Rebel Heart

by Graham Bradley

  “Where’s your pistol?”

  “Holstered on my mimic,” Calvin said.

  “It’s not your mimic. Keep track of your weapons,” Hamilton said.

  I know where it is, Calvin wanted to say.

  “And what about your knife?”

  Sheathed and strapped to my calf, where I can get to it. “Lost it in the woods. I was attacked by three mages.” He decided to keep something on him. Hamilton might be a TechMan officer, but Calvin knew a hostile when he saw one.

  “It’s not like McCracken to unleash an incompetent on the world. I would’ve made you walk home,” Hamilton grumbled. “Inside.” He pushed Calvin through the next door.

  On the other side was a lush office. The temperature was comfortable, the smell reminded him of his mom’s cooking, and the place was neat and tidy like most of the rooms at Mount Vernon. At the desk in the center of the room sat a woman in a dress uniform. She was hunched over a stack of maps and official-looking documents. Her short gray-blonde hair was pulled into a stub of a tail. Calvin guessed her to be about fifty years old. She had an air about her that suggested he ought not trifle with her.

  “Major Tyler, sir, Commodore McCracken sent an unranked recruit with a sealed canister,” Hamilton said.

  Calvin’s eyes went wide. This was Major Sam Tyler?

  Tyler didn’t look up from her work. She held out a hand for the canister. Hamilton pried it from Calvin and passed it to his superior officer. Tyler examined the number dial, spun in a code and popped off the end of the canister like she’d done it a thousand times. Inside was a rolled-up sheet of paper. She scanned it over, grunted, and tossed it aside.

  “That’s fine. Set him up with 7MB.”

  “Sir?” Hamilton asked, sounding just as confused as Calvin.

  Tyler looked up, her eyes hard as steel. “He’s not unranked. Says right here, he’s a TL3. You brought him to me to handle this? You’re wasting my time, Captain.”

  Hamilton stiffened. Calvin took a small bit of enjoyment at his discomfort before proceeding.

  “Ma’am,” Calvin began.

  “Sir,” Tyler corrected him. Hamilton bristled at Calvin’s breech of conduct, but Tyler waved him off. “Out with it, TechMan.”

  “Sir, if I may . . . Commodore McCracken’s orders were very clear that I was to hand this to you personally,” he said. “It has something to do with Jack Badgett. I’m afraid he’s passed away.”

  “I already know that. Word of Badgett’s death came over the airwaves two days ago. Only those in the command chain are aware of it, and you’ll keep it that way, TechMan.”

  The air took on an eerie chill. Calvin’s gut twisted.

  “But . . . they said it was time-sensitive. Sir,” he added.

  “Must be a mistake, TechMan,” Tyler said. She handed the paper to him. Calvin read it as quickly as he could. There wasn’t much on it.

  It was a draft order, assigning Calvin Adler to Major Sam Tyler’s command at Youngstown, Ohio. His signature was at the bottom, in a passable imitation of his own handwriting. He had never signed any such document.

  “This can’t be right. I was supposed to deliver news to you and then return to Mount Vernon,” Calvin said.

  “Cold feet are the mark of a coward, TechMan,” Hamilton sneered. “You’re not going anywhere. A man’s word is his bond.”

  “This isn’t supposed to be me!” Calvin thrust the paper at Hamilton. “This is supposed to be Edsel Winford. He got the assignment to come here.”

  Bored, Major Tyler shuffled through a stack of small notes on the corner of her desk. “No, TechMan Winford reported to Pittsburgh yesterday morning, as per Commodore McCracken’s orders. Captain, I don’t have time for this, get TechMan Adler over to 7MB. Dismissed.”

  Calvin’s swayed as his heart sank. He didn’t have it in him to fight Hamilton, who grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the room. Hamilton might have issued more insults to his honor, but it all fell on deaf ears; Calvin’s head swam with the realization that he’d been betrayed.

  Was this finally the penalty for beating Brian? Or had the Commodore found out about Calvin and Amelia? He was supposed to be headed for Baltimore, and instead they’d relegated him to a distant underground outpost.

  A prison.

  And he’d walked right into it.

  ~

  CHAPTER 14

  Godfrey stood to stretch his sore legs, then knelt on the carpet and peered over the edge. The ground was about thirty feet below him. In the moonlight, Youngstown, Ohio looked like a three-square-mile heap of ash. He’d heard about this place when Birt got drunk one night and sang “God Save the King” at the top of his lungs. Fitz, equally smashed, had started counting off British military victories on his fingers, all the way back to when the mages had stomped out that uppity rabble-rouser, George Washington. One of the victories he’d listed was more recent: the annihilation of Youngstown, and the humiliation of the technomancer army.

