20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (5 page)

When the teachers had emptied the girl's
armoire, Gemma had nicked the book in a singular act of rebellion
and hidden it in the depths of Old Dependable. In the haste of the
past few days, it was the one personal item -- besides the locket,
a gift from Brightman herself -- that she had refused to leave
behind.

She took another deep breath and leaned her
back against the door. The fact that Dr. Pugh recognized the name
of her school gnawed at her. She hoped that was all he had
recognized. If her true nature were discovered, there would be
nowhere to hide. But there was no knock on the door just yet, so
she had a little time to settle in. She reminded herself that for
the next couple of years, this room was going to be home. Yes, it
was small, but for her that was not an issue.

"Besides," she said to the room, "compared to
my dressing room at the Cirque, it's downright palatial."

~~~~

Christophe

Turning away from the departing Frau Knopf
and Miss Llewellyn, Christophe strode towards the lifts that would
sweep him to the bridge. His companion jogged to catch up with his
much longer stride. They traded salutes as they waited on the car.
The lift door closed behind them before they spoke.

"Good to see you again, Miguel, old sport,"
Christophe said. "How goes the provisioning?"

"Christophe," the man replied with just a
hint of Madrid peeking through his accent. "All supplies are in
orbit. Seventy-five percent of them are already on board. We had to
stop for the Oberth tests, but I am confident that we will have the
rest loaded by this evening. Now that you and Dr. Pugh are here,
all crew are present and accounted for. Who is the young lady? I
did not see her on the manifest. Is she--"

"A last-minute addition to the Cohort. Miss
Gemma Llewellyn, geologist."

"A scientist, eh? I am sure that Elias has
plenty to say about that. Miss or Missus?"

"Miss," replied Christophe.

"Oh, no. I'm sure that Maggie will have
plenty to say about
that
."

"Only if they meet, Commander Cervantes."

Miguel shook his head. "I stay out of such
things, remember? How did she take your 'apex of human achievement'
speech?"

"I think she liked it. Why?"

"Because I know where you'd rather be."
Cervantes shook his head in mock disgust. "Ah, I am glad I am
married to the ship."

"Only until you get your own command. I still
think the mission should have waited until we had at least two
ships ready to go. Then you would be a captain, too."

"Ha! And you would be Commodore Moreau. You
are supposed to be the hero here, remember? Between you and Sophie
the Steamfitter, there is no room for me on the cartes-de-visite. I
could not see anyone trading my face like that."

"Perhaps when this mission is over, then, you
might be Admiral," Christophe replied with a wink. "Your
examinations did get higher marks than mine, after all."

"Well, not all of us are gifted with a
redundant memory,
amigo
. I had to beat you somewhere."

"If I had my way, you'd get your own CDV's
and be promoted right away. But I would hate to lose the best first
mate in the fleet."

"I am the only first mate in the fleet,"
Cervantes snorted.

"Don't let Old Artur hear you say that. He's
got plans for you, my friend!"

"Speaking of Admiral Thorvaldson, I noticed
he didn't ride up with you to see us off. Was he even at the Launch
Coil? Is everything all right?"

"I received a wireless from him yesterday.
Urgent business kept him in Luxembourg City, or else he would have
been here. He sends his regards, though, and wished us luck."

"It must have been some business to keep him
away from the most important launch in history. Perhaps there is
news on the construction of the next ship? Maybe they are finally
getting started on it?"

As they exited the lift, Christophe said, "I
don't know. But if we were a
real
navy, we'd wait and send a
fleet, not just a single ship."

"We
are
a real navy. Just a private
one. Unlike a government, the TIA has a profit margin to maintain.
Which explains why they are sending us with one dropship instead of
two. How we are supposed to collect the spoils of war with that
dinghy? There's enough room left over in the cargo bay to have
brought your little canoe with us."

"If only I could," Christophe said as they
approached the bridge entrance. "But I still look forward to the
day I salute you."

~~~~

Gemma

Gemma jerked awake. Some unseen alarm jangled
her nerves. She pulled the cord on the headboard's lamp and looked
about for the source of the clamour. A bosun's whistle screamed
through the small speaker in the corner of the ceiling. She was
lost in a haze of confusion. Brightman Girls normally woke up
precisely when they meant to, without reliance on clocks or alarms.
However, she had been in so many time zones in the past seven days
that her body wasn't sure what hour it was.

