Chenda and the Airship Brofman (11 page)

Chapter 7

A STICK IN THE EYE

Verdu shoved Fenimore slightly with one hip. “You could have lived your whole life and kept that to yourself, Fen. Look at the poor girl; you've frightened her.”

The pair moved in tandem again, coming to rest with their elbows on the table, side by side, their arms just touching. “I believe your being a demon spawn of the Empire is what frightens people, not my
saying
it.” Fenimore replied.

Chenda sat with her mouth open, her spoon frozen halfway to her lips. Her eyes shifted between the two men, looking for the joke. Finding none, she searched the faces of the other crewmen around the table. Every pair of eyes gazed at her, waiting on her reaction. She had none. Chenda sat motionless.

The captain pushed back his chair. “Thanks for making introductions, Dulal.” He said. “Germer, Stanley, Spencer, we've got some work to do in the motor room tonight. No time like the present.” He stood up and strode toward the door and disappeared down the passageway. Germer obediently stood and followed the captain while the two younger men made last grabs for the remaining bread and cheese, then trotted out of the galley, chewing noisily.

Chenda returned her spoon to the bowl and closed her gaping maw. She couldn't think of anything to say, so she just watched Verdu. She'd never seen a Tugrulian before, but knew from so many childhood stories that they were supposed to be unpredictable, brutal people. For years, all Tugrulians had been banned from the Republic.  But the Empire continually sent spies and saboteurs. Yet here sat the Tugrulian, welcome at the table of this crew and placed in a position of authority on an airship. He was right about her; she was frightened. She was becoming, however, more confused. She wanted the dark man to keep talking, hoping some judgment about him would come to her.

“What's the Empire like?” she asked.

“Vile,” he said with a mirthless grin.

Kingston started to clear away the dishes and sang as he worked. His voice rang rich and throaty against the pots and platters hanging in the small galley. The sound of water running into a sink mixed with Kingston's song in a soothing, homey way.

Fenimore and Verdu, moving as one, leaned back against a bulkhead and listened to the cook's melody. At first Chenda tried to convince herself that it was just a coincidence that Fenimore and Verdu were trading breaths again, one inhaling as the other exhaled, but after a moment, they started blinking at the same time, too.

“OK, that's creepy.” Chenda said to herself, and then realized in horror that she'd spoken aloud.

Fenimore looked at her curiously. “What's creepy?”

Chenda died a little bit inside because of her own rudeness. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “I've never seen any two people share a space the way you do.”

Fenimore and Verdu looked at each other and then back at Chenda, who babbled on, "How do you do that? Mirroring and intersecting the way you do?”

“Sorry,” Fenimore said. “We don't follow you.”

Verdu turned to Fenimore, “Whatever does she mean?”

Chenda bit her lip. “Honestly? You have no idea? I can't be the only one that sees it. Or maybe I don't see it. Yes. I must be mistaken.”

Kingston shouted from beside the sink. “For the gods' sakes, would you let the child off the stinkin' hook, you monsters!”

Fenimore and Verdu's faces cracked into matching smiles and they laughed at Chenda's discomfort. They were quite different and yet remarkably similar. Verdu's dark features looked fierce, where Fenimore's tender appearance signaled grace. Dark echoed light. Smoldering brown mirrored bright smoky gray.

Verdu answered for the pair, “Shame on us for teasing you. We know we do it, we just can't figure out
how
we do it. It's been this way since I came on the ship five years ago. Any time we are in the same room, we balance. We sort of operate as if we have one mind. And, yes, it is a little creepy, but we cope.”

“Mostly because fighting the tandem turned out to be very messy.” Fenimore answered. “We spilled things and fell down a lot.”

“Fascinating,” Chenda said.

“Ain't it just?” Kingston said as he came back to the table with a damp rag and began to scrub the pale wood clean. “It becomes less fascinating after a bit, and don't play cards with 'em. They cheat.”

Fenimore leaned toward Kingston, and Verdu's body followed his friend's.

“If we get the medic kit,” Fenimore asked, “do you think you can take a look at Chen's hands?  She's got some burns there.”

