Up-Time Pride and Down-Time Prejudice

by Mark H. Huston

  Johann looked about the small space, and turned to Maria. “Where is Mary?” He sounded confused.

  Maria felt her eyes go wide. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  “Looking for Mary. We are going back to Fuggerhouse with this weather. Not trekking up the hill tonight, it’s too foul.” He pointed absently to the cloaks carried by Bertran, shrugging.

  Maria felt suddenly sick. “Oh. Oh, no. Ach! No, no, no…” She started to panic. “She left, Johann. She left to meet you!” Her emotions erupted, and she choked back tears. “He-he said that you sent for her…” She buried her face into her hands.

  Suddenly she felt herself lifted by her shoulders, and was staring into Johann’s panicked face. “Where is she!?” he shouted. “Where!?”

  Maria knew she was on the verge of blubbering, but she couldn’t help herself. If anything happened to Mary, and it was because she wasn’t there, it was going to be her fault, no matter what she was told to do by the headstrong up-timer. It was her job to protect her. And she had failed. “The coal store,” Maria gasped. “He said-- where they keep the coal.”

  Johann was angry, but there was a panic under his anger, a desperation that was rooted in something else. She had never before seen this kind of aggression in him erupt so quickly. She couldn’t keep his gaze, and turned to Bertran, embarrassed. “A-a man, one of the crew from Augsburg, came and said Johann wanted to meet her there, a-alone. Said he would take her there. He is one of ours! I know him!”

  He released her, and she staggered back slightly to lean on the table, watching. Johann’s hand went to the blade that was always at his side, and then his eyes flicked to Bertran’s blade, and then to his eyes. Bertran nodded in reply, tossing the extra cloaks to the side. Johann’s focus came back to Maria. “Go and get help. Get the boiler operator. Run to the village, to the Fuggerhouse. Scream your lungs out. Sound the alarm!”

  Maria ran.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Mary ran.

  She heard cursing behind her as she sprinted. With one hand still digging into her dress, she managed to find the cloth bag with the revolver, and she was working it open while awkwardly sprinting. She wasn’t certain of which way she was running, when she suddenly came up against the coal pile, stacked well over her head. She paused, then sprinted to her left. Someone was coming up behind her fast, faster than she could run. Afraid to look over her shoulder, she took three more steps when she was simply pushed from behind, and as fast as she was running, she stumbled, and then went headlong into the coal and rock covered ground, her hand now grasping the revolver inside her dress. She hit the ground hard, with only one hand to protect her. She tasted coal dust and blood, and her face banged against the ground. It hurt. She blinked to clear her vision, and scrambled to get up, to keep going, and she was again pushed to the ground. She screamed in anger and frustration. Rough hands turned her on her back as she fell. One of the men stood over her, breathing heavily. Mary glanced towards the shed, and she could see Hocholting kneeling with the other man, tamping out the flames on his arm with his cloak, oil burning and sputtering on the wet ground around them.

  The man loomed over her in the semi-darkness. He was the one who had brought her from Trufer’s office. “I told Hocholting that we should tie you up, right away, but no. He thought it would be easier this way, have you come with us. Be gentle, he said.” He was breathing heavily. “Damn, girl. You run fast.”

  On her back, one hand still in her dress, she thumbed the hammer back and awkwardly raised the gun under her skirt. She squeezed the trigger. There was no time to think about it, no time to ponder the right or the wrong of it, nothing to do but escape. He was so close, there was no way she could miss. The gun bucked in her hand. Her skirt and petticoats somewhat muffled the sound of the gunshot, and she felt the burning of the powder on her leg as the sparks from the up-time round caught in her clothing. She heard the man grunt as the bullet traveled into him, through his belly, up through his chest, and out his back. He staggered back a half step, a look of absolute surprise on his face. Their eyes met for a moment, illuminated by the dim flames of the burning oil. He knew he had been hurt badly. That he was dying. He was disappointed.

  She crabbed backwards, away from him, her elbow scratching on the sharp rocks and coal. On her back, she tugged at the gun, cloth tearing as she tried to pull it free. The man sunk to his knees with a moan, coughed up blood, and then collapsed forward. With one hand he reached out and clamped onto her ankle. The gun would still not come free of the skirt. She started kicking with her other foot, panicked, hard, but still his grip persisted. Her breath came fast and shallow.

