Chapter Ten

“The Austrian Manhunt”

1.

The station operated on a twenty-eight hour cycle rather than twenty-four, as one would see on Earth. However, the men worked in four shifts, fourteen hours at a time, which made for odd overlaps. Thus, the galley had to operate ’round-the-clock to meet the demands of a near-constant influx of workers wandering in for any of their daily three meals.

Annabelle hid inside the kitchen, watching the men sitting at the tables. Sweat and steam soaked her clothes. Currently, there were thirty-four men taking one meal or the other. None of them was her man.

The galley, usually a place for boisterous talk and good cheer, was silent, save for the occasional clatter of silverware on plates. Word had gotten around about the mad bomber. The men were trying to keep in good spirits, but they were becoming nervous. She had been with Dolan last evening when one of the men, witless with fear, was caught trying to steal one of the cutters. It was lucky for him it was Fullbright’s men who had gotten him and not one of the security force; for van den Bosch had given orders to shoot on sight anyone attempting to leave the station. The man was now in sickbay and received regular doses of ether to render him unconscious. To do otherwise was to have the man screaming and senseless. Annabelle’s guts squirmed with the mere thought of it.

The man had good reason to be afraid. The investigation was going poorly. Guards had already made a thorough search of Heaven, and they were posted at entrances to both British and Austrian to watch for anything out of the ordinary. Even now, they scoured Hell for any trace for either the bomber or further sabotage, but there was little hope of finding either. Hell was a labyrinth of twisting pipes, narrow passageways, and sweltering boiler rooms, all obscured by dim, red lighting and steam. The fellow need only pick a nice, dark corner, and an entire team of guards could pass him by none the wiser.

And anyway, no one knew the bomber’s description. Perhaps that was Annabelle’s fault, having seen the man she believed was responsible. Yet, she did not want to voice her theory without some kind of proof. She only had seen the man walking about the station, seemingly doing nothing, and then disappearing suddenly, as if through the walls themselves, with the only real piece of slightly damning evidence being that he was slovenly of dress, with sawdust on his uniform. That was hardly evidence, and van den Bosch would not react kindly to it. So far, he had been overlooking her repeatedly flummoxing Loaves to slip out of his company unnoticed so that she might go searching, but that would likely change if it was known that she was harassing workers with unfounded theories.

Dolan, meanwhile, had Doctor Holmes calling each man into his office under the auspices of a physical, but really they were using the station rolls as a checklist. Dolan believed that the bomber would recognise what was being done and fail to show up for his physical. If that was the case, they would have their man. What Dolan had failed to understand, and what Annabelle had tried and failed to explain, was that the plan assumed the bomber was on the rolls. What if he had been smuggled aboard somehow? Dolan, so far, seemed oblivious to such possibilities, or it could be that he did not care.

Already Annabelle was fed up with the man. Dolan was more interested in having his job than actually doing it, as if status was the most important thing to him. He strutted around, like the cock of the walk, talking to his friends, drinking whiskey, and gaming down in the workers’ dorms. More than once, she had thought of telling him what she knew. Maybe it would motivate him to find the bomber, if she gave him a clue to the man’s identity. She had not, though; there seemed little point, given his attitude. Sad. She really liked the man, but he was useless.

“’Ello, miss. Fancy findin’ you ’ere.”

Annabelle sighed and stood up. The day’s search was over. “Hello, Loaves. What can I do for you?”

“Anythin’ good on the menu, this evenin’?”

“Nothing. How goes the search of Hell?”

“In progress at the moment, miss. Still no sign of ’im. It’s like ’e…”

“Disappeared?”

“I was going to say, like ’e stepped outside the place, miss.”

“Did Mister Dolan send you to find me?”

“’E has at that, miss, after ’e gave me a boxing for losin’ you again. Could you stop doin’ that, miss? Please? I’m startin’ to look bad.”

“I’m sorry, Loaves. I don’t mean for you to lose me. I just wander off. My mother had the same problem as you when I was a girl. I just wander…” Annabelle paused for a moment, a rogue memory of the Chiricahua Mountains coming to the forefront of her mind. She shook it away with effort, and continued on. “So where is Mister Dolan, anyway?”

“Some crates have come up missing at the quartermaster.”

