The Oilman's Daughter (14 page)

“It’s gone!” shouted Jonathan. “That was a hell of an idea, Phinneas.”

“More like bad one,” said Gusarov. “That shot thrust us off course.”

“How far off?” Phinneas’s voice was grim.

Everyone’s ears popped, and Jonathan realized he could hear a strange hissing, rushing sound all around the
Swan Song
. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“What is that?”

“Edge of atmosphere, comrade. Your friend has doomed us all to burning up in re-entry. It will get hot in few minutes.” Gusarov sighed. “And not tiny little drop of vodka in sight, either.”

“Ye’ve got no pressure left to pull us out?” asked Phinneas.

Gusarov tapped a gauge. The needle didn’t move. “Believe me, if there was anything I could do, I would.” The temperature rose in the cabin and the rushing noise grew louder.

Cecilie flung herself across the cabin to beat at Phinneas. “You foolish barbarian! You’ve killed us all!”

Jonathan would have snapped his fingers if he could have in the heavy space-gloves. “Hey, maybe not. There’s a middleman dirigible in the hold. If it’s still there, we could ride it down, couldn’t we?”

“Middleman is only good for high altitude work.” Gusarov moved away from the bow. Flames of superheated air were starting to flash by the portholes. “Not re-entry.”

“It’s better than staying here and burning alive,” said Jonathan. “I’m going to try.”

“Aye,” said Phinneas. “I’m with ye.”

“And I,” said Cecilie.

Gusarov looked at them, eyes wider than teacups, sweat running down his temples. “You are
bezumnyy.
” Nevertheless, he sealed his helmet. The others did likewise. Something crashed against the aft hull and was wrenched away.

Phinneas opened the airlock into the cargo bay, not bothering to cycle it.

The heat inside the bay was stifling, and the ragged edges of the door where the crane had torn through it glowed like ingots in a steel factory. Phinneas motioned to Jonathan to help him with the door. They only had to crank it for a minute before the change to the
Swan Song
’s hull caused it to tear loose. Jonathan lost his footing, but Phinneas grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him back before he too could be sucked into the whirling, white-hot vortex in the ship’s wake.

The two men struggled across the deck toward the waiting middleman. Cecilie and Gusarov had already boarded the cigar-shaped vessel and Jonathan could see their two helmeted heads behind the cockpit glass as they strove to get the ship airworthy. Just as Phinneas stepped into the middleman’s door, the
Swan Song
’s hull split open in a blast of fiery air and the clamps holding the middleman shattered. The vessel skidded across the deck toward the open bay doors.

Jonathan jumped for it. The air rushing in through the torn hull caught him like he was a kite and blew him right at the middleman as it spun out of the
Swan Song
’s bay. For a moment, he was spread-eagled in the swirling air with nothing below him but a drop of many miles. Then his flailing hand caught in the middleman’s rigging and he smashed against the vessel’s hull. The impact knocked the air out of him and it was all he could do to keep his grasp on the cables. Hands pulled at him and he craned his neck around to see Phinneas pulling him toward the door. He could hear whistling in his ears and knew he’d ruptured his suit somewhere. A bright flash nearby announced the final destruction of the
Swan Song
as the Fulton surrendered itself to friction.

He could hear the voices of the others screaming as if from a great distance as the skies swirled around him. His last clear memory was of the middleman’s gas envelope expanding and fluttering over his head like the umbrella of a jellyfish before the darkness overtook him.

An invisible elephant, like those he’d seen in the streets of Delhi, crouched upon Phinneas’ chest as he opened his eyes to darkness. He couldn’t manage more than shallow wisps of breath. It felt like breathing thick, soupy air through a narrow straw. As his struggles subsided, he realized he lay on a bed, with real sheets and a rough, homespun blanket that smelled of wood smoke and comfort. His heart hammered in his chest, skipping a few beats under the strain of what could only be Big Blue’s gravity. He reached for the key that always hung around his neck, to turn the gadget in his chest that massaged his heart, and was dismayed to remember Cecilie had stolen it.

Perhaps he was in hell at last. If so, many of his departed scallywags would be awaiting him, but he had a feeling he wasn’t so lucky. His good fortunes ran out the second he agreed to kidnap a certain French lass and deliver her to Houston, and now he was struggling to breathe on the rock he hated most, his meal ticket likely a pretty cinder blowing in the wind. Then again, if he was here, maybe she was too.

He struggled to sit up in the blasted bed, but his muscles quivered like a foal fresh out of its ma. Years of daily calisthenics were all for naught in Big Blue’s clutches. The area at the foot of his bed filled with the yellow light of an oil lamp, and he saw a vague silhouette. “You oughtn’t do that now, Mista.” The owner of the voice was husky, but unmistakably female.

He squinted at the light, trying to get a better look at the lass, but the shadows were too deep, and his vision was still distorted by the changes in pressure.

“Who’s there? Show yerself.” The dry croak of his voice shamed him. Instead of his regular booming authority, he sounded like a dying kitten.

The light grew a little bit brighter, sending shards of pain through his eyes and into his aching head. But after a spell, he could make out a pretty hourglass shape, and a thick braid of dark hair draped over one shoulder. He didn’t need to hear her voice to know it wasn’t Cecilie. No bony hips on this one.

