“You are enjoying this, are you not?” asked Reed.
Maria said nothing, but a small smile played around her lips. Yes, thought Reed, you’re enjoying this almost as much as I am.
He looked down at the chanting, jeering mass of humanity gathered below. He told Maria to launch a series of fireballs at the Serpentine, and the lake hissed and steamed. Reed nodded appreciatively. “A sense of theater is called for on occasions such as this,” he said. “People must remember where they were when the Empire died.” He held up a finger. “But first! There is business to take care of. Maria, have Apep hover at a fair altitude, so we can see Buckingham Palace. Before we can lay waste to Victoria’s nest, we must first deal with those who have harried us since Egypt.”
“Gideon Smith,” she said, a little uncertainly.
“You sense them following us?” asked Reed. “You hope your paramour comes to rescue us?” Reed cocked his head. “You are mine now, Maria. You belong to Amasis.”
Apep hovered on its beating wings, stately and otherwise motionless, facing Buckingham Palace. On the streets Gideon could see panic and the massing of the Iron Guard outside the palace gates. There were other ’stats in the sky, but they were far away and moving slowly. It was up to them.
“Well?” said Cockayne.
Gideon ignored him and looked at Trigger. “Come on,” Gideon said. “Think. What can I do?”
Trigger shook his head wretchedly. Gideon swore. There must be something, something in all the World Marvels & Wonders adventures he’d read. Gideon closed his eyes, breathing deeply. There was nothing he could count on, no episode he could recreate. There was no blueprint for this. It was not a Lucian Trigger adventure. And if Trigger, and Cockayne, and Fanshawe and all the others, if they couldn’t come up with a plan, with all their experience and greatness, what chance did he have? He had blundered from one happening to another, trying to do the right thing but barely surviving. He wasn’t an adventurer, he wasn’t a hero. He was just a fisherman.
Gideon opened his eyes. He was just a fisherman. This wasn’t a Lucian Trigger adventure.
He was just a fisherman.
It was a Gideon Smith adventure.
He looked at Cockayne. “I’ve got a plan,” he said. “We’re going fishing.”
32
The Battle of London
“You intend to do what?” asked Bent.
“Harpoon the dragon,” said Gideon again. “It worked when Cockayne reeled in the Skylady II.”
“But the Skylady II was a lot smaller, lighter, and slower than the Yellow Rose,” said Fanshawe. “Apep is powerful and fast and nippy in the air. Oh, and there’s the small matter of those fireballs. . . .”
“And that thing’s brass,” said Bent. “You’ll never get a harpoon through that hide.”
“Not necessarily,” said Cockayne thoughtfully. “What’s the dragon doing now?”
“Hovering above Hyde Park,” said Fanshawe. “About six hundred feet up.” She looked at Gideon. “And facing Buckingham Palace.”
“I need to get above Apep,” said Gideon. “Can we do that?”
“Sure,” said Cockayne. “Let’s get out on the observation deck, via the armory. Rowena, you think you can fly the Yellow Rose?”
She smiled. “I’ve handled bigger.” Then she frowned. “But . . . Gideon? What are you planning to do?”
“Board the dragon,” he said.
She shook her head. “It’s impossible. Reed will murder you.” Gideon shrugged. “Who else is there? Bent’s got a broken arm, Trigger . . .” He pointed to where the old man stood by the windows of the bridge, staring listlessly out. “The Countess is too weak. You need to fly the Yellow Rose.”
They both looked at Cockayne. “And Louis is just along for the ride. But I’ll do this for you, Smith. I’ll harpoon your damned dragon. Come on.”
Cockayne and Gideon dragged a harpoon gun mounted on a thick iron pillar out on to the windswept observation deck and planted it near the railings.
Breathing hard, Cockayne held up a long harpoon shaft, but with a flat round head instead of a sharp point. “Magnetic harpoon,” he said with a grin.
Bent frowned. “Is brass magnetic?”
“It is if there’s iron or nickel in the alloy,” said Cockayne, loading the harpoon into the gun and fastening the end of a coiled steel cable to it. “So here’s hoping.”
