Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus by P.C. Martin Page B

unfounded, for as we reached the summit of the rise, there, hovering over the wide valley before us, was the airship. I saw my target as the Widow screeched to a stop.
    Holmes' cry of “FIRE, WATSON!” was drowned as my enormous gun belched murderously from the depths of its revolutions; suddenly the skyline before us was gloriously illuminated with such a display of fireworks as my eyes had never seen.
    The hydrogen-filled chambers of the airship's body exploded one by one with a fearsome roar that shook the very air, and then, fragment after fragment of burning material floated or fell to the earth below.
    Amidst this glorious display, my heart was wrenched by the cries of the wretched fugitives, trapped in the inferno by the very element that had given them their wings. The screams of terror were indeed horrifying, and I saw more than one man leap to certain death on the uneven plain fifty feet beneath their burning ship. The aircraft, with its gas chambers rapidly consumed by the starving, passionate flames, drifted through the air in a lazy, unguided descent, and foundered at last on the slope of a knoll, a trail of burning debris scattered in its wake.
    How long we sat there, watching the fires consume themselves to glowing embers, I cannot tell. By degrees, however, the panorama before us was overrun with the proper agents of law and order, our allies in the chase, who, guided by the sounds and sight of the airship's destruction, had caught up at last—too late—with the quarry we had come to seek.
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    There were no survivors found amid the debris of the terrible accident. Of the twenty-four bodies recovered from the scene, at least three unarmored corpses matched the given proportions of Pierre Nemo, although these were so scorched and charred they could not be definitely identified. Nothing remained of the magnificent dirigible but its badly mangled metal hull and fittings, and of its contents only a few articles of weaponry and other sundry articles escaped the searing heat of the exploding gases.
    Holmes and I retired from the scene in the early hours of the morning, when dawn was just beginning to efface the darkness with its fingering tendrils. Mycroft Holmes, pale and weary from the long night's exertions, but ever possessed of her nobility and grace of carriage, met us on the skirt of the hillock. Holmes slowed the Widow and shook her hand warmly. Brother and sister conversed in hushed tones for a moment, and then, with a word and a courteous nod in my direction, Miss Holmes turned and headed back towards a cluster of uniformed men a few dozen yards distant. Holmes said not a word to me during the long ride back home. Even his habitual recklessness seemed to have been satiated for the time being, and we reached our flat in Baker Street without incident or ceremony.
    When I awoke later that day, Holmes was nowhere to be found. Mrs Hudson, upon my inquiries, informed me that he had left Baker Street on his noisy motor-bicycle quite early that morning; shortly after we had arrived home, in fact. I wondered where he had gone, and half-expected to receive a message or note of summons. None came, however, and I remained all that day, alone with my thoughts, in our apartments.
    The events of the previous night were blurred in my mind into a continuous scene of smoke-ravaged violence and devastation. Our failure to retrieve the fugitives alive—nay, the fact that I had been responsible for the deaths of so many—weighed very heavily upon my soul. The face of Pierre Nemo, when he looked up into my eyes from the body of his cherished lover, haunted my thoughts. Engaged with my morose pensiveness, I lounged indoors for several long, aimless days.
    On Sunday evening a dreadful roar engulfed the air, followed by the familiar screeching and thumping sounds of the Widowmak'r's incarceration in the ground-floor garage. I smiled, despite myself. The door flew open, and Holmes came in—I should say