The Oilman's Daughter

by Allison M. Dickson

  A gauge on Jonathan’s wrist showed as the air pressure in the airlock drove downward. His suit seemed to bulge out in odd places as the air trapped within it equalized. He listened for any sounds of air leaking, but the suit held its pressure and his ears didn’t pop at all. Phinneas checked his own wrist gauge, and then cranked the wheel of the outer door and pulled it open.

  Jonathan gasped in a mixture of terror and delight. He’d seen all these stars before from the safety and security of the CR, and on Pinnacle Station. Now nothing but a few feet of metal deck separated him from the entire universe, and it awed him. Phinneas touched him on the arm, startling him out of his reverie. The pirate captain ran a rope through two clips on Jonathan’s belt and attached the end to an eyelet on the airlock’s interior. He connected himself to the rope and then stepped out of the airlock onto the Swan Song’s hull. Jonathan followed; anxiety hummed in his bones, but he’d come this far. He wasn’t going to hide in the airlock and let Phinneas be the hero.

  Earth was a giant blue orb just beyond the edge of the Swan Song, and the moon hung in space below and to his right. Jonathan lost all sense of which direction was up. His mind screamed at him that he was falling, and yet he could feel no motion at all, as if he existed within a daguerreotype. Phinneas played out the rope a few feet at a time as he moved across the hull. Jonathan stayed close and focused on his feet, making sure each one was well-planted against the iron hull before moving the other.

  After a few minutes of slow, careful progress, the two men entered the cargo hold, a great yawning volume of empty space with a few remaining bags of flour stuck against protrusions. A heavy iron crane derrick sat on rails with insulated steam pipes to move it in and out of the hull as needed. Even in the glow of Earthlight, it looked dark and foreboding. A tube reminiscent of a fat stovepipe sat clamped to one bulkhead. It had external rigging and a carefully-folded gas envelope along its hull. Jonathan suspected it was a middleman dirigible like Gusarov had described.

  Phinneas tapped him again and Jonathan jumped inside his suit. He felt guilty for woolgathering when they should be working. They moved to a lever-driven crank at one side of the bay door. It reminded Jonathan of the old hand-pumped rail car which sat in the front lobby of the CR offices in Houston—his father’s constant reminder of the company’s humble beginnings. They commenced pumping, and the bay door began to close inch by inch. Jonathan discovered what Phinneas meant about the cold; the tips of his fingers were already aching from it despite the sweat pouring off him from his exertions. His toes were freezing as well and he wiggled them a little inside the boots. The cold came up through the magnetic plates on the soles, making it feel as if he stood on an ice floe.

  A gleam caught his eye where none should be, and he missed a return stroke on the pump. Phinneas glared at him, but Jonathan shook his head and pointed. Somewhere out among the stars beyond the edge of the bay, he’d seen a yellow-orange flash, like a distant campfire. Phinneas turned to look, shading his eyes from the Earth’s glare with his hand. The gleam repeated and then burned steady.

  Jonathan touched his helmet to Phinneas’s just in time to hear the pirate finish cursing. “What is it?”

  “Radiators.” Phinneas’s voice sounded odd through two layers of brass supports and leaded glass panes.

  “Maybe it’s just another freighter?”

  “It’s on an intercept course.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Look close. There are two radies side by side. Ye can only see that when a ship’s approachin’ or fleein’, and since the glow isn’t occluded by ice crystals from exhaust, it means the bugger’s closin’.”

  Jonathan snorted in disbelief. “You can tell all that just from a distant glow?”

  “I said they wouldn’t give up on Miss Renault so easily after spendin’ so much time, effort, and money to catch her in the first place.”

  “What are they going to do, blow us out of space?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t plan on us stickin’ around to find out. Stay here.”

  “Wait, where are you going?” But Phinneas had moved away, leaving Jonathan alone in silence again. The pirate captain moved partway up the bay until he ran out of rope. Then he tied the end off and continued onward untethered until he was as far forward as he could get. Jonathan squinted into the darkness, trying to see what Phinneas was up to. He heard a series of faint clangs, carried through the bottoms of his feet. Long-long-short-long-long-long. The pattern paused, then repeated twice more. He wished he knew Morse code.