  Godfrey spat on the ashes. Technomancers? An offensive notion. These duffers thought that by employing little metal toys, they would somehow raise themselves to the level of a mancer.

  He checked the bottle that contained the boy’s emotional imprint. For Baltimore. The spell had lost considerable strength over so many miles, and now the reception was fuzzy. Godfrey doubted he’d find anything else here—the spell might even be suffering from interference, from the lingering influence of whatever passion the rabble-rousers had imprinted here during their last stand.

  Swearing under his breath, Godfrey tapped his wand on the bottle and muttered a spell of preservation. He had to save what little he had of the boy’s imprint. From there, it behooved him to find a sangromancer. Blood magic was not his best discipline, and a skilled blood worker would know better what to do with this sort of thing.

  He sat back on the carpet and rode south, wondering where he would find a bloodworker.

  *

  Hamilton’s smug cackling stabbed Calvin like knives in his brain. “Never gets old, seeing you limp-legged new guys come in here all scared and regretful. What, did you think training camp was as hard as it would get?”

  Calvin didn’t reply. His mind was hundreds of miles away, back at Mount Vernon, aflame with rage at the McCrackens and their treachery. A week ago he would have loved to be in the field, assigned to a mimic and a brigade, surrounded by machines and weapons and fellow technomancer soldiers. Now his whole mind labored to find an escape from this place.

  He would make this right.

  Amelia . . .

  He scanned his surroundings, absorbing details at every turn. Hamilton had led him to a row of barracks, each one full of technomancers in fatigues going about their business. A flag hung over every door, indicating that squad’s function with a name and number. One flag proudly proclaimed “28th Riflemen Brigade, Lazy Eyes.” Another read “19th Infantry Brigade, Dirt Kickers.”

  Hamilton abruptly pushed Calvin into an open tent on his left. He didn’t get a good look at the flag, other than an angry red heart crossed with a star-spangled X. Inside the tent were five cots but only four occupants. He guessed he would be the fifth.

  “Duncan, this one’s yours. Got a new guy,” Hamilton said. Without any ceremony, he spun on his heel and left, chuckling to himself as he went.

  Duncan rose to his feet. Calvin figured he was maybe seventeen or eighteen, just a few years older than he was, with dark brown skin and black hair woven in tight rows. Duncan smiled genuinely.

  “Hey, what’s up? Hank Duncan, Brigade Leader. These are your teammates”

  “Calvin Adler. Look Hank, there’s been a mistake, I was sent here under a false pretense and I need to get back up to the surface. When do we train outside?” Calvin asked.

  Hank and the others laughed, some mirthlessly. They went back to lying on their cots or polishing their boots.

  “Happens all the time, man. Not to worry. A lot of us got tricked in, but you’ll get past that,” Hank
said.

  “You don’t understand, I—”

  “I do, really well actually. I just wanted to get trained to fight in New Hampshire, but they sent me here to the border with New France. We keep the French and the Iroquois at bay,” Hank said.

  “I thought we were fighting the British.”

  “Them too. There’s more than one front to this war. You’re still helping the cause, Adler.”

  “I’m supposed to be somewhere else,” Calvin insisted.

  “Just take a deep breath, get situated and catch some sleep. What matters is that we hold the line here,” Hank said.

  Calvin shuffled numbly toward the empty cot. Hank would prove ultimately useless, it seemed. As Calvin sat down and stared at the wooden plank floor, mind spinning, Hank clapped him on the back.

  “You’re a technomancer now, of the 7th Mimic Brigade. Welcome to the Rebel Hearts.”

  END BOOK ONE

  SMACK DOWN GENTLE!

  (ACKNOWLEDGMENTS)

  There are two kinds of people who read the “thank-you” page: those who think they might be in it, and everyone else. So I’ve made it easy with underlines and whatnot, to save you time. (And please know that if you’re in the latter camp, Jesus still loves you.)

  THANK YOUS go to:

  Schaara, for her endless support and patience with the real-life neuroses that occur in a marriage when someone is a writer. Thank you for always being there to hold me up. I love you, babe.

  Mom, who has been my biggest cheerleader since I got into creative writing twenty years ago, and always thought I could pull it off.

