“We’ve made ‘atomist’ synonymous with murderer and anarchist in the headlines,” Morgan Ash chuckled in his ear. “Thank you so much for providing the newspapers pictures to match.”
The bodies of Pinkertons floated everywhere around him as glass-ravaged passengers splashed out of the train through shattered windows and took turns in desperate dives below the surface to rescue those trapped in the two or three fully submerged cars. He burned with regret and nearly dropped Tesla to dash and help them.
But descending all around him were Neversleeps and All-Seeing Eyes. Their stunt had killed many, even most, but not all. Not enough. And when Simon Leslie had torn off the resonator he’d exposed the breach in the Chrysalis to the outside air; he might as well have torn it to shreds for all the protection it provided him now. The Pinkertons knew it, too; they were just waiting for Ash’s orders to boil his blood, to turn his skin inside out and dump his organs out onto the river rocks like wet sacks of garbage.
“For what it’s worth… I’m sorry it had to end like this, Si,” Ash said. “As I’m sure you are too.”
The Eyes closed in a tight circle around Leslie and Tesla. “Don’t tell me what to think, you preening ass. This is exactly how I wanted it to end.”
Ash’s mahogany chuckle. “Si, Si. Cocky little shit to the last, huh?”
“Oh, no. I’m serious. Don’t you read the guidebooks?”
A gust of wind howled through the canyon. The Neversleeps hesitated, spinning their great ocular globes an extra few revolutions.
“You ever hear about the Donner Party, Ash?”
“Wendigos!” somebody cried. But it was too late.
The Cannibal Spirits dropped from the edges of the ravine, their spindly arms spread out to envelop the Pinkertons like a net. Jaws retracted to head-width and sank themselves into the meat and bone of the Pinkertons, ignoring the ectoplasmic eyes. One Neversleep was able to blast back a Wendigo with a manna missile but he was immediately dropped with a claw swipe from behind.
Leslie could feel Tesla tense beneath his arms and he pulled her close to him, hoping he could seal off the breach in the Chrysalis with her body—not enough to fool the sophisticated spells of the Neversleeps, but to confuse the primitive senses of the Wendigos. One came near Nicola trailing long, straggling corpse-hair and sniffed her cheek with his noseless skull, but Leslie put a gloved hand over her face, hoping that would make her partially invisible to the Cannibal Spirit.
With a snort and a dissatisfied shake of the head, the Wendigo turned, spotted a Pinkerton with his left leg ripped off below the knee trying to crawl across the crimson-choked river to safety. The spirit gave up on Tesla and launched itself atop the fugitive and commenced to feast.
“Better luck next time, Morgan,” Leslie said, but silence was his only reply. He ripped the receiver out of his hood in case the bosses figured out how to track that, too, and, keeping Tesla close to his body, fled up the ridge through the pines to safety.
* * *
At dawn they stumbled across a ghost town on the side of the mountain: pale gray timber shells like giant wasps’ nests. It had been settled since its abandonment, as one might expect, by ghosts, mindless revenants acting out the routines of life: children chasing hoops, women hanging invisible clothing on non-existent lines, men fighting in the streets over long-dead causes.
Inside the largest intact structure, half-burned and festooned with meadow heath, Simon Leslie ripped off the Chrysalis in a stream of muttered self-denunciations.
Tesla watched him with a furrowed brow. “Whatever is the matter?”
“What…?” He looked at her, astounded and naked, sweat slick on muscles still taut for battle. “Did you not see what just happened? How many innocent people did we kill with that stunt?”
Tesla shrugged. “The train couldn’t have been traveling more than forty-five, perhaps forty-eight kilometers an hour. I’m sure there were far fewer fatalities than you think.”
“One is unacceptable. You hear me? One innocent life is far too many.”
She laughed at him. “You are trying to remake the world, Edison man. How did you hope to accomplish that without blood and thunder? You think our enemies give one thought to these ‘innocents’ of yours, whoever they are?”
“We’re supposed to be better than they are. We have to be. Otherwise, what’s the point of any of it?”
An exasperated sigh exploded out of her. “My great-grand-uncle had a laboratory in Colorado Springs, just after the Awakening. You heard of it?”
