Rebel Heart

by Graham Bradley

  The lush room had many marble and porcelain fixtures, including a wash basin, a tub large enough to fit a person inside it, and something that Amelia identified as a “water closet.” Bottles of various substances dotted the counter, some for grooming, others for medical attention.

  “How are you doing?” she asked, looking up into his eyes.

  “Better now,” he admitted. She beamed.

  “Sit. And take your boots off, be comfortable. Let me see your arms.”

  “How did you know it was my arms?”

  “I overheard Edsel telling my brothers what had happened on the other side of the river. He said a painter got its claws in you!” Amelia helped him out of his tunic, exposing his bandaged arms. The yellowed strips of cloth smelled of tobacco. She gasped at the sight of his mangled skin.

  “What else did Edsel say?” Calvin asked.

  Amelia recounted the debriefing. To Edsel’s credit, he had told the story with complete accuracy, save for one thing: his second turkey was supposedly Calvin’s third, and according to Edsel, they had shot the bird at the same time, which explained the number of holes in it. In truth, Edsel’s first bird had been shot through three times, as he was a lousy hunter and didn’t know to aim for the head.

  “Ah!” Calvin winced as Amelia dabbed at his wounds with a clear, sharp-smelling liquid. “Is that alcohol?”

  “Yes. I know it burns, but it will disinfect the wound better than the tobacco will. Won’t make so much pus this way,” she said.

  “I think I might prefer the pus,” Calvin said through clenched teeth as Amelia sterilized a deep gash over a yellowing bruise.

  “Sorry,” she said. He felt the soft tips of her fingers brush his shoulder, gently stroking an uninjured section of his skin. Calvin’s ears flushed hot.

  “Oh, it’s fine.” He breathed out, suddenly less aware of his wounds, even as she continued to treat them.

  “So, I’m curious,” Amelia said after a moment’s silence. “I had to clean and dress those four turkeys this evening. Some for cooking, others for salting. Three had their heads shot right off, and the other took three rounds through the breast—the best meat. Three rounds from the same angle, I might add.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think you and Edsel shot the same bird at the same time. Not unless you were shoulder-to-shoulder when you did it. I’ve seen you at target practice, Cal. He’s better with the revolver and you’re better with the rifle. It’s not hard to figure out who killed which birds.”

  The silence returned. Calvin didn’t know how he should respond, and he was desperately afraid of sounding full of himself. Mount Vernon got enough of that just by having Edsel around, truce or not.

  “Why did you do it? Give him your bird, I mean,” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Calvin admitted, shaking Edsel out of his thoughts. “The easy answer? I just wanted to get out of there. I was injured, I was tired, I was done. But . . . I feel like even if I had killed the cat before it hurt me, I might still have shared with Edsel. He’s annoying, but at the end of the day we’re on the same side. It felt like the right thing to do.”

  Amelia smiled bashfully, studying her work on his arms. She smeared a thick, clear gel over the claw marks and wrapped them in clean new bandages. “I think that’s what I like about you, Calvin Adler. You do things because they’re right. That’s good.”

  Calvin took her hand in his. “I think I have a lot of reasons why I like you,” he said.

  Amelia leaned in close. “Here’s one more,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his, letting them touch all too briefly before she broke away. Fire shot through him, filling him with vigor. He felt alive, whole, ready for action, and he knew it had nothing to do with the medicine. He’d even closed his eyes without realizing it, and an almost inaudible breath jumped out of his chest.

  “Only one more?” he whispered, fingers trembling.

  The corners of her mouth reached into a wide smile and her eyes lit up bright. She bit her lip and leaned in again, too slow for his liking. Calvin rested a hand on the basin and leaned in, pushing his lips hungrily against hers and holding them there for as long as the fire in his chest would allow.

