Fic: Castling Chapter One

[foolish_m0rtal]

Title: Castling
Genre: Steampunk, Alternate History
Rating: PG
Summary: International blitz-chess prodigy Linus Rook has not played a game in months. It all changes the day he boards the airship HMAS Mauretania Secunda on a standard trans-Atlantic flight back to Europa.
Notes: Amazing thank you to airships.net for being an amazing repository of information about 1900s airships. This story is set around fifteen years after The Devil and Arthur Yardley, which can't really be posted in its entirely till I get to a certain place in The Cornish Manuscripts, which kind of relies on certain things being revealed in Legerdemain. Yeah. Just...wait a bit, please. Legerdemain is forthcoming, and then everything else will fall in.

 

“I’m giving you a prescription for Veronal – it should help calm you and help with the insomnia. The tablets come in ten grain amounts.” Dr. Randolf signed at the bottom of the prescription pad and tore it off. His left eye, the brass telescopic one, clicked back into its normal position. It was held fixed to his skull with a clever application of screws and had many lenses for viewing at various distances. “I want you to take one half-tablet every day in the morning with breakfast and another full tablet before going to sleep. Do you understand, Mr. Rook?...Mr. Rook?”

“Hmm?” Rook asked and moved his head slightly. The leather couch he was lying on was incredibly comfortable, and he found himself dozing. Dr. Randolf had a very soft lulling American accent. “Yes, of course. One half-tablet in the morning, one tablet at night.”

“No more,” Dr. Randolf warned. “I’m recommending you receive the 100 tablet bottle – that ought to keep you for a little over two months. I want you to rest in the meantime. No strenuous activity, no important decisions. No stimulants – tobacco, coffee, spirits. And I don’t think you ought to play chess. Mr. Rook, are you listening to me?”

“Oh yes,” Rook murmured, still staring at the ceiling with his hands folded over his stomach. It was very white. White always had the first move. “I’m listening to you. No chess. I’m listening.”

Dr. Randolf hesitated. “I’m very sorry. I understand it is very important to you-”

“No,” Rook interrupted. His uncle had recommended Dr. Randolf through a mutual friend, and Rook had found all of the doctor’s diagnoses sound and sensible for all that he had missed absolutely everything important. “I haven’t played chess since the incident in Paris. I’ve been seeing doctors – that’s why I came to Chicago to see you.”

“I think the prescription will help you,” Dr. Randolf said encouragingly. “I’d like you to come back for another appointment after the two-month period so we can monitor your progress. That is, if you think you might be in America in two months.”

“Unlikely,” Rook replied. He could hear Randolf’s clock in the corner. The slow methodical ticks soothed him. “I’m flying to Berlin tomorrow and haven’t the slightest idea where I’ll be after that. Perhaps I’ll go back to Britannia, perhaps not.”

“Berlin,” Dr. Randolf said approvingly. “I have a few very good colleagues in Berlin.”

“Yes, I’m consulting one of them,” Rook replied. He found himself drumming his fingers compulsively against the back of his hand and stilled them. “Dr. Metzger. I’ve been told he may be able to treat my…condition.”

“Excellent. I have met Dr. Metzger incidentally—our psychiatric community is not a large one—and I agree that he stands the best chance of curing you. I will prepare a small envelope then for you to give him.”

“An envelope?” Rook asked, actually turning to stare at him. He didn’t like looking at Dr. Randolf. He had placed his chair next to the windows, and his wrinkled face was lit up oddly in the cold clean morning light.

“Just my notes of our session, my diagnosis, the prescription I’ve given you. I think he may find my contributions useful. I must ask you, of course, not to open the envelope due to medical confidentiality.”

“Of course,” Rook said flatly. “Are we finished?”

“Er, ah yes. Yes, I believe this is a good place to end our session.” Dr. Randolf took the lens protector off his telescopic eye and polished it on the lapel of his jacket before popping it back in. “Please ask my secretary for directions to a pharmacy that can fill your prescription. Veronal is currently a bit experimental, so I’m afraid most pharmacies might not stock it.”

Rook nodded, swung his legs onto the floor, and stood up. He straightened his coat and ran his fingers down the buttons to make sure they were all in their place.

