Dieselpunk: An Anthology (8 page)

Missy Gin glanced up at Mr. Bourbon. Mr. Bourbon glanced down at Missy Gin.

“
Bring them,” Mr. Bourbon said.

“
What?”

“
Bring them on board the
Don’t Look Back
,” Mr. Bourbon said. “Surely you have no reason to keep them locked aboard your schooner.” He eyed — with the glass one — Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith considered, then nodded. “I will, but must it be in this main hall? They are very skittish, you know. Very leery of a here-an-ago they can barely tolerate. Surely you have a more private place?”

Missy Gin wasn’t going to say anything, so Mr. Bourbon answered: “For’ard crew cabin, fifteen minutes. An I’d like to watch while you bring them.”

“
Certainly,” Mr. Smith said, standing.

Mr. Bourbon glanced back at Missy Gin. “Seems we might all need to hear this,” he said.

Missy Gin nodded. “I’ll bring them as ain’t occupied.”

“
I’d appreciate that,” Mr. Bourbon said, then followed Mr. Smith out.

She did indeed. She took everyone she could, which wasn’t much. Some could let boychilds or girlchilds step in for them, but them as couldn’t was the helmsman (that was Father Cordial, who, holding the wheel one hand an taking his pipe out with the other, said, “You jes’ tell me what happens, an if they’s anythin’ I’n do.”), one of the elevators (that was Mrs. Vermouth, right eye steady on the instruments an glass eye out the window, who opined they ought to throw that plaguey criminal out into the Deep Blue before he woke snakes), the navigator (Sake-sama, who was with Vermouth on this one), the electrician (Fru Akvavit, who shut pan on the matter), an the fuel room attendees — that was Doc Bock the rigger an the Pálinkás Néni, girlchilds an boychilds a-help around them, surrounded by tanks of life-water tubed up into the great panners that filled the
Don’t Look Back
’s lifts.

An there was others, but I don’t care to tell you about them right now.

An so in that room there was these folks:

There was Sally Schnapps, a tiger-sized girl with wide-spaced eyes, a nose like a watchcase, an hair that never did no one good, her body atrophied an thin from the living that came on a Silver Mountain, her legs an arms braced round with mechanica that
click-humm
ed when she moved.

There was Dame Ale, a clove-dark shave-haired granma’am, all muscle an bone who was the
Don’t Look Back
’s engineer, with a head for any an all skyships you could think of, an even some you, gentle reader, couldn’t.

There was the Chevalier D’Absinthe, a tall an likely man all slicked up in a green coat with white stripes, looking piqued at being brung here instead of being at his work, which was at the helm alongside Father Cordial.

An there was Boy Rum, who was taller even than the Chevalier, though shaped a lot more like a fence post, an whose father was Sir Arak an mother was Baijiu Jie, an who, on account of his being here while his parents took their own trip to some here-an-ago, had to prove he could work a few Club trips without cutting no shines, which, on account of his being nineteen, was a right trial on the boy. He’d also took a powerful fancy to Missy Gin, who, though she didn’t care a bean for that soft emotion, did tolerate the boy, an did help him when she could.

An that was all. There was others, of course, of the Club, only they was working, an a few was off-ship visiting somewhere, like Boy Rum’s parents, maybe seaing the sights, maybe just at home, if they had one. The Kirsch Kid had took up daguerrography in an antiquated here-an-ago. Madam Sangria was off being a passenger herself, only not on a Club but on a paddleboat touring the islands of Even-Even. An Dr. Mead? Dr. Mead never told no one where he went, but judging from the books an maps I’d reckon that this time he’d gone off to that here-an-ago where they’s finally conquered that beast gravity, an are building great circuititious machines that jump out of the sea an into the stars. (You’d know this for sure if you could see the flight-letters between him an Dame Ale — the more she heard of these machines, the stronger she hankered to take her little aerostat an fly on out to that here-an-ago her ownself to see with her very own eyes that space they talked about between the stars; an well she should, for there weren’t no stars in the Great Blue, only in the here-an-agos, different stars in each one. I ought to tell you — she finally
did
make it out there an up there, an what she saw there…but that, dear reader, that is not the story I am relating to you now, an so we’ll put that aside for a spell, an maybe I’n tell you about it later.)

