The Oilman's Daughter (22 page)

He straightened up and mustered a smile. “Hello, Father. I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”

“Yes, well, you’ve been quite busy, haven’t you? You’d better come back to my office and tell me what all’s been going on.”

“Yes, sir.”

Victor looked Phinneas up and down, noting the shotgun held casually beneath the jacket, the ticking of his heart machine, and the spacer’s build. “You’d best come along as well, Mister.”

“
Captain
,” said Phinneas. “Phinneas Greaves, sir.”

“Greaves. I’m sure I’ve heard that name before somewhere.” Victor’s smile suggested to Jonathan that his father knew exactly who Phinneas Greaves was, but he made no move to summon security to haul away the pirate responsible for causing the CR so much damage. The man was too shrewd for that. He would sooner hear Phinneas out and see if he could benefit from him in some way first, and then send him to the dogs if need be.

They went back to Victor’s office and Jonathan explained as quickly as he dared what was going on and why it was so imperative that they got up to Roosevelt Station as soon as the elevator returned. “Miss Renault’s life is surely at stake,” said Jonathan. “And the secret of petroleum refining technology has huge implications.”

“Indeed,” said Victor, lighting another cigarette from the stub of his first. “And could be worth millions, too.” He took a long drag and blew the smoke toward a large map of southern Texas upon the wall. “We’ve got quite a bit of petroleum under our land out here.”

“And quite a lot of farmers who can’t grow enough food, not to mention coal smoke choking folks half to death. Oil could be the solution for these problems and many others,” said Phinneas. “Even a spacer like me can see there’s a lot of folks scratchin’ in the dirt down here.”

Victor turned to him. “So what’s your angle on this then, pirate? Are you and my son working as a team now?”

To Jonathan’s astonishment, Phinneas squirmed a little under the older man’s gaze. “In a manner of speakin’. I was originally charged to bring the French lass to a businessman who hired me, but that deal went south once I reached the Sargasso. I want to help yer boy recover Miss Renault in order to help pay a debt I owe to someone I care for.”

“Money?”

“Nay. Me life.”

Victor nodded. “That seems honorable. Now I have a deal for you. See to it my son doesn’t get himself killed, and I’ll consider the debt you owe me for the destruction you caused on my train canceled and there will be no trouble from the authorities. If anything happens to him, I will hold you directly responsible and bring the full weight of my resources down on your head. Does that seem fair to you?”

Phinneas grimaced a little, and Jonathan wanted to balk at being treated like a childish pawn, but now wasn’t the time to anger the man who was essentially financing this operation. “Yes, sir, that’d be plenty fair.”

“Good. So you’re in a hurry to get up to Roosevelt, eh? What if I told you, Jonathan, that I had a way to get you there not in hours, but in minutes?”

“I don’t understand,” said Jonathan. “Even with a middleman and a Fulton already waiting in orbit, it would still take at least four hours to reach Roosevelt that way.”

“Bloody hell,” said Phinneas. “Ye’ve got a rocket!”

“Come with me.” Victor led the men out of the tower altogether to a waiting car. “To the Guggenheim facility please, Clarence,” he told the driver. “I haven’t told you about this project, because, well, it’s rather delicate. Since the War, the Army has been worried about how to deliver their atomic weapons to enemy targets. The problem with dirigibles is that they’re slow and big. Any gunner worth his salt can hit one.” Victor lit a fresh cigarette. “Somebody in the Army thought that maybe firing rockets from space at ground-based targets might be the best solution. And since I’m more or less the foremost authority on space-based construction, they contacted me.”

“But, Father, you don’t know anything about rockets,” said Jonathan.

“I’m getting to that. No, I don’t know rockets, but I do know people, and I sent a letter to Konstantin Tsiolkovsky in Moscow and offered him a modern launch and construction facility along with a hand-picked crew and a sizable retainer. Now he’s building rockets for us, and someday we’ll be able to give our customers the choice of speed or comfort to reach orbit.”

They arrived shortly at a broad field with a high chain-link fence around it. Unlike most airports, the entire surface was covered with cement, with not so much as a stand of trees to break up the miserable gray plain. The security guards at the gate waved them on through and the driver took them to a cluster of buildings around an impressive tower. As they approached closer, Jonathan realized the tower was a gantry supporting a one-hundred-foot-tall brilliant white needle with bronze heat shielding and the Orbital logo prominently painted along one side.

“It really is a rocket,” said Jonathan. “I know Tsiolkovsky was building them, but nothing in scale like this.”

“Bloody hell,” said Phinneas, also pressing his nose against the car’s glass. “Don’t tell me that bugger’s solid fuel.”

Victor laughed. “No, Captain. This rocket runs on a mixture of liquid oxygen and kerosene. It’ll provide you all the thrust you need to reach orbit. Eight minutes, Konstantin tells me.”

