Storm Dreams (The Cycle of Somnium Book 1)

by Jeb R. Sherrill

  Cassidy whipped his hand out of his pocket as if withdrawing a gun, but instead gripped his chin between thumb and forefinger. The guard took a jerky leap backwards and levelled his bayonet. Cassidy ignored him. “It all depends,” he said, rubbing his chin, “on whether or not there happens to be a Fokker VII fighter over there.” He motioned to the structures.

  The guard narrowed his eyes.

  “A Fokker VII,” Cassidy said in slow, enunciated words. “It’s a German fighter plane. Green with black iron crosses on the wings. Very new-looking. Very nice. Very mine,” he said, turning his head and boring his gaze into the man’s eyes on the last two words.

  The guard wet his lips. “You’ll have to talk with the Commodore about that.”

  “You have a commodore?” Cassidy said, still speaking slowly, in the most patronising tone he could muster. “You mean you don’t run this outfit?”

  The guard straightened up and returned his rifle to attention position. “No, Sir, I don’t. But I can take you to him.”

  Cassidy nodded as if praising a child. “Good, good. Well go.” He brushed past the guard and made his way down a small hill. At the foot he came to an abrupt stop. “Which building?” he asked.

  “Commodore’s on the ledge right now,” the guard said, indicating an area just the other side of the first structure. “Hope he don’t mind seeing you right now.”

  Cassidy crossed the distance at a fast enough gait the guard had to run to keep up. Cassidy rounded the corner of the bizarre structure, which consisted of triangular panels jutting out at irregular angles instead of fitting together to form flat surfaces.

  Across from it, a chunk of rock extended out over the edge of the island and a man stood at the tip, apparently holding court with six other men in what looked like 17th century European naval officer uniforms.

  The Commodore, which Cassidy took to be an assumed moniker more than an actual rank, was distinguished by a slightly less dirty suit and a feather-plumed hat. Cassidy approached with the guard in tow and reached a mere ten feet from the group before they noticed him.

  “Oi,” the Commodore yelled. “Who the hell are you?” The other six turned to face Cassidy.

  Inside, a cacophony of fears ran through Cassidy. After facing two of Hell’s own infernal agents, he’d felt nigh immortal, but as the soldier/pirates faced him, hands on pistols and swords, the realisation of just how over his head he was struck home. He adjusted his officer’s cap, brought his right foot to the top of a small piece of rock and folded his arms over his knee. “I’m looking for a plane,” he said, and flashed a grin as if he were asking about the weather.

  The Commodore stared at him for several seconds in stunned silence. “A plane?” He finally said. “What sort of plane?”

  “A German Fokker VII,” Cassidy said, still forcing a smile. “It’s a fighter,” he added when no one said anything. “It’s from the real world. Hard to miss.”

  The Commodore adjusted his stance. His men shuffled their feet and glanced back and forth between their commander and Cassidy. “Aren’t you one of Banner’s men?” he asked.

  Cassidy gave a curt nod.

  “Didn’t know he was in port,” the commodore said. He shifted his balance again and looked over Cassidy’s shoulder as if he might see the port through the mountains of Arcadia.

  Cassidy continued his smile, trying to channel Banner’s countenance.

  “So,” the Commodore said, picking up the tone of his voice, “Banner’s in the market for a new fighter?”

  Cassidy shook his head. “Just want ours back. I assume that means you’ve got it.”

  A scowl crossed the Commodore’s face. He glanced around, looking for Cassidy’s backup. “Why’d he send you alone?”

  Cassidy spread his hands, palms up and shrugged. “Only takes one to fly a plane.”

  The commodore rested a hand on his sabre. Flexed his fingers. He seemed to be considering a number of things at once. These probably included whether or not he was being eyed at a distance by scoped rifles, an attempt to surmise just how dangerous Cassidy really was by himself and last, but probably not least, how much face he would lose if he simply gave in without a fight.

  For the first time, Cassidy rested a hand on the holster of his Mauser. “If it helps any,” he said, still jovial and still smiling, “I just need the plane. Banner didn’t say I had to kill anyone.”

