Captain Albion Clemens and The Future that Never Was: A Steampunk Novel! (Lands Beyond Book 1) (4 page)

It stood brightly, and for one
moment Cezette felt if she could reach the garden at its feet she would be safe. She would be safe in Maman’s warm, charcoal-streaked arms once more, in a bubble nobody could breach.

It was the one thought able to make her draw back her legs and let the disgusting weight drop.
Then she kicked out, both feet at once, in the space of a split second.

Her right heel smashed into something soft, and she felt it crush against bone. Something screamed, a deep, feral scream.

Suddenly, miraculously, she was free.

Cezette did not question it- she just felt the weight lift, and the glorious cool air stream over her. She rolled off the bed by instinct, tumbling onto her hurt arms and legs in a scrabbling pile. It wasn’t possible to think- she only had one thing in her mind, and the thought repeated itself all through her body. Run, Cezette! Run for your life!

The stairs were the hardest, in part because the thunder in the sky was shaking everything badly. Cezette held on to the railing and partially slid along it, desperate to traverse the three floors between her and freedom. When was the last time she had seen the rest of the house? She did not know.

When she tumbled onto a landing and felt the rough carpet against her bottom, she remembered she was naked, and began to look round for something to cover herself. She dared not go into the other rooms; Papa would be after her in a moment, and she would have squandered her only chance of escape.

Cezette could only dash along down the stair, and when she saw Papa’s stinking pea coat draped by the entryway, she could have sung.

By now, the fighting had intensified above Cezette Loussaint’s little townhouse.

Ships were darting all over Paris, crashing into homes and shopping districts. The Champs-Elysees was being used as an impromptu dirigible landing strip, but few ships were surviving long enough to set down on the wide boulevard.

L’Arc De Triomphe was completely gone, buckled under the weight of one of the larger ships. The damnable cloud was now hovering directly over the Tour D’Eiffel, setting everything around it ablaze.

Cezette could not know any of this. What she encountered as she stepped barefoot onto the streets of Paris was simply an inferno. Smoke moved in opaque walls through the narrow avenues, cutting her off in poisonous barricades. Her appropriated pea coat went down to her shins, flapping as she sprinted through the deserted paths. At least it was warm for a barely clothed girl, in the flaming streets.

Left and right no longer mattered; she went where she saw an opening, dodging falling debris and crumbling masonry. She had little idea of the direction she was going, only knowing she must put as much distance between herself and what lay behind her. Finally, finally she had escaped! Now she could wash this fil
th off of her once and for all.

Dodging through gardens, climbing over the toppled chairs of cafes and streaking through deserted promenades, Cezette realized she was not entirely lost. Slowly, she was beginning to have a sense of where everything was, even able to guess how the smoke was moving.

Mais oui!
It was so obvious! All those nights watching the city had given her a map of everything outside her window. Even with all the chaos raging about her, dirigibles falling on her head and steam chariots overturned in the fountains, there had only ever been one destination. La Tour!

Overhead, the eldritch cloud had moved across the river Seine. Its mass was nearly centered over La Tour D’Eiffel.

Cezette was headed directly into the maelstrom, yet she did not know- nor did she have any alternative. The lanky girl had never been in any other part of the city, not during the years when she might have memorized the streets. Fortuitously, the larger part of the dirigibles had stopped firing, since they had largely been eliminated. The cloud simply halted above the monolith, and ceased its attack.

In the momentary calm, Cezette Louissaint raced through the quieted streets. Her pea coat flashed behind her a desperate pennant held on by her arms as much as the buttons. She could see no other person, but for this she was glad- she had no idea what she might have said, or how she might have found help. There had been precious few to talk to in the Louissaint home, and those who did were invariably too frightened to help her.

Cezette did have one thing going for her- her stamina and health. Endless nights of fighting off a grown man had given her great reservoirs of strength. Had the attack succeeded, she would have been sore, hurting for days. Now, with hope looming over her the only bright thing in a black hell, she found energy returning to her limbs. In the face of so much desolation, it hardly seemed to matter if her feet were cut.

Finally
her abused heels touched something different than hard paving- grass! Cezette slowed, her hurts catching up to her, her lungs burning with the smoke and exertion. She had reached the gardens, her Maman’s gardens!

