* * * * *
Ward had collapsed again on the observation deck, a pen in hand, a paper present, and a soul grieving. Ainsworth and Fletcher's two friends waited nearby. They drank brandy despite the early hour, and no one talked. It seemed that not even spilt blood would quell the affair.
Yet, like a crystal dropping, a voice broke the silence, shattering the glass of solemnity. "Damn it, you know Ward," spoke the goggled second, "You might have let him kill you instead, given your relationship." He shook his head, draining his glass.
Sighing, Ward admitted that the thought had crossed his mind. "But I love her too much." He paused again. "I love my own life too much." Grasping all the power of his being, he lifted the pen — a weight far heavier than his crimsoned rapier — and wrote:
Dearest Ariadne,
My loving wife, you almost never speak of Charles, your wayward brother. What you do say is saddened by his fall into gambling and drink. He missed our wedding, and your family ignores the topic completely. All the same, your undying affection is still apparent.
I found this prodigal son.
As fate would have it, I also killed him . .
Worthy
"Oh, come off it Vaughn. You mean to tell me that nothing is worth dying for?"
The smile of incredulity creasing the face of the speaker was almost lost in the dim lighting. His words carried clearly though, and the rest of the listeners quieted down to hear the answer.
For his part, Phillip Vaughn just stared right back, any hint of smile absent from his countenance; he couldn't call them friends, but the man did enjoy their company to a degree. However, this enjoyment was significantly lessened when they turned to bothersome questions like this. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. No man should have any part in dying for anyone but himself and his lover or brother. Ideals and strangers should have no hold, no place in a man's death. A man's own worth is all he's got. Nothing else matters." He could say this. None would call him handsome, and he had no wife, no family waiting for him at the home port. The only kindness he received was in the stolen arms of the night girls he occasionally sought out when the Questionable came to rest. He'd grown up in a hard way, and if a man didn't look out for himself, no one would, and he was better off dead. Being kind to others was a waste of energy, time, and dangerous to all involved. And to emphasize this point, the man spit onto the ground and leaned back to cross his thick arms over his chest.
The questioner, a skinny Irishman, laughed again, and this time, he had to raise his voice to carry over the helio-pumps that had begun to stir into life. The crew had retreated into the bowels of the Questionable for an afternoon of leisure and rest; it was their day off, and the airship had only just landed in Dublin.
Above them, people would be scurrying around like enraged ants. The flurry of activity that surrounded the airship once it docked was incomprehensible to the common passenger, but to these men, the ship's maintenance crew, flying was a relief from the actual work; it was in the supposed 'rest' between voyages that they worked the hardest. Indeed, that labor was so strenuous that the crews were given extended rests from watches while in port; this prolonged relaxation was traded between several shifts of workers, so all employed with the airship were given some amount of down time. They needed it; they'd collapse otherwise. The group now playing cards and drilling their companion had slaved feverishly the day before; now, they rested while their counterparts on the other end of the cycle took their turn.
As the dirigible's balloons swelled from the helio-pumps, Phillip's throat expanded and contracted from the harsh Madeira that licked his throat like honey and burned like acrid fuel. He didn't often drink, but when he did, it was a release; it was an escape from the hell of work he now experienced.
He looked up to find all the others staring at him. "Yes?" he asked in a break from the noise.
The Irishman, O'Donnell, pointed upwards, in the general direction of the pumps. "You must've missed it with the gases. I said, what about the Golden Rule? What if you're about to be killed, and someone walking by can save you?" He held up a finger. "But. They have to sacrifice their own life to do it. What do you say to that?"
Phillip had heard it all before and still wasn't convinced. He prepared to launch into a counter argument, but the pumps started again, and he had to wait a few moments. The others sighed and chuckled good-naturedly; they were all used to the madness. Most had been aboard the Questionable or similar vessels for years. Finally, the noise cut off and Phillip launched into his answer. In the close space, his voice echoed off the riveted walls and through the dank machinery that surrounded the lounging quarters for the ship's crew. It was beneath the berthing area, at the very bottom of the vessel, and the sounds traveled around, swirling through the shadowy recess.
"No. Golden Rule or not, if I'm stupid enough to get caught in that situation, I've no business costing another man his life to safe my sorry hide."
"And God?"
"What?"
"What about His sacrifice for you?"
Phillip laughed bitterly, his brow furrowing and a drop of sweat coursing through his black, snarled beard. "Do I look like a bloody theologian to you? You can't keep extending your argument; things don't work like that." The conversation had started after O'Donnell mentioned a bind he'd just gotten out of; he owed a banker some money, and a wealthy passenger heard of his plight and offered to pay. The wealthy man had more than enough capital to cover the worker's expenses, and he'd sacrificed that cash to help out O'Donnell. The latter was overjoyed and bragged to the group. Vaughn thought the idea ridiculous and said so; the conversation had followed since. "No, you can't expect to bring God into this; He's exempt. We're not worthy for such consideration. Now, just deal the cards. I've got some women to woo tonight."
This last was greeted with general applause, and even O'Donnell sat back to watch the cards spool out, the bets rage, and his friends' hard-earned pay trade hands. The rest of the afternoon slipped away without any more serious talk. As a rule, these industrial workers rarely slipped into philosophical discussions; once removed, they continued on as they were.
Even as the wine flowed and men lost their wages, the circling cog of work pressed onwards, and soon, it was Vaughn's turn to take his place above - to dive once more into the steam and sweat of preparing the Questionable and her opulent passengers for another voyage across the heavens.
Phillip and his companions were called to one of the stateroom passages to examine a broken steam valve. These valves, connected to pipes that crisscrossed and ran the length of the entire ship like blood-veins, helped control the ship's movement. Without them, the ship would not rise, and the Questionable would not sail. As essential as they remained, they were constantly breaking, and the bane of Phillip's existence was to fix the damned contraptions.
