Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion

by Howard, Jonathan L

  “You’re right.” Benton replied standing up. “I’ve nearly forgotten about it. Where can I find him?”

  “Down the corridor and to the left, Ben,” said Jevgienij. Vadim turned out to be a skilled medic, so Benton’s leg was soon wrapped in a professional looking bandage. He hobbled back to the dining room, hearing Jevgienij’s booming voice as he told Crash one of his unbelievable, yet true stories.

  “…so I told him, shoot me or let me go, but I’m finishing that sturgeon first!” Jevgienij finished, spreading his hands and he and Crash broke into laughter.

  “Not that story again,” Benton said with a smile, sitting down.

  “I had to keep the lady entertained,” replied Gagarin and winked at Crash. Benton poured himself some water from a carafe.

  “I take it you’ve come here straight from home. How is Russia?” he asked.

  “Russia is Russia. We are practical people, Ben. When the plague broke and the government fell, not much changed, really. It’s only that the mafia started to rule more openly and perhaps even more justly.”

  “I still get a headache when I try to start thinking about all of this, much less understand it or get used to the fact that it is what it is.” Benton drank some wine. “So how come you’ve made it here without a scratch?”

  “It is quite a story too, my friend. Not as exciting as yours, perhaps. I was fished out by Riebitva, a ship belonging to ZapFish, a company owned by the cartel that holds real power over southern Siberia. And it so happens that one of my investments pays off all of their operations, so you see,” Jevgienij laughed out loud, “they couldn’t really say no to me.”

  Benton shook his head in admiration.

  “There are days when I think you’d be a better Mafia boss than astronaut, Geni.”

  They were interrupted by Vadim bringing in a trolley with the promised schnitzel with plum. It was as tasty as Jevgienij said, so for a time all they focused on was food. After the strudel Crash went upstairs to shower and catch up on some sleep. Jevgienij and Benton decided to take a walk down the lake shore.

  “So how’s England?” asked Jevgienij when they stopped, after walking in silence for a few minutes.

  “Bizarre. Insane.” Benton picked up a handful of small stones and tossed one into the lake. “Geni, do you remember anything strange from our mission?”

  “Other than Chuck’s eating habits?” smiled the ginger-haired Russian. Benton smiled too.

  “They’ve told me that some object caught up with us and kept parallel trajectory for nearly half a year. The problem is I don’t remember anything like this happening, do you?”

  Jevgienij frowned.

  “No, my friend, neither do I. It is very… disturbing; especially as I do remember everything that happened during the mission quite clearly.”

  “I know, so do I, but it gets better. Since I’ve landed, there have been people hell-bent on catching me or killing me, I don’t know really which one, and I’ve been told that Chuck is being held by the military.”

  “I haven’t had those problems,” said Jevgienij seriously, “but my situation is different.”

  “I know. And on top of that…” Benton threw another stone. It skipped few times and disappeared under water. “You know that experimental gizmo Crash has installed on the hull of her… plane or whatever they call these things? I got it to work when we were on our way here. In fact, I think it saved our lives. But you know what?” He paused and gave stone skipping another try. “I have no idea how. It was like a fucking trance.”

  “That is strange,” admitted Jevgienij. “I’ve been having strange dreams myself since the landing. They’re hard to remember but I know they take place on Daedalus. I was putting it down to the tiredness and stress, but perhaps there is a connection. Perhaps whatever flew with us did something to us. We could have caught up with a comet. Some sort of radiation perhaps?”

  “It would be good to talk to Chuck.”

  “It would, but even with our combined fortunes I don’t think we can just ask to see him.”

  “So what now?” asked Benton, tossing another stone into the lake.

  “Well, with our money we could live our lives here, in peace, da? Find some good girls, grow old.”

  “And forget it all? Never know the whole truth?”

  “You can never know the whole truth, Ben. We, Russians, understand these things…” Jevgienij offered a wry smile. “We should get Chuck, though. He might remember something we have forgotten and it would be good to meet him again.”

  “It sure would. Do you think we’ll be able to convince Crash to take us to… what is it called now?”

  “United Nations of America. They merrily ignore the fact that it covers only the northern one.” Jevgienij scratched his head. “I don’t think convincing her will be difficult, she seems to have a thing for you.”

  “Good, ‘cause I like her too.”

  Both men laughed.

  “It won’t be easy, you know that,” Jevgienij said seriously.

  “I know. I presume getting through the border will be difficult enough, judging from what Crash has told me. Bribing or breaking our way into a military facility to rescue Chuck is a completely different story.”

  “Fire power won’t be a problem, but we might need to hire some people.”

  “Yeah, we’re hardly a strike team.”

  Benton stood up. The sun was beginning to set behind the mountain opposite the cabin they were staying in. “Come, we have plenty of planning to do.”

  “Da.”

