The Oilman's Daughter (9 page)

Cecilie’s face didn’t change from the sly smile. Phinneas stared at her for a few moments before the coy nature of her words dawned on him. His hands flew to his neck, searching for the chain he’d put around it before they left the grotto. The literal key to his heart, without which he wouldn’t last five minutes on Earth. Then he remembered how her hands had been all over his neck as they kissed, likely feeling for the clasp.

“Give it back or I’ll crush yer cunning face!”

“Your threats are beginning to bore me.”

He sprang from his seat, hands outstretched and ready to tear every piece of clothing off her to find the key. She lashed out and head butted him with a blow that might have stunned a full-grown ram. Try as he might to maintain consciousness, darkness consumed everything.

A hard slap across his cheek brought Phinneas out of the murky depths of his slumber. His head felt like it was two sizes too large. Cecilie hauled off and slapped him again.

“Wake up! Oh you stupid brute, we’ll die if you don’t!”

A bolt of pain slammed through Phinneas’s head as he sat up. Cecilie must have attempted to fly the ship while he was passed out. He could see from the gauges and the spinning stars through the leaded glass that the stovepipe was twisting out of control. The boilers were running into the red, and the cabin temperature had climbed past a hundred degrees. His radiators were likely white hot, announcing their presence to every single Space Guard vessel within hundreds of miles.

He wanted to scream at her, to make her pay for putting him in such a bind, but his head felt like it had been stabbed with a dozen ice picks, and there wasn’t much time left before they boiled alive in here. Instead, he climbed up to the pilot’s chair and through a combination of blowing steam pressure through auxiliary valves, venting the furnace to space, and swearing, he managed to bring the stovepipe’s corkscrew to a halt. She must have been trying to turn the ship around. Despite double vision from the blow to the head he’d sustained, he found a familiar star pattern and soon had the vessel on a dead reckoning course for the Sargasso.

“Have ye seen a ship whose boiler explodes in space? There’s naught left behind, even for the salvagers of the Sargasso.” He was growing weary of this chess match. “Ye may as well return my key. Ye know ye won’t have it for long. I’ll strip it from ye when we reach the
Albatross
.”

Cecilie shook her head and smiled. “It’s in a place where you’ll never find it.”

Phinneas laughed and winced at the stab of pain. “Even if ye swallowed it, I’d still get it once it passed through yer stinkin’ guts. I’m not afraid to dig through a little shit to get to the treasure.”

“You could dig through my shit and eat it for all I care. You still wouldn’t find it. I may give it back to you, but only after you agree to transfer me to the nearest airship once we reach Earth’s orbit. I tried to appeal to your better nature. I offered you a chance at a great fortune with my father’s technology, but you would rather live like a filthy troll in empty space, taking things that do not belong to you. Maybe you are not such an honorable man after all.”

Phinneas lunged to grab hold of Cecilie’s wrists. He pulled her close until their faces were at kissing distance once more. But instead of closing that final gap, he hissed at her. “I’m done lookin’ at yer stupid cow’s face.”

Her eyes grew wide with panic as he yanked her out of her seat. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

He dragged her through the stovepipe’s living quarters to the tiny airlock. It would be cramped and cold, and she’d have just enough air to keep her alive until they reached the Sargasso, that is if she didn’t panic. “I think it’s best we don’t share the same space now. I might just snap yer neck otherwise. And I don’t fancy waking up with me guts on the outside if I fall asleep in yer company.”

“Don’t lock me in there. Please,
Monsieur
! It’s a coffin! I’ll suffocate!” She tried to wrench herself from his grasp but to no avail.

“There’s plenty o’ air if ye don’t suck it all out with yer bleating.” He threw the door open and shoved. She fought back. Her magnetic-booted feet flailed at him. One ferocious kick almost jobbed him in the balls. Finally, he grabbed her by the throat and pulled her close. “Simmer down or I’ll knock ye out again. And the next blow from me will be the last thing ye ever feel.”

At that threat, she gave in. Phinneas stuffed her in the airlock and slammed the door shut before she could say another word. Blood pounding in his ears, he dogged the hatch tight and spun the wheel.

God, he hated her.

For the next two days, he allowed Cecilie out of the hatch twice daily to use the lavatory. Each time, he sent her back in with some food and water and once gave her a blanket. She remained meek and said not a word to him. At her haunted expression, he almost relented and let her back into the cabin. But then he remembered how she’d played him and forced himself to remain the heartless pirate he was supposed to be.

