Everfair (32 page)

“We've done better than you expected, haven't we?” Mkoi was supremely pleased with himself. “Look. That corner where we stored the empty batteries is bare. All those we've made are full; no new ones will be ready for at least two markets. Maybe three?”

Tink hated to lessen the man's happiness, but he had been telling him the same thing since arriving. “These are good. But just good for boats. They're too heavy for the aircanoes.”

Mkoi's smile shrank. “Then why do you say you'll use aircanoes to carry them?”

Patience. “As freight, they're fine. For one shipment. But as a method of propulsion, over time…” He shrugged and turned away, exasperated. “I'm sorry. The Bah-Sangah earths are much better.” Why wouldn't Mkoi believe him?

Tink turned back to him. “I've reported to King Mwenda and the rest of the Mote. They've instructed Manono to return to making the earth engines. Of course no one can force you to do that, but this is a
war
.”

The smile was entirely gone. “Another war.”

That was why there was no more beauty in the world anymore. War had killed it.

Tink returned to the place where he slept, a small house on a little rise. The channel around it was flooded and the floor inside damp, but he'd put his belongings safe in his hammock for the day.

He unrolled the blank scroll of barkcloth Queen Josina had provided and stretched it out as best he could on the sagging hammock. In Macao he'd have a desk, ink sticks, brushes … He sighed and uncorked a jar of gardenia juice, dipping into it a reed he'd picked from its bed in a slow curve of the Lukushi.

“Your father will have as many batteries as he needs,” Tink wrote. “Maybe even more than that.” He used the English script the Poet had taught him. “It's hard getting Mkoi to go back to doing different tasks. The other dopkwes”—as the work parties were called—“proceed as normal, though. By the time the rains here lessen in January, they will have constructed and assembled a new aircanoe. By the time the storms cease in May, there will be a second, and before they begin again next August, a third.”

That covered one side. He considered the reverse while the black dye set. The workshops for the automatic shonguns were well under way. He didn't have any important information to add other than that. Questions, yes—about Rosalie in particular. Lily's little sister, the Poet's solace; he shouldn't want such questions read or answered. He rolled the scroll back up and slid it into its rubber-lined sleeve.

The men whose house Tink shared came in from their labors. Tam Gan and Tam Deshi were two of several Chinese who'd stayed in Everfair after Leopold's defeat.

They drank tea still warm from the refectory. Tink and Gan occupied the house's only two chairs, because Tink had found out he couldn't politely refuse the offer of a seat from the younger borther. Deshi insisted he preferred to stand after spending the day painting rubber onto inside-out gas bags.

When they were finished with their evening refreshment, Tink gave the package containing the scroll to Gan, who was traveling on the next barge up to Kisangani. This had already been arranged. But: “Are you sure you wouldn't rather take it yourself?” asked Gan.

“No, brother! You know he means to wait here till our sisters come so he can choose one as his bride!” Deshi said.

Tink tried not to show how much this gentle teasing troubled him. He had meant to marry suitably on his last two journeys to Macao.

Lily would not have been suitable. Rosalie even less so.

“I wait—but not for your respected sisters,” he told the Tams. “I will be flying with the reverend lieutenant to Nyanza Victoria.”

Where there would be no beauty.

 

Usumbura, Urundi, to Mwanza, East German Africa, January 1915

They had tethered overnight at Usumbura. Now they left. Thomas watched the growing dawn dim away the town's receding lights. He'd allowed the crews of both aircanoes under his command to disembark, but gave orders to return by four. Now it was shortly past six. In tandem with Everfair's newest craft,
Amazing Grace,
he turned
Fu Hao
northward, flying above the waters of the Rusizi River to Lake Kivu.

The wind was cool. Thomas buttoned his goat-hair sweater and tucked it into the waistband of his canvas skirt.

At first he'd rebelled against Loango's directive to him to wear women's clothing. In the last hours of his initiation the pronouncement had appeared to issue from Thomas's own lips, according to those who watched him dance. Hearing their report as he rested afterward, he refused to believe the notoriety that would ensue was necessary. He hunted down his trousers where the Bah-Sangah and Bah-Holo-Holo hid them and put them on despite their worried looks and cryptic remarks about keeping the god's balance.

