Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  “I mean he’s dead,” Jerry said, waving the late edition of the Times at him. “He was found dead yesterday before the Ile de France sailed.”

  “Dead?” Mitch said again.

  “Dead! It’s not like you to be this stupid! Dead!” Jerry expostulated. “Davenport is dead. Yesterday morning. While we were trying to figure out how to catch the Ile de France, he was already laid out by the coroner.”

  “Crap,” Mitch said succinctly. “The damn thing’s jumped.”

  Jerry nodded. “And we have absolutely no idea where or to whom.”

  Mitch ran his hand through his hair, ruining his careful combing job. “In New York twenty four hours ago. He could have jumped to anybody. To the maid. To somebody else staying in the hotel. To….” He shook his head. “Anybody. It could have jumped to anybody going anywhere in the world.”

  “Meanwhile, we’re on an airship bound for Paris,” Jerry said. “And even if Henry will blow another thousand dollars letting us bum a ride back on the return trip, it will have five or six days’ lead on us in New York. It could literally be anywhere in the world.”

  “Alma’s going to pitch a hissy,” Mitch said.

  “Alma’s going to have to live with it,” Jerry said. “And she’s going to have to live with the fact that we’re not any good without Gil. We’re not even really a lodge anymore.” Jerry pulled up, swallowing. No, he would go on. It was time to say the thing he’d been thinking, that they’d all been thinking whether they admitted it or not. “Maybe it’s time to pull the plug on the Aedificatorii Templi.”

  Mitch looked away, as though there were some answer in the unmade upper bunk or the wardrobe door. “We have oaths, Jerry. We can’t walk away from those.”

  “We don’t have to have a lodge to live by our oaths,” Jerry said gently. “Mitch, you know we haven’t worked effectively as a lodge since Gil died.”

  “We were pretty good in Henry’s hangar the other night,” Mitch said. “The amulets worked. They probably saved Alma’s life.”

  “We were, and they did. And Lewis is a nice guy. But he’s a completely untrained oracular talent, and none of us have the faintest idea how to train him.” Jerry shook his head. “Be realistic, Mitch. We’re not a lodge. We’re a bunch of drifters who maybe one day were going to amount to something.”

  Mitch’s mouth tightened. Eleven years ago he’d been a hero, a handsome twenty five year old with a good education, a nice guy with girls dripping off him, a real live flying ace better than you see in the movies, cleft chin and clipped jaw and big blue eyes. He’d even been picked to do some goodwill trips before he came back to the states after the Armistice, the very picture of a good American boy. Now what was he? A guy who lived in an apartment over his friend’s garage and flew planes.

  Not that Jerry could talk. Mitch at least had a regular job.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Mitch shrugged. “Jerry, we’ve got to keep going. It’s what we do. It’s all we’ve got.” He paused as though he were searching for words. “We’re a team. And we have oaths. In the end it doesn’t matter whether we won or not. It just matters that we were true to ourselves and each other.”

  Jerry dropped his eyes. “I know,” he said.

  “You’re pissed because it got away. I’m pissed because it got away.” Mitch ran his hand through his hair again. “We screwed up. I lost it in Chicago, and that’s my fault, not Lewis’. Lewis didn’t know what it could do. He’s the new guy, and I was in charge. Mea maxima culpa. So we need to sit down and figure out what to do next.”

  “I’m also pissed because it killed Bill Davenport,” Jerry said. He hadn’t meant to, but he did anyhow. “He was a pain in the ass and I didn’t like him, but I knew him for twenty years, Mitch. And nobody should die like that.”

  “Aw, crap,” Mitch said, as though he’d just realized something. “I’m sorry, Jerry.”

  “It’s not as though he was a friend,” Jerry said. “We were in school together. That’s all. He was insufferable even then, stuck on himself and endlessly self promoting. It’s not like I cared about him or something.”

  “Of course not,” Mitch said. “But it’s hard to lose one of your guys. Always is, even if the guy is an ass.” He clapped Jerry on the shoulder. “Come on, Jerry. Let’s tell Alma and Lewis. And then we’ll figure out how to track down this thing. It’s going to pay for it. And we’re the ones who will bring it in.”

