“No problem for me,” sniffed Bent.
Fanshawe turned the other way and squeezed past Gideon to open another oval door. He pressed himself against the inner hull of the ’stat but still felt the contours of her body traversing his chest. “In here’s the cockpit. There’s two seats, room for me and a copilot if necessary.” She looked at them in turn. “I like to instruct someone in the basics once we’re up, just in case.”
“In case what?” asked Bent.
She shrugged. “In case I die. If that happens, you’ll still want to have the best chance of landing in one piece. Mr. Smith, might I select you for the role?”
Gideon nodded. “If you like.” He was going to be shown how to fly an airship, after all those times watching the dirigibles passing impossibly high and out of reach over Sandsend. He’d never really thought he’d even get to ride in one as a passenger in his lifetime.
“Excellent,” said Fanshawe. She looked at her watch, bound to her wrist on a brown leather strap. “Well, if you’d like to get your equipment loaded and make yourselves comfortable, we’re nearing our slot for takeoff.”
“How long shall we be in the air?” asked Stoker.
“If the wind is with us, I’d hope to be in Alexandria by nightfall tomorrow,” said Fanshawe.
Stoker sighed and whispered to Trigger, “That’s a long time to be cooped up. I rather wish we had persuaded Mr. Bent to bathe this morning.”
“I heard that,” said Bent. He grinned at Bathory. “Ears like a dog, me.”
“If we’re ready, you can pull the seats down and sit tight while I run the preliminary checks,” said Fanshawe. “Then we can be off. Mr. Smith? Would you care to join me in the cockpit?”
The cockpit was tight, with two leather chairs close together and an instrument panel in front of them that Gideon found remarkably simple. Four glass windows looked out on the airfield. Fanshawe tapped the dials and levers in turn. “This is the altimeter, tells us how high we’re flying. That one shows us the airspeed. This is the pressure gauge for the balloon, and if that drops past this red line here, we’re in trouble. This is the winding meter—tells us when we need cranking up again. We use the steering wheel to angle the ailerons and take us to the left or right, pull it forward to lift and push to descend. That toggle puts the wipers on if we run into snow or rain. This down between us is the crank-brake; we let it go when we’re airborne and it lets the clockwork engine power the propellers. And that’s about it. Have a go with the wheel, get used to the feel of her.”
Gideon turned the wheel to one side, and then the other, pushed it forward and pulled it back.
“Too hard,” said Fanshawe. She placed her hand on his and directed him. “Do it too fast and you’ll risk tipping her into the wind. Here, let me show you.”
She squeezed behind his seat and leaned into him, placing her hands on his. He could feel her warm, sweet breath on his neck. “Push forward, like this. Not too hard, not too soft. Steady.” She pushed his hands forward, then drew them back. “Steady. Keep a rhythm. Steady.” Forward, and back. Her breath came faster as she pushed his hands. Forward, and back.
There was a high-pitched whistle from outside the ’stat, and Gideon coughed. Was it suddenly hot in the small cockpit? Fanshawe slipped back into her seat. Another button on her shirt had come undone, but Gideon thought it best not to mention it. Outside there was a uniformed Aerodrome worker, waving at them.
“Our slot,” said Fanshawe. “You can sit back in the cabin, if you like.”
Gideon let himself into the cabin where the others were strapped with leather belts to the fold-down seats. Gideon slid into the free one, between Bathory and Bent. Fanshawe leaned back to look into the cabin and said, “We’re taking off. Just so you know, there’s one rule and one rule only on the Skylady II: To wit, you do as I fucking say, each and every time, and no arguments.”
Bent chuckled. “I like this girl,” he said, then he gave a little yelp as the ’stat, freed from its moorings by the ground crew, lurched upward from the nose and began to rise jerkily into the air.
“Oh good Christ,” said Bent, peering through the small porthole in the cabin. “We’re effing flying.”
“That is somewhat the idea,” said Trigger gently. The ground dropped away from them swiftly, and Bent turned away from the window, closing his eyes tight. “Jesus. I can’t look.”
