Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (30 page)

A swift boot from Bo on Bent’s backside assured he did, and the others followed until they were assembled before Louis Cockayne, who continued to smoke in silence, watching them all carefully. The crew entered the
Skylady II
and removed everything not nailed down, including the weapons and baggage, as well as Bathory’s box of earth.

Fanshawe spoke up. “I’d like to remind you that this action is in direct contravention of British and international law, and we will be making complaints to Crown officials at our earliest opportunity. Louis, stop being an idiot.”

Cockayne flicked his cigarette into the wind as fingers of cloud curled around them. “Rowena. I am merely inviting you aboard the
Yellow Rose
as a measure of our hospitality.”

“Thank you,” said Fanshawe in measured tones. “But we already have a ’stat of our own, and we are on an errand of some urgency.”

“I must say, Mr. Cockayne, it is a pleasure to meet you,” said Gideon, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “I have very much enjoyed your adventures.”

Bent groaned. He worried about that boy sometimes. When was he going to learn life was not a penny dreadful?

Cockayne’s moustache twitched, and he gave a wry smile. He looked at the smaller ’stat. “The
Skylady II
. Four-celled balloon, am I right?”

Fanshawe nodded. Cockayne turned to one of his crew. “Let her go.”

Trigger smiled broadly. “I told you he would see sense, didn’t I? Thank you, Mr. Cockayne. We shall get back on board and be on our way.”

Cockayne grunted, and Bo pointed his revolver at Trigger. “Stay where you are, gramps.”

Two of the
Yellow Rose
crew released the cables and the
Skylady II
bobbed for a moment, then began to float away from the bigger ’stat. Gideon frowned, and Fanshawe shook her head in dismay.

“Oh, eff,” said Bent. “That’s our ride.”

Cockayne said, “Bo, get me a Winchester.”

When the
Skylady II
was a full hundred feet away, turning at the mercy of the high winds in the blackening sky, Cockayne took the rifle his crewman handed to him and put its stock to his shoulder. He let off a shot with a deafening report, then re-aimed and fired off three more in quick succession. The balloon of the
Skylady II
crumpled in each of the places he had shot, and it began to deflate with an audible hiss of escaping helium, even from that distance. As the pressure dropped, the ’stat began to sink, aft-first, and fell into an increasingly rapid spiral toward the sea.

Cockayne smiled. “Oops.”

“Mr. Cockayne, I must object!” said Stoker, aghast.

Cockayne raised an eyebrow. “Keep your hair on, Paddy. Bo, bring them to my quarters. I think we’ll have a spot of dinner.”

Cockayne’s opulent private rooms were at the front of the gondola, with panoramic views of the darkened Mediterranean spread out before them through wide glass windows. There was soft music playing from a wind-up gramophone, and the rooms were decorated in flock wallpaper, very much like what Gideon imagined a gentlemen’s club to be like. It was rather obvious now, though, that Louis Cockayne was no gentleman. Outside the cloud was dispersing, giving way to a black, starry sky, and the
Yellow Rose
was nosing north, back the way the
Skylady II
had come. Cockayne had a large mahogany table, lit by an electric chandelier set into the wooden ceiling, set for the dinner of fish and salad brought to them by a crewman with dark hair tied up in a rough ponytail. Gideon noticed he kept directing hooded glances at Bathory.

“I would rather you told us what is the meaning of this piracy, what your intentions are, and how you plan to recompense me for the destruction of my ’stat,” said Fanshawe coolly.

Cockayne laid a broad hand on the breast of his shirt. “Piracy, Rowena? Really. And I will give you that information, in good time. Let us eat.” He waggled a bottle at them. “More wine, anyone?”

There was a muted shaking of heads, save from Bent. Cockayne refilled his glass and said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. I do have a generally shocking memory for names. Rowena’s and my paths have crossed several times . . . remember that night in Budapest, Rowena?”

“I am still trying to forget it,” she said sourly. “Absinthe is a terrible drink that quite robs a person of their senses, taste, and propriety.”

Cockayne laughed richly. “And Captain Lucian Trigger. The first time we have met, though I have appeared in print alongside you, in your fictional confections, many times. How is dear John? Are you two still . . . ?”

“John is missing,” said Trigger. “We are on a mission to locate him. Or rather, we were.”

“You must tell me more,” said Cockayne.

“I must say,” said Trigger, “I have sorely misrepresented you in my stories. I had understood from John you were a valiant and noble Yankee, not a Texan pirate.”

Cockayne nodded. “And so I am, Captain Trigger. I’m Connecticut born, not a Southerner.”

“So why are you flying with the
Yellow Rose
?” asked Fanshawe.

He shrugged and took a mouthful of wine. “I go where the money is, Rowena. All us ’stat pilots are the same.”

“Some of us are choosier than others, though,” she said.

He made a face. “So I am not the flawless hero Captain Trigger’s stories would suggest. Just goes to show, you should not believe everything you read in the periodicals.”

“I object to that,” said Bent, pushing a forkful of fried flatfish into his mouth. “But you do put on a damned good spread, Cockayne.”

“Ah, Aloysius Bent,” said Cockayne. “A member of Her Majesty’s Press.” He turned to Stoker. “And another scribe, Bram Stoker. My, I’m doing awfully well with these names.” Cockayne put down his glass and sat back in his chair. “Countess Elizabeth Bathory. I must say, my dear, I have never met a more beauteous creature than yourself.”

“Your flattery is wasted upon me, Mr. Cockayne,” said Bathory. “You have the morals of a dog, sir, and are thus beneath my notice.”

He laughed again and turned his gaze toward Gideon, who met his stare unflinchingly. “And finally, Mr. Gideon Smith, of some one-horse town in the wilds of nowhere. What brings you together with these august personages, Mr. Smith? A hick like yourself, walking with greatness?”

Gideon bristled, but Trigger stepped in. “It is due to Mr. Smith that we are all assembled here today.”

“Yes, thanks, Smith,” muttered Bent. “Prisoners of sky pirates. Very good of you to go to the trouble.”

“Mr. Bent does have a point,” said Stoker. “What are your intentions, sir? Have you kidnapped us for nefarious purposes?”

“Finish your dinner,” commanded Cockayne, “then we’ll talk.”

Gideon stared furiously at the untouched food on his plate. Yet another of his heroes had turned out to have feet of clay. The
World Marvels & Wonders
stories were fiction, after all. He looked at his knife, catching the light from the electric chandelier overhead, and glanced at the two tousle-haired cowboys with their guns. He sighed. If there truly were no heroes in the world, what chance did, Gideon Smith have of saving the day?

Cockayne lit up another cheroot and said, “Bo, Luke, bring in the rest of the boys.” He puffed on the cigarette and said to Trigger, “Why don’t you tell me about your errand?”

“We were on our way to Egypt, where John was last seen a year ago,” said Trigger. “We fear he may have come to harm. There is some plot afoot, Cockayne; a most fantastic one.”

“I’ll park my disbelief,” said Cockayne. “Do tell.”

Trigger leaned forward. “Long dead, inhuman mummies terrorizing London. We believe they have taken John and caused much death. We are on a rescue mission and a voyage of revenge.”

“You were,” corrected Cockayne.

Trigger frowned. “Are you ready to tell us where this dirigible is going, Cockayne, and what your plans are?”

“I am” Cockayne nodded. “We have been to the west coast of Africa, where we have been rounding up Negroes for sale in the Texan slave markets.”

Stoker stared at him. “Abominable, sir.”

“Lucrative, Mr. Stoker. The southern states are blessed with ideal conditions for the growing of cotton. It’s tough work, and the Africans are well suited to toiling in the sun.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Of course, the slave markets don’t just deal in Negroes. Texas is littered with coal that needs mining and farms that need working as well as cotton that needs picking.”

Gideon shook his head. “Slavery is still rife in America? But surely—”

“Down in Texas they do what they want, as far as I understand it,” said Bent. “Which is sort of why they built the wall to keep ’em out.”

“I can’t believe Britain allows it,” said Gideon.

“New York is a long way from London,” said Cockayne. “The British would like to stamp out the Texan warlords, but they just don’t have the resources.”

“Like we didn’t have the resources back in ’thirty-four when the southern states seceded from British rule to form the Confederacy,” said Bent. “Come on, Gideon, you did find a bit of time for schooling among all that fishing, surely?”

