by Michael Rigg
The carriage bounced and swayed only slightly as Lucien popped open the glove box again and withdrew a small black object that caught a glimpse of sun. He grunted and worked his bulk into a kneeling position on the front seat, facing me, and pointed the gun at my face.
What happened next was the first in a long list of surprises that involved me that day.
CHAPTER 4, “Pandora's Box”
Bryce Landry was just concluding the wireless call to Philadelphia as Lucien jostled the aero, suddenly shifting his bulk in the front seat as he drew something from the glove compartment.
"Lucien, what are you—?" Bryce began, stopping and widening his eyes as the small black pistol emerged in the valet's meaty hand and pointed at the woman who responded quickly.
In a whip-crack flash of action, she dodged to the side, swinging her fist with the pencil point toward the butler's wrist. Bryce also sprang forward, swinging his right fist while reaching for the weapon with his left hand. The blast from the pistol stung the air as a bullet thumped into the leather upholstery next to the woman's head. Lucien's head snapped sideways with Bryce's punch, the pistol coming free from Lucien's grasp as Bryce tugged it away. The woman's attempt at disarming him with the pencil was foiled, but she still delivered a sharp stab through the cuff of the butler's coat.
Lucien slumped unconscious into the driver's seat, his goggles and specs askew on his face.
Bryce turned quickly to the woman he called “Irish,” his hands reaching toward her face, his expression panicked. "Dear God, are you all right? Are you hurt?"
The woman turned on Bryce, shifting the pencil in her hand and holding it point up, angling it toward his throat. “Don't!” she called.
"I'm sorry," Bryce drew his hands away and she reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears. His eyes centered on the pencil. "I'm sorry, Irish. You're okay. Put the pencil down if you ain't gonna hand it to me. You're goin' to be okay. I won't let anything hap—"
"Alice."
Bryce stopped and met her dazed eyes.
"I'm obviously not Irish." Her expression was unreadable. Shock, anger, frustration, humiliation, terror, though an inner strength pulled her words together for her to set him in his place, at least for now. Bryce had seen that kind of resolve before, among the soldiers he’d served with—though none were as beautiful as the red-haired amnesiac.
Irish—Alice—gasped, pointing the pencil past Bryce to the front seat where Lucien's limp arm, draped over the seat, twitched once, then twice. Bryce took the opportunity to reach out and grab her wrist with one hand and remove the pencil with the other. His warning look, undoubtedly coupled with the realization they were flying high above the ground on auto pilot, stilled the woman. She only stared at him expectantly as she sank back into the carriage seat.
Turning to the valet, Bryce scooted forward in his seat and helped him to a sitting position. His demeanor changed as he reached out to the man he punched, his face compassionate yet guarded. Lucien pushed the goggles to his forehead, adjusted his derby on the back of his head and rubbed his bruised jowl before centering his spectacles on his nose. "Unnecessary, Captain," the portly butler grumbled. "I was only trying to protect you—you and I both."
Bryce eased back, a smile showing his relief. "She's no witch, Lucien. I'll not repeat my stand on the matter."
"She's no lady," Lucien muttered, casting a wary glance to their passenger in the back as he rubbed at the bruised wrist below the coat of his cuff.
Bryce looked at Alice. "She's a human being, Lucien. She's hurt. She's lost. She's confused, and there's a reason we found her."
"Yes, of course there is," Lucien met the captain's gaze fiercely. His voice was low and harsh. "Thorne & Wolfe planted her there to pull you from the signing. She's an Imperial, man, isn't that obvious by her voice? And you saw how we found her! My God, man, how many times do you find a young woman sun bathing nude on the promenade of the Center of World Trade in September right outside Thorne's offices? Think, for once, will you?"
Bryce chuckled as he picked on Lucien’s misstep. “Well, I’d imagine not as often as you would in late July.”
Lucien huffed.
Bryce’s expression fell as his eyes lingered on the woman, “Jokes aside, my friend, I assure you that the mystery behind young Alice’s appearance at the Center was not part of the twisted machinations of Bradford Thorne, and Nigel Wolfe’s only launched conspiracy involved a plate of fettuccine.” He allowed his lips to curl up slightly at the edges.
