Ganymede

by Priest, Cherie

  The captain asked, “Then why are you going to all this trouble? Does the sap really make that much money, to make it all worth this?”

  A thin, slow smile spread across Yaozu’s face, and it was not entirely pleasant. “Oh, yes. And the potential for more money still is staggering. The gas—this punishing, brutal substance that killed the city above us—it offers us the means to save it. With better processing and more efficient means of survival underground, these doornails”—he used the white men’s slang for the underground citizens—“could make more money than Californians have ever dug out of their rocks.”

  “And you.”

  “Me?”

  “You stand to make a bundle, too, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely. But as I was sometimes forced to wonder, with regards to my former … employer, what does it profit a man to be wealthy, but to live in the midst of such…” He hunted for a word, and settled on one. “Instability? It was obscene to me, how much he could have done for this place—and how little interest he showed in doing so.”

  “So why don’t you make your money and leave? With what’s left of Minnericht’s stash, you could live like a king outside these walls. Everybody knows it. Everybody wonders.”

  “Everybody knows it?” Yaozu asked, his understated smile fixed in place. “I wonder what else everybody knows.” He gazed down the pathway and once more struck out for it. “But to answer your question, I stay here because I want to. I like this settlement where a man like me, or like you”—he gestured one long hand toward Cly’s chest—“can live undisturbed by others.”

  “But I don’t live here.”

  “You could if you wished; you’d fit right in. Perhaps,” he said, watching Cly duck to dodge a low-hanging support beam, “less so in the literal sense. I’ve often thought it must be strange to be a man of your size. Like Gulliver in Lilliput, at times.”

  Cly was familiar with the tale, and Yaozu wasn’t the first to make that comparison. The captain shrugged as he ducked another beam. “I’ve been big my whole life. You get used to it. I’ve known a few dwarfs—a couple of them pirates, and damn fine ones—and I’ve wondered the same thing about them. I expect it’s not so different, living in a world where nothing is the right size.”

  Yaozu murmured, “I know what you mean.”

  “There’s nothing strange about your size,” Cly observed.

  “Not my size, no. But outside these walls, I could be treated as a monster, evicted from my home, my property seized and my family sent away. It happens all the time in Portland, you know. Strange persons such as ourselves, Captain Cly … we may be very different from one another, but we recognize a kinship all the same.”

  In silence they traversed another few blocks, and all the while, Cly considered this. Finally he said, “I suppose that answers my question well enough.”

  “Speaking of fitting in … you’ve spent a good deal more time in the underground than before these last few months.”

  Cly flushed, and even the rattling lantern couldn’t hide the creeping color. “I’m not … Well. Maybe a little more.”

  “You protest too much, Captain. And look, here we are at the cross-paths before the vaults.”

  It was true. Their conversation had brought them all the way to the edge of a set of living quarters, the entrance to which had once been a great bank vault with a reinforced door in a reinforced room.

  Here, where people came and went more frequently, the labyrinth opened and the streets were packed cleaner, lined with planks or stepping stones held aloft from the perpetually moist floor. More lanterns hung, dimmed, from the end of every wall, and containers of fuel were stationed beneath them, left ready for any passers-through who might require them. Painted signs were affixed to walls or mounted to posts between the corners where mine-cart tracks split the right-of-way. These weathered rectangles held messages in handwritten black lettering and clearly marked arrows.

  UNION STREET, THIS WAY; SENECA STREET, OVER HERE; COMMERCIAL AVENUE, TO YOUR RIGHT.

  “So,” Yaozu said, clapping his hands together. “My appeal for your services.”

  “Yeah, that,” Cly said. “Sure, I’ll make your supply run. I’ll need some details, and a list, and a budget—”

  “Absolutely. I’ll draw up all of these things, and we’ll discuss your rate.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. I ask—”

  “Whatever it is, I’ll double it. I’ll need you back by the end of next month, and I’ll need my instructions followed to the letter. I’m fully prepared to pay for speed and quality service.”

