Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl

by David Barnett

  Bent banged his tin cup sharply three times on the table, then launched into the same verse again, beckoning Gideon to join in. Trigger laughed and did so as well, as did Stoker and Fanshawe. By the third repetition they were all singing and banging their cups on the table and repeating the verse faster and faster. Gideon laughed delightedly. Then Fanshawe frowned and held up her hand.

  “What was that?”

  They fell silent, and in a moment there was a distinct thud, as though something had struck the gondola further down its length.

  “Trouble with the engine?” asked Gideon. Fanshawe shook her head, stood, and made to pass through the oval door, Gideon behind her, when there was another smack, much closer, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. Bent yelled as the hull of the ’stat bulged in near his head and a sharp metal point protruded an inch or so into the cabin.

  Cursing, Fanshawe pushed Bent out of the way and peered through the porthole at the dark cloud. She squinted, then drew back and breathed, allowing Gideon to look out. He could just make out dark shapes in the cloud, balls or globes with something attached to the underside.

  “Personal blimps,” said Fanshawe. “One-man ’stats, balloons with frames suspended underneath.”

  “And what the eff is that?” asked Bent, pointing at the sharp point near his head.

  “If I’m not mistaken, it’s a harpoon,” said Fanshawe.

  Trigger frowned. “One-man ’stats? All the way out here?”

  Fanshawe was squeezing past him to the cockpit, and Gideon followed her. “They don’t have the range to get out here. Which means they’re with a bigger . . . oh.”

  Ahead of them, emerging from the dark cloud like a vast, silent whale, was a huge dirigible, as big as a passenger ’stat, with a massive pale flower painted on the hull of its balloon.

  “Shit,” said Fanshawe.

  “What is it?” said Gideon.

  She bit her lip and looked at him. “Now we’re really in trouble. That’s the Yellow Rose.”

  As she scrabbled for her spyglass and put it to her eye, Gideon asked, “The Yellow Rose? Why is that bad? Mightn’t they be rescuing us?”

  “Double shit, and shit again,” said Fanshawe. “Could this get any worse? Louis Cockayne’s on the bridge.”

  “Louis Cockayne?” said Gideon. “From Captain Trigger’s adventures? Then we’re saved!”

  21

  The Sky Pirates of the Yellow Rose

  “You really think so?” said Fanshawe.

  Emerging from the black clouds, the Yellow Rose dwarfed the Skylady II as a shark might overshadow a minnow, thought Gideon. There were four of the drifting shapes loosing harpoons at the smaller ’stat, the shafts of the projectiles connected to thin steel cables that led back to the bigger dirigible. As the cables snapped taut, the Skylady II bucked and shuddered, sending Gideon crashing into Fanshawe.

  Trigger staggered to the door of the cockpit, where Fanshawe was buckling herself into the leather seat and bidding Gideon do the same in the copilot chair. “Are we under attack?”

  “Got it in one, Lucian,” said Fanshawe, hauling the wheel to the right and causing the ’stat to dip and swing. “Texan pirates. Very bad news.”

  “I’ve never seen Texans in an airship before,” said Trigger, steadying himself on the doorframe. “Between them, the British, Spanish and Japanese have done their level best to keep stocks of helium away from the warlords. They have plenty of coal down there, and you’re liable to see them on steamships or engines on their slaving missions, but not many airships.”

  “This is all very effing interesting,” said Bent. “But they’ve obviously got one. Maybe they saved up their stamps and bought an effing airship.”

  “It’s Louis Cockayne!” said Gideon. “Captain Trigger, he’s one of your—one of John Reed’s friends, yes?”

  Trigger bit his lip. “Yes, but . . . perhaps his role in the stories was somewhat . . . whitewashed compared to reality.”

  “Break out the guns!” hollered Bent.

  Fanshawe leaned back through the door and called, “No! No firearms! One stray shell, and we’ll be on our way to the bottom of the Med.”

  The Skylady II lurched violently again. Fanshawe killed the clockwork motor. Gideon stared at her. “What are you doing? We need to get away from them.”

  “All we’ll do is burn out the bearings,” she muttered. “They’re reeling us in.”

