“Indeed,” I said a third time.
“What year is it here?” he asked me.
“It’s 2010.”
“No, I mean what year is it for you? I’m no expert on Victorian fashion, but you appear to be wearing a bustle, and I thought those went out of style before the turn of the century, so I’m assuming that your present is something in the late eighteen hundreds?”
“Today is February 15, 2010, Mr. Fletcher,” I answered.
“But . . .” His gaze dropped to my chest. I had unbuttoned my jacket earlier, in an attempt to keep from sweating profusely. “But you’re wearing that corset you keep mentioning.”
“On the contrary, you are the one who repeatedly brings it up,” I corrected him.
“And long skirts. And a bustle. You can’t deny you have a bustle.”
“Why would I wish to?” I asked, frowning at him. “Truly, Mr. Fletcher, you seem to have an extremely bizarre preoccupation with my undergarments.”
“And button boots,” he said, pointing at my feet. “The kind you have to use a button-hook thing on.”
“Granny boots,” Hallie said suddenly, having turned to stare at my feet. “Mom had a pair of those. My God, Jack, you’re right. She does have granny boots on!”
“I do not have a grandmother, so these boots could hardly have belonged to her,” I corrected Hallie. “And once again I must say that I do not see what my clothing has to do with you both being here on my ship.”
“How come your skirt is so short?” Hallie asked, frowning at my ankles. “I was in a production of Hello, Dolly! and all the dresses we wore swept the floor. It was a pain in the ass always having to hoist the skirts to walk up and down the stairs. But your skirt is at your ankles.”
“The uniform of the female members of the Southampton Aerocorps includes skirts that are ankle-length for safety reasons, Miss Norris. It would be impractical to attempt to climb around in the ship’s rigging with skirts that touched the floor.”
“Hrmph.” She went back to looking out of the porthole.
“Point two . . . damn. I forgot what point two was,” Jack said, frowning.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps instead, I might have a word with you?”
“You’re going to talk about me, aren’t you?” Hallie asked, her hands on her hips. “I know you’re going to talk about me.”
“Yes,” I said simply.
“I think I’m going to lie down,” she said in a sudden reversal of attitude, her hand to her forehead. “Maybe if I go back to sleep, the drug will work its way out of my system and I can see normal things again. Er . . . this room looks like someone is living in it.”
“That is my cabin. Since it is unsuitable for you to remain with Mr. Fletcher in his cabin, you will share mine.”
“Unsuitable?” Jack asked, looking as if he wanted to laugh. “She’s my sister.”
“She is an unmarried woman, sir,” I pointed out. “The Aerocorps has standards of conduct upon their ships, and I would be in violation of several of them were I to allow your sister and you to share a cabin.”
“I’m divorced, not unmarried,” Hallie said, sounding somewhat forlorn as she stood in the doorway of my cabin.
“That makes little difference to the Aerocorps. You will share my cabin. The window seat converts into a bunk; you are welcome to use that. We’ll worry about finding you some clothing at a later time.”
She nodded, but said nothing until she entered the cabin, pausing to look over her shoulder at us. “We didn’t eat magic mushrooms, did we, Jack?”
“No, Hal, we didn’t.”
“Those people we saw, they were real?”
“Yes. Octavia is having some food and stuff sent to them. I added my watch and the money I had, in case they could be used, too.”
Her face grew pinched. “It was the explosion in your lab?”
“I think so,” he said, his voice calm, but I sensed an underlying unease. “I think when the liquid helium that you spilled hit the quantum circuits . . . well, I don’t know exactly what happened except it knocked us unconscious, and out of our reality and into this one.”
“Why don’t you look more disturbed by all this?” she suddenly wailed, her hands wringing themselves before she gestured toward Jack Fletcher. “Why aren’t you upset about her? About all of this? Why aren’t you insane with anxiety over this whole thing?”
