Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (45 page)

“Shit,” said Cockayne. What the hell language was she speaking? Cockayne looked around the cramped cockpit. This was going to go very badly, very quickly. He had taught Gideon Smith to hit hard and fast. He glanced down as something rolled against his boot. A golden apple? He bent to pick it up.

“Who are you?” asked Maria. She spoke in the same strange language, but suddenly Cockayne understood every word.

“Louis Cockayne,” he said with a grin.

“I am . . .” She shook her head, pinching her nose. “I am Maria. No, Apep. No, Maria.” She stiffened and looked at him. “I am Apep. Only Amasis may command me. Are you Amasis?”

Cockayne shrugged. “If you like.”

She nodded. “Then what are your orders, Amasis?”

Cockayne gave a little whoop. “We’re going west, Miss Maria, and we don’t stop until we hit America. They’re going to love you down in Texas, mark my words. Louis Cockayne is going to be a very rich man.”

“Gideon . . . ,” said Maria, suddenly ascendant again, but her body was not her own, and was already doing Cockayne’s bidding.

“Don’t you fret about Gideon Smith,” said Cockayne, sliding into the seat behind Maria and lighting up a cigarillo. “He’s going to be all right. All you concentrate on is going west, my dear, and don’t spare those goddamn horses!”

Gideon punched the railing, then said fiercely, “Get me one of those personal blimps. I can catch him.”

Fanshawe laid a hand on his shoulder. “Gideon. You can’t. Look at that thing go.”

“Then get after it!” he yelled. “Turn this ’stat around and get after it!”

She shook her head. “We’ll never catch him, Gideon. The people here need help. Bent and the Countess . . . and there’s everything to sort out . . . Lucian and John . . .”

Gideon felt tears pricking his eyes. As he watched Apep flying into the late afternoon sun, he put his head in his hands and wept, not feeling very heroic at all.

33
The Hero of the Empire

There was a special issue of
World Marvels & Wonders
rushed out within three days of what the newspapers were proudly proclaiming to be The Battle of London, and Gideon Smith was gratified and embarrassed and proud, all at once, to hold it in his hands with himself on the cover. What lay within was a highly sanitized version of events, of course. There was no mention of mummies or vampires, nor of John Reed’s treachery against the Crown. The dragon was presented as a somewhat foggy anarchist plot, foiled by the combined efforts of Lucian Trigger, the Hero of the Empire, and his cohort of companions. There was a pen and ink illustration that made Gideon laugh out loud; Bent was portrayed as handsome and strong, his chest puffed out, wielding his pencil and notepad as though they were the sword and shield of a valiant knight. Of Louis Cockayne there was no mention; the disappearance of the dragon was ascribed to a chaotic, uncontrolled flight path that took it out of harm’s way and into the sea, where it would be recovered.

It was not all rousing triumph, though. There was tragedy, too. Captain Trigger and Dr. Reed had lost their lives battling the anarchists, and it was only the efforts of Gideon Smith that saved the day. Gideon flushed slightly as he read; the triumph in the skies was ascribed wholly to him, with Trigger and Reed demoted to tragic bit parts in the final battle. Not how it was at all, of course. Nevertheless, a statue to Captain Trigger had already been commissioned and was to be positioned in Hyde Park, at the spot where Trigger and Reed fell to their deaths. The theatrical manager and writer Bram Stoker was also missing in action in foreign climes; a party was to be sent to see if they could rescue him, and failing that, recover his body. There was also the sobering matter of the innocent victims of Apep, the dozens on Biggin Hill and the hundreds in Bexleyheath. The French had quickly offered to repair the Lady of Liberty flood barrier, but Queen Victoria had said no; let its melted visage remain, a stark reminder that the people of the Empire had to be forever watchful against fanatics and terrorists.

Gideon handed the penny blood back to little Tommy, whom Peek was holding in his arms. “Did your pappy read the story to you?” asked Gideon.

Tommy thrust out his lip. “I read it myself!” His face darkened. “Are there monsters out there? Really?”

Gideon glanced at Peek. He’d said Tommy had been troubled by nightmares ever since the confrontation with the Child of Heqet in the mist. He crouched down and looked him in the eye. “Tommy,” he said. “Sometimes, monsters just turn out to be people. And sometimes, people can be monsters. Do you understand?”

Tommy nodded uncertainly. “And who will fight the monsters, now that Captain Trigger is dead?”

To that, Gideon didn’t have an answer. “Someone, I’m sure,” he said. “But don’t you be afraid. Someone said to me that fear is a lie. Do you know what I mean?”

“I
think
so,” said Tommy.

“You’re a clever lad,” said Gideon, ruffling his hair. He stood and nodded to Peek. “Thanks for coming.”

“How could I not?” said Peek. They were both dressed in black suits, standing on Lythe Bank, St. Oswald’s Church behind them. As soon as he was able, Gideon had returned to Sandsend and ventured into the tunnels where Stoker and Bathory had fought the Children of Heqet. There he found the bones of the
Cold Drake
’s crew, and those of Clive Clarke, the police officer. The Reverend Bastable had just led a funeral service for Sandsend’s fallen.

“I suppose what happened to them will always be a mystery,” said Peek, looking shrewdly at Gideon.

Gideon looked out to sea, where the Newcastle & Gateshead factory farms still steamed on the far horizon. “Aye, I suppose it will.” A number of serious-faced men in sober suits and top hats had told them at Scotland Yard exactly what they could and could not say about the adventure. Those men had also, presumably, been responsible for the rather pedestrian write-up in
World Marvels & Wonders
; Bent would be furious at the dour prose. No connection had been made publicly between the deaths of Arthur Smith and his crew and the events in London. In truth, there were few connections to make. The
Cold Drake
had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the path of the Children of Heqet when they needed to feed. But at least the monsters were gone, some at Gideon’s own hand, the last handful beneath the crushing stones of the fallen Pyramid of Rhodopis.