Of course, nearly every pipe was located above crew quarters and rested with the passengers' passages. These loomed above the shadowed recesses of the vessel, allowing for better views and the continued fantasy that the wealthy passengers floated above the riff-raff of the world. As a member of that riff-raff, Vaughn hated all interaction with the passengers. They never truly acknowledged his presence, but their condescension was enough. The man couldn't count the number of times he'd been stared at out of the corner of some dandy's eyes. The women sniffed as he shuffled by, his very scent unworthy to be in their very presence.
Once, he had stumbled, catching himself on the passenger in front of him. The man, a young buck with a nose resembling a lichen-coated rock, had shoved him to the ground, swearing profusely. Phillip's manager had, unfortunately, been wandering through the same passage and heard the altercation. He rushed over, apologized profusely to the passenger and reprimanded Phillip in front of everyone. Later, the incident almost cost the laborer his job; despite his quality performance and diligent work-attitude, one offense towards a passenger was enough to black-mark him.
The compa
ny's priorities were clear.
Now, as he sighed heavily and traced his steps up towards the passenger's domain, Vaughn wondered for the countless time why he had even taken the job. Of course, this chain of thought was simply followed by the crushing conclusion that always followed; he'd been dirt poor and needed a job. The Questionable had the benefit of travel and the allusion of opulence; being aboard a wealthy airship gave one the trappings of wealth, right? He'd been wrong on that last count, but the man had been raised to work his hardest, regardless of whether or not he liked his work.
These thoughts weighing him down, he hefted the replacement pipe and came to the broken valve. A rope cordoned off the area, and passing denizens stared at the steam flowing from the broken pipe, the mist clouding the passageway. One particular lady, followed closely by a tuxedo-clad automaton, sniffed and muttered to her metal companion. "Oh, for heaven's sake. If they'd only keep the place clean." She looked up then and caught sight of Phillip. The woman turned back to her automaton. "At least they finally got some lackey to clean it up. Good use for those lower, dirty types." Without ever looking at Phillip, she disappeared further into the mist before he could hear any more of her wealthy insults.
"Damn prick! She didn't even see me," he growled, throwing down the pipe. It clattered to the deck and rolled along, disappearing into the steam, only to roll back a few seconds later. He stopped it with his foot and worked on jerking the faulty pipe out of place. Steam droplets cascaded down his straining biceps and water dripped through his overgrown, matted hair. He ignored this largely, wiping his eyes when his vision grew too impaired. At last, he slotted the new pipe into place, and the steam escaping through the valve slimmed and stopped. In the passage, the residual mist also began dripping away; it floated further down the hallway to dissipate in the fresh Irish air that seeped through the ship.
Phillip brushed his hands together, throwing the droplets to the decking and began clearing away his gear. Just then, a patter of footsteps carried up the hallway, and the man turned to look. No sooner had he glanced around when a running woman struck him and the two clattered to the deck.
Phillip opened his eyes, clenched from the surprising impact, and saw her. A red tear of a dress coated her form, dripping down to swerve around each of her curves. Corpulent diamonds swung on her lobes, and a long train of pearls was clasped about her neck. Without even registering her face, Phillip's breath grew bated, grew constricted; she was a passenger, a wealthy heiress most likely. And he was sprawled with her on the deck-plates in a hallway coated with the receding shadows of a steam cloud. If tripping into a young dandy had nearly cost him his job, colliding with an heiress might cost him his life.
Phillip disentangled himself from her, his palms growing clammy from anything but the steam around them. His breaths came in rapid sheets, and the tightness of his throat gripped him like clockwork, his tongue floating about - the swinging pendulum. He coughed, trying to speak. He cleared his throat once more, and the woman, looking dazed, glanced up at him. "I'm... I am ..." was all he choked out.
She kept looking at him, a bemused smile creeping across her face.
For his part, he stared at the deck, trying not to offend further. At last, he tried again, and words finally rushed out of him. "Miss, I am so sorry," he gasped for breath for continuing. "I, uh, I didn't see you there. My most sincere apologies." He leaned down, offering her a hand and raising her from the moist decking.
She hadn't spoken. Standing again, she glanced down, noting a hint of water along her dress; with a slight smile, she wiped it away before looking the man full in the face. "No, no. I'm to blame. I lost track of time and was dreadfully late to an appointment. I shouldn't be running through these halls. The ship's not made for that. It's not your fault in the slightest Mister..." She offered the last word as a question.
Not knowing how to refuse and remain anonymous, Phillip shifted about on his feet. "It's Vaughn, Miss. Phillip Vaughn's my name."
She held out a dainty hand. Perhaps she meant for him to bow and kiss it, but Phillip had never been trained in such arts. He gripped it in his meaty, wet palm and gave it a firm handshake; he didn't even feel worthy enough for that, so great was the worker's fear of this rich passenger. "My name is Alice. Alice de Beauforte," she responded.
"Pleased to meet you," offered Phillip. He was a downright liar; he wished she'd never seen him.
She smiled shyly, pointing towards his tools. "Not only did I send you sprawling, I ruined and interrupted your work, didn't I? You work here then, on the Questionable's crew?"
Why was she asking this? Why didn't she just run along? He smiled weakly. "Yes, Miss. I've been aboard for a few years now. They pay well, and they've been good to me." He paused. "Mostly," he couldn't help but adding.
She caught that last and held his eye. "Mostly? The people aboard have never been unkind to me."
Of course they hadn't. She was a passenger; she was wealthy; she was somebody. But her smile was kindly. Before he could answer, a voice shouted down the passage. "Alice!"
Phillip turned to see the speaker. A short man, broad across the shoulders and powerfully built was striding up. He carried an ornate cane in his left hand and an opened pocket-watch in the other. He looked again at the watch before speaking. "Dear, you're nearly half an hour late. I was... I was worried." He turned to eye Phillip. "And you've met... someone." The way the man spoke it was if Phillip was either a small, unpleasant dog, or the dust caught between the deck's wood panels.
