by Paul Crilley
“Why?” said Octavia suspiciously. “Why is there no time?”
Tweed held out a coin to her. “Flip this.”
Octavia looked at the coin in bewilderment, then took it from him. She inspected it. Just an ordinary Crown.
“Call it and toss the coin.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Octavia sighed. “Heads,” she said, and flipped the coin. She let it fall to the carpet, where it landed head side up.
“Bugger,” said Tweed, staring at it in dismay.
“Tweed, what is going on?”
Tweed dragged his eyes away from the coin. There was horror in his face, as if Octavia's coin toss had sealed a terrible fate for him.
“Tweed. Tell me what's going on. Right now.”
“Yes. Right. Of course. After I dropped you off at the paper yesterday, I went back to Stackpole's.”
“Without me?” she said incredulously.
“Yes. Sorry. But it was a hunch. I just felt we'd missed something.”
“And had we?”
“No. But this was waiting on the doormat.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.
Octavia took it from him and read its contents. Finally, she looked up at him, confused. “He was traveling on the Albion?”
Tweed nodded. Then he took out the burned card and handed it to her. “Molock dropped this at the warehouse.”
Octavia examined them both. When she realized what she was looking at her breath quickened with excitement.
“When does it—?”
“Five hours from now.”
“And the coin?”
Tweed picked the coin up, examining it in disappointment. “Yes. The coin. The way I see it, we need to be on board that airship. But we only have one ticket. So I've had a busy night.”
“What have you done?” said Octavia, already dreading the answer.
“Well. I tracked down the list of employees on the Albion, specifically focusing on the wait staff. They're the ones able to get everywhere, and also the ones the rich ignore the most. I found out the name of the head of the wait staff. I got his address and paid him a visit.”
“You…paid him a visit?”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Yes. Please stop interrupting. I slipped some arsenic into his drinking water—”
Octavia held up a hand. Tweed frowned and stopped talking. “What?”
“You put arsenic into his drinking water?”
“Yes. I just said that.”
“Arsenic is a poison.”
“Only in large doses. I just gave him a drop or two. Enough to make him sick for a few days. Now, here's the clever bit. I then broke into the offices of the company that owns the Albion, and I fiddled with their paperwork.”
“I…” Octavia shook her head in amazement. Breaking and entering. Poisoning. What was next? Murder? “…No, never mind. Carry on.”
“I tracked down their employee records and put down a new name for the secondary head of staff. A certain E. S. Holmes.”
“Which is…?”
“Well, it looks like it's me now, doesn't it?”
Realization dawned. “Wait, that's what the coin toss was for? You were seeing who was going to get the cabin and who was going to have to work?”
“Fairest way,” replied Tweed.
Octavia was rather angry at this. He hadn't told her why she was flipping the coin. She preferred to know when she was leaving her fate in the hands of chance.
She was about to berate him for this, then forced herself to stop. If she protested, he might try to settle it another way. And she might lose. Which meant she would have to work as a servant on board the Albion, something she really didn't want to do.
No, perhaps just this once she would let it slide.
There was a knock at the door. Tweed gripped her by the shoulders and moved her aside. “Ah. This will be for E. S. Holmes.”
“Yes, about that—you used Holmes as a false name?”
Tweed shrugged. “It amused me.”
“And you gave my address?”
“Had to. Couldn't have Holmes living in Whitechapel, could I? The Albion wouldn't hire him if he did.”
Tweed opened the door to reveal a flustered looking man peering at a file while at the same time trying to straighten his spectacles.
He squinted at Tweed. “Er, hello, young man. Is your father in?”
“Father?” said Tweed, offense radiating from every pore of his body. “This is my house sir! My own!”
“Oh.” The man peered at the file, then stepped forward to get a better look at Tweed. “Mr…. Holmes?”
“The one and only, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Er…it's just…” he tilted the file to the light. “You're supposed to be twenty-seven years old.”
