Ganymede tcc-4

by Cherie Priest

  How many men had died in these things, again? Had Josephine and Deaderick even told him the truth? Would they have lied, if they thought it would get them to their goal? Cly decided that in the name of fairness, he couldn’t speculate on Deaderick’s capacity for falsehood, but once upon a time he’d known Josephine very, very well, and he wouldn’t put constructive fibbing past her for one short second.

  And this time he wasn’t just risking his own neck.

  He looked over at Fang, sitting impassively in the central seat, since he was the smallest of the three men. Fang caught Cly’s stare from the corner of his eye, gave it back, and then winked, but made no signs to say anything else that might have been reassuring — or discouraging, for that matter.

  Cly thought of Kirby Troost, who had made enough trouble of his own for a dozen lifetimes. For Troost, this was nothing more than another adventure, one more job to augment a bizarre résumé, and he was entering it freely. But did he truly understand the stakes? Would it matter if he did?

  And what of Houjin, insatiable curiosity and all, game for anything? What if something happened to him? It was a risk every airman ran, at some point. Everyone knew that the sky was not always a hospitable place, and that not every pirate or pilot came to ground of his own volition. Huey was still just a boy.

  Cly was seized with uncertainty. What would he say to Houjin’s uncle if the worst should occur? For that matter, should the worst occur to the lot of them, who would tell anyone?

  Back in Seattle, Yaozu would wait and wonder with increasingly sour impatience, watching the tower and Fort Decatur for a shipment that would never come. And Briar Wilkes, who’d lost so much already. Would she wait weeks? Months? How long would she hold out hope before assuming the worst?

  He swallowed, or he tried. His mouth was dry. His nerves were frazzled, not that he would’ve admitted it. He’d been in tight scrapes before, hadn’t he? Plenty of them.

  None of them had ever involved spying, though. None of them had ever come with two governments — the Republic and the Confederacy — willing to shoot any and all comers. He found himself longing for the companionable violence of pirates, which only led him to think of Barataria Bay, and whatever was left of it … and his mood darkened further.

  In front of the rolling-crawlers, Norman Somers and Ruthie Doniker left their light on bravely, no doubt nervously, knowing that they’d draw the most immediate attention if any attention were to be drawn.

  The moment when the double-wide load turned out of the bayou and onto the main street was one accomplished with white knuckles, gritted teeth, and the grinding of wheels, accompanied by the surge and struggle of the diesel engines that powered the whole operation.

  And now they were out in the open. No cover, no canopy.

  It was late, but not so late that they were alone on the road. The way was not crowded, and it was trafficked mostly by men in riding crafts like the one Norman Somers drove at the head of the weird caravan. Norman waved at a few of them, even called out greetings, which were called back.

  The other drivers gazed curiously, or made a pointed effort to look away — as if by seeing nothing they could know nothing, and be forced to recall nothing later on. People averted their eyes and shuttered their lanterns, holding away what light they could in order to let the strange procession pass as if unseen.

  Onward they rolled, every yard a dreadful grind.

  New Sarpy was not a large place. Not quite a town, not quite a stop. It was more like a cluster of warehouses, shrimp docks, liveries, cargo bays, and old piers half-turned to mush by the soaking churn of the river. But the largest of these was a depot built a decade earlier for a street rail stop that never came. Boarded and disused, and within mere feet of the water’s ever-eroding edge, it was the perfect place to leave something large and not quite invisible.

  As the procession drew to a stop outside, Wallace Mumler and Rucker Little leaped out of their vehicles and ran to the giant doubled doors at the building’s north wall. Surely it had been meant to receive the cars themselves, shipped upriver, or maybe it had only been made that way for other incoming cargo of unknown size but conspicuous bulk. In seconds, the door — which looked firmly barricaded — was pressed open on hinges so silent, they must’ve been recently oiled and cleverly fixed to only appear so abandoned and impenetrable.

