Nadira came bursting into view about three berths away, leaping over stacks of cargo and barrels of Aruba fuel, swinging from mooring lines. She really knew how to move. She grabbed a high-pressure water hose and wrenched it from its collar. It rose like a king cobra, thrashing and spraying a powerful geyser of water everywhere, creating chaos between her and the pirates.
“Come on!” I shouted at her, pointlessly, since it was clear she was running with the last vapor of her strength.
I heard a little mechanical snap and saw the ship’s bow line fall away from her nose. She was completely untethered now, hovering calm as a mirage, waiting. Another shot rang out, and a metallic ping sounded above my head as a bullet ricocheted off the hull’s alumiron exoskeleton.
Nadira threw herself onto the gangway stairs and we hauled each other up and inside. Before we’d even reached the top, I heard the crash of water ballast being dumped, and the ship started to rise. I turned the wheel to raise the steps, and swung the hatch shut. Turning, I nearly crashed into Miss Simpkins.
“Are we departing already?” she asked, alarmed.
“Yes.”
“But I needed to post these letters,” she said, waving a sheaf of envelopes in her hand.
“It’ll have to wait,” I said, and smiled as the ship reared up and my stomach gave a giddy lurch. Miss Simpkins gasped and reached for the handrail.
“And who’s this?” said Miss Simpkins, seeing Nadira for the first time, disheveled and panting after her run.
“That’s Nadira.”
“I had no idea there’d be so many Sherpas aboard!” exclaimed Miss Simpkins.
“I’m not a Sherpa,” Nadira said. “I’m a gypsy.”
“Oh, my goodness!” said the chaperone.
“We’re going?” asked Kate, rushing into the corridor, her face alight.
“Right now, yes!”
The engines’ pitch had reached a deep crescendo, and I felt it coursing through my legs and torso as I rushed forward and down the ladder to the control car.
Through the tinted wraparound windows, I saw the vast heliodrome spread before us. We were forty feet in the air now, still well below the metal webwork of catwalks. Far in the distance were the hangar doors that would release us into the sky. But our path to them was anything but clear. A Norwegian tanker was maneuvering into the berth directly in front of us, and beyond that, a Dutch mail ship was being towed across the heliodrome.
“Busy today,” muttered Slater.
Down to the left, I saw John Rath and his men, their fists raised high, sparks leaping from their pistols. A bullet shrieked off the window, scratching, but amazingly not shattering, the glass. Slater must have had it reinforced somehow.
“They’re going to hurt someone doing that,” said Slater. “Cruse, return fire, would you?”
He snatched a pistol from the wall and tossed it at me. The weight of all that well-oiled steel in my fist made my stomach turn over.
“I don’t think—”
“Quite right. Complete waste of time. We’re already gone. Full ahead now!”
The Sagarmatha leapt forward like a wildcat, hurtling on a collision course with the tanker. My breath snagged in my throat.
“Give us a few more feet, would you, Jangbu?”
At the elevator controls, Jangbu tapped the wheel, and the Sagarmatha jumped, cresting over the Norwegian tanker with not much to spare. Great horns sounded from the tanker, and alarms rang out across the heliodrome. We’d all be thrown in jail for this stunt, but that didn’t matter since we’d likely be killed within seconds. We charged straight toward the Dutch mail ship, which was being towed in high. There was no way we could rise above her at this speed.
“Goodness me,” said Slater. “Under her, I think.”
His crew obliged instantly. The ship dipped and skimmed the heliodrome floor, sending ground crew scattering. The control car couldn’t have been riding more than fifteen feet off the ground, and I could only stare, too shocked to close my eyes, as the distance between us and the mail ship evaporated. Suddenly we were under her, and I had no idea how we managed to clear her.
“Truck!” I shouted, pointing at the Aruba fuel lorry directly in our path. Manning the rudder, Dorje gave the wheel a little tug, and the Sagarmatha, like a shark smelling blood, veered to starboard, and we left the fuel truck safely to port.
“The hangar doors!” I shouted, almost cheering.
“Control yourself, Mr. Cruse,” said Slater. “No need to get excited.”
