by K. T. Hunter
She suddenly felt fiercely protective of this infant, the only part of her dear friend left in the world. Here, at least, was one last service that she could perform for Philippa.
"Nigel, listen to me," she said. "Whatever comes, we must not allow Brightman to have your daughter. You have to trust me on this."
He gaped at her in bewilderment. "I don't -- I don't understand. You--"
"Trust me," she repeated. "She'd be better off raised in a factory."
He continued to gawp in stunned disbelief, as confounded as the captain had been in Hansard's office. "Why?"
"Later," she replied. "Time is of the essence, Nigel. We have to move now."
She was fully aware of how swiftly Brightman would move on this. If the hospital did not give up the child willingly, the woman would find another way to take her. She stood up, placed her finger under Nigel's chin and raised his hot red face. The message crackled in her free hand.
"Chin up, Davies. Give me some time. Send them a message. Stall them any way you can. In the meantime, I'll speak to the captain. Surely he has contacts in the TIA that can aid a crewmember on this historic mission. I'll send Caroline to go with you to the wireless. Collect your wits."
She gave his hand one last squeeze, and he managed a nod in reply. Gemma trooped down the tree-lined path towards Caroline's hiding place and told the Boolean to attend to Nigel. She left the pair far behind her as she went. Her mind was awhirl with what she was about to do. A great key turned in the guts of her mind, a key in the shape of Philippa. Once that door opened, there was no turning back.
She was marching through her own Gethsemane, for she had no doubt that Petunia Brightman would discover her hand in this. It did not matter if Brightman had a Watcher to do the job now or if she waited until their return home, she would find some way to avenge this betrayal. From the moment she requested help, Gemma would be living on borrowed time. She did not care. Brightman had already taken the best part of her, and Gemma felt that the rest of her life would just be marking time, anyway.
She had no clue how she would win this race, here, millions of leagues over the sea, but she was going to win. She had to win. Nothing else mattered now, not the Watcher, not Orion, not the captain. Nothing. It didn't matter anymore what Humboldt discovered about the message; its meaning had winked out of existence as soon as Gemma had seen that photograph. The only thing that mattered was saving Philippa's child from her own Man from Shanghai. She had the very weapons that Brightman -- her new target -- had given her. She had her wits, her cunning, and her own connections on the ship. She was going to Mars, for heaven's sake. If she could go to Mars, she could do anything.
And Mrs. Brightman?
Mrs. Brightman could go to Hell.
Gemma rolled into Informatics like a runaway freight train.
"Mr. Humboldt!" she snapped as she crossed the threshold.
Humboldt jumped up from his workstation as if a firecracker had gone off underneath his chair. "Miss L?" His words froze as he noticed the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. "Is it about the Chief? He left in such a hurry. We're all worried."
"Yes, yes," she said, lowering her voice. She cast a glance at the closed bridge window. "I need to speak to the captain immediately. It cannot wait. Can you get me onto the bridge?"
"He's in a meeting, I think, down in his Ready Room. Rumour has it that he's promoting Mr. Pritchard to first mate. I can take you there if you don't know where it is, if it's that much of a rush."
He led her out of the chamber with no hesitation. I have to give Humboldt this, she thought to herself, he doesn't dawdle about when he's truly needed.
As they rumbled past the Wireless Room, Rathbone leaned out the window and waved a sheaf of paper at her.
"Messages for you, Miss Llewellyn," he called after them. "They're marked--"
"Sod off!" she barked without turning her head or slowing her stride.
The time for ladylike behaviour had expired. All she could think of now was Philippa's child. She could feel the ghost of the Man from Shanghai dogging her footsteps now. She sped up to escape him even as she followed Humboldt to an area that she had never seen before. They passed Father Alfieri and Mr. Wallace on the way. Without stopping, she informed Father Alfieri that Chief Davies required his presence. The captain and Pugh appeared just ahead. The echo of their rapid footfalls around the sharp metal walls startled the elderly scientist.
