The Doomsday Vault

Luck was with Gavin-a train was pulling away just as he arrived at the platform, and he hoisted himself into an open-topped third-class car jammed with men and women alike before it picked up too much speed. He wedged himself into a corner, unable even to sit. The locomotive coughed harsh-smelling cinders over them, quickly covering everyone’s clothing with a patina of ash and dulling Gavin’s coat to a dirty gray. At least it wasn’t raining.

Gavin flung a last look over his shoulder at Wellesley Airfield. The hangars had already receded into the distance, and a moment later, a series of row houses flashed by. His old life was gone. Sometime later, the train pulled into Paddington station, and Gavin climbed out of the car, feeling battered and sore. He made his way away from the swirling crowd and screaming whistles of the platforms until he could find a quiet corner to take stock. First he checked his fiddle. By a miracle, it wasn’t broken or even cracked. He must have hit Stone under the chin just right. He spared a moment’s thought for the pirate, chained in the Juniper’s hold and soaring high above the earth while Gavin roamed the ground below, free but unable to fly. Which of them was better off?

In the jacket pockets, Gavin found a few small coins and a used handkerchief. He also had the jacket itself, which would keep him warm. He could sell that, if it came to it. And he’d eaten today. So he had a few resources.

He left Paddington station and vanished into the dirty, swirling throng of London. Horses, carts, cabs, and carriages clogged cobblestoned streets. Women in bustled skirts and men in waistcoats and hats rushed up and down the walkways. A spidery automaton clicked over the stones, ignoring the piles of horse apples it stepped in. Smells of urine, coal smoke, and roasting meat washed over Gavin beneath a heavy gray sky. A ragged little girl begged to sweep manure aside for pedestrians who crossed the street. Everything was dirt and noise and oppression.

An idea occurred to Gavin. Hope bloomed, and he trotted off down London Street until he found an omnibus heading in the right direction. It cost him a precious penny, but he was able to find his way to the pillared building that housed the London office of the Boston Shipping and Mail Company. He had forgotten they had a headquarters here. Inside, an enormous open-floored wooden space sported rows of desks, each with clerks scratching in ledgers or poking at enormous engines that clacked and spat out long lines of paper. In the corner, a huge multi-armed automaton sorted mail and telegrams. Its arms blurred as it flung bits of paper into bins or thrust them into the hands of waiting errand boys. Voices rose and fell, and footsteps clattered ceaselessly across the worn floorboards.

Gavin snagged a mail boy, who pointed him toward a set of desks in the back. A small freestanding sign read EMPLOYMENT. Easy enough-BSMC knew his qualifications and would give him a job on another ship. His heart beat faster as he approached one of the desks.

“We’re not hiring,” the balding clerk said before Gavin could even take a breath.

“I already work for BSMC,” Gavin said. “I’m from Boston. The Juniper.”

“Oh yes.” The clerk opened a letter and scanned it. “The cabin boy. We don’t ransom cabin boys.”

“Uh… I don’t need to be ransomed,” Gavin said. “I need a position on another ship.”

“What are your qualifications?”

Gavin stared at him. Hadn’t he just said? “I’m a cabin boy. Six years’ experience. In a few weeks, I’ll qualify for airman.”

“Can your captain vouch for you?” the clerk asked.

“He was killed in the pirate attack,” Gavin replied around clenched teeth. “Along with my best friend. Then a pirate tried to… to take my trousers down, so I killed him, and the pirates beat me bloody for it.”

The clerk took dispassionate shorthand notes. “Why didn’t they kill you?”

Gavin blinked. This conversation was becoming more and more surreal. “I played fiddle for them. They liked my music and decided not to kill me. One of the pirates especially enjoyed my playing, and I escaped when he let his guard down.”

“I see.” More notes. “So you’re saying your captain can’t vouch for you, you had illegal carnal knowledge of an enemy airman, and you deliberately collaborated with and gave comfort to the enemy?”

Gavin’s face burned. “It wasn’t anything like-”

“In any case, we have no positions for cabin boys on this side of the pond,” the clerk finished with a dismissive wave. “Check with the Boston office.”

