Ganymede (27 page)

“I don’t believe we did. You were off in the war, weren’t you?”

“Sounds about right. It’s good to meet you now,” he said, and since Josephine had stood, he stood as well—with effort and some pain, but also with dignity. He extended a hand and Cly shook it. “And it’s good of you to come.”

“Rick, sit yourself back down,” his sister told him, more gently than crossly. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

Cly saw a chance to be helpful, so he went to pull up a stool and said, “We should all sit. We’ve got some talking to do.” But upon getting his hands on one of the stools, he changed his mind and said, “I suppose I’ll just go cross-legged,” for he didn’t think the chair would hold his weight.

Chester Fishwick took the seat instead, and when they were all settled again—Deaderick wincing and Josephine working hard to keep from babying him in front of the other men—the captain said, “So I hear you’ve got a big boat, only it’s not exactly a boat. And you want me to fly it.”

“That’s the sum of it,” Deaderick said.

While Cly figured out what else to add, and how to add it, Houjin’s excited voice carried through the windows, spouting a list of questions a mile long. Cly said, “The kid must’ve found Mr. Worth.”

“The lens-maker?” Josephine asked. “Yes, he’s here. Who’s the kid?”

“He’s apprenticing with me. Smart boy. Wants to know how everything works, and he’s real excited about that gate you folks have set up—the one with the mirrors. Norman Somers said a guy named Worth designed it, and now Huey needs to hear the details. But I’m not here to tell you about my crew. I’m here to hear about your ship.”

Deaderick took a deep breath that appeared to sting. He said, “I’m not sure how much the ladies have told you already.”

“The history of it, mostly. And I’ve seen the engineer’s drawings, the ones that show most of the workings. But I’m still trying to wrap my head around how to operate it, or get it to the ocean. I mean, I can tell from what little I’ve seen of your camp that you fellows have plenty of good machines and good mechanics to keep them running. Surely
someone
here can pilot your bird. Your fish,” he corrected himself.

Chester declared, “We have four mechanics from the schools at Fort Chattanooga, and a couple of men who trained in the machine shops in Houston. So yes, we’re all set for men to make and maintain what we’ve got, that’s a fact. But the men we have … they’re drivers and sailors. They’re engineers who’ve worked on rolling-crawlers and the big diesel walkers the Rebs are using on the northern fronts. They aren’t men who know much about airships, or this kind of … watership.”

Deaderick added, “I think they could be forgiven for not knowing much about the
Ganymede
. Everyone who ever understood it is dead or in prison, miles and miles away from here. The
Ganymede
is a tribe of one. Wallace Mumler wants to call it an undermariner, but that’s a mouthful, isn’t it? Hunley called these things submarines, so that’s what I’m sticking to.”

Josephine smiled, every bit as cool and measured as he remembered she was capable of being. “Chester and Rucker, and Deaderick here, and Edison Brewster, and Honeyfolk—they all know
how
it works. They can tell you what every lever means and what every button does, but not a one of them knows how to turn the thing in a full circle without so much shouting, arguing, and complicated finesse that you can’t imagine them ever moving it down the river. These men have all the paper know-how, and none of the hands-on experience to pilot the thing correctly.”

Chester added, “But like Rick just said: Nobody does. There’s no one within five hundred miles who’s been inside a submarine and hasn’t drowned.”

Deaderick looked to Josephine, whose smile had not melted. She said, “It was my idea to go hunting for an airman instead of a seaman. The sailors all know how to sail, but this isn’t sailing. The drivers all know how to drive, but this isn’t driving. It’s flying under the waves, and I think you’ll have an easier time of it.
Your
instincts will be the right ones.”

Andan Cly thought about it hard. Slowly he said, “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve had a word with my crew, and everybody’s interested in giving your job a chance, but I’m not interested in getting any of them killed. Myself either, for that matter. So I think I’d better take a look at this submarine.”

