20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (4 page)

He reached for her hips. She could not
tolerate such behavior, especially as a precedent for a journey
such as this. Mrs. Brightman had given her specific instructions
for this kind of situation. Her hand stiffened in preparation to
sting his cheek with a hard slap when Dr. Pugh appeared over the
young man's shoulder.

"Shoo, shoo! Off with you, cretin!" The much
taller naturalist pulled at the young man's ear, making him
grimace. "A scientist wouldn't be caught dead in a burlesque show,
you know that! Now go make yourself useful and swab the Oberth Deck
or something." He pushed the sailor down the hall and shouted after
him. "Or it's out the airlock with you!"

Pugh watched the young man's retreating
elbows. "Pfffft.
Booleans
." He shook his head. "Good Lord,
the people they let into space! You would think they would have had
some sort of screening for this venture." He turned toward Gemma,
folded his arms, and scowled down at her, as if he were just then
realizing to whom he was speaking. "And what credentials do
you
bring to the table,
Miss
Llewellyn?" Dr. Pugh
asked. "From whence does your dazzling fountain of geological
knowledge flow? And who will get you when you return? Oxford?
Trinity?"

It certainly wasn't pleasant; this drilling
in front of a good portion of the crew that she would be living
with for the next couple of years was profoundly inappropriate. She
could not allow this to continue. With a sharp breath, Gemma drew
herself up to her full height of five feet, one and one-half
inches. She lifted her own narrowed eyes to look Dr. Pugh directly
in the face.

"Brightman's Ladies' College," she
announced.

He froze for a moment, and the sneer fell
from his lips. "Brightman," he said. His mouth twisted to the left,
then to the right. He swallowed, and his already narrow eyes closed
even tighter, as if examining her through a microscope. It was a
long moment before he spoke again. "As in, Mrs.
Petunia
Brightman?"

"Yes."

"The one that trains computers?"

"And scientists, Dr. Pugh. The very
same."

"Ah. I see."

Pugh narrowed his eyes and grunted. His
sudden silence was quite disconcerting. His eyes flickered from
side to side as he confirmed that no one was within earshot.

"First science briefing is tomorrow," he
said, with his voice hoarse and low, "two hours post-launch, in the
aft laboratory conference room on the Research Deck. Maps are by
the lifts. Don't be late, child, as I'm rather an exacting
taskmaster. In the meantime, I will be checking in on the rest of
the team. Look lively and stay sharp. Follow my lead, young Gemma,
and you may just make it back to Mrs. Brightman's second-best
parlor alive." He looked to her right and narrowed his eyes.

"You there!" he shouted and pointed to
someone in the distance. "Be careful with that, lad! We want to
give the tentacle-heads the flu, not ourselves! Oh, for Heaven's
sake."

He lumbered away at what for him must have
been a high rate of speed and muttered to himself. Gemma shook
inside. He knew Mrs. Brightman? That was certainly unexpected. Now
the question was, how much did he know? Captain Moreau's sudden
appearance in the space the scientist had evacuated pushed those
thoughts away.

"Pray don't fret about him," he said. "His
bark is as sharp as his bite is toothless. Too many hours staring
into the innards of aliens, I suppose." The young commander tugged
at the hem of his jacket. "He may be the director of the Cohort,
but
I
am still the captain. I won't allow him to be too
rough with you."

He extended his hand to his right and
gestured for someone to join them. "May I introduce you to another
of our ladies? Frau Elsa Knopf, our head of housekeeping and an
indispensable member of my crew. Her husband, Herr Knopf, is our
resident gardener. They are the first married couple in space! Frau
Knopf, may I present Miss Gemma Llewellyn, the geologist for the
Cohort."

The lady inclined her head with an economy of
movement. "Fraulein."

Frau Knopf was clad in a white no-nonsense
chemise with thin blue stripes and straight sleeves with a distinct
lack of puffs. Her sole adornment was an ebony cameo bearing a
child's silhouette. Various tools -- scissors, magnifiers, and keys
-- dangled from a chatelaine on her belt.