  As the men went back to their seats, Ruthie Doniker leaped down out of the vehicle and ran inside. She reappeared almost instantly, bearing a torch so brightly lit that it made the old depot seem fully illuminated. She waved it and retreated, guiding the joined craft forward — around the sharp corner that had them on the verge of overhanging the banks, but never quite slipping over the side. Backwards she walked, and the drivers followed her at a snail’s pace, creeping and creaking toward her, scraping the flatbed edges against the wide plank frames that held the massive doors. The whole structure shuddered but stood firm, and in a round of harrowing heartbeats, the Ganymede was finally inside.

  Twelve

  Josephine waited on pins and needles all day.

  She fretted, pacing back and forth between her upstairs office in the Garden Court and the desk in the parlor where either Hazel Bushrod or Marylin Quantrill held down the business end of things during the quieter daylight hours. Contrary to popular belief, not all of their business was conducted in the evening. There were a thousand other small beliefs to which brothels ran contrary, but only the regular patrons of such a place had any idea what really went on.

  Fenn Calais knew many secrets, but he kept them to himself, a fact for which even Josephine Early, a woman who detested most Texians — though fewer of them than before, it seemed — could give him a grudging ounce of credit.

  “Miss Josephine, I was wondering if you could tell me when Miss Ruthie will be back on duty.” The Texian broached the question delicately. “I haven’t seen her around much, these last few days. And I miss her lovely face.”

  “I’m quite sure that’s not all you miss,” Josephine said tartly. Her back was to the desk, and to Marylin and Fenn. She was holding the front curtain aside, peering out into the street, certain that any moment would bring word from the bayou boys that Ganymede was on the move — or that it’d be on the move momentarily.

  Rather than taking offense, as he might’ve been within his rights, Fenn Calais chuckled and said, “Truer words were never spoken. I was just hoping she wasn’t sick, or nothing like that. Is she even … is she here?”

  Josephine released the curtain, vaguely concerned by his query. He was openly fishing for information. It might be innocent, or it might not.

  She forced a smile that was cool but not unkind. “I do apologize, Mr. Calais. I didn’t mean to be short with you. We’re all a bit on edge these days, with all the troops moving outside.” As she said this, another row of brown-clad marching Texians went by on the street outside, and a rolling-crawler brought up the rear — its puffing, churning, fume-spilling body making the whole house shake with its passing. “Ruthie has been busy with some personal business these last few days. She’ll be back before long.”

  When the vehicle had finally gone, and the last of its rumbles gone with it, Calais said, “These are trying times, and don’t I know it.”

  Perhaps he saw the involuntary flinch Josephine made to hear him say such a thing. As if any Texian knew anything about the trouble in this, her city, her home. The occupation had changed the city forever — altering the trade, the population, the economy. It had made her city unwilling host to a few thousand houseguests who never cleaned up after themselves, bolstered a government that stood against everything Josephine believed in, and behaved abominably with impunity. Her home had become a prison, one she loved too much to leave and hated too much to tolerate — not without fighting back.

  Fenn noticed her silence. He continued. “I don’t mean to say it’s the same for me as it is for you. I’m only sad to see the state of the place, those stupid crawlers tearing up the curbs and rolli
ng over the plants. Did you know,” he changed his tone, asking almost lightly, “that I’ve lived here since before the occupation?”

  “I did not know that, Mr. Calais.”

  “It’s true. When I was a younger fellow, and less of a fat one, I suppose … I landed the hand of a Garden District girl. And before you say it, if not before you think it — yes, that was very lucky for me.” He settled into the love seat’s corner, filling it up as if his body were made of liquid. He sighed. “I was an oilman’s boy, or that’s how it looked on paper. My daddy went bust after his well dried up.”

  “But a Texas oilman’s son would be a good match for a Garden District lady,” Josephine said politely. The Garden District was a universe away from the Garden Court. The District was a neighborhood of lawns the size of city blocks, and houses as big as churches. It was home to the richest of the white people and virtually nobody else.