  A new vibration came through his boots, powerful and familiar. Gusarov had engaged the engine and shunted steam to the exhaust nozzles. The Swan Song jerked and Jonathan struggled to keep his balance. He grabbed hold of the pump lever and braced himself.

  Phinneas emerged from the darkness, unbraced. His arms and legs flailed as the Swan Song flew out from around him. Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He wrapped the rope several twists around one hand. Taking a deep breath, timing his motion, he jumped away from the deck, free hand outstretched. Phinneas crashed into him and for one terrifying moment Jonathan thought one or both of their glass helmets had cracked, but it turned out to only be Phinneas’s air pressure gauge that shattered. As the Swan Song continued to accelerate, the rope drew taut and Jonathan’s shoulder wrenched tight. He strained and swung Phinneas across the open bay door so the pirate captain could get his boots onto some metal.

  Phinneas, braced safe against the doorframe, found a gaff clipped to the bulkhead beside the pump lever. He held it out toward Jonathan, who kept hold of the rope and let Phinneas pull him over until he too was back with his feet upon metal.

  The pirate captain leaned over and touched helmets with Jonathan. “Ye’re a bloody fool, Orbital. Ye could have let me go and been done with me.”

  “And you could have used that gaff to shove me away, slice the rope, anything you like. But you didn’t. And neither did I.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s get this door shut so we don’t have to take the scenic route back into the cabin again.”

  Fighting against the Swan Song’s acceleration the whole time, the two men pumped the lever until the bay door closed tight against its jamb. Now that the danger of being flung out into space was gone, they walked across the surface of the door itself and cranked all the wheels tight to force the door even harder against the India rubber seal around the edges. That would at least allow them to pressurize the cargo bay if there were sufficient canisters of compressed air on hand. Jonathan spotted some against a bulkhead.

  “Should we open them?” he asked Phinneas.

  “Not unless we need to.”

  Using the crane as a ladder, they climbed through the bay to the airlock into the main cabin. When they finished cycling the small chamber and started taking off their suits, Cecilie had her face pressed against the periscope and was trying to describe the intercepting Fulton to Gusarov.

  “Glad you gave signal,” said the legless pilot to Phinneas. “That bastard is under full head of steam, and our boiler is trakhal. If you had not dropped cargo, she might already be on us.”

  “How long do we have?”

  Gusarov shrugged. “No idea without lot of dead reckoning. One day, maybe? Depends on what kind of armaments she is carrying.”

  “Surely they will not try to shoot us down,” said Cecilie. “They want me alive or else they have no bargaining power.”

  “That’s true,” said Phinneas. “But only to a point. They’ve invested a lot of effort to take you alive so far, and they’ll probably continue to do so until they get orders otherwise. That means they’ll aim to disable us first.”

  “A hole in boiler would do it,” said Gusarov. “Ship is too well-named. It will be our Swan Song.”

  Jonathan gazed out a porthole at the Earth. The terminator line of nightfall was creeping across the Americas. He blinked as he realized what it meant that he could see the Gulf of Mexico. “Forget about Pinnacle Station. We’ll never m
ake it in time. But we’re over North America now. We’re a lot closer to Roosevelt Station. Take us there instead, Gusarov.”

  “I thought of that, comrade, but what is to stop Arabians or Ottomans or whatever they are from doing to Roosevelt what they did to Albatross?”

  Jonathan smiled. “How long since you were at Roosevelt, Gusarov? The United States Space Guard cutters berth there. Either the Philadelphia or Chicago is docked there at all times. That Fulton won’t get within a mile of the station before the USSG takes them down. Never mind the contingent of marines each cutter carries. Trust me, we’ll be safe there.”

  Phinneas nodded. “It’s a good plan, Gusarov.”

  The legless pilot shrugged. “Da. You think you can get location squared up so I can set course? I cannot see out scope and still fly ship.”