Oddly enough, I was wondering much the same thing. After his initial confusion and disbelief, he’d settled down into a sort of excited anticipation that I had a hard time explaining.
He took one of his sister’s hands in his. “This is the chance of a lifetime, Hal. Don’t you see it? We’ve done something remarkable, something miraculous. We’re not in our world anymore—somehow, something changed on an atomic level. I don’t know how or why, but I do know this—we’re explorers in a strange new territory. The ramifications of what happened to us are mind-boggling. Just think of the research we can do! Just think of the knowledge we can gain from our experiences. I really wish I had my laptop to take notes on.”
Hallie was silent for a moment, her expression unchanged. “Can we get back?”
The excitement in Jack’s face faded as he stared at her, the question hanging heavily in the air.
She nodded again, just as if his silence had answered her question, and went into the cabin, closing the door softly behind her.
I was a bit taken aback by her sudden acceptance of, or at least resignation to, her presence on the airship. “She will not do herself any harm, will she?” I asked Jack.
“Hallie? No,” he said, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe it from her little freak-out, but she’s really a very levelheaded person. Feet on the ground and all that. It’s just that . . . well, you have to admit, this whole thing is really bizarre.”
“It is very trying for everyone. I feel in the need for a strong cup of tea,” I answered. “Just as soon as you’ve changed your garments, we will indulge ourselves, and have a discussion about the situation.”
“Why do I need to change my clothes?” he asked, looking down at himself.
I stopped outside of the storage cabin that Mr. Piper had emptied in order to convert it to what was either a brig or a passenger cabin, depending on your point of view. “Mr. Fletcher, you may not be bothered by the sign on your back proclaiming you to be an airship pirate, but I assure you that the Aerocorps takes a very hard view of such people. Mr. Piper has found some suitable clothing for you to wear. I trust they will fit well enough for you to don them.”
He chuckled, outright chuckled, as if what I said was too amusing. “You know, I’d be tempted to freak out right along with Hallie, except for one thing.”
“What is that?” I asked as he opened the door and stepped inside.
“You,” he said, a twinkle in his mismatched eyes as he closed the door.
My heart did an odd sort of flip-flop in my chest.
“I am not going to be charmed by that rogue,” I muttered to myself as I stalked down the hallway toward the galley. “He could be deranged. He could be lying. Or he could be up to something nefarious. And besides, three rogues in my life were quite enough! There is not room for one more!”
Log of the HIMA Tesla
Monday, February 15
Forenoon Watch: Six Bells and a Smidgen
Robert Anstruther once told me that it was funny how fate chose certain moments to listen in to one’s thoughts. It had certainly done so to mine—a wish to escape an unhappy childhood with an alcoholic mother had led me to places I had never in my dreams imagined. And at that moment, as I walked down the passageway toward the mess, I had an uncomfortably itchy feeling that fate had once again chosen the present to poke its head into my business.
“Captain!”
“Mr. Llama?” I winced when I spoke. Addressing the second engineer always left me with the regrettable feeling I was speaking to a child’s toy. I had a suspicion that the man in question wasn??
?t born with the dubious name he had given the Aerocorps, but it was not for me to insist he adopt something less eccentric.
“There is a rumor floating around that spies have come on board,” the slight, dark-haired man said as he closed the door of the mess. Mr. Llama—I sighed to myself as I even thought of his absurd name—often entered a room in such a manner, or so I had noticed during my four days on the Tesla. He had a long face, black eyes, and a manner of keeping himself to himself. He also had an uncanny knack of popping up behind me without me being aware, startling me to the extreme.
“We have some unexpected guests, yes, but I have no cause to believe they are spies,” I said carefully, watching him closely. I had yet to actually catch Mr. Llama in the process of entering or leaving a room; he just seemed to appear or disappear as if he were made of smoke.
“If you would like a hand at . . . interrogation . . . I am at your assistance,” he said, making a little bow. “I have some knowledge of methods of ascertaining if someone is speaking the truth or not.”
