Genrenauts: Season One

by Michael R. Underwood

  And there we go, she thought, seeing one roll and bounce by on a gust of wind.

  “Lead on, pardner.” Leah tipped her hat, her voice as low as she could take it. King furrowed his brow and started walking.

  Shirin leaned into Leah. “You’re his new best friend.”

  Leah responded, sotto voce, “Hey, he hired me from a comedy club. Don’t know what he was expecting.”

  “I was expecting that you would be a natural at this,” King said over his shoulder. “Let’s see if I’m right.”

  * * *

  Walking into the town, Leah could almost see the cardboard behind the storefronts. It was every Western town from every movie brought to life, with washerwomen, mud-stained miners, vest-wearing gentlemen, prim and proper schoolmarms, and more.

  She had to contain her sense of wonder, the mix of excitement and worry at seeing the tropes of a genre brought to life and plopped right in front of her. She held her hat in place as she craned her head up, scanning the buildings, squinting her eyes to make out what looked like an office for a mine in the distance, beside the ridge of rocks that stood at the town’s back.

  But this wasn’t a happy-bouncy Western town, townfolk and ranchers greeting one another with tipped hats and the frontier hospitality of people who were all on the edge of something new together.

  This town was scared.

  Mothers hurried their children along from storefront to storefront, watching the horizon over their shoulder. Ranch hands stayed close by their livestock. Leah’s eyes found the bank (inventively labeled “Bank and Trust”), and suddenly understood. The windows had been busted in, the door swung on one hinge, and the wooden walls had bullet-holes, as did the storefronts opposite and beside the bank.

  There’d been a shootout here, or her name wasn’t Montana Lee. If she was going to be Lee, and Shirin was Atlas Jane, she should get to be Montana Lee. Leah hadn’t played Montana Lee since she was seven and living in the Twin Cities, but the genre-tastic sensory overflow brought back those memories, games of cops-and-robbers fueled by classic films and their glorious parodies.

  Her friend Cenisa had been the sheriff, because Mel Brooks had proven that black sheriffs were cooler than the grizzled old white ones. But Montana Lee did not do karate. Or kung fu. She was a gunslinger. The best gun in the West from the Far East.

  The memory left her in the right mind-set for the world, remembering the diction and drawl, the swagger that came from being bowlegged from riding and wearing boots for too long.

  “The shootout was here, but the bandits are gone,” Leah said, taking in the street with Shirin and King from their vantage point at the end of Main Street. “So where do we pick up the story?”

  “First, we find Roman. He’ll be there,” King said, nodding toward the saloon, which was indicated by a gaudily painted sign showing a petticoats-laden blonde sipping from a frothy mug in a not-at-all-suggestive manner.

  “This place is really on-the-nose,” Leah said as an aside to Shirin.

  “There’s no genre awareness here. All of the tropes, the archetypes, they’re just a way of life. You’ve got to roll with it, use it. We come to these places and we can see two steps ahead—it gives us the edge.”

  “I’m so paralyzed by low-hanging comedy fruit that I cannot even.”

  “Then I’ll even, and you stay odd,” King said, walking across the street to the saloon.

  At least King was holding to the rule that all bosses were required to pun.

  The head Genrenaut pushed open the swinging doors and stood astride the threshold for a moment, cutting an impressive silhouette with his shotgun over his shoulder and his hat seeming to take up the whole doorway.

  Now that was an entrance. Guess that’s why he’s the boss.

  Leah found herself taking mental notes, partially as a distancing technique to avoid cracking up, part because the world was so perfectly a thing unto itself. Foucault and Plato would go gonzo with this place.

  King walked straight over to a booth, and Shirin followed, Leah close behind.

  Entering the saloon, Leah felt a dozen sets of eyes on her, narrowed eyes below brimmed hats sizing “him” up, not in the piece of meat way she got walking by a construction site or frat or many other places.

  They were getting his measure, deciding whether “he” was a threat. In the heavy coat, with her hair pulled up, and the PPM doing its job, her disguise seemed to hold up.

