Dandelion Iron Book One

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  “Becca, I think everyone can hear you,” Marcy said with awe in her voice.

  I let my smile shine.

  The truth hit Becca like a punch. “You filthy piece of trash!”

  I thought to run, but Becca and her friends blocked the door.

  Dang. Hadn’t thought of an escape route. Silly me.

  (iii)

  I scooped up my electric slate, yanked out the audio cords, and got ready to run that petticoat gauntlet.

  “I’m going to make you pay!” Becca clattered toward me. She hooked her fingers into claws.

  “You really don’t wanna do that,” I warned her, but she wasn’t going to listen. She threw herself at me, telegraphing her attack.

  I dodged her. Four years in civilization had civilized a little of the dodge out of me, but twelve years of growing up with two cowgirl-tough older sisters had left my reflexes spring-loaded.

  Becca sped past me, but the other girls rushed forward.

  Marcy Bauer grabbed my dress, and I stomped her foot. She screamed. I socked Ethel Walters in the stomach, bending her over. Priscilla Carrington reached for me, but I swung a hip and knocked her flat. Becca, had turned and rejoined the fight. She caught my face with her nails, blazing a scratch across my cheek. The pain raised my shakti. I punched Becca right in the nose, prolly breaking it. Dropped her to the floor like a bag full of rags.

  I felt a little bad, but only a little—she could afford the plastic surgery. And it gave me an escape route. Rich girls in Ohio generally don’t get punched in the nose. Shocked them all as still as stone.

  I strode through the perfume and sniffling like Moses through the Red Sea.

  “Don’t you walk away from me, you filthy piece of Juniper trash,” Becca snarled.

  I stopped at the door. I felt proud to have grown up in a house my mama had fought to build and bled to keep. Before I knew it, I had turned back around. Two princesses lay on the floor of the classroom and two girls stood frozen.

  “You don’t know how ridiculous you are, with your country talk and bumpkin manners.” Becca’s face was tearful and bloody and every ounce of pretty was gone, swallowed up by her cruel, mercenary heart. Her neon dress swirled across the floor and her thin arms shook, holding her weight. “Only stupid people live in the Juniper. Stupid or criminally insane. Which one are you?”

  I grinned, letting her know nothing she said could hurt me. “Well, I’m criminal enough to have knocked you down. Stupid enough to stand here listening to your nonsense. If you come after me, well, I’ll show you my crazy.” Dang, that was something my sister Wren might’ve said.

  “Do you know who I am? Do you know how much money my family gives to this school? You’ll be sorry, Cavatica Weller. You and that Anju, you’ll both pay! Billy Finn is mine. I bought him.”

  “You can’t buy people,” I said. “Billy and Anju are meant to be together.”

  Becca lowered her head. Blood from her nose dripped onto the floor. She laughed hard, cried harder. “You’re so stupid. You’re so jacking stupid.”

  “Prolly,” I said, “but I’d rather be stupid than heartless.”

  Overhead through the speakers, Mrs. Justice called out, “Cavatica Weller, please report to my office immediately.” She sounded bitten. Like something was chewing on her. Which would’ve been my sister Wren at that moment.

  “See,” Becca said, “you’re in trouble. Not me.”

  I was in trouble, but I had no idea how bad it was going to get. If I had, I would’ve called the Cleveland police myself.

  Chapter Two

  The New Morality is a mother’s voice, calling her children home. It is late. We are alone. Night is coming. But if we listen, we can hear our mother calling us to dinner because the kitchen is warm and there is hope, always hope, for those who listen.

  —Sally Browne Burke

  From the Eighth Annual International

  New Morality Conference

  June 21, 2057

  (i)

  Like I said, my sister was coming with hard news.

  But then Wren was hard.

  How she got that way was a mystery we didn’t talk about much, but we thought about all the time.

  Maybe it was ’cause Wren was the middle sister in a time of trouble. Maybe it was ’cause she liked beer more than milk growing up, or maybe it was simple genetics. Either way, Wren courted the Devil when he didn’t come calling on his own accord.

