Dawn's Early Light

Praise for

T
HE
J
ANUS
A
FFAIR

“An amazing read, filled with wonderful characters, detailed world-building, and an intriguing plot . . . I cannot wait for the next installment.”

—
Badass Book Reviews

“A fun romp through a London featuring housekeepers with mechanical legs, automated bartenders, hypersteam trains, and restaurants on airships.”

—
Steampunk Chronicle

“Action, mystery, undercurrents of a personal nature, and a pace that is sure to keep a reader's interest.”

—
Night Owl Reviews

P
HOENIX
R
ISING

“[A] thrilling and labyrinth detective romp laced with humor, feminine moxie, and mayhem. The prose is Dickens on steroids, yet it somehow grips the reader . . . A dark and twisted roller coaster of a read for those fond of elegant vernacular and bizarre weaponry.”

—
Fangoria

“Dramatic, filled with heart-stopping action . . . A wonderful beginning to what looks to be an exciting addition to the steampunk genre.”

—
Smexy Books

“A strong first book . . . Anyone who was a fan of the adventure in the Blades of the Rose series and the dynamic in [the] Sherlock Holmes movie might want to check this series out.”

—
Fiction Vixen

“This is steampunk done right, down to every last detail . . . Action-packed with edge-of-your-seat excitement.”

—
Badass Book Reviews

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the authors

Copyright © 2014 by Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62145-5

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Ace mass-market edition / April 2014

Cover art by Dominick Finelle.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Jack Mangan, the Iron Man of Podcasting

Thanks for having us saddle up and head out west for a ride across Night's Plutonian Shore.

Once more we set out on another bold adventure, and once more we have plenty of kind folk to thank for helping us.

Boundless thanks to Danielle Stockley of Ace, who showed enormous faith in us and the Ministry; and to our agent, Laurie McLean, who is, as always, our favourite agent of OSM.

Thanks as well to the many authors who have made the time and brought their talents to the Parsec-winning
Tales from the Archives
podcast and to the Ministry Protocol anthology. Because of you, our horizons are broadened and our eyes opened even wider to the joys of steampunk. We are proud to have each and every one of you within the ranks of the Ministry roster.

The fine folk of Detroit, Michigan, who welcomed us to their city, showed us the passion that will not die, and gave us so many reasons to include their city in this novel. We sincerely hope the Paris of the West will rise as a phoenix and return for us all to enjoy in the future.

Jessica of Ties That Bynde Designs, Inc., for educating us on a gentleman and his intimate apparel. Oh, how real life can provide such inspiration!

Finally, thank you to the steampunk community all over the globe, who have welcomed us in and inspired us with their creativity and kindness. We hope you enjoy this journey across America with Eliza and Wellington.

T
ruly there was nothing more delightful to Eliza D. Braun than a jolly good foot chase; whether it was across London's rooftops in the morning, an afternoon tearing through the streets of Paris, or slipping in and out of the darkest shadows of a night in Cairo. The way muscle and sinew worked in concert with one another, and the exhilaration of a fresh quarry just within reach was a breathtaking, beautiful reminder that she was truly alive.

At least that was what Eliza had told Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, at their first dinner together aboard the transatlantic airship
Apollo's Chariot
.

Wellington had the breath knocked out of him as he skidded across the metal gangway. He scrambled for purchase but it was ultimately futile, and he slipped free of the deck. Just in time, the archivist managed to catch hold of the scaffolding, its metallic chill driving through his skin. His grip tightened on the internal skeleton of the behemoth rumbling around him, which was the only thing currently keeping both his dignity and his life intact. Ahead, he caught a glimpse of Eliza continuing the pursuit that had started at her cabin, her skirt hitched up immodestly around her knees.

It had been fortunate that they had returned at the very moment the intruder had slipped out of Eliza's stateroom. The thief was certainly fleet of foot; and had led them a merry chase through the hallways, and now into the belly of the airship. Now they were at least four full stories above the main cabin, and climbing higher into the hull. Wellington could do nothing but admire how Eliza was keeping pace with the intruder.

“Must make sure to ask her who her cobbler is,” he muttered before pulling himself back onto the walkway. Wellington was in his third day as
active
field agent, and already he found himself inappropriately attired for a proper foot chase. It remained a mystery what Doctor Sound had been thinking in reinstating Eliza to her position in the Ministry, and promoting him to a similar station.

Wellington had sudden insight as to why, when up ahead he saw Eliza pull out a Remington-Elliot from where it had nestled against her thigh. He was to provide some kind of model for levelheadedness.

