“What the hell?” I said.
Chou talked while she continued to pick up more mud. “When you get to the Brimstone, if anyone asks, tell them you slipped down a hill and got separated from your partner.” She spread a handful of mud across my face, then applied a final streak across Miller’s name tag, hiding most of it.
“There,” she said, taking a step back to admire her handiwork. “Done.”
Freuchen stood with his hands on his hips, nodding appreciably at Chou’s camouflage skill. “I vould never know it vas you, Meredith,” he said, chuckling quietly.
“You should head back to the Brimstone now,” said Chou, “while most of the crew are still looking for us and before the rain washes the mud off you.” She told me where I would find the access hatch that would take me up into the balloon of the Brimstone. Made me repeat the directions back to her, just to be sure.
“What about you two?” I asked. “Where will you be.”
“Don’t vurry about us,” Freuchen said. He pulled the radio I’d seen Dupuis use earlier from his belt. “Ve’ll be nearby and listening on the radio. Vhen you’re done, come to the starboard exit and flash this three times.”
He handed me a flashlight he had taken from Dupuis. I took it from him and clipped it to my belt next to Miller’s confiscated knife.
“Don’t forget, try to avoid contact with the crew as much as possible,” Chou said. “Get up into the balloon and hide. Wait until you are confident everyone is asleep, then use the release valve on the bladder nearest the hatch. Do not forget to put your emergency oxygen mask on before you start.”
I nodded that I understood.
In the ten minutes or so between stumbling across the two crewmembers and now, darkness had begun to descend over the forest. To my right, through the trees, I saw a row of lights that roughly matched the Brimstone’s portholes.
“Wish me luck,” I said to my two friends, then turned and made my way through the trees and underbrush toward the lights of the Brimstone.
Twelve
Guards armed with machine guns were positioned at each of the two entrances to the Brimstone. I held my breath as I trudged across the uneven ground from the forest into the clearing, trying my best to look like I belonged. Suddenly, the beam of a flashlight illuminated me, and I almost froze. Instead, I forced myself to keep moving, raising a hand in greeting.
“You’re gonna break a leg if you’re not careful,” one of the men called out, while he illuminated the path ahead of me.
I was about thirty feet away when the second guard yelled, “What the hell happened to you?”
I shrugged and mumbled, “Slipped on the way back.” I hung my head as if in shame, trying not to let them get a good look at my face.
“Well, getcha self inside and cleaned up. Cook’s got hot food waiting in the galley. And don’t let the Cap’n see you like that; she’s as pissed off as I’ve ever known her, and she’ll have your guts for garters if she catches you in that state.”
I nodded my thanks and climbed up into the Brimstone’s gondola, pausing to listen for a second. The sound of voices from upstairs filtered down, but the corridor leading to the stern of the airship was deserted. The portholes were all open, which Chou had told me I would have had to open myself to allow the airship’s air-conditioning to pull the hydrogen throughout the vessel and force the air out of the Brimstone. Otherwise, the gas would simply sit in the balloon. That was one less thing to worry about, at least.
I followed the corridor to the stern of the airship. Chou had explained that there was an access ladder I could use to get up into the Brimstone’s balloon. I found it exactly where she had told me it would be, and I had my foot on the first rung when I looked behind me.
