Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon

by David Barnett

  A few hands had raised, but Oscar had snorted. “Back there? Where they sold us into slavery? Land of opportunity indeed.”

  Those hesitant hands had sunk down. Rowena looked at the prairie passing below them. “I could find a cavalry garrison, let you off there…?”

  The passengers looked at each other and shrugged. They had no homes to go to. They had come to America looking for a new life, and found only betrayal. Rowena drummed her fingers on her chin. “I suppose I could make for Free Florida … or even New Orleans.…”

  Despite Governor Lyle’s brief rundown back in New York of the geography of America, there was much more to it than the major colonies of Britain, Japan, and Spain, Rowena knew. There were any number of places she could take the freed slaves. Free Florida was a community of runaway slaves from the Confederate States and Texas, its northern border always in danger from raiding parties and vengeful lynch mobs. Between the Confederacy and Steamtown squatted Louisiana’s dark, haunted swamps and wide, sluggish rivers. New Orleans was witch haunted and redolent with legend, but at least free.

  These people might even find a home in the Free States of America, a growing territory north of the Wall, unrecognized as a nation-state by the British but home to those rebels who had shipped out of the East Coast after the failed revolution in 1775.

  Rowena would have to stop somewhere to take on more fuel, but maybe she could even get them to Rooseville or New Jerusalem, or any one of the independent little communities springing up across the plains between British America and the Californian Meiji.

  But, of course, all of those options meant abandoning what she had come down here to do in the first place.

  “What do you want to do?” Oscar had asked. “Where do you think we should go?”

  Rowena shook her head. “I can’t make that decision for you.”

  “Were you planning to go back to New York after delivering your cargo?”

  Rowena bit her lip. “Not quite. I only took the job as cover.… I’m on something of a mission of my own. My friends are in Steamtown. I think they’re in trouble.”

  The others had gravitated toward Oscar and his easy authority. Rowena withdrew, letting them speak in hushed tones and the occasional raised voice, while she fussed over the instruments and maps.

  Eventually Oscar said, “Miss Fanshawe?”

  She returned to the crowd. “What’s it going to be, then?”

  Oscar looked around at the other expectant faces. “Miss Fanshawe, we can make a decision as to the rest of our lives later. For now, we are agreed that we have much to thank you for. Without you, we would be sold into slavery. If you have friends in trouble in Steamtown, then that is where we should go.” He swept his hands around the bridge. “But what when we get there? I hear they have terrible weapons in Steamtown.”

  Rowena smiled broadly. “So do I, Oscar. You want to see ’em?”

  * * *

  In the armory Rowena put Oscar and two others on the three-pounder Hotchkiss and gave another two men each a crate of shells. She said, “Don’t trip, don’t slip, and for God’s sake don’t drop them, or we’re all going up in flames.”

  When the Hotchkiss was bolted to its mooring on the observation deck, she asked, “I don’t suppose anyone has any experience of flying a ’stat?” Steamtown was looming closer, and she needed to put the Skylady III into what looked from the ground like a landing pattern.

  Naturally, no one had, so she picked the two who seemed the most levelheaded—the young Scot and a dependable-looking Dutchman—and took them to the control panel. She put the Skylady III in a gentle descent and locked the course, giving her two new copilots the briefest of introductions to the wheel and meters so that they could at least get the ’stat up into the air and possibly even bring her down safely should something happen to Rowena out on the deck.

  Outside, the warm wind was picking up as they nosed gradually downward toward the now-visible lit strip of a main drag, surrounded by labyrinthine streets of wooden houses and stone buildings. Over the town loomed the tall mining towers, winking oil lamps at their peaks. Ahead of the ’stat was the airfield, picked out in swinging lamps, with the space between the airfield and the town taken up by low warehouses and barns.

  Oscar handed Rowena one of the incendiary shells and she carefully loaded it into the Hotchkiss. She said, “As soon as we’re close enough I’m going to let fly. You keep handing me those shells until I say stop. You others, keep those crates steady, don’t let them slide about.”

  Oscar nodded, and Rowena lined up the sights on the tall airfield tower. She was getting close enough to see activity on the ground now; there were no other ’stats in sight, but several figures milled about at the base of the tower. She felt a sudden pang then pushed it away. There may well be innocents down there, but she had to assume that anyone who had their liberty in Steamtown was at the very least complicit in the town’s crimes.

