Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  “No. And I’m more afraid for him now than ever.”

  “He’s a good lad. And Cope will watch over him.”

  “I know.” And you have him in the palm of your hand, Allfather. Lysanne squeezed her eye shut. Just let me hold him again.

  Someone prodded her. Miss Plank had a surprisingly mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Lift up your eyes, Mrs. Sark. And listen.”

  Lysanne tried to make out any noise beyond the distant bells of alarm, and then she caught it. An aeroplane engine. Coming from the south?

  Suddenly it came down through the clouds. A Buzzard. And not just any.

  Cope’s biplane.

  • • •

  She and Miss Plank weren’t the only ones who raced up to the aerodrome.

  Another black motorwagon carried Sheriff Tedrow and Mayor-General Keysor. The mayor-general still had rock dust on his dark suit but, save for a cut on his cheek, looked none the worse for wear. Lysanne skidded the motorwagon to a halt at one of the terminal buildings alongside his. A cloud of steam blew past her. Cope’s biplane taxied in their direction.

  “Sir! Are you all right?” Miss Plank was out of the ’wagon before it completely stopped.

  Keysor offered a smile. “Yes. As well as can be expected.”

  “Molyneaux?”

  The smile faded. “Locked away. And not looking forward to his next conversation with myself and the sheriff.”

  “I should like to be a party to that, sir.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think of leaving you out. You can be quite…persuasive.” Keysor watched the biplane motor down the tarmac. “I’m more anxious at the moment to see what our boys have found.”

  Another motorwagon raced up and disgorged a few constables. Steam chugged from its exhaust pipes. Lysanne realized that the aerodrome was largely deserted, until she spotted workmen running out from the hangars. That was when she spotted the militia men in green coats and mismatched trousers standing guard with rifles at the entrances. It didn’t seem anyone had damaged this part of the city.

  The aeroplane’s engine died down. Its exhausts chuffed steam twice before quieting. Cope was the first down from the cockpit. He shed his gloves and flight cap wordlessly. Lysanne pressed her hands to her mouth. She’d never seen such darkness about him. His eyes bored relentlessly into…her? No. Someone near.

  Keysor?

  Then Winch got down from the cockpit. One of the workmen offered him a hand. But Winch waved him off. He straightened and walked purposefully away from the aeroplane, the wind off the ridges blowing through his hair and jacket. He caught sight of her and hollered.

  Lysanne ran to him. They collided hard enough to nearly knock the rucksack from his shoulder. Tears welled in Lysanne’s eyes. “I thought—I never thought you’d come back,” she whispered.

  “It’s All right. I’m here. And…in one piece.” He drew back and smiled at her. Then he kissed her full on the lips.

  Lysanne melted against him and held on tightly. Winch was…different. The same husband. The same man. The same Winch. And yet…Lysanne thought it might have something to do with the way he stood. He was forward, upright, and carried himself like a man who’d faced something that had rendered moot all the lesser bothers of life.

  And he was sad, too. She could tell as she brushed her hand along his cheek.

  Wait. Lysanne realized only the two had disembarked. As much as it galled her, she asked, “Where is…ah, Jesca?”

  Winch’s eyes dropped to the tarmac. His mouth worked but no words exited. Finally he said, “There was…we had some trouble.”

  “Keysor!”

  Cope’s shout drew them both away from the aeroplane. Lysanne watched, horrified, as Cope ignored the mayor-general’s outstretched hand and slugged him clean on the jaw. The most astonishing part was when Keysor simply staggered back, rubbed the blood on his lip off with the back of his hand, and watched him grimly.

  Miss Plank, of course, went for her gun. Lysanne pulled on Winch and they both ran over toward the fracas. “Don’t!”

  “Hold, there!” Tedrow planted himself in the midst, arms spread. “Cope, tarnation! What in the clouds do you think…?”

  “We got your tarnal information, Mister Mayor-General!” Cope’s voice cracked. It pained Lysanne to hear the caustic edge to his words. “Didn’t hardly cost you a thing.”

  He yanked the rucksack from Winch’s arm. Winch yelped in surprise, then tried to grab it back. Cope gave him a shove. “Nothing doing, Winch. This man deserves the fruits of our efforts. Here!”

