Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl

by David Barnett

  “You cannot stop it, sir. You’re all coming back to Texas with me, to be sold in the slave markets.”

  “I don’t think I’d last long, picking cotton,” said Bent. “Manual labor doesn’t agree with me.”

  “Put them in the hold,” said Cockayne.

  Cockayne’s boys began to manhandle Stoker and Bent out of their seats. Gideon stood before they got to him and aimed a punch across the table at Cockayne, who easily avoided his swing and slapped his hand down on the table, deftly flipping up his steak knife, bringing it down hard, and pinning Gideon’s sleeve to the table.

  “Naughty, naughty, boy from nowhere.” Cockayne smiled.

  Gideon saw Bathory quietly put her cutlery on her plate. “Bram?” she said, turning to Stoker as two men grabbed his shoulders.

  “Yes, Countess?”

  “I think it would be a most judicious time for you to release me from our blood pact, don’t you?”

  Stoker looked down at the untouched food on his plate as the men began to pull him from the table. “Yes, Elizabeth,” Stoker said softly. “I very much think it would be.”

  22

  Countess Bathory Unleashed

  What followed could only be described, even by one with the literary pretensions of Stoker, as a massacre. Bathory tore the six crewmen apart before they had the time to fire off another revolver shot, the needle of the gramophone squalling off the cylinder with a shriek as she sent the furniture of the stateroom into disarray. Three of the crewmen tried to fight; the remainder saw the futility of such an action and tried to scramble toward the closed double doors of the quarters. But none were spared. With tooth and claw she ripped and shredded them, painting Cockayne’s quarters scarlet and reveling in the rising charnel mist as one might carelessly abandon oneself to a light summer rain. With strength that good men attest only the devil can confer, she tore one man’s arm from his shoulder dropped it to the wooden floor, still clutching the useless gun with which the man had thought to defend himself. The cacophony of shrieks and screams seemed to spur Bathory on, as though it were an inspirational symphony rousing her to yet more carnage. The crewman Bo, who had directed particularly lascivious glances at her earlier, she saved for her special kiss. She held his head with firm, strong claws as she lowered her slavering, beastlike maw to his neck and drank deeply, even as his scream tailed off and bubbled up through the wound she rent in his flesh. Stoker heard Bent mumble something like a prayer as Bathory, the dead and dying spread around her like an obscene work of art, laid her shining eyes on Cockayne and walked toward him with purpose.

  He had backed up against the windows and drawn his twin pistols, pearl handled and black barreled. She swiped them away from his shaking hands and took him by the lapels in one grotesquely clawed hand, her blood-soaked fangs widening for the kill.

  “Wait,” he said, with admirable calm. “I can take you to John Reed.”

  Bathory was past caring, but Stoker, still sitting at the table, caught Trigger’s glance from across the room. He said, “Elizabeth. Hold, if you can.”

  She turned to Stoker and hissed at him, but she seemed to recognize him, and she paused in temporary, if grudging, assent. Trigger stood uncertainly and whispered at Stoker, “Is she safe? Will she attack us?”

  “I am not her keeper.” Stoker frowned. “And I have never seen her so filled with the bloodlust. But . . . yes. I think she is safe. To us.”

  Trigger said to Cockayne, “Is this some trick to spare your life?”

  Cockayne said, not taking his eyes off Bathory’s jaws, “No. I saw him in Alexandria a year ago. He was searching for a pyramid. The Rhodopis Pyramid, or some such?”

  “Please,” said Fanshawe. She put her hand on Bathory’s arm, and the Countess hissed. “Louis, you said . . . you said you needed our help.”

  “I do,” said Cockayne. “Rather, I did. I think you just gave it to me.”

  Bathory’s grip loosened, and her face began to distort and shrink back to her human form, as though made of elastic. Within seconds the light had dulled in her eyes and she was back to the woman they recognized, albeit dressed in tattered rags and with a face smeared in gore.

  One by one the travelers emerged from their hiding places, Gideon ashen faced and Bent feeling his way with his eyes tightly closed. Fanshawe glanced at Gideon and they shrugged at each other. Trigger relieved Cockayne of his guns as Bathory stepped back, taking a handful of napkins and wiping her mouth.