She wandered over to him to clutch his waiting arm. "I'm sorry Clive. I just ... Well, I was hurrying and I tripped into him by mistake. He was kind enough to help me up."
"You won't be needing any more help from the likes... from this gentleman." With that, the man led the couple away down the passage. As they turned the corner to disappear, Alice turned back and made eye contact with the forgotten ship-hand, shrugging her shoulders helplessly and beaming a last smile as her husband led her around the corner.
Phillip paused for a moment to take it all in. He'd been respected by her, scorned by him. But, most importantly, he'd been treated as a human by someone who was rich. He mattered, in some minimal way, to a member of the upper class. She'd sacrificed her aloofness, her dignity to share humanity with him; in some small way, he was worthy of her attention. It didn't matter that the husband had scorned him. Alice had seen him. Alice had spoken with him; this Alice respected him. The thought brought a smile to his lips as he cleaned up the remainder of the mess and returned to the crew station to receive another task from his manager.
The next few days passed without incident. As the date of departure neared, passengers began streaming aboard en masse. Vaughn and his coworkers sorted them out, placing them in the various staterooms and seeing to their every need. Of course, in addition to the personnel problems, there were countless mechanical issues to address. The ship operated as a feat of modern engineering, and problems like the broken pipe were bound to appear now and again. Vaughn raced about the ship tightening bolts and replacing valves and pipes, cleaning up spills and ensuring that the helium had filled the balloons to capacity. It wouldn't do to have the ship collapse from lack of lift. With all the richest denizens of Dublin aboard, the company could hardly afford the lawsuits that would follow. As the premier airship in all of the British Empire, the Questionable and her owners had raised staggering amounts of capital over the years, but losing the ship and its passengers to mechanical error would shut down the entire enterprise; no one would travel with people who were careless.
As such, Phillip's bosses wandered after each of their employees, double-checking the work and assuring themselves that all wouldn't come, quite literally, crashing down. By the time she was ready to sail, Vaughn was exhausted and irritated. He passed the time, only helping others when absolutely necessary, and receiving little help in turn. It was how he liked it. "People aren't worth it," he'd muttered, passing by a crewman struggling under a heavy
load. Man wasn't made to sacrifice himself for another.
Like normal, he received the unwelcome, undeserved harsh words from his supervisors to hurry up or slow down or mind his manners or disappear at the slightest hint of the approach of the valued passengers. Even so, he couldn't always escape the ship's paying guests. They passed him while he worked, and the man attempted to ignore or forget their sneers, quiet chuckles of scorn, and sidelong glances of empty pity as they passed to him; he was sure that the passing dandies forgot him instantly, so he strove to mirror their indifference.
One afternoon, just after the ship's departure, Vaughn crossed the great hall to grab a bite to eat in the crew restaurant; to be honest, 'restaurant' was far too generous a term for the dirty galley hidden behind the opulent eateries of the vessel. Nevertheless, it was the only place for the crew to eat, so he wandered back to find something, regardless of his distaste for the establishment.
The man had just come off duty, and all he wanted was a pint and a large slab of beef. What he got was Alice. He saw her across the room, and he stopped. His eyes lingered over her beautiful face, which he did notice in detail this time around. Her kind eyes tracked listlessly about the space while her delicately white hands traced the cutlery at her dinner-place. She sat alone, but her manner offered that she waited for her Clive to come along.
Phillip continued standing, transfixed. He waited along one of the airship's walls, and the people sailed past him like schools of fish; he didn't even think to notice them. The woman, the kind-hearted Alice was alone. He was alone. It was a fool's errant, but he stepped forward to cross the room and speak with her.
A fist stopped his journey quite instantly.
Clive, snapping his fist up and under the wispier Phillip's ribs, shoved him back into one of niches that lined the airship. In less than a moment, the two were alone, and Phillip was gasping for breath, bent over and tasting the bile pool in his mouth. Phillip was one of the tallest men on the ship, and all the heavy lifting had strengthened his arms greatly. But for all of that, he certainly wasn't quick, and when he attempted to shift around into a fighting stance, Clive shot him another clean punch, this time to the jaw; Vaughn collapsed to the deck like a falling sack.
Clive bent low to look the man in the eye. Phillip stared up into his opponent's gaze and shuddered. In all the excitement on their first meeting, the worker hadn't noticed it, but Clive had a prosthetic eye. The Opticor lens glinted red as the fake eye zoomed in to process on Phillip's face - an angry, piercing, and inhuman gaze that shook the worker to his very soul.
Clive's mouth descended until it rested against Phillip's ear, and the short man's powerful limbs had pinned Vaughn to the deck. He whispered. "I don't know what type of scum you are, but know this. My wife... My wife is not yours. My beautiful, holy wife Alice is not yours to look upon, to touch, to help in steam-filled lonely passages, or to do anything else with, for, or about. She is mine. If I ever catch your sorry, damned, contemptible, pitiful eyes even glancing in our direction, I shall do far worse than kill you. Know this. Fear me. Forget her."
Clive stood, kicked Phillip mercilessly in the face, and left. A wet snap of cartilage accompanied the last attack, and Vaughn lay crumpled on the deck for only a moment before he surrendered to the accumulated pain, darkness swelling up to encase him in a releasing cloud. Hours later, the supervisor found him and fined him for fighting. Vaughn tried to protest, but the manager shoved his hot face close under the wounded man's chin. "If you speak so much as one more damned word, I'll finish the job that they started on you."
Vaughn kept his peace then and drifted back towards his quarters, preparing to rest for a time. He reached his bunk, a humble affair tucked into the corner of crew berthing. Throwing off his shoes, he collapsed into the bed and closed his eyes; tired as he was, sleep eluded him. His bruised chest, jaw and swollen nose ached as he contemplated his miserable life. Thrown about and beaten, he'd curled into himself and ignored all others; who were they to demand his sacrifices? He'd smiled at another human being. He'd snatched a glimpse of friendship from her, a quiet offering of humanity. And he'd be beaten down for it.
