“Good, were they?”
“Terrific. Here we go.”
Here came the ornithopter again, skimming the Aurora’s belly, straight as a Canada goose toward the loading bay. His hook slipped over the trapeze and locked with a loud, satisfying clack. I heard the engine cut out, and the wings stilled instantly. The Aurora didn’t even shimmer with the sudden extra weight.
“Hooked!” Mr. Riddihoff sang out, pulling levers. The trapeze slowly lifted the dangling ornithopter through the hatchway and carried her along its track to set her down on the floor of the landing bay. A woman in the rear seat was trying to stand, pulling at her leather hood and sounding off as if she’d suffered a great calamity.
“Outrageous!” she said. “Dangerous and foolhardy like I’ve never seen!”
And now the poor pilot was turning about in his seat and trying in vain to explain.
“I’m very sorry, Miss Simpkins, but I have no authority over the winds. A small gust buffeted me just as we were coming in that first time. It’s not unusual, Miss, to make more than one pass with an aerial landing.”
Miss Simpkins made a humph sound and gazed haughtily around the loading bay. She was no more than thirty, a striking woman with fierce features, but right now she looked a total fright. Her hair was frazzled, as if it had just exploded from her head. Her eye makeup was smeared by tears and wind, and there were deep red rings around both her eyes from the goggles. She appeared altogether crazed. I was pushing the boarding stairs toward the ornithopter, but not quickly enough for her liking.
“Hurry along, boy. Help me out of here! This thing’s not fit for use as a kite!”
Now this was rich behavior, I thought, all this barking and whining, when she should be apologizing for setting us behind schedule with her late arrival.
“Welcome aboard the Aurora, ma’am,” I said, stepping up to give her a hand.
“And you are?”
“Matt Cruse, ma’am, cabin boy.”
“Attend to Miss de Vries now.”
I turned to the passenger in the middle seat. A girl, my age probably, no more than fifteen. She pulled off her cap and smoothed her long mahogany hair. She looked a little windblown, her face pale, but there was a happy blaze in her eyes. I knew instantly it hadn’t been her shrieking as the ornithopter came in to land. She looked thoroughly revved up.
I offered her my hand, and she stepped out onto the boarding stairs.
“Thank you, Mr. Cruse,” she said.
“This is Miss Kate de Vries,” said the woman, still trying to claw her hair down. “And I am Marjorie Simpkins, her chaperone. Escort us to our rooms now.”
“Very good,” I said. “I’ll just attend to your baggage.”
Kate de Vries, I noticed, was looking around, out the open bay doors to the sea below, up to the girders and beams and gas cells and catwalks that crisscrossed overhead like the work of some giant mechanical spider. Taking it all in. Miss Simpkins meanwhile fussed and fluttered about, telling me to be careful with the luggage and the hat bags and for heaven’s sake don’t thump things around so. She pattered her hands against Kate de Vries’s back, trying to move her this way and that, as though she knew where it was best for her to stand. Kate de Vries seemed used to ignoring her.
I took the passenger list from my pocket and saw that the grand stateroom was in fact reserved under the name of de Vries. Rich, then, this Kate de Vries. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, though, shackled to a chaperone and one like Miss Simpkins at that!
They had so much luggage I wondered if they were doing a planetary tour. It was too much to carry, so I loaded it onto the freight conveyor belt and sent it on its way forward to the passenger quarters. I’d pick it up when we got there.
“Shall I take you to your stateroom, then?” I asked, making sure to direct the question to Kate de Vries.
“Thank you, yes, that would be very kind,” she said.
“I’ll be telegraphing your superiors as soon as I can!” Miss Simpkins hollered at the ornithopter pilot.
“Thank you very much,” Kate de Vries called up to the pilot with a smile and wave. “It was a thrilling flight!”
“Any time, miss,” the pilot said, grinning. He had not even removed his leather hood and goggles. “I’ll be on my way while the wind holds.”
He started the engine, and I heard its loud insect drone. The trapeze lifted his ship up and carried it back toward the open hatchway. The wings fluttered ever so gently in anticipation.
