Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  “We may as well relax,” Mitch said, pouring himself another glass of wine. “Davenport’s on the Ile de France, and there’s nothing we can do until we get into Paris. So we might as well enjoy the flight.”

  “There’s a lot we can do,” Jerry said. “We have to figure out what we’re going to do once we catch him. That’s the big thing. Isn’t it, Al?”

  “Humm? Yes,” Alma answered half attentively. She was still glancing around the room. The nicest tables by the observation windows were the big spenders, and the reporters were the ones by the kitchen doors. She didn’t see Henry anywhere, which seemed odd, but perhaps he was staying in the cockpit for this first part of the flight of his new airship. She would be.

  “Do we have to do that now?” Mitch asked. “Jerry, we’re all dog tired. We’d do better off getting a good night’s sleep and tackling it in the morning. We’ve got all day tomorrow and all tomorrow night to figure it out. Let’s get some rest tonight.”

  “We could go over….” Jerry began.

  “No,” Alma said firmly. “We can’t. Lewis and I are going to bed. Good night.” She stood up and took Lewis’ arm as he scrambled politely to his feet.

  Their cabin was tiny, more like the cabin in a Pullman car rather than the cabin of an ocean liner, with upper and lower bunks and a small built in dressing table that you could sit at if you perched on the lower berth. Lewis took off his jacket and hung it neatly while Alma surveyed the room.

  “We could close the upper bunk up,” she said. “And just share the lower. If you don’t mind being close.” There was something about the way the stars moved outside the tiny window, warm with friendship and a good bottle of wine. She sat down to unfasten her stockings. “I don’t travel like this,” Alma said, rolling the left stocking down carefully so as not to snag the silk. “I’m not used to luxury. Would it be terrible for us to enjoy it a little? There’s something romantic about this. About sleeping in the air with neither of us having to worry.”

  Lewis nodded, unfastening his tie and taking off his shirt. He hung it neatly with his coat in the tiny wardrobe, probably to wear again before washing, given the limited choices they had with them. He frowned. “Don’t you think you were a little hard on Jerry back there?”

  “Jerry wants to sit up half the night chewing over every classical reference he can think of,” Alma said. “Which we can do in the morning.” She rolled the right stocking off and shook it out, then stood up to unhook her garter belt.

  Lewis was still frowning. “I mean making it so obvious that you were going to bed with me,” he said. “I mean, given his feelings…. It just seems like rubbing his nose in it.”

  “I share a bed with you all the time,” Alma said confusedly. “Jerry knows that perfectly well.”

  “I know he knows,” Lewis said, standing there in undershirt and trousers, his brows knit. “And he’s a good sport. He’s a nice guy, Alma. But you can’t expect him not to be hurt considering.”

  Alma blinked. “Considering what?”

  “Considering how he feels about you.” Lewis swallowed. “I know you don’t feel the same, and I’m not saying you should. I’m glad you don’t. But it’s still got to be hard on him.”

  Alma blinked again. Lewis ran one hand through his hair, mussing the pomade, and suddenly what he was saying made sense, in a completely confused way. “Oh Lewis,” she said, standing up and putting her arms around him. “You’re so kind. But there isn’t anything to worry about. Really. Jerry and I are friends. I promise you he’s not in love with me.”

  Lewis met her eyes, but the worry didn’t leave his. “I don’t know how you can say that,” he said. “The way he is about you…. Al, there’s something there. You can’t deny that.”

  Alma took a deep breath. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, though she supposed that was a forlorn hope. It would eventually. Gently, she put her hand against his stubbled cheek. “Lewis, Jerry has never been in love with me. Jerry was Gil’s lover.”

  Lewis looked utterly thunderstruck. “What?”

  “Jerry and Gil were lovers for a long time. Jerry’s very protective of me. He doesn’t want me to get hurt. But he’s not in love with me and never has been.”

  “But you…. But Gil….” Lewis seemed to be searching for words.

