Avast, Ye Airships Anthology Page 6

  On the other hand, what choice did she have?

  “Go ahead.”

  Sherman yanked the headset of the bridge’s sound-powered phone away from one of the startled sailors and began talking urgently into the mouthpiece.

  Wexford leaned back in the chair. Fatigue swept over her, a bone-deep weariness she hadn’t felt since she was a junior officer standing too many watches in a row without sleep or sustenance.

  Perhaps retirement wouldn’t be so bad.

  #

  “He’s willing to parlay, Cap’n,” said Sherman.

  “Parlay?” Wrath welled up like a tidal wave. “He dares to demand parlay?”

  Sherman cringed against the bulkhead, clutching the sound-powered phone in one hand.

  “He...he says he’s got, um, demands.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Just...just two, Cap’n.”

  Wexford’s wrath surged higher, forming caps of icy rage.

  “He’s not taking control of my ship, dammit! Nor will I accede to any demands! I’ll put all hands ashore and blow the thing up before I’ll let a pirate have her. You tell him that!”

  She whirled toward Goss.

  “Sound Emergency Stations! Prepare to abandon ship.”

  A shocked silence fell. The Officer of the Deck turned pale. The watch standers gaped.

  Sherman murmured urgently into the mouthpiece.

  “Well done, ma’am,” said Goss. “Perhaps this pirate chap and the other voices will float away if they think the worst was coming.”

  “Or,” the Officer of the Deck swallowed, “we may join them.”

  “Nonsense, man! The captain’s using sound psychological strategy.”

  Wexford grabbed the knot of Goss’s tie and yanked his face down to hers.

  “Do you really think I’m joking?”

  Goss gazed into her eyes and swallowed. “Captain?”

  “DO IT!” She released his tie.

  Goss blinked at her. Then, with a visible effort, he pulled himself erect, straightened his jacket, and turned to the Officer of the Deck.

  “Prepare to pipe Emergency Stations.”

  The Officer of the Deck looked bewildered.

  “But...but how? The phone’s being used to, um—”

  “The alarm, man!” barked Goss. “Ring the damned alarm!”

  A harsh clanging filled the air. Moments later, voices shouted, and boots thudded along passageways below the bridge. Wexford crooked a finger at the Officer of the Deck.

  “Get to the quarterdeck,” she shouted. “Once all hands are ashore, I want sailors on the road to stop keep villagers as far from the ship as possible. Oh, and once Goss and Barrowman are off, the First Lieutenant is to set the ship adrift from the mooring mast.”

  The Officer of the Deck fled.

  “Goss, are the emergency charges in order?”

  Goss involuntarily glanced through the skylights above, where the hydrogen-filled balloon floated peacefully, its colors bright in the afternoon sunshine.

  “I conducted a zone inspection up there just last week, Captain. If...if they must be set off, they’ll do the job properly.”

  “Good. I want you and Barrowman to go to the quarterdeck to ensure all hands get ashore. Then you’re to follow them.”

  Goss stiffened. “I’d prefer to remain here with you, Captain.” He pressed together lips that quivered ever so slightly.

  “I’m stayin’, too, Cap’n,” said Barrowman. “You’ll have t’toss me overboard before I’ll leave you and the ship behind.”

  Wexford didn’t argue. It was loyalty of the melodramatic, foolhardy kind that made her first impulse—throwing them both over the side—seem ungracious. Even insensitive. Besides, she didn’t stand a chance of lifting Barrowman.

  “Very well, gentlemen. Barrowman, get down to Engineering. We can’t trust the damned phones, so if you hear the Emergency Stations alarm sound again, you’re to give me just enough steam that Goss and I can maneuver the ship toward the river. An explosion there will do less damage.”

  The master chief hesitated. “Captain, what about the lass?”

  “She’ll be going ashore right away. I’ll not make her pay for what that lunatic grandfather of hers has done.”

  Barrowman exhaled in relief and exited the bridge.

  “Goss, shut down the alarm. Everyone should be off in a moment or two, and if I’m going to die, I don’t want to die deaf.”

