Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (44 page)

Reed said, “You do as you are bid, Maria. Apep is absolute.”

There was a dull thud on the roof of the dragon’s head. Reed cocked his head and said, “Wait. Hold your fire.” He cracked his knuckles. “Perhaps I should settle this in the manner of a true hero after all.”

Gideon’s downward slide along the cable almost wrenched his arms from his sockets, and though smoke and great flakes of leather flew in clouds, the belt held, tattered as it was when his boots finally struck Apep’s head. He tossed it aside and waved at Cockayne, a hundred feet distant, who released the cable immediately. It swung down from the harpoon gun and dangled from Apep’s head as the
Yellow Rose
wheeled away to put distance between itself and the dragon. Gideon crouched on the head of Apep, the wind whistling past his ears. He could feel a sick, tickling sensation in the soles of his feet. One swift maneuver from the dragon, and he would be thrown to his death. He needed to get inside, and quick.

But Reed evidently had other ideas. As Gideon inched forward he saw the bearded face of the other man appear at the porthole.

“Mr. Smith,” said Reed as he crawled out of the window and onto the snout of Apep. “A shame you have followed Maria halfway across the world, and back again, only to die.”

Gideon fumbled for Cockayne’s pistol. “It’s not too late,” he said. “You can give this up now, take your punishment. There doesn’t have to be any more death.”

Reed laughed. “You think I can just stop? Do you not understand anything you have seen or heard? I am compelled, Smith. I will have my pound of flesh.”

“And what if you do burn Buckingham Palace, kill Queen Victoria? What then?”

“Then I dance in the ruins, Smith. Liberate Victoria’s coffers of those ill-gotten gains. And I turn Apep on Whitehall, and Walsingham and his cronies die. Then I fly into the sunset on my dragon, and be at peace. And woe betide any fool who follows me.”

Gideon shook his head. “You think it is that easy? You kill the Queen and the world quietly forgets about it? London is not like that, Dr. Reed. Britain is not like that.” He waved toward the crowds gathered below. “You hear them? You think they are calling for you, begging for you to commit your atrocities to satisfy your own tiny sense of injustice, calling for you to have your pound of flesh from the bones of their children?

No, Reed, they are not shouting for you, other than for your head.”

And then it hit him, with such force his breath was snatched away by the wind. They were not shouting for Reed, of course not. They didn’t know Gideon’s name, or who he was, but they could see, as they huddled below, certain death hovering above them, that there was someone who fought for them. Someone on their side. A hero.

“They’re shouting for me,” said Gideon slowly. And John Reed leaped.

“What are you
doing
?” muttered Cockayne. “Rule number six. Noble speechifyin’ is for the penny dreadfuls, not real life. If you have a gun, use it. Don’t talk about it.”

Bent put his hand to his mouth. “Oh, no. Reed has tackled Smith. Effing hell. There goes the gun.”

Gideon was thrown backward, landing on the smooth curve of Apep’s head. The pistol skittered out of his hand and over the side, into the wind- swept abyss. Reed pummeled him in the face with his fists, landing heavily astride Gideon.

“You will die a hero’s death,” he said “That’s what you want, isn’t it, boy? To be a hero?”

Gideon swung his fist, just like Cockayne had taught him, and connected with Reed’s head. Reed recovered quickly and kicked out, sweeping Gideon’s legs out from under him. He hauled Gideon up by his lapels and threw him around in a wide circle, so Gideon skittered along the dimpled nose of Apep, toward the shattered porthole. Was this his chance? He dragged himself forward and peered in, upside down, and saw Maria.

Oh, Maria. Clockwork Maria. He was flooded with—say it! Say it!—flooded with
love
for her. She saw him and her eyes widened, then teared up in anguish.

“Mr. Smith . . . ,” she said with great effort. “I am undone. I cannot fight the machinery.”

Reed grabbed Gideon by the shoulders and dug his knee into his back. “Maria!” he called. “You may fire at will. Raze Buckingham Palace to the ground.”

“No, Maria!” cried Gideon, but Reed dragged him away and punched him in the face.

The flotilla of dirigibles was drawing closer, led by a huge ’stat in the black-and-white livery of the London Constabulary. On the police ’stat’s observation deck, an officer with a bullhorn called: “Desist at once, and land that . . . that dragon. Or we’ll open fire.”

“Eff!” said Bent. “Cockayne, you’ve got to do something. If Reed doesn’t kill Gideon, those trigger-happy coppers will. You’re a dead-eye dick with the guns. Can’t you take Reed out?”

“Not at this range,” said Cockayne. “And not with Rowena swinging the
Yellow Rose
around like it’s a soap cart.”

“We must do something,” said Bent. “The boy’s getting the worst of it.”

Trigger joined them at the railings. “Oh dear. John is rather giving him a beating, isn’t he?”

“Oh, Gideon got a good one in then!” shouted Bent, punching the air with his good arm. “Go on, Gideon lad. Give him another!” He paused. “Hang on. What’s happening now?”

“The dragon opens its mouth,” said Cockayne.

“Good gravy, it’s going to firebomb Buck House,” gaped Bent.

“I should do something,” said Trigger, his head in his hands. “This is all my fault. John is my responsibility.” He looked at his hands, pale and thin and shaking. “What can I do? I can’t do what John does. What you all do. I’m not a hero.”

“Don’t worry, Trigger,” said Cockayne mildly. “The only thing Britain loves more than a hero is a failure.”

Trigger stared at him, then back at the battle being played out on the hovering Apep.

“Mr. Cockayne,” said Trigger. “I would very much like your assistance with something.”

Gideon could quite have been convinced that John Reed, as his mummy servants believed, hosted in his soul some supernatural entity lending strength to his muscles, so relentless and ferocious was his attack. He had Gideon in an iron grip around his throat, choking the life out of him even as he pushed him backward, toward the edge. And just below him, beneath the layers of hammered brass, was Maria, entrapped, tantalizingly close. The thought gave him renewed vigor, and he gripped Reed’s wrist with both his hands and tried to force the choke-hold away.

Reed’s grip slackened, and Gideon put the sole of his boot to the other man’s chest and kicked him backward. He rose and launched a punch at Reed, landing on his shoulder.

“That is for Bram Stoker!”

Another hit: “For Sandsend!”

Another. “For Maria!”

And with the hardest punch of all, which sent Reed spinning, Gideon roared: “For my father!”

Reed staggered but did not fall. Gideon was spent, ragged. One more. One more blow would do it. One more for London. But he didn’t have one more. Reed looked down at him, then up, over his shoulder.

Inside the cockpit, Maria helplessly watched her own hands moving in arcane patterns over the glowing controls. Apep had hijacked her clockwork body, and at the commands from Reed she could do nothing but watch as the artifact in her head detached itself from her conscious efforts and moved her limbs. But the cloud in her head was lifting somewhat, the mist thinning. Had she heard? Had she really heard . . . ?

Outside, there was a voice on the breeze, tantalizingly close, then snatched away.

It was Gideon. It sounded like . . .

She felt a sudden weight around her neck. The simple charm of jet that Gideon had tied around her neck in the bowels of the earth. The stone seemed heavy, and hot, and it burned the mist from her mind.

Reed punched Gideon in the face, but he shouted it again. “Maria! I love you! You must fight it.”

There it was again. Could it be? Could it really be true? Mr. Smith . . .
loved
her?

“I love you, Maria, but you must fight it!”

Joy coursed through her brass workings and piston-powered heart, and gave strength to her to bring her hands to a shaking standstill above the instrument panel. But Apep was not going to relinquish control so easily. She felt with dismay her hands moving against her will, completing the deadly sequence.

Gideon chanced a look behind him at the same time the wind turned and brought with it a tumultuous cheering from both below and the
Yellow Rose,
sweeping in toward Apep. There, looming up out of the blind side of the dragon, was Captain Lucian Trigger, strapped into a personal blimp from the
Yellow Rose
. The clockwork-powered propellers on the metal framework pushed him forward. In his hands he held a rifle, cocked and aimed at Reed. It was the chance Gideon needed. Recalling everything Cockayne had taught him, he clenched his fist hard, drew it back, and hit John Reed on the jaw.

Reed looked at him with surprise, his head snapping back and his legs kicking out from beneath him. He twisted in mid air and landed heavily on the back of the dragon, the breath knocked out of him. And something else was gone, as well. It was as though Gideon’s final punch had broken his will to fight. He looked dully at Gideon, then over his shoulder at Trigger.

“John!” called Trigger. “You have had your last warning. This ends here.”

Trigger alighted on the top of Apep, swiftly releasing the leather straps of his harness so the blimp floated away from him.

