Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (38 page)

“Nice story,” said Fanshawe to Cockayne. “I assume all of that was complete balderdash?”

He shrugged. “Actually, no. It was the truth.”

She looked at him and blinked. “Louis Cockayne. Could it be you’re human after all?”

He grinned. “Maybe. But keep it to yourself, hey? I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

They watched as Gideon flailed about in the water, Maria, eerily floating without helmet or air tank, guiding him toward the tunnel. Fanshawe said, “He must be petrified.”

“If he does this, he’ll be a hell of a lot stronger,” said Cockayne.

“And if he doesn’t?”

Cockayne shrugged. Fanshawe looked at her watch. “Let’s give them half an hour and get up to the top. I need some sun and fresh air.”

As they paused on the lip of the tunnel, Maria and Gideon looked back to the submersible. Cockayne pressed close to the window and winked, and raised his right hand, the thumb and forefinger curled together in an ‘O’, the other fingers extended. He said, almost to himself, “Kick some ass, kid.”

As he staggered up the sloping passage, the water sloshing around his thighs, then his calves, then his ankles, Gideon unclipped the helmet and let it fall with a gasp. All he could feel was the darkness, heavy and oppressive, and beyond it the rough rock, pressing down on him, squeezing the breath from him. He tried to fill his lungs, but they wouldn’t expand, and pinpricks of light danced in front of his eyes.

He felt Maria’s wet hand take his, smelled her river-sodden hair as she came in close. There was no breath on his cheek, but he felt her lips brush his ear. “Are you all right?”

“I can’t . . . breathe . . . ,” he whispered. “I can’t do this.”

“Your fear is a lie,” she murmured, and he felt her hands on his waist, her body aligning itself against his. “When Rowena kissed you—”

“For luck.”

“When she kissed you for luck . . . did you like that?” He nodded, finally gulping down the cool, dry air of the darkness.

Then Maria kissed him.

Your fear is a lie
.

His hands found her body, sopping wet.

Your fear is a lie
.

And, indeed, his anxiety receded. His fear evaporated.

Not just the fear of the darkness, of the rock surrounding him. His fear of the differences between them.

Finally, Gideon abandoned himself to Maria, met her tongue with his own, without question, felt his body stir against hers, felt himself dissolving into her.

She pulled away, planting a lighter kiss on his lips, as though signing off a letter. Gideon felt his heart hammering, though not from fear. When it calmed to a manageable cadence, he retrieved the oil lamps and matches.

As the flame flared, Maria smiled at him out of the darkness. She was beautiful. The lamps revealed a tight, roughly-hewn passageway, extending into the blackness. He held up his oil lamp. What ever there was to fear, it was not the ages-old rock, nor the clockwork girl. What ever there was to fear, it lay ahead of them.

Your fear is a lie.
All
fear is a lie.

He felt something dig into him, in his pocket, and pulled it out. The jet charm he had, a lifetime ago, given to his father. He tied the cord around Maria’s neck. “Perhaps it will serve you better,” he whispered.

From somewhere deep within the dark earth, something ground against something else, something turned, something shuddered. Gideon looked quizzically at Maria.

“Did the earth move?” he asked. He put his hand on the reassuring hilt of the sword, and in his other he took Maria’s. “Come on.”

It was not Bent’s imagination. The room was turning in a clockwise direction, gathering speed. Then they all yelled as the floor tipped them forward, and the wall with the doorway into it rushed toward them. With another turn, they were on what had been the ceiling, the torches clattering from their sconces and rolling free.

“I can’t get my bearings,” shouted Stoker. “This infernal chess-board . . .”

He no longer knew what was up or down. He heard Bent being violently sick as the room rotated one way, then the other. The door was now in front of them again, and he tried to strike out for it, but he felt his feet slipping from underneath him, his sense of balance utterly destroyed. Even when he closed his eyes he saw the shifting black and white shapes, and his head pounded.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, the movement stopped. Stoker picked himself up from the floor and looked around. Everyone else seemed to be in one piece, though ragged from the ordeal. He found his pistol on the floor and drew his sword. Something was going to happen.

“Stoker . . . ,” said Bent weakly.

He looked up. Ahead of them, framed in the black doorway—he no longer knew if it was the door by which they had entered or the one facing it— was a shambling figure stepping into the light from the scattered torches and rolling lamps.

“The Children of Heqet, at last,” said Trigger.

There were eight of the things, and they came at the adventurers in a relentless wave. Stoker emptied five shots from his chamber into the first creature, and though the impact sent it spinning backward, it picked itself up came at him again. He heard the sound of gunfire and the clatter of spent cartridges all around, smelled the rising stench of gunpowder.

“Elizabeth!” cried Stoker. “Elizabeth, if your nature can serve us at all, then now is the time . . . !”

Bathory needed no further imperative. She snarled and crouched like a cat, her eyes shining and her jaw displaying her extended canines. Then she leaped at the nearest mummy and tore into it.

Bent swung at the creature with the stock of his rifle as Trigger emptied his gun into it. Stoker saw Bathory tear through another mummy. She was by far having the best time of it; their bullets were slowing the things down, but not stopping them. He noticed Trigger, backed into a corner and pumping shots into the stomach of a mummy that refused to go down. Bathory had been cornered by two, and she was bleeding profusely from a row of claw-marks across her face. Stoker cried out and began to fire into one of the mummies, blasting holes into its torso until it glanced down, almost comically, at the gaping wound in its chest, and collapsed into two.