  The Traveller’s Apprentice

  - Ian Millsted -

  The rusty digging tool hit something metallic. Vic’s first reaction was to look around and see if any of the other dust searchers had heard the tell-tale sound. Safe, she thought. Most were some way off and none had turned around to look at her. She turned her attention to carefully scraping around the sides of the object while keeping up a regular vigil for anyone drifting close to her. Any find was rare enough and there was, Vic had found out the hard way over the last couple of years, no honour among her fellow scavengers. Twice she accidentally struck her find but the clash of metal on metal was too quiet, dulled by the thick layer of mud and rust on both tool and object, for anyone but her to hear. The work was slow and methodical. Too slow really; anyone paying attention to her would quickly realise she was only staying in one place for so long because she had found something. Finally, however, she managed to prise out her find but she took care to keep it in the hole in the mud while she tried to examine it. Using her fingers to scrape off as much muck as she could she saw that it was a tin of some quality. That was a find in itself but what she saw when she lifted the lid caused her to take a sharp intake of breath.

  Living as a scavenger meant little real choice in what she wore; it was all found somewhere in the bags thrown out by the gentry and wealthy merchants of Bristol. However, as much as possible, Vic sought out close fitting underwear and baggy top clothes, partly to disguise her gender as much as possible should any down on their luck dock workers decide to save themselves the price of even a cheap whore by taking advantage of those that might look unable to fight them off, and partly because the loose layers of coat and cloak gave more space to hide anything she might come across in her day’s work until she could get it to someone who would give her a price that, while not fair – it was never a fair price for a dust searcher — was at least enough to pay for the next round of meals. Vic tucked the tin, and another object she had found below it, into an inner pocket which hung close to her arm pit when she was standing naturally. She moved to another spot in the mud and continued searching. To leave before the light started to fade would advertise all too obviously that she had struck lucky and anyone bigger than her, which was most of them, would be on her before she reached the road. She also needed to find some more ordinary finds to pass off to anyone who did choose to get inquisitive anyway.

  The airship bucked in the wind slightly as Mr.
William Friese-Greene instructed his assistant to hold the camera steady. Friese-Greene cursed audibly as he and his assistant both struggled to hold the heavy camera in place, a task not helped by the necessity of having to have the camera fixed at the correct angle to be ready to capture the action they were expecting to unfold below them at the county cricket ground. Once the camera was fixed in place Friese-Greene left his assistant to attend to the task of checking the lens, while he turned to face his business partner.

  “All set here now. With the three cameras down at ground level we are fully equipped and prepared to capture all the action leading up to what we hope will be Dr. Grace’s hundredth hundred. Astonishing! I wonder if any other cricketer will match this feat.”

  “With all we’ve achieved, you are still ready to be impressed by a man hitting a ball with a stick?” Mr. Adamson replied. “Your invention of moving film is popular all around the globe, I helped you add sound to the pictures and now we are on the verge of sending our pictures directly into people’s homes. We, my friend William, are truly ahead of our time, while W.G. Grace is in the Indian summer of his career.”

  “You have no romance in you Adamson. Days like this do not happen very often”

  “But they will in the future, even if we have to arrange it ourselves. I may not follow sport but I take pleasure from the sales of our film of such events. I believe people will pay us well for being able to bring to them images of events and people they would not otherwise see.”

  “You’ve been correct before whenever I doubted you,” said Friese-Greene. “I don’t know how you do it but I’m not going to bet against you being right in this.”

  Adamson said nothing in reply but waved his arm over the crowd that was gathering to watch the day’s play between Gloucestershire and Somerset. Friese-Greene nodded in acknowledgement. Their Cinematic Theatres were doing good business with good audiences and new openings in cities on an almost weekly basis. The people liked what they were doing.

  “Enjoy the game,” Adamson spoke, to break the silence. “I’ve a feeling that Dr. Grace may have a successful day.”

  Friese-Greene watched as his business partner walked toward the lounge area where potential investors waited to be impressed by the new ideas with which the Adamson and Friese-Greene Company was now associated.

  Adamson called to his driver to stop and let him out while still a short way from his Clifton house. Sending the driver on ahead of him, he stopped to look up at the electric street light. Somewhere across the Atlantic Ocean a man called Thomas Edison was probably wondering why he kept finding that every time he tried to lodge a patent he found that Adamson and Friese-Greene had beaten him to it. Adamson mused on the thought that he was probably one of the few in Britain that even knew of Edison’s existence.

  His thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps. They brought the person that Adamson was expecting.

  “You have the money?” Adamson asked the new arrival. Another win for you. Remarkable track record you have Mr. Adamson.”

  “And are you increasing your own wealth by shadowing my bets?”

  “Just the odd shilling, here and there, sir.”

  “Well, good luck to you.”

  Adamson walked away without adding further to the conversation. It was probably time to find another willing front for his gambling hobby. Either that or he would have to deliberately place a wrong bet to throw his man off from getting too suspicious. He walked the two streets to his town house only to find a bundle of old clothes strewn on the steps. Pressing his booted foot against the pile ready to push it out of his way, he heard a small cry.

