The Oilman's Daughter (3 page)

“Range, Zeric?”

“Looks like a mile, sir, and closing fast.” The First Mate’s face was glued to the primary periscope.

Phinneas squinted against the glare of Earth through the
‘Shark
’s windows, seeking the steam plume from the approaching cutter. He found it in seconds; the
Southampton
was approaching from a lower orbit. It would have a clear field of fire within seconds of the
Ethershark
disengaging from the train. “All right, let’s give them somethin’ to worry about. Harpoon crew, stand by. All hands, prepare for maneuverin’ and acceleration. Helm, relative pitch minus ninety. Mark!”

The helmsman pulled a lever, spun a wheel, and kicked a pedal. The
Ethershark
’s nose dipped downward from the plane of the CR to face the approaching cutter.

“Harpoon, target the train boiler and fire! Lock yer line at two hundred feet. Forward cannons, fire! Helm, stand by.”

The thud of the small charge that launched the magnetic harpoon was dwarfed by the thunderous roar of three cannons firing nine-pound cannonballs toward the onrushing cutter. “Reload!” bawled the chief gunner, and the crews raced to set the cannons for another round, a process complicated by the need for them to fire into vacuum.

“Harpoon set and locked, sir,” called a pirate.

Phinneas grabbed onto a railing to keep from being flung across the bridge. “Helm, ahead full. Harpoon, cut the line on me mark.”

The helmsman pushed the throttle lever forward to its furthest position. The steam pipes throughout the
Ethershark
clanked and hissed as pent-up pressure found a route to release. The vessel jerked forward, straining against the magnetic harpoon holding it to the train. Phinneas caught a glimpse of the bright Union Jack flag across the
Southampton
’s prow before the
‘Shark
’s linear momentum became an arc with the harpoon at the focus. The
‘Shark
groaned at the stresses as she looped underneath the train and back up the other side.

“Cut the line!” shouted Phinneas.

The harpoon crew closed a heavy lever. Gears spun and steel jaws closed upon the cable, shearing it off. The
‘Shark
jerked free and cut across the
Southampton
’s prow at a right angle to the cutter’s course.

Zeric looked up from his scope, a grin creasing his pockmarked face. “Her portside gunports are still closed. Looks like a clean breakaway, sir.”

Phinneas shook his head. “Don’t be so certain. Space Guard isn’t staffed with greenhorns. Helm, set course for the Moon. Spotters, any strikes with our volley?”

“No, sir, no visible damage to the
Southampton
.”

“Damn it.” Phinneas took over the scope from Zeric. He flicked brass levers and thumbed the wheels, zooming in on the Southampton as she wheeled about to give chase. “Grapeshot. They’ve got gallery windows forward. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Fire as soon as ye are set.”

“Grapeshot, boys, move it!” the chief gunner shouted over the din of the engines. The gunnery crew cranked hard on winches to rotate the cannons out of the firing ports and the scatterguns into place. Sweat flew off the men in a fine mist.

“
Southampton
’s firing rockets,” shouted Jeron. “Five, no six contrails.”

The scatterguns fired, sending a cloud of golf ball-sized iron pellets toward the Space Guard cutter. They couldn’t do much damage to armor, but would wreak havoc upon unprotected steam lines, radiator fins, or windows.

They also made for a reasonably good defensive screen against rockets.

The cupola gunners began firing. The
chunka chunka
sound carried through the struts, filling the
Ethershark
with even more racket. Phinneas watched through the scope as tracer rounds flared through space toward the inbound rockets, vanishing into invisibility when their oxidizer burned out. It only took a single bullet to destroy a rocket, and Phinneas’s gunners were skilled.

One contrail vanished. Then another. A third disappeared and Phinneas began to feel a little confident.

The remaining three rockets seemed to explode prematurely, but instead of being destroyed, twelve new contrails flashed toward the
Ethershark
.

“What the hell are those?” cried Zeric.

“Some kind of multi-stage cluster rocket,” said Phinneas. “Helm, get our belly to ‘em! Pitch minus ninety!”

One rocket shot past the
‘Shark
’s starboard portholes, its engine sputtering out. “Maybe they missed,” said Sebastian.

