Storm Dreams (The Cycle of Somnium Book 1)

by Jeb R. Sherrill

  Cassidy found the runway near the edge of the island at the bottom of the docks, much like the Arcadian layout. He landed and immediately had the dock men cover the Fokker with a large tarp.

  Brewster met him at the dock where he’d moored the Intrepid. He nodded towards the ship flying the black Fleur-de-lis. “That her?”

  “That’s her,” Cassidy said. He pulled the Mauser out of its holster. He slid the cumbersome chunk of wood that was its home into his mail bag and shoved the pistol into his belt.

  “Becoming a gunfighter?” Brewster asked.

  “How about a pirate?” Cassidy asked.

  “Always a first time. But I thought we were going to pay.”

  Cassidy shook his head and entered Brewster’s airship. “I think diplomacy might break down the moment they see me,” he said as he rummaged through a foot locker that sat against the back wall. He found a brown greatcoat and a black cloak. “In fact, it might be best that no one here see our uniforms,” he said, tossing the cloak to Brewster. He dropped his cap in the footlocker and had Brewster do the same.

  “Not my idea of fashion,” the Englishman said, as he brushed lint and dust from the cloak’s folds.

  Cassidy cracked a smile. “You make a smashing pirate.”

  Brewster grimaced.

  They kept to the shadows as they ascended the stepped tiers of the harbour. Few dock men stood outdoors at that hour and the same seemed true of sailors and airmen.

  An empty shed on one of the upper levels offered an excellent view of Resta’s heavily-armed airship. A number of sailors stood on the exposed decks.

  “They’ll go whoring soon,” Cassidy said. “And these kinds of men drink a lot.”

  Brewster nodded. “So, what will we do in the real world?” he asked, changing the subject as he puffed on his pipe.

  Cassidy shrugged. “Haven’t given it a whole lot of thought. Fly planes, maybe.” He leaned against the wall beside Brewster. “But the colours. The smells. The lack of Armada breathing down our necks. I’m not sure I care what we do.”

  Brewster blew smoke rings. “I just want to know what England looks like on a sunny day. We were always in a storm.”

  “Are there any sunny days in England?” Cassidy asked.

  “Good question. They must have them on occasion.”

  Cassidy looked out the window at the battle-ready airship. “What the hell would you need a ship like that for, anyway?”

  Brewster took a glance and shrugged. “Fight something really big, I suppose. You should see some of the pleasure cruisers.”

  Twenty men or so shuffled down the ramp and into the hotel. Cassidy decided to give them a couple hours to get drunk and laid before he and Brewster made their way down to the ship’s dock. They milled about in their disguises for a while, then continued across to another set of sheds and empty booths.

  “There’s only two guards,” Cassidy said, as they slipped into a darkened space between buildings.

  “Guess we can just kill them,” Brewster said, and ran a hand across the butt of his Webley.

  “Not out of the question,” said Cassidy, “but I’d like to get through this without wasting ammunition.”

  “I know,” said Brewster, letting his greatcoat fall over his pistol. “I’ve watched more people die in the last few months than...can’t remember, can you? I can’t remember much about time either.” He motioned to where part of the gondola floated near a second dock. “Let’s see if there’s a back door.”

  The airship drifted back and forth, coming within feet of the dock every few minutes. They examined the hull, looking for an opening. “What about that?” Cassidy asked, pointing to a pair of small double doors.

  “Gun hatch,” Brewster said. “Cannon probably. Bet it fires a full grape.”

  On the next in-swing, Cassidy slipped his knife into the crack between the two doors and slid it upwards until metal clicked against metal. The latch gave and the doors fell open, revealing an iron bore six inches in diameter. “Seems a bit too easy,” said Cassidy, as he peered in through the opening.

  “Easy?” Brewster said. “Says you without the gut. Have fun slipping around that barrel.”

  “Can’t we just push it out of the way?”

  Brewster shook his head. “Airship’s free floating, Old Boy. Shove something that heavy and the whole ship will go with it.”

