by Tonia Brown
It looked very much like a carriage. So much so that Dodger commented on it.
“A carriage?” the professor asked. “Oh, my boy, it is so much more than just a carriage. So much more. Torque! Open her up, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” the metal man said. He opened a small side door and climbed out of the carriage that was more than just a carriage.
“The Rhino is unique among vehicles,” the professor said as he ushered Dodger toward the thing. “Aside from being virtually indestructible, she can reach speeds of up to one hundred miles an hour or more with sufficient input.”
“One hundred!” Dodger exclaimed.
“Yes, but as I said it requires sufficient input. The fastest I’ve clocked her at was around seventy five, and that was at a very short run. I hypothesize that with adequate effort she could reach unheard of speeds.”
“Effort,” Dodger echoed just as they reached the front of the Rhino and looked under the now opened hood. He expected to find a steam engine, much like the one on the Sleipnir, only in miniature. But instead the space was filled with a series of flywheels, ten in all, bound to one another by lengths of slated belts and connected in turn to a variety of cogs ranging from the size of his fist to the size of a diner plate. The disturbing lack of horses—or any beast of burden for that matter—left him dreading his next question. “What kind of input does it take?”
“Manual, of course,” the professor said.
“Of course.” Dodger eyed the mechanisms, wondering just how much manual effort he was going to have to put into the thing to make it fifty miles. And back again.
“I think you will discover it is a comfortable ride. I have always found carriage rides most unpleasant, you see. And after some exploratory research I discovered the chief culprit was the deficiency of a proper suspension. Thusly, I took the lousy suspension of such a vehicle into consideration when I designed the Rhino. And of course, the lack of wild animals at the helm helps considerably.” He motioned for Dodger to inspect the interior. “As you can see the seats are padded for extra comfort, and the-”
“Sir,” Dodger said over him. “I hate to interrupt, but I think I get the general idea. I apply manual power and it goes.” Dodger nodded to the pedals in the floorboard of the vehicle. Pedals he was certain propelled the flywheels and powered the simple engine underneath the hood.
The professor grinned. “Normally I don’t enjoy when someone steals the thunder of my explanation, but it pleases me to see you’ve worked out just how the Rhino functions with just the hint of detail. Extraordinary. Simply extraordinary. Once again you impress me, Mr. Dodger.”
“So tell me, how much manual effort will fifty miles require. I don’t want to be tuckered out by the time I get there.”
“Not much at all. Each flywheel expounds the amount of kinetic energy fed into it, exponentially increasing it to the next in line. By the time it reaches the main gear shaft, that energy is compounded to the tenth degree. Why, the effort to maintain thirty miles per hour feels like nothing more than a pleasant stroll.”
“Which means I have to pedal the whole way.”
“Yes, you have to pedal the entire trip. There is nothing to be done about that. Unless you want to take someone with you. Someone to share the load, as it were.” The professor leaned in and lowered his voice. “There is a reason Boon always took Ched with him on these little trips. The man never seems to tire. Of course, it’s hard to get him to do much else, so I supposed it’s good to have him for something besides pulling levers up front.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Are you sure? He is rather keen on going.”
Dodger glanced back, over his shoulder at Ched, who stood with his arms crossed and his typical shit eating grin framing his yellowing teeth. “Again, thanks for the offer sir, but I think I can make it alone.”
Almost alone, Boon whispered, his presence sidling alongside Dodger.
About time too. Dodger was beginning to wonder where the spirit had wandered off to. And for that matter, where was that pretty niece at?
“Have it your way.” The professor withdrew a silver pocket watch, checked the time, looked to the position of the sun, licked a finger, held it to the air a moment, then pointed to the distance. “There. Waxford should be about thirty miles in that direction. There is a saloon in the middle of town. The Desert Rose. You can’t miss it.”
The Desert Rose. Something about the name sounded familiar, but Dodger couldn’t put his finger on just what.
The professor dug about in his jacket, then pulled forth a thick envelope which he handed to Dodger “When you arrive, ask for Rebecca. Tell her I sent you, and she should give you what you are after.”
