.
.
.
No one's a fool
- from "Destiny Rules" by Fleetwood Mac
.
.
.
On the screen, his image flickering, Emperor Aleksandar disembarks from the airship. There's a woman on his arm. Similar height, similar coloring, similar bearing.
The Right Honorable Winston Churchill, newly-minted Secretary of the Air, says, "Archduchess Elisabeth Marie," into the dark shadows of the projector room.
Dr. Barlow resists the urge to point out that yes, of course, it could be none other. Instead she says, feigning fatuousness, "He's very young, isn't he?"
That earns the noncommittal grunt she was aiming for. There's a slight shuffling from the two other men in the room, as though they can't quite believe the Director of the London Zoological Society is as dim as that, but are afraid to ask.
She also resists the urge to smile.
With the herky-jerky movements characteristic of Clanker film cameras, the emperor takes up a standing position on a raised platform with chairs for the officials overseeing this bit of political theater. His cousin the archduchess pays a pretty obeisance to him, then, aided by emperor, takes a seat in one of the vacant chairs. The newsreel footage switches to a view of the crowd. Arms waving madly, mouths open, it's difficult to tell their mood without the benefit of sound: joy and fury look much the same.
It's joy, of course. This newsreel film is days old, and the attempted coup d'etat is now as firmly squashed as these things can be. The emperor shall have a busy few years ahead of him, rooting out the remaining conspirators and sympathizers, in addition to the humdrum challenges of holding together the Continent's last empire.
He's very young, but the task will surely make an old man out of the emperor.
The airship looms over the scene, scarcely fitting between two equestrian statues. She automatically studies its lines and finds them adequate, if lacking the innate, simple grace of a fabricated airbeast.
"Moored in the Heldenplatz," Churchill offers.
As though this information holds any interest for her. Indeed, as though it has any bearing on her purpose for being here.
"The emperor is residing in the Hofburg palace again?" she asks, watching a long line of uniformed officials bowing and scraping to the emperor on his platform. He looks bored. Good for him. A display of imperial ennui will be disconcerting to his enemies.
Churchill nods. "The archduchess, too, along with her children."
Speaking of the archduchess' children – here they are, being formally presented to the emperor by his prime minister, who, she notes, has quite a dashing mustache. Three gawky adolescent boys bow and one girl curtseys, not quite in unison. The archduchess abandons her regal poise to sweep each of her children into fierce embraces in turn. The boys squirm, uncomfortable and embarrassed. The girl merely looks uncertain.
Dr. Barlow feels a familiar stirring of guilt and worry. There but for the grace of God, she thinks, and the fact that the oldest of her own children is not yet seven. There is still time. And she's home so much more now. Surely her hours of work at the Zoo each day are not enough to divide them.
Now the archduchess is clasping the hands of a nondescript man wearing what is, no doubt, his very best suit.
"Leopold Petznek," Churchill says. Dr. Barlow assumes that this, too, is to show off how well-informed he is. "Minor official in the Austrian Social Democratic Party. Led the rescue of the children, it seems. Would you mind if I -?"
"Yes, rather," she says. She smiles; a clever man would recognize it as a threat. "In my current condition, I can't abide strong smells."
She lays a hand on the pronounced curve of her abdomen for emphasis, and has the satisfaction of watching Churchill stuff one of his disgusting cigars back inside his jacket pocket.
"Quite so, quite so," he says, striving for bonhomie even though he certainly would rather tell her to jump in the Thames. "My wife was the same with ours."
Dr. Barlow pities Clementine her marriage, but that is neither here nor there. "Ah," she says, returning her attention to the screen. "We come to the point at last."
Miss Sharp crosses the screen, one hand gripping a cane and the other securely fastened around the arm of the disgraced Princess Stephanie.
Dr. Barlow studies her former "cabin boy" - goodness, how Midshipman Sharp had detested that appellation - and understands the girl to be seriously injured indeed.
Midshipman Sharp had also detested showing any sort of weakness. She would not struggle now, before camera walkers and photographers, unless she simply had to.
Sitting out the event would never be a choice.
"Brought in a Darwinist doctor to treat her," Churchill says, meaning the emperor. It's been widely reported in the newspapers, although one must take those accounts with a grain of salt.
"You've heard how she was injured?" This from the new Minister of Munitions, Baron Inverforth, previously known as Scottish shipping magnate Mr. Andrew Weir. He's overseeing the dispersal of unneeded military materiel now that the war's over.
"Gallantly defending the emperor, as I recall," Dr. Barlow says. Miss Sharp passes off the princess to waiting guards and limps over to salute the emperor, who gives her an appropriately small bow before escorting her to a seat on the platform. Below the archduchess and her brood, but not too far below. Interesting. "Kind of him to see that she receives treatment from one of ours."
"She's also staying with the archduchess," the third man says. Dr. Barlow was not introduced to him, has never seen him before, and suspects she's meant to never see him again. He seems a perfectly unexceptional, even dull, sort of man. One of the countless anonymous civil servants who fill the halls of government buildings such as this. Of course he must be a spy. "A guest of the palace. Until her health is recovered."
Dr. Barlow doesn't say anything.
"We haven't determined what the emperor's plans are for her after that," Churchill says.
This is patently ridiculous. Anyone with eyes can see what the emperor's plans are for Miss Sharp.
Another mark in his favor.
"What of His Majesty's plans?" Dr. Barlow asks.
More shuffling and noncommittal grunts. The newsreel footage comes to an end, leaving the screen a blank, softly luminous white.
"We have some latitude," Churchill says, the words chosen with care.