  I figured Wren prolly got a calloused heart by growing up on the hip of a woman who had to fight every day to put food on the table. With a sick husband and a big Burlington ranch falling to pieces, Mama didn’t have much time to give Wren what she needed. Heck, I’m not sure anybody could have given her what she needed. Wren’s real name was Irene, but after five seconds, Mama knew she had named her wrong—Irene was a Wren, a soul that had to fly ’cause sitting still hurt too much.

  She was late-night gorgeous, black hair, black eyes, and skin like desert-bleached bone. She walked as if the earth was bowing down before her beauty.

  My oldest sister Sharlotte was Wren’s complete opposite in everything including how much of Mama’s affection she got. Mama held Sharlotte close to her heart, especially after Elwyn died as a baby. That was when Mama still worked salvage, living hand to mouth and under fire. She hadn’t counted on meeting Charles Weller, hadn’t counted on getting pregnant, though God built our species to be fruitful and multiply. Or so we’d been taught.

  My sister Shar and Mama were cut from the same stiff cloth. Both were upright, hardworking and concrete-corset stubborn.

  Sharlotte was the oldest, born near the end of Mama’s salvaging days. Four years later came Wren, and four years after that came me. By the time I was born, Mama had mellowed some, but then I wasn’t a problem. By then I had a passel of mothers around on the ranch, so I couldn’t walk two steps into trouble without getting caught and thrown back onto the straight and narrow.

  We should’ve had a big family full of girls, but that wasn’t meant to be. Lots of embroidered blankets for the baby girls who died—Elwyn, Fern, Willa, and Avery. Mama would’ve thrown the blankets out, but Sharlotte kept them in her bedroom, folded on her bed.

  My classmates at the Academy couldn’t understand why Juniper folks wanted big ol’ families, and it wasn’t ’cause we were Catholic. No, down on the farm, it boiled down to simple economics—the more kids, the more free labor.

  And if you struck it rich with a viable boy? Even better.

  But women having babies without proper healthcare, too much work, and iffy nutrition added up to more dead babies and dead mothers than most Yankees liked to consider.

  Yankees. That was what the Juniper folks called other Americans. Even Southerners. It was ironic, but Juniper folks grew up on beefsteak and irony.

  After all the death, only three Weller girls remained—Sharlotte, Wren, and me. We all boiled over with what the Hindus call shakti, raw female power.

  Maybe that was what had poisoned Wren against the world. All that death.

  No, something happened between Wren and Mama early on, something bad. Or maybe I just wanted an easy explanation. In this life, easy answers generally aren’t worth a rotting haystack left out in the rain.

  (ii)

  Mrs. Justice’s office smelled like books, money, and the Nyco floor polish. Everything shined—the floor, the bookshelves, the wainscoting, and her big desk. Mrs. Justice was just as shiny, ramrod straight behind the desk. Wren lounged in a chair in front of it. A lacy yellow dress covered her, but it was far too short to be New Morality. No, it was a party girl’s dress, and I immediately colored with embarrassment.

  Wren smiled at me. Lips curled. Eyes cold. She then hitched up the right side of her skirt and yanked out a Springfield XD Subcompact 9mm pistol from a holster Velcroed to her upper thigh.

  Truth be told, her evil smile scared me more than the handgun.

  Mrs. Justice gasped. The white washed out of her face even as red flushed her ne
ck. “What are you doing?”

  “Well, Mrs. Justice,” Wren said slowly, “like I told you, I ain’t leavin’ without our money.”

  With my heart pounding, I gripped my slate like it was a shield. “Wren, no.” Not sure what I was saying no to, but it seemed like the logical thing to say. What money was she talking about?

  “Well, Cavvy, Mrs. Justice says that if you leave early she won’t reimburse us your tuition. I don’t think that’s fair, do you?” Wren popped the magazine out, snapped back the action, and then with practiced speed caught the bullet that ejected out the side. She regarded my principal. “Our conversation was making me tense. Firearms generally calm my nerves, but now that my little pistol ain’t loaded, there’s no reason for you to be scared.” She placed the pistol, magazine, and bullet on the desk.

  Same old Wren. I hadn’t seen her in four years, not since she was sixteen, growing into her talons and fangs. Watching her, though, it seemed like yesterday.

  Mrs. Justice didn’t say a word—too pale to talk. Guns do that to law-abiding people outside in the World. Inside, the Juniper was the Juniper, outside, for us, was the World, where electricity worked and there were actual laws.

