20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (32 page)

Gemma stood up and tossed the crochet hook
into her chair with a mixture of urgency and relief. What was it
about her that made people think such things? Who, exactly, had
appointed her ship's counselor, she wondered. Still, she was not
about to look a gift escape hatch in the mouth.

"Go on, Fraulein," Frau Knopf said. "Take
care of our young father."

"Where is he?" Gemma asked.

"Somewhere in the Gardens. I'll show you.
Please!"

On the winding path, past the roses and the
cherry trees, they passed crewmembers that pointed the way to
Nigel. They found him in the gazebo, in a state of near-collapse on
one of its benches.

He clutched a message to his chest with one
hand. His other hand hid his face from the world. His ever-present
glasses sat on the bench next to him, ignored, as if the words
could not be true if he could not see them.

Caroline urged Gemma to go ahead without her.
She sat on one of the benches beside the path just out of sight and
waited.

As Gemma approached him, she wondered what
could possibly have upset the calm and unflappable Nigel. She had
never heard a cross word from the man.

He didn't notice her approach until she
mounted the steps. Her sudden presence startled him. He met her
with stranger's eyes, eyes that were empty of the calm
determination that normally inhabited them. Gemma could now
understand why Caroline was so distraught.

"Nigel? Caroline asked me to come.
What--"

"She's gone," he said, choking on the words.
He moaned. "Oh, Gemma, she's gone." He crumpled the paper even more
in his hand and pushed his fist into his scrunched-up eyes.

Gemma sat down next to him, her knee barely
touching his. She brushed her fingertips against the crushed paper
between his fingers.

"May I?" she asked in the gentlest voice she
could summon.

He didn't reply. She reached for his fist and
very slowly pulled it away from his chest. He didn't resist as she
opened his hand, finger by finger, and retrieved the message, now
ragged and damp. She smoothed the sheet between her fingers,
careful to keep it from further damage. Years of uncovering the
secrets of others left her no qualms about prying into Nigel's
privacy. This was the first time she had done such a thing for
someone's benefit besides Mrs. Brightman's; but there was a first
time for everything.

The message was shockingly brief, appallingly
stark in its plaintext clarity, considering the weight it
carried:

WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT MRS DAVIES
DEPARTED THIS LIFE AT 3:57 AM AT ISLINGTON LYING-IN HOSPITAL STOP
INFANT GIRL ALIVE AND WELL STOP PLEASE RADIO BACK WISHES FOR
DISPOSITION STOP BRIGHTMAN SCHOOL REQUESTS CUSTODY UNTIL YOUR
RETURN STOP

Gemma had to read it three times before the
message registered. Mrs. Brightman sought custody of Nigel's child.
Nigel's wife, his entire world, Caroline's dearest friend, was
dead.

All this technology, all this wonder! They
can send us to Mars, but they can't keep a woman from dying in
childbed?

Even in her cool analytical mind, that seemed
unbalanced, wrong. Something rumbled deep inside, and she felt a
flood of anger sweep over her, even stronger than the anger she had
felt when she had confronted the captain about Cervantes. Gemma had
not felt -- or allowed herself to feel -- such a rush of emotion
for so long that it made her dizzy. The cold efficiency of the word
"disposition" incensed her. It was a strange sensation for her.
Should she not be glad that Mrs. Brightman was gaining a new pupil,
a new Girl to carry on the cause?

Nigel was shaking with silent sobs next to
her. She could feel a fever of grief rolling off him, and she
reached for his hand. She was no great comforter; she had no
instinct for it. But Nigel had always been kind to her. He was one
of the few men that had treated her as a friend and a colleague,
not just a cog in a machine or a bit of fluff to flirt with. She
could not allow him to bear his grief alone, yet she did not know
which key to grasp to calm him down. So she simply held his
hand.

"I wasn't there," he cried at last. "Oh, my
Jennie, my sweet Jennie. I should've stayed." His intake of breath
was ragged, as if he were breathing through shredded lungs. "She
died amongst strangers, Gemma. We were all she had. Caroline and
me. I won't even be there to bury her poor little body. Or take
care of my daughter. Oh, my little, little child. Will I ever see
her face?"