The archivist deliberately slid right into her, knocking them both over in an undignified sprawl of arms and legs.

“Bloody hell, Wellington,” Eliza yelled, struggling to disentangle herself, “what are you doing?”

“While I realise you are caught up in the rapture of the chase, might I remind you,” he began, motioning around him, “we're thousands of feet over this rather large body of water called the Atlantic Ocean. I would rather you not rupture the envelope that is holding us aloft.”

Eliza stared proverbial bullets at him while tucking away her gun. “Are you suggesting I would miss?”

Wellington decided to choose silence rather than further argument. Instead, they both looked up to see their target climbing higher into the ship, with a haversack bouncing against his back.

“You would think whatever he is carrying would slow him down a tad,” he observed.

“Amazing what a little pursuit can do for a thief. It's probably full of loot from the other passengers.” Eliza motioned to a nearby stairwell. “Head him off. I didn't see any weapons on him and he's not taken a shot, so maybe we can flank him.”

“Understood,” the archivist replied.

“Be careful, Welly,” she said with a grin, before spinning about and bounding up the stairs two at a time, “I still have uses for you.”

Just what those could be quite boggled his mind. She had quite the effect on him, that was for certain. Wellington shook his head, and then ascended the opposing stairwell, the metal underfoot clanging and echoing dreadfully as he ascended.

What could this thief be thinking, running upwards through the envelope of
Apollo's Chariot
? If he were wanting a quick escape, procuring one of the standard
aeroflyers
transatlantic airships now employed as deterrents against pirates would have been the logical option . . .

. . . unless he was a saboteur, as well. If any of the bladders here were to fail due to puncture, it was unlikely a rescue could happen before the gondola and all passengers and crew therein would sink into the chilly waters churning far below.

Yet such a dastardly plan would spell doom for the thief as well. Exactly what was this chap's game?

Wellington's ponderings about dire outcomes came to an abrupt stop when something hit the metal gangplanks hard above his head. He gathered immediately that Eliza must have caught up with the thief, and was doing her best to slow him down or teach him the error of his ways.

The archivist kept climbing, finally reaching a junction for all the maintenance stairwells. Despite being this high up in the
Chariot
's envelope, he was still warm.

Then again, he was engaged in a rigorous foot chase, so . . .

The thief bounded up from the opposite stairwell and made it halfway across the platform before he noticed Wellington. He stumbled to a stop and spun back to where he had come from, only to find his escape blocked by Eliza.

“Mate,” she said with a soft chuckle, “I'm sure as a cracksman, you can pick your marks carefully; but you really made a bad—”

Her jibe was cut short as he pulled a gun and fired. Eliza was lifted off her feet and Wellington felt the impact of her landing through the soles of his shoes. The archivist bolted for Eliza's side as the thief continued upwards.

“I thought you said he was unarmed?” Wellington barked as he ran by her, his eyes scanning along the envelope's wall.

“I said . . . I didn't see anything on him,” she wheezed. “Doesn't mean he's unarmed. Your concern, by the way? Most touching.”

“While I know you are quite safe in your Ministry-issue bulletproof corset, we can't say the same for the
Chariot
's hull, now can we?” he snapped back.

The assailant's footsteps were pounding away from them, and Wellington let out a soft sigh of relief; it did not appear as though the thief wanted a stand-up fight.

“Can you run?” he asked, looking up in the rigging.

“That I can manage,” she assured him. “Don't think for a moment I'm going to let him just slip back into the ship. I wish to have a word or two with him.”

She yanked Wellington by his lapels along one of the adjoining gangplanks. Just ahead he could see the thief, his lead on them a substantial one.

However, that lead would not last for long. Wellington could also see ahead of him the curve of the
Chariot
's inner hull. This gangplank was nothing more than a dead end.

When they were within twenty feet of him, the thief came to a stop, and then—curiously enough—pulled out a pocket watch.

Eliza drew her three-barrelled pistol, this time without any interference from her partner. Wellington caught a glimpse of the look on her face and felt sorry for the thief when she caught up with him. “Got somewhere to be, mate?” she asked, her voice projecting with all the skill of a Shakespearian actress.

The thief closed the watch's cover, its
snap
echoing around them. His narrow face bore an unsettling smile. “As a matter of fact, yes, I do.”

“Hate to disappoint you, but I think you're missing that next appointment of yours.”