“Actually, I’d like to see this, Marjorie,” said Kate de Vries, stopping to watch. Her tone of voice made it clear this was not a request. Miss Simpkins sighed loudly and stared heavenward. I was pleased about this, since I’d wanted to see the takeoff myself. I was liking Kate de Vries more and more.
Mr. Riddihoff worked his controls and lowered the ornithopter down through the hatchway.
The pilot gave him the thumbs-up and pulled a lever in the cockpit. His docking hook snapped off the trapeze. The ornithopter dropped, quite dramatically I must say, straight down toward the waves, wings flapping desperately. It seemed its plunge would never stop, but then, impossibly slowly, it inched forward through the air and peeled off to the port, climbing. I realized I’d been holding my breath.
I looked over at Kate de Vries, who was tilted forward, peering intently out the hatchway, and saw her exhale.
“That was something,” she said with complete satisfaction, and then grinned. The expression seemed to take charge of her whole face, and I felt myself grinning back.
“It was, miss,” I said.
“Come along, then,” said Miss Simpkins impatiently, hands fluttering. I led them out of the landing bay and escorted them along the keel catwalk toward the passenger decks. Miss Simpkins was most impractically shod in heels, and they kept getting stuck in the metal floor grille so that she jerked and lurched and sighed and snorted all the way.
“What kind of corridor is this?” she complained.
“Passengers usually don’t traverse it, miss,” I said. “It’s on account of your late arrival that you see this part of the ship at all.”
Now, Kate de Vries, on the other hand, was sensibly wearing flat-soled shoes. She ambled along, oblivious to her chaperone’s convulsions. She gazed all about her as though planning on drafting a blueprint when she got half a chance.
“Is it your first time aboard an airship, Miss?” I asked her.
“It is, yes,” she said.
“If you’re interested, there will be a tour later this morning.”
“I’d like that very much.” She turned to Miss Simpkins, whose shoe had come off and was stuck in the metal grille. She was bent down tugging at it, violently.
“Allow me, miss,” I said. I handed it back to her.
I caught the girl’s eye and swear it had a glint of mischief in it, and I had to freeze my face so not to share her smile.
“Some flat-soled shoes would be more comfortable if you wish to join us on the tour later,” I suggested.
“I can’t imagine anything I’d less like to do,” muttered the bony chaperone.
“Perhaps someone can push you along in a wheelchair,” the girl said amiably.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you very much, Kate.”
Kate. The name suited her. Quick and to the point.
We reached the passenger quarters, and I led them up the grand staircase to A-Deck where the first-class passengers stayed. The swirling banister was all walnut, though hollow in the center to save on weight, and at the top of the red-carpeted steps was a magnificent Michaelangelico fresco. The fresco was enough to quiet the chaperone for a few seconds, and her heels didn’t fall off, which made her even more cheerful.
People had finished off their breakfasts now and were strolling about, yawning and stretching and groaning contentedly, weighing about ten pounds more apiece. Down the central corridor we went, and right at the end was the Topkapi stateroom. The luggage trolley was already waitin
g outside the door, ferried up by stewards while Miss Simpkins had been lurching about on her high heels.
I unlocked the door for them and led them inside. Quite a palace it was, furnished with sofas and wingback chairs and side tables and coffee tables and footstools; vases of fresh flowers bloomed all over the place, making it smell like the botanical gardens of Florence. The outside wall was one panoramic window, burgundy velvet curtains tied back so all you could see were cirrus clouds scalloping the sky and the blue of the sparkling Pacificus, and off to the hazy shores of North America melting into the horizon.
And this was just the sitting room. Miss de Vries looked around as if enchanted. The stateroom was named after a Sultan’s palace in Constantinople, and it deserved its name. I myself always liked having a gander when we were in harbor. In particular I liked slipping off my shoes and scrunching my bare toes against that plush burgundy carpet.
I showed them their adjoining bedrooms—both had four-poster beds with lace canopies—and the bathroom with the famous bathtub. It was the only one on board, water being such a heavy commodity. Everyone else just got showers.