  Cassidy sighed and kicked his right foot through the small window as the gondola swung towards him again. He flattened his body against the cannon and slid his head and shoulders in around the gaping mouth. The airship drifted away again. For a moment, Cassidy dangled from the gondola, one leg and half his body inside, while the other leg and his hind quarters hung along the outside. The cast iron of the cannon crushed in on his ribs as he squeezed through and rolled the giant gun away from the opening.

  On the next pass, Brewster reached for the window and attempted a similar manoeuvre to Cassidy’s, but required a good deal more help to make it through the threshold. “Guess I’ve been eating too well,” Brewster whispered as he fell through.

  Cassidy relatched the hatch and pushed the gun back into place. “We’ve been eating the same crap,” he said in the same hushed tones. He stopped a moment to catch his breath. “We’re just getting old.”

  “Speak for yourself, I can’t be more than five or six.”

  “Or a hundred,” Cassidy said. “Can you really say for sure how long ago Banner broke you out? I saw his tombstone. It said 1806.”

  Brewster grimaced. “Don’t talk to me about that stuff. There’s a reason I never went near that damned grave.”

  Cassidy turned and pretended to examine the door out of the gunroom. He kept trying to talk about Banner in a casual way, but it tore him up to think of the grave. To think of Banner melding with that other part of himself. That other part Cassidy didn’t have. Would never have.

  “Resta’ll be here somewhere,” Cassidy said. “He’s a responsible type. Doubt he’s whoring.” He turned back to Brewster. “Probably takes decent care of his men.”

  Brewster gave a quiet snort. “This is the Commodore fellow we’re talking about, right?” he said, as they crept out of the gun room and into the galley. “The pirate that almost killed you?”

  Cassidy shrugged. “I’m not fond of the man, but he seems like a decent leader. Does what’s necessary, if you know what I mean.”

  Brewster stopped and turned Cassidy around by the shoulder. “He’s the Captain, Old Boy. I know you miss him. I’d fly through Hell to hear his voice again, but don’t go seeing his face in every other captain you meet.”

  Cassidy took a deep breath and exhaled. The Englishman was right and it stung. “I do want to try and buy this plane. He may be a pirate, but I’m no thief.”

  “Nor I,” said Brewster, “but we need it now. We may have lost the luxury of being gentlemen.”

  Cassidy looked his friend in the eyes. “Then what’s the point?”

  Brewster sighed. “Let’s take a look at this plane. May be a pile of junk, and we’ll want to go back the way we came.”

  Cassidy smirked. “Not the way we came, Old Boy. You wouldn’t make it through a second time.”

  Brewster grinned back and they continued to the rear of the galley and into the cargo bay. It was the only place that appeared vast enough to carry any kind of aerocraft.

  Wedged between packing crates full of various loot a fighter poked out of the mess. The single wing Fokker stood, tired, but waiting. Its tail had been stretched and modified to accommodate a second seat, and they could see a blue letter V through the shadow cast across it by curtains dangling from the ceiling. Brewster and Cassidy exchanged glances.

  “I can’t believe Ned would sell it,” Cassidy said.

  “Ned—” Brewster began, but a voice cut across his from out of the shadows.

  “He did take some persuading,” Commodore Resta said as he stepped out from between some crates. “Not the bravest of men, but it should warm y
our heart that he wouldn’t even tell us where he saw you last. Shoved my sabre through his skull until he became rotten air.”

  Chapter 32

  Brewster drew his Webley with a speed that surprised even Cassidy, but the Commodore’s sabre flashed a fraction faster and Brewster’s arm lay on the ground, the pistol still unfired. The Englishman fell back against a wall of crates, clutching at the space where his arm had been.

  Cassidy moved for his Mauser, but the gleaming sabre was already at his throat. He backed his hand off as the Commodore removed the pistol with his empty hand and stepped back. “I saw you boys fly in. It’s not as if I’d ever forget that plane of yours.” He gestured to them with the tip of his sword. “I finally had to send everyone off the ship to get you cowards to show up.”

  “We would have bought it,” Cassidy said.

  The commodore gave a mock gentle bow. “Of course. That’s why you presented yourself from the very beginning. Best intentions, I’m sure,” he said, and fired several shots off with Cassidy’s Mauser. Brewster stumbled and fell, clutching his stomach.

