Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (33 page)

“Yeah,” Mitch said, his eyes roving over the controls. Elevator controls. Rudder. And these gauges – pressure dropping? There was something wrong outside of the cockpit, something badly wrong. “Jerry, close that door and latch it. Use your cane to jam the latch. We don’t want it getting back in here.” He couldn’t bring himself to say Henry’s name. That thing wasn’t Henry, who would never in a million years do this, who would never in a million years kill these innocent people and wreck his own airship. To be trapped in your own body, unable to stop it while it destroyed your life’s work, while it shot down men in cold blood….

The rudder didn’t answer. Not that he’d expected it to. That would be too easy. A turn to port for Bournemouth. A turn to starboard for Cherbourg.

“Ok, Federman,” he said calmly. “Tell me what these pressure gauges mean.”

L
ewis ducked back into the tunnel that led to the controls for the nearest hydrogen cell. At least the design was meant to be simple, something any idiot could read and follow. The handwheel for the main valve was underneath, a lock-bar holding it in place. He crouched to get better light on it, tested the bar and then the wheel itself: it was, as far as he could see, closed tight. He moved on toward the airship’s tail into the next cell — the main valve was secure there, too — and then the next. It looked as though Palmer’s guess was right, and it was the automatic valves that had been sabotaged. And that made sense: they were designed to open easily, to keep the pressure differentials from damaging the cells. It was the logical place for a saboteur to go to work. Especially one with access to all the memories of the man who’d designed and built the ship, and no need to worry about self-preservation….

Alma met him on the ladder platform, shaking her head. “All the main valves seem to be closed.”

“Here, too,” Lewis said.

“Does it feel to you like we’re nose-down?” Alma began, and a single sharp report sounded from below.

“Gunshot,” Lewis said. It made no sense, you’d have to be insane to fire a pistol inside the hull, with only a few layers of fabric between you and an explosive gas, a gas that needed only a single spark, a bullet ricocheting from a girder, to burst into flames. But the thing in Henry wasn’t human and didn’t think like that.

“This way,” Alma said, and slid down the long ladder. Lewis followed, his skin crawling. The thing was loose, he could feel it watching, somewhere, and he came off the ladder in a crouch, spinning to take in the full circle. The beam of his headlight flashed over gas cells and empty girders. Alma started down the stairs, into the lighted corridor beneath them, and Lewis heard her swear. Fifty feet ahead, Palmer lay sprawled across the width of the corridor, blood seeping from beneath him. A telephone handset dangled from its cord above him. Alma stooped to touch his neck, then straightened and reached for the handset.

“Is this the control room?”

Apparently not: she made a face, and spoke more loudly. “No, Palmer’s been shot. There’s a problem with the automatic release valves in the hydrogen cells, it looks as though they’re jammed open. You need to get to them right away — what do you mean, you can’t?”

She put her hand over the mouthpiece, looked back at Lewis. “He’s locked them in their cabins. The off-duty riggers.” She took her hand away. “I don’t know where the duty men are, but they’re not responding. We’ll come and let you out —”

“No,” Lewis said, and flattened them both against the corridor wall. He put his finger to his lips, and pointed up through the gap in the ceiling. A light was moving along the lower catwalk, coming toward them.

“Scratch that,” Alma said, softly. “You’ll have to break yourselves out. We are going after the saboteur before he does any more damage.” She hung up the handset and looked up at the moving light.

Lewis tugged them into the center of the corridor, switched off his light and Alma did the same. They could hear the footsteps now, steady, confident, coming closer with every stride.

“Mr. Kershaw?” The voice came from aft, and the footsteps stopped.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Sir, there’s a problem, I can’t find the Chief —”

The pistol spoke again, and there was a cry and a thud. Alma flinched, and Lewis bit back a curse. There was a moment of silence, and then the footsteps started again, moving away.

“We have to stop him,” Alma whispered.

“Wait,” Lewis said. They couldn’t afford to hurry, not when Kershaw, the creature, was armed and they weren’t. The same icy armor that had protected him in combat was descending on him, slowing his heartbeat, quickening his thoughts. Weapon first, he thought, and then — the best we can do is harry him, keep him from doing anything else to the ship, and hope the captain can fix whatever’s wrong. He looked up and down the corridor, seeing nothing but the smooth fabric-covered panels. Nothing here that would do them any good. The footsteps were fading, almost out of earshot, and he turned back to the stairs, started slowly up. Palmer had been in pajamas, but the man Kershaw had shot was duty crew and might have something useful on him.