  “It wasn’t a sham marriage if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. His cheek was warm beneath her hand. “I loved Gil passionately and he loved me. But he also loved Jerry.”

  “And you approved of this?”

  Alma met his eyes. “Jerry and Gil were together long before I met Gil. Jerry approved of me.”

  Lewis shook his head like a fighter who’d taken one too many punch. “I can’t believe that you….”

  “Jerry thought I was good for Gil. And I was.” Alma swallowed. She would not let herself choke up, not like someone too weak to talk about it. “Jerry had a career that was going to take him all over the world, working at one dig and another, getting home a few months out of the year. And Gil and I…. We wanted to build something together. I’d spent my whole life running from one post to another. I wanted to go home. And Gil wanted a home. We wanted children. That never happened, but….” Alma swallowed again. “But it might have. And then there was Jerry’s leg and Gil got sick and….” Her voice cracked, so she stopped.

  Lewis was looking at her, a curiously blank expression on his face. “Why would you do something like that?”

  “Why would I choose freedom and flying and going home to Colorado and to share my life with two wonderful, fascinating men? Why wouldn’t I?” She willed him to understand, searched for words. “I wish I could show it to you the way it was to me. I wish I could make you see. I know it’s strange, but you know I’m an odd duck. I’ve never wanted an ordinary life.”

  Lewis swallowed, his eyes searching her face like he was looking for the right words too. “But Gil…. Everybody says that he was a great pilot. That he was so good. And Jerry. He’s brave and….”

  “And you like him and can’t imagine that he could be a brave man and a good officer and queer?” Alma’s voice was a little harsher than she meant it to be.

  “Jerry’s not effeminate. I mean, even with the books and the Latin….”

  “Nor was Gil,” Alma said tartly. “I promise you he was perfectly capable. I certainly never had any cause for complaint.”

  Lewis swallowed again. “And you were ok with this? With Gil and Jerry?”

  Alma took a deep breath, finding a smile. “I was very happy. Truly I was. When Jerry lost his leg, Gil and I took care of him, and when Gil was sick, it was me and Jerry. It was harder on him than me, I think. I could mourn and everyone respected that. Jerry had to act like he was just a good friend. And I have the planes and the company and Jerry doesn’t have any of the things he wanted, not even Gil. It’s not anyone’s fault of course – his leg, the war. But it’s been hard on him. And hard on him to see me with you when he’s alone.”

  Lewis took a step back, as though he would step out of her arms, but the edge of the berth was at his back. “It’s a lot to think about, Al.”

  “I know.” She looked away, blinking at the irony. “When Gil told me about Jerry long before we were married he expected me to drop him like a stone. But I told him I had to think about it. That I didn’t have enough data to make a decision.” Gil had been taken aback by that, steeled for the blow, not expecting quirky curiosity, a bevy of questions about exactly what he and Jerry did. A key turned. Something suddenly made sense. “I don’t suppose I understood it then. What he was trying to tell me about different kinds of love. You and Gil are so very different, such different men, and yet….” She was skating perilously close to words she had not said. “I would never want you to be just like Gil. You’re you, and he was himself. There are so many different shades of love, Lewis. If he were alive, I don’t know how I would choose.” If Gil were alive and she’d met Lewis…. Alma shook her head. Gil would have to suck it up. She’
d told him in the beginning that she believed in Free Love. And he’d not have a leg to stand on, not with Jerry for eleven years. He’d abide by her choice. More than anything else, they’d always been fair to one another.

  But it was Lewis who mattered now, Lewis who stood looking at her like he’d never seen her before. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I know.” Gil had given her time to think, time to ask all the questions. It had never occurred to her then how that must hurt.

  “Alma, you’re….” Lewis broke off, inarticulate in the face of it. “You mean a lot to me. This is just…. I like Jerry.” He said the last almost helplessly, as though it flew in the face of all.

  “Jerry is like a brother to me,” Alma said. “Whatever you think or whatever you decide, don’t take it out on him. It was my decision to marry Gil knowing exactly what the score was. Nobody has done anything to me.”

