Ganymede (Clockwork Century) Page 3

  “What does she want?” Angeline asked bluntly, unconcerned by the blush that climbed the fair-skinned fellow’s neck. Cly’s hair was cut close to his scalp, and it was light enough to plainly show the pink when embarrassment made it all the way to the top of his considerable frame.

  “She wants to hire me.”

  “For what kind of job?” Lucy asked.

  “She wants me to come to New Orleans. There’s a craft she wants me to fly, but I don’t know anything more than that. The telegram is thin on details.”

  Angeline harrumphed. “Sounds like a trumped-up excuse to bring you out for a visit.”

  “She’s not that kind.”

  “You don’t sound so sure of it,” Lucy said. She waited for him to down his shot. When he did, she poured him another before he had a chance to ask for it.

  “I’m plenty sure of it, and now you’re just trying to liquor me up so I’ll tell you more.”

  “You complaining?”

  “No. Keep ’em coming.” He cleared his throat again and said, “There’s got to be a catch. New Orleans is a huge place—big port, big airyard. She could get a perfectly good pilot by setting foot outside her front door and hollering for one.” Unfolding the paper, he reread a few lines and said, “All I know is, it’s got something to do with this thing, the Ganymede.”

  The bartender asked, “What’s a Ganymede?”

  “A dirigible, I assume. She needs someone to take it from Pontchartrain to the Gulf, and she’s willing to pay … but it’s only a few miles, from the lake to the coast. Why she’d want me to go all the way out there to move it for her, I just don’t know.”

  “Ask her,” suggested Angeline.

  “Not sure it’s worth the trouble.”

  Ever the practical one, Lucy asked, “Is it enough money to make the trip worthwhile? That’s a long way to go, to fly a ship a few feet.”

  “Almost, but not quite. She’s offering low, asking it like a favor for old times’ sake.”

  Angeline smiled. “Old times must’ve been good.”

  Lucy straightened up and grabbed a towel. She pretended that the bar needed a good wipe-down and said, “I never been to New Orleans.”

  “Me either, but I done heard about it,” the older woman said, her smile still firmly in place—and now with a playful gleam twinkling in her eyes. “I hear it’s a city for music and dancing, and drinking, too. I hear it’s all Frenched up.”

  Cly swallowed his beverage but put a hand over the glass when Lucy used her bar rag to nudge the bottle his way. “New Orleans is one hell of a city, or it was last time I saw it. Even though Texas had been sitting on it for years.”

  Angeline’s smile contorted into a puzzled frown. “What’s Texas got to do with it?”

  He picked up his glass and fiddled with it, tipping it this way and that between his fingers. “Early in the war—back in 1862—the Union went after the city. They thought if they could control the port and the river, they could get a good choke hold on the Confederate supply line. So they took the place. Trouble was, they couldn’t keep it.”

  “Texas took it away from them?” Angeline guessed.

  “Yeah. The Rebs couldn’t pry the Federal troops out on their own, not for trying; but the Texians didn’t like having the Union presence so close by, so they agreed to lend a hand. They freed up the city in ’64, I think. But once they’d booted out the Union, they had a problem: The Rebels didn’t have enough people on hand to keep the city secure, and the Union wanted back inside it real bad. That’s the biggest port this side of the world, you understand? So Texas could either hold down the fort, or it could withdraw and risk an enemy stronghold right outside its eastern border.”

  “So Texas stayed,” Angeline inferred.

  “Texas stayed. And nobody likes it much.”

  Lucy nudged the bottle Cly’s way again, and this time he picked it up and poured another round for himself and the princess.

  “Texas did some rebuilding, and they set up shops of their own to take advantage of all the trade and travel—trying to make the best of it. Nobody knew how long the war would last, though. Nobody knew it’d straggle on twenty years. Even back when I was there, in ’71 and ’72, the locals were fed up with the occupation. It must be worse now, worse by all these extra years.”

  Andan Cly ran his fingers around the lip of the still-full shot glass, thinking about the French Quarter, and about a woman named Josephine. Neither of his companions interrupted, but both leaned expectantly toward him, waiting for more.