  Cassidy tried to grab for him, but the commodore’s sabre edged him back up.

  “He won’t last long,” the commodore said. “At least Twilights have some substance. But you...you’re just an idea. You don’t last.”

  Cassidy lunged. The sabre flashed again. A sting flared in his ribs. He slumped beside Brewster, holding his chest. Blood spilled from his shirt, a thin line of scarlet.

  The Commodore stooped to meet Cassidy’s eyes. “You’re a brave son of a bitch,” he said, and slid the sabre into its scabbard. “I admire the way you tried to take us all on back in Arcadia, but bringing in that woman...” He shook his head. “In front of my men, no less.” He stood up and backed away.

  Cassidy couldn’t feel his limbs. His chest should have been stinging, but it was no more than a dull ache.

  “I thought I’d have to string you up and torture you in front of my boys, but your fighter is down at the runway.” He transferred the pistol to his right hand and examined the unique weapon. “And, I have your sidearm. Everyone will remember. It’s real,” he said, flexing his fingers around the brown handle, “you’re just a concept.” He squeezed the trigger three times.

  Cassidy saw only muzzle flashes. Knew they’d passed through his chest and stomach, perhaps one through his head and into the crates behind him. But he felt nothing except the distant throb of prickling needles in his skin, as if his body had become a pile of clay. Brewster lay wounded beside him. Dying. A tear trickled down Cassidy’s cheek. It splatted against the floor looking bright and vibrant. Too vibrant. Too real. “If I’m just an idea,” said Cassidy, as blood bubbled out of his mouth, “then whose head am I in?”

  The Commodore narrowed his eyes and looked annoyed. He squeezed off two more rounds into Cassidy’s chest.

  “I’m not in the Everdream, so the concept must be in my head.” Cassidy forced himself to a higher sitting position, trying to concentrate on something real. If only...he dug his hand into his pocket and gripped the silver dollar. The last few drops of April’s pain seeped out, filling his veins with a kind of electric heat. “If I’m just a shadow,” Cassidy said, as rage built in his chest, “then how are you killing me?” Banner’s face rose up from his memory. Brewster’s dying eyes beside him. April. Her green eyes. Those eyes that recognized something in him from a simple momentary glance. Connected with him in a preternatural way. “Maybe I don’t want to die.”

  The Commodore took another step back and emptied the pistol. The last empty shell hit the floor at his feet and bounced several times before rolling to a stop against the Commodore’s boot.

  Cassidy worked his way to his feet. He touched his stomach where the sword had cut. The blood was gone. “Maybe I exist,” he said, staggering towards the Commodore, “because I want to exist.”

  The Commodore swung his sabre, but it bounced off Cassidy’s side as if striking a stone column. He swung again and pulled the trigger on the empty Mauser. Cassidy yanked the sabre away and shoved the Commodore to the floor. Tears stung his eyes as he stood over the downed pirate. Real tears. He smelled salt in them. “Call for your men, Commodore,” Cassidy said. He raised the sabre in both hands and plunged it down, impaling its owner through the stomach and into the floor. “Tell them to man the guns. All the guns. And fly like the Devil himself is out to get them.”

  He dropped to the floor beside Brewster. “Just believe,” he said, holding his friend by the shoulders. “You don’t have to die.”

  Brewster gave a weak smile. “That may be the difference between you and me,” he said. “You want it so bad. I just wasn’t made like that. I’m in the moment. I want to accept this.” His eyes glazed and he stopped moving. Cassidy shook him by the shoulders, but seconds later he was shaking empty air.

  Cassidy stood. He took back his empty Mauser and picked up Brewster’s Webley. He fired twice, blasting the Commodore’s knee caps out. Resta screamed in pain.

  “Dammit, you bastard,” the Commodore managed, though his voice came out in thin rasps. “It was nothing personal. You’re still just air, dammit.”

  Cassidy shoved the Webley in his belt and left the Commodore pinned to the floor, screaming as best he could with a sword through his middle. Cassidy re-loaded as he walked, pushing one shell at a time into the internal magazine. The gangplank extended off the main deck and down to the docks where the two guards stood facing the hotel. Cassidy shot them both in the back of the head. Several of the other crew ran down the steps of the hotel as he made his way to the runway. They were too far away to notice him.

