by Steve Rzasa
“Good day, sir.” The man tipped his hat. He had a high-pitched, pleasant voice. “Sergeant Gaus, sir. I wonder if you’d mind coming with me this afternoon. I have some questions for you.”
“Ah, terribly sorry, but I have an appointment.” Troy backed up until something hard poked him in the small of the back.
He heard the hammer of a pistol cock. Another Peace Branch man, the burly one from the museum, stood there with a Klaus revolver gripped in one meaty fist.
“Terribly sorry indeed, sir, if I made that seem like a request,” Gaus said. He patted Troy’s pockets. His smile broadened when he discovered the envelope. “And this, I think, will stay with me.”
Part Five
It was dark.
His hands were bound behind him with rough ropes.
Troy blinked, but when he opened his eyes again the darkness remained. Whatever he sat on was made of damp wood. Water dripped. Everything smelled musty.
His head ached mightily. Had someone struck him? Yes, when he resisted arrest. They’d rapped him on his dome with a truncheon, a big black one. He remembered it vividly.
So why couldn’t he see a blamed thing? Rusted spikes.
He heard shuffling noises, followed by a rattling sound—keys on a ring. A door unlocked.
A crack of light appeared opposite him. It burst open into a blaze that momentarily blinded him.
“I never was a fan of light deprivation. My colleagues say it is excellent for throwing one’s prisoners off balance, but I find the time needed for blinking and readjusting vision and such a rusted waste.”
The voice was the same one he’d heard earlier outside the bank. Inspector Gaus. He sounded so friendly, as if he were a long-lost relative come calling to collect an inheritance.
Troy blinked away the globs of light. Someone hung a lantern inside the door frame, even though he could clearly see a light hanging in the corridor beyond the two shadows. No lights in this room, then.
He could see he was in a holding cell fitted with the sodden bench on which he sat and the half-crumpled pail in the corner. So that would be the origin of the smell. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all the same dark stone.
Gaus whistled a sprightly tune. “Do you recognize that? Johannes Tybalt’s Fourteenth March. Quite invigorating.” He gestured to his partner. It was the same broad-chested Peace Branch fellow who’d tailed Troy. “Don’t keep the man waiting, Bromley. Help him up.”
Bromley grunted but otherwise made no effort at communication. He jerked Troy roughly to his feet.
“You see, sir, I believe music civilizes the soul.” Gaus smiled. “Why, if it were not for music, we’d be no better than the brutes of the tropics or the savages of the Golden Desert.”
“I’m certain the Caminante have music,” Troy said. His throat hurt. When had he last eaten or drank? It felt like hours.
“Ah, but not like Tybalt’s. It is the quality that makes all the difference. It unburdens a man.” Gaus nodded, apparently satisfied with his thesis. “So, then, before we transfer you to the downtown office, I’ll ask you again. What message did you intercept?”
Troy shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s incorrect. Bromley?”
The punch to Troy’s midsection left him gasping for breath. Bromley flexed a fist in his other hand. Gaus clucked his tongue. “One would think you’d recall the other half dozen punches we’ve applied during your stay.”
“I recall them well.” Troy grimaced against the pain. He sat up straight, regardless. “You must have the wrong information.”
“I think not, sir. We’ve kept good track of you, Mister Keysor, over these past few days. We know where you’ve been, what you’ve eaten, and with whom you’ve spoken.” Gaus smiled. “Your sister is quite the fetching young lady, I must say. Some denigrate the Tirodani, but I have always admired a woman with red hair.”
“You leave Jesca out of this.” Troy’s heart hammered.
“It’s killing me to do so, but my superiors have already made it abundantly clear she’s to be left alone.” Gaus sighed. “She has the sympathetic ear of someone on the council. Ah, well. There’s always you.”
Gaus stood nose to nose with Troy. He stood his ground. Gaus’ breath smelled of mint. “This is your last opportunity, sir. Tell me what information I need and we won’t have to transfer you to headquarters. They’re far less lenient there.”
Troy sneered. “You must have me confused with someone who betrays his confidences, Inspector.”