  Lewis nodded slowly, his eyes troubled. “Ok, Al.”

  She lifted her hand to his cheek again. Gil had done just that. Ok, Al, he’d said. Take all the time you need. Think about it all you want to. I’ll be here.

  “I’ll be here,” Alma said. “Take all the time you need.”

  Alma turned over in the narrow bunk, looking for a warmth that wasn’t there before she remembered. The Independence’s engines droned steadily, a gentle vibration through everything, and she lay for a moment listening to it, staring at the bunk above her. There probably would never have been a good time to have that conversation, but last night, when she had been floating on wine and luxury and good-fellowship — it seemed especially cruel.

  She rolled over, not quietly, but there was no sound from the upper bunk. And, to be fair, she’d promised to give him all the time he needed, just as Gil had done for her. He deserved that, deserved the time to think things through. She slipped from under the covers, dressed quickly, slacks and her one pretty blouse, and closed the cabin door softly behind her.

  Breakfast was already being served in the lounge, though her watch proclaimed that it wasn’t quite six in the morning. A smiling steward offered her a window table, but she shook her head, and said she needed to stretch her legs. What she needed was privacy, a little space to herself to think things through, but that wasn’t going to happen here. She walked the length of the promenade, then up the central corridor, past the most expensive cabins to the locked door that led to the control cabin, and back again. The crew was up already, stewards at work in the passenger area, flight crew in their padded coveralls taking a shortcut at the change of the watch. She was in the way, at loose ends, and she found herself back in the lounge, taking the offered table. The steward brought her a pot of coffee, fine china badged with Republic’s crest and Independence’s crossed flags, waited while she chose poached eggs on toast, and slipped silently away again.

  Outside the slanting window, she could see the sea, the sun glittering from the dark surface. They were high enough that she couldn’t really make out individual waves, just the occasional flash of white that was a higher swell, and the airship’s ride was so smooth that she couldn’t tell if those breaking crests were driven by wind or just by random chance. She’d never flown over open ocean herself, of course, so she had no comparison to work with.

  She sipped her coffee and wished Lewis were there. Maybe if she hadn’t told him, if she’d made something up to explain why she knew Jerry wasn’t in love with her — Jerry wouldn’t have contradicted her, and he probably would even have understood. But she couldn’t do that to him, any more than she could do it to herself. She had loved Gil, passionately and completely; he had loved her, and Jerry, too.

  She closed her eyes for an instant, remembering a dinner, the three of them for once on leave at the same time, hers beginning and Jerry’s ending. They had lingered over coffee and grappa that tasted like well-aged kerosene, and though she’d known she should excuse herself, let Jerry have his last night, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. She and Gil had only just come to an understanding; she wanted every minute she could steal. Jerry gave her a grin, rueful and unrepentant — no, he wasn’t leaving, either — and Gil threw back his head and laughed.

  “You know, there is another option.”

  Alma blinked, and then blushed, and when she could look up again, Jerry’s face was just as pink. He managed another smile anyway, and shrugged one shoulder. “I’m game if you are, Al.”

  “Right, then,” Gil said, and beckoned to the waiter.

  They found their way back to Gil’s lodging, a narrow room above a shop, almost filled by an ancient four-poster bed. Alma blushed again, and Jerry looked at Gil, his expression not quite a challenge.

  “Ok, now what?”

  “I think you two should kiss,” Gil answered, and Jerry looked at her.

  “Ok, Al?”

  If she said no, it would never be mentioned again; she could walk away and neither of them would blame her. But she would always regret what might have been. She took a step closer, turned her face up to his. “Yes,” she said.

