Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  “Lipstick and powder will take you everywhere,” Mabel agreed.

  Alma didn’t try very hard to refuse, but as she changed for dinner, she regarded her new self warily in the long mirror. She only hoped Lewis liked it.

  She paused at the top of the two steps that led down to the dining room, bracing herself, and Mitch turned with a whistle.

  “Yowza.”

  Jerry peered over the tops of his glasses, looking slightly stunned, and Lewis came to offer his arm, neat in his new pale suit.

  “You look gorgeous,” he said, low-voiced, and she tucked her hand into his elbow with a quick grin.

  “A new look for the race.”

  “You’ll be the best-looking pilot in the bunch, that’s for sure,” Mitch said, and the bell sounded for dinner.

  “I hope she knows what you’re getting her into,” Mabel Kershaw said softly behind her, to Henry, but Lewis drew them away before Alma could decide whether to respond.

  The California sun was warm though it was only March, and Lewis took his jacket off the moment he got in the hangar. The good thing about working on the Terrier in Henry's hangar was that it was top-notch. There was every piece of equipment you might want, and all of it was good and worked right. Also, since Kershaw had built the Terrier, there was no making do with parts intended for a Fokker or a Ford. Everything was factory sharp, just what the boss ordered.

  The bad thing was that there were always people hanging around. Henry had a shop manager, one of his senior mechanics. A bunch of his designers worked out of this hangar. And he had a full crew all the time, tending to a couple of other planes either pre or post production. The Gilchrist Terrier that was going to be in the air race was a source of pride to everybody, and being alone with the plane was like trying to court a girl before her quinceañera. Alma had concluded that while a big robed ritual to bless the plane might be preferable, it was not going to happen. The magic was going to have to be in the paint job itself, in the repainting of the sigil on the Terrier's tail, rather than in a working that accompanied it.

  Alma and Mitch were already in the hangar, the sleeves of Alma's mannish shirt rolled up to her elbows as she stood by Mitch surveying the basic job. Henry's guys had put the first coat on, solid white from nose to tail, and Lewis had to admit it looked good. A lot better than bare metal, anyway, which was what they'd had. The wing tips had also been painted, a bright medium blue that Lewis frowned at. It would change the profile of the plane against the sky, make it harder to identify.

  Apparently Mitch had been saying the same thing, because as Lewis walked up Alma replied, "Yeah, but we're not worried about friendly fire! A little confusion might be good for us."

  Mitch put his hands on his hips. "It's pretty. I'm just saying that it will make us look like a smaller plane. It's going to make us look like one of the Fords from a distance."

  "Does that matter?" Alma asked.

  "Consolidated's colors are blue and white too," Mitch said.

  "They've got red on the tail," Lewis said, joining them. "You can tell us apart."

  Jerry came around the other side of the plane, pushing his glasses back on his nose. "I've got it drawn out and ready," he said, waving a piece of paper at Lewis. "Do you think you can do this?"

  Lewis took the paper and studied the design. It was a circle cut into four parts by an equal-armed cross in the center, like a compass or a Templar cross. An outer ring around the outside sported 'Gilchrist Aviation' around the top of the circle and 'Ps 22 16-17' around the bottom, all rendered in the same celestial blue as the wing tips. "I can do it that size," he said. "It's big enough. What, about 36 inches across there on the tail?"

  "Sounds good," Alma said.

  Lewis eyeballed it. "So the letters are a couple of inches tall. Sure. I can do that with a fine brush."

  "It's the Sixth Pentacle of Jupiter," Jerry said in a low voice so it wouldn't carry to shop employees. "It serveth for protection from all earthly dangers, regarding it each day devoutly thou shalt not perish."

  "Sounds good to me," Mitch said. "I like not perishing."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Lewis said. "I'll need a big compass or calipers or something to trace the circle onto the plane."

  "Fortunately I have one of those," Jerry said, his eyes amused. "Vital equipment for the modern magician."

  "Ok," Lewis said. "Let's have a look."

  The wind blew in through the hangar door, tinted with scents of a spring evening, lifting Lewis' hair off his brow and teasing the edges of the flaps as though the Terrier yearned for the sky. Not a terrier, Lewis thought. One of Diana's greyhounds, born to run. She was ready to stretch her wings over the whole continent.