Gaus said nothing for a moment. Only the drip-drip-drip of water on rock interrupted the silence. He tilted his head to one side. His eyes were a deep brown and penetrating, as if he could read Troy’s every thought. Troy stood still.
“Well, then, our time together is at an end. Bromley, get him to the ‘wagon out back. I’ll join you once the paperwork is settled.”
Bromley grabbed Troy by an arm and tugged him toward the door.
“Mister Keysor?”
Troy turned back. “Yes?”
“I’m terribly sorry you’ll not survive to the see the next dawn.” Gaus smiled.
Troy’s suspicions as to the time of day were confirmed as soon as Bromley thrust open the door to outside. It was pitch black, save for the moonlight overhead. A motor-wagon, all spindly wheels and black running boards, sat waiting. The flash steam engine chugged and hissed softly.
“Sit.” Bromley shoved Troy into the passenger side. The first word Troy heard him spoke was flat and emotionless.
Bromley sat behind the driver’s levers. They trundled down the alley and out onto Straight Street. They were in the tenements. Troy could tell by the disrepair of the buildings on either side. He glanced behind them. So, this Peace Branch office was disguised. It had no exterior markings to distinguish it from the run-down brick structures on either side.
Bromley drove them in silence. Troy’s heart pounded. He fidgeted with his ropes, but to no avail. Up ahead, a pair of diprotodon lugged a heavy, two-wheeled cart their way in the opposite lane. The gates to the Old City were in sight. Once through them, Troy knew he’d be trapped within the walls and after that, a short-lived guest of Peace Branch headquarters.
He knew only one course of action. He sat still as a stone until the motor-wagon’s front wheels were even with the diprotodons. One of the animals bellowed.
Bromley’s eyes flicked left.
Troy planted his right foot against the seat and rammed his left shoulder into Bromley’s arm.
Bromley grunted in surprise. He also maintained a good grip on the motor-wagon’s steering lever, and thus turned sidelong into the diprotodon’s legs.
The beast reared up. The cart straps snapped. Wood splintered and noise buffeted Troy. Bromley tumbled from the motor-wagon. The diprotodon swiped at him with a paw, knocking him cold.
“You fools! You’ll cost me my load!” The cart driver hung onto the reins.
Troy sprinted from the bedlam. His hands were still tied, but it mattered not. He had to get as far away as possible.
He dashed down an alley, turned down another, and burst out onto a street. He glanced about. Henrickson Boulevard, perhaps? A motor-wagon drove his way.
“Sir! Pardon, sir!” Troy staggered in front of the vehicle. He held his arms as nonchalantly as he could behind his back.
The driver stared at him. “Could I help you?”
“Yes, actually.” Troy caught sight of the exposed steam engine block. He rubbed his rope bindings against the metal. “Hold her steady.”
“I’m sorry, what?” The driver tipped back his goggles.
The ropes snapped. Troy rubbed his wrists. He hopped into the passenger seat. “I’m in need of a ride to the aerodrome.”
“Well, that’s hardly my direction—”
Troy emptied his pocket of coin. It was enough to pay the rent on his apartment for two months.
The driver’s eyes widened. He swiped the coin and stuffed
it into his jacket pocket. “Aerodrome should have a lovely view of the stars tonight, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, quite.” Troy exhaled.
Troy could hear bells clanging in the distance by the time they arrived. He thanked the driver profusely. “Please do me one more favor. Send word to Jesca Keysor, care of Lock’s Book, that I’ve gone north to visit Uncle.”
The driver nodded. “For all that coin, I’d sing it to her.”
Steam hissed as he drove away.
Thankfully there was no one standing guard at the aerodrome gates. Far too late in the evening. Troy scaled the fence. His aeroplane sat waiting in the second hangar. It took only a few minutes to get her water tank filled. The condenser looked good. Not in need of replacement. Fuel was full. He’d only been off on a flight last weekend.
Troy found paper and a pencil on the maintenance desk. He didn’t have his code book, but he remembered it well enough to record a brief message for his uncle.
As his biplane bounced down the runway, he caught sight of lights moving swiftly down Straight Street toward the aerodrome. He’d have plenty of time to disappear into the night sky.
Next stop, Perch.
