by Alex Acks
“All secure?” Amelia called back.
“All secure, Mister Cavendesh! You may proceed when ready.” Marta grinned wolfishly as those around her clung more tightly to their straps.
The rumble of the generators rose to a fever pitch. “On my mark,” Amelia said, her voice now at a more normal volume as she spoke with the navigator. “Three… Two… One… Mark.”
An unholy squall and rumble ran down the hallway as Amelia released the brakes and threw the engine into full drive. Diabola lurched, the violence of the movement drawing protesting shouts from several of the men, and then careened down the ramp. It wasn’t the most well-maintained of staging places, a holdover from times more ancient, and the engine bounced and jerked over the terrain, throwing the raiding party tight against their harnesses and shaking them fit to rattle teeth.
One of the men across from Marta seemed to be mumbling a prayer, eyes closed tightly and face gone white, though no sound could be heard over the clamor. He was new. He’d get over it, or find another line of work.
Alarm bells rang. Next to her, Simms drew in a breath and held it. She had little doubt that he had the same image in his mind as she, that of Elijah Masterson, long-fingered hand clutching one of the bronzed levers of the control panel, eyes focused on the stopwatch in his other hand, counting down seconds and milliseconds with precision and then, at the right instant, yanking the lever down.
With the tormented whine of overworked machinery, Diabola jumped into the air, propelled by a series of massive steam pistons. A loud clank sounded almost simultaneously, the road wheels snapping up into the engine’s undercarriage to give the rail wheels clearance. It was only a split second, though it felt longer, a full exhalation, all rattles and bangs going silent.
Crash.
The engine hit the rails. Metal screamed, and one of the men whooped as the hallway tilted crazily for a moment. The leather straps cut into Marta’s chest. Another smaller crash and they were fully on the rails. Only the barest amount of acceleration lost as they began the uphill climb in pursuit of their freight engine target.
She had begun to unbuckle her harness, as had Simms and a few other veterans, when the bells rang a third time, the unnecessary all clear. Had they missed the rails or only clipped them, well, life would have been far more interesting, and quite likely, brief. “Well done, Mister Masterson, Mister Cavendesh, full pursuit if you please.”
She stepped into the doorway, inspecting the view through the rather scratched glass. The tail lamps of the train ahead of them were pleasingly close. Amelia and Elijah were still strapped firmly in their seats, Elijah with a map spread out in front of him, stopwatch in hand. The control panel spread out before the two of them was a maze of dials, buttons and levers, Amelia’s pale hands wandering over them with the sort of grace normally reserved for concert pianists.
“Already there, sir,” Amelia said. She shot Captain Ramos a grin, her short-cropped blond curls lying in wisps around her face. “If you care to man the grapple, we’ll be right on their tail in a moment.”
Simms had the men scrambling to their own stations, shouting in tones that would have done a sergeant of the militia proud. Calmly, Marta stepped to the ladder bolted to the wall and ascended, unlocking the hatch that let her onto Diabola’s roof and the largest of the mounted guns, already fitted and prepped with a wicked hook, its claws set for firing with charged pistons, the chain it would carry loose and ready. Next to it was mounted a Gatling gun that had been liberated from an arms train nearly a year before. Stinging cold wind whipped past her face. Marta loosed the moorings that secured the gun and swung it with practiced ease to take aim at the jittering lights of the train before them.
She stomped on the roof twice to let those below know that she was firing, and then jammed her foot on the pedal that acted as the large gun’s trigger. The gun jerked in her hands, sulfurous smoke rolling over her, and a much more distant metallic bang sounded a moment later as the grapple hit.
“Secure, Mister Cavendesh, reel us—” The sharp crack of gunfire split the night and Marta ducked, flattening herself to the roof. “Getting quicker these days, aren’t they?” she remarked to herself.
“All prepared for boarding, sir.”
Marta slid along the roof and dropped hastily back down, followed by another volley of fire. “It seems they are as well.”
