Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles) (2 page)

There was a deafening roar. Lazarus recognized the sound of a Golgotha rifle and knew to duck as the round passed over his head. He spun around and fired, immediately knowing that it was useless. McCluskey’s more expensive security measure had caught up with them.

The Mecha-guard fired off another round, its right arm that tapered into the point of the rifle blazing orange in the dimness. These mechanized guards were heavy duty soldiers; organic matter encased in metal. Its furnace blazed purple, and steam hissed from the funnel on its left shoulder. Lazarus could make out the oily rivets and plate iron and knew that his petty weapon would have no effect.

As he fled, he could hear old Steamboat Steve screeching from behind. “Go on you great lug! Gettem!”

Lazarus brushed past a half-naked customer who had scampered out of one of the rooms in a state of terror, hopping about with his britches half falling off.

“Hey,” the Mecha-whore cried behind him, shambling out into the corridor. “You did not insert a coin into the slot! Please insert coin!”

The blast from the Mecha-guard’s rifle caught her in the middle, sending shards of razor-edged metal thudding into the paneled walls. The Mecha-whore turned around in surprise and caught a second round in the chest. Chunks of organic matter splattered everywhere. McCluskey howled.

“Don’t shoot the whores, goddamit! They cost a fortune to repair, not to mention replacing the organic!”

Lazarus made it to the other side of the steamer in one piece and caught up with Vasquez. He pointed his pistol at him. Vasquez eyed him suspiciously.

“You ain’t one of them,” the bandit said. “Who are you?

“Somebody who wants you alive,” Lazarus said.

Vasquez’s eyes glared at the gun barrel. “Funny way of showing it.”

Another rifle blast tore through the railings and they both took cover behind some packing crates. The Mecha-guard stomped out on deck and began searching for them, its organic pilot peering through slits in its iron helmet. It blasted apart a crate and Lazarus thanked his stars he wasn’t behind it. But it wouldn’t take long for it to find them.

Two shotgun blasts from behind the Mecha-guard were fired off in quick succession, knocking it forward. It turned around slowly, looking for its attacker. Lazarus peeped over the edge of his crate and saw the woman in red and black striding towards them, firing round after round from a shotgun with an automatic magazine, chomping away at the Mecha-guard’s iron plating, pushing it back, back, towards the railings. A final blast sent it through the railings, and it tumbled down into the blades of the propeller.

There was a terrible sound of splintering wood and grinding metal. The great paddlewheel exploded, sending torn planks hurtling skywards as metal rims popped off at the sides. The steamer began to lurch and drift to starboard. Lazarus stood up to thank the woman for saving their bacon, and then ducked just in time to avoid being hit by another blast from her shotgun.

“Damn, woman! What have you got against me?”

“You are getting in my way,” she replied in a strong Eastern European accent. “Where is Vasquez?”

“Who’s askin’?” Vasquez said, rising slowly.

He got the same greeting Lazarus got, only lower. It missed him as well, tearing loose a chunk of the crate he was hiding behind. He fired back, but the woman swung behind a corner, all billowing skirts and shotgun smoke. Lazarus saw Vasquez rise and hurry towards her position, gun held outwards.

He got up and dashed towards him. Vasquez cried out a curse as he barreled into him, and they struck the railing as one. Loosened by the Mecha-guard’s recent departure, the railing gave way. Lazarus just had time to catch a glimpse of the woman’s enraged face before the water hit them like a sheet of glass.

Down, down they floundered, bubbles of air rushing up around them like fairy lights. By the time they rose to the surface, the
Mary Sue
was far downstream, its single remaining paddle turning it in slow circles. Gunshots cracked through the night air.

“Christ, you idiot!” Vasquez howled. “Why didn’t you let me pop her?”

Lazarus didn’t have an answer to that and struggled to keep a grip on his hostage, but the current was too strong and Vasquez managed to wriggle out of his grasp.

They drifted further and further apart. Lazarus could make out the shape of a small boat making its way towards them. Men in dusters stood aboard. Guns spoke out and Lazarus dived to avoid being hit. When he rose, he saw that the bounty hunters had apprehended Vasquez and were dragging him aboard their small vessel. He cursed and headed for shore.