“You should,” said Gideon, gazing through the porthole nearest to him. “London is spread out beneath us like a child’s model. Look at the Lady of Liberty!”
He watched as the ground receded and the ’stat floated freely, buffeted by the winds that soared in the upper reaches of the atmosphere, then he heard the thrum of the clockwork engine as Fanshawe released the crank brake, and the propellers began to spin.
“Marvelous,” said Trigger. “I do so enjoy flying.” He paused and looked at Bent, who still had his face screwed up. “Mr. Bent? Are you quite well?”
“Where did she say the toilet was?” asked Bent weakly. “I really do hate to waste good food, but I think that fine breakfast your Mrs. Cadwallader served up for us this morning is shortly to make an unwelcome reappearance.”
They had been flying an hour, the Kent hop-fields spread out like a summer patchwork quilt below them, when Fanshawe let herself into the cabin, a rolled-up map in her hand. She pulled down the table and sat in an empty chair, and Gideon saw her suppress a smile at the pale, sweating figure of Bent.
“Mr. Bent?” she said. “Does flying not agree with you?”
“If God had meant me to fly,” said Bent, “he would not have made me so fat.” He paused and looked at Fanshawe with one eye. “If I might ask, miss, as you are sitting here with us, who is actually piloting this effing thing?”
Fanshawe smiled. “I have her locked into a course for the moment. I should not need to adjust her for a while yet.” She unfurled the map of the world and pointed to London. “We’re going to head east, across Belgium and Germany, and then begin to bear south over Bohemia.”
Gideon couldn’t help smiling. He had read those names only in books and stories; he had never truly dared expect he might see them for himself, much less from the lofty vantage point of a dirigible.
“Would flying over France and Spain not be a more direct route?” asked Stoker.
“It would,” agreed Fanshawe. “And also a more dangerous one. Both sides have been known to toss shells rather indiscriminately at passing ’stats.”
Her finger continued southward. “Down the Croatian coast, and via Greece we head out over the Mediterranean. The next land we see will be Alex.” She looked up. “Has anyone visited there before?”
They all shook their heads save Trigger. Fanshawe asked him, “Since the Bombardment of ’eighty-two?”
“No, it was prior to that. I remember it being a chaotic, lawless hole of a place.”
She smiled. “It still is. But now it’s a chaotic, lawless hole with the Union Flag flying above it.”
Bent groaned again, and Fanshawe said, “I am going to check the instruments, then I shall break out some provisions. Mr. Bent, I often find the best cure for a spot of airsickness is to drink one’s way out of it.”
Bent opened one eye again. “You have drink?”
“I always carry a good stock of rum.” She smiled.
Bent risked opening his other eye, and said to Gideon, “What did I tell you about that girl? She’s almost perfect.”
“Almost, Mr. Bent?” said Fanshawe, raising one eyebrow.
“Aye.” Bent nodded. “And if you tell me you have some sausages in the back, I’ll upgrade that to absolutely effing perfect, with no argument brooked.”
20
Alive, Alive-o
Over rum and spiced sausage, Trigger apprised Fanshawe of as much of the situation as the travelers knew between them while Bent, his demeanor much improved by the fare, proclaimed undying love for the pilot and asked for her hand in marriage, which she deftly sidestepped with a go
od- natured cuff to the side of his head, winking at Gideon as she did so. He had never in all his life encountered a woman like Rowena Fanshawe, not even the trawlermen’s daughters back in Sandsend, who were far from being highborn ladies. Fanshawe seemed more like a man than a woman, in attitude at least. In body . . . Gideon forced himself not to stare at her behind as she leaned into the cockpit to quickly check the instruments.
“So,” said Stoker when she returned. “What do you make of our tale, Miss Fanshawe?”
“Rowena, please,” she said. “And it sounds like one of the most fanciful of Lucian’s stories for World Marvels & Wonders.” She paused to take a draught of rum. “However, as I know all of Lucian’s tales are indeed true, I have no choice but to believe you. As a ’stat pilot you see some strange things, Mr. Stoker, especially when you are acquainted with Dr. John Reed.”
“I’m struggling to believe it, and I actually saw those creatures,” said Bent, helping himself to another sausage.