“Shit!” I hissed under my breath. A line of muddy footprints followed me. Anyone who saw them would know exactly where I’d gone and might start wondering why one of their own had come in from the search and immediately taken the ladder. I had no way to clean up my tracks, so instead of using the ladder, I followed the corridor another ten feet past it around another corner and stopped outside a door. I put my hand against the wall to steady myself and slipped first my right shoe off, then my left. I knotted the laces together and slung them around my neck, so they hung down on my chest, then I retraced my steps back to the ladder, checked that the corridor was still clear, and began to climb. At the top of the ladder, I eased the trapdoor open an inch and looked cautiously through the gap. There didn’t appear to be anyone up there, so I pushed the trapdoor all the way and climbed up and out onto a narrow gantry, slowly lowering the trapdoor behind me. I quickly undid my shoes from around my neck and slipped them on again. The gantry was fastened to huge ribs that made up the superstructure of the Brimstone’s balloon. The ribs were made of the same material as the gantry, some kind of hardened plastic-like material rather than metal, which reduced the ship’s weight and the chance of a static discharge, which could, in the event of a leak, cause an explosion. Standing here almost at the aft-section of the balloon and looking forward, it was like I was standing in the belly of a mechanical whale. The gantry extended along the whole length of the airship’s balloon, curving around the front and then coming back again on the opposite side. It encircled four huge bladders that reminded me of the Mylar balloons you could pick up at the store. The bladders took up almost the entirety of the space inside the outer skin of the Brimstone’s balloon. At four points, the gantry crossed between each bladder, connecting with the opposite side. Reached by two ladders, a second gantry ran around the top section of the balloon, allowing the airship’s personnel full access to the bladders from top to bottom. Along the bottom gantry, at the mid-point of each bladder, was a small recessed area. Each recess had a raised console and a flat computer screen that intermittently displayed large numbers and graphs. Below each computer screen was a control panel with a selection of knobs, switches, and dials, which I assumed were used to monitor the gas in the bladders.
Chou had told me that I needed to find an emergency respirator that she was certain would be up here somewhere. If I released the hydrogen without wearing one, it would take just a couple of minutes to render me unconscious, and a few more minutes before it killed me. I walked along the lower gantry but found no sign of anything resembling a respirator. Frustrated, I headed back toward the main ladder and found four of them hanging from hooks in a slight recess just at the top of the ladder. I’d missed them because I’d had my back to them when I climbed up from the gondola. Above the four respirators was a large plastic box. Inside were several cellophane-covered packs of the same material the bladders were made from folded into neat packages with the words EMERGENCY PATCH stenciled across each package. There were also tubes of what I presumed must be glue used to fasten the patches to the bladders in the event of a leak. I took three of the respirators from their hooks and laid them next to the hatch—one for each of us.
Chou had told me where to find the leak sensors, and I quickly tracked them down and did as she’d told me to do. The sensors relied on a gas-permeable membrane to detect any hydrogen leaks, not particularly advanced. Chou had explained they could be fooled simply by covering the membrane with a sock, of which Freuchen and the two dead crew members had supplied enough to do the job. I fished the socks from my pockets and worked my way to each of the eight sensors, then disabled them.
Now, all I had to do was wait for everyone to come back to the ship.
I waited next to the hatch, listening impatiently as the next forty-five minutes seemed to drag into an eternity. The men and women who’d been searching for us returned to the Brimstone, wet, bedraggled, and disillusioned—judging by the snippets of unhappy conversation I heard from those passing beneath my hiding place. Then gradually, the hustle and bustle began to fade away as the crew, exhausted from their fruitless efforts to recapture us, made their way first to the ship’s commissary for their dinner, then after several hours had passed, to their bunks.
I g
ave it another thirty minutes after the ship went silent before I lifted the hatch enough to see down into the corridor. The interior lights had all been dimmed, and I slowly eased the hatch up… then froze as a shape, his shoes almost silent against the anti-static flooring, stepped around the corridor, and made his way toward the ladder.
It was Jean-Pierre, the man who’d initially captured me. I froze. If I closed the hatch now, he would almost certainly sense it. Still, if I remained here with it open six inches and he looked up or, even worse, if he decided to climb up the ladder, it would be game over. He walked casually, a rifle slung over his shoulder. It must be his turn for sentry duty—something we’d not anticipated. He strolled up to the bottom rung of the ladder and placed a boot on it.
I held my breath. Don’t look up! Don’t look up! My mind raced to come up with some kind of a plan to get out of this. I was still covered in dried mud from head to foot; Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me. But then how was I supposed to explain why I was up here when everyone else had showered and headed to bed?