“But what happened next, Mr. Smith?” asked little Tommy.

Gideon grinned. “Mr. Smith? It’s Gideon to you, lad.”

Tommy screwed up his face. “I did know a Gideon, but he was just like everybody else. He went away. You’re a hero, Mr. Smith. But the story ends with those anarchists throwing Captain Trigger off that big brass dragon. It doesn’t say what happens next.”

What happened next was that Fanshawe had taken the
Yellow Rose
down to land in Hyde Park, the crowd cheering and clapping most riotously as the adventurers emerged. After the debriefing at Scotland Yard, Bent, who had begun raving and laughing like a lunatic, was deemed to have a head injury and taken to St. Thomas’s Hospital in Southwark for treatment for that and his broken arm. Elizabeth Bathory was returning, with the help of Rowena Fanshawe, to Castle Dracula in Transylvania. Gideon had held out his hand to Bathory, but she had embraced him. “You were valiant, Gideon Smith, and it is you I have to thank for allowing me to avenge my husband.”

“Perhaps I will see you again?”

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But know this, Mr. Smith: I bear no love for your country or your Empire. It encroaches on every corner of the world, and there will come a day when your people venture too close to Castle Dracula. Pity them if they do. Your men in authority did that cruel and base thing to Annie Crook, and who knows how many others. Tell them Countess Bathory and Britain are at peace, but only for now, and it is a fragile peace.”

As Fanshawe prepared to return Bathory to the Carpathian Mountains, Gideon hugged her and whispered, “Be careful.”

She kissed him on the mouth. “We’ll find Maria. We’ll get her back. I promise.”

Peek brought him out of his reverie. “You left this place as little more than a boy with fancy ideas, Gideon. You’ve come back a man.” He pointed to the harbor. “The
Cold Drake’
s still there, waiting for you.”

Gideon had entertained the idea of trying to take the gearship out across the Atlantic, searching for Cockayne and Maria. But it would never make the journey, and the Americas were a huge territory. He could not undertake such an enterprise alone. And if the thought of settling down in his old life had occurred to him, it had done so only briefly, and he had pushed it away.

“I can’t stay in Sandsend, Peek. I’ve seen too much. The world’s too big. I have to know more of it. The
Cold Drake
’s yours, if you’ll have her. But I shall not be going out in her. My life has to take a different path now.”

Peek shrugged. “ ’Course, it’s not for the likes of me to know, but I’d reckon you’ve done what you set out to, Gideon Smith. I reckon your daddy will rest at peace, now.”

Gideon smiled. “Perhaps.”

“But what happens next?” asked Tommy insistently. What was it Trigger had said about heroism? Stories for children. And was that such a bad thing? If stories of heroism could inspire one child, allow one boy to dream of doing good himself? Gideon mussed Tommy’s hair again, then winked at him. “That,” he said, “is a story for another day.”

Gideon, in a fine suit with tails and a collar that made his neck itch, was shown by a footman into a lavish room, the carpets thick and luxurious. Bent and Fanshawe were already there, Bent looking as dapper as Gideon had ever seen him in a topper and holding a cane, Fanshawe looking beautiful and womanly in a silk gown.

“Gideon!” she squealed, hitching her skirts up and running toward him.

“How was Castle Dracula? Not tempted to stay?”

She pulled a face. “Too many women. Too many vampires.” She cast a thumb over her shoulder. “He’d have liked it, though. They breed ’em sturdy over there.”

Bent, his arm in a sling, grinned and waved. “You’re looking every inch a hero, Smith.”

Gideon extricated himself from Fanshawe’s embrace and shook Bent’s good hand. “As are you, Mr. Bent. New suit?”

“Not half,” said Bent, giving a little twirl. “I must say, the matter of that small reward for our efforts was most welcome. I even got Big Henry off my back.”

“And how is your arm?”

“Mending.” Bent nodded. “But that’s not the real problem. Took a knock to the head in that pyramid. Would’ve been dead, but for my hat. The pith helmet everybody laughed at. God bless that little feller in the souk who sold it to me. As it was, it gave me a bit of concussion, said the quacks. And something else.” He lowered his voice. “Listen. Effing. Eff. Eff off. Eff me.”

Gideon made a face and shook his head. “What?”

“Well, you know old Trigger told me to watch my lingo. That stone on the head did something to me. I can’t say it any more. Eff.”

“Can’t say what?”

“
Eff
,” said Bent. “Eff you sea kay. Try as I might, it just comes out like this. Eff. It’s an effing liberty, if you ask me. Words are my livelihood, Smith. They can’t just take one off me like that.”

Gideon laughed as the footman, in a powdered wig with his nose in the air, appeared. “Gentlemen. Miss Fanshawe. It is time. Queen Victoria will see you now.”

Bent whispered, “Nervous?”

“Yes,” said Gideon. “I’ve seen mummies, vampires, and a dragon. But this terrifies me. I mean, it’s the
queen
.”

“Just imagine her on the toilet when you see her.” Bent chuckled. “It’s a great leveler, is shitting.”

The footman coughed and open the doors, then said loudly, “Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria.”

Victoria, in a long, blue velvet dress, sat on an elaborate throne inlaid with gold leaf. She was much older than she looked in her pictures, thought Gideon. Her face was dry and powdered, creviced with deep wrinkles, her gray hair gathered in a lace-covered bun. But her eyes were bright and intelligent, and as the group reached the appointed spot ten yards from her, stopped, and bowed, she regarded each of them in turn. The footman withdrew, leaving them alone in the royal presence.