Ganymede (The Clockwork Century 3)

“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.

Cly replied in kind, “That’s the plan. ” And then he made the rounds of introductions, following which, Normal Somers urged them to follow him to a service lot beyond the edge of the cemetery.

“Lots of folks park their buggies and carriages and whatnot, then ride the street rail into town. This here lot,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “is watched by Charlie over there. ” His sweeping gesture ended in a wave at a tiny old negro with at least half a dozen firearms in his immediately visible possession, probably more. “Charlie keeps an eye on things, and if you come back to your ride and it’s in one piece, you tip him whatever you’ve got handy. That’s our buggy—if you want to pile inside, I’ll go settle up. ”

The buggy in question did not come attached to a horse. It had a front-mounted motor that drew a big wheeled contraption that looked cobbled together from a rolling-crawler, a cabriolet, a street rail car, and perhaps a two-man flier. It was a hodgepodge piece of machinery, but it was big enough to take everyone wherever they felt like going, and the stretched-wool surrey top kept the worst of the sun off their heads.

Kirby Troost again sat beside the captain, and leaned over to mumble, “I was going to complain that this was a conspicuous sort of ride, but looking around at the lot, I am forced to revise my opinion. ”

It was true. All the vehicles in Charlie’s lot were similarly patchworked and rigged together. It could not be said that they were all of a single type, except that none of them had started out looking like they did at present. The captain detected the occasional small dirigible chassis, boat motor, carriage frame, and dual V-twin engine protruding from a hood … but most of what he spied was made of unidentifiable bits.

The captain said, “I suppose people out here like to improvise. ”

Ruthie replied, “They do it because they must. Many of these—” She cocked a thumb at the next row of buggies. “—are made with things the machine shops throw away. ”

“I believe it,” Troost said. “The whole yard looks like a big science experiment. ”

Shortly, Norman Somers returned and climbed up onto the driver’s seat. He pulled a lever, which produced a large black umbrella, and with a popping sound it opened to shade him from the sun so that he was protected as well as his passengers. “All right!” he declared. “Now we can get on our way. And how was your trip from the city?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Just fine,” said Cly, who was still a bit surprised by how unstealthy this whole production felt. “And might I ask, where exactly will the rest of our trip see us heading?”

“The rest of your trip?” He gave a narrow chain a hearty yank, and the engine burbled to life, spewing fumes and soft puffy smoke clouds in every direction. Over the diesel rumble he said, “We’re going to take a stroll around a lake, that’s all we’re goin’ do. Maybe we swing by the bayou’s edge and visit with some of the fellas we find there, huh? This your first time in New Orleans?”

Cly said, “Mine and Fang’s? No. Huey, yes. Troost?”

“I never been here before,” the engineer informed them. “Been around the Gulf a bit. Visited Galveston once, and Houston. Spent some time in Mobile. Somehow, never managed to land myself right here on the delta. Not till now. ”

“Then, let me welcome you to my home city, and I hope you enjoy your stay. ”

The rest of the way was filled with jovial chitchat of a similar nature, and gradually the tall grasses, half-paved roads, and spotty marshes gave way to more fully untamed wet, thick grasslands and roads that were not paved at all. The rumbling buggy drove them bumpily along the rutted dirt paths and beneath gigantic trees that oozed lacy gray curls of Spanish moss and peeling spirals of bark and vines. Though the day was young, the world became darker as they moved farther from the city’s hub; before long, the paths were so overgrown that the long elbows of cypress trees met above them, and the whole road was cast in shadow. Whereas before, they could hear the guttural hums of other buggies and the clattering buzz of the street rail cars moving back and forth between their stops, now the passengers heard nothing but the rollicking grumble of their own engine. And behind it, in shrieks and whispers, they picked up the calls of birds and the croaks of a million frogs, plus the zipping drone of clear-winged insects the size of bats.

Off to the side of the road, among the trees, the land grew less landlike and more swamplike.

“Where the hell are we?” wondered Kirby Troost aloud.

Norman Somers somehow overheard him, and he replied, “Over there, to the right, see? That’s the Bayou Piquant. ”

“Where’s the lake?” Troost asked, louder than he needed to, given the superior quality of Mr. Somers’s hearing.

“On the other side of the bayou. No worries, my friends! I get you to Pontchartrain just fine, okay? We’ll be there soon. ”

True to his word, Norman pulled off to the side of the road on the far side of what could reasonably be proclaimed a swamp. He dismounted from his seat and said, “One moment, fellas. ” And Ruthie did her best not to look put out at being lumped in with the lads.