“Well,” he said. “Give the order, then, and I’ll turn her loose.”
“It’s a damn shame,” Tzolk said. “Nephilim, do it.”
Dogs understood what was happening before anyone else. He took a long sideways step and lowered his revolver, placing himself between the line of Neffies and Hays. His weapon barked, just once, as thirty-nine Nephilim raised their rifles and took aim.
In that moment, I shoulder have pulled the trigger. I wish I could say I’d thought about it, but the plain fact was I just couldn’t. I’m not a murderer, and Finny hadn’t done anything to me. Instead I took a step sideways, away from Hays. I only meant to clear my line of fire as I levelled my revolver, but that step probably saved my life.
The Neffies fired all at once, a single volley like old-fashioned musketeers. Dogs jerked as bullets slammed into his huge body, but he stayed on his feet. I saw Hays’s knees give way, and Finny falling forward, though I couldn’t tell if either was hit. Then I felt pain like I’d never imagined, a stinging, searing pain in my hand like a thousand wasps had stung it at once. I stared at it, like an idiot—my revolver was gone, and something was wrong with my fingers as well.
Once again, my body knew what to do while my mind was still trying to figure things out. I moved quick, reaching out with my other hand to grab Hays’s arm before he finished falling. I heard someone scream, and shots flashed from the windows of the station as the Red Riders fired back, but I was stumbling through a dark tunnel with the door at the far end. It was only four steps away, but it felt like a mile, with Hays a dead weight at the end of my arm.
More shots hit the bricks around the doorway as I half-ran, half-fell through it and rolled to one side, gasping. Someone grabbed Hays and dragged him out of the way, and Ben knelt at my side. I held out my hand to grasp his, and he gasped; it was the hand I’d been holding the revolver in. My index finger was gone, a broken scrap of bone sticking out from the ruined flesh, and my middle finger was dangling by a few scraps of skin and sinew. I rolled over just in time to vomit, nothing in my stomach but water and sour bile.
“Nellie!” Ben’s voice sounded distant. “Stay with me!”
“Hays is hit!” someone shouted.
“They’re coming!” Gid’s voice, high and scared.
No time for being hurt. I got to my feet, ruined hand jammed into the pocket of my coat so I wouldn’t have to look at it. Out the window, I could see some of the Neffies running toward the building, while the others loaded and fired mechanically at the windows. At least a half-dozen were down, but of course that didn’t bother the rest. Dogs was on his knees in the center of the square, head lolling, at least a dozen holes in him.
Finny was on her belly, blood staining the back of her shirt and her trouser leg, but still crawling away from the station. Even as I watched though, a bullet hit her in the small of the back, though I had no idea if it was one of ours or one of theirs. She gave a little shudder and lay still.
“They’re coming!” Gid said.
“Then shut the fucking door!” Big Barrow screamed, but Gid was down, his gawky frame spread over the floor with a bloody crater in the back of his skull. The first wave of Neffies reached the side of the building, two of them filling the doorway. Ben’s revolver fired three times in quick succession, and they both went down, blocking the way for those struggling behind them. More Neffies went to the windows, pushing their rifles through from the outside.
“Upstairs!” John Plainsman shouted. His own revolver slammed out a methodical rhythm, picking the Neffies off as they put their heads up. “We’re sitting ducks down here!”
“Someone get Hays!” Little Barrow said.
“Help me with him,” I said, grabbing the captain’s arm again with my good hand. Ben took his other arm, and we dragged Hays to the stairs. Another Neffie struggled through the door, but John Plainsman shot him down. Then a rifle bullet hit him in the shoulder and spun him around, and two more found him before he could get back up.
The Barrows came behind us, brothers firing together as Ben and I carried Hays up the stairs. They remained at the top of the stairs, reloading as we stumbled through the closest open door. It was Bill’s sickroom; the wounded man lay on the bed, sweating and feverish, eyes closed.
Hays groaned as we propped him against the foot of the bed.
“Captain?” I said.
