Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  "Does he?" Mitch glanced sideways at Lewis.

  He shrugged. "Pretty much. He doesn't ride herd on you. But even if he does get a Guard unit sent up, they're not going to get there right away. He's got to go through the chain of command. And that's going to be tomorrow or the next day." He looked up, his eyes keen. "So we're going to have to guard it ourselves until they get there."

  Stasi's eyebrows rose. "You do know that Kirsch's boys are good for a fight."

  "So am I," said Lewis.

  "Sampson first," Mitch said. "And then we'll get together some stuff and go up there tonight. They may back off if somebody is already there." He looked up at Stasi. "You stay here and see if you can reach Alma and tell her what's up."

  Her voice was flat. "You are insane if you think I'm staying here while you and Lewis go up there to deal with Pelley's boys."

  "It might be dangerous," Lewis said.

  "Of course it will be dangerous!" Stasi said. "Why do you think I'm going? If it was just that you and Mitch were going to spend an uncomfortable evening camping in the snow, I'd happily stay home and take a hot bath, darling! But if you're planning on getting into it with Albert Kirsch, I'm coming. Remember, I'm the one who knows him."

  "She's right about that," Mitch said. "She may be able to talk him around." He couldn't help tweaking Stasi just a little. "Or talk him to death."

  "I'll do my best to bore him silly," Stasi said. "Or at least stall."

  The narrow room was cold, wind whistling through the gaps in the window frame, rattling the glass. The heavy curtains lifted and fell in spite of the towel that the hotel's manager had wedged against the sill. He'd provided a stack of extra blankets, including what looked like a handmade quilt, and an apology. These were the last three rooms available, what with the weather, and somebody would have to take the one on the corner. Better him than either Alma or Tesla, Jerry thought, and turned his back to the draft to light a cigarette. Not that he'd dare say that to Alma — not that it was possible to think of her as delicate after the job she'd done getting them this far. But Tesla was well over seventy, and Al was pregnant, and that meant he should be the one to take the drafty room. Besides, as he'd pointed out when Alma would have protested, it was closest to the bathroom.

  Alma pregnant. It was obvious once she'd said it, a dozen odd little changes suddenly making a coherent whole. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the only furniture in the room besides the dresser and the bedside lamp, and after a moment swung his legs up and pulled the nearest blanket over them. That was better, and he reached for the flask he'd set beside the ashtray. The bourbon he'd bought in New York was smooth, the real McCoy, and he savored its sweet heat. Alma hadn't been showing the first time, and surely — surely that meant the danger was past? Surely that meant she would carry this one to term? And how far along was she? Further than before, so at least a couple of months, which meant… he counted on his fingers. A June baby, possibly, late spring, early summer, Taurus or Gemini or Cancer, earth or air or water. Al's and Lewis's child.

  Lewis was going to be delighted. He was the sort of man who was meant to be a father, who'd dote on the baby. Gil would have teased to hide his devotion; Lewis wore his heart on his sleeve. Tears prickled in the corners of his eyes, and Jerry thumbed them impatiently away. Calm and kind and loving — you truly couldn't ask for better. Though the life of Diana's priest was not his own — Jerry shoved that thought aside. He wouldn't borrow trouble, not yet. That would come when it came, no need to rush to meet it.

  He took another long drag on his cigarette. The first baby would have been nine by now. He hadn't thought about that in ages, one loss swallowed by another, but the numbers were instantly to hand, as though some part of him had still been counting. Gil's child, except not. His own child.

  And maybe that was the problem, why it hadn't taken. Queers didn't father healthy children, even if he had managed to rise to the occasion. And who wouldn't rise for Al? He grinned in spite of himself, unable to regret a single episode, a single instant they'd been together. He'd loved Gil deeply and passionately, and he'd come to love Al the same way, to appreciate the curves and hollows of her body, to delight in the silk and satin revealed when they peeled back the layers of even her most ordinary working clothes. There might never be another woman for him — probably wouldn't be, he knew his own tastes too well to believe otherwise — but he was lucky to have had this, to have had her as well as Gil. And if it had been his fault, his failure, Al would never say so.

