The Engineer

by C. S. Poe

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About The Engineer

  Dedication

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  Up Next...

  About C.S. Poe

  Also by C.S. Poe

  The Engineer

  by

  C.S. Poe

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Engineer

  Copyright © 2020 by C.S. Poe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: contact@cspoe.com

  Published by Emporium Press

  https://www.cspoe.com

  contact@cspoe.com

  Cover Art by Reese Dante

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  Edited by Tricia Kristufek

  Copyedited by Andrea Zimmerman

  Proofread by Lyrical Lines

  Published 2020.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital eBook ISBN: 978-1-952133-19-0

  The Engineer

  By: C.S. Poe

  1881—Special Agent Gillian Hamilton is a magic caster with the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam. He’s sent to Shallow Grave, Arizona, to arrest a madman engineer known as Tinkerer, who’s responsible for blowing up half of Baltimore. Gillian has handled some of the worst criminals in the Bureau’s history, so this assignment shouldn’t be a problem. But even he’s taken aback by a run-in with the country’s most infamous outlaw, Gunner the Deadly.

  Gunner is also stalking Shallow Grave in search of Tinkerer, who will stop at nothing to take control of the town’s silver mines. Neither Gillian nor Gunner are willing to let Tinkerer hurt more innocent people, so they agree to a very temporary partnership.

  If facing illegal magic, Gatling gun contraptions, and a wild engineer in America’s frontier wasn’t enough trouble for a city boy, Gillian must also come to terms with the reality that he’s rather fond of his partner. But even if they live through this adventure, Gillian fears there’s no chance for love between a special agent and outlaw.

  For Greg.

  Now this steampunk is rightfully yours.

  I

  October 10, 1881

  The trch, trch, trch of Gatling gun rotating cylinders had been my only warning before the gunfire began. Bullets pierced the sun-bleached façade of the gambling hall behind me, and splintered wood rained down like an unexpected desert shower. I held on to my bowler, dove behind a nearby wagon, and scrambled up against the wheel. By way of defense, it offered little, but I desperately needed half a second to gather my bearings. I’d just entered Shallow Grave, Arizona, hadn’t even flashed my badge yet, and already I was being shot at.

  I yanked my traveling goggles over my head and accidently dropped them as another round of shooting began. Windows shattered, a woman’s scream echoed from a few storefronts to my right, and the scorched red earth around me billowed up in miniature dust storms where bullets became embedded in the packed clay.

  I lifted the headband and over-ear receivers of my Personal Discussion Device from my neck and fitted them into place. I raised the handheld transducer, punched in a code on the brass buttons that would connect me to my director back in New York City, and waited for Loren Moore’s smooth tenor voice to answer.

  But nothing happened.

  I tried again.

  Not even static.

  “Send Gillian out West,” I said in a self-mocking tone. I attempted contact a final time, but it was in vain. “Milo Ferguson won’t stand a chance against him. Of course not. But the utter lack of basic amenities and technology?” More gunfire, and I winced before sliding down farther and trying to make myself as small a target as possible. “Gillian will love it.” I wrenched the band down to rest around my neck again, then rolled onto my belly to peer under the wagon.

  There was a sudden crackle in the atmosphere—the snap of aether magic being activated. The sensation raised gooseflesh on my arms, and I recognized the spell for what it was.

  Manufactured.

  Illegal.

  Not magic invoked by a caster like me, but by a physical weapon and someone with the wealth in which to afford its use.

  And then three near-simultaneous shots fractured the air like seven years’ bad luck. No doubt that had come from a triple-barrel Waterbury pistol. But it didn’t line up with the intelligence the Bureau had on Milo Ferguson. Yes, he was wanted for his improper use of steam energy to power unregistered innovations, as well as his amassing of aether ammunition, but he hadn’t once owned a Waterbury pistol or Jordan rifle, the only two weapons capable of firing magic-laden bullets.

  Ferguson was an engineer. And mad though he might be, he was gifted at any sort of construction that had a lethal edge to it. His inventions were what had recently taken out half of Baltimore. His self-designed, magic-compatible monstrosities of brass and copper and iron were why I had been directed by the Bureau and the President of the United States to haul ass to Arizona territory.

  So the shots in retaliation to the Gatling gun hadn’t come from Ferguson. They’d come from yet another individual hell-bent on breaking the law. And me with only one pair of handcuffs and no idea where the town jail was located….

  I watched from underneath the wagon as a pair of black-clad legs—presumably the Waterbury owner—ran by like the hounds from Hell were giving chase. The man skidded to an abrupt stop in the middle of the dirt road, turned, and another shiver of manufactured magic creeped along my arms seconds before the Waterbury shot another triple round at a target somewhere out of sight to my left.