"I wish the wireless could transmit images,"
Gemma said softly as she squeezed his fingers. "It would help if
you could at least see her picture."

"I have a photograph," he said, finally
gaining some lucidity. "Of Jennie, I mean. I don't think you've
seen it." He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his watch, and
popped it open. "Here she is. My Jennie."

Gemma gave him the warmest smile she could
summon as he handed her the watch. She had been curious about it
for a while. Men always kept important thoughts in their watches.
As she opened it, she saw a watch face with no hands. Instead,
there was a lock of glossy black hair, curled up behind a small
pane of glass, opposite the photograph.

"I don't have anyone to take care of her,"
Nigel went on as she studied the wedding picture. His voice was
rough and broken. "No family. Neither did Jennie. We're all
orphans, you see."

He took a deep breath before continuing.
"Brightman's school, your school, has offered to take her. I think
-- I think that would be good, yes? They can make her like
you--"

"Oh, my, yes," she said, nearly
automatically. "They--"

Her next words froze in her throat.

The woman's face was not the face of a
stranger.

There, staring into the camera, seated next
to Nigel and draped in lace, was her beloved Philippa.

The Philippa that Mrs. Brightman had told her
was dead.

She could hear Dr. Pugh asking the question:
Who knows what Brightman will do when it is time to put you out
to pasture?

Gemma was a talented computer, one of the
best. It was not difficult for her to put the picture and the
question together. And the sum burned her.

Her mind spun into a maelstrom. Everything
Mrs. Brightman had taught her, every rule, every aphorism, every
bit of discipline, tore itself loose from the walls of her mind in
that moment. The lie burned her like acid from one of the lab's
test tubes poured on her heart.

Philippa. The one person she had truly loved.
The one whose death -- once a lie, now a horrible truth -- had
seared her heart and cauterized it closed, leaving her with hatred
of the Martians and gratitude to Mrs. Brightman as her only
acceptable passions.

Some rescue! The other Invasion Orphans on
the ship did not seem half so miserable with their lot as she had
been led to believe. Trapping her finest student on a ship full of
them had been a grave miscalculation.

Philippa had been alive. Alive, and vital.
The face in the photograph looked happy, happier than Gemma had
ever seen her. She choked back a sob of her own, stuffing her own
grief back down deep into herself, fearing she would lose all
control.

Gemma felt as if she would never be calm
again.

"Gemma?" Nigel asked. "Are you all right? You
look as if you've seen a ghost." He swallowed hard. "Had you met
her before? Did you know--"

"No, no!" Gemma protested. She snapped the
watch closed. "Nigel, your child is not an orphan! Not while you
live! We're not dead. Not yet."

She suddenly felt fiercely protective of this
infant, the only part of her dear friend left in the world. Here,
at least, was one last service that she could perform for
Philippa.

"Nigel, listen to me," she said. "Whatever
comes, we must not allow Brightman to have your daughter. You have
to trust me on this."

He gaped at her in bewilderment. "I don't --
I don't understand. You--"

"Trust me," she repeated. "She'd be better
off raised in a factory."

He continued to gawp in stunned disbelief, as
confounded as the captain had been in Hansard's office. "Why?"

"Later," she replied. "Time is of the
essence, Nigel. We have to move now."

She was fully aware of how swiftly Brightman
would move on this. If the hospital did not give up the child
willingly, the woman would find another way to take her. She stood
up, placed her finger under Nigel's chin and raised his hot red
face. The message crackled in her free hand.

"Chin up, Davies. Give me some time. Send
them a message. Stall them any way you can. In the meantime, I'll
speak to the captain. Surely he has contacts in the TIA that can
aid a crewmember on this historic mission. I'll send Caroline to go
with you to the wireless. Collect your wits."

She gave his hand one last squeeze, and he
managed a nod in reply. Gemma trooped down the tree-lined path
towards Caroline's hiding place and told the Boolean to attend to
Nigel. She left the pair far behind her as she went. Her mind was
awhirl with what she was about to do. A great key turned in the
guts of her mind, a key in the shape of Philippa. Once that door
opened, there was no turning back.