They waited while Fanshawe banked the Yellow Rose up and around until the observation deck was looking down on the dragon, a hundred feet away. Gideon said, “God bless the Fleet Air Arm for breaking that window. That should make getting inside easier.”
“Yeah, if you live that long,” said Cockayne. He got behind the harpoon gun and sighted the dragon in the cross hairs. “You ready, Gideon?”
“As I’ll ever be. Let her go.”
Cockayne squeezed the trigger and the harpoon ripped out with a violent crack, the thin steel cable unspooling with a zipping whisper. It hit the head of Apep with a clanking sound, and Cockayne slapped a brake on the coil, holding it fast.
“Release the cable as soon as I’m down,” said Gideon.
“And give me your gun belts.”
Cockayne unbuckled the studded belt and handed it over.
“Finest cowhide.”
“That’s what I was banking on,” said Gideon. He wrapped the belt around one hand, passed it over the taut cable, and gripped the other end tightly. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck, you need this,” said Cockayne, taking a pearl-handled six-gun from inside his long black coat.
He stuffed it into the waistband of Gideon’s trousers. “And remember rule number five: Heroism is for chumps. Valor? Britain and America can’t even agree on how to spell it. Just get in there and finish the job.” He paused. “But good luck anyway.”
“Hear effing hear!” called out Bent. “Best of British to you, Gideon.”
“Mr. Smith?” said Trigger softly. “I was wondering . . . when you confront John . . .”
Gideon, the wind whipping his hair about his face, looked at him. “Don’t ask, Captain Trigger. Please. Don’t ask.” Trigger nodded and averted his eyes. Gideon looked down, at the people crawling over the green grass of Hyde Park like insects, at the steaming pond of the Serpentine. Trigger was going to ask him to spare Reed. No botched jobs, no half measures, not anymore. He took one more look at the panic below, then threw himself over the railings.
“How interesting,” said Reed. “It appears the young man is coming to rescue you, by quite ingenious means. Maria, burn their ship to cinders.”
Maria considered this. The greater part of her that was Apep moved to follow the orders, but the tiny core of her that was still Maria hesitated.
Reed said, “You do as you are bid, Maria. Apep is absolute.”
There was a dull thud on the roof of the dragon’s head. Reed cocked his head and said, “Wait. Hold your fire.” He cracked his knuckles. “Perhaps I should settle this in the manner of a true hero after all.”
Gideon’s downward slide along the cable almost wrenched his arms from his sockets, and though smoke and great flakes of leather flew in clouds, the belt held, tattered as it was when his boots finally struck Apep’s head. He tossed it aside and waved at Cockayne, a hundred feet distant, who released the cable immediately. It swung down from the harpoon gun and dangled from Apep’s head as the Yellow Rose wheeled away to put distance between itself and the dragon. Gideon crouched on the head of Apep, the wind whistling past his ears. He could feel a sick, tickling sensation in the soles of his feet. One swift maneuver from the dragon, and he would be thrown to his death. He needed to get inside, and quick.
But Reed evidently had other ideas. As Gideon inched forward he saw the bearded face of the other man appear at the porthole.
“Mr. Smith,” said Reed as he crawled out of the window and onto the snout of Apep. “A shame you have followed Maria halfway across the world, and back again, only to die.”
Gideon fumbled for Cockayne’s pistol. “It’s not too late,” he said. “You can give this up now, take your punishment. There doesn’t have to be any more death.”
Reed laughed. “You think I can just stop? Do you not understand anything you have seen or heard? I am compelled, Smith. I will have my pound of flesh.”
“And what if you do burn Buckingham Palace, kill Queen Victoria? What then?”
“Then I dance in the ruins, Smith. Liberate Victoria’s coffers of those ill-gotten gains. And I turn Apep on Whitehall, and Walsingham and his cronies die. Then I fly into the sunset on my dragon, and be at peace. And woe betide any fool who follows me.”
Gideon shook his head. “You think it is that easy? You kill the Queen and the world quietly forgets about it? London is not like that, Dr. Reed. Britain is not like that.” He waved toward the crowds gathered below. “You hear them? You think they are calling for you, begging for you to commit your atrocities to satisfy your own tiny sense of injustice, calling for you to have your pound of flesh from the bones of their children?