The elation of it filled her with gladness. For a moment, she could hardly believe she was here. Even her arms and legs were covered with soot, charred black just like Maman’s hands.

She flopped onto the soft greenery, lit orange by the Tour’s lamps. The cool vegetation felt cleaner than anything she had ever touched, and even the heat of fire all around her seemed only a purging blaze. She felt scrubbed, new and reborn. Everything was going to be all right. Slowly, she got up and stumbled forward, deeper into the garden. Here and there were topiary and hedges- Maman would have loved to draw the elephants. It was so pleasant, too! Not a single tourist could be seen, not a clack of photograms could be heard.

Cezette found a cool spot between two hedges, culled by gardening into a perfect nook. There was a bench, and a spectacular view of La Tour overhead. The metal soared over Cezette; she imagined it might have reminded adults of their own parents towering. It felt like an impervious guardian, standing there against the backdrop of dusky cloud. Nobody would be able to find her here. She lay herself down and snuggled into the borrowed coat. Even the smell had changed. Now the coat only smelled of fire and vegetation. Slowly, Cezette’s tired limbs relaxed, and she fell into a deep sleep.

And so it was when the light came down from deep within the eldritch cloud, not a soul, not even Cezette Louissaint, could see the glint of metal protruding from the heart of the darkened mass. To everyone in Paris that night, there could only be seen an intense column of brightness, as straight as lightning was jagged, reaching down like the finger of God.

With nothing to challenge it, the finger traced a line all round La Tour D’Eiffel, including within it the gardens, and the promenade along the Seine
river.

The
Chevaliers
and the
Marine Nationale
troops rushing all along the Champs-Elysees could only watch from the rooftops as the column traveled a complete circuit round the symbol of their nation.

Quietly, majestically, the tower began to rise, carrying one sleeping girl with it.

4.1: For Queen And Country (Hargreaves)

I must admit, playing the flirtatious wench was something of a dilemma. Throwing modesty to the wind, I put on a mummery act with the patrons, not to mention the lecherous bar owner and his mysteriously friendly wife. Every time they grasped for my gentler portions, one sentence circled round and round behind my eyes. Each spilled pint or unpaid tab drew on a charm I held close to my heart.

I told myself the same thing, over and over again: for Queen and Country.

              I know, I know, it is cliché to the point of nausea, the stuff of penny dreadfuls and cheap espionage narrative. Were there better ways to find a lead on this Samuel Clemens, also known as the Steamboat Man? Probably, but for an operative outside the regular hierarchy of the realm, other choices did not present themselves. It seemed worse when I considered my role as Her Majesty’s intelligence personnel may someday contradict my day job: an Inspector, of all things, in Scotland Yard.

Two pips.
Two, little, damnable pips.

             
I suppose it goes back to the beginning. I recall I had just caught the Blackfriar Bludgeoner, the latest upset in a respectable yet unassuming career. The culprit was an ornery stable master, fed up with the steam cabbies taking over all his business and scaring his mares with their incessant conflagrations. He had taken a pair of heavy shoe tongs to a particularly insulting driver, and everything had snowballed from there.

The solution to the case hadn’t ev
en been completely to my merit.

I had had
help, only Arturo C. Adler specialized in consultations, not public attention.

Chalk one up to Vanessa Hargreaves, Scotland Yard’s fifth female Inspector, symbol of a changing Britain, only give credit where credit is due, as she didn’t actually solve anything. The case of the Blackfriar Bludgeoner, while not particularly emblematic of my deductive powers, nevertheless propelled me to the attention of a certain Thelonious
Thatcher, an alias I suspect has more to do with Her Majesty’s inner circle than British Intelligence.

Oh posh, I hear the tossers say, everyone knows Her Majesty’s secret government operates out of the Diogenes Club! If it were a secret, why should John Bull know of it at all? Long story short, when the neighborhood of Westminster disappeared overnight, I was the prime understudy to play Her Majesty’s catspaw.

              As to how this pirate, this Marauder of Manchu, saw through my disguise, I am at a loss. Even Thatcher, shadow of shadows, could not discover me at a place of his choosing, though I was hidden in plain sight; it was one of the criteria of my involvement in the Queen’s affairs.