  “Why would I be leaving early?” I asked.

  My sister shrugged, then, with that evil smile still on her face, she said, “Mama’s dead.”

  A sharp shock swept through me, too big for me to feel. So I studied my sister’s smile, would’ve taken a picture of it, just to figure it out. The words my sister said were hard, but her smile was harder.

  Mrs. Justice finally found her voice. “My condolences, Cavatica, for your mother. I know you two must both be grieving. However, that doesn’t excuse your sister for bursting into my office and demanding the rest of this year’s tuition. Moreover, I refuse to be intimidated. I know you both grew up in chaos, but Ohio has strict gun control laws, and our Academy has a policy of zero tolerance …”

  Her voice became a drone. I couldn’t stop looking at Wren, wondering if she was telling the truth. Mama dead? Couldn’t be. Women like my mama didn’t die. There were too many chores to do. Too much money to chase. Death didn’t dare touch a woman like my mama.

  “I’m calling security and the police.” Mrs. Justice got up and walked out. Wren and I didn’t move.

  “How’d she die?” It was a dumb question ’cause of course she was alive.

  “Heart attack. She got herself into big money problems, and then dropped dead. Now the ranch is in trouble, and Sharlotte …” Wren closed her eyes, shook her head, and grinned with hate. “Sharlotte said if I didn’t come and fetch you, she’d hire killers on me. But I wanted to come. It’s been a long time, Princess, and I was curious to see how you’ve grown. By the way, I for one appreciated your little display. That Becca Olson sounded like a real rich priss.”

  Standing there, I tried not to believe her, but my denial was draining away like sand under my feet.

  Then it hit me what Wren’s smile meant. Wren had issues with inappropriate emotional reactions, something we studied in my psychology class, but this was something more. Wren wanted to see my reaction, wanted to see what I looked like gutted and laid open by the news. For her, it was entertainment.

  Fury filled me. But anger is what psychologists call an iceberg emotion. Underneath the rage, icy sorrow and colder despair gushed and swirled. If I had to swim in that freezing water, I’d pull Wren down with me. And I hated when she called me princess. So I reared back to slap that evil smile off her face.

  Even sitting, Wren ducked it easily. “Oh, hell no, girl. What they been teachin’ you here? Not how to fight. I saw that comin’ a kilometer away.”

  Rattler-quick, Wren was on her feet. With her free hand, she tweaked my nose.

  The sour smell of liquor oozed from her pores. No surprise there.

  Mrs. Justice’s office was not a place to fight—too crowded with furniture, books, and whatnot, but still, I tried to wrestle my sister down. Even half-drunk, Wren was stronger and meaner. She kneed me in the thigh and shoved me to the hardwood floor.

  “Back in the day, you’d have dodged that,” Wren said. “Your time with these Yankees done slowed you down. Let me help you up.” She put out a hand, fingernails painted a bright cherry-red.

  I knocked her hand away. “I don’t want to go home. I want to graduate. I’ve already started looking at colleges.” That was true, even though I was only a junior.

  “I don’t care what you want.” Wren retrieved the magazine and slammed it back into the pistol. She chambered a round, then ejected the magazine, and pressed the spare bullet in on top of the others. She slid the magazine home into the butt of the 9mm. Once more fully loaded. “Sharlotte wants you, and what Sharlotte wants Sharlotte gets. You can argue with her.”

  I couldn’t match Wren in a fistfight, but I had other weapons, nasty bombs with my sister’s name stamped on them in big black letters.

  I stood up and wiped some sweat off my forehead, then started pushing red buttons, launching missiles, going to war. Fire one. “You drunk? Well, you are weak-willed, or that’s what Mama always used to say.”

  A little of that self-satisfied smirk faded from Wren’s face. “What Mama said don’t matter no more. She’s dead. And yeah, I had a few beers on the train, but I’m far from drunk.”

  “Sure Mama died of a heart attack. Worrying over you finally broke her heart.” Fire two.

  Wren laughed, jiggling the Springfield 9 in my general direction. “Oh, you’re good. I see what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”

  Fire three. “Sharlotte really did threaten to kill you, didn’t she? How does that feel? Your own sister wanting you dead? Just goes to show, you really don’t belong in our family—not when Mama was alive, and definitely not now that she’s … gone.”