“I’m here,” he said, one hand pressed against his stomach. Bright blood leaked between his fingers. “Unfortunately.”
“We’ve got to hold them on the stairs,” Ben said. He feverishly loaded bullets into his still-smoking revolver as more firing came from that direction. “Stay with him, Nellie.”
“Ben—” I started to say, but he was gone. For a long time, I could only stare.
“Nellie.” Hays’s croaking voice broke through to me. “Nellie, please. Listen.”
I blinked and looked down. He was holding his revolver, awkwardly, holding it out to me.
“Bill,” he said. “He can’t take his last shot. You have to do it.”
“Oh.”
I walked to the bed and raised the weapon, left-handed. Bill barely jerked as I put two bullets into his chest, only seemed to relax with a little sigh. It was probably for the best, I figured. He never had to hear that Rob was dead.
“Good,” Hays said. “Go next door. Jude’s body. Bring it.”
“But—”
“Now!” he said, then started coughing, blood spraying from his lips.
I went. Manhandling a cold, stiffening corpse with one hand meant I didn’t have much time to spare for the gunfight at the end of the hall, but I could see that Big Barrow was hurt but still shooting, braced against the wall. Ben and his brother were on their bellies at the top of the stairs, firing down at the Neffies.
“Put him on the bed,” Hays said.
“But—”
“Get some blood on your chest and lie down between them,” he said. “Breathe shallow.”
I finally realized what he wanted. “Don’t be stupid,” I said. “I’ll fight.”
“I told you I wanted to get you out of this,” he said. “This is the only way. Once he has me, Tzolk isn’t going to hang around here.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue, Nellie. Just do it.” He jerked his head toward the bed. “Keep the revolver under the bodies. Last shot. In case it doesn’t work.”
“What about yours?”
He gave a bloody chuckle. “I’m not going to last long enough for them to hurt me much. And Tzolk’s more likely to leave if he finally gets what he’s wanted all this time.”
“But…” I shook my head, the pain in my mangled hand getting worse. “Why me?”
“Because you can go on, after this,” Hays said, gasping for breath. “Any of the others…would only keep fighting. Going to die anyway, might as well die here. But you…aren’t drowned in blood. Not yet. Just…walk away. No more war.” He closed his eyes. “They’re coming.”
I crawled into the bed, in between two dead men. Jude’s hand was chilly where it brushed my skin, and Bill’s was still fever-warm. I wet my fingers with Bill’s blood and smeared it liberally across my shirt, though honestly there was more than enough blood on me as it was. Then I heard the firing stop, and booted feet coming down the hall. I knew that Ben was dead.
I’d arranged myself so Bill’s limp body half-covered me, but with one eyelid barely cracked I could still see the doorway. Two Neffies appeared, a man and a woman, both skeletally thin and dressed in rags. They looked over the room and raised their rifles to aim at Hays. Before they could fire, Tzolk said, “Don’t. Not that one.”
I saw the peak of his officer’s cap, behind the pair of him. He gave the room a long look, then said, “Gather the others and wait downstairs until I come get you.”
The Neffies turned and went. Tzolk stepped through the door and looked down at Hays. He was a short man, with a bald spot his cap didn’t quite cover, dressed in a Central officer�
��s burgundy jacket with gold braid. He had a pearl-handled revolver in one hand.
“Hays,” he said. “You’ve looked better.”
“I had something clever to say,” Hays gasped. “But it hurts too much.” He sucked in a breath, then coughed wetly. “Better kill me quick, Colonel, or you’ll miss your chance.”
“Fair enough.” Tzolk cocked the hammer on his weapon. “I’d say something about you being a worthy opponent, but in the end you’re just a thief and coward.”
“And you’re a double-crossing bastard who shot his own daughter.”
“I’ve got others.” Tzolk shrugged. “I’ll tell her mother you raped her and slit her throat. She’ll be proud of me for bringing in your head.”
Hays gave another wet laugh. “You…really are…a son-of-a-bitch.”
“I never claimed otherwise.” Tzolk raised his revolver.