  Bent started to applaud, though no one followed him “Well, I for one am glad you’re on our side, Countess,” he said with forced jollity. “And, um, sorry about what I said before, at the Aerodrome. About your titties. Breasts. No hard feelings, eh?”

  Cockayne coolly surveyed the bloodied remnants of his crew. “I guess this rather puts a different perspective on things, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “It certainly does,” said Trigger, training both pistols on him. “You have an explanation for us. No more tricks, now.”

  Cockayne sighed. “Got myself in a heap of shit. Rowena will testify. I may not be the lily-white hero of Trigger’s prose, but I’m not—” he gestured at the remains dripping with gore “—not one of these guys.”

  “How’d you end up doing slaver runs, then?” asked Fanshawe.

  “You ever been down San Antonio way? Place they call Steamtown? No? Keep it that way. Of all the warlords south of the Mason-Dixon Wall, Thaddeus Pinch must be the craziest bastard among ’em.”

  “Don’t tell me, Louis. Poker.”

  Cockayne grinned. “You got it, Rowena. I won the Yellow Rose fair and square in Houston. Unfortunately, Pinch found out about it and called in some old gambling debts—the kind that I didn’t win. I was to fill a hold with Negroes for the Steamtown mines to pay them off. Or it would have been my ass on the chopping block.”

  “Your friends?” asked Gideon sourly.

  “Hand picked by Thaddeus Pinch,” said Cockayne. “Crew and minders, all in one. I was trying to find some way of getting the hell out of this shit when we sighted your ’stat.”

  “Lucky you,” said Fanshawe with a light smile. “Though I suppose this means, as you say, your ass is back on the block.”

  “I concur,” said Trigger. “You aren’t taking your cargo to Texas. Mr. Cockayne, I think now would be a good opportunity to turn this dirigible around. We are going to Alexandria after all, and you are taking us.”

  “In case anyone was wondering, or is too polite to ask, I am a vampire,” said Elizabeth Bathory. “You take Mr. Cockayne, and I shall clean up in here. I apologize if I caused any of you distress or fright, but I hope you will agree that, as drastic a course of action as it was, it was necessary.”

  “Did you really have to kill them all?” asked Cockayne. “Good men are hard to find.”

  Bathory walked toward him and put her face close to his. “Good men, Mr. Cockayne?”

  “Good men who can fly a ’stat like they could,” said Cockayne with a small shrug. “As it goes, I didn’t like them that much personally. A little uncouth.”

  Trigger waved the pistols, and Cockayne led them out of his stateroom and to a ladder leading to the bridge, directly above his quarters. There was a much bigger instrument panel laid out before the windows than the one Gideon had seen on the Skylady II, and a wheel very much like the one on his father’s trawler. Cockayne released a lever on the wheel and began to spin it, and almost immediately the Yellow Rose began to nose its way around into a wide turning arc.

  “She has good handling,” said Fanshawe appreciatively. “Quick. Is she packing a hybrid?”

  Cockayne smiled. “A tripler. Electric, steam, and clockwork. I can flick this lever and toggle between the three, depending on need, fuel stocks, and prevailing conditions. Self-winding mechanism, as well. She can practically be flown single-handed.”

  “So why the crew?” asked Gideon. He didn’t fully understand half of what Cockayne had said, but he got the gist. This was a state-of- the-art veh
icle.

  “Rounding up Negroes takes a bit of manpower, Smith.”

  Gideon pulled a face. “Yes. We’ll be freeing them as soon as we get to Alexandria.”

  Cockayne turned and raised an eyebrow. “If I don’t take those slaves back to Texas, I can never show my face below the Mason-Dixon Wall again.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to discuss that with Countess Bathory?” said Gideon.

  Cockayne grunted and turned his attention to the instrument panel. “We’re on a course for Alex,” he said. “We should make landfall in two hours.”

  “Two hours?” said Fanshawe, impressed. “This bird can really fly.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “I never had you down as a ’stat pilot, Cockayne. And I thought the Yellow Rose was under the command of Trey McFarlane.”

  “I won her off McFarlane in Houston, eighteen months ago,” said Cockayne. “It’s good to broaden one’s horizons. You can never have too many brands in the fire.”

  “So that makes you Brethren, then,” said Fanshawe thoughtfully.