  Time melted away. There was no training, no army, no mage war to be fought, nothing beyond the lavatory door that mattered to him. His fingers seemed to pull his hand to her waist, sliding carefully around to the small of her back, waiting after every inch as if to be sure he had permission. She only kissed him with greater fervor, slipping her palms over his shoulders and brushing the tips of her fingers over the bumps in his muscles. When he’d kissed her long enough to start worrying whether he was taking too much, he pulled back and smiled wide enough for it to hurt. As for Amelia, she exuded a light all her own as she let her fingers trail down his arms so she could take his hands in hers.

  “I liked that,” she giggled.

  “Yeah, I can’t say that was a problem.” Had he really just said that?

  They stayed there for a minute more, until a bump in the hallway made them both jump, and they realized what kind of trouble they’d be in if they were discovered. Calvin exercised superhuman willpower and extricated his hands from hers, then fumbled with his tunic. Amelia blushed and looked to the side, busying herself with replacing the bottles she’d used on his wounds.

  Once finished, she led Calvin out of the lavatory and back outside. Neither of them noticed the door across the hallway, opened to a narrow slit, where Peter McCracken sat with the quiet patience of a night owl, having witnessed their entire exchange.

  ~

  CHAPTER 9

  At first, Edsel didn’t give Calvin a reason to regret saving his life. But after the first week of flight simulator sessions, Calvin found one.

  The painter hadn’t done any lasting damage to his arms, that much was true, yet Calvin was still healing, and the act of tightening his grip sent bursts of hot pain up his forearms, causing the worst of his wounds to ooze. Brian still tried as hard as ever to buck Calvin off of the sawhorse, and much to Calvin’s dismay, he pulled it off more than once. Calvin didn’t dare ask for mercy either, out of fear that Brian might suddenly remember that he owed Calvin a proper punishment for beating on him last week.

  That still had him confused: Brian had caught Calvin under a tarp with Amelia, an association that the Commodore seemed particularly against, yet not a peep. What was the deal?

  Calvin pushed it out of his head, reminding himself that he still had to beat Edsel at the simulator. So he kept going, training through the pain, resting as much as possible so he could heal quicker. He regained his strength by the week’s end, at the price of having racked up a larger amount of negative tallies by his name than he would have liked. For a while he’d been first on Commodore McCracken’s leader board, but he’d surrendered that lead in the wake of the painter attack. Calvin knew that he was better than Edsel, and could prove it if not for his wounds.

  By the weekend, Peter and Brian announced another raid on a different British farm. It went easier than Calvin’s first raid, and the haul was bigger. He teamed with Peter, raiding some barns and smoke houses while Brian and the others kept the mages occupied. Avery, Cohen and Edsel raided a barn full of grains and corn, but Calvin went for the more valuable stuff: the smoked and cured meats next door. He stumbled out of the brick building with six long chains of smoked sausages hung about him, two large racks of beef ribs, and four cured pork legs. Edsel regarded him with wide-eyed astonishment when he dumped it all in the handcart.

  Back at Mount Vernon, Peter congratulated them, giving them earnest praise for their improvement. Calvin personally handed Peter one of the good smoked sausages.

  Peter accepted it but said nothing, fixing Calvin with a smile that hid something he couldn’t identify.

  Then Commodore McCracken appeared and pulled Peter aside for a private conference, leaving Brian in charge of making sure the raided goods ended up in the pantry. Calvin felt Brian’s eyes
on him as he worked alongside Stitch and Rusty, shelving cans of grains.

  Still no punishment.

  *

  When they finished, Peter led the cadets out to the dormitory.

  “Father wishes to inform you that you have all passed your initial training into the technomancer army. Take a brief moment to feel good about that,” he said, looking around the room. Handshakes were exchanged, backs were slapped, and hoots of elation bounced around the small space. Stitch wrapped a big arm around Calvin’s shoulders and shook him excitedly. Calvin just waited for the next part of Peter’s announcement, which hung in the air like a bubble about to burst.

  “I do have some bad news, though. Our messenger, the man Jack Badgett, has passed away. We were able to keep him alive for several days past the curse’s normal span, but there was no permanent solution short of actual magic that could have saved him. A study of his body revealed that his collar was not properly buttoned, leaving his neck exposed when he was riding, and that was where the curse hit him. His jacket was treated with powder of frosted iron, yet this one vulnerability did him in. Badgett was unmatched in the air and irreplaceable to the TechMan army. Remember: this can happen to you.