The Ethershark rang like a bell as two hard impacts caught it on the stern. The fleeing ship lurched sideways, flinging men across the cabin like paper in a gale. The helmsman crashed headfirst into the iron hatch wheel hard enough to bend it and shatter his skull like an overripe tomato. Zeric yelped as his arm intersected a bulkhead at an odd angle. Everywhere, men screamed in pain and terror. Steam valves overloaded and burst. Metal bent, wood splintered.

Phinneas couldn’t busy himself with their ails, though. He pulled himself back to the deck, locking his hands around the scope handles. His ears popped, and then popped again. “Bloody hell, we’re ventin’ air! Damage control, find that leak.” He looked at the helmsman’s ruined head and wished he hadn’t. “You, Sebastian. Take the helm.”

“B-but . . . I never . . .” The boy raised his hands in feeble protest.

“Goddamn you, boy, take the helm!”

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” Sebastian pulled himself into the helm station. Phinneas would have preferred Zeric, but the First Mate’s arm was shattered and his pockmarked face was painted with agony.

“Engine room,” called Phinneas into the tube. “What’s our situation?”

No reply.

Phinneas leaned closer to the tube to listen, but heard nothing except a familiar whistling sound. Air was flowing into the tube from the cabin. He grabbed his tarry foam and shot it into the tube. The leak was either in or near the engine room. He hoped the crewmen in there had gotten their helmets sealed before it was too late,

All that would have to wait. The
Southampton
was still out there, and the
Ethershark
was wounded. Phinneas didn’t know the extent of the damage, and wouldn’t until they reached the Grotto. And reach it they would. He refused to accept anything less than success.

“Don’t they know we have a hostage, sir?” Sebastian glanced away from the dials and levers of the helm to look back at his captain.

“I doubt it, Sebastian. How bad off are we?”

“I think we’re down to sixty percent pressure. Make that fifty-five, sir. We’re hurt bad. I bet the
Southampton
’s gaining on us. If she takes another shot, we’re done for.” The boy gasped, struggling to find breath in the thin air.

An idea presented itself to Phinneas. “Then we’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t take one.”

“Sir, I think we’re spinning.” Sebastian’s youthful brow wrinkled in consternation as he tried to interpret the gauges.

“Engines to full stop, Sebastian. Don’t try to correct the spin.” Phinneas looked around the bridge at the rest of the crewmen, already busy with damage control. He couldn’t spare anyone else, so he went to the flag lines and composed a message upon them. He spent the extra time to use individual letters so there could be no misinterpretation in his two-word message:
Hostage Aboard
. He added the signal flag for Vessel Disabled, and Request Assistance and, swallowing his pride, the white flag of surrender. He inflated a small rubber balloon, tied it to the end of the cable, and fed the cable with its flags into a small airtight case at the edge of the cabin. Air hissed as he pulled the lever to open the case to vacuum. Pulling another lever employed the needle that pierced the balloon. As it deflated, it towed the message out into the void.

“Orders, Cap’n?” Zeric’s voice sounded shaky, but Phinneas knew First Mate was a strong man who could shake off almost anything.

“Everyone we can spare to reroute pressure through undamaged pipes. Give me two gunners on the starboard cannons and leave Sebastian here on the helm.”

“Aye, sir.”

Phinneas ordered the gunners to triple-load the cannons. They tried to argue that doing so could cause them to explode inside the
‘Shark
.

“Do as I say or ye’ll ride the next cannonball out,” shouted Phinneas. “Leave the ports closed. Ye’ll be firin’ through them. We’ll get only one shot at this. Best we make it count.” He buried his face against the scope, watching as the
Southampton
steamed closer.

The
Ethershark
slowly tumbled through all three dimensional axes. The message cable had unfurled without tangling and so far, the Space Guard cutter hadn’t fired again. Her ports remained open, and Phinneas knew they could unleash a second wave of rockets at a moment’s notice, which would send the
Ethershark
and everyone aboard to Willy Wright’s Locker for good.

As the
‘Shark
spun, Phinneas counted seconds, tapping his fingers on the scope handles in time with the ship’s clock. Every seventeen seconds, the starboard side turned to face the
Southampton
. He kept the count up. “Stand by for full power. Gun crews ready.”

The clock ticked, and the cabin grew hot and stuffy as the crew worked to halt the steam pressure loss.

“Forty percent power,” whispered Sebastian. “But holding. I-is that enough, Cap’n?”