“If there’s anything you need, ladies, just pull the cord”—I showed them the braided tassel draped from its wall socket—“and someone will come right up to assist you. You also have a message tube here.” I told them about the elaborate network of vacuum tubes that carried messages throughout the ship. “Just put your note in the canister here and slip it into the tube, and you can send it to housekeeping, the lounge, the kitchen, or the chief steward’s station, just by pressing one of these buttons.”
“How ingenious,” said Kate de Vries. Her eyes took on a look of mischief again. “Marjorie, wouldn’t one of these be useful at home? Just to keep track of each other.”
“Frightfully. We’ve missed breakfast, I suppose,” said Miss Simpkins tragically.
“Not a problem. I’m happy to order some to be brought to your room.”
“I’m starving!” said Kate de Vries.
“Yes, a scrape with death can give one quite an appetite,” her chaperone said tartly, and she set about placing her breakfast order. Which indeed was rather sizable.
Kate de Vries walked to the window and stayed there, gazing out hungrily. Her face was most intent and solemn, as though she expected something to materialize among the clouds or from the fabric of the sky itself.
3
KATE
I was in the kitchen, preparing the breakfast trolley for the Topkapi stateroom, when Mr. Lisbon, the chief steward, came to tell me the captain wished to speak with me. Anticipation tingled through my hands and feet, for I had an inkling of what this would be about. So too did Mr. Lisbon, whose eyes had a kindly look to them.
“I know this can be no disciplinary matter, Mr. Cruse,” he said and straightened the collar of my jacket before giving a quick nod of approval at my appearance. “I’ll have Baz deliver the breakfast trolley for you.”
I went forward along the keel catwalk, toward the captain’s cabin, toward my future. I felt in my pocket for my compass. My father had given it to me for my tenth birthday, and I carried it with me always. It was a handsome thing, a smooth lozenge of brass and glass, with a hinged lid. On the back were engraved the words, From one sailmaker to another. When I still lived at home I would set it on my pillow and watch the needle find north and then draw a line to wherever my father was. If he was over Mongolia, I would travel to the west; if he was crossing the Atlanticus, I would go east; if he was traversing Antarctica, my thoughts would sail to the south to be with him as he glided over the great polar ice caps. After he’d died three years ago, I avoided looking at it, for no point of the compass could bring me to him now.
My fingers grazed the cool brass, felt the markings of my father’s inscription. Sailmaker. My step quickened. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. I faltered. What if the captain meant to quiz me right now? The sailmaker’s job was a serious one. It was up to him and his fellows to keep the ship aloft, to check the hydrium gas cells and make sure they were all properly inflated, to check the shafts and vents. To survey the taut outer skin of the entire ship, every inch of it, inside and out, on land and aloft, to make sure the Aurora was in top sailing trim. I calmed my breathing. I hoped I would have quick answers to any questions the captain might fire at me, hoped I would not stumble over my words like a ninny.
At the captain’s door, I knocked lightly.
“Enter.”
His cabin was small but comfortable, with a single bed, a desk, and two leather armchairs studded with brass bolts. He had a private washroom and, instead of the usual portholes, a large bow window. Sunlight bathed the room, warming the wood of his bookshelves and the desk behind which he was sitting. He gestured me to an armchair.
“Mr. Cruse. Be seated, please.”
I remembered the first time I’d met him. My father was on shore leave, and the Aurora was in harbor, and he’d taken me on board to show me around. The whole tour I’d felt weak with excitement. It was the first time I’d been aboard my father’s ship. I was six. In the control car, Captain Walken had been talking with one of the engineers, but he greeted my father warmly, and I’d felt such pride, to think my father worked with so important a man. Then the captain had looked down at me. “Will you fly one day, Mr. Cruse?” he’d asked with a smile. For a moment I could not speak. Then I forced out a single word. “Yes,” I said, more loudly and boldly than I’d intended. Captain Walken chuckled, raised an eyebrow at my father, and said, “I believe he will.”
I was looking at the captain’s face now, searching for signs of the happy news he was to deliver. But he appeared no different than he did on the bridge. He began to speak, then broke off with a little grunt of irritation, looking out the window. It was most unlike him to falter, and instantly I knew I would not be getting good news today.