After each trip to the lavatory, he’d set about the unpleasant task of checking the tank for the missing key. He never found it. He knew where she had most likely hidden it, and it galled him that he wasn’t the kind of man who would harm a woman in that way to find it. Luckily, there were excellent artisans in the Sargasso. He would find someone who could make him a new key. It would take both time and money he didn’t have, but he wouldn’t lower himself for her benefit. She could keep the old one as a memento.

After what felt like an eternity of hours, they were nearly there. The
Albatross
always reminded Phinneas of a human heart covered in burnished metal and rivets, with dozens of tubes and pipes sprouting from it like veins and arteries. Its radiators always glowed dull red, while steam vents shot snowy vapor into the void outside. Nikola Tesla had originally designed and built the structure as a proof of concept to demonstrate the need for a dedicated research laboratory in space. Unfortunately for Tesla, others didn’t quite share his vision, and the funding eventually dried up once governments and schools realized the immense resources need to operate such a facility. Eventually, Tesla went bankrupt and the station was towed out to the Lagrange Sargasso, past the moon’s orbit, where it remained abandoned amid other junked equipment and debris. A few years later, Tesla renounced his citizenship of Earth and went off to live in his giant space laboratory, never to be seen again. Phinneas figured he’d probably died there, which was why the squatters had moved upon it.

Over time, it became a hub to which only the hardiest spacers ventured and lived. Not even the Space Guard dared to approach the Sargasso, despite the seedy things that happened within the halls and walls of the
Albatross
and its outbuildings. Sargassians were rightly distrustful of outsiders, and flashing the wrong semaphore code at the entrance would incur certain death from the many gun turrets that encircled the Sargasso’s outer perimeter.

He was always welcome, but Phinneas didn’t spend as much time in the Sargasso as he used to. Though a dedicated spacer, he distrusted the mental states of people who had lived so long without gravity. Most of the younger folk had never even set foot on the moon, much less Earth, and the environment had affected their bodies in strange ways. Some of them had long, spindly limbs that reminded him of spiders, and they’d populated a fair share of his nightmares. Most times, his visits lasted long enough to meet with contacts for jobs, get parts for the
‘Shark
, or occasionally satisfy his more carnal demands. A few men inside also owed him favors, and he intended to cash one in for passage to Earth.

Phinneas pulled the levers releasing colored flags in the specific order that would gain him entrance: blue-white-blue-red-white-green. A few moments later, the turrets raised green flags, a sign that he was free to proceed. If he’d gotten even one color wrong, he’d have been dead before even seeing a flag.

He guided the ship into an empty dock and cranked the clamps around the airlock. After shutting down the boiler, he went to fetch his cargo. When he threw open the door, Cecilie looked up at him but made no move to leave the tiny space. He held out his hand to help her up, but she gave it an imperious glare.

Phinneas sighed. “Look, lass, ye can come along quiet-like, or ye can come along unconscious. One’s a lot less pleasant. What’s yer choice?”

Cecilie’s sigh matched his and she stood up, eschewing his offered hand.

“Listen, I’m gonna tell ye somethin’ about where we just landed. Even the most horrible things ye’ve heard about the Sargasso back home can’t prepare ye for the danger here. If ye try to run and find help here, ye’ll like as not find trouble far worse than any ye’ve had with me. Most likely ye’d be impressed into a brothel and live out the rest o’ your days as a set of orifices fer dozens of lonely, diseased wankers. Do ye ken?”

Cecilie’s face went pale, and she gave a shaky nod.              

“Good. Now, I don’t wanna bind ye up like a prisoner. It’s likely to draw bad attention. If one of these vagrants sees yer of value to me, they’ll try and take ye for themselves. Trust me when I say that right now, I’m the only friend ye have.”

“
Oui.”

From the set of her jaw, Phinneas could tell she didn’t believe him. Well, she’d get her schooling soon enough. “Good. Now keep yer mouth shut and let me handle everything. The sooner we can get out of here, the better.” He opened the airlock door and stepped onto the
Albatross
. Smells of human sweat, piss, and exotic spices assaulted his nose. The air filtration here was as shoddy as ever. Men and women who were tall, reedy, and dark-skinned—the typical build of lifelong spacers—strolled along the dock in their magnetic boots. Some of the women sported dresses better described as kerchiefs that just barely covered their unmentionables. Their skeletally thin arms and hair undulated like plants at the bottom of the ocean as they walked.