  He dropped the sack at Keysor’s feet.

  “Where is Jesca?” Keysor asked quietly. He didn’t even look at the bag.

  Lysanne already knew Cope’s answer. But he had trouble speaking. For a moment there was only the wind. Finally he said it.

  “She’s dead.”

  Saturday

  Captain Beam took a deep breath. “It’s a fine thing, the smell of burning coalcite and the warmth of steam.”

  He didn’t think Sergeant Taube heard him over the roar of the locomotive’s engine, the thunderous rattle of its wheels against track, or roar of wind whipping by the open door of the coach in which they stood. No matter.

  Beam was on the first car of the first locomotive as it rounded a turn in the rails for Pearly’s Bend. Smoke belched into the air high above, leaving a sooty cloud trailing along the tracks. Behind him stretched fourteen identical cars painted dark grey. Each one was laden with men and ammunition and weapons. The other three trains followed, stretching far out behind Beam’s train.

  The power behind these machines was intoxicating.

  “Captain Beam!” Second Councilor Ehrlichmann fidgeted with the stiff collar of his militia uniform. The rank pins on his epaulettes denoted him as a brigadier. Beam withheld disgust from his facial expression. The man was no more a military officer than he was a fruit vendor. “When we arrive in Pearly’s Bend I expect to be able to brief the militia on the full extent of our march to Perch.”

  “And how does that concern me, Second Councilor?” Beam ducked back into the car and slid the door shut. Taube scooted out of the way. He hastened into the coach.

  “Any other hidden contingencies had best be revealed, Beam. I don’t want any more surprises like at Free Flier armada trailing us.”

  “One would think you’re dissatisfied with our arrangement.”

  “Our arrangement is thus: I represent the council and the shareholders of Trestleway Locomotive Consolidate. Their interests are the economic subjugation of Perch and the remainder of this valley. Your part is the dirty work.”

  Beam smiled. “I won’t disappoint, Second Councilor.”

  Ehrlichmann bustled off into the coach. Impudent worm. The sooner he decided he was no longer fit to lead this foray the better.

  Maybe you had best make that decision for him.

  The cythraul were overly interfering as of late. Beam tried to push their cold claws from his thoughts, but there was no denying them when they made themselves heard.

  You haven’t given up on us, have you?

  “This is my mission, and I will see it fulfilled,” Beam said through gritted teeth. “I need only our power.”

  “Our” power? The words pummeled him. Filthy mortal. It is our power grudgingly granted to you temporarily that provides you any measure of success. You bow before us, and we’ll see just how much of “our” power will be necessary.

  Spasms rocked Beam. They started as sharp jolts of pain in his hands, moved up his arm, wracked his entire body. He shook as badly as a runaway rail coach. “Cythraul, hear me. I will obey…you.” Every word was a struggle.

  The spasms subsided. Beam choked for breath. The cythraul laughed. They mocked him. Beam despaired for help from anyone, anything.

  No one can help you but us. No one can give you what you desire but us. There is nothing more powerful.

  “Save that Sark fellow, when he whipped your powers,” Beam snarled. “You fa
iled me then.”

  They did not reply to his taunt. Beam smiled. Not so indefatigable, these cythraul. Oh, yes. They used him badly, but they also needed him.

  Taube was coming. Beam straightened his posture and hoped that in the dim corner of the coach his haggard appearance was none to visible to Taube or the other militia seated on benches toward the back.

  “Sir. We’re coming up to the platform.”

  “Very good, Sergeant.” The locomotive’s whistle blew. Brakes squealed and great white puffs of steam hissed from alongside the boiler. Beam slid the door open again. Cool air felt pleasant after his confrontation with the cythraul.

  Pearly’s Bend was a minor town-state as far as Trestleway’s protectorates went. Even from here, as the train rolled down the tracks over a rise, Beam could see the entire municipality. Dozens of houses were crammed along streets laid out in diagonal fashion to a double block of brick business structures. All the roads intersected with two avenues that led directly to the train platform, which was a long, double stretch of wood planking that hugged both sides of the railway. Four stone buildings rose two stories above the platform itself. About a mile up, the rails curved to the east behind a set of hills.