  Far above he heard engines engaging. He slapped a pile of bank notes into the dockworker’s hand, taxied out to the runway and was in the air before the airship had even lifted off.

  Cassidy flew out several hundred feet and climbed high before looping back and aiming down on the rising airship. The Fokker dove like a plummeting falcon. As the pirate dirigible rose to meet him, Cassidy opened up both Spandaus, shredding the gas bladder, his real world bullets punching through to the gondola below.

  The ship fell back towards the dock. Its bow caught one of the island’s steps and the stern continued to fall, flipping as Cassidy climbed again. By the time he’d made his ascent, the ship’s prow was aimed at the sky, standing on its stern against a layer of rock, its deflated gas bladder dangling off the edge of the small island.

  Cassidy fired again. The chains rattled. Shell casings pelted his face and goggles as the downward thrust of the fighter blew them back at him. He continued his barrage down the length of the upturned ship, strafing through the decks until he struck the powder kegs in one of the gunrooms.

  The Fokker continued its dive down past the edge of the island as a series of loud popping sounds came from behind. Cassidy pulled out of his dive and banked to see billows of fire blossom from the sides of the armoured airship. He depressed the levers to let loose another burst of hellfire as the vessel toppled from the island. The chains ran dry as one side of the ship exploded away.

  Cassidy watched it fall. The ship tangled in its own airbladder as it fell end over end, down into the abyss. Cassidy waited for the fire inside him to cease. The rage to cool. It didn’t. He wanted to chase the Commodore’s burning body down into the abyss and empty another set of shell chains into the flaming hulk of the ship. No, ten chains. A hundred. A thousand.

  Somewhere inside the airship’s wreckage lay the other real world Fokker, the Valkyrie, twisted and mangled now with whatever other real world objects had been stolen. They would probably continue to exist as the Twilight airship and crew burned off and faded away. They would probably fall forever. And where was Brewster now? Oblivion? Had any part of him returned to the Everdream?

  Cassidy realized he was still diving. Still following the fireball of a ship as if Brewster was still on it. As if waiting for the Englishman to be released. Cassidy pulled out of the dive. Tears streamed down his face. Everyone was g
one. All gone. Jayce and Franz in their far away pyramid. Ned, a man he’d undeservedly called a coward, sliced to ribbons. Banner and Karl still riding the elusive Aurora Borealis, forever imprisoned, the Nubigena providing their own personal stormcloud. And Brewster wasn’t coming back.

  Cassidy pointed his fighter in the general direction of nothing and flew. The buzz and thrum of the engine sounded in his ears. The air rushed over his face. This plane was all that was left of his world now.

  Potential windows opened around him as he imagined the real world. Giant squares of green energy, faded and ghost-like, stood out against the dark purple of the Twilight night. He focused on the thought of a real world storm. One of the potential frames solidified and crackled. It loomed before him as he steered towards it and on the other side he glimpsed raging clouds and blue forks of electricity through the green haze. It would be a good storm, he thought, and throttled forwards.

  The green energy lit up his instruments as the tendrils reached out for the fighter. He felt Brewster’s Webley dig into his side where it lay nestled in his belt.

  Cassidy cut the throttle, rolled and pulled back on the stick. For a moment, the Fokker skimmed the surface of the gate. The rolling currents of grey clouds juxtaposed in his vision over the Twilight purple. And he was back in the Twilight again. The gate faded behind him and he let go of the transient vision of the potential ones as well. Dammit!

  Cassidy stared down at his instruments. He searched himself for the reason he hadn’t gone through and felt only shame. Brewster was dead and Cassidy didn’t deserve to enter the real world alone. He hadn’t protected his friend. Hadn’t protected anyone. They’d all fallen. What right did he have to carry on when he couldn’t bring anyone with him?

  He had failed even Banner. What had his life, such as it was, been worth if he hadn’t actually done anything with it? His memories were still peppered with gaps and hazy pools of rippled clarity. Did he really exist, or was he just kidding himself with his thoughts of pure, solid, will?