Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

  The remaining trio turned menacingly to Avery, apparently unconcerned for the fate of their recently late brethren. Their leader pointed at their shackled prize.

  “Now you die, English,” he threatened.

  “Best of luck with that. I’ve heard I’m a rather difficult man to kill.” It was merely an observation, without bravado.

  The men laughed cruelly, as two turned to a third, who’s eyes had rolled back into his head as he began a low and guttural chant. Only one word could be extracted by Avery’s precarious Arabic.

  “Djinn.”

  Avery blanched.

  ---

  Eleanor realized she had been frozen, near doubled over, the weapon before her for nearly a full minute. Nobody seemed to take notice. She collected herself, drawing a deep breathe and sheathing the dagger. She stood upright, tugging her camel-coloured jacket into order. She walked as gracefully as she was able to her luggage, which was stacked in the market, the porter having disappeared at the first sign of trouble.

  Right, then.

  What did she know about Egypt? That it was a subject of the Ottoman Empire. A British ally. Alexandria was its capital. Or perhaps Cairo

  Regardless, some sort of diplomatic station should be in place. She could contact...whom? Her family? What means did they have to wire her for a return home? What would a consulate do other than ship her back to England on the next boat? Regardless, being among Britons would give her safety, and perhaps time to formulate some path of action.

  What else?

  Greeks. This place had been part of the empire of Alexander, from whence the city took its name. They never left, which meant that there was a populace with whom she could communicate, a Church which may give her shelter and assistance. She was not as utterly abandoned as she felt, she knew.

  Avery.

  The thought of his safety she quickly dismissed from her mind. Sinjin was in danger, there was no doubt, yet he was by far the most capable man she had ever met–arguably the most capable man anyone had ever met. He would be fine, and he would find her.

  Unless he were dead. Or captive. Unless he had, all this time, been preparing her for this eventuality, equipping her with some discrete skill vital for his survival and rescue...

  No. He was a man of plain enough speech, when it came down to it. Which took a while, admittedly, but he would not have left her here thusly, voluntarily. Her actions must be her own.

  A hotel.

  That’s it. She will ensconce herself in a hotel befitting a traveling Englishwoman awaiting the arrival of her vicar husband.

  Money.

  At this her heart stopped, and resumed. She had none. Nothing. She had a few francs in Paris that Sinjin had given her, but nothing since, and certainly nothing in the local currency, whatever that may do. Well, the story of her circumstance as the young wife of a missionary must do to secure her credit.

  She would not cry.

  The thought of that made her almost burst into tears on the spot, but there would be time enough for that. Right now, the market had seen her attacked and repel an attacker. Strength, not weakness. That was something.

  “Porter!” she called to the market in general. “Axthophoros?”

  A young man pushed through, in a long white shirt and impeccable fez. He bowed neatly.

  “Porter! Yes, Madame. I take you to hotel. European. Very fine.” He nodded again and picked up her bags, waving off a sudden flurry of volunteers and assistants.

  “Thank you. But I do not know the way,” Eleanor replied.

  “I take you, Madame. Very fine hotel. Many English.”

  “Excellent. This is very kind of you.”

  “Madame!” smiled her porter, who trotted southward up the hill.

  She had suspected beggars, or forceful merchants, but in the busy, narrow streets of the port she found only hurried men and a few women on their way to somewhere else. No one bothered them, and she found the shade of the streets a welcome counterpoint to the warm wind from the harbour.

  There was a sudden boom, like a cannon-shot, and without pause her porter made a sharp right into an alley. Reluctantly she followed, as his pace continued.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “I do not know, Madame. Because I do not know, I do not go that way.” Eleanor admired the man’s common sense.

  Upon their arrival at the colonial style hotel, fronted with palms and a whitewashed veranda, she felt some pang of guilt that she could not compensate her rescuer.

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t any money.”

  He merely bowed, and continued to smile broadly.

  “But,” she continued, “please do tell me your name, that I might find you and compensate you when I am able.”

