by Michael Rigg
"There," he said softly, but loud enough to be heard over the hissing and grumbling of the aerocar's engines. He reached over and fastened a safety belt around me, excusing himself for his reach, before climbing in next to me and telling Lucien to depart.
"I won't say it again, captain," Lucien warned loudly over his shoulder as the car began to drift away from the tower.
"You won't say it at all, Lucien," Bryce shouted back. His voice was loud, but only to be heard over the racket as a similar aerocar rumbled past us to moor on an upper level of a tower adjacent to the one from which we were departing. "I do know what I'm doin', old friend. I have the feelin' this little lady is goin' to change history for us."
“Those contracts were going to change history for us.”
“Damn the contracts, Lucien,” Bryce said as he sat next to me and put his arm around me to keep me steady and warm. “My instincts are always right and you know it. This woman means something and I was meant to be her rescuer.”
Lucien's mustache twitched in the rear-view mirror before he answered. "If you're not right, Bryce...." The Englishman let his thought hang in the wind as he turned his attention to the brass levers and control knobs of the aerocar. "But either way, and despite your age and station, your father is going to tan your ignoble backside upon our return. And he'll fire me!"
"He won't fire you, my friend. And, hell's bells if he does.... You'll work for me."
“Bradford Thorne will take full advantage of this, you know.”
“I fully expect him to,” Bryce grinned. “I work best when I know someone is takin' advantage of me and mine.”
“Blazes,” Lucien cursed, then pressed forward on a lever that made us move quickly into air traffic.
As the carriage pulled away and wheeled around through the air, I got a look at the place we were leaving. I saw a pair of hundred-story cathedral-stylized towers of bronze and iron with tall rectangular rusty window frames and balustrades of sea foam green where the copper had oxidized. They rose high above the cityscape. Taller than the other buildings and factories belching white steam and black coal smoke, the towers were connected by the iron arch of a bridge a hundred stories in the air. Below the arch, along the line of its ornate bow, were twenty-foot letters and numbers on tracks that could be pulled by chain into one of the towers and changed each day to display the date for the sky travelers and city pedestrians to clearly see.
Today, on this clear and brisk day, the bridge read, "THE CENTERS OF WORLD TRADE" in hand-forged old-style lettering. And below that, "SEP 11 2001."
Without knowing where the reaction came from, nor what it meant, it was then that I found enough voice to scream.
CHAPTER 2, “Frustration Builds”
Bryce Landry stepped outside through the revolving doors of the Thorne and Wolfe lobby and strode out to the broad yellow band that warned pedestrians that they were getting too close to the edge of the tower platform. An airship cruised by belching black smoke and steam, bristling with gun turrets and masts. Bryce folded his arms over his uniform coat and wished he could be among the soldiers on that ship, headed toward a deployment somewhere along the border between the Old North and New South.
"The HMS Independence," shouted the voice of Lucien Howard above the rumble of the ship as it glided by. Lucien stepped up behind Bryce and tucked a pipe stem between his puffy lips, then struck a match to light it, cupping the flame to keep the high altitude crosswind from snuffing it out. Three matches later, he said, "Beautiful, is she not?"
Ignoring the observation, Bryce winced, "I don't want 'em, Lucien. I don't see the point of daddy turnin' the wetlands over to me, and I don't like the idea of havin' to sit across from that mealy-eyed excuse of a human bein'. It's just hell fuel, Lucien. Hell fuel."
"Your father wanted you to have them, and that should be well done enough. And why would you think your father wants you to have your own properties and the rights therein?" Lucien asked as he puffed on the pipe. "You're Captain Landry, the renowned hero of the Mason-Dixon battles, the strongest and wisest of the regiment. Why do you think your father wants you to have ownership? Why would he put your name in the trust?” Though Bryce couldn't see it, Lucien leaned close, his soft eyes hardening as he tried to get his master's son to understand what he himself already knew. “Think about it, Bryce. You're a soldier.”
“A soldier,” the captain muttered into the wind, wincing against the daylight reflected off the gleaming guns of the Independence.
“Who better to own land that requires defending?" Lucien removed the pipe and clapped a meaty hand on Bryce's shoulder. "It's a smart move on Master Landry's part to send his boy. It throws that weasel Yankee Thorne off kilter to see a soldier across the table, for one. And it's just good business sense.” He abruptly turned. “Now let's get back inside, Bryce. The air at this altitude sets my sinuses afire."
Bryce chuckled sourly. "Lucien, this new acquisition of mine is hundreds of fathoms under water!"
Lucien's gaze narrowed as he glanced around and quickly stepped back to within inches of the captain. “Mind your volume, lad! My God, you'll send a flare up for every Yankee in New Yorke!
“Let 'em come. I'm a soldier, remember?”
Lucien's bushy mustache twitched in time with his left eye. "An impudent child is more like it,” Lucien huffed, “You really have no clue, do you? Now I am not in the position to second guess your father's motives, captain, but there is an underlying necessity to your presence. The fact is as cold as the air up here that Bradford Thorne is more than just a swindler with twelve counts of Corporate Termination. He's got designs for that watery plot of submarine land and if he seizes it your father will be fit to be tied!"
Bryce nodded at the cityscape, his mind adrift. “Twelve lawful murders, huh?”
Lucien nodded sharply behind him. “Known.”
“What's he want with daddy's—I mean my—property?”
“It's not yours yet, Bryce. That's why we're here. Now come.”
The captain held his ground. “I'm just curious as to what could be so important to the largest purse amongst the Yankees as well as to my father—a boastful gentleman who can't even be bothered to tell his own son what he's been given.”
Lucien studied him.
Bryce turned his hand palm up and swept it between them. “Honestly, Lucien. Daddy wants me to take deed on this underwater plot and defend it. Why?”
Lucien blinked.
“Ah, ha.” Bryce pointed at him. “You know why, but you're not tellin' me. What's down there?”
The manservant drew a deep breath and glanced around. He locked eyes on an airship slowly coasting by and ignored the captain.
Bryce took a step toward him. “Granted, you work for him and not me, but you are employed by our estate. I suggest you answer my questions.”
Lucien raised a defiant eyebrow. This was a game the two men often played, Bryce knowing Lucien was a nut that couldn't be cracked and Lucien knowing Bryce was like a feral cat with a ball of yarn. The manservant said, “You're right.”
Bryce smiled but raised an eyebrow, listening.
“You're right. There's nothing down there. It's all just tons upon tons of seawater out beyond the Norfolk locks. It's on the sea lane between the old Empire and the Confederate Royals across the pond. If war broke out again, Bradford Thorne could seize the lane and choke our supply lines.”
Though he still smiled, Bryce angled his head and narrowed his eyes, suspecting something more. “Just like they did in the Great Civil War, which I might add, we still won.”
“Indeed.” Realizing the paper thin veil of his distraction was tearing, Lucien quickly turned and headed toward the door.
“Now hold on!” Bryce took a step toward him and rea
ched for the arm of his coat, but the portly butler was more slippery than he appeared.
And that's when the screaming started.
Their banter, and any notion of contracts, hidden agendas or warfare completely lost, the two men cut through the crowd. Bryce pushed his way through, Lucien on his heels, his mind racing at what the commotion could be about. He wished he had his pistol, or even his sword. The one thing Bryce Landry could do well was fight. His skin felt charged, his blood chilled, thinking the screams and shouts were related to some kind of Yankee altercation, the first shots fired in the battle for this worthless seabed of his if not a simple mugging or roustabout between two tower workers.
Whatever was going on, Bryce knew Thorne & Wolfe had to be behind it. The promenade was their property. They owned the entire floor. Everyone here was either a T&W worker, agent, officer, or a delivery person bridging the gap between offices.
There wasn't time to consider the details surrounding something he knew so little about, so he simply pressed on as the screams and shouts grew louder. Bryce rounded a corner, fists clenched into the only weapons he had, then he saw the crowd opening some distance from a body on the promenade's deck.
The sight of the naked woman stretched out on the cold metal, as though she simply decided to lie down for a rest, made Bryce scowl. He expected a mugging, someone holding a prisoner with a gun to their head, but not this. Onlookers pointed, but kept a distance as though she were some object in a museum. Men leered over her shapely form. Women shouted and hid their faces. People yelled obscenities at her, others told her to get up and move along, but she just lay there as though helpless, her dark red hair the only thing moving besides the rise and fall of her breasts, breathing that became deeper and quicker as panic set in. Though she was a beautiful woman, Bryce's whip-smart mind sharpened his focus as he quickly moved forward.
Lucien muttered, "My God, man," as he gaped at the woman along with everyone else. He gripped Bryce by the arm almost pulling him back.
Peeling out of his greatcoat, and Lucien's grasp, Bryce rushed to the woman and covered her. He paid little attention to the aesthetics of her body. Her wide and panic-struck emerald green eyes and perfect heart-shaped face held his attention. Her long auburn hair had no pins or clips to hold it up, the chattering teeth between her quivering lips shone white and just as perfect as the rest of her.
Something in Lucien's suggestion that the woman could be a witch struck a chord with Bryce and he had no recourse but to treat the strange appearance of the woman as something supernatural. There were no witnesses who saw her arrive. No one on the promenade was related to her or recognized her. She had no distinguishing features beyond her uncommon beauty, no Corporate Ident or Mark of Property. Maybe Lucien was right. Maybe she is a witch—or an innocent victim of a witch. Perhaps she'd been hexed?
Whatever the case, getting the woman away from the Trade Buildings was the most sensible course of action. If she worked for Thorne, he'd find out while questioning her away from here. Likewise, if she were being used as a distraction or a trap of some kind, only an interview conducted safely away from Thorne's influence would reveal it. If she were the victim of witchcraft, there was someone Bryce new could help her, likewise if she herself were a witch. Not only that, if Lucien's worst fears were realized, Bryce knew they could endanger a lot of innocent people “outing” a witch on the promenade. In any event, the woman might know something about the importance of the submerged property, especially if she worked for Thorne and Wolfe. Leaving her—even in Lucien's care—while Bryce tended to the meeting was not an option.
In moments, Lucien had the aero spinning away from New Yorke. The strange woman's surprising scream and lapse into unconsciousness were enough to make both men jump. Bryce held her as she collapsed into his arms, her head lolling onto his chest.
And that was when he realized she was neither a trap nor a diversion. She was something else.
Over his shoulder, Lucien called out through the grumble and periodic hiss of the engines, "Seems she's found her voice!"
"Seems so. She appears to have fainted. Lucien, could you pass me the smellin' salts?"
The manservant dug into a vest pocket and handed a small glass tube over his shoulder. Bryce removed the tiny stopper and held it under the woman's nose. Her nose and forehead wrinkled and she groaned as Bryce moved the vial back and forth under her nostrils. "There you go, my dear. Come on.... You're gonna be okay."
Her eyes fluttered open as if out of a deep sleep and focused on Bryce. Instantly, her eyes grew round and the strength came back to her limbs. She pushed away from him, flinching and thrashing as she turned toward the carriage door. Clutching the coat around her neck, she lunged for the handle.
“Easy!” Bryce said as he reached out to pull her back. “It's best you try not to step out again. It's a long way d—”
The punch came out of nowhere. The woman's small bony fist impacted with Bryce's jaw, snapping his head to the side and causing him to see stars for a moment.
Lucien hunkered down at the controls and held tight, looking back over his shoulder to see if the crazed nude woman would strike him next. “Miss, please!”
She swatted at the back of Lucien's seat, her eyes darting around as if swirling in madness. She punched at Bryce again, kicked her bare foot at the door, and shouted senseless grunts and barks. “Aaah!” She swung again, but this time Bryce was prepared. Almost. The woman's surprising strength and speed sent her fist bouncing off his upper arm and careening against his ear.