Chapter Two

In which an appointment is kept in Yuma

Lazarus sat in the saloon that overlooked the railway depot and watched the mechanicals loading and unloading the trains. Steam drifted about the platforms, obscuring the gargantuan Athena-class locomotives as they sat cooling their engines. He sipped his IPA slowly and frowned as the door opened. A man walked in wearing a bowler hat and carrying a briefcase. He stood below the sign that read, ‘No Mechanicals or Colored’ for a bit before spotting Lazarus.

“I had hoped that I was missing in action,” Lazarus told the man as he came over to his table and drew up a chair.

“You’re not all that devilish to find, you know,” said the visitor in a voice that marked him out as another Englishman. He set his briefcase down and motioned to the bartender for another two pale ales.

“What are you doing here, Morton?” Lazarus asked. “There’s nothing out here but warm beer, bandits and dust. Whores too, of course, although I suppose you aren’t interested in them.”

Morton frowned. “I’m here because we need this job finished.”

“I can’t do it. Vasquez is in the hands of the bounty hunters. I failed and I’m sorry.”

“We need you to try again.”

“Then get somebody else.”

“And what are you going to do? Sit in here and drink yourself to death?”

“Actually, I thought I might return home. I’ve got plenty to occupy my time with back in England. I might write another book.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to start writing trashy fiction like Agent Haggard.”

Lazarus had met Haggard in Africa, and it was through that particular English operative that he had been approached by Morton with an offer to work for the bureau. Haggard had indeed written a novel that closely mirrored their adventures in southern Africa, but the plot of the bestselling
King Solomon’s Mines
had been altered enough for its author to avoid being hauled over the coals by Morton’s bureau.

“I don’t think I’m the novel-writing type,” Lazarus said. “But I had great plans before I began working for you, Morton. There’s still a few tomes in me on the subject of ancient civilizations.”

“Yes, well there’s one ancient civilization in particular that we’re currently interested in,” Morton replied.

“I keep telling you that it doesn’t exist,” Lazarus replied testily. “And I’m not your bloody bounty hunter.”

Morton narrowed his eyes. “You’re not swanning around Africa for the Royal Archaeological Institute now, old boy. You are whatever Whitehall says you are and what’s more, you’re
here
. And nobody else is. Can’t you understand the importance of this?”

“Morton, you know I spent over a year up to my arse in yellow fever and irate natives in South America looking for El Dorado on your orders. All I found was a lake and a myth. And all I got for my efforts was blood on my hands.” He took a gulp of beer, letting the sourness of it numb the sting in his throat.

“You know that I regret that whole business more than anybody, Longman…”

“Not more than I. And not more than the people who lived on the shores of Lake Guatavita did. My point is that it will be the same story here. The natives made up these fantastical fairy tales like El Dorado and Cibola to keep the Spaniards on the trot. They didn’t want those damned fellows making off with their women, so they kept telling them stories of golden cities and sunken treasures that were just over in the next valley. And the next. And the next. Not a bad scam, really,” he added, sipping his beer thoughtfully.

“How can you be so cynical?” Morton said. “You—an archaeologist who has devoted his life to uncovering the secrets of antiquity.”

“For God’s sake, Morton, this isn’t like the pyramids at Giza, or the ruins of Pompeii. There is simply no academic evidence to support its existence.”

“Now, you know as well as I do that Cibola was mentioned by Cabeza De Vaca and Marcos De Niza...”

“Both of whom were Spaniards. It was all a swindle, Morton. The legend of seven golden cities was a Spanish bedtime story before Columbus ever got lost at sea. When America was found, they believed that it was the fabled land seven of their bishops had fled to following the Moorish invasion of Spain in the eighth century. The legend was that these seven bishops took all their wealth with them, and each established a city in this land across the ocean. The American natives either seized on this wishful thinking and exploited it, or by simple coincidence used the number seven in their own fairy tale for the conquistadores. When Coronado followed De Niza’s footsteps, all he found were poor pueblos. Those are your cities of gold.”

“De Niza claimed to have seen the golden cities from afar…” said Morton.

“No. He claimed to have seen Cibola but he mentioned nothing of gold. Either he deliberately misled everybody or they leapt to conclusions.”

“But,” continued Morton, not to be perturbed, “Gerard Vasquez is said to have seen a map of Cibola with his own eyes. An ancient map.”