  Phinneas started checking star positions through the scope and making calculations on a notepad beside the eyepieces.

  Cecilie took Jonathan’s hands. “I was so frightened, Jonathan. I’m glad you came after me. That was very sweet of you.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  “It’s what any civilized man would have done in my place.” Jonathan glanced at Phinneas, who seemed to be ignoring both of them in favor of his work.

  “And I thank you for it. Perhaps once this is all over and we are safely back on Earth, we can get to know each other better.” She lowered her eyelids to a sultry expression that made no mystery of what she meant.

  Jonathan swallowed. He had little experience with women, and those he’d met through the course of his life and work in Texas were the vacuous society girls who sought status and wealth foremost. Cecilie seemed so different from them, so alive and full of passion. “I’d like that very much.”

  “If you two lovebirds do not mind,” said Gusarov in a dry tone, “I have jobs for you.”

  “Another time, then,” said Cecilie.

  Jonathan nodded at Cecilie and then looked toward the pilot. “What do you need us to do, Mr, Gusarov?”

  He had them prepare four suits for quick dressing in case the Swan Song suffered damage that caused a pressure loss. Jonathan asked if they ought to put them on ahead of time, but Gusarov only said, “Not unless you want to be floating in your own piss, comrade.”

  Once the course had been altered for Roosevelt Station, Gusarov showed Jonathan how to keep the Swan Song on a steady course so he could take a break and catch a few hours of sleep before things got hairy. Phinneas suited back up and disappeared down into the cargo hold once more on some kind of secretive business. Cecilie commented on the unusual clanks that echoed through the hull as he worked. Steam pressure gauges associated with the crane dipped and spiked as Phinneas adjusted connections for some purpose. After two hours, he emerged from the airlock once more, looking sweaty and exhausted, but pleased with himself.

  “What have you been doing down there?” asked Jonathan.

  “Settin’ up a surprise for our friends.” But he wouldn’t elucidate, even when Cecilie prodded.

  Several hours passed and it became apparent that the other Fulton would catch the Swan Song long before they reached Roosevelt Station. Jonathan and Phinneas took turns watching the approaching vessel through the scope, then through the Swan Song’s aft portholes. It didn’t look like the same ship that had crashed into the Albatross’s main bay, which meant the group had even more resources than they’d imagined. The ship flashed messages both from a signal lamp and in semaphore, ordering the Swan Song to stop all engines and prepare for boarding or be fired upon.

  Gusarov ordered everyone to suit up. Cecilie helped to cinch rope around the unused portion of his suit legs and tape the remaining fabric up and around his hips to keep it from catching on anything. She looked frightened but determined, and although he felt the same way, Jonathan did his best to put on a brave face.

  “Muzzle flashes,” said Phinneas, looking through an aft porthole. His voice was muffled by his helmet, as was everyone’s, but they could still hear thanks to the air in the cabin. “Small ones. They’re going to try to disable us.”

  The Swan Song’s hull rang as bullets smacked into it. Cecilie shrieked as something made a loud BANG and a pressure valve whistled, then exploded. Glass splinters whistled through the cabin and shattered into dust against bulkheads. Gusarov cursed and lunged for the cutoff lever. His gauges swung wild between safe, extreme, and zero pressure. “Bozhe moy, that last one did something bad. Multiple valve failures. They must have holed main line. We are done for.”

  “Are you sure?” called Phinneas. “Ye can’t save the ship?”

  “Nyet. There is nothing left to save. We are losing pressure all over. They are going to catch us no matter what.”

  “Have ye got enough for any maneuverin’ at all?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Fifteen degrees roll to port, then six degrees pitch forward. Orbital, get yer arse back here. I need yer eyes.” Phinneas vacated his spot at the porthole for Jonathan and went back to wait by the crane controls

  “What do I do?”

  “Watch that ventin’ steam. When it occludes the Arabians, sing out.”

  “What are you planning?” Gusarov worked the controls like a wild man, trying to shunt steam into undamaged lines ahead of the slow collapse of the Swan Song’s systems.

  “Buyin’ us a little time,” said Phinneas. “Orbital?”

