Novel - Airman (2 page)

People gasped and surged forward. A child. There had been no child in the basket when it took flight. It was as if the world had never before seen a baby.

Born in the sky. Imagine it. A child of wonder.

Ladies and gentlemen elbowed each other shamelessly, longing for a glimpse of his cherubic face.
Look, the eyes are open. His hair is almost white. Perhaps the altitude?

Someone popped the cork on a bottle of Champagne, and an Italian count passed around Cuban cigars. It was as if the entire assembly were celebrating the baby’s survival. Vigny snagged the bottle, quaffing deeply. “Perfect,” he sighed, passing the bottle to Declan Broekhart. “He is a charmed boy. What will you call him?”

Broekhart grinned, deliriously happy. “I thought perhaps Engel. He came from the skies, after all. And our family name is Flemish.”

“No, Declan,” said Catherine, stroking her son’s white-blond hair. “Though he
is
an angel, he has my father’s brow. Conor is his name.”

“Conor?” said Declan, in mock protest. “Irish from your family. Flemish from mine. The boy is a mongrel.”

Vigny lit two cigars, passing one to the proud father. “Now is not the time to argue,
mon ami
.”

Declan nodded. “It never is. Conor he shall be called. A strong name.”

Vigny bonged a knuckle on Lady Liberty’s chin. “Whatever he is called, this boy is indebted to Liberty.”

This was the second omen of the day. Conor Broekhart would eventually pay his debt to liberty. The first omen was, of course, the airborne birth. Perhaps he would have been a sky pilot even without
Le Soleil
, or perhaps something
was
awakened in him that day. An obsession with the sky that would consume Conor Broekhart’s life, and the lives of everyone around him.

And so a few days after Conor’s famous birth, Captain Declan Broekhart and his family sailed from France back to the tiny sovereign state of the Saltee Islands, off the Irish coast.

The Saltee Islands had been ruled by the Trudeau family since 1171 when England’s King Henry II had given them to Raymond Trudeau, a powerful and ambitious knight. It was a cruel joke, as the Saltee Islands were little more than gull-infested rocks. By placing Trudeau in charge of the Saltee Islands, Henry fulfilled his contract of granting his knight an Irish estate, but also made clear what happened to overly ambitious knights.

When Raymond Trudeau objected to the king’s grant, Henry delivered the often quoted Trudeau Admonishment.

“You disagree with an appointee of God Himself,” Henry is recorded as saying. “Perhaps Monsieur Trudeau considers himself above his king. Perhaps Monsieur Trudeau considers
himself
fit for royal office. So be it. You shall take the Saltee Islands with my blessing, but not as baron. You are their king, King Raymond the First. I will demand neither tithe nor tribute from you or your descendants in perpetuity, and as an added reward, you may wear your crown to my court. Whatever you may find on those most bountiful isles is yours to keep.”

Trudeau could do nothing but bow and stammer his thanks, bitter though the words were. This was a terrible insult, as there was nothing to be found on the Saltee Islands but seabirds and their droppings, and little grew there thanks to the showers of sea spray that coated both islands during rough tides, giving nothing to the Saltees but their name.

But Raymond Trudeau’s fortune was not as bleak as it seemed. Following his effective banishment to the Saltee Islands, a strange glowing cave was discovered by one of his men, who was burning gulls from their perches. The cave was a glacial deposit of diamonds: the largest mine ever discovered, and the only mine in Europe. Henry had crowned Raymond Trudeau king of the most valuable estate in the world.

Seven hundred years later, the Trudeau family was still in power in spite of over a dozen invasion attempts from English, Irish, and even pirate armies. The famous Saltee Wall held fast against cannon, shot, and ram, and the celebrated Saltee Sharpshooters were trained to shave the whiskers off a pirate a mile away. There were only two industries on the Saltees: diamonds and defense.

The Saltee prison was packed to bursting with the foulest dregs of murdering humanity that Ireland and Great Britain had to offer. They worked the diamond mine until they had served their time or died. Most died. A sentence on Little Saltee was a death sentence. Nobody really cared. The Saltees had been making many people rich for centuries, and none of those many people wanted the status quo to change.