Dodger ran his hands along the bulging envelope, and wondered just how much money there was inside. He knew better than to ask a superior the contents of a sealed package.
The professor continued, “All of it should be there, plus more. Tell her I included a bonus for being so demanding as of late.”
“Becky will want to count the cash,” Ched said. “Sho don’t be shurprished if she makesh you wait while she doesh.”
“Yes,” the professor said. “Miss Rebecca is less trusting than even my niece. And that’s saying quite a lot. Well then, Mr. Dodger, are you prepared? Is there anything else I can do for you before you go?”
“You can tell me the truth,” Dodger said.
“The truth about what?”
“Waxford. What is so dangerous about the place? You make it sound like nothing more than a town of thieves, but I have a feeling you aren’t giving me all the details.”
The professor became visibly nervous; picking at his jacket, smoothing down his bowtie, scratching at his head, and doing everything but explaining.
“Not getting shcared, are we?” Ched asked.
“No,” Dodger said. “But I have no plans on turning into a mushroom either.”
Ched furrowed his brow—a nausea inducing facial contortion for anyone watching him—as he tried to figure out just what in the world Dodger was talking about.
Boon whispered, He means he doesn’t like being kept in the dark and fed manure.
“Precisely,” Dodger said under his breath. Louder, he added. “Is someone going to shed some light on this?”
“Light,” the professor said with a loud clap of his hands. “Of course. You’ll need light. The Rhino has built in headlamps, but you might require a portable source. Torque! Bring me a Sunbox!”
“Way ahead of you, as usual,” the metal man said and passed a gray box off to the professor.
About a half a foot in length and less than that in width, most of the box was metal, save for one side, which looked to be a pane of frosted amber glass.
“Thank you,” the professor said. He flipped a handle out from the back of the box, and gave this impromptu crank a few good turns. In seconds, the glass pane emanated a soft glow. “Easy to use. The more you crank, the brighter the light, the longer it lasts. You can shut it down by pushing the handle back into place. Here you are. The Sunbox.”
Dodger took the Sunbox from the professor, his eyes wide with wonder. “Again, I don’t know what to say.”
The professor held up a chubby palm. “Before you espouse my genius any further, I feel I should admit this is not one of my designs. I borrowed the idea from a colleague.”
“I think he means he pilfered it,” Mr. Torque said.
“No, I said what I meant and I meant what I said. Otto was more than glad to allow me to commandeer his design. It’s not like I’m selling it. Just employing it.”
“You sell it all the time.”
“Do not!”
“You do too. You used it on that gunner golem you sold last week to the Germans. And it’s the same design you used for the headlamps of the Sleipnir, and the Rhino, and that self propelled underwater thingy you sold to-”
“Enough!” The professor huffed. “We made a trade. Otto got the plans for you and I got the Sunbox. In
this case, I came out the winner here. God help him if he actually tries to build another one of you.”
“We would’ve known for shure if he did,” Ched said. “The world couldn’t handle another one of him.”
Everyone laughed, save Mr. Torque, who proceeded to fume under his metal shell.
The professor cut his chortle short and clapped again, rubbing his hands together as he said, “Good then. All set? Of course you are. Wrap her up, Torque, and show him the ropes. Or the pedals, as it were.”
The Rhino was simple to operate; stepping up and down on the pedals powered the locomotion. Easy as that. A manual gear allowed for shifting from forward to reverse, and a wide steering wheel controlled direction. After a quick run down of the vehicle from Mr. Torque, Dodger boarded and went on his way with the spirit of Boon in tow.
He was almost twenty minutes into the trip when he realized that the professor had cleverly avoided telling Dodger anything else about the town he was headed for.
****
back to top
****
Chapter Six
Waxford
In which Dodger faces those tricky ladies.
The Rhino proved to have an unexpected side effect; it was fun to drive.
