Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  There had to be a pilot, she thought. She’d heard the ballast drop, someone had done that — someone was flying this thing —

  “Yes?”

  “Jerry?” She heard her voice scale up with shock.

  “Al? Where are you?”

  “Lower catwalk, between cells eight and nine,” she said. “What are you —”

  “The thing killed the captain and the pilots,” Jerry said. “Mitch is flying us.”

  Oh, thank God. They were alive, all more or less accounted for — except for Lewis. She said, “Where — how bad is it?”

  There was a mumble of voices, Jerry presumably consulting Mitch. “Not good. We’re at 210 feet and Mitch can’t stop the descent. We’re still about a mile off the coast.” Jerry paused. “There’s a nice sand beach, if we could only get there.”

  “Can you drop ballast?” she asked.

  “We’ve already dropped it all,” Jerry said, with some asperity.

  “What about the passengers?”

  “I have no idea,” Jerry said. “I managed to get hold of a steward, told him to deal with it.”

  And that was the right choice, Alma admitted. Worry about getting the ship down in one piece, that was the main thing.

  “Have you seen Henry?” Jerry asked.

  “Lewis went after him,” Alma said. “He — the creature — shot a bunch of the crew.” She shook her head. “He’s the least of our worries, right?”

  “Right.” There was another pause before Jerry spoke again. “Mitch says we’ll be in the water in twenty minutes if we can’t gain some height.”

  The ballast was gone. What else could they drop? Cargo? “The car,” she said aloud. “Jerry, tell Mitch I can drop one more thing, probably 700, 800 pounds.”

  She replaced the handset without waiting for his answer, hurried back down the catwalk toward the cargo sections.

  It had been getting lighter for a while now, must be almost dawn. She could even read the numbers on her watch — 4:45 — and colors were seeping back into the world, the red of the instrument panels, the green of her slacks, the oxblood browns of the steamer trunks on the cargo pads below. Overhead, the gas cells looked weirdly shrunken, the lower parts of the cells hanging loose in their netting.

  She heard footsteps then, coming toward her, and flattened herself against the rope railing and lifted the wrench. Hopefully the gas bags would help conceal her — but, no, she knew those steps, and she risked calling.

  “Lewis?”

  “Al?”

  The footsteps stopped, and she stepped out onto the catwalk, the wrench still ready just in case. It was Lewis, though, Lewis alone, and she sagged with relief.

  “I lost him,” he said. There was a bruise on his forehead, and a streak of blood over his eye, but otherwise he looked unharmed.

  “Never mind.” She caught his hand, and pulled him after her along the catwalk. “We’ve got to get that car overboard.”

  He didn’t hesitate, swung himself down into the box that held the car. Beyond it, Alma could see the opening where the fabric of the hull had been torn away, a huge square that stretched from one girder to the next. She could see the ocean through it, waves entirely too close. Jerry had said 200 feet, but she doubted they were that high.

  “The floor swings down to make a ramp,” Lewis shouted. He reached into the car’s open body, released the handbrake. “Once I get her loose —”

  They could drop the ramp and the car would fall free. “I’ll help,” Alma said, and ducked under the rail to let herself down onto the platform. Here for the first time she could feel movement in the ship, the faintest wobble and shimmy of the ramp. She’d felt worse in her own planes, she told herself, and stooped to unfasten the ties.

  “Cut them,” Lewis called, and she nodded, reached for the knife he had given her, and began sawing at the leather straps. It seemed to take forever, hacking and pulling, but finally the first one parted, and she began working grimly at the next one. She could see the sea out of the corner of her eyes, rising closer, could even smell the salt air. Another strap gone, a guard chain released. She started for the rear wheel, saw Lewis already slicing through the first strap.

  “The ramp release?” she called, and he pointed.

  “There, I think.”

  Yes, that was it, heavy greased rope caught in a brake, pulleys running overheard. Lewis cut the final strap, scrambled back to join her. She could see where the hinges lay, a foot or so from the end of the platform: it should be enough to stand on, but the ramp had been designed to lower gently, its end traveling only a few feet to the ground. Let it go like this, with nothing to stop it, and the whole thing could tear loose —

  “I’ll boost you to the catwalk,” Lewis said.