  Kick…“let”…kick…“go!”…kick…

  Stealing a near-panicked glance to her right, she saw that Hocholting and the other man were now coming towards her. Hocholting leading, and the other man holding his smoking arm, following a few steps behind. Hocholting’s angular form was silhouetted by the dying fire behind him. He pulled his sword from his scabbard and tossed his cloak aside.

  Mary brought the heel of her boot down on the hand holding her. The grip on her ankle released. She scrambled to her feet. The gun was still caught in her dress, and she clawed at it with her free hand, the tough fabric tearing. “Shit!” Hocholting continued towards her, now moving faster.

  There was no time to get the gun free, she had to run again. She sprinted back towards the path and the gate, one hand on the gun in her skirts.

  “Stop!” shouted Hocholting. “You can’t escape.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw Hocholting was kneeling by the man she had shot. Hocholting waved to the other man, the man she had burned, indicating he should follow her. “Get her, all of you!”

  Shit, there must be more of them, Mary thought. She ran out of the firelight, and into the darkening night. There was still some light, reflected off the snowy peaks, above the clouds, it filtered through the overcast sky. Light does funny things in the mountains. She came to the split rail fence that enclosed the coal yard, and jumped over it, catching her foot and falling to the ground. There was another shout from the coal yard, other men, shouting to each other. She scrambled to her feet, breathing heavily and fighting panic. Move, girl! She began to run down the pathway. After a few steps she realized she was headed towards the river, not back to the plant and to town. She could hear the labored pursuit fading behind her, and the other men calling to each other. They must have assumed she ran back towards the power plant, and ran up the path the other way.

  She was breathing hard, still gripping the revolver in her dress, and felt the raw burn on her leg where she had fired it, the scrapes on her arms, and something kept running into her eyes. Shaking, she slowed to a walk, and again started to tug at the gun to pull it free. She could no longer hear active pursuit. Her dress and underskirts were torn so much that there was no way she could extract it through the slot; as soon as it cleared one, it caught in another. It was a tattered mess. She edged towards panic, tugging at it again and again, sweat running into her eyes. She ground her teeth and suppressed a whimper. With a sudden realization, she stopped. “I'm an idiot,” she said under her breath. She hiked her skirts up, reached under, and quickly freed the revolver with her other hand, gravity and the natural folds of her garments working together to release the gun from the torn fabric. She wiped off her face with the now filthy cloth, dabbed at a cut above her eye, and gripped the weapon. “I'm so getting a holster after this,” she vowed under her breath.

  Gun out, she was now no longer just prey, or helpless. The solid up-time Smith & Wesson in her hand was smooth and heavy, still slightly warm and smelling of hot oil and up-time gunpowder from firing. It was an ultimate up-time device, blue steel, deadly, and to Mary it became an emotional center that took the edge from the panic that had been threatening to immobilize her. She hefted in her hand.

  Now things were a little different.

  Mary listened. Knew she needed to get back to town, or get some Fugger security arou
nd her again. Or she could hide. The area between the river and the power plant was low and swampy. The mine had long since cut down any large timber, and all that was left were bushes and seedlings in the area. Maria had called it a ‘brambeere’. She stepped off the path, into the scrub. Instantly her foot sunk to the ankle into the soft mud. “Shit!” She wouldn’t get five feet in that glue. She stepped back onto the path, her boot fortunately staying on her foot, but now covered with mud. Running into the trees wasn’t an option, at least until she could get closer to the power plant and firm ground. She glanced back up the path towards the power plant. Someone was coming, and quickly.

  Flee or fight? She hesitated. Suddenly he was there, running, surprised and trying very hard to stop, crushed stone crunching underfoot as he skidded to a halt. He had a weapon, a sword, in his hand. She raised the gun, and he shouted. The gun went off. It was very loud and it was suddenly very bright, like a flashbulb going off. She blinked, momentarily blinded by the light, ears ringing, eyes watering.