“It’ll have to be, lad.” Phinneas raised his voice. “They’re close now, men. Stop yer work and brace yerselves. Gun crews, fire on my mark.”

Waiting for the clock, Phinneas tapped his fingers. He had to give the men at least a second to fulfill his order to fire. “Three . . . two . . . one . . . “Mark!” cried Phinneas.

The cannons roared inside their sealed chambers just as the
Southampton
flashed into Phinneas’s view at nearly point-blank range. One of heavy iron cannons broke from its moorings and crashed against the bulkhead with a collision that rattled the entire ship.

The
Southampton
’s radiators shredded into thousands of tiny fins as six cannonballs tore into them. “That’s got them,” Phinneas shouted with glee. “Full steam ahead, Sebastian!”

With her radiators destroyed, the British cutter wouldn’t be able to pursue or else the crew would cook from the excess heat. Even firing weapons would add to the thermal risk. The
Southampton
was disabled, and the
‘Shark
, although damaged, was still mobile.

Just the same, Phinneas kept both eyes on the cutter as the
Ethershark
steamed away, making for the far side of the moon and the pirates’ secret Grotto.

The insistent chirping of a songbird pulled Jonathan out of murky unconsciousness. He first noted bright light behind his closed eyelids, followed by a fresh breeze carrying a sweet perfume of roses mingling with the sharper scent of ammonia disinfectant. Then came a cacophony of discomforts to make him wish for the blackness again: a persistent ringing in his ears, a bandage wrapped around his head, and a swollen, painful lump at the base of his skull. Furthermore, all of his joints felt like steel traps long rusted shut, and his mouth had the scummy, stale flavor of unwashed teeth. But despite it all, he could feel his own weight in his bones again, which meant he was back on Earth. That eased the pain somewhat.

He opened his eyes to the white and sterile surroundings of a medical ward, with curtains fluttering in the open window like carefree spirits, taunting him. The babble of conversation beyond his field of view told him he wasn’t alone.

“Hello?” He cringed at the hollow and creaky sound of his voice, which reminded him of his grandfather’s.

A nurse in a blue work dress and white apron stepped past the curtain. “
Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment allez-vous, aujourd’hui?”

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.” Jonathan gave her a weak smile.

“‘Ow do you feel today?” She switched to English even more accented than Cecilie’s had been. She checked his pulse and temperature.

“Sore. Thirsty. May I have some water?”

“I’m so sorry,
Monsieur
. Not until the doctor says it is all right. I will get him for you.”

“Nurse, I don’t know where I am. Is this Paris?”

“
Mais oui, Monsieur
.” She patted him on the hand and then disappeared behind the curtain once more.

Paris. He tried to recreate his arrival, but couldn’t recall anything after Cecilie’s warning. He hoped she was all right. The young French woman had charmed him with both her intellect and her physical beauty in the short time they’d been together. Thinking of Cecilie also reminded him of Porter. Where was he?

The doctor’s arrival interrupted Jonathan’s thoughts. “
Bonjour, Monsieur Orbital
. I am Dr. Montclair. I would welcome you to Paris, but only wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances.” Dr. Montclair had hair like steel wool and a French Foreign Legion tattoo on his forearm. His English carried the barest trace of his French roots. “How do you feel? Shoulders hurting a bit?”

“My head hurts. And yes, my shoulders as well. How did you know about that?”

Montclair smiled. “It is a common symptom of decompression sickness. Apparently you were in a compartment that lost partial pressure on board your orbital train.”

“Is it serious?” At that moment, Jonathan promised himself never again would he venture into orbital space.

“
Oui, mon ami
, but fortunately for you, quite treatable. You should feel yourself within a couple of days. I’ve made all the arrangements with your man.”

“Jefferson? Where is he?”

“I’m here, sir. I stepped out for a moment to see to your luggage.” Porter stepped past the curtain. The black man’s smile gleamed. He looked none the worse for the wear. “I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

“I’m glad to be awake. What happened? I had just escorted Mademoiselle Cecilie back to her berth when someone slugged me.”

Porter’s smile faded. “The pirates raided the front half of the train. Those of us in the lounge managed to seal the door up tight and held it against them. We heard shooting and I feared for your safety, sir, since you weren’t among those of us at the rear. I was all for mounting a sortie to find and recover you, but the young gentlemen wouldn’t hear of it.” His eyes cast downward out of embarrassment. “I’m afraid I was rather cross with them, sir. I may have even struck one for shouting an epithet at me.”