             
“What did you dress up as?” the Marauder interrupted, rather rudely, I might add. I halted in my telling of how I had arrived at my situation in Portsmouth to stare him down. I was unsuccessful. “To evade even Thatcher’s detection.”

“A nun,” I admitted reluctantly.

“Continue,” he said, stifling a giggle. The cad!

It was all the worse his tea was so good, and his brig so warm and cheerful.

A modest carpet covered up the worst of the planks. Thick blankets softened the hard cot, and a vanity screen had even been installed round the loo. Even the bars were clean and free of rust. I bit into a fingerprint cookie, paired with a delightful Assam, to stall for time.

             
“You understand, I am only telling you any of this on condition of our deal. You will honor the deal, Master Pirate?” I demanded of him, though I was hardly in any position of leverage. My old friends, a small derringer and my .22 Tranter, lay heavy with unused ammunition atop a table at the air pirate’s elbow. Any documentation of my real identity sat under the loose floorboards in my narrow room over the Jilted Merman.

             
“If it will engender your trust, my name is Albion Clemens. I know, sounds faker than my alias, right?”

             
“I didn’t realize pirates had proper names. You may put on any alias you like,” I managed. The name struck a chord, obviously- did my captor have something to do with the air pirate Samuel Clemens? Looking about, the ship did seem far too old and large for such a young man to master.

             
“Chosen names. They are the only ones that matter.”

             
“Fine,” I huffed, though the impropriety intrigued me to no end. What value had a name if it did not exist in Her Majesty’s record? By law, such a man could not own property in Britain, nor could he marry.  A proper name ought be Christian.

             
“The nature of your mission?” Clemens, or Shaw, or whomever, pressed.

             
“Is a secret,” I replied, somewhat spitefully.

             
“Now now, Inspector, I know everything else. That was the deal, you tell me everything about yourself and I would make sure no retribution falls on you.”

             
“The details about the case are the business of the Queen and the Pax Brittania. It is not something about myself,” I said smugly. “I have completed my side of the bargain, to the letter of the agreement.”

             
“Why you smug little minx,” he said, amused. He tended to stroke his short black beard when he found good sport. No matter how roguish and charming the motion, it was still remarkably rude.

             
“I shan’t have you taking that tone with me, sir! I am a Christian woman!”

             
Even as we bantered, I could scarcely believe I had been subdued. I had had my derringer on the pirate, in his knackered little longboat floating away from the pier. He had raised his hands, slowly, as did the odd little ginger man who had been attacked by the Lewis brothers. Then, with almighty calmness, the pirate pointed up.

Before I knew it, a vast pink mass was settling on my shoulders, blinding me to the world.

Of course- the elephant balloon! I felt arms close around me, then something very like rope. I recall how I panicked, how I felt we were sure to die plummeting into the icy water below. I wondered if the little air trapped with me in the gassy canvas would lift me to the waves or abandon me bubbling to a wet grave. I also recall it stank to high heaven, like sticky fairy floss and old popcorn grease.

If I had bothered to recall my dirigible engineering courses at the Academy, I might have remembered these balloons came in several compartments- the pirate must have released one section to bind me, perhaps with a loose foot as he distracted me with his hands.

By the time I saw light again, I was in this cell- a rather nice, not very smelly cell, but obviously a brig nonetheless. The swell of travel, and the way the floors moved, told me as much- the Marauder had taken me to a much larger ship.

             
“If you go back on the deal, I can always treat you like an enemy captive. In the old days, seafaring pirates would do as they liked with a female captive,” Clemens was saying.

Despite the notion, he did not seem to take much note of my assets, still on display in a barmaid’s thin linen blouse. This one enjoyed the game, not the spoils, I realized suddenly.

              “Who is the smug one now?” I quipped, getting naught in the way of impatience. Very annoying, this Albion Clemens. Instead of giving in to frustration, he leaned forward, sipping at his own cup of tea. It was an odd habit for an Oriental to have. He did it pinky out.

