The Doomsday Vault

by Steven Harper

  “All fixed,” Alice said, donning her gloves.

  Lady Greenfellow turned around and stared. “I... see. Thank you.” Her words were stiff, more ice than gratitude.

  “Not at all,” Alice replied, feeling her heart sink. Clearly, having a woman—or perhaps this particular woman—rescue the mechanical musicians wasn’t going to provide the social coup Alice had been hoping for. Perhaps this would be a good time for her first swearwords.

  Alice went back downstairs as more guests arrived. She began to recognize people—girls she had gone to school with, attended dances with, discussed weddings and social outings with. They were all married now, attending the dance with their new husbands. And they all ignored Alice. When she approached, they glided away. When she stood still, they kept their distance. None of the men asked Alice for a slot on her dance card. Couples young and old whirled and glided across the dance floor. At first, Alice felt self-conscious and embarrassed, sitting at a small table by herself. Then she felt angry. Then she felt desperate. This was supposed to be her reentry into society, and—

  “Not going well, is it?” A woman in a startlingly low-cut blue gown plunked down in a chair opposite Alice’s at the table. “What a bunch of bores.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alice said. “I’m afraid I—”

  “Louisa Creek,” she said, extending a hand. She looked quite a few years older than Alice. Artful cosmetics couldn’t conceal a bad complexion or a beaky nose, though her thick black hair was coiled in a complex braided bun. Alice tried to guess at her age, but she could have been anywhere from her early thirties to her late forties. The dance card hanging from her fan was as empty as Alice’s. “You’re Lady Michaels—or you will be, once your father dies. We’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you. Terrible situation. The clockwork plague hits your family twice, and everyone treats the survivors like lepers. An apt simile, I suppose.”

  “I suppose,” Alice said. She found Louisa’s forthrightness shocking, but also a little thrilling. Daring. “Aren’t you afraid everyone will see you talking to me and begin to treat you the same way?”

  “It doesn’t matter who I talk to.” Louisa cracked her fan open and waved it nonchalantly. “See that... gentleman over there in the badly cut jacket? Ash-blond, a little short, talking to the bald fat man?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll eventually ask me to dance. And so will that man over there, the one hovering near the ice sculpture.”

  “How do you know they’ll ask you?”

  Louisa grinned. “They’re second sons, dear. No inheritance prospects. But I have pots of money, which makes me an enormous prospect, even if I’m that much older than they are. That’s why I can have a less-than-beautiful face and talk to lepers.” She smiled and patted Alice’s hand to show it was a joke. “Are you an Ad Hoc lady?”

  “Good Lord, no. Are you?”

  Louisa waved her fan. “I haven’t decided. Wouldn’t it just shock these stuffies? It’s been legal for us to vote for three years now, thanks to the wonderful work of the Hats-On Committee in Parliament, but if we take advantage of it, certain people act as if a cow wanted to recite Shakespeare.”

  Alice gave a weak smile in acknowledgment. Three years ago, the same wave of clockwork plague that had killed her fiancé, Frederick, had also incapacitated several prominent members of Parliament, threatening to cripple the entire government. In a surprise move, their wives took over their affairs, writing letters, giving speeches, and even voting in their husbands’ names while the emergency lasted. They created the Hats-On Committee, so nicknamed because the members didn’t remove their hats indoors. Rumors abounded of an anonymous benefactor who provided the committee with money and other resources, though nothing was ever proven. By the time their husbands died from the plague, this “ad HOC” group had gained enough power and support to push through one important piece of legislation: suffrage for women. Females could now vote and hold office, just like men. Legal sanction, however, didn’t always grant social acceptance, especially among the upper classes.

  “My father would have a fit if an Ad Hoc lady turned up in the family,” Alice said. “I wouldn’t do that to him. It would certainly ruin my chances here.”

  “How did you get invited in the first place?” Louisa asked.

  “Father called in a final favor.” Alice set her mouth, not sure whether she was going to laugh or cry. “This was to be a step forward for us. I would comport myself well, attract the eye of the gentlemen, and Father’s business contacts would start turning up again.”