Cockayne smirked. “The Confederacy is a veritable utopia compared with Texas, Mr. Bent. They’re decent folks down there, just like you and me.”

“But with slaves,” said Bent.

Cockayne shrugged. “Just like the rest of the Empire, before it passed the Abolition Act in 1833. Texas, though, that’s a different kettle of fish. The British took advantage of New Spain’s gradual withdrawal from the territory there to make war with France and took over some of the old New Spanish outposts, such as San Antonio. It didn’t last. After they built the Mason-Dixon Wall on Queen Victoria’s command in— when was it, ’thirty-eight, they started?—the British Governors in Texas got increasingly pissed. Can’t say I blame ’em. The Confederacy and French Louisiana to the east, New Spain to the southwest, the Japs coming in from the Pacific coast . . . well, who could blame ’em for seceding themselves forty years ago? And if Boston and New York couldn’t do more’n build a wall to thumb their noses at the Confederacy, they sure as shit weren’t going to do much when the likes of Artemis Pinch in San Antonio decided to go it alone with their own rather . . . loose brand of justice and morality.”

Rowena pointed a fork at him. “And yet you’re running slaves for the likes of this Artemis Pinch?”

“Artemis is long gone; it’s his son Thaddeus who rules San Antonio now, or Steamtown as they like to call it.”

There was movement in the corridor outside, and Cockayne’s eyes flicked toward Fanshawe’s. He whispered, just loud enough for Gideon to hear, “Rowena, I’m in the shit. I need your help.”

Bo and Luke bustled in with the other crewmen, all armed and in an excitable mood. They nudged each other and pointed at Bathory and Fanshawe in a way that made Gideon very uneasy indeed.

Trigger stood, and there was a volley of clicks as the crew pointed their revolvers at him. He sat slowly, his eyes narrowed. “What ever you’re planning, we cannot allow this, Cockayne.”

“You cannot stop it, sir. You’re all coming back to Texas with me, to be sold in the slave markets.”

“I don’t think I’d last long, picking cotton,” said Bent. “Manual labor doesn’t agree with me.”

“Put them in the hold,” said Cockayne.

Cockayne’s boys began to manhandle Stoker and Bent out of their seats. Gideon stood before they got to him and aimed a punch across the table at Cockayne, who easily avoided his swing and slapped his hand down on the table, deftly flipping up his steak knife, bringing it down hard, and pinning Gideon’s sleeve to the table.

“Naughty, naughty, boy from nowhere.” Cockayne smiled.

Gideon saw Bathory quietly put her cutlery on her plate. “Bram?” she said, turning to Stoker as two men grabbed his shoulders.

“Yes, Countess?”

“I think it would be a most judicious time for you to release me from our blood pact, don’t you?”

Stoker looked down at the untouched food on his plate as the men began to pull him from the table. “Yes, Elizabeth,” Stoker said softly. “I very much think it would be.”

22
Countess Bathory Unleashed

What followed could only be described, even by one with the literary pretensions of Stoker, as a massacre. Bathory tore the six crewmen apart before they had the time to fire off another revolver shot, the needle of the gramophone squalling off the cylinder with a shriek as she sent the furniture of the stateroom into disarray. Three of the crewmen tried to fight; the remainder saw the futility of such an action and tried to scramble toward the closed double doors of the quarters. But none were spared. With tooth and claw she ripped and shredded them, painting Cockayne’s quarters scarlet and reveling in the rising charnel mist as one might carelessly abandon oneself to a light summer rain. With strength that good men attest only the devil can confer, she tore one man’s arm from his shoulder dropped it to the wooden floor, still clutching the useless gun with which the man had thought to defend himself. The cacophony of shrieks and screams seemed to spur Bathory on, as though it were an inspirational symphony rousing her to yet more carnage. The crewman Bo, who had directed particularly lascivious glances at her earlier, she saved for her special kiss. She held his head with firm, strong claws as she lowered her slavering, beastlike maw to his neck and drank deeply, even as his scream tailed off and bubbled up through the wound she rent in his flesh. Stoker heard Bent mumble something like a prayer as Bathory, the dead and dying spread around her like an obscene work of art, laid her shining eyes on Cockayne and walked toward him with purpose.