Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (32 page)

“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?”

The American turned. “No need to thank—”

Gideon’s punch landed square on Cockayne’s jaw, knocking him off his feet and on to his backside. He stared at Gideon for a moment, then laughed and climbed to his feet.

“Good, Smith,” he said, nodding. “Good. You might last ten minutes now, not five.”

Laughing to himself, Cockayne headed out of the gymnasium. Gideon looked at Trigger. “What was all that about?”

Trigger smiled tightly. “I might be very much mistaken, Gideon, but it strikes me our Mr. Cockayne actually rather likes you.”

Gideon snorted. “I can do without the likes of him—”

Trigger held up his hand. “Do not be too quick to judge, Mr. Smith. Cockayne might not have covered himself with glory in our first meeting, but he was perhaps acting for other reasons than we first thought.”

Gideon shrugged. “Self-preservation. No more honorable than slaving for profit.”

Trigger stroked his chin and looked at Gideon mildly. “Perhaps, Mr. Smith, perhaps. But until our own lives are forfeit, who knows how we will behave?”

Gideon and Trigger joined the others on the bridge, where Cockayne was pointing out a pinprick of light in the blackness ahead of them.

“The Pharos light house,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

23
Red Hot in Alex

As they began to descend, Trigger asked Gideon, “What do you know of Alexandria?”

“What they taught me at school.” Gideon shrugged.

Trigger said, “After the Bombardment, our architects set to work on creating a new light house, bigger and better than before.”

“One of the Wonders of the World.” Gideon nodded.

Trigger stroked his mustache. “There are so many wonders, these days.”

Cockayne piloted the ’stat to the airfield—little more than a vast expanse of orange dirt—to the east, between the sprawling city and the verdant fields on the banks of the Nile.

“I’ll go to the Customs House, clear our arrival,” said Cockayne. He threw a ring of jangling keys at Gideon. “The Negroes are in the hold, Mr. Savior. Be careful, though. They’re savages. They might not consider you any better than me, Smith. Big Bad White Man, and all that.”

“I hate that man,” said Gideon when Cockayne and Fanshawe had gone. “Can’t we just leave him now?”

“I concur, but I think we need to keep him with us,” said Trigger. “At least until we verify his story about this Ugandan. And, of course, we have no transport; if this Pledge of Rowena’s does indeed hold water, perhaps we can prevail upon him to take us to the site of the pyramid, and even back to London afterward.”

Gideon scowled. He did not like Fanshawe being in Cockayne’s company for longer than necessary. What had he meant, about that night in Budapest? He brushed the thought aside and said, “Let us go and see these Negroes.”

It was dark, hot, and airless in the hold, and Gideon held up his lamp to see the backs of a hundred men, seated in fours on wooden benches that ran the length of the tight space. They were all stripped to the waist, and as he drew closer he saw they were chained to each other at the ankles and wrists.

Bathory appeared at his shoulder and hissed. “And men think vampires to be inhuman,” she said.

Gideon held up the keys and shook them. “We, uh, we are going to set you free.” The eyes regarded him coolly. “Does anyone speak English?”

There was a silence, and then, with a rattle of chains, one man halfway down the rows held up his arms. “Here. My name is Souleymane. Are we in Texas?”

Gideon shook his head. “No. We are in Alexandria. Where are you from?”

“You call it the Ivory Coast,” said Souleymane. “Alexandria? al-Iskandariyya? Egypt?”

Gideon nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Egypt. We have . . . the men who took you are dead. You are free.”

Souleymane muttered to his neighbor in his own tongue and a ripple of whispers spread through the men. Gideon stood by the nearest man and inspected the lock on his chains. It took him a minute to find the right key, then the shackles fell from the man’s wrists. Gideon turned to the next man, and the next, then handed the key over and allowed the men to free themselves with a rising tumult of conversation.

Stoker located a hatch at the bottom of the hold and unlocked a staircase that descended down to the ground below. Gideon saw him draw back as a wave of heat hit him from beneath. Within minutes the men were free, and Souleymane presented himself to Gideon with another, older man.

“This is the chief of my village,” he said. “He thanks you for what you have done.”

Gideon smiled and shook the man’s hand. “Are you far from the Ivory Coast? From your home?”

“We are,” said Souleymane. “But not as far as we would be in Texas. We will make it. We will see our families again. I will see my wife and my children, and my father.”

A sudden sadness hit Gideon at the thought that he would never see his own dad again. Tears pricked his eyes. Without warning, Souleymane embraced him, and asked, “What is your name?”

“Gideon Smith.”

“They say London is the home of heroes,” said Souleymane. “Are you a hero?”

Gideon shook his head. “Hero? No, not me. I have friends . . . they are the heroes. I didn’t do anything, really.”

Souleymane and the chief led the other men down the steps. They fell to their knees and kissed the dry earth, then set out, a long, dark column, toward Alexandria, and the south.

“He is right, Gideon,” said Trigger, whom he had not noticed at his side. “You
are
a hero. You are the truest among us. You do not lie, or cheat, or pretend to be something you are not. You have made this happen.”