  Her vision shrunk to a pinpoint. The man was standing in front of her, looking stunned, but uninjured. She assumed she missed him, and raised the gun again, this time with both hands, and thumbed the hammer back. She was not going to miss again. The man was bearded, heavyset, dressed roughly for travel. He looked very strong. And he wasn’t stupid. He identified her weapon as up-time. As in, up-time weapons will shoot more than once. And he was frightened of it. He took a step back, and she kept the gun trained on him. They stared at each other for a moment, when she heard someone calling.

  “Fritz! You got her? You good?”

  Fritz turned his head to look back. “Over here.” Fritz lowered his blade away from his body, and took another step back.

  A second man came up to them, breathing heavily, sword in hand. “Ach. You have her.” He slid his blade into his scabbard. “Good. Let’s go.” He took a step forward. Fritz held out his hand to stop him, but he ignored him, and lunged for Mary.

  Mary fired twice, the gun erupting in her hands. She backpedaled, and the man continued towards her. She backpedaled again, certain she had hit him at this range, her ears ringing. She continued to walk backwards, keeping her distance. The man took two more steps, stumbled, then collapsed. He lay still.

  Hocholting and the burned man came down the path and stopped by Fritz, looking at the man lying in the pathway. Acrid gunsmoke hung in the damp air like a fog, and water dripped from ice coated branches all around them.

  Hocholting looked at Mary and sighed. “Fraulein Russo. None of this is necessary. Come with us. Please.”

  Mary blinked to clear her eyes, the revolver pointed first at one man, then another. Mary looked frantically from one to another as they faced her on the path, all the time inching her way back, getting some distance. She was trying to remember how many shots she had fired. She also figured – hoped - the men would have an almost magical perception of up time guns, and that might work in her favor. “No. I-I will shoot you.”

  “Nonsense,” said Hocholting, shaking his head. “You are bleeding, hurt from running. You must be exhausted. There was no need to shoot my men. Come, give me the up-time gun, and we can talk.” He took a step towards her, hand outstretched, and she again stepped back, pointing the gun at him. He sighed, and put his hands on his hips, angular elbows extended from his body. “I have men at the river, they will be coming in a moment.” He pointed down the path, towards the river. “There is nowhere for you to go. I will make sure no harm comes to you, no repercussions for hurting these men. It’s over, Fraulein Russo. People want to meet you, and we must travel far yet tonight.”

  The gun wavered in her hand. She had been running on adrenaline since she threw the lamp at the man. How long had it been? Five minutes? Ten? An half-hour? She had no idea. She took a moment to wipe her eyes, and her hand came away sticky with blood. She was having trouble focusing. At that moment another man came running up the path behind Hocholting, and whispered in his ear, all the while keeping an eye on Mary. How many of them are there? She wondered. There is no way I can get away from them… She glanced quickly behind her, nobody there, yet. The man talking to Hocholting looked familiar, another Fugger miner she had seen around. Hocholting frowned, then looked at Fritz. “Go.” With a nod of acknowledgement, Fritz and the messenger ran off, back towards the power plant. That left just him and the burned man, who was glaring at her.

  Hocholting turned to her, snapping his fingers, impatient. “The gun, Fraulein Russo. Give it to me before you fall down and hurt yourself, or someone else. Now.”

  Her vision was blurred. In the back of her head, she suddenly had a flashback to a couple of years ago, before the Ring of Fire, when she was in junior high school. It was one of those “officer friendly” presentations that the school always gave, about drugs, and gangs, and other stupid stuff that all the students knew about anyway, way more than the cops giving the seminar. It was one of those where Dan Frost had come to their school, and he was talking about some girl that had gone missing over in Fairmont. “Don’t get in the car.” He had said. “If someone is trying to abduct you, don’t ever get in the car.”

  “Don’t get in the car,” she mumbled to herself in English, the words feeling strange on her tongue after speaking German for so long.

  Hocholting tilted his head. “Was hast du gesagt?”

  Mary blinked her eyes and straightened her posture, gun now held level. “I said, ‘don’t get into the car’.” She had flipped back into German.