“Yes? And?”
“Well you don't look it.”
“You should see the state of the portrait in the attic,” said Tweed, and winked. Octavia rolled her eyes.
“Ah, yes. I see. A jest. I'm sorry. I don't have time for jests right now. I have a bit of an emergency on my hands. You are listed here as a secondary head of wait staff for the Albion. Is that correct?”
“It is indeed, sir. And proud to be.”
“Well, I'm afraid you've been called to duty. The Albion’s head of staff has fallen sick, and you seem to be his replacement…”
Even as the man spoke these words he frowned, as if wondering how they could possibly be true. But Tweed stepped forward and energetically shook the man's hand.
“Sir, it will be an honor! An honor, I say. I'll report to the Albion immediately. Fret not, dear sir. I will see to it that those layabouts from under the stairs are met with a firm hand and clear instructions. You know what these cleaning staff are like. If they've not got their fingers in the belongings of the guests, they're dilly-dallying in broom cupboards and knoffling in empty bedrooms.”
“Kn…knoffling?” said the man, clearly aghast at this heretofore unseen world of the serving staff. “What does that mean?”
“I wouldn't want to upset you, sir!” said Tweed. “A man of your status, why should your mind be sullied by such things? But don't worry, I shall report for duty within the hour. Good day, sir!”
Tweed closed the door on the befuddled man and turned to Octavia with a grin. Octavia gave him a polite round of applause.
“Not bad, eh?”
“Not bad. Now get out of my house. I've got to pack my cases.” She held out her hand. “Before you go, the ticket.”
Tweed reluctantly handed her the ticket and turned to the door. As he stepped outside, Octavia called after him, “And no knoffling with the staff!”
The heavens themselves had cleared for the maiden voyage of the Albion. Londoners celebrated the break in the grey clouds, greeting the icy blue sky with joy and laughter, as if reunited with a long-lost relative.
The Albion had been towed to Trafalgar Square overnight. It hung above the National Gallery, mooring wires pegged around the perimeter of the large plaza. The square was festooned with bunting, Union Jack flags strung between Nelson's Column and the even larger statue of Sir Charles Babbage. The fountains had been fed food coloring, and they now spewed red and blue water into the air.
Children tried to swing on the wires holding the Albion steady, but were chased away by stern-faced guards. And yet even these custodians, usually so tired and irritated with the naughtiness of little ones, couldn't help but smile behind their thick mustaches and beards. It was a great day for the Empire. A great day for Her Majesty.
Octavia disembarked from the hansom cab that had brought her from her home. At least, she tried to. Against her better judgment, she was wearing a dress, a tight, uncomfortable, billowing dress. With an accompanying umbrella. Made of cloth. Honestly. What was the point? Was everyone in the manufacture of women's clothing intent on making them as uncomfortable as possible?
Octavia studied the massive airship while one of the Albion automatons untied her travel cases from the cab. It really was a sight to behold. It wasn't an airship in the traditional sense. It used the same idea—airbags filled with gas—to keep it afloat, but the bags were attached to what at first looked like an actual ship from the ocean.
It was how she imagined Noah's Ark would look. A rectangular structure easily half a mile long and a quarter that in width. The scale was such that many critics thought it would crash back to earth within its first hour of voyage.
The automaton picked up her bags and led her around the edge of the square, heading for a wrought iron arch that had been erected on the west side of the plaza. Beyond the arch was a long line of ornate fencing and a red carpet that led all the way to the ornithopters that ferried the passengers up to the airship.
A woman in her forties was pushing an old man in a wheelchair ahead of her. Octavia slowed her walk while the woman fumbled for their tickets and handed them over.
“Very good, madam,” said the ticket checker. He looked to be in his early twenties and was dressed in a smart navy blue uniform with red epaulets down the arms and legs. His hair was swept back severely from his face. He was quite handsome, in a soldiering type of way.
