Steven Harper - The Doomsday Vault

The Juniper soared upward into a cloudy sky, and Gavin watched her go with satisfaction. She might be recaptured, but in his mind, she would soar forever, gliding among the mists and the stars. People would tell stories about the ghost airship with the pirate chained inside her cargo hull. In any case, Keene wouldn’t have her.

Captain Keene and the pirate crew boiled out of the building. As Gavin hoped, Keene and the pirates seemed to assume Gavin was still on board the ship. Keene uselessly fired his flechette pistol at the diminishing Juniper , screaming incoherently about his lost cargo, his lost ship’s ransom, his lost reward. Gavin used the noise of Keene’s tantrum to cover the sound of his footsteps as he scuttled to the far side of the hangar roof and slid down a drainpipe. Almost instantly he became just another white-jacketed airman among the crowd of them running to see what all the fuss was about at this particular hangar. A few moments after that, he had made his way to the edge of the airfield, out of Keene’s sight and reach. The Juniper was a tiny speck high in the sky that eventually vanished into the clouds.

Gavin ducked behind another hangar, one among dozens, and paused to catch his breath. Now that he wasn’t in immediate danger, his legs had gone rubbery and the scars on his back burned again. He sat down with his head between his knees, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. An airmen or cabin boy who had been refused ransom was considered worthless. It didn’t matter that the pirate attack wasn’t Gavin’s fault or that the Boston Shipping and Mail Company’s refusal to ransom him had nothing to do with Gavin’s ability and everything to do with money. All that mattered was that Gavin was an unransomed cabin boy. No one would hire him.

He could take a false name, lie about his age, and apply for work as an airman on a different ship, but that option offered little hope as well. Word traveled fast among airmen. By now, everyone knew or would soon know that Gavin Ennock, cabin boy for the Juniper , hadn’t made ransom in London, and his reputation, however unfairly, was already ruined. A “new” airman who nosed around the city looking for work would be painfully obvious. Gavin’s only option was to somehow earn enough money to buy passage back to America and beg a job on another Boston Shipping and Mail airship. BSMC knew it wasn’t his fault he’d lost his position, and he technically still worked for them, anyway. He just needed another ship.

Gavin breathed hard. How would he earn that kind of money? The only trade he knew floated high in the air above him, untouchable as a star.

Sorrow for his friends from the Juniper crashed over him, and the realization that he would probably never play for Old Graf again forced a choked sound from his throat. He swallowed hard and swiped at his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. Not down here, in the dirt and mud of the airfield. He wouldn’t give Keene the satisfaction. Besides, he had his life; he had his freedom; he had his fiddle. He was in much better shape now than he had been an hour ago.

So get to your feet and do something to help yourself , he told himself. No one else will do it for you.

Gavin got to his feet, shifted his fiddle case on his back, and trotted down to the rail line that ran between Wellesley Field and London proper. He knew from previous Beefeater runs that a train ran every ten minutes on the dot, shuttling passengers and airmen to and from the city. Airmen, identifiable by their white leathers, rode free. Luck was with Gavin-a train was pulling away just as he arrived at the platform, and he hoisted himself into an open-topped third-class car jammed with men and women alike before it picked up too much speed. He wedged himself into a corner, unable even to sit. The locomotive coughed harsh-smelling cinders over them, quickly covering everyone’s clothing with a patina of ash and dulling Gavin’s coat to a dirty gray. At least it wasn’t raining.

Gavin flung a last look over his shoulder at Wellesley Airfield. The hangars had already receded into the distance, and a moment later, a series of row houses flashed by. His old life was gone. Sometime later, the train pulled into Paddington station, and Gavin climbed out of the car, feeling battered and sore. He made his way away from the swirling crowd and screaming whistles of the platforms until he could find a quiet corner to take stock. First he checked his fiddle. By a miracle, it wasn’t broken or even cracked. He must have hit Stone under the chin just right. He spared a moment’s thought for the pirate, chained in the Juniper ’s hold and soaring high above the earth while Gavin roamed the ground below, free but unable to fly. Which of them was better off?

In the jacket pockets, Gavin found a few small coins and a used handkerchief. He also had the jacket itself, which would keep him warm. He could sell that, if it came to it. And he’d eaten today. So he had a few resources.

He left Paddington station and vanished into the dirty, swirling throng of London. Horses, carts, cabs, and carriages clogged cobblestoned streets. Women in bustled skirts and men in waistcoats and hats rushed up and down the walkways. A spidery automaton clicked over the stones, ignoring the piles of horse apples it stepped in. Smells of urine, coal smoke, and roasting meat washed over Gavin beneath a heavy gray sky. A ragged little girl begged to sweep manure aside for pedestrians who crossed the street. Everything was dirt and noise and oppression.

An idea occurred to Gavin. Hope bloomed, and he trotted off down London Street until he found an omnibus heading in the right direction. It cost him a precious penny, but he was able to find his way to the pillared building that housed the London office of the Boston Shipping and Mail Company. He had forgotten they had a headquarters here. Inside, an enormous open-floored wooden space sported rows of desks, each with clerks scratching in ledgers or poking at enormous engines that clacked and spat out long lines of paper. In the corner, a huge multi-armed automaton sorted mail and telegrams. Its arms blurred as it flung bits of paper into bins or thrust them into the hands of waiting errand boys. Voices rose and fell, and footsteps clattered ceaselessly across the worn floorboards.

Gavin snagged a mail boy, who pointed him toward a set of desks in the back. A small freestanding sign read EMPLOYMENT. Easy enough-BSMC knew his qualifications and would give him a job on another ship. His heart beat faster as he approached one of the desks.

“We’re not hiring,” the balding clerk said before Gavin could even take a breath.

“I already work for BSMC,” Gavin said. “I’m from Boston. The Juniper. ”

“Oh yes.” The clerk opened a letter and scanned it. “The cabin boy. We don’t ransom cabin boys.”

“Uh… I don’t need to be ransomed,” Gavin said. “I need a position on another ship.”

“What are your qualifications?”

Gavin stared at him. Hadn’t he just said? “I’m a cabin boy. Six years’ experience. In a few weeks, I’ll qualify for airman.”

“Can your captain vouch for you?” the clerk asked.

“He was killed in the pirate attack,” Gavin replied around clenched teeth. “Along with my best friend. Then a pirate tried to… to take my trousers down, so I killed him, and the pirates beat me bloody for it.”

The clerk took dispassionate shorthand notes. “Why didn’t they kill you?”

Gavin blinked. This conversation was becoming more and more surreal. “I played fiddle for them. They liked my music and decided not to kill me. One of the pirates especially enjoyed my playing, and I escaped when he let his guard down.”