Stoker ran to Bathory. There were three Children of Heqet down. Bent and Trigger were firing at the others, but then there was the terribly final click of their empty weapons.

“Elizabeth is sorely wounded,” shouted Stoker.

The Children of Heqet advanced, spreading out to come at them, hissing and muttering in their dry, dead language. Stoker bit his lip. They were not going to escape from this, he knew with sudden certainty. The nearest creature grinned widely and launched itself at him.

And paused, blinking its milky eyes in surprise. Black ichor began to trickle, then flowed more freely, from a perfect line across its thin, ragged neck.

Its head toppled from its body, and the creature collapsed.

Behind it, brandishing a dripping sword, was Gideon Smith.

“Mr. Smith!” cried Trigger. Gideon grinned, but there was no time for self-congratulations. There were four Children of Heqet left, and they turned and opened their wide mouths at Gideon, clicking and whistling in their strange tongue.

Bathory looked in a bad way; Bent was sitting on the floor, breathing hard. They had felled three mummies between them already, but they looked the worse for it. And the battle was not won yet.

Maria stepped forward to Gideon’s side. He felt a tingle in his sword-arm, a blood-rush to his head. Vengeance was in his grasp. Vengeance for his father, vengeance for the crew of the
Cold Drake
and the countless others slain by the Children of Heqet. With a roar that built up deep within him and issued forth like a battle-cry, Gideon swung the sword at the nearest monster, connecting with the parched skin of its shoulder. There was a momentary resistance as the blade met bone, then he was through and swinging freely. The creature looked at him for a second with its pale eyes, then its right arm and part of its desiccated, rag-bound torso separated, and it collapsed in a dry heap at Gideon’s feet.

The three remaining mummies backed off, allowing Gideon and Maria to run to the others. She aimed the guns they had brought, firing into the nearest creature until the chambers were empty.

“Guns have little effect on them,” gasped Stoker. “Mr. Smith, it is damned good to see you, if you’ll excuse my uncouth language.”

“It’s
effing
good to see you, Smith,” corrected Bent. “But there’s three of ’em left. And they’re closing in.”

Bent was right. Could Gideon stave them off? Not, he feared, without someone falling under their claws. He brandished his sword and commanded the others to get back. If he was going to die here, deep underground, at the claws and teeth of these monsters, he wouldn’t go down without a fight. And, he realized with surprise, he wasn’t scared anymore. He looked at Maria, and she looked at him and smiled. Gideon gripped the hilt of the sword more firmly.

“Let’s have your best shot,” he murmured.

Hissing and creeping, the Children of Heqet walked slowly toward them, their thin muscles tensing as they readied to pounce.

“Hold!”

Gideon tore his gaze away from the mummies, to another figure standing in the open doorway. It was a man, broad-chested and pale, dressed in a dirty, ragged shirt open to his waist, ripped trousers, and battered brown boots, a battered satchel slung over his shoulder. He was middle-aged and undeniably handsome, his hair gone to gray and a little long and shaggy, his features fine and pronounced beneath the rough gray beard. About his neck was a gold chain with a red gem set into a golden clasp. He regarded them with piercing blue eyes and held up his hand, palm outward. Incredibly, the Children of Heqet paused and stood still, though they continued to hiss softly and bare their teeth.

Trigger, crouching on the floor beside Bathory, blinked and frowned at the man. He rose slowly and said, very softly, “John?”

28
What Happened to Dr. John Reed?

“John.” Tears flowed down Trigger’s dusty face. “John. My God, I truly thought you were dead.”

Trigger took a step forward, but the Children of Heqet hissed and raised their claws. Gideon glanced at Stoker, then back at the man who, incredibly, Trigger had addressed as John Reed. Was it really him, or some infernal trick? The way the mummies gathered behind Reed made Gideon redouble his grip on the hilt of the sword; something felt terribly, terribly not right about this.

Reed looked curiously from face to face, lingering on Maria’s beautiful face. One of the mummies muttered something to him in its alien language of whistles, clicks, and singsong syllables; Reed nodded thoughtfully and eventually said, “Lucian. You shouldn’t have come here.”

“We came to rescue you!” said Trigger. “Do these creatures have you prisoner? Do they work for Walsingham? Has he taken the weapon?”

Reed cocked an eyebrow and frowned, as though trying to keep up with Trigger’s rapid fire questions. “Walsingham? No, Lucian, they don’t work for Walsingham. They work for me.” He took a step forward, ignoring Trigger’s outstretched arms and instead standing in front of Maria. Gideon tried to muscle between them, but Reed ignored him. “As to the weapon . . . well, you have done your research, Lucian. Very good. And thank you, also.”

“Thank you? For coming to rescue you?” said Trigger.

Reed turned to him. “No. Thank you for bringing me the final piece of the puzzle.” He glanced almost casually over his shoulder and said to the mummies. “Bring the girl into the tomb. If anyone tries to stop you, kill them.”

“John!” said Trigger in horror.

“Trigger,” said Bent gently. “Ain’t it obvious what’s going on here? It’s not the mummies, not your Mr. Walsingham. There’s nobody behind all this but John Reed. He’s only the effing villain of the piece.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Trigger shortly. “John, tell him. For God’s sake, tell him.”

At last, as though finally fully recognizing Trigger, Reed gifted him a smile. “Come with me. Bring your friends.”

Gideon tried to intervene as two of the Children of Heqet gripped Maria’s arms, but she shook her head. “Wait,” she murmured. “Let’s see what’s going on first. You’ll just get yourself killed.”