Dandelion Iron Book One

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  Wren picked up her lantern, stepped in the stirrup and hoisted herself onto the saddle. “Well, Johnson,” she said with a mean laugh. “How’s it feel to be unlucky for once, you lucky bastard?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but took off trotting on Mick with the MG21 across her shoulder. Looking for a fight.

  “I’m pretty much jacked,” Micaiah muttered.

  Once again, he and I were alone in the dark.

  He had cursed, said the word “jacked” right in front of me, which wasn’t very gentlemanly. I tried to ignore the fact by trying to piece together his story. “If you really need to get across the Juniper, then you prolly should come with us. But why didn’t you just fly to Vegas? Not over the Juniper, but around it, or suborbital?”

  “My aunts have spies everywhere outside of the Juniper,” he said. “With the identity laws, people are easy to find.”

  I remembered the eye-scanners back at the Cleveland bus station.

  Micaiah took a step closer. “Thank you for trying to save me a third time.” His voice came out so warm and smiley, I forgot about my questions.

  “Yeah, well,” I said, getting uncomfortable. He was near enough I could feel his heat. Then I realized what he was trying to do. He was trying to seduce me.

  Well, I’d show him. “Okay, Micaiah, let’s get one thing straight. I want you to know, right now, what kind of girl I am.”

  “You want to talk about the kiss?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” I scowled. How had he known what I was thinking?

  “Okay, what about the kiss?” he asked.

  Suddenly I didn’t have a single word in my head that made any sense.

  (ii)

  Standing there in the dark, I couldn’t forget the cute blue of his clever eyes, or how he tasted on my lips. Help me, Lord.

  Okay, I’d start with the Lord. “Listen up. I was raised with good Christian ethics, and I am a firm supporter of Sally Browne Burke and the New Morality. I truly believe that the future of all humanity rests on the virtue and intelligence of women everywhere, starting with me.”

  Once I got going, it felt like I was preaching from a pulpit, not standing among sagebrush under a cold, starry sky, so I really poured on the rhetoric. “As a guardian of our species, my conduct must be beyond reproach. What happened in the minivan was a mistake brought on by fear and extreme circumstances. I am now in firm control of my passions, and there won’t be a repeat of the said incident.” I had to inhale real deep after my speech.

  I couldn’t see his face. Dang Juniper and no light. But I could see him nod. “So, you’re a firm member of the New Morality movement?

  “Very firm.”

  “Very firm,” he echoed.

  “We’ve established that.” I said. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me, and I was in too deep to retreat. “I’m sure you noticed my dress.”

  “Yes, very gray, very New Morality. However, Miss Burke does say that when two people have a deep attraction for each other, that such a union is blessed by God, and that love, in the end, will give us the next generation just like it has done for millennia.” Now that he was making a speech of his own, his voice was Yankee crisp, accent neutral, as bright and shiny as a new silver dollar.

  But I could tell he was trying to argue me into a corner. “Yeah, she did say all those things. And normally, well, I guess, you and me …” My words failed me. Every syllable died right there.

  That boy took up where I left off, not joking any more. “Cavatica, I’m in trouble. Real trouble. If your sisters get their way, I’ll either be dead in a week or sold into slavery. I need your help. What we had, well, it was powerful, unexpected, incredible, but I understand what you’re getting at. However good it was, we can’t be together under these circumstances.”

  Now I wanted to protest, ’cause, dang it, I wanted to kiss him again. “I’ll convince my sisters. You’re with us ’til the end. In Wendover, you’ll be able to catch a bus easy to Vegas, or a plane. And maybe you and I …”

  More dead syllables, scattered all around.

  Maybe you and I could go to Vegas together. Didn’t say it, only thought it—fell into a little fantasy, right there. He and I in a hotel suite, him respecting my decision to be chaste, and me wanting him more than I should. Sparkling cider in crystal glasses and a big tub full of bubble bath. No, had to stop myself.

  “I understand.” He put out a hand.

  I shook it, still Yankee soft. Which gave me an idea. “You know, if they see you can do stuff, it’ll go a long ways in convincing them to let you stay. Sharlotte loves free labor. You know anything about cows?”

  “Nothing. I’m actually a raw food vegan.”

