Storm Dreams (The Cycle of Somnium Book 1) (26 page)

The Russian didn’t move. “That is possible. He didn’t say why he wanted to find you. I have no reason to lie.”

Cassidy squatted and checked the man for more weapons. He found three more pistols, two knives and a choking wire. He threw them in the water. “You’re an assassin,” Cassidy said as he holstered his Mauser and sat down on a packing crate.

The Russian winced and pulled himself to a seated position as well. He dabbed at his wounded shoulder with a dirty handkerchief. “My name is Anton, and I do a lot of things. Govno,” he said, poking at the wound. “You’re using real bullets.”

“You’re not Twilight.”

“Neither are you.”

Cassidy nodded. “Yes, but you’re
real
. ‘Til today, I’ve only met one real person, that I know of, in this place, and suddenly your kind are everywhere.”

“Perhaps you just never noticed.”

Cassidy grimaced. “Where is he?”

Anton’s expression remained bleak and impassive. “He’s still my employer.”

“I could kill you.”

Anton snorted. “You may anyway.”

“I may,” Cassidy admitted. “But if you tell me now, you won’t have to use that mechanical arm for more than just a decoy.”

Cassidy left without even stopping by the hotel for a drink. His Fokker stood waiting next to the runway, fuelled and ready. The older Fokker, Ned’s plane now, was gone already. The Valkyrie had somehow been demoted from fighter to mere transportation.

The almost-night still hung around the fringes of Arcadia as if trying to hold onto a few more hours of darkness before the almost-day took over. The Russian had given Cassidy good enough directions. It wasn’t “
second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning”
, but close enough.

He was to fly forty degrees off the hotel side of the island and fly ninety degrees downwards until he came to a patch of fireflies.

Cassidy feared missing them, but the strange description turned out to be a mass of flowing orbs that danced and darted within the confines of an egg-shaped mass, approximately the same height and width of Arcadia. He skirted the border, uncertain of what effect they might have on his plane. It was hard to leave the lights. As he tried to veer away, they tugged at him. There was no sound or physical force, but their movement hypnotized his senses. The dancing lights wanted to play. Wanted company. Wanted...

Cassidy forced himself away and veered twenty degrees to port. He didn’t know what they wanted, but throttled forwards and pulled away. They faded behind him, and he couldn’t help thinking he’d just escaped some kind of fairy circle. His head still wanted to think in terms of East and West, but without a well defined sun, the Twilight still lacked have any useful term for direction, except those relative to the islands themselves. At least, none they’d chosen to share with him.

Images of the dancing lights wouldn’t leave. Did he remember fairies from Richthofen, or had he gotten it from stories Brewster had told him? What was Brewster doing? How had he gotten away from the black pyramid?

None of that mattered as Cassidy approached something Anton had called the Vizier’s Outpost. It looked much the way the Russian had described it: a small shanty town with several diminutive buildings strung together from the remnants of dead airships into a sort of accidental island.

Cassidy put down on what appeared to serve as a runway, though he suspected it was usually only a landing site for vertical take-offs of dirigible airships. That explained the short length and lack of markings. He taxied to a vacant spot between two bleak-looking airships. The first appeared to be a large wooden box strapped between two large balloons of mismatched colours.

The second looked like a small clipper that hadn’t seen its original maker in over forty years, though Cassidy wouldn’t have been surprised if a number of half-competent carpenters had laboured to make their marks on the wretched vessel. Its drooping gas bladder had been patched from the remains of at least six various balloons and it now resembled a lumpy sausage with one end much larger than the other.

Cassidy continued to the main building, which probably served as hotel, bar and town meeting room, and had been fashioned from the dead carcass of a large cargo ship. Its mast and whatever balloons or gas bladders had once lifted it were long since gone, and a large hole had been cut in its side to act as an entrance, though the doors across the opening appeared to have come from some sort of barn.

Cassidy pushed the swinging doors open. A counter with room key pegs lay to his right and a bar stood against the far wall. “I’m looking for a friend in 16,” Cassidy said to the man behind the counter.

“Are you?” the man said. “Is he expecting you?”

“Apparently,” Cassidy said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have three men in here waiting on me.” He motioned to some bruisers who sat at one of the tables. All three were built large, dangerous and Russian, but probably waiting for Anton to come in dragging a pilot by the scruff of the neck.

The hotel clerk grimaced, but gestured in the direction of the stairs. Number 16 lay at the end of a short hallway. Cassidy knocked.

“What is it?” hollered a voice from inside. Cassidy knew the English accent well.

“Cassidy,” he yelled through the door.

“Come in, Old Boy,” the Englishman said.

