by Peter David
“Oh no,” Jennifer said, and the difference between her acting scared and genuinely being scared was pretty obvious. The truth was that she was, in retrospect, a fairly lousy actress. She’d been doing her best to manufacture concern over being discovered when it had simply been this “Meg” doing the banging. Her reaction, however, was night and day. She was back to whispering, not because she was trying to feign fear but because her throat had obviously constricted. All the blood had drained from her face; you can’t fake going deathly pale. Her hands were shaking. Whatever turn this whole business had taken, it was one she hadn’t been prepared for. “He . . . he wasn’t supposed to be back . . . not for . . .”
“Jennifer!” I heard the clicking of a key in the lock. The bolt turned, and the door started to open, but then it banged to a halt as the upper chain latch snapped tight. “Jennifer, are you in there? What’s going on? This is ridiculous!”
Her voice strangled, she looked to me with total panic. “He was supposed to be out on maneuvers! He was . . . I don’t . . . he . . .” Her body seized up. Beyond shaking like a virgin on her wedding night, she clearly had no idea what to do.
I, for my part, did. I dove under the bed, grabbing at my belongings, and yanked out my pistol from my effects just as the door burst open, the chain snapping off with a sound like a rifle shot.
A very large soldier was standing in the doorway. He had broad features and a black, bristling mustache that seemed to have a life of its own. His uniform was stained with dirt, and there was a backpack slung half-off his shoulders. Clearly, this was a man who had, just as advertised, been out on maneuvers. The poor bastard was obviously looking forward to coming home, washing the dirt from his tired and battered body, and maybe having a nice lay with his wife before collapsing into a welldeserved coma.
Fortunately, he had no weapon in his hands. His rifle was nearby, leaning upright against the wall of the hallway where he’d rested it. I had a brief glimpse of a raventressed wo man—the mysterious Meg, no doubt—bolting down the stairs, casting a quick glance behind her as if to have a final glimpse of the disaster she had left in her wake.
Seeing me with my pistol pointed squarely at him, the soldier reflexively started to reach for the rifle.
The cocking of a trigger makes a sound like none other in the world. It commands immediate attention and typically freezes all movement. If anyone was going to have respect for that distinctive noise, it was going to be a soldier, and this fellow was no exception. His hand froze mere inches away from his rifle. He stayed in exactly that position, hand outstretched, while appraising me in the way one typically assesses a threat. I could see that he was studying my aim, whether my hand was steady, whether it looked like I knew my way around a weapon or just happened to carry one around on the off chance someone might be thinking about killing me. In short, he was weighing the odds of his getting to his rifle, aiming, and firing before being the recipient of a bullet in return.
“Don’t,” was all I said, but really the word was just for additional emphasis. Our eyes had locked, and the looked that passed between the two of us spoke volumes. My single utterance was not a plea for mercy, and he knew it. It was a monosyllabic warning to him that, if he tried it, he was likely going to die doing so. At the very least, he was going to wind up with a bullet in him.
Very slowly, he withdrew his hand from anywhere near the gun. He straightened up and squared his shoulders. This was a proud man; I almost felt sorry for him.
“Very wise,” I said in regard to his decision not to try and arm himself.
“Keep your compliments to yourself.” His gaze flickered from me to his petrified wife, then back to me. “What the hell are you doing here? Aside from the obvious.”
“The obvious isn’t all that obvious,” I said. I uncocked the trigger as a sign of good faith, but I kept my gun leveled on him. “Your lovely wife here approached me at the pub for a little tête-á-teat, but it’s not for the reason you think, or for that matter the reason I thought. The dearly, departed Meg—?” And I nodded in the general direction in which the other girl had fled. “The two of them were working together. It’s a nice little scam. Jennifer brings a guy up here, things begin getting heated, then Meg starts banging at the door, the poor sap panics, and he climbs out the window without his purse or other belongings. Then Jennifer and Meg divvy up the money and sell off the possessions for additional funds, while the poor sap is just happy to get out with his skin intact. That’s basically the extent of it, isn’t that right, Jennifer?”
She didn’t reply. She didn’t have to. The way her gaze turned down to the floor spoke volumes.
“You bitch!” the soldier said with a snarl. His mustache was bristling even more, as if it was about to leap from his face and assault her itself. “How dare you—? I’m out serving our ruler, trying to keep Bowerstone safe from things you can’t even imagine . . . and this is how you repay me?”
“I think it was more about paying herself than—”
He looked at me with cold fury. Apparently his anger had cleansed him of his previous wisdom over not trying anything aggressive with me. “Keep your opinions to yourself. Otherwise, I’m going to take that thing away from you and shove it up your ass.”
“I’ll put a bullet through your eye before you take a step.”
“You’d try.”
“I’d succeed.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said, “how a case of nerves can throw off a man’s aim. How having an angry, trained soldier coming right at him can shatter his nerves. It’s easy to talk about shooting out eyes when nobody is charging you. I bet your aim won’t be as steady as all that.”
“You’ll lose that bet. I always hit whatever I’m aiming at.”