"What's all this kerfuffle?" Pugh demanded as she and Humboldt skidded to a stop. The scientist's eyes widened as he saw her escort, as if Humboldt were the last person he expected to see with her. "Miss Llewellyn, explain yourself!"
Humboldt hung back behind her as he tried to catch his breath. Gemma thought she caught the movement of his salute to the captain out of the corner of her eye as she leaned over, one hand on her knees, too breathless too speak. Instead, she shoved the crumpled message, now a mass of damp and tattered pulp, into the scientist's face. As he scanned it, Christophe leaned over Pugh's arm and read it with him.
"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Pugh. "How would she even know about this child?"
"They must--" Gemma began, casting a glance at Christophe. Even now, she must be careful. If anyone needed to know Mrs. Davies' true identity, Nigel should know first. Besides, what she was about to say might even be true. "I suppose she keeps a watch on all the lying-in hospitals for orphans, Dr. Pugh."
Christophe pointed at the message. "But she's not orphaned yet. How can the hospital allow--"
"He knows already? You told him about the College?" Gemma was on the edge of shrieking. As confused as he was, he wasn't confused enough. Could the captain know about her, already? Had Pugh already betrayed her? She tried to ignore the klaxon that clanged in her head. "Can you do something, Dr. Pugh?" Gemma pleaded. "You know. You know we can't let this happen. You know why. And Nigel has no one else but us. The crew." As she pointed at each of the four of them with a sweep of her hand, she came close to choking on her words.
Christophe broke in. "Dr. Pugh, do you think the security office in Battersea might be able--"
"I don't think they are equipped to handle a newborn, Captain," Pugh replied. "They're not exactly a foundling hospital."
"She is not a foundling!" Gemma shouted. She shuddered and lowered her voice. She balled her hands into fists and realized she was still holding Nigel's watch. As she slipped it into her skirt pocket, an idea occurred to her. "What about this Maggie you're always going on about?" she demanded. "Can't she fetch the child?"
Christophe stared at Pugh, alarm writ large upon his face. "You told her about Maggie?"
Pugh stumbled and shook his head so hard it nearly popped off his spine. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear."
"You told her. About Maggie."
"Not now, Captain!" Pugh let a nervous chuckle escape him. "Gemma, child, I'm afraid Maggie's not in London at the moment. Not even close."
Gemma's voice rippled in a near-laugh of frustration. "Even if she's in the bloody Antarctic, surely she's closer than we are?"
Christophe and Pugh looked at her, looked at each other with widening eyes, and then back at her, with unspoken words crackling in the silence between them.
"Isn't she?" Gemma asked.
They looked at each other again, and the tense silence stretched out like molasses.
"Well?" Gemma demanded.
"Well," Pugh said at last, "it certainly wouldn't hurt to consult with her, at the very least."
Saluting as he did so, Humboldt stepped up to join them. Gemma had almost forgotten that he was there. "Captain, begging your pardon, sir, this is downright tragic. Miss L, Miss Llewellyn, I mean, is right. We can't let the Chief's baby girl go to an orphanage! I don't know who this Maggie person is, but perhaps I might be of assistance."
Gemma was ready for relief from any quarter. "Yes?"
"The Chief's been good to me, Miss L. I'd love a chance to return the favour. You know me, I'm normally all mouth and no trousers, bu
t I might be able to do something here."
"What can you do, Mr. Humboldt?" the captain asked.
"My cousin Jules could go get her."
"Your cousin?" Christophe crossed his arms and leaned back into the wall with one eyebrow arched so high it nearly collided with his hairline.
"That would be Julian Humboldt and his wife, sir. He runs the Badger 'n' Tentacle down in Hammersmith. They don't have any little ones of their own, but they love 'em just the same." He waited for the rest to respond, but when they didn't, he continued. "Look, it may sound like he's just a bloke what owns a pub, but his flat above it is rather posh. He's done rather well for himself. And he'd do anything for me. I'm the only one in the family that'll talk to him." He shrugged. "Of course, he's the only one that talks to me. But all the same. Please. Let me do this for the Chief. They can take care of her, at least until he figures out something more permanent." He pointed at the message. "Miss Llewellyn makes this sound serious, and I take anything she says very seriously. Sir."