  “Even so, his final mission was a success. He brought us valuable intelligence and logistics reports. As it turns out, more soldiers are needed sooner than we thought, so it’s a good thing you’re ready. The loss of Badgett also means that a new spot is open in the active mimic brigades. One of you will be flying out on Jack’s mimic ahead of schedule. Ladies, gentlemen, be ready for anything. The Commodore will make the final announcements tomorrow morning.”

  Peter departed. The mood shifted in the dormitory, as all eyes settled on Calvin and Edsel.

  “It’s going to be you,” Cohen said to Edsel. “It has to be.”

  “Right! Calvin rides better and you know it,” Stitch said.

  “Calvin got too many demerits this week on the simulator,” Lyla pointed out.

  “Yeah, and they still haven’t punished him for attacking Brian,” Cohen said.

  “He didn’t start that fight, he just finished it,” Rusty said.

  Calvin tuned them out. He looked across the grounds to the stables, where Jack Badgett’s mimic stood under a tarp. Amelia walked out of the stables with a bucket in each hand. Her eyes gravitated up and met his stare across the distance. She smiled. He waved at her, and she kept walking toward the house. Noticing movement in the window above the second floor, Calvin saw the unmistakable profile of Commodore McCracken, staring back at him. Pursing his lips, Calvin quietly retreated back into the dormitory.

  *

  The next morning, they played with guns.

  “Final round. Not surprised,” Peter said, looking up at the contestants. Calvin and Edsel stood at a bench in the stables, with three firearms in front of either of them, each weapon broken down to its component parts. The competition had begun with sixteen recruits, including the adults, and was now down to just two, though one of the adult cadets had almost edged out Calvin in the last round. Edsel had beaten everyone else handily, including Stitch, who had the highest aggregate score up to that point.

  “What’s the task?” Edsel asked.

  Peter walked them through it. “Assemble the blunderbuss, the rifle, and the pistol, in that order. The pieces are mixed up. So is the ammunition. You must have each weapon affixed to your person, easily accessible and ready for action when you finish. First to finish wins the competition. Brian will judge,”

  As Brian stepped up to the bench, Edsel leaned in. “I’ve so got you.”

  “Just remember those turkeys,” Calvin replied.

  “Go,” Brian called.

  Calvin’s hands flew over the equipment, sorting out pieces and brushing aside the ones he didn’t need. The steps flew through his mind as he checked them off: the hardened steel funnel of the blunderbuss screwed into the two-piece stock, attach the hinges, lock it all down, pack in a charge, a load of pellets, stuff it in tight, close the hinge, done. Calvin buckled the strap and slung it across his torso, the barrel pointed skyward to keep the ammo cluster tight in the chamber.

  Edsel matched his every move. Breathing fast, Calvin threw the rifle together, leveling the sight to a preset he’d decided earlier. The bullet casings were all the same color for this exercise, but his discriminating eye picked out the longer shells and dropped them into a cylinder, clipped it into place, locked a cap down on the firing pin and then buckled that weapon to a strap. He slung it crossways on his torso in the opposite direction from the blunderbuss. The butt of his rifle bumped Edsel’s, which he also had just slipped over his head.

  “Come on, Calvin! You’re right on him!”

  “Take him, Ed! Faster, faster!”

  Their fellow cadets hopped up and down, beckoning them to gain the upper hand. Calvin screwed on the pistol barrel, clicked the hammer assembly into place, and speed-loaded a cylinder, dropping the whole thing into the gun and spinning it once to confirm it would rotate. One shell refused to drop completely, and the half-second he needed to clear it was all the advantage Edsel needed. As he clicked the cylinder shut, half of the young cadets went wild, and the other half booed. The adults mostly chuckled, applauding. Edsel holstered his pistol with a defiant “Ha!” and clapped his hands.

  Calvin didn’t even blink. Rather than holster his gun, he pointed it at Edsel’s head, too close to miss.