“What? How am I supposed to get to Boston?”

“You should have thought of that before you decided to fiddle for pirates with your trousers down.”

For the second time that day, Gavin hit a man. This time it was with his fist. Even though the blow had to travel across the clerk’s desk, it landed with enough force to knock the clerk ass over teakettle. The entire floor went silent except for the clatter and hum of the sorting machine in the corner as everyone turned to stare. Gavin stood at the desk, panting, his fist still outstretched.

“Get out!” the clerk bawled, scrambling to his feet. His nose dripped blood on his spotless white shirt. “Get out! You’ll never work for us again! Police! Police!”

Gavin turned on his heel and stomped out.

An hour or so of mindless walking later, he managed to calm down, and anger gave way to fear. He forced himself to think. Money was the main issue. He needed it for the short term, and, unless he wanted to risk a life of crime, there was only one way to earn it. Eventually he found his way to Hyde Park.

Hyde Park wasn’t simply a park-exhibition halls, gazebos, outdoor auditoriums, carnivals, and other attractions peppered the place, and thousands of people visited every day. It was late spring, and many of the bushes were in full bloom, scenting the air with sweetness. Couples with chaperones, groups of young people and families, and schoolchildren on outings trod the roads and footpaths beneath green trees, some wandering aimlessly, some scampering with glee, some walking to a specific event. Food sellers with trays around their necks or pushing small carts hawked their wares. Gavin found a likely corner, got out his violin, dropped two of the small coins from his pocket into the open fiddle case at his feet for seed money, and set to playing.

He had done this before, busking street corners in Boston as soon as he’d been able to scratch out a tune on his grandfather’s fiddle. Being hungry had provided a certain amount of impetus to learn music faster; people didn’t give money to bad players, even when they were little boys with big blue eyes. He had done some busking again on three or four other occasions when he’d been caught short in other ports and needed some quick money, but it had never occurred to him that his livelihood might once again depend on his music. He smiled with all his might at passersby and nodded his thanks whenever someone dropped a coin into his case.

It felt better than playing for pirates.

Sometime later, he had several farthings-quarter pennies-and a few pence in his case, enough to buy half a loaf of bread. He kept on playing. A woman in a wine red velvet dress, unusual for spring, paused on the path to listen. Gavin knew from experience that if he met her gaze for long, she would feel awkward and move on, so he avoided looking directly at her, though he studied her out of the corner of his eye. She was tall for a woman, slender, and old enough to be his mother. Her hair was piled under a red hat, and the buttons on her gloves and shoes were actually tiny gold cogs. She carried a walking stick, also unusual. Behind her came an automaton, a stocky brass mechanical man with a boiler chest and pistonlike arms and legs. It carried a large shopping basket. The woman practically screamed wealth, and Gavin swept into “O’Carolan’s Argument with the Landlady,” a particularly difficult tune with complicated scales and turns. The woman stared at Gavin as if she were a lion and he a gazelle. Gavin felt uncomfortable, and he looked elsewhere so he wouldn’t make a mistake. The song rippled from his fiddle, and when it ended, applause fluttered about the park. A small audience had gathered. Gavin smiled and bowed. Several people tossed farthings into his case and went on their way. The woman in red velvet was nowhere to be seen. Gavin scooped the coins out of his case to avoid tempting thieves, and among them he found a shilling. He stared at it. This was enough to feed him for two days. Had it come from the Red Velvet Lady? It seemed likely-she had been the only one in the crowd who looked wealthy enough to throw that much money into a busker’s case. He went back to his fiddle. Maybe he could do this. He could earn enough money for a ticket back to Boston, where he could plead his case to BSMC in a country where he knew the people and where- he hoped-they wouldn’t have heard about Gavin punching a clerk in the face.

The rest of the day Gavin earned very little, though he played until his fingers burned and his feet ached from standing in one place. When darkness threatened and the automatic lamplighters clanked from lamp to lamp, he bought a day-old roll from a vendor who was on her way out of the park and searched the area until he found a hiding place between a bush and a boulder. Safe from night marauders and patrolling bobbies, he wrapped his