“Hah!” The soldier sneered at that. It was obvious to me that the one he really wanted to tear into was Jennifer, but she was his wife, and I was a stranger, so naturally I was likelier to be the target of his ire. “Who do you think you are? Ben Finn?”
I shouldn’t have lowered the gun, I admit it. But I was so stunned by his words that I allowed my arm to drop to the side. It was unforgivably sloppy. He could have seized his rifle, aimed and fired, and I would have died with a stupid expression on my face. “Well . . . yes. I am.”
He laughed derisively at that, but then his laughter faded in his throat and he stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Oh my heavens,” he said, and then again, “Oh my heavens!” He strode forward, the rifle forgotten, his hand extended. “You are! I should have recognized you! How could I not have recognized you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
He took my hand and pumped it furiously and with such force that he could easily have yanked it from the socket if he’d been so inclined. “Corporal Tyler Clixby,” he said. “Bowerstone First Infantry. This is an honor, sir. I saw you from a distance during the great battle. Never seen your like as a marksman. And here you are, here in my home. It’s an honor.”
“Yes, so you keep saying. Look, ah . . .” I managed to disengage my hand. It was pretty obvious that there was no immediate danger, and so I crouched and started gathering my belongings. As I pulled on my shirt, “I think it might be best if I got going. You and your wife obviously have issues that need to—”
“My wife.” He echoed it as if he had to be reminded that she was even in the room, then he pulled his mind back to it. “Of course! My wife. You found her attractive?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “But I need to make it absolutely clear that I had no idea that she was married. I would never have any desire to humiliate you in any way, and you can count on my complete discretion . . .”
“Humiliate me?” He seemed astounded at the notion. “Discretion? What are you talking about? I get bragging rights!”
“What?” I felt as if I’d wandered into the middle of another conversation entirely.
“Too right! Wait’ll I tell the lads!” he said. “Ben Finn nearly had it off with my wife!”
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“What?” Jennifer had finally found her voice, and there was nothing but incredulity in it. Truth be told, I couldn’t exactly blame her. I wasn’t sure how to react either. “You’re . . . you’re going to boast about this?”
“Shut up,” said Clixby. “You’re lucky I don’t hold you down and let him have his way with you, just to teach you a lesson.”
“Ty!” Her voice went up an octave. She tried to say something more, but her mouth moved without any sounds emerging from it.
I didn’t think he was serious. I sure hoped he wasn’t. I cleared my throat, and said, “You’re, ah . . . very broadminded, not holding this little misunderstanding against me.”
“Oh, under ordinary circumstances, I’d blow the other man’s brains out. But you’re different. You’re Ben Finn.”
“So?”
“So if the great Ben Finn thinks my wife is attractive enough to have off, that just reflects well on me, right?”
There has rarely been an occasion when I didn’t have some sort of glib response, but this was certainly one of those times. I supposed I should have been flattered, and I guess on some level I was. But the entire business seemed madness to me. I slid my feet into my boots, and, forcing a smile, said, “Look . . . you’re welcome to tell anyone anything you want. I honestly don’t care. But I don’t exactly feel comfortable having it off with your wife, with or without your endorsement, and I sure as hell am not going to do it while pointing a gun at her head. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. In fact, even if you don’t excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
“Yes, yes, by all means,” said Clixby. He stepped aside and indicated that the way was clear. Even as I passed him, I watched him warily, concerned that he might still have a trick up his sleeve. That this whole business was just to put me off guard so he could try to ambush me at the last moment. Such, however, was not the case. He made no move toward his rifle, nor any other move really except to bow slightly and gesture for me to pass. That I did quickly, never taking my gaze from him. I needn’t have worried. He was too busy adoring me.
“Finn!” came Jennifer’s sharp voice from behind me. I turned.
She raised an eyebrow and mouthed, Stay in touch. Then she winked.
I hastened down the stairs, gathering my wits about me, and emerged into the street moments later. It was still early in the evening, the air crisp as I breathed it in deeply.
It felt stale in my lungs. I tried to figure out why and did so immediately.
I had become a popular, even a cult, figure. There was no outrage to my presence. I had always enjoyed being someone who lived on the outskirts of society; that was where I felt the most comfortable. People wanted and expected the least of you, and when you’re dwelling on the outskirts, it becomes that much easier to depart. Instead, I had reached a point in my life where I was a damned status symbol. My wife slept with Ben Finn! Drinks all around! That just wasn’t right.
“I’ve got to get out of this bloody town,” I said. “There’s nothing here for me.”
Except . . . well . . . that wasn’t strictly true. There was one thing.
But maybe I could take it with me.
Chapter 2
The One Thing
THE BOWERSTONE RESISTANCE HAD been formed as a protest against the onerous policies and dictatorial philosophies of the despotic King Logan, who preceded our current ruler. It had headquartered in the sewers of Bowerstone Industrial, and I know what you’re thinking. Sewers? How repellent is that? Not so much as you might think, actually, for there were sections of the sewers that had long since been cleansed of, well, sewage, and they were actually quite habitable. More so than some actual inns I’d stayed in during my time. It wasn’t where I would have chosen to reside, but then again, my preference and Page’s didn’t always exactly match up.