  Gideon felt the Skylady II buck and begin to move sideways. The travelers gathered in the cockpit and at the port- side portholes to observe the vaster vehicle, a black mass against the clouds. It was fully five hundred feet from its nose-cone to its arrangement of aft rudders, estimated Gideon, and the gondola slung beneath it was seven or eight times larger than the Skylady II’s, and it appeared to have at least two levels. On the port side to which they were being hauled, he could make out an open observation deck on which were situated the winding barrels that brought them in. The smaller blimps were alighting on the deck and, through his spyglass, Gideon could make out the tall figure of a man standing with his hands on his hips, dressed in a long black coat and wearing a dark sombrero- style scout hat with a narrow brim.

  “Is that Louis Cockayne? The stories paint him as a hero . . . ,” said Gideon.

  Fanshawe raised an eyebrow as the Skylady II bumped against the rails of the observation deck, and looked out again at the smiling face of Louis Cockayne. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

  The door of the Skylady II was hauled open and a brisk wind whipped through the cabin, where Fanshawe had assembled them all. Through the open door Bent could make out seven figures. He said, “They’ve got guns. Why can’t we have guns?”

  “The Yellow Rose is covered with beaten aluminum panels,” said Fanshawe. “They’ve got less to lose if a bullet hits them.”

  A young man with a weather-beaten face and a shock of dirty blond hair leaped across the three-foot gap between the observation platform and the cabin. In his hand he brandished a silver pistol with a six-bullet chamber. He turned and called through the door, “Two ladies, boss, purty ones as well. Four guys, one of ’em fat and two of ’em oldsters.”

  Bent raised an aggrieved eyebrow. “I’m not old.” From the platform, a more cultured voice called, “Bring them out, Bo. Tell ’em to mind the gap. It’s a long way down.”

  Trigger said, “I shall go first and sort out this misunderstanding.”

  Bent followed him to the lip of the door, looking down at the dark sea far below, studded with green islands, as Trigger strode across the gap. There were five other young men, similarly dressed to Bo, and Louis Cockayne, smoking a cheroot. Studded belts hung loosely at the hips of his black trousers, holding holstered revolvers, and his black shirt was crisply pressed. He regarded Trigger with piercing blue eyes, and his full, black mustache twitched.

  Bent looked down with horror. “Jesus effing Christ, I’m not going out there!”

  A swift boot from Bo on Bent’s backside assured he did, and the others followed until they were assembled before Louis Cockayne, who continued to smoke in silence, watching them all carefully. The crew entered the Skylady II and removed everything not nailed down, including the weapons and baggage, as well as Bathory’s box of earth.

  Fanshawe spoke up. “I’d like to remind you that this action is in direct contravention of British and international law, and we will be making complaints to Crown officials at our earliest opportunity. Louis, stop being an idiot.”

  Cockayne flicked his cigarette into the wind as fingers of cloud curled around them. “Rowena. I am merely inviting you aboard the Yellow Rose as a measure of our hospitality.”

  “Thank you,” said Fanshawe in measured tones. “But we already have a ’stat of our own, and we are on an errand of some urgency.”

  “I must say, Mr. Cockayne, it is a pleasure to meet you,” said Gideon, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “I have very much enjoyed your adventures.”

  Bent groa
ned. He worried about that boy sometimes. When was he going to learn life was not a penny dreadful?

  Cockayne’s moustache twitched, and he gave a wry smile. He looked at the smaller ’stat. “The Skylady II. Four-celled balloon, am I right?”

  Fanshawe nodded. Cockayne turned to one of his crew. “Let her go.”

  Trigger smiled broadly. “I told you he would see sense, didn’t I? Thank you, Mr. Cockayne. We shall get back on board and be on our way.”

  Cockayne grunted, and Bo pointed his revolver at Trigger. “Stay where you are, gramps.”

  Two of the Yellow Rose crew released the cables and the Skylady II bobbed for a moment, then began to float away from the bigger ’stat. Gideon frowned, and Fanshawe shook her head in dismay.

  “Oh, eff,” said Bent. “That’s our ride.”

  Cockayne said, “Bo, get me a Winchester.”