  The attention was still intrusive, but it felt a whole hell of a lot less creepy than being ogled on the street by a bunch of construction workers. Also, this time she was armed. The guns she ignored, but the knife in her boot was reassuring.

  But the size-up wasn’t all only for macho reasons. There was a hint of fear at the edge of people’s movements. This town had been shaken, and bad.

  A tall man with sun-beaten skin sat in the corner booth, a rifle propped up beside him. He played the “don’t stab yourself” game with a bowie knife, moving just fast enough to be scary. He left the knife stuck in the table and tipped his hat back as King approached the table.

  This would be Roman, then.

  He slid to the side and made room. There was an all-but-empty bottle of beer on the table, and a fresh one waiting beside a worn and smeared newspaper that looked like it’d been read thirty times.

  Roman was probably over six feet tall, though it was always hard to tell when someone was seated. He had a heroic square jaw and corded muscle that showed through Western garb that had seen long and hard use. Of the four of them on Western world, he looked the most like a gunslinger.

  He fit into the scene, but it was almost like his gravity was greater than the men around him. Could the people here tell if someone was from a story world versus Earth? What did it mean to be of a story world? She kept it together, thinking of the steady stand-up gig. Stay out of trouble, and one day’s worth of sightseeing would pay off for years to come.

  And it wasn’t like she’d ever been on a job interview this bizarre or fascinating. Though once she’d been asked to sit in a room and work on logic puzzles with three other candidates while they were being observed through a one-way mirror for “leadership skills.” That had been one weird summer camp.

  “This must be the new recruit,” Roman said with an Afrikaans accent. That’d explain the name. She didn’t know many American born-and-bred Roman De Jagers. On the other hand, she’d never lived in Dutch Pennsylvania, so who knew?

  “Around here, folks call me Lee,” she said, offering a hand. They shook, but Roman didn’t make eye contact. He sat back down as King, Shirin, and Leah filled the booth.

  “Any sight of the Williamson gang?” King asked.

  Roman shook his head. “They said they’d be back in two days for the rest of the bank’s money. Word in town says their horses could barely trot, they were so laden down. Folks are scurrying, trying to settle their affairs and leave on tomorrow’s train. Some of the bank staff rode off with as much as they could carry an hour ago. Unless we can give these folks hope, this place will be a ghost town by the time the Williamsons get back.”

  “Miners and ranchers both?”

  “The ranchers are threatening to take their stock to the next town over, sixty miles north.” Roman talked only to King, and even so, never made eye contact. The gunslinger’s gaze stayed locked on the street, watching through the windows. “The miners can just head one stop down the rails to another operation. There’s only silver here, no gold. The place is, in reality, perfectly vulnerable, but this isn’t how the story’s supposed to go. You can feel it in the air. It’s not just fear. The whole world’s ten degrees off-course.”

  King waved to the room, his voice low as they slid out of character and into story analysis or whatever it was they did in the field. “The best way to tell when a part of the story is off-track is to look at the edges of things. If someone—or something—has gone off-track, their story momentum diverted or disrupted—there’s an effect at the edges, like their
borders have been chewed on, or shredded. Sometimes it manifests as a fading or another form of discoloration. The effect varies by world and by story. Here, you often see colors filtered through sepia tones.”

  “What? That’s … weird. So it’s like Pleasantville in reverse. People lose their color or something?” Leah asked.

  “Sometimes, yes. No one here can see it. It’s only visible to Genrenauts, not folks from the story world itself. It takes certain detached concentration, like learning to see Magic Eye pictures. Be on the lookout, but don’t go scaring anyone by staring at them like they’re on fire.”

  “Got it. Stare, but don’t stare. This probably isn’t a good time to admit that I was never any good at Magic Eyes.”

  “No, I’d suggest you keep that to yourself,” King said.

  “So, where’s our survivor?” Shirin asked, moving the conversation along.

  Roman pulled the knife out of the table and sheathed it at his hip. “Frank Mendoza. He’s here somewhere. I’ve been asking around, but most everyone’s clammed up tight. Maybe you can get more out of people.”