On the way down to the docks, where the best and most direct entrance to the sewers was situated, I passed the standard assortment of ruffians and disreputable types. They watched me warily, doubtlessly alert for any sign of my lowering my guard so that they might try to catch me unawares. There were many light fingers to be found in the area, not to mention those who didn’t hesitate to use more aggressive means. One by one, though, as I passed every one of those villainous creatures, I saw the recognition in their eyes. Whatever might have been going through their minds, it immediately went away as, instead, they nodded in acknowledgment or even tossed off a stray salute. It annoyed the hell out of me, I have to say. I thrive on challenges, big and small, and it was becoming painfully evident to me that there were no longer any such to be found in Bowerstone. I was becoming too well-known a commodity. Worse: I was becoming respectable. Respectability and Ben Finn were not the most comfortable of mates, and I had no desire to embark on a long-term relationship with it.
I entered the sewers, and a blast of heat washed over me as it typically did. No doubt the warmth was being generated in the distance by one of Reaver’s many factories, as he was using the sewers as a means of venting exhaust. It seemed a safe bet. If there was any discomfort anywhere in Bowerstone—in the whole of Albion, really—then five would get you ten that somehow, somewhere, Reaver had his fingers in it.
I didn’t know all that much about Reaver’s background although I’d heard that he used to ply the trade of piracy once upon a time. Since those early days, however, he had become quite possibly the most formidable businessman and entrepreneur in the history of Albion. There was nothing, no decision either for or against his interests, which he couldn’t somehow manage to turn into a profit. You’ve heard the cliché about making lemonade out of lemons? Reaver could take a lemon and transform it into an entire lemonade factory, pollute the air and rivers while manufacturing it, then create an entire separate company that would be paid handsomely for cleaning up all the pollution that he’d produced in the first place.
I hadn’t had all that much interaction with him and was thankful for it. Page, on the other hand, had wound up at cross-purposes with him on any number of occasions and despised him, his morals and principles or lack thereof, and the very air he breathed and no doubt managed to turn a profit from.
Then again, it wasn’t as if Page readily warmed up to anyone, even someone on her side. The Bowerstone Resistance had arisen from her personal drive to better the city, and even if you willingly allied with her, she always seemed determined to test your dedication to her and the cause by challenging everything you said and everything you did. Nothing ever seemed good enough for her, and she was quite possibly the most aggravating and demanding woman I had ever known.
Naturally, I adored her.
Not that I would have admitted that, though. She would likely have taken it as a sign of weakness.
I made my way through the sewers. The first time I had come through there, I had become hopelessly lost. I have many fine qualities, but my sense of direction betrays me from time to time, and I might have wandered around aimlessly for days if Page herself hadn’t shown up to guide me. She had just seemed to emerge from the shadows as if they were her second home, looked me up and down, and said, “So you’re the great Ben Finn. You’re shorter than I expected.”
“I’m taller when I stand on my charisma,” I had said, which had actually prompted a laugh from her. She had a lovely laugh and, in my opinion, didn’t use it enough. Page also typically dressed in such a way that her extremely muscular arms (and, on occasion, her flat and well-defined belly) were very much on display. It was like the woman was one big walking sinew. She was very dark skinned, with her lengthy hair held back—restrained, really—by some sort of kerchief or perhaps even a turban. I’m sure it has a name, but I’m a warrior, not a haberdasher. “How did you know me?” I had then gone on to ask.
“You’re part of my collection,” she had explained to me. This was naturally an odd thing to say, and when she had gestured for me to follow, I had done so. She led me to her inner sanctum and there displayed an impressive assortment of wanted posters th
at she had collected during her sojourns around Albion. My smiling face was among them, which should not have come as much of a surprise. Although there were parts of Albion where my services were very much welcome, there were others where the only interest people had in me was collecting a bounty on my head. A number of people who were working with her in the Resistance movement were likewise models for wanted posters. She kept the posters in a drawer, like a file of résumés. Her own wanted poster, on the other hand, she had proudly framed and hung on the wall, like a portrait. It wasn’t especially flattering to her; she was much lovelier in person, as the poster had her nose too large and her eyes too small. Perhaps she figured that it was the thought that counted.
I admit it: I found her instantly fascinating. But I also knew just as instantly that making any sort of serious overture toward her would be ill-advised. I knew her type. She was utterly focused on her cause, and for someone like her, people were weighed and judged by one and only one measure: how they fit in to her accomplishing her goals. Anything else simply didn’t factor in.
Now, though, the cause was over, was it not? King Logan had been thrown out. A new ruler was in his place. What need was there for a Resistance?
Perhaps Page’s time could be occupied with something more fulfilling.
I made my way through the sewers with a confidence that I could not have imagined upon my initial arrival months ago. The heat was starting to dissipate, for which I was extremely grateful. A cross breeze was doubtless helping in that regard. Previously, there had been sentries along the way, but there were none remaining. That was just a further indicator that the need for the Bowerstone Resistance had come and gone. Unfortunately, that begged the question of why in the world Page was still rooting around down there. Didn’t she realize that the fight was over, and she had won?