Cassidy turned the knob and pushed the door open. Brewster sat eyeing him from a skeletal wooden chair. He cocked his Webley revolver and trained it on Cassidy’s head. “Brewster,” Cassidy said, his hands in the air. “It’s me.”

“Shut the door,” Brewster said. His eyes were still wild with madness, the rainbow sheen of the Borealis tinting his irises.

Cassidy nudged the door shut. “You need to listen,” he said, with earnest intensity. “The Borealis is still affecting your mind.” He tried to meet Brewster’s gaze, but the swirling colours threw off his concentration. “You’ve got to—”

“Where’s Banner?” Brewster snapped, cutting across his words.

Cassidy chewed his lip. “Banner…” he started to say, but didn’t know how to finish.

“Betrayed us all,” Brewster said. He stood up and paced across the small room, his pistol still levelled. “And you helped him,” he snarled. “You bloody well helped him.”

Cassidy’s heart pounded. The Englishman was worse than he’d imagined. “Brewster. I’m your friend.”

Brewster seethed. “Friend? You’re not a friend. A Judas, maybe. Worse than a Jonah. A bastard.”

“Brewster,” Cassidy said, trying to keep his tone calm and steady, “where are Franz and Jayce?”

Brewster kicked the bed frame, cracking the wood. “Traitors. Stayed in safety. Didn’t want to leave. Well, I came back. Came back to find out why the lot of you left us.”

“I was trying to—”

“You never came back,” Brewster shouted. His face reddened as he shook the muzzle of the pistol at Cassidy’s face. “You left us to rot.”

Cassidy raked a hand through his hair as Brewster paced back and forth, ranting. He moved towards the crazed Englishman. “Look,” he said, stepping close enough for the muzzle to touch his forehead. “I’m here.”

The Webley shook harder in Brewster’s hand until he doubled over in an epileptic fit. The Webley tumbled to the floor and he clutched Cassidy to him, sobbing into his shoulder. “It’s mad, Old Boy. It’s mad. All mad.” He let go and staggered back. “You betrayed me.” He collapsed into his chair again. “Colours, Old Boy,” he said, staring off over Cassidy’s head. “Can’t get them out of my head. Colours.”

“I’m here,” Cassidy said. “I’ll make the colours go away.”

Brewster looked up at him through tear-stained eyes. “What’s happened to Banner?”

***

Cassidy explained as best he could, but Brewster only cared about the sound of his voice. Nothing Cassidy said seemed to sink in, and Brewster periodically flew into sudden, violent rages. Sometimes he convulsed, then became catatonic for long periods before returning to what passed for lucidity.

“Banner’s gone,” Cassidy said, for what must have been the thousandth time. “He’s gone. The Borealis took him.” Brewster’s eyes widened at the word Borealis and he trembled again, but Cassidy had worked him down from the spasmodic convulsions he’d
been
having at the mention of the word. He held Brewster’s head between his hands and forced their eyes to lock. Cassidy bored past the rainbow irises and concentrated on the black pupils. “I need you,” he said, nodding. “I need you back. You’re all I’ve got left.”

The ordeal continued for days. Sometimes Brewster verged on the edge of complete cognisance, only to degrade into madness the next minute. The Russians had come asking about their orders. Cassidy slid money under the door and told them to go away.

He forced food and drink on Brewster, but the only thing the Englishman was capable of doing by himself on a regular basis was smoking his pipe. He did so over and over. The colours faded several shades during the almost meditative ceremony, but returned moments later.

In time, Cassidy spliced bits and pieces together of the random information Brewster spit out in tirades until it formed a mosaic image of what had happened. Apparently the caretakers at the pyramid had done all they could to remove the effects of the Borealis, but sanity only lasted for hours at first and then a few days. Jayce and Franz had both fallen in love with the same female caretaker and all but fought an insane duel over her.

Brewster had finally tired of the whole ordeal and decided to leave. He’d been told he couldn’t, but in one of his saner moments, he’d stolen an airship and escaped. He couldn’t or refused to remember what had happened to Jayce and Franz.

Unfortunately, Brewster’s sanity had deteriorated again since he’d been alone. After becoming convinced that Banner and Cassidy had betrayed him, he’d hired Anton to track both of them down and bring them before him. In his saner moments, Brewster was highly apologetic for hiring a mercenary to track down his best friend, but Cassidy unloaded the Webley for fear of the erratic fits.

“It’s all right,” Cassidy said, trying to force dark bourbon down his friend’s throat, followed by a chunk of rye bread. “We’re going to be okay now.”