  Mamaw, who would wistfully watch as I sketched away the hours of my youth, and made me promise to do something career-wise with my drawing skills. The first drawing that I finished for REBEL HEART would’ve been on her 78th birthday. Miss you, Mamaw.

  Nana, who read some of the really bad sci-fi I wrote in high school, and didn’t encourage me to take up a career in accounting instead. Love you, Nana!

  Moira, for coming to the rescue when I needed to scan a ton of huge drawings, and every other option sucked. Check out her blog: moiralianephotography.blogspot.com

  Jordan, for applying the weight of academic criticism to an otherwise eye-rolling piece of genre fiction. You fixed a great many faults with your suggestions; that Ph.D finally paid off.

  Raelene, whose knowledge of fonts and typefaces helped me pick a visual theme for the text.

  Shante, who’s been tremendously enthusiastic about a number of my unpublished projects, and is a valuable proofreader. You earned that namesake character!

  Emily and Holly, the femmes fatales at Castle Editorial, who did a bang-up job of telling me every single thing that I did wrong, without saying outright that I suck. Merci, ladies!

  Savannah Weech, who’s probably read even more of my writing than my wife. One of these days I’ll get you a decent piece that you can narrate, bud.

  Carter Reid, who nailed the cover art, and did a big load of follow-up work to make sure it all came together. (Check out his webcomic, www.thezombienation.com.)

  Mark Asper and Nemiha Studebaker, for volunteering their young relatives so that I could steal their faces and put them on small side characters.

  Matt Jones, for his fortitude and masculinity. Kings to you.

  Thank you to those whose faces landed on certain characters:

  Patrick McConaha (Calvin Adler)

  Joseph McConaha (Godfrey Norrington)

  Megan Hibbert (Amelia McCracken)

  Shante McConaha (Shantewa Goodall)

  Zachariah Parry (Edsel Winford). You get credit for sending me pics when I asked for a "smug jerk.”

  Bart Gadbury (Captain Hamilton). You get credit for volunteering to be a psychopath with a "punchable face."

  Allie Martin (Lyla)

  Jimmy Martin (Stitch)

  Kara Martin (Rusty)

  Jedi Damery (Cohen)

  Cameron Hale (Avery)

  James A. Owen (Winston Fitznottingham)

  J. Scott Savage (Hammond Birtwistle)

  Pretty much everyone else was modeled after a celebrity or athlete or something, and they’re already famous enough, so bah.

  Other professional gratitude is extended to:

  The Eagle Mountain Writers: Debbie, DJ, Donna, Linda, Kirk, Ryan, and Arlene. (The only writing group in the galaxy to have completed the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs!) But really, the way you’ve built me up and brought me in over the years has meant so much. Keep writing.

  James A. Owen: First off, thanks for writing all the great fiction that you’ve put out there. More so, thanks for writing the highly inspirational DRAWING OUT THE DRAGONS. It is responsible for this book in no small part. And above all, thanks for joining our writing group for dinner at LTUE in 2012. That was a complete Over Nine Thousand fanboy moment for me. You’re the man. Naturally the only way to truly express my admiration was to have you get blown away by a fifteen year-old with a steampunk shotgun in the woods somewhere. (Whoops, spoiler.)

  J. Scott Savage: In 2009 you gave a classy response to a rather unclassy review of your YA fantasy series FarWorld. I believe the culprit was some Internet turd who went by the handle “GrahamChops.” I’ve learned a great deal about professionalism from you in the intervening years, and I thank you for keeping your cool in a situation where I most assuredly may not have. For what it’s worth, your character didn’t die in this book, but he will in the sequel.

  A.J. Paquette: You’re a good friend, a great writer, and you were a fantastic agent for those two years. I can’t overstate your influence on my writing, and I thank you for all of the unrewarded hours that you poured into at least three, and technically four, of my unpublished books. I wish you every success.

  A blanket thanks goes to all the writers of my childhood, a period which by most metrics has not really ended.

  And finally, thank you to all of the heroes, unsung and otherwise, who fought in the War of Independence those centuries ago. Because of you, there’s a land today where I can make my dreams real. We’re forever in your debt.

  About the Author

  Graham Bradley began writing at the age of 8, and it’s been a bad habit ever since. He enjoys cars, history, the Indianapolis Colts, BBQ, reading, and traveling. He currently lives in Henderson, Nevada, with his wife and son.

  REBEL HEART is his first published book.

  (Thank you for reading.)

  Twitter.com/GrahamBeRad

  Instagram.com/GrahamBeRad