“Mmm...I suppose not. And how's the ship?”
The captain looked away from me and tightened his nostrils. “Well...that...is a bit more complicated.”
“That's one way of putting it,” Gren chimed in.
“I...see...” I uttered.
“We'll talk about it later,” the Priest said. “The girl is going to think we're ignoring her.”
Dolly. Right.
We followed the captain to a guest room, where the Doll was lying down on a small bed, eyes closed, arms folded, and face without expression. Her torso was wrapped in bandages.
“Is she…” I asked in a whisper, “…is she...unconscious?”
“No,” said Kitt, who was sitting on a stool next to the bed. “She's just ignoring me.”
“Hmph,” came from the Doll's lips.
A smile crept across my face. Should've known.
I laughed.
“And don't you start!” Dolly said, quickly sitting up at me. “I am angry at him!”
“Glad to see that you’re back to normal.”
“Hmph!”
“So what did you do, Kitt?” I asked, more than a little amused.
“Nothing!” he replied. “I just sat here and kept her company, like the captain asked me!”
“What you did was lecture me!” the Doll complained, crossing her arms. “Here I am, fresh and composed after a completely horrible encounter, and all I get is criticism!”
“I didn't criticize!” Kitt said. “I just suggested that maybe in times to come she should consider the situations she puts herself into. That's all I said.”
“Well, excuse me for not considering the possibility of getting a hook through me!”
“All right, all right,” the Priest said, settling them both down. “Let's all be calm. The important this is that the young lady is back in one, working piece. Miss Dolly, why don't you try standing up and taking a step or two?”
“Of course,” she responded.
The girl got out of bed, moving carefully, holding her tiny hand against her belly, and pushing against the wrappings.
“I don't understand,” I said. “What are the bandages for?”
“Just a precaution,” the Priest said. “I want to make sure that I've gotten every piece good and tight and in place. Wouldn't want her to twist the wrong way and pop a seam or roll a gear out of rotation.”
“I'm sure it'll be fine,” Dolly said with a smile. “I can just tell. I feel...nicely in place.”
“Still,” the Priest said, “to be safe, leave the bandages.”
“They're somewhat tight.”
“For a few hours, at least.”
“Oh, fine.”
Kitt let out a lengthy sigh.
“What?” I said to him.
“Oh, he's just mad because I yelled at him,” the Doll said, waving her hand at him.
“Hmph,” Kitt said, heading for the door. “I'm going to get some air.”
“I wouldn't do that,” the Priest said. But he was already gone. Dolly scrunched her nose at the doorway.
“He's just worried about you,” I said to the Doll.
“Then I'm tired of being worried about,” she tossed back. “That goes for you and Gren as well, you know. Floating around me like shadows, as if I cannot...what?”
“Nothing.”
“You're smiling.”
“Am I?”
“Don't be coy with me.”
“Sorry.”
“Grr...you’d better not be mocking me.”
“Heh. Do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Growl like that.”
“Why?”
“It's cute.”
She reddened at me. Whether she was annoyed or blushing, I leave to you, dear Reader. Those of an analytical mind will probably offer up the theory that she was doing neither, having no traditional blood to push to her synthetic skin, and attribute any assumed coloration to the effect of lighting in the room. And those of a more romanticized heart may counter such a theory with a belief that one's emotions can and shall always overcome such physical limitations.
But as I've said, I leave it to you.
“I am not your parrot to command, Mister Pocket,” the Doll stated.
“That's right. I'll remember that. Hold on, I'm committing it to memory. You are not a parrot. You have neither wings nor feathers, unless you're hiding them under your skirts and stockings.”
“Mean boy! You are mocking me!”
“No, Dolly. Not at all. It's just...it's good to have you back.”
She gave me a shy smile then covered it with her “proud and independent” face.
“Well, I don't know what you were so worried about. It's not like I went anywhere, so you couldn't exactly have me back. And, sir, I will have you know that I am the only one aboard this shiny sky boat that did not go to sleep when we made the crash! Now what's so humorous?”
I was chuckling at her charming terminology, particularly her reference of being knocked unconscious as “going to sleep.” Still, I didn't feel driven to reveal this to her at the moment, so I waved off the question. “Nothing. Please continue.”
“I was perfectly awake during the entire crash, which is more than I can say of you! Why, you nested like a hen or a hound the second the ship bounced against the land. It should have been me to worry about having you back. Not that I was.”
I slid my pupils to the corners of my sockets and sent her a look to melt away her girlish mask of indifference.
“Had that much faith in me, eh?”
“You are exhausting, Mister.”
“You think I'm tiring now. You're just familiar with my mouth, my clumsy voice. You should spend some time knocking about in my head, trying to keep afloat amongst those rapids. See how exhausting I am then.”
She twisted a finger around one of the red, curled strands that stood sharply out from her otherwise straightened hair.
“How sure are you that I haven't?” she said with a wink.
“Heh. You're something else, Miss Dolly.”
“How do you figure?”
“Just when a man thinks he's got a grip on you, you add another chapter to the mystery.”