Deaderick once again hefted himself to his feet. “Rick, baby. You should stay here,” Josephine insisted.

“The hell I should. I know that thing better than anybody, and I’ll show him around it.”

Appealing now to Cly, and to Chester, too, she said, “But it’s been only a couple of days since he was shot. He should stay.”

Chester wasn’t about to overrule Deaderick Early, and Cly didn’t know any of them well enough to intervene. So he said, “Josie, if the man says he’s fit to leave, you’d better let him. He’s kin of yours, so I won’t stand in his way.”

She relented unhappily. “Fine. But Chester, do me a favor and get Dr. Polk and have him join us, will you?”

“That achy old drunk?” Deaderick sighed. “I don’t need him watching over me like I’m a baby in a bathtub.”

“I want him here in case you start bleeding again,” she pushed. “I didn’t go through all the trouble to drag you back to the bayou just to have you drop dead because you think you’re too much of a man to take a week and recuperate.” Then she turned to Cly and said, “He was at Barataria when the Texians raided. He took two bullets, and only by the grace of God is he still here living and breathing. He’s a lucky bastard, is what he is.”

“Lucky to have such a devoted sister,” he said, and gave her a penitent kiss on the cheek.

One by one they descended the ladder, and Chester Fishwick went in search of the doctor. Josephine called after him, “Tell him to meet us at the dock!”

When everyone was back on the ground, Cly asked, “You have a doctor out here?”

“Technically. He’s a drunk Federal who was drummed off the field four years ago for killing a man on the operating table,” Deaderick replied. “That’s a hard call to make—a man on an operating table isn’t in the best shape in the first place, but if the doctor’s been drinking, I don’t guess that improves his odds any. Regardless, he patched me up out at Barataria, and Josephine brought him along.”

“I promised him some of Wallace’s grain alcohol,” she said.

Deaderick pointed at a path, a winding trail contrived from dirt ruts and planks that had been jammed into the mud for better footing. “We’re heading that way, down to the river.” He pressed one hand against his injured chest, and for a moment he went pale beneath the hue of his skin.

“Rick?” Josephine asked.

“Don’t, now. I’m all right. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Hold on.” Cly stopped him. “See that oriental boy, badgering that old guy in the spectacles? That’s Houjin. Let me grab him. He’ll want to see this.” The captain rather wanted Houjin to see it, too. It wasn’t that he doubted the knowledge of the men who were guarding the
Ganymede
so jealously, but he wanted to get the fledgling engineer’s take on the matter as well. Sometimes the advantage of being young and bright is not knowing what’s impossible. “Huey, get over here a minute, will you? Get Fang and Troost if they’re handy.”

Houjin looked left and right, and didn’t spot his comrades. So he shrugged and trotted up to the group alone. Cly introduced him. “Josephine and Deaderick Early, this is Houjin. He’s going to be an engineer.”

“Good to meet you,” said Deaderick, and Josephine said something similar, though she looked at him with open curiosity.

“A bit young, isn’t he?” she asked.

“He’s young, but he does all right. Anyway, Huey—we’re headed to see the
Ganymede.
I thought you’d like a look.”

“Yes, sir!” he said excitedly, and almost headed off down the trail without them.

“Chester will tell your other men where we’ve gone, and likely bring them along with Dr. Polk,” Josephine assured Cly, falling into step beside him.

He wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about being so close to her again, having been so far away for so very long. But this was business, wasn’t it? And they were friends now, weren’t they? Or couldn’t they be? It’d been long enough since the fighting, the arguing, the battling of wills. It’d been enough years that the good times seemed warmer, and the bad ones were weaker, more fuzzy. Harder to recall, somehow. Surely it was like that for her, too; otherwise, she wouldn’t have called him out.

Maybe she hadn’t left their relationship as mad as he’d thought.