  The clanging bells fell silent, leaving behind a sharp ringing in Wexford’s ears. The clock read sixteen-thirty-seven.

  “Cap’n,” said Sherman, “I think I’ve got everything straightened out with Grandda—”

  “Stow it! Tell your grandfather this: Not one of Her Majesty’s airships has ever been taken by mutiny.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but—”

  “I want that clearly understood.”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you’ll just—”

  Wexford jabbed a finger toward the clock.

  “You’re leaving the ship, but before you go, tell your grandfather that if control isn’t returned to me by exactly sixteen-forty-one, I will raise steam, steer the ship over the river, and detonate the charges in the ship’s balloon.”

  “But if you try to move the ship—”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll parlay with the ghost of a—”

  “It’ll blow up on its own!”

  “—mutinous, thieving son of a bi— What did you say?”

  “Cap’n, Granddad says you must check the fittings for the steam supply valves in the boiler room. There’s a problem, and that’s why he won’t let you move the ship. He says Mr. Peek convinced the others to muck things up all week, just to keep you from calling up steam.”

  Peek? Wexford mentally reviewed the Engineering staff roster and came up short a Peek. Which left only one possibility.

  “Died near eight years ago,” said Sherman. “He was engineer on a steam ship.”

  Of course.

  “Goss,” said Wexford, “have any valve issues been reported?”

  “None. The Chief Engineer had some of the valves refitted recently, but he didn’t report any problems.”

  “Ha!” Wexford turned back to Sherman. “It seems your grandfather is not only mutinous, he’s ill-informed. Now, it’s time for you to leave so I can—”

  “Mr. Peek told Granddad four of them new fittings are brass.”

  “Nonsense! Only steel fittings are used for steam valves, and anyone can tell the difference between brass and steel.”

  “Not when they’re painted the same color, like these!”

  Hadn’t the Chief Engineer mentioned a disembodied voice complaining about paint, as well as the valve repairs? Any valve through which passed super-heated steam temperature demanded the strength and endurance of steel. Why, brass would melt minutes after the boilers heated up, and the valve would explode. Steam would instantly cook everyone in the Engineering spaces, inside and out.

  “Mr. Peek tried to warn the Chief Engineer,” continued Sherman, “but he wouldn’t listen. No one would. Granddad says even though Mr. Peek wasn’t a proper sailor, him not having served in the Navy, he’s got quick eyes for a foul-up.”

  This was absurd. How could a disembodied voice, whose owner was clearly incapable of finding his way to the Promised Land, diagnose a potential engineering catastrophe?

  Goss stood beside the Emergency Stations alarm, watching Wexford, his face stiff with resolution.

  She lifted a hand...and hesitated.

  Two years earlier, a similar incident had occurred on one of the Royal Navy’s oceangoing steam vessels. Brass fittings, painted the same color as the steel for the sake of some damned stupid idea of uniformity, had been used to secure a steam valve. The loss of life had been calamitous.

  Wexford chewed her bottom lip. Blowing up the Boadicea and going down with the bits and pieces wasn’t really her preferred means of retiring. Checking a few valve fittings would do no harm and, at most, would t
ake only a few minutes.

  “Tell your grandfather I want to speak with Master Chief Barrowman. Now. Without any interference from him or his friends.”

  Barrowman, at first leery of the voice on the phone that claimed to be his commanding officer, was eventually persuaded to descend into the steam room to check the valves. Minutes later he spoke breathlessly into Wexford’s ear.

  “Dunno how it happened, ma’am, but the ol’ spook spoke the truth! Brass! Painted brass! If we’d got underway to head to the yards, or just to move the ship to the river, those fittings would’ve melted and bang we’d’ve gone, too.”

  Wexford’s rage evaporated like a wraith at dawn. Her body felt weightless, as if at any moment she might float above the deck, buoyed by combined relief and astonishment. It appeared she might have a few years left in her career after all.

  “Shut everything down, Master Chief.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Wexford thought she heard a soft sigh whisper through the headphones. She pulled these from her head and turned to Goss.