  And she would. Pacific to Atlantic, over mountains and deserts and plains and bayous, over cities rising hopefully toward the sky. Celestial blue, the color of ocean. Lewis carefully traced the circle, going clockwise around with the paintbrush. Pacific to Atlantic, we will be safe. We will be safe under heaven.

  The cross was simple, broader brush strokes, clean lines. He'd seen it on airplanes before, not so different from the cross on the Luftstreitkrafte planes he'd fought against in France, only enclosed in the circle and without concave curvature to the arms, a compass that could never waver. A compass. Wherever they wandered, the Terrier would bring them home.

  Celestial blue, the color of sky.

  "That looks real nice," Mitch said, looking up.

  "Thanks," Lewis said.

  Jerry didn't speak, just nodded, not wanting to interrupt.

  Gilchrist Aviation across the top of the circle, Alma's name when he'd first met her, his family now. Lord protect us, Lewis thought, filling in the letters carefully with the smallest brush, the oldest prayer. Lord, protect my family.

  Celestial blue, the color of the Virgin's robe, the color of prayer.

  And the verse last. "They pierced my hands and feet. I may tell all my bones." A funny thing to paint on an airplane, he'd thought at first, but it made sense now. No matter what travail, no matter what sorrow, grace never wavered. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…" Lewis had walked through that valley. He'd been there more than once, but there was always morning on the other side. This was morning. This was bright day, everything he could reasonably ask for out of life — flying and friends and a bride who loved him, who he loved heart and soul. He hadn't thought he could love Al more, but he did, every day that he woke up and saw her open her eyes and look at him.

  Celestial blue for Alma's eyes. Celestial blue for love.

  Love carry us, and love bring us home safe.

  "It's perfect," Alma said as he finished the last letter. "Perfect." Her pride in him made his heart swell with joy.

  "You're very talented," Jerry said, and reached up to give him a hand down. Lewis hadn't realized he was so stiff. The sun was almost setting.

  "I wish I had more training," Lewis said. He might have meant painting.

  "We'll have to work on that," Jerry replied. There were too many people around to say more.

  "We need to get changed," Mitch said. "Henry's guests will be here any minute."

  "And the press," Jerry said.

  Chapter Four

  If Henry's previous parties had been sumptuous, this one was over the top. Alma looked around the terrace over the swimming pool with something like dismay. Red Japanese lanterns hung in long ropes, reflecting like fat moons in the still surface of the pool. A full orchestra was playing under a pavilion across from the pool house, white tie and tails on every one. There was a bar at the other end serving up French champagne and everything stronger, while a crowd of women in gorgeous evening gowns and men in black tie mingled around the pool, on the terrace and lawn, and through the wide French doors into the house where a buffet was set up. Here and there the crowd was livened by the occasional strobes of flash powder going off — reporters and their photographers snapping movie stars and aviators, sportsmen and executives.

  Al
ma tugged nervously at the hem of her dress. It was India ink blue, spangled with stars, her best dress rescued from the wreck of the airship Independence two years ago, and it was the nicest dress she'd ever had. Compared to the ones she saw going by, she might as well have been wearing a sack.

  "It's ok," Henry Kershaw said under his breath. "You look great." He took her elbow with an expansive and leonine smile. On her other side, Lewis looked as spooked as she did. Maybe more spooked. "I just want to introduce you to some people," he said, steering her through the crowd. "Aviation people. Our crowd."

  Alma refrained from saying that somewhere in the last ten years Henry's crowd had diverged a lot from hers. They'd all been in the same lodge once, all stood pretty much as equals when Henry and Gil had both left the Army Signal Corps at the same time, Gil to start a little air passenger service in Colorado and Henry to start one in California. Gilchrist Aviation was still a skin of the teeth operation, while Henry’s Republic Air had grown and branched and grown again. Apparently hobnobbing with Hollywood stars was now all in a day's work for Henry.

  "You've got to meet this guy," Henry said, steering Alma around a white-jacketed waiter, Lewis following along. He tapped a slight man with glasses on the shoulder. "Floyd! Glad you could make it, buddy!"