I clutched mine, under Bill’s body. The last shot. One last shot. Never let them take you alive, not ever, or else you’ll end up as a Neffie and shoot at the people you used to love.
Everyone I loved was dead.
Ten paces. Left-handed. One shot. Not good odds.
My hand was moving before I finished the thought.
Tzolk noticed, looked up, but not fast enough. I got the revolver level and pulled the trigger. The recoil was enough to jolt it out of my numb fingers, but the shot was on target, catching the colonel high in the chest. His gun fell from his fingers, and he staggered back through the doorway, sagging against the opposite wall.
I climbed off the bed of corpses and got to my feet, unsteadily. Tzolk was pawing at himself, eyes wide and uncomprehending. I picked his gun up off the floor and took careful aim.
“Finny deserved better than you,” I said, and shot him in the head.
Hays was dead, his blue eye staring into nothing, an enigmatic smile on his lips. Out in the corridor, Big Barrow was on top of Little Barrow, shielding his brother’s body with his own, both of them riddled with bullet holes. Ben lay on his face, a neat hole in the front of his skull and a nastier one at the back. It looked like it had at least been quick.
A dozen Neffies lay on the stairs, and more on the floor below. There were twenty-one left standing, some of them wounded. They waited in a tight bunch, eyes moving to watch me as I picked my way down, but making no other move.
“Wait until I come get you,” Tzolk had said. Not “stand guard” or “keep watch”. An experienced commander like him really ought to have known better. I killed all twenty-one of them with John Plainsman’s long knife, slitting their throats like they were cattle while they stood watching silently. If Finny was right, I was a murderer many times over, now. But Neffies were Neffies.
“Just go,” Hays had told me. He’d said that the war was as good as over. No point in dying for a lost cause.
When I’d finished them all, I went to the stables. A few of the horses were dead, caught in the crossfire, but most had escaped, kicking their way out of their stalls as the battle got close. That was all right. They wouldn’t go far, and I could catch one once they calmed down.
Our wagon was still there, full of supplies. I bound up my hand as best I could, though it needed a proper surgeon’s attention. I filled a spare pack with food and water, a Central-issue revolver and a pouch of bullets. Last of all, I took one of the bundled cloaks, brilliantly crimson in the slowly rising light of dawn, and tied it around my shoulders.
Then I went to look for a horse that would take me to Totterhollow and General Wick. The last of the Red Riders.
FIERCE WOMEN IN HISTORY BY
MELANIE R. MEADORS
CHRISTINE JORGENSEN
ON DECEMBER 1, 1952, THE front page of the New York Daily News shouted this headline for the world to see:
“Ex-GI Becomes Blonde Beauty: Operations Transform Bronx Youth.”
Christine Jorgensen had been named George Jorgensen at birth in 1926. She grew up in the Bronx, NY, and since she had been born with a male anatomy, was eligible to be drafted in World War II. After the war, she went to school, where she became increasingly aware and concerned that her body didn’t reflect the person she truly felt she was. She traveled to Europe, which was the only place gender reassignment surgeries were legal at the time, and privately underwent therapies and surgeries that helped her become the person she knew she was, both inside and out. In a letter to friends, Christine said:
“As you can see by the enclosed photos, taken just before the operation, I have changed a great deal. But it is the other changes that are so much more important. Remember the shy, miserable person who left America? Well, that person is no more and, as you can see, I’m in marvelous spirits.”
Christine never meant to be famous. She only wanted to find happiness. But when the New York Daily News came across a letter she wrote to her parents, they published the story. One line that stands out from the letter, that attracted the newspaper’s attention, was:
“I am still the same old ‘Brud,’ but Nature made a mistake, which I have had corrected, and I am now your daughter.”