  “I guess it does,” nodded Cockayne. “The Esteemed Brethren of International Airshipmen. Noble pathfinders of the global skyways.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about when you last saw Dr. Reed?” suggested Gideon. He felt unaccountably stung every time Fanshawe and Cockayne spoke together.

  Cockayne locked the wheel and turned to them. “It was about a year ago,” he said. “I met up with Reed in Alexandria. Come to think about it, I think he did say Rowena had dropped him off.”

  She nodded. Trigger said, “Did he leave Alexandria while you were there? What were his plans?”

  “You know John, he never gave too much away when he was adventuring. He was going to procure some local knowledge. I put him in touch with Mr. Okoth. A Ugandan. Strange character, but he knows the Nile like the back of his hand. He’d worked with some professor from up Massachusetts way—”

  “Professor Halifax from Arkhamville University,” said Gideon. “From The Shadow Over Faxmouth.”

  “That’d be the guy. Okoth had taken him up the river to where old Sais used to be. I took Reed to Okoth and left ’em to it. I left Alex after that. Haven’t seen or heard from Reed since.”

  “Then you will take us to this Mr. Okoth,” said Gideon. “What time will we land in Alexandria?”

  Cockayne consulted his pocket watch. “Ten o’clock, local time, by my reckoning. I’d imagine we’d be better off starting in the morning. We can sleep on the Yellow Rose tonight.”

  Bent frowned. “And have you kill us all in our effing beds, Cockayne?”

  “Oh, he won’t do that,” said Fanshawe.

  “How can you be so sure?” said Gideon.

  She smiled. “Because he’s going to take the Pledge, aren’t you Louis?”

  Cockayne remained impassive. She continued, “As a member of the Esteemed Brethren of International Airshipmen, Mr. Cockayne has an implicit duty to support and assist any other member in trouble or need. All he has to do is take the Pledge in my presence, and he won’t be killing any of us, in our beds or otherwise.”

  Cockayne sighed and held up his left hand, then recited, “As one who makes his way across the fair world by its high and windblown paths, I hereby pledge my allegiance to Rowena Fanshawe and her companions until such time as she releases me from my pledge, yadda yadda yadda.”

  “And that’s it?” said Bent, aghast. “You think one promise from this effing blackguard is going to help me sleep like a baby tonight?”

  “Oh, he’ll keep his word,” said Fanshawe. “Men like Cockayne have seen too much to risk bad juju. He lives on his wits and his luck; if he broke the Pledge he’d never know when that luck was going to run out. And with the life he leads, he just can’t risk it.”

  Gideon turned as Stoker climbed the ladder to the bridge. Cockayne asked, “Where’s the vamp?”

  “Countess Bathory has gone to find fresh clothes from the baggage your men brought on board,” said Stoker, glaring at him.

  Bent chuckled. “Shame. I thought them rags showed off her knockers to great effect.” He paused and looked around. “She can’t hear me from here, can she?”

  “I must say, Cockayne,” said Fanshawe, “you didn’t look too perturbed by the Countess’s transformation.”

  He shrugged again. “Like you said, Rowena. Folks like me and you, we’ve seen a lot. Stuff that’d make normal folks’ toes curl.”

  Gideon felt himself flush. Was he just normal folks to these great adventurers? Trigger, as much a fraud as he was, had at least seen the world and moved in its stranger circles, albeit in John Reed’s shadow. Even Bent, Londoner through and through, seemed to have a greater understanding of life. Gideon Smith was just a hick, true enough. A boy from nowhere.

  “I ran into a vampire couple of years ago,” said Cockayne. He nodded at Trigger. “With John Reed, actually. Over in Gothenburg, Sweden. I think you might have written it up.”

  “The Endless Night of the North,” said Gideon. “World Marvels & Wonders, February 1889. I read it.”

  Cockayne smirked. “You read it, boy? I lived it.”

  “And did you heroically dispatch the vampire, Mr. Cockayne?”

  Bathory had emerged on to the bridge, clean and clothed in a fresh dress, her leather bodice restrung, new boots on her feet.

  “That we did, Countess. It had been preying on young girls in the long winter nights. John Reed held it down while I drove a stake into its heart.”