  “New Orleans,” he said slowly. “It’s not like other places, in the South or anywhere else. I mean, all over the South you’ve got a whole lot of colored people—not surprising, since they went to so much trouble to import ’em; but in New Orleans there’s a goodly number of free negroes, and mixed folks, too. They own property there, and have businesses, and get married and make families and run households just like the Southern white people do in other places. The whole state is organized different, and that city is especially different, that’s all I’m saying.” He scratched his head, trying to find a good way to explain the place, and not coming up with anything that sounded right.

  “What do you mean, it’s organized different?” asked Lucy.

  “Oh, like they don’t have counties and such. They have parishes, left over from when France was running the place, and their elections are different—the people who get into power are different. It’s hard to explain. But as you could guess, the free colored people don’t have much interest in being run by the Confederacy … or any of its allies, either. Hell, being unhappy with Texas is the one thing the colored locals have in common with the Confederates. You’d think it’d give them something to bond over, but that’s not how the world works.”

  Angeline’s frown deepened. “Don’t the Rebels want to keep the city open for their own country?”

  “Sure, but Texas holding New Orleans—it’s a permanent reminder how the Rebs couldn’t hold it themselves. They talk like it’s about honor, but it’s not. It’s just pride, same as anything else.”

  The princess shook her head. “Honor, I understand. Pride, I’ve got a handle on. But sometimes you white folks are crazy as a snake-loving rabbit.”

  “Aw, come on Angeline.” Cly grinned.

  Lucy laughed and said, “Surely you mean present company excepted.”

  “Nope!” She spun off the stool, swallowed her drink, and saluted them both with a tip of her hat. “Both of you are well included, I fear.” As she dug around in her pockets, she added, “And I thank you for the history lesson, Captain, that was real enlightening. But I need to be on my way. I have a train to catch tonight, from Tacoma.”

  “Where are you going?” Andan asked. “Maybe I could give you a lift.”

  “Portland. But don’t you worry about it, much as I appreciate the offer. I’m headed down there to see an old friend, and sometimes I don’t mind a nice train ride. It’s only half a day’s trip, and he’s meeting me at the station.” She tossed some coins on the counter and winked. “I’ll catch you two when I come back around.”

  “All right, Miss Angeline,” Lucy said with a wave. “You have a safe trip.”

  When she had exited through Maynard’s sealed, filtered front door, Lucy shook her head. “I swear to God, that woman … I don’t know how she comes and goes so free and easy, like it’s nothing at all to get inside or out again.”

  Andan examined the telegram some more, shielding it from Lucy’s curious hovering. He scratched at his ear and revisited the letters again and again, in case a fourth or fifth reading might squeeze some extra meaning out of the few brief lines.

  “Captain?” she asked, pretending she was offering another drink.

  Without looking up, he said, “Hm? Oh, I’m sure Angeline has her methods.”

  “No doubt. But what about you? What about that telegram?”

  “What about it?”

  “You taking the job?”

 
He shrugged and finally looked up. “I could use the money, and there are lots of things I can pick up in New Orleans—things I can’t get just anyplace. I could bring you back some absinthe, Lucy. You ever had any absinthe? You’d be the richest bartender in the Territory if I could fetch you a few barrels.”

  “Oh, you’d do it for me. And here I was thinking maybe you wanted to go strike a match on an old flame.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “I bet I don’t.”

  “It was complicated.”

  “I bet it wasn’t.”

  Just then the front door opened, sliding stickily forward on its rubber-coated seals. Everyone in Maynard’s—Lucy, Andan, and the three men playing cards at a round green table in the back corner—turned to see the newcomer. After they looked him over, Cly shifted his weight on the stool, putting one foot down on the floor, and the men at the green table became engrossed in their game, their eyes darting back and forth over the cards.

  “Yaozu,” Lucy both announced and greeted him.