  Shirin stole Roman’s beer and drained it. “I’m already there. Come along, this will be fun,” Shirin said to Leah as she stood. The older woman made her way to the bar, an exaggerated sway in her hips, her whole body language opening up like a sunflower. Where Leah had to move to mask her femininity, Shirin embraced it. She wove through the saloon, doling out compliments, leaning over poker games, and breaking the ice like an arctic steamliner.

  So, that’s why she’s here, Leah observed. Roman’s B.A., King’s Hannibal, and Shirin’s the Face.

  But those weren’t Western archetypes. How did they fit in here? Mapping the team members to the genre, King would be the Marshal, Roman the Gunslinger, and Shirin was what? The Woman Who Can Actually Fight? The Kindly but Tough Matron, more like. Already they were straining the confines of the genre, though her knowledge of Westerns had never moved much beyond the playground scenarios. And where did that leave her, archetype-wise? I don’t want to be the Kid. I’m always the Kid.

  And if they were supposed to stay in the shadows while also fixing a story, what roles could they really play? Maybe it wasn’t about what archetype you fit so much as what impact you had. Make a difference wearing the hat of a Gunslinger, but not so much that people call you the hero. That made sense. Mostly.

  “Come on, Kid,” Shirin said, waving Leah over to join her at the bar.

  Leah cut a straighter path through the crowd, avoiding contact as actively as Shirin had embraced it. But it was easy to move in the woman’s wake once she’d swayed the mood of the room.

  The saloon was almost all men—no schoolmarms, washerwomen, or other acceptable women archetypes present. Nothing but the working girls on the stairs. But Shirin made her way through the crowd on sheer determination and craftiness.

  Leah took a stool beside Shirin at the bar. “I can’t imagine what you’re like at dinner parties.” Behind the bar stood a thick-set man in black clothes and a white apron. He had the wispy echo of hair clinging to his polished head, and his hands were busy pouring whiskey in Shirin’s bartenderly conjured glass.

  “This fella with you, ma’am?” the bartender asked. Shirin nodded, all bright smiles and steady ease.

  “One for me, thanks,” Leah said, not wanting to look soft on her first day on this bizarre adventure that purported to be a job.

  So far, Leah would have paid for the experience. Her mind galloped off into imagining the other story worlds, the narrative sightseeing she could do in a Diana Wynne Jones–esque Fantasyland or Hard Boiled-opolis.

  Shirin brought Leah back to the present by raising a toast.

  “To new friends.”

  Leah raised her own glass to match. Shirin downed her drink like a pro. Never one to be outdone when it came to shots (though often one to be carried home after them), she drank as well.

  The rotgut burned like napalm going down. The booze made her wistful for the generic paint-thinner-grade stuff she and friends had drunk in high school before any of them knew better.

  Leah set her glass down and gave Shirin a questioning stink-eye, interrupted by coughing.

  “When in Rome.”

  “He’s the Roman,” Leah said, gesturing back to the corner.

  “Exactly. He fits in perfectly.” Shirin spun on the stool and leaned back on the bar, taking in the room.

  “Now where would you begin if you were looking for information?” she said at a whisper. “Remember, think genre tropes.”

  “Shouldn’t I be looking for the sepia thing?”

  “That comes with time. And if you rely on the micro, you can lose the macro. Let’s start with what you already know—story. We can develop the rest later.”

  Leah scanned the room, trying to read it like a crowd before a set.

  There were ten tables and five booths. A small elevated stage filled the wall opposite the bar, with a player piano and dingy red curtains and trim. A trio of dancers in red and black finery perched at the far side of the bar, turned in toward one another to ward off drunken advances.

  Another set of women draped themselves around the railing heading upstairs, all painted to the nines—those would be the working girls, though for all Leah knew the women might do both. The saloon patrons were divided between miners, ranchers, and folks Leah supposed were the town drunks or vagabonds. Most draped over tables in a stupor, their tables cluttered by half-empty bottles of the same rotgut that would be plaguing her, later on.

  “First things first, I’d ask the bartender. If he’s like the ones I know, they keep a close eye on who comes and goes. After that, I’d look around for any friends or family the guy had in town—if anyone’s left.”

