Serial Sunday: The Renaissance Man and the Strange New World, Part VII
- 4 hours ago
- 6 min read
By Ryan Fleming.
A gaggle of newly joined candy stripers, the more mobile patients, and even a few resident doctors all tried to sneak a look at the Renaissance Man when they heard he would be calling at their Bellevue Hospital that night. Charles Chance, the Renaissance Man himself, was all smiles and handshakes punctuated by the odd pithy one-liner or wink when he and his entourage arrived.
A moving scrum developed around the Renaissance Man as he made his way from the entrance to the room where he had been told he could find his associates Reginald Cullen and Annie Thomas. The rest of his entourage hung back slightly, allowing Chance to work his usual routine on the adoring public.
Upon reaching Room 217, his entourage ducked inside quickly whilst the Renaissance Man shook the last few hands and even signed a couple of autographs. It was past visiting hours, but none of the nurses cared to tell the Renaissance Man or his entourage that they had to leave.
Having finally extracted himself from the adoring public, Chance closed the door to Room 217 gently behind him and drew the small curtain down over the window set in it.
In the bed lay Cullen, his shoulder bandaged. On his right sat Annie, smoking a cigarette. Alastair Elliott had stood beside Annie, laying his hand on her shoulder. Benjamin Williams and Eileen Wong now stood on the left-hand side of the bed.
A moment of silence passed between the group, broken by Cullen.
“I’m fine, they just want to bill us for an overnight stay.”
Annie looked at the others and shook her head.
“He’ll be fine, but he’ll be out of commission for a few days.”
“Should we wait?” Chance asked.
“No,” Annie and Cullen chorused.
“Annie found some… interesting records in the archives.”
“I can scarcely believe them. Underwater cities and inhuman civilisations.”
“Like Atlantis?” asked Chance.
Annie closed her eyes.
“No,” she said finally. “Not like Atlantis.”
“The point is,” Cullen continued. “This could be out only chance to get something on record about these… things. Should they exist. At least one account has a vast land appearing in the Pacific only to disappear later.”
“We still go tonight.”
It had been Williams that made the definitive call, to nods from the other members of the Renaissance.
“What about the guy that shot you?” Chance asked. “Alastair, should you…”
“No,” Cullen interrupted. “I’ll be fine. You’ll probably need him more than I do. Besides, he failed twice tonight to kill you, I doubt I or Annie were his intended target. Don’t think his employer will be the sort that gives third chances.
Chance, and the rest for that matter, looked unsure.
Cullen, seeing their looks, pulled a small derringer from the sling holding up his right arm.
“Handy things in a way, slings that is.”
He aimed the pistol into a corner of the room.
“I fancy myself a better shot with the left hand too than our would-be assassin.”
The debate settled, hurried goodbyes were exchanged between the members of the Renaissance and the man that had first brought them together.
***
In the docks of New York, Captain Ferd Curtis oversaw the loading of supplies to his ship, the Visigoth, intended to be brought from the city to the newly reported continent in the Pacific. Most of the supplies were those delivered on the behalf of the Renaissance Man. Others though were those that had been ordered by Curtis himself or by the newly expanded crew that had signed on to this particular expedition.
The six-wheeled silver cruiser that was the Renaissance Man’s signature vehicle on the streets of New York drove down the dock to where the Visigoth was berthed just before midnight. Curtis nodded to Eileen Wong, who exited the driver’s seat and had been introduced to Curtis earlier that night. From the passenger seat emerged Ben Williams, who eyed the supplies being loaded onto the ship wearily.
The Renaissance Man himself emerged from the rear of the car once the door had been opened by Wong. Following him were Alastair Elliott, another of the entourage Curtis had met earlier that night, and Annie Thomas, who had not yet met Curtis, but he knew by reputation was the Renaissance Man’s secretary.
Curtis noted one absence. Where was the loyal English butler that he knew went with Chance everywhere?
Chance strode up to Curtis.
“Captain,” he extended his hand. “I don’t believe you have met my secretary: Miss Thomas.”
Curtis took Annie’s extended hand after briefly shaking Chance’s, giving the slight woman the same grip he had given the brawny man.
“Mr. Chance,” Curtis smiled. “May I present my first mate, Frank Slate.”