Dr. Barlow already knows why she was summoned here. It's because the Air Service in general - and Churchill in particular - cocked matters up comprehensively when they cast off Miss Sharp. Now the girl has no reason to cooperate with the British government. She's probably refused outright to see the British ambassador in Vienna.
Thus, His Majesty King George needs someone who is on good terms with Miss Sharp to intercede. Former crewmates won't do; family members won't do; the preferred candidate will be someone highly placed, familiar with diplomatic efforts and international affairs. Someone who can befriend, rather than command.
In short: Dr. Nora Darwin Barlow.
"She's ideally situated to promote British interests," the spy says.
Ideally situated being more appropriate for mixed company than in the emperor's bed. How silly. Her boffin's hat and current gravidity should, either one, indicate there is no need for squeamishness about discussing human sexual behaviors in her presence.
The spy adds, "We'd like you to visit posthaste."
Dr. Barlow places her hand on her abdomen again. This child won't make its debut until August or September, by her reckoning, but the men have no way of knowing that. "Exquisitely poor timing, I'm afraid. I shan't be traveling any time soon."
Impatient, Churchill says, "Write the girl, then."
"Miss Sharp never struck me as one for correspondence," Dr. Barlow says. "Unless my letter begins 'find enclosed one decommissioned military airbeast', I doubt she'll read it at all."
The men stare at her.
She tsks. "Why else would Inverforth be here?"
Inverforth rallies at his name. "We thought to offer the emperor ammunition. Small arms. Things such as that."
"And I'm certain the emperor would be delighted to receive them," she says drily. "If your target is Miss Sharp, however…"
"We can't give her a bloody airbeast," Churchill says, then adds, surly, "Begging your pardon, Doctor."
"Then don't give her an airbeast," Dr. Barlow says, ignoring his apology. "Send her flowers and jewels and tickets to the opera. A young woman who repeatedly and knowingly flouted the law, while risking her life in combat, acquiring medals and mentions in dispatches by the fistful - no, you're right, gentlemen, she should quite enjoy fripperies. And it isn't as though she's owed anything by His Majesty, either. Not when she's allowed all the credit for her recent actions to fall to him, even after his Air Service treated her so shabbily."
The men have fallen silent once again, but this time with the chagrined air of schoolboys called before the headmaster.
She tsks again. "A small one will do, I'm sure."
"There's one moored in Portsmouth that might serve," Inverforth says, evidently thinking aloud. "HMS Salamander. Took damage in a sortie over the Western Front; some of the boffins recommended it be put down. Seems a waste, though. It's fundamentally sound."
"We can't give a civilian a military airbeast," Churchill says, scowling, stabbing a thick forefinger at her to punctuate his words. "Especially not a girl who's thrown in her lot with a foreign power. Sets a da- a deuced bad precedent."
Dr. Barlow waves an airy hand. "You're all clever fellows. You'll come up with a perfectly reasonable justification, if you apply yourselves."
The spy looks amused. Churchill does not.
"Bad precedent," he grumbles. "Dangerous thing to do."
She would, Dr. Barlow thinks, very much like to throw him into the Thames. Instead, she stands, which is more difficult when one is swiftly approaching the dimensions of a Huxley ascender. At home she would accept Alan's help, or that of a servant. Here she finds it necessary to manage it alone. "Surely, Secretary Churchill, it will be more dangerous to sever relations with Miss Sharp. Who knows what sorts of new friends she will make in Vienna."
The gentlemen have risen with her.
"Write her," Churchill says. Orders. "Don't say a word about an airbeast. Merely… establish a rapport."
Dr. Barlow inclines her head a small fraction. "I am His Majesty's loyal servant, of course."
The men bow. Inverforth offers to see her out; she accepts.
"Thank you, Doctor," he says as they make their way downstairs. The building is bustling with those anonymous civil servants; perhaps the spy has already slipped into their midst, vanishing in plain sight. "I've much to do today. No time for circular debates."
She smiles, because he may as well have said useless debates. "Where in Scotland are you from, my lord?"
"Kirkaldy, just north of Edinburgh, though I lived for many years in Glasgow."
"Miss Sharp hails from Glasgow, I do believe." As she knows for a fact.
"Aye," Inverforth says, smiling at her as they reach the street and the vehicle waiting for her at the curb. "Scottish lasses are a special breed, Doctor. A proper force of nature. Here you are."
He assists her into the vehicle. Tips his hat to her. Walks briskly down the sidewalk, intent on the next task in his busy day.
Dr. Barlow tells the driver to take her home, then settles back on the seat as the equidite in the harness clip-clops into action.
She stares at the passing scenery without seeing it.
Churchill continues to live down to expectations, but Inverforth is a promising connection. The spy will be as well, once she's unearthed his identity.
On the whole, however, that room of men was hopeless. So focused on King George's plans, and on Emperor Aleksandar's plans, that they have entirely overlooked the true question.
What are Deryn Sharp's plans?
Dr. Barlow, for one, looks forward to finding out.
.
.
.
Note: While there have been several ships named HMS Salamander, the one I'm referencing here is "the Salamander of Leith," a warship used by the Scottish navy from 1537 to 1544, when it was captured by England. It was a wedding present from Francis I (of France, naturally) to James V of Scotland.
Baron Inverforth seems to have been one of those people who're wildly successful because they work really, really hard. When he was ninety-one, he was still going into the office four days a week. I mean. Come on.
"Exquisitely poor timing, I'm afraid" is stolen from an episode of X-Men: The Animated Series, where it was said by supervillain Mr. Sinister (a geneticist and contemporary of Charles Darwin). Have I remembered and admired that line since 1994? Absolutely.
