What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter One

INTRODUCTION: At the conclusion of the novel, 'Steel World Inc', Karl Magnus, the Ubar of London, executed Willard Frick with a gunshot to the head, against the express orders of the Steel Worlds Council of America.   

Retribution was soon to come, not just to Karl Magnus, but to those London Families (The ‘Inner Party’ of the Court of the Steel Worlds in Great Britain) who were seen to be loyal to Karl Magnus. One by one the great American families took them out.

 

One such family was the Palmers – loyal to the Steel Worlds for generations, dating back to the Golden Age of the British Empire.

 

This then is the tragedy that befell their privileged daughter, Rebecca. 

 

What remains of Rebecca Palmer when the Steel Worlds clenches its iron fist?

 

Chapter One: The Black Van

 

I will never forget the day the black van came for my father.

 

That was the day that ended summer forever. 

 

“Rebecca! Dinner will be ready in half an hour! Do please ensure you wash your hands, darling. And that goes for Julia, too. Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

 

But only in a dyslexic dictionary, I thought to myself. 

 

“Yes, mother! Of course, mother! Three bags full, mother!” I smiled at Julia as we held hands, walking through the garden of Chessington Grange toward the summer house. We laughed together as my mother called out from the kitchen window, reminding us again of what was proper and expected. We were young ladies now, with high expectations ahead. In just a few months we would be formally presented at one of the fashionable ‘coming out’ balls held by the loyal families of the Inner Party of the Steel Worlds. I would wear some ridiculous ankle length gown, and representatives of some of the great American and European families would fly over to witness the daughters of the English families being paraded about as eligible young women in their prime. We would be inspected, weighed, measured, and certified, as though we were pedigree steers on display at some agricultural fair. Health certificates, family lineage, the slightest blemish noted in meticulous detail. Our lives, our futures, reduced to columns in a ledger. I could almost hear the officials murmuring over charts, debating whether my posture and jawline met the required quotas for desirability. The absurdity made me laugh, quietly, but it was the kind of laughter that trembles at the edge of fear.

 

Then there would be the odious parade of potential suitors, all telling us how very rich they were, and how powerful their fathers were. Mother would insist I curtsy just so, as if my knees bending could somehow enforce loyalty in a universe ruled by papers and suits. I tried to imagine the physics of it. But that was still months away, and for now we had our freedom.  

 

It was a warm lazy day in the very late summer, that time when the first hint of Autumn is peeking around the corner, and you know that the new school term is about to begin. Except we were no longer at school, thank God. I was nineteen now, and finally free of the stuffy rules and regulations of Ravenscourt public school for girls. I wore a fashionable dark, plaid dress that fell neatly to my knees, the fabric structured but soft as it moved when I walked. Beneath it, I had chosen a long-sleeved white blouse, its cuffs buttoned decently at my wrists and a small rounded collar resting just at my throat. The dress fitted closely at the waist before flaring out, and I liked the quiet order it gave me. With it I wore a set of opaque black tights and sensible black shoes, polished and plain. I looked respectable, and that was what mattered these days. 

 

Julia Fairchild walked beside me. She wore a cream-coloured, long-sleeved fitted blouse with a delicate ruffled collar that seemed to frame her face with a soft, vintage elegance. The fabric of her top appeared light and airy, catching the gentle breeze that drifted through the estate, while her high-waisted A-line skirt was the centrepiece of the ensemble, featuring a dense, intricate floral pattern in shades of garden green and pale yellow.

 

The skirt was wonderfully – and shall we say, respectably - full, its pleats falling gracefully to mid-calf length as she shifted her weight. On her feet, Julia had chosen neutral-toned, strappy flat sandals, which were sensible enough for the manicured lawns yet remained stylish.

 

Julia’s blonde hair was styled in loose, soft waves that shimmered under the filtering sunlight as she reached up to adjust a stray lock. Rather daringly, she didn’t wear her white Purity Ribbon. It was excusable, I supposed, as we were in a private residence, not out in public. But, still, father would no doubt frown and tell her to go upstairs and find her ribbon before joining us for dinner. 