  She shook her head. “Hold my waist.”

  He frowned for a second, then nodded, wrapped one arm tight around her waist and hooked his other arm and a leg into the holes in the nearest girder. Alma hauled back on the brake lever. For a second, she thought it wasn’t going to move, but then the drum turned, the weight of the platform and the car pulling the free end down toward the gap in the hull. The drum spun, rope whining, and the ramp fell away, the car rolling and then sliding, tumbling backward off the end of the ramp. It hit a girder with a resounding crash, and vanished through the hole in the hull. She heard it hit the water, a heavy splash. More fabric split where it had hit the girder, tears running through the skin like cracks in ice. But they weren’t falling any more, she thought. They might even be rising —

  “Come on, Al,” Lewis said. “We’ve got to get forward.”

  “What?” She was moving anyway, dragging herself past the dangling ramp, Lewis’s arm still steadying her, his body close behind her as they pulled themselves up the ladder to the catwalk.

  “We’ve got to get forward,” he said again. “We don’t want to be here when we hit.”

  She blinked again, and then understood. There was nothing here between the frame and the catwalk, just the duralumin girders that would crumple like paper when they hit the ground. They needed to be forward, where the crew and passenger compartments strengthened the lower part of the hull.

  “Yes,” she said, and let him drag her forward. A horn went off somewhere toward the bow, an urgent, two-toned warning, and they began to run.

  “Flares?” Mitch asked.

  “Done,” Jerry said.

  The alarm was howling: no need to ask about that. Whatever could be done for the passengers was being done. Alma had bought them a few hundred yards, maybe just enough. “Tell the mechanics to get out of the engines,” Mitch said, and a moment later heard Jerry relaying the order over the telephone. “Leave me full power, and get the hell out. Then you sit down.”

  The sun was up before them, their shadow racing over the water. Ahead rose the beach south of the Le Havre airfield, a strip of sand maybe a hundred feet wide, and a rugged sandy hill rising up from it. Not what he would have chosen to crash into, but better than the water. The tail would be in the channel, but the passenger sections would be on land. Light flashed above the airfield, flares answering their own, clearing the field for an emergency landing. He pulled on the elevator wheel again, struggling for more lift. Just a little more, just enough to clear the hill, just enough to reach the runway….

  There was nothing left. Independence had given him everything she had, she wasn’t going anywhere but down. She was fighting it still, he was fighting it, but there wasn’t enough gas left to carry the heavy frame any longer.

  There were people on the brow of the hill, waving and shouting, but they’d have to look after themselves. There were rocks in the water, he saw them now as they dropped lower, a big cluster that would rip the control car right off the frame. He tugged the rudder left, praying that the wind he’d been fighting would help them now, felt the ship start to swing. They passed it, twenty-five feet up and a yard to the right. Sand ahead, a hundred feet of sand. Mitch released the rudder, hauling the elevators up a fi
nal time, and dropping the tail. He heard a splash, felt the airship stagger, and then the nose fell hard, slamming against the hillside. The windows shattered, and he flung up his arms to cover his head and face. He heard, felt the frame snapping behind him, but the control car stayed intact. He lifted his head slowly, saw Jerry staring at him from the captain’s chair.

  “Are you all right?”

  Mitch considered the question. He was bruised, there were some cuts on his arms — and maybe on his scalp, there was a spot that stung like fire — and the old wound in his gut clawed at him, but they were alive. “Yeah. Come on, we’ve got to find Al and Lewis.”