But instead of climbing the ladder, Jean-Pierre leaned his rifle against the wall and proceeded to tie a bootlace that had come undone. When he was done, he arched his back, cracked his neck, then stifled a loud yawn before picking up his weapon and continuing on his way.
I exhaled.
This was a new problem. If all this guy did was wander the hallways of the Brimstone, then he would be passing under this same spot every few minutes or so. The hatch was going to have to be wide open for the Brimstone’s AC units to pull the hydrogen down into the gondola. If he wasn’t exposed to the gas for long enough, he might be able to sound the alarm. Or worse, he might decide to take a shot at me and ignite the gas, and that would be it for all of us. I was going to have to delay and see how long it would take him to pass under the hatch again. I lowered the lid down, so only a sliver of light made it through, enough so I could see into the corridor, then started counting off the seconds in my head. I’d almost reached three minutes when Jean-Pierre’s shadow approached.
Was that going to be enough time? I didn’t know. But I couldn’t wait any longer. It was now or never. I started the count again as I slowly lifted the lid of the hatch, then picked up one of the emergency respirators and slipped it over my head. Instantly, the plastic eyepieces began to fog, limiting my vision. Nothing I could do about it now.
I moved to the first bladder. A tightly rolled ribbed-pipe that reminded me of air-conditioning ducting was coiled neatly around a spindle fixed to the recessed gantry. The pipe had a clamp of some kind at the end that matched a similarly shaped receiver attached to the skin of the balloon. The other end was connected to the bladder. I quickly unfurled the pipe and ran it over to the opening, threading a couple of feet of it down through the ladder’s rungs. I ran back to the bladder and tried to turn the large red knob of the bleed-valve.
It wouldn’t budge.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I mumbled under my breath, the words dulled by my respirator like I was at the bottom of the ocean.
I grabbed the knob with both hands and heaved with all the strength I could. It moved a little, then finally, with a creak that I was convinced was loud enough to wake the entire crew, spun smoothly in my hands. I kept turning until it would move no more.
I ran back to the opening, realizing as I did so that I had completely lost count of time in my head. According to Chou, hydrogen is odorless and colorless, but I thought I sensed a subtle movement of the air around me as the bladder gradually deflated, but that could have been my imagination for all I knew.
A minute passed.
By now, the hydrogen should be making its way through the ship. In theory, it would force the oxygen out through the open portholes and, if Chou actually knew what she was talking about, render the crew unconscious in under four minutes. Hopefully faster, if I was to escape being discovered by Jean-Pierre.
Time passed even more slowly as I sat crouched by the opening. I jumped suddenly when I heard someone in the corridor singing at the top of their lungs. They sounded drunk.
“Six hellish months have passed away, on the cold Kamchatka Sea. But now we’re bound from the Arctic ground, rolling down to Old Maui.” It was followed by a childish high-pitched giggle, then laughter, and then by another badly-out-of-tune line of what must be a shanty. This time it sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks; the voice was so high-pitched.
Jean-Pierre staggered around the corner. He was barely able to stand, reeling from one side of the corridor to the other, his head lolling back and forth while he mumbled the chorus of the shanty to himself. He bounced off one wall, then the other, then lurched forward until he grabbed hold of a rung of the ladder. He looked straight up into the hatch where I was hidden, staring down at him. For a moment, he seemed to sober up enough that I could almost hear the cogs whirring in his head as his addled mind processed what he was looking at.
“Hey!” he shouted, “you’re not supposed to be up there.” His words were slurred, like a drunk’s. “And why... why... why are you wearing a mask? It’s not Halloween.” He blinked three times in a row. Then he unslung his rifle and pointed it at me. “Take it off.”
I felt every molecule in my body suddenly stop as I became stone. If he pulled that trigger, the Brimstone would be turned into a huge fireball, and everyone on board would burn with it. I remembered the video I’d seen of the Hindenburg as it burned and fell to the earth; people running, scattering as they tried to escape the fiery ball of death dropping from the sky. I did not want to die like that. It left me with no choice. I sucked in one last gulp of air, then slipped the mask off my face.