 

The loyal family Dobermann was waiting by the side gate when I crossed the lawn, sitting perfectly still in the shadow of the yew hedge. His coat was black and glossy, so smooth it reflected the late afternoon light, and the rust-coloured markings above his eyes gave him a permanently watchful expression. He did not bark when he saw me. He only lifted his head, ears alert, and followed me with his eyes.

 

“Hello, Marcus,” I said, slowing my steps. I had learned long ago not to rush him.

 

He rose in a single, fluid movement and came toward me, tall and precise, every motion controlled. When he reached me, he stopped and waited, just close enough that I could feel the warmth of his broad, muscular body. I rested my hand on his head, and he accepted it without leaning in, without demanding anything. He had been trained never to ask.

 

My father liked to say Marcus wasn’t a pet, not really. He’s an asset, he once told me, with a faint, humourless smile. Protection requires clarity. I had nodded then, eager to please, proud even. It felt important to grow up in a house that required protecting.

 

Marcus walked beside me as I moved toward the terrace, matching my pace exactly. The gravel crunched under our feet, and I could hear the distant sound of the house behind us - doors opening, voices carried faintly on the air - but out here everything felt calm, controlled. Safe. The lawns were immaculate, the hedges clipped into obedience, the world arranged just as it should be.

 

Order and purpose. Those were the things that mattered, as my Governess had once said. 

 

I knelt and adjusted the white ribbon in my hair, smoothing it back into place. It was my Purity Ribbon, and it was a symbol of my pledge to New Feminism. It said to the world that I was Virgo Intacta, and available for polite courting. On the night of my eventual companionship, my husband – whoever he might be - would strip the ribbon from my hair and throw it to the crowd of guests before leading me to the bedding chamber. I would no longer need the Purity Ribbon then, for I would no longer be Virgo Intacta after that night. But for now, the ribbon must always be in my hair. Marcus watched me closely, his head tilted slightly, as if committing the moment to memory. When I stood, he nudged my hand once with his nose, a rare gesture of affection, then stilled again at my side.

 

“You don’t have to guard me,” I murmured.

 

He did not move. But he did tilt his head, just slightly. Those big soppy eyes looked up at me. 

 

I remember thinking, in that moment, that nothing could reach us here. Not beyond the gates, not past the walls, not with Marcus watching and my father inside the house, secure in his position. The world felt ordered, contained, and entirely predictable. I believed protection was permanent, that loyalty flowed in only one direction, and that authority, once granted, could never be revoked.

 

“Oh, and please don’t drag mud into the house, Rebecca. The doormat is there for a purpose, you know, darling,” said my mother. “Please do use it occasionally.” 

 

Julia Fairchild and I laughed again. “Race you to the summer house?” I suggested.

 

We ran, and were swiftly pursued by Marcus, the dog barking excitedly as it kept guard of the master’s girl.

 

I ran downhill across the lawn, my sensible flat shoes skimming the grass as Julia laughed somewhere behind me, her voice bright and breathless in the warm air. The summer house waited at the edge of the property, white and shining against the deep green of the trees, its delicate columns catching the sunlight as if it had been placed there purely to be admired. I could already feel the cool shade it promised, a brief sanctuary from the heat of the afternoon and the careless speed of our running.

It stood just beyond the rose beds, elegant and perfectly proportioned, its painted woodwork immaculate, its domed roof pale and clean against the blue sky. Light filtered through the lattice panels, throwing soft, shifting patterns across the stone floor inside. I remember thinking, as I ran, that it looked like something from a different century entirely, a folly built not for use but for pleasure, for afternoons that stretched lazily on and never seemed to end.

 

The air smelled of freshly cut grass and late-blooming flowers, and my lungs burned pleasantly as I pushed myself faster, skirts gathered in my hands. Julia was close now - I could hear her shoes, feel the competition tightening between us - but the summer house drew me on, serene and waiting, its open doorway a bright oval of shade. It felt permanent then, as though it had always been there and always would be, a quiet fixture of our lives, untouched by anything as crude as change.