Fanshawe drank her rum thoughtfully. “So why is this your problem? Why not alert the authorities, have the Fleet Air Arm or the infantry sent in to find this pyramid and destroy these mummies?”
“I fear even if we could persuade the government that our story was not the rambling of madmen, it would take more time than we have to mobilize the necessary firepower to undertake the task,” sighed Stoker.
“And the government might not be so inclined to help,” said Gideon. “In fact, they might be behind it somehow. Have you ever heard of Walsingham?”
Rowena paused with her drink at her lips. “Walsingham?”
“He was John’s contact in the Crown,” said Trigger.
“And mine, on occasion,” said Fanshawe, placing her drink on the small table. “Lucian, I wish you’d mentioned this before.”
He frowned. “It’s a problem?”
She sighed. “It might be, if Walsingham’s indeed involved.” She tapped her chin with a finger. “Still, too late now. All I ask is when you get to Alex, and if you find your pyramid and Walsingham is indeed wrapped up in all this, you keep my name out of it.”
They were flying into a clear night, above the wispy clouds, and Gideon looked through the porthole at an earthbound constellation of sharp lights. Fanshawe joined him, pressing close so she could see through the porthole as well, and said, “Berlin. I should go and adjust our course a tad.”
Bathory stifled a yawn and one by one they went to their bunks, their small quarters separated by heavy velvet drapes. With Rowena checking their course in the cockpit, Trigger and Gideon cleared up the supper things.
“Mr. Smith, it must have been a dreadful disappointment for you when you came knocking on my door in Grosvenor Square. You came seeking a hero, and found a tired old man living in the reflected glories of others,” Trigger said.
Gideon shrugged. “I found what I was looking for. Captain Lucian Trigger. We’re here, aren’t we? On an adventure?”
Trigger smiled. “It’s more than that for you, though, isn’t it, Mr. Smith? An errand of revenge. For your fallen father.”
Gideon nodded soberly. “Yes. I swore I would find out who had killed him. Now I know. Those hated creatures. I will not rest until they have been made to pay.”
Trigger paused thoughtfully. “I had considered myself a mere purveyor of written confections of late, especially since John’s disappearance. I had not realized, or had forgotten, that my words carry a responsibility. To people such as yourself, Gideon, who truly considered Captain Lucian Trigger a hero. You also feel responsibility for Maria, am I correct?”
“I promised to help her, and instead I put her in peril. Had I left her in the house of Einstein, she would have been safe . . . though she was suffering terrible indignities.”
“That is the curse of heroism,” said Trigger. “Fulfilling responsibilities, and making difficult decisions.” He yawned. “Now I think I will go to bed. A long day awaits us tomorrow.”
Gideon’s bunk was in the section nearest the cabin, and he pulled his hinged bed down from the wall. As he was arranging the blankets he saw Fanshawe in the cabin.
“Will you sleep, also?” he called quietly.
“I will doze occasionally in the cockpit,” she said. “I would appreciate it if you could perhaps steer the ’stat for a couple of hours come dawn, to give me the chance to get some proper sleep. It should only be a holding course by then.”
He nodded his agreement and pulled the door closed, then stripped to his underthings and placed his folded breeches and shirt at the foot of the bed. It was a narrow, short bunk, and Gideon lay there in the dark, listening to the heavy snoring from Bent in the adjacent quarters. He stared at the low ceiling of the gondola, listening to the symphony of ticking and clicking from the clockwork engine at the rear of the ’stat. Sleep refused to come, and he tossed and turned, Bent’s sawing snores driving into his skull.
A crack of starlight appeared at the door to the cabin, and the small form of Fanshawe slipped into the small space. Gideon said nothing and feigned sleep, and she padded over to him and stood by his bunk, breathing shallowly. “Gideon,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Miss Fanshawe . . . Rowena. Yes. Is everything all right?”
Wordlessly, she took his hand and placed it upon her breast. Her white shirt was unbuttoned to the navel, and he touched her bare flesh, feeling the hard, hot nub of her nipple. He tried to withdraw his hand but she held it fast, her breathing coming quicker and quicker, and then she slid her own hand under the blanket and trailed her fingers across his inner thigh.