He bowed when Octavia approached. “Good afternoon, Miss. And without sounding impertinent, may I just say that you've given my eyes some much needed relief?”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. I'm sure they're all very pleasant people, but you're the first person I've seen under the age of thirty-five. I was beginning to feel like a child in school again. The name's Ludgate, by the way. Edward Ludgate.”
“Should you be talking so freely to one of the guests, Mr. Ludgate?”
“Oh, I think I'm safe. You wouldn't turn me in, would you?”
Octavia smothered a grin. “You are impertinent, sir. And you presume too much.”
Ludgate winked at her. “Then I present my most humble apologies, Miss. Will you accept them?”
“I don't know,” said Octavia. “I'll think about it.”
“What's the hold up?” called a voice from behind.
Octavia turned around to see a tall, wrinkled man with the most voluminous side whiskers Octavia had ever seen sprouting from his cheeks. “All right granddad,” she said in her more normal mode of conversation. “Hold your horses.”
The man's eyes widened in outrage. Octavia glared at him then turned back to Ludgate and presented her ticket. He was staring at her with no small amount of wonder in his eyes. He punched a hole in her ticket, then stamped it and handed it back. Octavia returned his earlier wink. “Soldier on, Mr. Ludgate. Soldier on.”
Octavia rested her umbrella on her shoulder and stepped onto the red carpet. She decided she didn't want to walk behind the slow moving people in front of her so she moved around them, ignoring the tuts of disapproval as she did so.
She sighed. This was going to be a long trip.
There were three ornithopters ready. She'd never been in one, but they were the latest craze for those who could afford it—a small passenger transport that moved people through the air at speeds of up to ten miles an hour.
But these looked as though they had been modified. At the rear of each was a metal circle—an exhaust she reckoned—leading to a secondary engine. It looked like the exhausts were hooked up to Tesla Turbines, like the Albion itself. That meant they would move much faster than ten miles an hour.
She moved around the long wings, climbed into the back seat, and strapped herself in while the automaton secured her trunks.
“All ready, Miss?” called the driver over his shoulder.
“Ready,” said Octavia.
“Then off we go.”
The driver pulled a lever and the wings started to flap. She felt the contraption lift slightly and the driver pumped another lever until they rose completely off the ground. The driver pushed power to the thrusters, sending them skimming smoothly forward. Octavia peered over the side as Trafalgar Square receded below them, the crowds cheering the ornithopter as it did a circuit of the plaza, building up enough thrust to lift it higher and higher until they drew level with the airship.
Octavia stared at it in awe. Even though the Albion had looked big from below, it was nothing compared to the sheer scale of it when they drew closer. The top of the ark (as she now called it) was like some huge city street. Structures dotted the deck, ornithopters coming in to land, people running around like tiny ants going about their business. The gasbags that kept the airship afloat were as long as the ark itself, segmented and kept in the shape of a cigar with wires that looked to be as thick as lampposts.
The ornithopter banked slightly and moved through a gap in these wires. It headed for an area in the center of the ship and spiraled slowly downward to land on a clearly painted red circle.
“There you go, Miss. All safe and sound.”
“Thank you,” said Octavia, climbing out of the ornithopter. She looked around curiously as an automaton unloaded her bags. More flying machines were landing on the deck, coming from other parts of the city. There were even smaller dirigibles bringing passengers to the airship. They were small enough to slip between the wires and hover over the landing deck while their passengers disembarked.
A young woman wearing the blue and red livery of the Albion approached Octavia.
“May I see your ticket, Miss?”
Octavia handed it over. The girl inspected it and smiled. “Welcome to the Albion, Miss Stackpole.”
“Octavia, please.”
“I'm sorry, Miss. Rules. We're not allowed to call any of the passengers by their first names.”
“I see. Then I suppose Miss Stackpole will have to do.”
The girl checked the details of the ticket again. Then she looked at Octavia with wide eyes.