Brewster nodded and knocked back the drink, but Cassidy could tell he was holding the pain behind the well-known British stiff upper lip. The Borealis had cut deep and severed parts of him Cassidy wasn’t sure could be repaired. “What will we do?” the Englishman asked, shaking, but controlled.

Cassidy let out a long breath. “We’re going to the real world. I don’t know how it works yet, but I know there are ways we can live like
real
people, outside the storm.”

Brewster shook his head. “Not a chance. We’d fade to nothing, or melt.”

“Banner used to do it,” Cassidy said. “It’s how he met a lot of our dreamers.”

“How?” Brewster asked.

Cassidy had no idea. “Force of will,” he said, with all the assurance he could pull across his face. “Pure force of will.”

Brewster nodded. “Force of will.”

***

It had been almost a month before Cassidy decided Brewster might be fit enough to leave again. Not that he had a great deal of choice. Each minute spent anywhere in the Twilight was dangerous. Truth be told, Cassidy couldn’t believe that bounty hunters hadn’t gotten them yet. Perhaps the mere presence of the Russian mercenaries made the hotel seem like an unlikely place for hunted dreams to hide.

“Only a matter of time, Old Boy,” Brewster said, as they devoured supper. “They’ll never stop.” His hand shook, but he clamped it with his other hand and pinned it to the table.

Cassidy nodded. “We start island hopping soon. Then we work on becoming more solid.”

“What makes you so sure we can really do that?”

“Like I said, Banner did it,” Cassidy insisted.

“I thought you said he wasn’t really a dream,” Brewster said, as he spooned something that looked like grey custard into his mouth.

“We are what we believe ourselves to be. Isn’t that what you told me a long time ago?”

Brewster nodded. “A bit paraphrased, but I don’t know that I believe that anymore.”

“What choice have you got?” Cassidy asked.

Brewster shrugged. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

Cassidy grinned. “Sure you can, but what’s the point.” He picked up his whisky on the rocks. “We’re all that’s left of Banner’s boys.”

Brewster took a deep sigh and met Cassidy’s gaze. “To Banner’s boys,” he said.

“To Banner’s boys,” Cassidy agreed. They downed their shots in quick gulps. “I miss the ship.”

Brewster was silent for several seconds. “I miss a lot of things."

The airship with the patched sausage for a bladder turned out to be Brewster’s stolen ship. They had a good laugh as they looked up at the dilapidated vessel.

“How the hell did you get that here?” Cassidy asked as it shifted in the breeze.

“Not nearly as bad as she looks,” Brewster said. “I outran a variety of ships in this.”

“I’ll take your word on that,” Cassidy said as he walked around the vessel and peered inside the boxlike gondola. “I can’t believe she gets off the ground.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Brewster said, petting the figurehead on what passed for a prow on the gondola’s bow. It looked like a deformed statue of a mermaid, brandishing what once must have been a triton, but now looked like a broken stick. The interior looked just big enough to fit three crew members, though in a spot, it probably could have transported six.

Cassidy wondered if the gas bladder could actually lift six, but the point was moot. At most, it might have to carry two, and Cassidy doubted he would spend much time flying anything but his Fokker. He stepped back and wondered at what an odd pair the two aerocrafts made. “What’s her name?” Cassidy asked.

“The
Intrepid
,” Brewster said. “She’s earned the name on several occasions. No real guns though. I’ll either need to get some, or just keep shooting out the windows like I’ve been doing.”

Cassidy nodded. The
Nubigena
it was not, but nothing else ever could be. They would have to fly in tandem as this airship could never support his Fokker and it would need his fighter’s air protection. He considered another problem. “She’ll never make it in the
real
world. Wish my plane was a two-seater.”

Brewster shrugged. “We’ll find one. Let’s grab a drink.”

Cassidy gave a mock salute and they started off. “I notice you’re wearing the Webley in your belt now,” he said, gesturing to Brewster’s pistol.

Brewster tapped the wooden butt where it protruded above his trousers. “You might want to do the same,” he said. “Flap holsters are too slow and I’ve had two groups try to rob me here so far. Gotten to be a bit like your Old West this far out.”

“So you want me to be a gunfighter?”

“Why not,” Brewster said, as they slid one of the doors aside. “But we’ll have to get different hats.”

Cassidy stifled a guffaw. It disturbed him to remember that everything he knew about being American was based on Richthofen’s idea of the United States, and he had no way to know how much of it was accurate. It drove the point home when Brewster ordered a dark lager and Cassidy was forced once again to stare down at three fingers of iced whisky. He often thought of telling Brewster about his problem so that Brewster could order him something else, but any time he tried, his mind wandered on to other things. It was as if his head purposely avoided any kind of change.