  “Go to the quarterdeck. Use the semaphore flags and let the crew know they should return to the ship. Then get the engineers to replace those fittings right away. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  Goss’s running footsteps receded down the steel-plate of the passageway.

  Wexford handed the phone back to Sherman, vaguely pleased her hands weren’t trembling.

  “Convey to your grandfather my...my gratitude.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Wexford headed for the hatch.

  “Um...Captain?”

  Wexford slowed. “Can it wait?”

  “There’s one more thing, Cap’n. Granddad’s second demand.”

  Oh, dear God, now what? Wexford’s sense of relief deflated.

  “Yes?”

  “He and the others, they like it here, ma’am. They want to stay.”

  The hair on Wexford’s scalp rose. “Stay? On my ship?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Granddad says they’re all much happier here than in the churchyard. Even Mrs. Pendleton-Shirt. They like being around the crew, you see, enjoying a little life.”

  “They’re dead. They’ve had their quota of life.”

  “Well, one kind of life.”

  “That should be enough for anyone. Wanting more smacks of greed.”

  “Maybe. But they love life enough to’ve saved ours, Cap’n. And they saved the ship...or would’ve done, if we was still planning on blowin’ it up, which now we don’t have to ‘cause of them. Besides, they don’t take up no space. Don’t eat ‘n don’t drink.”

  “That’s beside the point. A ship filled with ghosts? Why, the last few days have been bloody hell! Which, by the by, is a place I wish they’d consider inhabiting, rather than my ship.”

  Sherman covered the mouthpiece of the phone with a grubby palm. “Begging pardon, ma’am,” she said, with a frown, “but I don’t think I should repeat them words.”

  A flush of guilt crept up Wexford’s neck. “Yes, well...”

  “Granddad says he won’t let anyone interfere with shipboard communications anymore, and won’t none of them cross him.”

  “Yes, but will he cross me?”

  Sherman lowered her voice to a whisper. “It might be a good idea to say yes, ma’am. Master Chief Barrowman told the Officer of the Deck that all the singing ‘n chickens ‘n candles didn’t do a bit o’ good, and I’m pretty sure Granddad heard.”

  The deck seemed to tilt under Wexford’s feet. A ship full of ghosts? What did that mean? Would the crew roster have to be expanded? And what about pay? A pirate was bound to demand some price for his cooperation, something beyond the hospitality of the ship, although what that would be she couldn’t imagine. Chains to rattle? How would she explain any of this to the Admiralty?

  Weariness swept over her. Right now, she didn’t have the strength or energy to make a sensible decision.

  “Tell him...we’ll talk.”

  Sherman spoke quietly into the mouthpiece. She listened for a moment, then gave Wexford a quick nod.

  It was time to head to the quarterdeck, make sure everyone got back onboard safely. She’d get some sort of message off to the Admiralty, and then she and the Chief Engineer were going to have a long and—on his part—painful conversation about quality assurance.

  “Come, Sherman. We’re done here for now.”

  Sherman hung the phone back in its holster. Her steel-toed boots clumped on the deck as she walked toward the hatch. She smiled at Wexford.

  “Thank you, Cap’n. I don’t think you’ll regret letting Granddad and the others stay.”

  Regret? That airship had already sailed. Wexford stepped over on the threshold of the bridge hatch, then hesitated and looked back at the phone.

  “I’ll be damned,” she muttered.

  A gleeful cackle emanated from the mouthpiece.

  “Like as not, lass,” said a faint voice. “Like as not. But, eh, we’ll have us some grand fun on the way!”

  Her Majesty’s Service

  by Lauren Marrero

  A hand reached for Nandi in the pre-dawn, wrapping itself firmly around her waist. It was a strong, masculine hand, which she fondly remembered gripping her hips the night before, but it smelled like fish.

  Nandi wrinkled her nose in distaste and began scooting away on the narrow bed. Of all the men she could have slept with, it was Nandi’s ill-luck to choose a fisherman. At least the rooms he rented were close to the docks and her favorite tavern—facts that had been of the utmost importance during last night’s drunken groping, but which left Nandi aching from the hard bed…and reeking of fish.