She was marching through her own Gethsemane,
for she had no doubt that Petunia Brightman would discover her hand
in this. It did not matter if Brightman had a Watcher to do the job
now or if she waited until their return home, she would find some
way to avenge this betrayal. From the moment she requested help,
Gemma would be living on borrowed time. She did not care. Brightman
had already taken the best part of her, and Gemma felt that the
rest of her life would just be marking time, anyway.

She had no clue how she would win this race,
here, millions of leagues over the sea, but she was going to win.
She had to win. Nothing else mattered now, not the Watcher, not
Orion, not the captain. Nothing. It didn't matter anymore what
Humboldt discovered about the message; its meaning had winked out
of existence as soon as Gemma had seen that photograph. The only
thing that mattered was saving Philippa's child from her own Man
from Shanghai. She had the very weapons that Brightman -- her new
target -- had given her. She had her wits, her cunning, and her own
connections on the ship. She was going to Mars, for heaven's sake.
If she could go to Mars, she could do anything.

And Mrs. Brightman?

Mrs. Brightman could go to Hell.

Gemma rolled into Informatics like a runaway
freight train.

"Mr. Humboldt!" she snapped as she crossed
the threshold.

Humboldt jumped up from his workstation as if
a firecracker had gone off underneath his chair. "Miss L?" His
words froze as he noticed the crumpled piece of paper in her hand.
"Is it about the Chief? He left in such a hurry. We're all
worried."

"Yes, yes," she said, lowering her voice. She
cast a glance at the closed bridge window. "I need to speak to the
captain immediately. It cannot wait. Can you get me onto the
bridge?"

"He's in a meeting, I think, down in his
Ready Room. Rumour has it that he's promoting Mr. Pritchard to
first mate. I can take you there if you don't know where it is, if
it's that much of a rush."

He led her out of the chamber with no
hesitation.
I have to give Humboldt this
, she thought to
herself,
he doesn't dawdle about when he's truly needed
.

As they rumbled past the Wireless Room,
Rathbone leaned out the window and waved a sheaf of paper at
her.

"Messages for you, Miss Llewellyn," he called
after them. "They're marked--"

"Sod off!" she barked without turning her
head or slowing her stride.

The time for ladylike behaviour had expired.
All she could think of now was Philippa's child. She could feel the
ghost of the Man from Shanghai dogging her footsteps now. She sped
up to escape him even as she followed Humboldt to an area that she
had never seen before. They passed Father Alfieri and Mr. Wallace
on the way. Without stopping, she informed Father Alfieri that
Chief Davies required his presence. The captain and Pugh appeared
just ahead. The echo of their rapid footfalls around the sharp
metal walls startled the elderly scientist.

"What's all this kerfuffle?" Pugh demanded as
she and Humboldt skidded to a stop. The scientist's eyes widened as
he saw her escort, as if Humboldt were the last person he expected
to see with her. "Miss Llewellyn, explain yourself!"

Humboldt hung back behind her as he tried to
catch his breath. Gemma thought she caught the movement of his
salute to the captain out of the corner of her eye as she leaned
over, one hand on her knees, too breathless too speak. Instead, she
shoved the crumpled message, now a mass of damp and tattered pulp,
into the scientist's face. As he scanned it, Christophe leaned over
Pugh's arm and read it with him.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Pugh. "How would she
even know about this child?"

"They must--" Gemma began, casting a glance
at Christophe. Even now, she must be careful. If anyone needed to
know Mrs. Davies' true identity, Nigel should know first. Besides,
what she was about to say might even be true. "I suppose she keeps
a watch on all the lying-in hospitals for orphans, Dr. Pugh."

Christophe pointed at the message. "But she's
not orphaned yet. How can the hospital allow--"

"He knows already? You told him about the
College?" Gemma was on the edge of shrieking. As confused as he
was, he wasn't confused enough. Could the captain know about her,
already? Had Pugh already betrayed her? She tried to ignore the
klaxon that clanged in her head. "Can you do something, Dr. Pugh?"
Gemma pleaded. "You know. You know we can't let this happen. You
know why. And Nigel has no one else but us. The crew." As she
pointed at each of the four of them with a sweep of her hand, she
came close to choking on her words.