Much as they didn’t like it, the women had to admit that this was reasonable. Ruthie said, “In the morning, then. Tell me where you are staying, and I will come for you. I will take you out to Pontchartrain, and you will see Ganymede up close, and crawl inside, and show the bayou boys how to make her swim.”
“That sounds fine to me,” he told her. “We’ve got a couple of rooms over at the Widow Pickett’s on the other side of the Square. You can come collect us there in the morning. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go round up my engineer and … On second thought, you know what? Keep him. Or send him along when he’s ready to come back.”
With that he climbed to his feet, returned the papers he’d collected, and excused himself.
But Hazel said, “No, you keep those. And this one, as well.” She handed him another sheet, detailing the propulsion screw and the diesel engine, as well as its exhaust system. “Look them over. Make yourself familiar with them. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t let the Texians see them.”
Nine
Ruthie Doniker knocked on Andan Cly’s door brighter and earlier than he truly cared to see her, but he’d told her “morning,” and so it was morning when she came calling. When he opened the door, she stood there swathed in a green cotton dress too formfitting to be called plain, with a very light jacket that had a high cream-colored collar cinched around her neck. Before the captain had a chance to greet her, she said, “It is time to leave for your day at the lake, Captain Cly.”
“No kidding.” He blinked blearily. He was awake, but he hadn’t been for long. Not long enough to shave or wash his face, and only barely long enough to realize that Kirby Troost hadn’t come back to the room. “Well, I guess you can come on in while I get myself together.”
“Merci,” she said, and sidled past him.
“Have a seat wherever. Give me a minute, would you?”
He pulled out his razor and tried to forget that Ruthie was present and looking at him. It was easier said than done. Every time his eyes slipped away from his own face in the mirror, he caught her reflection and felt strange about it.
At some point, he paused with the razor braced under one cheek and asked, “So, Kirby. I guess he stayed at the Garden Court last night?”
“I guess he did. Marylin took care of him. He came here with me.”
“Oh. He did? Where is he?”
“Awakening your other crewmen.”
As he drew the razor across his skin, Cly realized that she’d never asked him if they’d agreed to take the job or not. Ruthie was assuming they would take it, as if she could bend reality to meet her whims.
He was glad he wouldn’t need to disappoint her.
The night before, he’d sat with Fang and Houjin after supper, showing them the schematics in the privacy of their room, where no Texians, Confederates, or other unwelcome eyes might take a look. Houjin had responded with enthusiastic glee—he would’ve risked a coin-flip’s chance of drowning for the mere opportunity to get a look at the Ganymede, much less crawl around inside it. His passion for all things mechanical would draw him to the lake even if they told him it’d cost a dollar and he’d get a beating when he arrived.
Fang had been his usual unflappable self, nodding his agreement to investigate the craft and, later, when Houjin could not see his hands, signing to the captain, Very dangerous? To which Cly had shrugged a maybe. Then, while the boy’s nose was still stuck in the diagrams and drawings, Fang had added, I will do this, for the Union.
Cly signed back, Didn’t know you cared one way or the other.
I care for the West. If the South wins, and claims new states, they will be states where men can be owned as slaves. If the North wins, maybe the new states will be … He paused. Not much better. But where freedom is declared, it can be negotiated. Besides, I liked Josephine. Smart woman. Easy to agree with.
“Easier to agree with her than to argue with her, that’s for damn sure.”
As Cly finished up his shaving, wiping down his face and neck, a knock on the door was followed shortly by the entrance of Fang, Houjin, and Kirby Troost, who touched the edge of his hat in Ruthie’s general direction.
Ruthie stood to her full height—three inches taller than Troost, though that was emphasized by the boots she wore—and announced, “If everyone is ready, we should go catch a carriage.”
“Shouldn’t we just grab the street rails, instead?” Cly asked. “Surely that’d be faster than a cabriolet.”
“A carriage to the edge of the Quarter, and then we can take the rails to the far side of Metairie, but no farther. Where we go beyond the City of the Dead … only trusted eyes may lead us.”
Together they followed Ruthie’s lead down to the street, where she nabbed a carriage in the blink of an eye, even though she needed a larger transport than was usually running. Before long, they were back at the street rail station where they’d first entered the city, and then on the car to Metairie, to Houjin’s continued joy.