“
Sacre bleu
,” whispered Cecilie. “Why are they so thin?”

“People were meant to live in gravity, and to eat better food than they can get out here,” said Phinneas. “Get a move on. The less time we spend here, the better.”

The pair hadn’t taken more than three steps from the airlock when the inevitable happened. Cecile dashed toward one of the prostitutes standing nearby.

“Help me! Please, this man is keeping me prisoner and he intends to kill me!” She lost her footing and drifted into the air, flailing and helpless.

The prostitute rolled her eyes and turned away as Phinneas reached up and grabbed one of Cecilie’s ankles. “This is almost funny.” He removed the coil of cord he’d tucked into his back pocket. “Ye don’t believe a word out of my mouth, and yet yer the biggest liar this side of hell.” He wrapped the cording around her wrist and tied it in the most complicated knot he knew.

“I told you I wasn’t going to make this easy for you, you stinking pig. May you choke on your own shit and die. You are a king of filth, a low man among low men, and I will see to it that you pay for everything you’ve put me through.”

Phinneas pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it in her mouth. “That’s better. I like ye much better this way.” Suddenly screams erupted all around them, and several people pointed straight up.

“
Bozhe moy
! It’s gonna hit!” screamed the prostitute who’d ignored Cecilie a moment ago. Phinneas whipped his head up see the impossible: a Fulton under full thrust, radiators aglow, was about to collide with the
Albatross
.

Jonathan watched through the telescope as Gusarov piloted the
Condor
closer to the ascending
Palmetto
. The schooner resembled a strange insect, boasting a single wide oval-shaped deck and bulbous boilers that thickened the Fulton’s stern. Crane arms extended from port and starboard like grasshopper legs, and steam jetted from multiple curved nozzles. The radiators were gossamer wings, with sails that spread from the ship’s dorsal surfaces and glowed bright as they shed heat.

“She flying any colors?” Gusarov worked the levers of the
Condor
, steering the stovepipe ever closer toward the Fulton. To slow the ship, he’d spun it on its axis to point its drive nozzles toward Earth. Now it climbed away from the world, and the
Palmetto
approached fast from astern. Busy with his piloting, Gusarov ordered Jonathan to the observation blister on the bulkhead where he could report on the Fulton’s position.

Jonathan saw two long poles emerge from the
Palmetto
’s prow like the antennae of a cockroach. Two yellow flags hung from one line, the first with a black circle in the center and the second with a thick horizontal blue line crossing it. He reported that information to Gusarov.

“
Bozhe moy
, she is paranoid. Muñoz must think we are pirates. Bastard cannot see past end of his nose or he would know
Condor
by sight. Can you run semaphore line for me here,
Gospodin
Porter? My hands are tied at moment.” Gusarov spun a wheel to increase steam pressure and pulled a lever to deploy the auxiliary radiator fins.

“Yes, sir,” said Porter. “I’m familiar with semaphore codes from my time in the army.”

“Send
Peaceful Intent
and
Request Communication
. Flags are in bin to my left. Run them out on spring line just below it.”

Jonathan glanced back to watch Porter select four flags made from thin sheets of tin. He clipped them to a coiled spring and then shut them inside a small cabinet. He pulled a lever and the spring uncoiled out past the hull of the
Condor
, unveiling the flags. Jonathan turned his attention back to the
Palmetto
. Her flags were already being withdrawn from the first line and a single new flag emerged on the second.

“Five horizontal lines. Blue, white, red, white, blue.”

“Good.” Gusarov frowned at a gauge and tapped it until the needle spun to a point he liked. “
Gospodin
Porter, send
Important to Communicate
by Signaling Lamp
. You know Morse code?”

“Yes, sir.” Porter reeled in the spring line and added new flags.

“Lamp is up by the blister.”

“They sent out the same flag again.” Jonathan looked at Porter as the man squeezed in beside him. “You’re a handy fellow to have around. I should increase your salary. Remind me when we’re back home.”

“I shall do my best, sir.”

Jonathan didn’t know Morse code, so he let Porter take the best position to see the
Palmetto
, now close enough to make out individual hull details.