“Yes. He was conducting wireless telegraph experiments. Before magic rendered them obsolete, of course—”
“No. No, no, no. That’s just what the Inquisition wanted everyone to believe, after they arrested him, and he burned. He was working on the wireless transmission of energy. My uncle wanted to generate free power for all, everywhere around the world. That’s what scared them. Not the science. Not the difference of philosophies, whether faith or facts is the superior basis for living. The people who run the world have no use for such trivia. All they want is control.
“That is why you are better than your enemies, Edison man. Not because of your body count. Because you are fighting for what is real and true and natural. The world behind their veil of lies and superstition… The common man, the worker, the peasant, does not need oracles and magicians to get ahead in that world. All she needs is what she was born with. That is what makes us different, Edison man. That is what makes us different.” She jabbed a finger into his bare sternum. “And that is why we will win.”
Simon Leslie couldn’t stop grinning. “I think I love you, Nicola Tesla.”
“I would not be surprised if you did. I am quite attractive by conventional standards.”
She turned away from him, and began to remove her still-soaking blouse and her dress to ring them out. Soon they would both be naked inside the burnt empty building, chests heaving, breath not yet caught.
He heard a sound, and looked to the corner of the room. They must have been in a former saloon, for the ghost of a guitar player sat on an invisible crate and stared at nothing and moaned out a song:
I’m, I’m coming home
’Cause I feel so alone
I’m coming back home
And meet my dear old mother
’Cause that’s where I belong
Soon, however, the sun had risen all the way, and the light crept in through the open doorway. The phantom faded with all the others, burned away with the morning fog.
DEAD MAN’S HAND
CHRISTIE YANT
Deadwood, Dakota Territory, 1876
The whisper of the cards as they’re shuffled is a deception, a ritual enacted to make you believe that your hand will be fairly dealt.
The fly that lands on the whiskey glass by the dealer’s hand means that the deck is cut three cards deeper than it would have been. The hand you’re dealt is not the one that would have been dealt a moment before.
Your cards are dealt anew every moment of every day. So are the cards of the other players.
A ♦ A ♣ 8 ♠ 8 ♣
Black Hills Weekly Pioneer
A.W. Merrick
Deadwood, Dakota Territory
August 2, 1876
J.B. “Wild Bill” Hickok Shot Dead at the No. 10 Saloon
A somber mood has gripped the town of Deadwood tonight, with the news that notable gunman and showman “Wild Bill” Hickok has been shot and killed. A shot was heard throughout the bustling community at 4:15 this afternoon, drawing a crowd of the concerned and curious to the door of the Number 10 Saloon owned by Mssrs. Nuttal and Mann. The body of James Butler Hickok was discovered therein, dead of a gunshot to the head.
Local miner Jack “Broken Nose” McCall approached Hickok from behind, drew his pistol, and fired the bullet that instantly took Hickok’s life. McCall has claimed the act was a matter of blood debt, Hickok having killed his own brother in Kansas.
Hickok was well known amon
gst frequenters of the No. 10 to always sit with his back to the wall and facing the door, lest enemies made during a notable life on the plains exploit a lack of vigilance. On this day it is said that the only seat available at the table faced away from the door, and it was thus that McCall was able to enact his craven deed.
The scene of the murder was one of solemn reflection and practical determination, as the saloon proprietors and townspeople of Deadwood sought to put the shooting behind them. After Hickok’s remains had been cleared away, there remained only a grim still life to mark the event: on the floor beside the seat lately occupied by Wild Bill lay the dead man’s hand—two pair, aces and eights—a good hand, this reporter is told, but one which brought him no luck at all.
J ♠ J ♥ J ♦ 7 ♣ 7 ♦
Black Hills Pioneer Gazette
Albert Merrick
Deadwood Gulch, D.T.
March 1, 1877
“Wild Bill” (James) Hickok Hanged for Murder
After a decade of outwitting the law, no amount of ill-gotten gold could tip the Scales of Justice in favor of the legendary outlaw and gunman James Butler Hickok, best known by the infamous moniker “Wild Bill.” His last ride has ended in Yankton, Dakota Territory, at the end of a rope.
