Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon

by David Barnett

  He’d felt a pang of doubt, because that kid Gideon Smith was obviously in love with Maria, clockwork girl or not. Cockayne had seen stranger things—but not by much. He could hear the wail from Smith as he’d absconded with Maria, once he’d figured out that the only way to communicate with her was with that golden apple John Reed had stolen from the lost valley of Shangri-La up in the Himalayas. Once she was plugged into Apep, Maria somehow was the brass dragon—all she needed was her long-dead pharaoh Amasis to command her, and Cockayne was happy to step into that role. Thing was, it also meant that Maria spoke only ancient Egyptian, which Cockayne was a bit rusty on. Good thing the golden apple allowed the holder to speak and understand any language. Nice, useful bit of equipment, that.

  Pity he’d lost it.

  Cockayne had driven Maria across the Atlantic, coming in low over the coast of New Spain and up into the Texan lands below the Wall. He’d had Maria do a couple of victory rolls over San Antonio, then ordered her east, into the lower peaks of the heavily forested Appalachian Mountains. It was one thing to show off the merchandise to men like Thaddeus Pinch, but it was quite another to go flying straight into Steamtown with the goods. There was careful negotiation to be carried out first.

  Cockayne had been worried about what would happen when Apep landed—Maria’s clockwork body packed a mean punch. But it turned out that as long as she was plugged into the dragon, her real personality was subsumed beneath the overriding Apep identity, so he’d just left her sitting in the head of the dragon while he went to make arrangements.

  They’d landed the dragon in darkness, in one of the wilder regions of the mountains. There was a one-horse town ten miles away, and he’d hidden Apep beneath some foliage and trekked there for supplies. There was no Pony Express office there, and the mail service wouldn’t go within a hundred miles of San Antonio anyway. But he’d managed to buy the services of a young gun to take a message to Steamtown, offering Apep for sale to Thaddeus Pinch for the cool sum of five hundred thousand pounds.

  It took two weeks for the rider to return with an answer. Cockayne had no idea how Pinch would respond—after all, he still owed the King of Steamtown a pile of money, and the one time he’d been given the opportunity to pay off his debts (by taking charge of a slaving expedition to Africa) Gideon goddamn Smith had scuppered his plan and freed his cargo in Alexandria. Thaddeus had every right to be pissed at Cockayne, but Cockayne also knew that the boss of Steamtown’s interest would be piqued. Pinch had seen his little aerial display, of course, and the response he sent back with the rider was brief and to the point: Bring me your dragon.

  So Cockayne, glad he could stop living rough like some backwoodsman, had saddled up Apep and headed west.

  Which was when everything went south.

  * * *

  If Cockayne had no knowledge of how Apep flew, he had even less idea as to why the bastard thing fell out of the sky like that. One minute they were flying into the setting sun, Maria’s hands playing over the control panel, pulling the invisible strings that maneuvered the brass dragon through the sky; the next she was sitting bolt upright, her pretty little features contorted in pain.

  “What the hell’s going on?” demanded Cockayne, then remembered he’d stowed the golden apple in his leather satchel. He retrieved it as Maria began to babble in ancient Egyptian.

  “Charging complete … initiating fusion … preparing schematic download…”

  Cockayne swore and rubbed the apple with his sleeve, as though it were some kind of lamp with a genie in it. “I thought this damn thing was supposed to make us speak the same language.”

  “… commencing fusion…” said Maria. “Oh!”

  Apep bucked wildly, throwing Cockayne off his feet. He landed hard in the brass cabin—not made for passenger comfort—and the apple rolled away from him. Maria continued to speak in a low monotone, but he could no longer understand the tongue. Not that it mattered; he had other things on his mind. The brass dragon spiraled upward and then began to dive, and the golden desert rushing toward them was the last thing Cockayne saw.

  Until he woke up in Steamtown. They’d crashed fifteen miles northeast of San Antonio, by all accounts. Cockayne was beaten up, but alive. He was in a bed in a whorehouse, with Pinch standing over him, when he woke.

  “I got your dragon,” said Pinch. “How about you show me how it flies, then I’ll show you my money?”