But there was, for a vast passenger liner was just being tugged into view. Within seconds she would block our exit, immovable as the Great Wall of China.
Hal Slater glanced at me. “Full reverse, Cruse?”
“Full ahead!” I cried, scarcely recognizing myself.
“My thoughts exactly,” he said, pushing the throttles all the way.
We streaked toward the hangar doors, the prow of the passenger liner nosing into the opening. Alarms clanged all around us. Slater grinned and hummed a sky shanty. The Sagarmatha rotated slightly to starboard, and my body clenched, waiting for the shriek of metal on metal, the dull crumple of the ship’s hull imploding, but suddenly we were through and in open air, leaping sharply over the aeroport, banking around the flight paths of incoming airships and then, with another thrilling burst of speed, finding a clear swath of sky to take us up and away from Paris.
ABOARD THE SAGARMATHA
If the Aurora was like riding a cloud, the Sagarmatha was like riding a gale-force wind. Not that her flight wasn’t smooth. It was just that you could feel her speed, the sudden thrust of her engines and the pitch and roll of her. She made me want to give a whoop of delight.
“You like her, Cruse, admit it,” Slater told me.
“She’s very swift,” I replied, not caring for his smug grin. It was clear he was a skilled captain, and had a splendid ship, but he was altogether too pleased with himself. What was it like, I wondered, to be so confident with yourself and your place in the world?
“Rath had a ship in harbor,” I told him. “It looked fast. They may give chase.”
“By the time they’re ready to cast off, we’ll be long gone,” Slater said. He turned to Jangbu. “It’s nice and cloudy over Holland. Let’s hide ourselves in that for the time being.”
“We need to talk now,” he said to me. “Dorje.”
Dorje surrendered the rudder wheel to Dalkey, who had clambered down the ladder several minutes earlier to assume his watch. Slater led us back to the small navigation and radio room behind the bridge.
“So, let’s find out where we’re headed.” Slater passed me a piece of paper and pencil and watched me expectantly. I was reminded unpleasantly of John Rath at the Ritz, and felt a quick chill of uncertainty. How well did I know this captain and crew? I looked over at Dorje and couldn’t help trusting him. I scribbled out the longitude and latitude of the Hyperion.
Dorje’s eyes flicked over the numbers. From one of the many neatly labeled pigeonholes beneath the chart table, he drew out a long narrow roll of parchment and unfurled it. He located the place almost instantly and touched it with his dividers.
“An interesting spot,” he remarked.
“The Devil’s Fist,” said Slater.
“It nearly had us,” I said.
“What altitude was the Hyperion?” Dorje asked me.
“Twenty thousand feet.”
“That’s how she’s survived all these years,” Dorje said.
“She’s beyond the weather’s reach,” I said, nodding. “She might drift forever at that height.”
Dorje drew out a second chart from the pigeonholes, this one drafted on a kind of translucent paper, fine as onion skin and ornamented with all manner of swirls and symbols, some of which I recognized as meteorological notations. Dorje laid it down over the first chart, so both could be viewed together.
“The date and time of your sighting?” Dorje asked.
I told him. With a quick h
and he jotted this on a piece of paper.
“Her bearing?”
“South by southwest.”
“Speed?”
“Maybe thirty aeroknots. I’m guessing now.”
Dorje reached over to his pigeonholes and took down even more sheets of onion-skin parchment.
“I’ll need some time,” he said.
“Let’s leave Dorje to work in peace,” Slater said to me. He returned to the bridge and gave some instructions to Jangbu and Dalkey, then ushered me toward the ladder.
“Can he really calculate the ship’s position?” I asked as we climbed up.
“If he can’t, I doubt anyone can. He knows the winds, especially in that region. He knows them by altitude, time of year, planetary alignments. Not even those London gentlemen with their new-fangled Turing computer can calculate meteorological conditions like Dorje. Now then, let’s have some dinner.”
Kate, Miss Simpkins, and Nadira were all waiting in the lounge when we entered. Miss Simpkins, I thought, was looking a bit peaked, but the other two seemed untroubled by the Sagarmatha’s swift ascent. A wonderfully satisfying aroma wafted in from the kitchen, and my stomach gave a happy lurch.