Being a slave to the tracks for so many years, Dodger enjoyed the sudden freedom of the Rhino. He loved wheeling her back and forth in wide swoops across the open expanse of sand. Dodger pedaled fast, pushing her harder to higher speeds, not minding the effort it took to really open her up. At one point he thought they might be going as fast as the professor suggested, a heart stopping one hundred miles per hour. It was much like the manner Ched bobtailed the engine car, but on a more personal scale. Dodger reckoned a man could get used to this sort of thing. He knew he could.
Boon—who flickered into existence the moment the sun faded—seemed to enjoy the trip as well, chattering about the times he and Ched enjoyed the speed and convenience of the Rhino. Not to mention the magnetic effect it seemed to have on the opposite sex. Women, Boon explained, loved the Rhino, drawn to its beauty and dangerous nature and wild speeds like a flock of moths to a lightening bolt.
By the time they reached visual distance of Waxford, Dodger was pouring with sweat from pedaling so hard for so long. He slowed to a crawl, letting the Rhino coast for the last few miles while he regained his composure. At Boon’s suggestion, they parked the Rhino a quarter mile from the town proper, though there wasn’t much town to speak of.
“You ready?” Boon asked as he prepared to climb out of the vehicle.
“Yes,” Dodger said. “I’m ready. You, however, are staying here.”
“I thought you wanted me with you?”
“I wanted you to help me find the place. Which we have. Now you can wait here and keep an ethereal eye on the Rhino.”
“The folks of Waxford are familiar with the Rhino. They will leave her alone. And I’m familiar with the folks of Waxford. So they will leave you alone.”
Dodger eyed the landscape of sand surrounding them. “You can come with me if you tell me what’s wrong with this town.”
The spirit sat back again and considered the request. “Let me put it like this: If someone had come to you a few days ago and told you that in two nights time you would be speaking to a ghost, in the middle of the desert, in a vehicle you powered yourself to a town you know nothing about to fetch an item of which you have no idea the value or identity … would you have believed them?”
“No. Of course not.”
Boon opened his palms to the sky. There was Dodger’s answer.
“I’m prepared to believe more now than I was two days ago,” Dodger argued.
“I doubt that,” Boon said. “In fact, I dare say you are prepared to believe little of what you can touch and even less of what you can see.”
Dodger had to admit that was a fair assessment of his cynicism. From his experience, seeing didn’t always equate to believing, and just because you had a bird in the hand it didn’t make it any easier to deal with than the two hiding in the bush.
“Besides,” Boon continued, “the less you know about this the better off you are. You should know better than most that knowledge is deadly. Some secrets, my friend, threaten to deform the very soul. Just go in, mention the professor by name and they will gladly take his money and give you what you want.”
“Then at least tell me what I’m after.”
“That’s something you really don’t want to know.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I just am.”
And his sincerity convinced Dodger, so he pushed no more on the matter. “Just ask and ye shall receive? Easy as that?”
“Easy as that.”
“Fine then. You stay here and keep an eye on the moon for all I care. I’ll see you in a few. Or not see you. Or whatever.”
Dodger hoped down from the Rhino and set out for the town on foot.
Waxford was smaller than Blackpoint, with but four buildings composing the whole place; what he assumed was a tiny general store (with wide windows displaying sales of tack and feed) sat beside a barber shop (made obvious by its striped pole) with what looked to be a church on the far end (lack of décor left him unsure of the denomination) and a two story saloon (bearing the name ‘The Desert Rose’) parked proudly in the middle. That was it. Well, that and it was quiet. As in graveyard silent. Dodger was disappointed. He imagined the place a hive alive with illicit activities. But this was dull, dreary and boring. His grandmother could’ve lived in a town like this. She probably did for all he knew.
Dodger considered bringing the Sunbox along, but instead left it in the Rhino in favor of the comfort of dark. He preferred to travel by darkness, even when heading into unfamiliar territory. The dark of night, Dodger decided, was just about the only thing he looked forward to any more. Sunlight was too revealing, showing him things about himself and others he’d rather not see. Cloudy days held either the threat of rain or worse, the oppression of humidity. But a dark night with a clear sky was just right for anything. One could get up to so much mischief in the dark.