“Captain Trigger.” Gideon nodded, grinning. “Thank you for coming to my aid.”

“I believe I am officially the Hero of the Empire, after all, at least in print.” Trigger smiled, then turned back to Reed. “On your feet, John.”

Reed stood slowly, glowering at Trigger, who walked forward, let the rifle fall to his side, and delivered a solid punch to Reed’s jaw, which sent him whirling back on to his rump.

“You deserved that,” said Trigger.

Reed touched his mouth, his fingers red with blood. He blinked. “Lucian? You hit me?”

Reed scrambled to his feet, and Trigger narrowed his eyes. “John. This is not you. You are not yourself. Fight it. Look at me. Remember our love.”

Reed shook his head, more from confusion than anger. “No . . . it’s gone too far . . . I can’t back down now. . . .”

“John. You are John Reed. A good man.”

“I must have vengeance! I am—”

“John Reed,” insisted Trigger. “The man I love.”

Then he cast the rifle away from him, stepped forward, and took Reed’s face in his hands. Reed whispered, “Lucian? I . . . I haven’t been very well. Can you make it better?”

Trigger nodded kindly, then kissed him.

Gideon Smith could only imagine what those on the ground made of what happened next. The wind fell, the crowd far below went silent, and even the engines of the dirigibles dimmed and softened. Some might think Trigger had lured Reed into a trap, others assume Reed fought his lover off, while yet more would blame it on a mere accident. Gideon thought it happened as a consequence of the two men’s world receding and becoming less solid as their stolen second of true love was made flesh. Trigger and Reed, entwined, slipped from the dragon, in neither panic nor violence, and Gideon watched them fall toward Hyde Park, far below.

There would be those—and Gideon counted himself among them— who would swear blind that Trigger and Reed continued to embrace, and kiss, all the way to their deaths.

Gideon sat heavily on the roof of Apep. So the curse had gotten Trigger after all.
Whoso dares to lead enemies to desecrate this tomb shall die in the arms of their beloved.
Captain Lucian Trigger, Hero of the Empire, had been granted his heart’s desire. Exhausted, Gideon saluted the space into which Trigger and Reed had plunged. With Reed gone, so was his control over Maria. The vast, deadly maw of Apep began to close. The danger was past. Gideon looked up as the
Yellow Rose
banked in close, the observation deck looming against the tail of the dragon. Cockayne leaped onto Apep and held out a hand for Gideon.

Gideon climbed up the rope ladder Bent had lowered toward the dirigible. “Wait. Maria.”

“I’ll take care of her,” shouted Cockayne, holding his hat. “We need to figure out how to get this thing down without blowing up half of London.”

“No,” said Gideon, trying to step down from the ladder, but the
Yellow Rose
bucked and turned, swinging him away from the dragon. Bent hauled him up to the observation deck with his good arm.

“Go get Rowena!” shouted Cockayne. “I need her on the observation deck. Get her to lock the wheel for a minute!”

Bent nodded and disappeared into the gondola, while Gideon stood at the railings, anxiously frowning at Cockayne. He was so close to being reunited with Maria . . . but Cockayne was right. They had to get the dragon down safely. The police ’stat was trying to come alongside the
Yellow Rose
.

“Clear Hyde Park!” shouted Gideon. “We’re taking the dragon down.”

The constable nodded, and the dirigible began to bank away as Fanshawe came on to the deck. “I saw Lucian fall . . . ,” she said, biting her lip.

Gideon nodded and took her hands. “He saved us. Saved London. He really was the Hero of the Empire after all.”

“Hey, Rowena!” shouted Cockayne. They had drifted away from the dragon now. “How did you like handling the
Yellow Rose
?”

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Piece of cake, Cockayne.”

“Then she’s yours. Reimbursement for the
Skylady II
.”

She frowned and glanced at Gideon, then shouted back, “But what are you going to do?”

Cockayne grinned and shuffled along the head of Apep, pausing at the shattered porthole. “I figure I’ve got my reward at last, Rowena.” He raised his hat. “Don’t try to follow me, Gideon, because I swear to God I’ll blow you out of the sky.”

Gideon stared as Cockayne slid into the cockpit, not quite believing what was happening.

Inside Apep, Cockayne touched the brim of his hat. “Miss Maria, good to make your acquaintance at last.”

She sat stiffly, still locked into the Apep’s ancient technology. What she said was unintelligible.