  “Be off with you,” Adamson said as a figure started to emerge from the old clothes. “I don’t give to beggars with the temerity to obstruct my front door. You would have been better off trying the back earlier. The cook or house-keeper might have taken pity on you, but they’d not thank you for disturbing them at this hour.”

  “I have something for you, Mr. Adamson.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do.” Adamson put his key to the lock of the door. “Are you male or female? It’s hard to tell from either your voice or appearance. Not that it matters greatly but it may make a difference when I come to advise my footman how much force he should use if he needs to throw you down these steps.”

  “I’m a girl, Mr. Adamson.”

  “Then I’d strongly suggest you find a more suitable lodging for the night.”

  “I came to give you this.” Vic held up a cigarette case, its golden colour still evident despite the dirt that clung to it in places. “It has your name on it, Mr. Adamson, so I thought I should bring it to you.”

  Adamson reached out and took it from the girl. With his gloved fingers he tried to rub more dirt from the sides but had little success. He could indeed read his name quite clearly. With his other hand he patted the outside of the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “Interesting. Why did you bring this to me? You do realise that this is gold? You could have sold it for far more than any reward I am likely to give you. You’re not that mythological being, an honest thief, are you?”

  “I don’t want any money for it, sir.”

  Adamson turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. He could see his butler lurking inside, ready to make himself obsequious when required.

  “Well, come in then and we’ll see if we can’t get someone to bring some bread and soup for you. But don’t touch anything.”

  “I wouldn’t take anything.”

  “Good lord, I never thought you would since you’ve willingly brought me something of such value. I only meant anything you touched would have to be cleaned afterwards, given the state of you.”

  Vic followed Adamson into the house. The butler emerged into the light of the hallway and Adamson instructed him to feed ‘the wretch’ and then bring her back up to his study. He also instructed him to bring a chair from the kitchen for ‘the wretch’ to sit on when she was brought to him. Once they were both gone from the room Adamson reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought forth a small, gold cigarette case, identical in every way, bar the dirt, to the one just returned to him. A rare expression of self doubt formed on his face.

  “So, if you don’t want a reward, what do you want?”

  Vic looked across the room at this man who lived in a large house, smoked cigarettes out of a gold case and was responsible for more innovations and new inventions than anyone else alive. He was, she was sure, no better than she.

  “I want a job,” Vic replied. “I want to learn from you.”

  Adamson seemed amused by the notion. “Well, I applaud your initiative and ambition. It’s more than half the men on the company board show most of the time. Where did you learn to read by the way?”

  “I was at the Muller orphanage before it was closed down,” Vic replied. “They taught us all the basics but they told me I was quicker than most. They gave me a Bible of my own to read whenever I wanted to, and a copy of ‘Jane Eyre’ as well.”

  “Yes, a pity about the orphanages, but it was really the best site for my studios to be set up. Plenty of sunlight. Do you still have your Bible?”

  “I had to sell it to buy food.”

  Adamson sipped his brandy while looking at the girl in front of him, effectively seeing her for the first time.

  “Well, I like to play on long odds sometimes, so I think I may give you a chance. But, be warned, if this is some clumsy attempt to attach yourself to me in a way that might be considered incriminating for me then I can assure you that my taste runs to women rather than girls.” Adamson drained his brandy glass and rose to his feet. “On the assumption that you do not have a home to go to, I will have someone arrange a place for you to sleep in the kitchen for tonight and in the morning we will see to it that you are washed, dressed decently and found suitable lodgings.”

  Vic became, again, Victoria, a name she had not been known by since the orphanage closed down. Adamson arranged for her to lodge wit
h the widow of a schoolmaster near Clifton College. From there she walked each morning to Ashley Down, for so long her only home, where Adamson arranged for her to start work in the accounts and book keeping section of the film studios. “Learn how this business works,” he had told her, “and see if you can’t spot where our distributors are cheating us, for I’m sure they are.”

  Vic’s sudden appearance in the hitherto all male office caused the expected ripples of gossip and disapproval. She had expected it but compared to the sense of threat she had known each night sleeping on the streets it caused her little concern. Adamson clearly enjoyed using her as a tool to stir up some of his managers. He had also instructed her with one additional task. She was to report to him in person, once a week at his home, with her own observations on how the business was working. Vic duly reported on which staff started early or finished late, which people were of little use after visiting the public house on Friday lunchtime and which staff believed Mr. Adamson and Mr. Friese-Greene could do no wrong. She was surprised, albeit not unpleasantly so, to find that he took no action against those on whom she had reported negatively. She had sensed that only true reports would satisfy Mr. Adamson and had not wasted her time making safe reports but nor had she wanted to see anybody put out of work. Having known poverty she did not wish it on anybody.