“Great Willy Wright’s Ghost!” Phinneas’ skin looked ashen from what Jonathan presumed was fear.

“We’re going to fly in that thing? But I don’t know the first thing about rockets.”

“Never fear, Jonathan. You don’t need to. The rocket does all the work to get you into space. From there, the crew module runs on compressed carbon dioxide gas. I presume, Captain Greaves, that you’re able enough to fly it to Roosevelt?”

“If it’s anything like a stovepipe, I probably can,” said Phinneas. “But ye can’t expect me to sit me ass upon a ten-story bomb and wait for ye to strike a match. Have ye even tested the thing?”

“As a matter of fact, we were planning the inaugural launch next week. But Konstantin runs a tight ship, and I expect that if I tell him to expedite things, we’ll have you underway within a few hours.”

Konstantin Tsiolkovsky was a small man, balding, with a fire in his eyes that Jonathan had only seen on his father’s face, and maybe in the late Gusarov. The man’s expansive gestures as he talked seemed to fill the entire briefing room. He explained how the test was originally for the proof of concept. By demonstrating their ability to launch payloads into space quickly, Orbital would secure a contract from the Army to build additional launch vehicles.

“Not just military payloads, either,” said Tsiolkovsky. “We can send up construction supplies for more legs of Circumferential Railroad. We can send up brand new Fultons, either whole or in parts. We could even build vessels to sail between the worlds. Imagine if we could send explorers to Venus, or Mars! Or even to other stars altogether! Imagine what other great civilizations are out there in our universe, just waiting for someone to reach across the light-years with a friendly handshake.”

Victor Orbital cleared his throat. “That’s all very well and good, Konstantin, but right now, we need to get these boys up into space. A young woman’s life depends upon it.”

A faraway look came across Tsiolkovsky’s face. “
Da, da
, of course. I dreamed I might be the first one to ride the rocket into space, but I understand there are priorities above my pride.” He shook himself. “Well, gentlemen, let us get you fitted for vacuum suits and I shall have the crew start fueling
Varvara
right away.”

“
Varvara
?” asked Jonathan.

“All best rockets are named
Varvara
,” said Tsiolkovsky with a smile. “I have had excellent luck with the rest of them. I am a scientist and therefore have contempt for superstitions. But there is certainly something to be said for tradition. Besides, my wife would never forgive me.”

Jonathan shivered. The idea of riding a rocket made him want to run home and hide under his bed. His only consolation was that Phinneas didn’t look any less frightened about the prospect.

Panic was a rare emotion for Phinneas Greaves. Even while battling the Space Guard in the crippled
Ethershark
, with naught save a few inches of battered iron separating him and his crew from the vacuum of space, he’d managed to keep his cool. But as he squeezed himself into the cramped cockpit of the rocket, his bones trembled like the rails of a train track with a steam engine bearing down.

He steadied himself by remembering what was at stake. It wasn’t about rescuing Cecilie. That was Orbital’s charge, and it wouldn’t be long before the foolish sop was licking the wounds she was sure to inflict upon him. Instead, his mind called up an image of Jessie Grant standing on her decimated family farm, with every right in the world to shoot him dead, but instead choosing to show him mercy. That took the sort of bravery and restraint he’d never known. The likelihood of ever seeing her again felt as remote the stars themselves, especially now that they’d climbed into this untested brass-plated bomb, but if he could get through this and deliver the refining technology to her, all this misery might just be worth it. What a bleedin’ sap he’d become.

In spite of his gnawing fears, it was great to suit back up for space again. The vacuum suit felt as natural as his own skin, and he almost sighed as he pulled it on. If he died on this thing, he would at least feel properly dressed.

“Just eight minutes and you’ll be off this bloody rock,” he muttered to himself as he mentally ran through the instructions the Russian gave him earlier.

“She is a two-stage rocket,” Tsiolkovsky said. “Both first and second boosters will burn on lift off, with the first stage separating after one hundred and forty seconds. The second booster will continue to burn for next the two hundred eighty seconds and will separate at the maximum pre-determined velocity, at which point thrusters for the passenger vehicle will fire. After that, it is not so different from flying a stovepipe. Easy.” The man looked wistful as he ran his hand over his bald pate. “I wish I could go with you. I envy you gentlemen.”

Phinneas had listened to all of this with outward calm, while his insides squirmed like a nest of angry snakes. Flying a rocket didn’t really require much flying at all; it was the complete surrender of control, something that always made him nervous.

They’d had to divest themselves of their firearms. Weight was a factor in rocket flight, Tsiolkovsky had said. He promised to look after Jonathan’s pistol and Phinneas’ shotgun and make sure they were delivered to whatever eventual destination the men found themselves. Phinneas said nothing about the Bowie knife he’d hidden inside his boot. If the weight of a single blade was enough to crash a rocket, he doubted they would make it to orbit at all.