Two could get up to even more.
With the thought of mischief on the brain, and a wary eye, Dodger strolled into the center of Waxford. The Desert Rose was the only place lit by torches, which was good since that was his destination anyways. At first the place seemed abandoned, despite the lit torches. Far too quiet for a town that lived by night. Then sounds finally reached him, confirming the residents were indeed night owls. The soft strains of someone at the piano drifted from under the swinging doors of the tavern, accompanied by occasional laughter and scraps of conversation. Make that feminine laughter and conversation. The sign suggested a tavern, but Dodger had a good idea what this place really was. He smiled, to himself, as he stepped onto the wooden staircase that led to what he was fairly sure was a desert bordello.
The moment his foot hit the first step, his dusty boot clapping against the hollow wood with a much louder thump than he expected, all sounds from inside ceased.
Then the torches blinked out.
The torches flared bright for an instant, and next the light was gone, leaving Dodger standing at the foot of the staircase in nothing but the moonlight. There he waited, made blind by the sudden flare and then absence of light, his hands resting on the guns and his heart thumping loudly in his ears. His mind raced to make sense of the timing of the torches. They must’ve heard him mounting the stairs, and weren’t expecting visitors. Yes. He must’ve spooked them. This meant he had lost the element of surprise, if he ever had it at all.
“Hello?” he called out. “I’m sorry if I’ve startled you. I’ve come about-”
“What do you want?” a woman asked.
He hadn’t seen her walk onto the porch, but all at once there she was, a svelte shadow in the silver light, standing a few steps above him. Dodger pulled his jacket over the guns, not wanting to spook her further.
“Tell me what you want,” she said. Her
southern accent placed her far from home.
Dodger tipped his hat to this kindred spirit as his own homebred laze of speech kicked in. “Evening ma’am. I hate to interrupt your little get-together, I’m here on an errand of utmost import.”
The shadow regarded him in the darkness before she repeated, “What do you want?”
Dodger always did like a woman who got to the point. “I was sent by Professor Dittmeyer. I’m supposed to ask for Miss Rebecca? She has something he needs and I have payment for whatever it is here.” Dodger patted his shirt pocket and the fat envelope tucked inside.
“You’re here on Hieronymus’s behalf,” she said. The way she drew out the Doc’s name gave Dodger the impression that she wasn’t sure which annoyed her more; the stranger’s presence or his association with the professor.
“Yes ma’am, I am.” Dodger flipped aside the flaps of his jacket, flashing Boon’s guns as a kind of identification. If they were on a first name basis with the Doc, then surely they were familiar with the unusual guns. “I only just started working for him a few-”
“Where did you get those?” The shadow raised a hand and pointed to the gun belt slung low on his waist. At least, he hoped it was just a hand.
“Florence and Hortense here?” Dodger placed his hands on the gun butts to emphasis his relationship to the weapons. The little ladies were his now. At least for the time being. “They came with the job.”
“Where’s Wash?”
“Who?”
The shadow huffed. “Where is Washington Boon?”
Dodger understood then. Her confusion. His intrusion. The residents of Waxford hadn’t heard the bad turn that had befallen the knightly Boon. “I’m afraid he is no longer with us.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Washington Boon is dead, ma’am.”
The shadow gasped. “You’re lying.”
“No, ma’am. I wished it weren’t true. But I’m afraid-”
“You lie!” the shadow screamed and made a rush for him.
Dodger tried to evade her, and would have too, but in the distraction of discourse someone snuck up behind him. (Lord have mercy! Was he that out of touch with his training?) This new person grabbed him up about his chest, pinning his arms to his sides with his hands still resting on the guns. He struggled against this force, bucking as hard as a wild mustang, but his captor held tight. The shadow raced down the length of the staircase and was on Dodger in seconds. He looked up just in time to see her face very close to his, her eyes glinting with rage, her mouth open wide, and her moist fangs glistening in the moonlight.