Bryce used the leverage of Lucien's seat back to launch himself against her, clutching at her arms and pushing them back at an angle that prevented her from gaining leverage, effectively pinning her inside the oversized coat. “Enough!”
The woman breathed heavily, pressed under his weight as Bryce leaned into her. “Please! We are tryin' to help you. Pitchin' a fuss and the like ain't gonna get you anywhere.”
She drew deep breaths as tears started to form in her eyes. Cautiously, Bryce eased back. The woman blushed and sniffed, hugging the coat against herself, pulling it tight around her neck.
“I'm sorry,” Bryce said with a sincere frown. “I didn't mean you any harm.” He held out his hands, palms toward the woman, to show that he didn't intend anything against her. “We only want to help.”
She gripped the greatcoat around herself with tight white fists and scrunched her body back against the carriage cushion as far from Bryce as she dared, glancing once over the edge of the door to the city far below.
Bryce leaned back, his hands still outstretched, as he tried a comforting nod and smile. "My name is Captain Bryce Landry, 116th Dixon Overwatch Guard." His smile became warmer and more understanding. "But to you I'm just Bryce. Now... what's your name?"
Lucien looked up expectantly in the rear view mirror, studying the woman as he strained to hear the answer to the question.
She opened her mouth to speak, her eyes fearful as she realized she still couldn't.
"Your scream was enough to rattle two grown men into confusion. Surely, your voice has returned and you can tell me who I rescued from that gapin' mob back there.”
The woman's mouth opened and closed, her forehead wrinkling as she tried to coax words from her throat. Try as she might, it seemed her voice was once again lost to mystery. The tiny croaks, groans and squeaks that came out were lost to the buffeting air around the aero's passenger compartment.
“Not to worry, my dear, we'll get you out of here and to someplace safe n' warm." Bryce offered a smile, but still kept his distance. Louder, to Lucien, he called out, “Take us to the Philadelphia Tesla Bridge!”
Over his shoulder, Lucien said, “Aren't you forgetting something, captain?”
“What's that?”
&n
bsp; “You can't very well transport a nude lady across the Line, especially in public transport.”
Bryce smiled. “I have friends in Philly, Lucien. Not to worry.”
“That scamp,” The valet muttered, “This day continues to disappoint.”
Turning his attention back to their mysterious guest, Bryce pointed to the driver's back. "That's my father's man, Lucien Howard, an affable Britisher of Welsh descent, but don't hold that against him. Can you give us any indication of where you came from? Your name? Do you know sign language or can you write perhaps?" Bryce lifted his hands and gestured, asking the same questions in pantomime.
Lucien turned his head slightly and strained to listen as the woman nodded excitedly in the rear-view mirror. She made a motion as though she were writing on her palm with an invisible pen.
Leaning forward, Bryce flicked the collar of Lucien's coat. "Check the glove box and pass me back somethin' to write with."
~~~~~~~
Perek Grubbs snorted a pinch of snuff and snapped the gold case closed before he tucked it back into his jacket. Sniffing, he turned to Bradford Thorne and nodded to the scene outside the picture window. "Your afternoon appointment appears to have left, Mr. Thorne, and Emergency Services seems to be conducting an investigation of some sort on the promenade. Shall I cancel the meeting?"
Thorne, a tall and thin stoat-faced man with paper white skin and eyes like tiny black buttons fingered his handlebar mustache and grunted as he gazed out at the dispersing crowd. "I'd say the meeting canceled itself. ...It's a shame." He chewed his lower lip nervously. “What the devil could Landry be up to?”
"Mr. Thorne?"
“Frustration builds, Perek.” Bradford Thorne's eyes narrowed until only a glint appeared in the dark folds of his half-closed lids. "I was counting on Lord Landry's boy to sign the contracts for Atlantis. Now it seems we'll be forced to take the property by default." He spoke through a long sigh. “And I was so wanting a fight.”