  The dragon had been brought in on the back of a trailer pulled by three of Jim Bowie’s Steamcrawlers, which Pinch had taken possession of following Bowie’s death. Cockayne didn’t mention that he and John Reed had had a hand in that. Louis Cockayne had done business with Steamtown many times, but that didn’t mean he was one of Pinch’s cronies. He followed the money, and in the matter of Bowie, the British Crown had been paying very well indeed.

  Pinch had soon enough hauled Cockayne out of his sickbed and taken him to the dragon. Louis had tapped brass plates here, twisted on joints there, rubbed his chin and hummed and ahhed. But it hadn’t taken Pinch long to realize that Louis was playing for time.

  “What the hell’s up, Cockayne?” Pinch had demanded. “You busted the goddamn thing? This is exactly as we found it.”

  Cockayne touched his bandaged head. “Think I took a bad knock, Thaddeus. I’m having trouble remembering right.”

  What Cockayne was really having trouble with, though, was the fact that while Apep seemed in good order, it was lacking one or two things. Namely, all the artifacts in the instrument panel and the Golden Apple of Shangri-La.

  Oh, and Maria.

  * * *

  That was two weeks ago, and Thaddeus Pinch was losing patience, fast. He knew Cockayne was holding out on him, but couldn’t for the life of him see why. He’d even shown Cockayne four tea chests stuffed with British pound notes. All he had to do was show Pinch how the dragon flew.

  Cockayne sighed and lay down on the bunk in the cell, listening to the ever more raucous sounds of Steamtown. Without Maria, Cockayne couldn’t make Apep fly. And if Apep didn’t fly, Cockayne’s days were numbered. Pinch might like him, but even the King of Steamtown had his limits, no matter how lucky at cards Louis Cockayne was.

  He pulled his hat down over his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.

  “Oh, Maria,” he murmured. “Where the hell are you?”

  8

  OF MONSTERS AND MEN

  Gideon smiled absently as the maid poured him tea from a silver pot, trying to tune out Bent’s retelling to no one in particular of the previous evening’s events in the garden.

  “It was effing amazing,” said Bent, spraying the white tablecloth with pieces of half-chewed egg. “Blam! Down went one. Blam! Another. But the third had a blade at Lyle’s throat … I thought he was done for. I mean, Gideon’s not a bad shot and all that, but he’d not picked a gun up until month ago. Still, I should have had faith in the Hero of the Empire.…”

  Bent shook his head and reached for another bread roll. With his other hand he dug into one of the seemingly endless, bottomless pockets in his shabby raincoat and withdrew his notebook.

  Rowena chewed her toast thoughtfully and kept her eyes on Gideon across the table from her. She said quietly, “Are you all right?”

  He glanced up, suddenly aware of her speaking to him. “What? Sorry…? Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

  “Gideon, like I told you last night, I know what it’s like, the first time you kill a man in cold blood. It’s not as it is in the penny dreadfuls. It’s not clean.”

  “No,” he said slowly, the image of that last ninja refusing to fade from his mind’s eye. He remembered the narrow eyes that slowly widened as Gideon’s intent became apparent, the color draining from the man’s skin just before he fired, the mess that exploded over Edward Lyle’s shoulder as Gideon’s bullet slammed home in the ninja’s forehead. “No, not clean.”

  He gave Rowena a reassuring smile as Bent thrust his notepad under Gideon’s nose. “What do you make of this, then?”
>
  The journalist had sketched a series of interconnecting lines on the page.

  “This was the tattoo on that Japanese feller’s neck, the first one you shot,” said Bent thoughtfully. “Ring any bells for you?”

  Gideon shook his head. Bent said, “Looks familiar to me, but I can’t quite place it.” He flipped the notebook shut and pointed at Gideon’s barely touched plate of ham and eggs. “You not eating that? Don’t mind if I help myself, do you? We’re supposed to be meeting Lyle in ten minutes.”

  * * *

  Governor Lyle’s office had expansive views of the Albert Gardens, and in the sunshine of the morning they looked magnificent against the skyline of Manhattan, rising from a sea of smog just beyond the tree line. Lyle had a fresh bandage on his neck, but otherwise looked none the worse for his tribulations the previous evening. He had with him a thin, rangy man in faded denim trousers, a red shirt, and a leather waistcoat. The man carried a wide-brimmed hat in his hands, and with his piercing blue eyes set into his weather-beaten face he kept casting glances at Rowena, but he stayed silent. Gideon looked sidelong at Rowena to see if she was returning the interest. But Lyle was already stepping around his wide desk, shaking Gideon’s hand warmly.