No, Reed, they are not shouting for you, other than for your head.”
And then it hit him, with such force his breath was snatched away by the wind. They were not shouting for Reed, of course not. They didn’t know Gideon’s name, or who he was, but they could see, as they huddled below, certain death hovering above them, that there was someone who fought for them. Someone on their side. A hero.
“They’re shouting for me,” said Gideon slowly. And John Reed leaped.
“What are you doing?” muttered Cockayne. “Rule number six. Noble speechifyin’ is for the penny dreadfuls, not real life. If you have a gun, use it. Don’t talk about it.”
Bent put his hand to his mouth. “Oh, no. Reed has tackled Smith. Effing hell. There goes the gun.”
Gideon was thrown backward, landing on the smooth curve of Apep’s head. The pistol skittered out of his hand and over the side, into the wind- swept abyss. Reed pummeled him in the face with his fists, landing heavily astride Gideon.
“You will die a hero’s death,” he said “That’s what you want, isn’t it, boy? To be a hero?”
Gideon swung his fist, just like Cockayne had taught him, and connected with Reed’s head. Reed recovered quickly and kicked out, sweeping Gideon’s legs out from under him. He hauled Gideon up by his lapels and threw him around in a wide circle, so Gideon skittered along the dimpled nose of Apep, toward the shattered porthole. Was this his chance? He dragged himself forward and peered in, upside down, and saw Maria.
Oh, Maria. Clockwork Maria. He was flooded with—say it! Say it!—flooded with love for her. She saw him and her eyes widened, then teared up in anguish.
“Mr. Smith . . . ,” she said with great effort. “I am undone. I cannot fight the machinery.”
Reed grabbed Gideon by the shoulders and dug his knee into his back. “Maria!” he called. “You may fire at will. Raze Buckingham Palace to the ground.”
“No, Maria!” cried Gideon, but Reed dragged him away and punched him in the face.
The flotilla of dirigibles was drawing closer, led by a huge ’stat in the black-and-white livery of the London Constabulary. On the police ’stat’s observation deck, an officer with a bullhorn called: “Desist at once, and land that . . . that dragon. Or we’ll open fire.”
“Eff!” said Bent. “Cockayne, you’ve got to do something. If Reed doesn’t kill Gideon, those trigger-happy coppers will. You’re a dead-eye dick with the guns. Can’t you take Reed out?”
“Not at this range,” said Cockayne. “And not with Rowena swinging the Yellow Rose around like it’s a soap cart.”
“We must do something,” said Bent. “The boy’s getting the worst of it.”
Trigger joined them at the railings. “Oh dear. John is rather giving him a beating, isn’t he?”
“Oh, Gideon got a good one in then!” shouted Bent, punching the air with his good arm. “Go on, Gideon lad. Give him another!” He paused. “Hang on. What’s happening now?”
“The dragon opens its mouth,” said Cockayne.
“Good gravy, it’s going to firebomb Buck House,” gaped Bent.
“I should do something,” said Trigger, his head in his hands. “This is all my fault. John is my responsibility.” He looked at his hands, pale and thin and shaking. “What can I do? I can’t do what John does. What you all do. I’m not a hero.”
“Don’t worry, Trigger,” said Cockayne mildly. “The only thing Britain loves more than a hero is a failure.”
Trigger stared at him, then back at the battle being played out on the hovering Apep.
“Mr. Cockayne,” said Trigger. “I would very much like your assistance with something.”
Gideon could quite have been convinced that John Reed, as his mummy servants believed, hosted in his soul some supernatural entity lending strength to his muscles, so relentless and ferocious was his attack. He had Gideon in an iron grip around his throat, choking the life out of him even as he pushed him backward, toward the edge. And just below him, beneath the layers of hammered brass, was Maria, entrapped, tantalizingly close. The thought gave him renewed vigor, and he gripped Reed’s wrist with both his hands and tried to force the choke-hold away.
Reed’s grip slackened, and Gideon put the sole of his boot to the other man’s chest and kicked him backward. He rose and launched a punch at Reed, landing on his shoulder.
“That is for Bram Stoker!”