  When the Skylady II was a full hundred feet away, turning at the mercy of the high winds in the blackening sky, Cockayne took the rifle his crewman handed to him and put its stock to his shoulder. He let off a shot with a deafening report, then re-aimed and fired off three more in quick succession. The balloon of the Skylady II crumpled in each of the places he had shot, and it began to deflate with an audible hiss of escaping helium, even from that distance. As the pressure dropped, the ’stat began to sink, aft-first, and fell into an increasingly rapid spiral toward the sea.

  Cockayne smiled. “Oops.”

  “Mr. Cockayne, I must object!” said Stoker, aghast.

  Cockayne raised an eyebrow. “Keep your hair on, Paddy. Bo, bring them to my quarters. I think we’ll have a spot of dinner.”

  Cockayne’s opulent private rooms were at the front of the gondola, with panoramic views of the darkened Mediterranean spread out before them through wide glass windows. There was soft music playing from a wind-up gramophone, and the rooms were decorated in flock wallpaper, very much like what Gideon imagined a gentlemen’s club to be like. It was rather obvious now, though, that Louis Cockayne was no gentleman. Outside the cloud was dispersing, giving way to a black, starry sky, and the Yellow Rose was nosing north, back the way the Skylady II had come. Cockayne had a large mahogany table, lit by an electric chandelier set into the wooden ceiling, set for the dinner of fish and salad brought to them by a crewman with dark hair tied up in a rough ponytail. Gideon noticed he kept directing hooded glances at Bathory.

  “I would rather you told us what is the meaning of this piracy, what your intentions are, and how you plan to recompense me for the destruction of my ’stat,” said Fanshawe coolly.

  Cockayne laid a broad hand on the breast of his shirt. “Piracy, Rowena? Really. And I will give you that information, in good time. Let us eat.” He waggled a bottle at them. “More wine, anyone?”

  There was a muted shaking of heads, save from Bent. Cockayne refilled his glass and said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. I do have a generally shocking memory for names. Rowena’s and my paths have crossed several times . . . remember that night in Budapest, Rowena?”

  “I am still trying to forget it,” she said sourly. “Absinthe is a terrible drink that quite robs a person of their senses, taste, and propriety.”

  Cockayne laughed richly. “And Captain Lucian Trigger. The first time we have met, though I have appeared in print alongside you, in your fictional confections, many times. How is dear John? Are you two still . . . ?”

  “John is missing,” said Trigger. “We are on a mission to locate him. Or rather, we were.”

  “You must tell me more,” said Cockayne.

  “I must say,” said Trigger, “I have sorely misrepresented you in my stories. I had understood from John you were a valiant and noble Yankee, not a Texan pirate.”

  Cockayne nodded. “And so I am, Captain Trigger. I’m Connecticut born, not a Southerner.”

  “So why are you flying with the Yellow Rose?” asked Fanshawe.

  He shrugged and took a mouthful of wine. “I go where the money is, Rowena. All us ’stat pilots are the same.”

  “Some of us are choosier than others, though,” she said.

  He made a face. “So I am not the flawless hero Captain Trigger’s stories would suggest. Just goes to show, you should not believe everything you read in the periodicals.”

  “I object to that,” said Bent, pushing a forkful of fried flatfish into his mouth. “But you do put on a damned good spread, Cockayne.”

  “Ah, Aloysius Bent,” said Cockayne. “A member of Her Majesty’s Press.” He turned to Stoker. “And another scribe, Bram Stoker. My, I’m doing awfully well with these names.” Cockayne put down his glass and sat back in his chair. “Countess Elizabeth Bathory. I must say, my dear, I have never met a more beauteous creature than yourself.”

  “Your flattery is wasted upon me, Mr. Cockayne,” said Bathory. “You have the morals of a dog, sir, and are thus beneath my notice.”

  He laughed again and turned his gaze toward Gideon, who met his stare unflinchingly. “And finally, Mr. Gideon Smith, of some one-horse town in the wilds of nowhere. What brings you together with these august personages, Mr. Smith? A hick like yourself, walking with greatness?”

  Gideon bristled, but Trigger stepped in. “It is due to Mr. Smith that we are all assembled here today.”

  “Yes, thanks, Smith,” muttered Bent. “Prisoners of sky pirates. Very good of you to go to the trouble.”

  “Mr. Bent does have a point,” said Stoker. “What are your intentions, sir? Have you kidnapped us for nefarious purposes?”