“Tell them who we are and that we wish to speak to your brother.”

Porter operated the lamp in a quick and professional manner. When he finished, someone on the
Palmetto
signaled back. Jonathan couldn’t keep track of the rapid blinking of the other vessel’s signal lamp, but Porter nodded, his lips moving as he followed the series.

“All right, they’re giving us permission to dock with them.”

“Dock with them?” Jonathan wrinkled his brow in consideration. “I thought your brother could just give us the code and we’d be on our way.”

“I thought perhaps it might be best if the signalman doesn’t know precisely what we need. It would be safer for him if we talk to him aboard the
Condor
.” Porter lowered his voice. “You may have to pay to buy out his contract for the remainder of his tenure.”

“I understand. I’ll pay whatever it takes.” He wondered what his father would make of all this expenditure when he finally returned home from this adventure, but it didn’t make him any more hesitant with his wallet. Besides, he’d more than earned his keep as the Circumferential Rail’s public face, and he was happy to finally have a worthy beneficiary.

“Stand by for docking, comrades. It gets bumpy from here.” Gusarov pulled several levers to extend mirrors on arms beyond the prow so he could see along the flanks of the
Condor
as the
Palmetto
approached from behind.

Jonathan watched the Fulton as it crawled closer toward them. He could see a cupola mounted above the prow with a space-suited sailor manning a rocket tube. He knew a single rocket would spell doom for the stovepipe, and shivered at the idea of dying in the vacuum of space. He’d seen daguerreotypes of men whose spacesuits had burst open, or had been in pressurized cabins that failed. They’d been turned half inside out, their flesh torn asunder by fluids forced out, and then freeze-dried into powdery husks.

The
Palmetto
pulled alongside the
Condor
and Gusarov opened his thrusters all the way. Even though he knew no sound could carry across even the narrowest void of vacuum, it still seemed odd to Jonathan that the larger vessel moved in such silence. Then their hulls touched, and the squealing roar of metal on metal mixed with the unfamiliar vibration of the
Palmetto
’s powerful drive set Jonathan’s teeth chattering.

Gusarov roared in Russian fury. “
Bozhe moy
, Muñoz, hold that piece of shit still!” He worked the controls and then lunged for the airlock clamps. Clanks and thumps sounded throughout the cabin as Gusarov secured the
Condor
to the
Palmetto
and someone aboard the schooner did the same. The legless man climbed back up to the pilot’s station hand-over-hand, and dialed back all the thrusters and steam pressure. Satisfied that his ship was secured, Gusarov rejoined Jonathan and Porter by the airlock.

“Keep hands in plain sight and do not make any threatening moves, comrades.” Gusarov spun the wheel to open his side of the airlock. “They do not know who we are for sure, and they will be armed.”

Jonathan raised his hands and spread a pleasant smile across his face.

The
Palmetto
’s door swung inward and Jonathan found himself face to face with a dozen armed crewmen of every possible ethnic background. The scent of their sweat and the sharp tang of spicy cuisine floated into the
Condor
. Men pointed crossbows and low-velocity pistols at them. One of the men, dark-skinned with his hair collected in short, thick locks like fingers, lowered his crossbow.

“Jefferson?” he asked. “That really you?”

“Hello, Lincoln.”

A swarthy Spaniard holstered his pistol and put his hands on his hips. “Looks like they’re not pirates,
hombres
.
Es una lástima
. What do you want, Russkie?”

“It is not me, Muñoz. My employer. Introducing none other than Mr. Jonathan Orbital, of Orbital Railway.”

Jonathan stepped forward, careful to avoid making any threatening gestures. “Greetings, Captain Muñoz, and thank you for agreeing to meet with me. We need the services of your crewman, Mr. Porter, for a mission of vital importance.”

Lincoln Porter tilted his head sideways and stared at them in confusion.

“Vital importance, is it? Sounds interesting. But Mr. Porter is of vital importance to my crew, and I’m afraid the answer must be no,
señor
.” Muñoz hooked his thumbs in his broad belt and grinned from behind his bushy black beard.

“I’m going to take my checkbook out of my inside jacket pocket,” said Jonathan. “You name a fair price and I’ll buy out Mr. Porter’s contract.” Jonathan took a deep breath and with exaggerated caution, reached into his jacket. He heard the sharp intakes of breath and the tensing of trigger fingers even over the roar of the
Palmetto
’s boiler. The sound of the crew relaxing at the sight of his checkbook was palpable.