             
“Look here,” he said very carefully. “I know you followed us for a reason, not escaping a silly brawl or for our personal safety. Now, I gave you three pieces of information at the pub- who I was, what I had done, and who I was after. You didn’t call the Navy police or the constables, so I feel certain you’re not after me for the stolen lavender. On the money so far?”

             
I nodded; his induction was immaculate. The best thing I could do was give him nothing. Perhaps he would slip up.

             
“There are plenty of people after me, but as you came to stop my murder, and as there were other air pirates, hell, proper aeronauts in the pub, I don’t think you are running, or after a bounty, or want to turn me in.”

             
“Correct,” I begrudged, tiring of admitting defeat.

             
“So, I am to conclude the following,” he said, sitting up in a rather handsome pose. I hadn’t noticed before, but with his buccaneer coat off and his gun belt at a rakish angle, hung low by a long cutlass, the man was positively dashing.

Muscles bulged underneath well-starched linen, and th
ose piercing black-brown eyes…

N
o! no, Hargreaves! The man is a scoundrel, a highwayman! I thought of the stinking pink elephant, bringing his voice into focus.

             
“Your target is this man!” Albion Clemens concluded, fishing out the photogram of the man so unlike himself as to draw unseemly suspicions. Clearly, the Oriental before me could have nothing to do with the white-haired American depicted there. Or most would have thought.

             
I sighed. There was no avoiding it, I supposed. I would have to tell the Bangkok Bandit something of the truth.

             
“All right,” I said. “The mission has little to do with me, but it has everything to do with you, and this Samuel Clemens.”

             
“I knew it. Take me to him!” Clemens demanded. The urgency in his voice betrayed his stoic Asiatic features for just a second- Albion cared for Samuel, as a friend, a comrade, perhaps…

             
“You were adopted,” I concluded aloud. The statement seemed to stun Albion, but only for a moment. “It was not a lie told at the Jilted Merman. This man is your adopted father.”

             
“In a manner of speaking. Someone who saves a Chinese man’s life might as well be a father to him,” he admitted freely.

             
“Chinese is it? It was Chinese or Japanese, I hadn’t decided.”

             
“The hair? I know, works to my advantage.”

             
“Oooh, I love the hair, very dashing.”

             
“Hey!” Albion protested now. “No stalling.”

             
“Nothing gets past you,” Drat!

             
“Where is Captain Sam?”

             
“I don’t know,” I answered, peering into his dark eyes with my blue ones. He seemed to be satisfied.

             
“What do you want with him?”

             
“That is the business of Her Majesty Victoria the Third, Queen of the United Kingdom, Empress of…”

             
“Yada yada yada,” Clemens interrupted again, frustratingly.

             
“Beg pardon?”

             
“It’s a Yankee expression. From the Yiddish, I believe. It means I don’t want to hear the rest.”

             
“How rude!” It was British, actually, from ‘yatter-yatter.’ I was not about to tell him.

             
“How much an enormous waste of time! Either tell me what your business is, or I toss you in the longboat and leave you adrift in the Atlantic.”

             
“Is this where we are? Why, I thought we were on some civil pirate airship, not some centuries-old seafarer!” My jibe was as ineffective, as his threat. Something about the way he threatened threw me. I felt like he would not harm me, not if he did not need to. Gentle imprisonment spoke volumes. Maybe a gentle hand was called for?

             
“All right Master Pirate. I will concede to your persistence. What follows is all I shall tell you, and that shall be the end of it.”

             
“And what I will do with the information is my business,” he finished for me.

             
“Touche,” I agreed. Just what I expected.

             
“Out with it.”

             
“Your Captain Clemens consorts with a very dangerous crowd, Albion Clemens,” I breathed. I felt a great weight come off my shoulders. “I was extraordinarily surprised. You understand there is a million-quid bounty on his head? What were you doing telling me who you were? Did you not expect a slew of bounty hunters coming down upon you like a swarm of vultures?”

             
“I’ve heard of the bounty. What I don’t know is who wants my Captain Sam, nor why. If I have to crack a few skulls to get the down-low, I will.”

             
There- the idioms again! What strange things to say, for a man of the east.

             
“Right,” I continued, aware of our sudden closeness to each other. We had both unconsciously leaned in to hear, separated only by the bars of the cell. I could feel his breath on my face, warm and scented with tea.