Dr. Randolf waited for him to reply and then cleared his throat when he didn’t. “Ah, you said you’re flying to Berlin.”

“Yes,” Rook replied, preoccupied with straightening the cuffs of his shirt underneath his coat. “The Royal Flying Corps have begun to take on a few civilian passengers on their flights to supplant their losses in the Russo-Britannic Aero Wars. I was lucky enough to find an airship scheduled to stop at the Chicago Aerodrome for maintenance on its way to Vienna. Delivering a few diplomats back to the Austrian embassy, I was told. All civilians are required to go through several security and background checks, of course, but I didn’t see that posing a problem for me.”

“You are quite the celebrity,” Dr. Randolf agreed. He smiled suddenly, and his telescopic eye clicked in and out in a friendly way. “You know, I saw you play once when I was at a conference in London. The match against Kardovsky, the round when you-”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Rook interrupted firmly and took the prescription. Dr. Randolf looked mildly disappointed but opened the door to see him out.

 

Rook didn’t have very much in terms of luggage. He had his one suitcase with his clothes and shaving kit, and a small soft leather satchel over one shoulder with all of his important papers, passport, and wallet as well as a few books he’d bought at various train stations on his previous trip from Washington D.C. to Chicago. And the unopened bottle of Veronal – he hadn’t taken the first tablet last night before bed as Dr. Randolf had instructed. He hadn’t gathered up the nerve just yet.

In his other hand he had a thin wooden carrying case with brass snaps that held his beautiful antique Selenus chess set. The board was inlaid mahogany with small embellishments in mother of pearl, and the delicate chessmen were made of pale white bone with the black pieces stained with some rich dark substance Rook didn’t know. He wrapped them all individually in raw unspun cotton whenever he travelled and packed them carefully. It had been his grandfather’s chess set from long ago, and he had given it to Rook before his first professional match in Leeds. He had been proud of it once. He wasn’t quite sure if he needed it anymore, if he could ever use it again.

The Chicago Aerodrome was owned by the military, but they had set up a new space to check in civilian passengers in one of their empty warehouses next to the airship dock. Most of the people walking around the warehouse were dressed crisply in dark military blue and looked like they were in the middle of terribly important errands. They looked like a solid chaotic mass, but Rook could see patterns in it, little pockets of predictabilities as if they were moving on a grid—he shook his head. No. No, he couldn’t think about that. Not again. He had promised Dr. Randolf he would try to stop.

“Sir,” someone said behind him, and Rook turned to find one of the young identical-looking RFC cadets that had greeted him at the entrance, validated all of his papers, and apologetically checked the contents of his luggage before sending him through into the aerodrome.

“Yes?” Rook asked mildly.

“I’m Peake, sir,” the cadet said, looking terribly high-strung. “I-I’ve been instructed to escort you to the boarding area. If I may see your passport, sir?” And for the first time Rook noticed he was carrying a packet with several passenger lists. “Which airship will you be boarding?”

“The HMAS Mauretania Prima,” Rook replied.

Peake turned to the appropriate list and ran his finger down the passenger list with Rook’s passport open. He stopped at his name, looked at Rook’s passport again, and looked up to stare at him wide-eyed. “You’re…” His expression brightened, and Rook knew he’d recognised him. “You’re Linus Rook! You’re the blitz-chess Grandmaster.”

“Er, yes,” Rook said sheepishly and held his hand out for his passport.

Peake gave it back dazedly and then seemed to come back to himself. “Ah, sorry, yes may I help you with your luggage? Here, I’ll carry that larger suitcase for you. Er, sorry.” He laughed nervously and started off at a quick worried pace that Rook rushed to match. “You’re in America. I didn’t know you would be here in America.”

Rook hesitated and shrugged, not knowing what to say. “As you see.”

But he needn’t have worried, because apparently Peake had a nervous chattering habit that hadn’t been drummed out of him yet. “Yes, America is decent enough, but I’ll wager you’re glad to be returning to Brittania. You are returning to Britannia, aren’t you- it says here the Mauretania is due to stop in New York, Reykjavik, of course, London, Zurich, er…Frankfurt, and Vienna.”

“Yes I’m alighting in London,” Rook lied. “Though I’m not too keen on taking the train to Manchester.”