 

I reached the steps first and laughed as I spun around, triumphant, the world behind me shimmering with heat and sunlight. The white paint gleamed, unmarked and flawless, and for a moment everything felt fixed and safe: the house, the grounds, and our laughter that echoed lightly beneath the curved roof.

 

“Down, Marcus,” I said to the dog as it leapt up, placed its front paws on my chest and nearly bowled me over in its excitement. Despite my best efforts, it began frantically licking me around the face.

 

“Your foundation will be ruined,” said Julia as she settled down on one of the garden chairs. “I don’t know why you let him do that.”

 

“As if I could stop him,” I laughed as I finally wrestled myself away from the Dobermann Pinscher. The dog then ran round in circles chasing its tail. I knelt to adjust the white ribbon in my hair, smoothing it back into place. A sudden gust caught it, lifting the ends briefly as if it had a life of its own. Marcus’s ears pricked sharply at the flutter, and I felt a small, inexplicable shiver. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause, caught between the wind and the ribbon, as though it were testing me.

 

“My mother has already begun making preparations for my ‘coming out’ dress,’” said Julia as she put her feet up on a box of father’s whisky bottles. “God help me, but she’s going on about how lovely I would look in peach. She’s shown me some pictures. It’s the most hideous thing I could possibly imagine. I’d look like a sickly, gooey wedding cake. I’ll have to be held at gunpoint and made to wear it.”

 

“Peach?” I laughed. “Oh, I would die to see you dressed in some awful peach frock.”

 

Julia pouted. “I was expecting sympathy, ‘Becca.’”

 

“I hope it has a lavish series of ruffles,” I teased. I didn’t tell her that my mother had shown me the dress I would be wearing at the Coming Out ball hosted by the Steel Worlds. Mine, thankfully, wasn’t ’peach’ but ‘pearl white’. Like all the dresses that would be worn by the privileged daughters who had come of age this year, it was designed to show clearly that we did not wear collars, and we did not have pierced ears. 

 

“Bitch.” Julia leaned back in her chair and gazed up at the sky. “Anyway, I’m not going to be companioned for years, yet. I don’t care what mother says. I want to live a little before I’m expected to squeeze out some screaming brats for an American trust fund playboy called Brad.”

 

“Your mother is hoping for an arrangement with an American family, then?’

 

“Of course,” said Julia. She scratched her nose. “That’s where the power lies. God knows we could use some of it. Thankfully the Americans still place a value on the dwindling number of English bloodlines. I think we’re considered to be trophies – something to show off in those wretched balls they hold in Wyoming.”

 

“They’re so crass,” I agreed. 

 

“But rich,” added Julia.

 

“And powerful.” I sighed. 

 

“Power can be sexy?” suggested Julia. 

 

“Perhaps.” I watched Marcus as he ran back up the lawn, span round and then ran straight back to the summer house. “It’s unfair that power always resides in the hands of men. If I’d been born a boy…”

 

Julia laughed. “You think it’s bad here? It’s even worse in Wyoming. The women there dress like they’re extras in the Waltons. Some of them wear bonnets!”

 

“Wow.” 

 

“I used to have a dream,” said Julia, “that when I was born my parents pretended I was a boy. They dressed me up in boy clothes, gave me a short haircut and told me never to tell anyone the truth. And I had so much fun! Doing boy stuff – swaggering around like I owned the world. Driving fast cars, climbing mountains, and being taken seriously.”

 

“No one – and I mean no one, Julia – would ever mistake you for a boy, even if you strapped your boobs up and stuck a fake moustache on your upper lip. You were the most girly girl in Ravenscourt. You were born to wear a dress.”

 

“I could do boy things,” said Julia. 

 

“No you couldn’t.” The idea was laughable. 

 

“Well, it was just a dream.” Julia shrugged. “And, let’s face it, I do like to wear a dress.”

 

“See.” I nudged her foot with mine. 