But soon he experienced a terrible, itching, oozing rash on his legs. Then came the dreams. He persisted stubbornly in thinking of them as dreams. Nightmares, to tell the truth, of blind worms creeping relentlessly over the Earth.

Since he'd given in to the inexplicable dictates of his god, his hideous nightmares had ceased to trouble him. His wounds had healed.

Full daylight. There was really nothing more to be seen from the stern, but his … flock, he had to call them … kept a chair for Thomas here, and a table stocked with his needs: pipe and tobacco, a miniature lamp, oil to soothe his chronically chapped hands, a pencil, and a prayer book whose wide margins he'd filled with notes. He settled himself in his seat. A woman served him chocolate tea warm with pepper and left so he could drink.

He was beginning his second cup when the first petitioner appeared. A young man. He and his fellow fighters wanted to be dropped—using jumpsheets, of course—into the valley between Lake Kivu and Lake Edward. But that would no doubt lead to discovery. Thomas persuaded him to wait until dark, when, according to schedule, they'd be over the riskier terrain of the swamps west of Masaka. This would be more dangerous for the jumpers, but safer for the two aircanoes.

Later, petitioners asked for his intercession with Loango on matters of personal injustice. He granted this routinely.

Amazing Grace
gradually fell behind them. Tink, her pilot, had claimed that this new midsized class could move as swiftly as larger vessels like
Fu Hao
. Thomas gazed back measuringly at the second aircanoe's green and scarlet gasbag. The difference in their airspeeds wasn't much; perhaps
Fu Hao
's advantage would vanish when she was retrofitted with bullet shields similar to those built into her younger sister.

They reached the steep lands of the Rusizi's headwaters and dumped ballast. The two aircanoes' drummers traded messages: food and drinking supplies on both ships were holding up well, as was steam; bomb preparation and distribution proceeded according to plan; five women and men stationed aboard
Amazing Grace
would join the six jumping from
Fu Hao
. Thomas paced the deck, ate, relieved himself, resumed his chair.

The sun started to set as they sailed high over Lake Edward. Halfway up its length they veered due east, and Thomas had a good view of the brilliant pinks, corals, and reds painting the slopes of the far Mitumbas. As the last glow faded, the volunteers jumped. They'd find Everfair's friends among the Oo-Gandahs and fight the British behind the lines.

Now all was dark below. Above, the sky shone, full of gentle starlight. Thomas ordered the two aircanoes to anchor to treetops at the edge of the marshy shore. A short wait and the moon rose into sight. It was only a sliver—too much light and they'd be easily spotted. With nervous anticipation tensing his voice, Thomas gave the order for the aircanoes to set out upon their prearranged surveillance flights.

About this he and Tink had argued.
Fu Hao
was larger and could carry more bombs, so Thomas wanted her to take the longest route, going first north and east along Lake Victoria's coast, then south, then west to Mwanza. But larger meant more visible, as Tink pointed out. Also, if troops stationed in Kampala got enough warning they'd shoot, and
Amazing Grace
was armored.
Fu Hao
was not, so she turned southward to examine the nearby Ssese Islands.

All lights aboard save Thomas's little lamp were extinguished. No sign of their companion aircanoe could be seen because of similar safeguards. Thomas knew she must be gliding quietly up one of the inlets cutting into the coast on the way to the British colonial government's capital.

Disappointingly, the islands sheltered only innocent-looking fishing boats. Hard to make them out, but there was nothing large enough to justify action. Then came unmistakable signs that they were passing the last Kenyan ports they'd marked on their maps. Far too soon,
Fu Hao
flew over friendly German waters.

Still vigilant, they were at last rewarded. The grey of the barely born morning thinned to reveal a thicker grey: a plume of smoke. Tracing it to just below Bumbire Island, they found a target. A steam launch that had been converted to use as a gunboat hid in the shallow straits dividing Bumbire from another, nameless, lump of land. They hovered high and to the west for a moment while Thomas reviewed his notes on Great Lakes ships. The vessel, either
Severn
or
Mersey,
definitely belonged to the enemy, the Entente. He gave the signal to spill lift. The boxlike gunboat swelled below till he could see its sailors' faces.