  I sighed. “Don’t tell anyone that. Just follow me and act like you know more than you do.”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  Walking next to him felt like floating. Maybe he was telling the truth about his vicious aunts and a mama in Vegas. I prayed to God he was.

  (iii)

  First thing we did was take my temporary corral and head over to the steam truck and our supply trailer. We had an old Chevy Workhorse II, fitted with an ASI attachment in the bed. With all the vehicles left behind in the Juniper, American Steam Ingenuity, or ASI came up with attachments you could link into the drive train of large rigs, like trucks and vans.

  Mama had found the Chevy abandoned in a ditch west of our ranch and used horses to tow it back to our barn. We cut a hole in the bed and hooked up the ASI attachment. Ran piping for the pressure gauges under the body and up through the floor of the cab. Modified the brakes. Modified the pedals.

  Mama and I worked on it together, well, with a lot of help from Paula Borland, a mechanic in town. I can still remember how I loved to read the ASI 5.3 Ultra install manual like some people remember their first Harry Potter book.

  Over the last two weeks, every time I fiddled with the ASI on the Chevy, I’d get choked up, thinking about Mama and me, working long days together to figure everything out.

  The ASI’s steam engine ran on what had fueled fires for millennia on the Great Plains—poop. In our case, cow patties, but we’d add wood when we found it, and we had a small supply of Old Growth coal. We could make asphalt coal if we found any left.

  Mama and I had removed the engine block, sold it for scrap, and then used the space to carry fuel. We also welded a big rack on top of the rig to use as storage and to dry manure. Lots of room in, on, and around that rig. The Chevy Workhorse II was the largest non-commercial truck any American company had ever built.

  Micaiah and I dropped my temporary corral parts into the supply trailer. Aunt Bea had paused from working to lay her hand on Annabeth’s body, wrapped in an old horse blanket.

  She glanced up, then hugged me. “We’ll get through this, mija. We will.”

  I swallowed my tears. “Yeah, we will.”

  Aunt Bea pulled away, then seemed to notice Micaiah for the first time. “Pleased to meet you, Micaiah. I hear you’re going to be with us tonight.”

  The boy dropped his head. “Looks like it.”

  “Well, we’ll see if we survive it,” Aunt Bea said. “Cavvy, can you check and make sure the Chevy’s engine is ready?”

  “On my way, Bea.” I walked over and stepped up onto the bed of the Chevy.

  Again, Micaiah was full of surprises. He climbed up next to me. “That’s an ASI 5.3. Ancient. It still works?”

  “How did you know it was a five?”

  He gestured at the piping. “The angle. The 7.1s are so much more efficient. The fives were so buggy.”

  “Not as awful as the three series,” I said. “How come you know so much about ASI engines? I mean, you’re a Yankee boy, and I’d figured you’d have pictures of frictionless cars on the walls of your bedroom.”

  “The ASI technology is fascinating. You have engines from the very start of the industrial revolution, re-vamped, re-engineered to be as efficient as possible. That they can run on cattle dung
is amazing. I’m surprised you have such a crappyjack version.”

  “Watch your language,” I said, feeling defensive. “We had to make do with what we had. And this old truck has taken us back and forth to Hays for years and years. Some of us ain’t rich.”

  “You’re not just a little family ranch,” he replied. “Maybe you’re not rich, but I would imagine you’re doing okay.”

  “You don’t know a thing, Mr. Fancy Pants.” He had some gall, assuming we were wealthy when we were suffering from such money problems. For a minute, I was too mad to talk, so I focused on work. I filled the water tubes from a twenty-liter bucket and added some kindling to the firebox, still warm from burning all day. Micaiah crept in closer and put out his hands, to thaw them out. One thing about steam engines, they kept you warm.

  I slid off the bed of the truck just as Crete came over. “Hey, Cavvy, we found some ponies looking for you.” She had Puff Daddy, Katy, Taylor Quick, Delia, and some others. Crete’s eyes had found Micaiah, and even in the moonlight she appreciated his handsome. “Why, Cavvy, introduce me to our guest.” She didn’t wait, though. She got down off her horse and curtsied. “I’m Lucretia Macaby, but my friends call me Crete. You can call me Crete.”

  He bounced off the truck and bowed. “I’m Micaiah Carlsbad.”