The catwalk was dark, lit only by light seeping though the gaps from the corridor below, but Lewis didn’t dare light his headlamp. He eased forward and saw the body first as a break in the light. He knelt beside it, feeling for a pulse — none, and when he rolled it toward him, he realized the man had been shot in the face. From the marks on his coveralls, he was one of the riggers. He heard Alma swear again, and she dropped to her knees beside him.

“Dead,” he said, softly, though she could see it as well as he could. He was already going through the man’s pockets, unbuttoning the overalls, came up with a rigger’s knife and a smaller knife with a folding blade. He handed that to Alma, kept the rigger’s knife for himself, and in the leg pocket found a narrow aluminum wrench. He gave that to Alma as well, and pushed himself to his feet.

“There,” Alma said softly, copying him. She pointed into the darkness.

“What?”

“I saw — there,” she said again.

This time, Lewis saw it, too, the glow of the creature’s headlamp, moving away from them, toward the stern. There would be control wires there, access to the engines, a thousand ugly possibilities, and he hefted the rigger’s knife. “Let’s go.”

M
itch studied the controls, trying not to look ahead into the darkness of the Channel. One wheel for the rudder, currently jammed and unresponsive. One wheel for the elevators. It had a little more play, but he hadn’t tried to do more than get the nose up a little, concentrating instead on getting them turned toward Cherbourg.

“Otto,” Federman said faintly.

Mitch didn’t look back, didn’t want to see the life ebbing from him. A nice kid, they’d spoken in the smoking room, the pilot delighted with his new job, the new ship.

“What was that?” Jerry asked, gently.

“Autopilot,” Federman said. “Otto — a joke….”

“Yes,” Jerry said. “How do we disengage it?”

“The column at the end of the chart table,” Federman said. “The lever, red handle. Pull that, then the foot brake.”

“Ok,” Jerry said, dubiously.

“You’ll have to do it, Jer,” Mitch said. “If that frees up the rudder —”

“Yeah, I get it,” Jerry said. He staggered to his feet, limped toward the chart table that stood behind the pilots’ position. The autopilot was obvious once it was pointed out, a duralumin cylinder that rose maybe a foot above the tabletop. The controls were on the far side, from Mitch’s perspective, and Jerry stood for a moment, studying them.

“The red-handled lever,” he said. Federman must have confirmed it because he went on, “Ok, there it is. And then the pedal.”

Mitch put one hand on the rudder, kept his other hand on the elevator wheel. “Go ahead.”

He heard a crunch of gears, presumably Jerry hauling back on the lever, and then a heavy metallic thunk.

“Ok,” Jerry said again, sounding nervous, and Mitch felt the elevator move. The rudder stayed frozen, though, even when he pulled harder. He took a chance, hauled on it with both hands, but it still wouldn’t budge. He felt the nose pitch down, and grabbed for the elevator wheel again. There was a bubble gauge on the panel in front of him, and an artificial horizon, and he concentrated on bringing them both level, the airship sluggish under his hands. That might just be the size and the lack of normal lift, but he didn’t like it.

“I have elevator control,” he said, “but no rudder.” He craned his neck to see the gas board, but it was too far away to read the dials clearly. “Jerry, how’s the pressure looking?”

There was a silence, and when Jerry spoke, his voice was a little higher than normal. “Um. Ok. Looks like we’re still losing hydrogen, but the helium cells seem to be Ok.”

“Good,” Federman said, “We can fly on that….” His voice trailed off alarmingly, and Mitch heard Jerry stumble across to him.

“Easy now,” Jerry said. “Gently.”

“A good thing we went with Mr. Kershaw’s design,” Federman said, more strongly. “One man if he must can fly it….”

“A very good thing,” Jerry said, soothingly. There was a rustle of fabric, and Federman gave a grunt of pain.

Mitch looked at the altimeter. Six hundred feet, and steady — or maybe not. The needle was creeping down, slow but inexorable, and he turned the elevator wheel to lift the nose a few more degrees. Not too far, the frame wouldn’t stand an abrupt angle, but enough to point the big ship upward. 590 feet.

“Hey, Federman,” he said. “If I’m still losing altitude, what do I do?”

There was no answer, and Mitch risked a glance over his shoulder. Federman lay with his eyes closed, Jerry fumbling with the bloody fabric over his chest.