  “It was rather like being a bastard of nobility. Not a penny to my name, but property in Texas I stood to inherit. Her family let me in, though if they’d looked at us more closely, I don’t think they’d have done so. Within a year of us being married, her daddy died in his sleep one night — God knows what from — and a year after that, her momma drank herself to death, leaving no one but the pair of us and all that stupid money.”

  Something like venom made it into his voice. Josephine said, “Strange that you’d put it like that.”

  “Money can’t buy happiness, isn’t that what they tell us? Money can’t save a woman when she’s taken in childbirth, or the baby either. No matter how much more you promise a doctor, if he can only save the child.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Calais. I didn’t know you’d ever had a family, much less that you’d lost one.”

  “It was a long time ago. Nearly thirty years, can you believe it?” he asked, but the question was aimed inward, and he appeared to expect no response. “Left me alone with all that money, for all the good it’s done me. Except, I’ve found a comfortable place here — and thanks to all that stupid money, it’s a place I can afford to frequent with great … frequency.”

  Marylin piped up from behind the desk. “Mr. Calais! We do enjoy having you, you know,” she said, embarrassing her employer but pleasing the Texian on the love seat. “I’m so sorry to hear about your family, and I’m glad you’re happy when you’re here.”

  “When I’m here, and when I’m drinking.”

  “The two states are not mutually incompatible,” Josephine murmured, gesturing with a look at the cabinet where the “public” alcohol was kept, for distribution to customers. Marylin took the hint, dabbed at her eyes, and rose to pour Calais another beverage. He held a glass in his hand, but it’d run dry.

  Another round of Texian foot soldiers went stamping by, and Josephine moved the curtain again to look.

  Fenn Calais grunted appreciatively as his glass was refilled, and after a swig, he informed them, “They’re leaving, or that’s how I heard it.”

  She turned around quickly, the curtain edge still hanging from her hand. “What? Leaving? Leaving New Orleans?”

  “Not all of them. Didn’t mean to get anybody’s hopes up. Most of those fellows, though — they’re the ones who came out when Texas went after the pirate bay. Now that they’ve taken it, they’re heading home.”

  “Really?” Josephine asked. “They’re just … leaving it?”

  “They’re sticking a small garrison there, just to hold the place down. But whatever they were looking for, I don’t suppose they found it.”

  “I thought there was no such thing as small as far as Texians are concerned. Least of all when it comes to garrisons.”

  “So take the word small with a grain of salt. I know I did. I’m only repeating what I heard, that’s all. Some of the soldiers are heading out, leaving the bay.”

  Josephine closed the curtain again. “Do you think the pirates will take it back?”

  “Eventually? I’m damn near sure of it,” said the old Texian. “If you want my opinion on the matter, I’d guess it’ll happen sooner rather than later.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Because the pirates want it more than Texas does. But like I said, that’s just my opinion.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a cigar, which he proceeded to cut and clean. Running it under his nose, he took a deep whiff of the rolled tobacco and smiled before pulling out a box of matches and striking one up.

  Marylin smiled, too. That silly girl loved the smell of pipe or cigar tobacco. It made Josephine’s eyes itch, but considering how much money Fenn Calais had spent in the Garden Court over the years, it’d be daft to tell him to put it away, so she didn’t. Instead she resisted the urge to peek through the curtains any longer, for it would be suspicious — even to someone like Calais, who probably didn’t care.

  Shortly after noon — perhaps half an hour later — Marylin announced herself with a delicate knock on the open office door.

  Josephine jumped, for she’d once more been looking out a window — at the side street, this time. Watching the soldiers come and go. Watching the rolling-crawlers make their rounds, escorting the military men on their way through the too-narrow streets.

  “Yes?” she asked eagerly. “What news?”

  Marylin entered and shut the door softly behind herself. “No news, really.”

  “Have you a message?”

  “Nothing written, ma’am. The boy who did the running thought it’d be safer just to whisper.”

  “Did Fenn Calais hear a word of it?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s on the second floor with Delphine.”