  “Mr. Smith. I hope you slept well after last night’s excitement.”

  Gideon shrugged. In truth, he hadn’t slept well at all, despite the comfortable bed in the west wing of the Governor’s Residence. Killing those three men must have affected him more than he had realized. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out to be the Hero of the Empire after all.

  Bent picked up a small, framed photograph from the desk: a smiling, pretty woman with a small, serious-faced boy on her knee.

  “This your wife and kid, Lyle? She’s a looker, and the kid takes after her, thank effing Christ.” Bent replaced the frame. “Did the rumpus last night not wake ’em?”

  Gideon saw the slightest look pass between Lyle and the stranger before the governor said, “Don’t you be worrying yourself about my family, Mr. Bent. I’d have thought you’d be wanting to get on with your mission as soon as possible.” Lyle picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk. “Here’s what we know, and what we told Whitehall two weeks ago.” Gideon took the papers from him. Lyle said, “In essence, we have a garrison located on the Mason-Dixon Wall perhaps fifty miles northeast of San Antonio. A month ago they filed a report saying that there had been unusual activity in the air above Steamtown. More than one of the men reported seeing what they described as some kind of winged serpent, or dragon, in the skies.”

  “A month ago?” Gideon frowned. “Why weren’t we told immediately?”

  Lyle smiled apologetically. “For one thing, we didn’t even know anyone had a missing dragon they were looking for. No one saw fit to tell us to be on the lookout for one. For another … Mr. Smith, you must understand … these soldiers, they’re away from home for long periods, and it’s a lonely life manning the garrisons. San Antonio’s just a short ride away, with its saloons and cathouses—excuse me, Miss Fanshawe—but of course it’s off-limits. They get a little … stir-crazy. Besides, we thought if there was something unusual in the air, it was more than likely some outlandish machine or experiment of Thaddeus Pinch’s.”

  “Thaddeus Pinch?”

  “It’s all in my report, Mr. Smith. But Thaddeus Pinch is a lunatic. His father was the former British Governor of San Antonio, until he decided he wanted to run things himself instead of reporting back to London. He was crazy when he died, and he passed the governorship on to his son, like it was some kind of hereditary title. If anything, the son is even crazier than the father. Now Pinch likes folks to call him the King of Steamtown. He has all manner of madcap schemes in his head. And some of the best scientists in America are either in his pay or under lock and key, unfortunately. Pinch has a lot of history with Louis Cockayne. If Cockayne sells your dragon to anyone, Mr. Smith, it’s more than likely going to be Thaddeus Pinch.”

  “Sell the dragon…?” said Gideon. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why, exactly, Cockayne had stolen Apep. If it was for base profit, then Maria must have been part of the deal. Gideon suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “We need to get down there immediately. Rowena, how long will it take us in the Skylady III?”

  But Lyle held up his hands. “Whoa, Mr. Smith. I’m very much afraid it isn’t going to be anywhere like as easy as that. For one thing, no dirigibles fly over Steamtown. Pinch has an arsenal of steam-cannons there that the Fleet Air Arm would kill for. He’s brought all kinds of cargo ’stats down—from here, from New Spain, from the Meiji. Passenger ’stats, too; survivors ended up in the slave markets. Now, nobody risks flying within a hundred miles of San Antonio.” Lyle smiled ingratiatingly at Rowena. “Secondly—and I hope Miss Fanshawe forgives me here—but Steamtown is no sort of place for a fine-looking lady.”

  “I can look after myself,” said Rowena, but Gideon shot her a raised eyebrow. She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Rowena?”

  She sighed. “I’ve heard plenty of tales of Steamtown, Gideon. Women there … they’re either whores or wives. Which basically amounts to the same thing in San Antonio, except one you get paid for and one you don’t.”

  The stranger rolled up the brim of his hat and said in a thick accent, “Hope you don’t mind me saying, Miss, but a handsome woman like you … I shouldn’t like to think what might happen in Steamtown.”

  Gideon felt his cheeks burning. “I can look after her,” he said.