  “That’s good, that you’re giving me a few weeks. Because I’ve been thinking…”

  “Yes?”

  “About making a trip to New Orleans.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. Real soon.”

  “That’s … quite a ways off, for a jaunt. May I ask why you’ve chosen such a destination?”

  “An old friend wants me to run an easy job, down there on the Gulf. It wouldn’t interfere with anything you’re asking—not at all—and New Orleans has everything you’re looking for.”

  “And then some, I’d bet.”

  “You’d bet right,” Cly said. He was surprised to hear himself selling the idea, but he sold it anyway. “It’s huge, and with all those Texians on the premises, you can bet I’ll find plenty of good industrial-quality wares. They’ve got the best machine shops on the continent.”

  “I’ve heard as much,” Yaozu said, considering the possibilities. “I wouldn’t have thought it’d be worth the trouble, to send you so far away. But if you’re already going … it might work out well for us both. Two of my engineers are Texians, or they were. They’ve been known to complain about things I can’t provide them—instruments and tools they wish they had, or equipment they can’t necessarily find on the West Coast.”

  Cly said, “Ask them what they want. I’ll get it for them. I’ll kill two birds with one stone, Yaozu—yours and mine.”

  “And you’ll collect two flight fees for a single trip.”

  “There’s that, yes,” the captain admitted, counting up the coins in his head. Between what Josephine was offering and Yaozu’s bold statement that he’d double the usual asking price … there was enough money in the trip to make major plans.

  Life-changing plans. Settling-down plans.

  The Chinaman contemplated the pros and cons, staring alternately into space and into the captain’s eyes. After a few moments of deliberation, he declared, “I like the sound of it! I’ll speak with my engineers, and you and I shall confer again shortly.”

  With that, he made a short, dipping bow and excused himself down the far passage to the right. He disappeared on the other side of a sign that said KING STREET. Before long, even his shadow and footsteps were lost to the buried city.

  Captain Cly stood in the moldering chamber, chewing over the conversation, replaying it in his head—trying to figure out how much to believe, and how much to accept regardless of whether it was true or not.

  Yaozu had been an unknown quantity back in the bad old days, suspicious for the obvious fact that he kept so close to a capricious madman. Even his fellow Chinamen didn’t trust him, for they had suffered too much at Minnericht’s hands. And Angeline, last surviving royalty of Chief Seattle’s reign, had made concerted efforts to kill him. Under the best of circumstances, it would have been difficult for the primarily white, working-class doornails to warm up to the oriental man with the educated voice and a millionaire’s manners. And now that he was running the empire that remained—whether it was by default, ambition, or some other power mechanism yet undetermined—the enigma of his presence was both a blessing and a curse.

  On the one hand, he managed an operation that peddled poison to willing takers. On the other, he’d done an admirable job of holding the underground together while leaving the doornails in peace. Therefore, complaining was kept to a superstitious minimum, as if Yaozu might change his mind or vanish, only
to be replaced with someone worse if too much ill were spoken of him.

  “Strange persons such as ourselves,” Cly recalled out loud.

  He resolved to await the list with an open mind and an open pocket, and he approached the great vault door.

  From the outside, it looked like the portal of an enormous bank—which it had been, once upon a time. The spinning lock jutted like the spokes of a wheel, and though the combination to this lock had been long-since lost or forgotten, it had been rigged to open to a different key. Now, when a visitor wished to come inside, all he had to do was pull a lever hidden beneath the panel. Unless the door had been barricaded from within, it would open with a tug.

  Cly lifted the panel and pulled the lever with its rubber grip and rusting hinge. With a creak and a low moan, the heavy door swung out, and Cly descended the uneven steps down into Briar’s living quarters in a basement beneath a basement, two cool, secure stories deep underground.

