by K. T. Hunter
I must be tired, she thought. I hear hens clucking in the distance.
"Ah, Captain!" a man's voice. "Jolly good to see you again."
They turned to see a man that might have stepped off the painted cover of Vanity Fair. His uniform insignia was so shiny that he practically blinded Gemma. She could smell the pomade in his hair -- Murray's Superior -- from five feet away. A pince-nez perched on his nose, and a thick handlebar moustache with the sharpest curls she had ever seen on a man concealed his thin lips.
He bowed to them. "Arthur Gordon Wallace, at your service. I am the official representative of the Terran Industrial Alliance's Ministry of Culture for this voyage. So pleased to see you again, Captain, Dr. Pugh. And who is this lovely young lady?"
As the captain introduced her, Dr. Pugh wandered away to talk to another man in laboratory brown.
"You had a pleasant trip, I trust?" asked Mr. Wallace. "We take great steps to ensure the civility of the ground and station crews."
Gemma sighed internally. As if politeness were the most vital aspect of hurtling through the sky at greater than the speed of sound. "Yes, quite. Thank you, Mr. Wallace."
"Excellent, Miss. I hope to see you again at tea tomorrow. We must remain civil, even when we are twenty million leagues from home. If you will excuse me, I must have a word in private with Captain Moreau."
She nodded and stepped away from them. Unsure of where she should go next, Gemma examined the crew bustling about her.
"Oi!" Yet another voice came at her out of the fog of noise. "Didn't I see you dancing in Luxembourg City a while ago?"
Gemma turned to see a wild-eyed crewman gawking at her. The leer on his face took her aback. She managed to squeak, "I beg your pardon?"
"I did! I did see you!" He clapped and shuffled about on the deck. His hunter green uniform -- which made him stand out from the other crewmen -- fluttered as he danced about. He shook his head in disbelief. "I swear there was a girl on stage at the Cirque du Lune not long ago ... she did that Oriental dancing with lots of feathers and little else. Lovely gams, she had! You're wearing a lot more now, to be sure, but come on now, be a lamb and do a shimmy for us."
He reached for her hips. She could not tolerate such behavior, especially as a precedent for a journey such as this. Mrs. Brightman had given her specific instructions for this kind of situation. Her hand stiffened in preparation to sting his cheek with a hard slap when Dr. Pugh appeared over the young man's shoulder.
"Shoo, shoo! Off with you, cretin!" The much taller naturalist pulled at the young man's ear, making him grimace. "A scientist wouldn't be caught dead in a burlesque show, you know that! Now go make yourself useful and swab the Oberth Deck or something." He pushed the sailor down the hall and shouted after him. "Or it's out the airlock with you!"
Pugh watched the young man's retreating elbows. "Pfffft. Booleans." He shook his head. "Good Lord, the people they let into space! You would think they would have had some sort of screening for this venture." He turned toward Gemma, folded his arms, and scowled down at her, as if he were just then realizing to whom he was speaking. "And what credentials do you bring to the table, Miss Llewellyn?" Dr. Pugh asked. "From whence does your dazzling fountain of geological knowledge flow? And who will get you when you return? Oxford? Trinity?"
It certainly wasn't pleasant; this drilling in front of a good portion of the crew that she would be living with for the next couple of years was profoundly inappropriate. She could not allow this to continue. With a sharp breath, Gemma drew herself up to her full height of five feet, one and one-half inches. She lifted her own narrowed eyes to look Dr. Pugh directly in the face.
"Brightman's Ladies' College," she announced.
He froze for a moment, and the sneer fell from his lips. "Brightman," he said. His mouth twisted to the left, then to the right. He swallowed, and his already narrow eyes closed even tighter, as if examining her through a microscope. It was a long moment before he spoke again. "As in, Mrs. Petunia Brightman?"
"Yes."
"The one that trains computers?"
"And scientists, Dr. Pugh. The very same."
"Ah. I see."
Pugh narrowed his eyes and grunted. His sudden silence was quite disconcerting. His eyes flickered from side to side as he confirmed that no one was within earshot.
"First science briefing is tomorrow," he said, with his voice hoarse and low, "two hours post-launch, in the aft laboratory conference room on the Research Deck. Maps are by the lifts. Don't be late, child, as I'm rather an exacting taskmaster. In the meantime, I will be checking in on the rest of the team. Look lively and stay sharp. Follow my lead, young Gemma, and you may just make it back to Mrs. Brightman's second-best parlor alive." He looked to her right and narrowed his eyes.