  Gusarov rotated the Swan Song along its longitudinal axis and Jonathan watched as the steam plume moved across the approaching Fulton. “Now!”

  Phinneas yanked a lever open. An explosion shook the Swan Song and all their ears popped from a sudden pressure drop. Abrupt acceleration flung everyone across the cabin except Jonathan, who stayed braced against the aft porthole. He gasped in astonishment at the result of Phinneas’s plan. The entire crane derrick had crashed through the bay door they’d worked so hard to seal, past the stops which were supposed to prevent such an occurrence, and flew toward the onrushing Arabian Fulton like a missile. As he watched, the Fulton started to shift its course to avoid the crane but to no avail. The heavy iron derrick crashed into the Fulton’s bow like an arrow into an apple. The other ship’s boilers exploded and tore it apart in silence, like films of the prior century.

  “It’s gone!” shouted Jonathan. “That was a hell of an idea, Phinneas.”

  “More like bad one,” said Gusarov. “That shot thrust us off course.”

  “How far off?” Phinneas’s voice was grim.

  Everyone’s ears popped, and Jonathan realized he could hear a strange hissing, rushing sound all around the Swan Song. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  “What is that?”

  “Edge of atmosphere, comrade. Your friend has doomed us all to burning up in re-entry. It will get hot in few minutes.” Gusarov sighed. “And not tiny little drop of vodka in sight, either.”

  “Ye’ve got no pressure left to pull us out?” asked Phinneas.

  Gusarov tapped a gauge. The needle didn’t move. “Believe me, if there was anything I could do, I would.” The temperature rose in the cabin and the rushing noise grew louder.

  Cecilie flung herself across the cabin to beat at Phinneas. “You foolish barbarian! You’ve killed us all!”

  Jonathan would have snapped his fingers if he could have in the heavy space-gloves. “Hey, maybe not. There’s a middleman dirigible in the hold. If it’s still there, we could ride it down, couldn’t we?”

  “Middleman is only good for high altitude work.” Gusarov moved away from the bow. Flames of superheated air were starting to flash by the portholes. “Not re-entry.”

  “It’s better than staying here and burning alive,” said Jonathan. “I’m going to try.”

  “Aye,” said Phinneas. “I’m with ye.”

  “And I,” said Cecilie.

  Gusarov looked at them, eyes wider than teacups, sweat running down his temples. “You are bezumnyy.” Nevertheless, he sealed his helmet. The others did likewise. So
mething crashed against the aft hull and was wrenched away.

  Phinneas opened the airlock into the cargo bay, not bothering to cycle it.

  The heat inside the bay was stifling, and the ragged edges of the door where the crane had torn through it glowed like ingots in a steel factory. Phinneas motioned to Jonathan to help him with the door. They only had to crank it for a minute before the change to the Swan Song’s hull caused it to tear loose. Jonathan lost his footing, but Phinneas grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him back before he too could be sucked into the whirling, white-hot vortex in the ship’s wake.

  The two men struggled across the deck toward the waiting middleman. Cecilie and Gusarov had already boarded the cigar-shaped vessel and Jonathan could see their two helmeted heads behind the cockpit glass as they strove to get the ship airworthy. Just as Phinneas stepped into the middleman’s door, the Swan Song’s hull split open in a blast of fiery air and the clamps holding the middleman shattered. The vessel skidded across the deck toward the open bay doors.

  Jonathan jumped for it. The air rushing in through the torn hull caught him like he was a kite and blew him right at the middleman as it spun out of the Swan Song’s bay. For a moment, he was spread-eagled in the swirling air with nothing below him but a drop of many miles. Then his flailing hand caught in the middleman’s rigging and he smashed against the vessel’s hull. The impact knocked the air out of him and it was all he could do to keep his grasp on the cables. Hands pulled at him and he craned his neck around to see Phinneas pulling him toward the door. He could hear whistling in his ears and knew he’d ruptured his suit somewhere. A bright flash nearby announced the final destruction of the Swan Song as the Fulton surrendered itself to friction.