by Steve Rzasa
“Inspector! Sir, we’re here!”
Fred.
His voice came from somewhere behind Cassandra. Boot steps scurried back and forth across rock. It sounded like mice moving on the other side of the collapsed rock. “Fred! I’m all right!”
“Great, sir! Hold on! I’ve got the police bringing down a pair of excavator robots. They’re—oh, they’re here! Sir, you’ve got to move back from this side as far as you can!”
Fred must be shouting. His voice was distorted and faint. “I hear you, Fred!” Jesse shouted.
Maybe it would work out.
“Detective Inspector!” A new, cold voice joined Fred’s.
“Ryke,” Cassandra’s eyes were wide with fear.
“Do you have the suspect in custody?”
Jesse couldn’t restrain a chuckle. He was buried under rock, his leg was likely broken, and his formerly missing wife was hovering protectively over him when he should be slapping binders on her wrists. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Good. Stand by. You’ll be out soon.”
Blast. The man sounded so eager.
“Jesse.” Cassandra’s voice took on a frantic edge. “Listen. There is no way out of here.”
“There has to be.” Jesse’s hands scrabbled around the debris. “My gun—it’s got to be around here somewhere.”
“What, you’re going to shoot through them? Through Ryke? The detective chief inspector who earns the Kesek commissioner’s praise?” Cassandra shook her head. “No. You have to arrest me. Only then can my true work survive.”
Jesse wasn’t sure which statement chilled him more. “What work?”
A grating, scraping noise rattled through the rock wall behind. Dust sifted. She leaned in close. “Beaudreau’s Rock. Kesek’s primary detention center for religious dissidents. Do you know about Sector Ten?”
“Yes.” Jesse’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the worst part of the prison. You get sent there and odds are that no one ever sees you again. Nowhere else has a worse fatality rate. How do you know about it?”
“Because I help maintain that fatality rate.” Cassandra smiled. “There is no Sector Ten.”
Jesse’s jaw dropped. “You mean—escape?”
“The prison commandant is lazy and incompetent. But his five detective superintendents run the prison for him. One of them is Deliverer. You must contact him. Tell him your name is J.C. He will know what to do from there.”
“What? I can’t let them take you!” The rocks were shaking in earnest now. A few fell loose behind Cassandra, clattering to the ground.
“There are instructions for you at Locker 7070 on the Port Amata public docks. Follow them.” Cassandra held his face in her hands. “You must do this for me. And for the children of God.”
“No! I won’t turn you over to them!”
“You must!” There was fire in her words. Jesse flinched. “If I am imprisoned Kesek will believe my work of disseminating Christian texts will have failed. It will keep them distracted from the Sector Ten work. That way it can continue uninterrupted.”
What else could he say? It was his chance. Jesse couldn’t believe it sat there before him. Here he thought God had abandoned him in the lion’s den. Now his wife was willing to throw herself in there, so that he could continue her work—saving fellow believers.
“Please, Jesse.”
He seized her shoulders and kissed her. Four years, and it was as if time had never passed. He wished their Maryland home was still there. That they were turning out the lights on a summer night and climbing into bed. Sound deadened.
When he let her go, he looked into her eyes. She smiled at him. Then she winced.
“Cassandra?”
“It’s—all right.” Her expression clouded for a moment. “They promised the injection would eliminate specific memories. Just—just let me concentrate.”
She went into convulsions. Jesse held her close. He’d seen Kesek use mind-altering techniques to reconstruct a mind, but he had no idea one could find selective memory destroyers on the black market.
Loud scrapes came from behind the rock. Voices grew louder. Jesse thought he saw a glitter of light.
“I don’t want to let you go.” He choked on the words.
Cassandra’s face cleared. “My love. You will never really lose me. If I die, we will be together—someday. With our Father in heaven.” She reached down to his side.
“Now for the binders.”
When the rocks finally fell aside, Jesse was ready. He had his emotional mask back on. He also had his gun aimed at Cassandra. Her wrists were bound in front of her.