She snapped her attention back to the matter
at hand. Rapid focus was an ingrained habit, and one that was vital
to survival in her occupation. She reminded herself that this was
not Guildford. She was on a ship, many miles above Guildford. The
thought made her a little dizzy. She checked the small stateroom
clock; it was six A.M., ship's time. That made it five in
Guildford, also, she supposed, since the ship was on Luxembourg
City time. Naturally, it would be at the same o'clock as the TIA
headquarters.

She made a trip to the head. She found it
quite bizarre; why in the world did they need speaking tubes and
storage closets in the loo? She peeked into the storage cabinet and
found jugs of water and packets marked "Cold Rations". There were
also boxes of Lister's Towels, which made her sigh with relief (she
could only fit so many in Old Dependable) until she did a quick
calculation in her head. Even with only a handful of women on
board, there weren't nearly enough in the closet for their expected
journey. She hoped Frau Knopf had more down in the cargo bay. There
were other boxes on other shelves, but she would have to save that
prying for later.

She dressed in one of the several sets of
dreary blouses and skirts that awaited her in the wardrobe. It was
easy to dress without aid, as the uniform apparently did not allow
for a corset. She breathed a secret sigh of relief.

Score one for the Rational Dress
Society
, she thought.

She checked the schedule that Frau Knopf had
left for her. Breakfast was already in progress. After that, they
would be preparing for the launch. She made up her bed and tidied
up a little, in case Frau Knopf decided to pop in. Mrs. Landry had
taught her well; the housekeeper had always bounced a shilling on
the bed to check Gemma's work. She straightened the wrinkled top of
the unoccupied bed as well, though she did not remember disturbing
it during her unpacking.

She set off down the empty corridor, which
was quiet except for the scratching sounds behind the walls that
she had heard the day before. Wooden ships squeaked and creaked,
and even steamships had their groaning; perhaps the
Fury
had
her own version of complaining. Gemma's stomach grumbled along with
the sounds and reminded her that she had eaten little from Frau
Knopf's tray the night before. Dr. Pugh's response to the name of
her particular school had upset her digestion quite a bit. She
could not afford Discovery so early in her journey.

In this particular case, she could not afford
Discovery at all. There was nowhere to run.

After taking a few wrong turns, she found the
mess hall with her nose. Thankfully, it was on the same deck as her
stateroom, outside the fortress of Ladies' Country. She selected a
tray and queued up with the crewmen. Being the only female there,
she received many admiring looks. She ignored them as she poured
her tea. The odour of fried sausages and potatoes, mixed in with
that of shoe polish and McCoy's English Pomade, was overpowering;
and her stomach growled again as she carried her tray to the
seating area. The long tables had benches on either side, and she
was uncomfortable with the thought of sitting amongst her admirers
or climbing over a bench in her long skirt.

She was the object of many stares and more
than a few whistles as she walked the line of tables. Some of the
men -- she assumed they were non-commissioned officers -- barked at
the others to stop gawking at the skirt. The room was a cornucopia
of nationalities and accents, and men of many colours donned the
same blue uniform. Amongst various flavours of English, she
detected notes of Paris, hints of Venice, flecks of Berlin, with a
seasoning of Peking, Seoul, and Bombay, along with others that she
did not recognize.

There were few grey heads in the hall. Most
of the sailors appeared to be her age, or just a little older. She
silently wondered how many of them were Orphans. How many of them
had eaten misery in the years since the Invasion, those poor souls
that had not the good fortune to enjoy the shelter beneath Mrs.
Brightman's wings? How many of them were here for revenge instead
of adventure?

She continued down the line to the end, which
was sparsely populated. She detected a feminine note in the noise
of the crowd. One person in a hunter green jacket -- a blade of
summer grass in a field of navy blue -- turned around, saw Gemma,
and waved at her with a bright smile. Gemma realized with a bit of
a shock that this was no man, no matter how short the hair. The
young lady gestured for Gemma to sit next to her.

"Come sit here, love," she said. "Name's
Caroline McLure. You must be Gemma!" She leaned over with a
conspiratorial wink. "Frau Knopf told me we had a new member for
our little knitting circle." She pointed at the man across the
table from her, who was also wearing hunter green. "And this one
won't bite, neither. Look, Nigel, it's our Miss Llewellyn!"

