Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  Scarlet looked up at her minder and nodded. She felt like she was ten years old again. What the hell had gotten into her? One minute, Telacivic was talking, and the next, the Colt was in her hand. She’d never lost it that way before, and she damned sure didn’t like it. Copperhead was right. She needed to get her head back in this. Too many lives depended on their success. She filed the episode away so she could deal with it later.

  Scarlet watched as Telacivic removed a panel from the rear of the device. Inside, a cavity underneath the panel was a jumble of thick wires and piping. The device’s innards smelled like burnt sulfur and machine oil.

  “The Confederate general who held me captive—Horton, I believe you named him? He and his conspirators took measures to prevent disarmament.” The scientist tugged at a thick yellow wire. “But these are simple and brutal men we are dealing with, not scientists or engineers. I am confident I can overcome anything they have placed in our way.”

  Suddenly, the baggage car lurched. The Baldwin 60000’s brakes screamed in protest as they fought to arrest the behemoth’s movement. The technists Colonel Montclair had left behind both fell hard to the floor. Copperhead held fast to the device, grabbing ahold of Telacivic to prevent him from falling. Scarlet nearly lost her footing, saving herself from a nasty tumble by bracing against the baggage car bulkhead.

  What was only a few seconds felt like an eternity to Scarlet as the massive train crawled to a stop. Everyone in the baggage car held their breath. Slowly, the train began the painstaking task of reversing course. All the while, the device’s chronometer continued its march toward zero. Dreading what she would see, Scarlet looked: only one minute left. But with no second hand, how many seconds remained? Thirty seconds? Or twenty? Or two?

  Copperhead glanced at the ticking clock and closed his eyes. “Whatever it is you’re doing, Telacivic, you’d best make it fast.”

  The scientist moved a mass of wires to the side. A single bead of sweat slid down his nose and fell, landing with a plop on the bomb’s control panel. He swore in Armenian.

  “What is it, doctor?” Scarlet asked.

  Only seconds left now. Scarlet had never really thought about the end of her life. Having survived so many dangerous missions with her minder, she’d never even considered the possibility of death. The truth was that the end came for everyone, even DSI agents. Even her.

  “This panel, here,” Telacivic said, pointing. “It allows access to the inner workings of the device. Beneath it is a simple switch, a failsafe, which can be used to deactivate the detonator. They have secured it with a locking mechanism.”

  “Easy enough,” Copperhead said. He reached across his chest and gripped the handle of his revolver. “One well-placed shot’ll take care of that.”

  “Wait!” Telacivic shouted. “The force of the projectile may aggravate the reactant inside the device. It could explode!”

  “If we don’t solve this in the next ten seconds, it won’t make a difference,” Copperhead said. “We’ll die anyway, taking a good chunk of D.C. with us.”

  A sense of calm came over Scarlet. She knew what she had to do.

  “To hell with it,” she said.

  She raised her Colt and fired.

  27 The Demilitarized Zone, Approaching Washington, D.C., July 1864

  Montclair holstered his sidearm and began the long climb up the ladder. It would take him to the roof of the dining car, where he thought Horton would be waiting. Montclair knew Gregory would be beating on the locomotive door with the butt of his rifle, yelling for the engineer to let him in. He’d told Greg to use force if necessary, but with the full authority of the president and the Union government behind them, Montclair hoped force wouldn’t be needed.

  Now, with Greg attempting to stop the locomotive and Scarlet and Copperhead working on disarming the device, there was nothing left for Montclair to do. They’d all either be blown into ash, or they wouldn’t.

  How much time could be left on that chronometer?

  With everything going on, Montclair had long since lost track of the minutes. Even if time was almost up, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. It was up to Copperhead and Scarlet now.

  Montclair felt the rust flake from the ladder’s rungs as he grasped them. Each step of his climb pulled him that much closer to his destiny, whatever it might be. Montclair gripped the top rung. As he crested the roof of the dining car, he drew his revolver.

  “Come on up, boy!” Horton shouted. “Been waitin’ on you long enough. Weren’t you ever taught more respect for your betters?”