  The dirigible armada of the Free Fliers circled the city, their black forms like teratorns watching for a meal to scavenge.

  Beam didn’t like that the whole area was open terrain, with barely a tree in sight. Only up several miles into Wright Valley did the dark green of the forests beckon.

  The train shuddered to a halt halfway through the platform. “Begin offloading the troops,” Beam said. “Have all the men save for the motorwagon drivers disembark from the other three trains as well. We’ll send each train up to the roundhouse behind the hills after they leave off their ’wagons.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Beam stepped down onto the platform. There were only a handful of militia present on the platform. No other people. A young, somewhat overweight officer in rumpled uniform saluted. “Captain Beam?”

  “That I am.”

  “Lieutenant Pfalz. My men can escort you to the garrison if need be.”

  “No need, Lieutenant. Once we’re disembarked we’re to leave north immediately.”

  Pfalz’s cheeks reddened. “Sir. I understood from prior communiqué that we were to arrange full courtesy for you and your staff at the garrison.”

  “Define full courtesy.”

  “A meal, local musicians…”

  Beam held up his hand. Pfalz stopped speaking. No matter. He knew blamed well who authorized such wasteful foolishness.

  Ehrlichmann hollered somewhere behind him. When Beam looked, he wished he hadn’t. The Second Councilor was browbeating two militia who had four valises in hand. One of them struggled to get a grip on a handle, and he dropped it. Papers and books fell out.

  Beam snarled to himself. He stormed over to them. His hands twitched. “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone or your manner, Captain Beam,” Ehrlichmann said. “This is my operation, and I will—”

  “You sent them a telegraph telling them we were coming, didn’t you? The garrison knew we were on the way.”

  “Of course! I am not going to gallivant off into the wilderness without a suitable post from which I can command our army. Imbecile!”

  Beam seized the front of Ehrlichmann’s suit. The militia froze. Ehrlichmann sputtered, but Beam slapped a hand over his mouth. “If you speak, I will strangle you.” Beam threw Ehrlichmann aside. The man rolled a good five feet into the side of one of the buildings.

  “Put down those valises!” Beam snapped. The soldiers complied. “Lieutenant Pfalz!”

  “Yessir!”

  “Have two of your men escort Second Councilor Ehrlichmann to the garrison, where he is to be held under arrest on my orders.”

  “Ah…yes, sir.” Pfalz beckoned two of his militia forward. They grabbed Ehrlichmann under the arms and heaved him, with some difficulty, to his feet.

  “What is this treachery, Beam? I demand your answer, and I demand your badge!” Ehrlichmann’s face was red.

  Beam smiled. “The only treachery here is your own, Second Councilor. There is no way I will continue this operation with your interference and your gross incompetence in my path every time I take a step. Therefore the charge of treason will do nicely. I’ll have Taube manufacture some evidence against you on our drive north.”

  “No. No, you can’t!” The militia pulled against Ehrlichmann as he struggled to free himself, and to get nearer to Beam. “They’ll kill me! I’ll be fusilladed on the spike!”

  Beam crossed the distance to him with two steps.

  Rid us of this worm. The cythraul invitation was so insistent.

  Beam slapped Ehrlichmann hard across the face. “I will not let anyone kill you. When we return victorious, I reserve that pleasure for myself.”

  The men dragged Ehrlichmann off. He sagged against them, all resistance fled.

  “Lieutenant, cancel whatever fool arrangements the former Second Councilor made,” Beam said quietly. “My men and I march immediately for Fort DeSmet.”

  Saturday

  Winch worked diligently to convince himself everything was back to normal.

  It could have been another press run day at the Perch Advocate. He wanted to believe it was so. Even with Gil standing by him, haggard, withdrawn, his arm in a sling. The pipe puffed full-bore.

  The basement was brightly lit by four bulbs hanging from wires strung along the ceiling rafters. It smelled sharply of ink down here. The press was a massive beast hunkered in on corner, all black metal, wood frames, and silver plates. It shook and grumbled with an intensity that rattled Winch’s bones. He could feel it through the soles of his shoes. Steam hissed from exhaust pipes. He sniffed. The wheel belts put out the stench of burnt rubber.