She stepped closer, and Phinneas understood why he’d had trouble seeing her in the shadows; her skin was nearly as dark as his. Her language, plain dress, and lack of jewelry told him she was probably American, and likely a farmer’s wife or daughter, given the solid build of her. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes. A beauty if there ever was one. He guessed her to be just barely out of her teens, though it was hard to tell with the ones who hadn’t grown up soft. “Who’re ye, lass? And how do I get outta here?”

“I done spent the last week tryin’ to keep you alive, Space Man. Now ain’t the time to start actin’ a fool, or you’ll have wasted all my time and my Daddy’s.”

He sighed and collapsed back again, the effort to even remain on an elbow too great. “I assure ye, I’ve survived worse.”

“I ain’t met many men who crawled from a fireball that fell out the sky. Let alone two men and a lady.”

Well that was good news. At least Cecilie had made it. But it sounded like one of the other men hadn’t. He had his money on Gusarov, who’d been living in the void almost as long as Phinneas had been alive. Even if he’d survived the crash, gravity likely crushed his heart like a tin can.

“Is the other bloke a pantywaist rich boy?”

She snorted. “Mister Orbital, you mean? The nice man who paid my father handsomely for the supplies and medicines we had to buy in Kansas City to bring you back from the dead?”

“Kansas City? How long have I been here?”

“You been in beautiful Odette, Kansas for the last five days.” Her voice dripped sarcasm at the word
beautiful
. “You was out for most of it, but luckily you didn’t break nothin’. Just a bad knock to the head. That fancy thing in your chest saved your life, though.”

His hand went to the clockwork device mounted upon his ribs. “But the key. . .”

“The French lady found it and showed Daddy how it worked. It’s in the drawer next to your bed if you need it.”

Phinneas was rendered speechless. So the French lass had given up her silly game when the chips were down. She could have played dumb and let him die. Orbital wouldn’t have shed a tear. She was a devious one, a schemer no doubt, but he supposed that didn’t make her a murderer. “I’m glad it still worked, or I would have been lyin’ below ground instead.”

“My daddy still had to tinker with it a bit to get it workin’. Probably got damaged in the crash. He’s good with machines, so it wasn’t much to fix.”

“Yer dad sound like a smart one. Both of ye do.”

She just gave a simple nod of her head, as if she believed just that. “I’m Jessie Clay. Daddy’s named Grant. He’s a man of science, and the smartest person I know.”

“I’d believe it. What sort of science does your father do?”

“Daddy and I help grow the biggest subsistence farm in these here parts, but that ain’t sayin’ too much. The soil here’s always been a little tough, but he’s made the best of it.”

She said “soil” in a way that sounded like “soul.” Phinneas smiled a little at that.

Jessie arched an eyebrow. “Somethin’ funny, space man?”

“I just like the way ye talk, is all.”

She grinned a little and folded her arms across her chest. “Uh-huh. Well, I guess you’ll be all right, then.” She paused and she turned away from Phinneas, hiding her face in the shadows. “Your other man, the one without his legs? He didn’t have no chance at all with his injuries. He passed a few minutes after we rescued you. I’m sorry about that.”

“No apology necessary, lass. Gusarov were a spacer for life. Probably would’ve rather died than breathe another second of Earth air.”

Jessie’s face hardened, still in shadow, but Phinneas could see the lamplight glittering in her eyes. “Must be nice, flyin’ around up in space without a worry about any of the sufferin’ your own folks face down here. Most of the folks around here can’t even lift themselves out of the dirt let alone off the planet.”

He shifted uncomfortably in the bed, as if that would help him avoid the lightning bolts that were about to shoot out of the girl’s eyes. “Don’t take it personal, lass. Believe me, I’m all too acquainted with the problems of Earth. Especially since I got mixed up with that French woman and her bloody Texan.”

She sighed and softened a bit. Not much, but enough to make him relax a little. “Sorry I snapped at you, mister. We’re just mad at the powers that be, too focused on fancy trains up in space that only rich folk can use, all while millions of folks in the middle fight for their next meal.”

Phinneas didn’t want to get into a debate with the girl. He didn’t have the energy for it, but there was another reason. People were miserable no matter where they lived. Earth, orbit, even the Sargasso was filled with people who were poor, sick, filthy and hungry. It was the human way. Leaving the planet wasn’t any kind of escape from suffering. He’d like to see how she’d handle life on the
Ethershark
. From the look of her, she might fare better than some, but she definitely wouldn’t think it a vacation.

“Are the two of them here?”

“They made another trip back to the city this mornin’ to get more supplies and send a telegram to some folks in Houston. Should be back in a couple days. Hopefully you’ll be up and around before then. Daddy would like to meet you.” Jessie straightened up and walked toward the bedroom door. “You’re probably starvin’. I’ll see to it you get some real food. Though it ain’t gonna be much, I’m afraid.”

It wasn’t until the mention of food that Phinneas’ stomach groaned and burbled with hunger. “I assure ye whatever ye have will be better than the protein gruel we spacers choke down.”