  The white-clad oriental man surveyed the underground saloon. His attention skimmed past the drunks and the gamblers, settled briefly on Andan Cly, and returned to Lucy. “Mrs. O’Gunning. I’d like to try some of that beer you brew. The local selection,” he clarified in precise, flawless English.

  She blurted, “Are you sure? It’s … an acquired taste, or so I’m told.”

  “Then allow me the opportunity to acquire it.”

  “As you like.” She stepped away from Cly, grabbing a clean mug off the second plank shelf and toting it over to the tap. “But if you don’t care for it, I have some huangjiu on hand. Mrs. Wong gives me a bottle every now and again; I think she takes them away from her husband. A barkeep should have something on hand for all her customers, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but there’s no need to assume. Today I’d like to try this beer … about which I’ve heard so … much.”

  Though the pub was more empty than full and there were many seats available, Yaozu chose the stool next to Andan Cly. He sat upon it with a graceful swish that let the tail of his jacket fall perfectly behind him. A black braid snaked back and forth between his shoulder blades when he turned his head to examine the state of the fixtures, the stock on the shelves, Lucy O’Gunning as she filled his mug, and his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  Then he regarded Andan Cly. Their eyes met in the glass.

  Cly adjusted his position on the stool, a frequent occurrence, for it was about a size too small for him. “So … what are you doing here, Yaozu?” He aimed for a cautiously friendly tone and more or less hit it.

  To what Cly considered the Chinaman’s credit, he did not stall the conversation with disclaimers or pleasantries. “I’d heard you were inside the walls—that your ship is docked at Fort Decatur. I thought I might find you here.”

  Lucy arrived with the beer and placed it before Yaozu with a dubious look in her eyes. Seattle’s home-brewed beverage was distilled from blight-contaminated water, and though it was safe to drink, it was rarely anyone’s first choice. Or second. Occasionally, it came in third.

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Gunning,” he said. Without so much as a nervous sniff, he lifted the mug and began to drink. Two or three swallows into the draft, he paused and cocked his head to the right. “It certainly has a distinctive flavor.”

  “You’re too kind,” she said, still not convinced she wasn’t being humored. “I’m glad it suits you, and I suppose I’ll leave you to it.” Taking up her rag once more, she ambled to the far side of the bar and started cleaning anything that looked like it might hold still for a wipe-down, whether it needed it or not.

  When Lucy was gone, Yaozu set the beer aside. He said to Andan Cly, “I need a ship.”

  “What are you moving? Big sap shipment going out?”

  “On the contrary, I want to bring goods into the city.” He gave the beer a hard stare and a moment of philosophical inquiry. He took another drink before continuing. “I’ve been reorganizing Minnericht’s operations—a task which needed to be done long before his demise, might I add—and I’ve discovered that Seattle is running perilously low on the basic necessities. Between you and me, Captain, I’m not sure how much longer the city can remain habitable. Such as it is.”

  Intrigued, Andan Cly nodded. “So what are we talking about?” he asked. “Pitch and the like, for seals? Masks? Pump equipment?”

  “All that and more. We need canvas, lumber, charcoal for filters, coal for the furnaces, and that’s just the beginning.” He sighed. “Last week we ran out of coffee, and I thought the chemists would start an uprising.”

  “It can be a lifesaver,” Cly acknowledged. “Sharpens the mind, and the hands, too.”

  “That’s what they tell me.” Yaozu abandoned the beer glass, now more empty than full. “This will be an enormous undertaking, and I’m happy to finance it. Minnericht was an able tinkerer, but some of his works are not so stable or permanent as one might wish.”

  The ensuing silence in the saloon was so thick, you could spoon it into a bowl. Cly realized that everyone had been listening in, but he was still startled to feel the eyes of everyone present glued to himself and Yaozu.

  In a normal speaking voice, intended to be overheard, his companion added, “For now, things are as safe as always, of course. But there’s room for improvement, don’t you think? Here—” He pulled out some coins, one of which appeared to be pure gold. Placing them on the counter, he added, “Let us take a walk. We can discuss your fee.”