  “Good plan,” Louisa said. “A damned pity it’s not working. Word has it you came unescorted in a cab.”

  “My maid twisted her ankle—”

  Louisa waved this aside with her fan. “It’s a good lie, but it fades when you repeat it. Be brazen! No one likes a beggar, even an invited beggar, so don’t act like one.”

  “But I need them,” Alice said, gesturing toward the couples on the floor.

  “Less than you think. You’re pretty and you’re smart, and that’s a deadly combination. Nice job repairing Lady Greenfellow’s cellist, by the way. Very Ad Hoc. If it had been anyone but you, the old bat would have been grateful. Oh look—here comes my first.”

  The ash-blond man in the badly cut coat Louisa had pointed out earlier came around the dance floor to the table. “May I have the honor of a dance?”

  “Let me check my card,” Louisa said, doing so. “I seem to be free. Shall we?” She gave Alice a final wink as her new escort led her away while the women who weren’t dancing murmured to one another behind their fans. Chagrined, Alice watched Louisa go. Perhaps it was time to slip away and go home. There was nothing for her to—

  “May I have the honor of a dance?”

  The man was older than Alice, nearly thirty, tall and lean, in a stylish Fairmont waistcoat and shining black silk coat. His brown hair and muttonchop whiskers were neatly trimmed, and his dark brown eyes looked pleasantly down at her. His features were attractive though not quite handsome.

  Alice was so startled, she forgot she was supposed to check her dance card. “I would be delighted, sir,” she said, taking his hand and rising. “But I don’t know your name.”

  “Mr. Norbert Williamson, at your service,” he said instantly. “And you, I believe, are Miss Alice Michaels. I’ve done some work with your father, Lord Michaels.”

  The orchestra ended the waltz and swept into a gavotte, precise and perfect as an ice sculpture. Norbert guided Alice to the dance floor and put his hand on her waist. Several couples gave them sideways looks, but most ignored them.

  “Everyone is talking about how you repaired the cellist,” he said as they moved across the polished wood. “Your father says you have quite a talent with automatons, Miss Michaels.”

  “That’s kind of him,” Alice replied, surprised. “I suppose it’s because I find automatons more interesting than people.”

  “Oh.”

  An awkward silence followed, and Alice mentally kicked herself. “But not tonight,” she added hastily. “I haven’t been out in so long, I’d forgotten how enjoyable it is. Dancing is so much fun, especially with a talented partner like you, Mr. Williamson.”

  She couldn’t quite bring herself to bat her eyes, but the flattery had its intended effect. His arms relaxed a little, and he smiled.

  “What do you think of the orchestra?” he asked. “Now that it’s working.”

  “They play very nicely,” she said, and let herself sway a little more with the rhythm. “I love music of all sorts, but I have no talent at making it. Do you play an instrument?”

  “I’m completely tone-deaf,” he said, and Alice was surprised at how deeply the admission disappointed her. “Lady Greenfellow’s players need to be serviced more often,” he continued, oblivious. “The cellist wouldn’t have seized up like that if I were in charge of it.”

  “Are you an automatist by trade, Mr. Williamson?”

  He shook his head. “M
y company makes machine parts. Automatons are a bit of a hobby. I think that’s why your father is trying to fling us together.”

  Alice’s heart quickened despite her earlier disappointment. This was the main reason she was here, then. Norbert Williamson was a marriage prospect. He swung her around, and Alice smiled up at him. Her job was to be winning and witty.

  “He shouldn’t need to fling anything, Mr. Williamson,” she said. “If you enjoy automatons, we have a lot in common. What are your views on the idea that Charles Babbage took credit for Ada Lovelace’s work with the analytical engine?”

  “I do enjoy automatons,” Norbert said. “But for the moment, I’d prefer to dance with a beautiful woman.”

  It was empty flattery, but it was nice to hear. They danced three dances before Alice pleaded the need to rest; Norbert immediately guided her back to the side tables and went off in search of refreshments. The moment he was gone, Louisa all but hurled herself into a neighboring chair.