  Three

  Night at the Café du Monde was illuminated with strings of hanging lanterns anchored to gas lamps on pillars; candles in jars made the small tables bright enough for beignets and coffee blended with chicory root. These small bubbles of light pocked the darkness and gave the impression of privacy in public, a place where people might be seen, but they might not be observed. It was never quiet, always bustling with the kitchen fryers and workers calling back and forth, taking and filling orders. The café always hummed with the noise from the river off to one side, and the street on the other—ships’ horns and paddle wheels, horse carts and singing, drunken partiers, the patrols and bickering of soldiers, and the music of a dozen bands playing for their supper within half as many blocks.

  Josephine Early was careful to keep the lace from her gloves away from the candles, and the napkin in her lap was covered in powdered sugar—but not a drip of coffee. She was joined by Marylin Quantrill and Ruthie Doniker, both of whom nibbled and sipped along with her. Together they chatted about virtually nothing, and at length, until the four slowly sobering Texians at the table beside them finally rallied and staggered back to their barracks.

  Marylin raised the white mug to her lips, blew at the steamy mists of the still-warm beverage, and said, “We aren’t meeting much luck at the airyard, ma’am. Lots of fellows are interested in us, but only for the usual reasons.”

  “And we aren’t finding useful foreigners, either.” Ruthie, darker and by some accounts prettier, sighed and discreetly adjusted her bodice. She was thin as a waterbird, and twice as graceful. “Nothing but Rebels and Texians. And a very pretty Spaniard, but he wasn’t a pilot. Perhaps a new customer, though?” She lifted her mug and an eyebrow at the same time, and hid her smile behind her coffee.

  “A new one for you?” Josephine asked. “Be careful, love.”

  “A new one for me, maybe. He is very beautiful, and the Spanish … they are almost as easy as the French in these things.”

  Marylin asked, “What about you, ma’am? Have you found anyone to fly for us?”

  Josephine wrapped both hands around her drink, even though the night was almost hot and the beverage’s steam might’ve been too much for a woman who wasn’t accustomed to it. “I sent off a telegram to a man who might help us, if he’s willing to make the journey.”

  “For you? I cannot imagine a man would say no,” Ruthie insisted.

  “Hainey said no.”

  “But he had, how would you say? Extenuating circumstances.” Ruthie’s French was stronger than her English, but she practiced at every opportunity, working to expand her vocabulary. She said extenuating with the accents in all the wrong places. She was a voracious reader who had seen the word spelled, but never heard it spoken.

  Josephine corrected the pronunciation with context, rather than rebuke. “This other pilot comes with extenuating circumstances of his own. He’s terribly far away, for one thing. And for another, I suspect he does not wish to see me.”

  “Why?” Marylin frowned.

  “We haven’t spoken in many years.” That was all she offered. “It doesn’t matter. We need a pilot, and he’s a good one. If he’ll come, we’ll be lucky to have him. But it’s only been a few days, and the telegram had quite a distance to travel. I had to send it through Mr. Hainey, and wait for the message to reach the Washington Territory.”

  “Washington?” Marylin gasped. “That’s practically the other side of the world!”

  “Practically, yes. Realistically, it’s only two or three thousand miles.”

  Ruthie’s eyes narrowed with cunning, and a hint of mirth. “He must have a very impressive ship.”

  “Pirates usually do have good equipment, and last I knew of him, that was how he earned his living. And I know you don’t like pirates,” she cut off Marylin before the protest could be mounted, “but we can trust Cly if we have to.”

  To return to their previous conversation, Marylin asked, “Is he perfect?”

  Josephine considered the question. “No, he isn’t perfect. He’s just about the biggest man you’ll ever lay eyes on—if he hadn’t gone into raiding, he could’ve had a career in a circus, easy as you please. He could’ve been the world’s most amazing strong man.”

  Ruthie noted, “A very big man would not be good. The craft we need him to pilot … it was not made with a giant in mind.”

  “No, but he’ll fit. He was always good at working around his size, and unless he’s collected sufficient money to custom-build his own ship, I expect he’s still flying in cramped quarters today.”

  Marylin pondered aloud, suddenly sounding more optimistic. “You said he’s from Washington, ma’am. He’s not a Rebel or a Texian, but not a Yankee either—so the airyard will let him come and go, and that’s something.”

