by AJ Sikes
Aiden came out of the galley with the coffee in a pitcher and two steel cups on a tray.
“Only found the two cups back there. So who needs the java most?” he said, letting out a chuckle that fell flat instantly. One of the Negroes had come out to sit at Mr. Brand’s desk and now the mood in the cabin was nothing but glum, and two kinds of angry to boot.
“Hey, um—” Aiden started, but clammed up when he caught his folks aiming a look his way. He’d wanted to greet the Negro man right, just like Mr. Brand used to do when they’d come around driving delivery trucks up to the newspaper building. They’d always have a laugh with Mr. Brand, and sometimes slap him on the back like they were old friends. And maybe they were, from back in the Great War.
Aiden had never figured whites and Negroes were much different, except colorwise. But his folks had their own feelings about it, and the airship was too small for those kinds of feelings to get loose.
“You want some coffee, Pa?”
“It’s all right, Aiden. Go ahead. You and Miss Farnsworth can have the joe. Alice, c’mon. Let’s get back to bed.”
They stepped into the back together and Aiden watched them leave. He gave a little flinch when he heard the click of the bunkroom door.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Farnsworth turn to look at him from the cockpit.
“You said something about coffee. Isn’t that right, Aiden?”
“Sure enough,” Aiden said. “Right here, Miss Farnsworth.”
He moved toward Mr. Brand’s desk and drew up when he saw the Negro looking at him.
“S’okay, kid. I ain’t gonna bite. Couldn’t do anyhow, even if I wanted.”
“Eddie,” Miss Farnsworth said. “You should be resting back there with Otis, not up here chit-chatting.”
“Couldn’t help myself,” the Negro said. Aiden tried to think of him by his name, but the other word kept getting there first.
“Um, Eddie? I mean, Mr. Collins. Do you want some coffee?”
“Mister. Huh,” the man said with a hint of a smile curling his bruised lips. “Name’s just Eddie. And no, thank you, Mr. Conroy. I’m okay.”
In the cockpit, Miss Farnsworth let out a chuckle, and soon enough the three of them were sharing a quiet laugh, the first piece of good Aiden had felt for as long as he could remember. As they sailed on, the airship lights pushing away the night, Aiden hoped the good feelings would continue in New Orleans. A second later he thought about his folks and had to kick himself inside for being such a dope.
His pa had always been a little hard to swallow, especially when he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. But his ma . . . she was a sweet lady, always nice to him even if she did keep on him about finding work and making good on the family name. She’d been different ever since they left Chicago City.
Who’d blame her.
But still, something about his ma had changed. Maybe that fit she had when Mr. Brand showed up is what did it. Except Aiden had noticed it before they’d reached that mooring deck back in Memphis. His ma wasn’t warm and kind anymore. Like when they left Chicago City, everything that made her sweet got stuck back there behind them, leaving just the sour parts for this trip to New Orleans. Aiden stared at the dark corridor for a moment, wondering if he’d ever see his ma smile again like she used to.
Chapter 5
Emma slid out from behind the controls and let Aiden take over again while she got some coffee in her. She stepped back to Brand’s desk and stared down at her lover. “I still say you shouldn’t be up, Eddie. Go back and rest.”
When he didn’t say anything in reply, Emma tried a different approach.
“Hey, it’s me talking to you here. Your Lovebird. Remember me?” she asked, and instantly felt stupid for doing so. Eddie’s battered face and body slumped into the desk’s chair. His breathing was ragged and strained. Seeing him like this now brought a wave of guilt and regret washing through her.
If only she hadn’t gone gunning for Nitti. If only she’d left her father’s gun where she’d found it: in his lap, resting in his own bloodied hands.
Eddie coughed once and groaned. The copper had beat him badly, and every breath seemed to hurt him. He quivered with each inhalation and let it out slow and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance at taking in air.
“We’ve got Memphis behind us now, Eddie. Quick as we can we’ll be in New Orleans.”
“Okay then, Emma. Okay then . . .”
“What do you mean, Eddie?”