  “Who’s behind this?” she asked Oscar. Slaver gangs hiding in the shadows she could understand; even elaborate confidence tricks to hook in whole families. But someone must be coordinating the slavers, negotiating human lives for coal, contracting ’stat pilots. From what she’d heard of Steamtown it was a raucous, lawless stew of forced labor in mines and brothels. The smarts to organize an exchange of resources must be coming from New York.

  Oscar shrugged. “My grandfather was a slave in the fields of Alabama. He won his freedom and came north. I remember my grandfather, though I was only small when he died. But I remember him talking about the British, about how they freed the slaves.” Oscar laid a hand on the crate of shells. “I suppose as long as someone is willing to buy men, women, and children, someone else is always willing to sell them.”

  Rowena put her eye to the sights again. Someone in the wooden tower was signaling to them with a lamp; Rowena should be checking the Morse code against the notes in the manifest, and probably preparing a response. Instead she ran her final checks over the Hotchkiss.

  “Time to send Steamtown a message,” she said. “Stand back, boys. This is going to make one hell of a racket.”

  * * *

  “Thaddeus,” said Cockayne. “Be reasonable. We can talk about this.”

  Pinch’s men trained their lanterns on the three of them, and Pinch said, “Time for talking’s long past, Louis. You had your chance. Now’s the time for shooting, or jumping.”

  Gideon took a step back and felt the edge of the quarry crumble beneath his heel. He couldn’t see the bottom of it. Perhaps if they jumped, there might be a ledge or vines or … but no. That sort of thing happened in World Marvels & Wonders, in the Lucian Trigger adventures he’d devoured as a boy. Such chance salvation just didn’t happen in real life. He’d been given an unreasonable worldview by Captain Trigger’s breathless prose, and he had learned the hard way that fortune and plot devices don’t shape stories; people do.

  “Pinch,” he said. “Need I remind you that I am the appointed representative of Her Majesty’s Government and—”

  “And I’m his official chronicler,” interrupted Bent, glaring at Gideon. “So I’m just as important as he is.”

  The crablike Steamcrawler edged forward with a shudder and a sudden exhalation of exhaust gases. Pinch leaned forward, his jaw glinting in the lamplight. “Don’t fuck with me, Smith. If this was any kind of official mission they wouldn’t have sent a greenhorn and a lard-ass.”

  “I object!” said Bent. “Gideon’s not fat.”

  “You need us,” cut in Gideon. “You need us to tell you how to fly Apep.”

  “Apep?” said Pinch. “That’s what the dragon’s called?” He turned to one of his deputies. “Any of you bastards read and write? Jesus, Cockayne, I can’t believe you fried Inkerman. He wasn’t much to look at, I know, but at least he knew his letters.” One of the cowboys raised a tentative arm. “Write that down on something. Apep. We’ll go raid a library somewhere, bring some books back.”

  “We can tell you all you n
eed to know,” said Gideon carefully.

  Pinch laughed. “Like I said, Smith, you all had your chance to talk. I got enough from Louis; there’s a clockwork chick called Maria who flies the thing. All I have to do is find her. After that, it shouldn’t be too difficult. I can be very persuasive, after all.”

  There was a distant noise that seemed at odds with the clamor of Steamtown. Gideon glanced at Cockayne and Bent, who were looking up; they’d heard it, too.

  “Er, Mister Pinch, sir…” said one of his cronies.

  “Enough yapping,” said Pinch. He cocked his pistol. “What’s it going to be, Smith? You taking a dive over the edge, or do you want a bullet in your head? I ain’t got all night.”

  “Mister Pinch…”

  “What?” said Pinch irritably, turning to the cowboy, just as the night was illuminated by a blossom of pale fire far behind them.

  “Holy Jesus shit,” spat Pinch after a stunned moment. “Steamtown’s under attack.”

  * * *

  “You seem to be enjoying this,” said Oscar as he passed Rowena another shell with his large, steady hands.

