Phinneas closed his eyes. “You’re finally speakin’ sense.”
Chapter Seventeen
Thunder awakened Jonathan from a sound sleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and saw the underside of the derry’s bag light up as lightning flashed, followed by another answering growl of thunder. Night had fallen and the tailwind blowing across the gondola was making the windows rattle in their frames. A few raindrops splattered onto them, but either they were above the bulk of the rain or the bag was deflecting away the worst of it. More lightning went off in a brilliant display to the west, climbing up a well-developed cumulonimbus tower that must have reached fifty thousand feet. The anvil seemed to fill the whole sky, constantly lit from the dancing blue-white and purple bolts. The lower reaches of the cloud roiled and twisted, spitting out funnel tendrils and sucking them back in again. Somewhere beneath it, he knew there would be tornadoes carving swaths of destruction across the plains and hailstones tearing crops to shreds. He’d seen storms like it raging across Texas many times, but never from a dirigible at night. It was a terrifying experience, and yet he couldn’t make himself look away.
He glanced around the cabin, pitch black but for the flash-lamps of the storm. Phinneas sprawled across a pair of seats, his legs stretched out before him and his head tilted back. His mouth was open and guttural snores escaped his throat. The ticking of the gears in his chest played in counterpoint to the growl of the fans, which was muted due to the tailwind. Up front, Jefferson dozed, one hand resting on the tiller, which he’d locked in place, and the other supporting his chin. Jonathan yawned, went aft, and used the tiny lavatory. The pounding of thunder was almost constant and the basso rumble threatened to overwhelm the fans.
He shivered at the thought of the storm overtaking them, and fed a pair of coke bricks into the furnace. There was an oil lamp mounted on the bulkhead that separated the cabin from the furnace and boiler, and he lit it with one of the long wooden matches from the cup beside it. The orange glow helped to push back some of his anxiety over the storm. The boiler hissed and Jonathan checked the pressure gauges. They all looked well within their tolerances. Nevertheless, he tapped each one to make sure it wasn’t stuck, the way some gauges got.
“Can’t sleep, sir?”
Jonathan startled at the unexpected sound of another voice and turned to see Jefferson looking at him. “No, not so much.”
Jefferson glanced at the gauges. “Nothing to worry about, sir. That storm’s all bark and no bite. The nice thing about riding the front is that it’ll push us all the way south. We’ll save fuel and make great time.”
“It can’t overtake us?”
“I should say not. The closer it would get to us, the stronger the winds along the front would blow. It’s rather like a surfer riding a wave in Hawaii or California.”
“Have you ever been surfing?”
“No, sir. I’m rather uncomfortable around the water. Never really got the hang of swimming.”
Jonathan smiled. “Me neither.” A bright flash of lightning overwhelmed even the oil lamp’s glow and backlit Porter in sharp relief against the windows. The thunder blast sounded like an explosion and made Jonathan’s small moment of good cheer fade. Phinneas didn’t stir. He was surprised that a man who had fought so much in battle could sleep so deeply, but then again, he’d probably just adapted to a life of noise. “Nor sleeping during storms.”
Porter went back to the pilot’s chair and checked the compass and altimeter. “I remember well, sir. Sitting up with you at nights as a child, telling you stories about the War and making shadow-puppets on the walls until you forgot even about the thunder.”
“I’ll never forget those nights, Jefferson. What a pity we can’t pause for more shadow-puppet theater tonight.”
Porter chuckled. “No, I fear the storm is increasing in intensity. As I said, it won’t overtake us, but I expect our ride to get rather bumpy. I could sacrifice speed for altitude, try to get us up above the worst of it, but the front could run very high, and this isn’t a pressurized cabin.”
“I suppose we ought to just surf it out, then.”
“More or less, sir.”
True to Porter’s prediction, the derry began to jerk and jump as the winds buffeted the bag. Jonathan was thankful that the gondola was attached directly to the bag’s framework. He didn’t think he could have handled it if it had been swinging free beneath it. As it was, he had to go open one of the windows and let some of the cool, damp air blow across his face to quell his incipient nausea. After gulping several breaths of the wind, he felt much better and returned to Porter’s side.
