by Thomas Webb
Thoughts of their failed attempt to arrest McCormick brought on a fresh surge of heartache. Copperhead was in DSI custody, accused of high treason. Her friend Paladin was dead by the hand of his own traitorous minder. Her friend Athena, and Athena’s minder, Mockingbird, were officially sanctioned, which meant every active Strategic Intelligence agent, freelance assassin, and mercenary on the department’s payroll had standing orders to kill them on sight. Scarlet prayed they’d gotten wind of the sanction and were somewhere laying low.
Scarlet closed off the part of herself that was prone to despair, deciding instead to focus on the task at hand. First and foremost, she had to get out of this forest.
Scarlet checked for the pistol she’d strapped to her leg before the meeting. It was gone. Not surprising, given how she’d been forced to escape. Her rifle was lost as well, the barrel bent to uselessness underneath the rusted bulk of the broken-down brute. She swore aloud, unsure of which angered her more — the loss of the pistol or the loss of the rifle.
The pain in her head had dulled to a low throb, only to be replaced by a ravenous thirst. As soon as the thirst hit, hunger, marked by a rumbling from deep within her belly, followed. How long had it been since she’d eaten?
Like the aether-driven backup engines on an airship, her survival training kicked in. For what had to be the hundredth time in her four-year career, Scarlet gave thanks for the basic course of skills she’d learned at Indoctrination. During the Strategic Intelligence operative’s basic course of study, the cadre took malicious joy in making certain their lessons on tradecraft, war, and survival were drilled into Scarlet and her fellow recruits until they were second nature. They’d done this in any variety of painful and clever ways, not least of which was through the rote memorization of mantras. She recited one in her head.
Treat your injuries, find clean water, find food, accomplish the mission.
She repeated the words to herself as she lifted her skirts and began walking, downhill, toward the lowest elevation. Water flowed downhill, and with this much forest, there was bound to be a creek or a stream. Scarlet did a clinical assessment of her status as she walked. Outside of her thirst, her hunger, and her initial splitting headache, she’d sustained no serious injuries. A blessing.
Remembering the lessons from her Indoctrination course sparked thoughts of Abe. She hadn’t seen him since his graduation from his own initial training. For his part in preventing the destruction of Washington D.C. the previous year, President Grant had allowed Abe one request — a request which Abe had cashed in to join the ranks of DSI. At the time, Scarlet considered him a fool, asking for something like that.
If he was, he was no more a fool than you, she thought now, or anyone else who chooses this life.
For months after Abe left, guilt had gnawed at Scarlet. He’d made his choice, at least in part, to impress her. She felt responsible for his decision to put himself through the torture of Indoctrination, for something as foolish as a schoolboy’s crush. She’d worried for him for weeks. Even though it was his choice, she still felt blame.
But then something happened. Scarlet began to hear bits and pieces about Abe, of how he’d solved some logic puzzle faster than the other recruits or set some new record at defeating an obstacle. She and Copperhead attended his graduation ceremony, and he did look to be a changed man. Duty had called Scarlet and her minder away that day with barely even a moment to speak to him about what he’d been through.
The rumors about the outstanding new agent didn’t stop after Abe graduated. When he began working in the field, they intensified. He showed real promise apparently. This despite assignment to the absolute worst minder anyone remembered since the agency’s inception. Even with the odds so well stacked against him, Abe was shaping up to be a top-notch operative. That was good news. In the days to come, Scarlet was going to need all the help she could get to find and free her minder. She only hoped that Abe, one of the few remaining people she could trust, was up to providing some of that help.
Scarlet laughed as she navigated a dry, stone-strewn gulley. ‘Bookkeeper’, they called him. All DSI agents had such monikers, chosen by their minders prior to beginning their work in the field. Abe’s moniker fit him well, given his last job before joining the department was working in an accounting house at the Philadelphia Treasury. She couldn’t believe that was only last year, right after the assassination of Jefferson Davis, first President of the Confederate States and right before Vice Chairman McCormick hung Abe around Scarlet and her minder’s necks in hopes he’d get them both killed.
