Uncrashable Dakota (21 page)

The pool of blood oozing from Chief Owens’s big lifeless body had been black, not the vibrant candy red Rob had always imagined. He looked his father in the eyes.

“I don’t know if I can take this.”

“I’m not asking. Now listen to me.” All around them, his father’s crew paced grimly. An atmosphere of tense preparation had descended upon the bridge. “These men who cut the lines, I can promise you, they’re not going to stop with a single act of sabotage. So this is what you’re going to do. You know how to get to the life-ships?”

The life-ships were emergency sky-canoes; larger versions of Samuel Dakota’s original. Each one was equipped with the proper number of beetles for a safe descent, along with a portable mixing kit that injected moonshine whiskey into the beetles’ normal diet of sap to produce buoyancy at a moment’s notice. On the
Wendell Dakota
, there were eighty-four of these ships docked in hollows inside the hull. Larger collapsibles for third-class and steerage passengers were stowed belowdecks.

“I’m not leaving you here,” Rob said.

“Yes, you are. Take the gun and go. I’ll send two of my men with you.”

“Have you seen the weather out there?”

“Do you know what staying in here will mean for you? Do you think the men coming to break down the door will stop to think about who is in their sights? They will be firing at anything that moves. And make no mistake, if you can’t pull that trigger, you don’t belong here right now.”

Rob closed his eyes.
Hijacking.
It sounded like a thing that happened to other people, unfortunate souls who weren’t Rob Castor. If he stayed with his father, did that make him a hijacker, too? Once he accepted the gun, his innocent-bystander status was probably revoked.

His father grabbed his shoulders. “Focus, Rob. I need you to be strong. What would what’s-his-name, Brice Blank, what would he do?”

Rob opened his eyes, surprised his father even knew the name of the funny-book hero. “Brice Blank hates guns, Dad. He’d probably turn himself in because of his faith in the legal process.”

His father frowned. “Oh.” He pulled Rob close and buried his face in Rob’s suit jacket. Rob heard sniffing.

“Dad, are you
smelling
me?”

“I’m so sorry,” his father said.

“If I’m gonna go, I need to understand why you’re doing this. Because if I don’t get to see you for a while, if something happens … I have to know.”

Slowly, his father raised his head. Rob’s shoulder felt warm and wet from his father’s tears. He had never seen the man cry before.

“Jefferson!” the librarian yelled across the bridge. “A word, please.”

His father ignored her.

“Sir!” A mercenary with bullet belts worn across his chest came running up. “The prisoner wants to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

His father closed his eyes. For a moment, he was very still. Then he pressed his palm against his forehead and slid it down his face as if it were a towel.

“Come with me.” He led Rob across the bridge, ignoring crewmen at two different chart stations pleading “mission-critical” issues. Halfway down the port side of the bridge, a gap in the viewing windows was filled by a raised platform encircled by railings. It reminded Rob of a pedestal for a politician on a whistle-stop tour, in which an airship dripping with campaign banners would descend upon small towns all over the country and hover just above the ground while the politician gave a speech.

“It’s time for you to know that the invention of flight was dependent upon a Castor just as much as a Dakota.”

“A Castor?” Rob asked as they ascended the steps. Every child knew the story of how Samuel Dakota had changed the world with his special blend of whiskey and sap. He didn’t see how one of his own ancestors could possibly have played a part in such a well-known tale.

They crossed the platform and paused while Jefferson unlocked a door marked
CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS.
There were several keys attached to a loop of his belt, and while his father struggled to find the right one, Rob switched the gun to his other hand so he could wipe his sweaty palm on his jacket. He told himself that as long as he didn’t put the weapon in his bag, he hadn’t officially accepted it. Willing the key to be missing, he shifted anxiously from heel to toe and back again. Rob didn’t want to meet his father’s prisoner. He didn’t want his father to
have
a prisoner.

“It’s just me!” his father called out as he knocked twice, then unlocked the door.

The sole occupant of the sparsely furnished room was Lucy Dakota. She was sitting in a chair between an empty shelf and a bare desk. Rope bound her wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the chair. Flustered, Rob slipped the gun into his pocket. He hoped she hadn’t seen it in his hand.