Another hit: “For Sandsend!”
Another. “For Maria!”
And with the hardest punch of all, which sent Reed spinning, Gideon roared: “For my father!”
Reed staggered but did not fall. Gideon was spent, ragged. One more. One more blow would do it. One more for London. But he didn’t have one more. Reed looked down at him, then up, over his shoulder.
Inside the cockpit, Maria helplessly watched her own hands moving in arcane patterns over the glowing controls. Apep had hijacked her clockwork body, and at the commands from Reed she could do nothing but watch as the artifact in her head detached itself from her conscious efforts and moved her limbs. But the cloud in her head was lifting somewhat, the mist thinning. Had she heard? Had she really heard . . . ?
Outside, there was a voice on the breeze, tantalizingly close, then snatched away.
It was Gideon. It sounded like . . .
She felt a sudden weight around her neck. The simple charm of jet that Gideon had tied around her neck in the bowels of the earth. The stone seemed heavy, and hot, and it burned the mist from her mind.
Reed punched Gideon in the face, but he shouted it again. “Maria! I love you! You must fight it.”
There it was again. Could it be? Could it really be true? Mr. Smith . . . loved her?
“I love you, Maria, but you must fight it!”
Joy coursed through her brass workings and piston-powered heart, and gave strength to her to bring her hands to a shaking standstill above the instrument panel. But Apep was not going to relinquish control so easily. She felt with dismay her hands moving against her will, completing the deadly sequence.
Gideon chanced a look behind him at the same time the wind turned and brought with it a tumultuous cheering from both below and the Yellow Rose, sweeping in toward Apep. There, looming up out of the blind side of the dragon, was Captain Lucian Trigger, strapped into a personal blimp from the Yellow Rose. The clockwork-powered propellers on the metal framework pushed him forward. In his hands he held a rifle, cocked and aimed at Reed. It was the chance Gideon needed. Recalling everything Cockayne had taught him, he clenched his fist hard, drew it back, and hit John Reed on the jaw.
Reed looked at him with surprise, his head snapping back and his legs kicking out from beneath him. He twisted in mid air and landed heavily on the back of the dragon, the breath knocked out of him. And something else was gone, as well. It was as though Gideon’s final punch had broken his will to fight. He looked dully at Gideon, then over his shoulder at
Trigger.
“John!” called Trigger. “You have had your last warning. This ends here.”
Trigger alighted on the top of Apep, swiftly releasing the leather straps of his harness so the blimp floated away from him.
“Captain Trigger.” Gideon nodded, grinning. “Thank you for coming to my aid.”
“I believe I am officially the Hero of the Empire, after all, at least in print.” Trigger smiled, then turned back to Reed. “On your feet, John.”
Reed stood slowly, glowering at Trigger, who walked forward, let the rifle fall to his side, and delivered a solid punch to Reed’s jaw, which sent him whirling back on to his rump.
“You deserved that,” said Trigger.
Reed touched his mouth, his fingers red with blood. He blinked. “Lucian? You hit me?”
Reed scrambled to his feet, and Trigger narrowed his eyes. “John. This is not you. You are not yourself. Fight it. Look at me. Remember our love.”
Reed shook his head, more from confusion than anger. “No . . . it’s gone too far . . . I can’t back down now. . . .”
“John. You are John Reed. A good man.”
“I must have vengeance! I am—”
“John Reed,” insisted Trigger. “The man I love.”
Then he cast the rifle away from him, stepped forward, and took Reed’s face in his hands. Reed whispered, “Lucian? I . . . I haven’t been very well. Can you make it better?”
Trigger nodded kindly, then kissed him.
Gideon Smith could only imagine what those on the ground made of what happened next. The wind fell, the crowd far below went silent, and even the engines of the dirigibles dimmed and softened. Some might think Trigger had lured Reed into a trap, others assume Reed fought his lover off, while yet more would blame it on a mere accident. Gideon thought it happened as a consequence of the two men’s world receding and becoming less solid as their stolen second of true love was made flesh. Trigger and Reed, entwined, slipped from the dragon, in neither panic nor violence, and Gideon watched them fall toward Hyde Park, far below.
Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl Page 31