Dreadnought by Cherie Priest Read Free Book Online Page B

at the giant steeple the color of bone.
    She passed another set of churches, lined up shoulder to shoulder with one another despite their dogmatic differences, then came to a stockyard, then a large foundry populated by soot-covered men in clothes filthy with sweat and tiny burns. One of them called out to her, opening his mouth to say something dirty or childish.
    But when Mercy turned his way, the man closed his mouth. “Pardon me, Nurse. Ma’am,” he said upon seeing her cloak and the cross on her satchel.
    “Consider yourself pardoned, you lout,” she grumbled, and kept walking.
    “I’m sorry,” he said after her.
    She didn’t answer him. She adjusted her bag so the cross was more visible against her shoulder blade. It was not a foreign emblem, or a Yankee emblem, or even a Confederate one. But everyone knew what it meant, pretty much, even if once in a while it got her mistaken for one of those Salvation Army folks.
    In the distance, over the tops of the mills, factories, and shipping warehouses down in the transportation district, she could spy the rounded, bobbing domes that indicated the tops of docked dirigibles.
    Before long a sign came into view, announcing, RICHMOND REGIONAL AIRSHIP YARD . Beneath it, two smaller signs pointed two different directions. PASSENGER TRANSPORT was urged to veer left, while MERCHANTS AND CARGO were directed to the right.
    She dutifully followed the signs, head up and shoulders square, as if she knew exactly where she was going and what she needed. Another sign pointed to ROWS A & B while one next to it held another area, indicating ROWS C & D . But finally she spotted something more immediately useful—a banner that read, PASSENGER TICKETS AND ITINERARY . This banner was strung over a wood-front shack that was shaped like a lean-to, with no glass in the windows and no barrier in the front except a cage like those used by bank tellers.
    The nearest available attendant was a crisp brunette in a brown felt hat with an explosion of colored feathers on the side. Mercy approached her and said, “Hello, I need to buy passage west.”
    “How far?”
    “How far west can you take me?”
    The woman glanced down at a sheet of paper Mercy couldn’t see. “That depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On a number of things. Right now, the war is the number one deciding factor in precisely how far you can travel. We’ve had to trim some of the northernmost lines, and redirect traffic south.”
    Mercy nodded. “That’s fine.”
    The clerk said, “Good. Because as of this morning, Charleston, West Virginia, is about as far west as we’re going along our present estimated longitude. We’re trying to reroute anything headed for Frankfurt down through Winston-Salem or Nashville. But Nashville’s a little uncertain right now, too.”
    Recalling what she’d heard from the young crier, she said, “There’s fighting out that way?”
    “That’s what they tell us.” The clerk pointed at a miniature telegraph set.
    While Mercy stared at it, the fist-size device hiccupped and spit out a long thread of paper covered in dots and dashes.
    The clerk explained, “Latest news from the fronts. It comes in filtered through headquarters.”
    “What does that say?” Mercy asked.
    “It says Nashville’s still uncertain. Sometimes they update us like that, and it’s useless. Anyway, you want to head west, and you never said how far.”
    “I hope to wind up in Washington—all the way on the other coast. But if I understand it right, you can only get me to the river.”
    The clerk didn’t ask “Which river?” because everyone knew that the Mississippi was where everything stopped. She pursed her lips thoughtfully and then said, “That is correct, and you can pick it up at Memphis. It ought to be safe enough, that far down from the border skirmishes. If you can get to Fort Chattanooga, you can hop a train there, and make it the rest of the way in no time flat.”
    “That sounds fine.” It sounded