The thought gave Scarlet a strange measure of comfort. McCormick had tried to do them in once, using Abe as his unwitting tool. He’d tried and failed. Not only had they survived, but they’d also accomplished the ill-fated mission just as they set out to do. They also made some very powerful allies in the process, allies that Scarlet now needed to call upon. But first, she had to make her way out of these damned woods.
The sun had shifted farther to the west before she found a creek. Scarlet stooped down by the side of it and ripped a length of fine cloth from her dress. She scooped up creek water and filtered it through the cloth as best she could, letting the precious liquid fall into her outstretched palm. She cupped her hand and drank from the creek, over and over, until she’d had her fill. When she was done, she continued her trek along its banks. She had no idea where she was, but water usually flowed toward civilization.
Before long, Scarlet’s feet began to throb. She looked down at her dainty, pointed boots and frowned. Perfect for walking the halls of power in Washington, D.C. but completely wrong for an arduous hike through the woods. As she fought to block out the aching in her toes, Scarlet spied a thatch of wild blackberry bushes. Her stomach reacted before her mind fully acknowledged what she saw, threatening to rumble loose from its moorings. Before she knew it, her hands and mouth were covered in thick, dark, blackberry juice.
While she plucked at the berries, careful to avoid the wicked-looking thorns, she noticed a fallen oak at the bottom of an embankment. The tree, as big around as a stout man’s waist, lay rotting on the forest floor. Scarlet took a break from the berries and slid down to the tree. She dug into the spongy flesh of the wood and grinned with satisfaction when she found what she was looking for: a nest of fat, gray grubs. With her squirming supper held tight in her fist, she scrambled back up the bank. She feasted on blackberries and worms and then washed it all down with creek water. Then, her body fortified and her spirits lifted, Scarlet resumed her journey.
The sun crept across the sky. The shadows of the forest lengthened, and still she walked. Eventually, the creek led to a stream, and the stream led to a rushing river. She’d followed the river for less than a turn o’ the clock when she spotted what she’d been searching for. Relief washed over Scarlet at the sight of a worn, well-traveled trail running alongside the muddy river’s banks.
Cautious, she ducked behind a thicket. From her concealed vantage point, Scarlet watched and waited. Before long, she heard the jangling of a harness bell, the steady clip-clop of a mule’s measured steps, and the rambling of an old wooden wagon. Out of habitual training practiced into instinct, Scarlet reached for her pistol.
Damnation, she swore to herself, remembering the weapon was long gone. Scarlet had no qualms about engaging in hand-to-hand combat, but she sorely missed the feel of that pistol.
The sounds grew closer, until finally, she heard an old man, his voice like gravel, call out. “Whoa there, girl,” he said. “Easy now.”
Scarlet peered out from behind her cover and peered at the man’s smiling face. Coffee brown skin, wrinkled like worn leather, contrasted against clean, white teeth. His clothing, a simple cotton shirt underneath overalls, suggested he farmed for a living. He sat atop a rickety, mule-drawn wagon. She watched as he soothed the agitated mule, reaching across the hitch to place a loving hand against the animal’s flesh. The ease with which he moved reminded her of Copperhead.
&
nbsp; A battered clockwerk sat up next to the old man. Scarlet looked but saw no weapons on either of them. She decided to take a chance. With no hesitation, she stood and stepped out of the trees and onto the road.
The mule brayed. A look of surprise flashed across the man’s face when he saw her. The surprise disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by simple curiosity. He pointed at the mule. “I thought somethin’ was amiss when Bess here started fussing,” he said. “Strange smells tend to spook her. You needin’ a ride, miss?”
Scarlet, still on the alert, smiled up at him. “I’d be much obliged, sir.”