  I scrambled to my hands and knees and moved into a crouch. Peering around the edge of the wagon, I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the setting sun and saw, standing against a fiery desert backdrop, a cowboy straight out of a dime novel. He was tall, like he could steal the stars from the sky at night. Not a big man—lithe was the word—but imposing nonetheless in head-to-toe black attire, including a Stetson hat hanging from his neck. He remained in a shooting pose and cocked the hammer on his Waterbury. But as the ammunition came to life for a third time, gunfire erupted from my left again and sent the cowboy running for cover.

  Specifically, my wagon.

  He slid across the ground, sent up a cloud of dirt, and rolled out of the way as several bullets ricocheted off the hall. I’d stumbled backward at his approach and been knocked flat on my backside when he’d all but fallen on top of me to save his own skin.

  He pointed the Waterbury at me, I revealed the federal badge pinned to my waistcoat, and we both spoke at the same time.

  “You’re under arrest,” I directed.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  A beat.

  The cowboy didn’t break eye contact, didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to give a damn that I intended to read him his rights for gunfighting. But he did pull the black bandana down to reveal his face, and God save me, the man could have been divinity. Strong jawline, clean-shaven, surprisingly pale complexion, given the location, and blue, blue eyes that deserved a better, more beautiful adjective. Cobalt? Sapphire? Yes. Hi
s eyes glittered like dark gemstones.

  Apollo himself would have taken inspiration from this man’s face.

  My throat was parched. I coughed a few times and managed, “Special Agent Gillian Hamilton with the Federal Bureau of—”

  “Special Agent Hamilton,” he interjected before beginning to rise, “I’m a little busy at the moment.” For a man who’d just been shot at, his tone was frighteningly calm.

  I grabbed at his coat sleeve and yanked. “Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam,” I finished as if I hadn’t been interrupted. “And you’re under arrest for gunfighting and possession of an illegal magic firearm.”

  Before he had a chance to respond, a palm-sized brass ball, perfectly round and smooth, dropped onto the ground between us. It splintered open, stood on spiderlike appendages, and then the tiny inner mechanics began to spin and whir, the sound growing louder than what such a small object should have been able to produce.

  “The hell is this?” I asked.

  The cowboy ripped away from my distracted hold. “Get up. Now.”

  His unease brought me to my feet without conscious thought.

  “We need to go.” He grabbed my arm, his strong blunt fingers digging into my clothing and flesh, and dragged me away from the inadequate safety of the wooden wagon.

  I began to protest as the cowboy broke into a sprint that my much-shorter stature could hardly keep up with, but then I caught sight over my shoulder of what had managed to put the fear of God into him. That little brass oddity had grown to an impossible size, nearly the height of my own shoulders, and was ambling after us on its spider legs of spinning gears and steam-hissing joints. The top portion of the ball retracted back, and the ten-barrels of a Gatling gun unfolded from within. The cogs tick, tick, ticked as it adjusted its trajectory and put us in its path of destruction.

  “Christ Almighty,” I swore.

  I gave the stranger a shove and tore free from his grip. I raised an arm up and extended my fingers toward the sky. Thunder boomed from every corner of Shallow Grave and the air prickled and hummed with electricity as I tapped into the natural stream of magic encompassing Earth. When a caster—an individual with the ability to sense and utilize elemental magic—generated a spell, our bodies acted as a natural conduit. The raw magic passed through us without harm to our internal workings, while concurrently, our life energy replaced what was taken from the stream.

  It wasn’t a perfect relationship.

  Years of spell casting built up a certain amount of magic refuse in our systems. It was dangerous for new or young casters to make physical contact with us veterans. The magic in our systems could shock, burn, or maim them in a dozen other grisly ways. Then there were the hazards of interacting with a caster who was our elemental opposite, and of course, it was always possible to overtax our bodies and temporarily lose the ability to cast.

  Hell, as if there weren’t enough safety considerations to living the life of an architect, scholar, or caster, it wasn’t even a legal life until the Caster Regulation Act of 1865. Congress decided it was better—safer for the masses—to allow the practice of magic out in the open after its devastating uses during the Great Rebellion. Of course, bringing the magic community out of the shadows meant putting us under the strict guidance of the government.

  Enter the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam.

  Mandatory documentation was the price I had to pay, but in return I’d been given a badge and a certain amount of respect that, as a boy, I’d never imagined possible. While I might have been under more scrutiny than most agents—the last thing the government wanted was someone of my skill level going rogue or losing all sense of their faculties—at least this aspect of my life was no longer considered shameful.

  A bright bolt of lightning shot down from the sky and into my outstretched hand. The fractures of energy crackled, popped, and washed out Boot Spur Street in an illumination of a billion volts of natural power. I swung my arm around, looping the lightning like a lasso, then threw it with all my might at the Gatling spider.

  It immediately exploded.

  Metal screeched as it was torn apart.

  Nuts and bolts, cogs and gears, whizzed through the air like miniature projectiles.

  The Gatling ammunition detonated.

