Storm Dreams (The Cycle of Somnium Book 1)

by Jeb R. Sherrill

  A shot rang out. A loud thud sounded from behind followed by more shots, shouts and more thuds. Cassidy had his Mauser out as he made it through the bridge door and slammed the hatch shut. He pushed the throttle all the way down and leapt to the wheel. The engines screamed as the dream field held them fast, but he levelled his eyes on the horizon of the holding dream, trying to find the outer boundary beyond the atmosphere. The watch continued its clicking as the red light blinked. Behind him the steel hatch buckled and tore away.

  Cassidy whirled and emptied his gun into the line of agents who rammed into the room. At least the damnable things were bottle-necked. The Mauser bullets tore down the corridor, slicing through several agents at once, creating a growing pile at the entrance. He fired off his eighth round as agents from the back staggered over the bodies.

  Two shots left.

  One.

  A fourth agent scrambled over the pile and fell through into the bridge. Cassidy glanced out the window as the red Fokker tri-wing barrelled through the dark boundary. Its twin guns spewed their steel-jacketed payloads as the very real fighter penetrated the dream world with its very real pilot. A dreamer in Everdream, Cassidy thought, and glanced back to see a fifth agent climb in and freeze in place.

  The Nubigena shuddered forwards, accelerating from nothing to full speed in a matter of seconds as the holding field broke. The weird physics of the Everdream took over and slingshot them past the border and into the pink free-space of the Twilight.

  Cassidy picked himself up off the floor and steered in the direction of anywhere. If he’d known anything about how to find Banner’s gates, he would have taken one immediately for the real world and hoped like hell for a storm on the close horizon. But, without the captain’s knowledge, or whatever it was that allowed the man to instantly find proverbial needles in their haystacks, Cassidy made for whatever spot appeared the most remote.

  Brewster stumbled in through the sludge of dissolving Armada agents. “Damned if these don’t fade properly,” he said shaking gobs of dreamstuff off his boots.

  Cassidy glanced behind and returned his gaze to the deep pink of the clouds that began gradiating to yellow. “Is everyone alright?” he asked.

  Brewster coughed. His voice came out hoarse as if he’d been choked, or his windpipe struck. “Alive, I think. Unconscious. Hit us hard.”

  Cassidy nodded. “I’m sorry. It was the only way.”

  Brewster coughed again and spat. “Only way, bloody hell. What happened?”

  “It was my B plan,” Cassidy said without looking. “Richthofen is tearing into the Everdream with everything he’s got. His fighter’s real. He’s real.”

  “Don’t follow,” Brewster choked out, as he moved over to the navigation controls, obviously trying to correct whatever mistakes Cassidy and Jayce had made. “Thought you hated him.”

  “Didn’t have much choice.” Cassidy searched the side windows for signs of pursuing Armada, but didn’t see any. Too bad he could only see out the front and sides of the windows. “Point is, Richthofen’s a dreamer. The Everdream won’t know what to do with his presence inside it. His influence. Think about it, real people are the clients. They have the power to shape dreams and he’s in the middle of the place they’re made.”

  “You’re over my head,” Brewster said. He cleared his throat hard and his voice came out more normal. “Head twenty-six degrees starboard. There’s a good place over there until Banner gets his legs on straight.”

  Cassidy adjusted their bearing. “Can you find gates?”

  Brewster snorted. “Couldn’t find a barn door on a farm. We’re lost if the captain doesn’t come around.”

  Cassidy was silent. The wiry yellow clouds darkened to deep magenta and navy blue. Stars showed through in places. This had to be the edge of Twilight. Something different than he’d seen so far. The furthest from Dusk and Dawn if such concepts truly existed in whatever strange metaphor this world followed.

  Jayce made his way to the helm, leaning on the wall and holding a hand to his head. He dropped into a chair and sank down. “Karl and Franz are with Banner. We got him into bed. Where we going?”

  “Gunyin,” Brewster said.

  Jayce gave a loud sigh. “I don’t like Gunyin.”

  “I know,” said Brewster. “But neither does the Armada.”