The old man smiled back. He looked around as if he were afraid someone was watching. “Won’t do to have you calling me ‘sir,’ miss.” He inclined his head toward the clockwerk. “Even after they traded our human labor for these fellows, some still wouldn’t take kindly to you addressin’ me thataway, even this far into Maryland.”
Scarlet looked up at the man on the wagon. “I’ve known Freedmen and Freedwomen worth ten times some of the whites I’ve met. I don’t tolerate the type of foolishness you’re referring to.”
The corners of the old man’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Naw, looking at you, I don’t expect you would.” His expression settled into a weary smile. “Still, I'd be thankin' you to keep your voice down. I didn't get this old by picking fights.” He examined her from head to toe. "Meaning no disrespect, of course."
Scarlet ran a hand over her hair and pulled out several twigs. She imagined she looked a mess, what with her fine Washington dress, torn and stained with mud, blood, and blackberry juice, and her fiery red tresses a tangle of matted hair, sticks, and leaves.
The old man ordered the clockwerk off the wagon. The machine then turned and helped Scarlet up into the seat.
Hunh, she huffed in mild surprise. Some technist had taken the time to program the machine to be polite.
It’s task complete, the mechanical man obediently went to the back of the wagon. It took a seat amongst a collection of barrels marked “salt fish”. When the clockwerk was settled in, the old man clucked the mule forward.
The sun dipped farther west, and they continued along the road. ‘Road’ was a generous term, Scarlet noted, as it was little more than a glorified dirt path running parallel to the river.
Scarlet needed information, a commodity which was in short supply. So far, Scarlet’s gamble on trusting the old man had paid off. She decided she’d try her luck a bit more.
“I have a question, sir,” she said. “It may sound a bit strange.”
“I’ve seen much in my day, young miss. Why don’t you try me?”
“What day is this?”
The old man gave Scarlet an odd look, pondering a moment before he made his answer. “Friday,” he said at last.
Scarlet frowned, the space above her eyes wrinkling.
Two days. I’ve lost two whole days.
“Something wrong, miss?”
“No, sir,” Scarlet said, not really meaning it. “It’s just that I… thank you for the information.”
The old man seemed satisfied with her answer. If he wasn’t, he was kind enough to hold his peace on it.
Just as twilight fell, a chorus of frogs began their night song. Scarlet listened, grateful for something to break the silence. They rounded a bend in the river and came to a stone mill. According to the old man, it marked the edge of town. A moment later, Scarlet spotted a sign, barely readable in the encroaching dark. She could just make out the words, “Welcome to Oella.”
“I expect I’d best let you off here, miss,” the old man said. “If you’re wondering, nearest telegraph is a half mile thataway.” He pointed toward the center of the town, across a wooden bridge, and past the mill.
“How did you know I’d need a telegraph?”
“I travel this road right often, Miss. It’s clear as day you don’t belong around these parts. Which I expect means you need to get ahold of someone to come fetch you.”
Scarlet gathered her skirts and leapt off the wagon with athletic grace. She spoke her thanks to the old man as he snapped the reins. Soon, he, his clockwerk, and his mule disappeared into the gloom of the riverside road. Scarlet turned toward the bridge.
McCormick had most certainly sanctioned her by now and probably all of her known associates as well. The best-case scenario was that they were in hiding. The worst-case scenario was that they were dead. Either way, none of them could help her now.
But there was still one ally she could call upon. One ally the Vice Chairman wouldn’t have counted on. An ally with a mighty airship and the men and women to crew her at his beck and call. And Scarlet knew just how to get in touch with him.
9 The Vindication - Skies Above Maryland, September 1866
Montclair sat cross-legged on the foredeck of his airship, sharpening his blade. Each stroke of the honing stone was like Zen meditation or a whispered prayer. Sunlight glinted from the folded steel edge of the katana, a weapon as elegant and beautiful as it was razor sharp. The eastern sword had been a gift, given to Montclair by Kenshin Ueda. Ueda was an expatriate samurai from the island empire of Nippon. He was a man with many secrets and a past not to be discussed under any circumstances. He was one of few people in the world who’d earned not only Montclair’s absolute trust, but also his respect.