“Sir.” Porter’s voice was soft, barely enough to carry across the intervening inches to reach Jonathan’s ears. “Our passenger . . . Do you think he intends to take Cecilie for himself and deliver her to his man in Houston?”
“No, I don’t believe so.” He remembered the fight they’d had earlier, but Jonathan had been out of control with worry and looking for an easy target to vent on. “I don’t think the bounty is driving him anymore, or if it would even be available to him after everything that’s come to pass. If he were only interested in collecting his fee, he could have easily switched sides at the Grant farm, but he fought right alongside me and saved my life.”
“He is a pirate, though. How much can you really trust him?”
Jonathan opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it. Phinneas could have an agenda of his own tucked up his sleeve. The man was no buffoon. Cecilie had spoken about the honor that he’d shown to the men who died under his command, but any man when desperate enough could compromise his own sense of honor and morals for a greater reward. Given the number of men Jonathan had shot in the last couple of weeks, he knew that intimately now.
“I’m sure he means well,” he said at last, knowing it was a weak argument at best.
“We could be rid of him.” Porter wouldn’t look at him and kept his eyes glued to the sky beyond the forward window. “The two of us could overpower him. Now, while he sleeps. It would save us the weight, and we might make faster time.”
Jonathan looked at the butler for a moment, trying to detect a hint of humor, but he was horrified to find none. “You mean just throw him overboard? That would be cold-blooded murder, Jefferson.”
“It was just a thought, sir.”
“Well, I’m appalled that it came from your lips. I may not like Captain Greaves very much, but I respect him for what he’s done on our behalf. I won’t have you talking about such things. It’s bad enough that we’ve already gotten a good man killed. Grant Clay’s death will weigh upon me to the end of my days, and he died fighting beside us. I will fight to keep us all alive, even if Phinneas turns out to be a traitor, but I won’t take the coward’s path to murder.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
“Let’s have no more talk of it, then.”
“Of course, sir.” Porter’s voice was stiff and he sat ramrod-straight in his seat.
Jonathan didn’t know what else to say, so he left Porter in silence and went back to his seat. He told himself that it was too stormy out, that he had a duty to keep an eye on Phinneas, to make sure Porter didn’t kill him despite his orders.
But in the end, sleep overtook him anyway.
Most days, Houston was a true jewel of the Gulf coastline, with shining buildings along the waterfront, a harbor bustling with all manner of steamships, the graceful dance of the airships overhead ranging from the tiny one-man pedal-powered jobs all the way up to the huge six-boiler passenger liners, and towering over it all the thick cable of the Orbital Elevator rising from McKinley Tower and disappearing into the crystal blue skies.
The day that Jonathan, Phinneas, and Porter arrived, however, wasn’t one of those days.
A low pressure trough in the atmosphere had trapped days’ worth of soot, smoke, and steam from the city’s industrial sector over the region, and instead of perching upon the coast like an alabaster seashell, Houston crouched like a c
ancerous brown tumor. As Porter brought the derry in toward the outer neighborhoods, the air transformed from a cloudy blue to a sulfurous yellow that threatened to block out the sun, giving everything a jaundiced, twilight appearance. Phinneas gasped at the stench of coal smoke and the reek from the kerosene plants. “Man alive, this is where ye call home, Orbital?”
“It’s not usually this bad,” said Jonathan. “I’m sure it’ll clear up in a day or so.”
“I’m used to foul stinks aboard the Ethershark, but this is somethin’ else entirely.”
“You’re welcome to leave,” said Porter.
“No, ye’ll not get rid of me that easily.”
The butler-pilot ignored Phinneas and turned to Jonathan. “Sir, are you quite convinced that the kidnappers will take Mademoiselle Renault up to Roosevelt Station?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t they?”
“Perhaps that’s what they’re counting on. The Arabs must know there are others looking for them because of her. Wouldn’t they use misdirection? While everyone is watching the Tower, they’ll be booking passage on a derry or steamship.”