  I didn’t like how quick he had moved, or how he smiled at Crete. Something bothered me more though. He got his name wrong. Micaiah Carlson, that was what he had said before. Then I remembered how he had stuttered in the minivan. After his iffy story about wicked aunts, the name mix-up deepened my doubts. Who was he really? Why were his aunts chasing him? He didn’t have anything other than the clothes on his back.

  While I sifted through my doubts, Crete continued to flirt. “Why, Micaiah, it’s awful that your zeppelin got shot down. I can’t believe you could survive something like that. How did you—”

  “Yeah, Crete, awful,” I said to stop her pathetic flirting. “But I’m sure you have things to do.”

  She frowned at me. Let her.

  I was mad at the boy, suspicious as well, so I gave him the reins to Puff Daddy while I took the rest of the horses. Puff Daddy was a chestnut stallion with more attitude than wit, though he had plenty of that as well.

  “Okay, Mr. Carlsbad,” I said, “let’s get to work.”

  “Nice meeting you, Crete,” Micaiah said over his shoulder.

  Puff Daddy knew he was dealing with a Yankee and wasn’t acting very polite. It was fun watching the rich boy struggle for a moment, until I stepped in to give Micaiah a little ranching advice. “You might know about steam engines, but you have a lot to learn about horses. You gotta be firm, gentle, but firm, like you’re so in charge of ’em you can be nice. Got it?”

  “Yes, firm. Very firm,” he said. “Like your firm convictions.”

  Now I knew he was making fun of me, and I swore I’d never say the word “firm” around him again. “Come on, Johnson.”

  We guided the horses over to a copse of cottonwoods. I loved the winter smell of their bark and the gentle sway of their limbs, heavy with buds. I tied the horses to the trees while we assembled the rest of the horses of my remuda.

  Our people would come by to drop off horses and say how heartsick they were over Annabeth. No one batted an eye at him. It seemed only Crete and I were affected.

  Our hires came in, one after another, chatty with nervousness. First came Kasey Romero, leading Elvis, a paint who was mostly white, but with a brown face. Kasey shook her head. “Folks say those June Mai outlaws are mutants from the Knockout. That they ain’t human. I don’t know about all that, but I sure don’t wanna run into a whole army of ’em.”

  I figured Kasey was gillian, though it was wrong to stereotype her, and I had zero gaydar. Her hair was shaved short, but even if it were girly ’strogen long, her dirty brown Cartwright overalls would’ve made her look gillian. Kasey was an old hand, who had worked years and years for Dob Howerter in Lamar. I didn’t know why she was with us, or why Sharlotte would’ve hired her. My big sister was full-on New Morality, when it came to their stance on homosexuality. Me? I wanted to be, but I just didn’t know. The ARK had done some research on the genetic component of homosexuality. Their findings weren’t rock-solid, but they made me wonder, and I couldn’t be intolerant of someone ’cause of their biology. That simply wasn’t fair. But was it biological? The New Morality’s Kip Parson certainly didn’t think so.

  Next came Allie Chambers, holding the reins to Christina Pink, Mary B, and Beck. Allie spoke in a hushed voice. “Until tonight, I’ve never heard of anyone seeing one of June Mai’s girls dead. I thought they’d be Chinese. But only one was. Whites and blacks, the others.”

  Allie Chambers had also worked down with Howerter in Lamar. She had left ’cause of problems, though I wasn’t sure what they were. Allie had fire-red Irish hair, and after being sunburned so much, she was freckled completely brown and pink. She had a singing voice that broke your heart. Any song. Every time.

  Kasey and Allie were new to me, but not Dolly Day Cornpone. She was legendary.

  Living Juniper rough had aged Dolly Day—in her forties, she had an eighty-year-old woman’s face, blasted by sun, burned by wind, froze by snow, as lined and lumpy as pemmican. While her whiskey lasted, she’d take sips out of a little metal flask, which was prolly the most expensive thing she owned. Though she had done cattle drives for decades, she never stuck with the same outfit. I figured she’d drove headcount with every operation in the Colorado territory.