  I waved at the smoke and unsettled dust in front of my face. The air cleared enough to show scorched black earth where the spider had stood. And it also appeared I’d set the wagon and gambling hall on fire.

  Shit.

  I winced as nearby voices cried for the fire brigade. I turned toward the cowboy, only to find him staring at me. He holstered the bulky Waterbury on his hip and said, “That’s a clever little trick you have there, Hamilton.”

  A trick.

  How rude.

  And I had every intention of telling him so, but then another volley of gunfire interrupted. Farther down Boot Spur Street, loping toward us at an unhurried pace, were two more Gatling spiders. These two had been the ones to initiate the fight with the fellow in black before he decided he had a higher probability of living if he were to run away.

  The cowboy reached for me. “Come on!”

  But I ignored him and raised my hand for a second time. I tamped down the intensity of the lightning—several million volts would be more than enough to obliterate the walking death machines terrorizing this mining town. Another arc of energy lit up the sky before it rushed to my outstretched hand the way ancient sailors of the sea crashed into rocks at the beckoning notes of a siren’s song. I threw the lightning at the spiders and watched them burst in a similar, although admittedly less catastrophic, manner as the first.

  Seemingly done with waiting, the cowboy grabbed my hand and squeezed tight. The warmth and roughness of this man’s bare skin against my own, in a manner so brazenly intimate—he could have taken my wrist or arm, for God’s sake—sent such a violent shock through me that it felt as if my own magic had momentarily betrayed me.

  I don’t touch anyone.

  For one, I presented too much of a danger to others with magic in their blood. My skill level was not typical and, therefore, not well understood by the scholars in our community. Conditioning myself to remain clear of humanity as a whole was better—safer—for everyone. Although, to be honest, this was not the sole reason for my self-imposed isolation. Suspicion and rumor of my tendencies had circulated between the New York field office and metropolitan police force for years. Life was complicated enough as a caster. If it came to light that I, in fact, did crave the attention of men—mentally, emotionally, physically—I would be ruined.

  So I pretended I didn’t hear the whispers. Tempered the bitter jealousy churning in my gut when I witnessed moments of intimacy between others. And I behaved as if I didn’t often cry myself to sleep due to loneliness.

  “…before you set the whole town on fire,” the cowboy was saying, bringing me back to the present. He set off in a run again.

  This time, I followed.

  We took a sharp right at the end of the block, turning onto Applejack Row. The sign was nailed haphazardly to a post on the corner, but as we sprinted past saloon after saloon, I realized the street had been aptly named. The gunfire had ceased after I’d taken out the spiders, commotion over the fire quieting as we put distance between us and Boot Spur Street, and yet the cowboy looked over his shoulder more than once—wary because we weren’t being followed, it seemed.

  He made a left turn onto a more populated street. Business owners stood on porches, shielding their eyes from the setting sun as they looked in the general direction of where the sounds of danger had erupted. Groups of men, filthy from a day’s hard labor in the outlying silver mines, hung together in small clusters around restaurant doors and at the cross street of Applejack Row. Only the boldest trotted to their watering hole of choice—cheap whiskey apparently worth the risk of being taken out by a stray bullet from those terrifying engineering marvels.

  My—the—cowboy made another sharp left and ran down
a narrow, dusty alley that separated a general store and two-story lodging. He came to a stop around the back, out of view from the curious and wary locals. The cowboy pounded twice, loudly, on the lodge door, all the while still gripping my hand in his.

  I came to my senses at that point and said between taking in breaths of dry air, “Unhand me at once.”

  “Keep quiet, Agent Hamilton,” he said with a touch of hostility. Despite this, I noted the man’s speech had a certain refinement to it. Formal schooling, at least at one point in his life. His voice was deep—not booming, nothing so imposing. A low rumble, a little husky, commanding without trying to be, and it scratched an itch buried behind my heart.

  The latch on the inside was released, the door opened a few inches, and a girl—no, a young woman—my height studied us through the crack. The cowboy’s presence didn’t appear to surprise or startle her. In fact, she immediately stepped back and allowed us to enter. I was dragged into a cramped, overheated kitchen. The cowboy didn’t break momentum to speak with two older women, and likewise they didn’t look up from the evening meals being prepared for lodgers.

  Through another door, up a dark, single file staircase that would have creaked and groaned even under the steps of a ghost, then down a dimly lit hall that overlooked the front entrance of the lodge. The cowboy stopped outside the last door, pulled a large skeleton key from his suit coat pocket, and dragged me inside the rented room after him.

  I hardly had more than a moment to take in my surroundings—a bed much too short for this looming cowboy now locking the door behind me, a squat table with a washbasin and clean linens, and a rickety-looking bureau too big for the room—all glowing gold as the last rays of sunlight shone through the far window. The cowboy moved around me with the fluid elegance of a cat, then in a single motion, backed me hard into the door, which knocked my bowler to the floor, and covered my mouth with one large hand before I could utter a word.