  The other man turned around, champagne glass in hand, breaking off conversation with the pretty twenty-something brunette beside him. "Had to come take a look at the competition, Henry," he said with a grin, shaking Henry's hand. "My boys are going to lick yours, you know."

  "Bah," Henry said good naturedly, pumping his hand. "Not with a Ford Trimotor, they won't! Why don't you put up a team flying your own plane instead of a Ford?"

  "Because you can't land a sea plane in the desert?" The other man grinned. "The Catalina's going to be big, Henry. You wait a year or two. The Catalina is going to dominate the market for flying boats."

  "But not much use in the desert," Henry agreed. "Floyd, I want you to meet my team captain. This is Alma Gilchrist — Alma Segura, she is now. She owns and operates the Terrier that's going to bring home the cup. Alma, this is Floyd Odlum."

  "Pleased to meet you," he said.

  "A pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Odlum," Alma said smoothly, hoping her nerves didn’t show on her face. She could have swatted Henry for not warning her. Floyd Odlum was the owner of Consolidated Aircraft, one of the biggest manufacturers in the country, and also a part owner of RKO Pictures. In aviation you didn't get much bigger.

  Odlum looked her up and down with a smile that was distinctly appreciative. "Much prettier than my team captain! Call me Floyd."

  "Floyd, then," Alma said, dragging Lewis to the fore. "This is my husband, Lewis Segura."

  "Mr. Segura." More handshakes.

  "Lewis won the DSC in France, and he'll be flying part of the race."

  "Flying together then?" The brunette beside Odlum spoke up, her smile for Lewis quite genuine, her eyes on Alma's face. "I can't imagine anything better than sharing the skies."

  Odlum put his arm around her waist. "This is Mrs. Cochran. Jackie flies too, don't you darling?"

  The brunette nodded. "Yes, but I've never entered a race."

  "Perhaps you will," Alma said. "We need more women in the air."

  "That's what I think too.” She lifted her chin, a surprisingly strong jawline on such a pretty face. "Are you going to win?"

  "Yes," Alma said simply.

  Odlum laughed. "Well, Henry, I'm glad to see your team has confidence."

  "And I have confidence in them," Henry said smoothly. "There's no better team out there. Mitchell Sorley is the third member, and he's a genuine ace. Mark my words, they'll bring home the prize."

  Odlum offered his hand again. "Well, good luck to you. May the best man win!"

  "Or woman," Jackie said, and her eyes met Alma's with a smile.

  Henry steered Alma off into the crowd again, Lewis trailing after silently. Alma hoped she didn't look as nervous as Lewis did. "Is she Odlum's wife?" Alma asked.

  "His protégé." He managed not to put a sneer in it. "She worked in a hair salon in New York. No idea how Floyd ran into her, but now she's flying his planes and sharing his house." Henry shrugged. "You know I could care less about other people's domestic arrangements."

  He'd certainly overlooked hers at various points, though Lewis bristled a little. He'd shared Alma's house and bed for months before they were married, and Henry hadn't said a word about them sharing a cabin on his airship. Of course he'd been possessed by a demon at the time, but he wouldn't have minded even if he hadn't been.

  "Smile!"

  Henry turned around, half pulling her around with him, a big smile on his face. "Hello boys."

  The newspapermen grinned back. "How about a big smile for the paper, Mr. Kershaw? Is this your team?"

  "Two of them," Henry said genially as Alma tried to plaster a smile on her face too. "This is Alma Gilchrist Segura and her husband, Lewis Segura, of Gilchrist Aviation. They'll be taking my Terrier to Miami and bringing home the prize."

  "Smile!" one of them said, the flash going off blindingly enough that Alma saw spots. "Smile!"

  "Where is Mitch anyway?" Lewis muttered.

  "Hiding," Alma said under her breath.