“Ladies, shall we dine?” asked Slater.
“Well, I suppose so,” said Miss Simpkins, who looked as if just rising to her feet was a great chore.
Slater offered her his arm and escorted her to the table. I thought I saw a flare of color on the chaperone’s cheek, and remembered Kate’s words about Miss Simpkins and her penchant for bounders.
Just looking at Slater made me feel smaller. His fine clothes, his dashing hair and easy smile: I could not imagine ever fitting clothes like that, or looking so confident. I wanted his boots; I wanted his jacket; I wanted his ship. I was a buzzing hive of covetousness.
“By tomorrow you’ll have your sky legs,” Slater told Miss Simpkins. “Now, I may as well tell you the ship’s schedule. Breakfast between seven and eight, lunch from noon to one. We usually dine at six-thirty, not so fashionable an hour as in Paris, but we tend to sleep and rise early here. Apart from that, you can plead for a snack from Mrs. Ram, and she’s usually happy to oblige. Please, ladies, do sit down.”
He pulled out a chair for Miss Simpkins. Not wanting to be outdone, I managed to reach Kate’s chair before he did. We caught each other’s eye, and his mouth gave a twitch, of amusement or annoyance, I couldn’t tell.
I went to the serving window to retrieve our dinners, and there met Mrs. Ram. I’d expected a stocky woman with powerful forearms, and was surprised to find she was altogether diminutive, and that her head and shoulders barely cleared the serving window.
“How do you do, Mrs. Ram?” I asked. “I’m Matt Cruse.”
“You could use some feeding up,” she said with a concerned frown.
“I look forward to it,” I said. “This looks delicious.”
She beamed. I took two plates and placed them before Miss Simpkins and Kate. It was a kind of Kathmandu curry, with delicate slices of lamb mixed with yogurt, fresh chilies, ginger, and a bit of garlic. Kate thanked me. Miss Simpkins sat very straight, face tilted slightly back, as if trying to put as much distance as possible between her and the food.
I started back to get dinner for Nadira and myself but Slater waved me to my seat, went to the window himself, and set plates before Nadira and me.
“Mrs. Ram is a marvel,” said Slater, as he returned with his own meal. “I met her in Nepal two years ago; she’s Dorje’s aunt actually. Never have I been so well fed.”
From a serving cabinet, Slater produced a venerable looking bottle, and swiftly uncorked it.
“A little something I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I always like to start a new journey with a toast.” He poured red wine into all our glasses. He filled his own glass last and lifted it high. “To a lucrative venture!”
“A lucrative venture!” I seconded.
“And a scientifically rewarding one,” Kate added, giving me a rather stern look.
We clinked glasses, then sipped the wine, which, I was glad to note, wasn’t particularly good. During my time aboard the Aurora, the chief steward had taught me quite a bit about fine wines. Not everything was perfect in Hal Slater’s little airborne world. I felt quite bucked up, and enthusiastically began my meal.
“This is far too spicy,” said Miss Simpkins, putting down her fork. “I can’t eat it. Don’t eat it,” she urged Kate.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Marjorie. It’s delicious.”
“It will ruin your digestion. It isn’t wholesome. Is there any boiled ham?” Miss Simpkins asked.
“I leave the provisioning and cooking entirely up to Mrs. Ram,” Slater said. “I don’t think she’s familiar with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”
“Perhaps just a little gruel?” Miss Simpkins inquired.
“Gruel?” cried Mrs. Ram from the kitchen. “What is this thing, gruel?”
“I can’t imagine how I’ll last the journey then,” said Miss Simpkins faintly.
“Try eating,” Nadira told her.
“I’m sure it’s quite agreeable to gypsy tastes,” said Miss Simpkins.
Nadira made no reply, just stared back balefully with heavy-lidded eyes until Miss Simpkins looked away. It was shaping up to be quite a dinner.
“The food really is excellent,” I said nervously.
“It certainly is,” Kate agreed.
Miss Simpkins sniffed. “We’ll all get gyppy tummy,” she said.
“What on earth is gyppy tummy?” Nadira demanded, unable to hide her contempt.
“It’s what tourists in Egypt get, if they’re foolish enough to eat the local food.”