“I mean . . . I’m okay. You say we’re going to New Orleans. Then we okay. I’m okay, too. Just wanted to see you smile again. Help me back there now, hey?”
“Sure thing, Eddie. Sure thing,” she said, putting a hand out for him to grab and wrapping her other arm around his back. She pressed her hand to his side gentle as could be, and let him control every motion.
In the bunkroom corridor, she cast a nervous look at the door to Brand’s old quarters.
They’re in there. And they can stay in there for the rest of the trip.
Emma hated feeling like she had to defend her love for Eddie. She’d done enough of that in Chicago City, hiding from everyone that would have given her the business for daring to look Eddie in the eye without turning tail and running for the hills. And now she was stuck with people like that on an airship with nowhere to go for certain.
“We gonna get out of this, Lovebird,” Eddie said. “You wait and see. We’ll be fine.”
“I know, Eddie,” she said, helping him into the room across the corridor from where the Conroys were holed up. Eddie settled down on the bunk beside Otis and soon enough Emma heard his breathing relax. She kissed him on the forehead and pulled the blankets up over him.
Emma checked on Otis, too. He was still out cold and snoring deep.
Lucky man, she thought. Maybe the whole bunch of them would get lucky and New Orleans would have nothing but good news for all of them.
And maybe I’m the Queen of England.
Emma went back to the cabin to find Mr. Conroy standing at Brand’s desk and looking out the window. He had a strained look on his face. Aiden turned and nodded at Emma, his eyes glistening in the cockpit lights. He stood up and said he wanted to get some shut-eye, so Emma took the cockpit again and thanked him for spelling her.
“Keep at it and you’ll be a pilot someday, Aiden.”
Mr. Conroy nodded at his son, like he meant to express the same confidence, but his face still didn’t reflect it. Aiden’s face fell a bit more. He stepped into the corridor and disappeared from sight. Emma turned back to the controls and kept them steady.
“Your son’s not half bad, Mr. Conroy,” she said.
“Yeah. You’re right. Aiden’s a good kid. He’s got a lot to learn about how the world works, though. And call me Al, hey?”
Emma ignored the crack about Aiden, but she couldn’t let the second line slide. “I think your wife might prefer it if we kept first names for the ones we love,” she said, pivoting to face him. “I know I would. Okay by you, Mr. Conroy?”
A hurt look washed over the man’s face before it was replaced by a weak smile. “Yeah. Sure thing, Miss Farnsworth. That works fine by me.”
Emma’s stomach relaxed and it wasn’t until then that she noticed how tense she’d been. At least she’d gotten Happy Pants Conroy cooled off, or hoped she had anyway. She wasn’t worried about having to let him down hard if he got frisky, but the last thing she needed was Conroy’s wife getting more ideas about Emma wanting to cut in on their dancing.
“Look, Miss Farnsworth,” Mr. Conroy said, his voice shifting into a peacemaker’s tone. “I know we didn’t start out all right with you and those—” He stopped short when Emma whipped her head around and gave him both eyes, dark with fury. “I mean, your friends . . . back there,” he said, thumbing at the corridor.
“Go on,” Emma said, half wishing he’d say the wrong thing so she’d have an excuse to haul off and belt him. She’d needed to strike out at t
he world for so many things for so long, and at the same time, she kind of wanted the dope to say the right thing. Anything that would lead to the calm and safety they’d all lost.
“Like I said, we didn’t get off all right at the start. But you saved our lives flying this ship the way you did. And Al Conroy doesn’t forget a debt like that. Whatever you need from us.” He paused and gave a slow glance at the corridor to the bunkrooms. “From me, and I guess from Aiden, too. We’re on your side. At least until we hit New Orleans.”
Emma felt the stirrings of warmth in her chest, a hint of that calm and safety returning, even if just for a moment. Good ol’ Al Conroy was right. She’d gotten them all out of the soup in Chicago City and had kept it going on this flight to New Orleans. Maybe they weren’t much better off than before; they had nowhere but the airship to call home. But at least they were alive and didn’t have to worry about soldiers popping up to lynch them or gun them down without so much as a How do you do.