Last year, Ueda taught Montclair a fencing technique, a technique he’d then used to kill the sadistic Confederate General George Horton. Montclair barely survived the ordeal, and only did so thanks to Ueda’s teachings. He owed the masterless samurai his life.
He’d first met Ueda on a diplomatic mission to Nippon. The simple assignment had been sort of a practice run. President Grant thought it a good way for his favorite airship colonel to get back in the saddle after losing his hand and several members of his crew at the Battle of the Potomac.
Of course, Montclair being who he was, something had invariably gone wrong. It was during a scrap in a mud-filled backstreet alley in the capital of Nippon that Montclair had found himself in a bit of a disagreement with some hired thugs. Ueda had come to his assistance and had so impressed Montclair with his martial skill that Montclair struck a bargain. In exchange for a place among his crew, the samurai would teach Montclair some of what he knew.
For the first few months of their training, Montclair practiced with a wooden sword Ueda referred to as a bokken. After becoming competent with the bokken, Montclair graduated to a live practice blade. The practice sword was an elegant workhorse but was nothing compared to the deadly, lacquered thing of beauty Ueda carried in his obi, the wide, sash-like belt he wore around his waist. Montclair committed himself to training with the practice sword, working diligently to master basic movements under Kenshin Ueda’s watchful eye.
After he’d recovered from the life-threatening injuries Horton inflicted during their duel outside Washington, Kenshin Ueda presented Montclair with a katana of his own. Even exiled from his homeland, Ueda had somehow obtained the blade. When pressed to reveal how he’d done it, Ueda refused to speak. The only clue to the price he’d paid were the several new scars on his face Montclair noticed when he walked up Vindication’s gangplank upon his return.
Montclair returned to the present and looked down at the exquisite weapon in his hand. “Someday, maybe you’ll tell me what you had to do to get this,” he said.
Ueda paid him no mind. His honing complete, the samurai oiled and wiped his own blade.
Montclair touched his scar, the gnarled flesh running the length of his abdomen. He wondered if the pain Ueda went through to get the sword was as severe as what he had gone through to earn it from him. He admired the blade with a tiny smirk. All he’d had to do to get it was almost die.
The cool morning air rushed over Montclair’s skin, drying the sweat from his chest and shoulders. He’d relished the feel of the stress bleeding from his muscles as they went through the intense but familiar motions of each sword stroke. Now, they sat quietly, the ritual acts of
sharpening and cleaning their blades complete, listening to the wind whisper as Vindication cut cleanly through the sky.
Ueda sighed. “I can sense the tension, Julius san.”
There was the unmistakable popping and whirring of his clockwerk hand as he flexed it open and closed. Montclair frowned. “Is it that obvious?”
Ueda gave him a pointed look. “There is a proverb from my clan,” the samurai said. “It is from local legend, well known in the place where I am from. The proverb says, ‘Two kami may be bonded for centuries.’”
Montclair raised an eyebrow. “Kami, Ueda san?”
Ueda nodded. “You would call them spirits.”
“And what of these spirits?”
“They came to a disagreement once,” Ueda shrugged, “and because of their disagreement, an entire kingdom fell.”
“I see,” Montclair said. “We’re not talking about oni, are we?”
The samurai stood and sheathed his blade in a single, practiced motion. “Do not be foolish, Julius san. You must speak to your friend. There is more at stake here than just pride.”
Ueda turned to leave, not another syllable spoken. He never used two words where one would do.
Montclair looked down at the work of art in his hand. “If you won’t tell me how you got this sword,” he said to Ueda’s retreating back, “then perhaps someday you’ll tell me the story of what happened with you and your clan?”
The samurai stopped. “No,” he said, not bothering to turn, “I will not.” He walked away.