“Is this how you see me?” Olivia asked in a hushed tone. She picked up the final drawing, the one of the pose she felt most beautiful in, and practically wept from the emotional impact it made on her. She couldn’t even recognize the woman in the drawing as herself. It took her several moments to realize the source of the disconnect: the woman in the picture looked euphorically happy.
“That is how a lot of people see you,” Esme replied. “I’m just the only one in a position to show you.”
“Can I keep it?” Olivia asked.
“As long as you keep me,” Esme replied.
It was difficult to reconcile the woman Olivia was with the woman Esme saw her as. Olivia was more than ten years older, a world traveler, educated, and refined—all of which didn’t seem particularly impressive to Olivia as she’d lived a long time with her shortcomings, of which there were many, and knew they more than balanced her better attributes, but for some reason Esme acted as though she were perfection incarnate. She couldn’t figure out a way to tell Esme how fallible she truly was. She also began to wonder if she really wanted to. There was something profound and cathartic about having someone think she was so important, special, and beautiful.
“Keep you? I’m planning on cherishing you,” Olivia said.
Any further discussion of the drawings, the artist, the muse, or the relationship they all now shared was cut short when the buzzer for the door rang. Olivia reluctantly scooped up her robe and slid it on. The path to her door was increasingly worn over the weeks as the war demanded more and more of her attention and the telecommunication lines became less and less reliable. She left Esme in the bedroom to get cleaned up and dressed as their evening would no doubt be interrupted by some minor catastrophe to deal with or some major threat on the horizon to avert.
Olivia opened the front door a crack to see who was disturbing what she planned on turning into a heavenly night of sex by candlelight with the charcoal smudged artist in her bedroom. Bruce Coffey stood in his full military regalia, which was becoming increasingly ornate and interesting with epilates on his shoulders, a top hat adorned with medallions, and a few old watch chains draped across the front of his double breasted jacket. To add to the finery, he was wearing a peculiar smile beneath his marvelous moustache.
“Gobble up a canary on the way over, did you?” Olivia asked.
“Wrong color birds and I wasn’t the one doing the gobbling,” Bruce replied.
This was an interesting and lingering answer, which meant he probably had enough time to come in and explain himself. Olivia stepped away from the door far enough to allow Bruce access. He strolled in with a little trepidation not just at walking into the home of a former adversary but from the obvious state of hasty dress she was in.
“I feel like I’m interrupting something intimate,” Bruce said.
Olivia shut the door behind them and guided him toward the mismatched furniture adorning her Victorian era living room. “You are, so keep that truth handy when you explain what brought you over here.”
Bruce and Olivia sat across from each other in the two largest living chairs in the room. Before he could explain himself, Esme emerged from the bedroom wrapped in a nightshirt. Most of the charcoal smudges were gone from her arms, hands, and face, but a fine caking remained around the edges of her fingernails—it was enough of a reminder to set a smile on Olivia’s face. Esme made her way over to Olivia and sat on the arm of her chair.
“Good evening, Mouse.” Bruce nodded to Esme briefly before returning his attention to Olivia. “We’ve got the bare minimum of one bridge left in and out of the city, but someone decided to use it.”
“You wouldn’t be here smiling if it was another mutant attack and we don’t have any friends left after Redding fell,” Olivia said.
“We can’t decide if they’re friends, maybe more acquaintances since they seem to know you,” Bruce said. “Commando women, a whole squad of them, climbed across the suspension cables lickety-split, and asked for you by name when the first patrol got to them.”
“The Voron Daggers,” Olivia murmured. “Where are they now?”
“On the bridge still, waiting for you,” Bruce said. “None of our northern patrols are remotely capable of taking that bunch into custody, and, since they don’t seem interested in going anywhere else, Commander Marceau decided they could stay there under guard until you arrived to find out what they want.”
“They didn’t ask for Claudia?” Esme asked.
“They asked about her,” Bruce said. “They wanted to know if she was still alive and seemed satisfied in simply knowing she was.”
“I’ll get dressed and head over there,” Olivia said.
“I’ve got a truck waiting near the Doyle exit.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Esme asked.
“No need for that,” Olivia said. “You’re comfy and warm. Stay in and I’ll be right back.” Olivia gave Esme a long, lingering kiss that appeared to make Bruce a little uncomfortable.
Olivia departed the living room, leaving Bruce in Esme’s company. She got somewhat bundled up as quickly as possible and returned to find Bruce and Esme laughing about something. The quiet, unworthy part of Olivia instantly thought it was likely a joke at her expense. It took a moment for her rational mind to restore order, but her voice still sounded a little nervous and strained when she asked, “what’s the gag?”
“A San Francisco native joke about tourists,” Bruce said.
“I like jokes,” Olivia said, still hearing the nervous strain in her voice.
“You’ve seen the damn bridge, so why are you spending a fortune to cross it?” Esme said. When Olivia didn’t appear to understand the joke, Esme explained, “it’s not really funny unless you know what it used to cost to live here and how single-minded tourists were about the bridge.”
Olivia forced a smile and motioned awkwardly for Bruce to join her. “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” she said.