  Al wouldn't believe it. The thought came to him like benediction, a truth inarguable. He could almost hear the indignant catch of breath, the lifted eyebrows she'd somehow caught from Gil, and then hear her in full cry. You might as well say it was my fault, for having both of you, or Gil's, and you wouldn't blame either one of us. Don't you dare say that. And then, a softer voice, Gil's voice: Sometimes there are no answers. At least not good ones.

  He rested his head against the wall above the headboard, the cigarette almost burnt out between his fingers. He stubbed it impatiently in the ashtray, and fixed his eyes on the back of the door where his bathrobe hung ready. We'll father no children, Merrill had said, and Jerry knew what he'd meant. No children, no family, free from all conventional bonds, and thus able to make dispassionate choices, to stare into the sun without going blind. But it wasn't true, and had never been. They were close as family, him and Gil and Alma and Mitch — they were family, complicated and untidy as it was. If he had never known Al, if it had only been him and Gil, they would have been family still.

  And they were family now. Al and Mitch and Lewis would be there for him, as he would be for them, no matter where the work took him. He'd need to be back in New York in the spring, but that shouldn't be a problem. He closed his eyes, the draft chill against his hands. Diana, she's with child to Your priest, watch over her. Bona Dea, Hera, Isis Mother of the World, Lady Bastet, Holy Mother Mary and sweet Saint Anne, protect her and the child.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Colorado Springs,

  December 20, 1932

  It seemed to Stasi that she'd just barely gone to sleep in the little bedroom upstairs next to the bath when she was awakened by a knock at the door. "Stasi?" It was Mitch's voice. "It's time to get up if you're coming. Lewis is making breakfast."

  Stasi swore, rolling over in the single bed so that she could see the clock. 3:45 am.

  "Stasi?"

  "Coming," she said.

  Her warmest clothes weren't up to snuff, but there wasn't much to do about that -- wool slacks and two sweaters to go under her long wool coat, a pair of Alma's silk long underwear under the slacks. Not really up to hiking around the mountains in the snow, but hopefully it wouldn't be horribly cold. She bundled her coat over her arm, checked her hair in the mirror, and went downstairs.

  Mitch was tending the bacon cooking on the stove, bacon and eggs and toast and coffee, his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. "Good morning."

  "Nothing is good until there's coffee," Stasi said. She picked up a cup and headed for the pot on the stove.

  Lewis had out his well-oiled hunting rifle and was carefully checking it. "Just in case," he said.

  "That's a good thought, darling," Stasi said. "Kirsch was packing a heater when he came to see me, and I expect his boys are too."

  Lewis shrugged. "I hope it doesn't come to that. But I'm going to bring it along."

  Stasi sat down at the table, watching Mitch hook the bacon slices out of the pan onto a plate. "How about you, darling? Are you armed?"

  He didn't look up. "I have my old service revolver out in the apartment but I don't have any ammunition."

  "What use is that?" Stasi asked.

  "Given that six months ago I went on an amnesiac fugue and tried to throw myself in the river, do you think I keep a loaded gun around?" Mitch put the last piece of bacon on the plate.

  "I do see your point," Stasi said. "Still, you could bring it along just for the stage value. Loom and l
ook threatening, darling. You do that so well."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Mitch said.

  They headed out in Alma's truck well before sunup, all three of them crammed in the cab. Lewis was driving, which meant Stasi was substantially sitting in Mitch's lap since Lewis had to reach the shift, but there was no down side to that. Well, except for banging her head on the roof when they went over a bump.

  The sky was just beginning to pale above the walls of the box canyon as Lewis edged the truck up the last slope to the mine. Some of the snow had melted a little. It wasn't impossible to drive all the way in as it had been last time, though it was slippery enough. The Silver Bullet Mine seemed quiet and deserted in the clear pre-dawn morning, walls black against white slopes. The air was completely still. There was not even the faintest sound of birdsong from the trees above the mine buildings.

  Mitch got out of the truck behind her, closing the door quietly as though reluctant to break the stillness. "In the bleak midwinter," he quoted. "Earth stood hard as iron."

  "It is midwinter," Stasi said. "Tonight. Tomorrow is midwinter's day."