  She loaded it swiftly into the Hotchkiss, the observation deck of the Skylady III illuminated by the flames from the blazing warehouse below them. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t find it somewhat liberating,” said Rowena, as she took sight along the gun and discharged the shell with a thunderous roar. She straightened and peered into the smoke-threaded gloom, nodding in satisfaction as another squat building exploded into flames.

  “I do not like being told where I can and cannot go,” she told Oscar. “And I certainly do not like men who trade in human lives as though they were cattle. Now, what do you say we take some of those mines out next?”

  “I would advise caution,” said Oscar. “Weren’t the men on this dirigible bound for those mines? There might be slaves down there, even at this late hour.”

  “Yes,” she said, resting a hand on the Hotchkiss. “You’re right, of course. I—”

  Rowena jumped as something whistled past the observation deck with force and speed. She leaned over the balustrade. “Damn. Steam-cannon.”

  “The gas that keeps us aloft will burn if we are hit?” Oscar frowned.

  Rowena shook her head. “Helium won’t burn at all. But a hit from one of those iron balls they’re tossing with compressed steam muscles could certainly bring us down. Playtime’s over, I think. Oscar, can you take good care of these incendiary shells? I don’t want them rolling all over the place. It’s time I took the helm of my ’stat.”

  Rowena fought through the crowded bridge and took the wheel. She gave the Skylady III more power and began to bring her higher. They’d done a good deal of damage to the eastern side of Steamtown; she felt satisfied with that. The question was, what now? She needed to get her cargo out of here and to safety. She wondered where Gideon and Bent had gotten to. Squinting through the smoke ahead of her, she picked out the main drag of Steamtown and, over to the west, a lot of activity clustered around the base of two tall pit towers: bright lamplight and the scurrying shadows of men. Rowena raised an eyebrow. She could pick out trouble like more refined women could pick out the scent of a posy of flowers. A little look wouldn’t hurt, as they were in the neighborhood.

  The young Scot was standing by her like a devoted puppy. As she neared the commotion she saw a wide, black space dropping away, a canyon or quarry. And what were those things? Not Jim Bowie’s Steamcrawlers? They were! In a circle around … oh. She looked at her admirer. “All right, Hamish, stop staring down my shirt and listen carefully. Find Oscar out on the observation deck. There are two rope ladders coiled on the hull of the gondola. Here’s what I need you to do.”

  * * *

  Cockayne punched Gideon in the arm. “Well bloody done, Smith. I knew you must have something up your sleeve.”

  Gideon stared wordlessly at the flames licking the black sky on the far side of town. “This isn’t my doing,” he said.

  “Shut the eff up,” said Bent. “Take credit where you can.” He looked at Cockayne and rolled his eyes. “You really need to give this boy some lessons in being a bastard, Cockayne.”

  Pinch had his back to them, staring at the sky and shaking with undisguised fury. If I only had a gun, thought Gideon. Or even a knife. Once he might have blanched at the thought of shooting a man in the back. That was before he came to Steamtown.

  “This is an act of war,” seethed Pinch. He turned around on top of the Steamcrawler and pointed his metal hand at Gideon. “You have done this! There will be retribution! Your government will pay!”

  “Nothing to do with me,” said Gideon. “How would a greenhorn and a lard-ass bust up half your town, Pinch?”

  His eyes burning, Pinch raised the gun again. “I just made your decision for you, Smith. Say your prayers.”

  Gideon smiled. “I already have. And I think they’ve just been answered.”

  He heard Bent gasp as the familiar balloon of the Skylady III emerged from the smoke-filled sky above them. Cockayne gave Gideon a quizzical look. “Rowena?”

  He nodded. Pinch looked up, his metal jaw hanging slack, his gun arm falling to his side, as the dirigible soared overhead, and two rope ladders swung out of the night sky.

  “Grab on,” said Gideon, taking Bent’s arms and locking him onto the nearest ladder as it trailed across the dust. Cockayne didn’t need telling twice, leaping onto the other ladder. A bullet whistled past Gideon’s head, and he turned to see Pinch boiling with anger, trying to hold his gun steady.

  “This ain’t over, Smith,” he rasped.

  “No,” said Gideon. “I wouldn’t imagine it is.” Then he took a running jump off the edge of the canyon and into the darkness, his hands grasping the wooden slats of the rope ladder that Bent clung to with his eyes shut tight.

