Ganymede (Clockwork Century)

by Cherie Priest

  Ruthie gave a small, smug smile.

  And Captain Cly said, “I’ll be damned.”

  Ruthie asked in French, “You’ve never seen anything like it, have you?”

  “Non,” replied Cly. “Jamais.”

  If she was surprised to hear him reply in kind, she did not give him the satisfaction of showing it. Instead she said, in English this time, “Anderson Worth designed it. He grinds glass lenses for spectacles, and he says that mirrors are not so different, the way they change the light—and the things we see.”

  Houjin found his voice and asked, “Where’s Mr. Worth now?” “Is he still here? I’d like to talk to him. I want to know how he made this!”

  “You will meet him at the camp.”

  Before any more questions could be generated, Norman emerged from behind a water oak with a mile-wide smile on his face and said, “This is something else, bien sûr?”

  “It surely is, Mr. Somers!” Houjin exclaimed. “Can I come down there and look at it?”

  “Right now? No, but maybe later if you want, okay? For now, we got to get out of the road and close this gate back up again.” With that, he climbed back onto the buggy’s driving seat and restarted the engine with a yank of its chain. “We can’t go leaving the way open for anyone to come inside. It keeps out the riffraff, because this is one of only two ways through the swamp to the camp.”

  “What’s the other way?” Cly asked.

  Ruthie answered. “You’ll find out later.”

  Norman drove the machine past a certain line, deeper into the swamp than it felt the wheels could possibly turn, given the terrain … and he dismounted again, landing with a splash in a soupy mess that was not half so deep as it looked. He skipped back to a set of controls, large cranks and a locking lever, and as he moved, he walked on water.

  “Another illusion?” Cly asked Ruthie.

  She said, “Oui.”

  And when Somers returned, still smiling that toothsome grin, he said, “What we do, you see—is we drop down stones into the bayou, and then we build a road on top of them.”

  “What do you use to make it?” Houjin asked.

  “Oak boards, mostly. We paint them black, and just like that—” He snapped his fingers. “—they disappear, and for all anyone can tell, the bayou is as deep as the ocean. ’Cept for the cypress knees. Those don’t lie, but they fib.”

  Another mile through what looked like open swamp—without any roads, without any signs, and without any hint of a path—and the way opened to something like a clearing, though it was not very well cleared.

  It might have been better described as a settlement, for such it was, and a well-considered settlement at that.

  Tree houses were lifted up above the soft, easily flooding ground. They were mounted six to eight feet up the trunks, and accessible with ladders; they were roofed with native flora and insulated with thick bundles of dried moss, so that when viewed from above, they would not rouse suspicion. Let the dirigibles scope and soar. Nothing at the bayou camp would give any scout a cause for alarm.

  Large canopies, woven from palmetto leaves and carefully camouflaged, were strung up on willow poles in order to hide two rolling-crawlers either bought or stolen from the Texians. Another canopy covered boxes of munitions and supplies, which were stashed upon a platform that was raised off the bayou floor much like the houses—and yet a third canopy clearly functioned as a meeting place, and possibly a dining hall.

  There beneath the verdant overhangs both natural and man-made, the swamp was a green-black place of beauty and shadow. It was a place of precision and caution, activity and consultation.

  At a quick, casual count, Cly estimated perhaps two dozen men in the camp, the majority of them dark skinned and wearing Union uniform pieces in much the same way that the Texians wore their own garb—without any attention paid to the official lines of the garments. Everything was adapted to the thick, wet warmth that was trapped there in the swamp. Everything bowed to the dense heat and close-pressing smell of vegetation being soaked in its own rot—of new plants and freshly broken branches, of stringy grass filaments and gray-felt moss, and the leftover whiffs of catfish fried at an earlier meal but long since eaten.

  Shirts were left open, and sleeves were rolled to elbows. But pants were worn down long, sometimes cinched at the ankles or tucked into boots. Cly understood. There were places where a man didn’t dare walk with his ankles unprotected, regardless of the temperature, for fear of stinging insects, snakes, and thorns.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched Houjin stick a finger into the mandarin collar of his shirt and wipe away the dampness that collected there. Then the boy swiped at the back of his neck, at the place where his ponytail hung over the collar, and his hand came away wet with perspiration there, too.