  Andan Cly wasn’t sure how he felt about taking a stroll with Minnericht’s former right-hand man, but there was more to be said, and Yaozu was unwilling to say it in front of an audience. The captain couldn’t blame him, so he shot Lucy a two-fingered wave and followed the Chinaman out the sealed door, into the dark, mulch-smelling spots beneath the city.

  Both men carried gas masks for convenience or emergency, but the masks were not required in the unfinished basement wonderland. There, forests of brick created a dank labyrinth that unfolded with bends, kinks, and curves under the streets as far as the Seattle wall extended, in every direction. It would have been an impenetrable place, blacker than any night without a moon, except that lanterns were hung on hooks at the spots where corners crossed, and at the mouths of the tunnel entrances.

  Yaozu unhooked a lantern and turned the knob to raise its wick. He offered the lamp to Andan Cly, who lifted it above his head. Courtesy of his prodigious height, the whole quarter was bathed in a yolk-yellow glow.

  “This way, Captain. Toward the vaults. If we take the long way around, I can show you what I mean.”

  The corridor was wide and flanked by the exposed wet bricks that characterized so much of the underground’s topography. Its floor had been packed, but it was not paved in any way; the surface was soggy from the atmospheric moisture—seeping rains above, drizzling down long-dead tree roots and filtering past the houses and businesses of the polluted city.

  The air captain and the oriental man walked side by side, their feet struggling slightly with the mucky path. And as they pushed onward, back farther and deeper away from the buried saloon called Maynard’s, Yaozu explained.

  “I am fond of this particular passage. It sees little travel, partly because”—he gave his dirty boots a rueful gaze—“no one ever installed flagstones or slats. And up ahead, one of the walls has crumbled across the path.”

  “Then why do you like it so much?” Cly asked, doing his best to keep the lantern steady. But with every step, shadows danced and kicked to the sway of the light, up and down the moss-covered walls and along the black-mud footway.

  “Because it very nearly connects our Chinatown to your vaults, and to the storage quarters back beneath Commercial Street.”

  Andan Cly said, “Huh. I can see why that would be useful. So you want to clean it out? Shore it up?”

  “I do. However, two walls will need to come down in order to make the way passabl
e by track and mining cart,” he replied, referencing the handcarts and buckets by which some of the residents moved supplies and toted important items. “And above those walls, new sections of street-level buildings must be sealed against the blight.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Also, if we expand and fix this passage, we could turn one of the offshoot basements into another pump room.”

  “Do we need another pump room? The air’s plenty breathable down here.”

  “So far,” Yaozu agreed, “but in the last few weeks, the workers have been keeping longer hours, and more coal is being used to power the pumps. My engineers suggest that it’s a maintenance issue. Therefore, I wish to invest in maintenance procedures. I want to clean the pump tubes, all two to three hundred feet of them, one after another.”

  Cly made a low, worried whistle. “That sounds like a big job.”

  “Yes—a job that will require the pumps to be shut down for cleaning, one at a time. But before we can begin such a chore, supplementary pumps must be operational. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” he said thoughtfully. Then he stopped and said, “And this must be the brick pile.”

  Yaozu nodded. “You first? Since you’re holding the light.”

  They scaled the bricks and slid down the other side. Cly dusted off his pants and observed, “The kind of thing you’re talking about … big renovations, big improvements … is going to take time. And money.”

  “Money we have, and time, too—though less of the latter than the former.”

  The path split before them, and Yaozu urged Andan Cly down the right fork.

  “How much time?”

  “Impossible to say. The tubes and pumps have held for years, and might hold for years to come. Or they might not.”

  “What about those engineers you mentioned?” Cly asked. “Can they give you a better idea?”

  “They’re trying, but they are new to the city and still learning the finer points of its workings. I have recruited them with generous paychecks. And I am trusting your confidence on this matter when I tell you—” He paused and looked up into the giant’s face. “—I’m burning through Minnericht’s coffers at a rather alarming rate. He left a fortune, of course. He hoarded it like a dragon, underneath King Street Station. But it is costing a fortune to keep this place livable.”