  The Commodore glared. “I think you’re either a madman,” he said, gripping the handle of his sword, “or you’re completely full of shit.”

  Cassidy had gone too far. He’d forced the man’s hand. Pushed him into a corner. Cassidy winced inside, but tried not to change the expression on his face. The Commodore and his men appeared to all be carrying flintlocks, but the magazine in the guard’s musket gave him pause. The technology here couldn’t be counted on to follow real-world standards. Cassidy also wasn’t a shootist, per se, and the Mauser’s holster hadn’t been made for quick-draw access either. Still, he visually counted out the men on his fingers and gave an exaggerated shrug. “I have enough bullets.”

  “I’ve met Banner,” the Commodore said. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and looked off as if remembering. “I don’t think he’s here.” He looked back at Cassidy. “I don’t think he has your back.”

  Cassidy had already sized up the group. The Commodore himself seemed like a close-range sort and was probably most formidable with his sabre. The officers to his right and left looked like the duelling kind, though one’s pistol looked shiny and new, probably well-cleaned, every day. The other’s flintlock was clean, too, but looked old and well-used. He would be the first to draw. The other four were mere footmen. They’d prefer range fire and didn’t have bayonets. The guard behind him would probably just run away when the shooting started.

  Cassidy numbered the men in his mind and allocated a shot for each, with two shells to spare. He would step to the left as soon as the one officer drew, blocking them off using the first footman as a shield, who Cassidy would shove as he went for his own Mauser. They were close together and a .103 shell could easily pass through two or three men with a lucky shot. He might get even more lucky and take out the duellists.

  All this ran through his head in less than a second. A part of him realised he had to figure a lot of it out on the spot. Richthofen was an amazing shot and a hell of a pilot, but he doubted he’d passed down much knowledge of close combat. This was Cassidy thinking. Cassidy learning. He listened to the guard behind him shift his weight. Move back. The officer with the well-worn pistol moved his hand closer to the gold-trimmed butt of his flintlock. Time slowed. This was going to happen fast.

  “Boys!” The voice came from behind Cassidy, breaking him from his battle trance. All eyes moved to a spot over his right shoulder. He knew the voice. How the hell had she gotten here?

  “Shea?” the Commodore said, easing his hand off the handle of his sabre.

  Shea pushed past Cassidy as if she’d never seen him before and made her way between the other men. Her glance fell on each as she went by, touching them with the tips of her manicured fingers. They melted an inch or two. Their mouths gaped. Shea was in full form, flashing her green eyes and wafting her scent. She wore a travel cloak, but it gaped open in the front, exposing a dress, that, as usual, covered very little.

  “Commodore,” she said, as she reached him. “You haven’t come to see me in weeks.” Her mouth formed a pout. “I finally had to come see you,” she said, and ran a finger down the side of his face. “What are you boys doing?”

  No one spoke. If Cassidy thought she’d had a significant effect on him, it was nothing compared to what she did to a group like this. Among sex-starved pirates, this woman was in her element and all-powerful. They glanced between themselves. Wanted to kill each other over her. Probably only the Commodore had enough money to afford an hour with her. The object of their eternal phantasies, standing closer than they’d probably ever been allowed before.

  Sh
e caressed the Commodore’s chest and slid her hand into his shirt. Even here, in front of his men, he seemed to be having trouble controlling himself. Cassidy could see he wanted to send them all away and have her right then and there, despite the business at hand.

  Shea’s hand slid into the Commodore’s pants. The soldiers appeared stuck between leaning closer and retreating. She breathed on the Commodore’s neck. His left arm came up around her back and he turned into her full mouth. Her head retreated to the back of his neck where they couldn’t see whether Shea was kissing it or whispering in his ear. Her hand worked the contents of his pants. His face changed. His eyes widened.

  “I’m going to my quarters,” the Commodore commanded and started towards the first structure. Shea walked with him, her hand still down the front of his pants, still massaging.

  The soldiers stood, mouths agape. Cassidy couldn’t blame them. He didn’t know what to do any more than them.

