than mine.”
Jack shrugged. “Don’t matter. I’m fine.”
Monique bumped into her, grinning. “You know you’re one of my favorite people.”
“Ice told you to say that.” Jack concealed her blush.
“Actually, Ice told me I was endangering myself getting into a relationship with you.”
Jack stiffened. “If that bastard threatens you again –”
“Oh, Ice is a sweetheart. He meant my identity.” Monique laughed, leaned closer, then danced away. Her hips swayed beneath Jack’s large coat. “My name isn’t really Monique.”
“What is it then?” Jack caught her wrist to hold her.
Monique spun around and pressed close. Jack’s eyes swelled when Monique pushed their mouths together, almost as if the kiss was only for Monique’s own amusement. But Jack liked the taste of the other woman’s lipstick and Monique didn’t argue when Jack sank their bodies together, brewing the playful kiss into something strong.
Monique caught her breath by pulling away, stumbling out of her customary grace. She spoke with a stumbling casualness. “I can’t tell you.”
“Then don’t kiss me again,” Jack replied sternly, pushing her hands into her pockets.
Monique seemed to dislike Jack’s severity and she scoffed, “Why should I not kiss you, if that’s what I want to do?”
Jack said nothing, looking at the cobbled stones beneath her feet. She stood firm as Monique drifted closer and twister her arms around Jack’s neck.
Monique tickled her nose against Jack’s ear. “You’re trembling, Jack. Are you cold?”
Jack nodded, but didn’t trust her voice not to squeak if she spoke.
“Most men wouldn’t admit that.” Monique cooed. “You’re so different.”
Jack lifted her hands to Monique’s waist. “I’m not a man.”
Monique shifted back separating their bodies, but not lowering her arms. She glanced between their parted torsos. “You don’t look like a woman, Jack.”
“Well, you don’t look much like a Victorian lady,” Jack replied.
Monique glanced away not betraying her own secret, hearing Jack’s voice for the first time as a deep female sound and not as a tenor. Jack didn’t move as if she were afraid to startle Monique. “My real name is Jacklyn, but I’d ‘preciate it if you kept that to yourself.”
“Don’t worry.” Monique held onto her shoulders even when Jack tried to pull away. The levity had vanished from her voice; the weight seemed to burden her into a whisper, “I won‘t betray you. I don’t think I would have known if you hadn’t said…”
“Well, if you kept flirtin’ and… never mind.” Jack tried to push Monique away again, but the woman refused to step back. “I should never have sent that flower.”
“I’m glad you did.” Monique leaned closer, resting her forehead against Jack. “This will take some time getting used to. Being in love with a criminal was interesting enough.”
“You ain’t in love,” Jack replied.
“You don’t know that,” Monique said, smiling quietly.
“You know if you’re cold, I got a volex.” Jack forced her tone to be casual. “Next time I come by we can take a drive to someplace on the American Continent. It will be sunny and if we go far enough south. Warm too.”
Monique nodded. “I’d like that.”
6.
Three visits later, Jack stood behind the wheel of her volex, staring at the instruments on the control panel and frowning. “Looks like the South will have to wait another week. There’s a volex followin’ us. I’m gonna drop you off in the next sector.”
“Oh, don’t please.” Monique insisted, jumping up from the couch behind Jack and leaning on Jack’s shoulder. “I was looking forward to the weather in the South American Continent.”
Jack ignored the woman hanging on her arm. “There’s a man followin’ us. An’ I don’t like it.”
Monique released Jack’s arm. “If it’s an Anglo volex, it’s just a spy from my father. He trains all his new recruits by sending them after me. To make sure I’m well.”
“Your daddy sounds like an important man.” Jack replied. “You ain’t never mentioned him before. He don’t happen to be related to the Cunningham family would he?”
“The Cunningham family? I should say not! The Cunninghams are barbarians. My family is pure, um….” Monique hesitated in her insulted outcry and finished weakly. “Victorian Stock.”
Jack glanced over her shoulder. “You was gonna say his name?”
“Yes.” Monique smiled coyly. “But that would give away mine, wouldn’t it?”
“Couldn’t risk that in present comp’ny,” Jack grumbled.
Jack resisted when Monique tried to hug her, nudging her off rudely.
Monique took offence. “Don’t be mean, Jack. I don’t see why it matters what my real name is. I’m more Monique than anyone else in the world.”
“I just don’t like deceits,” Jack answered and looked again at her consol. “That man’s still at our tail. But we’re over the Mid-Landtic Sector. It’s like a big boat, Monique. Just a big floatin’ rest stop. You can get home from there easy.”
