Dawn's Early Light

by Pip Ballantine

  “You owe me, Bill,” she said, pulling the hammer of his Peacemaker back to a firing position.

  “I look forward to collection,” he quipped, loosing a devilish wink at her.

  Eliza popped up from her hiding place and fired. A gunman toppled from the back of the truck.

  The truck that was now only a few feet from them.

  “Wellin—”

  The truck slammed hard into their motorcar’s bumper. Eliza clearly heard from the driver’s seat her partner screaming. Whether it was in rage, agony, or a bit of both was impossible to conclude.

  They lurched forwards as Eliza continued to fire. Another bullet sent a Pink to the back of the truck’s cab. The victory was brief as three gunmen popped up from the rear of the truck. She caught glimpses of a Winchester and perhaps a Browning rifle before diving into the back. Over the gunfire, especially when bullets struck at the motorcar’s frame, she also thought she could hear Wellington howling again.

  “What are you waiting on, Billy?” Eliza quipped. “An invitation?”

  The red light in the rifle’s Edison modification flipped to green, a single chime just audible within the mayhem.

  “Get ready for some fireworks,” he said.

  Bill popped up and pulled the trigger. She shielded her eyes from what she thought would be a massive blast but the resulting blast was more akin to a photographer’s flash pot than the promised fireworks. The electric assault lasted for only a few seconds, but it was enough to remove the pursuing motortruck off their back bumper.

  “I hope making promises to a girl like that isn’t a habit for you, Bill,” Eliza quipped.

  He flipped the rifle’s generator off, shaking his head. “Stick with what ya know. That’s my motto.”

  “We have two problems!” Wellington shouted as they continued through Detroit. “The car and our crate back at the station! How are we going to take them with us?”

  Bill reached into his satchel and handed Ford a card. “Mr. Ford, you take this contraption and the crate we have stored to this address. Tell them to ship ’em to Flagstaff.”

  “At this hour?” Ford asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Bill insisted. “Someone will be there.”

  Wellington thrust a green luggage docket towards Ford. “I cannot overstate how important and delicate this piece of equipment is. It is of utmost importance that it is handled with care.”

  The inventor fixed him with a stern look, tightening his hand on the claim ticket. “After saving my life like you did tonight, you have my word I’ll take good care of both.”

  “Bill,” Eliza said, slipping a final bullet in his Peacemaker. She placed the gun back in his holster and brandished her own. “The Pinks are back for another round.”

  The headlamps Eliza first saw in the distance were growing larger and larger with each second. She steadied her hand, drawing a bead in the dark space between the two approaching lights. Somewhere in between them was an engine.

  She lost her breath as their motorcar lurched suddenly to the right. She pulled herself out of Bill’s lap to see they were pulling into Michigan Central Station. Eliza and Bill leapt free of the tumble seat and advanced as one while Wellington and Felicity scrambled to switch places with Ford.

  “Right then,” Eliza began, “your plan?”

  “I’m usin’ the word ‘plan’ kinda free and loose here, Lizzie,” Bill admitted, “but I’m thinkin’ you get out of here with Felicity and your boy, Wellington, stop Edison in Flagstaff, and I’ll keep them busy here!”

  “And let you have all the fun?” Eliza asked, peering into the darkness. “I don’t think so.”

  He looked at her askance. “You’re goin’ all in with me then?”

  “As you all say in the Americas”—and she switched to a languid drawl—“reckon I am.”

  Bill lowered his rifle. “Then now’s as good a time as any.” And before she could ask what he meant by that, he grabbed her and planted a kiss on her mouth.

  It was not the first kiss Eliza had experienced in the midst of battle, but she was sure it was intended to be the most well remembered—mostly because of Wellington Thornhill Books, whom she heard calling out to them, and his call cutting off rather abruptly.

  Still, there was no time for Wellington’s feelings—whatever they might be.

  “While the thought of a last stand and dying in a hail of gunfire sounds just ripping good fun,” Wellington shouted as his motorcar with Henry Ford at the wheel rumbled away behind him, “we could instead catch the hypersteam which is still on its platform?”

  Their lips parted, and Bill was grinning from ear to ear. “Want to pick this up over dinner? It’s a long ride to Flagstaff.”

  Her lips went to form either an answer or an invitation for another kiss—yes gods, but did she ever need that—when something flashed in her vision. She holstered her pistols and grabbed the 96X in Bill’s relaxed grasp. From the ease at which she disarmed him, that kiss had been building up for some time.

  Eliza dropped to one knee, fired, pumped the rifle’s action, then fired again. On her third shot, the motortruck swerved and then toppled over.

  “We have a train to catch,” Eliza said, tossing the rifle to Bill as she sprinted to Wellington and Felicity.

  Once on the platform, the conductors called out, “All aboard!” Shrill whistles blew out into the night.

  “We’ll buy our tickets on board,” Felicity suggested. “Just run.”

  Eliza felt the iron grating underfoot of the joining car’s observation deck when she heard the gunshot behind them.

  A sign suspended above the platform delineating their current platform as a hypersteam line swung free and clobbered Wellington, landing him flat on his back.

  “Wellington!” Eliza screamed.