 

Julia sighed. “I really have no idea what I’m going to do with my life, ‘Becca. I have no ambitions – well, no realistic ones, anyway. I feel like I’m staring into a deep chasm, and at some point I’m going to have to jump.”

 

“You’re classically beautiful, Julia. You’re going to have men chasing you for the next few years. You’ll be too busy avoiding them to do anything else.”

 

“My mother wants me to become a poster girl for New Feminism. Not literally – I mean, not my face on official posters, but a standard for other girls to aspire to.”

 

“Is that what you want, Julia?” I asked.

 

“Hell, no. I don’t want men to write my life for me. I don’t even know who I am yet. But I know I have to walk my own path of discovery. I have to find myself, not let a man find me, for me.”

 

“Ooh, Julia the rebel.” I made a spooky gesture with my hands. “The New Feminists won’t like that.”

 

“Well, maybe not a rebel.” Julia tucked her knees up and gazed up at the sky again. “Who knows. Maybe I will be that poster girl, after all. Maybe I’ll wear modest dresses and clean, sensible shoes, and I’ll speak on a podium about purity, obedience and baking really nice cakes for my hardworking husband.” She laughed. “Because he works sooo hard,” she said with an amused pout. 

 

“So very hard,” I added, joining in the joke. “Oh, thank heavens for our wise husbands!”

 

“Rebecca!” My mother was calling across the lawn again from the sanctity of her kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Do remember what I said about washing your hands, and do use the doormat, please. Elsie, the maid, has only just polished the hallway floor.”

 

“I suppose we had better…” I began to say, but then stopped mid-sentence.

 

I noticed, first, the silence. Not the pleasant hush of late summer, but something sharper, more deliberate. The usual hum of activity—the gardener whistling, Elsie carrying trays from the kitchen, the distant clatter of doors opening and closing—was absent. Even the birds seemed to pause mid-song, as if the air itself had been instructed to hold its breath.

 

Marcus, normally patient, stiffened beside me. His tail lowered slightly, and a low, cautious growl rumbled from his throat. I knelt to smooth the ribbon in my hair, but my hand trembled despite myself. He shifted, muscles taut, ears swivelling, eyes fixed on the long driveway that stretched toward the gate.

 

A door at the back of the house clicked shut with a sharpness that made me flinch. Not the usual gentle closing of polished wood, but a hard, decisive sound, as if someone wanted it to be heard—or feared it would be.

 

The servants passed, moving faster than usual, faces tight with something I couldn’t name. A glance from the maid Elsie caught mine; her lips pressed together, no words, just a brief flash of worry before she continued on her way.

 

Even the wind seemed off. It gusted in little fits, catching the hem of my dress and the ribbon in my hair in strange, jerky movements. Marcus’s growl rose a notch, low and insistent, his body a silent announcement of unease.

 

And then I heard it – distant at first – the sound of a car engine making its way up the driveway towards the house. 

 

“Expecting guests?” asked Julia.

 

“No,” I said. “Well, father never said we were. Strange.” I stood up, smoothed down the knee length skirt of my dress and steeped out onto the lawn to see who was approaching.  

 

And then, in the distance, the shape of a vehicle emerged - dark, slow, and purposeful. But even before I could focus on it, I already knew: something had arrived that did not belong in this ordered, sunlit afternoon.

 

It was a van.

 

A black van, with tinted glass windows that offered no glimpse of who was inside.

 

I watched the van steer onto the forecourt, pull up outside the house and come to a grinding stop.

 

I froze. The van was too black, too silent, too purposeful. My chest constricted; a tight knot coiled in my stomach. Marcus growled low, a vibration through his chest that rattled straight into me. My fingers clenched, the leash biting into my palm. The back of my neck prickled, hairs standing on end. The afternoon - the sun, the lawns, the carefully ordered gardens - felt suddenly hollow. Every instinct I had screamed that this moment was a rupture, though I could not yet name what it would bring.

 

For some reason I couldn’t put into words, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise.