Storm Dreams (The Cycle of Somnium Book 1) (19 page)

“Well, I also know things Richthofen can’t know,” Cassidy added. “The Everdream must have put more in.”

“Next, you’ll be rattling off things about the Akashic Library.”

“What’s that?”

Brewster shrugged. “Haven’t the foggiest, but the term is in my head somewhere.”

Cassidy tried to smile, but couldn’t. He pulled away from his plane and walked to the edge of the metal platform. Brewster stayed back at the fighter. On land, this might have been a beach, but here, the water lapped over the sharp edge and slipped back off, into the
ocean
, if one could call it that.

Cassidy wondered if he could swim. What would happen if he dived in? Would he drown? Would he come out the bottom and keep falling forever? Was there anything below the Twilight, or was it nothing but endless clouds?

He knelt down. Was there any life in the water, or was the little floating ocean completely dead and abandoned?

Cassidy retired to his quarters while Karl worked on the
Nubigena
and the new Fokker. Apparently, a dangling arm would be fixed to the bottom of the plane, which would lay flat against the fuselage, but he could release it when landing. Karl’s theory went that the arm would grab a cable stretching across the landing surface he was building on the Zeppelin’s roof. Now if only he could learn to land and take off with so little distance. But if Banner could do the impossible with the Zeppelin, perhaps he could do the same with a plane.

***

Cassidy’s quarters looked the same way he’d left them, but a sensation rushed over him that he hadn’t felt before. Something akin to familiarity, but not. Cassidy closed the door and lay down on his bed. He felt the rush of sensation again as he looked around the room. The dress uniform Brewster had given him hung in the corner. He’d already put his holster on the chair beside his bed and his jacket rested next to it. These things had been done without thinking. Home, Cassidy thought. Was he forming new habits?

He stretched his legs, then decided to pry his boots off and enjoy the first moment he’d spent of true relaxation since…since whenever the last time had been. He had trouble remembering that. Cassidy drifted into sleep.

The clouds parted as he flew with the other fighters of his squadron. The Jagdstaffel, Richthofen’s elite squadron, engaged them in a fury. They exchanged rounds, rolled and banked. Fighters exploded and dove for the ground.

Out of the distance a red fighter came and he flew towards it. Cassidy gripped the gun levers tight and sighted for the Baron’s tri-plane as it approached. The scene was so specific now. Practiced. Cassidy knew every moment of it and it felt like déjà vu cascading over him as he engaged Richthofen.

The Baron dove. He banked. The Baron rolled. Cassidy dove. The red tri-plane flew through his sight, but the guns didn’t fire. He looked down and realised he hadn’t triggered them.

Richthofen looked at him from his plane and knew. Knew he should be dead. Knew something was different. And then the other fighters were gone and only their two planes were left.

Cassidy’s Sopwith.

The Baron’s Fokker.

They held their fire and matched speeds. The fighters descended like falcons coming to perch and landed at the base of the many-spired castle. Richthofen edged out of his fighter and cocked his head as Cassidy leapt down from his. “Do I know you?” the Baron asked.

Cassidy nodded. “You know me.”

“You are here to kill me,” the Baron said. He looked lost. Confused. Glanced around as if he stood in an alien world. “I feel I’ve dreamed this before.”

Cassidy nodded. “I know. And I’ve always wanted to ask,” he said, motioning up at the medieval structure, “is this your family castle?”

Richthofen stared up at the structure as if trying to take it in. This must be how most dreamers were in their own dreams. Strange, how, for once, Cassidy was the natural entity, not the alien. Could one wake in their own dream? Was this still Richthofen’s dream, or his own dream now? Did they share this dream? Was this just the version of his dreamer that Cassidy’s mind created?

The Baron shook his head. “Family castle? I don’t think so. I’m not sure. When I was a child, perhaps…” They walked to the front gate, which raised and they entered.

“Did you used to visit here?” Cassidy asked, as the gothic interior stretched above them.

“Perhaps,” Richthofen said. “My family—” He fell to his knees and gripped his head. Screamed as the blood gushed from a wound that opened the side of his skull. “I can’t,” he howled, as much to himself as to Cassidy. “I can’t do it anymore. Something’s wrong.”

The dream faded. Cassidy groaned and sat up. His skull hammered. He made his way down to the head and splashed water on his face. A bottle of aspirin stood near. The top was screwed on too tight. His vision blurred. He shattered the bottle. Shovelled pills into his mouth and swallowed hard.

“Cassidy?”

Cassidy looked up. Banner stood outside the door. Cassidy slumped back against the wall and buried his face in his hands. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Banner asked, stooping down. “Your name’s John. I was going to tell you. I didn’t have a chance yet.”

Cassidy took his hand away from his face. “Richthofen. Why didn’t you tell me about Richthofen?”

Banner’s brow furrowed. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

Cassidy laughed. His head hurt so bad, he couldn’t help it. “Why couldn’t you just tell me the truth?”

Banner sat beside him and stared at the floor. “Have you told anyone?”

“Does it matter?” Cassidy asked. He was crying now. His head felt as if it were being ripped to pieces.

Banner narrowed his eyes. He folded his hands and laid his head back against the wall. “I used to tell everyone. They always left the ship to go on some foolish pilgrimage to find their dreamer.” He gave a deep sigh. “And they’d get caught or killed. Many just dissolved because their dreamer was in the
real
world, somewhere outside a storm. They didn’t care, just ran out into the wasteland and faded to nothing.”

Cassidy tore at his hair as if trying to rip the pain out. He pulled himself to his feet, stepped over Banner and stumbled down the hallway.

“Cassidy,” Banner called. “It wouldn’t have helped. It would have just confused you.”

The ship quaked. Banner leapt to Cassidy’s side, trying to prop him up. “We’re under attack,” Banner said. “Dammit, I can’t believe they found us this soon.”

Through the windows, Cassidy saw Armada airships cresting the ocean’s horizon. His head cleared as adrenaline pushed the pain away further than aspirin ever could. He turned to the captain. “Drag the plate over the edge and cut the line,” he said, and made for the hatch.

Banner blinked several times. “What the devil for?”

“Just do it.”

The captain nodded and ran for the helm.

Cassidy made his way outside as bullets rattled off the metal platform. The Fokker still rested where he’d left it, though it appeared Karl had already done something to the underbelly. A quick run and a leap and he was in the cockpit, revving the magneto. He noticed an extra lever Karl must have installed, but he’d have to play with it later.

The engine engaged and he throttled forwards. Two airships were in sight, but dark shadows beneath the ocean brought a sick dread to his stomach. A gentle pull on the stick and the Fokker VII caught air, dodging rounds as it picked up speed. Airships instead of fighters seemed odd. Perhaps this was a change in tactic, or they were out of
real
planes. Good, Cassidy thought. He might have an advantage against dreamships.

The
Nubigena
lifted into the air as Cassidy pushed his Fokker above the Armada crafts. The Zeppelin’s mooring lines remained attached to the platform and dragged it across the ocean.

Both airships ignored Cassidy and made for the
Nubigena
instead. They probably assumed he was running, but Cassidy throttled down, pulled a hairpin turn and dove at the first airship, Spandaus blazing. The two levers worked as one on this Fokker, allowing him to fire both and still control the plane without pinning the stick between his knees.

Cassidy emptied enough bursts into the football shaped air bladder to rupture the cell. The gondola splashed into the water, covered by the mass of purple fabric. The other airship had noticed him and broke off its attack on the
Nubigena
. Cassidy smiled. Instead of engaging, he continued his descent below the rim of the ocean disc.

As he feared, another airship and two
real
fighters lay beneath, out of view. They throttled towards him, bringing a grin to his face. The second airship from above the ocean made its way below as well and all four opened fire.

Cassidy continued his plunge until the enemies above were forced to angle down for attack, then pulled the Fokker out of its dive. His new fighter responded better than anything he’d ever flown. The two fighters dealt with the manoeuvre easily, but the airships couldn’t compensate. By the time he’d reached them again, the fighters were on his tail, blazing away, with the two airships only now making their way behind him.

The dark shadow of the square platform made its way across the transparent ocean above. The
Nubigena
would soon clear the edge. Cassidy made for where the Zeppelin would go. He adjusted his speed. Rolled and pitched to keep the Armada bullets out of his hide.

He glanced behind. They were all there, firing away in perfect, predictable formation. The grey nose of the
Nubigena
slipped over the edge of the blue disc of water above. It looked like a cloud coming out from behind the moon. Cassidy rolled to bring himself beneath the ship and nudged the stick forwards a hair. Full throttle. The Fokker cleared the water first, ahead of the
Nubigena
. He pulled hard on the stick and doubled back to the ship.

As he flew back along the Zeppelin’s tail, the metal platform crested the water and tipped downward. The
Nubigena
released the line. Both Armada airships struck the plate, full on as it slid over the edge. The lead fighter slammed into it a moment later, ringing the solid metal like a bell. The second fighter rolled at the last moment and peeled out the far side. Cassidy flew after him as the
Nubigena
cleared the ocean. He couldn’t believe three pilots had fallen for the ploy. He’d only hoped for two.

Behind Cassidy the purple sky crackled with green light as he opened fire on the last fighter. The Albatross dove and he dove with it. He glanced over his shoulder to see the
Nubigena
making its way into the gate. Almost to the gondola now. He needed to leave now, or miss his window. But the fighter was so close. Cassidy fired again, clipping the tailfin. This pilot was better than most. The Armada had sent a good pilot this time. Perhaps they’d taken to sending the dreams of
real
people instead of their own constructs.

A fluttering began in Cassidy’s chest. It felt good. So good to have an opponent who really knew how to fly. The Albatross turned and engaged. The flash of his guns blasted between the blurring props and Cassidy rolled to avoid the burst of screaming bullets. His new Fokker responded with gentle ease, rolling and diving in one smooth motion.

Cassidy dove and spun. The Albatross flew above the water island, using the ocean as a shield. Cassidy tried to fire through, but the bullets wouldn’t penetrate. He cut his throttle and turned the Fokker over to fly inverted to the water, making himself a mirror image of the fighter above. His landing gear skimmed to the bottom of the ocean. The edge of the water neared and he pushed the throttle all the way forwards.

As the Fokker’s nose passed the ocean’s edge, Cassidy dipped the landing gear into the water. The plane shuddered as the dense ocean yanked on the rear wheel. He gritted his teeth as the manoeuvre flipped the Fokker end over end, flipping him into a straight line with the Albatross.

The other pilot panicked and tried to nose himself under the Fokker. Cassidy fired as the Albatross’s own landing gear caught the water and flipped its tail in the air. The Fokker rolled around it with a gentle touch on the right pedal.

That Albatross spun out of control. Cassidy made his way back around and emptied another barrage of gunfire into the plane. It burst into flames and shattered into a shower of sparks across the blue water.

Cassidy turned back to the
Nubigena
. It was gone. So was the gate.

Cassidy flew through the space where the gate had been. A spike or two of residual energy arced over his instruments, but the air was empty. In the
real
world, in the storm, he’d felt the gate, but how Banner managed to find them in nothingness, he couldn’t imagine.

Whatever the case, it did Cassidy no good now. He couldn’t tap, or notice anything except how empty the world could feel when there was no planet below, no islands on the horizon and he was flying a fighter with limited fuel.

Cassidy throttled back to conserve as much as possible and aimed at a random spot in the sky. If not for gravity, he wouldn’t have known up or down in the blue soup of the Twilight. Was there a planet somewhere out of sight below, or did the Twilight simply possess its own inner physics?

It mattered little as the silky clumps of condensation blew by. Brewster had told him islands appeared at all levels. The very concept of horizon meant nothing either as the clouds appeared at various heights as well. The fuel gauge read just over half, though he’d found it difficult to judge gasoline consumption in this variant reality. Even time seemed to stretch and bend a little, though there was no way to tell whether or not the effect was only his mind.

After what felt like several hours of straight flight dots appeared in the distance. One by one, they got bigger, but proved to be no more than large rocks floating through space. Towards the far edge of the cluster, a larger one came into view. As he flew farther, it kept growing. A huge one, Cassidy thought. It looked like an upside down mountain, with smaller mountains jutting from its centre.

On the near side he saw structures and a host of airships circling, docking and leaving. The point of no return edged closer as the docks themselves came into view. Run or land? He checked his fuel. The Fokker still had a quarter tank, but the next island could be a few miles away, or a thousand. He considered flying an eighth tank out and using the rest to return, but he didn’t like the thought of relying on the Twilight’s idea of consistency.

Cassidy grimaced and nosed down towards the docks. He recognized the main structure on the edge. He recognized the docks. Arcadia.

His chest tightened at the thought of flying in without Banner and whatever luck or protection came with being crew of the
Nubigena
. The only advantage was that perhaps he’d be less sought after, even flying his
real
fighter, which probably stuck out to Twilights the same as if he’d been riding a flying horse. He hoped he could fuel and take off before anyone gathered enough force to bother him.

The Arcadian runway ran along the edge of the island and ended just short of the docks. He brought the Fokker in easy and taxied into one of the free spaces. “I need fuel,” he yelled to a young Twilight in overalls and a greasy red cap.

“Damn, Mister,” the young man said as he came up the ramp and approached the fighter, “this thing’s
real
.”

“I know,” said Cassidy. “Can I get fuel for her?”

The young man nodded. “Sure you can. We keep some special, but we’ll have to bring it from the tunnel. That’ll take some time.” He motioned to the stairs. “Might as well go in and have a drink while you wait.”

Cassidy took a deep breath. The last thing he wanted to do was walk into the hotel. The
other
last thing he wanted to do was look suspicious. He couldn’t begin to imagine how many bounty hunters might lurk in a port this big, and Armada agents could be just about anyone. He stuffed a wad of Arcadian bank notes into the young man’s hand. “I’ll do that,” he said and tried to give a confident smile. “That would hit the spot right about now.”

The stairs looked more like a ladder. Each step had been cut no more than four inches into the mountain and he found himself using both hands
and
feet to climb. His glance darted in all directions as he breached the top and crossed the docks. He’d almost been killed once less than six yards away, and Banner had been with him. So had Richthofen.

Pilots, dock crew and a variety of other sundry people covered the vast wooden planking. Some looked like mercenaries or soldiers of some other kind. Twilight police? He didn’t know if Arcadia had any kind of authorities or not.

The lounge and bar looked exactly as he remembered. He’d already paid the young Twilight most of the little money he had in his pockets, and what remained would be lucky to bring him a drink.

He sat down and waited for the exotic barkeep to approach. Just one beer, he thought as the same, almost effeminate blonde Twilight with spiky hair he remembered from last time walked over and set a slim empty tumbler to the side. Beer, he thought. I want a beer. “Whisky, on the rocks,” Cassidy said, through gritted teeth.

The barkeep looked taken aback for a moment, but recovered his pristine composure. “Shall I put this on Captain Banner’s tab?”

Cassidy flicked his glance around again. Did everyone here know him? He gave a begrudging nod.

The barkeep gave a knowing wink and reached for the whisky. “Will you need a room tonight, sir? And will you require company?”

Cassidy shook his head. “No thanks,” he said, “and no. I don’t have long.”

The barkeep dropped several cubes of ice into a cut crystal glass with a pair of silver tongs and poured four fingers of amber whisky over it. “Too bad. Shea still talks about you.” He set the glass down in front of Cassidy with an elegant flair and leaned in. He gave a flirtatious, conspiratorial smile. “I think she’d like to see you again.”

“Maybe next time,” Cassidy said. He lifted the rich liquid to his lips and took a long sip. It was good whisky. Very good whisky. Single malt. He’d forgotten what a difference a nice bar made. How superior whisky could be. Still, he would have given anything to order anything else.

“It’s you again,” came a voice from behind. No other voice could have made those words sound the way they did. They didn’t say, “It’s you again,” as if it were a question. They didn’t say it as if the words even meant what they stated. Instead, they curled into his ears like smoke and drew him back towards the mouth that made them. The syllables even arched like a woman’s smooth spine. They rubbed into him and hooked into him and stroked their way down his chest.

Cassidy turned just enough to see Shea as she moved to the bar and leaned against it. The wood seemed to mould around her body and tremble at her touch.

The green leaf markings snaked down her neck, over her chest and down the soft valley between her breasts where the curves peeked out the V cut of her green gown. The leaves continued to the sharp angle of the reverse V, just above her navel, and continued down to the shaved crevice between her legs, down her inner thighs and ended in the tapered vines around her delicate ankles and…Cassidy tried to bring himself back.

For a moment he did, but then something soft, an almost transparent smell wafted in. The green odour of young saplings, dew in the morning, cut grass after the rain. Her green eyes. Her red hair.

Cassidy moved a trembling hand back to his drink. She was different this time. Trying harder. Prepared for some reason. Why? Had she been paid to torture him? He pulled the glass to his lips and knocked back the rest of the drink. The cold ice hit his lips and the burning amber tore down his throat and up into his head, flared across his skin in a sudden rush of alcoholic heat. “Sorry, I don’t have long,” he said, and set the glass back down. The cubes rattled as the glass struck the counter.

Shea slipped onto the barstool beside him. Her eyes looked moist, her lips drawn. She stared at her hands and a tear ran down her cheek. “Why?” she asked, and looked up at him. She was no less beautiful, but her allure faded as if a mask slipped off and shattered to the floor. “Tell me it’s because you’re a dream. Tell me it’s because you just weren’t dreamed with that part of you.”

Cassidy gave a single slow nod and stared back at his empty drink. “I thought that for a while,” he said, and flicked the glass with his index finger. “But the truth is I’m still waiting for someone.” He met her shining emerald eyes as if for the first time. They weren’t calling him to bed, or trying to wrestle him into it. They were just pleading for an answer. It was a look he, if anyone, could understand.

“How do you know it’s not me?” she asked. All seductive nuance was gone. It was a real question. A quivering, almost childish question, one he doubted she’d ever asked before. “Is it just because I’m…a professional?”

“No,” Cassidy said, shaking his head. “And I guess I don’t know. I don’t
know
anything at all. But I am waiting ‘til I recognise it.”

Shea nodded. She attempted a smile which turned to something eminently more sad. “Perhaps next time, Cassidy,” she said, and pulled coy playfulness back into her voice as if recovering her nature, or at least the nature she’d adopted. Her soft footsteps padded away.

Cassidy turned back to his empty drink. It was strangely appropriate: a hollow glass with ice slowly melting. He missed Shea. Wanted her back just for the conversation.

“Another drink?” The barkeep asked, as he passed by.

“I could use a smoke,” Cassidy said. He held the empty glass in his hand and rolled it between his fingers.

The barkeep opened a wide cigarette case and offered it to Cassidy. “How about that drink?”

Cassidy slid out a single cigarette and put it between his teeth. He lit it with a glass-encased lighter from the bar. A thin stream of smoke blew out his lips. “Sure,” he said. “It’s a day for drinking.”

The barkeep filled another glass with ice and four more fingers of whisky. “In Arcadia,” he said, as if reciting an age old mantra, “we only water it down if you ask us to.”

Cassidy nodded and sipped the second drink.

“You can put that one on
my
tab,” a man several stools down said, and toasted Cassidy with a shot of red scotch. The man hadn’t been there a moment before. He wore a black snap-brim Fedora and a three-piece banker’s suit. The pocket watch fob glittered against his pin-striped waistcoat and his boots looked military shined. Cassidy recognized him as the same man he’d met his first night in Arcadia. “On second thought,” the man said, “throw that out. Get him a single malt Scotch, no ice. Real stuff. None of that Twilight shit.”

The barkeep gave a quick nod and reached beneath the counter. “This costs more than twenty of any other drink in the bar,” he said, and drew out a crystal cut bottle with a burgundy label. It looked old. More importantly, it looked real. The dark crusty label shone brighter than anything around it, to say nothing of the liquid inside. Cassidy grimaced at how subdued the colours of the Twilight were, but as the Scotch poured, the glass filled with a deep, vivid liquid. The barkeep put the bottle away as if ashamed of the contrast.

Cassidy stared at the liquid. It looked as if it might burst out of the dingy prison of a glass and escape across the counter.

“Never had anything but whisky, have you?” the man said. It was hard to place his accent. It could have been American. It could have been English. It could just as easily have been Polish or Czech.

Cassidy shook his head. “Not often.”

“That’s a shame,” said the man. “Try it.”

Cassidy lifted the glass to his lips and took a light sip. The warmth and flavour erupted in his mouth. It burned like fire through gas-soaked paper. He’d tasted real liquor, but the reaction was much more severe in the Twilight where his senses reacted less to the dull environment.

The man rolled the remains of his own Scotch around in his glass and put it down. “My name is Barnabas,” he said, and put out his gloved hand.

Cassidy shook it with a hesitant grip. “Cassidy,” he said.

“I know,” Barnabas said. “That man you fly with isn’t all he seems.”

Cassidy took another mouse sip of scotch and rolled it around in his mouth. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Barnabas broke out in a smile. “I will.”

Cassidy lifted a single eyebrow.

Barnabas nodded. “I’ll tell you what he really is. I’ll tell you where he comes from. I’ll tell you how to walk around in the real world, outside of storms. And I’ll teach you how to order something other than whisky on ice.”

Cassidy returned to his cigarette, which had burned half-way down and left a tube of ash on the table while he was lost in the taste of Scotch. “Can you teach me about love?”

Barnabas drew his lips into a sour pucker. “Women,” he said. “I can teach you all you want to know about the flesh, but what you’re wanting to know is outside my realm of…” he paused as if trying to find the right words. “Outside my realm of expertise.”

Cassidy took another sip. “I have no reason to trust you.”

Barnabas shook his head. “In this place, I could be anything. Hunter. Police.”

“No,” Cassidy said, blowing out more smoke. “You don’t look Twilight. And you don’t look Armada.” He was about to say,
you do remind me of a lunatic with an umbrella
, but decided not to. Something about the white of his teeth. Too white. He took another sip to cover it. “What do you want?”

“
Your
expertise,” Barnabas said, flashing those self-same bone-white teeth. “I need a dream to do things I can’t.”