Moreau broke the silence. "Right, well and
good, you've been properly introduced." He turned to Gemma. "For
now, I must leave you to the gentle ministrations of Frau Knopf.
She will show you to your stateroom. Allow me to bid you
Adieu
."

He touched his brow in a gesture of farewell
and walked away with another officer in tow.

The matron pinned her with a stare of
granite.

"Follow me, Fraulein," Frau Knopf said.

The noise of the cargo bay faded behind them
as they passed through one of an infinite number of doors in the
wall. They entered a lift, and it was an eternity before the doors
opened to release them. Gemma's companion said little as they
walked except to point out the deck maps beside the lift doors. The
tools on her chatelaine clanked and tinkled with every step. As
they wandered through an endless maze, they passed by what Frau
Knopf called Men's Country. She got a glimpse of several
barracks-style chambers, and she could hear the occupants' chatter
echoing amongst the bare surfaces. What little she could see was
grey, grey, and still more grey. Silver, chrome, and aluminum
sparkled everywhere she looked. There was an occasional hint of
India rubber amongst the metal. She saw no portholes, and she
wasn't sure how deep they were inside the ship. Normally she had a
good sense of direction, but right then she felt completely turned
around. She had never been in such a place before. Even the
steel-and-concrete monsters built on the ruins of Leatherhead and
Woking were nothing compared to this severe and gleaming world. She
felt dizzy.

They passed through a door guarded by a young
crewman that acknowledged Frau Knopf as she approached. He started
to grin at Gemma, but he quickly returned to attention when Frau
Knopf pinned him with a glare.

When Frau Knopf closed the door, they crossed
the border from a land of metal to one of wood and wainscoting. The
harsh ceiling light of the previous corridor gave way to the soft
glow of wall sconces and frosted hurricane lamps. Wine-coloured
carpet deep enough to swim in muffled their footsteps, and roses of
every known shade of pink fairly dripped from the soft ivory and
gold wallpaper. It was as if someone had squeezed the ink from
Godey's Ladies Book
and sprayed the juice onto the
walls.

"We are now in Ladies' Country," the matron
said without breaking her stride. "The men are not allowed here
without express invitation from me, unless there is a clear and
present danger to the ladies, with the possible exception of the
captain." She fingered some of the keys on her chatelaine. "By the
same token, you are not to venture into their area unless I direct
you to. Today, we took the fastest route, but from now on you must
take a different path if you must visit the cargo bay. I doubt you
will ever need to. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," Gemma replied.

The matron continued in that vein as they
turned left yet again, passing several wooden doors along the way,
each marked with a number in the 600's. It felt to Gemma as if they
were winding their way deeper into the ship. It was so quiet here
–- except for the odd skittering sound behind the walls every now
and then -- that if she didn't know better she would have thought
they were alone on the ship. Did these blasted corridors ever
end?

"The ladies' lavatory is here, just down the
hall from your stateroom. The sailors call it the 'head'. It is
communal. Do not leave a mess. Do not exceed your daily ration of
water. We only have so much, and we will not replenish it for two
years. Even with the recycling, we must make it last."

Frau Knopf's accent reminded her of an
adventure in Munich with a chemist earlier that year. That time she
had uncovered some fraudulent experiments that purportedly studied
radium but turned out to be another waste of TIA science funds.
Strangely enough, her findings had seemed quite welcome back at the
College. Trying to hide her smile at the memory, she only nodded
like the demure young lady she was supposed to be.

"You will make your own bed, every morning,
and you will make it tight," the matron continued. "No one will be
waiting on you hand and foot on this ship, Fraulein. I may be the
Head of Housekeeping, and you may be a scientist, but this does not
make me your maid. I run a tight ship! I make sure that things get
done! And I will be inspecting your room from time to time."

Gemma merely dropped her eyes and nodded
assent. After Mrs. Landry's strict housekeeping back at the school,
Frau Knopf would not be a problem. She suspected that dirt would
run screaming from the mere mention of this lady's name.

