“No!” Evan screamed, and with an almighty yank, pulled her out of the gunner’s brace and rolled her off the back of the wagon. They tumbled down the slope like a pair of fighting wildcats while the behemoth fired. The missile detonated on the wagon, blowing the gun straight up in the air, tearing it to pieces along with the bodies of its crew. Brass parts and wood and flesh and unspent cartridges rained down on the slope, on them, pummeling them in a mindless attack.
Gloria screamed as they went over a bank into a small canyon maybe five or six feet deep, and she landed face down in its sandy bottom a second before Evan landed on top of her.
“Oof!” The breath went out of her and she lay stunned, her lungs laboring to take in air.
Pieces of the wagon and the gun were still raining down, as though they had been flung hundreds of feet into the air.
“Evan!” She pushed herself to her knees and tugged at him. “Get out of the way—closer to the bank!”
But he did not move.
“Evan!” And then she saw the side of his head, awash with blood seeping through the thick dust, and the slackness of his mouth, and the marionette sprawl of his body. “Evan! Oh, no, dear heaven, please, no—”
She looked up as a shadow crossed the sun. The behemoth! It had found—
A circular brass plate bounced off her head and knocked her back into the dirt, and the world spindled up and went out as though someone had blown out a lamp.
* * *
“I SAW him go over the back, Captain Escobar. The fall would have taken him—ah. There, down in the arroyo.”
Voices. Men’s voices. Not screaming, not shouting over the cacophony of engines and guns, but conversing in normal tones. Feet scraped on a rock, and then two thumps, as though men had jumped down a few feet from where Gloria lay.
How strange that she could hear, but could not move her eyelids by so much as a flicker. Nor her body. And strangely, she did not care. If she had any luck, she would die before they got to her.
“Are they alive? It would be a shame if the gunner were not. Such skill and presence of mind. I vow if he is dead, it will be a waste of talent for His Highness’s forces.”
“The taller appears to be dead,” a voice reported. “Head wound.”
Despair pressed down upon her. Poor Evan, so gallant and brave. His death was her fault. If he had not tried to save her, he might have been able to get away uninjured.
“And the gunner? He wore an aeronaut’s cap and goggles. Is that he?”
“Si. Still breathing.” Someone pressed fingers to her throat, then hefted Gloria into the air and tossed her over his shoulder as though she were a sack of potatoes. Again the breath went out of her. Her nose bumped his back as he climbed the bank. He smelled of sweat and gunpowder and wool.
“Ah, what luck. Volvamos. The Ambassador will be pleased—as am I.”
The blood rushed into her head as she hung lifelessly, and it felt as though it might swell up and explode, like a ripe melon. Her entire life faded away, to be replaced by a hellish, painful journey across goodness only knew how many hundreds of yards, before she was unceremoniously dumped on the ground once more.
“Where is the doctor? If the explosion has damaged this one’s brain, there is no hope for him. We will simply leave him with his companions for the coyotes and the vultures.”
Leave? Gloria attempted to open an eyelid, but the effort was too much. Was the battle over? Had the pirates lost, then—was that why these men were so unhurried and deliberate? It must be. But if they had won, how could they leave with their train disabled and the track destroyed? Had they captured Swan? Where was Alice? And Jake and Benny? Were they dead, too?
A rush of urgency filled her, and she cracked open an eye. A man knelt beside her and set a doctor’s bag on the ground next to her head.
“Ah. He wakes,” said someone hovering behind his shoulder.
The kneeling man chuckled. “Captain, you must allow me to fit you with spectacles. This is not a he, but a she.”
“She?” the other man said incredulously, to the point that Gloria thought she ought to feel offended, but could not muster the strength. “This is the wrong person. A woman could not have operated that gun at all, much less with such familiarity.”
“There were no other survivors wearing a flight cap,” said the man who had carried her, a little defensively. “You did see a person in a flight cap, did you not?”
“Si, si, I have said so,” said the gunnery captain impatiently. The man who had saluted her—who had shown her respect when he thought she was a man. “This will not do. I must consult with His Excellency on the matter. Doctor, see what you can do for him. Her. Madre de Dios.”
Muttering, he strode away, while Gloria struggled to manage her other eyelid.
“Are you in pain?” the doctor asked, pressing her middle and finding only the corset. He examined arms and legs, turning her booted feet this way and that. “Have you any broken bones?”
“No,” she croaked, suffering quite sufficiently, thank you, from all the bruises his fingers had found. “Ow!”
His hands froze on her scalp. “You have pain here?”
“Hit. Something fell.”
“Ah. We must hope the skull is not fractured.” He pulled off the flight cap and her hair, which had been pinned up at some time that seemed like ancient history now, fell down around her shoulders and into the dust. The two men who seemed to be watching the proceedings murmured between themselves in the Californio tongue while the doctor’s businesslike fingers pressed and prodded her scalp.
“I do not feel a depression—the opposite, rather. You will have an impressive lump on your forehead and some spectacular bruising. But it will pass, thanks to the padding in your cap. I have an ointment that should help.”
“Evan,” she whispered.
“Pardon?”
“Evan. The man with me. You must not leave him.” The thought of the coyotes and vultures made her sick with horror.
“I understand there is nothing more to be done for the other man, unless he is a child of Holy Mother Church. In any case, here is the Ambassador. Can you sit up, senorita?”
She struggled to do so, and fell back with a cry as the pain blinded her. But she could not face Senor de Aragon y Villarreal while lying in the dust like a corpse. She was Gloria Meriwether-Astor, the toast of Philadelphia. Perhaps she might appeal to him to give Evan a Christian burial, regardless of Holy Mother Church. If she could do nothing else for her poor friend, at least she could do that.
The second time she attempted to sit up, the doctor assisted her, and offered her something foul-tasting from a silver flask. She swallowed, coughed, and this time movement did not hurt quite so much. She squinted up at the Ambassador, but could not see more than a black silhouette against the burning sky.
“Dios!” he exclaimed. “I never thought to see you again!”
“You know this young woman, Excellency?” the doctor said in astonishment. “How is that possible?”
“It is magic. Incomprehensible. A miracle of God.” Senor de Aragon moved to the side so that Gloria got a better look at him. He was still dressed in formal black, the only concession to having led a battle being the slight disarray of his hair. “It does not seem possible. Yet—”
“Who is she, Excellency?” the gunnery captain demanded. “She dresses like a man, shoots like a man, and yet faints like a gently bred genta de razon from one of our own ranchos.”
“That is because she is gently bred, and a woman of high casta, Captain Escobar,” the Ambassador said reprovingly. “This is none other than Gloria Meriwether-Astor, whose father was such a friend to the late Viceroy that His Highness wore black ribbons for an entire day when he was informed of his death.” Boots scraped in the rocky dirt as the men shifted and looked from each other to her and back again. “What is the matter with you, allowing her to lie in the dust?” he snapped. “Carry her into Silver Wind at once, so that el doctor may attend her th
ere.”
This time, she was not slung over someone’s back like a sack of food. This time, the gunnery captain himself slipped an arm beneath her knees and shoulders, and lifted her as gently as though she were his own daughter. The man was very strong; she was no fragile miss with a seventeen-inch waist, yet he carried her past the behemoth’s motionless bulk and the burning hulks of several pirate chariots as though she weighed no more than a small child.
The least movement jostled her head, making her feel as though her brain were made of jelly, slapping and wobbling against the walls of her skull. But she had enough presence of mind to glance over his shoulder in the direction of the town and the cluster of rocks where Swan had been moored.
No blue and silver airship floated above it.
The harsh landscape was as empty as if Alice had never been there, as if nothing had existed before pain and battle and Evan’s death except the low winter sun, the red mesa, and the scrubby pines.
Gloria’s eyes closed under the weight of her despair. There was no one to help. No hope of rescue. For the second time in her life, she was utterly alone and in the company of those who had no reason to wish her well … and every reason to wish her ill if they realized for an instant the meaning of her presence.
At least this time she had walked into it with her eyes wide open. That was an improvement.
She had less than a minute to rouse her poor brain to decide how much of the truth to tell … though it seemed quite clear that nearly every word might be grounds for execution.
Silver Wind was much bigger and more imposing from the ground than it had looked from the air. Despite having been fired upon and its braking and reversing systems taxed to their limits, it still looked as beautiful as it had sitting in their rail yard in Philadelphia.
She wished she could say the same of herself—but perhaps the pathetic, injured approach was best. Not that she felt capable of anything more. Claire Trevelyan Malvern had told her once that sometimes a woman’s greatest weapon was the fact that she was often underestimated.
A second man assisted the gunnery captain to carry her up the wrought-iron exterior steps at the rear of the great locomotive. And here Gloria saw what she had not known before—that within the great engine were not multiple steam boilers and coal boxes, but a luxurious saloon meant to house the owner of the train, providing the maximum in comfort with the utmost in safety. The lounge car that had been coupled behind was merely for the entertainment of guests. It was inside the locomotive that the most important members of the party would sleep, safe behind iron walls.
Comfortable bunks were set from floor to ceiling, three to a side and two at the front, with sliding cupboard doors that might be drawn across for privacy. A mahogany dining table did double duty as a navigation table, and as they laid her on a sofa, Gloria looked up to see that the roof of this half of the engine was not in fact iron, but some kind of impermeable, translucent material that arched overhead, allowing in the sunlight while keeping out the weather.
Whoever had designed this engine was a genius. It was a crime to abandon such a beautiful thing in the desert. For surely they must do so—unless the Californios proposed to walk home.
“Por favor, Miss Meriwether-Astor, drink a little more of this.” The doctor had followed them inside, and obediently, she drank again from the silver flask. Whatever the liquid was, it possessed great powers of restoration, for her head began to clear and she was able to focus both eyes on his kind face. The doctor nodded in satisfaction. “That’s better. Your Excellency, the young lady may be able to answer your questions now.”
And here she had thought he might be concerned for her health because of the vow he had taken. With a sigh, she prepared herself to be the frail sort of woman who could rouse the protective instincts of a man. At the moment, it would not be much of an act.
The Ambassador pulled up a chair covered in brown and purple brocade, his black eyes limpid with concern. “Do you feel well enough to speak? For though I am anxious to hear your tale, I will not press you. We have many days ahead for the telling of tales.”
“Many days?”
“Si, senorita. It is a full seven days’ journey to San Francisco, even without the weight of the cargo cars.”
Gloria could not grasp it. Perhaps the liquid in the flask was not as restorative as she had supposed. “You can walk across the Wild West in a week? How is that possible?”
He laughed as though she had made a joke. “We will not be walking, my dear young lady. We will proceed in comfort aboard Silver Wind.”
She had believed this man to be arrogant, and far too convinced of his countrymen’s skills in battle. But this went far beyond that—hubris so great that it would power a locomotive across several hundred yards of broken track to reach the main line?
Never mind. She must stick to her decision, and to facts. “Please, Senor de Aragon, I beg you for one favor before I tell my tale.”
“Of course, my dear. Would you like another cushion?” He tucked it behind her back as though she had answered in the affirmative.
“Thank you. How do you say it in your tongue?”
“Gracias.”
She repeated the word, so similar to Italian. Her pronunciation was identical to his, which she saw pleased him. All to the good.
“My request is not for me, but for my companion—the young man whose body lies in a shallow canyon behind the promontory. Please, could you give him a Christian burial? He died bravely, to protect me, and I cannot bear the thought of—of the coyotes.” Tears sprang to her eyes.