Alice smiled at him. Lucien glanced between them, the only one not smiling.
Sighing, Bryce eased back in the seat next to the woman who intently watched both men. The Captain pressed a hand to his uniform chest and stretched and popped his neck. "Lucien Howard, you will apologize to our guest and resume your duties."
"But, Bryce, she stabbed me in—"
“Self defense because you pointed a gun at her face,” Bryce responded with a glare, the chord in his neck tight. His voice was low and measured, his tone even and barely audible above the rumble of the aero's engines. "You.... Will apologize to our guest. And then you will resume your duties."
The aero chuttered through the breezy September sky, mild turbulence arguing with the automatic pilot as Lucien looked between Bryce and Alice. "Very well," he said at last. Without smiling, the valet turned to Alice and removed his hat, placing it over his heart before saying, "My apologies... madam."
Alice opened her mouth to speak, but Lucien had already replaced his hat and goggles, turned in his seat and released the lever controlling the aero. He banked the sky carriage sharply toward Philadelphia and kept his gaze from the rear view mirror.
Alice looked at Bryce. "There are witches here?"
His brow knitting tightly, Bryce only glanced at her as he kept his eyes on the back of Lucien's head. He nodded only slightly. "Some say the Imperials tampered with the genetic makeup of select individuals, beautiful young ladies if you will. Not," he lifted his chin toward her, "unlike yourself."
Alice shared Bryce’s view of the back of Lucien's head, then she glanced outside to a trio of biplanes as they shot by in the opposite direction. When she turned back to Bryce she found he had turned to face her directly, his deep brown eyes now warm with concern. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, but loud enough to be heard over the carriage motors.
"Lucien Howard is a good man, Alice. His actions were meant only to protect me." Bryce took a deep breath. "I know this is strange to you and all, that you didn't ask to be placed in the vulnerable position you’re in. I believe that. I believe you're no more a witch than I am." He shrugged and offered a smile. "Maybe I'm jaded. Maybe I've lived in guarded safety a little too long." He eased back and turned his gaze outside. He parked a hand under his chin, his fingers curled into a loose fist. "Lucien and my father would advise caution in all matters. I am more noteworthy as a man of action. Sometimes that serves me well, others…" He opened his fingers loosely. “Sometimes not so much.”
Alice cleared her throat. "Mr. Landry—? Captain, I mean."
He looked at her. "Bryce. Please."
"Bryce." She hugged herself tightly under the greatcoat. "I swear, I wish I could tell you something. I wish you could tell me something. I don't even know my real name.... None of this is familiar to me, just, maybe bits and pieces.”
He studied her for a long time, absorbed the fear and cautious determination in her deep green eyes and could feel deep within his soul that she was telling the truth. There was something markedly strange about her, but more alien than anything. She wasn't a witch. Not by a long shot. But the more Bryce Landry looked at her, the more he felt drawn to her. He needed to find out where she was from and how she got here.
"I'll help you find
your memories, Alice. I'll help you mend, and then I'll make sure you get back to your kin... if I can find them."
Alice nodded her thanks, with a stuttering movement of her chin, then she turned her attention to the dark purple clouds over Philadelphia in the distance .
The captain watched her closely as she turned away, praying with all his heart that Lucien was wrong.
~~~~~~~
Haley's Pub n' Brew was located on the fourteenth floor of the old Karras and White building in downtown Philadelphia. Rain pattered the metal-plated roof and open window slats, and flashes of lightning cast long shadows in the dim lantern-lit bar. Periodic rumbles of thunder vibrated the painted green doors and brass handles of Haley's entrance from the balcony even before they rattled open with a kick.
There were only a few patrons in Haley's despite the happy hour. Some were seated at small tables, a couple were at the bar. Many were travelers, pilots stopping in for a bite to eat or a quick drink, or just to take respite from the storm. At least one was a known local troublemaker, the small figure sitting in the shadows at the far end of the bar. Bob Haley himself stood behind the bar, wiping out a glass when the new arrival, an Imperial pilot, literally burst in.