Amelia grinned as a muffled bang reverberated through the wall—one of the secondary grapples being fired. “Sure they are. But we’ve got the bigger guns.”
Boarding was always a messy, confused affair, even when boiled down to a science by a mind as keen as Marta’s. The enemy was kept from firing on the boarding crew with well-timed bursts of bullets from the Gatling gun. But once on board the other train, there was still by necessity the car-to-car fighting against an increasingly desperate force. One of the men had to be sent back to Diabola in a safety harness, his right arm dangling uselessly from a bullet wound. He was, thankfully, the only major casualty on Marta’s side.
This ultimately lead to Captain Ramos, as was her habit, patiently explaining to the conductor of the train why it was really in his best interest to make this transaction as painless as possible. “You see, it would be very inconvenient for all of us if you insisted on forcing me to shoot you,” she informed the man, casually fingering one of the pistols slung on her hips. “You would be dead, I’d be out a bullet, and then I’d have to waste a few extra minutes locating the safe and unlocking it—and trust me, I will unlock it—before sheer annoyance forced me to derail this train in a fit of aggravated pique.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” The conductor, a fit man in a crisp blue uniform now unfortunately stained with sweat and powder thanks to his insistence on resisting rather more athletically than had been necessary, gave her a wide-eyed look. Recognition and horror dawned in his eyes as he took in her scarlet coat. There was only one pirate who had that particular quirk of dress, after all. Perhaps he’d missed the memo explaining that the infamous Captain Ramos was female.
Marta smiled at him. It was an expression she had, quite literally, practiced in front of a mirror for years to perfect. In her role as pirate captain, that smile was calculated to state, why yes I am quite mad and have a fraction of concern for human life so small, you might as well save your time and round it to zero. “Pirate, Mister—” she peered at his little name badge “—Lewis. I’m a pirate. Is there anything my ilk does not dare?”
Mostly a bluff, that. Captain Ramos was not one to slaughter droves of innocent civilians, though she had in fact shot a conductor once because he’d gone after her with a paring knife from a nearby fruit bowl. It had been an embarrassing incident for all involved—terminally so for the conductor in question—but Marta had made good use of it nonetheless in the cause of convincing other potentially brave souls that she really was that mad.
“You’re a madwoman.”
“If I must keep repeating myself, this conversation will become intensely dull.” But she examined him carefully, taking in the signs of distress and mentally calculating which way he would crack if just a bit more pressure were applied. She drew her pistol and pointed it squarely in his face.
The man’s eyes went wide, and he tried to jerk his hands up defensively, only to be stopped by the firm hands of one Lucius Lamburt. Lucius played his part beautifully by growling into the man’s ear, “Now then, sonny, you don’ want ta give us no trouble.” Lucius also played the part beautifully of having been born, as far as anyone could tell, as some sort of gorilla who was subsequently partially shaved and outfitted with the surprisingly well-tailored clothes of a man.
Though knowing Lucius, Marta reflected, he was quite likely serious. The man was unhinged in all of the most useful ways. “If you please, Mister Lewis. I wouldn’t want to overexcite our Mister Lamburt with the sight of blood.”
Lucius laughed into the conductor’s ear, the sound accompanied by a fine spray of saliva. That, at least, was more obviously
an act. Lucius had a bit of a thing about bodily fluids.
The conductor was quick to lead her into the third freight car then and rip up the floor paneling that hid the safe. While the main point of the raid had been the train’s cargo—a shipment of steel bars and some much-needed, delicately machined replacement parts for their various engines—there was really no reason to leave the store of gold and silver on the train behind. It was just good business.
“Captain, this ought to be the last of the crates,” Simms called from behind them.
Marta glanced up to see the tall man walking down the narrow hallway toward her. He held one end of a wooden crate that had been painted a rather odd shade of green. “Are you certain, Simms? That doesn’t look like the rest.”