  “How the hell are we going to do that?”

  “We’ve still got the tablet. We can dowse for it again. It can run but it can’t hide, Jer.” Mitch’s hand was on his back, steering him out of the compartment. “We can follow it wherever it goes, like bloodhounds on a scent.”

  “That’s true,” Jerry said. And that made the nauseated feeling a little less.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Henry was making himself scarce again. Jerry leaned against the promenade railing, staring at the ocean a thousand feet below. He supposed it made sense: this was the Independence’s maiden voyage, though by the time Henry let paying passengers on board, especially celebrities and reporters, Jerry was sure all the kinks had been well worked out. Henry never bet except on a sure thing. And maybe that was it, Henry making sure his bets stayed good, but beyond a glimpse at the champagne toast on launch, and occasional quick sightings in the public areas, they’d seen more of the airship’s chief pilot than they had of its owner. Not that Jerry hadn’t enjoyed his brief conversations with the pilot — Georg Federman, his name was; Henry had lured him away from the Zeppelin Company with the promise of better pay and quicker promotion — but they did need to talk to Henry, and preferably before they landed in Paris. He’d sent a note forward to the control car after lunch, but there’d been no response.

  Maybe at dinner, he thought. Surely Henry would have to put in an appearance then. The Sparkling Starlet was looking a little neglected, and one of the reporters had managed to insinuate himself into her circle. Henry would want to control that interaction as much as possible. He moved away from the rail, trying to decide what to do until then. Maybe he’d grab a cigarette, then fetch some books from his cabin, and take them into the lounge where he could spread out a little. The airship’s movement was smooth enough that nothing was going to roll away — smoother than a plane, smoother than a train or even a liner, so smooth that he barely needed his cane. Alma had said she could get used to traveling like this, and so could he.

  “Dr. Ballard?”

  Jerry turned to see Joe Palmer coming down the promenade from the bow of the ship. “Yes?”

  “I’m glad I found you. Mr. Kershaw got your note, and said if you were free, he could see you in the observation car.”

  Clever Henry, Jerry thought. The observation car, with its glass walls, had proved unnerving for most of the passengers. Everyone had dutifully visited, and just as quickly left, most of them pleading the chill of the unheated space. Jerry hadn’t liked it much himself, but it was the most private public space on board. “Thanks,” he said aloud. “I’ll head straight down.”

  The stairs into the observation car were some of the steepest, and it took concentration to negotiate them without looking like a cripple. The car was empty, except for Henry, and Jerry spoke before he’d reached the last step.

  “Davenport’s dead —”

  Something tingled on his skin as his foot touched the floor, like a door closing, and Henry straightened, turning to face him

  “Yes. I saw the Times.”

  Not Henry, Jerry thought, the air cold on his skin. It wore Henry’s body, Henry’s face, but he could feel the darkness behind its eyes. The amulet was still in his pocket, hooked onto his watch chain; he didn’t dare reach for it, it would protect him just as well there, and he took a step backward, groping for the stair rail. His hand struck something cold and solid; he knew if he turned, he wouldn’t see anything, but there was no escape that way. That had been the tingling, the trap snapping shut, sealing them off from
the rest of the airship.

  “You were right,” the creature said. Its smile was a deliberate parody. “We do need to talk.”

  “If you say so,” Jerry said. It took a step toward him, and he stepped away, keeping as much distance as he could between them. His options were terribly limited: the thing couldn’t jump to him, and probably wouldn’t want to, Henry was a better host, but he still hadn’t figured out how to exorcise it, how to bind it, and Henry was stronger than he was in any case… It was backing him toward the wall of windows, he realized, and put out his free hand to guide himself along the rail. He mustered his will, focusing it like a knife, said, “What’s your name?”

  The creature gave Henry’s good-humored laugh. “Oh, please. Do you think I’m really that stupid? And you, of all people, can’t force me.”