“You've got one of the best cabins on the airship, Miss Stackpole.”
“Have I really?” said Octavia, remembering she had a part to play. “My parents organized the whole thing. I'm supposed to be meeting them in Russia. I didn't even want to go.”
She saw the attendant's eyes flatten slightly, and Octavia silently cursed herself. She knew what the girl was thinking. Spoiled rich girl, everything handed to her on a platter, too snobbish to even appreciate the trip.
Octavia didn't want to play that person. Even for a short time.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't mean that.” Octavia thought quickly. “My parents are making me leave my suitor behind. They hope travel will broaden my horizons, make me realize I don't want to spend my life with him.”
The attendant's face warmed again. She looked around furtively and leaned closer. “What's his name?”
Octavia drew a blank, then blurted out the first name that popped into her head. “Sebastian,” she said. Then she did her own furtive look around, just to make sure Tweed wasn't anywhere nearby. She'd never live it down if he'd heard that.
“What's your name?” asked Octavia.
“Violet, Miss.”
“Pleased to meet you, Violet. Shall we have a look at this amazing cabin my parents have paid for?”
Violet smiled. “Right this way.”
Violet led Octavia through a door and down some stairs, entering a large greeting room. A bar ran along one wall. Couches and armchairs lined the others. Sunlight shone through slanted windows, casting squares of gold across the patterned carpet.
Octavia was handed a glass of champagne as Violet led her past the other guests milling around and chatting to each other. It seemed as if all of London's high society was in attendance. But not only London's. As she passed through the room she heard American, German, and French accents, and even some she couldn't quite place.
They moved through the room and into a broad hallway. Again, thick carpets had been laid down. Persian, if Octavia was any judge. Ornately framed paintings and mirrors lined the walls. It seemed as if everything had been done to make the Albion appear like
a stately home rather than a means of transport.
In fact, if Octavia had been brought on board blindfolded, then deposited in this or any of the other rooms Violet led her through, she wouldn't even know she was in an airship. The usual deep thrum she associated with dirigible engines was utterly absent, obviously something to do with Tesla's new turbines.
“Would you like the grand tour or would you prefer to be taken straight to your room?” asked Violet.
“Oh, the grand tour, I think,” said Octavia, smiling.
Grand was definitely the correct word. It seemed that the entire upper level, (there were five), was given over to entertainment. Reading rooms, libraries, smoking rooms, dining rooms, (one of which was Egyptian themed), and restaurants, two of which served only French or Italian cuisine. A casino, a croquet pitch with a glass roof that let sunlight in, a dance hall, a card room, and finally, an opera house. Octavia stared around in astonishment, not even trying to hide her awe. An actual opera house. In an airship. It was sensational.
Violet grinned at her amazement. “It's certainly something, isn't it? Just think how those of us who work below the stairs felt when we saw it for the first time.”
Octavia tore her gaze away from the tiers of seats, the ornate boxes that ringed the upper walls, the large stage that was easily the equal of the best London had to offer.
“Of course, it's not only opera,” said Violet. “There are plays, melodramas, farces, comedies…um, what else? A company that puts on Shakespeare plays. I'm sure I'm missing something, but there's a timetable in your room so you can see if anything catches your fancy.”
“Thank you,” said Octavia, for the first time feeling a bit excited about the journey. Up until now it had been about trying to find Molock, trying to find out what he did with her mother. But now she was wondering if she could actually have a good time doing it. Was that allowed? To enjoy herself while trying to find the kidnapper of her mother?
She felt a wave of guilt at the thought. Of course it wasn't allowed. She was here to do a job, not to enjoy herself.
“I'd like to go to my room now, please,” she said.
“Of course.”
Violet pulled the opera house doors closed and led her toward the center of the airship. “There's a moveable walkway that runs around the perimeter,” said Violet as they walked. “In case you're tired or simply want to rest. It's very safe.”