Who were others to sacrifice for? None deserved his concern.
Finally, with these heated, hated thoughts purging his mind, he slipped into unconsciousness. What seemed like moments later, a rough hand jerked him up. It was the supervisor again.
"Move man! Can't you hear? Move!" A klaxon was blaring above the manager's voice - the klaxon reserved for the highest of emergencies. Without thinking and throwing aside his dark thoughts, Phillip lashed his boots to his feet and took off running down the hall. His emergency station was along Balloon Three's upper catwalk, and the klaxon was punctuated with three short bell-rings in succession every few seconds - the problem rested along his balloon. Tearing past men in the passage, he threw himself up the ladder at the end of the crew quarters.
From the perch at the bottom of the ship, he climbed rung after rung upwards. He was trailed by others from his section, and as he rose, he caught the howling wind of a fierce storm; the airship had wandered into foul weather. Catching that blood-curdling sound of wind racing past the dirigible's skin, Phillip moved quicker, his feet flying up the ladder. Finally, he reached the top of the ladder and stepped onto the waiting platform. Small and crowded with other men, the platform contained a door leading outside into the gale. From the glass port in the door, Vaughn could see the rage of nature outside.
A supervisor was shouting among the din as he passed out rain jackets. "Listen up! The technicians detected a sharp decrease in pressure about five minutes ago. We've lost altitude already, and unless we fix the break in the next fifteen minutes, we're done. We need to spread out, find the rip, and close off the valve around it. Understand?" The workers' heads all bobbed in comprehension. While the Questionable had fail-safes that allowed for a reduction in pressure from a rip in the balloon, Balloon Three was large enough that unless the problem was corrected, the manager was right - the ship would plunge. Each balloon was divided into subsections, and the helium's access to each one was controlled by a valve. By sealing off the valve to the subsection that had suffered a pressure loss, Balloon Three would stabilize, and the airship would slow enough to land safely for repairs. The technicians could detect a decrease in pressure and altitude caused by that loss. But they couldn't know the exact location of the problem.
That task was left up to the workers.
The manager threw the door open and the workers bustled out, latching themselves onto locking ropes to prevent falling into the swirling depths below. Although it was only early afternoon, the roiling grey thunderheads swamped over them, and Phillip could hardly see a hundred feet into the darkness. Nevertheless, he raced along the crisscrossing cables that surrounded the balloon like a cocoon. The spider web surrounded the balloon, and it provided a useful mesh for the men to swing along, unclipping their carabineers and reattaching themselves while shifting from section to section.
Vaughn raced along, time decidedly against him. The balloon loomed like a massive crag, and the men sprinted against the destruction of a plummet into the ground. He skirted along, and while many men were sent out on the task, the others were soon lost in the swirling clouds.
He was alone.
"Blasted job!" he screamed into the wind as he caught his ankle on a cable. Untangling himself, he moved upwards, seeking the rent in the balloon that caused the dangerous drop in pressure. He moved further, stepping from cable to cable, his own frame hanging as the wind and lashing rain pelted him from all sides. He was a human kite, and more than once was the man forced to grasp with all the power of his being, such was the power of the wind; of course, his carabineer prevented any tragic accident, but dangling from that lifeline wasn't the greatest of comforts.
Then, passing over another unremarkable section, a blast of hot, rushing air caught him in the face. He paused, unsure. The blast hit him again, rocking him against the c
ables. Looking down, he saw it - a great tear at least three times the length of a man had sheared through the balloon. It vented the hot gas in spurts and the flaps of the tear whipped about wildly, like two eternal waves crashing about against an unyielding shore. Vaughn didn't hesitate. He flung himself along downwards, unclipping and reattaching his carabineer as he went.
Even as he descended, he saw no one around; the others were entirely absent. At last, he reached the spot and prepared to switch his carabineer to the next section; the valve to cut off pressure to this subsection of the balloon waited several feet below. Yet, with a particularly robust gust of wind, the lip of the tear flapped about wildly once more. Coupled with strain of the loss in pressure and the power of the storm, this lip snapped against the cable directly above the tear. The spider's web collapsed, the cable and several surrounding cords snapping with an audible strain. These metal tendrils began whipping about, and the safe path towards the shutoff valve disappeared.
Vaughn screamed a curse, which God alone could hear through the gale. There was no time to wait for help. The dirigible continued to plunge, and while its descent wouldn't be frantic or even hardly noticeable to the passenger's within, helium tends to explode upon impact, and the worker had little hope for any aboard if the ship hit the earth.
Vaughn looked down once more and froze. Beneath the flapping lip, beneath the balloon, beneath the terror, rested a pane of glass. It was part of the airship's genius, this pane. It coated the ceiling of the great hall, and on perfect days, it allowed the passengers to glimpse the heavens around them. Oblivious to the dangers surrounding them, a gaggle of passengers were dancing to unheard music. Of course, the warning klaxon had only been sounded in crew-only areas; the passengers could do nothing to assist the crew, and leaving them panicked would help no one; only the crew knew the danger all were in.
So, as Phillip Vaughn waited above them, surrounded by emptiness and the terrible majesty of the wind, Alice danced. He saw the glistening scarlet tear of her dress swirling about the floor. Her lobes held the diamonds again, and these glittered in the great hall's lights. Phillip saw these and saw the smile that graced the woman's face.
He saw the smile, the gentle curving of her face and the vitality that lay within. He glimpsed his attacker, but Clive didn't matter; it was only Alice that danced. It was only Alice that would fall. Only the red dress would explode into fire once the ship merged with the earth.
Only Alice.
Vaughn glanced at the rip, shot his eyes to the cables, shifted again to the carabineer and finally rested his sight on the valve. He flicked his eyes through each of these once more, a decision raging against his skull. Are they worthy?
She was worthy; from her, nothing else mattered.