“Really?” I asked, setting down the pen I had been using to write in the ship’s log. “That’s a rather odd skill for an engineer, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t always been an engineer,” he said, sliding a glance to the side, his body stiffening as if something he saw shocked him. I looked to see what it was, but there was nothing else in the mess but Dooley, at the far end of the table, whistling to himself as he performed his chores.
“I’m sure you haven’t, but—” The words stopped when I looked back to find that Mr. Llama had disappeared. “Damnation. He did it again.”
“Who did what?” Dooley asked, looking up from a boot he was blacking.
“Mr. Llama. Did you see him leave the room?” Dooley scratched his head, leaving a smear of boot blacking on his forehead. “I didn’t know he was here.”
“He was. How very odd.”
“Aye, that he is. Mr. Francisco says he doesn’t sleep at night.”
“He doesn’t?” I asked, confused. “Who doesn’t?”
“Mr. Llama.” Dooley leaned toward me with the air of one sharing a confidence. “Mr. Francisco says that Mr. Llama slips out of their cabin at night, and never sleeps in his bunk. Never! Not once has he seen him there! Isn’t that strange? Mr. Francisco says that Mr. Llama learned strange Oriental skills when he was fighting the Moghuls, and that he knows thirty-seven ways to kill a man with naught but a bit of string and a pair of tweezers.”
I looked at the door with speculation, wondering what the mysterious Mr. Llama did at night, and made a resolution to keep a closer eye on the crew.
When the door opened again, my heart jumped into my throat.
“Better?” Jack stopped in front of me and pirouetted, his arms held out at his sides.
“Quite suitable,” I said, my fingers tightening around the pen. That’s what I said—what I thought was entirely different.
He wore the standard Aerocorps uniform jacket, but there was nothing standard about the way it fit his body. He was handsome in his black undershirt, but in the knee-length scarlet jacket, he was downright devastating. The snowy white wing tips of his shirt sat over the silk cross tie, below which an embroidered double-breasted gold waistcoat hugged his torso. The fact that Mr. Piper had given Jack the waistcoat of an officer was neither here nor there—it suited him very well, the twin rows of black enameled buttons with the gold leaf Aerocorps logo glinting in the light streaming in through the viewing-platform window. Black trousers and boots completed the outfit, and left me, I was distressed to note, with an overwhelming urge to run my hands over his body.
With an effort, I pulled my mind back from unwelcome desires and gestured toward the teapot. “Would you take tea?”
“Sure.”
“Cream or lemon?” I asked, pouring him a cup as he took the seat opposite me.
He glanced around the mess, empty except for Dooley. “Lemon is fine. So, where do I pick up my goggles?”
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, adding a bit of sugar to his tea before handing it to him.
“Goggles, you know?” He made circles with his fingers and held them to his eyes. “Every good steamer has goggles. Don’t you?”
“Certainly not,” I said, wondering if I would ever really understand him. “I have safety spectacles for when I examine the boilers, naturally, but goggles? No.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed for a moment, then took a sip of his tea. “So, we’re here to get down to brass tacks, right?”
I set down the pen and put the cap on the bottle of ink, lest it spill on my logbook. “Dooley, if you have finished with the boots, you may take your tea with Mr. Francisco in the galley.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” he said, reluctantly gathering up the boots and shuffling out of the far door, his gaze never leaving that of Jack. “Mayhap Mr. Llama will be there, and he can tell me how to kill a man with tweezers.”
“Bloodthirsty little devil,” Jack said, watching him leave. “Cabin boy? Wait—did he say Mr. Llama?”
“Dooley is the bosun’s mate. He is young, but enthusiastic, and yes, one of my crew is named Mr. Llama. He is the second engineer, and is rather . . . well . . . different.”
“With that name, I don’t doubt it.”