  Winch stared at the broadsheet shooting out the end of the press. His eyes burned with fatigue. Too little sleep, too little prayer. Too little talk with Lysanne. Some brick wall had arisen between them.

  Then there were the deaths. Militiamen. Oneyear. Jesca. He couldn’t rid them from his mind.

  Winch focused instead on the headline: “Trestleway Amasses Invasion Army.” There were his photographs of the south rail yard at Trestleway, the weapons and armor on full display for all Perch to see. There was the article detailing the conversations he’d written down and the army he’d seen. He’d labored over it all night.

  What time was it, anyway? He dug his pocket watch out of his vest. By the Allfather. Five in the morning. No wonder he was exhausted.

  “Winchell, when I sent you to bring me back a story, I never imagined this is what I’d have on my front page, lad.” Gil clapped him on the shoulder.

  “It’s not all my handiwork, Gil.” Winch grabbed one of the pages. Just a double-sided broadsheet. There wasn’t time for a full edition if they wanted to get it out on the streets before any of the other papers beat them. “Your account of the bombing at the park is right up there.”

  “Bah. That tomfoolery wasn’t about to stop me from getting this out.” Gil snatched the paper from him. His teeth ground on his pipe stem. “The people have to know the truth, no matter how daft it may seem.”

  “‘Daft’ is the word.” Winch shook his head at the photograph of blast site at the park. Those bodies. It could have been his Lysanne. His anger flared. “Does Beam think he can get away with this?”

  “Oh, he’ll come with his cythramancers and his army and his guns. He might even win. That much is apparent.” Gil made a cranking motion with his arm. One of the pressmen, face dirty and lined with worry, looked his way. “Faster! Get the gears up!”

  “All right, Mister Davies!” He reached over for a set of valve wheels. He gave one a twist. Steam whistled from an exhaust. The press chugged faster, the sheets spitting out at twice the speed. “Much faster than that, and she’ll blow!”

  “Keep it out of the red, then!” Gil clapped Winch on the sh
oulder. “Look. Beam may not be numb as a hake. He’s going to make his move, from what you’ve told me, and no public opinion mess is going to make a smattering of difference. You’ve seen the tele-typer this morning?”

  “No, why?”

  “Trestleway’s news service already sent a cable out concerning our ‘unfortunate insurrection by Crims anarchists,’” Gil snapped. “Blamed fools. It doesn’t matter a whit that Mayor-General Keysor sent his own official proclamation regarding Trestleway’s involvement. What matters is both stories are out there, for Naxothrace, Fort DeSmet, Megunticook, and all our allies to read. Whom will they believe?”

  Whom indeed. “Surely Mintannic wouldn’t take any of that seriously.”

  “We’re far afield for them to care much about,” Gil said. He shook his pipe at Winch. “They have their mitts full dealing with the trade disputes among the city-states up north. Not much time to pay attention to the small fry, like us.”

  “So the odds of them fielding a peacekeeping army are slim.”

  “Next to nil, lad. In my opinion. Maybe the mayor-general thinks otherwise.”

  Winch shook his head. He stared down at the broadsheet.

  “You’re tired, Winch. Go home. Konrad’s rounding up our paperboys. We’ll show the City Regulator and the rest how to do news. Ha! So much for the small weekly, eh?”

  “Thanks. I do need the rest.” Winch yawned.

  “Don’t start that. Contagious, you know.” Gil hesitated. “And you might want to have a word with that wife of yours.”

  “She has a name, Gil,” Winch said dryly.

  “Confound it, don’t sass me!” Gil scowled. “She was barricading something when I talked to her about the park bombing. She gave us a good perspective for that, by-the-by.”

  “I read that. And I’m ticked you sent her out there, Gil. What did you put her into harm’s way for?”

  “It was her own confounded idea! Don’t dump the whole mess in my lap!” Gil grinned. “You’ve got a firework on your hands, Winchell, but there’s something amiss. I think she’s sore about that young lady you and Cope went to see.”

  “We all are.” Winch’s heart sank. “Especially Cope. Jesca was… She was something.”