Jonathan laughed in spite of the pain in his head. “I’m sure you gave them all quite a schooling in manners. Was Miss Renault with you?”

Porter shook his head. “No, sir. I am sorry.”

His stomach knotted up, but he wasn’t going to get worked up about it just yet. Cecilie struck him as brave and resourceful. He couldn’t imagine her going down as easily as he did, if she went down at all. “What happened next?”

“One of the women spotted a British Space Guard cutter approaching. The pirates must have seen it too, for they unhooked their Fulton from the train and fled. There was a battle, and the pirates escaped after disabling the cutter. We hurried forward, that is to say, the bartender and I, and we found several passengers robbed and beaten. Including you, sir. I’m afraid your grandfather’s watch is gone, as well as your traveling bank notes.”

Jonathan sighed. The bank notes weren’t such a painful loss; he’d planned to spend them anyway. The watch, though, saddened him. The family relic had survived two wars—the Texas Revolution and the Civil War—and Jonathan had lost it after a simple knock on the head. “Well, I suppose I should consider myself lucky to be alive. However, we’ll need to return to the CR right away. I’ll need to assess the damage and make a report to my father.” He kicked off the sheets and sat up before he considered whether or not he might be naked in front of a woman, even if she was a nurse. Lightweight cotton drawstring pants covered his legs, and he took it as an omen of good fortune.

“
Monsieur
, I must protest!” Dr. Montclair raised his hands. “Two more days here before I feel it is safe to release you.”

“Nonsense. I feel fine. I’ve been hurt worse falling off a horse.” Jonathan didn’t mention his lightheadedness or the twisting in his stomach, but they were passing sensations. Too much was happening for him to stay in the hospital any longer.

“Regardless, I am ordering you to stay here. I’ll have Nurse Camille give you a sedative if I must.”

Jonathan sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Fine. Perhaps she could bring me something to eat. And a pen and paper, so I can compose a letter to my father.”

“
Oui, Monsieur
,” said the nurse with a smile. “I shall see what I can . . . ’ow you Americans say it? Rustle up for you.”

“I’ll be back to check on you in two hours,” said Dr. Montclair. “Until then, I expect you to rest quietly.”

Jonathan gave him a halfhearted salute. “Yes, Doctor.”

After the doctor and nurse left, Jonathan stole out of bed and peeked through the curtains. Satisfied that they weren’t coming right back, he turned to Porter. “Where are my clothes?”

“I have them in your valise, sir.” Porter slid the leather case from under the bed.

Jonathan rummaged through the case and found a pair of soft-soled tennis shoes and an undershirt. He pulled on the shirt and stepped into the shoes. “Take the case and meet me outside. We’re getting out of here.” He leaned out the window and looked around. A tree was near enough that he could jump onto one of the boughs. He was only on the second floor; it wouldn’t be a long drop if he did fall.

“Sir! Do you really think that’s such a good idea?”

Jonathan gave him a wry smile. It was a terrible idea. He wasn’t usually so driven to defy orders or risk his health, but perhaps nearly losing his life had knocked a little of his courage loose. “If I fall, at least I’m already at the hospital.” He jumped for the branch, and his foot slipped. For an eternity of a moment his arms wheeled around before he toppled over and fell. He grabbed in desperation at the bough and managed to just catch it. His shoulders aching in protest, he tried to see past his own feet to find out what he might land on if his grip failed.

He saw only manicured grass below, but it looked a long way down. Then he heard voices and froze. Two nurses stopped just below his feet, lit cigarettes, and started conversing in rapid-fire French. Jonathan’s nose tickled as the pungent smoke drifted past him, and he crossed his eyes and held his breath to keep from coughing or sneezing. If they glanced up even the slightest bit, they’d see a very strange bird in cotton trousers dangling among the foliage.

Jonathan closed his eyes and concentrated all his efforts on his increasingly tenuous grip. Just when he thought his muscles would turn traitor, the nurses headed back into the hospital.

“Sir?”

Jonathan looked down again and saw Porter staring open-mouthed up at him in shock. Before he could reply, his sweaty hands slipped free and he tumbled down. The grass was soft and spongy, but the impact sent a shudder of agony through his already aching body. For a moment, he regretted craving gravity so much.