“I’ll stay up here,” Mr. Conroy said, still waving the white flag with his voice. “Until Aiden wakes up again. Unless you think that’d be a bad idea.”
“No, that’s all right. You’re the one has to explain it to your wife, not me.”
The man grumbled at the comment, but he didn’t press anything. Not yet anyway. Emma thought about telling him he could head back to the bunkroom, but she knew he’d balk. With one eye on the night and the other ready to look a dagger at Al Conroy, she kept them flying steady, much more alert than before.
~•~
Aiden’s eyes roamed around the small bunkroom. Across the hall, he knew, the two Negroes were crammed into an even smaller room. This one used to be where Mr. Brand would sleep. Tucked into the near corner was an old camp chair. It had to be Mr. Brand’s from the Great War. Even though the chair had seen some traveling, it looked like it could support Aiden’s pa, and Al Conroy was no small-fry.
The bunk itself fit his ma and pa fine enough. There was even a bit of room against the wall for Aiden to squeeze in, but that would put his pa at the edge of the bunk and as likely to roll off as stay put.
“Your father is a good man, Aiden. I can trust him,” his ma said from where she sat on the bunk, leaning up against the wall. She held a blanket around her and kept a pillow behind her back. Aiden didn’t know what he should say in reply, so he just gave an “Mm-hmm,” and hoped she’d drop it. It was good to hear her talking, though. After that fit she had, he was worried she wouldn’t ever talk plain to him again. And he figured he trusted his pa, too, even though a heavy knot in his gut told him not to.
Aiden’s ma shifted on the bunk. “You should try to stay warm, Aiden. It’s been an ordeal for all of us. Here,” she said, handing him another blanket from the bunk. He sat in the camp chair and pulled his legs up under him before he draped the blanket over himself. He felt like a tramp by a campfire, doing his best to stay awake while his ma talked into the room. Her old sunshine still hadn’t come back, but it sure was good to hear her voice.
“Like I said before, Aiden, you have to carry your weight now. You had a job back in Chicago City, so you know what real work means. You know how to show up and get in line. But it will be different in New Orleans, Aiden. It—”
She cut herself off before another word got past her lips. Aiden looked up at her, letting the blanket slip from around his face a bit.
“What do you mean, Ma? What’s going to be different?”
“You’re—Why you’re just a boy, Aiden,” she said, tearing up and holding a hand to her mouth. “And we’re taking you into that . . . that place. With nothing but—”
She didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to. Aiden could follow her gaze through the bunkroom wall and into the room across the way where Eddie and the other Negro were sleeping.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad, Ma,” Aiden said. She turned her red-rimmed eyes toward him, and her face sagged into a disappointed mask, like she doubted Aiden could possibly say anything truthful after what had just come out of his mouth. “I mean, Mr. Collins out there, he’s been—”
“He’s a Negro, Aiden,” his mother said. “He isn’t a mister, and you don’t need to be calling him that way. He’s just one of the boys down the block or across the street. They stay out of our way, and we stay out of theirs. That’s how it was back in Chicago City and that is how it will be again.”
“But Ma,” Aiden began, until she gave him a look that would have had a weaker kid wetting himself down to his boots.
Aiden clammed up and looked at the canvas ceiling. Up above and to the back were the engine rooms. He remembered Mr. Brand saying there was a mechanic’s cot up there.
Before he knew what he was doing, Aiden flung himself from the chair. Balling up the blanket and holding it against his chest, he wrenched the bunkroom door open. His ma called his name, but only half her heart was in it, and Aiden had lost his taste for hearing his mother’s voice. Still, he paused on the threshold, giving her a chance to apologize or say something that was more like the woman she used to be.
Nothing came. No words of comfort, no apologies. Aiden left his mother sitting on the bunk and stalked down the corridor to the ladder at the far end. He climbed up, keeping the blanket pressed between his chest and the rungs. At the top, he flipped open a trapdoor to reveal a crawlspace above the corridor. Aiden pulled himself up, trailing the blanket behind him. The space was tight, and the dull rumble of the engines pressed in on all sides. Still, he felt better here than he had back in the bunkroom with his mother.