  As they spoke, the red Fokker tore past the forward windows and Richthofen gave a thumbs-up. Cassidy waved back, though he doubted the German could see. The crimson fighter rolled and banked, and was gone. Cassidy couldn’t have imagined a stranger ally, but as Richthofen vanished, his chest felt tight. Something deep inside still hated the Baron, but a part of him also hoped he hadn’t been wounded taking on the entire Everdream like that.

  Perhaps it would even be a while before the Armada would be able to pursue now. It didn’t matter though. When they did, they would pursue with the dogged ferocity, not of hungry wolves, but angry, vengeful ones. He hoped to God Banner would know what to do. “Will we be safe in Gunyin?” Cassidy asked.

  Brewster cracked a sardonic smile. “No one is safe in Gunyin.”

  Chapter 18

  “What really happened to Ned?” Brewster asked, as he flipped switches and checked headings.

  Cassidy didn’t speak for several minutes. “I told you, we got separated.”

  Brewster let out an audible sigh. “Chickened out, did he? Don’t know why Banner got him in the first place. He’s not a bad pilot, but we always had to nurse him through dogfights, back when we had more fighters.”

  “He probably just wasn’t cut out for battle,” Cassidy said. “Some men—”

  “He was a pilot,” Brewster snapped.

  “So what’s this place we’re headed?” Cassidy asked, changing the subject. He didn’t want to talk about the observatory. He particularly didn’t want to talk about Elena or the tests they were probably putting Ned through.

  “Gunyin? It’s what they like to call an outpost, but it’s more like the place Twilights go who don’t do well with other Twilights.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Cassidy mused.

  “Always.”

  After about an hour Franz joined them, leaving Karl and Jayce behind to watch over the captain. Cassidy felt relieved to see the young German since operating the ship was ten times more complicated without Banner at the helm. The engines had probably endured all manner of strain in their fight against the Everdream’s forces of nature, though the Nubigena still flew like a well-fletched arrow.

  A dark chunk of rock loomed on the cloud horizon and grew to the size of a large egg-shaped mountain with the narrow end dipping down. As they drew closer the island looked like a dead world. The surface was pocketed with holes and shadows. Derelict wooden structures covered some of the holes. Rustic hangers, perhaps, or extendable ports.

  “I say we find one of the darker places near the top and bury ourselves,” Franz said, as he stared at the oncoming rock. His jaw tensed as they neared the looming mass.

  “No point,” Brewster said, shaking his head. “They’ll already have seen us.” He looked up at Cassidy. “Guide her over to the big one with the metal awning. It’s one of the few she’ll fit through.”

  Cassidy spun the wheel, trying to mimic Banner’s deft movements, but it took him twenty minutes just to line up with the hole. Brewster cut the engines to just above zero and Cassidy inched her into the narrow tunnel. He could scarcely see in the scant lighting of the few torches pocketing the porous walls. He kept the gondola just above the ground, which probably meant ten or fifty feet and hoped like hell he wouldn’t scrape the top.

  Brewster and Franz helped as best as they could, maintaining a close watch on the curved walls beyond the window and shouting out the distance. Cassidy found manoeuvring a Zeppelin inside a narrow shaft much like threading a needle with his eyes shut, and a thread the size of a steamship.

  The Zeppelin shuddered as it scraped the wall on its port side. Cassidy nudged the wheel starboard. Sweat poure
d down his ribs and beneath his arms. A thin sweat that evaporated not long after it dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. He gritted his teeth. Banner would kill him for damaging the Nubigena, assuming Karl didn’t get to him first.

  “Can’t we go any slower?” he asked.

  “We’re only running one engine and it will choke out if we go any slower,” Brewster said, from the starboard window. “We’re almost there, just keep her steady.”

  The tunnel opened into a hollow space that vanished into vast darkness. Other airships floated, anchored to ports attached along the immense cavern walls.

  “Over there,” Brewster said, pointing to a dock jutting out from the wall on their starboard side.