"It might be dangerous," Pugh replied with wariness creeping into his voice. He studiously avoided looking at Gemma as he continued. "Brightman may try to interfere. And to borrow your phrasing, Mr. Humboldt, she's both talk and trousers."
Humboldt's smirk was unrestrained. "I don't know nothin' about any Brightman, but I bet my cousin's blokes will have a word or three to say about that. I'll tell Jules to take them with him. They'll teach anyone they meet a thing or two about interferin'. And he's used to taking risks. You know about his, erm, his back room? His, shall we say, midnight salon? Sir."
"Midnight salon?" asked Gemma, unsure if she liked the sound of that.
"I'm familiar with the owner of the Badger and Tentacle. I've had a fair few pints there," said the captain with a hint of a knowing smile. "But who are his blokes?"
"Oh, his chuckers-out. I'm sure you've seen 'em, sir. Big fellas that bounce out the riff-raff what gets too rough with the faux Martian at the bar. I've not been to an orphanage, myself, but some of those chaps grew up in 'em. They won't let anyone touch the babe what shouldn't."
The captain nodded. "Not a bad idea. That'll buy Mr. Davies a little breathing room. I have a few friends in that security office that owe me a favour or two. They can stand guard at the hospital until -- Julian, is it? -- can get there. I'll have to trust you on this one, Mr. Humboldt. How soon can you get a message routed to him? That may take some time."
"Oh, I know the wireless, sir. So does Jules. Has his own setup. Told you he was posh! Regular ham, he is. I can send a voice message straight to him, no routing necessary. If need be, I can use the one on the Iron Wind, so it's just us that knows about it. Jules doesn't use the military frequencies. Of course. Sir."
Christophe stood very, very still. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment. He appeared to Gemma to be listening to a voice that only he could hear, rather than simply thinking. He grunted softly, as if reaching a conclusion. After a few deep breaths, he spoke at last.
"Miss, does this meet with your approval, then?"
"I think it's the best we can do, with the time we have."
"That's the plan, then. Like the rest of us, Mr. Davies is sacrificing much for this mission. The least we can do is see that his child is safe. I'll go to the dropship with you, Mr. Humboldt. Let's keep this quiet. Oh, and Mr. Davies will have to send his own message to the hospital, or they won't know who to give the baby to! And, good heavens, someone find out what the child's name is. All ahead full on this, people. Dismissed."
Humboldt sped away from them. As Gemma turned to go back to the Gardens, Christophe plucked at her elbow. "Just a moment. Dr. Pugh, would you please escort our Miss Llewellyn back to Ladies' Country?"
Anger sparked behind Gemma's eyes. This was unexpected. "Ladies' Country? I won't be--"
"I am the captain, Miss Llewellyn. I will be obeyed in this." He leaned closer, so close she could smell the Men-T-Fresh on his breath and feel the warmth of his face on her forehead. He whispered, "If we do this, you may not be safe, even here."
She shot Dr. Pugh a harsh glare. "What makes you think--"
"No arguments, Gemma," Christophe said. "Despite the present state of our relationship, it is my duty to protect each and every member of my crew, and that's that. Go straight to your cabin and lock the door. Admit no one but Dr. Pugh, Frau Knopf, or myself. I will have her send you a tray. You're looking a bit peaked, Miss."
He shook his head at her next attempt to speak. She trembled a little at the sudden change in him, in spite of herself. The iron edge in his voice, which she had not heard since he had given the order to end Cervantes' suffering, was sharp.
"I'll come to you when I can. We must speak further on this, but not right now. You've done your bit. Now let us do ours. That's my direct order, Miss Llewellyn." He released her elbow. He swept his own long arm in front of him and gestured towards the lift. "Dr. Pugh, if you please."
As Christophe strode away after Humboldt, Gemma exhaled a strangled cry of frustration. She growled at Pugh as he put his hand on her shoulder and steered her in the direction of the lift.
"You told him. About me."
