The Oilman's Daughter (19 page)

Phinneas grinned. “Very good. If ye ever wish for a change of career, I think ye’d make a fine helmsman on a Fulton.”

“On your ship?”

Phinneas’ good humor evaporated. “Nay, I’m a captain without a ship at the moment.” Dismayed all over again at the loss of his
Ethershark
, he plopped down onto a seat in a huff.

They rode in silence for a few more minutes, and Phinneas was sure there wasn’t going to be any more talk when Jonathan said, “Jessie Grant seemed to have a special place for you.”

Phinneas raised his hands in exasperation. “Oh fer the love o’ Tesla! Why do ye care?”

“You’ve been forcing me to fight like a pirate, and I suppose I feel it’s my duty to make you behave more like a normal human.”

“More like a besotted human who can’t think straight, ye mean?”

Jonathan appeared to think for a moment. “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

Phinneas, who had done more than his share of reading, recognized the quote. “Since when do ye go around spoutin’ quotes from Chinese philosophers?”

“I’m a learned man, as I imagine you are. Lao Tzu was also a bit of an anarchist, so I figured he was more your taste.”

Phinneas laughed, and a little of the tension around his shoulders started to let up. He stretched out his legs and leaned back against the wall. If they were heading to Houston, they’d have to spend a good bit of time in this airbag, and he intended to get some sleep along the way.

“Aye, I suppose Jessie’s a fine lass. Strong and good. Too good for the likes o’me, though.”

“Well, I happen to think you’re a good match. Don’t count yourself out just yet, Captain Greaves. I’ve seen far worse men on this trip, so I think I can make a fair judgment.”

Phinneas bristled at the words. He was tired of being told he was a decent man. His whole life, he’d been convinced he knew exactly the kind of person he was. A brute, a thief, a merciless killer when the situation called for it. Sure, he could be fair and honorable, but only in the context of his chosen profession. He’d known love once or twice in his life, but those lasses had eventually seen him for what he truly was. Jessie would as well, given time.

But mostly, if given the choice to settle down with a woman on Big Blue, or heading back to space with a ship at his command, there would be no choice to make. There wasn’t a place on this rock for him, and any time spent thinking otherwise after half a lifetime of exile was a waste of his time. He shook his head. “Enough of the lovey dovey chatter. I’d rather see if we can get out of this fix with our heads still attached first.”

Jonathan nodded and leaned back against the opposite wall. “Good point, Captain. I suppose we should take whatever chance we have to rest up.”

Phinneas closed his eyes. “You’re finally speakin’ sense.”

Thunder awakened Jonathan from a sound sleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and saw the underside of the derry’s bag light up as lightning flashed, followed by another answering growl of thunder. Night had fallen and the tailwind blowing across the gondola was making the windows rattle in their frames. A few raindrops splattered onto them, but either they were above the bulk of the rain or the bag was deflecting away the worst of it. More lightning went off in a brilliant display to the west, climbing up a well-developed cumulonimbus tower that must have reached fifty thousand feet. The anvil seemed to fill the whole sky, constantly lit from the dancing blue-white and purple bolts. The lower reaches of the cloud roiled and twisted, spitting out funnel tendrils and sucking them back in again. Somewhere beneath it, he knew there would be tornadoes carving swaths of destruction across the plains and hailstones tearing crops to shreds. He’d seen storms like it raging across Texas many times, but never from a dirigible at night. It was a terrifying experience, and yet he couldn’t make himself look away.

He glanced around the cabin, pitch black but for the flash-lamps of the storm. Phinneas sprawled across a pair of seats, his legs stretched out before him and his head tilted back. His mouth was open and guttural snores escaped his throat. The ticking of the gears in his chest played in counterpoint to the growl of the fans, which was muted due to the tailwind. Up front, Jefferson dozed, one hand resting on the tiller, which he’d locked in place, and the other supporting his chin. Jonathan yawned, went aft, and used the tiny lavatory. The pounding of thunder was almost constant and the basso rumble threatened to overwhelm the fans.

He shivered at the thought of the storm overtaking them, and fed a pair of coke bricks into the furnace. There was an oil lamp mounted on the bulkhead that separated the cabin from the furnace and boiler, and he lit it with one of the long wooden matches from the cup beside it. The orange glow helped to push back some of his anxiety over the storm. The boiler hissed and Jonathan checked the pressure gauges. They all looked well within their tolerances. Nevertheless, he tapped each one to make sure it wasn’t stuck, the way some gauges got.

“Can’t sleep, sir?”

Jonathan startled at the unexpected sound of another voice and turned to see Jefferson looking at him. “No, not so much.”

Jefferson glanced at the gauges. “Nothing to worry about, sir. That storm’s all bark and no bite. The nice thing about riding the front is that it’ll push us all the way south. We’ll save fuel and make great time.”