So, aside the crew that couldn’t make it, there was four people in that room alongside Missy Gin.

Well, she prepared them on who’d gotten on their ship, an I have to say, not a one of them was pleased to hear it. Sally Schnapps worried, an Dame Ale studied on it for a while, but the Chevalier D’Absinthe an Boy Rum was both right peevish. They raised all manner of ideas against Mr. Smith, but Dame Ale only said, “I’ll allow it wasn’t civil of him. But what I’d like to know is: what are a couple of Yesterdayers doing aboard with
him?”

An this Missy Gin couldn’t answer, though she aimed to find out.

An finally the door opened. The palaver stopped as Mr. Bourbon came in an stood back, just inside. An then Mr. Smith come in an the cabin went
quiet
. That didn’t seem to bother him none. He just come in an looked round slow, grinned like a tiger shark at chum, an said “____” out the door.

An through that door come two girls. They was thin an peaked an real, real pale, hair most the same color as their skin, dressed all in white, weird clothes, an you could see the Tomorrow Syndrome already on them: skin peeling off in dribs an drabs, leaving little gashes that tried scar over but couldn’t, making beigey-brown dots of dead skin in ruts an lines on their faces an arms an hands. They was breathing like they’d just run half-a-day, an the little one leant on the door as they come in. The older one was Boy Rum’s age. The other couldna been half that.

“______?” they asked.

Mr. Smith grinned. “
__,” he tole them. Didn’t look no more at the girls, then, just drew himself out a chair an sat. Him in the room’s middle an a quarter the
Don’t Look Back
’s crew arrayed round him an those two Yesterdayers behind him, an him sitting comfortable like he was out on a cruise.

“
Well, then,” he said, “now that the cargo are here, I believe we should get down to business. If there are no other objections?”

“
Cargo!” Sally Schnapps burst out, then shut her mouth. She was going pale round the cheeks with anger, but Mr. Smith didn’t pay her no mind.

“
They’ll be paying me once we arrive,” he said conversationally. “I hear their daddy’s a rich little man, an I’m sure he’d be duly grateful for the receipt of his daughters. All you need to do is get me there an back.”

“
Through to a Yesterday?” Dame Ale asked. “That’s a powerful lot of work you who’re a criminal is asking of us.”

“
Why can’t you do it yourself?” Boy Rum added.

“
Oh, the skill’s among the very many things I never took to,” Mr. Smith said, leaning himself back. “I would be quite a lot richer if I had, I can tell you that.”

Quiet from the crew. The older girl crept forward, level with Mr. Smith’s shoulder, an tapped him. He looked at her swiftly, an she asked, “
__________ ____ ________________?”

“
_________,” Mr. Smith said to her, an looked back at the younger girl. “____ ________ ____ __ ________________,  ______________ __ ___________, __ _ ___________________.”

“
What’s that you’re telling them?” the Chevalier asked suspiciously.

“
_______,” Mr. Smith added, an the two girls smiled, looking reassured. The older one went back to hold the younger one, an Mr. Smith turn himself back round. “Only what we’re doing here, an how the negotiations are going.
Are
the negotiations going? If not, I’m anxious to leave and find another crew more,” he looked at Mr. Bourbon, “
amenable
to my requests. You can see for yourself that these girls don’t have much time.”