  Mitch grinned. "Oh the rising of the sun and the running of the deer?"

  "The deer had better not run anywhere around here darling, or Lewis will shoot them."

  Lewis shook his head, leaning in to get the rifle from behind the seats. "You've all been glad enough when I went hunting last fall."

  "Oh none of us mind a nice saddle of venison," Stasi said airily. "And free is always the right price. Beef prices are sky high."

  "And that roast venison with apples was really good," Mitch said.

  Lewis closed his door and looked around. "We're ahead of them," he said, his eyes keen.

  "I should think so," Mitch said. "They didn't have any reason to leave at 4:30 in the morning."

  "Then let's find a nice place inside to wait for them," Lewis said. He glanced at Mitch. "What did Sampson say about getting the Guard up here?"

  "He said he'd think about it." Mitch grimaced. "I laid it on thick about a Tesla device of paramount importance to the government, a real matter of national security. But you know how Sampson is. 'National security?' Repeating everything without committing. Hopefully he'll put a bug in someone's ear, but we can't count on it."

  "Right." Lewis nodded. "Ok. If we have to handle it ourselves, we will. Let's find a place that's defensible and has a good field of fire."

  Stasi thought she must have looked alarmed, because Mitch said, "We're going to talk to them. This is not the wild west." Only it was. Which somehow did not reassure Stasi one bit.

  Alma woke to watery predawn light and the faint sound of a bird in the tree outside. She shrugged on her bathrobe and padded down the hall, peering out the bathroom window to see the eastern horizon bright and nearly cloudless. The field behind the little hotel was white, the snow sculpted into weird lumps and cornices like frozen waves, but the wind had died overnight. A decent day for flying, most likely.

  She hurried into her clothes and went down to the dining room, not surprised to see that she wasn't the first person up. At least one of the others was dressed like a flyer, and there were a couple of burly men talking about the roads from Dubuque. Truckers heading to Des Moines, she gathered, and wished them luck.

  The waitress brought her eggs and bacon and coffee, and she attacked them with vigor, watching the light swell outside the windows. It looked as though it was going to be sunny, and she could see a snowplow at work on the runways, the pavement already bare and black behind it. The truckers paid their bill and left, and she retrieved the newspaper they'd abandoned. The forecast was for clear skies and warmer temperatures over the next few days. After yesterday, she was hardly inclined to trust the Weather Service, but at least the skies matched the forecast this time.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Segura." Tesla rested his hand on the back of the chair opposite hers. "May I join you?"

  "Of course."

  The waitress appeared immediately, ready to fuss over the gentleman's order, and Alma allowed herself a sign of relief. She would have felt guilty waking Tesla at this hour, but she didn't have much compunction about going up and banging on Jerry's door.

  "I've been thinking about our problem," Tesla said, breaking a slice of toast into three neat pieces. "I think I understand what's happening — it's an unfortunate side effect, unforeseeable at the time the device was built — but as I consider the question, I've begun to wonder if we don't have more cause for concern."

  "More cause?" Alma repeated. Given that the device was knocking planes out of the sky like a giant fly swatter, she really didn't like the sound of that.

  "I'm afraid it's a possibility we have to consider. As your friend Ras Iskinder may have mentioned, I have developed the first principles of a machine that journalists insist on describing as a 'death ray,' and as a result, I have been approached by representatives of a number of governments who have expressed interest in buying the design."

  "I thought Iskinder said you'd offered it to them," Alma said. Jerry had been very clear on the subject.

  "Yes, and to one or two others," Tesla answered. "But I've been approached by rather more. Including representatives of powers I would prefer not to see possessed of such a device. I am beginning to wonder if we shouldn't consider the possibility that those parties are currently attempting to gain control of the Silver Bullet."

  Alma stared at him. "Do you mean to say you think some foreign agent, some spy, might have turned on the machine to see if it works? And might be up there right now trying to steal it?"

  "I don't know. But I don't think we should discount the possibility."

  "I do wish you'd mentioned this sooner," Alma said, with what she thought was commendable restraint.

  "I hadn't worked out the possibilities," Tesla said.