  Cassidy had to fly into the centre and turn around just to bring himself in line with the dock. Brewster cut the engines. A man on the dock looked aggravated, climbed a steel ladder fastened to the rock and ascended to the upper mooring plate. He fished at the Nubigena with a long rod, hooked and towed it in with a line he put through a ring in the plate.

  “How dangerous will this place really be?” Cassidy asked, as they made their way to Banner’s quarters.

  Brewster snorted. “Remember how bad Arcadia was at the docks?”

  Cassidy nodded.

  “This isn’t nearly that civilized.”

  Banner looked no better than before. His eyes were closed, his breathing still shallow.

  “Captain,” Cassidy said, looking down at the gaunt shape on the bed.

  Banner opened his eyelids like a man trying to lift bags of sand. “Cassidy,” he said, through pale lips. “You scratched my ship.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain.”

  Banner tried to smile, but winced. “How did we…the Armada...”

  “Rest up,” Cassidy said. He gave Jayce and Karl a worried glance, which they mirrored back. “I’ll tell you everything when you’re on your feet.”

  Brewster ushered everyone but Karl into the hall and took them out of Banner’s hearing range. “We can’t stay in the ship. They’ll think something’s wrong and come aboard to take over. Franz,” he said, motioning to the young German, “stay with Karl. Wheel the hatch shut and if anything walks, crawls, or swims in, for that matter, shoot it in the head. Don’t talk to it first. Don’t give any warnings.”

  Franz nodded.

  “We’ve already been too long,” Brewster said. He checked his Webley and grabbed a mailbag with his basics and more ammunition. “Follow my lead.”

  They exited the bay, walking directly onto the dock where a series of mooring lines kept the ship from drifting into the wall. Cassidy looked around at the myriad of other docks that spotted the ovular walls of the inner core, lit by more sporadic torches. Everything else was complete darkness except the open top of the mountain, through which he saw faint stars and clouds gliding above.

  A grungy elderly dockhand approached like a hungry man coming to smell a dead fish. Brewster pulled several coins from his mailbag and handed them over.

  “Not enough,” the dockhand said, eyeing the change in his gnarled hand. “Price’s gone up.”

  Brewster gave him a contemptuous glare. “It’s plenty,” he said, and gave the old man a harsh punch in the gut. The man doubled over, clutching the money in an iron grip. The Englishman pushed past and led down the ramp to a set of wooden stairs.

  “Was that really necessary?” Cassidy whispered.

  “I wouldn’t rough up an old man if it wasn’t,” Brewster said. “They’re all watching us for weakness and that old bastard was just the canary in our coalmine. Now hush, keep your eyes sharp and a hand on your sidearm.”

  The stairs ran down to a landing and from there the crew took a tunnel into the rock. The sounds of pounding rowdy music from an untuned piano and talking and laughing hit them as they rounded a corner and died again to distant noise. The door opening and closing, Cassidy thought.

  A short man with ratty brown hair, a scarred face and lager-smelling clothes shoved past them without glancing back. Moments later they found the door, a large wooden slab that opened only with a great heave from Brewster.

  Cassidy had never seen a bar like this. The proper word was probably tavern, and even that seemed too sophisticated a term. Mead Hall perhaps. At least a hundred men, and an assortment of what he might have called women, but certainly not ladies, partied on the edge of madness. Men sang out loud and off-key while chugging beer from steins bigger than their heads. Several engaged in drunken brawls in the middle of the floor, where other men stepped over or kicked them in the head.

  In one of the corners, a man pinned a woman against a support beam, lifted her skirt and proceeded to have his way with her from behind. A group of onlookers screamed obscenities and laughed as the man thrust into her as if his actual target was the support beam itself.

  “Banner’s Boys,” one man screamed, as the room finally noticed their entrance. The man looked like a pirate rejected by slightly classier pirates. His shaggy half-grown beard was caked with foam and a musket-style pistol hung wedged in his oversized belt. He swaggered up to them chanting, “Banner’s fucking boys. Banner’s fucking boys,” he sang, his speech slurred. “Banner’s fucking, Banner’s fuck, Banner’s fucking his boys.”

  Brewster pulled out his Webley and shot the man in the head. He reholstered his gun, stepped over the corpse and approached the bar.