Despite Eliza's bravura, Wellington had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Really? Is that before or after”—the thief's arm jerked forwards and a small box, apparently tucked high in his sleeve, landed in his hand—“you let this ship fall from the skies?”

Eliza's brow furrowed as she took a step back.

Wellington noticed the haversack that had so prominently bounced on the thief's back was now absent. He looked around them, five stories underneath stretching into the belly of this airship. Their man must have dropped his pack over the side of the gangplank, letting it fall to a lower landing or worse, in between one of the ship's massive bladders.

The thief's thumb toyed with the switch, the sole decoration of the palm-sized box, as his other hand reached into his jacket pocket. Keeping his eyes on them both, he produced some brass contraption that fitted snugly in his palm, its dull surface covered with what appeared to be metal talons. Wellington did not get a better look at the device before their cracksman reached above his head and pushed the invention into the
Chariot
's skin. The device immediately whirled downwards, cutting a fine slit in the side of the vessel.

“I'm sure you have a bit more heroic banter to share,” he said, his smile widening, “but I must be off.”

His thumb flipped the switch just before tossing the box into the air. Wellington lurched forwards on instinct; and like he was a fielder at Lord's, he caught the device in two cupped hands.

Eliza looked between them both, just before grabbing Wellington and dragging him back the way they came. “Come on! He had the backpack when he shot me.”

Wellington tried not to think of the controller in his hand. He knew he was probably not going to like the answer when he asked her, “If I were to return the switch to the ‘off' position, that would be horrible, wouldn't it?”

“Advanced bombs have a specific means of disarming, either with a sequence or a removal of the leads between detonator and explosives,” she said over her shoulder. “Simply turning it off could trigger fail-safes that would detonate the bomb right away.”

“Yes, that would be horrible,” Wellington agreed. “Quite horrible.”

“There!” Eliza cried, pointing to a weather-worn backpack lying idly along the side of the gangway. The closer they drew to it, the louder the ticking grew. “I think we found his present.”

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock . . .

“The outside pocket is bulging,” Wellington spoke, his voice dry. “The one closest to you.”

Eliza swallowed hard, reached inside it, and then froze. The ticking grew even louder when the brass box slipped away from the bag. She flipped the latch away and peered inside.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock . . .

“Well?” Wellington asked, his voice cracking slightly. “What kind of bomb is it?”

Eliza inclined her head before stating calmly, “The kind you use to boil eggs with.”

He blinked. “What?”

Eliza took Wellington's hand and moved his thumb forwards. The ticking stopped as did the timer inside the brass box.

Growling like a mad woman, she leapt to her feet, bounding back to where they had left their thief. Wellington took off after her, and both stopped upon catching a glimpse of the thief's leg before it disappeared into the abyss outside. He had to be a madman.

Wellington and Eliza pulled apart the tear to feel a hard blast of cold air. Once his eyes adjusted, Wellington could see the thief surrendering with no fight to a fall that Icarus would have known all too well. Beneath him was the endless blue-grey expanse of the Atlantic.

This would have been his final resting place had the massive ornithopter not swooped in from underneath the
Chariot
and circled around to snatch him up. The wings beat hard several times before the craft angled upwards and caught what Wellington could only surmise was a strong current. They watched the vehicle soar higher and farther into the sky until a cloud bank devoured it completely.

Eliza gave a great sigh of annoyance and released her grip on the canvas.

“Well doesn't that just get your dander up?” she said, leading him back to the haversack. She even kicked it around for a moment or two, until it expelled the rest of its contents—watches, rings, necklaces, a jeweler's loupe, and a pincushion decorated with an assortment of needles.

“I want a whiskey,” Eliza muttered.

He bent down and shovelled the valuables back into the haversack. “Well now, let us not lose perspective: we did disturb a robber on an airship full of wealthy people. He escaped, yes, but without his catch. I would call that a win.”

She looked him up and down, her lips pursed. “Wellington, consider your own words just now. He leads us all the way up here, pulls a fancy escape, and he leaves his haul behind?” Eliza shook her head, staring back down the gangway.

“But, Eliza, we still managed to thwart—”

“Wellington,” she snapped. “Don't look at the facts as if you are in the Archives. You are in the field now, en route to America. The details you note and keep in mind mean the difference between travelling back first class or in a pine box. Something tells me that we are missing something”—her foot idly kicked the pincushion—“and that in my experience always comes back to bite you in the bum.” She heard the soft tearing of fabric and gave a little grumble. “Come on, the Ministry owes me a drink, and we should really inform the crew about this rather large hole they need to repair.”