Jean-Pierre gave me an exaggerated stare. “I don’t recognize you,” he mumbled. “What are you doing up there.” His words were melding into one long, slurred sentence now.
If I said something, I’d have to exhale the breath I’d just taken. I smiled down at him instead.
Jean-Pierre shoved the barrel of the rifle up at me, his finger caressing the trigger.
Well, shit! I let out the air and said, “I was just checking the… ummm...” It wasn’t going to be long before the gas did its thing to Jean-Pierre, but I could already feel the gas working on me. I was becoming lightheaded. Jean-Pierre’s face seemed to grow bigger, then smaller. My tongue felt ridiculously large in my mouth.
Jean-Pierre swayed, blinked a couple of times. “Get down here. I need to wake the Baroness,” he said, the barrel of the rifle just inches from my face now.
“No. No need to wake her. I... I’m here because...” I tried to think of anything, something, but my brain was already too cloudy to come up with an excuse even remotely believable. In a final gasp of desperation, I started to sing the first song that came to mind.
“I’ve been drinking, I’ve been thinking.” I gulped as I tried to force the rest of the words of Beyoncé’s Drunk in Love past my rapidly numbing lips. “Why can’t I keep my fingers off you, baby? I want you, na na.” My voice sounded like it was an octave louder than usual, and I tried to resist the urge to giggle. I knew inhaling helium made your voice sound weird, but I hadn’t realized hydrogen would have the same effect. Thanks for the warning Chou!
Jean-Pierre stared wide-eyed at me, then broke out in a smile. “You sound like an angel,” he squeaked.
I found myself smiling back at him. “Thank you,” I said and sang the lines over again, slower this time. My head was swimming like I’d downed half a bottle of cheap Chardonnay. The gas was beginning to really take hold of me. If I kept my mask off much longer, I was going to be too far gone to care what happened next.
Jean-Pierre stumbled to the base of the ladder. “I... think… you...” He stopped talking, blinked several times at me, then collapsed, his rifle slipping from his hands and clattering to the floor. I closed my eyes and waited for the fireball I knew was surely going to sweep over me... but nothing happened. When I opened my eyes again, he lay face down on the floor, unconscious.
I fumbled the
mask back over my face and cinched the straps tightly, breathing in long deep breaths, and rolled onto my back, staring up at the top of the balloon. A minute passed, then my head began to clear, but a residual headache throbbed behind both of my eyes.
“Come on, get up. Lives are at stake,” I said to myself. I staggered to my feet and, still wobbly, climbed down the ladder. A quick glance at Jean-Pierre told me he was still breathing. I crouched next to him for a few seconds, listening for anything that sounded out of the ordinary, but the entire ship was silent. We’d made enough sound that someone would surely have heard and come to check, which meant, fingers-crossed, that everyone else was out too.
Quickly, I jogged to the door, flung it open, pulled the flashlight Freuchen had given me from my pocket and flashed it three times toward the woods. Almost instantly, I saw the beam of another flashlight cut through the darkness. I jumped down onto the sodden grass, dropped Chou and Freuchen’s emergency respirators, and ran toward the nearest mooring line.
There were four in total. I was going to have to cut one and then slice that into smaller segments to use it to tie up the Brimstone’s unconscious crew. Chou had assured me that the remaining three lines would be more than enough to keep the airship on the ground, especially after I’d let the hydrogen out of one of the bladders.
I quickly found the mooring line and sliced it from the peg it was tied to, then rolled the line up as far as it went back to the gondola and sliced it again. Throwing the rope over a shoulder, I sprinted back to the Brimstone, aware that time was not on my side if I wanted to save the crew.
According to Chou, prolonged exposure to the hydrogen would eventually cause permanent brain damage, seizures, and finally, death. But since we’d landed on this other world, those rules had changed, and every injury other than full-on death could, apparently, be reversed by the aurora.
A Memory of Mankind: (This Alien Earth Book 2) Page 13