Ryke’s bald head jutted through the gap in the rocks. He shone a beacon at them. Its beam targeted Cassandra’s face. A vicious grin split his face. “Well. This is the lovely Lydia. Someone we both know, eh, Detective Inspector?”
Cassandra kept her face down. Jesse throttled back his anger. “The suspect is yours, Detective Chief Inspector Ryke.”
The gap in the rock was just wide enough for a person to fit through sideways. Ryke seized Cassandra’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “This way, Miss. Don’t worry, Bahn. We won’t harm her to gain her cooperation. She is your wife, after all.”
Jesse locked eyes with Cassandra one last time. His heart was breaking all over again. But this time—things could be different.
She smiled. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” To blazes with Ryke.
She was gone.
Jesse was alone in his rock hole for a moment. Then Fred peeked in. “Need a hand, sir?”
“Yeah, Fred. Thanks.” Jesse winced as the young constable helped him to his feet.
Fred eased him out the gap in the rocks. Jesse spotted a trio of police officers and Ryke crowded around Cassandra in the tunnel. All he saw of Thaddeus Chidi was part of a boot sticking out from under rubble. Jesse felt queasy.
Cassandra looked back at him. Serve Him, she mouthed silently.
Jesse gave a curt nod.
Ryke turned to look at him. Too late, Jesse thought. Far too late.
OFFICER’S REPORT: ENTRY DATE, 04 JULY 2599
CASE CODE: LYDIA
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JESSE BAHN, BADGE #830810
I and Constable Frederick Hanse are en route to Beaudreau’s Rock detention facility aboard the penal transport KSK Beta Nine, in the company of DCI Nikolaas Ryke and 66 detainees. They include Hideo Narita, Alfonso Bianchi, Hector Arriaga, Victor Arriaga and Cassandra Bahn, who until recently went by the name Lydia.
Our investigation was finally successful in apprehending Mrs. Bahn and ending her dissemination and reproducing of texts-in-violation, most notably portions of the Christian Scriptures. DCI Ryke, who assumed command of this investigation on 21 June 2599, has seen fit not to conduct further inquiry into my relationship with Mrs. Bahn.
My final recommendation in this case is that Mrs. Bahn be transferred to Sector One, the high security facility. She is clearly a danger to the security and stability of the Realm of Five, and must be kept under the tightest scrutiny.
Misters Narita, Bianchi, and the Arriagas must be transferred to Sector Ten.
REPORT ENDS
LOST IN THE CROWD (2011)
WHEN 2011 ROLLED AROUND, I wanted to try something different, something other than the three space opera novels and pair of short stories I’d penned. For a while, I’d entertained the vision of a city on a mountain, tucked between peaks, where the residents took to biplanes to get around. That vision coalesced into Crosswind, the first tale of brothers Winchell and Copernicus Sark. It’s an adventure through steampunk world populated with Western slang, early 20th Century aeroplanes, and Ice Age prehistoric creatures.
Troy Keysor played a brief but crucial role. He brings word of impending invasion to his uncle, the governor-general of Perch, which is Winch and Cope’s home city-state. Before Marcher Lord Press published the book, I found myself wondering, how did Troy get his information? What happened before his untimely demise
?
Lost in the Crowd answers those questions. I wrote it in five parts, posted on www.steverzasa.com over a couple months. It marks the first and only time I’ve serialized a story.
Part One
T
he morning dawned cold and damp. Smog from the forest of house chimneys and factory smokestacks blanketed the streets of Trestleway. Troy Keysor wrinkled his nose at the smell—as if an actual blanket had been left out in the rain for days, and placed in the sun to dry. Musty. It happened often enough to be a nuisance, although in these tenement buildings on Trestleway’s west half, one could not expect much relief from the stench, even indoors.
His building was slightly newer than the other four-story, red brick tenements on this block. That is to say, the brick was a brighter shade of scarlet, fewer gaps were present in the mortar, and only a half dozen broken windows remained unrepaired. Troy locked his door as securely as possible when he left. He automatically shut out the crying and arguing coming from the other apartments on his floor.