  “Furthermore, Cly never cared about the war, and he’s friends with Hainey, so he isn’t in a rush to kidnap runaway negroes home to the Rebs, not even for the money they offer these days.”

  After another sip, Ruthie said, “Good to know he’s not that kind of pirate.”

  “I wouldn’t employ that kind of pirate. It’s a goddamn ridiculous thing, too,” the madam complained, picking at the edge of a beignet. “Except for Alabama and Mississippi, there’s no difference between free coloreds and the rest anymore. It’s nothing but spiteful, Georgia putting up bounties and insisting on their return.”

  “But, ma’am, wasn’t Hainey one of the Macon Madmen?”

  “Oh, even if Hainey weren’t a bona fide crook, they’d want him back regardless. Nothing but spite,” she repeated. “I just can’t abide it. Anyway, Captain Cly isn’t that sort.”

  “I hope he decides soon. It’d take him a week just to get here, if he’s that far away—and if his ship is half as good as we could hope. And how much longer until you-know-who wants his report?” Ruthie meant Major Daniel Alcock, who intended to make a final decision on the Ganymede project within the next weeks.

  “End of the month. I could probably beg a few extra days through the start of May, but I’d rather not have to. It’d look desperate.”

  Softly, Marylin asked, “Ma’am, are we desperate yet?”

  Josephine bought herself a few seconds by taking a bite of beignet and savoring its fluffy sweetness. She washed it down with coffee and replied, “No. Not yet. But if Cly doesn’t respond within the week, I’ll have to assume he isn’t coming—and then we’ll be desperate.”

  She opened her mouth to add something, but closed it again when she spied two men walking toward the café. They were speaking in low tones, their heads too close together for either of them to be up to any good, and they both wore the brown cotton “summer” uniform of the Republic of Texas.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t look now,” she murmured. “I mean it—don’t look.”

  “Who is it?” Ruthie wanted to know. She lifted her mug and pretended to drink—while she only whispered from behind it.

  Josephine did the same. “I’ll be damned if it’s not Colonel Betters and Lieute
nant Cardiff.”

  Not only were they two of the highest-ranking Texians stationed in the city, but Lieutenant Cardiff was one of the investigators leading the search for the Ganymede. It was an open secret. Any Union spy or sympathizer knew about Cardiff and his wheedling into the affair of the “missing” craft. His name had become a watchword for the guerrillas in the bayou and out at the lake. They knew he was looking, and knew he was coming.

  For the time being, all they could do was hide from him.

  The look on Marylin’s face said she was exerting superhuman willpower to keep from turning around. “What are they doing?” she asked.

  “Conspiring.”

  Ruthie said, “They are going the wrong direction, yes? Barracks are back the other way.”

  “Hush.” Josephine lowered her eyes and leaned forward to touch Ruthie’s arm. She laughed lightly, and the other ladies joined in for the sake of show. Still wearing her pretend smile, she said in an ordinary voice—in case anyone should overhear them after all—“Perhaps you two had better run home without me. I have some business to attend to before I settle in for the night.”

  “Ma’am, are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. Besides, we left Hazel in charge. She does all right when things are slow, but she’ll want your help if business picks up.”

  Marylin and Ruthie understood, but they didn’t like it. Marylin fretted with her coffee mug and whispered, “But, ma’am, they’re headed—” She could only guess, since she was forbidden to turn and see for herself. But they weren’t coming toward her, so they must be walking away, in the other direction. “—down to the river, I think.”

  “Then that’s where I’m going, too. Chins up, ladies.” She slipped her hand down to her left thigh and patted a bulge that no one could see. “Little Russia and I will be just fine.”

  She rose from her seat and placed her half-empty mug on the table, then folded her napkin and put it beside her plate. Nodding coolly at her companions, she set out in the wake of the two Texian officers, who had now passed beyond her sight … but Marylin was right. Josephine knew where they were going. There was nowhere else to go, not if they’d taken that turn she’d seen—down the steps and away from the city lights.