Free Airborn by Kenneth Oppel Page A

all his knives out like that. He would spend several minutes checking them over, testing their sharpness, and this seemed to soothe him. Then he had taken the duck from the icebox and started cooking.
    And it had been wonderful.
    Chef Vlad might be loony, but it would be a sad day if he ever left the ship. Or was dragged off kicking and screaming in a straitjacket, as Baz said was more likely. Tonight he seemed fairly calm, and he even smiled at me when he placed the two plates on the counter. Just the smell alone was enough to feed you.
    I often thought of my father during meal times. He had once eaten at this very table, with many of these same people I now rubbed shoulders with. They’d known my father. They’d known he’d served dutifully and well aboard the Aurora. Some had been his friends. I liked being near them all. I didn’t need to talk about my father with them; I just liked knowing he’d been here.
    I was finishing off my second helping of mashed potatoes when the mess door opened and a crew member I’d never seen before entered. I knew right away it must be the Lunardi fellow. The potatoes nearly stuck in my throat, and I had to swallow them down with a gulp of milk. Lunardi looked around a bit uncertainly and then sat down at the end of my table.
    “Hello,” he said. He was seventeen or eighteen and, I noticed dejectedly, as handsome as a matinee idol. There was no denying it. In fact, he looked like the hero in the last swashbuckler I’d seen. I felt my mouth go dry with indignation. Well, I supposed money could buy anything, even good looks. He sat down, and the first thing he did was knock over a pitcher of milk. Unfortunately it was nearly empty and only wetted his lap a bit. He mopped it up with his napkin, ears burning red.
    “Not too swift, was it?” he said, attempting a laugh, looking right at me.
    I kept staring at the junior sailmaker insignias on both corners of his jacket collar. A small gold steering wheel stamped into the fabric. I couldn’t meet his eyes. Surely he must know who I was, what he’d done to me. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe no one had told him and the blinking oaf didn’t know.
    “I’m Bruce Lunardi,” he said to everyone. “I’m the trainee sailmaker.”
    Everyone nodded and said polite hellos, nothing more. Some of them looked at me, checking my reaction. Well, if they were expecting a show, I wasn’t giving it to them. Next to me, Baz gave me a friendly wink and nudge. I said nothing and slowly drank another glass of milk.
    “So, you’re Otto Lunardi’s boy, then?” one of the machinists asked.
    “Yes, I am,” he said.
    “D’you think your father would give me a raise?” someone asked, and laughter rose from the table.
    “I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you,” Lunardi said. “But he’s a stingy old goat, I can tell you.”
    This brought more laughter, but it wasn’t against Lunardi this time, and even I couldn’t help smiling and giving a quick sniff of amusement.
    Meals were a delicious but quick affair aboard ship. No one really had time to linger, except those coming off watch and willing to trade sleep for company and some friendly gab. Anyway, I’d lost my appetite, even though there was crème caramel for dessert, served with fresh Brazilian strawberries and vanilla cream. I nodded good-bye to the other crew and made my exit, relieved to get away from Lunardi.
    I wished he’d come to the table bold and cocky, crowing about his position, complaining about the ship and his cabin and the discomfort he now had to endure compared to his palatial mansion ashore. But, no, it looked like he might be a decent fellow, and that made things worse somehow.
    Upstairs, the first-class lounge was filling up as most of the passengers finished off their dinner. All the gentlemen were in black jackets and wing-tip collars and bow ties, and the ladies in long evening dresses and jewels. Mostly it was the ladies in the lounge, as the men seemed to