Outside he was free of his charming neighbors, at least. The sun would burn the fog off soon enough. Troy put on his bowler and immediately made himself less conspicuous. Red hair was a liability, especially here.
It was a short walk down Straight Street to the bridge across the Cobalt River Canal to the city center. Troy had on a charcoal gray jacket, trousers and navy blue vest. He fit well with the other businessmen walking the street, mingled with the workmen in coveralls or work trousers. The only way into the city center from this part of Trestleway was through a tall wooden gate, set between two weathered stone gatehouses.
Militia checked folios for everyone who wanted through the gate—well, almost everyone. Troy was well aware the motor-wagons with the shiniest coats of paint and the best-dressed occupants were waved through with barely a pause. The guards did not seem to be at their utmost—their uniforms were tan and rumpled, about as pleasant looking as their expressions. Train whistles hooted in the distance. One dragged its passenger cars rattling across a trestle of wood beams and metal fasteners not a block away, spewing steam over the neighborhood.
Troy presented his billfold when it was his turn. “Good morning, sir.”
The militiaman stood a head shorter, and had twice the girth. Brass buttons strained under pressure fit for a steam boiler. His face, already a study in surliness, screwed tighter. He spat on Troy’s shoes—now that was a blamed shame, as they were worth a fair pile of coin. “Your folio best be in order, Crims.”
Even with the hat in place, there was no hiding Troy’s freckles. “I certainly hope so.”
The guard scowled. He took his dandy time perusing the document in the billfold before shoving back at Troy. “Move along.”
“Enjoy your post.”
Despite his outward cheer, Troy did not breathe easy until he was well past the gates. This neighborhood of the Old City was a far cry from the tenements, in that it was far easier on the eyes. The buildings were, if not all new, kept in the best condition. The streets were cleaned, and every so often Troy caught a glimpse of militia tan on patrol amongst the pedestrians.
He paid little heed to the rumble of carts drawn by diprotodon. The massive, furry beasts caterwauled as they trod the streets. Motor-wagons, all clanking and spindly-wheeled, did not faze them with the incessant honking of their horns. Troy nodded politely at passers-by—reserving his brightest smile for the womenfolk, naturally—but did not let his attention drift from the street signs at the corner ahead.
Right to Haupt Avenue and Hospitality Row. One block south. Left to Joyce Lane. Number 77.
It didn’t take long to find. And there were fewer people on this street, by far. Most conducted their business on Hospitality Row. There it was—a building painted green, wedged between an ice cream parlor and haberdashery. Lock’s Book & Print.
Chimes rang overhead when he opened the door. The man—behemoth would have been a more fitting appellation—behind the counter glanced up from his register. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” Troy wandered to the nearest bookshelf. There was no shortage of titles here. Every shelf space was occupied by books, some with shiny new bindings and others that appeared to have survived since the fall of the Commonwealth.
“Can I be of assistance?” The man’s skin was bronze, and he had a black hair that was secured in a ponytail. He wore a dark blue shirt under a black vest, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.
“Yes, please. There’s a certain volume I need.” Troy selected a work at random—Bennington’s Charting the Wild. He thumbed through the pages. “It’s The Staubach Guide to Model Rail Transport, second edition.”
“Well, luck is with you, friend.” The shopkeeper wended his way around the counter. Troy noticed ink smudged both arms. The muscles were as thick as tree trunks. He gave the overall impression of a man better suited to tend bar at a railroaders’ tavern than stock shelves in this establishment. But his fingers plucked the exact volume Troy needed from between its brethren with deft sureness. “This would be it.”
“Oh, well done. I can see why your services come highly recommended, Mister…”
“Hines. Oneyear Hines.” He smirked. “Glad to hear my reputation’s appreciated.”
“Greatly.” Troy opened the book. Here was the crux. “Do you have any advice for one such as I, just starting this hobby?”
“Page three-eleven has a fine index. A gent such as you shouldn’t have any trouble spiking down rails there.”
“Fine, yes, thank you.” Troy turned the pages. Oneyear’s footsteps told him the clerk was back behind the counter. There it was. Several letters throughout the index pages were circled in blue ink. Troy scanned the entire index. He dug for the notebook, bound in brown leather, that he always carried.
