Clementine (The Clockwork Century #1.1)

Clementine (The Clockwork Century #1.1) Page 17

The yards weren’t particularly crowded, but they were populated here and there with mechanics and engineers like Lamar, though most of them were white. Once he spied an Asian man who looked like he might’ve had something important to do, but Hainey didn’t stop and ask him about it. He only gave a half nod of acknowledgment when he caught the other man’s eye, because he wanted the whole damn world to know that he wasn’t up to any trouble, no sir. No trouble at all.

The horses fussed and shifted from foot to foot and the coach rocked heavily when the captain climbed aboard it one last time, withdrawing the Rattler in its crate and letting it slide onto the ground. He tugged at his jacket collar, and stretched his arms and back in preparation to lift it again.

Off at the edge of the sidewalk, he saw the mulatto boy who worked for Barebones, watching curiously—and perhaps by his employer’s strict instructions, if Hainey knew Barebones at all.

“You over there,” he called out, and pointed at the boy in case there was any doubt.

He cringed and said, “Me?”

“You, that’s right. Come here, would you?”

The kid slunk forward, coming up the half-block’s distance and all but cowering. He said, “Yes sir?”

And Hainey told him, “For God’s sake, son. Stand up straight. No one’ll ever respect you if you hunker like that all the goddamned time.”

“Yes sir,” he said more firmly. “But I’m only a kitchen boy.”

“All the more reason to show some dignity. Straighter than that,” he commanded. “That’s better. Now let me ask you something. You’ve been working for Barebones, how long?”

“Pretty much forever. I don’t remember.”

The captain said, “That’s fine, all right. You trust him?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me, now. I know when boys are lying. I used to be one, you understand.”

The boy said, “No sir. I don’t trust him. But he’s not too bad.”

Hainey nodded slowly. “That’s fair enough. I’d say about the same, if anybody asked me. So let me ask you one more thing—you got a horse, or anything like that?”

“Not even a mule, sir.”

“Not even a mule,” he repeated. “Well then. If I were to give you these two horses here—and they ain’t much, I know—but if I were to give you these two horses, would Barebones take ’em from you, or let you keep ’em, do you think?”

The boy pondered this a moment, then said, “I think he’d probably keep the better one, and let me keep the other one.”

“I think you’re right.” He picked up the Rattler’s crate, hoisting it up to hold it in front of him, and straining to do so. “Anyway, I guess they’re yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yours, that’s right. I don’t have any more use for them. Take the coach too, and take it right now—back to Barebones. Tell him we thank him for his time and his hospitality, such as it was. Tell him I said the horses are yours, but the coach is his if he wants to keep it. Or he can push it off a cliff, I don’t care.”

The boy brightened, though he was confused. “Thank you, sir!” he said, not wanting to appear ungrateful or disinterested.

“You’re welcome. And stand up straight. Do it all the time. Otherwise, you’ll be a boy all your life,” he said, and he walked back towards the service yards, and the Valkyrie, without a backwards glance.

He was halfway between the street’s edge and the Union warbird when he heard the first shot. The second rang out close behind it, and a third and fourth came fast on the heels of the others.

Hainey made some guesses.

Someone had come back.

Simeon hadn’t been able to hold the ship without opening fire; he was a good first mate, and an all-around smart man—too smart to shoot unless he had to. And Lamar, up there under the hatch. Had he kept a pistol in his tool belt? The captain couldn’t recall; he hadn’t looked. He’d been in such a hurry.

The Rattler’s crate bounced against his thighs, his knees, and his shins as he gave up on jogging and dropped the thing to the ground. An all-out firefight had opened up only a hundred yards away and he was being left out of it. He didn’t want it to come to this—it was always easier when things didn’t come to this—but he kicked the lid of the crate away and, as a new volley of shots were exchanged, he hefted the Rattler out of the sawdust and shavings that cradled it.

People were running past him, flowing around him like he was a rock in a stream, ignoring him as they rushed to see the commotion, or rushed away from it. The noise level rose as men began to yell, to summon further assistance, and to sound a wide assortment of alarms.

But he had the Rattler raised, and it was still loaded from the day before; its sling of ammunition dangled heavily across his arm and the crank on the right was ready to turn. He shifted himself, adjusted the gun, and kept walking in the ponderous pace which was all he could manage while shouldering so much weight.