  The Commodore turned his head and spoke over his shoulder to Cassidy. “Come, Airman. You can examine the craft while I have my way.”

  Cassidy glanced at the stunned soldiers and back at the couple as they made their way inside. He followed at an awkward distance. There seemed little else to do, and he was still alive, which was more than he’d expected at this point. The idea of a ship’s captain, even a roguish pirate one, behaving like this in front of his men still baffled Cassidy, but who was he to judge the Twilight and Shea’s effect on men.

  The three entered the building, which appeared to be half airship hanger and half pigsty. He assumed the Commodore’s quarters must lie farther back and hopefully looked better than the wreck outside.

  Cassidy shut the outer door and Shea took her hand out of the Commodore’s pants. A two-inch hook knife glittered at the tips of her fingers.

  “You fucking bitch,” the Commodore said, reaching for his sabre. “You could’ve snagged one of my bollocks.”

  Cassidy had his pistol out before the blade cleared its sheath.

  Shea gave Cassidy a soft smile and slipped the hook-knife up her sleeve. “You should tell me before you wander around the island,” she said, and unbuckled the belt holding the Commodore’s sheath. It fell to the ground along with his sabre and pistol.

  Cassidy shrugged. “Seemed simple enough.”

  Shea winked and turned back to the pirate captain. “The Commodore and I have history.” She walked around behind him, took a chunk of his hair in hand and yanked his head back. “Stiffed me for two nights’ pay. I was giving him a couple weeks before I showed up, but…” The commodore gave a low growl, but didn’t move.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” Cassidy said. He searched the hanger with his eyes for anything resembling his Fokker. “You could have been killed.”

  Shea laughed. “What, with you here to protect me?” She gave a flippant gesture with her wrist. “Actually, I brought three body guards, and they had rifles on us the whole time.” She licked the commodore’s ear and smiled as he flinched away. “Commodore knows I’m not bluffing. Don’t you, Baby?” She gave him a savage elbow to the ribs and must have struck a nerve cluster because he doubled over and gagged.

  Cassidy spotted a large shape beneath a canvas tarp. He walked over and dragged the heavy fabric away, revealing his Fokker VII in pristine condition. They’d probably been afraid to actually fly it. Either because they couldn’t, or for fear of becoming Armada targets.

  “See you later, Mr. Cassidy,” Shea said, the Commodore’s hair still wrapped in her fingers.

  “I’m not leaving you with him,” Cassidy said.

  “You’ll have to,” Shea said, and pinched the Commodore behind the neck. “We have business still.”

  Cassidy looked at the pirate captain, still doubled over in pain. “Are you going to kill him?” he asked Shea.

  “Kill him? No,” Shea said, pulling the struggling captain towards the back of the hanger. “He just likes it rough. Pays extra.” She bent close and the Commodore whispered something. She touched a panel on the wall and the hanger swung open.

  Cassidy nodded to her and climbed into the cockpit.

  “By the way,” Shea called before he started the engine. “If you’re looking for your ship, someone saw a Zeppelin in The Starling.”

  “Where’s that?” he hollered back.

  “A ways from here, straight out,” she said, pointing beyond the open hanger. Cassidy nodded and started the engine. The Starling? he thought. Tell me that’s not a bird with teeth.

  Chapter 26

  Cassidy felt good to be back in the sky again. Part of him wanted to return and lay waste to the Commodore’s small fleet of airships with a belt or two of real world solid Spandau rounds. The bastard had lost him time. On the other hand, he hadn’t known which way to find Banner until a few minutes before. Why hadn’t Shea just told him in the first place?

  He tried to imagine what a good ways actually meant. Something in miles or metres would have been nice, but he assumed her units of measurement would be different from what the plane’s instruments read and without the sun, moon, stars or recognisable land masses, he had no way of figuring distance any other way. Cassidy hoped The Starling, whatever it was, would be easy to identify.

  Flying cleared his mind. He had hardly attempted to process the last few months, and now it rushed in on him as the Twilight clouds flew by. Why did he feel almost real one moment, like in the heat of action, then like a ghost afterwards? How much of his thinking was Richthofen and how much was his own? Was any of it his own thinking or was everything in his head a combination of the Baron and the Everdream? Did John Cassidy really exist, or was he just a drifting concept with no concrete past or future, and nothing but a transient present? Was only the moment real?