  “Farouq, Madame. Although that is not my name.”

  “Your name is Farouq, yet it is not your name.”

  “My name is Muhammed, Madame. But here everyone is named Muhammed, and only half of them are named Farouq.” He bowed again.

  “Very well, thank you kindly, Mr. Farouq.”

  “Good day, Madame.” His eyes darted left, and his smile instantly faded. With a curt nod, he left, apparently in something of a hurry.

  A short Frenchman, the hotel manager, had strut forth to shake off Farouq, accompanied by two uniformed porters. He was most gracious to Mrs. Avery, the vicar’s wife, kissing her hand and situating her in a clean, well-appointed room. There was of course no mention whatsoever of the bill, and at this Eleanor was greatly relieved. Tea was brought up to her room; she ordered chalk and birch to clean her teeth, and as the maid departed Eleanor again found herself on the threshold of tears, and once more dismissed them as futile. She simply sipped her tea and sighed deeply.

  “Dear Sinjin, where the hell are you?”

  ---

  It was only the chanting eye-roller which worried him. The other two, while better placed for sudden violence, seemed aware that there was some business to be seen to, which stayed their hand. But the air around the entranced abductor became foul and dark. He was perched on a simple stool which creaked as though under an increasing weight, and his grotesque incantation would slip from cadenced whispers to shrieking gibberish and back again. Avery recognized the last bit, a fragment of a tongue described as “the chittering of night insects.” At least that brought some clarity to the situation: These were no kidnappers. They were cultists. All that remained to be seen was the variety of buggety-boo they were bent on summoning. As to what was to follow, that much was generally a given – the sacrifice being devoured in almost all cases. The best cases, anyway.

  A djinn, as Avery knew, was no wish-granting genie from a lamp and beholden to the lamp-rubber. It was an ancient embodiment of evil, of hunger, of darkness and depravity; the monster under the bed of terrified children. Difficult to summon, as Avery knew well, and impossible to summon safely. But this fellow with the rolling eyes was making a proper go of it, and at the very least was answering some long-held questions Avery had pertaining to pronunciation of certain phrases. There was no sense, he thought, in pretending he wasn’t completely terrified, but he may as well go to his grave better educated.

  Light played around the medium’s face like smokeless flame. Flashes of blue and purple, as through from a dark fire. The man smiled in a rictus, his grin beginning to split the flesh of his cheeks in a wet tearing, ear to ear. His teeth grew into jagged triangles, in rows like the mouth of a shark. Now fully transformed, the demon rose, coughed, and brushed the dirt from his host’s robes. Avery found something altogether familiar in the gesture.

  It couldn’t be. It was simply not possible.

  “George?” he ventured.

  The demon looked at Avery quizzically.

  “Sinjin?”

  TWENTY FIVE

  Oh thank God, Blake thought as the train screeched to a halt. They were nowhere, but any nowhere that got him out of the airless lethargy of the Officer’s Car was immediately agreeable. With any luck, he’d get
his horse out for an hour.

  Price knocked on the door, and Nolan leaned forward to open it. The sergeant saluted crisply.

  “What is it, Sergeant Price? Why have we stopped here?”

  “It’s curious, Captain. Scouts, sir. Reports of some damage to the tracks ahead. We’re sending a car ahead with some horse support to be sure...”

  “I see. And where exactly are we, Sergeant?” Blake asked.

  “Can’t rightly say, sir. Nothing but wheat for days. I could ask the engineer if you like, sir.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Blake paused as a thought occurred to him. Thoughts were infrequent visitors of late. “Do have my mechanical ready.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I think we’re somewhere along a moving line, if you take my meaning, and it would be good to provide a repair crew with some substantial support.”

  “Very good, sir. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.” Price saluted.

  “Off you go then. Oh and find Landau for me, will you? There’s a good chap.”

  “Sir.” The sliding of the door signaled Price’s departure.

  “I say,” mentioned Reynolds. “You don’t think you’ll see any action, do you? Should we all go?”