“The ship is too high,” she said immediately, ignoring Rob, addressing his father. “Don’t tell me it’s not. And we’re still ascending. Why aren’t the chambers lowering our altitude? Where are we? Where’s Hollis? What’s going on out there?” She craned her neck as best she could, as if a single glance out the door would explain everything.

“It’s not your concern,” his father said.

“Everything about this airship and this company is my concern. There’s a reason my name isn’t Lucy Castor.”

Rob had heard them use these exact words in arguments about the price of candles for the second-class spa and the brand of peanuts for the third-class bars.

“Just be quiet for one minute, Lucy, please.”

“Is Chief Owens still in charge of the chambers? Eliminating him would be a disaster. I hope you know better than that.”

“This is my ship. And soon it will be my company. These concerns are mine alone.”

“Jefferson. Listen to yourself.”

“No. You listen to me. It’s a simple matter of justice.”

Lucy looked at Rob for the first time. “Well,” she said, arching her eyebrow at him, “this ought to be good.”

THE HISTORY OF FLIGHT IN AMERICA

PART

FIVE

SHENANDOAH SURPRISE!
Aerial Navy Routs “Stonewall” Jackson

The Washington Evening Star

August 12, 1862

Steel-Frame Air Boat Deflects Enemy Fire;
Secretary Stanton Orders 500

The Philadelphia Inquirer

August 29, 1862

The Army of Northern Virginia Retreats;
General Lee Vows Counterattack

Charleston Mercury

September 15, 1862

Portrait of a High-Flying American Hero:
Samuel Dakota

Harper’s Weekly

October 2, 1862

Richmond in Flames! Dakota Bombers
Scorch Confederate Capital

New-York Tribune

October 27, 1862

*   *   *

ON A CRISP AFTERNOON
in November of 1862, Samuel Dakota left the Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia and walked down the stone steps to his personal sky-canoe. He had just witnessed the complete and unconditional surrender of the Confederate forces. As predicted, Samuel Dakota’s airships had ended the war in months rather than years. The Congressional Medal of Honor had been draped over his neck by Lincoln himself, and the picture of the ceremony made the front page of all the major northern papers. He had renewed his contract with the United States government for half a million dollars.

So much sky left to conquer
, he thought as he gazed up at the clouds drifting lazily above the courthouse. He closed his eyes and saw fluffy outlines against the backs of his eyelids. They looked a bit like twin sky-canoes, with smoky wisps connecting the stern of one to the bow of the other. Gradually they expanded into bursts of radiant color. Inspired and deeply moved, Samuel realized that he was a visionary, and like most blessed men, the next phase of his life was to be a lonely one. He snapped his eyes open, jumped into his canoe, and rummaged beneath the seat for his sketchbook.

Every man’s journey to the heavens is lonely
, he told himself—
I’m just lucky enough to be able to get there on my own terms
. Suddenly his hand brushed against something glassy and smooth, and his heart sank as he pulled out a bottle with the letter
C
scratched into the bottom. He glanced around the bustling town square and up the steps of the imposing courthouse at the jovial men in dress uniforms. There was no sign of his tormentor, but Samuel had long suspected the man had help. Perhaps even a friend at Dakota Aeronautics.

Inside the bottle was the expected note.

HEY MISTER DIKOTA,

KILLIN MEN IS EASY FROM UP IN THE SKY, AINT IT? WHEN YOU DONT HAVE TO SEE THERE FACES?

H.C.

Samuel stuffed the note back into the bottle. It was as if Hezekiah Castor could read his thoughts. Attacking from the sky hadn’t even felt
real
, raining bullets and bombs down upon the little gray ants and their tiny model cities far below.

But his life was about to enter a new and glorious phase, and if Hezekiah Castor was going to be a constant thorn in his side, the man would have to be dealt with. As much as it irked Samuel to have to revisit that shabby little corner of his past, it was time to put an end to this. Who knew when Castor might graduate from threats to sabotage?