On August 1, 1876, the Bella Union Saloon was the scene of violence as a man was callously murdered over a debt in the amount of two dollars and fifty cents. The night had proceeded in the usual fashion, until it was learned that local miner Jack McCall, sometimes known as Sutherland, was unable to cover a hand lost to Hickok. Despite a promise to pay the following day, Hickok reportedly grew incensed, and bellowed, “A man ought never overbet his hand. That’s no way to play cards!”
Captain William Massey, who had also been at the table, attempted to intervene, despite warnings from bystanders. “I told him not to get in Bill’s way when he gets like that,” Mr. Tom Miller, proprietor, recalled. “But he wouldn’t listen. He’d been an officer in the Union Army once, and I think that stayed with him.”
Hickok drew his gun and aimed it at McCall’s heart. Once a sharpshooter of world renown, Hickok’s sight had reportedly been failing in recent years, driving him off the trail and into the saloons to make a meager living as a card player. His first shot missed McCall entirely, and the bullet instead struck Captain Massey, who Dr. McKinney says will carry it ’til his dying day.
Wild Bill’s second shot aimed true, however, and McCall was killed instantly.
Hickok affected an escape by way of a rear door to the property and the theft of a horse. It was thought that with no sheriff yet elected in Deadwood the notorious outlaw had once again escaped justice, but he was apprehended a week later in the city of Laramie, Wyoming by one Deputy Marshal Balcombe.
On the night of the murder this reporter made a survey of the scene and there discovered the very cards that had cost an honest man his life. McCall’s losing hand had been scattered across the table amid the other discarded hands, but in the place where Hickok had been seated, five cards remained fanned out in a characteristic display of arrogance. Not being well versed in the complexities of games of chance, this reporter consulted Mr. Mann on the likelihood of Hickok’s cards winning the game.
“It’s a good hand, and hard to beat,” Mann said. “But I hope I don’t see those cards come my way any time soon.” With a shudder he added, “That’s a dead man’s hand.”
J ♠ J ♣ 10 ♠ 10 ♦
Deadwood Weekly Pioneer
Albert M. Werrick
Deadwood Pines
August 5, 1876
Heroism in the Black Hills
It was civilian justice in the form of local businessman Bill Sutherland, who with a single bullet put an end to the threat of violence that Deadwood has lived under since infamous outlaw J.B. “Wild Bill” Hickok arrived in town.
Uncowed by Hickok’s brazen demeanor and deadly reputation, Mr. Sutherland strode into the Progressive Hall Saloon at 4:15 p.m. on Wednesday past and took vengeance for the death of his brother, one Jack Sutherland, also known as McCall. Witnesses claim that Mr. Sutherland drew his gun and said only, “Damn you, take that!” before the report from the gun echoed through the town. Mr. Sutherland immediately turned his weapon over to Ed Durham, proprietor, and waited peacefully while a miners’ jury was assembled, Deadwood as yet still being without an elected sheriff.
Mr. Durham, responsible for restoring the scene to order, has told this reporter that in the aftermath he gathered the cards from the table, with the intention of presenting them to Mr. Sutherland upon his inevitable acquittal, in token for his heroism. When asked what the dead man had been holding, he told this reporter that he would only reveal the content of the dead man’s hand to Mr. Sutherland, the hero of the Black Hills.
Hickok’s remains will be returned to his widow in Cheyenne. No services are to be held in Deadwood. May God have mercy on his soul.
A ♠ A ♣ 8 ♥ 8 ♣
Black Hills Chronicle Weekly
A. William Merwick
Deadwood, Dakota Territory
August 5, 1876
Local Miner Dead in Shoot-out at No. 10 Saloon
On the afternoon of August 2, the fragile peace of Deadwood Gulch was broken by gun fire, and afterward a man lay dead.
Drawn to the scene by the sound of a gunshot, this reporter was approached by Captain James “Will” Massey who emerged from the saloon in some distress, cradling his bloody hand.
“Wild Bill shot me!” he exclaimed. The accusation was happily learned to be unfounded, though he can be forgiven for his confusion in the face of pain and violence.