  “Oh I’m quite sure it’s nothing,” replied Blake. “Honestly just thought I’d see how long it would take to get into the saddle, as it were.

  Reynolds grinned. “You’re banishing boredom, more’s the like.”

  “That’s as maybe. But at least I thought of it first!”

  ---

  By the time Landau had seen to Blake the mechanical was righted and stoked, yet not quite to boiling. Blake discussed the possibility of using the train’s engine to expedite the procedure, and the engineer was quite taken by the idea, sketching in the air with his hands and taking notes.

  Blake had set the original scouts back to the location of the problematic tracks, while a repair crew in a small car clamped its wheels to the rails ahead of the main engine. Its own engine, the size of a samovar, chuffed to life, and ground the crew car slowly along. Once it was underway, Blake and Price marched alongside in the mechanical.

  Despite the mounting heat and infernal taste of the air, it was good to be doing something at least vaguely useful again. He kept the throttle at a steady trudge, listening for any screeching from the gyre or the iron man’s joints. The oilskin tarpaulins had done a fair job of keeping out the elements, and the zouaves had been quick to banish any rust spots with steel brushes and copious applications of grease.

  “Shall we clear the guns, Captain?” asked Price.

  “Very good, Price.” Blake adjusted the mechanical’s stride to port, veering north into the wheat fields.

  “Guns ready, sir.”

  Blake took aim at a patch of grey earth beneath the waving stalks, perhaps thirty yards ahead, and squeezed the trigger. The target erupted into dust, the guns rattled on the starboard side signaling a mount not quite as flush as it should be.

  “Starboard gun, Sergeant.”

  “I heard that, too. I’ll see to it, sir, once we’re back on the train.”

  Blake wheeled right, to resume his parallel march along the tracks. After half an hour of easy progress, Blake spotted the scout’s horses. The repair crew’s car hummed along the rails, slowing as they approached their destination. Blake clutched, and the mechanical came to a halt. Price pulled a small lever, and a gutta percha tube unrolled from the giant’s cockpit. He placed his head against a brass horn, pulling away from the unexpected heat, and replaced his ear with more caution.

  Blake could only see ahead, as the rails stretched northeast. There were low hills here, just passed a slope either side of the track, peppered with low pines.

  “They say it looks deliberate, sir,” Price reported. “Tool-marks on the steel. Someone’s dug up the track here.”

  “Can they fix it?” Blake inquired. Price put his face into the horn, and withdrew, inserting the side of his head.

  “It seems so, sir. But we’d best be...”

  A sharp ping! resonated throughout the cabin.

  “That was a ball, sir!” exclaimed Price. Blake instantly wheeled the torso left and right, scanning for any movement.

  There. Ahead, and through the scrub of trees, came three Cossacks on horseback. Their rifles seemed primitive against the mechanical, but a scream rang out from behind–either one of the crewmen or one of the scouts had been struck.

  “Price?” shouted Blake.

  “Tally ho, sir!” came the reply. The mechanical practically leapt from its spot, leaning headlong into the Cossack charge. The iron man jarred its occupants as it landed hard against the rocky earth with each step. Blake took aim and grasped the trigger, not entirely prepared for what happened next.

  Straw bales had been one thing. But to see men and horse near evaporate in the face of the metal onslaught was horrifying. Two of the riders and their mounts had been reduced to crimson spray and jutting ribs, the lead slugs chewing ground and foliage as indiscriminately as meat, resulting in a spume of dirt, gravel, and death. The third rider had wheeled in time to avoid the first volley, but it was nothing for Blake to pivot, resight, and fire. Like his fellows, the man along with his horse seemed turned inside out amidst the flying rubble and gore.

  More shots rang out behind them, and it took a moment for Blake to reverse course and give the crew cover. They were taking fire from two more groups of three. The scouts had taken the rise to pin down one of the cohorts of ambushers, but the second fired freely at the repair crew which tried in vain to crawl under their car. The mechanical hopped the rail and took the hill at no modest speed, scattering the attackers. Furious, Blake gave pursuit, almost overtop one of the riders–too close for guns. He gave the engine more throttle, and aside from the adjustment to the giant’s footfall, there was no sound of the sickening crunch which must have occurred. He fell back to spot the other two, and released the guns at them in turn, dispatching them with perfect targeting and little pity.