  The stranger suppressed a smile. “You might be able to shoot three Japs in a garden, Mr. Smith, but if you get blown out of the sky over Texas, you sure you’re going to hold Pinch’s army off Miss Fanshawe with that itty-bitty peashooter I heard you’re packing?”

  “I am here,” said Rowena, “when you’ve both quite finished talking about me as though I’m a virgin locked in a tower.”

  The man held up his hands in apology, and Lyle said, “Forgive me, I should have introduced you all earlier. Mr. Smith, Miss Fanshawe, Mr. Bent, this is Jebediah Hart.”

  He bowed. “My friends call me Jeb.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jeb,” said Bent cheerfully.

  “Why exactly is Mr. Hart here?” asked Gideon, less so.

  Lyle grinned. “Jeb knows Texas like the back of his hand. Hell, Jeb knows everywhere like the back of his hand. If anyone can get you into Steamtown, it’s him.”

  Jeb sat on the corner of Lyle’s desk. “There’s a military transport dirigible making a scheduled supply drop at the Texas garrison, today. Pinch will be expecting it; he knows the timetable of every official ’stat service around his territory. He won’t touch it, of course; bringing down a military ’stat is more trouble than even a crazy old bastard like Thaddeus Pinch can handle.”

  “If this Pinch is such a pain in the effing arse, why don’t you just go and kick his backside for him?” said Bent.

  Lyle shrugged. “Because Pinch and the other Texan warlords have officially seceded from British America. If we clear them out—as much as we’d love to—that’s an act of war. We can’t be sure that they’re not cozying up with the Spaniards or even the Japs. And unless London is going to finance a war, Mr. Bent, then I’m certainly not in a position to go poking a hornet’s nest.”

  “So you’re going to help us just walk into this Steamtown, Mr. Hart?” said Gideon.

  Jeb smirked. “Walking in won’t be a problem, Mr. Smith. It’s in the getting out you might need some help.”

  “I’ve already prepared some letters of authority so you can get whatever help you need from the garrison … short of an actual escort into San Antonio, of course,” said Lyle. “Miss Fanshawe, you’re more than welcome to stay here at the Governor’s Residence as long as you wish.”

  Rowena nodded tightly. Gideon could tell she was still smarting over being told to stay out of Steamtown, even though she seemed to accept that going there was a bad idea. “Thank you, Governor. I would like to be here in case Gideon and Mr. Bent need any a
ssistance.”

  “I won’t stop you, Rowena,” said Gideon quietly. “You can do exactly what you wish.”

  She sighed. “The governor’s right, Gideon. I should perhaps stay on alert here in New York, ready to attend should I be required.”

  He thought again of Rowena’s embrace in the gardens last night, the gladness he had felt at her relief and concern. She was a good friend, Rowena Fanshawe, a vital ally. He glanced at her as she looked out the wide window. He felt somewhat disappointed that she wasn’t coming with them, though he understood the dangers she would be facing if she did. He would miss her bravery and her strong right arm, he told himself. That was it. He would miss her bravery.

  * * *

  While Lyle sorted the paperwork into order, Jeb nodded at Gideon. “Let’s see this gun of yours, Mr. Smith. I like to know what kind of firepower I’m taking into Texas.”

  Gideon withdrew the Webley Bulldog and handed it to him. Jeb grinned, showing his missing teeth, and pulled from his holster his own gun, holding it up to overshadow the Bulldog.

  “Colt Buntline Special,” said Jeb, winking at Rowena in a manner that Gideon thought was most inappropriate. “Twelve-inch barrel.”

  Bent sighed and began to unbutton his trousers. He reached inside and pulled out his own weapon, stock first, from his trouser leg.

  “Winchester Model 1886,” he said, slapping it on the desk with a dull clang, startling Lyle into looking up. Rowena snickered to herself. She had seen Bent sliding the gun down his shapeless trousers outside the office. “Now, if this effing contest is well and truly won, I wanted to pick our new friend Jeb’s brain about something he said earlier. As I understand it, this San Antonio’s in the arse-end of nowhere. I take it that when you said we’d be walking in, it was a figure of speech?”

  Jeb put his hat on his head. “That it was, Mr. Bent. We’ll be riding in.”

  Bent’s jaw dropped. “Not on effing horses?”

  “It’s the only way to travel, out west.”