  Montclair ducked his head. He was vulnerable on the ladder. No use letting Horton get a bead on him.

  Horton laughed. “I imagine you’ve got that Colt drawn? Well, you can go on and put it away. I’ll not fire on you.”

  Montclair popped up over the edge of the roof, the barrel of his revolver leading the way. Horton sat on top of the mail car. Both his pistols were holstered. It looked as though Horton would be true to his word and not shoot on sight, although Montclair wasn’t sure why. He certainly would have were the situation reversed. Horton’s cavalry saber lay across his lap, its edge shining razor sharp in the dying moonlight. Montclair de-cocked his sidearm with a clack.

  The clouds from the previous night were gone. The morning’s few stars shone fitfully in the heavens. The moon was close to setting, but there wasn’t yet a hint of light in the eastern sky. The wasteland, a study in barren desolation, sped by them at breakneck speed. Bathed in moonlight, the demilitarized zone looked strangely beautiful to Montclair. The wind carried the smell of smoke from the locomotive’s stack. It dried the sweat from Montclair’s face.

  A horrendous screeching shattered the morning stillness as the train’s brakes engaged. The mammoth Baldwin 60000 lurched forward, nearly throwing Montclair from the roof. He landed hard and rolled, managing to catch himself at the last second with his clockwerk hand.

  Quicker than it seemed possible given the machine’s size, the behemoth train rolled to a stop. There was a pause, and the engine began to inch backward. One-hundred twenty-thousand tons of metal completed a slow, painful shift, now crawling back in the direction it had just come. A triumphant smile spread across Montclair’s face.

  Horton stood and tossed the scabbard of his saber over the side of the train. “Looks like you've managed to stop the engine,” he said.

  Something about Horton’s tone set off alarm bells in Montclair’s head.

  “The Union is saved!” Horton shouted, raising both arms above his head as if in celebration. The blade of his saber flashed in the moonlight. Then, Horton’s false smile faded, and his blue eyes went dead as a corpse’s. He cocked his head to the side. “Or is it?”

  A cold chill crawled down Montclair’s spine. Something was wrong. With the train headed away from the city, that should have been the end of it. Even if Montclair, his boarding party, and everyone else onboard the train died, Washington would still be safe. Horton had lost.

  But Horton didn’t look or sound anything like a man who’d just been beaten.

  “What are you playing at, Horton?” Montclair asked.

  “Worked it all out while I was waiting for you to make your way up here, boy. The red-headed whore and the old man who came onto the train with you, they’re DSI, aren’t they? Recognized them from last night’s shindig. I figure one of ‘em must have snuck into Smythe's office and got a look at our plans. Sound about right?”

  Montclair glared at Horton but held his peace. He needed to know what the Confederate general knew.

  “Not a bad bit of work,” Horton said, “but turns out the joke is on you. The blast estimates you saw were wrong. See, our little lab rat did a fine job. He’s increased the device’s yield almost eight times over.” Horton laughed. “Doesn’t matter how fast this train goes. Washington won’t escape the blast.”

  “You lie!” Montclair shouted.

  “No. I don’t. Got no reason to lie to you, half-breed. You cancel
led my ride out. Don’t know how the hell you did it, but you took the Raven. I don’t expect I’ll be leaving this train alive.” Horton shrugged. “Might as well have a little sport before I go. I don’t see anyone else around, so I guess you’ll have to do.” Horton planted his back foot and raised his saber. “En garde, half breed.”

  Montclair clenched his jaw. Anger took ahold of him so strong his body shook. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, fighting or flying nearly the entire time. Exhaustion, coupled with the uncertainty of the past few weeks, was finally beginning to take its toll. All of a sudden, Montclair didn’t know if he could stand, let alone fight.

  Greg had managed to get the train stopped and moving away from the city. That was something, at least. The DSI agents were working to disarm Telacivic’s device. Nothing he could do would affect the outcome of either, so he put them from his mind. One thing remained within his power to do, and that was eliminating Horton, but first, he had to get himself under control.