  * * *

  “I could kiss you,” said Bent as he was hauled over the edge of the observation deck. He blinked in surprise at the multitude of smiling faces and the hands that dragged at his jacket. “Blimey, Rowena, picked up a few friends?”

  “I’ll explain later,” she said, helping Gideon on to the deck. She embraced him tightly.

  “I thought you were told to stay out of Steamtown,” he said.

  She kissed him on the cheek. “I never was any good at obeying orders from men.”

  She turned as another figure clambered over the railing and gave her a lopsided grin. “Hey, Rowena, do I get a smacker as well?”

  “Louis Cockayne,” she said. “You sure do.” Then she punched him as hard as she could in his already black-and-blue face.

  He picked himself up onto his elbows. “Jesus, Rowena. You hit harder’n Smith here. You’re still a sight for sore eyes, though.”

  Then the sky was rent by a piercing whistle, and the observation deck bucked and swung wildly as something hit the Skylady III with force and speed.

  18

  SOMEWHERE BETTER TO GO

  “We’re hit,” said Rowena above the screaming from the packed bridge. “Steam-cannon. Shit.”

  The Skylady III lurched alarmingly to port as Rowena wrestled with the wheel. She tapped the pressure gauge with her fingernail. “We’re losing gas from the aft-starboard cell.”

  Gideon struggled to her side. “Are we going to crash?”

  She tugged at the wheel, pulling their nose upward, as another cannonball whistled perilously close alongside the ’stat. “What’s below us?”

  “A quarry,” said Gideon. “Pinch said it was two hundred and fifty feet down.”

  Rowena swore again, hauling on the wheel as a crunch sounded from the rear of the gondola. “Got us again. Missed the balloon, though.”

  “What can I do?” asked Gideon, holding on to the instrument panel as the ’stat rocked violently.

  “Are you religious?”

  “Not really.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him hard on the lips. “Then no use in praying. I’ll take that for luck instead. Get everyb
ody down on the deck and tell them to cover their heads. I’ll get us the hell out of Steamtown.”

  Gideon did as he was told, trying to calm the fifty-odd strangers who were crammed on to the bridge. He looked back as Rowena wrestled with the wheel, and the yawning fear in his stomach subsided somewhat as the Skylady III steadied. They were in good hands with Rowena, he knew. Bent crawled across the bridge toward him, panic in his eyes.

  “Is this it, Gideon? Are we going to die?” He swiveled his broad head in alarm. “And among strangers, too. Who the hell are this lot?”

  “I think we’re rising,” said Gideon, climbing to his feet. Rowena was leaning forward over the wheel, breathing heavily. He called, “Rowena?”

  “Steadied her,” she said, looking back at him. “That was some good-luck kiss.”

  “I think we’re out of range of their cannons,” called Cockayne from where he was perched in the doorway to the observation deck. “My, Steamtown looks lovely when she burns.”

  “The aft-starboard cell is completely gone,” said Rowena, studying the instruments. “And the port side’s losing gas, too.” She looked at Gideon. “I can keep us aloft, but not for long, and not for very far. Any ideas?”

  “There’s a British army garrison to the east, along the Wall,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I passed that on the way down. No chance we’ll make that.”

  “What about that farm?” said Bent, steadying himself on the hull. “Just north of the Wall. Plenty of space there. And that farmer owes us one, by my reckoning.”

  Rowena shrugged. “Sounds like as good an idea as any.” She began to turn the ’stat. To their left, dawn was paling the sky in the far east. “Mr. Bent? One of my guests is a rather accomplished chef, from France. Perhaps you could take him down to the galley, see what can be rustled up? Perhaps everyone can be accommodated in the stateroom.”

  Bent sniffed. “He’ll have to go a long way to beat my famous rum-and-sausage breakfast. But I’m willing to give it a go.” Bent turned to the crowd, slowly picking themselves up from the deck. “Don’t panic, ladies and gentlemen, I’m a member of Her Majesty’s Press, and a bona fide, medal-wearing hero to boot. If you’ll all follow me, we’ll get some grub and then you can form an orderly queue and tell me all your lovely stories.”