  The buggy was lured up beneath yet another canopy, which was not otherwise covering anything. It was guided into place by a thickly muscled man with skin that gleamed with humidity and sweat, and hair that grew into a soft black halo. Using both hands, he helped Norman Somers park the machine in the perfect position, where every edge, bumper, corner, and cranny would be covered by the net of manipulated foliage.

  “Welcome to camp!” Somers announced. “Everybody be careful getting down, you hear? And stay to the walkways when you can. The earth is half made of mud, my friends. Ruthie, love—you especially. Shall I help you down?”

  “Mr. Somers, I am always happy for your assistance,” she said, with a bat of her eyelashes.

  When everyone had left the buggy and no one was standing in the mud, the man who’d guided them into the shelter said, “Folks, I’m Rucker Little, and I’m second in command here after Deaderick Early. You,” he said to Cly, “must be the captain Josephine’s been telling me about.”

  “Yes, yes, I am,” he said, extending a hand and receiving a shake. “I’d ask how you knew, but Ruthie’s already said that my description is going around.”

  “Tall son of a bitch, that’s what Josie told us,” he said. “And this must be the rest of your crew?”

  His question called for introductions, and these were made.

  By the time the captain had finished, two more men had approached, and these were identified as Chester Fishwick and Honeyfolk Rathburn. Like Rucker Little, they had served in the Union’s colored troops, and they carried themselves like men who’d seen the inside of a military operation.

  Once everyone was formally acquainted, Chester Fishwick said, “I can take you to Josephine, if you like. She’s with her brother, in his place. There’s not much room for the whole gang in there, but I expect Rucker would be happy to give the rest of you folks a tour of the camp. When you’re finished speaking with Miss Early, we’ll take you out to the Ganymede so you can see it for yourself.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Cly said, and seeing that everyone agreed to this arrangement, he followed after Chester, who led him up to one of the tree houses closest to the lake’s edge—though he did not realize how close it was until he’d scaled the ladder. From halfway up it, he could tell that they were in fact quite near to Pontchartrain, no more than fifty yards away from one of its banks.

  The ladder creaked beneath Cly’s weight, the willow wood flexing and springing as he climbed from rung to rung behind Chester Fishwick, who scaled the thing swiftly, like a man who did so every day and no longer needed to think about the particulars of hanging on, stepping precisely, or watching his head. At the top, the captain hauled himself over the edge and into a cabin that seemed larger on the inside than the outside would have led him to expect.

  Again contrary to its outer appearance, the cabin was not remotely rustic. If anything, it looked like the headquarters of an advanced operation. Texian manuals and tools were shelved and mounted on the walls; a large chalkboard was covered with mathematical formulas and maps; and high-grade military guns were racked beside the door, their ammunition boxed beside them in crates with precise stencils detailing the contents. Mosquit
o curtains hung from the ceiling, but were tidily bundled above a row of three cots, or draped across the open windows to function as screens.

  On the edge of one cot sat a man with wide, strong cheekbones and skin the color of coffee. His hair was long and braided tightly into rows, and his chest and shoulder were swaddled in a bandage fashioned from clean cotton strips.

  Beside him on a small camp stool sat Josephine Early, looking not remarkably different from the last time Cly had set eyes upon her. She rose from the camp stool and her brother—for the resemblance was not overwhelming, but decidedly present—shifted his weight as if he’d like to do the same. But she stalled him with a hand upon his unbound shoulder.

  Ten years had left her body fuller by perhaps that same number of pounds, as if she’d grown into her age. It looked good on her, Cly thought. And he tried not to think any harder about other things that had looked good on her, in other times.

  Now she wore a dress that was out of place among the camp full of men; it was too fancy by at least five dollars, and its fabric was meant to shimmer in a ballroom rather than perch upon a stool. It was easy to see that she still wore whatever she’d arrived in. She’d tucked up the lace on her sleeves and traded her pretty boots for a brown set of workman’s footwear—though the boots, as well as a beaded bag and a light brocade jacket were folded as carefully as if they were in a shop-front window. They rested underneath the next cot.