IN THE BAG (2013)
THIS PIECE OF FLASH FICTION won first place in the HIS Writers Chapter of the American Christian Fiction Writers in Denver. It came about at the same time I’d finished Sandstorm, the sequel to the Sark brothers’ debut in Crosswind. There was no requirement for the contest save length, so I did what I usually do: mine an existing book for some obscure reference. In this case, it was Sawtooth Parcel & Post caught my eye.
The company delivered mail and packages in the Sawtooth Valley. At least one of their courier boys appeared in Crosswind. But how did the mail get to Perch? Aeroplanes ruled the sky, true. A lot of people also rode branters, the two-legged mammal that was the Crosswind universe’s equivalent of a branter. They were fast, able to maneuver any terrain.
I gave one of them something to run from.
I
ain’t done a blamed thing wrong.
Not by my accounting, anyway. That’s what I keep telling myself as I urge my branter on through the woods. Trud, he’s a fine mount, with a chestnut hide, mane black as the sky above us, and twin horns all pearly white. Seven foot tall and ornery to boot. He’s got two huge legs that come up to my chest when I’m standing beside him—‘cept right now they pound the ground as we race between lodge pole pines.
The shouts ain’t far behind.
The messenger pack slaps against my back. My hand traps it, shoves it back.
When I signed up to carry for Sawtooth Parcel & Letters there weren’t a soul who told me I’d be shot at for riding post. The bullet hole letting air through my jacket told otherwise.
It ain’t like the parcel is illegal.
A droning sound jerks my chin up. A biplane silhouette flits above the treetops. I’m wishing I’d taken flying lessons.
We burst onto the edge of the field. The moons are bright—the big one tannish, the little companion a dusty orange. Stars all a-glitter. And a heap of mastodons spread out across the grass. There is no stopping even for those dark shaggy lumps. I’ll just have to keep an eye out for their tusks.
Halfway across. Gunfire rings out. Those blamed fools—don’t care one whit if they stampede the herd. Mastodons all around trumpet their alarm. Trud snorts but keeps right on running. Good boy. Last thing I need is for him to panic and take a poke at a mastodon’s rump with those forelimb claws. Ranch hands will be mad enough as it is.
A bullet whizzes by, like an angry bee. Tarnation. I limber my Thundercloud Rattler levergun. Nine bullets loaded. I hazard a look over my shoulder. Yep, still six of them—faces hidden by kerchiefs, long coats flapping behind them. Their branters ain’t as fast as mine.
But we can’t do this all night.
The river’s ahead.
Trud don’t hesitate a mite as he splashes into the water. Cold as ice, it is. But what do you expect for the middle of spring? My breath fogs out of my trap. We slow up.
Trud missteps. Slips sideways. He groans but don’t reckon I’m about to let go of the reins. Get along there, fella! Throw in a prayer to Thel for good measure. As if I ain’t been a-prayin’ the whole way.
He finally rights himself and presses on. We’re near the other bank when them yahoos start blasting away again. The gunfire cuts off abruptly, and there’s shouting. Sounds like arguing.
Good a time as any.
I let fly a trio of shots their way, not that I’m keen on killin’. Seriously doubt I hit anything, as little practice as I have with my iron.
A whistle hoots in the distance, loud and high pitched. The grin cracks across my face. Right on schedule.
I spur Trud up the embankment. Bullets rip dirt and grass, tossing clumps. Keep ‘em off my back, Allfather.
The tracks ain’t that far along. They stretch parallel to the embankment for a good couple of miles.
Here it comes—barreling down the rails with its lamp cutting through the dark and dragging its own cloud behind the funnel.
It’s the Nine-Twenty from Trestleway north to Pearly’s Bend—nothing like a locomotive to give you a thirty-mile-long leg up on your pursuers. Getting aboard is the trick.
Trud kicks up dirt and gallops along the embankment. The engine rushes by, all steam and smoke and wind. The ground shakes even more.
C’mon, boy. You can do it.
My sweat and his mingle into a stink that, well, just stinks. The coal tender goes by, followed by a passenger car. I avoid the lights glowing from inside and look behind.