Pugh shrugged while a slight blush rippled across his face. "Just the barest of necessities. He doesn't quite know all the details of your Peculiar Occupation, so he's not ready to shove you out into the vacuum just yet. But, don't worry, the mission is still young."
Bollocks! Gemma screamed in her own mind with her anger roiling as she heard Pugh cackling at his own joke. Despite the present state of our relationship, he says? Protection, he says? Arrest, more like.
"He's right, you know," Pugh said in a more serious tone as the lift lowered them down to another deck. "You may not be Brightman's only representative on the ship."
She responded with a scowl and a stamp of her foot; but despite her indignation, she knew he was right. The message that Humboldt was researching for her proved it, but she kept that bit to herself. She had to maintain some control of the situation. Gemma continued to stew in her silence.
"Oh, ho!" Pugh guffawed at her lack of reply. "You wanted him to act like a captain, didn't you? Just not when it comes to you, apparently. How droll."
"And what is a midnight salon?" she shot back. "It sounds vulgar."
He laughed even harder. "Nothing you'd be interested in, I'm sure. Nothing that would harm the child."
"You're enjoying this far too much," Gemma snapped back.
"No, no," he chortled, pretending to wipe a tear away from the laugh lines around one eye, "I'm enjoying it just fine, thank you."
"Oh, shut it."
Pugh's laughter echoed around the lift. Gemma felt an odd jab underneath her ribs when she recalled the mention of Maggie, whoever she was. It made Gemma feel nauseous when she realized that it bothered her as much, if not more, than the fact that she probably had a target on her back.
Gemma tried to refocus her thoughts on her impending confinement, even if it was just to her own quarters and not the brig. Christophe's reaction was too calm, too composed, for someone who knew nothing about Brightman. He should not have suspected that she was in any danger. And yet, he knew. He knew, and there was only one way that he could know.
She should have known better than to trust Pugh. Now that she knew that Brightman had once worked for his mentor, she was doubly sure he could not be trusted. Something had happened between the two of them, of that she was certain. After reeling her in and gaining her trust -- which she had never, ever given to anyone save Philippa and her teacher -- Pugh was at last having his revenge on Brightman, if only through one of her students.
She had told herself when she had put her hand to the plow that she was ready for any consequences. But being prepared for consequences and then enduring the business end of them were two entirely different things. She had a feeling that she would have much more on her plate than burnt bacon.
Discovery was upon her.
~~~~
Christophe
&
nbsp; The messages had been sent, and the minutes crawled by as they waited for responses. The arrangements had been made, and Humboldt's cousin was already on his way. It was all over but the waiting. This far away, waiting was all they could do.
Christophe had never been good at waiting. That was when his feet tended to have a mind of their own. He wandered to the bridge, where a message from Thorvaldson waited for him. This time, with the admiral's message in hand, his feet carried him to the Gun Control chamber, where a damage control detail repaired the damaged walls.
A swabbie scraped away at a stubborn stain near one corner. As Christophe approached it, he realized it was blood. He told the man to carry on, and the man took a moment to wipe his brow.
"I'm sorry this is taking so long, Captain. This is a rough job, if you take my meaning."
Christophe nodded and regarded the spots of his friend's blood on the wall in silence. He could feel the message from Thorvaldson in his hand, and he could remember what it said: condolences over their loss, approval of Mr. Pritchard's promotion to first mate, and a report on the situation back home. Russian warships were moving towards the straits around the Sea of Marmara, in a standoff over the TIA blockade. The TIA still refused to release any of their research. The French had completed their own walking machines and were positioning them in Alsace. No shots had been fired, not yet, but they wanted their territory back. And if they engaged the Germans over it, Thorvaldson feared what would happen next.
Christophe knew that even if he had been on Earth, there was little that he could do to prevent what the admiral could sense coming. He felt some solace that his crew was able to help someone back home, and he prayed that the keeper of the Badger and Tentacle made it on time. Prayer would have been Miguel's answer, and Christophe began to understand why. At the very least, it made him feel a tad less helpless when things were out of his hands. Christophe took a moment to indulge in one for his friend's soul.