The man slapped the release on his carabineer, and leapt into the abyss. Snagging the balloon's skin, he tumbled in a controlled glide down the surface, angling the plummet and catching himself on the safety valve.
His body shifted, his moistened hands losing their purchase. As his weight moved around, not a howl escaped his lips. Not a sound was uttered as the valve continued moving, shifting. Not a word was spoken as the valve completed its revolution, cutting off the gas to the endangered zone and righting the descending airship.
Not a reverberation was noticed as the worker slipped from the valve and plummeted into the darkness below. Nor a tear was shed as a man sacrificed himself for the worthy cause that danced, that swirled in a scarlet dress, that had found him worthy of a smile, worthy of notice.
Not a soul noticed him plummet through the wind. No, not a soul remarked. But the Questionable rose, climbing through the mist once more, and they noticed that.
Unattainable Tangibility
"You do love me, don't you dear?" spoke James quietly, his voice playfully lilting as his fingers traced the nape of his wife's neck. Stretching languidly, Adele rose, brushing aside her lover's fingers. Turning, she regarded him upon the settee. "That is not the point; nor is it up for discussion. The real question, James, is why you've grown obsessed over the thing?"
James nodded, contemplating the question. He started to speak, but the metallic thrum of the airship around them caused him to pause. The couple was traveling aboard the Questionable, the finest airship under the Victoria's flag. After a summer cruise around continental Europe, the dirigible was finally making its way towards London, the home-port. Turning, James distractedly regarded the brassy room surrounding them. Cogs gently revolved as the wall clock struck eleven, while the rivets circling the narrow window-port rattled as a particularly strong gust of wind struck the Questionable's hull.
"James." Adele spoke, not unkindly. The man tended to lose track of his surroundings. Although she considered him highly intelligent, he had a sometimes irritable tendency to trail off while conversing. Jerking, he returned to the present and looked at her once more.
"Sorry, love. I think "obsessed" is rather a strong word for it. As a work of art, it is truly spectacular. Cupid and Psyche is... well, it's simply heavenly, that's all, and I desire to own it." Kneeling, Adele patted his knee as she stared into his eyes.
Again, not unkindly, the woman cajoled him. "And how exactly would the two of us, poor enough as we are, be able to afford such a painting?" James refused to answer as his mind again began to wander.
What made the Questionable so enticing, at least in part, was its constant commitment to offer entertainment to the passengers aboard. Although it sported numerous, spacious observation decks, the titanic vessel also provided other means of distraction. Wonderfully luxurious restaurants, fine gambling tables, and theatrical shows were a part of this. In addition, the airship often displayed art exhibitions within their polished gallery. For Adele, these displays were particularly enticing. A talented artist, she simply loved to wander the gallery, studying each piece's minute details; while her husband occasionally lost track of conversations, Adele forgot the notion of time as she ardently examined another artist's medium. Every work was finely crafted and done by highly prolific artists of the era. For instance, the painting James spoke of, Cupid and Psyche, had been finely crafted by Jacques-Louis David nearly a century before. His brushstrokes were regarded as genius among the art world, and originals of his work were nearly priceless. Thus, Adele found it troubling that James should have taken such a fancy to the work of late.
He had visited the gallery with her the previous week. Walking along, they had passed by the work. Adele continued walking; she had seen the work and studied it several times over the course of the airship's journey. After a moment, though, she turned back to see James, standing agape in front of the painting. It was as if time had frozen; he did not even breath, stillness etched across his entire frame.
"Dear?" she had questioned. He did not even blink; he hadn't heard her. Walking back towards the man, Adele touched his shoulder. James leapt in surprise, and his flaming eyes tracked to her. "What?" he snapped, rage evident in his dripping voice.
Adele had stepped back in shock; James was a kind man, and temper rarely entered his tone. Certainly a painting did not cause such anger. "Dear, why have you stopped? Do you like the work?" She chuckled then, attempting to regain her composure and ignore his harsh word. "You seem rather enthralled."
James had not spoken then, but simply turning, he led her away, further into the gallery. Since then, the man had seemed distant, and his conversation continually returned to the painting. Now, Adele again regarded him upon the settee. "We don't have enough money to buy the work's frame, let alone the painting." James nodded; she was right of course. Even their presence aboard the airship came from a fortuitous chain of events. The Questionable was indeed a highly popular vessel. As such, the owners could easily drive their prices up, and as successful businessmen, the holders of the dirigible managed their ship well. The Questionable was booked for passage months in advance, and tickets were exorbitantly expensive; the vessel was marketed
specifically to the higher classes. For Adele and James, both orphans from penniless families, purchasing tickets would have been unthinkable. She, a struggling artist and he, a lowly bank clerk, had little enough money for food, let alone expensive tours by airship. But James had won an incredible raffle contest at work. The winners were to enjoy a tour aboard the ship. Adele being self-employed and James' wages, as stipulated in the contest, being paid for in his absence, the two were overjoyed. Packing their meager possessions ,they presented themselves at the airship and had since been enjoying a summer of sightseeing together, all expenses paid.
"Of course, you're right Adele. The painting just impressed me, that's all." The woman did not correct him. The impression the work had made upon her husband was startling. Indeed, "impression" was not the right term; it was all James had focused on over the last week. The man rose then, and beckoned his love to follow. She did.
"Let's find some food, shall we?" Although still troubled by the painting's hold on the man, Adele was hungry. So, she followed James into the passage and down the hall. As they walked, he gently traced the walls' brass panels, absentmindedly. For her part, Adele contemplated him and wondered if he was still thinking about the painting.
Finally, the two passed into the great hall of the airship. While the Questionable, a leviathan in size, hosted many passengers, the great hall was the crowning glory of the vessel. High-ceilinged, spacious, and ornately decorated, the hall was a feat of engineering. It housed several restaurants, the gambling tables, a stage for theatrics, and an open area for mingling and conversing. The fact that the entire ship's spacious rooms, including the massive great hall, were floating in the sky was truly staggering. Adele still found herself questioning the sanity of such a feat.