  Cassidy tried to take in the reaction of the crowd without appearing to look. They seemed unphased. Almost amused.

  “Where’s Banner?” the barkeep asked. “Never seen you boy—err, men without him.”

  Brewster shrugged. “Picked a girl up near Arcadia. Haven’t seen him out of his quarters since.”

  The barkeep laughed. “’Bout time. Finally found something he fancied, eh? Never liked anything I tried to sell him.”

  “I never liked anything you tried to sell either,” Brewster said.

  The barkeep must be more than just a barkeep, Cassidy thought. The owner perhaps. He tried to place what Brewster sounded like as he snapped out his words. His manners seemed so exaggerated. Even through the thick accent he was different. Cassidy grinned. Brewster was trying to sound like Banner. Trying to be Banner.

  Cassidy flicked his gaze about the room. While most were caught up in beer and any number of other activities he didn’t wish to guess at, several other men stood here and there, their stares pinned on Brewster and the other airmen. The watchers also all carried guns. Some wore muskets like the man Brewster had killed. Others carried more modern weapons.

  “So, the Armada gettin’ heavy?” the barkeep asked.

  “No,” said Brewster, “we came here for the fantastic food and sterling atmosphere.”

  The barkeep laughed. “How long you need’a stay?”

  “Week or two,” Brewster said, with a shrug. “Like always.”

  “Pissed ’em off good this time, I hear,” the barkeep said, lowering his tone. “Heard they’s swarmin’ like you shoved your whole arm in a hornet nest an’ scooped at its guts.”

  Brewster kept his eyes level. “When aren’t they?”

  “’Tis true,” the barkeep said. “Stay long as you like.”

  Brewster gave an affirmative nod. Cassidy and Jayce tried to look natural as they guarded the Englishman’s back. Each kept their attention on opposite directions. Cassidy imagined that in the past, the crew had appeared much more formidable with Banner in the lead and a six- or seven-pilot entourage. He wondered how many of these intriguing gentlemen they had managed to piss off in previous years. Knowing Banner, he’d probably revelled in angering the locals purely for the sake of principle.

  Brewster turned and they followed him back towards the door. The crowd was thicker now as they pushed their way closer. Cassidy found himself touching his holster with the side of his hand in case someone tried to grab at it. It was important not to look scared, so he barrelled through on the Englishman’s heels.

  The door opened as they reached it and a large
man wearing a full cloak and carrying a pump shot gun came through. He scowled, but let them pass. Cassidy breathed a sigh of relief as they returned to the dark tunnel without incident.

  “So, how did you and our Bloody Baron get so chummy,” Brewster asked, as they walked. He was hiding the tension well, but the question was an attempt to break the pensive mood and Cassidy heard the crack in his voice.

  Cassidy snorted. “Wouldn’t say we were friends, but Richthofen was the only one willing to help and he was there when it counted.”

  Brewster gave an understanding nod. “Arrogant Prussian bastard, but Banner always thought the world of him.”

  They passed several lit touches and entered an area of relative darkness. An odd coldness blew over him. “He’s not like before,” Cassidy said, without breaking the tone of the conversation, but he slipped the Mauser out of its home. “Got wounded. It’s affected him. I think part of the reason he flew with me was the hopes of getting killed.”

  “Never a good sign.” Brewster’s voice went up a notch, though Cassidy couldn’t tell if it was in response or if he’d noticed something.

  A man came out of the shadows laughing. He sounded like he’d just been in conversation, but Cassidy couldn’t see who he’d been talking to. “You boys are from the Stormship, aren’t you?” the man said, turning his attention to them. He reminded Cassidy of the many of others in the bar, a kind of grungy Twilight pirate. His teeth were white and straight, but his face and hands were stained with grease and soot and his clothes probably hadn’t been cleaned since they’d been bought.

  Brewster nodded and quipped, “Bar’s back there.”

  “Oh, I know my way to the bar, Friend,” the man said. “I’m at the bar every night, Friend. But that’s not why I’m asking, Friend, though I do appreciate the advice, I do.”

  Brewster pushed past him.