“Does this have anything to do with the bomber?”

Loaves looked confused. “Can’t say that I know, miss. Probably not, judgin’ by ’is annoyance. Normally, ’e’d assign one of us to the problem, but every man is spread out over ’ell.”

“So where does that leave us, then?”

“’E said come find you and bring you to ’im.” Loaves chuckled good-naturedly. “Maybe if ’e puts you to work, it’ll solve your wanderin’ problem.”

Annabelle sighed. “That it will.”

2.

Loaves led her through the kitchen and into the pantry. There, he opened a portal behind the staple goods, pulling the shelf inward like one might open a door. The hallway behind the secret door went left and right. To the left, Loaves explained, was a dumbwaiter that went into Hell. For what purpose, Loaves didn’t know. Next to the dumbwaiter was an airlock for the purposes of dumping refuse into the aether. Loaves told the story with the excitement of someone who’d just overheard an extraordinary tale at the pub.

To the right was a long hallway, given a sterile whitewash, that came to an abrupt end. A palm plate near the dead end opened a wall panel with a hiss of compressed steam, revealing the passageway that ran alongside the galley.

“Are there many secret passages like this throughout the station?”

Loaves shrugged. “None else that I know of, miss, but I haven’t been everywhere. There’s a rumour of a lift that goes straight from Mister Provost’s quarters into the green house, but that’s all I know.”

The quartermaster was an Austrian. Annabelle and Loaves passed Nathanial’s quarters, as it was just off the basilica. She wondered what he was doing. She really needed to speak with him soon. Someone else had to hear her theory, even as mad as it sounded. Of course, he would likely scoff, too, given her lack of evidence, yet not as harshly as she was likely to get from van den Bosch or one of his cronies. And, he made a good sounding board for her thoughts. A simple conversation with him might illuminate some avenues of inquiry she had missed. The secret passage problem, for instance. Air ducts! It was all so maddeningly simple, yet she had never thought of it.

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but you seem upset about summat.”

Annabelle caught Loaves staring at her, brow furrowed. He was genuinely concerned with her safety and well-being. It made her feel guilty that she had repeatedly been forced to abandon him to search for the bomber. “It’s nothing, Loaves, but thank you.”

“If there’s anything I can do, of course.”

“Of course. But no, really, there’s nothing for you to—ˮ

Annabelle’s heart lurched in her chest. Her eyes jerked toward a familiar movement. The stocky man with the sandy-coloured hair was visible only for a moment, and then he was gone around a corner. Annabelle left Loaves standing in the middle of the hall to investigate.

3.

As she turned the corner she saw him at once, strolling down the hall, hands in the pockets of his coverall. At the end of the hall, he turned left. It looked like he was heading toward the stairs that would take him below, to the workers’ dorms, but she couldn’t tell.

“Miss, is summat wrong? I really need to get you to Mister Dolan before he gets too angry with me.”

Annabelle turned and faced the big man. “Of course. Loaves, I must see Professor Stone at once about a private matter. Be a dear and tell Mister Dolan I’ll meet with him soon.”

Loaves shook his head. “No, miss. I can’t do that. You see, Mister Dolan’s sent me to find you, and ’e won’t like it at all if I should arrive without you.”

“Loaves, please. This is important.”

“I’ll come along, then.”

A panic rose in Annabelle’s chest. She could trick Loaves and hide from him again. It wasn’t at all difficult, but it would take longer than she had if she was going to find the bomber before he had the chance to disappear again.

“All right, Loaves. Listen to me. I believe I know who placed the bomb in Professor Stone’s quarters four cycles ago.”

Loaves’ eyes widened. “You do? We should tell Mister Dolan at once, miss!”

“No. We have no time for that. I’ve just spotted my man again, and we mustn’t lose him. Do you understand? We must find him so he can be questioned.”

“Of course, miss.” Loaves swelled with importance. “I won’t fail you.”

“Good man.” She took the big man’s thick, hairy arm and pulled him along, giving a brief description of her suspect as they went. Loaves nodded his head as she spoke, though she could not be sure if he truly understood what she said.

At the intersection, she directed Loaves right, and she went left, in the direction she had seen the bomber go. Dolan will simply have to wait, she decided. With any luck, she would have her man soon enough.