"You there!" he shouted and pointed to someone in the distance. "Be careful with that, lad! We want to give the tentacle-heads the flu, not ourselves! Oh, for Heaven's sake."
He lumbered away at what for him must have been a high rate of speed and muttered to himself. Gemma shook inside. He knew Mrs. Brightman? That was certainly unexpected. Now the question was, how much did he know? Captain Moreau's sudden appearance in the space the scientist had evacuated pushed those thoughts away.
"Pray don't fret about him," he said. "His bark is as sharp as his bite is toothless. Too many hours staring into the innards of aliens, I suppose." The young commander tugged at the hem of his jacket. "He may be the director of the Cohort, but I am still the captain. I won't allow him to be too rough with you."
He extended his hand to his right and gestured for someone to join them. "May I introduce you to another of our ladies? Frau Elsa Knopf, our head of housekeeping and an indispensable member of my crew. Her husband, Herr Knopf, is our resident gardener. They are the first married couple in space! Frau Knopf, may I present Miss Gemma Llewellyn, the geologist for the Cohort."
The lady inclined her head with an economy of movement. "Fraulein."
Frau Knopf was clad in a white no-nonsense chemise with thin blue stripes and straight sleeves with a distinct lack of puffs. Her sole adornment was an ebony cameo bearing a child's silhouette. Various tools -- scissors, magnifiers, and keys -- dangled from a chatelaine on her belt.
Moreau broke the silence. "Right, well and good, you've been properly introduced." He turned to Gemma. "For now, I must leave you to the gentle ministrations of Frau Knopf. She will show you to your stateroom. Allow me to bid you Adieu."
He touched his brow in a gesture of farewell and walked away with another officer in tow.
The matron pinned her with a stare of granite.
"Follow me, Fraulein," Frau Knopf said.
The noise of the cargo bay faded behind them as they passed through one of an infinite number of doors in the wall. They entered a lift, and it was an eternity before the doors opened to release them. Gemma's companion said little as they walked except to point out the deck maps beside the lift doors. The tools on her chatelaine clanked and tinkled with every step. As they wandered through an endless maze, they passed by what Frau Knopf called Men's Country. She got a glimpse of several barracks-style chambers, and she could hear the occupants' chatter echoing amongst the bare surfaces. What little she could see was grey, grey, and still more grey. Silver, chrome, and aluminum sparkled everywhere she looked. There was an occasional hint of India rubber amongst the metal. She saw no portholes, and she wasn't sure how deep they were inside the ship. Normally she had a good sense of direction, but right then she felt completely turned around. She had never been in such a place before. Even the steel-and-concrete monsters built on the ruins of Leatherhead and Woking were nothing compared to this severe and gleaming world. She felt dizzy.
They passed through a door guarded by a young crewman that acknowledged Frau Knopf as she approached. He started to grin at Gemma, but he quickly returned to attention when Frau Knopf pinned him with a glare.
When Frau Knopf closed the door, they crossed the border from a land of
metal to one of wood and wainscoting. The harsh ceiling light of the previous corridor gave way to the soft glow of wall sconces and frosted hurricane lamps. Wine-coloured carpet deep enough to swim in muffled their footsteps, and roses of every known shade of pink fairly dripped from the soft ivory and gold wallpaper. It was as if someone had squeezed the ink from Godey's Ladies Book and sprayed the juice onto the walls.
"We are now in Ladies' Country," the matron said without breaking her stride. "The men are not allowed here without express invitation from me, unless there is a clear and present danger to the ladies, with the possible exception of the captain." She fingered some of the keys on her chatelaine. "By the same token, you are not to venture into their area unless I direct you to. Today, we took the fastest route, but from now on you must take a different path if you must visit the cargo bay. I doubt you will ever need to. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," Gemma replied.
The matron continued in that vein as they turned left yet again, passing several wooden doors along the way, each marked with a number in the 600's. It felt to Gemma as if they were winding their way deeper into the ship. It was so quiet here –- except for the odd skittering sound behind the walls every now and then -- that if she didn't know better she would have thought they were alone on the ship. Did these blasted corridors ever end?
"The ladies' lavatory is here, just down the hall from your stateroom. The sailors call it the 'head'. It is communal. Do not leave a mess. Do not exceed your daily ration of water. We only have so much, and we will not replenish it for two years. Even with the recycling, we must make it last."
Frau Knopf's accent reminded her of an adventure in Munich with a chemist earlier that year. That time she had uncovered some fraudulent experiments that purportedly studied radium but turned out to be another waste of TIA science funds. Strangely enough, her findings had seemed quite welcome back at the College. Trying to hide her smile at the memory, she only nodded like the demure young lady she was supposed to be.