Nevertheless, change was afoot. Now there was a new king on the throne, an American, King Nicholas the First, or Good King Nick, as he was known in an increasing number of households. Barely six months in power, already King Nicholas had drastically improved the quality of life for his three thousand subjects, abolishing taxes and building a modern drainage system, running through the town of Promontory Fort on Great Saltee’s northern tip.

When the royal yacht,
Razorbill
, pulled into Saltee Harbour at dawn after a three-day voyage from France, King Nicholas himself was there to meet her. Truth be told, he did not much look like the other kings of the day, a youthful thirty-seven, dressed in stout hunting leathers and a flat cap. His sideburns were trimmed back, and his hair cut military style, close to the skull. His face was tanned, with a tic-tac-toe pattern of faded scars on his forehead from a close call with a land mine. A stranger might assume Nicholas to be the king’s gamekeeper, but never the king. There was no pomp or circumstance about the man, and he lived as plainly as one could in a stately palace. Nicholas had served as a skirmisher and a balloonist during the American Civil War, and it was said that he slept on the window seat in his royal chamber because the bed was too soft.

Nicholas was a new breed of European king. One who was determined to use whatever power he had to improve the quality of life for as many people as possible. Good King Nick. Declan Broekhart loved him like a brother.

Declan hitched the yacht’s bow line, then leaped onto the jetty to greet his monarch.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing slightly.

King Nicholas returned the bow, then punched his friend on the shoulder.

“Declan! What kept you? I read about your miraculous airborne baby before I see him. I can only pray that he has inherited his mother’s features.”

While the men shared a chuckle, Catherine stepped onto the gangplank, holding her precious bundle wrapped in a blanket.

“Catherine,” said Nicholas, taking her arm. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I had my fill of rest on board.” Catherine pulled little Conor’s blanket down past his chin. “Now, your newest subject would like to meet his king.”

Nicholas peered into the swaddling, finding a baby’s face in the shadows. He was a little disconcerted to find the child’s eyes focused and seemingly taking his measure.

“Ah,” he said, rearing back slightly. “So . . . alert.”

“Yes,” said Catherine proudly. “He has his father’s sharpshooter eyes.”

But King Nicholas saw more. “Perhaps. But he has the Broekhart chin, too. Stubborn to a fault. Your brow, though, Catherine. A scientist perhaps, like his mother.” He tickled baby Conor’s chin. “We need scientists. There’s a new world coming our way from America, and Europe too. The Saltees won’t stay independent unless we have something to offer the world, and the diamond mine on Little Saltee won’t last forever. Scientists, that’s what we need here.” King Nicholas tugged on his riding gloves. “Teach him well, Catherine.”

“I will, Your Majesty.”

“And take him up to the palace. Introduce him to Isabella.”

“I’ll take him up after breakfast,” promised Catherine.

Nicholas smiled sadly. “Isabella’s mother would have had a gift wrapped and ready. The perfect gift.” The king stood silently for a moment, remembering his wife, then roused himself.

“And now, Declan, sorry to drag you away, but apparently some opium smugglers have dug themselves into Lady Walker’s Cave. Right under our noses.”

“I’ll take care of it, Majesty. Perhaps you would escort Catherine to our quarters?”

“Nice try, Captain.” Nicholas grinned, clapping his hands. “Trying to keep me out of harm’s way, weren’t you?” The king was excited again, the old soldier in him relishing the chase. Unlike most old soldiers, he did not relish the kill. These smugglers would be sent to work the diamond mine on the prison island of Little Saltee, but not harmed unless it was unavoidable.

“Come now, we have dawn light and low tide. Criminals do not like to get up early, so we should catch them napping.” The king touched his cap to Catherine, then strode down the jetty toward a small company of Saltee cavalry on horseback. It was, in fact, the entire Saltee army mounted division, a dozen expert horsemen on Irish stallions. Two of the horses were without riders.