  Two Pinkertons trotted up to the archivist. The lead Pink, wearing an horrendous tweed that clashed spectacularly with his striped pants, pulled his pistol’s hammer back into a firing position.

  Eliza knew that look, and from Bill’s hissing behind her, so did he.

  Another bullet sent the thug spinning to one side. The second Pinkerton brought his gun around, but his knee exploded. He too fell to the platform, his cries drowned out by the building whine of the hypersteam engine.

  Wellington scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the train, but it was already travelling at ten miles per hour within his first few steps.

  Eliza turned to Bill. “He’s not going to—”

  Bill drew from the small of his back what appeared to be a Derringer. Before Eliza could stop him, Bill fired. The coil appeared to be emanating from his belt, a belt that Bill was rapidly removing from his person. On the other end of the rope, Wellington’s left wrist had been ensnared, and he was now being compelled to run faster.

  “How I do love intricate ironwork,” he said as he hopped on the deck’s railing and threaded the belt through its awning. “Ladies, hold on to me on three. One-two . . .”

  Eliza and Felicity both grabbed Bill and pulled him to the deck. Something in the belt locked, and Eliza heard a yelp from the platform. She looked up to see Wellington dangling off the observation deck from his wrist as if he were an English piñata.

  “Howdy, partner,” Bill said, tipping his hat.

  “If you dare to make a joke about me hanging around,” Wellington began, “I swear I’ll kick you.”

  “I might let go,” he mused.

  “Might be worth it,” the archivist returned.

  “Would you mind posturing inside the hypertrain, you bloody nincompoop!” Eliza screamed as she grabbed Wellington by the waist.

  The archivist still managed to glower at Bill, even as he tumbled onto the metal platform. His glare switched over to Eliza. They could hardly afford an argument at the moment, and Wellington was smart enough to realise that.


  “Look! Out there!” Felicity called, pointing into the darkness.

  Out in the dark void, a shimmering blue patch of light bolted across the open plains. Edison, it appeared, was making excellent time in his hovercraft.

  “He’s gonna have himself a chore on his hands once he reaches Wisconsin,” Bill chortled.

  Eliza turned her eyes away from the fleeing Edison to her partner. She expected him to be working soreness out of his arms or checking his wrist for abrasions, but his eyes were still looking back at the train station.

  Eliza caught a glimpse of the one figure still standing at Michigan Central’s hypersteam platform.

  “Welly,” Eliza asked, her brow furrowing. “Is that . . . a priest? A female priest?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “The same one I saw in North Carolina. Trying to catch the train.”

  She shook her head. “Not the train, Welly. Not the train.”

  INTERLUDE

  In Which a Priest Giveth a Lesson

  Quite a trail of destruction these people were leaving on the flesh of America—that much was certain. Who were these folks, anyway? First there was the strange goings-on out at the Currituck Light, the odd wreckage of what could be best described as a gigantic rocket and a dead man apparently wired with some sort of transmitting device to his wrist and chest. Then she arrived in Detroit to find Pinkertons, both of God’s and man’s creation, also on the hunt. She had so narrowly missed her bounty in the Outer Banks, and now she had him on the Michigan Central platform only to have him literally yanked away from her.

  She still couldn’t understand why she hadn’t taken a shot. It wasn’t like her to hesitate, and something didn’t feel right. The Pinkertons, one of them healing up in a hospital while the other sat across from her, were evidence of that; but every instinct in her screamed to hold fire. This bounty and the company he kept were giving her far more trouble than she was accustomed to.

  And considering the mayhem in their wake, no wonder the House of Usher wanted this man, Wellington Thornhill Books, so badly. The smoking ruins and destroyed moonlight towers she could see from the window of her modest lodgings were testament to the real need to apprehend this man—even beyond the demands of the House of Usher.

  The large number of men roaming the streets, brandishing their badges and asking questions in a somewhat animated, intimidating manner, immediately worried her. Whether flesh or clockwork, they were Pinkertons. They’d broken up riots, killed innocent people, and generally bullied the population of whole towns. Usually that meant poor folk, or those born without the correct skin colour. The fact that they were here complicated the issue considerably and she knew she’d have to find out why. The House of Usher had employed her to find Wellington Books, and butting heads with the Pinkertons was just the kind of complication she didn’t need.

  Yet their presence both in the Carolinas and here meant they were involved in whatever business Mr. Books and his band of ne’er-do-wells were engaging in, and that meant she was at least one step closer to her bounty. When the knot of Pinkertons underneath her window broke up and dispersed, she drew the blinds and curtains.

  She turned back to the man secured in a chair. The bleeding had stopped in his shoulder, and as she had placed that bullet right where it needed to be, the shot was clean through and through. No surgery needed, unlike the second Pink. Between the two men she had removed between her and Books, this one was the easiest managed.

  Opening her current read to where the bookmark rested, Van was instantly whisked back to where Edward Prendick was rousing himself from what he had been told was a troubled sleep. Edward was far more rational, and clever to distrust what he had seen in the jungle the previous night. There is a foreboding in the air—not a far cry from the one Van currently found herself feeling—that manifests into something sinister as he reached an open operation theatre. Van held her breath upon reading what poor, innocent Edward saw: something human, yet altered. Transformed, somehow. Edward dared a closer look, but then he appeared . . .