Haley sighed and glanced to the shadowed teenage girl at the end of the bar who was just finishing a soda. The girl wore a rust-colored leather pilot's uniform with a red Confederation patch on one arm and hand-stitched patches shaped like bombs running down the other. Each bomb equaled five Imperial targets destroyed during the last war. The girl, by appearances, was far too young to have taken part in the conflict. Her olive skin was smooth but her dark almond eyes betrayed experience beyond her age. Her leather pilot's cap sat perched on the back of her head. A single braid of black hair stretched half-way down her back. Her goggles hung loosely around her neck.
The man with the noisy entrance stood holding a length of frayed rope. He wore a black leather pilot's uniform. Rainwater dripped from every fold of his jacket and from the billed cap he wore that identified him as a Corporate Imperial. "Where is she, Haley?"
The bartender held up a hand. "Now hold on a second, Max. I don't want you to start anything in my place again. She's perfectly welcome here same as you."
He held up the length of rope, shaking it in his fist. "She cut loose my Kite, damn it! The Selly is floating down the Ben Franklin Parkway toward city hall!"
The girl at the bar snickered. "That's a stupid name for a Kite, Max."
Max whipped his head toward the voice. "There you are, you little runt."
Haley put down the glass he was cleaning and quickly moved toward the open end of the bar. "Now Max, I don't want no trouble. You just turn around and leave. I just fixed the joint up." He pointed a finger toward the girl. "And you.... You mind your Ps and Qs."
Ignoring Haley and keeping her eyes on Max, the girl slid off her stool and sidled toward the tall black-clad pilot. The other Haley's patrons watched with passing interest, a few of the regulars ignoring the situation all together. The girl nodded, pulling a wad of chewing tobacco from a zippered pouch in her jacket. "That's right. Ya heard me. I said it's a stupid name for a Kite, Max." She enunciated his name around her thin drawl as if emphasizing that she thought it, too, was stupid, then she crammed the wad of tobacco into her left cheek.
Haley rolled his eyes and ran a hand down his tired face. "Pandora, leave him alone," he offered tiredly, the knowledge that his words were useless on the girl and weighed heavily as he decided to back away.
Max's iron jaw tightened. "Why the hell would you do that? You know what she costs?"
Pandora only shrugged as she chewed the tobacco and continued toward him. Haley, meanwhile, backed all the way to the bar and leaned against it, his face contorting in worry at what she'd break this time if the inevitable fight started. The teenage pilot cracked her knuckles as if sensing the barkeep's fear and teasing it. She said, "Your precious Kite sideswiped me on the Delaware Flyover.... Max. Your stupid Kite cut through one of my strut cables."
Irritated, the tall man dropped the rope and turned to face the girl. His fists reflexively clenched and un-clenched. "Well, maybe you pathetic little Confeddy runts should keep your wings south of the Line."
At only seventeen years and just over a hundred pounds, Pandora's eyes barely reached Max's chest, but that didn't stop her from walking right up to him and tilting her head back to get a good look at his eyes. "Make me." She gave the tobacco another chew. Brown juice dribbled over her lip and she wiped it on the back of her leather sleeve.
Max held up a fist. "You want to wear those wings like a real pilot, you prove yourself."
“I got more flyin’ time than you, Kitegirl.”
“Kiteg—? You little—”
Pandora winked, relishing the growing anger in the tall Imperial. "It so happens I cut your airship loose because it's an eyesore. Kites, and pilots like you, should be outlawed. If you wanna fly a blimp—Max—I'm sure there's room for another hand at a local pleasure cruise line. Don't slap delta wings and thrusters on it and pretend to be a pilot." The girl cocked her head to the side. "Oh, and F.Y.I., I didn’t cut your Kite loose because you scratched my plane…. I broke your arm because you scratched my plane."
"Broke my—?"