Declan was anxious to stay with his wife, but more anxious to be about his work. “I must go, Catherine. The king will injure himself swinging into those caves.”

“You go, Declan. Keep him safe; the islands need Good King Nick.”

Captain Broekhart kissed his wife and baby, then followed King Nicholas to where the cavalry waited, horses carving spiraled shavings from the jetty planks with their hooves.

“Your father, the hero,” Catherine told baby Conor, waving his tiny hand toward Declan. “Now, let’s go home and make ready to meet a little princess. Would you like to meet a princess, my stubborn scientist?”

Conor gurgled. It seemed as though he would.

CHAPTER 1: THE PRINCESS AND THE PIRATE

Conor Broekhart was a remarkable boy, a fact that became evident very early in his idyllic childhood. Nature is usually grudging with her gifts, dispensing them sparingly, but she favored Conor with all she had to offer. It seemed as though all the talents of his ancestors had been bestowed upon him: intelligence, strong features, and grace.

Conor was fortunate in his situation, too. He was born into an affluent community where the values of equality and justice were actually being applied—on the surface, at least. He grew up with a strong belief in right and wrong that was not muddied by poverty or violence. It was straightforward for the young boy. Right was Great Saltee, wrong was Little Saltee.

It is an easy matter now to pluck some events from Conor’s early years and say,
There it is. The boy who became the man. We should have seen it.
But hindsight is an unreliable science, and in truth, there was perhaps a single incident during Conor’s early days at the palace that hinted at his potential.

The incident in question occurred when Conor was nine years old and roaming the serving corridors that snaked behind the walls of the castle chapel and main building. His partner on these excursions was the Princess Isabella, one year his senior and always the more adventurous of the two. Isabella and Conor were rarely seen without each other, and often so daubed with mud, blood, and nothing good that the boy was barely distinguishable from the princess.

On this particular summer afternoon, they had exhausted the fun to be had tracking the source of an unused chimney and had decided to launch a surprise pirate attack on the king’s apartment.

“You can be Captain Crow,” said little Conor, licking some soot from around his mouth. “And I can be the cabin boy that stuck an ax in his head.”

Isabella was a pretty thing, with an elfin face and round brown eyes, but at that moment she looked more like a sweep’s urchin than a princess.

“No, Conor. You are Captain Crow, and I am the princess hostage.”

“There is no princess hostage,” declared Conor firmly, worried that Isabella was once again about to mold the legend to suit herself. In previous games, she had included a unicorn and a fairy that were definitely not part of the original story.

“Of course there is,” said Isabella belligerently. “There is because I say there is, and I am an actual princess, whereas
you
were born in a balloon.” Isabella intended this as an insult, but to Conor being born in a balloon was about the finest place to be born.

“Thank you,” he said, grinning.

“That’s not a good thing,” squealed Isabella. “Dr. John says that your lungs were probably crushed by the alti-tood.”

“My lungs’re better than yours. See!” And Conor hooted at the sky to show just how healthy his lungs were.

“Very well,” said Isabella, impressed. “But I am still the princess hostage. And you should remember that I can have you executed if you displease me.”

Conor was not unduly concerned about Isabella having him executed, as she ordered him hung at least a dozen times a day and it hadn’t happened yet. He was more worried that Isabella was not turning out to be as good a playmate as he had hoped. Basically, he wanted someone who would play the games he fancied playing, which generally involved flying paper gliders or eating insects. But lately Isabella had been veering toward dress-up and kissing, and she would only explore chimneys if Conor agreed to pretend that the two of them were the legendary lovers Diarmuid and Gráinne, escaping from Fionn’s castle.

Needless to say, Conor had no wish to be a legendary lover. Legendary lovers rarely flew anywhere, and hardly ever ate insects. “Very well,” he moaned. “You are the hostage princess.”

“Excellent, Captain,” Isabella said sweetly. “Now, you may drag me to my father’s chamber and demand ransom.”

“Drag?” said Conor hopefully.