Once the story ran, Christine had two choices: to go into hiding and try to reclaim her privacy, or…to not. She chose the latter, and became a voice for people who faced the same issues she had. Her courage paved the way for many others to seize their identities and live their lives as they felt they should, rather than struggling to live with “Nature’s mistakes.” She traveled to college campuses, where she answered students’ questions and raised awareness, and helped medical professionals refine their practices in order to help people have healthy transitions. She helped create awareness of the gender spectrum, and while she made her living as an entertainer, also spoke with dignity and eloquence at lectures, talk shows, and other appearances, giving the transgender community a voice at a time when it had none.
Further Reading:
www.christinejorgensen.org
Christine Jorgensen: A Personal Autobiography by Christine Jorgensen
RISE OF THE BONECRUSHERS
ELOISE J. KNAPP
SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDWEST, 2459 A.D.
THE VALKYRIE7 TRANSPORT SHIP SHUDDERED and groaned. I decided the only thing holding it together was a hope and a prayer. That or a fuck ton of duct tape and maybe a bit of chewing gum.
“We’re good! Just a little turbulence,” Jimmy shouted from the cockpit. “Puke bags under the seat if you need ’em!”
Why the hell did he always shout? I had a mic and an earpiece. He didn’t need to shout. I was a moderately healthy thirty-five-year old woman, not a decrepit senior with hearing loss. Plus, in the golden age of genetic modification, you’d have to go out of your way to be deaf. And I’d never lost my lunch a single time flying with him.
The bodyguard Boss issued, however, looked like he was going to puke. If he hadn’t been strapped into his seat, he’d have keeled over. MegaCorp owned the company he came from, and my own news station for that matter, and since I’m not the biggest fan of MegaCorp, I felt a faint obligation to hope he did puke all over his perfectly tailored suit.
I’d been an investigative journalist for nearly a decade. I’d been shot at, stabbed, and kidnapped once. Got through those messes alone then, I sure as fuck could do it now. But Boss insisted the bodyguard come with me since I was on a high-profile story.
Illustration by NICOLÁS R. GIACONDINO
You don’t bite the hand that feeds. Well, unless you have a good contingency plan in case you get bit back.
“How about you? You okay over there, Suit?”
He didn’t look at me. His gaze remained firmly on the ground between his feet. I felt a little bad for teasing him so much and made a mental note to go easier on him. It wasn’t his fault he was from MegaCorp, riding a rust bucket with me.
The Valkyrie7 couldn’t fly above cloud level so, staring out the window at ancient abandoned cities as far as the eye can see, I did see why Boss paid for a bodyguard. This far away from the safety of a Haven city, there was no
thing but Infected. Wild, sick humans who’d dominated the land for nearly two hundred years. They looked like us, but they weren’t us. They reproduced like rabbits so their numbers never dwindled.
They’d tear a person to pieces the second they saw them.
No, I wouldn’t fly out of my giant, safe city on an old transport ship over millions of Infected for any old thing. In a world where one percent of the population was interested in hearing something other than bullshit about celebrities and trends, being a journalist was an unfulfilling job.
I was out risking my life to cover my last story. My early retirement piece. The big one that would give me enough credits for a lifetime and then some. The futile slog of trying to get through to the ninety-nine percent was over. I’d still keep up on my totally unprofitable articles on the Web, but no more fluff for the news station.
This particularly fluffy piece on an infamous retired Bonecrusher. That’s all. What she was up to, what clothes she wore and food she ate. I suppose the one sweet tidbit was that I was the only person Boss trusted to cover it. Lucky me.
“How much longer?” I yelled because it gave good old Jimmy a taste of his own medicine.
He didn’t care. Or notice. Probably the latter.
“Not much longer, MC. How about another relaxy? Koku, give them relaxys on the house.”
The Valkyrie7 was small. It seated six. There were three seats on the walls of the aircraft that faced each other. Jimmy’s ancient model android, Koku, was by the cockpit. She stood up and clunked over to Suit. Her kimono was busted. I saw wires and a sharp piece of metal protruding from her synthetic, pale skin. I had no doubt she was a sex bot when she was created at least seventy years ago.
Jimmy had the bot set to extra stereotypical. Her accent was thick, exaggerated really, her outfit unreasonably short.
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