  Before the captain could summon any words, Josephine said to him, “Cly, I can’t believe you came.”

  “Well, you asked me to.”

  “I guess this isn’t exactly what you expected.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But, you’re here.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  The man on the cot said, “I’m Deaderick Early—and I don’t believe we met, last time you were passing through New Orleans.”

  “I don’t believe we did. You were off in the war, weren’t you?”

  “Sounds about right. It’s good to meet you now,” he said, and since Josephine had stood, he stood as well—with effort and some pain, but also with dignity. He extended a hand and Cly shook it. “And it’s good of you to come.”

  “Rick, sit yourself back down,” his sister told him, more gently than crossly. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  Cly saw a chance to be helpful, so he went to pull up a stool and said, “We should all sit. We’ve got some talking to do.” But upon getting his hands on one of the stools, he changed his mind and said, “I suppose I’ll just go cross-legged,” for he didn’t think the chair would hold his weight.

  Chester Fishwick took the seat instead, and when they were all settled again—Deaderick wincing and Josephine working hard to keep from babying him in front of the other men—the captain said, “So I hear you’ve got a big boat, only it’s not exactly a boat. And you want me to fly it.”

  “That’s the sum of it,” Deaderick said.

  While Cly figured out what else to add, and how to add it, Houjin’s excited voice carried through the windows, spouting a list of questions a mile long. Cly said, “The kid must’ve found Mr. Worth.”

  “The lens-maker?” Josephine asked. “Yes, he’s here. Who’s the kid?”

  “He’s apprenticing with me. Smart boy. Wants to know how everything works, and he’s real excited about that gate you folks have set up—the one with the mirrors. Norman Somers said a guy named Worth designed it, and now Huey needs to hear the details. But I’m not here to tell you about my crew. I’m here to hear about your ship.”

  Deaderick took a deep breath that appeared to sting. He said, “I’m not sure how much the ladies have told you already.”

  “The history of it, mostly. And I’ve seen the engineer’s drawings, the ones that show most of the workings. But I’m still trying to wrap my head around how to operate it, or get it to the ocean. I mean, I can tell from what little I’ve seen of your camp that you fellows have plenty of good machines and good mechanics to keep them running. Surely someone here can pilot your bird. Your fish,” he corrected himself.

  Chester declared, “We have four mechanics from the schools at Fort Chattanooga, and a couple of men who trained in the machine shops in Houston. So yes, we’re all set for men to make and maintain what we’ve got, that’s a fact. But the men we have … they’re drivers and sailors. They’re engineers who’ve worked on rolling-crawlers and the big diesel walkers the Rebs are using on the northern fronts. They aren’t men who know much about airships, or this kind of … watership.”

  Deaderick added, “I think they could be forgiven for not knowing much about the Ganymede. Everyone who ever understood it is dead or in prison, miles and miles away from here. The Ganymede is a tribe of one. Wallace Mumler wants to call it an undermariner, but that’s a mouthful, isn’t it? Hunley called these things submarines, so that’s what I’m sticking to.”

  Josephine smiled, every bit as cool and measured as he remembered she was capable of being. “Chester and Rucker, and Deaderick here, and Edison Brewster, and Honeyfolk—they all know how it works. They can tell you what every lever means and what every button does, but not a one of them knows how to turn the thing in a full circle without so much shouting, arguing, and complicated finesse that you can’t imagine them ever moving it down the river. These men have all the paper know-how, and none of the hands-on experience to pilot the thing correctly.”

  Chester added, “But like Rick just said: Nobody does. There’s no one within five hundred miles who’s been inside a submarine and hasn’t drowned.”

  Deaderick looked to Josephine, whose smile had not melted. She said, “It was my idea to go hunting for an airman instead of a seaman. The sailors all know how to sail, but this isn’t sailing. The drivers all know how to drive, but this isn’t driving. It’s flying under the waves, and I think you’ll have an easier time of it. Your instincts will be the right ones.”