  Before Ueda agreed to take him on as his pupil, he’d insisted Montclair learn one thing.

  “Before battle, you must always center yourself,” the samurai had said at the beginning of Montclair’s very first lesson.

  Montclair thought back to then. The samurai had closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He’d gestured for Montclair to sit and do the same. He’d instructed Montclair to first focus only on things outside himself like the sound of the wind as the Vindication flew, the creaking of the airship’s timbers, the thrum of her engines far below. Then, he’d told Montclair to look inward, focusing only on the sound of his own breathing and the beating of his own heart.

  Montclair pushed away thoughts of that day and returned to the present. With the warm pre-dawn wind on his face, Montclair breathed in deeply, concentrating on slowing his racing pulse. He felt the grip of his saber, the wind rushing by as it cooled the sweat on his chest and neck.

  If this was the end, it wasn’t such a bad place to die, and his cause was a just one.

  Montclair crossed himself. His spirit was centered now. He was focused. He was ready.

  “Never put much stock in prayer myself,” Horton said. He leaned casually on his saber. “But I’ve never begrudged another for their beliefs, even your kind.” Horton smiled. “Your time on this earth grows short, boy. Figured I’d at least do you the courtesy of letting you speak to the Healer before I sent you off to be judged by him. I’m about out of patience, though.”

  Horton stretched. There was a series of audible cracks and pops as he rolled his neck and shoulders.

  Montclair drew his saber. The time for talk was over.

  Horton gave a slight bow, inclining his head toward Montclair in a mock salute. Horton’s swordplay was renowned throughout the South. Montclair had heard stories of the countless men who’d fallen beneath Horton’s blade. He didn’t plan on being one of them.

  Both men moved at once. They circled each other with tentative steps, like the beginning of some deadly dance. Suddenly, Horton lunged forward, feigning a stab toward the outer range of Montclair’s defenses. Montclair moved to deflect the blow, but Horton reversed mid-cut. The Confederate general’s blade missed Montclair’s midsection by a fraction of a hair.

  Horton attacked with a fury, placing Montclair on the immediate defense. Horton followed up with a flurry of feints, all of which Montclair was barely able to parry. Seeing an opening, Montclair delivered a powerful slash to Horton’s throat. Horton dropped below the blade, moving from the waist like a boxer slipping a punch. Montclair’s blade passed within an inch of Horton’s head. Horton stepped back. Montclair followed suit. Both men paused, each taking the measure of the other.

  Horton laughed. “Half-breed has a little skill, I see.”

  Montclair noticed Horton’s breathing was slow and steady. His own chest heaved like a bellows. Sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes. Horton actually looked more relaxed than when they began, if such a thing were possible.

  Horton twirled his saber, watching as the blade caught the moonlight. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Who was it taught you to fence, boy?” he asked.

  Montclair needed to buy himself time to recover. Engaging this beast was as good a way to do that as any. “My father,” Montclair said through gritted teeth. “You?”

  “Oh, I had many teachers over the years. All of them fell under my blade. . . eventually.”

  With Horton’s eyes focused on his saber, Montclair saw an opportunity. He ended the parley with a lunging attack.

  Montclair had hoped the feint would catch Horton off guard, but the general wasn’t fooled. Quick as a snake, Horton whipped his saber behind his own back, blocking Montclair’s strike. His blade moved faster than Montclair’s eye could follow. Before Montclair could react, the tip of Horton’s blade pointed at his heart.

  Horton casually withdrew his saber from the space near Montclair’s chest. “Hmm,” Horton said, thinking. “Montclair. . . I have some recollection of that name, even outside you being the Butcher of the Potomac and all. You wouldn’t be any relation to General Phineas Montclair, would you? General Montclair was a white man. But if I recall, he was known to occasionally congregate with Creole filth.” Horton shuddered. “Disgusting if you ask me, but it does fit. You’re about the right age, and you are a half-breed.”

  “Enough,” Montclair said, his breathing heavy and labored. ”You. . . want to. . . fight. So. . . let’s fight.”