  He thought about Banner. How real the captain seemed. How solid. And Brewster. The man was capable of living life just to live it. Didn’t care about the future or the past. Didn’t dwell on constant questions of who and what he was. Cassidy wondered if the Twilights had philosophers and theologians. The demon with the umbrella had told him dreams didn’t have souls. What was a soul?

  And Barnabas. The creature had given nothing but more questions, not the least of which being, had anything he’d said been true?

  Cassidy checked his gauges. Checked the sky for signs of anything but clouds. Checked his tail for anyone following. Nothing. Empty. Cobalt and pink wisps.

  Time stretched and shrank in his head. He tried to calculate how long it had been since Banner had rescued him from the dream. How long he had flown with the Nubigena crew? How long had he spent in the glass prison? How long since he’d eaten? He was starving, but starvation hadn’t killed him. Did he just think he was starving?

  A small group of airships appeared in the distance like a cluster of stray balloons, standing out against the purple clouds in various primary colours. Despite being so dangerous, the Twilight was also beautiful. Cassidy kept his eye on them as he continued past, but instead of approaching, they drifted another direction.

  The fuel gauge told him he’d only burned a quarter tank, but it vexed him that there was no assurance he could find another place to refuel. The Fokker was a fine plane, but it was meant for short-range sorties. Its engine was made for speed, not fuel economy.

  Cassidy sat back and tried to relax as the soft vibrations of the control stick thrummed up his hand and into his body. He worried too much. He knew that.

  ***

  The Starling was unmistakable. A large array of scaffolding, girders and beams had been shaped into the loose form of a bird, its wings outstretched. Cassidy guessed that at one time it had been some kind of artificial island, built perhaps as a half-way port between more natural islands. Now, it looked like a twisted skeleton. Whatever covering or platforms that existed once had long since fallen away, or been scavenged.

  Cassidy flew among the juts and joints of naked metal, searching for any sign of the Nubigena or its crew. Up close, he never would have known the structure
resembled anything like a bird, but calculated he must be somewhere around the left wing. At the very tip a grey mass stood out against the steel. He throttled towards it, and, as he neared, he made out the unmistakable shape of the Nubigena, drifting, moored only at the nose by a cable so long he didn’t notice it at first.

  She looked derelict. Cassidy couldn’t help thinking of an expired animal floating in a stream. The landing platform on top had been finished. At least they hadn’t forgotten about him. Banner, with all his optimism, had probably just assumed they would meet again.

  Cassidy had never landed on anything adrift before, but lined up, reduced speed as much as he could without stalling and pushed the button Karl had built into the console. A catch released on the bottom of the fuselage with an audible click. He hoped it would do whatever it was supposed to do.

  He guided the Fokker down over the Nubigena’s tail and cut the throttle completely. Cassidy glided down, touched the platform and felt the cable snag. It felt like slamming into a wall as the fighter lurched to a shuddering stop, just feet from the edge of the runway, which ended just short of the gun platform.

  Cassidy hopped down and found mooring collars that easily attached to the landing gear. Karl was never anything but thorough when it came to design.

  He entered the gun platform from the outside door and made his way down the ladder to the floor of the main cell. The silence disturbed him. He’d never noted how much noise the engines made. The ballasts. The gas bladders as they adjusted their buoyancy. It was as if the Nubigena’s voice, perhaps even her heart, had been crushed, and he was invading her derelict corpse.

  Karl’s quarters stood empty. Cassidy made his way down into the gondola. His heart sank notch by notch as room after room proved empty. Brewster’s. Jayce’s. Banner’s. Everyone’s. His own looked the same as it always had and he moved on through the galley and main corridor to the bridge. The door stood open. The helm moved left and right between several spokes as the gentle wind moved the responsive rudder back and forth. The elevator flap was moving, too, because the pedals worked up and down as if a phantom was flying the dead ship.