Jonathan felt like slapping his own face. “Hell, that’s a thought. What do you think, Phinneas? A bunch of Arabs traveling with a lone white woman would stand out just about anywhere in Texas. They’ll have a devil of a time getting her aboard the elevator without somebody asking questions.”
“They might knock the lass over the head first,” said Phinneas. “Lord knows she could drive any man to violence with that tongue.”
“I better not find out that you knocked her over the head.” Jonathan watched as Porter brought the derry down toward a landing field, guided by a young man with brightly-colored flags and a scarf tied around the lower half of his face.
Phinneas shrugged. “Only when she welcomed it, believe me. And if ye want to begin fisticuffs again over it, I’m game.”
“No.” Jonathan folded his arms. “Doing that won’t get her rescued any sooner, but take a moment to consider Jefferson’s notion. Do you suppose they might try to get her out of America some other way besides the elevator?”
The derry touched down with a bump. A grounds crew rushed to secure it with lines attached to huge concrete pylons sunk deep into the ground. Phinneas nodded. “Aye, it’s a fair bet.”
“So what would you suggest? I don’t want to completely discount the idea of the elevator.”
“Sir, I could head to McKinley Tower. Keep an eye out for them. And if they arrive, I could see to it that they are detained.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Porter,” said Phinneas. “But will they listen to ye? No offense, but ye are just a butler.”
Porter smiled. “No, I’m Jonathan Orbital’s valet. I’m quite well-known and respected in the company. If I say there’s a problem, they’ll address it.” He spun the wheels to shed boiler pressure and pulled the lever that vented water into the furnace. A great blast of steam shot from the derry to mingle with the swirling clouds in the air already.
Jonathan tucked the pistol into his jacket pocket. He would buy some more bullets for it at his earliest convenience. He hoped he wouldn’t need more than three shots before that moment came. Phinneas was watching him.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you a weapon of your own soon enough. Something less obtrusive than a shotgun or rifle. This is a civilized part of the world here.”
Phinneas nodded toward a commotion on the ground where two workers had fallen into a bare-knuckled brawl. “Looks like it.”
They opened the door to the gondola and the tangy reek of Houston’s air became far more pronounced. Phinneas’ skin turned an ashen gray, and even Jonathan had to admit that it was pretty bad. Porter purchased scarves from a young woman who approached them as they disembarked. She also offered cigarettes and chocolate, and suggested that she was open to negotiation for other favors as well. Jonathan politely declined as he tied one of the rough burlap cloths around his nose and mouth. It didn’t cut down on the air’s stink much, but kept much of the sooty particulates and smoke from his lungs. “Go on to McKinley Tower, Jefferson. We’ll check on other potential avenues. Do you have money?”
“Of course, sir. Do you require any additional? I took the liberty of withdrawing some extra from the emergency funds account before leaving in search of you.”
He’d left most of his remaining funds with Jessie. “That would be welcome.”
Porter handed Jonathan an envelope. “One thousand dollars, sir.”
Jonathan tucked it into an inside pocket on his jacket and buttoned it to make picking his pocket that much more difficult. “Thanks. Godspeed to you.”
“And to you, sir.” They clasped hands, less like master and servant and more like friends, and then Porter headed towards the knot of parked cabs.
“Well, where do you think we should head first, Captain? The waterfront? The airport?”
“This isn’t the airport?” Phinneas looked around, motioning to the dozen dirigibles docked around the field.
“Hardly. This is just a small airstrip on the outskirts. The airport is to the west. That’s where the international flights go.”
“Ye’ve not thought this through properly, Orbital. How many different ways are there to leave Houston? Rail, air, and water, as well as yer elevator. There’s no way we can cover all of them before the bloody Arabs make good and escape with the lass.” He tied a scarf over his face as well, and buttoned up his shirt to cover the contraption in his chest that kept his heart pumping.
“Then what would you suggest?”
“I have some contacts here in Houston. They’ve got their fingers stuck into lots of pies. If anybody knows where those buggers have gone, it’d be them.”
