Chapter One The Devil's Fist
The storm boiled above the Indian ocean, a dark, bristling wall of cloud, blocking our passage west. We were still twenty miles off, but its high winds had been giving us a shake for the past half hour. Through the tall windows of the control car, I watched the horizon slew as the ship struggled to keep steady. The storm was warning us off, but the captain gave no order to change course.
We were half a day out of Jakarta, and our holds were supposed to be filled with rubber. But there'd been some mix-up, or crooked dealing, and we were flying empty. Captain Tritus was in a foul mood, his mouth clenching a cigarette on one side, and on the other, muttering darkly about how he was expected to pay and feed his crew on an empty belly. He'd managed to line up a cargo in Alexandria, and he needed to get us there fast.
"We'll clip her," he told his first officer, Mr. Curtis. "She's not got much power on her southern fringe. We'll sail right through."
Mr. Curtis nodded, but said nothing. He looked a little queasy, but then again, he always looked a little queasy. Anyone would, serving aboard the Flotsam under Tritus. The captain was a short, stocky man, with a greasy fringe of pale hair that jutted out beyond his hat. He was not much to look at, but he had Rumpelstiltskin's own temper, and when angry - which was often - his fist clenched and pounded the air, his barrel chest thrust forward, and his orders shot out like a hound's bark. His crew tended to say as little as possible. They did as they were told and smoked sullenly, filling the control car with a permanent yellow pall. It looked like a waiting room in purgatory.
The control car was a cramped affair, without a separate navigation or wireless room. The navigator and I worked at a small table toward the back. I usually liked having a clear line of sight out the front windows, but right now, the view was not an encouraging one.
Flying into a storm, even its outer edges, did not seem like a good idea to me. And this was no ordinary tempest. Everyone on the bridge knew what it was: the Devil's Fist, a near-eternal typhoon that migrated about the North Indian basin year-round. She was infamous, and earned her name by striking airships out of the sky.
"Eyes on the compass, Mr. Cruse," the navigator, Mr. Domville, reminded me quietly.
"Sorry, sir." I checked the needle and reported our new heading. Mr. Domville made his swift markings on the chart. Our course was starting to look like the path of a drunken sailor, zigzagging as we fought the headwinds. They were shoving at us something terrible.
Through the glass observation panels in the floor, I looked down at the sea, nine hundred feet below us. Spume blew sideways off the high crests. Suddenly we were coming about again, and I watched the compass needle whirl to its new heading. Columbus himself would have had trouble charting a course in such weather.
"Two hundred and seventy-one degrees," I read out.
"Do you wish you were back in Paris, Mr. Cruse?" the navigator asked.
"I'm always happiest flying," I told him truthfully, for I was born in the air, and it was more home to me than earth.
"Well then, I wish I were back in Paris," Mr. Domville said, and gave me one of his rare grins.
Of all the crew, he was my favorite. Granted, there was little competition from the hot-tempered captain and his stodgy, surly officers, but Mr. Domville was cut from different cloth. He was a soft-spoken, bookish man, quite frail looking, really. His spectacles would not stay up on his nose, so he was in the habit of tilting his head higher to see. He had a dry cough, which I put down to all the smoke in the control car. I liked watching his hands fly across the charts, nimbly manipulating rulers and dividers. His skill gave me a new respect for the navigator's job, which, until now, I'd never taken much interest in. It was not flying. I wanted to pilot the ship, not scribble her movements on a scrap of paper. But while working with Mr. Domville, I'd finally realized there could be no destination without a navigator to set and chart a course.
I did feel sorry for him, serving aboard the Flotsam. It was a wreck of a cargo ship, running freight over Europa and the Orient. I wondered why Mr. Domville didn't seek out a better position. Luckily I only had to endure it for five more days.
All the first-year students at the Airship Academy had been shipped out on two-week training tours to study navigation. Some shipped on luxury liners, some on mail packets, some on barges and tugs. I'd had the misfortune of being placed on the Flotsam. The ship looked like it hadn't been refitted since the Flood, and it smelled like Noah's old boot. The crew's quarters were little more than hammocks slung alongside the keel catwalk, where your sleep was soured by the stench of oil and Aruba fuel. The hull looked like it had been patched with everything including cast-off trousers. The engines rattled. The food quite simply defied comprehension. Slopped onto the plate by the cook's rusty ladle, it looked like something that had already been chewed and rejected.
"Think of this as a character-building experience," Mr. Domville had told me at the first meal.
Why the illustrious Academy used the Flotsam as a training vessel I couldn't guess, unless they wanted to teach their students how to mutiny. Captain Tritus, I'm sure, was glad of the fee the Academy paid to place me on board. For a heap like the Flotsam, it might have made the difference between having enough fuel or not. It made me long for the Aurora, the airship liner where I used to work before starting my studies at the Academy. Now there was a ship, and Captain Walken knew how to run it, and take care of his crew.
When I looked out the window again, I wished I hadn't. We'd been making for the storm's southern flank, but now it seemed to be moving with us, spinning out its dark tendrils. I looked at Captain Tritus, waiting for him to change our heading. He said nothing.