  It stalked closer, and Jerry backed away again, letting his hand slide along the railing. It took a sharp turn, and in the same moment his shoulder hit the corner of the car. Trapped, stupid, a stupid, terrible mistake…. He shifted his grip on his cane, and the thing smiled.

  “You’re lucky that I might have a use for you,” it said. “If you are suitably cooperative.”

  “Unlikely,” Jerry said, dry-mouthed. “Look, this is not a good plan for you —”

  “Oh, I disagree,” it said. “You haven’t even heard my offer.”

  “Not interested.”

  The creature smiled. The expression wasn’t Henry’s at all, but something much older, a depth of experience lurking in its eyes. “You’re clever,” it said. “Clever enough to make those charms you carry. I could use such skill, and I’m willing to offer you something in return.”

  “You don’t have anything I want,” Jerry said.

  “Gil,” it said.

  The name was like a punch to the gut. Jerry let out his breath not quite soundlessly, shook his head hard. “You can’t do it. You can’t raise the dead.”

  “You don’t know what I can and can’t do,” the thing said softly. “I have more powers than you have ever imagined — more than you have ever read about in all your books. And I can do better than raise the dead. Serve me, serve me well, and you can choose a body, young and healthy, never touched by war — Kershaw’s young pilot, perhaps? You seemed to get on well with him. And I will call Gil’s soul to it, and he will be yours again.”

  “No,” Jerry said, but he couldn’t help imagining it, Gil alive again, alive and healthy, able to breathe without coughing, no more bloody handkerchiefs and useless cures…. And with Gil alive to lead them, they could fight this thing — Alma would kill him, he knew, if Gil didn’t do it first, and the thought steadied him enough to shake his head again. “No.”

  “Pity,” the thing said, without particular regret, and pinned him with a look. Jerry heard the window slide open behind him, and felt the first blast of frigid air. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only with enormous effort tighten his hold on the railing. The thing in Henry’s body moved closer, laid a hand on his shoulder, fingers closing tight enough to leave a bruise.

  “We are flying at eleven hundred feet,” it said softly, “or at least that was the altitude when I left the control car. It’s a very long way down, and you’ll be conscious for most of it. You’ll be falling, seeing the lights recede from you, your life receding, and all the way down you’ll know. Perhaps you’ll even be conscious when you hit the water, when every bone shatters, your organs rupture, one tremendous flash of agony as you die. And I will savor every shrieking breath, every second of your fall.”

  Jerry shuddered, tried again to move, and the creature smiled. “Such a tragic accident! Such a shame, a pointless end to a disappointing life.” It tapped Jerry’s wooden leg with its foot. “And so easily arranged. So easy for a cripple to stumble, such a foolish mistake to have a window open —”

  Oh, God. Jerry couldn’t form a better prayer, and reached instead for craft, found a word and directed it not at Henry, not at the thing that wore him, but at the barrier that sealed the observation car. The creature kicked his leg again, sending it sliding; he lurched and fell forward, head and shoulders in the slipstream, tie whipping back like a flag.

  And then there was a shout from the stairs and the thing was hauling him back in, a terrible mockery in its eyes.

  “My God, Dr. Ballard —” That was Palmer, hurrying toward them, and Henry slid the window shut.

  “Yes, that was a little too close. Jerry, are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Jerry’s lips were numb, as though he’d been hanging in the freezing air for hours. “Yes, I’m fine.” He pulled himself upright, straightening his tie and jacket, and Henry shook his head.

  “Make a note, Joe, we need to fix those windows so they don’t go all the way back. Damn, that was — close.”

  “But it didn’t happen,” Jerry said, and dredged a smile from somewhere. “Don’t worry, Henry, I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “Be sure you don’t,” Henry said, and slapped him hard on the bruised shoulder. “Does that take care of what you wanted?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jerry said. He felt sick, swallowed hard. “Yes, that takes care of that.”

  “Good,” Henry said. The creature smiled again behind his eyes, and he turned away, heading for the catwalk that led to the control car.

  Jerry took a deep breath, his heart slowing, and Palmer gave him a worried look. “My God, how did that happen?”