The instrument panel was similar to the one in the stovepipe he’d shared with Cecilie, and that put him a little more at ease. He just had a feeling that those eight minutes before he could take over the steering were going to be the longest of his life, that is unless the couple hundred thousand gallons of kerosene they were sitting on didn’t explode and engulf them on the launch pad. Big Blue’s annoying gravity felt twice as heavy on his overworked heart.

“Did you say something?” Orbital asked as he settled into his seat and fastened himself in. It took some awkward arranging. The two men were squeezed together shoulder to shoulder and essentially lying on their backs with their knees bent in toward their chests at a near ninety-degree angle.

“Just that I didn’t expect I’d be committing suicide when I woke up today.”

“You sound a bit frightened. Is that typical for a pirate?”

“No, it ain’t, but most pirates aren’t strapped to rockets on a regular basis. Aren’t ye scared?”

Jonathan looked at him. His face was a pale mask behind the glass of his helmet. “To be honest, I’ve been nothing but terrified since the morning I stepped onto my father’s train two weeks ago. I hate space travel even under the best of conditions.”

Phinneas cackled and turned back to the instrumentation. He pushed a button and spoke into the Marconi wireless that communicated with Tsiolkovsky. “We’re ready when ye are.”

“Copy that, Captain Greaves. Ignition sequence will begin in sixty seconds.”

Phinneas closed his eyes and listened to the gentle ticking of the gears in his chest. That delicate clockwork had been through a lot in the last few days and this wasn’t over yet. It was a lot of faith to put into one Chinese clockmaker.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Phinneas, if we don’t make it, I just wanted to say—”

The pirate raised one gloved hand. “None o’ that foolishness, lad. I never started a mission in me life that way, and I ain’t about to do so now. Not when we need our nerve and wits more than ever. Let’s just keep our minds on what we’ll do when we get up top.”

“Understood,” Jonathan said. “We’ll be at Roosevelt Station before you know it.”

Phinneas grinned at Orbital’s fresh attempt to sound upbeat. “Aye, that’s better.”

“Ignition starting in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

Each second of the countdown seemed to burn hotter in his gut than the last. Just then, their seats began to tremble beneath them. When the gases far below them ignited, Phinneas felt the deep booming in his bones. He gritted his teeth and stared out the small window ahead. Though he could only see the murky clouds of Houston’s effluvia blocking the sky above, he knew the peaceful solitude of the stars lay beyond.

Liftoff occurred so smoothly that at first, Phinneas didn’t even realize it was happening. It was the invisible force of gravity he felt instead, pressing against him first like an eager lover, and then like a brutish assailant. He could hear Jonathan moaning beside him as the forces increased. The skin of his face pushed back into a tight mask as the rocket carried them higher and faster into the atmosphere. They climbed through the sooty clouds and soon burst into the bright sunshine of a clear afternoon. The light blue of the sky was deepening by the second, and according to the dial on the instrument panel, they were nearly at the end of the first stage.

On cue, and as Tsiolkovsky had said, the first boosters detached. Phinneas could tell by the change in the booming howl of the rocket’s timbre. He imagined the core of the second engine burning behind them like a second sun. A few minutes later, the last wispy clouds of ice crystals parted and Phinneas could see the void of the Big Black just ahead. The strain on his heart released just enough to let him feel a trickle of cautious joy. Soon, he would be home.

He spared a glance over at Jonathan, whose face now had more than a slight green tinge. The forces of acceleration were having a bad effect on him, and Phinneas would not be surprised to see him pass out before they escaped the planet’s greedy grasp. A few minutes later, the second stage fell away, and the CO
2
engine of the stovepipe ignited. His body gradually began to lighten.

Phinneas reached out eagerly to take the controls. Glee surged through him as he powered the craft into the fullness of the Big Black, letting Earth fall away behind him like a ball and chain. “Yes! Bloody hell, we made it, lad!” His voice dropped to a reverent whisper and the stars before him blurred just a wee bit as he teared up like a schoolgirl. “By the sacred bones of Willy Wright, we made it.”

Jonathan seemed to come back to himself a bit and he grinned. “I told you my father doesn’t hire any hacks.”

“That may be, but careful ye don’t soil yer suit with whatever ye last ate.”

“Lucky for me, I don’t think I have anything in my stomach to sick up.”