"Here we are," the lady said as they stopped
in front of a door marked
615
. She pointed to the latch that
grew out of the door in the place normally occupied by a knob.
"Secure the door, coming and going, always the doors," she ordered.
"Also, there is a map of the rest of the ship as well as a schedule
on your dressing table. Tea will not be served today, but I will
bring you a small tray for your supper. Tea will be served at four
o'clock tomorrow in my parlour on this deck. Please see the
schedule for acceptable dress. Also, the ship's ladies meet for a
knitting circle on Saturdays in my parlour after tea. Remember,
promptness is a virtue."

Frau Knopf shut and latched the door before
Gemma could reply. Gemma was alone at last for the first time in
days. She looked about the room and saw that her steamer trunk, one
she had aptly named "Old Dependable", had arrived ahead of her and
in better shape than she had.

She ran her fingers lovingly over its antique
lock, and then she retrieved her necklace from beneath the shelter
of her blouse. She snapped the locket open and gazed at the image
of the imposing matron that had sent her on this journey. In the
photograph's sepia tones, it was difficult to discern the colour of
the hair in that severe chignon, with not a strand out of place.
Her roommate at Brightman's, Philippa, had whispered to her that it
had once been as blond as Gemma's, but now grey ruled those
formerly flaxen fields. Mrs. Brightman's disciplined and
no-nonsense manner was captured perfectly in the tiny metal frame
of the locket, packaged to follow her students no matter their
posting. Commanding eyes that observed all and revealed nothing
peered down an age-sharpened nose at the unknown photographer. One
hand pressed into the arm of the straight-backed chair that held
her. The other hand gripped a walking stick, and its ivory head of
Medusa was barely visible beneath her fingers. Gemma could fill
that bit in for herself; she had memorized its slithering locks
over many years of being nudged back into line with it. She drew
strength from her teacher's determined expression before she closed
the charm.

Slipping the toggle at the end of the
necklace's chain into the trunk's lock, she heard a satisfying
click as the tumblers turned. She inhaled the smell of aged leather
with a smile. In a life where her living space was as changeable as
the weather, this trunk encompassed her only feeling of continuity,
of home. As she opened it, she also allowed the compartment of her
mind that contained her true self to open, as she only allowed when
she was alone with the ancient trunk. The mask of the wide-eyed
young scientist fell away, and her face relaxed into something more
authentic. She took a deep breath as her own true thoughts unfolded
like a fan that had been held closed for too long.

She examined her quarters as she unpacked.
The chamber was small, but serviceable. A low bookshelf doubled as
a headboard and nightstand for the bed. Everything had its twin,
mirrored on either side of the room, down to the pink and gold
roses on the porcelain washbasins at the foot of each bed. A pair
of sturdy wardrobes occupied the space where one would normally see
a window. A small desk stood between the foot of the bed and the
wardrobe. It was the perfect spot for her copy of Lyell's
Principles of Geology
.

Where the walls in the men's quarters were
flat grey, hers wore bright white, pink, and French country blue
toile wallpaper. Ladies in Marie Antoinette gowns festooned with
coral and azure ribbons danced among sprays of roses and Greek
columns. A coordinating blue and white wedding-ring quilt covered
the bed, and a folded white down duvet nestled by the footboard.
The scene was a slice out of any of a hundred boarding houses in
Guildford. It was difficult to believe that she was on a ship in
the sky and not back in her room at Brightman's.

Since she was the fifth single woman aboard,
and the other two pairs were already sharing quarters –- assuming
that Frau Knopf shared quarters with Herr Knopf -- she had a double
stateroom all to herself. It would make certain tasks all the
easier. As she fingered the spine of Lyell's text, she wondered if
Mrs. Brightman had had a hand in that, as well.

She pulled out a few more books, including a
frayed copy of
Jane Eyre
; perhaps now she would have some
time to read it. Dear Philippa had read it years before, during an
illness that had brought her home from her long-term assignment at
the Admiralty Computing Service. It had kept her confined for some
months and had made her too weak to smile with those dimples that
Gemma loved so well. Philippa had insisted that she read it, but
that chance never came. Though she had never fully recovered her
strength, she eventually departed for one last mission at the ACS.
She had never returned.