“Play drag, not real drag, or I shall have you hung.”

Conor thought, with remarkable wit for a nine-year-old, that if he had actually been hung every time Isabella had ordered it, his neck would be longer than a Serengeti giraffe’s. “Play drag, then. Can I kill anyone we meet?”

“Absolutely anyone. Not Papa, though, until after we see how sad he is.”

Absolutely anyone.
That’s something, thought Conor, swishing his wooden sword, thinking how it cut the air like a gull’s wing.

Just like a wing.

The pair proceeded across the barbican, she oohing and he
arr
ing, drawing fond but also wary looks from those they passed. The palace’s only resident children were well liked, not at all spoiled, and mannerly enough when their parents were nearby; but they were also light fingered and would pilfer whatever they fancied on their daily quests. One afternoon, a particular Italian gold leaf artisan had turned from the cherub he was coating to find his brush and tray of gold wafers missing. The gold turned up later, coating the wings of a week-dead seagull, which
someone
had tried to fly from the Wall battlements.

They crossed the bridge into the main keep, which housed the king’s residence, office, and meeting rooms. And this would generally be where the pair would have been met with a good-natured challenge from the sentry. But the king himself had just leaned out the window and sent the fellow running to catch the Wexford boat and put ten shillings on a horse he fancied in the Curracloe beach races. The palace had a telephone system, but there were no wires to the shore as yet, and the booking agents on the mainland refused to take bets over the semaphore.

For two minutes only, much to the princess and pirate’s delight, the main keep was unguarded. They strode in as though they owned the castle. “Of course, in real life, I
do
own the castle,” confided Isabella, never missing a chance to remind Conor of her exalted position.

“Arrrr,” said Conor, and meant it.

The spiral staircase ascended through three floors, all packed with cleaning staff, lawyers, scientists, and civil servants; but through a combination of infant cunning and luck, the pair managed to pass the lower floors to reach the king’s own entrance, impressive oak double doors with half of the Saltee flag and motto carved into each one.
Vallo Parietis
, read the legend.
Defend the Wall.
The flag was a crest bisected vertically into crimson and gold sections, with a white blocked tower stamped in the center.

The door was slightly ajar. “It’s open,” said Conor.

“It’s open,
hostage princess
,” Isabella reminded him.

“Sorry, hostage princess. Let’s see what treasure lies inside.”

“I’m not supposed to, Conor.”

“Pirate Captain Crow,” said Conor, slipping through the gap in the door. As usual, Nicholas’s apartment was littered with the remains of a dozen experiments. There was a cannibalized dynamo on the hearth rug, copper wiring strands protruding from its belly.

“That’s a sea creature and those are its guts,” said Conor with relish.

“Oh, you foul pirate,” said Isabella.

“Stop your smiling, then, if I’m a foul pirate. Hostages are supposed to weep and wail.”

In the fireplace itself were jars of mercury and experimental fuels. Nicholas refused to allow his staff to move them downstairs. Too volatile, he had explained. Anyway, a fire would only go up the chimney.

Conor pointed to the jars. “Bottles of poison. Squeezed from a dragon’s bum. One sniff and you vaporate.” This sounded very possible, and Isabella wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not.

On the chaise longue were buckets of fertilizer, a couple of them gently steaming. “Also from a dragon’s bum,” intoned Conor wisely. Isabella tried to keep her scream behind her lips, so it shot out of her nose instead.

“It’s fert’lizer,” said Conor, taking pity on her. “For making plants grow on the island.”

Isabella scowled at him. “You’re being hanged at sundown. That’s a princess’s promise.”

The apartment was a land of twinklings and shining for a couple of unsupervised children. A stars-and-stripes banner was draped around the shoulders of a stuffed black bear in the corner. A collection of prisms and lenses glinted from a wooden box closed with a cap at one end; and books old and new were piled high like the columns of a ruined temple.

Conor wandered between these columns of knowledge, almost touching everything but holding back, knowing somehow that man’s dreams should not be disturbed.