Kingston glanced down at Chenda's dirty bandages and made a disapproving face. “Of course, but you all sit. I'll be right back directly with what I'll be needin'.” He slipped out the door.

Verdu assessed Chenda's unease and said, “There were truths and lies in my friend's introduction of me, but there are usually two truths and a lie in most of the words people say. I was born in Kotal, but I am about as Tugrulian as you are. And my name, Kotal, is not for the Imperial City, but for my Great-Great-Great Grandfather, The First Emperor Kotal Verinian. But since I find the whole business of being Tugrulian distasteful, I just call myself Verdu.”

“That's -- a lot of truth.” Chenda said.

Fenimore added, “He's not a citizen of the Republic either, that's why he's
second
around here. He can't show his face above decks when we dock in the West. But he's twice the airman I am, and that is the truth.”

Verdu shrugged a little in agreement, and Chenda saw a slighter, echoing shrug in Fenimore's own frame. The phenomenon started to amuse her and she giggled.

Fenimore looked her over and said thoughtfully, “I think it's time you told us about your truths and your lies, Chen, and start with why we aren't calling you Chenda Frost.”

Chenda froze, her eyes wide. Not wanting to answer directly, and hoping to stall until she decided what to say, she asked, “How did you know who I am?”

“I picked your pocket in the wheelhouse and read your travel documents,” he said shamelessly, pulling her papers out of his own pocket and holding them in the air. “But I read the papers at the terminal yesterday. They all say the woman named Chenda Frost is dead, died in a fire. Whereas you fit the description of the deceased, and you look
half
dead, I reasoned you must be Chenda Frost. No?”

Chenda nodded.

Verdu narrowed his eyes and looked at Fenimore. “Oh, brother, are we in over our heads again?”

“It's hard to say.” Fenimore said again. “I'll wager five that we are.”

Verdu observed Chenda. He tilted his head to one side, which tilted Fenimore's as well, and said, “No bet. She's got the look of a votary about her. We're certainly in trouble.”

“Oh, Verdu, poor form,” Fenimore tsked. “Let the lady tell us herself what she's about.”

Two pairs of eyes, gentle but expectant, settled on Chenda. “I don't know what to say," she whispered. “I don't know what I
should
say.”

“We're not the law, and we're not confessors set to judge you or absolve you. Our interest is mere curiosity. We just want to know why you've come to the
Brofman
,” Verdu replied plainly. “And what level of danger we can expect.”

“Let's start with your face," Fenimore offered. “Who roughed you up?”

Chenda pulled her knees up to her chest, trying to take up as little space as possible. She felt exposed, but decided to answer honestly. “Ah, that's an easy question. The man who murdered my husband. Turns out he was a thief as well, and broke into my bedroom, looking to steal something from my husband's things. He attempted to kill me.” Chenda looked each man in the eye, “He died trying.” Her gaze made it clear that there would be no more conversation on that subject.

Fenimore, and by extension, Verdu, looked surprised. “I see. The body in the fire was his. But why let everyone assume you had died in the house? If what you say is true, why didn't you come forward?”

“Candice and I think that Daniel, the man who attacked me, wasn't working alone. Someone has been trying to kill us for a couple of days now.” Chenda rested her chin on her knee. “The newspapers in Coal City may say I'm dead, but it's only a matter of time before someone figures out I'm still breathing. If someone was watching Daniel closely, or my house, they already know.”

Now that Chenda was talking, the words flowed out. “It's kind of liberating, having someone try to kill you.  Or maybe it's just that my options are now
keep moving
or
die trying
.  I was always so scared before. I didn't fit in with the orphans I grew up with. I was always too shy with the holy sisters.  I did what I was told and followed all the rules.  I don't think it helped me to be a whole person.”

Chenda looked at Verdu. “Your guess about me was right – I am fervently devoted to my mission, and may the gods save anyone who tries to stop me.”

Kingston's voice drifted in from the corridor. He switched from singing a bawdy song to whistling as he entered the galley and plopped his ample self into the chair next to Chenda. Under his arm, he had a large canvas sack.