“You’re from Manchester?” Peake demanded, looking surprised. “So am I! Whatever were you doing in Chicago? A chess tournament?”

“I was…visiting acquaintances,” Rook said hesitantly.

Fortunately, Peake didn’t press further. “I’m from Wigan. Joined up with the RFC a few months ago.”

They reached the boarding area just as the crew was marching past the waiting passengers and into the airship. Rook followed them with his eyes, their crisp deliberate movements. Like chessmen. And God, he had to stop this. He decided to take the Veronal straight away after boarding.

Every one of the crew stopped to show their identification to a ruddy-faced cadet stationed at the checking desk near the door; he nodded and ticked off their names in what Rook presumed was a packet very much like the one Peake had. There was a strange metal contraption next to the desk that Rook eyed with curiosity for some time as the crew filed past. One of the men at the end of the line was tall and grave-looking with a neat wave of pale hair. His coat, unlike the others, had dark gold piping, and there were three copper pips on the edge of his high collar. There were a few lines of pins and ribbons on his shoulder. Rook recognised enough of them to be impressed.

Peake nodded towards the man. “That’s the captain, Horatio Hamlin,” he whispered.

“Hamlin?” Rook frowned. “His name sounds familiar.”

“His father was Ajax Hamlin,” Peake said. “And Captain Hamlin himself led the royal expedition into the Himalayas two years ago.”

“Huh,” Rook said wonderingly, staring after Hamlin as he disappeared out the door. “Er, when do the passengers board?”

“In a bit,” Peake said. “The crew has to see to the ship first, check that everything is working properly. Please sit down, Mr. Rook. They’ll call the passengers when they’re ready. Excuse me.” He whispered with the cadet at the desk and nodded. “They’ve finished calculating the total cargo weight,” he said to Rook. “Each passenger is allowed forty pounds of luggage. Any extra luggage will be sent on with another ship. Is this everything?”

“Yes. It should be under forty pounds,” Rook said and the cadet at the desk took his suitcase and heaved it into what Rook realised was a large industrial weighting machine.

The cadet bent towards the display, adjusted a few of the dials, and then nodded. “Right, everything seems in order. I’ll need your satchel as well.”

Rook pulled the satchel over his shoulder and placed it on top of his suitcase.

“Ah, you forgot that, Mr. Rook,” Peake said, pointing to the slim little carrying case with Rook’s prized Selenus chess set packed inside.

“This?” Rook said and swallowed, clenching and unclenching his fist. “I was just carrying it here – it isn’t mine.”

“It isn’t yours?” Peake asked perplexedly.

Rook thought of the loud chaotic buzzing like thousands of bees that filled his head whenever he stood in the middle of a crowd and the match he’d thrown in Paris when he’d apparently had a fit in the middle of the game while planning out his next move and had woken up in the hospital a few hours later. He remembered the match, too. The exact placement of all the pieces. And he thought if he had moved his bishop his opponent would have cut him off and had a go at a corner of his defence, but if he moved his knight instead, he could have possibly-

“Mr. Rook? Your satchel,” the cadet at the weighing machine said and held it out to him. Rook slung it back over his shoulder and put a hand in the front pocket to clasp around the Veronal bottle. He squeezed it tightly. He had to stop thinking about chess or he would never play it again.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I mean, no. No, it isn’t mine.”

“Ah, awfully good of you to find someone’s lost luggage for them,” Peake replied. “I’ll just take it to our cargo personnel, shall I?”

“Mm,” Rook agreed and forced himself to let go of the handle one finger at a time. It was difficult – they were wrapped around the case in a painfully rigid grip.

He thought about his grandfather giving him the chess set as a present before his first match. But his grandfather hadn’t known then that chess would drive him mad. But no, no he wasn’t mad. Or at least he knew he was, and that wasn’t the same thing, was it? And he was trying to find a cure. He had gone to some of the best doctors in Europe and now America to find a cure. And by God, he would.

“I hope whoever lost this chess set finds it,” Rook added and pressed it into Peake’s hands.

“How do you know it’s a chess set?” Peake asked in surprise and tucked it under his arm.