Impervious to such thoughts, James strode forward into the open space. More observational, Adele again took in her surroundings. The great hall was packed with denizens, and, being of the upper classes, the latest fashions were being displayed all around. Many sported the brassy goggles that were replacing spectacles. Shades of brown and silver were almost exclusively used, and everyone's dress took on an industrial feel. Men with canes strutted through the crowds, their impression of their own importance clearly visible. Adele felt shabby in her own worn and plain attire; the clothes of James, a simple scarlet jacket, also paled in comparison to the outfits she glimpsed. In truth though, Adele loved the man, and neither wealth, nor fancy clothing, nor the latest gadget would improve that affection.
Indeed, the woman wondered if her love was echoed around her. Did other women love their men, regardless of material possessions? Since the world had shifted to steam-power, leading to the rapid technological advancement all now experienced, society had become even more materialistic. Women begged their husbands for automaton contraptions that would "improve and simplify their lives." Adele often grew tired of the constant societal push for more wealth and material goods. She was poor, it was true. But the couple's poverty did not prevent love, and, banding together against their struggles, each had come to rely upon the other.
James turned back to regard the woman. "Adele, what takes your fancy this evening?" A radiant smile had creased his face, and although Adele could not tell if it was forced or genuine, its presence pleased her immensely. She paused, considering. The various eateries of the great hall all had their own merits. "Dear, what about the Horizon?"
Aptly named, the Horizon was characterized by its position on the great hall's perimeter. The tables of that restaurant faced an almost continuous glass port. Whenever conversation lagged, diners could simply turn their heads and gaze out into the gorgeous sky and glimpse the horizon beckoning. It was a semi-formal establishment, and the dress code did not impede the pair. Besides, Adele had stopped caring about the condescending glances she received from the Questionable's high-society ladies.
"Wonderful," cried James as he steered her towards the Horizon. Although the great hall was spacious, relatively, dining was communal. As such, James and Adele were seated with a collection of reasonably-well dressed, amiable diners. Introduction were passed around, and the couple settled into a fine evening.
Several courses into the meal, James turned to Adele. Their fellow diners were currently engaging in a discussion of the Raj's latest economic downturn and how it would affect London's markets; the conversation interested James and his wife very little. Leaning towards her ear, he whispered, "My dear, I'm afraid I must excuse myself for a moment. Can you manage?" Adele chuckled. "I do believe I'll be quite fine, James. Hurry back, though."
Nodding his thanks, her husband stood, politely excused himself to the other guests, and hurriedly walked away. Adele thought nothing of the incident and turned to the other guests, determined to be included in their conversation. Through a witty segue, she managed to steer the talk towards the airship's recent tour. Asking which cities her fellow diners found most interesting led to several funny and lengthy anecdotes from a portly gentleman. His mustache and goggled bowler hat twitched in excitement as he laughed at his own folly amid the winding streets of Budapest; catching his excitement, Adele began to truly enjoy the meal.
Then, suddenly, a loud crash, followed by a shout rang out through the great hall. Despite the noise of the many passengers in the room, the sounds carried distinctly, and all paused to see what the commotion was about. Suddenly, Adele glimpsed several men running. Each wore a crew uniform, and it was obvious that they were part of Questionable's peacekeeping detail. Curious, Adele excused herself and followed the men. A nervous, gut feeling had developed within her; the crewmen had been running in the direction of the gallery.
She moved quickly and was soon out of the great hall. Directly adjacent was the gallery, and from the sounds inside, Adele's fears were realized. Rushing in, the woman found a maelstrom of fighting bodies, horrified spectators, and the crewmen attempting to break up a fight. With disappointment, Adele noticed James' scarlet jacket among the fray. Finally, the peacekeeping crew dragged the three combatants apart. Sure enough, Adele's husband was among the offending party.
"What's the meaning of this?" shouted a burly crewmen, apparently a ship's officer.
The other brawlers, also dressed in the airship uniform, instantly turned and indicated James. One spoke. "This man is the cause, sir. My brother and I were simply preparing to remove the painting. We're assigned to maintenance, and the gallery has collected new pieces for the ship's next tour, so the stock will be rotated. This piece is to be switched out." He pointed at David's Cupid and Psyche and then continued. "Next thing we know, this lunatic storms up and lashes out a nasty punch on Will's face."
Will spoke up then. "Yes, sir, he did. I was minding my own business and then, out of the blue, I'm attacked. But the White brothers stick together, so Charlie punched him back and threw him to the floor. Of course, that caused the loud clatter, and then you boys showed up."
The crewman nodded and turned to James, angrily. "Well man, is it true?" he barked. James was silent and didn't appear to register the question or even understand the situation. With annoyance, Adele saw that his gaze was squarely upon the cursed painting; he wasn't even paying attention to the group. Sighing, she stepped forward.
"Excuse me, sir," she stammered. "He's my husband, and of late, he's been rather ill. Something has set his nervous system off, and he hasn't been normal for several days. We're terribly sorry. Perhaps I'll just bring him back to our quarters. We'll be debarking in London tomorrow, and I'm sure our doctor will be able to help."
The crewman barked a laugh. "Oh, indeed? Unbelievable. Your lunatic husband attacks two other men for no purpose, and I'm supposed to chide him and send him to his room without supper? No offense miss, but we'll be keeping him for the night. You can pick up your problem at the brig tomorrow afternoon." Two crewmen approached James wearily; he was still studying the painting, oblivious to the situation. Suddenly, they grabbed him, and although he didn't struggle, he again seemed not to care about
anything but Cupid and Psyche. As they led him off towards the brig, the officer turned again to Will, the attacked man. "My sincere apologies Mr. White. This won't happen again."