“Sir, are you all right?” Porter knelt and checked Jonathan for injuries. “Is anything broken?”

“Only my pride, Jefferson.” Jonathan groaned as he sat up. “Quickly, my coat. I’ll finish dressing once we’re away from this hospital.”

He threw on and buttoned the proffered jacket. It conveyed at least a marginal level of civility, though his thin trousers offset it, making him look like a hobo who’d found a nice jacket. The humor of Jonathan’s appearance wasn’t lost upon Porter, either. “We should find you a top hat with a popped lid. Or at the very least, remove your bandage.”

“I hope I’m not going to bleed all over everything. It’ll be hell trying to catch a cab if I am.”

They chuckled at it until Porter flagged down a puffing steam Hansom that reeked of coal smoke. “
Ou est votre destination, messieurs?”
The portly driver pulled a lever to drop a few more chunks of coal from the overhead hopper into the boiler.

“Sir?” asked Porter, who knew French from his time during the War.

“Ascension Tower.” Jonathan struggled into more civilized clothing inside the confines of the Hansom.

“
La Tour Montée, s’il vous plaît.”

“
Oui, messieurs
.” The driver engaged the clutch and the Hansom chuffed down the street on its India rubber tires.

Despite the prominence of coal-powered boilers, Paris skies remained clear thanks to the springtime breeze. Jonathan watched out the windows as they trundled through town, the driver shouting an unending stream of blistering profanities at other Hansoms, horse-drawn carts, and bicyclists. Overhead, brightly-colored dirigibles cruised the skies; the large international flights docked at the Eiffel Tower gangplanks while the smaller domestic ones descended toward a large field north of town. Travelers from exotic locales like Hong Kong, Delhi, and Cairo spread through the streets of the City of Lights. Jonathan knew that sooner or later he’d be visiting all those cities and more as he helped spread the reach of the Orbital empire, at least if he survived this little adventure.

Beyond the Eiffel Tower, at the center of a large plaza, rose the Ascension Tower. Its elevator cable disappeared into the sky overhead, where it terminated a hundred and fifty miles straight up at Pinnacle Station. While the Eiffel Tower’s majesty was black iron, the obelisk of Ascension Tower was clad in brilliant white marble. The Hansom driver paused in his tirade long enough to stop at the edge of the large plaza. “
Sortir, messieurs.
” He added a lengthy diatribe in French.

“This is as far as he’ll go, sir,” said Porter.

Jonathan looked across the plaza, where the tower sat nearly a quarter mile away. “No front door service? I see other taxis there.”

“It would seem he’s superstitious, sir. Afraid of the cable falling.”

Jonathan snorted. “That’s preposterous. My father tested those connections against fifty times the forces they could be subjected to.”

“Nevertheless, sir, he won’t take us any further.”

“
Non. Je suis désolé
.” The driver shook his head in an unmistakable negative.

“Pay the man,” said Jonathan. “We’ll hike from here.”

They crossed the plaza to the main entrance, all leaded glass and brass filigree. Elevator passengers milled about the entrance, enjoying the sunshine and fresh breeze. Vendors, buskers, and pickpockets worked the crowd. Jonathan wondered how soon the next elevator would lift. He reached for his pocket watch before remembering he’d lost it to pirates.

A dark-skinned doorman in a red jacket and hat opened a brass-and-glass door for Jonathan and Porter. “
Bonjour, messieurs. Bienvenue a la Tour Montée et de l’ascenseur á Station Pinacle
.”

“
Merci
.” Jonathan exhausted most of his French vocabulary with the doorman and then hurried across the marble floor of the large lobby to the station offices. He glanced off to one side where engineers worked over the elevator car to prepare it for its next ascent. It was a great, finned brass sphere, designed to let even the strongest gales blow around it without shaking it as it climbed or dropped. A coal boiler provided heat for passengers as the vessel would rise into the higher altitudes, and the steam from it drove the pumps which kept the air flowing. While the stewards restocked the appetizers and beverage service, other maintenance people cleaned out the water closets and pumped sewage from the holding tanks. Still others wiped down the thick leaded glass portholes or applied grease to the clamps that held the car to the main cable.

“
Je suis désolé, messieurs. Ces bureaux sont pour les employés de Circulaires Rail seulement
,” said an earnest young fellow in a red jacket like the one worn by the doorman. He stood by the entrance to the station offices.