“This is a vexing business, Mr. Cruse,” he said. “You had my promise, and nothing angers me more than being made a liar. We are indeed to have a new junior sailmaker aboard the Aurora, but it is not to be you.”
I said nothing, but my mind was churning, trying to think of what grievous thing I’d done to anger the captain.
“Rest easy, Matt,” he said gently. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Your service to this vessel has always been exemplary. This is not my choice. I’ve been forced to take on Otto Lunardi’s son as junior sailmaker.”
I recognized the name, of course. Otto Lunardi was the magnate who owned the Aurora and a vast fleet of more than forty other airships.
“I voiced my objection,” the captain said, “but Lunardi ignored it. Seems he’s decided his boy is not fit for the business of managing his empire, and so he’s been exiled aboard my ship. It was quite beyond my control. I hope you understand.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing you stand before me right now, bearing the sailmaker’s insignia.”
I thought of the gold-stamped steering wheel the sailmakers wore on their collars; I had coveted that insignia for so long now. I nodded at the captain. “Thank you, sir. For all you’ve done on my behalf.”
“I’ve done nothing you don’t deserve,” he said impatiently. “It’s all changed since I started out. Forty years ago, if you didn’t have money—and my family had none—you began as cabin boy. I did it, just like you. But then you could rise by dint of hard work and honesty and skill. Now there is the Air Ship Academy—and getting in takes not just skill but money or connections, or both. And they think they can train people in musty classrooms. To be sure, they can teach them certain things. But not character. Not hard work, and not the mettle it takes to sail a ship aloft across continents and oceans. Lunardi and the other owners like Academy training. It comes with letterhead, with fancy seals and certificates, and that makes them feel they’re getting their money’s worth! Makes them feel they can sleep easy! Fair enough, the Lunardi boy has his basic certificate from the Academy, indeed he d
oes. But I doubt he’s ever spent an hour aboard an airship in a gale. Rest assured, Matt, there will be some remedy for this. My guess is the Lunardi boy will flee as soon as we reach Sydney Harbor.”
“He’s on board now, sir?”
“Yes, as a trainee.” He looked me in the eyes for a moment then sighed. “You know I am always happy to arrange a transfer for you to another vessel where they have need of a sailmaker. I would be sorry to lose you, but would recommend you with the heartiest of praise. Any vessel would be lucky to have you.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m happy here.”
And I was. This ship, the Aurora, was more home to me than the little apartment in Lionsgate City. Over the past three years, I’d spent scarcely any time on land. My life was aloft now. I did not want to leave Baz or Captain Walken, or my bunk with its porthole that gave me a bigger view of the world than any landlocked window. My heart purred to the vibrations of the Aurora’s engines. There were other fine ships, I knew, and some perhaps ever grander than the Aurora. But only she could fuel my dreams.
“I understand.” The captain came around the desk and clapped a hand upon my shoulder. “This was your father’s ship.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take heart, lad. A man with your courage and skill will not go unrewarded. There has not been one moment I’ve regretted taking you on as cabin boy. I will not break my word to you twice.”
“Thank you, Captain.” I did not want to be childish and show my disappointment, so I stood and left quickly.
Outside in the corridor, my eyes smarted with shame. A cocky young fool I’d been, assuming I’d be junior sailmaker. Me with no Academy training, and no wealth to help advance me. Of course I’d be pushed aside by the likes of Otto Lunardi’s boy. I felt no anger with the captain. He was an honorable man and had always done his best for me. But in my guts I already felt a hard, hot loathing for Lunardi’s son.
A thief, he was. Taking what had been mine. If I were to steal from him, take so much as his uniform and cap, I’d be dragged before a judge and thrown into jail. But he had done just that to me, and worse. He’d stolen my life. That sailmaker position was mine. And there was nothing I could do to get it back. Who knew when there would be another position open for me? Might be years. Might be never. If the captain retired or changed ships, I would have no champion to forward my cause. And without that, my chances were slim of ever advancing beyond cabin boy.