  The snort caused Van to start. Dammit, she thought to herself. Just when it was getting good.

  The Pinkerton blinked, then sniffed. He appeared relieved that he could do as much. Maybe he thought his nose had broken. He licked his lips and registered the remains of ether still lingering there. Ether intended for Wellington Books. He looked to his left first, seeing only the far wall, the shaded window, and a dresser. When he looked to his right, he froze, his eyes locked on the collar of her office.

  Van learned something new today. Pinkertons felt fear.

  It was only for a moment, but that moment would be enough for her to utilise.

  “I don’t know who you are, lady,” he grunted, “but if you’re looking for trouble, you got plenty.”

  Van said nothing. She continued to sit there, her eyes boring into him, much as she would do with her sons if she caught them in a lie.

  “Fine,” he said with a huff. He then struggled for a moment against the ropes. He didn’t budge, and Van knew he wouldn’t. Farm life taught her many lessons, one of which was how to tie up an animal properly so it couldn’t escape. He stopped struggling, then took a deep breath. “So what do you wanna do here, lady? Just sit here and say nothing?”

  She was as still as a statue. Her eyes watched him. She didn’t have unlimited time, but all she needed was patience. Pinks were used to being in control. The trick here was to assert dominance. Much like with her dogs back at church, they had to respect her as the alpha. She had to bring them to heel.

  “Look, lady, you should let me go,” he finally said, his voice sounding slightly tighter than when he first spoke.

  “Should?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. How she hated that word. “That is not a word in my vocabulary. You’ve got to decide what you’re going to do and then commit to it. That word suggests hesitation.”

  The Pinkerton grinned wryly. “My boys are probably looking for me, so let’s try this again. You should—”

  Van’s fist was probably half the size of this Pink’s but she knew where to strike to get his attention. She knew how hard to hit. She understood the science behind a powerful, efficient physical blow. It was the difference between a martial art and brawling.

  His head snapped back then forwards. He could still breathe. The nose was bleeding just enough to remind him of who was in control.

  “You are going to tell me what I want to know,” Van said, easing back into her chair, “and then I’m going to leave you here to consider what you’ve done and how to best atone for it.”

  The man nodded. “Look, I’m not sure how you think—”

  This time her fist struck his bottom lip, this time a fraction harder. It was not hard enough to break skin or draw blood, but it was hard enough to give him a lingering shock.

  He looked up at her, his brow knotted in pure confusion. “What the hell kinda priest are you?”

  With a flick of her wrist, one of her treasured Smith & Wesson revolvers slipped into her waiting hand. “I’m the last person you want to test. I believe in what’s just, I believe we treat our fellow man with honour and dignity, and I have faith that we all can do that.” She leaned in and asked, “Can you say the same?”

  He went to answer but Van raised a solitary finger.

  “I suggest,” she offered in a low voice, “you consider your words before a servant of God. Are you going to tell me you have treated your fellow man with dignity and honour?”

  He went to answer, but nothing came from his rather puffy lips.

  “To enforce the law, you broke the law, didn’t you?” she asked him.

  “It was the right thing to do, you know? They were bad people, see?”

  “They were fathers.” Van paused, then added, “Those women, they were mothers. Loving, doting mothers.”

  The Pink wanted to refute her words. She could see it, b
ut he averted his eyes, fixing his gaze shimmering with tears at a point on the wall. Van, at times like this, cursed her judge of character.

  “I don’t doubt you thought you were doing what you thought was right, but can you truly pass judgement on your brother or sister—for we are all connected in God’s eyes—when you know only one side of the story? At home, the home of your brothers and sisters, there were children. They wondered why their father came home hurt.” She leaned in, her gun still in one hand but the free hand coming to rest on the man’s striped pants. “They wondered why their mother never came home at all.”

  He suddenly burst into tears. The Pink was coming to heel.

  “I just wanted to do what was right,” he blubbered. “I’m not a bad man.”

  Van nodded, her finger still avoiding the gun’s trigger but close enough if she needed it. “What’s your name?”

  “Seth,” he managed to say between breaths.

  “It’s a whole new world out there, Seth,” she replied gently. “You can be anything you put your mind to so long as you got faith.”

  Perhaps it was facing a person with faith that scared him, that was breaking him down to the basics of human compassion he had forgotten on his journey. His eyes darted to his Pinkerton badge, then up to Van.

  In his tear-welled eyes, that piece of tin didn’t mean a thing here.

  “Someone blew up Mr. Edison’s power plant,” he said holding up his hands, “and took off with one of his clankertons.”

  Van frowned. Edison, she had found out when she was in the Outer Banks, mysteriously disappeared immediately after giving a talk. Without explanation, authorities had shut down Currituck Lighthouse. Then Edison, who was scheduled to deliver another presentation in Chicago, had instead come to Detroit. All of these events had one person in common: her quarry, Wellington Books. Could Edison have some kind of vendetta against him? If so, that would mean wherever Edison went . . .