“I tell you, it’s just a spy from my father.” Monique dropped back into the couch behind Jack. She said crossly, “You lied about your sex.”
“I have to.” Jack found her excuse weak and added. “And I told you the truth.”
“I guessed it.” Monique spouted back.
“I didn’t keep you guessin’,” Jack mumbled.
Monique’s voice quieted suddenly. “You’ll think I’m foolish.”
“I got theories,” Jack answered, only half-serious. “My favorite is that you’re getting blackmailed into it. Someone’s got something on your family and unless you sing, that someone will tell everyone. Most likely you made a mistake and got a kid somewheres that no one in Victoria can know about.”
“Those explain it at least.” Monique laughed. “Really I’m just a foolish girl, who became exhausted with her chores, got someone to help her leave them behind, and happened to find a prince along her way.”
Jack looked over her shoulder at the young woman reclining on the couch behind her. She said fondly, “I’m still leavin’ you in the Mid-Landtic Sector.”
Monique sat up and scoffed. “Who said I meant you?”
“Nobody,” Jack muttered smiling at the control panel.
“Well, I did mean you.” Monique leaned back against the couch, covering her eyes with her graceful hand. “I suppose it’s only fair really. To tell you I mean. I do believe you shall hate me for the truth though.”
“All right, you got me in auto-pilot.” Jack stated.
Monique sat stiffly, her ankles tight together, her eyes on the floor. “Do you know who Walter Morgan is?”
Jack suddenly got serious. “Chief of the Intersectorial Police in the Britton Isles. He’d be the most powerful man in the world if it weren’t for paperwork. Why?”
“He’s my father.” Monique stated.
Jack blinked at her consol for a moment and then turned around. “What?”
Monique tossed her head lightly to one side. “I was mostly raised in the Victorian Sector, of course, by my step-mother. I never went without a thing a day in my life. But I hate the Victorian Sector. And I hate being a lady in the Victorian Sector. Of course, I’m not really prepared for much else.”
“That don’t mean much, Monique,” Jack answered, amazed by the stranger behind her. She took her volex out of auto-pilot.
“Actually my name is Iris.” She ran a hand through her loose blonde hair and then continued excitedly. “If we landed in the Victorian Sector having my hair down would indicate that I was a whore. And these jeans?” She pointed to the blue denim cradling her slender legs. “Obvious signs of mental insanity. My step-mother would kill me.”
Jack grinned. “I wonder what they would do to me.”
Iris laughed and leaned forward, draping her arms over her knees. “Oh, probably arrest you for endangering a fine Victorian lady and intend to castrate you. Upon realizing your true sex, they would throw you into the sea out of sheer terror.”
“So how’d a Victorian lady find La Masque?” Jack wondered.
“La Masque found me.” Iris shrugged and stood. She hugged herself and wandered to the edge of the volex’s windows. “Ice helped me. I’ve been waiting for him to ask me to spy on my father. But he’s never asked me about him. He promised not to, you know.”
“Well, Ice never breaks a promise,” Jack scowled. “Just finds a way to maneuver around them.”
Iris laughed. “I do believe you’re jealous.”
“I’m worried.” Jack replied. “Ice worries me. How did he get you there?”
Iris leaned against the window staring at the artificial land floating beneath them. “I met him at a ball. Dreadful boring thing my sisters dragged me to. One of Andrew Cunningham’s grand galas.”
“You just said the Cunninghams were barbarians?” Jack stated.
“Well they are,” Iris shrugged. “That doesn’t mean they don’t have exceptional parties. I know women in my sector who would cut each other’s tongues out for an invitation.”
Jack scoffed. “Didn’t know Cunningham had it in him to be that grand.”
“Andrew Cunningham?” Iris turned with an air of disinterested mocking. “Oh, he’s quite grand. His balls are the most magnificent events of the season. The only ones Monsieur Ice ever attends. My step-sisters thought to tease me by inviting Ice to dine with us. My score always was the lowest… even when I was trying.”
Iris seemed troubled by this and Jack floundered to understand. “You’re score on what?”
“Oh right.” Iris laughed. “They don’t rate one’s social outings outside of Victoria, do they?”
Jack lifted her eyebrows and shrugged and Iris continued. “You’re judged throughout the night by other guests and the servers and the hosts and when you leave the party you are given a card that tells you how fashionable you are. It’s ridiculous actually.”