Gideon shook his head and looked to the distant lights of Alexandria, then beyond the city to what he could not see, the vast, shifting sands of Egypt. “No,” he said. “Like Cockayne said, I’m just nobody.”

Trigger pursed his lips. “Gideon, people say a lot of silly things about heroism. But there are two things I’ve heard that ring very true. The first was said by a countryman of Mr. Cockayne, one Ralph Waldo Emerson. He said a hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer.”

Gideon smiled. “And the other?”

“Heroes are not born. They are made. Actions speak louder than words, Gideon. And, lest I descend completely into cliché, let me leave you with one more thought. Despite the stories I wrote and am eternally gratified you devoured so voraciously, appearances can often be deceiving. John . . . he did not see himself as a hero. An adventurer, perhaps, but not a hero. In truth, he was little different from our American friend. He would be the first to admit he was no angel, and sometimes he did what he did for less than noble reasons. But, all this aside, I love him. Because that’s what we do, isn’t it, Gideon? Overlook . . . imperfections. For love. That, I believe, is true heroism. The rest of it? Stories for children, really.”

“Jesus effing Christ,” said Bent, squinting into the sun. He nudged Stoker. “How hot is it? It’s only eight o’clock in the effing morning.”

They stood on the dirt beside the
Yellow Rose
while Cockayne handed out leather canteens of water. “Take small sips often, don’t glug it all away at once. You need to keep hydrated in this heat.”

“I can’t effing cope with this,” muttered Bent. “Is it going to get any hotter?”

“Measurably, I would imagine,” said Stoker, stowing the canteen in his satchel. He looked at Bathory. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded, though with a grim set to her face. “If we can keep in the shadows as much as possible. Did you . . . ?”

He nodded and patted his bag. “I drew a bottle earlier. I must confess it is weakening me somewhat now.”

“Then no more,” she decided. “I know your intentions are honorable, Bram, but this will kill you.”

“But if I don’t you will kill someone else,” he murmured. He looked at Cockayne, who pulled the brim of his scout hat over his eyes. The Yankee was his favorite should Elizabeth get the bloodlust upon her, he thought. Cockayne caught his eye and frowned at him, then said, “Trigger, are you going to give me my pistols back?”

They had recovered their weapons from the
Yellow Rose,
and Gideon had the sword hanging from his belt. Trigger looked doubtful, as well he might, thought Stoker, but Fanshawe said, “Give them to him, Lucian. He will honor the Pledge. I promise.”

Cockayne holstered the pistols with satisfaction, glancing at Stoker and Bathory. Evidently he, too, believed he might feel the ire of the Countess before long. “Come on, then. Let’s get into the city.”

“Is this place really as rough as everyone keeps saying?” asked Bent. He’d survived a lifetime in London, and he couldn’t see how this hole would possibly be any worse.

“Just keep close to me and ignore everyone,” Cockayne told him as he led them through the tumultuous chaos of the Customs House, where the officials were swamped by people of all colors and languages, waving pieces of paper and assaulting Bent’s senses with shouts and cries. It was little better outside, he considered; a wide dirt track led down toward the whitewashed buildings of Alexandria that spread along the coast on either side of the Nile delta. The road was lined with tents and stalls, and those who were obviously new arrivals were approached from all sides by beggars with horrendous disabilities, smiling holy men silently asking for alms, and traders showing swatches of silk, battered cups and lamps, dried fruit, and livestock. Bent tripped over a goat and fell in a tangle of his own limbs and sweat-stained clothing, raising a smile even from Cockayne.

“Effing hell,” moaned Bent. “I can’t stand this. All these bloody people. And it’s so hot! Look, this blighter’s selling hats. What money do they take here?”

Trigger gave him a handful of shillings. “I imagine good old British sterling shall do as well as anything. Would you like some help at the stall?”

The smiling Egyptian wearing a fez held his hands out to invite Bent into the shop. He grinned. “I think I can handle this geezer.” He said loudly, “I require hat. Hat for head. Hat to stop, um, el sol making me, ah, loco. Capeesh?”

The man nodded, his smile fixed to his face. “Try this. Very good hat for English gentleman.”

He handed Bent a pith helmet, gray from many years in the desert. “Oh, yes. I think this will do a treat. How much do you want for it?” He looked at Trigger. “Ten shillings?”

Trigger shook his head violently, but the man grabbed Bent’s arm. “Ten English shillings, did you say?”

Seeing Trigger’s anguished look, Bent said, “Erm, no, I meant . . . a shilling. That do you?”

The man’s bottom lip curled. “Ten of your shillings.”

“Ten shillings?” scoffed Bent, getting into the swing of it. “Two shillings, and that’s my final offer.”

“Eight shillings.”

“Three-and-six, and you’re not having another ha’penny off me,” said Bent, and forced the money into his hand. The man bowed, and Bent walked back to the others.

Cockayne nodded at the helmet. “Good value, if you don’t mind a dead man’s hat.”

Bent began to laugh, then furrowed his brow. He took off the pith helmet and Cockayne pointed to a neat round hole, just above the peak. “Bullet,” he said.

Bent stuck his little finger through the hole and looked at Trigger. “Is that bad luck, then?”