No, Rook wanted to say. No, you have to hold it by the handle; you might drop it otherwise. But it wasn’t his anymore. “I opened it. I was trying to find a name tag,” he said quickly.

“Well,” Peake said and smiled. “Seems someone was leaving it for you to find.”

“How fortunate,” Rook murmured and watched Peake take his best chess set out of the boarding area and away. It was an aerodrome, it found hundreds of pieces of luggage every year. Likely he would never see the chess set again. He put his thumb against the metal cap of the Veronal bottle and ran it against its edge around and around like a strand of rosary beads. Like a prayer.

 

The cadet called boarding time thirty minutes later, and Rook was relieved to finally do something, to move and get away from the aerodrome because he was having doubts about leaving his chess set behind and was of half a mind to retrieve it.

The door to the dock opened with a great roar. The wind was especially strong outside, and Rook had to pull his jacket close to keep it from flying up. He looked for the airship and then stopped for a moment, almost colliding with one of the passengers behind him. He had seen airships in the sky, of course but never seen one so close. He was amazed by how large it was, how the ship’s smooth white envelope seemed to stretch for miles and miles till it took up the entire sky and the dark two-deck gondola curved elegantly up around it as if the envelope and gondola were an organic whole. There was a network of strong ropes spidering out from the ship to keep it grounded and stable for loading. The gangplank was out when they reached the airship, and one of the cadets was waiting for them, looking from far away like a tiny wax figurine against the ship. He greeted them perfunctorily and offered them a tour of the ship while the crew was still setting up their instruments and preparing to take off. Rook was grateful to step inside, where he could at least compartmentalise everything, break the airship down into smaller more manageable parts.

There were four decks in total, though Rook had only seen the two from the gondola from the outside. There were metal railings surrounding each level and two sets of stairs on each floor for up and down traffic. He and the rest of the passengers clanked gamely up the spindly staircases after their guide and watched the crew hurry efficiently around them. They didn't go into the gondola at all. The gunning deck was on the first level of the gondola and off-limits to civilian passengers. The second deck on the gondola was the bridge, navigation, radio, and communications where most of the crew spent their days; that was off-limits to passengers too, but their guide said they were allowed into communications to make phone calls with an authorised escort.

The other two decks were in the hull above the gondola and hidden by the great white envelope. While the space in the gondola was scarce and jealously guarded, the levels in the hull consisted of long hallways that spanned the length of the mammoth ship. The third deck where they had boarded was used for ballasts and water. A great deal of water, since all of the engines on the ship were steam-powered; Rook couldn't imagine the sheer amount the ship needed for ballasts and running the engines, never mind potable water for regular use. Third deck was also for engineering; they weren't allowed a tour since the crew was busy going through preparations for takeoff, but anyway the cadet said it was unseasonably warm from all the engines and machinery that powered everything on the airship, though he said most of the heat was actually circulated out for other uses. There were also four engine cars for propulsion, though those were on the outside of the aircraft and only accessible through a precarious set of catwalks that Rook didn't even want to chance while they were still grounded; their guide seemed to share these sentiments.

The first portion of the fourth deck was comprised of the mess, kitchen, and common room where the crew relaxed when they weren't on duty. They passed the large crew mess, and their guide showed them the smaller more lavish officer mess where they would be taking their meals. The walls were decorated with large silk panels decorated most charmingly with idyllic scenes from various countries. Rook admired one detailing the fjords of Norway while some other passengers exclaimed over a quiet dreamy landscape featuring Juliana falls. It was a very fine thing to have on a military airship, and the cadet said one of the previous officers had painted it in his spare time.

The tour ended at the officer quarters at the rear of the ship where they would be staying for the duration of the voyage. Their guide doubled back to the navigation and control, promising to return just before takeoff. Rook and the other passengers were left to poke about in their rooms in the meantime. The rooms were small, but at least they were private unlike the crew quarters, which had one large room for all of the bunks and a single public washroom. Each room had a small washbasin, an alcove for a fold-up writing desk, and a tiny closet that fit a few changes of clothes. Unlike the commercial airships, the Mauretania had a single bunk instead of a double, which should have been a blessing, but it only meant that the ceilings were all terribly low. From the way one of the taller passengers was banging about, it didn't seem like they accommodated a man above middling height.

