The Doomsday Vault (5 page)

“A third of the crew dead, and Captain Naismith,” Old Graf said, unprompted. “Captain Keene—the pirate captain—put some of the ‘dangerous' survivors off the ship in life balloons already so we wouldn't try to raise a mutiny.” He handed Gavin a canteen, and Gavin gulped down stale water. “The rest of us are expected to help run the ship until we get to London.”

“London?” Gavin echoed stupidly. “We're supposed to go to Madrid. I was going to see the castle.”

“Tell that to Captain Keene,” Old Graf growled. “When we get to London, he's going to sell the cargo and hold us and the
Juniper
for ransom to the shipping company.”

Outrage cleared Gavin's head a little. “That's illegal! We're not at war with England! That's—”

“Part of his letter of marque. Keene's been charged with keeping the airways safe for British ships, and we fired on him first.”

“No, we didn't!” Gavin said hotly.

“Shush!” Old Graf made a sharp gesture. “Who do you think a British court will believe, son? Just be glad you didn't get tossed over in a life balloon.”

“Why wasn't I?” Gavin asked bitterly. “I'm just a cabin boy. The company won't pay a ransom for me, and my family doesn't have any money.”

“He spoke for you.” Old Graf jerked his head toward one of the pirates, who was wearing stolen airman leathers and inspecting the hydrogen extractor on deck not far away. “Name's Madoc Blue. Said he was going to teach you to dance or something.”

Gavin's gut knotted. Madoc Blue was the pirate who had killed Captain Naismith. As if Gavin's thought caught Blue's attention, the pirate turned and met Gavin's eye. He winked broadly and went back to what he was doing. Gavin fought to keep his face impassive. He had a pretty good idea of what Blue had in mind for him, and the thought made him want to throw up.

“So what do we do?” Gavin whispered.

“We run the ship,” Old Graf said. “And when we get to London, we sit in whatever cell these bastards lock us in and hope the company pays our ransom.”

 

Three days passed. Gavin fell into a stupor. His body mechanically went through his normal daily tasks under the watchful eye of armed pirates, but his mind was filled with a blessed fog. He scrubbed decks and sewed seams and spliced rope and ran messages for the new captain, all without truly thinking about what he did. At night, he slept fitfully in his hammock, dreaming of his family back in Boston. Sometimes he saw Tom plummeting into an abyss, but he wore Gavin's own face. Then the pirate first mate would be shouting them awake, and a new day of captive work began. At least Madoc Blue kept his distance. Bernie Yost, the
Juniper
's hydrogen man, had been killed in the original raid, and Captain Keene had given the job to Blue. Even the most tightly sewn ballonets leaked a little, and without continual replacement, the ship would eventually sink to the ground—or into the ocean. An efficient hydrogen extractor was therefore key to the survival of any working airship, and the job of hydrogen man carried the same status as ship's carpenter or pilot. The job also took up a lot of time, which meant Blue was too busy to pay Gavin any heed.

At the end of the fourth day, Captain Keene, a red-faced man built like a brick, assembled the captive airmen and his pirates on the
Juniper
's deck and announced a celebration for his crew. The pirates cheered. The airmen, less enthusiastic, were to be locked in the brig so the pirates could enjoy themselves without keeping an eye on their captives.

“And who plays this?” Keene demanded of the assembled airmen. Gavin's entire body jerked. Keene was holding Gavin's fiddle. Gavin hadn't even looked at it since the raid. One of the pirates must have found its hiding place. “Come on now—we'll need music, and one of you American turds can provide some, right?”

Gavin didn't move. The thought of playing for cavorting murderers turned his stomach greasy and sour. He could feel the other airmen carefully not looking in his direction, but he himself couldn't take his eyes off his beloved fiddle. Keene's hand was pressing the strings into the neck, his fingers leaving oily prints on the red-brown wood. Gavin felt violated, as if Keene had laid hands on his soul.

“No one?” Keene said. “Too bad. It must belong to one of the men we killed or put off the ship. No point in keeping it.” He turned and drew his arm back to throw the fiddle overboard.