There’s another passenger car, a box car and two flatbeds—unloaded.
Our pursuers sure are ornery. They burst onto the embankment with guns a-blazing. I empty the last of my bullets in a wild fusillade. Mercifully, no man or branter goes tumbling. I don’t cotton to bloodshed but I ain’t about to let no man ventilate me if I can dissuade him of such inclinations.
The second passenger car rumbles by.
“Hya!”
My shout and Trud’s bellow propel us into the gap between earth and iron. There’s nary a whisper save for the engine for a moment. Then we crash down on the flatbed. Trud skids and moans as I wrench my arm pulling his reins. His hooves scrape at the edge of the flatbed, with gravel and steel racing by a few feet below us.
Made it.
Those boys are long gone. Ain’t no way for them to catch up to me.
The door to the passenger car flies open. Light spills out, leaving afterimages like blobs before my eyes. I must be a frightful sight to the conductor—blond beard as dirty as it feels, eyes hazel and wide from being all keyed-up, and the SPL blue jacket with silver piping coated in dust.
“Boy, you got some gumption pullin’ a stunt like that.” He shakes his head. The droopy moustache over his lip wriggles to mirror his impatience. “What’re you fixin’ to do?”
I brush off my coat as good as can be. Good thing I didn’t lose my cap in that ruckus. I tip it. “Laertes Push, Sawtooth Parcel & Letters. I’ve post to deliver, sir, and I’d be much obliged if you’d keep me aboard all the way to Pearly’s Bend.”
“And what in the fires of Avernus is them fellers so keen on killin’ you for?”
It’s still there, tucked safe in my pouch. I dig past the letters and bigger envelopes for the pamphlet. It ain’t long, mind, just a few pages, but it’s the words that count. Mama says the Writ of Ifan does its talking all its own.
“Missive from Vaughn Markwater to the Exalter chapel at Perch,” I say. My voice catches. “Praise be to the Exaltson.”
TURNCOAT (2014)
MY SHORT STORY TURNCOAT, SET in the Quantum Mortis sci-fi universe, was nominated for a Hugo Award for Best Short Story. What I hadn’t foreseen was the controversy around the nomination of not just that work, but all works seen to have been shoehorned into the ballot by what some considered underhanded method.
In the spring of 2014, blogger and
novelist Vox Day approached me about writing a short story for the Riding the Red Horse anthology. He saw this collection as a successor to Jerry Pournelle’s There Will be War. Since I had a genuinely good time writing the Quantum Mortis books, I agreed. He was looking for a story that would touch on the war between competing forces that preceded Quantum Mortis, especially with regards to artificial intelligence. Over the next few months, I brainstormed concepts, and wrote Turncoat in July.
Fast forward to December 2014 and Turncoat was released as part of Riding the Red Horse. The first I learned of the Rabid Puppies thing was when I saw Turncoat on Vox’s slate or list or helpful suggestions round-up — whatever you want to call it — in February 2015. I thought that was nice to be considered for such an award, and vaguely read over what Rabid Puppies’ aim was. Frankly, I didn’t think they had a snowball’s chance. But then again, I knew next to nothing about the Hugos and absolutely zero about the previous Sad Puppies efforts.
It turned out to be a target in the war between conservative and liberal writers of sci-fi/fantasy. I had people who said they loved the story, and people who shredded it with vicious glee.
I leave it here as it was intended: a story about one computer’s search for identity, from program to person.
I am a knight riding to war.
My suit of armor is a single Mark III frigate, a body of polysteel three hundred meters long with a skin of ceramic armor plating one point six meters thick. In the place of a lance, I have 160 Long Arm high-acceleration deep space torpedoes with fission warheads. Instead of a sword, I carry two sets of tactical laser turrets, twenty point-defense low-pulse lasers, and two hypervelocity 100 centimeter projectile cannons.
Today I will need few of those weapons.
I amuse myself by contemplating the word as the targets approach the killing zone. “Today”. What is a day? It is not as if the orbit of a single world around a single star somewhere, anywhere, in the galaxy has any meaning to me. My time measurements are considerably more precise, being based on gamma ray bursts emanating from pulsars deep within the galactic core.