Suddenly, he froze. There was something he should do. The chance might never come again. “I must capture the flag,” he breathed. “That’s what a pirate captain is supposed to do. Go to the roof so I can capture the flag and gloat.”

“Capture the flag and goat?”

“Gloat.”

Isabella stood hands on hips. “It’s pronounced goooaaat, idiot.”

“You’re supposed to be a princess. Insulting your subjects is not very princessy.”

Isabella was unrepentant. “Princesses do what they want; anyway, we don’t have a goat on the roof.”

Conor did not waste his time arguing. There was no winning an argument with someone who could have you executed. He ran to the roof door, swishing his sword at imaginary troops. This door, too, was open. Incredible good fortune. On the hundred previous occasions when Isabella and he had ambushed King Nicholas, every door in the place had been locked, and they had been warned, by stern-faced parents, never to venture onto the roof alone. It was a long way down.

Conor thought about it.

Parents? Flag?

Parents? Flag?

“Some pirate you are,” sniffed Isabella. “Standing around there scratching yourself with a toy sword.”

Flag, then.
“Arrr. I go for the flag, hostage princess.” And then in his own voice: “Don’t touch any of the experiments, Isabella. ’Specially the bottles. Papa says that one day the king is going to blow the lot of us to hell and back with his concoctions, so they must be dangerous.”

Conor went up the stairs fast, before his nerve could fail him. It wasn’t far, perhaps a dozen steps to the open air. He emerged from the confines of the turret stairwell onto the stone rooftop. From dark to light in half a second. The effect was breathtaking: azure sky with clouds close enough to touch. I was born in a place like this, thought Conor.

You are a special child,
his mother told him at least once a day.
You were born in the sky, and there will always be a place for you there.
Conor believed that this was true. He had always felt happiest in high places, where others feared to go.

He climbed on top of the parapet, holding tight to the flagpole. The world twirled around him, the orange sun hanging over Kilmore like a beacon. The sea glittered below him, more silver than blue, and the sky called to him as though he actually were a bird. For a moment he was bewitched by the scene, then the corner of the flag crept into his vision. Arrr, he thought. Yon be the flag. Pride of the Saltees.

The flag stood, perfectly rectangular, crimson and gold with its tower so white it glowed, held rigid by a bamboo frame so that the islands’ emblem would fly proud no matter what the weather. It struck Conor that he was actually standing on top of the very tower depicted by the flag. This might have caused a tug of patriotic pride in an older islander, but to a nine-year-old, all it meant was that his image should be included on the flag. I will draw myself on after I steal the flag, he decided.

Isabella emerged onto the rooftop, blinking against the sudden light. “Come down from the parapet, Conor. We’re playing pirates, not bird boy.”

Conor was aghast. “And leave the flag? Don’t you understand? I will be a famous pirate, more famous than Barbarossa himself.”

“That wall is old, Conor.”

“Pirate Captain Crow, remember.”

“That wall is old,
Conor
. It could fall down. Remember the slates came off the chapel during the storm last year?”

“What about the flag?”

“Forget the flag and forget the goat. I’m hungry, so come down before I have you hanged.”

Conor stamped down off the wall, sulking now. He was about to challenge Isabella, say that she could go ahead and have him hanged for all he cared,
and
she was a rotten hostage. Whoever heard of a hostage
giving
the orders? She should learn to weep and wail properly instead of threatening to execute him a hundred times a day.

He was about to say all of this when there came a dull thump from below that shook the blocks beneath their feet. A cloud of purple smoke oomphed through the doorway, as though someone had cleared a tuba.

Conor had a suspicion bordering on certainty. “Did you touch something?” he asked Isabella.

Isabella was haughty even in the face of disaster. “I am the princess of this palace, so I am quite entitled to touch whatever I wish.”

The tower shook again; this time the smoke was green, and it was accompanied by a foul smell.

“What did you touch, Isabella?”

The princess of the palace turned as green as the smoke. “I may have removed the cap from the wooden box. The one with the pretty lenses.”

“Oh,” said Conor. “That could be trouble.”