“It can’t overtake us?”

“I should say not. The closer it would get to us, the stronger the winds along the front would blow. It’s rather like a surfer riding a wave in Hawaii or California.”

“Have you ever been surfing?”

“No, sir. I’m rather uncomfortable around the water. Never really got the hang of swimming.”

Jonathan smiled. “Me neither.” A bright flash of lightning overwhelmed even the oil lamp’s glow and backlit Porter in sharp relief against the windows. The thunder blast sounded like an explosion and made Jonathan’s small moment of good cheer fade. Phinneas didn’t stir. He was surprised that a man who had fought so much in battle could sleep so deeply, but then again, he’d probably just adapted to a life of noise. “Nor sleeping during storms.”

Porter went back to the pilot’s chair and checked the compass and altimeter. “I remember well, sir. Sitting up with you at nights as a child, telling you stories about the War and making shadow-puppets on the walls until you forgot even about the thunder.”

“I’ll never forget those nights, Jefferson. What a pity we can’t pause for more shadow-puppet theater tonight.”

Porter chuckled. “No, I fear the storm is increasing in intensity. As I said, it won’t overtake us, but I expect our ride to get rather bumpy. I could sacrifice speed for altitude, try to get us up above the worst of it, but the front could run very high, and this isn’t a pressurized cabin.”

“I suppose we ought to just surf it out, then.”

“More or less, sir.”

True to Porter’s prediction, the derry began to jerk and jump as the winds buffeted the bag. Jonathan was thankful that the gondola was attached directly to the bag’s framework. He didn’t think he could have handled it if it had been swinging free beneath it. As it was, he had to go open one of the windows and let some of the cool, damp air blow across his face to quell his incipient nausea. After gulping several breaths of the wind, he felt much better and returned to Porter’s side.

“Sir.” Porter’s voice was soft, barely enough to carry across the intervening inches to reach Jonathan’s ears. “Our passenger . . . Do you think he intends to take Cecilie for himself and deliver her to his man in Houston?”

“No, I don’t believe so.” He remembered the fight they’d had earlier, but Jonathan had been out of control with worry and looking for an easy target to vent on. “I don’t think the bounty is driving him anymore, or if it would even be available to him after everything that’s come to pass. If he were only interested in collecting his fee, he could have easily switched sides at the Grant farm, but he fought right alongside me and saved my life.”

“He
is
a pirate, though. How much can you really trust him?”

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it. Phinneas could have an agenda of his own tucked up his sleeve. The man was no buffoon. Cecilie had spoken about the honor that he’d shown to the men who died under his command, but any man when desperate enough could compromise his own sense of honor and morals for a greater reward. Given the number of men Jonathan had shot in the last couple of weeks, he knew that intimately now.

“I’m sure he means well,” he said at last, knowing it was a weak argument at best.

“We could be rid of him.” Porter wouldn’t look at him and kept his eyes glued to the sky beyond the forward window. “The two of us could overpower him. Now, while he sleeps. It would save us the weight, and we might make faster time.”

Jonathan looked at the butler for a moment, trying to detect a hint of humor, but he was horrified to find none. “You mean just throw him overboard? That would be cold-blooded murder, Jefferson.”

“It was just a thought, sir.”

“Well, I’m appalled that it came from your lips. I may not like Captain Greaves very much, but I respect him for what he’s done on our behalf. I won’t have you talking about such things. It’s bad enough that we’ve already gotten a good man killed. Grant Clay’s death will weigh upon me to the end of my days, and he died fighting beside us. I will fight to keep us all alive, even if Phinneas turns out to be a traitor, but I won’t take the coward’s path to murder.”

“I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

“Let’s have no more talk of it, then.”

“Of course, sir.” Porter’s voice was stiff and he sat ramrod-straight in his seat.

Jonathan didn’t know what else to say, so he left Porter in silence and went back to his seat. He told himself that it was too stormy out, that he had a duty to keep an eye on Phinneas, to make sure Porter didn’t kill him despite his orders.

But in the end, sleep overtook him anyway.

Most days, Houston was a true jewel of the Gulf coastline, with shining buildings along the waterfront, a harbor bustling with all manner of steamships, the graceful dance of the airships overhead ranging from the tiny one-man pedal-powered jobs all the way up to the huge six-boiler passenger liners, and towering over it all the thick cable of the Orbital Elevator rising from McKinley Tower and disappearing into the crystal blue skies.

The day that Jonathan, Phinneas, and Porter arrived, however, wasn’t one of those days.