Max couldn’t finish his question because Pandora was already giving him his answer. Dropping low, she swung her legs around and toppled the giant Kite pilot. Haley moved behind the bar as Max rolled and grabbed a chair to heave at the girl, and that's when the fight exploded to full force. Lightning through the windows outlined the grapplers as patrons in the bar quickly dropped their money and left through a side door.
One broken table, two broken chairs, an empty pub, an upset Haley, and a black eye later, Pandora stood panting over the unconscious Kite pilot. "And I ain't a runt." She spat tobacco juice on his arm, which now had a second elbow.
It was then that a scruffy dwarfish man with a red bulbous nose and gray bushy beard waddled into the pub from the balcony door. Like the girl, he was dressed in a russet leather pilot’s jacket and cap. The water dripping from his beard clearly demonstrated that the weather was still off.
“Pandy!”
Haley looked up from the broken table leg he mourned over. “Wilco, get her out of here. She’s tearin’ my place up again. Look at this!”
The little man made a face and waved an impatient hand at the barkeep. To the girl, he said, “Pandy, you got a call. It's Cap’n Landry.”
Pandora glanced up with a bright smile, half her teeth smeared red and brown from her bloody lip and tobacco juice. “Bryce?”
Wilco nodded. "He wanted to talk to you. Says he's on his way. Says he got a guest with him.”
Pandora frowned and wiped her boot on Max's chest before joining her co-pilot. "Hells bells, I hope it ain't an Imperial—or a woman."
CHAPTER 5 , “Damnable Dampness at the Checkpoint”
I don't remember when I passed out, and I don't know how long I was under. I was probably just exhausted, mentally and physically, from the literally unreal day I'd had. My sleep was a black void. There were no dreams to tell me who I was or where I was from, just a strange white throb behind my eyelids. I had no memory of my name, but Alice seemed to fit me, or at least my circumstance, because of Bryce's reference to the Lewis Carroll epic. Alice in Wonderland became my lifeline, something I could cling to from a fragment of memory. It was all I had. Wonderland was, ironically, my only reality.
I came awake when the air carriage dipped and thunder clapped around us. The loud static hiss of heavy rain battered the vehicle and poured from vent spouts that had somehow deployed along the sides of the carriage's canvas roof.
Before I opened my eyes, I could hear a conversation between the butler and Captain Landry. Pretending t
o be asleep, I listened to find out what they planned to do with me. I peered through the eyelashes of one eye to see if they were looking at me.
Bryce sat forward on the edge of the seat, his arms folded on the front seat's back as he looked ahead. Lucien maintained his grip on the controls, but periodically checked the rear view mirror.
Bryce said in a low voice, thinking not to disturb me, "I think if she weren't who she says she was, we'd be in scandalous trouble, Lucien."
"Scandal will be the word whether she is—or is not—who she claims, Captain."
"Well, what would you rather? Would you rather she be a beautiful stranger who requires our assistance, or would you rather she be an agent of the devil himself? I declare, the desired choice is easy."
“This isn’t fiction, captain, and you don’t make that choice—she does.”
Bryce glanced in my direction and I closed my hooded eyes. He said, “Don’t you think a witch would have shown Thorne’s hand by now, especially after the stunt you pulled with the pistol?”
Lucien’s voice rose slightly. “Two things, my dear Captain. First, she’s already done enough by keeping you from the contract signing. The second, you’re determined to take her back to the Orchards. I’m sure she’ll come ‘round then. The moment she's within striking range of your father—or his wallet—blam! She strikes, just as she did me.” He moved his hand to rub at his wrist.
Bryce chuckled. “Then I will be sure to keep her away from a supply of pencils when we arrive.” He waved a hand toward me. “A sleeper cell? Honestly, Lucien, you astound me sometimes. Even Thorne isn’t stupid enough to do somethin' like that.”
That gave me pause and I frowned inwardly. A sleeper cell? What if some vile agency actually brainwashed me and planted me where Captain Landry would find me, only to trigger me later with a word or phrase? My unexpected reflexes would indicate that it was possible. Strange. If it’s true, how deep does my cover go? I feel no ill will toward Bryce Landry, though his manservant will be eating that pistol if he tries to pull it on me again.