On the way, Kirby Troost sat beside the captain. When Ruthie stood at the protective guardrail, likely out of hearing distance, the engineer asked quietly, “Are you sure about this?”
“No.”
“Me either. Did they tell you about what happened to Betters and Cardiff?”
“Who are Betters and Cardiff?” Cly asked.
“The Texians who went missing. They’re the reason New Orleans has a curfew.”
“No, the ladies didn’t mention it.”
“Josephine knows,” Troost said softly. “The girls at the house say she was there when they died. Do you know they’ve got a rotter problem, here in New Orleans?”
Taken aback, Cly gave Troost a hard stare of uncertainty. “That’s impossible. No gas, no rotters.”
“Impossible or not, that’s what they sound like to me. Except they don’t call ’em rotters here. They call ’em zombis. And I don’t think they’re made by the gas. I think they’re made by the sap.”
Cly considered this and said, “We’ve known for a while that the drug makes people sick, if they use it too long.”
“I think it does worse than make them sick. I think it kills them, and keeps them upright, just like the dead in Seattle. All I’m saying is, when you meet back up with this lady friend of yours, you should ask her about it. The girls say she saw the whole thing. Her and some voudou queen, but I don’t rightly know what to make of that part.”
The captain stayed hung up on the undead particulars. “I’m not saying there aren’t any rotters outside the city, Troost. Ten minutes talking to Mercy Lynch’ll tell you that much. But those rotters happened because a dirigible crashed, and the gas got loose—poisoning the air where all those people were. That was a mess of an accident, but I don’t think that could happen around here, not without people noticing it.”
“I’m not arguing with you. A big load of hungry dead folks didn’t just appear one night down by the river. They weren’t here ten years ago, were they?”
“If they were, I never heard about it.”
“That’s what I mean,” the engineer said. He was wheedling now; he had an idea and he was determined to share it—by verbal force if necessary. “They didn’t spring up overnight, but they’ve been happening gradual-like. One or two sap-heads, here and there, going so deep into the drugs that they didn’t ever come back. Then what happens if another one or two, here and there, does the same thing? And another few?”
“It’s a stretch, Troost.”
“I know it is. But it’s not a big stretch, and I don’t think I’m wrong. The streets aren’t crawling with them, not like in Seattle, but they’re a problem down by the river, and the Texians are on a rampage, trying to wipe them out and make the place safe again.”
“How do you know that?” the captain asked.
“You saw that Texian in the lobby, the fellow who practically lives there? His name’s Fenn Calais, and as long as you’re buying, he’s talking. You know what else he told me?”
“Go on.”
“He said that the raid on Barataria was an official operation, and Texas was looking for a ship—something they thought the pirates might be hiding, or in the process of smuggling out to sea. And when we saw them from the sky, watching over the bay, they were poking around in the water, weren’t they doing just that?”
“Doesn’t mean they were looking for—” He chose not to say the name aloud. Just in case. “—the ship we’re looking at.”
“All I’m saying is, I hope we’re not biting off more than we can chew.”
Cly grinned. “You don’t hope that. Not for a second. You hope it gets so messy, you can make your own fortune.”
“Goddamn, sir. You know me entirely too well.” Troost rolled a cigarette and stuck it between his lips, then lit it and puffed on it the rest of the way to Metairie.
At the Metairie station, they all disembarked and were met by a handsome, heavyset black man named Norman Somers. He greeted them wearing denim pants, a linen button-up shirt with a vest, and a big smile that did not appear practiced or false. If he was a spy or a man with a covert mission to attend, he was a very fine actor—or so Cly thought.
Ruthie gave Norman a kiss on the cheek, which he returned. “You must be the captain and crew,” he said to the rest of those assembled. “I hear your ship is out here at the Texian yards, over yonder.”
“Just on the other side of the station, that’s right,” said Cly. “Having a little work done while we’re in town.”
“You’ve picked a good shop. Mostly it’s run by Texians and a group of colored fellows from the Chattanooga schools. They’ll do good work for you. But I understand you’re here to take a gander at another fine piece of machinery, isn’t that right?” He did not lower his voice or treat the subject with any specific gravity, and this was no doubt for the best—given that they conversed in public, with dozens of passengers fresh off the street rails milling to and fro.