“Rowena . . . ,” he whispered.
“It’s all right,” she said. “We can be quiet. Let me get out of these trousers.”
She released his hand and he snatched it away as though he’d been burned. He could sense the raising of a quizzical eyebrow.
“Rowena . . . I cannot.”
He gasped as she gripped him with a firm hand. “Your mouth says no, but your body says otherwise,” she said. He felt her hot tongue on his. She brought his hands to her breasts again, and he moaned, then shook his head.
“I’m sorry.”
With a sigh, she released her hold on him, and he heard her buttoning up her shirt. She said, “It is Maria, isn’t it? You are in love with her.”
“In love with her? No, Rowena, you’ve got it wrong. She’s made of clockwork and . . . and . . .”
Fanshawe put a finger on his lips and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Hush. It is all right. Don’t tie yourself in knots over it. The workings of the heart are beyond all of us, Gideon. This never happened. See you at dawn.”
With that she stole back into the cabin and quietly closed the door behind her.
Gideon lay silently for a long time, listening to the creaking and settling of the ’stat, until Bent said, “Good God, Gideon, you really are an effing lunatic, ain’t you?”
True to her word, Fanshawe acted as though nothing had happened when Gideon woke, stiff and aching from his cramped night’s sleep, and he might have been tempted to consider it all a dream but for Bent’s volley of knowing winks and nudges over breakfast. Fanshawe had directed the Skylady II on a more southerly bearing, and they hugged a rocky coastline that plunged into azure seas, the bright sun above casting the perfect shadow of the ’stat on the millpond-calm waters far below.
While Fanshawe slept in the bunk Gideon had vacated, he sat in the cockpit, monitoring the gauges with an overeager eye. But she had set the ’stat on a course and he had instructions to meddle with the controls only if there was impending doom of some kind, and then only if he was unable to wake Fanshawe because she had mysteriously died in her sleep.
When she returned, Gideon went to help Trigger and Bathory put together a lunch, and in the afternoon they pored over their maps and books, trying to discern from John Reed’s journals whether he had made any regular contacts on previous sojourns to Alexandria.
“We’re hitting a bank of cloud,” called Fanshawe
from the cockpit. “If it gets dark, you might want to light the oil lamps.”
“Is cloud bad?” asked Bent.
“It is if we hit another ’stat,” said Fanshawe.
“Does that happen often?”
She shrugged. “Generally only once.”
The cloud clung stubbornly to the Skylady II and after some hours brought with it a premature dusk, which Fanshawe suggested they alleviate with rum and cards.
“Are we making good time?” asked Trigger as she poured and Bent dealt.
“Not bad. This cloud is slowing us down. I’ve tried to rise above it but it’s a pretty deep bank. I still think we’ll get to Alexandria before midnight.”
They passed the time with rum and cards, which, Gideon had to admit, did engender a convivial atmosphere. When Bent had lost too much and had to dole out IOUs to most of the assembly, he began to sing in a cracked, throaty voice: “Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain; For we’ve received orders for to sail for old England, But we hope in a short time to see you again.”
Bent lapsed into a prolonged, heaving cackle, and his mood proved infectious. Even Countess Bathory smiled and glanced at Stoker, who held up his hands for quiet. As the rum had taken hold, his cultivated tones had begun to lapse back into his thick Irish brogue, and he stood unsteadily, laid his hand on his chest, and sang in a rumbling baritone, “In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone, As she wheeled her wheelbarrow, Through streets broad and narrow, Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o!’ ”
They all joined in a chorus of alive, alive-o!s until Bent, obviously determined not to be outdone, downed his rum and stood also, patting Stoker on the shoulder and bidding him to sit. “I heard this one in the music hall in Clerkenwell just three nights ago. You won’t know it, but you’ll pick it up. A bouncy little ditty.” He cleared his throat. “Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to bed, I had a little drink about an hour ago and it’s gone right to my head. Wherever I may roam, On land or sea or foam, You will always hear me singing this song, Show me the way to go home.”
Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl Page 20