“I’ll be waiting,” Esme said, her voice dropping an octave, right before Olivia stepped out of the door.
“She’s a firecracker,” Bruce said once they were strolling down the subterranean lane toward the surface exit.
“She’s fragile and she makes me feel fragile,” Olivia said.
“Still worried about her safety?” Bruce asked.
“Yes, to increasingly neurotic levels, and now there’s a new irritant to add to the mix—what would become of her emotional state if I died? Certainly, she might die, which is worrisome for me, but I’ve been worried more and more about how hard she might take it if I was injured or killed.”
“You’ve got it bad for her,” Bruce said with a clipped laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s nothing special to worry about a lover’s well-being. You’d have to be pretty heartless not to. But worrying about what she might go through if you die is another level. Obviously it wouldn’t actually matter to you anymore since you’d be dead, but it’s…hard to explain. I guess it’s the post-apocalyptic version of the sentiment behind buying life insurance. Speaking of which, is there anything you could do to make her situation better after you’re gone?”
“Glad to hear you have such faith in my imminent demise,” Olivia grumbled.
“For a woman with one leg you’re not very aware of your own mortality,” Bruce chided her.
“Fair enough,” Olivia said. “I guess I would hope people who I consider friends would see to taking care of her.”
“That’s a good start. If you promise to take care of Jeremy, I’ll make the same vow when it comes to Esme.”
Olivia smiled to Bruce. It was a good bond to further seal their friendship and one she felt honored to be asked for. She nodded her agreement. “Consider it done.”
“Is there anyone who might seek to hurt her without your protection?”
Olivia’s knee-jerk reaction was to say no. She couldn’t think of a reason anyone would want to hurt Esme. She was a love
ly woman with a needed, albeit fairly minor, skill in the city. “Cavanaugh,” Olivia said without thinking.
“He’d be on my list of concerns too,” Bruce replied. “Odd that nobody has heard from him in so long.”
“As lucky as we’ve both been lately, it still wouldn’t seem reasonable to hope he died somewhere and we’ll hear of someone discovering his body any day now.”
“I don’t know what your history is with him, or what he has against Mouse, but my own troubles with him extends well past simply taking his position as militia captain. Jeremy has similar past transgressions to worry about. I think if it weren’t for my wariness caused by you and your bowlers, I would have been an easy target for him to get rid of long ago.”
“Perhaps, if he isn’t dead, we can remedy that if he should resurface,” Olivia said. In truth, she didn’t like Cavanaugh, but the actual wrong he’d done to her didn’t pass beyond that. She also didn’t have a clear picture of what angered Cavanaugh so much about Esme. The only explanation Olivia could come up with was that Cavanaugh had wanted to use all of the couriers for suicide bombings and someone had stopped him, in which case Esme would be a constant reminder of an embarrassment or public failure. Regardless, Olivia didn’t have the slightest qualm about killing him to protect Esme.
“You’ve read my mind, Kingston. If the actual work of the thing bothers you though…”
“No, I’m sure I’ll be up to the task when the time comes,” Olivia replied. She’d never killed a man before. She’d fought Slark for years and served in the military even before, but an actual battle with other humans was something she’d never experienced. Killing a man she knew in cold blood wasn’t an act of a soldier anyway and certainly wasn’t something she’d learned in basic training. Something about the way Cavanaugh grabbed at Esme the night they were to mount the rescue for Claudia spoke of a strange, vitriolic hatred that Cavanaugh had for Esme. Combining that with the new, maddening adoration Olivia felt for Esme, and suddenly killing Cavanaugh seemed almost like a necessity.
“In that case, we’ll have to rock-paper-scissors for the honor,” Bruce said with a wink. It was a cavalier dealing of killing someone, but Olivia didn’t think either of them would take the task lightly.
The ride out to the bridge held an element of normalcy. She and Bruce were fast becoming friends. What was once an alliance born out of necessity on Olivia’s part and ambition on Bruce’s quickly changed to true amicability. He’d come to collect her several times in the past few weeks for something or other regarding the city’s defense and they usually shared a pleasant conversation on the way there or back. The talk of killing Cavanaugh put a pox on the evening for Olivia and even Bruce’s fanciful interest about the Raven commandos couldn’t penetrate her gloomy mood.
As they approached the bridge, burn barrels were being used to keep warm the patrols charged with watching over the Ravens. The shattered bridge was in a gentle sway, set to motion by the cold autumn winds off the Pacific and the lack of a full compliment of stabilizing wires to keep it from doing so.
Bruce dropped Olivia off at the checkpoint on the bridge’s base where the toll booths used to be. She glanced to him to see if he meant to follow.
“They were pretty clear about not wanting to talk to me,” Bruce said. “I could get some guards for you if you want, but I don’t think you’ll need them.”
“I don’t think so either,” Olivia said, remembering clearly that Dylan’s Voron Dagger squad could easily have killed her on the beach outside Crescent City, but instead chose to have a reasonably pleasant conversation. If the Raven women braved the bridge crossing just to speak with her, they likely didn’t mean her any harm.