  Andan Cly thought about it hard. Slowly he said, “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve had a word with my crew, and everybody’s interested in giving your job a chance, but I’m not interested in getting any of them killed. Myself either, for that matter. So I think I’d better take a look at this submarine.”

  Deaderick once again hefted himself to his feet. “Rick, baby. You should stay here,” Josephine insisted.

  “The hell I should. I know that thing better than anybody, and I’ll show him around it.”

  Appealing now to Cly, and to Chester, too, she said, “But it’s been only a couple of days since he was shot. He should stay.”

  Chester wasn’t about to overrule Deaderick Early, and Cly didn’t know any of them well enough to intervene. So he said, “Josie, if the man says he’s fit to leave, you’d better let him. He’s kin of yours, so I won’t stand in his way.”

  She relented unhappily. “Fine. But Chester, do me a favor and get Dr. Polk and have him join us, will you?”

  “That achy old drunk?” Deaderick sighed. “I don’t need him watching over me like I’m a baby in a bathtub.”

  “I want him here in case you start bleeding again,” she pushed. “I didn’t go through all the trouble to drag you back to the bayou just to have you drop dead because you think you’re too much of a man to take a week and recuperate.” Then she turned to Cly and said, “He was at Barataria when the Texians raided. He took two bullets, and only by the grace of God is he still here living and breathing. He’s a lucky bastard, is what he is.”

  “Lucky to have such a devoted sister,” he said, and gave her a penitent kiss on the cheek.

  One by one they descended the ladder, and Chester Fishwick went in search of the doctor. Josephine called after him, “Tell him to meet us at the dock!”

  When everyone was back on the ground, Cly asked, “You have a doctor out here?”

  “Technically. He’s a drunk Federal who was drummed off the field four years ago for killing a man on the operating table,” Deaderick replied. “That’s a hard call to make—a man on an operati
ng table isn’t in the best shape in the first place, but if the doctor’s been drinking, I don’t guess that improves his odds any. Regardless, he patched me up out at Barataria, and Josephine brought him along.”

  “I promised him some of Wallace’s grain alcohol,” she said.

  Deaderick pointed at a path, a winding trail contrived from dirt ruts and planks that had been jammed into the mud for better footing. “We’re heading that way, down to the river.” He pressed one hand against his injured chest, and for a moment he went pale beneath the hue of his skin.

  “Rick?” Josephine asked.

  “Don’t, now. I’m all right. Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Hold on.” Cly stopped him. “See that oriental boy, badgering that old guy in the spectacles? That’s Houjin. Let me grab him. He’ll want to see this.” The captain rather wanted Houjin to see it, too. It wasn’t that he doubted the knowledge of the men who were guarding the Ganymede so jealously, but he wanted to get the fledgling engineer’s take on the matter as well. Sometimes the advantage of being young and bright is not knowing what’s impossible. “Huey, get over here a minute, will you? Get Fang and Troost if they’re handy.”

  Houjin looked left and right, and didn’t spot his comrades. So he shrugged and trotted up to the group alone. Cly introduced him. “Josephine and Deaderick Early, this is Houjin. He’s going to be an engineer.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Deaderick, and Josephine said something similar, though she looked at him with open curiosity.

  “A bit young, isn’t he?” she asked.

  “He’s young, but he does all right. Anyway, Huey—we’re headed to see the Ganymede. I thought you’d like a look.”

  “Yes, sir!” he said excitedly, and almost headed off down the trail without them.

  “Chester will tell your other men where we’ve gone, and likely bring them along with Dr. Polk,” Josephine assured Cly, falling into step beside him.

  He wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about being so close to her again, having been so far away for so very long. But this was business, wasn’t it? And they were friends now, weren’t they? Or couldn’t they be? It’d been long enough since the fighting, the arguing, the battling of wills. It’d been enough years that the good times seemed warmer, and the bad ones were weaker, more fuzzy. Harder to recall, somehow. Surely it was like that for her, too; otherwise, she wouldn’t have called him out.