  “My foot slipped, I think,” Jerry said.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Palmer looked as though he wanted to offer his hand, but Jerry waved it away.

  “I’m fine,” he said again, and willed it to be true.

  Lewis knotted his tie — not the same tie he’d been wearing the night before, but the same suit, the same shirt — and stooped to check his hair in the mirror. It was mostly tamed, and his cheeks were smooth: as presentable as he was going to get, and he shrugged on his jacket. Alma had dressed already, gone with Mitch to grab a cigarette and to see if they could find Henry, and he wasn’t entirely sorry. He still didn’t know what to think of what she’d told him. He didn’t really want to think about it, if he was honest, didn’t want to keep wondering about Gil. Gil and Alma, Gil and Jerry, Gil and Alma wanting kids…. It was probably Gil’s fault they didn’t, he thought, and then was ashamed of himself, embarrassed at even thinking such a thing. But it wasn’t right, putting Alma in such a position — except that Alma said she was, had been, happy, and he couldn’t disbelieve her. He had always known she’d been happy with Gil, even if now he couldn’t figure out why. Take all the time you need, she had said. He wished he didn’t need any time at all.

  He made his way down to the lower deck, where the washrooms were, aware that everyone else was heading for the dining room and he would need to hurry. He pushed open the door, checked as he saw Jerry leaning over the further washbasin. There was a sour smell of vomit.

  “Jerry?”

  He saw a shudder run through the other man’s shoulders, head still lowered. “Yeah.”

  “What happened?” No point asking if something was wrong, that much was obvious.

  Jerry didn’t answer at once, turned on the taps hard to rinse the sink, and when it was clean, splashed water on his face. “It’s in Henry.”

  “What?”

  “It’s in Henry,” Jerry said again. He reached for a towel, dried his hands and face. He looked suddenly old, face gray and strained. “He tried to pitch me out the window of the observation car.”

  “Damn,” Lewis said. That was — he couldn’t imagine anything worse, anyone worse for it to take over.

  “Yeah,” Jerry said again, with the ghost of his usual smile. He pulled off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We are screwed.”

  Lewis took a breath, shoved away those words. They couldn’t afford that now, not if they were going to do — something, anything. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Jerry put his glasses back on, straightened slowly
. “Scared. It’s — a long way down.”

  Lewis nodded, feeling an unwilling sympathy. You could never completely get over that fear, the knowledge that if the wings failed, the engine died, you lost control in any of a hundred ways, you’d fall out of the sky, with no chance of recovery. And it wasn’t even something that hit you once, and went away. Every glitch in the engine, every flutter in the controls, every time someone got the drop on you: the abyss was always there, always waiting. All you could do was learn to live with it, and kill the other guy first.

  “Sorry,” Jerry said. “I’m Ok.”

  “What do we do now?” Lewis asked.

  “Tell Al and Mitch,” Jerry answered. “And hope one of us comes up with something.”

  Jerry’s color was better by the time they reached the dining room, and he was moving with a semblance of his usual care. Alma and Mitch were already at their table, Alma glorious in her royal blue dress, and for a crazy instant Lewis wished they didn’t have to tell her. But her expression was already sharpening, and Mitch looked up from the menu, frowning.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Jerry pulled out his chair, seated himself awkwardly before he answered. “It’s got Henry.”

  “What?” Alma grimaced, lowered her voice. “Jerry, are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Jerry concentrated on unfolding his napkin, his eyes on his plate, bright with the Kershaw emblem. “He — it — tried to kill me.”

  Lewis took his seat next to Alma and tried to focus on the menu. Soup, trout, tenderloin of beef on toast…. His stomach roiled.

  “How —” Alma began, but the steward interrupted her, offering a tray of cocktails. Jerry drained his, and motioned for the steward to bring him another.

  ”Easy, Jer,” Mitch said.

  Jerry glared at him. “Mitch, the man tried to push me out the window of the observation car. I think I’m entitled to a second drink.”

  Alma let her breath out with a whoosh. “Well,” she said.