They were attempting to swing its six-inchers to bear on
Fu Hao
. “Impossible,” Thomas muttered to himself. But he told the bomb dopkwe to quickly arm and loose four bombs.

Two hit: one near the ship's stern, most likely upon the quarterdeck, though flames obscured details. Perhaps the bridge? The other seemed to have penetrated to a hold filled with coal or some other highly combustible substance; as
Fu Hao
rose, freed of the bombs' weight and an additional fifty pounds of ballast, another fire spread swiftly back from the ship's prow. It burned persistently. Sailors the size of grasshoppers ran to and fro, carrying tools and weapons resembling toys. Several shot futilely at the rapidly departing aircanoe. Others of a more selfish bent jumped into the water, intending to swim for the high, rocky sides of Bumbire.

These weren't the sorts of surroundings crocodiles typically favored, but they must infest this area of the lake anyway, judging by the screams.

If not for the risk of a bullet actually striking her,
Fu Hao
should lower a ladder to rescue prisoners, but it was simply too dangerous. Thomas refrained from giving the order. They flew onward.

Broad daylight meant that their mission was no longer a secret. He hoped Tink had been able to find a safe anchorage for the day, for, by both their estimates, he would still be in hostile territory.

His instructions to the new watch were the same as they'd been to the retiring one: diligent care and unceasing scrutiny.

He himself didn't retire. Older people, he'd heard, needed much less rest than young ones. Perhaps his venerable age was why he no longer needed sleep so often. Or perhaps there was some other factor. He didn't care to know. He imbibed another cup of chocolate.

They reached Mwanza without further incident. The Germans were comparatively enlightened; unlike the traders of long-ago Boma—had it truly been twenty-five years ago he'd gone there?—they consented to dine with blacks. But the rest of his extremely mixed crew needed more accommodations than could comfortably be afforded them in Mwanza. They would stay on board and he would stay with them, granting leave in shifts till
Amazing Grace
made rendezvous and the entire party could go home to Everfair. It shouldn't be much more than a day till then. Two at most.

Four sets of tether poles stood in a field some ways south of the town's center. By the time
Fu Hao
tied off, the sun shone almost directly overhead.

For some reason, midday aroused feelings of sadness in Thomas. The sun had reached its height and would from there only decline. Suddenly weary, he forced himself to vacate his chair. Everfair's superiority in the air was undisputed; their German colleagues wasted no opportunity to glean what information they could firsthand. A delegation would arrive to welcome him. It must be prepared for and received. The Bah-Sangah priests insisted on keeping the power of their sacred earths secret. Perhaps that was why they kept the Littlest Heaters so isolated.With power supplies for the main and auxiliary engines safely shrouded, and tarpaulins spread over several crates and baskets stacked up near them as decoys, Thomas felt ready for visitors. It was just as well. Schnee, the colony's governor, called upon
Fu Hao
in the unexpected company of his antipathetic military counterpart, Oberstleutnant Lettow-Vorbeck. Schnee was a philosopher, but Lettow-Vorbeck's sharp eyes missed nothing.

“You have no coal,” he stated bluntly over gourds of honeyed tea.

“Have we not?”

“No. I should have learned of large shipments such as you would need. There should be dust—foot tracks—some marks … Maybe…” A shrewd expression flitted momentarily over his moustached face. Nothing showed in its aftermath.

“Maybe…?” Thomas prompted his guest.

“It's not
petroleum,
Oberstleutnant! You surmised as much earlier, but we'd smell that!” Schnee's stupidity glared forth even in the gasbag's purple shade.

A polite change of subject brought them to the bombs. Thomas had ordered them displayed in twin rows near the aircanoe's bow. He watched Lettow-Vorbeck count them. There were twenty-four.

“You have used sixteen?” the Oberstleutnant asked.

“Ten are carried by
Amazing Grace
. Two were destroyed in tests. We deployed four when sinking the
Mersey
yesterday.” He had decided to claim the slightly larger of the British ships as his casualty.