Lazarus rolled his eyes. He had heard all this before. Vasquez and his travelling companion Hok’ee had gone looking for Cibola themselves in their stolen dirigible. They had a map, but had been unable to complete their search for reasons unknown. So they had hidden it. The Confederates wanted the map, and the British were more than willing to help them get it. If the gold could be found, then the stalemate between north and south could be ended. The Confederacy would take over the whole continent and become a powerful friend for the British.

“Chaps boast a lot when they drink as much as Vasquez does,” said Lazarus in a tired voice. “This could all be pipe smoke.”

“The President doesn’t think so,” said Morton. “And neither does Whitehall. We need Vasquez delivered into the government’s hands. That’s the only way this dreadful war can be brought to a close.”

“By obliterating the other side with war-machines paid for by stolen gold.”

“Don’t be such a damned bleeding heart, Longman. Somebody’s got to win.”

“And we’re backing the C.S.A.”

“Britain needs the cotton. There’s bother in Egypt as you’ve no doubt heard. General Gordon is fighting some mad Mohammedan and his dervishes in the Soudan as we speak, and the supply has currently dried up. And besides, by helping the C.S.A we might stand a chance at getting our hands on some of their mechanite. The United States certainly wouldn’t let us get a look in. With a trade agreement between the C.S.A and Britain, we could become the greatest power in Europe. Bigger even than Russia.”

Mechanite was the new big thing. Discovered in 1861 not long after the firing on Fort Sumter by the Confederacy, it had revolutionized the war. No mineral had ever been discovered that could match its efficiency. Originally found in California, veins had also been discovered in the southern states, and with both sides in possession of the energy source the war looked set to continue indefinitely. But the Americans guarded their mechanite jealously. Despite extensive mining operations in Europe, Africa and Asia, no sign of the valuable ore had turned up. It seemed like North America was the only spot on Earth blessed with the mineral, and they weren’t sharing, placing embargoes on it that made it exclusively a domestic commodity. The powers of Europe were in a desperate bid to gain access to America’s deposits, but despite their wish for open European support, neither the U.S.A nor the C.S.A were willing to see their exclusive mineral become a commodity across the Atlantic.

“The only problem is that Vasquez is long gone, I’m afraid,” said Lazarus.

“No,” Morton replied. “He’s here. In Yuma. His captors are planning on taking him aboard the 3:10 to Great Salt Lake City.”

“The State of Deseret? What do the Mormons want with him?”

“It was they who paid those bounty hunters to snatch him. He apparently committed a grievous series of crimes in Deseret. Their governor and president of their church want to hang him.”

“I’d be tempted to let them.”

“Get him, Longman. Its orders, I’m afraid. Once you have him, your best bet is to get him to Fort Flagstaff. There’s a general there who’s in the loop.”

“I bloody well nearly froze to death in the Colorado River trying to get him two nights ago,” Lazarus told him. “I lost my hat. I lost my gun. And it was a good gun. Given to me by General Wolseley in the Ashanti Campaign.”

Morton lifted his briefcase onto the table and clipped it open. Shiny brass and polished iron glowed within. He lifted out a weapon and offered it butt-first to Lazarus. Lazarus took it.

“A Colt Starblazer...” he mumbled. “Are these available in London?”

“They’re available to us,” Morton replied with a knowing smile.

“My Enfield was inscribed...”

Morton drew out a second pistol. It was a snub, and had a barrel about two inches in diameter with a wicked caliber. “This just came out of Belgium,” he said, smiling at Lazarus’s slack jaw. “The most powerful pistol about. It has explosive rounds.”

“More powerful than a Golgotha?” Lazarus asked, feeling the hefty weight of the thing.

“Yes. And you can’t hide a Golgotha in your boot. Now then, I believe that should be adequate firepower. The train leaves tomorrow afternoon. Be ready. You won’t be able to snatch him at the station, there will be too many of them, but once they are out on the open plains you should be able to get aboard with a fast horse. How you go about extracting him, I leave to you.”

Lazarus considered mentioning the woman with the eastern European accent who had thrown a spanner in the works aboard the
Mary Sue,
but refrained from doing so. Morton did not seem to know about her, and for some reason Lazarus felt keen to keep it that way. She would no doubt attempt to kill Vasquez again, and then he would make sure to find out who she was and settle the score.

“Yes...” he said, as he slid the Colt Starblazer into his empty holster and tucked the Belgian snub into his boot. “I have a feeling I’m going to have to recruit some help.”