Cassidy didn’t mind at the moment though as he sat nursing the amber liquid. Sitting there having a drink with Brewster reminded him of old times. He imagined them back on the
Nubigena
, Franz and Jayce playing billiards only feet away, and Banner at the helm, steering them through lands unknown.

“So, who do you think really betrayed us?” Brewster asked, “I mean with the whole Borealis thing.”

Cassidy shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think anyone did.”

Brewster narrowed his eyes. “Don’t see how.”

Cassidy drew a small sip. “Banner’s soul. I think it could feel him. It had probably been guiding that same Borealis to us the whole time. The angrier his soul got, the more dangerous the Borealis became. We were just collateral damage.”

Brewster let out a sharp exhale. “Believe it or not, we used to have a brilliant time in those wonder-clouds. Used to take us to all kinds of strange places.”

Cassidy nodded. “Part of me thought one might take me home someday.”

“Home?” Brewster said and squinted over his lager.

“I guess I mean my dream. It’s not the same when I’m asleep. Feels like a world I’ll never see again. Closest thing I can call mine. Don’t you wonder?”

Brewster shook his head and wiped foam out of his moustache. “I don’t think about it.”

***

One of the frontiersmen in town had given them a lead on a pirate named Resta, who often dealt in
real
world aerocraft. Their rarity allowed him to charge a heavy price, but Cassidy felt certain they could work a deal. Word was that Resta had recently procured a new
real
world
aerocraft and would be auctioning it off to the highest bidder in a week. Cassidy hoped that he and Brewster could find the pirate first.

Cassidy watched Brewster’s craft glide beneath him as he scouted the area for Resta’s airship. It was said to have been seen near Arcadia a month before and the Starling a week before. The Settled Mount appeared to be the closest inhabited island, so they followed the vague coordinates they’d been given.

Cassidy scouted ahead, keeping the
Intrepid
just in sight. A small island came into view about a mile off the starboard side. Even at a distance he saw buildings dotting the mostly flat surface, so he doubled back to Brewster and led the limp airship towards it.

As they flew closer it reminded Cassidy of Arcadia, but smaller and less populated. It was about half the size, with only one mountain and no snow on it. At least thirty airships already stood moored, with several leaving and one coming. He searched the standards on their flags for the black Fleur-de-lis Resta was known to fly when outside the Arcadian borders. Cassidy found it moored to one of the larger docks and he spat a curse beneath his breath as he recognized the battleship-like gondola. Commodore.

Cassidy found the runway near the edge of the island at the bottom of the docks, much like the Arcadian layout. He landed and immediately had the dock men cover the Fokker with a large tarp.

Brewster met him at the dock where he’d moored the
Intrepid
. He nodded towards the ship flying the black Fleur-de-lis. “That her?”

“That’s her,” Cassidy said. He pulled the Mauser out of its holster. He slid the cumbersome chunk of wood that was its home into his mail bag and shoved the pistol into his belt.

“Becoming a gunfighter?” Brewster asked.

“How about a pirate?” Cassidy asked.

“Always a first time. But I thought we were going to pay.”

Cassidy shook his head and entered Brewster’s airship. “I think diplomacy might break down the moment they see me,” he said as he rummaged through a foot locker that sat against the back wall. He found a brown greatcoat and a black cloak. “In fact, it might be best that no one here see our uniforms,” he said, tossing the cloak to Brewster. He dropped his cap in the footlocker and had Brewster do the same.

“Not my idea of fashion,” the Englishman said, as he brushed lint and dust from the cloak’s folds.

Cassidy cracked a smile. “You make a smashing pirate.”

Brewster grimaced.

They kept to the shadows as they ascended the stepped tiers of the harbour. Few dock men stood outdoors at that hour and the same seemed true of sailors and airmen.

An empty shed on one of the upper levels offered an excellent view of Resta’s heavily-armed airship. A number of sailors stood on the exposed decks.

“They’ll go whoring soon,” Cassidy said. “And these kinds of men drink a lot.”

Brewster nodded. “So, what will we do in the
real
world?” he asked, changing the subject as he puffed on his pipe.

Cassidy shrugged. “Haven’t given it a whole lot of thought. Fly planes, maybe.” He leaned against the wall beside Brewster. “But the colours. The smells. The lack of Armada breathing down our necks. I’m not sure I care what we do.”

Brewster blew smoke rings. “I just want to know what England looks like on a sunny day. We were always in a storm.”

“Are there any sunny days in England?” Cassidy asked.

“Good question. They must have them on occasion.”

Cassidy looked out the window at the battle-ready airship. “What the hell would you need a ship like that for, anyway?”