“Let's take a look-see, eh?” He plunked the bag on the table and rummaged around it, pulling out a few rolls of bandages, scissors, tweezers and several small, blue medicine bottles. Chenda presented her bandaged hands to the rotund and jolly cook. Whistling again, he began to unwrap the dirty strips, first from her right hand and then from the left. He examined each hand closely, using the tweezers to pull off any stray bits of lint or dirt.

“Hmm...” he mused.

“What?” Fenimore demanded. “That 'hmm' sounded serious. Can you help her?”

“Sure,” he said looking at Chenda, “But your fingers are swelling a good bit. I'm worried about permanent damage or infection in that left hand. That ring is gonna have to come off, miss.” He pulled a large pair of cutters from the canvas bag. “I'm sorry about this.”

All the little bits of Edison are flying away from me...
            Chenda considered how much she had lost in the last ten days. The physical things didn't trouble her much. For as much as she liked to shop and bring things home to Edison, the trinkets meant little. Easily bought and easily forgotten. It was the time with her husband that was the real treasure, and that was gone for good.

She wasn't particularly sad that the house had burned, either. The estate and Edison were inseparably linked in her mind.  Her life at home was a happy one, but his absence from those intimate spaces perverted the place. Every corner of the house haunted her. Her sole regret was losing her only picture of Edison to the flames. Her memory of him would have to sustain her for the rest of her life.

Finally, it came down to the ring, the last symbol of their union in marriage. It too would go. Chenda said, “Well, I guess you better get on with it then.” Her voice broke.

Till death us do part....

Kingston turned Chenda's palm face down and slid the bottom blade of the nippers under the wedding ring. He pressed down hard, and with a small ping, the ring was cut. Kingston reached for a small pair of pliers and widened the gap in the fine gold band enough to let it slide off her finger. The sight of the mangled ring saddened Chenda, but she endured it. Kingston applied a liquid to her hands that stung the raw skin. She sucked air in through her teeth.

“Easy, lass. It will settle in a minute.” Kingston reassured her. “Let this dry for a few minutes and then we'll apply a new dressing to your wee paws.”

He reached forward and placed one of his big hands on her chin, turning it to better examine her injuries. “Your cheek won't need any salve from me. The bruising will fade in three days at the most, but that eye,” he pulled her lower lid down with a rough thumb, looking at the blood trapped around her brown iris, “that will take more than a few weeks to heal on its own. It's going to draw a lot of attention. I could help you with that, if you like.”

“That would be nice. I hardly recognize myself.”

“For this procedure, I am going to need an assistant. Which of these two yahoos do you want holding you still while I poke you in the eye?” he asked.

Chenda imagined, in the history of the whole world, no one had ever uttered such a string of words. “Either,” she answered, but added with a giggle, “which, in their case, probably means both.”

Fenimore grinned and said, “I guess I volunteer.”

Kingston pulled a chair behind Chenda.  “OK, Dulal, sit here. Try your best to listen up and follow along. Put your feet flat on the floor, and then set your elbows on your knees.” Fenimore did as he was told and Kingston grunted approval. “Now,” he continued, “hold your wrists together and make a U shape with your hands. Good, just like that.”

He turned to Chenda. “Just lean back, miss.” He placed a big hand on her forehead and guided her head backwards into Fenimore's waiting hands. “This might pinch a bit at some point, but it's important that you stay very still, and leave that peeper open. I'll be dropping some liquid into that eye, every now and again to keep it moist and numb, so don't worry too much.”

“Wait,” Chenda gulped, “What exactly are we going to be doing?”

Kingston held a syringe over Chenda's eyes. “That bloody mess in there is called a subconjunctival haemorrhage. In here is a micro cell retriever -- basically a tiny machine that will seek out the dead blood cells trapped between the layers of your eye. The retriever shreds the dead cells so that the various proteins and whatnot are washed away. Once we get the little bugger in there, we'll have to keep it working by feeding it with the drops of the aqueous photovoltaic solution.  The cell retriever will do its work in about ten minutes or so, and when we stop feeding it, it will quit.”