Someone in the room beside him accidentally kicked over the desk chair that was tucked underneath the desk, and Rook winced at the crash; he could already see that the rooms had almost no sound- proofing, and he would be hearing quite a lot of his neighbours during their stay.

"Look!" someone cried from another bunk, apparently oblivious to how sound carried throughout the rooms. "Some of the rooms have adjoining doors!"

Rook looked around but couldn't find one in his own room. It turned out that some of the rooms in the centre of the hall were for junior officers, and sometimes all the adjoining doors were left open to create something not unlike the large communal quarters for the crew down below. Two of the more lively men passed the time strolling through the rooms shouting, "Hullo! Hullo!" and calling out greetings whenever they found one another. Some of the other passengers were not so enthused.

"I for one am requesting a room transfer before we settle in," one of the women said imperiously.

"I assure you that you are quite safe from us, madam," one of the men replied sarcastically, and she flounced off to inspect her room. "Not if she were the last jane in America," the man muttered and elbowed his companion, who snickered.

The third man, and older gentleman with a pair of round old-fashioned spectacles, frowned and opened his mouth, but then a door opened at their end of the hallway.

A young woman with dark curly hair poked her head out of the room. "New passengers? How fun! Annie, we've got new passengers; come look!"

Another young woman's face emerged from the room; she was paler and had thin reddish hair that she had tried to ineffectually curl into ringlets. The two young women were wearing almost identical cream-coloured dresses with a wide band of ribbon in a v-shaped design about the waist, but the dark-haired woman's dress had a great deal of lacy material gathered together for the sleeves and the other woman's dress had subtle designs of flowers trailing down the sides. Rook thought they could have been twins for all that they looked nothing alike.

"I'm Lucy Millar; this is Annabelle Riley," the dark-haired girl said. "We've been with the Mauretania since San Francisco."

"An honour, young lady," the bespectacled men said, and Rook realised with a start that he was from Britannia.

"You're from London-Aldwych," Miss Millar remarked, but then she tilted her head. "German?"

"My uncle. Grew up in Germany," the man replied, looked surprised. "How did you know?"

She smiled, wide and embarrassed. "I used to have a German governess."

"Is that the one you drove off when you put mice in her wardrobe?" Miss Riley asked impishly.

Miss Millar laughed. "Oh no. That was my third governess. Oh, she was such a dull little thing."

"Are there any other passengers on this ship?" the bespectacled man asked, and now that Rook was listening for it, he supposed he could hear a faint trace of German in the way the man spoke.

Miss Millar shook her head. "Oh no. Most of them disembarked in Chicago. I'm going to London, and dear Annie has agreed to accompany me all the way to New York."

"There's marvellous shopping in New York," Miss Riley confided. "And I wouldn't think of abandoning Lucy so soon. We've become great friends." She yawned delicately and covered her mouth. "Oh. I'm tired from walking around Chicago all day. Let's sit in the lounge."

"The lounge?" Rook asked curiously.

Miss Millar brightened. "Ooh, you don't know about the officer lounge? It's awfully nice."

The officer lounge did indeed turn out to be nice; there were cushioned seats, a table for cards, and even a small smoking room with a little double-door that kept all the smoke inside. They all found a seat in the lounge and introduced themselves as they waited for takeoff. There were five new passengers in all: a tall handsome woman who was apparently a famous dramatic soprano finishing a nationwide tour for Fidelio, two American congressmen, and the Englishman, who was a marine scientist on sabbatical in America to study aquatic life in the Great Lakes. Rook saw some eyebrows rise as he introduced himself, but thankfully no asked him any questions. He wondered if they knew about what had happened in Paris.

They all sat together in awkward silence for a moment, but Miss Millar was quite a self-possessed young woman and somehow knew exactly what to say. She seemed too young for it, but from her manner Rook thought she might have been the daughter of a socialite for all that Miss Riley was the daughter of an American business tycoon. Miss Millar had set herself up in the middle chair with her arm over the back and her dress falling in stylish folds at her feet, and she looked as if she were presiding over all of them like a queen holding her court. Miss Riley sat in the chair beside her.