“Wait!” Gavin said.

Keene paused and turned back.

“It's mine,” Gavin said miserably. “I'll play.”

Keene handed Gavin the fiddle and ruffled his hair like an uncle greeting a favorite nephew, even though Gavin was nearly eighteen. “That's a good lad. Do you sing, too?”

Gavin thought about lying, then decided he didn't want to know what would happen if the truth came out. “A little,” he hedged.

“Then what are you waiting for, boys?” Keene boomed. “Lock up these miserable bastards and have a party!”

An enormous cheer went up. Gavin watched while his compatriots, including Old Graf, were herded belowdecks to the brig. The crew members were already looking haggard and thinner than just a few days ago. Gavin tried not to shiver in his ragged clothes, and not for the first time he wondered which of the pirates had originally worn them. The sun was setting behind the tethered ships, and the engines continued their implacable rumble as the propellers whirled unceasingly. Somewhere below lay Tom's body, food for sharks and other sea creatures. Gavin glanced at the envelope overhead. If he hadn't stopped Naismith, none of this would be happening right now. He wouldn't be sad, wouldn't be upset, wouldn't be thinking at all.

The pirates rolled out several casks of rum and lit the blue-green phosphor lamps that hung about the ship to provide flame-free light amidships. A heavy arm dropped around Gavin's shoulders. He tried to twist, but the arm held him.

“Looking forward to hearing you,” said Madoc Blue. “Maybe tonight I'll teach you how to dance.”

And then he was gone. Gavin's hands shook so hard, he could barely tune up. Someone brought a crate for Gavin to stand on. He forced himself to remain steady, set bow to strings, and play.

Once the melody began, things became easier. It felt good to use his talents again, and he hadn't realized how much he'd missed his music. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was playing for his family back in Boston. They had two dark rooms in the slums, and both were filled with comings and goings. Ma was always at the stove, trying to stretch what Gavin's four brothers and sisters brought home, or at the kitchen table madly basting shirts for the tailor up the street. Gramps sat in the corner, trying to watch Gavin's younger siblings with his failing eyesight. The place was never quiet, except when Gavin played fiddle in the evenings. He played in the dark because they couldn't afford lamp oil or gas jets. He played away their hunger, the cold Boston weather, and their fear of bill collectors. But when Gavin turned twelve, Gramps had taken him down to the airfields outside Boston, where a dozen giant airships stood tethered to their towers like clouds staked to the ground, and introduced him to Captain Felix Naismith. The next day, he'd sailed off as a cabin boy.

It had started as a job, a way to send money home to his family. But after a few weeks in the air, Gavin found himself unwilling to touch the ground. The
Juniper
quickly became his home, the sky his backyard, the clouds his city. When he worked, he helped send the ship across Infinite. When he played, he sent songs into the blue and white like a sacrifice. Now, both work and music served a different master.

The pirates, including the captain, laughed and danced and drank all around Gavin's crate while the sky darkened and the lamps shed their familiar eerie glow over the gunwales, turning his pale hair green. He closed his eyes so he could play in the dark. Music rippled off his fiddle and vanished into blackness. The pirates called out songs for him, and he played “Highland Mary,” “The Irish Washerwoman,” and “Sheebeg, Sheemore.”

“Play ‘Londonderry Air,' ” shouted one pirate.

“That's a sissy song, Stone,” yelled another. “We don't want to hear that.”

“I'll show you a sissy song,” Stone yelled back, holding up his fists. “Two of 'em.”

Quickly, Gavin played the requested song, a slow, sad piece. He put everything he had into it, echoes of green Irish hills floating in fog, sad cemeteries with tilted gravestones, and stone cottages warmed by peat fires. The belligerence died away. The pirates fell silent. When the music ended, Stone wiped his nose on his stolen leather sleeve and acted as if he weren't also wiping his eyes.

“Nice,” he coughed. “Very nice.” And the other pirates cheered.

“Sing for us, boy!” “Sing a song!” “A dancing song!”