  That changed things. They needed to get in the air as soon as possible, get home as quickly as possible, in case Tesla was right. And she needed to warn Lewis and Mitch — a telegram, she thought. I'll wire from the field here and have them confirm the message to the field at North Platte. In the back of her mind, she could hear Stasi's incredulous voice — what are you going to say, darling? Look out, bad guys after the death ray, exclamation point? — but she pushed that worry aside. She'd think of something, just as soon as she got Jerry out of bed —

  No, there he was, limping across the dining room, and she pushed back her chair. "Excuse me, Dr. Tesla. I need to send a telegram. Jerry, I want to get out of here as soon as we can. Take care of the bill for me, will you?"

  "Yes, all right —"

  She swept past him without stopping for explanations, and flung herself into her mink. It was warmer outside, the air lighter — definitely a better day for flying, she thought, and hurried across the road to the main terminal.

  The manager professed himself delighted to start fueling the Dude, and promised her the choice of takeoff spots as soon as her passengers arrived. He also agreed to take her telegram to the Western Union office in town, and she frowned for a moment over the form before settling on the message.

  Rivals after thing in mine. Use caution. Confirm by wire to North Platte Field.

  She handed it over along with two dollars, the cost of the telegram plus a tip for the boy who'd carry it into town on his bicycle. Surely that would be enough — surely Mitch and Lewis would understand what she was saying. And if not, she told herself firmly, they'd wire her at North Platte and she'd just have to pay for long distance to tell them directly. If only Jerry would get Tesla moving.

  But there they were, the handyman from the hotel with them, pushing a cart that held their suitcases. Alma nodded her thanks to Jerry, tipped the handyman, and bundled them toward the plane.

  Lewis looked around the abandoned mine building carefully. The light was growing, sunrise made brighter by the snow outside. Mitch was carrying in a pack full of emergency supplies while Stasi stood under Tesla's device, looking up. It brooded like an enormous spider, quiescent.
Its cables snaked around the metal legs and across the floor.

  Lewis took a deep breath. As defensible places went, this wasn't great. Half the windows were broken, and there must be a couple of dozen of them on the ground floor, all along both sides of the room. It was as big as a hangar, the ceiling rising to four stories at the back where the building abutted the mountainside above, and with all that open space and all those potential entrances it would take six or eight men to cover properly. They had two men and one gun. That made the hunt more difficult.

  There was the mine office, a square box in the corner with a sturdy door, but it was just clapboard and had no windows. You could lock yourself in there, as presumably the mine managers in days past had locked up the payroll, but once you were in there you were trapped. There were no other exits and no way to see what was going on.

  Lewis looked up. The platforms and struts that had originally handled the ore trolley were better, and it looked like one catwalk passed the upper story windows near the mountainside. A guy could probably climb out onto the slope above the mine. Which was something. And the platform's field of fire covered nearly the whole building. But how sturdy were those things? He shook his head. Fifty years old and no maintenance for the last thirty. And if you got stuck up there you were like a bird in quicklime, exposed from below and no way down except a ladder that was completely open. That was a bad deal.

  And then there was the mine head itself. A dark tunnel led back into the mountain, the tracks for the old ore carts running down the center of it. It sloped gently away into darkness. Lewis walked over and looked down, playing his flashlight beam along. A series of light bulbs were staggered along the ceiling, but the switch didn't work. Presumably the battery that was powering Tesla's device wasn't the same one that worked the lights. That was probably dead years ago. A big, dusty tunnel leading nowhere. Lewis glanced around. But the minehead itself was defensible. There was space on both sides of the entrance, plenty of room for a couple of people on each side, shielded by solid rock. Yeah, he could pretty much hold anyone off from this position if he needed to, as long as they weren't willing to take the kind of casualties it would take to rush him. If six or eight men rushed him, he could probably get three or four of them before they closed, and these were just thugs, not the kind of crazy mad infantry he'd seen on the Western Front, going over the top into machine gun fire. These guys wouldn't do that. They weren't getting paid enough to get shot. The only problem was that the best he could do this way would be to hold them off, and it would become clear to them pretty quickly that he was just one guy with a gun.