“There’s a table in the gardening section, should you need it.” Oneyear did not look up from his register.
“Yes, thanks.” Troy set the book down. The chair, cane backed and rickety, wobbled when he sat. He spread out the notebook and scrawled furiously. It was all there:
OVMF SV JKTMNKPQAUJ VAGP JCZ.
Troy’s heart thudded. Sweat beaded on his brow. Jesca had information for him. He must decode it immediately.
“Find it alright?” Oneyear leaned over the counter. Troy could just see him beyond the low bookshelf at his back.
“Yes. Yes indeed.” Troy flipped to the back of his notebook. Which cipher was it for this week? Aha.
“If you don’t mind my saying, this store ain’t always the most private of places for work such as that.” Oneyear jerked his chin.
Troy glanced as nonchalantly as he could manage to the front of the store. A man in a black suit and hat walked away, down the sidewalk. Troy did not see his face well enough to recognize detail, but saw the only things that mattered—a bright red tie, and the glint of a silver badge.
Fear gripped him. Rusted spikes! Peace Branch was tailing him. He should have known it had been far too easy.
Troy gathered up the book and his notebook. He deposited coin on the counter. “This should cover the cost.”
And a great deal more. Oneyear looked him square in the eye and nodded. “Should be just fine.” He swept the bulk of the coins into his pocket, and the small amount needed for the book went into the register. “You take care of yourself.”
“I will. Good day.”
He had to get out of here.
Part Two
Troy left Lock’s Book & Print for Hospitality Row. He tipped his hat and smiled at a pair of ladies passing him on the sidewalk, one of them quite fetching, with rosy cheeks and curly auburn hair. The older woman favored him with a dour expression, as if she’d eaten something unpleasant.
As they passed, Troy kept eye contact with the young lady. She gave a little wave over her shoulder, nothing more than a twiddle of the fingers.
She was lovely, indeed. But Troy found the Peace Branch officer standing down other end of Joyce Lane more worth his at
tention at that moment.
He was tall, slender and clean shaven. He did not look at Troy; rather, he stood reading the Consolidated Register. Why anyone would bother with that rag of a company paper was beyond Troy, unless they were fond of company fodder.
Troy knew where to go to conceal himself. He daren’t return to his apartment—doubtless they’d have someone waiting for him there. Back on Hospitality Row, amidst the noise and bustle and people, he felt safe. He could blend, as long as he found the right place. Those of Tirodani descent were barely tolerated in Trestleway, and learned to seek safety in greater numbers.
Such consideration led Troy to the Silver Spoon.
It was a tea house of high repute, with a penchant for alluring brews. The smell enticed customers of all classes regardless of ethnicity. From two blocks down Troy could see the sign posted high above the roofs. The silver spoon itself was hammered out of a bar of metal as long as a man was tall. It was anchored high atop the building, a beacon for all Tirodani.
Troy kept to the crowds on the sidewalk. Street traffic was heavy today, mercifully. He counted on it to block the view of the man following his footsteps.
Troy bumped elbows with a squat, wide man in an impeccably tailored suit whose moustache—big, bushy and white—concealed most of his lower face. “Beg pardon, sir.”
“I should say so!” The man harrumphed and continued along.
It gave Troy the pretext to glance sideways across the street and reassure himself the pursuer was still keeping tabs on him. The officer strolled along the opposite side of Haupt Street, a building back. His hands were tucked in his trouser pockets, and a newspaper folded under one arm. Troy could hear him whistle a familiar folk tune.
The morning crowd at the Silver Spoon was full of chatter. Men and women sat segregated at the four-top tables that filled most of the salon—men on the right, women on the left. The floor was black and white checked tile. The walls were white, and decorated tastefully with pinstripes. The owner had hung portraits of prominent local Tirodani here and there.
The ladies talked quite happily, Troy thought, about children and literature and meetinghouse gossip. The men spoke politics and trade and Telru religion, in far less jovial tones. There had to be forty people in all. Only a handful were not Tirodani. Red and orange hair dominated.