Brewster took a glance and shrugged. “Fight something really big, I suppose. You should see some of the pleasure cruisers.”

Twenty men or so shuffled down the ramp and into the hotel. Cassidy decided to give them a couple hours to get drunk and laid before he and Brewster made their way down to the ship’s dock. They milled about in their disguises for a while, then continued across to another set of sheds and empty booths.

“There’s only two guards,” Cassidy said, as they slipped into a darkened space between buildings.

“Guess we can just kill them,” Brewster said, and ran a hand across the butt of his Webley.

“Not out of the question,” said Cassidy, “but I’d like to get through this without wasting ammunition.”

“I know,” said Brewster, letting his greatcoat fall over his pistol. “I’ve watched more people die in the last few months than...can’t remember, can you? I can’t remember much about time either.” He motioned to where part of the gondola floated near a second dock. “Let’s see if there’s a back door.”

The airship drifted back and forth, coming within feet of the dock every few minutes. They examined the hull, looking for an opening. “What about that?” Cassidy asked, pointing to a pair of small double doors.

“Gun hatch,” Brewster said. “Cannon probably. Bet it fires a full grape.”

On the next in-swing, Cassidy slipped his knife into the crack between the two doors and slid it upwards until metal clicked against metal. The latch gave and the doors fell open, revealing an iron bore six inches in diameter. “Seems a bit too easy,” said Cassidy, as he peered in through the opening.

“Easy?” Brewster said. “Says you without the gut. Have fun slipping around that barrel.”

“Can’t we just push it out of the way?”

Brewster shook his head. “Airship’s free floating, Old Boy. Shove something that heavy and the whole ship will go with it.”

Cassidy sighed and kicked his right foot through the small window as the gondola swung towards him again. He flattened his body against the cannon and slid his head and shoulders in around the gaping mouth. The airship drifted away again. For a moment, Cassidy dangled from the gondola, one leg and half his body inside, while the other leg and his hind quarters hung along the outside. The cast iron of the cannon crushed in on his ribs as he squeezed through and rolled the giant gun away from the opening.

On the next pass, Brewster reached for the window and attempted a similar manoeuvre to Cassidy’s, but required a good deal more help to make it through the threshold. “Guess I’ve been eating too well,” Brewster whispered as he fell through.

Cassidy relatched the hatch and pushed the gun back into place. “We’ve been eating the same crap,” he said in the same hushed tones. He stopped a moment to catch his breath. “We’re just getting old.”

“Speak for yourself, I can’t be more than five or six.”

“Or a hundred,” Cassidy said. “Can you really say for sure how long ago Banner broke you out? I saw his tombstone. It said 1806.”

Brewster grimaced. “Don’t talk to me about that stuff. There’s a reason I never went near that damned grave.”

Cassidy turned and pretended to examine the door out of the gunroom. He kept trying to talk about Banner in a casual way, but it tore him up to think of the grave. To think of Banner melding with that other part of himself. That other part Cassidy didn’t have. Would never have.

“Resta’ll be here somewhere,” Cassidy said. “He’s a responsible type. Doubt he’s whoring.” He turned back to Brewster. “Probably takes decent care of his men.”

Brewster gave a quiet snort. “This is the Commodore fellow we’re talking about, right?” he said, as they crept out of the gun room and into the galley. “The pirate that almost killed you?”

Cassidy shrugged. “I’m not fond of the man, but he seems like a decent leader. Does what’s necessary, if you know what I mean.”

Brewster stopped and turned Cassidy around by the shoulder. “He’s the Captain, Old Boy. I know you miss him. I’d fly through Hell to hear his voice again, but don’t go seeing his face in every other captain you meet.”

Cassidy took a deep breath and exhaled. The Englishman was right and it stung. “I do want to try and buy this plane. He may be a pirate, but I’m no thief.”

“Nor I,” said Brewster, “but we need it now. We may have lost the luxury of being gentlemen.”

Cassidy looked his friend in the eyes. “Then what’s the point?”

Brewster sighed. “Let’s take a look at this plane. May be a pile of junk, and we’ll want to go back the way we came.”

Cassidy smirked. “Not the way we came,
Old Boy
. You wouldn’t make it through a second time.”

Brewster grinned back and they continued to the rear of the galley and into the cargo bay. It was the only place that appeared vast enough to carry any kind of aerocraft.

Wedged between packing crates full of various loot a fighter poked out of the mess. The single wing Fokker stood, tired, but waiting. Its tail had been stretched and modified to accommodate a second seat, and they could see a blue letter V through the shadow cast across it by curtains dangling from the ceiling. Brewster and Cassidy exchanged glances.