Gemma returned the girl's greetings and
nodded at her companion. Caroline was about Gemma's age, perhaps a
little younger. Her nut-brown hair was so short that it stunned
Gemma. It fell straight from the crown, cropped short at the nape
of her neck. In fact, from behind, she looked like a young boy.
Gemma had had no choice in her own hairstyle; the job at hand
determined her appearance, not her own desires. Still, she could
not dream of wearing her own hair so short.

Except for the different colour, the young
lady wore the same uniform blouse as the men, with only slight
allowances here and there in the shirt for her more feminine shape.
Normally, Gemma would not be able to do her own job without her
lace and corsets. She glanced down at her own drab outfit and
remembered the relief she had felt not an hour ago at the lack of
those encumbrances.

The gentleman across the table appeared to be
slightly older than Caroline. His horn-rimmed glasses and wedding
ring gleamed in the overhead lights. His face was clean-shaven,
lacking the TIA-encouraged muttonchops and handlebar moustache
sported by many members of the crew. A book rested on the table
next to his empty plate. The page bore diagrams as mysterious as
hieroglyphs.

The young man stood up and bowed. "Chief
Warrant Officer Nigel Davies, at your service, madam. Welcome to
the
Fury
. Yeoman McLure has been looking forward to meeting
you."

She inclined her head as she studied him. He
sat down and returned to his book as Gemma picked up her fork.

"So, you're one o' them eggheads in the
Cohort," Caroline said, pointing to the badge on Gemma's arm. "What
branch, love? Astronomy? Chemistry? You into that Black Smoke
inquiry?"

Gemma sliced the sausage and pricked it with
the end of her fork.

"Geology," Gemma replied.

She placed the bite of meat into her mouth
and hoped the young lady would leave it at that.

"You muck about with rocks?" Caroline asked.
She picked up a sausage link from her own plate and popped it into
her mouth. She asked while she chewed, "What the hell do you want
to go all the way to Mars to look at rocks for?" She shoveled some
fried potatoes into her mouth and winked at Gemma. "Don't we have
plenty of 'em back home? Thought we were going to kill Martians,
not study boulders."

Mr. Davies looked up from his book. "Manners,
Caroline," he said in a low tone. "Remember your manners. Not
everyone here is from Cheapside."

"I hear Glasgow's pebbles are lovely this
time of year," Caroline giggled through bites of potato.

Gemma began to regret that she had not
brought her copy of Hartley's
Ladies Book of Etiquette
, a
text that bordered on the sacred for Brightman Girls. Caroline
certainly needed a chapter or two of its instruction.

"And what is your department, Mr. Davies?"
Gemma asked.

He removed his spectacles and placed them on
the table. Pointing to the badge on his shoulder, one with a brass
gear on its shield, he replied, "Informatics."

"We're Booleans," Caroline chimed in a she
licked the grease from her fingers.

"Booleans?" Gemma asked. "Dr. Pugh mentioned
that word yesterday. What are Booleans?"

"Oh, surely even in the ivory tower of
science you've heard of Booleans," Caroline said.

"It's just a bit of jargon, Miss Llewellyn,"
Mr. Davies said. "It's what the crew calls us. We write code for
the Engine."

"You work on the Oberth engines? It's launch
day. Shouldn't you be on that deck already?"

Caroline guffawed. "Aw, no, not
those
bloody monsters. The analytical engine, love. We call it the A.E.
Totally different."

"Napkin, Caroline," Mr. Davies said just as
Caroline was about to wipe her fingers on her jacket. He pushed a
cloth in his companion's direction. "Remember what Frau Knopf said
regarding grease on the uniforms. Besides, you never know when Mr.
Wallace may be lurking about. Miss Llewellyn, you may have heard
them called difference engines in other circles. We run the data
you scientists cook up through the gears, sum it all up, and then
let the wireless blokes send it back home. It's one of the more
expensive jobs, more gears than they used in all the new ACS
Engines put together by far. It is based on the designs of one
Charles Babbage. Oh, and of course on George Boole's principles of
logic. They'd been working on that since long before the Martians
came along. The Invasion just gave us the incentive to build them.
It's too bad Mr. Babbage didn't live long enough to see his
creations come to life."