Inside the saloon the scene was a gruesome one. Witnesses say that a game of poker was underway when local miner Jack “Crooked Nose” McCall suddenly rose from his seat. McCall, under the heavy influence of drink, was heard to say “Damn you, take that!” as he aimed his pistol at renowned lawman and gunslinger James “Wild Bill” Hickok. Before McCall could pull the trigger, Hickok—with reflexes honed on the prairie as a scout for the Union Army—drew his own weapon, and with the marksmanship that is his claim to fame, put a single shot through McCall’s crossed eye.
McCall’s gun discharged as he fell to the floor. This led Charles Rich, also seated at the table, to draw in self-defense, and in the confusion fired his own weapon, resulting in the injury sustained by Captain Massey.
“It was over in no more than the blink of an eye,” said Carl Mann, one of the saloon’s proprietors.
Hickok, in full view of this reporter, stood and swept up the cards he had held moments before, along with the unturned hole card, and tucked them inside his vest pocket.
“A souvenir to send to my wife,” he explained, referring to his wife of seven months, Agnes Lake Hickok, lately of Cheyenne. He paused, and turned over the cards that lay at McCall’s place at the table: two pair, aces and eights. “That right there is a hand you don’t want,” he said. “A dead man’s hand.”
* * *
Author’s Note: The “Dead Man’s Hand” as it is known today is comprised of “aces and eights,” but there have been as many hands by that name as the coward Jack McCall had alibis and aliases. The earliest reference to aces and eights—rather than a full house of jacks and tens, or jacks and sevens—appeared in 1900, and the phrase wasn’t connected to Hickok until the 1920s, nearly fifty years after his death.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to the following:
My Publisher/Editor: Steve Saffel, for acquiring and editing the book, and to the rest of the team at Titan Books.
My Agent: Seth Fishman, who I think of as “the Best American Literary Agent,” and my former agent Joe Monti (now a book editor), who was there when this idea coalesced and the one who helped me bring it to fruition.
My Mentor: Gordon Van Gelder, for being a mentor and a friend.
My Colleague: Ellen Datlow for revealing the mysteries of anthologizing.
My Family: my amazing wife, Christie; my mom, Marianne, and m
y sister, Becky, for all their love and support.
Author/Contract Wranglers: Deborah Beale, Sarah Nagel, Kathleen Bellamy, Kristine Card, Josette Sanchez-Reynolds, and Vaughne Lee Hansen.
My Fact-checking Brigade: Ben Blattberg, Elias F. Combarro (¡en Español!), Kate Galey, Jude Griffin, Andrew Liptak, Stephanie Loree, Robyn Lupo, Kevin McNeil, Shannon Rampe, Earnie Sotirokos, Patrick Stephens, and Stephanie Sursi.
My Interns: Lisa Andrews, Britt Gettys, Amber Barkley, and Bradley Englert.
My Writers: everyone who wrote stories for this anthology, and any of my other projects.
My Readers (last but not least): everyone who bought this book, or any of my other anthologies, and who make possible doing books like this.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
KELLEY ARMSTRONG
Kelley Armstrong is the author of the Women of the Otherworld paranormal suspense series, the Darkest Powers young adult urban fantasy trilogy, and the Nadia Stafford crime series. She grew up in Ontario, Canada, where she still lives with her family. A former computer programmer, she’s now escaped her corporate cubicle and hopes never to return.
ELIZABETH BEAR
Elizabeth Bear was born on the same day as Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, but in a different year. When coupled with a tendency to read the dictionary for fun as a child, this led her inevitably to penury, intransigence, and the writing of speculative fiction. She is the Hugo, Sturgeon, and Campbell Award-winning author of almost a hundred short stories and twenty-five novels, the most recent of which is Shattered Pillars, from Tor Books. Her dog lives in Massachusetts; her partner, writer Scott Lynch, lives in Wisconsin. She spends a lot of time on planes.
TOBIAS S. BUCKELL
Tobias S. Buckell is a Caribbean-born speculative fiction writer who grew up in Grenada, the British Virgin Islands, and the U.S. Virgin Islands. He has written several novels, including the New York Times bestseller Halo: The Cole Protocol, the Xenowealth series, and Arctic Rising. His short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Lightspeed, Analog, Clarkesworld, and Subterranean, and in anthologies such as Armored, All-Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories, and Under the Moons of Mars. He currently lives in Ohio with a pair of dogs, a pair of cats, twin daughters, and his wife.
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