The other man nodded angrily. "I should hope not; I come aboard this vessel for a decent wage and get attacked while doing my job!" Will huffed and turned to leave. For her part, Adele tried to apologize to the workers, but they sneered and rudely walked away before she could speak. The woman felt her heart clench; what was wrong with James?
From the gallery, she simply wandered. Walking up and down passages, the woman let her feet carry her as they would. On the outside, she seemed a normal passenger. Within her soul, however, Adele grew tormented. It was a painting, wasn't it? The man she loved, normally rational and intelligent, had become obsessed or possessed with a piece of colored canvas. The bizarre turn of events troubled her. Finally, her wandering brought her to the library. In addition to the gallery, the Questionable possessed a fine collection of literary works as well. With a burst of thought, Adele rushed into the library.
Although poor, the woman had developed a love for the written word at early age, and she devoured any literary work she could find. So, Adele knew her way around a library, and she quickly found the reference section. Pulling down a cumbersome, dusty Encyclopedia, she heaved the book towards a thick, oaken table and sat down. Next, she flipped through the tome, finally coming to the entry she sought.
Placing her finger along the lines, she began to read quietly aloud to herself. "'Cupid is the Roman god of desire, erotic love, and attraction. Son of Venus, the god is renowned for his love-inspiring arrows. Eventually, he came to marry Psyche, a mortal. Accidently pricking himself with an arrow, the god desired her more than any other. Thus, the Cupid and Psyche myth has come to represent an irresistible attraction to an unattainable love; images of the myth often display mortal longing for immortality and the powerful love the gods possess. See 'Roman Gods' for more mythological information.'"
Snapping the book shut, Adele bent her head and closed her eyes. Did the connection mean something? The work mentioned a powerful desire for impossible love. Was it significant? Replacing the book, she left the library and returned to her quarters. The room felt lonely as she slipped into their bed. Perhaps the morning would bring sanity; perhaps all would become normal again.
As the Questionable returned to her home city, Adele drifted to sleep. Outside, silent birds raced the flying ship as the clouds of midnight descended upon the horizon like dripping tears. Finally though, the orb of life broke through the gloom as dawn embraced her world. Below the airship, London loomed, and the passengers of the vessel prepared to disembark.
Waking, Adele dressed and began packing the meager possessions that dotted the pair's quarters. Next, she selected James' best formal wear, a navy dinner-jacket laced with white trim. This done, she collected the suit and walked quickly towards the great hall. Once there, she sought directions towards the brig and received more than one confused or condescending look from a another passenger; why would anyone of social standing need to find such an unsavory place? Eventually, however, a kindly older gentleman pointed her in the right direction. Reaching the place, she was met in a small alcove by a crewman, lounging lazily in a chair and obviously guarding the prisoners. He stood as she approached.
"Excuse me?" she spoke politely.
"Miss, may I help you?" responded the guard, equally polite. Swallowing her embarrassment, Adele continued. "Yes, you see, my husband spent the evening here, and I was hoping to visit or get him released." The guard hesitated, appearing uncomfortable. "I can let you visit for a few minutes, but he cannot be released until this afternoon; we tend to hold troublemakers for an entire day, but since we're disembarking today, he can leave a bit early." As Adele thanked him, he reached for his keys and unlocked one of the three cell-doors visible in the hall.
James sat quietly, crossed-legged, upon his bunk. He looked up as she entered and smiled, a bit nastily. Adele walked straight towards him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "What is wrong with you?" she snapped.
His smile drooped, and he cringed at her tone. "It's been a long week?" he spoke, attempting to dissuade the situation through humor. Adele would have none of it. She shook him, hard. "James. This is not comical; you attempted to beat up two men last night! What were you thinking? Why did you attack them?"
"They were removing Cupid and Psyche," he spoke simply. The woman simply glared. James did not offer a better explanation but only sat in subdued silence. Eventually, the silence grew too uncomfortable, and given the impasse, Adele turned to another subject. "The disembarking gala is tonight," she offered. Her tone then changed. "We will be there," she commanded. "And nothing abnormal will occur from you, will it?"
Next, the woman handed her husband his suit. "You will be wearing this, and I will pick you up here promptly at 7:00 for the gala. Our possessions are packed; we will leave right afterwards. Hopefully, some fresh air and a return to normality will do you good." She paused, and her next words grew filled with concern. "You're truly worrying me, love. I wish you'd forget that cursed painting." For his part, James nodded with each of her commands and pecked her on the lips as his wife rose and left.
The rest of the day passed quickly for Adele. Having packed their belongings, she spent her time gazing out of the various observation decks and enjoying a leisurely dinner among the other passengers of the great hall. The meal was accentuated by bustling crewmen, each hurrying to complete a task in preparation for the evening's gala. Finally, the woman returned to her quarters and changed. Next, she called a valet. Along with several burly porters, he proceeded to carry their possessions away, assuring Adele that they would be delivered to the couple's London home. She paid him and thanked the man for this service.
Taking a final look at their quarters, Adele took in a long breath. Then, she stepped out into the corridor, locked the door, set off towards the brig. Passing the great hall, she heard the music of the chamber orchestra as the dancing opened. Indeed, she passed dozens of passengers, finely dressed, sashaying towards the gala. Although she would be late, Adele hoped to avoid any additional attention and simply enjoy the evening; after James' gallery brawl, extra spectacle was certainly unwanted.
Reaching the brig, she saw with trepidation that no one stood guard. Rushing forward, the woman tapped rather loudly upon James' cell-door. No one answered and similar raps received similar silence from the other cell-doors; the brig was completely empty. Puzzled, Adele frowned. Surely James would have returned to their quarters upon being released. Then, her eyes flashed with anger as she spun around and started quickly towards the gallery.
Rushing through the airship's brassy halls, Adele panted angrily. Surely the man wouldn't be in there. Surely he was waiting for her at their quarters. Brushing past passengers, she came to gallery hall, which, surprisingly, was empty. Even the lights of the gallery were off. Yet, no barred doors prevented entry to the room; the idea of art theft among such genteel passengers was insulting. Despite the dark, the woman bustled inside.