“Federman,” Mitch said again. They were holding altitude a little better, but the nose was starting to swing north. A wind out of the south, he guessed, and pulled as hard as he could on the rudder. It gave, just a little, and Independence swung back to its original heading.

Jerry said something, voice soft and gentle — repeating the question in German, Mitch realized. There was a pause, and then Federman answered, gasping, and Jerry shushed him.

“Ja, so, Junge. Bist du still.”

Mitch looked back again, saw Jerry smoothing the hair away from Federman’s forehead. The pilot was breathing in short, painful gasps, and Jerry’s face was set and tired.

“What did he say?” Mitch asked. “Come on, Jerry.”

“Ballast,” Jerry answered. “Drop ballast to gain height. And — dynamic lift? Something to do with the engines?”

“Yes,” Mitch said. That he understood, increasing the engines’ power and lifting the nose, spending speed to get lift. But in an airship — there was no natural lift, they’d still need gas — “Jerry, you’ll have to drop ballast for me. I think it’s that panel to the left.”

“Ok,” Jerry said, and hauled himself to his feet again. “Yes, Ok, this is it. It’s water ballast. There are four, no, six tanks, it looks like they’re along the keel? I assume I want to drop water evenly from all of them?”

“If you can manage it,” Mitch said. “I can compensate a little.”

“From the middle first,” Jerry said, “and then the ends….”

“Now would be good, Jerry.”

“Ok.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mitch saw Jerry pull a brass lever. There was a distant rumble, more felt than heard, and Jerry hastily pushed it back up to the closed position. He did it again, and then a third time. This time the Independence pitched up, and Mitch shoved the elevator wheel over to bring the nose down again. A pencil rolled off the chart table — the first time in the entire trip that there had been the slightest unsteadiness.

“More?” Jerry asked.

Mitch looked at the altimeter. 560 feet. “Yeah.”

Jerry pulled three more levers in quick succession. The Independence staggered, but Mitch had been expecting it this time, and she leveled out almost at once. They were gaining altitude again: 575, 590, 605, leveling out at 620 feet. Mitch allowed himself a sigh of relief. Independence would fly on helium alone, Federman had said. If they could keep this altitude, they could probably make Le Havre….

“Shit,” Jerry said. “We’re losing pressure in cell 14.”

L
ewis had taken off his headlamp, wrapped it in his handkerchief to muffle the light. He kept it pointed at the catwalk, his hand cupped to hide as much of the glow as possible. Alma had turned her light off entirely and had her hand on his belt as they felt their way toward the stern of the ship. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought the dark had faded a little, that they were creeping toward dawn. Or maybe his eyes had just gotten used to the dark. The airship shivered under them, a strange, uneven movement, and Alma’s hand tightened for an instant.

They had left the passenger compartments behind long ago, and the crew’s quarters as well, and had reached the part of the ship where the heavy cargo was carried, holds like boxes bolted into the curve of the frame below them. Most of them were empty, Lewis saw, or only lightly loaded: passengers might make the trip for status, but hard-headed businessmen weren’t going to risk their money on a maiden voyage.

He paused, scanning the catwalk ahead, searching for the flicker of light that had marked the creature’s progress. For a long moment there was nothing, and then it came again, further away, and — higher? Yes, higher, he thought, and in the same instant realized that they were approaching the tail. The gas cells were smaller here, where the frame tapered toward the huge fins that held the elevators and rudder. The light vanished, hidden behind the curve of the gas cell, and Lewis risked uncovering his own light.

“He’s going up into the tail,” he said, and Alma switched on her headlamp.

She made a small noise of surprise, and Lewis looked down to see a car — a Peerless coupe, fabric roof folded and secured with half a dozen straps — strapped in the cargo bay below them.

“Oh, Henry,” Alma said, and her breath caught on the last word. “Wait — what’s that?”

Lewis looked where she was pointing, and his own breath came short. Below the catwalk, below and beyond the box that held the car, a body lay on the fabric of the hull. It was struggling, he thought, adrenaline jolting through him, and then he realized that the body wasn’t moving, at least not of its own volition. What he had taken at first glance for blood or oil was a tear in the hull, slowly spreading wider as the weight of the body stretched the overburdened fabric. It was like any airplane fabric, you could walk on it if it was whole, but get a rip, a tear — a bullet hole or two — and the taut fabric split at the slightest stress.