He resolved to have a word with the crew on the way home to Seattle, and during this word, he intended to give them all a firm understanding of why there was no earthly good reason for Briar Wilkes to know anything at all about Josephine Early.

By way of making conversation, or maybe only for the sake of business, Josephine said, “We call its resting place ‘the dock,’ but it’s no dock to speak of. We have to keep it submerged. Texas watches from the clouds, and if they spot it, they’ll claim it in a heartbeat.”

“They’ll
try,
” Deaderick said.

His sister chided, “Don’t talk that way. Especially not now. Texas took the island, and they could take the lake, too. I feel like a goddamn coward about it, but right now, all we can do is hide. It’s the only way to finish this operation.”

“It’s not cowardly; it’s
strategy,
” her brother corrected her. “I don’t want to have to defend it. We might have the firepower, but we sure as shit don’t have the manpower. And it’s hard smuggling diesel back here in decent quantities. The rolling-crawlers are ready to ride, but they can’t go more than fifty miles without refueling, so we can’t waste it.”

Houjin dived into the conversation with a question, as he was so often inclined to do. “Does the
Ganymede
run on diesel?”

Josephine answered. “It can, and does. But Wallace Mumler—he’s one of the Fort Chattanooga lads—thinks he can run almost anything on alcohol, if you make it pure and strong. So he’s experimenting. He keeps a still out in the trees, away from the main camp.”

“Why?” the boy asked.

“Because the still requires fire, and fire makes smoke. We keep it to a minimum, and he’s working on a converter that would process most of the smoke out of the air before anyone ever sees it—but that’s not ready yet, so for now he does it all the old-fashioned way.”

Deaderick said with a smile, “He’ll distill
anything
. Or by God, he’ll give it a shot. Corn works best, but from a scientific standpoint, there’s no good reason he can’t distill all kinds of things. And by God, he’s giving it a shot.”

“I bet he’s a popular fellow.”

“And
how
. Even the alcohol that won’t work to power anything … usually it’s drinkable.”

Josephine shuddered. “After a fashion.”

“I didn’t say it was fine wine,” Deaderick joshed her. “But after hours, when things are quiet and we’re all settled down for the night, most anyone in the camp is happy to give his latest batch of … whatever he’s brewed … a taste.”

Hiking the rest of the way down to the water was a warm, sticky experience fraught with a hundred slaps against mosquitoes and a general wish from Captain Cly that it would rain or dry up already. The heavy, humid lingering of the damp air so close against the earth, so moist on his skin … it felt like inhaling through a wet bath sponge. He’d all but forgotten the weight of it, in his ten years of absence, and though he’d been in town not even two days, he’d already forgotten the season. Springtime in the Gulf was hardly any different from its summer, though the nights were still cool enough to breathe, and the days were not yet hot enough to fry bacon on the side of a ship. It was still too warm to be comfortable, and too moist to breathe deeply.

Conversely, the springtime chill of the Pacific Northwest was not terribly different from its fall, or its winter either, for that matter. With all his heart, he missed it—even though he’d left it not so long before, and could expect to find himself once again cool as the tides within the month.

Even now it blew his mind that Josephine had preferred this sunken swamp to the cooler, clearer Northwest. Then again, back when they’d first started fighting about who should live where, she’d said it blew her mind that anyone would want to live in the rain by an ocean that was never warm enough to swim in, and didn’t even have a beach.

Then they’d fought about the differences between a beach and a coastline, and fought furthermore about what on earth she’d wear to stay warm all year if she left—and what he’d wear to stay cool all year if he stayed.

In reality, they weren’t arguments about the weather. They were always about other things. Other issues. Other matters of control, and autonomy, and money. It was the same fight again and again, regardless of the details, and it took them months to figure out that they were bickering over who was being asked to give up the most … and who would do so, for the sake of being together.

So she’d felt abandoned. So he’d felt rejected.

So neither one of them compromised, and both got what they wanted most. Or least. Sometimes it was hard to recall.