“Miss Simpkins,” I said, “we’ve just left Paris. All our provisions came from there.”
“Nonetheless,” she said. “There are spices and so forth.”
“You’re mortifying, Marjorie, you really are,” said Kate.
At that Miss Simpkins looked quite glum and I almost felt sorry for her.
“Miss Simpkins,” Slater said, “I can promise you, there’s never been any gyppy tummy aboard the Saga.”
“I’m sure,” she said, but let her fork lie, and gingerly plucked a piece of bread from the basket.
We ate in silence. I let my eyes stray to the walls, where there hung several framed prints of famous airships: the Polarys, the Marie Celeste. Along the entire length of one wall hung a mounted strip of airship skin, bearing the name Trident.
“My first ship,” said Slater, catching the bearing of my gaze. “She was a heap of junk, but she saved my life and helped get me this ship, so it didn’t seem right to go forgetting her.”
I got the sense he wanted me to ask more about this particular adventure, but I didn’t feel like helping him boast right now.
“Hm,” I said, and nothing more.
“Well, you’ve piqued my curiosity,” Kate said to Slater. “It sounds like there’s a thrilling tale to be told.”
I stared straight ahead, dismayed.
Slater waved his hand. “No, no. Old war stories. All airshipmen have them, eh, Cruse? I won’t bore you with mine.”
“You have to tell us now, Mr. Slater,” Kate insisted.
“Please, call me Hal,” he protested. “Being mistered by all you fine young ladies is making me feel old.”
“Hal. Please tell us.”
“She was a real wreck,” Slater said, launching right in. “About as airworthy as an anvil. I didn’t even own her. She belonged to a rogue who leased her to me for double her worth. But she was all I could afford. I did freight and a little salvage with her, small jobs mostly, barely enough to meet my costs. Do you remember Hurricane Kate?”
“Was it really called that?” Kate asked, delighted.
“Named after you, actually,” I said.
Kate didn’t even turn to laugh at my joke, she was too busy shining her bright face at Slater.
“Hurricane Kate!” Slater exclaimed. “Absolutely! She
was notorious! She blew through the east coast of the Americas. I knew there’d be plenty of airships in trouble if they got caught. So out I went in my lead zeppelin.”
“You chose to go out in the hurricane?” Kate asked, eyes wide.
“Oh, I was hungry,” Slater said with a lupine grin. “I needed to make something of myself and I was in a hurry. I could have died out there, it was that bad. By rights I should have.” He took a drink of his wine, giving us a little pause so we could marvel at his insane courage. “But I was dead lucky. I came across a mail ship in distress, her skin all torn and her rudder ripped off. She was in a slow spin to the sea. The captain was desperate; he asked for help when I offered it. I got a tow line on her and started hauling her back to shore. Twice we nearly went down into the drink, but we made it. The Sky Court awarded me twenty-five percent of the ship’s value and cargo as salvage—and wouldn’t you know it, she was carrying a shipment of Yukon gold. Enough for me to build a brand new ship of my own.”
It was a good story, I couldn’t deny it. Slater had looked at no one but Kate as he’d told it. And she had listened, rapt, giving little sighs of excitement and appreciation throughout. It made me want to gnaw the rim of my glass. Slater wasn’t the only one who had tales to tell, but I couldn’t think how to get onto my own without looking like I was trying to one-up him. I glanced at Kate, hoping she would chime in and help me out.
“And what about your war stories?” Nadira asked me. “Crossing blades with the likes of Vikram Szpirglas.”
I turned to her in surprise, feeling immense gratitude.
Slater gave me a sympathetic shake of his head. “Ah, you must be sick and tired of telling that one by now.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing it firsthand,” Nadira pressed on. “I heard rumors and read newspaper accounts, but I always wonder if they aren’t tarted up by the gutter press to make a flashier story.”
“So true,” Slater said gravely. “One has to be so careful these days.”
“Well,” I said, defensively, “I don’t know what the papers said, but—”
“From what I’ve heard,” Nadira said, “Szpirglas was a powerful, very ruthless man. It’s hard to imagine you besting him, unless you had a gun.”
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