  Both men stood still like two jungle cats set to pounce. The air crackled with the promise of violence.

  Horton smiled. “That‘s it, isn’t it? You’re the late General Montclair’s Creole bastard, aren’t you? I’ve heard New Orleans is lousy with Creole. They say you people actually think you’re equal to the white man. That isn’t really true, is it, Montclair?” Horton stressed the French pronunciation.

  Without warning, the train lurched around a bend.

  Horton crouched low, steadying himself. “I went down there once,” Horton said, taking his time. “To New Orleans, I mean. Cesspool of a place. Hated every second of it. Too hot in my opinion. Too much damned humidity! Whole city stank like river water and rotten sewage. Your daddy loved it though, didn’t he?” Horton shook his head. “I’ll bet he did. You know, it amazes me. General Montclair was married to a fine woman. A real Southern belle, I heard told. Didn’t she and the general have a son? A legitimate one, I mean?”

  “Enough,” Montclair growled. The mention of his half-brother tore open old wounds, wounds Montclair had been foolish enough to believe had healed.

  “I hear tell in New Orleans a man can do as he pleases,” Horton said. The joy of twisting the knife lit his face. “Step out on your fine white wife and son and have a whole other family with a Creole mistress if you like.” Horton made a face. “All that race mixing, downright disgusting, you ask me. Not surprised Phineas Montclair would end up goin’ back to a privy gulley like New Orleans, though. Everyone knew the general had a taste for dark meat.”

  “I said enough!” Montclair roared.

  Images of his mother flashed through Montclair’s mind. His blood boiled. Rage clouded his vision. He charged at Horton.

  Horton sidestepped, an easy laughter on his lips. As Montclair flew past, Horton plunged forward, the point of his saber aimed at Montclair’s belly. Montclair parried the blow and leapt backward, his momentum carrying his sword arm back and around in a tight arc. Just as Montclair moved into his cut, Horton lunged inside. Too late, Montclair realized he’d fallen into a trap.

  Horton whipped his saber behind his back a second time, only now steel bit through cloth and flesh as the blade slashed Montclair’s midsection. Montclair grunted in pain, angry his fighter’s reflexes had betrayed him. Utilizing the momentum of the strike, Horton sailed effortlessly past.

  “Well, what do you know?” Horton said. “The Butcher of the Potomac is a mere mortal after all.”

  Montclair pressed his lips together, not trusting himself to spe
ak. He didn’t know what was worse, the pain of his wounds or the effortless manner in which Horton was winning this duel.

  Montclair touched his gloved hand to the cut across his waist. His fingertips came away slick with blood. For now, adrenaline kept away the worst of the pain, but blood loss would end a duel just as surely as a strike to the heart. Flames of fear and doubt began to lick at Montclair. He needed to end this quickly, or else he would bleed out.

  Montclair set his feet as best he could, his clockwerk hand clutching at the torn flesh of his waist in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. Horton grinned, murder in his cold blue eyes. With his victory all but secured, Horton attacked.

  The general executed a lightning fast thrust. Montclair surprised himself, parrying with a degree of power he didn’t realize he possessed. Horton’s attacks grew more aggressive like a wolf who’d caught the scent of blood from his wounded prey. Emboldened, Horton pressed his advantage. Montclair blocked every attack until, finally, he glimpsed an opening and struck.

  Montclair’s blade flashed in the moonlight. Horton dodged the cut with ease, delivering a vicious counterstrike of his own in the process. Horton’s blade bit again, slashing Montclair across the back of his arm.

  “That’s two for me,” Horton said, “in case you’re keeping count.” Horton turned his back to Montclair and walked over to the edge of the roof. “Some have referred to me as the finest blade in the South,” Horton said, looking out at the passing wastelands. He flicked Montclair’s blood from his saber. “That point’s arguable, I suppose, but I would have thought the son of the great Phineas Montclair would at least give me a little more sport in my final hour. Seems I’m to be disappointed. If we’re being honest with one another, Montclair, I have to tell you I’m getting a little tired of this.”