Hadn’t she seen what happened during the Governor’s attack? All those white and colored folks holding hands and running together, helping save the other guy’s kids from the bullets and flames.
Chicago City seemed so far away now he could almost believe that what he’d been through was nothing but a dream. Some kind of crazy dream that he was stuck remembering like it was real. Like he’d really been there running through the streets with Mr. Brand while the Governor’s army threw everything it had at them.
Aiden wrapped himself up in the blanket and tried to wish the memories away, but he couldn’t get the images out of his mind. People getting shot down by those Tesla men or the soldiers that lurked behind them. Bombs throwing wood and earth and concrete into the air. The dull ache in his ears that came after every explosion roared into the night and away again in a cloud of smoke and ash and falling debris.
Blazing lights in every house on every street. Lights that flickered and danced, sending screaming families into the night. And Aiden scrambling along beside his boss, feeling for all the world like a fish so far out of water he might as well be in the desert. What could he have done, though? What could he have done to stop any of it from happening?
A fitful sleep came fast in the close space of the mechanic’s bunk. Aiden dreamed of monsters raging in the night, all claws and roaring and liquid fire that scorched the world.
Chapter 6
The street is cold under his feet. Brand shuffles in the early morning mists and tries to avoid frigid puddles of rainwater. His foot hits one, hidden by his shadow as he passes beyond the glow of a street lamp.
“Dammit!” he says, shaking the water off his bare foot. Brand hobbles to the sidewalk where he sits beside a rain barrel outside an abandoned storefront and tries to rub life back into his soles.
“What the hell do you people have against my feet?” Brand says, remembering the night Frank Nitti nearly toasted the skin from his soles in front of a furnace. Brand keeps up his hollering, waving an angry hand at the sky. “First it’s the ice box on that street. Then Nitti gives me the mob’s best remedy. Old Mother Nitti must have taught him that one, hey? And now it’s the cooler again, is that it?”
If the gods are listening, they don’t answer. But Brand isn’t surprised at their silence. They haven’t answered him yet, and he’s been hollering like a madman since he left Chicago City. He rubs his sore, cold feet now and mutters into his col
lar, forgetting about the gods and their plots.
“I should go back in the mud tunnels maybe. See if I can’t get a good coating on these dogs. Bake ‘em up good in the sun next chance I get. Or ask Nitti’s ghost to do the honors when I see him.”
Brand left the tunnels an hour ago. Or maybe just five minutes. He doesn’t know what time it is or why he’s suddenly free to sit on his ass and rub his dogs without worry. When he first reached the surface, Brand did worry. The street was clear and clean—too clean. He thought about turning tail, going back the other way to avoid an ambush the mud tramps had laid for him.
And then he was stepping down the deserted street in a city that he knew had to be New Orleans, or somewhere nearby. He felt the cold shock of cobblestones under his naked feet, and he was alone, entranced by the night, the smells of the city, and the quiet.
The hum of an airship motor brings him out of it. He looks up and sees the Vigilance soaring through the dark night, only a few blocks away. He stands, sets out at a run, and nearly falls on his face.
His legs buckle and his feet feel like slabs of lead.
“So it’s the slow dance up top, too” Brand mutters, catching himself on the rain barrel. “Fine. I know those steps.”
Now he looks at the Vigilance where it hangs in the sky, aiming to the west. The sun grays the dark, pushes the night aside. Brand stands. He shakes both legs, wraps his arms around himself and trudges on down the street. At a cross street he turns and spies a mooring deck in the distance. The Vigilance hovers in a circle around the deck and gradually begins her descent.
“Hold her steady, Emma,” Brand says, sending his hushed voice across the air with a cough. The cold seeps through his tattered clothes, and the scent of a lake comes to him on the morning breeze. He smells rot and sorrow, and remembers the trenches of No Man’s Land.
Brand walks slow, but sure. He places his feet with care, making certain to avoid any more puddles. In this moment, Brand isn’t sure he’s still himself, the newshawk who got the scoop on the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre only to find out the story led down a hole deeper than any hole ever could.