“Sing us,” called out a too-familiar voice, “‘Tom of Bedlam.' ”

Gavin's head jerked around. Madoc Blue was staring up at him, thumbs hooked in his belt near his glass-bladed knife. A lump formed in Gavin's throat. Had Blue learned Tom's name and chosen that song on purpose? It might have been coincidence—“Tom of Bedlam” was the unofficial anthem for all airmen, and it wasn't an unusual request.

“Go on, pretty lad,” Blue said. “You can't tell me you don't know it. Lie to me, and I'll tie one of those fiddle strings around your balls until they turn... blue.”

The pirates roared with laughter. Gavin swallowed the lump in his throat and firmed his jaw. He wouldn't give Blue any satisfaction. He set bow to strings and sang.

The pirates stomped and drummed on the deck for the last two lines—the chorus was the reason the song was popular among airmen. Want, in this case, meant lack, and the idea that airmen were more than a little insane but also naked, drunk, and rich held great appeal. The song had endless verses, and Gavin settled in to sing them all, his voice pounding at the men like a weapon, letting his anger and fear come pouring out. The men clapped and sang along, oblivious. Blue, however, simply stared at Gavin, his thumbs still hooked in his knife belt. Without thinking, Gavin sang the verse:

Every pirate burst out into raucous laughs and cheers. Blue smirked and gave Gavin a pointed look. Gavin flushed bright red and sang the chorus as if he had no idea what anyone was laughing about, but quickly switched to a different verse.

He met Blue's gaze straight on at the last line. The original words ran
children's thighs
. The pirates were drunk enough that they didn't seem to notice the change, but Blue... Blue nodded slightly and turned away. Message understood. Gavin breathed a mental sigh of relief, sang one more verse, and called for a break. The pirates clapped him on the back and congratulated him on his skill, as if he were one of them, as if they hadn't killed his best friend, his captain, and a dozen of his compatriots. Gavin forced a smile to his face, pretended to accept their accolades, then slipped away from the men, moving toward the lookout post. Overhead, the envelope blotted out the stars, but they formed a field of shining diamonds in all other directions. Ahead, the pirate airship was outlined in its own blue-green glow. A skeleton crew over there had the misfortune to miss the party. The air was cooler, crisper now that he was away from the press of bodies amidships. Gavin blew out a breath, glad to be apart from them for a moment, however short.

As Gavin passed the man-high bulk of the hydrogen extractor, a figure appeared from the shadows. Before Gavin could react, the figure grabbed Gavin by the shoulders, swung him around, and shoved his back against the extractor. Gavin's heart lurched, and he barely kept hold of his fiddle.

“Wandering alone, love?” said Madoc Blue, the rum strong on his breath. “I'm ready to teach you how to dance.”

Fresh fear spurted through Gavin's every vein. His breath came in short gasps and his fingers went cold around the neck of his fiddle. The bow clattered to the deck. Blue pressed his body against Gavin's, his weight shoving Gavin harder against the extractor's warm brass wall with his forearm across Gavin's throat. Blue leaned in, his beard scratchy against Gavin's face. Gavin choked, barely able to breathe.

“You think I'm stupid and ugly, pretty boy?” Blue growled. “You think I can't get women?
Do you?
”

Gavin tried to answer, but he couldn't get enough breath. His free hand flailed uselessly, looking for something, anything that might help.

“When there aren't any women on deck,” Blue snarled, “a man's gotta use whatever he can get his hands on.” He grabbed the string that held Gavin's trousers up and snapped it with a sharp, one-handed jerk. Gavin tried to yell, but Blue's forearm prevented him. The lack of air made him dizzy. “Got three or four friends who've had their eye on you, love. Once I break you in, I can show you around, collect a little money for your services. What do you think of that, hey?”

And then Gavin's flailing hand found the hilt of Blue's knife in his belt. He snatched it out of the holder and slashed downward. Gavin felt warm blood spurt against the thin cloth of his trousers. Blue screamed and instantly let Gavin go. He staggered back, clutching his upper leg. A loose flap of meat the size of Gavin's hand hung there by a hinge of skin.