Olivia nestled her head down into the collar of her coat, plunged her hands in her pockets, and began the long walk down the bridge toward the collection of the dark figures huddled around the base of the nearest support tower. The bridge’s gentle swinging was unnerving, but no more a challenge to navigate than the pitching and rolling deck of the Balclutha in heavy weather. Her mechanical leg, with its stability gyros and internal balances, aided immeasurably in keeping her on a straight line down the middle of the bridge.
Three women came away from the main group. The two women flanking the statuesque Captain Dylan Watson were armed with assault rifles, but the distinct tall, lanky Captain wasn’t armed with anything but the knife on her battle harness. As Olivia neared the group, the moon broke free of the cloudy night and illuminated the bridge just enough to see the friendly smile on Dylan’s lips.
“If it isn’t the British sailor,” Dylan said. “How has November treated you?”
Olivia forced a smile in return despite the fact that every wind shooting across the bridge cut through her hastily assembled outfit and the swaying of the bridge was increasingly unnerving the farther she went out onto it. She hadn’t really heard anyone call a month by name in ages. They still had a concept of time, but which month they were in wasn’t nearly as important as it once was. They were in autumn in the City of Broken Bridges and that was about as specific as anyone cared to be.
“As well as can be expected,” Olivia said.
“That’s not what our scouting reports say,” Dylan said. “From what we’ve seen, your city is on the brink of falling and you’ve lost all your outposts.”
Word from Gold Beach and Winchester Bay was spotty at best and nothing had come across the radios since the reports of the civilian fleets arriving. “What do you mean we’ve lost our outposts?” Olivia demanded.
“They weren’t destroyed,” Dylan said. “They’re just under Raven rule now. I recognized the black, red, gray, and white ship you were sailing on when we arrived in Gold Beach. I mentioned your name, said we were friends, and they were all too happy to start flying the black, red, and white of the Raven flag. Seems fitting, don’t you think?” Dylan tapped the patch on the shoulder of her uniform of a black, red, and white flag, similar to the Russian flag if the blue was replaced with black. “Once they saw how friendly we were, they told us they were concerned about Winchester Bay and we sent a team to secure the fishing village.”
“You’re colonizers,” Olivia said through clenched teeth.
“That’s a hypocritical accusation from a Brit,” Dylan said with a little laugh. “But you’re right. We are and we want forward positions on the west coast, especially since we learned the true source of Slark fuel.”
“What we use isn’t the same as their salvaged fuel…”
“All the better.” Dylan took a step forward and Olivia tensed. The tall captain took off her beret to run her hand over her tightly braided hair. “You may not know this, and I probably shouldn’t even be sharing intelligence with you, but the Slark are producing their own fuel again.”
Olivia didn’t need to ask how. The City of Broken Bridges had spread its fleets thin in the past six months. Patrols rarely went south anymore and never went as far as California Baja Sur which is where she suspected the Slark were already making themselves comfortable. With how much easier it was to use humanity’s refineries rather than build their own up again, she did wonder why.
“Why?”
“We destroyed a third of their production fields and refineries for diesel fuel,” Dylan said. “They couldn’t run their war machine anymore on what they had left and they didn’t know how to rebuild Bakersfield, so they started constructing Slark fuel refineries. The Ravens are down to barrel scrapings on the salvaged Slark fuel and the handful of intact oil fields we managed to find in west Texas aren’t nearly enough to keep us going especially since we have almost no understanding of how oil refining works. The Slark must have known they were going to turn the tide as soon as they finished building their refineries.”
“…and so they had to destroy the only city that knew how to make its own Slark fuel,” Olivia finished for Dylan.
“Precisely.”
“I’d thought they were being pushed by the Ravens.”
“They all bu
t rolled out the red carpet for us to cross northern California. We hit a wall of those creepy mutants almost immediately and then suddenly they vanished too.”
“They rounded them up and herded them into us,” Olivia said.
Dylan nodded, which quickly turned into a slight headshake. “That was the minority opinion of what they were doing among our military leadership. It seems the Slark are recovering from the devastating blow their military took in the cascade.”
“The rise of the Gators,” Olivia said.
Dylan smiled. “Claudia told you that, huh?”
“That brings us all the way back around to the real question of what do you want and why did you want to talk to me?” Olivia asked, wanting to change the topic from Claudia for any number of reasons.
“Your city is about to be reduced to rubble when the Slark get their full artillery compliment onto Alcatraz,” Dylan said. “We’re offering you a team, specifically my team, that can get a big enough bomb onto the island to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“We’ve survived their bombardment so far,” Olivia said, not wanting to divulge just yet that the City of Broken Bridges was predominantly subterranean.
“You haven’t seen artillery like the kind they’re setting up and they haven’t targeted your wall yet.”
Olivia hoped the shock of the realization didn’t translate to her face, but she suspected it did. If they targeted the great wall and blew a hole in it, the three divisions of Slark troops waiting outside it would flood through and the city would be lost. What’s more, she suspected Commander Marceau probably already figured this out and wasn’t telling anyone what he planned to do about it.
The Steam-Powered Sniper in the City of Broken Bridges (The Raven Ladies Book 2) Page 28