A low pressure trough in the atmosphere had trapped days’ worth of soot, smoke, and steam from the city’s industrial sector over the region, and instead of perching upon the coast like an alabaster seashell, Houston crouched like a cancerous brown tumor. As Porter brought the derry in toward the outer neighborhoods, the air transformed from a cloudy blue to a sulfurous yellow that threatened to block out the sun, giving everything a jaundiced, twilight appearance. Phinneas gasped at the stench of coal smoke and the reek from the kerosene plants. “Man alive, this is where ye call home, Orbital?”

“It’s not usually this bad,” said Jonathan. “I’m sure it’ll clear up in a day or so.”

“I’m used to foul stinks aboard the
Ethershark
, but this is somethin’ else entirely.”

“You’re welcome to leave,” said Porter.

“No, ye’ll not get rid of me that easily.”

The butler-pilot ignored Phinneas and turned to Jonathan. “Sir, are you quite convinced that the kidnappers will take Mademoiselle Renault up to Roosevelt Station?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t they?”

“Perhaps that’s what they’re counting on. The Arabs must know there are others looking for them because of her. Wouldn’t they use misdirection? While everyone is watching the Tower, they’ll be booking passage on a derry or steamship.”

Jonathan felt like slapping his own face. “Hell, that’s a thought. What do you think, Phinneas? A bunch of Arabs traveling with a lone white woman would stand out just about anywhere in Texas. They’ll have a devil of a time getting her aboard the elevator without somebody asking questions.”

“They might knock the lass over the head first,” said Phinneas. “Lord knows she could drive any man to violence with that tongue.”

“I better not find out that you knocked her over the head.” Jonathan watched as Porter brought the derry down toward a landing field, guided by a young man with brightly-colored flags and a scarf tied around the lower half of his face.

Phinneas shrugged. “Only when she welcomed it, believe me. And if ye want to begin fisticuffs again over it, I’m game.”

“No.” Jonathan folded his arms. “Doing that won’t get her rescued any sooner, but take a moment to consider Jefferson’s notion. Do you suppose they might try to get her out of America some other way besides the elevator?”

The derry touched down with a bump. A grounds crew rushed to secure it with lines attached to huge concrete pylons sunk deep into the ground. Phinneas nodded. “Aye, it’s a fair bet.”

“So what would you suggest? I don’t want to completely discount the idea of the elevator.”

“Sir, I could head to McKinley Tower. Keep an eye out for them. And if they arrive, I could see to it that they are detained.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Porter,” said Phinneas. “But will they listen to ye? No offense, but ye are just a butler.”

Porter smiled. “No, I’m
Jonathan Orbital
’s valet. I’m quite well-known and respected in the company. If I say there’s a problem, they’ll address it.” He spun the wheels to shed boiler pressure and pulled the lever that vented water into the furnace. A great blast of steam shot from the derry to mingle with the swirling clouds in the air already.

Jonathan tucked the pistol into his jacket pocket. He would buy some more bullets for it at his earliest convenience. He hoped he wouldn’t need more than three shots before that moment came. Phinneas was watching him.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you a weapon of your own soon enough. Something less obtrusive than a shotgun or rifle. This is a civilized part of the world here.”

Phinneas nodded toward a commotion on the ground where two workers had fallen into a bare-knuckled brawl. “Looks like it.”

They opened the door to the gondola and the tangy reek of Houston’s air became far more pronounced. Phinneas’ skin turned an ashen gray, and even Jonathan had to admit that it was pretty bad. Porter purchased scarves from a young woman who approached them as they disembarked. She also offered cigarettes and chocolate, and suggested that she was open to negotiation for other favors as well. Jonathan politely declined as he tied one of the rough burlap cloths around his nose and mouth. It didn’t cut down on the air’s stink much, but kept much of the sooty particulates and smoke from his lungs. “Go on to McKinley Tower, Jefferson. We’ll check on other potential avenues. Do you have money?”

“Of course, sir. Do you require any additional? I took the liberty of withdrawing some extra from the emergency funds account before leaving in search of you.”

He’d left most of his remaining funds with Jessie. “That would be welcome.”

Porter handed Jonathan an envelope. “One thousand dollars, sir.”

Jonathan tucked it into an inside pocket on his jacket and buttoned it to make picking his pocket that much more difficult. “Thanks. Godspeed to you.”

“And to you, sir.” They clasped hands, less like master and servant and more like friends, and then Porter headed towards the knot of parked cabs.

“Well, where do you think we should head first, Captain? The waterfront? The airport?”

“This isn’t the airport?” Phinneas looked around, motioning to the dozen dirigibles docked around the field.

“Hardly. This is just a small airstrip on the outskirts. The airport is to the west. That’s where the international flights go.”

“Ye’ve not thought this through properly, Orbital. How many different ways are there to leave Houston? Rail, air, and water, as well as yer elevator. There’s no way we can cover all of them before the bloody Arabs make good and escape with the lass.” He tied a scarf over his face as well, and buttoned up his shirt to cover the contraption in his chest that kept his heart pumping.