“I'm not trying to do so.”
“That's fine. Makes the read more interesting. Don't you think, Gren?”
I looked over my shoulder and realized that we were alone.
“Ah...what?” I mumbled, looking around. “Where'd they all go?”
“I believe they left while we were arguing. The red-bearded one said something about catching Kitt Kitt before he got on deck.”
“Why?” I said. “What's on deck?”
“Oh,” she said in surprise. “You don't know? Haven't you been topside since we've crashed?”
“No...why?”
She sighed and took my hand. “Come with me. But I don't think you're going to like this.”
“Of course, I won't,” I said, following the clockwork girl out.
We moved through the deep halls of the Lucidia.
“This way,” Dolly said, pulling me around a corner.
“Since when can you navigate through this ship?” I asked, trying to keep her pace. “It's like a maze.”
“I know enough to get back up top. I paid attention while the crew was carrying me off the deck.”
“So you were really awake and functional that entire time?”
“I don't know about functional, but yes, I never slept. Couldn't really move my legs. I'm just glad that stupid hook didn't hit me somewhere slightly higher.”
“You were very lucky. Who knows what may have happened if it had struck...uh...the...primary device.”
“What?”
“Well...I imagine if you can lose that many working pieces and remain alert, then you must have some manner of...you know...perpetually-moving, um, clockwork device at your core to...eh...regulate...”
“You have no idea what you're talking about, do you?”
; “None at all.”
“Then stop talking.”
As we got closer to topside, a strong and stomach-turning smell invaded my nose.
“Ug!” I grimaced. “What is that?!? It stinks like...raw...something...like petrol...”
“You'll see,” the Doll said very dryly.
“It just keeps getting better, doesn't it? I'd complain, but I don't have to nerve to do so in front of a lady who just underwent emergency surgery.”
“Oh, so you're not already complaining? I was mistaken.”
“Cute.”
“Sigh...is everything I do cute to you?”
“Not everything. Sometimes I'm being sarcastic, if you can recognize such a tone.”
“Apparently, you can't.”
By the time we reached the door to the surface, the smell was nearly overpowering.
“So did it hurt?” I asked.
“The injury or the surgery?”
“Either.”
“Both, yes. I think. Pain exists very strangely to me.”
“How so?”
“It's hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“Well,” Dolly said, “sometimes I wonder if I'm just telling myself I feel pain when I feel that I should, as if I'm convincing my body to hurt. If that makes any sense. I'm sure you'll just say, why would anyone claiming sanity ever want to—”
“Because pain is real,” I interrupted. “It's reaffirming.”
She smirked at me and wrapped her hand around the door handle.
“You talk like a writer, Mister Pocket.”
“I should hope so.”
“And what do I talk like?” she asked, lowering her voice in a playful whisper.
“You talk like...a watchmaker's doll.”
She half-frowned. “Is that the best compliment you can come up with?”
“Why? What's wrong with it?”
“I don't know. I'd have to know what such a doll is to know if I should be insulted, so let's not talk about it.”
“But—”
“Something else.”
I shrugged. “You seem to be moving well,” I said, noticing her rhythm.
“Thank you. And to be honest, for a trauma it really wasn't such a bad experience. I got to meet the captain's cats.”
“Cats?”
“I'll tell you later. You're going to want to take a moment to brace yourself for this.”
“Why?” I said, instead of bracing.
She opened the door to the deck.
And I had my answer.
“Well...what was it, Pocket? What was so stirring and surprising and odorous?”
“The sea.”
“The sea, Pocket?”
“The sea, Alan. The North Sea. I hadn’t realized it, but the pirates had been had piloting toward the coasts and in the struggle against the Naval steamship, ended up crash-landing a few miles offshore, smack into the Atlantic.”
“Fitting place to find a pirate ship. But why the smell?”
“Well, it’s like this, sir. A sea can be filled with more than water.”
There was nothing in existence strong enough to pull my hanging jaw back up into a socially acceptable position as I walked onto the open deck. However bad I had thought the noxious smell was before, it was now that much worse. Someone eventually lifted my feet—me, I suspect—and carried them to the edge of the ship. I leaned over the rail and just stared.
Oil.
And not simply a drop or a stain or a puddle. It completely surrounded the Lucidia, spreading out in all directions like a blanket of black and swallowing up the surface of the water. The fallen steamship from which I observed this abnormality was now approximately three-quarters submerged, the captain informed. It was literally a black sea that flowed from helm to horizon.
And we were stranded in the center of it all.
Loose metal debris softly moved in the great, sulfuric-smelling pool, rising and dipping with the pushing rhythm of the waves. The Red Priest reminded me of his presence by offering me a handkerchief, which I graciously accepted.
“What in God’s name happened?” I asked, covering my nose and mouth with the cloth.
“A lot, Mister Pocket,” the Priest said, hiding his own face behind a rag. “A very, very lot.”