  Next time she would set her standards a bit higher, Nandi promised herself for the hundredth time, but as a crewman on one of Her Majesty’s royal airships, Nandi didn’t stay long enough in any port to be choosy.

  She hurriedly dressed and tiptoed out before he awoke. Once outdoors, Nandi stretched and gave her armpits an experimental sniff.

  Aye. She smelled like fish and also the deeper, more masculine musk of the fisherman. They weren’t due to sail for another hour. If she hurried, she just might have time for a quick shower before reporting in.

  “You’re cutting it close, ain’t ya?” called a voice from above as she reached the ship. Nandi looked up to find Ken, one of her fellow Spiders, dangling from The Virginia’s many service lines. From the various tools attached to his belt, Nandi assumed he was supposed to be repairing something, but he looked like he was having far more fun practicing ballet moves in mid-air. “Need a lift?”

  It was against regulation to practice lifts without a harness, but that didn’t stop Nandi from eagerly lifting her arms—after a quick glance about to make sure no one was watching. Ken released his line, dropping like a stone, to land a few feet from the docks.

  “Showoff,” Nandi teased. Anyone else would have stopped much higher and then slowly lowered themselves to the ground, but not Kenshiro Mori. If he wasn’t defying death, he didn’t truly feel alive.

  It was one of the many things they had in common.

  Their friendship was one of the strange outcomes of Her Majesty’s international expansion. Two war orphans from opposite sides of the globe had found each other and a home in the rigging of a British airship. Here, origin did not matter, nor eye shape, nor skin color. All that mattered was an ability to risk life and limb swinging from the ropes of an airship, and a desire to see the world.

  Nandi grabbed his neck and locked her legs around his torso as Ken pulled another cord. It immediately retracted, lifting them high above the airship. Another cord released and they slid gracefully to the deck of The Virginia.

  “Have you put on some weight?” Ken teased. “Our lift seemed a little slow that time.”

  “Cussed bugger!” Nandi playfully punched Ken’s arm as he unhooked himself. Together they walked below decks where the corridors were bustling with activity. Nandi wasn’t the only late arrival. She spied severa
l hung over crewmen staggering into position before the officers arrived.

  “Did you hear we have a new boatswain?” Ken asked as they stripped and headed into the communal showers. “Some rich bloke from Cambridge named Knightly. He’s a well-to-do scholar with advanced degrees in something or other. He has all the ladies in a tizzy—and some of the blokes. You’ll see him at roll.”

  Nandi snorted and ducked her head under the water to rinse. It didn’t matter what the guy looked like. The odds of a Cambridge scholar and an officer messing about with an airship Spider were as likely as drowning in midair.

  “Fools,” she spat. “Toffs stick to their kind and we stick to ours.”

  “Come now,” Ken replied. “What do I smell on you today, eau de fisherman?”

  Nandi gave her arm a sniff, and then lathered herself again with soap. Did the guy wipe himself with fish? He must have been quite an Adonis for it not to have bothered her last night.

  “You know what they say about Spiders: we can’t keep our legs on the ground,” Nandi called from under the water. “What is a boatswain doing with advanced degrees anyway?” she wanted to know. The boatswain was responsible for the rigging, cables, and anchors. They were officers of the ship, but it wasn’t the most erudite profession, not like a commander or lieutenant.

  “I don’t know, why don’t you ask him?” Ken was already pulling on his clothes. “Come on or we’ll be late.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  They hurriedly dressed and joined the rest of the crewmen streaming onto the decks for roll. Nandi wondered briefly if she should have said something to her fisherman before sneaking out this morning, but decided against it. He didn’t seem like the sentimental type and neither was she. But if she ever came back to Cairo, Nandi would definitely look him up—provided he bathed first.

  “Psst! There he is.” A sharp elbow jabbed Nandi’s arm, breaking into her thoughts. She followed Ken’s gaze to a tall, broad-shouldered officer standing at the front of her line.