“Mr. Fletcher, I take it from the somewhat confusing discussion that you had with your sister both in and outside of my cabin that you and she were involved in some sort of an industrial accident. Is it your supposition that you were both knocked unconscious and placed on board my ship without being aware of that fact?”
“Not quite,” he said, touching the side of his head briefly. “It took Hallie to prod the memory forward, but after your Mr. Ho brought Hal around, she reminded me that we’d been in my lab when the accident occurred. That’s the only possible thing I can think of that would have made this happen.”
“I see. I will tell you now that I am not scientifically trained, and thus am not prepared to say whether or not what you say is possible, but I will warn you that I do have a friend who is an amateur inventor, and he will offer me such advice as I find necessary.”
“Do you always talk like that?” he asked.
“Talk how?” I asked warily.
“So formal, like you’re straight from the pages of a Victorian novel.”
I looked at him for a moment, not sure how to take such a comment. “I’m sorry if my method of speech distresses you, but I’m afraid it is something I would be unable to change without great difficulty.”
“It doesn’t distress me,” he said with an engaging smile.
I refused to give in to the smile.
“I like it, as a matter of fact,” he continued. “It’s kind of charming. You don’t talk like any of the women I know.”
“And have you known many women?” The words were out of my mouth before I could consider the wisdom of speaking them. Blushing with embarrassment, I clapped a hand over my mouth for a few seconds before saying, “My apologies, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Jack.”
“That was rude of me. You will not, of course, answer such an impertinent question.”
“You look even more charming when you blush,” he said, grinning. “I don’t mind telling you. I’ve had four official girlfriends, the last one about two years ago. If you’re asking how many women I’ve known—” The emphasis he put on the word was unmistakable. My cheeks grew even hotter. “That would be seven. I wasn’t much for girls until I got to college. Then I had a few wild years before settling down to study.”
“I see.” I busied myself with pouring a dollop more tea.
“How about you?” he asked over the rim of his cup.
I looked up, startled at the insinuation.
“How many men have you known?”
That question was almost as impertinent as what I thought he had been suggesting. “That, sir, is none of your business.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “I told you how many women I’ve been with. Fair play wou
ld demand you do the same.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to retort that I hadn’t wanted to know, but honesty wouldn’t allow me to lie to save my self-pride. “Three,” I said finally, after a brief inner struggle. I watched him closely to see if he would display any signs of repugnance at the number, not that I cared one way or another. I was a captain, I told myself. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t lose any respect for me in order to avoid undermining my authority. “Not that it’s any of your business whatsoever, I have had three lovers.”
I lifted my chin, throwing out that last word as almost a challenge.
“Ah. You’re not hooked up with someone right now, are you?” he said without blinking so much as one eyelash.
“No,” I said, startled enough to answer without thinking. I set down my teacup and gave him a firm look. “Mr. Fletcher, we have strayed from the purpose of this conversation. What I wish to know is—”
“El capitán!”
“Oh, dear God,” I moaned softly.
The door leading to the small galley was flung open, the figure of a man silhouetted in the doorway. He stalked toward us slowly, his head tipped forward as he pinned me back with what I was coming to think of as the Francisco Smolder. “El capitán, mi capitán, Dooley, he says that you are here alone with a man. I will tear his heart out and cook it with his kidneys if he has laid so much as a finger on you, my sweet, delicious capitán.”
Francisco García Ramón de Cardona, better known to the crew as Mr. Francisco, rushed forward and flung himself onto his knees at my feet, grasping my hand and pressing wet kisses onto it.
“Mr. Francisco, I have asked you not to do that,” I said sternly, trying to pull my hand back.
His grip tightened as he made cow eyes at me. “Mi capitán,” he said, his voice simmering with sensuality and sexual promise. “My luscious, delectable capitán.”
Jack snorted, turning his laughter into an awkward cough.
I ground my teeth and, with an effort, jerked my hand from that of the steward. “And I’ve asked you not to address me with such familiarity.”