  They traded kisses for a while, her and Gil, her and Jerry again, and then Gil and Jerry, exciting in ways she’d never imagined. And then they’d found their way into the featherbed that nearly smothered them until Jerry kicked it onto the floor. She ended up on her knees between them, Jerry’s big hands cupping her breasts, pulling her hard against his chest, while Gil worked her with his fingers, bringing her to a shaking climax. Afterward, she lay watching while Gil took Jerry, too fascinated and aroused to think of jealousy, finally fell asleep on Gil’s shoulder while Jerry sprawled on his other side, and woke before dawn to find Jerry already dressed, peaked cap in hand. He’d kissed Gil, who barely stirred, then came hesitantly around the end of the bed to kiss her as well.

  It had never happened often, maybe twice or three times more, but it had been a delicious secret, a hint of spice among the three of them. She did not, would not, regret a moment. If it cost her Lewis — surely it would not. He had accepted her as she was, pilot, the company owner, and now the lodge. Surely, surely, he could come to accept this, too.

  The steward appeared with her breakfast, offered another pot of coffee, and she smiled and nodded, her mind still worrying at the problem. There was no need to tell him more than she already had, not now, not ever — she curbed her thoughts with an effort. She had promised to give him time, and she would give him time, treat him carefully, as normally as she could. There was more than enough to keep them busy until they got to Paris.

  It was with a sense of immense satisfaction and subtle well-being that Jerry settled himself in the airship’s lounge. True, he couldn’t enjoy his coffee and his cigarette at the same time, due to all smoking aboard the Independence being relegated to the interior smoking lounge, so he’d had his cigarette first and was now settling in for coffee. There were very few people in the lounge, though the sun was high, streaking in through the right side windows.

  Jerry glanced at his watch. Only seven am in New York. He hadn’t reset it yet. But they were somewhere mid Atlantic, and the sun had climbed much higher here. Ten o’clock? The airship’s crew would know, crossing six time zones from New York to Paris. Forty hours on the crossing – it was incredible, actually. Months and months on tiny, crowded disease ridden sailing ships reduced to this, cruising along in the clouds across thousands of miles.

  A fragment of poetry came back to him, something a friend had given him once, before war and all of that, disjointed bits that almost made a verse. It had caught him at the time, a student of archaeology; because the poet addressed the future archaeologist who might someday parse his words. I care not if you bridge the seas, or ride secure in the cruel sky…but have you wine and music still, and statues and bright-eyed love?

  Not a thousand years to conquer the sky. Twenty years, perhaps, since the words were penned.

  “Music,” Jerry said, “And bright-eyed love.” He flipped open the late edition of yesterday’s New York Times left folded neatly on
the side tables for the lounge’s patrons. Reviews of the gallery openings of inexplicable painters. A rather good review of a show he’d never heard of. Jerry had little patience for theater. Gil had always laughed and said that if it happened less than a thousand years ago Jerry wasn’t interested. Two thousand, Jerry had replied. Plautus had nothing on Euripides.

  Gallery showings…. Was there nothing except paintings by experimental moderns? Jerry flipped the page.

  Noted Archaeologist Found Dead. Dr. William C. Davenport, an internationally recognized authority on Roman antiquities and member of the faculty of the University of California at Los Angeles, was found dead this morning in his hotel room.

  Jerry blinked, then read the article twice over with a mounting sense of panic.

  Dr. Davenport’s body was found just short of noon by the chambermaid, who notified authorities. The cause of death was undetermined at press time, but appeared to be natural causes. Dr. Davenport was en route to his dig in Italy, where he is engaged in the excavation of the Nemi ships at Aricia, a find described by Dr. Davenport himself as “quite extraordinary.” Dr. Davenport had arrived the previous evening by air, and was scheduled to sail for Europe today. “His death is a tragedy for the profession,” said Dr. E. M. Compton of Columbia University. “He was one of the brightest lights in the field of Classical Archaeology.”

  Jerry got to his feet, the paper clenched in his hand. He hurried down the narrow interior corridor of the airship to his own room.

  Mitch was combing his hair in front of the tiny dresser mirror, the comb carefully dampened.

  “Davenport’s dead,” Jerry said.

  Mitch looked around, frowning. “What do you mean, Davenport’s dead?”