Free Airborn by Kenneth Oppel

ship! Why, I remember when we first brought you aboard, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Ahhh, those were sweet days, when I got to bottle feed you—”
    “Oh, shut up!” I said, laughing.
    “We’re all so proud of how you’ve grown up, young Matt,” he said, dancing out of the way as I tried to bullwhip him with my tie. But his good humor and confidence cheered me up.
    “Come on,” he said, handing me my white shirt, warm and freshly ironed. “Get your tie on and let’s grab some dinner!”
    The crew’s mess was on B-Deck, beside the smaller downstairs kitchen and bakery. It was a cozy room with six large booths that sat about a third of the crew at any one time. The officers had their own mess farther along; they got roomier tables and china place settings and napkins—but exactly the same food. Meals were heaven aboard the Aurora. Crew and officers ate as well as the first-class passengers—no point in having the cooks prepare more dishes than necessary.
    Baz and I sat down after checking out the menu posted on the wall. Tonight it was venison cutlets and Yukon mashed potatoes—so creamy not even the tip of your tongue could feel a lump—and asparagus spears, glazed with lemon butter. There were pitchers of fresh milk and water and ale for those going off duty, jugs of gravy for the mashed potatoes, dishes of butter balls glistening with dew, and baskets of granary bread baked fresh that afternoon.
    I went to the kitchen window to collect my dinner and Baz’s. I always liked watching the bustle in there. And I was riveted by the chef, Vlad Herzog, who happened to be cooking downstairs tonight.
    “Watch out for that one,” Baz had told me on my very first day, three years ago. “Chef Vlad, he’s volatile.”
    The word had stuck with me. It made me think of nitroglycerin. In my years aboard the Aurora , I’d spent plenty of time around the kitchens, and believe me, Vlad was scary. He had some kind of Transylvanian accent, and Mr. Lisbon, the chief steward, had a completely different accent, just as thick. The two claimed they never understood each other. This was a problem, seeing as they needed to communicate pretty much on an hourly basis. It led to some interesting misunderstandings during meal times.
    It wasn’t that Vlad was crazy, not in any obvious way. He didn’t shout or clatter pots and pans or yank his hair out by the roots. Not at first anyway. He always started out very calm, and when he was really angry, he got even calmer and quieter and spoke so slowly you thought he was falling asleep between words. A few weeks ago, just as an example, there had been some confusion over the dinner menu.
    “You want that I what?” he had whispered politely to Mr. Lisbon. “You want that I cook duck? Duck? Duck?” He muttered the word softly, as though he didn’t know what it meant. Mr. Lisbon began to explain.
    “No, I know what duck is, many thanks to you,” said Vlad, giving a terrifying smile. “I make good acquaintance with duck. Little water bird, splash splash, yes? No, that is not my problem. Problem, Mr. Lisbon, is this. Problem is duck is not on menu tonight !”
    All the kitchen help casually took a few steps back, but pretended that nothing was the matter.
    Mr. Lisbon had insisted that duck was, in fact, on the menu.
    “Oh,” said Vlad, tossing his hands up in the air. “Well, just let me double-check !” He made a big show of looking at a sheaf of papers on the counter. “No. Duck is not on menu tonight . That is tomorrow . You what? You have changed the menu. Without telling me, I think? I see. I understand now that you change menu without telling me. Yes, I see. Thank you very greatly for this. Good.”
    Then Vlad had reached over to his block of big cutting knives and started laying them ominously out on the counter, arranged by size.
    “Duck,” he muttered to himself. “Duck. But today is Tuesday. And duck was for Wednesday.”
    Everyone knew to leave him alone when he got