  “Finish your dinner,” commanded Cockayne, “then we’ll talk.”

  Gideon stared furiously at the untouched food on his plate. Yet another of his heroes had turned out to have feet of clay. The World Marvels & Wonders stories were fiction, after all. He looked at his knife, catching the light from the electric chandelier overhead, and glanced at the two tousle-haired cowboys with their guns. He sighed. If there truly were no heroes in the world, what chance did, Gideon Smith have of saving the day?

  Cockayne lit up another cheroot and said, “Bo, Luke, bring in the rest of the boys.” He puffed on the cigarette and said to Trigger, “Why don’t you tell me about your errand?”

  “We were on our way to Egypt, where John was last seen a year ago,” said Trigger. “We fear he may have come to harm. There is some plot afoot, Cockayne; a most fantastic one.”

  “I’ll park my disbelief,” said Cockayne. “Do tell.”

  Trigger leaned forward. “Long dead, inhuman mummies terrorizing London. We believe they have taken John and caused much death. We are on a rescue mission and a voyage of revenge.”

  “You were,” corrected Cockayne.

  Trigger frowned. “Are you ready to tell us where this dirigible is going, Cockayne, and what your plans are?”

  “I am” Cockayne nodded. “We have been to the west coast of Africa, where we have been rounding up Negroes for sale in the Texan slave markets.”

  Stoker stared at him. “Abominable, sir.”

  “Lucrative, Mr. Stoker. The southern states are blessed with ideal conditions for the growing of cotton. It’s tough work, and the Africans are well suited to toiling in the sun.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Of course, the slave markets don’t just deal in Negroes. Texas is littered with coal that needs mining and farms that need working as well as cotton that needs picking.”

  Gideon shook his head. “Slavery is still rife in America? But surely—”

  “Down in Texas they do what they want, as far as I understand it,” said Bent. “Which is sort of why they built the wall to keep ’em out.”

  “I can’t believe Britain allows it,” said Gideon.

  “New York is a long way from London,” said Cockayne. “The British would like to stamp out the Texan warlords, but they just don’t have the resources.”

  “Like we didn’t have the resources back in ’thirty-four when the southern states seceded from British rule to form the Confederacy,” said Bent. “Come on, Gideon, y
ou did find a bit of time for schooling among all that fishing, surely?”

  Cockayne smirked. “The Confederacy is a veritable utopia compared with Texas, Mr. Bent. They’re decent folks down there, just like you and me.”

  “But with slaves,” said Bent.

  Cockayne shrugged. “Just like the rest of the Empire, before it passed the Abolition Act in 1833. Texas, though, that’s a different kettle of fish. The British took advantage of New Spain’s gradual withdrawal from the territory there to make war with France and took over some of the old New Spanish outposts, such as San Antonio. It didn’t last. After they built the Mason-Dixon Wall on Queen Victoria’s command in— when was it, ’thirty-eight, they started?—the British Governors in Texas got increasingly pissed. Can’t say I blame ’em. The Confederacy and French Louisiana to the east, New Spain to the southwest, the Japs coming in from the Pacific coast . . . well, who could blame ’em for seceding themselves forty years ago? And if Boston and New York couldn’t do more’n build a wall to thumb their noses at the Confederacy, they sure as shit weren’t going to do much when the likes of Artemis Pinch in San Antonio decided to go it alone with their own rather . . . loose brand of justice and morality.”

  Rowena pointed a fork at him. “And yet you’re running slaves for the likes of this Artemis Pinch?”

  “Artemis is long gone; it’s his son Thaddeus who rules San Antonio now, or Steamtown as they like to call it.”

  There was movement in the corridor outside, and Cockayne’s eyes flicked toward Fanshawe’s. He whispered, just loud enough for Gideon to hear, “Rowena, I’m in the shit. I need your help.”

  Bo and Luke bustled in with the other crewmen, all armed and in an excitable mood. They nudged each other and pointed at Bathory and Fanshawe in a way that made Gideon very uneasy indeed.

  Trigger stood, and there was a volley of clicks as the crew pointed their revolvers at him. He sat slowly, his eyes narrowed. “What ever you’re planning, we cannot allow this, Cockayne.”