“The maker’s stamp—” Whatever Simms might have been about to point out was lost when the door to the car crashed open and a man with a shock of wild yellow curls flung himself through. His dove-gray jacket was torn and his tie in complete disarray, one glove missing as well, the other stained with ink or possibly grease. It was difficult to tell from this distance.
With wild desperation he flung himself at Simms, arms flailing. “That is my trunk! Mine! You can’t have it!”
The attack was sudden and ferocious enough, despite the almost comical size difference that was revealed when the short, slight man proceeded to cling to Simms like a monkey, that Simms dropped his end of the crate. It hit the floor with a crash and the man who had been holding the other side lost his grip as well, cursing as he did so. One side of the crate lost its integrity, boards splintering outward.
As Simms tried to pry the fingers of the much smaller man free, bearings cascaded from the splintered crate. Swearing, Simms stumbled and began to slip freely on them, arms windmilling and legs skating to and fro as the much smaller man pummeled him about the head and shoulders with one hand.
Marta, Lucius, and the conductor, momentarily forgetting he was a captive and this might have been the perfect opportunity to escape, openly stared.
“Ah…shouldn’t someone help that man?” the conductor said after a moment.
“Naw, ’e’s fine. Winning even, I’d say,” Lucius answered.
The sad truth of it was, Marta wasn’t entirely certain to whom they were referring.
The man who had been helping Simms with the crate rushed forward to try to help, slipped, and landed heavily on his back with an undignified scream. Captain Ramos eased forward, feet firmly on the floor to avoid the bearings that still streamed from the crate and flowed toward the downhill side of the car. She drew her pistol, waited for the precise moment of calculated vulnerability, and slammed the butt against the passenger’s temple.
Mercifully, he went limp and dropped heavily to the floor. Simms snatched at air and caught Marta’s offered hand, though he nearly jerked her arm from its socket in the process.
“What in heaven’s name—” He sucked a scarlet thread of blood back into his nostril before it could begin to stain his mustache. Hastily he yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose. With the other hand he helped his erstwhile companion back to his feet. The flow of bearings had, thankfully, ceased.
“One of your security men, Mister Lewis?” Marta inquired with poisonous sweetness as she turned her pistol in her hand.
The conductor quickly shook his head as Lucius leaned rather closer than he had any business being and breathed into his ear. “No, I swear it.”
Simms nudged the unconscious man with one foot. Voice muffled by the handkerchief and made nasal with blood, he said, “Too short to be security, isn’t he?”
Marta gave the unconscious man a measuring look. “For the Grand Duchy of Denver, at least.” The Grand Duke had standards, which at times seemed far more aesthetic than anything else. “Simms, why did you take this crate? We don’t need bearings.”
“Manifest said it was engine parts like the rest.”
Marta frowned. Obviously, then, the bearings would be to weigh down the crate. It wasn’t the sort of thing one shipped like this. “Mister Lamburt, why don’t you return Mister Lewis to the engine room and make certain the crew is moving back to Diabola.” She acknowledged his barked “sir!” with the wave of one hand as she drew her machete with the other. “And you two,” she informed Simms and his erstwhile companion, “clear out the safe.”
She pried the lid from the crate with the machete and frowned at the contents. Clothes and papers, mostly, nothing that looked like contraband but also nothing that looked like engine parts. Carefully she looked through the contents, pocketing a few bits—a very nice hand lens, a tiny but well-crafted pistol, and a small leather-bound book that would either be a volume of bad poetry or something interesting indeed—until she stirred up a tin orrery wrapped in a towel. As orreries went, it was quite ugly, battered and stained and more than a bit bent, very out of place among the finery in the crate.
She heard the shriek of Diabola’s whistle outside, three long blasts, two short. They were approaching the Continental Divide.
There wasn’t really time to consider the problem further on-site. Marta tucked the orrery away in her satchel. She spared one glance for the odd little man who had been so upset about his crate of contraband, noting a few odd scars on his gloveless hand, his fingers apparently smudged with newsprint, before the shrill call of Diabola’s whistle drew her away.