“An’ your sisters don’t help, none?” Jack wondered.
“Of course not.” Iris sneered. “They invited Ice over after I lost my temper at them. Oh, it’s all so ridiculous. All the ladies telling such ridiculous stories about him. He was abandoned on the African Continent and raised as a prince. He was the son of a wealthy officer from the Berleen Sector and cast out because it was realized he was an illegitimate child. He was kidnapped by Norse Pirates and after being ransomed back to his father, took control his father’s vessel and steered them back to arrest the pirates. I lost my temper with them and told them that he was surely nothing more than a man.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Jack chuckled.
“I was quite embarrassed to find he was standing behind me and being the witty gentleman that he is, he asked if there was anything more to be. Being the quick wit that I am, I told him, of course there was: a woman.” Iris giggled at her own story then finished. “We fell to talking. Mostly about what it’s like being a prisoner to Victorian morality. Before I knew what I was doing, I was crawling out the window of my father’s mansion every night and running away to sing at La Masque.”
“And now your father knows.” Jack looked at the consol again and remembered the man following them. “Our tail landed. Must be trying to convince me he’s not a tail.”
“Oh good. We can go to the South American Continents, then?” Iris clapped her hands happily.
Jack smiled at Iris’ childishness. “Sure. You can tell your stepsisters all about it, tomorrow.”
“Oh, they’d be so disgusted with jealousy they would throw me out of the house.” Iris giggled. “Well, I can’t say that. My father quite understands. He never really agreed with my step-mother’s ideas about young women, I think. He wants to send me to a college now, since things failed my step-mother’s way. She wants to send me to a mental institution.”
Jack scoffed again. “You ain’t crazy.”
“Says you,” Iris replied. “A woman named Jack who dresses like a man.”
“You ever think of leavin’?” Jack regretted the suggestion the moment she voiced it.
Iris shrugged. “I used to dream of the day as a child. I’m too terrified now. I may just marry the man my step-mother wants me to and continue as usual.”
Jack stiffened over her control panel. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“His family is notorious for neglected wives. I would get on well.” Iris giggled. “Those barbarian Cunninghams again. You remember, Andrew. He holds the grand balls.”
“He tries to hire me for murders.” Jack stated.
Iris hummed. “I always thought my father’s position had something to do with that proposal.”
Jack swallowed hard. “Iris, you can’t marry him. You should… go off on your own ‘fore you try somethin’… that’s awful dangerous business. Marryin’ a Cunningham. Their wives end up dead.”
Iris said jokingly. “Shall I come live with you then?”
Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yes. That’s what I’ve been gettin’ at. You can’t marry him, ‘cause I won’t let you. You come live with me. We’ll get ourselves a house in the Parisian Sector and you’ll sing ‘cause you want to. I prob’ly make enough for both of us.”
“It’s a nice thought.” Iris mused, touching each pane of glass as she walked around the semicircle of the volex’s deck. “My father would send money if we needed. He’s a sweetheart that way.”
“It’s more than a thought.” Jack looked at the pale woman. “You’re just passin’ interested in this whole thing, ain’t you, Iris?”
“Jack, you just learned my real name.” Iris tried to laugh but the sound came out hollow and nervous. “Wouldn’t you rather have time to consider?”
“Just so long as you don’t marry Andrew Cunningham.” Jack stated firmly. “I’d have to kill him, and then I’d end up with my head all made up on some Anglo pike.”
“Well.” Iris giggled. “I can’t have that. You’ll have to take me to the South American Continent and keep me there until I forget about this whole marriage bit.”
7.
Walter Morgan had sent his daughter money when she and Jack needed it. He’d been to see them twice a month since Iris moved out of his house and into Jack’s apartment. He liked Jack and he approved of his daughter’s happiness. And when the timer in Jack’s office rang, it meant that Walter Morgan, chief of the Intersectoral Police Force in the Britton Isles was half-way through his surgery.
Jack smashed her hand into the alarm to silence the ringing. She left her hand limply on the round clock and dropped her head to her arm with a moan listening to the ticking clock. The gradual ticks faded, when Jack hurled the timer into the wall and the clock clunked to the floor. She stared at the mild dent it made, surprised the machine hadn’t shattered.
Iris would shatter without her father.
Jack unplugged the computer, severing the connection to the long distance surgery. She put on a heavy jacket and got into her volex and drove around the world so fast that she would circle the planet in four hours if she was not arrested. She would never hurt Iris.
To hell with the Cunninghams.