An that, dear reader, they could indeed see. The Tomorrow Syndrome is not what anyone might call a pretty sight: it comes of Yesterdayers being out of their time. Not like here-an-agos, which generally all run on the same time, you know. There you might have different ages, sure, but they’ll all be of the same scale, mostly — one second is one second, one hour is one hour, one day is one day. But Yesterdays, ah now those. Those are where time is too fast for us, or too slow. If you’re lucky in a Yesterday, you just get stretched out slow, your body being slower than the time around it — that body of yours is choking-slow, those round you in a rush an whirl you can’t catch up to. But you go to a Yesterday where you’re faster than it, an your body, well, it’s got its own When, an so has that Yesterday. So you might be living in a place as ain’t fast, sure, but your body thinks it is, an it goes on as it always does. Only, that being far too fast for that Yesterday’s When, you will soon be wholly an bodily finished. Used up. Chewed up. Your body can’t slow, an Yesterday can’t speed up, an you, you’re caught in the middle. Your body eats itself.

An them on the
Don’t Look Back
could see it in these girls. They both had the too-new old skin blotching them, their bright hair was brittle, their nails rusty-edged, they walked like ninety.

So Missy Gin said, “I’ll go it.” For she knew she never could’ve lived knowing she could’ve helped them girls but didn’t. But she looked at Mr. Smith an she said, “but only on my ship.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible—”

“
Impossible nothing,” Missy Gin said. “We’s going on my ship. Or we could hold you up here an I bring these girls Yesterday on my lonesome. Up to you.”

Mr. Smith wasn’t happy with that, not no how. “I will not travel on any ship but my own,” he said.

“Yet here you are,” Missy Gin nodded round the cabin.

Mr. Smith looked round at them of the
Don’t Look Back
, then turned those blue, blue eyes on Missy Gin. He was quiet for a long time, then he stood. “A tug, then,” he said. An he said, “or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

Missy Gin thought of the long iron chain in the hold of her ship. Hook hers up front an she’d navigate, his ship on automation in back. It had a certain appeal, that appeal being that Mr. Smith wouldn’t step aboard the same ship as she.

“That’ll be fine.”

“
Good,” said Mr. Smith, an sat himself back down, all grins again. “I suppose if it’s so difficult, the pay scale is quite high. It generally is. How much will you be asking?”

“
What will the girls be paying you?” Mr. Bourbon asked.

Mr. Smith grinned. “We’ll find that out when I get them there.”

“Then you’ll have to foot your own bill for now,” Mr. Bourbon replied. He looked over at Missy Gin, an she showed two fingers. “Three thousand,” Mr. Bourbon said. “On account of that fuss you raised in the main hall.”

Mr. Smith was already reaching into his coat pocket.

The
Don’t Look Back
did have its one main dirigible, which was accommodations for crew an guests alike. But its lowest tier had a garage of little craft, all folded up an tied-down but ready to put into use. This was as sometimes guests took a hankering to see the Deep Blue up close, or maybe there was some urgency needed taking care of while a flight was on. Like this now.

Missy Gin’s own craft was called the
Tonic
, as was only right an natural with a name like hers. It was little an long, with its lifts inflating round masts for flight; but in the sea, them lifts could be deflated, wrapped an tied tight round the masts, an then sails rigged up for travel on the Deep Blue. Though sometimes the sea itself weren’t sure where it stood, an you needed them lifts anyhow. But that’s the Deep Blue for you, never knowing itself of what was sea an what was sky.

She drug it out to the main hangar an rigged up, an the Pálinkás Néni helped her kit up with flasks an casks an tanks of life-water. That filled the lifts. In the here-an-agos, there’s all manner of gasses, mostly expensive, mostly too much work to distill an restill an refine an extract an all manner of difficulty to deal with. But life-water vapor, now there’s a gas for you. It’s everywhere an anywhere in the Deep Blue, an it listens to you. If you’s dull or listless it don’t do much, but if you grow any kind of peart it sprys up at once an off you go. Doesn’t just have to do with being chirk, neither — you put anger round it an it takes off beautiful; you put a craze round it an off it goes. That life-water, you put any strength of feeling to it an it takes that an riles itself up, lifts you stronger than hydrogenium, an costs less, too. You just dip on down to the big Deep Blue, fill your panners, an set them to burn. Helps a wonder if you’ve got some strength of feeling, but even if you ain’t, that life-water will take you up.

An that Missy Gin, she sure knew how to handle life-water, because Missy Gin could
boast.