Phinneas’ own stomach grumbled and he realized it had been far too long since he’d eaten anything. Perhaps they could remedy that at Roosevelt Station, since he had a bad feeling that by the time they docked in about thirty minutes, they were going to be too late again. He didn’t say so aloud, though. Having Jonathan lose his wits again in such small quarters would be a sure recipe for disaster. Roosevelt Station loomed ahead, not quite as ugly as the
Albatross,
but close. It was the first station of its type, and so it was constructed on a smaller dime than the one that floated over Paris. Of course, Orbital had invested in new additions since then, but they only increased the station’s utilitarian look. Fultons clung to it like remoras on a deformed shark. The towering pylon of the nuclear reactor that powered it sat furthest away from the place where passengers embarked, opposite the delicate train track that stretched off in the distance. The train itself sat in the station, attached to its airlocks. Chuffs of icy vapor spilled from its reactor smokestack. It seemed the company had made haste to repair the damage that Phinneas and his crew had caused during their raid.

Thinking of that day caused him to feel a caustic mix of longing and guilt. He’d just been a pirate that day, with his own vessel and a loyal crew. Now he was but a penniless fugitive and tagalong on some harebrained mission that would likely get him killed. He didn’t think the term pirate applied to him any longer.

The ship’s Orbital logo gained them quick entry to the docking area, where Phinneas pulled up to the nearest airlock. Although they’d spent barely a half hour in this tin can—an outright miracle of technology when Phinneas really thought about it—he was in a hurry to be out. The lack of gravity on his heart had him flowing with the energy he’d missed ever since he woke up on Big Blue.

With the hatches sealed to one another, they unfastened from their seats. Phinneas climbed over to the hatch and wrenched it open. Victor Orbital had supplied them with magnetic boots before they departed, so once they extricated themselves from the tiny craft, they were able to situate themselves quickly enough in the low gravity environment. They removed their helmets and breathed in the canned air, which was a damn sight better than what they’d been breathing in down in the Houston slums.

“Oy,” called a dockworker standing beside the hatch. “Never seen puffer like that. Flies all crosswise, and no steamer boot, eh? What name?” His hand was poised by a chalkboard.

“
Varvara
,” said Jonathan. “Private property of Orbital Industries. See that nobody disturbs it.”

The dockworker scrawled the name on the chalkboard. “Aye, sir, no fleas will scratch her here.” He floated off toward another recently-docked ship with an “Oy!”

“Have ye thought about what we’ll do next if they ain’t here?” Phinneas asked.

“We’ll do whatever it takes, just as we always have. We can’t have been that far behind the elevator.” His face was set and earnest, and Phinneas continually found himself adjusting his opinion of the lad. The soft and privileged rich boy was gone. He’d tasted blood and it had hardened him. Phinneas knew from experience that this wasn’t going to make Orbital’s life easier. On the contrary, he would probably not be able to quiet the need for a fight even when, or if, he resumed his normal life.

Phinneas gestured up the airlock. “Lead the way, lad.”

Their boots clomped heavily on the metal walkway. When they reached the door to the station, Jonathan pushed it open and the two men stepped into the bustling Roosevelt Station.

Phinneas suggested walking through the main terminal, though he had a feeling that if these people were trying to remain undetected, they wouldn’t be sitting out here in the open. He scanned the crowd, but came up empty. “I don’t see ‘em.”

“Neither do I. I doubt they were taking the train, but let’s ask the ticket counter if they saw anyone come through. It will at least narrow our search.”

“Just don’t start breakin’ everything like ye did last time.”

Jonathan gave him a sidelong glance. “The pirate is telling me not to break things? Have you lost your steel, Greaves?”

Phinneas gritted his teeth. “Pirate or no, I’m stealin’ a little bit of yer abandoned common sense.”

“Touché.”

They made their way over to the ticket counter, maneuvering through throngs of wealthy and privileged travelers who seemed too awed by the marvel and novelty of space travel and the awkwardness of walking in a gravity-free environment to move in any sort of an ordered line. Many of them gripped the handrails that lined every wall, probably out of fear that they would float away in spite of the magnets holding them to the floor. Some of them were laughing while others looked like they were barely holding onto their overpriced lunches. Phinneas hadn’t ever visited this part of Roosevelt Station, instead keeping his dealings on the outskirts with the Fultons that quietly moved goods back and forth for him, and out of sight of the Space Guard.

At the ticket counter, a harried clerk was giving directions to a group of people wondering when the next train was leaving for Paris. “The train departs in forty-five minutes, ma’am. It will be boarding very soon,” he told one woman, who had probably never been called anything better than handsome most of her life. The enormous hat on her head didn’t help matters. Stuffed canaries sat on the rim amid a fluff of black ribbon, which was also tied under her chin to hold the monstrosity onto her head. “That was not ze question!” she cried, and Phinneas winced at the familiar accent. If he never heard French-tinged English again, it would be too soon. “I was promised I could carry my souvenirs through customs, but your people are now telling me I cannot. I demand an immediate refund.”

The clerk rubbed his face in a weary way that suggested he’d been fielding similar incidents for days and had just about reached the end of his rope. “Ma’am, we have new regulations since the incident last month. For safety reasons, we can’t allow passengers to carry anything that might be construed as a weapon on board the train.”