"You will make your own bed, every morning, and you will make it tight," the matron continued. "No one will be waiting on you hand and foot on this ship, Fraulein. I may be the Head of Housekeeping, and you may be a scientist, but this does not make me your maid. I run a tight ship! I make sure that things get done! And I will be inspecting your room from time to time."
Gemma merely dropped her eyes and nodded assent. After Mrs. Landry's strict housekeeping back at the school, Frau Knopf would not be a problem. She suspected that dirt would run screaming from the mere mention of this lady's name.
"Here we are," the lady said as they stopped in front of a door marked 615. She pointed to the latch that grew out of the door in the place normally occupied by a knob. "Secure the door, coming and going, always the doors," she ordered. "Also, there is a map of the rest of the ship as well as a schedule on your dressing table. Tea will not be served today, but I will bring you a small tray for your supper. Tea will be served at four o'clock tomorrow in my parlour on this deck. Please see the schedule for acceptable dress. Also, the ship's ladies meet for a knitting circle on Saturdays in my parlour after tea. Remember, promptness is a virtue."
Frau Knopf shut and latched the door before Gemma could reply. Gemma was alone at last for the first time in days. She looked about the room and saw that her steamer trunk, one she had aptly named "Old Dependable", had arrived ahead of her and in better shape than she had.
She ran her fingers lovingly over its antique lock, and then she retrieved her necklace from beneath the shelter of her blouse. She snapped the locket open and gazed at the image of the imposing matron that had sent her on this journey. In the photograph's sepia tones, it was difficult to discern the colour of the hair in that severe chignon, with not a strand out of place. Her roommate at Brightman's, Philippa, had whispered to her that it had once been as blond as Gemma's, but now grey ruled those formerly flaxen fields. Mrs. Brightman's disciplined and no-nonsense manner was captured perfectly in the tiny metal frame of the locket, packaged to follow her students no matter their posting. Commanding eyes that observed all and revealed nothing peered down an age-sharpened nose at the unknown photographer. One hand pressed into the arm of the straight-backed chair that held her. The other hand gripped a walking stick, and its ivory head of Medusa was barely visible beneath her fingers. Gemma could fill that bit in for herself; she had memorized its slithering locks over many years of being nudged back into line with it. She drew strength from her teacher's determined expression before she closed the charm.
Slipping the toggle at the end of the necklace's chain into the trunk's lock, she heard a satisfying click as the tumblers turned. She inhaled the smell of aged leather with a smile. In a life where her living space was as changeable as the weather, this trunk encompassed her only feeling of continuity, of home. As she opened it, she also allowed the compartment of her mind that contained her true self to open, as she only allowed when she was alone with the ancient trunk. The mask of the wide-eyed young scientist fell away, and her face relaxed into something more authentic. She took a deep breath as her own true thoughts unfolded like a fan that had been held closed for too long.
She examined her quarters as she unpacked. The chamber was small, but serviceable. A low bookshelf doubled as a headboard and nightstand for the bed. Everything had its twin, mirrored on either side of the room, down to the pink and gold roses on the porcelain washbasins at the foot of each bed. A pair of sturdy wardrobes occupied the space where one would normally see a window. A small desk stood between the foot of the bed and the wardrobe. It was the perfect spot for her copy of Lyell's Principles of Geology.
Where the walls in the men's quarters were flat grey, hers wore bright white, pink, and French country blue toile wallpaper. Ladies in Marie Antoinette gowns festooned with coral and azure ribbons danced among sprays of roses and Greek columns. A coordinating blue and white wedding-ring quilt covered the bed, and a folded white down duvet nestled by the footboard. The scene was a slice out of any of a hundred boarding houses in Guildford. It was difficult to believe that she was on a ship in the sky and not back in her room at Brightman's.
Since she was the fifth single woman aboard, and the other two pairs were already sharing quarters –- assuming that Frau Knopf shared quarters with Herr Knopf -- she had a double stateroom all to herself. It would make certain tasks all the easier. As she fingered the spine of Lyell's text, she wondered if Mrs. Brightman had had a hand in that, as well.
She pulled out a few more books, including a frayed copy of Jane Eyre; perhaps now she would have some time to read it. Dear Philippa had read it years before, during an illness that had brought her home from her long-term assignment at the Admiralty Computing Service. It had kept her confined for some months and had made her too weak to smile with those dimples that Gemma loved so well. Philippa had insisted that she read it, but that chance never came. Though she had never fully recovered her strength, she eventually departed for one last mission at the ACS. She had never returned.
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 stro
de 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."