Chance and Annie in turn shook hands with Slate, a slight man with watery eyes who could barely manage a grunt by way of greeting.
Williams joined them and whispered something to Chance.
“Captain,” Chance began as he listened to Williams. “It seems we are taking on much additional cargo for our expedition. I’m afraid we can’t call at any stops en route aside form refuelling.”
“Do not worry, Mr. Chance. The extra cargo is the personal cargo of myself and my crew.”
“You allow your crew a very generous allocation, Captain.”
“And the rest is intended to be dropped off in Nicaragua as we make our way through the Canal.”
None of the three facing Curtis and Slate looked convinced.
“Mr. Slate, would you show the Renaissance Man and his entourage to their cabins.”
An extended hand stopped Chance as he made to follow Slate up the gangway.
“We’ll follow shortly, Mr. Slate. Mr. Williams has a mechanical matter on our auto he wishes to bring to my attention.”
Eileen glanced behind her quickly at the mention of the car but realised quickly said mechanical matter was merely subterfuge on their part.
“What do you think?” Chance asked once they both had their heads bent over examining a perfectly functioning engine.
“I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I, but we might not have the time to arrange new transportation.”
“We’ll just have to keep an eye on Curtis and his crew. Almost wish now we had taken Bauer up on his offer of more weapons.”
A stroke of inspiration had struck Williams upon mentioning the name of the local union leader for the Stevedores’ Brotherhood.
Williams took a notepad from his satchel and scribbled something down on it. He opened the car door and placed the note on the dashboard.
“One of Bauer’s men will be picking up the car and driving it back to the brownstone. Hopefully they’ll read that note.”
“Good thinking,” Chance said as he glanced up at the airships moored on some of the Manhattan skyscrapers, including the tallest of them.
“It’s almost enough to make you wish we had decided to fly.”
***
Atop the tallest skyscraper in New York City, Maximilian Macmillan stared down at the lights of the city and the ships in the harbour as behind him dozens of men scurried to and fro loading supplies into the largest airship in his personal fleet.
Macmillan wore the same uniform the officers of his airship line wore, but whereas the captains of those airships bore four gold braids and gold embroidered wings on their sleeves, Macmillan’s own bore a fifth stripe that also boasted an executive curl on the topmost. His wardrobe had been carefully packed for the occasion. One forgotten or incorrectly included garment would buy his sartorial staff a one-way ticket to the bread line.
Ironstone, his hulking valet, who gratefully did not count amongst his duty packing Macmillan’s suitcase, joined his young employer on the rooftop without saying a word.
“You have your orders.”
It was not a question, Ironstone did not answer as though it was one. The skin on the side of his handle tingled slightly where it had recently come into contact with the neck of a failed assassin in their employ. The blow had snapped his spine immediately, and his body was soon thereafter floating in the Hudson River.
“Sir,” called Captain Sidney. “We’re ready to cast off on your order.”
Without speaking a word to anyone, Macmillan turned from his contemplation of New York City, strode past his various underlings and climbed the gangway into the airship. He would proceed directly to his cabin and stay there until such time as he wanted a progress update.
Ironstone proceeded back to the elevator that led from Macmillan’s private penthouse to the rooftop. He would not be joining his employer on this particular trip yet. Macmillan was someone who liked to hedge his bets, and there was no better possible hedge than by entrusting Ironstone with a task.
Atop the gangway, Captain Sidney and the rest of the officers stood ready to receive their employer.
“Captain,” Macmillan said quietly, without looking at Sidney. “Take me to my new world.”
Sidney nodded, unnecessarily since Macmillan never required a response. The newest officer amongst them made to give a huzzah to their employer, only to stop dead at a glare from his immediate superior.
The gangway was removed, the moorings loosened, and ballast released to take the airship higher into the clouds.
Beneath it, the Visigoth set sail from the docks of New York City, its passengers and crew eyeing each other warily even that early into the voyage.
Whether by air or by sea, both expeditions had the same destination: the strange new world that had been reported days earlier in the Pacific.
Their intentions upon reaching that strange new world could not have been more different.
Ryan Fleming is the author of SLP's Reid in Braid and various short stories for the anthologies, as well as editing The Scottish Anthology.