She nodded again and left. Phinneas sank deeper into the pillows, wishing he could escape the cruel gravity. Despite the overwhelming exhaustion he felt, his mind was as sharp and alert as ever, except he couldn’t remember any of the crash, let alone anything that happened immediately afterward. Maybe that was for the best.

His eyes had adjusted enough to the light to get a better look around. The room was a narrow rectangle with crudely cut wood planks for walls and one window at the far end covered by a faded red and white checked curtain. He was covered with a hand-stitched quilt, and the mattress beneath him, while not nearly as luxurious as the one he kept back at the grotto, was plenty comfortable. A white porcelain wash basin sat on the table beside him with a tall pitcher of water, a folded towel, and a cake of soap. Judging by the stink coming off him, he should make use of it, provided he could overcome the invisible bonds of Earth’s gravity holding him down.

“All right, ye pirate. Enough of this lazin’ about.” It wasn’t the first time he’d had to adjust to gravity after a long stretch in space, but between the lingering pain in his head left over from the crash and the constant ache in his chest as his insufficient heart tried to move his sluggish blood, even with the help of his clockwork device, it was by far the hardest. Still, he fully intended to be strong enough to get off this rock within the next couple days, whether he collected his ransom or not. His first stop would be to put an end to Zeric’s mutiny and return to the brand of plundering that had made the
Ethershark
infamous to begin with. And no more kidnapping contracts.

After a few minutes of quivering and gasping, he managed to get into a sitting position and swung his legs around the side of the bed. The room spun around him, and he gagged several times. If his belly hadn’t been empty, he’d have worn an apron of his own vomit. He looked down at his attire and grimaced. Someone had dressed him in a soft flannel nightshirt. His legs, far paler than the rest of him and bandaged in more than one place, poked out from the knees down. At least they were whole. Surely Grant Clay had some pants for him.

He looked around for his other belongings, such as his boots, knife and the meager amount of cash and coin he’d been carrying. Then he thought of the other baggage he’d brought with him: Cecilie, with her coy brand cleverness. Right now, she was gallivanting with the rich boy, and his stomach curdled with disgust at how blind Orbital was to her whims. Phinneas couldn’t quite put a finger on why, but he thought she might be the most dangerous woman he ever met, with dark steel for bones, and a savviness that suggested a hidden agenda. In that respect, he was more than happy to let her be Orbital’s problem. She’d probably eat his manhood for lunch while he wiped the corners of her mouth. But that didn’t mean Phinneas was happy to be the only one who had seen the scheming, manipulative side of her.

He opened the bedside table drawer and found his trusty blade along with his belt, his watch, which looked shattered beyond repair, and a few tattered pieces of American currency. At least they’d salvaged what they could. Even the small movements required to examine these things exhausted him, but he forced himself to soldier on. Sweat ran down his face and sides under the nightshirt. The trickling was a sensation he hadn’t felt in many years. Nothing trickled in space.

His legs drained completely of energy, he dragged the bedside table until it was in front of him and leaned forward to support his weight on it. From there, he set the washbowl and pitcher on the floor so they wouldn’t fall off and break. It would only be a few short feet to the door. He had no idea what he’d do once he reached that goal, and didn’t much care. Dignity was no longer a part of the equation at this point. He needed to get out of this room. And then, once he made it that far, it wouldn’t be long before he could escape the dust and dirt and hungry gravity. The sterile vacuum awaited him.

Meanwhile, the table wiggled under his ridiculously high weight, but didn’t break. He slid one foot a few inches forward, then the other. Again and again. It was achingly slow and a dull fury burned inside him, but he refused to accept defeat by the planet that had been his home for the first half of his life.

He let go of the table and stood on his own for a minute. His legs shook a little but held steady enough. The gears in his chest ticked as they kept his heart thrumming, not palpitating. He just had to take it easy. “This is all in yer head, ye dumb galoot. Ye ain’t no droolin’ babby. Walk, curse ye!”

He took two wobbly steps and a sturdier third before he grasped the knob and fell against the door, panting like a dog lost in the desert. Longing images of water flashed through his head, but he beat them down. He didn’t plan to reward himself with food or drink until he was out of this bloody room.

He opened the door. Beyond it was a dimly lit hallway. Somewhere in the house, he heard movement and voices. Women, probably working in the kitchen judging by the smells rolling toward him. Were they frying something? The salivation made his mouth cramp, but he kept walking, bracing himself against one wall. Slow, limping steps, and stomach-churning vertigo, but it was getting easier little by little. Finally, he reached what looked like a parlor, with an old but well-kept couch and chairs lit by more candles and oil lamps. Family pictures hung on the walls, vases of wildflowers sat on every table. The smells and sounds from the kitchen were stronger here, just on the other side of the wall to his right. He could see several shadows dancing in the lamplight. Jessie was among them. He wondered briefly if it was she who had undressed him, and his face warmed.

Taking another staggering step, he bumped an end table with one wayward wobbly knee and its vase of daisies overturned. It didn’t shatter, but water spilled. The motion and voices in the kitchen stopped abruptly, and as he was righting the vase, he heard a gasp.