  “Norbert Williamson?” Louisa said. “How interesting.”

  “What do you know about him?” Alice demanded. “Quick!”

  “Very little. He’s new to London. No title, so he’s not a peer. He bought a factory, and it’s making good money. He seems to have a lot of male friends, and for a while rumors were circulating that he runs with the bulls, if you know what I mean.”

  “Louisa!”

  “Oh, as if you’ve never come across the type.” Louisa laughed. “But lately he’s been showing himself at a lot of social events and sniffing around some heifers. He’s a traditional man, not Ad Hoc, and probably interested in your title.”

  “He wouldn’t get it,” Alice said. “It’ll come to me, and then only because Father has no male relatives. After that, it’ll go to my first son, never my husband.”

  “Close enough for us mere commoners,” Louisa replied. “Puff up your chest, dear. Here he comes with the petits fours.”

  Two more dances followed, and Norbert accompanied Alice to the buffet supper at one o’clock. Alice was starving, but she restricted herself to proper ladylike servings of veal escalopes, carrots Vichy, and gooseberry fool. Norbert, for his part, remained attentive and charming. Alice liked his company well enough, though she didn’t feel any of the pounding, heaving, or poetic emotions referred to in any of the poetry or... less literary work about romance she had read over the years. Norbert certainly seemed interested in her, and Alice did find that both heartening and satisfying. It was nice to know someone found her desirable.

  They were just moving back to the dance floor when a delicate brass dove fluttered into the ballroom and landed on Norbert’s shoulder. With a surprised look, he opened a small panel on the back, removed a slip of paper, and read. Alice took the bird from him and examined it. The delicate work on the feathers was particularly fine. The glassy eyes were bright and alert, and it moved realistically in her gloved hands.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Michaels, but a situation has arisen at my factory and I must leave,” Norbert said. “And here I was hoping to see you home. Do forgive me.”

  And then he was gone, the dove fluttering after him.

  “Everyone’s talking about you,” Louisa said, appearing at her elbow like magic.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Hard to tell. Norbert Williamson is the joker in the pack. No one knows what he’s really about, so they don’t know how to react to him—or to you, now. But they’re still not talking to you. The men are afraid of the clockwork plague, and the women are afraid that anyone who talks to you won’t be asked to dance by anyone good.”

  Alice sighed, suddenly tired. “Except you.”

  “There are advantages to having one’s own money,” Louisa said without a shred of self-consciousness. “Patrick Barton—the ash-blond one in the bad coat—is seeing me home tonight. And he’ll probably have breakfast.”

  It took a moment for the meaning to sink in. Alice snapped open her fan, scandalized. “Louisa!”

  Louisa laughed again. “You need to have more fun, Alice. Call on me, darling. I should mingle.” And she left.

  Exhaustion settled over Alice, and the ballroom air was loaded with heat from dancing bodies. She decided it was time to go. Lady Greenfellow hadn’t stationed herself near the door yet, which meant Alice didn’t need to bid her an official good-bye, though she would have to write a long thank-you letter later. She retrieved her shawl and allowed the manservant to open the massive front doors for her. The cool night air woke her a bit as the servant waved at one of the cabs for hire that waited in the circular drive. It was an old-fashioned one, with four wheels instead of two and a driver who sat up front. In the distance, faint music played—a haunting, compelling melody from a flutelike instrument Alice couldn’t quite identify. To Alice’s surprise, the servant handed the driver a sum of money and told him to take the lady home.

  “Courtesy of Mr. Williamson, ma’am,” the servant said, helping her in.

  Alice knew she should feel delighted that Norbert Williamson was expressing a continued interest in her, but now that she wasn’t dancing, the champagne was catching up with her and she felt only sleepy. At least Father would be pleased. The cab clattered and rolled through gaslit London streets with Alice dozing in the back. The faint music she had heard earlier grew louder, irritating rather than pleasing. Far off, Big Ben tolled the time with his familiar bells—two a.m.—and the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Alice roused herself and turned to look out the side of the cab.

  Facing her was a crowd of plague zombies. The first one reached for the door.