“Why would a space pirate need contacts on the ground? Don’t you get everything you need by stealing it in orbit?”
“A spacer always has terrestrial business, lad. There’s ransom to be paid, goods to deliver, and I always need a place to fence me stolen goods. Or a specialist to get me items that ye don’t normally find in space tourists’ possession. Point is, they might have some information which they’ll part with for a goodly portion of, say, a thousand dollars.”
“I didn’t think that would slip past you unnoticed.”
“Avarice is an instinct, not a learned practice.”
Jonathan smiled and was glad the scarf hid it. Every once in a while the pirate came out with something that sounded brilliant. “Then I suppose we’d better go talk to your friends. Tell me, can you ride a horse or am I going to have to rent us a wagon?”
Phinneas snorted. “A horse? I’d rather walk. Bloody great untamed beasts. I don’t suppose ye have one of them fancy steam carriages layin’ about with the Orbital name upon it, do ye?”
“Not hardly. And certainly not around here. Our facility is on the opposite side of town.”
“Then why land here?”
“Flying through town is a risky, time-consuming operation. There are traffic signals for carriages, but nobody monitors derry traffic. There are collisions almost daily. The only saving grace is that nobody can go very fast so the collisions don’t usually result in gondola damage or falling.”
“Usually?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Bloody hell, Orbital. Can’t ye ground-pounders get anything right? At least in the Big Black, there are protocols for what Fultons can go where and when.”
“Something you blatantly ignore, I assume.”
“That’s not the point.”
A rattling steam carriage rolled up beside them. The boy at the wheel looked like he might have been eleven or twelve years old. He tipped his hat at them. “You fellers need a lift anywhere? Reasonable rates, and I know this city like the back of my hand.”
Jonathan produced forty dollars from one of his pockets and offered it to the boy. “Yes, I’d like to hire you for the day, if that’s all right.”
The boy’s eyes widened and he made the cash disappear. “I’
m at your disposal, gentlemen.” He hopped down from the driver’s seat and pulled a lever to lower a two-step ladder into the carriage cabin. As Jonathan and Phinneas climbed inside, the boy yanked on another lever. Gears ground and then locked, making a small fan turn in one wall, providing a stream of air that helped to tame the sweltering heat of the cabin. “There’s a speakin’ tube there on the wall. Whether y’all want some great local cuisine, some entertainment, or perhaps some lady companions, y’all let me know and I’ll take you there. So, what’s your poison, sirs?”
Jonathan mopped the sweat on his brow with his sleeve. It came back stained with soot. He nudged Phinneas. “This is your show, Captain.”
Phinneas turned to the boy. “Rice Village. I’ll be more specific when we get there.”
“Yes, sir!” The boy hopped back onto his seat and a moment later, the boiler whistled and the rickety carriage bounced across the field toward the buildings of Houston, almost lost in the smog. Jonathan felt his nerves singing like a violin string turned far too tight. He hoped they’d made the right decision.
Chapter Eighteen
Phinneas was no stranger to filth. With water being as dear as it was in the Big Black, bathing was a luxury for even the most privileged spacers, and having a dozen men crammed into a flying tea kettle made for a swampy cocktail of sweat, grime, and even piss and shit if the containment vessels for such things failed, and they sometimes did.
Maybe his short time spent in the open air at the Grant farm had made him a little more sensitive to the stink of his fellow man, but there was no denying that Houston was the foulest armpit of humanity he’d ever set nose and eyes to, and he’d visited a lot of hellholes on this rock. As the steam carriage brought him and Jonathan deeper into the city’s warren-like slums, he noticed how people were walking ankle deep in mud and horseshit, with splatters of the foul muck going clear past their knees or spattering ladies’ skirts. Flies buzzed in clouds thick enough to rival the black stuff spewing out of the carriages and smokestacks surrounding them. The acidic rain from the morning’s storm had cut clean tracks through the soot-covered building facades to reveal ghosts of the red or brown brick beneath.
The Oilman's Daughter Page 21