  My voice tripped on that last word, but still, it was a direct hit. This time, I saw Wren’s attack coming and ran behind Mrs. Justice’s desk. I didn’t think Wren would shoot me. At least I hoped she wouldn’t. Sisters shouldn’t kill each other, even if they want to much of the time.

  “Let’s just go,” Wren said, smile gone. I had won, but it felt empty, which is why fighting with family is so useless. Every time you hit ’em good, it feels like hitting yourself.

  “I’m sorry.” I breathed it out. “For what I said. But I ain’t going home. I’ll call Sharlotte on her next run to Hays.”

  Wren’s pretty eyes were distant and that pretty mouth curled up in a chew. “Ain’t gonna be no more runs to Hays. When Mama died, she left us a whole stack of bills and no money, but Sharlotte has this crazy plan to save the ranch. We have to get home, right away. Funeral is Saturday.”

  What Wren said, it was as if she was speaking Mandarin. No more cattle runs to Hays? Sharlotte having a crazy plan? Sharlotte Weller was Sunday-straight, a clear-thinking responsible woman. She made Sally Browne Burke look like a whiskey-headed party girl.

  And it was Wednesday. No way could we get to Burlington in three days.

  Since Wren was talking crazy, I figured I might as well join her. “I’m not going back, Wren. Never. I’m through with the Juniper. And if I have to have a sister like you, I’m through with family.” Yeah, I clung to my denial, but I was so comfortable at my fancy Academy, with electricity and gun laws and mostly nice girls, that I couldn’t imagine going back home. And I didn’t really want to believe Mama was dead. If I stayed in school, it meant Mama would still be alive and everything would be normal.

  Right then, Mrs. Justice burst into the room. Behind her was campus security, two big women, scowling, dressed in gray.

  Behind the security women, Ohio policewomen jogged over, carrying Armalite Thor stunners. They looked like silver guns without barrels, but fully charged, the stunners could throw electrical charges as far as ten meters, knock you down and leave you gnawing on your tongue. Non-lethal. Gun laws went into effect for everyone in the U.S., civilians and the police alike.

  Mrs. Justice was yelling. “See!
She has a gun! Arrest her. Arrest them both!”

  “Ah, hell, here we go,” Wren whispered. I heard the danger-quiet in my sister’s voice.

  “No, Wren!”

  Her Springfield 9 coughed thunder.

  I had completely forgotten how loud a gun was, and how much trouble one could cause in the hands of my gunslinger sister.

  (iii)

  Being in a gunfight is not like riding a bicycle. My glands had forgotten how to handle the spitfire of my adrenaline.

  Back when I was a kid growing up in the Juniper, I got used to firearms and killed my fair share of deer and antelope. Even before June Mai Angel, we had Outlaw Warlords in the Juniper, and I grew up reloading Mama’s rifle during gun battles. I guess that made me tough. Gave me awful dreams, I’ll tell you what. Noise, blood, and bullets. Dreams about Queenie, the Outlaw Warlord my mama killed dead.

  But that had been a long time ago, so when Wren started shooting, I didn’t react like I should’ve. Wren’s years of hard living had given her a tolerance for grit and gunfire. I’d grown as soft as the rest of the Yankees.

  The security guards and policewomen didn’t realize that Wren was aiming high. All they knew was that a pretty girl in a yellow dress was shooting at them. One of the cops raised a stunner, and Wren shot it out of her hand.

  “Out the window, Cavvy,” Wren yelled.

  “No, Wren, we gotta give ourselves up. You can’t kill those women! They’re just doing their job!”

  “Saturday, Cavvy, that’s the funeral. Can’t get there if we’re in prison. I got priors and they’ll get you for accessory.”

  I was too blind from the violence to think her argument through, and I was right next to the window. Part of me figured if we could get out of there, Wren wouldn’t kill anyone. For one mad moment, I thought about trying to take her down myself, but how could I ever hope to stand up to Wren? She’d taken me in every fight we’d ever had. And it was clear God Himself had trouble keeping her in line. What chance did I have? So I followed along.