  The alarm was wailing as they ran forward along the catwalk. Past the cargo bays, past the fuel tanks — please, God, well past the fuel tanks, Alma thought, and kept running, their feet loud on the metal grate. The ship was wallowing under them, heavy, heaving movements, the nose pointing up so that they were running uphill. It wouldn’t be long now, she could tell from the sounds, from the way the catwalk pitched up. Lewis grabbed her by the waist, pulled her down to the grating and pinned her under him, covering her body with his own. The nose jerked up — he’d known it was coming, she realized, seen the moment, and she squeezed her eyes tight against his shoulder. There was a sound like a thousand guitar strings snapping, and the catwalk slapped her back, knocking the wind from her. More crashes followed, and then the groan of bending metal. Under them the catwalk bent and buckled, but Lewis held them firm, his head pressed against her neck. The alarm cut out, and there was just a last screech of metal. And then, blessedly, silence. The air smelled of salt and spilled diesel oil. Alma caught her breath, coughing, and Lewis eased his weight a little, careful still to keep hold of the grating. They were lying at an angle, she realized, and as she struggled to sit up, she saw that the catwalk had been torn from its brackets only ten feet behind where they lay. It had twisted, too, and she grabbed the nearest stanchion for balance.

  “Lewis?” Her voice was a croak; she swallowed hard, and tried again. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah….” He pushed himself up and off her, going to his knees. The cut on his head was bleeding again, a new bright thread trickling down into his eyebrow. “You?”

  “Yeah.” She sat up, muscles protesting, feeling the bruises on her back and sides. Beneath them, the frame was solid, only a little crushed, but toward the stern the frame was shattered, caved in around the tattered remains of the gas bags. The frame had broken completely in two toward the tail, which, she realized, was attached to the forward part of the ship only by the fabric covering.

  Lewis had pulled himself to his feet, and was surveying the wreckage. “This way,” he said, and pointed.

  Alma took his hand, and let him help her up. The tilted catwalk felt stable enough underfoot, but she wanted out of the broken shell. One of the frame rings had cracked, pulling the girders apart, and it would be possible to climb down its slope to the ground. Or, rather, to the torn fabric of the hull, the waves already starting to seep through, and Lewis held up the rigger’s knife.

  “We’ll cut our way out.”

  Climbing down the girder was easier than it had looked. Alma balanced on the girder’s last point, the water lapping at her toes, while Lewis slashed a hole in the heavy fabric. It parted reluctantly, and Lewis climbed out onto the sand and turned to steady her. She braced herself on his forearms and he swung her out and down, so that she landed on the dry sand above the lapping of the waves. She giggled then, unable to stop herself.

  “What?”

  “I’ve just been in an airship crash, and I didn’t even get my feet wet….”

  Lewis smiled, but wrapped his arm around her waist, offering support.

  “I’m not hysterical,” Alma said.

  “I know. But we should keep moving. In case Henry —” He didn’t finish the thought, but Alma nodded, and they struggled further up the beach, stopped at the base of the hill to look back. People were streaming down the rugged slope, civilians and men in uniform, and Alma guessed they must have come down near the field at Le Havre. Independence lay broken in the low surf, the nose a good third of the way up the hill, bent up at a strange angle. The tail was shredded, sinking in the deeper water offshore, but most of the passenger section was on land, and already people were climbing out of the windows, helped by crew and by the rescuers from Le Havre. The control car had hit the sand just at the base of the hill. All the windows were broken out, but the car itself seemed intact, which should mean that Mitch and Jerry were all right….

  “My God,” Lewis said, and she clutched his hand. It was hard to believe, looking at the wreck, that anyone could have survived. But there were a dozen people on the sand beside the observation car, people she recognized, had spoken to; there was Celena Moore, being helped down by a pair of French army officers, and the Sparkling Starlet, to her credit, was holding someone else’s child. The older couple from the launch were standing arm in arm, staring up at the wreckage.

  And then she saw them, Mitch steadying Jerry on the yielding ground. They saw her, too, and Mitch lifted his free hand and waved. Alma felt tears sting her eyes as she hurried toward them and grabbed them both in a tight embrace.

  “Easy, Al,” Mitch said. “We’re Ok.”

  “Are you?” Alma let them go and leaned back to look at them. There was blood in Mitch’s hair, and they both looked wrung out. “You look terrible.”