Everyone’s attention turned to Captain Muñoz. He scratched his jaw. Jonathan was certain he’d never been presented with such a decision before.

“
Jesús lloró
,” said the captain at last. “Two hundred francs and you can have him.”

“
Yebat’ moy krest’yanskiy zadnitsu!
” shouted Gusarov. “That’s robbery and he knows it.
Palmetto
is less than twenty hours from port and there is no job Mr. Porter is doing that cannot be done by at least two other men in that time.” He turned to Jonathan. “Fifty francs and he should thank you for saving him extra cost in air and payload mass.”

Jonathan had been about to write out the check, but stopped at Gusarov’s outburst. He turned back to look upon the black-bearded captain of the
Palmetto
. “Well? How about it, Captain?”

“
Maldito seas,
Russkie!” Muñoz slapped his thigh in disgust and then pointed at Jonathan. “Seventy-five francs,
Señor
Orbital, and not a cent less. And you’ll pay him his wages to boot.”

“Done.” Jonathan wrote out the check. “The CR offices on Pinnacle Station will honor this payment.”

“
Muy bien
. Porter, get your kit and get off my ship, you freeloader. I’ve got a schedule to keep. And Russkie?”

“Da,
Muñoz?”

“
Coma la mierda de mi culo
.” Muñoz gave Gusarov an unpleasant grin, showing missing and rotted teeth from scurvy.

Gusarov only laughed and turned away from the airlock to get the
Condor
ready to depart.

Porter clasped Lincoln’s hand as the dreadlocked man climbed aboard with a beat-up leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Once the men were beside each other, Jonathan could see the family resemblance. Lincoln was much thinner and seemed quite a bit younger than the elder butler, and intense curiosity filled his face.

“What’s all this about, Jeff?”

“I’ll let Mr. Orbital explain.” Porter shut and dogged the airlock.

“We need to get to the
Albatross
. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know the proper semaphore code for safe passage?”

Lincoln glanced at his brother. Porter nodded back at him. “Yes, sir.”

“Then that’s where we’re heading at our best speed, Mr. Porter. A young lady has been kidnapped by pirates and I intend to rescue her.”

“Stand by,” called Gusarov from the pilot’s chair. “We are casting off.”

“Call me Linc. Mr. Porter is my father and sometimes my brother.” Lincoln grinned, white teeth sparkling in his dark face, and reached out with a lanky forearm to twist his hand in the cargo netting along the bulkhead. Porter did likewise, as if space travel was becoming second nature to him. Jonathan didn’t remember to brace himself and the back of his head struck a painful blow against the aft bulkhead. He rubbed what would later become yet another sore lump and shook his head to clear away the stars wobbling in his vision.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but the Sargasso’s not a place for folk like yourself. The
Albatross
even more so.” Linc made a show of staring everywhere in the cabin except at Jonathan.

Jonathan sighed. “I know I’ll be out of my element, but I promised Miss Renault’s father that I’d see her returned to him safe and sound, and I stand by that even in the face of . . . unsavory elements.”

“She is either quite a lady or you’re half crazy.”

Jonathan grinned. “Perhaps a bit of both, Linc.”

For the next two days, the
Condor
ate up the miles between the Earth and the Moon, making for the spot where the two celestial bodies’ gravity canceled each other out. The four men played a lot of cards and shared their stories: Gusarov regaled them with tales of his life as an intrepid solo pilot; Porter told some of his stories about flying a dirigible for Britain during their war with Egypt; Linc talked about his experiences as a midshipman on the
Palmetto
and some of the bizarre cargoes they’d carried.

Jonathan, who’d grown up in a rich family in a well-to-do part of Houston, didn’t have many stories to tell, although he’d listened to others tell them. He whiled away many lazy afternoons as a boy, his nose buried inside the pages of a dime novel. Back in those days, he never imagined that he might one day live out one of those adventures. Though the same could be said for even a week ago. The closer they drew to their destination, the more anxious he became. Though the rigors of space travel had finally started to go easier on his body, simple nerves made up the difference in his gut, and he wondered just what they might find at the
Albatross
, and if it would match some of the riveting and sometimes horrifying stories he’d heard over the years about the outpost built by Nikola Tesla himself.