Soon, the Valkyrie was in sight.

Lamar was not beneath the unfastened exterior panel, and hopefully he’d finished whatever task had kept him there—despite the fact that he hadn’t had time to seal the workspace behind him. The bay doors were open and the folding steps were extended, though Simeon’s burnished arms were visible, guns blazing return-fire at the small crowd that was surrounding the ship.

Lamar’s pistols joined Simeon’s revolvers, but neither of them could see what they were aiming at without lowering their heads through the open portal, exposing themselves to danger.

Someone at the edge of the festering crowd was hollering, “Stop shooting! Stop shooting! There’s enough hydrogen here to blow this city off the goddamned map!”

And some people were listening. Some guns were sliding back into holsters, or being held silent in hands that were aimed at the bottom of the black-hulled Valkyrie with its sharp silver lettering. But others were caught up in the fright and noise of the moment, and the two men holed up inside the craft were aware that the advantage was partly theirs.

They were shooting blind, and wild, but they were firing from within a heavily armed craft. Even if another ship were to explode beside them, there was an excellent chance that they’d survive to pirate again another day; but the men outside were standing amid vessels that were not so heavily reinforced. The other vehicles were cargo vessels, moving foodstuffs and commercial goods, and none of them featured Valkyrie’s armoring.

One stray bullet, aimed unwisely, could detonate a ship—causing a chain reaction that might not blow Kansas City off the map, but could leave one side of town sitting in a smoking crater, all the same.

If the facts had been any different, the crowd might’ve rushed the ship or fired more readily—and the two men inside could not have held it. But Hainey saw the scene for what it was, and he knew that even with such an advantage, his men couldn’t keep the other men at bay for long.

This also meant that he shouldn’t rev up the Rattler, really, but that didn’t stop him.

He braced himself, spreading his feet apart and using one hand to balance the weapon while the other hand pumped the crank until the six-cylindered gun began to whir—and then he let out a battle roar that would’ve done an Amazonian proud. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, sending the shout soaring over the gunfire and through the service yards, creating one precious instant of distraction to buy his men more time to secure themselves.

Because the fact was, he didn’t want to fire the Rattler for the very same reason that the rest of the reasonable crowd-members had holstered their firearms. The hydrogen was everywhere, and the Rattler was exceptionally difficult to aim when he carried it alone.

A moment of stillness fell as all eyes landed on the captain.

He was a frightful sight. Six feet even and broad as a Clydesdale, scarred, straining, pumping, and flushed with rage—with a two hundred pound gun humming and spinning its massive wheels beside his head, only inches away from his ear.

Everyone was frozen. He’d confused them, and no one yet understood that he planned to make for the Valkyrie.

Except for Simeon and Lamar.

They both understood, and their arms and wrists and guns retreated slowly back inside the craft while the attention had been drawn to the captain…who then, aiming the Rattler low enough that it would mostly strafe the ground, flipped the switch that allowed the machine to open fire.

The Rattler kicked dozens of shots a minute into the dust, into the crowd, into the air when even Hainey was startled by its volume and power and he lurched—almost losing control, and regaining it enough to keep turning the crank. He teetered and leaned, firing as if his arm was automatic too—as if his elbow were a piston.

The crowd broke under the onslaught. Half a dozen men went down, and were maybe dead on the spot. The rest ran like hell, except for a few security men who huddled in a pack and made a point to draw. Hainey swept the Rattler to spray them, since they posed the most imminent threat; his shoulders lurched and leaned as the gun’s kick pounded against his balance.

If he didn’t start moving, and moving swiftly, he’d never be able to hold the Rattler upright more than another few seconds.

His scar-crossed cheek was scalded by the friction and firearm heat, and his wool coat smelled of burning where his arm held the gun into position. He staggered forward, struggling to plant one foot in front of the other and then he hobbled, forward, not fast but steady; and he quit turning the crank—letting the last of the wheel’s inertia throw out another six shots, but otherwise abandoning the lever. It was too much to concentrate on, operating the gun, and holding the gun, and keeping the gun from hitting anything that might explode…while lurching forward under its considerable weight.

Upon nearing the folding steps of the Union warbird, he pivoted on his hip with a heave and assumed a defensive position—aiming the amazing gun out at the crowd, as what was left of it warily circled, understanding now that Hainey was one of the thieves, hell-bent on taking the ship.