  She applauded. “How brave. And was it a terrible, ancient vampire possessed of unnatural strength and fearsome supernatural capabilities?”

  “It was, as far as I recall.” Gideon nodded.

  Cockayne glanced at Trigger, who said, “It was in the final draft. In John’s notes . . . I believe it was little more than a child.”

  “Hey, it was still killing girls,” protested Cockayne. “Besides, what kind of monster turns a kid into a vampire, anyhow?”

  “Mr. Cockayne, please desist from baiting the Countess,” said Stoker angrily. “We have cleaned up your stateroom. The . . . remains of your crew we have consigned to the waves far below, from the observation deck. I recited a small prayer.”

  “I’m sure their immortal souls’ll be very grateful,” said Cockayne.

  “Well, I would just like to say, you are looking beautiful, Countess, and I know I speak for the rest of us when I say I thank you for saving us from those miscreants,” said Bent, rubbing his hands together and bowing slightly.

  “Mr. Bent, you do not have to be so obsequious. I am no different a person than I was before I revealed my true nature. Please treat me as you did before.” She paused. “Well, perhaps without so many references to my breasts.”

  “What if she gets hungry again?” said Cockayne.

  Bent frowned. “He does have a point, Countess.”

  She walked to Bent and patted him on the shoulder. He flinched only slightly. “Rest assured, Mr. Bent, should the bloodlust take me, I think you personally will be quite safe. I might as well drink a bottle of rum as feast on your blood.” She turned to the rest of them. “If that is a general worry, then please do not fret. I can quite control myself. And Mr. Stoker, bless his heart, has been providing sustenance for me in times of need.”

  Bent murmured, “You’re a dark horse, Stoker. Does the missus know?”

  “Well, that’s us locked on a course for Alex,” said Cockayne. He put his back to the dark vista before the ’stat and surveyed them all. “What a ragtag bunch you are, eh? You really mean to do this? Take on these mummies?”

  “If we have to,” said Gideon.

  Cockayne chewed his lip for a moment. “You won’t last five minutes, even with that little armory we took off your ’stat. Even with your pet vampire.”

  Bathory hissed at him and he shrugged. “Sun’s fierce in Egypt, Countess.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” said Gideon.

  “But I do, Smith,” said Cockayne. “I do. Come with me.�
�

  Unwilling to be ordered about by Cockayne, but still intrigued by him, Gideon followed the Yankee off the bridge, up a ladder, and into what appeared to be a gymnasium, complete with iron weights, a vaulting horse, and climbing ropes. Trigger followed and positioned himself by the door as Cockayne took off his hat and coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

  “You hit like a girl, Smith,” said Cockayne.

  Gideon glanced at Trigger, who gave a shrug. He said, “The table was in the way. . . .”

  “Table schmable, Smith. Have another swing. This one’s free. Go ahead.”

  Gideon frowned, but Cockayne held open his hands. “So long as Rowena’s holding me to the Pledge, I might as well give you the benefit of my experience. Look, you have done me a favor, getting my Texan minders out of the way. Even if it was a bit gory . . . anyhow, that’s a long way of saying I guess I owe you one. Hit me.”

  Without saying a word, Gideon threw a punch. Cockayne deftly dodged it, took hold of Gideon’s wrist, and flicked him on to his back.

  “Terrible,” said Cockayne. “Stand up.”

  Gideon rubbed his rump and glared at the Yankee. Cockayne put his left fist high and banged his right into his sternum. “Keep this up here and this one down here. Go on.”

  Gideon reluctantly adopted the pose, and Cockayne jabbed at him with his left fist. Gideon ducked, and Cockayne brought his right hand up, hard, into Gideon’s chin.

  “Ow,” said Gideon, staring with narrow eyes at Cockayne. He flung another punch, and Cockayne smacked him sharply on the cheek.

  “Awful. Try again.”

  They sparred for an hour, Gideon following Cockayne’s instructions and getting hit less, and coming closer to landing a shot on the American’s chin. Eventually, Cockayne held up his hand. “OK, here endeth the lesson. I need to check our course. You don’t hit like a girl anymore, Smith. You hit like a lady. But it’s an improvement, I suppose.”

  Cockayne turned to go, and Gideon said, “Mr. Cockayne?”