  She could see Hocholting’s head tilt to the side in a confused query. He then focused on something behind her. Mary turned quickly, gun still on Hocholting, to see a man standing in the path behind her. He had on a boatman’s cap. She stepped to the side, so the swamp was behind her. Again, Hocholting took a step. “The gun, Mary. Let’s go. We just want to talk.”

  From up the path came a clash of steel and a shout. Swords resonating in the near darkness. A cry of pain, another of fear. Someone was calling her name. “Mary!” She recognized the voice.

  “Johann! Johann, I’m here!” She cried out in relief, taking her focus from the men around her.

  The burned man lunged at her from the side. She trained the revolver on him and fired once quickly, a snap shot. An explosion of light and recoil. She was trying to get off a second shot, when he collided with her like a charging bull; he out-weighed her by over a hundred pounds. They both went down, sideways onto the edge of the path, halfway into the muddy trees. The wind was knocked out of her, and she saw stars in her vision. Her leg felt like it was on fire. Her arms were pinned between her and the man, who was trying to restrain her. He stank of burned cloth and burned flesh. He fought to grab her wrists, to wrestle the gun away. But the man was weakening as she struggled, his grip fading. He was slippery, his strength failing, and she slid out from under him. He curled to a fetal position and moaned, cursing her. She clawed her way to a standing position, using one of the trees for balance, Smith and Wesson still in her hand at her side.

  Fritz ran up to Hocholting, panting. “Swordsmen, behind me. Good ones.” She noticed he was bleeding and holding his arm. “Ulrich is dying. Back there. We have to go.” He looked at Mary, eyes wide in pain and fear.

  Mary swayed slightly, half stuck in the mud, covered in blood from the burned man. She raised the revolver. Aimed it at Hocholting. Peered at him through blurred vision.

  She smiled at him, a cold smile, no humor in it at all. Then she whispered at him-- in English she supposed. It didn’t really matter. “Don’t get in the car, asshole”

  She thumbed the hammer back. Hocholting quite unexpectantly erupted into a sprint, down the path towards the river, faster than she could track him. The boatman was still standing there, and Fritz followed Hocholting, sprinting down the path. Mary stepped square, raised the Smith and Wesson, and sighted at the retreating Hocholting. She could see very little in the dark. She fired anyway, where she thought they might be. The gun bucked in her hands. Her ears r
ang less this time. She then let the hammer drop on an empty chamber, once, twice three times more. The boatman cowered off to the side of the path, on his knees, whimpering. “Please, I’m just a boatman, they hired me, I don’t know anything…”

  She heard footfalls behind her, and she pivoted, revolver up. She knew it was empty, but maybe whoever was coming wouldn’t. It was Johann, helping a wounded Bertran.

  “Mary! Don’t shoot. You are safe.” She let her arms fall to her sides, still clutching the revolver. “Help me. Bertran has been hurt.” Johann was supporting the hunched over Bertran and he eased him gently to the ground.

  Mary stood in the center of the pathway, skirts torn and hanging askew. Her hair hung damp in her face. Her leg throbbed in pain. She barely noticed. As Bertran was placed gently on the ground by Johann, she watched, detached, like she was somehow one step removed from the reality she observed. She looked around, seeing the ice on the trees, Bertran, the body of the burned man at the side of the path, and the whimpering boatman still there, cowering harmlessly and mumbling about witches. She drifted above it, she felt as if she were outside of herself, looking at the scene from afar. Safe. She was safe. Johann was here.

  Other men appeared, Fugger men. Johann was speaking to them. They had torches, and the orange light from the oil-soaked faggots illuminated the icy corridor of small trees and bushes. The shadows played malevolently against the dark. There was hushed conversation that she barely heard.

  She walked to the burned man, lying at the side of the path. She crouched beside him to look at his face. Moved him slightly for a better view. Mary had not seen a lot of death in her short life, and until today, had never taken a life. She peered at him, curious, horrified, but somehow floating above the reality. His face had lost its shape, the shape of life; it was strangely saggy. Jaw loose. The eyes were uneven, one more open than the other, and his gaze in death was oddly focused, eyes pointed in random, uncoordinated directions. She reached up and closed them. He was cool to the touch. So soon.