  Lewis finally escaped the throng of reporters on the pretext of getting Alma a drink. There was a bar set up by the pool and a couple of guys waiting for the bartender's attention, which at least gave Lewis a minute to think and cool off. Trying to be perfect every moment was nerve wracking, but apparently this was how the game was played. He couldn't help but wonder how much better Gil would have been at this than he was. It seemed like everybody had liked Gil, one of those guys who somehow effortlessly moves between different groups of people who can't stand each other and leaves everybody thinking he's a good guy. And after all, it must have taken some diplomatic skill to be married to Alma and carrying on with Jerry at the same time with everybody happy as a clam. Lewis couldn't figure out how anybody in the world could do that. After that, dealing with hordes of reporters would probably be child's play.

  Not that Alma ever compared them. She never said Gil would have done better. She never implied that Lewis wasn't up to standards. But still it was pretty clear that this was a world he'd never be at home in, one where he'd never be acceptable. No matter what he did, he'd be Alma's gigolo in the eyes of all Gil's old friends.

  There was a prickle at the edge of his consciousness, like a faint sound too low to hear, a prickle he was learning to associate with his sight. The last time he'd been to one of Henry Kershaw's parties all hell had broken loose on a psychic level, so Lewis started around, looking for the source of the trouble. Or was it trouble? More like a manifestation of some kind, work being done quietly and skillfully.

  There was another terrace down from where they'd set up the bar, screened from above by big bushes, but when he stepped away from the bar and the music Lewis could hear faint voices, two women talking. Another step and he could see.

  They were sitting at a cast iron table, chairs pulled close together. One of them was their hostess, Henry's wife, Mabel. The other was perhaps thirty-five or so, shorter than Alma and very thin, with black hair and long scarlet nails and a black dress. Her eyes were outlined in black like Theda Bara playing a vampire, and her face was powdered pale. She bent over the cards laid out on the table, a cigarette in a long holder in her hand, a little black handbag lying on the table by the cards.

  "I really can't tell anymore, Mabel," she said, peering at the cards. "As far as I can tell his ventures are just fine." She turned another over, showing the picture to Mabel. "See?"

  It was the cards, Lewis realized. The prickle was the cards and whatever she was doing to manipulate them. They were a focus for sight, just like Alma's pendulum was a focus for her affinity with earth. He'd seen old women tell fortunes with playing cards, but the pictures on these were unbelievably more complex, a full language of rich symbols rather than rudimentary forms. He w
anted to see them, to handle them and get a better look.

  She looked up, the black haired woman, and her ruby lips parted in a wide smile. "We have company, Mabel."

  Mrs. Kershaw turned around, momentary alarm flitting across her face. She relaxed when she recognized Lewis. "Oh! Mr. Segura." She beckoned for him to come down the last two steps. "I was just asking the Countess to read on Henry's wagers on the air race."

  "Um?" Lewis said.

  "It looks very good," Mabel said reassuringly. "The stars seem favorable."

  "I hope Mr. Kershaw bet on us," Lewis said.

  "Of course!" Mabel said. "Henry would never bet against his own team. I just couldn't resist asking the dear Countess to give me a teensy weensy peek into the future. She's absolutely the best medium in town, you know. Much better than those overpriced Hollywood ones." Her voice dropped confidentially. "You know she faces a terrible exile for her talents."

  Lewis blinked. "Do you?"

  "Oh yes." The Countess put her elbows on the little table, gloved hands clasped together with the cigarette holder between. "I was trained by Rasputin himself. And so of course when the Revolution came I had to flee for my life, darling! Of course I would have anyway, because of my rather distant kinships with dear Nicky. The Czar, of course. I called him Cousin Nicky. We were all so familiar at those rustic retreats at the dascha, just family and Rasputin!" She closed her eyes rapturously.

  "What do you do?" Lewis asked.

  "She reads the cards," Mabel said. "And she speaks with the Dead."

  "It causes me great suffering," the Countess said in her throaty voice. "But it helps set those poor souls at rest. What else can I do except put myself through the most excruciating agonies if it will bring them peace?"

  Lewis felt a chill run down his spine. It wasn't that he didn't believe it was possible. But surely of all magics that was the one that should be played with the least, the awesome and horrible act of disturbing the rest of those laid in consecrated ground, or of listening to the torments of those who did not rest in peace. He looked at her, frowning. He'd felt the frisson of real power. She was doing something. But speaking with the dead?