  Shirin said, “Good. Now you watch the room while I talk to the bartender. See if anyone listens in. Chances are, anyone close to Frank is going to have their ear to the ground to see if anyone is after him.”

  With that, the older woman spun on the stool and raised her glass to the bartender. “Another round, please, Ollie.”

  His attention ensnared, Shirin continued. “You seen Frank Mendoza since the shootout?”

  A shadow passed over Ollie’s face. He looked down, settling his gaze onto the bottles and glasses.

  Leah turned from Ollie to look across the room to the team, focusing on the edges of her peripheral vision. Thankfully, she had years of experience, thanks to keeping an eye on hecklers and skeevy people on the street, dating all the way back to being an early blossomer as a kid.

  The working girls continued their chatter, mugging for the room, half-paying attention to everyone and no one at the same time. The gamblers were getting almost raucous, the pall of the Williamson gang deferred temporarily by drink and the promise of a big win.

  Nothing yet.

  The bartender said, “Ain’t seen Frank since the fight, no. Who’s asking?”

  Shirin answered, “Someone who isn’t about to let the Williamson gang stampede right through this town. But if I’m going to do that, I need to know how the Williamsons fight. And for that, I need Frank. If you haven’t seen him, who has?”

  “You with that big fella in the corner?”

  Shirin raised her voice, talking to the bartender but clearly meaning to be heard by more. “That I am. He’s the fastest draw you or I will ever see, and I’ve been all over this county, from the Mississippi to the Big Easy and up through the plains. And he don’t cotton to bullies. If someone here knows Frank, it’d be for the good of the town for us to meet him.”

  The bartender continued. “Don’t suppose I know anyone who ran with Frank, aside from his poor brother. They came to town ’bout a month ago, hadn’t made many friends.”

  While the bartender dissembled, one of the working girls descended the stairs by a step. She was younger, no more than twenty, with amber-brown skin and night-black hair done up at the top, ringlets at the back. She leaned against the railing nearest to the bar, disengaged from her c
ompanions. She was attempting (poorly) trying to mask her intent by pointing her face toward the stage. But her eyes were fixed on the bar.

  Leah figured the girl gave herself away because she wasn’t comfortable in the clothes, fidgeting and adjusting every few seconds. New to the job, most like. Leah adjusted her archetypal assessment of the girl and made a judgment call.

  Leah nudged Shirin with her elbow and whispered, “Nine o’clock, on the stairs.”

  Shirin leaned back from the bar and said, “Well, if no one else in town knew him, I guess we’re on our own. Thank you kindly.” Shirin set her drink down, her sigh matching the sound of glass on wood. “And in that case, I’m going to need some help getting my friend to relax. Who do I talk to about the working girls?”

  Leah spun on the stool to watch Shirin work, her target already pegged.

  “You’ll want to talk to Miss Sarah, there. She takes care of folks what need relaxing.” On the stairs, a woman about Shirin’s age nodded to Shirin. Her dress was fine, if worn. That’d be the madam, then.

  After buying another whiskey and a beer to go with it, Shirin slid off of her stool and led Leah back to the corner. Leah followed, and the group re-formed at the booth.

  “The Kid here pegged our lead,” Shirin said. “The youngest working girl on the stairs was a bit too curious when I was asking around about Frank.”

  Roman joined in. “Mallery suspected that Frank and Juan were hiding a sister.”

  King said, “What’s your play?”

  Shirin slid the beer over to Roman, replacing the one she’d taken. “I mentioned that Roman here was in need of some comfort. The Kid takes Roman to ask for the girl, and then Roman goes up to pump her for information.”

  “But thankfully, nothing else,” Roman said.

  Leah said, “If I knew you better, this is where I would make a joke, but I don’t want to offend.”

  King pointed a finger at Leah. “And once he’s up there, I need you to keep an eye on him. Establish and maintain direct visual or aural contact. We don’t like to send agents into unknown situations without backup nearby. Roman can handle himself, so this is a test for you. I want to see how you think on your feet.”