  “I can work a rifle if I have to,” Dolly Day said in a rush. “When I was with Howerter, we got jumped by Mama Cass’ rustlers. We drove ’em back. I ain’t scared of no woman on this earth, not white, brown, black, or Chinese, but I’ll tell you what—them Wind River savages in Wyoming ain’t human. I believe they’re devil spawn, all of them.”

  “You can’t say that, Dolly,” I said. “That’s racist. The Wind River people are people like us.”

  “Ah, you’re young and liberal, but I could tell you stories, Cavatica Weller, that would curl your hair. Believe you me, if we run into them savages, we’ll all die, scalped, with our livers eaten out while we watch.” She left, guzzling water from her three-liter Ultra Gulp, another prize possession she had found in some derelict Gas N Sip on her travels.

  I glanced at Micaiah, to gauge what he thought of our hired hands.

  “Colorful women,” he said with a smile. Coaxed a smile out of me as well.

  Before long, we found all of our horses and gathered up as much of our headcount as we could. With our chuck wagon chugging out front, we got Charles Goodnight moving to follow it. He wasn’t happy, but he was smart enough to know we meant business. We attached a sapropel lantern to the back of the trailer, so our tired, frightened herd could follow the light along with Charles Goodnight’s bell.

  Fear dogged our every step. What if June Mai Angel saw us moving down the highway? She’d send in her outlaws, steal the boy, and kill us all.

  At least I would die having kissed Micaiah. Problem was, not kissing him again might kill me as well.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It is the responsibility of everyone in this room to have themselves, their sons, husbands, brothers, and friends tested for viability. And continue to have them tested. And continue to encourage everyone to donate to the ARK. If we do not catalog and preserve Male Product, we are welcoming the extinction of our species.

  —Tiberius “Tibbs” Hoyt

  Blackpoole Biomedical Shareholders Meeting

  November 5, 2032

  (i)

  I layered on every bit of clothing I owned, but still the midnight air chilled me. Fear of June Mai Angel deepened the cold.

  Micaiah rode behind me, and though he only had a blanket, he never complained once. He adjusted himself frequently, and I knew what he was feeling—stiff back, aching hips, chafed thighs. Long hours in the saddle does that to a body.

  I thought maybe we’d do Midnight Mass sinc
e we were up anyway. But no, we were on the run. Easter would have to wait.

  The beefsteaks fought us, thinking it was time to chew cud and sleep, but we kept them moving by focusing on their natural leaders—Charles Goodnight and Betty Butter. If you could get them hoofing along, thousands of their brothers, sisters, and cousins would follow behind.

  As for my horses, they looked to Puff Daddy, who thought he knew everything, but I’d schooled him to know better. As long as I kept Puff Daddy trotting, the other horses fell into line. Still, my ponies kept giving me these long looks, like they were begging me for mercy. “Sorry, boys and girls,” I said, “but if you wanna keep with Christian folk, you’ll have to keep on keepin’ on.”

  Despite our good animals, it was rough going. Lucky we had a three-quarter moon for most of the night as well as a road—the weedy cracks of I-70’s hastily poured patchwork of concrete, gravel, and ground-up plastic.

  I could tell we were getting closer to Denver, more signs of decayed civilization, haunted strip malls, and holes where houses had been. Even the studs were gone, burned in an ASI attachment for some salvage monkey.

  The moonlight’s glow made the landscape ghostly, but when the moon fell behind the mountains, it got so storm-cellar dark, we finally had to stop.

  Not sure if Aunt Bea served up an early breakfast or late dinner, but in the wee morning hours, we were eating cold beans when Wren, Pilate, and Petal rode up. Their eyes were like dead coals in their faces.

  Pilate had his big stormy-colored Arabian stallion, Windshadow, a king’s horse if there ever was one. Petal rode Lambchop, a gentle-eyed palomino quarter. She was a golden-coated princess’s pony, complete with a mane and tail the color of fresh snow. Wren was still on Mick, who clicked his teeth on his bit, wanting to rest and hating the night.

  Our people left to go round up stragglers. Sharlotte stayed with Micaiah and me, to see what our security crew had to say.

  Only no one said anything for a long time. Not even Pilate. He sipped from his Starbuck’s mug and munched on a cheap, unlit cigar. Petal’s chin was on her chest—she wasn’t sleeping, but something was wrong with her. What was her sickness anyway? Narcolepsy?