  “Then what’s this news, or this non-news?” Josephine demanded quietly.

  “The Texians leaving town are making the scene too crowded, that’s the word from your brother. The bayou boys are holing up and lying low, with Ganymede inside the New Sarpy storage spot where they put it last night.”

  “Goddamn.”

  “It’s not so bad, ma’am. They got it there in one piece, and everybody’s safe, and nobody bothered them on the way. Everything is fine. They’re just going to wait for one night before they drop her into the river.”

  “That’s cutting it awful close. The Valiant … it won’t give them another night to try.”

  “I know, and they know it, too. But Deaderick said the Texians have been marching along the main road out of Metairie ever since dawn. Maybe they’ll be finished passing through by sundown, and maybe they won’t. Either way, the boys are staying put. It’ll be all right.”

  “It might.” She sat down and squeezed at the arms of her chair, knotting and unknotting her fingers around the padded rests.

  “What’s wrong, ma’am?”

  “I was hoping for a word with Cly before the boys went all the way to water. When they stop by the wharf, and I join the poling crew for surveillance, I’d hoped they’d pause so I could speak with him.”

  “Any special reason, ma’am?” Marylin asked with great and false innocence.

  “Not the one you’re thinking. Cly’s a good man and our time together was fine, but that was a long time ago,” she inadvertently echoed Fenn Calais. “I want a word with him because he’s been in Seattle.”

  “What’s Seattle got to do with anything?”

  “It might have a whole lot to do with the zombis.”

  “I don’t understand?…”

  “Neither do I, dear. But I’m working on it, and it’s coming together. Cly knows something important, something he hasn’t told me. I don’t know if he’s keeping a secret, or if it just hasn’t come up yet. But I need to ask him some questions.”

  “Does this have something to do with that Ranger who came by here last night?”

  “Ranger Korman, yes. And Madame Laveau, too, because she’s the one who put the pair of us in touch.”

  “It’s funny, ma’am, you working with a Ranger.”

  “I’m not working with him. We have a thing in common, that’s all
. We both want the zombis gone. It’d be madness to ignore him if he knows anything useful — and if he’s in a position to be helpful.”

  “And you think he can help?” Marylin asked.

  “Maybe. Texas isn’t real thrilled with him right now, and Austin might not listen to anything he has to say, but I guess we’ll find out. And Captain Cly might hold a piece to the puzzle, though I don’t think he knows it. It might be worth our time — once Ganymede is safely in Union hands — to put those two men’s heads together and see if they don’t crack some sparks.”

  “That’s a violent way of putting it, ma’am. I suppose for now we’ll hope for the best.”

  “No, we won’t,” Josephine said, rising from the seat, although she’d only just taken it.

  “We won’t?”

  “Well. I won’t. There’s plenty of daylight left. I’ll take the street rail out and have a word with the good captain before the sun sets. Maybe this delay is a good thing for all of us. I’m determined to find a bright side, goddammit.”

  “It’ll let you spend a little extra time together.”

  “That’s not the kind of bright side I meant.”

  “Didn’t mean to suggest it, ma’am.”

  “Oh, hush.”

  Josephine gathered everything she thought she might need for the trip, filling her favorite silk-lined leather bag — the only expensive one she owned, not that it looked half so fancy as the ones she wore with her best dresses. She wouldn’t need a cloak, but it felt like a shawl might be in order, so she threw a light gray one over a similarly colored dress and grabbed a parasol.

  With a few parting instructions to Marylin, she set out for Rue Canal to pick up the street rail line that would take her back out to Metairie.

  Norman Somers wasn’t hanging around the big lot where the transports parked, but Charlie pointed her in the direction of Norman’s brother, Swinton, who was more than happy to drive her the rest of the way to New Sarpy without asking any questions. Likely as not, Swinton knew the answers regardless, but Josephine didn’t feel like talking and the man didn’t feel like making her, so they rode together in silence to the small riverside settlement.