He gazed at her sadly. “If it were any other favor, I would grant it, and gladly. But we are already a day behind schedule. It is bad enough that we will arrive without the cargo His Highness paid for, and have to return with another train. But to arrive late when his son is anxiously waiting?” He shook his head, then said, as though he had had an excellent idea, “I will have the padre say a prayer for the soul of your companion. We pray regularly for the heathen, so this would not be unsuitable.”
“Gracias,” she said weakly, wishing she had the strength to strike him with the cushion. “But many fell today—would His Highness not understand if we took a few moments to see if any live?”
Was Alice’s body out there under some piece of scrap metal? Or Jake’s? Could she not at least be given the opportunity to see for certain, and say a prayer of her own for her friends?
“To what purpose? And why such concern? They are only despicable pirates. The bodies of our own men, of course, have been retrieved, and the injured seen to. A contingent of men has taken control of the town nearby, which fortunately seems to be populated mainly by women, who will care for our men until a company returns to retrieve them. We cannot house everyone on Silver Wind.” His gaze settled on her with finality. “Perhaps my questions will be answered during the telling of your tale. But for now, please make yourself comfortable.”
He rose and crossed the Turkish carpet to a speaking tube in the front of the saloon. “You may depart, Senor de la Vega. We have not a moment to lose.”
“Si, Your Excellency.”
How could they depart? It was impossible. In dreams, people said and did impossible things; therefore, she must be dreaming. That was it. No wonder none of this seemed real.
She was still lying unconscious in that arroyo, Evan was not dead, and Alice and Jake would come looking for her at any moment. It was the only explanation for her present companions’ complete disregard for reality. Gloria sat back, immensely cheered, and interested to observe what fantasy her own unconscious mind might now produce.
Through the glass above, she saw gouts of steam as the engineer began the ignition sequence and the great boilers responded. Silver Wind’s iron body shuddered, and a series of heavy clanks underneath her made the polished floorboards vibrate. Then, with a scream of her whistle like the embodiment of bereavement itself, the locomotive shifted abruptly sideways, clanked, and began to move.
�
�What …?” Gloria struggled to sit upright on the sofa.
Slowly, the panorama of desert through the viewing port wheeled to the north as the locomotive turned—there were the destroyed pirate chariots, the bodies, the resting behemoth—the west, the promontory where the CG-36 had been mounted, behind which the sun was setting in blood-red glory—and then to the south.
With another scream of the whistle, huge gouts of steam billowed upward, and Silver Wind began to make way across the broken landscape.
“How—how is this possible?” Gloria whispered, clutching the arm of the sofa. “This is a dream!”
“I regret the necessity for contradicting you, senorita,” Senor de Aragon said with a smile, “but it is neither dream nor miracle. It is simply the excellence of our late Viceroy’s imagination, and your father’s partnership with the Stanford Fremont locomotive foundry. Between the two, we have been able to make his vision a reality.”
She gaped at him, and then watched in disbelief as they passed the crater where the pressure bomb had destroyed hundreds of yards of track, staring until she could see it no more.
“Silver Wind is aptly named,” he went on. “She is the first of her kind. Along with the standard twelve wheels for the rails, she has a secondary set of wheels for land, which adjust as necessary to the topography. It is upon these that we presently make our progress. The rails, of course, are much more efficient. We will resume our journey once we reach the main line.”
“I am not dreaming,” she said flatly. As Resolution faded into the distance—and the past—she realized belatedly that while she had been lying comfortably on this sofa in denial, her only hope of escape had faded, too.
“No, you are not,” he assured her. “I am delighted you have the honor to be present at this unexpected demonstration of the engine’s abilities. Now, senorita, while we journey these few miles to the main line and pause to transfer to the rails again, I believe you have a story to tell me.”
Fields of Air: A steampunk adventure novel (Magnificent Devices Book 10) Page 11