  The stables went stone silent.

  Then Brian burst out laughing.

  “Point, Adler. You win.”

  Edsel flipped. “What? No! That’s ridiculous, I met the terms of the challenge!”

  “Easily accessible, ready for action? What greater access does he need to a weapon that is already in his hand? How much readier could he be, when it is trained on his target and he can’t miss?” Brian asked.

  “But . . . mine was ready,” Edsel whimpered.

  “Then why didn’t you use it?” Brian said.

  Peter chuckled, arms folded as he leaned against the wall. “Let this be a lesson to you all. The best weapon is the one you already have and can readily use.”

  Commodore McCracken cleared his throat and entered the stables, leaning on his cane. Everyone snapped to attention, and Calvin fell in line with the others, holstering his pistol. Commodore McCracken looked him up and down, then surveyed Edsel. Without any fanfare, he made his announcement.

  “Edsel, you’re up first. Get familiar with your mimic; at sundown you’re headed to the Ohio.” Commodore McCracken gave Calvin a final parting glance, then departed as smoothly as he’d arrived.

  Calvin had to retreat a few steps from the rush of recruits that gathered around Edsel, swatting him on the back and telling him good work. Stitch and Rusty hesitated, looking to Calvin as if for approval, but he just shrugged. Stitch and Rusty shook hands with Edsel, who looked like he had just found a chest of buried treasure in his backyard.

  Maybe Lyla was right. Maybe my injuries affected me in the simulator, and he scored higher. In a cruel twist of fate, the pain had finally gone the previous night. Calvin flexed his fingers; the muscles in his forearms gave no protest. As much as he wanted something to blame, he couldn’t be upset about the painter clawing him up because it had led to Amelia kissing him. Still . . .

  “Well done,” Calvin said, shaking Edsel’s hand as he walked by.

  “Hey, you too,” Edsel beamed. “Next time, yeah?”

  “For sure.”

  Edsel made another round through the excited recruits. Calvin quietly unstrapped his guns, drew his frosted iron knife, and went to work on a dummy in the corner, honing his moves.

  ~

  CHAPTER 10

  It wasn’t Amelia who put a hand over his mouth, but a different McCracken this time.

  “Adler. Get up.”

  Something sharp jabbed him in the ribs. In the faint light penetrating the dormitory entrance he made out the features of Brian’s face. Brian lowered his lips to Calvin’s ear
and whispered, “Pack fast, don’t wake the others. Commodore’s orders.”

  Gut burning with sudden anticipation, Calvin reached under his cot and grabbed his pack. Like with his clothing, he’d learned to keep it ready at night. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he slung the strap over his shoulder, rose shakily to his feet and followed Brian to the stables. Peter was there with a lantern lit, standing next to Jack Badgett’s recently repaired mimic.

  “What’s this?” Calvin frowned.

  “Your new assignment,” said Peter.

  Calvin wasn’t sure he was awake. “But . . . Edsel?”

  Peter sighed. “Came down with the damned malpox. He’s still vomiting blood, we had to quarantine him.”

  “Whoa!” Calvin exclaimed, earning him a sharp rebuke from Brian’s elbow.

  “Keep it down!”

  “But if he caught it, won’t the rest of us?” Calvin asked, rubbing his ribs.

  “We don’t know. He might have been exposed to it a while ago—a virus can lay dormant for years before flaring up. We’ll just have to watch the others. For now you’re healthy, so Father assigned you to take his charge,” Peter said. He handed Calvin a sealed metal canister with a thin leather strap. “The contents of this are extremely time-sensitive. Our outpost in Youngstown needs it before the weekend.”

  Hand still trembling, Calvin took the cylinder, turning it over in the dim light. The metal had a frosted iron coating, so it couldn’t be magicked away from him.

  “That dial on the end has a combination that only Major Tyler knows, at Camp Liberty,” Brian said. “If anyone tries to open it in any other way, a chemical bath inside will soak the documents and destroy the contents. Don’t let it get to that point.”