"Mr. Davis, you said you're travelling to New York," Miss Millar said to one of the congressmen, who immediately jerked his head up to give her his attention. "Where are you going? "

"We're taking the train back to Washington C.V," he replied. He looked slightly younger than the other senator and had pale watery eyes and a nervous disposition. "It will be our second time by airship."

“What does C.V. stand for?” Miss Millar asked.

“It stands for the City of Vespucia.”

“What does Vespucia mean, then?” Miss Riley piped in.

Davis paused. “I…I don’t know.”

The two women looked at each other and then burst into giggles. Congressman Davis looked flustered. The other congressman looked rather smug.

"It's from Vespucci, Tom, honestly," he said disparagingly. He took Miss Millar's hand for a moment and pressed it in what Rook thought was a rather overfriendly way. "Congressman Richards, miss. An honour."

"Mr. Richards." Miss Millar beamed. "Oh, what fun we'll all have, won't we? It really isn't so bad travelling on a military ship. Everyone is very kind, and all the restricted areas where they won't allow us are boring anyway. And we dine with the officers every day."

"Ooh, yes," Miss Riley agreed with a giggle. "They all look very fine in their mess uniforms, and they're all so polite."

"And sometimes after dinner we have a bit of music," Miss Millar added. "Oh, my dear Madame Andreva, you must sing for us, please please."

The dramatic soprano looked pleased at that and looked away bashfully. "Ah, but I will not have any accompaniment."

"But we have a piano," Miss Millar said. She laughed at their incredulous faces. "We do! It is a very clever thing, all aluminium and duralumin. It only weighs 350 pounds, and it's a full grand piano. It sounds lovely—I'm told Simon Godfrey himself played it once when the piano was still on the H.M.A.S Anatolia. Do any of you play?"

"I do," Rook chimed in quietly, hoping to be disguised by other voices, but none of the other passengers spoke up. He realised with some horror that he had just volunteered to be the entertainment for the duration of the flight.

"Mr. Rook, then," Miss Millar said, and suddenly her attention was on him. Her dark eyes were very bright. "You must play for us. Oh, Annie and I are growing tired of hearing ourselves, and we're running out of songs we know!"

"Of course," Rook replied, and breathed a quiet sigh when Miss Millar turned to speak with someone else. She was quite a forceful person when she wanted to be, and he wondered if she didn't prefer it like this with everyone surrounding her and showering her with attention. Even Miss Riley seemed to defer to her.

He yawned suddenly and realised he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He stood, and Miss Riley stopped to look at him. Miss Millar was talking with the English marine biologist and didn't seem to notice now that she was finished with him.

"You're leaving, Mr. Rook?" Miss Riley asked, pouting slightly.

Her voice seemed to rattle loudly in his ears all of a sudden. "I'm tired," he said. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a moment. "I think I'll go lie down before dinner."

"But you'll miss the liftoff," she protested. "Don't you want to see it?"

"I've seen it before on the flight to America," Rook replied. "It's all very quiet and slow. Nothing too exciting."

"It's flying," she replied, smiling. "It's always exciting."

He found himself smiling back. "I suppose that's true." He nodded goodbyes to the other passengers and then to Miss Millar, who dismissed him with a regal nod of her head before turning back to talk to the biologist. He was somewhat grateful for that.

He followed the corridor back to the officer quarters and found his room after only a few tries. His satchel was perched on top of the little writing desk, and he reached inside to find the bottle of Veronal. He stared at it for a moment and then it open with a quick twist. He shook out a single tablet from the bottle and stared at it, tiny and white it looked in his hand. He finally brought his hand to his mouth, tipped it back, and swallowed the pill. It didn't taste like anything, and he had to swallow a few times to get the feeling of it out of his throat.

His clothes were all in the suitcase that was probably sitting in the hold, which he probably couldn't access without a military escort till after liftoff, so he undressed till he was in his underthings, a short pair of cotton trousers and an undershirt. He hung his clothes neatly in the closet on one of the fragile-looking metal hangers and closed the doors. He shut off the light so the room was dim, the only light flooding in under the door from the hallway, and climbed into the narrow little bed. He pulled the thick not-quite comfortable sheets around himself, turned over once, and fell asleep.

He didn't dream.