Samuel Dakota spread the whiskey-sap along the sides of his ship, removed a few choice beetles from their golden box (a gift from General Grant), and set them in place. Much to the surprise of the Union dignitaries who had been promised an escort back to Washington by Sky Captain Dakota himself, everyone’s favorite war hero rose into the sky above the town square and caught a light westerly breeze. President Lincoln and his cabinet shielded their eyes against the glare of the noonday sun as Samuel’s sky-canoe disappeared beyond a distant ridge.

An hour later, he touched down in a clearing in the dense woods a few miles from the Dakota manufacturing complex. His heart was pounding as he checked to make sure his pistol was loaded and holstered securely at his side. At the far end of the clearing was a decrepit, lopsided cabin with a roof that sloped down low enough to graze the tops of two old rocking chairs.

Next to the cabin was the broken-down, rusty still where Hezekiah Castor had made his moonshine. Inside that moonshine was the combination of fermented grains that, when mixed with sap from certain Virginia maple trees, became the fuel that inflated the beetles and released their gases. He remembered the day in his other life as a Union Army soldier (had it really been less than a year ago?) when his regiment had crossed this very clearing and encountered the skinny, unkempt man with sunburned arms and a floppy straw hat. Surprisingly, it had taken four men—including Samuel—to wrestle him down and hog-tie him. Then they had taken their time drinking from his still, filling bottles for the road. All the while, Hezekiah Castor watched helplessly, squirming and sputtering in the dirt. And as a parting shot, Samuel had grabbed an ax that had been leaning against the side of the cabin and smashed the still to pieces, obliterating tin cups and copper pots that had been marked with the letter
C.

He’d never really felt bad about it. Moonshine thievery was a minor offense compared with the atrocities committed against civilians by both sides. And anyway, they had left the man alive.

As Samuel approached the house, he saw that the still remained a bent and twisted piece of ugly wreckage. He was about ten feet from the porch when the door swung open and banged against one of the rocking chairs. Hezekiah Castor stepped out into the shade of the overhanging roof. He put his hands on his hips. Samuel stopped. He couldn’t see Castor’s eyes, which were hidden beneath the brim of his straw hat. But he could see the man’s small mouth working on a plug of tobacco, which he spit into the grass alongside the house.

“Thought I’da seen you sooner,” Castor said, his voice measured and calm, with an unexpected hint of friendly hospitality. “Been some time since I spied you behind your big ol’ fence.” He chuckled. “Imagine that. Never thought I’d be seein’ your face again, and there you were, struttin’ and hollerin’ at your workers. Nearly jumped outta my skin.”

“How did you find out my name?”

“Your man at the gate was mighty helpful, long as I promised to quit botherin’ him. Reckon you got my notes, then.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Oh, I heard, Samuel,” Castor said. Then he tilted his head back to glance at the sky. “I seen.”

“What do you want?” Samuel asked, bracing himself for an angry, rambling speech during which Hezekiah Castor, creator of the magic moonshine, claimed to be entitled to a chunk of Dakota Aeronautics’ profit. The formula was a military secret, of course, but the company had grown so quickly that even Samuel had trouble remembering who was supposed to know certain things and who was not. And he had been giving so many interviews lately, all of them a blur.

“Well, now, lemme see,” Castor said, crossing his arms. “How ’bout you start by replacing what you done broke?” He nodded at the wreckage of the still. Samuel was taken aback. Castor was upset about a few tin drums and some piping?

“Your
still
,” Samuel said, buying time while he figured out the man’s angle.

Castor spit a thin jet of brown liquid between his front teeth. “Darn right, my still. You know how scarce tin’s been round here? And if you can believe it, I ain’t exactly prosperin’, neither.”

“That’s it, then?” Samuel was incredulous. “You want to be, um …
compensated
for the damage to your property.”

“That’s about the long and the short of it, yes sir.”

“What about the notes?” Samuel said, his nervous fingers resting on his holster. He still didn’t quite believe that Castor had gone to the trouble of sneaking him threats in bottles because he was upset about the piece of junk in his yard. Was it possible that Castor didn’t even
know
his moonshine was the original ingredient in beetle fuel? That all this time he had simply wanted Samuel to replace what he had broken?