  Blake returned once more to the site of the sabotage. The scouts had dealt with the last of the ambushers, but one of the engineers had taken a ball to the thigh and another to the chest. He was still alive, but had lost a great deal of blood.

  “Get him up, get him up!” shouted Blake, kicking open the hatch. Price hauled the man in as he was stuffed up the ladder by the crew. “Mind yourselves!”

  Blake rocked the mechanical hard over, giving her maximum throttle. The giant’s shoulders were canted towards the ground and the iron feet slammed over and over to the earth alongside the tracks, the train well over the horizon. The heat was roasting, and there was certainly no room between the pilot and fireman for the white, shaking, and by now unconscious engineer. A misstep shook them all, and the bleeding man’s skull cracked against Blake’s own. His jacket was sticky and close, whether from blood or sweat he could not say.

  After what seemed an eternity, the black line of the motionless train presented itself, and Blake slowed for fear of collision. He was helpless to assist Price lower the patient to waiting hands, as there was no room to turn around. Finally, Blake twisted to confront Price, who’s blue jacket was now purple from blood. Price vented the boiler and released the shuttle valve, powering down the engine. Blake descended the ladder automatically, his back and hair greasy with blood, his heart still pounding from battle and the race for the man’s life. As constant and welcome as dawn at sea, Landau stood between the mechanical’s cooling legs with a tray and a pitcher of water.

  “All right, Captain?” asked Landau.

  Blake said nothing, downing the water and waving Price over to join him.

  “Here,” he said, “drink this before you fall over.” To Landau he said, “Is he going to make it, the engineer?”

  Landau paused. “Couldn’t say sir. Didn’t look like he had, to be honest.”

  “Bloody hell,” grumbled Blake. Reynolds and Nolan approached. “Price,” he continued. “You�
�re dismissed, and at leisure for the rest of the day. I should like to speak with you later, once we’ve got cleaned up, for the report.”

  “Very good, thank you, sir.” The sergeant saluted and retired.

  “Well?” asked Reynolds. “Are we under attack? Should we mount?”

  “I’ve left nothing for you, I’m afraid, chaps,” Blake replied. “God in heaven, the vengeance wrought to a horse by these barrel-guns, I tell you. Turned the poor blighters inside out. Like detonating a walrus.”

  “Steady on!” cautioned Nolan. “What business up ahead?”

  “Ambushed. The tracks were dismantled. Nine riders, Russians. With the most antique muskets. Quite cheeky, the whole thing.”

  “And a man down, look’s like,” added Reynolds. “Pity.”

  “Are you injured?” asked Nolan, pointing at Blake’s jacket, and the matt of blood in his hair.

  “No, no. None of this is mine. I’ll have my man put me back together, and I’ll be quite suitable for supper, I’m sure. Landau?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Landau chimed in. Just then a cheer came forth from the train, as the tale of the suppression of the ambush circulated among the men.

  “There you are. Now I suspect a drink is in order.”

  TWENTY SIX

  The storm had pinned itself to Amchitka–and to the Celerity–for no less than six hours before exhausting itself over the Bering Sea. Nightfall itself took over from the storm, keeping the men aboard, but at first light, the crew disembarked

  The cage of the lower deck had impacted a massive rock, and twisted around it considerably. There was no way to open the main doors completely, but Billings, Colt, and the crew could squeeze through one at a time. The priority seemed to be getting to the beach proper, and without the horses this meant all available hands to cable, wading through the icy Pacific and dragging the airship like a river barge ashore.

  They had located the body of the fallen crewman, horribly burned, and buried him on the forest’s edge. Colt had made some vow pertaining to the man’s family, before being informed he had none. Some set farther into the forest to hunt while the rest surveyed the damage.