I sighed and watched as the waves gurgled and bubbled and rolled away into the distance. The yellow sun bounced off of the dark surface, and in truth, the whole display might have been beautiful if it wasn't so disgusting. I tried to ignore the building nausea that the smell was instilling in me and concentrated on the sludgy spirals that were forming in the oil. I felt the Doll behind me, staring. I never looked back to confirm, but her presence at the moment was so actual to me that I began creating conversations with her in my head.
“What does it look like to you?” I imagined her saying.
“The end of the old world,” I would've said back. “The quiet sweeping away of the dust and dirt of our ancestors. This oil, this lifeblood of new industry, new century, new life, spilling and covering all that was once here. This is tomorrow's ocean, Dolly. This is the geography of man's future. Oceans not filled with water and salt and flakes of skin washed into the mix by the morning swimmers, lungs expanding and cheeks reddening with each stroke, no. This is an ocean manufactured of produced substances, of motor oil, engine grease, and iron filings.”
“Does that bother you?” I imagined her asking, and since it was only a voice in my head, I allowed myself to ignore it.
“Hell of a stink, isn't it?” I said aloud to the Priest. He nodded in agreement.
Kitt in the meanwhile was pacing like mad, back and forth across the deck. He had removed the scarf that he normally wore around his waist and coiled it from jaw to cheeks around his face like some grand serpent. Handkerchiefs for Gren and Dolly were also produced, while the rest of the crew stayed wisely below surface, refusing to expose themselves to the toxicity.
“I’ll be damned,” Gren said. “I’d heard that the Scots were pulling oil outta rocks or something from the shores of the North Sea, but I didn’t know you could find it floating out here in the deep.”
“That’s because you can’t, Gren,” the Priest responded. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“Well, yeah, I mean, of course, it doesn’t! I’m not an idiot, after all! I know the world wor—“
“So what’s happened here?” I asked.
“It appears,” the captain replied, “that we’ve had a little spill.”
“Oh, come on!” Gren groused. “The Lucidia’s a big ship, Priest, but it’s not stuffed with enough oil to coat this much seawater.”
“Correct. But we’re not the only toy in the bathtub.”
The Priest gestured out to some the exposed beams and hunks of metal that poked out from the oil sea like man-fashioned trees in this petroleum swamp. Confusion dropped over me as I realized that the scrap did not originate from the broken Lucidia.
“You mean,” the Doll spoke, holding her nose, “those are something else’s parts?”
“The Naval ship?” I suggested. “They were on the way down too.”
“A good guess, but no,” the Priest said. “Not only are these pieces far too rusty to come from a fresh crash, but the scene’s missing a key requirement to be proof of our recent adversaries.”
“And what’s that?” I asked.
The Priest adjusted his handkerchief and lowered his voice.
“Bodies.”
Kitt stiffened at the word and gave me a nervous frown.
“Then…what?” I asked, stumped. “What’s down there?”
The Red Priest rested his elbows on the railing before him and sighed.
“London, Mister Pocket. London.”
His words flew off with the breeze and stuck themselves thick in the sludge below.
“You look confused, Alan. Are you keeping along?”
“For a moment, I thought I was. But then you went and moved London to the bottom of the No
rth Sea.”
“Oh, I didn’t move a thing, friend. But the King did.”
“Who, Neptune?”
“I’m serious. Alexander.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Neither did I.”
The Priest tapped his foot in a steady rhythm as he educated us on the situation.
“Boys and girl,” he spoke, “when the King of England took the throne, what was the state of our beloved London?”
“It was a pile of garbage,” Gren replied. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yeeeeees…” the Priest continued, wagging a finger at us. “And what happened to that garbage pile city?”
“He cleaned it up,” Kitt said. “Obviously.”
“Ah! That is where you’re both right and wrong!”
“Is this a riddle?”
“It’s easy to say that the King ‘cleaned up’ old London, put a little spit polish on it, and rendered it shiny and new—“
“Okay, so he didn’t literally clean the city,” Kitt said, “but he rebuilt it.”
“Indeed. Now, I ask you, boys and girl—“
“Can you stop calling us that?” Gren asked.
“—what do you think became of the old and broken London?”
I glanced out to the oil sea.
“You aren’t suggesting…” I began.
“Not every piece of a broken city can be salvaged,” the Priest pointed out, “and what couldn’t was hauled away and dumped offshore. Simple as that. This scrap’s been festering off of the coasts for decades. I’m guessing we collided with a few disused, sunken machines and squeezed some oil out of them. Just my theory, but seems plausible enough. Couple that with what our ship’s lost in the crash—“
“So how do we fix this?” Kitt asked, rather bluntly, while mashing his fingernails nervously into his palms.
“Fix it?” the captain cheerfully responded. “We can't fix it. I mean, the Lucidia looks to be more or less intact—”
“Then can't we just take off, fly out of this puddle, or something?”
“I’m afraid not. We’re partially submerged, after all, and there’s too much weight pushing on the sunken parts of the Lucidia to get her into the air. Besides, the engine room isn't exactly fully operational. Poor Jack nearly covered himself in crude and seawater down there while investigating a few leaks.”
“What?!?”
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Page 36