  “We’re all right,” Jerry said. He looked back at the wreck. “The — thing?”

  “Got away from me,” Lewis said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” Alma said. “You did what mattered, kept him from doing anything more to the ship.”

  “We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you,” Mitch said.

  “Anyway, what we said before still holds,” Jerry said. “We can’t kill it — well, we could maybe kill Henry, but it would still jump.”

  “And that means Italy?” Mitch asked, with a groan. “Oh, my Christ, the tablet.”

  “Right here,” Jerry said, and tapped his jacket pocket. “I thought it was better not to let it out of my clutches.”

  “Genius,” Mitch said, and Jerry rolled his eyes.

  Alma took a breath, looked them all up and down. Bedraggled, yes, but a few minutes’ work in the train station’s restrooms would make them presentable. “Italy,” she said. “Do any of you have any money?”

  Mitch fumbled in his pocket, checked his wallet. “I’ve got the rest of what you gave me, Al. A little over a hundred, American.”

  “And I’ve got about fifty dollars,” Jerry said, “but no passport.” He gave Mitch a wry smile. “Not so much of a genius after all.”

  “I don’t have my passport either,” Alma said. “We’ll have to manage.”

  Lewis tucked his wallet back into his pocket. “Ten bucks. And a fifty-franc note I kept for luck.”

  “If we can get to Paris,” Jerry said, and frowned. “We do go through Paris, right? I know someone who can take care of our papers for us. And we can also pawn things there. We’ll need more than a hundred and sixty dollars to make this work.”

  Alma nodded. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fortunately trains left Le Havre for Paris nearly every hour during the day. They made the first train of the morning with ten minutes to spare, Mitch buying tickets in rusty French, but with a charming smile that encouraged the girl at the ticket counter to see nothing else. They looked terrible, like bedraggled drifters, but there was nothing to be done about it. They could clean up in the washroom in the station a certain amount, but there was nothing to be done about the tear in Lewis’ pants, or the blood on Mitch’s shirt. Water would not entirely remedy that.

  There were no empty compartments, and so the four of them had to split up, Mitch politely begging the pardon of an old woman, a young woman and a little girl of three for intruding on their family outing. By Rouen they had ascertained that he had flown in th
e Great War, and he had ascertained that they were returning to Paris with grandmere so that she might stay some time and assist in the upcoming months until the accouchement. It was all quite friendly. Mitch hoped the other three had found compartments as agreeable. Lewis had looked pretty worn out.

  Mitch hurt. The adrenaline surge of action had worn off. He’d torn something loose and he knew it, shifting around uncomfortably in his seat. He excused himself to the ladies and went to the washroom. Not a surprise to see blood in his urine. Mitch grimaced and washed his hands carefully. It would pass. Hopefully it didn’t mean anything important.

  When he came in the young woman looked up keenly. “You are troubled, M. Sorley?”

  “Quite well,” Mitch said, taking his seat again very gingerly. “A twinge, Madame.”

  She had kind brown eyes beneath a pink cloche, and she reached under the seat to her bag, pulling out a bottle of Calvados. “It is for my husband, but he would not mind having a drink with you. He lost his right arm in the Marne, and I am certain you should drink together were you here.”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” Mitch began, surprised at how well the pleasantries came back to him. If he just didn’t move much….

  “We know pain,” her mother said brusquely, taking the bottle and pouring a drink into a water glass. “Drink.”

  “Thank you, Madame,” Mitch said, and downed it in one gulp.

  After that the world was a kinder place. Indeed, by the time they pulled into Paris at Gare du Nord two and a half hours later, Mitch was feeling a vast sense of peace. Which probably had a lot to do with Calvados and no sleep and adrenaline let down, but he’d take it where he could.

  Mitch bid a warm goodbye to his compartment mates, and stood on the platform trying to get his bearings. He didn’t think he’d been in this station before. He vaguely recollected that Paris had half a dozen, and this wasn’t one he’d visited. People were getting off the train, the conductor politely assisting by opening compartment doors. This was the last stop for the train.