The gallery's arched wall curved around as she walked through the silent, foreboding, and dark statues and paintings. Yet, a faint glimmer of light glowed ahead. A sickening feeling drove her forward. Finally, she came to Cupid and Psyche, lit by a small candle held in the hand of James. Shockingly, his other hand grasped a knife.
Adele gasped in surprise as the man suddenly spun around. "Adele," he spoke gently. "James!" she hissed, whispering despite the certainty that they were alone. "What are you doing?" the woman asked, a scared breathiness entering her voice. James sighed, turned back towards the painting and lifted the knife. He rested it against the painting's perimeter, inside the frame and against the canvas. Taking a firmer grip, he prepared to slice the canvas, separating the work from its heavy frame. "Stop!" Adele cried into the darkness as her lover's hand moved to slice.
Surprisingly, he did. Then he looked at her, and a greedy, lusty,
haunting look filled his eyes. "Adele," the man whispered gently. Given his actions and tortured eyes, the calm tone shocked her. "Adele," he repeated. "I have watched content, beautiful, and rich society for the last three months. ...And I have come to hate life. You slave over breathtaking artwork and fetch a pittance for it. I clerk for a banker and will never be as content as he is. The men I see aboard the Questionable sleep at night knowing how they will pay for the next meal; they are certain that their children will one day attend fine schools and grow rich themselves. I - we, Adele - know nothing of that lifestyle. ...But Cupid and Psyche provides that knowledge." By now, the tortured glimpse of his eyes shone like a fire, burning hotter than the candle in his palm. Adele shrank into herself; this greed had never shown within her love before.
He continued. "Psyche was enflamed with love for a god. She desired and lusted for something fate would never allow her to grasp. A powerful, sensual attraction drove the mortal into harrowing tasks and impossible deeds to gain immortal love. And yet, the unattainable became tangible. Psyche found love and changed fate." He sighed heavily, a sound like a great wind on the sea, at once hopeful and pitiably defeated.
"Now, uncountable years later, Cupid and Psyche again seek the impossible. I will not watch our children grow up impoverished. While the world revels in materialism, we wallow in squalor. A great artist painted this work; the painting is truly priceless." The candlelight flickered in their eyes as Adele and James contemplated each other. Finally, she understood his plan, and the man's moral descent was troubling her immensely.
"While the rich bastards dance, we will gain what fate denied us at birth. Our children will be wealthy, and fear will never plague our home again," he finished, spent. Again, the man raised his knife to sever the canvas. Adele grabbed his arm. He paused again and looked at her.
"No," she whispered, firm and resolute.
Betrayal flashed in his eyes. Shaking her head slowly, she repeated "No." Then, gently, she pried the knife from her lover's hand. "James. Psyche toiled for what we already own: love. I...don't...care about the wealth that other's lord over us. The quarters of a splendid airship or the cramped and chilled hovel of a London alley are the same to me, provided I am with you."
Grasping his hand firmly, she pulled him towards her. Amid the dark, the evil dark of choices surrounding them, Adele kissed her husband deeply, and a pulsation of life passed through her soft lips and filled his frame. When she pulled back, a renewed and calmed gentleness glinted in his eyes. Indeed, as she drew him close into a tight embrace, the man's body shook, a tight and terrible tension draining from his spirit. Rising, Adele rose and forcibly threw the hated knife into the darkness. Then, she pulled James to his feet as well, blew out the candle, and turned.
As the wealthy danced, the beloved Cupid and the impoverished Psyche walked through the darkness together and stepped into unequivocal light.
The Wait
They looked for the criminal, of course; it's rather difficult to ignore a bloodied corpse sitting outside the captain's cabin.
After the initial commotion, the crew sifted through the entire ship from top to bottom. They checked niches and the engine-rooms, but the men weren't constables; they had been hired to run the ship, not sort out clues, so they found nothing else of note. Whoever had killed the man hadn't left enough evidence to follow, and the crew didn't have the gall to accuse a passenger; the upper class tended to abhor such accusations.
So, with little more fanfare, they took the body, wrapped him in a tight shroud and threw him into one of the galley's freezers. Sailing through the skies above the Atlantic, the Questionable couldn't very well stop and seek judicial assistance. The entire event struck the passengers as horrid, but the captain was especially hard-hit. He'd exited his cabin early one afternoon only to trip over the mangled corpse that waited there like the Magdalene outside the tomb. But there would be no resurrection for this unfortunate man; his face was bashed in, and blood had pooled onto the decking, congealing in a loathsome, bubbling glob.
The captain had been a military man before transferring to the Questionable. Indeed, he'd commanded a squad of dragoons in one of the colonies. No one remembered for sure, but they thought it was the Raj. In a strange coincidence, the murdered man too had been a soldier. In fact, he'd been one of the captain's troopers. A crewman, he kept to himself and never bothered the captain or anyone else really; he had no friends among his coworkers. He was a nice enough fellow, but reclusive to the extreme.
Seeing him dead in the passage, the captain hadn't been too worried. He'd seen countless dead bodies, and despite their shared past, the man's death was of no personal consequence to him; he had a ship to run. He'd called for help and some of the more rugged men looked the corpse over. In addition to the mortal wound to the head, one of his digits, the index finger, had been slashed off; a small, blood-stained sheet of paper waited in its place instead. They unfolded it and read one word: "Beetle."
At this, the color drained from Captain Douglas, and the man recoiled in sheer horror, nearly collapsing to the deck. The crew, perplexed at the sudden change in manner, brought the body away and offered the captain some strong tea, laced with a bit of their personal stock of ... rejuvenating liquids.
The incident hidden away for the moment, the captain retired to his cabin again, feigning weariness. The crew preceded to search out the ship, but they found not a speck of guilt, and the dirigible slinked along through the darkness over the deep.