  Chapter Two

  Gavin Ennock let the last long note slide from his fiddle and fade away. He lifted the bow from the strings and cocked a bright blue eye at Old Graf, whose own eyes were obscured by heavy brass lookout goggles.

  “Ah, that puts heart into a man.” Old Graf sighed. His magnified gaze, however, never left the cloud-flecked sky ahead of them. A thin wind blew at their backs, not quite able to penetrate the pale, supple leather of the jackets and trousers they both wore. Overhead, the ever-present bulge of the airship’s gas envelope blotted out the sun, though in a few hours, the sun would sink behind them, and the decks would grow uncomfortably warm. The netting that hung from the envelope creaked in a familiar rhythm, and the ship swayed beneath it. A faint vibration from the engine propellers came up through the soles of Gavin’s boots. Far below, the Atlantic Ocean lay calm and flat and blue.

  Gavin inhaled the sea air. His hair, a pale blond bleached nearly white by the sun, fluttered against his forehead like feathers. Gavin’s face had lost its boyish roundness and acquired the more squared look of a man, but he was a little short for his seventeen years and had no hint of facial hair, two facts the airmen teased him about mercilessly. Old Graf never did, which was one of the reasons Gavin had come up to the lookout post at the front of the airship.

  A seagull coasted past with a thin cry that started on an E-flat and descended to a gravelly A. Gavin echoed the bird’s call on his fiddle, matching the pitches exactly. The gull cocked a beady eye at him, then dived away.

  “‘Blind Mary’?” Old Graf said.

  “How is that a song for a man on lookout duty?” Gavin countered with a grin.

  Old Graf continued to scan the air ahead of them. They were on the forecastle, the foremost section of the ship. An airship like the USS Juniper didn’t have a crow’s nest—the cigar-shaped envelope precluded one—which meant the lookout had to be as far forward as possible.

  “It’s a taste of home,” Old Graf said.

  Gavin set bow to strings and played. “Blind Mary” was an old Irish song, one of hundreds he’d picked up as a kid in Boston. In his head, he saw an old woman feeling her way along a country lane, and he let his fingers slide along the strings, playing her sadness and age. Gavin heard every note perfectly in his head. Each note, each chord, each song had its own unique sound, and it seemed impossible to him that anyone couldn’t tell them apart. A and
A-sharp were as different as red and blue.

  Gavin let himself play with the melody the second time through, wandering with it as if Mary had lost her way, stumbling, frightened, but finding her place again at the last second. Yet, in the end, the song still left her blind and alone. Behind them on the main deck, some of the airmen paused in their work to listen until the song ended. Old Graf fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “How is it that a seventeen-year-old cabin boy plays like an immortal angel?” he blurted out, then flushed slightly and coughed.

  “It helps to have a fine listener.” Gavin clapped him on the shoulder. “My gramps gave me the fiddle, but he said the music is a gift from God. And Captain Naismith says I’ll be a full airman soon enough.”

  Old Graf’s weathered face went pale. “Dear Lord.”

  “My being an airman isn’t such bad news, is it?”

  “Gliders. Straight for us.” Old Graf flicked the lenses of his goggles up and reached for the alarm bell. Gavin grabbed the spare lookout helmet from the rack, jammed it on his own head, and looked through the lenses as Old Graf yanked the cord. Bells sounded all throughout the Juniper. Through the helmet lenses, Gavin saw ominous birdlike shapes zipping toward the airship he’d been calling home since he was twelve. They were painted blue and white to better hide in the sky, and part of Gavin was impressed that Old Graf had seen them even as the rest of him tightened with fear and dread. He counted eight, and there were probably more that he couldn’t see.

  “What’s out there, Graf?”demanded Captain Naismith’s voice through the speaking tube at Old Graf’s elbow.

  “Pirate gliders, Captain,” Old Graf yelled back, flipping his lenses back down. “I mark at least a dozen.”

  “Which means probably twice that. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Can you see the main cruiser?”

  “Not—yes! Welsh privateer, probably with a letter of marque.” He squinted through the lenses. “Gondolier class. Semirigid.”