She confirmed head count with Gregory before she locked her harness onto the grappling chains and wheeled herself across. As soon as she was aboard, the chains released and Diabola abruptly slowed.
“How much time, Mister Masterson?” she asked as she came in through the side door, where one of the secondary grappling chains had been fixed for convenience.
“Forty-four minutes before someone else will be on our stretch. More than enough time.”
“Very good. Mister Cavendesh, take us home with all due haste.” Marta headed back into the depths of Diabola’s cargo area, wanting to check on the spoils gained. As she walked, she had to steady herself against one wall as the engine slowed, stopped, and then began its steady acceleration back down the hill.
Farther back in the rather tight troop space, she heard shouts of celebration, cheers for a job well done. Marta allowed herself a grin at that. First Sunday of the month and they were already well ahead of the game.
“Found anything interesting, Captain?” Simms cautiously stuck his head just inside the doorway of the subterranean lab Marta had built for herself over the years. Caution was necessary, because one never knew what might be going on inside: noxious smells; objects being flung with deadly accuracy, fueled by a foul temper; the bright, sparking light of a welding torch; or even on one memorable occasion, the Captain dangling, half-naked, from an iron framework, whooping madly and deep in the grips of a peyote dream.
Nothing untoward today, however, just the statuesque form of Captain Ramos in her shirtsleeves hunched over her work, hair straggling around her shoulder as it attempted to escape the clip she’d put it in. A half-eaten bowl of congealed chili sat at her elbow, scraps of tortilla dangling from it.
“Captain?” Armed with the two newest newspapers from the Grand Duchies of Denver and Salt Lake taken from a drop-box in Silverthorn that very morning, he approached. He’d used newspapers as a shield often enough.
“We captured quite a few glorious little toys.” Marta picked up the object from her worktable and held it up for Simms to see. It was a tin orrery, battered, smudged, and undeniably ugly in the focused electrical lights of her workspace. “And then there is this.”
“Don’t recall seeing that.”
“I pulled it out of that trunk that gave you such fits. I thought…well, I thought it might be something interesting, the way it was so carefully hidden. And the way its owner was so obviously beside himself.”
“But?”
“It isn’t even accurate. The mechanism works all right, but if you were depending on it to tell you when to observe Venus, you’d be at l
east six weeks off.” Marta shook her head. “And I could just go on from there. For all the obvious workmanship that’s gone into the mechanism, it’s quite the poorly thought-out device.” She tilted it this way and that. “I’d think it a souvenir from the Nature Museum perhaps, but goodness it’s a bit ugly for that.”
“Bargain bin, perhaps.” Simms bit back the suggestion that it had been created for function rather than form; knowing the function was off, that thought seemed far too stupid. “Going to play with it a bit more, then?”
Marta eyed the device, turning it in her hands. “Perhaps some other time. I’d thought with the fuss its owner kicked up, it would be something interesting, but I think his state had more to do with the codebook I lifted from that trunk. Do you think Dolly might like to play with an orrery? It seems nigh indestructible, and she ought to have something other than those frightful, simpering dolls you insist on giving her.”
This was not a discussion Simms was willing to re-open with the Captain. “Think she might have a bit of fun with it. She knows the names of the planets and such-like. Amelia’s been showing her things on that telescope of hers.” Marta only seemed to take an interest in his daughter when it was a way to tweak at his whiskers or outrage someone who had managed to retain a few more social mores than even he had. Otherwise she tucked the children of Devil’s Roost into a mental box labeled “loud, sticky, and annoying” and ignored them; unlike their city cousins, they wouldn’t have any tidbits of information for her.
“Right then, here you go.” Marta tossed the orrery to him. It made an odd, almost musical little plink as he caught it. “Simms.”
Simms fiddled with the crank on the device; it made the little planets advance in their orbits. “Hm?”
“Are those my newspapers?”