by Jim Heskett
After the Mexicans prevailed in the big battles and repelled or killed off Canadian armies, they demanded the unconditional surrender of the Canadian government. Part of that surrender was to force any official Canadians back to their homeland. At least, any who had survived the war.
Mexican peacekeepers worked to hunt down the smaller pockets of Frenchie resistance. Anyone who publicly opposed the new ruling class was exterminated.
The smart ones stayed quiet and kept their loyalties to Canada secret. In the eastern part of the country, they found havens where they could live relatively unharmed.
During this transitional period, the concept of “America” evaporated, a little at a time. The country’s seat shifted from the now-rubble city of Washington, DC, to the west. Initially, it was in Kansas City, and that became known as the First City.
What the government—known then as the Mexican Transitional Authority—didn’t anticipate was the level of resistance to the overt forming of a new government seat. Frenchie and American militia terrorist cells bombed any building they tried to use for governmental operations. Kansas City hadn’t been too badly damaged in the war, but the resistance exacted swift revenge. Terrorist damage to highways made it difficult for the Mexicans to transport troops and supplies en masse.
They quickly learned that in a war-torn country, smaller rebellions had a distinct advantage. Despite the actual outcome of the war, the MTA seemed as if they wouldn’t be able to establish clear control of this new, budding country.
So, someone in the MTA government came up with a solution. To effectively control the whole of the country, power would need to be as decentralized as possible. Smaller pockets of control that were tied together, rather than one large seat. If they could elevate prominent locals into positions of power, then the militias might see it as less of a threat.
In retrospect, the plan was genius. They took people the community trusted, brainwashed them into serving the MTA, and then gave them small amounts of power. Then they, in turn, convinced many of the ideological holdouts to trust the new government. The better they did brainwashing their people as a whole, the more power these local bosses gained.
The MTA installed a feudal system to implement this. The mainland of the US then divided up into thousands of smaller areas, with a lord installed as leader of each individual piece. Most of those in rural areas used this land as plantacións (plantations) to grow crops. The lords in urban areas rebuilt the factories. Trade was established between the lords, and after a few years, the system seemed to stabilize. The militias and Frenchie loyalists didn’t go away completely, but their power lessened over time.
A strange cultural development arose along with the functional one. Mexican culture fused with American culture, but also, the feudal system infected the culture with medieval European styles, as well. A mother might be as likely to name her daughter Maria as she would Gwendolyn.
New literature celebrating this culture spread, replacing most of the old American books. Unlike many malevolent leaders in human history, they didn’t make the overt mistake of burning books. That might have clued everyone in to the erasure of their culture. No, the libraries remained. The content of those libraries, however, slowly changed.
A little at a time, knowledge of the old world disappeared. A new history emerged as an accepted one, and the concept of rebellion moved further and further away as people forgot why there had been unrest in the first place.
The feudal system was working. But, it wasn’t perfect.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Valentine pulled the car over to the side of the road when she saw the bodies hanging from the pikes outside of town. A dozen of them, all White Flames, by the look of them.
“What in the stars is going on in Rock Springs?” she muttered to herself, hands on the wheel. There was nothing unusual here about the way her people had been treated, though. White Flames were often persecuted and misunderstood. Made out to be a terrible affliction on the land when they were no different from any other group. Surviving, just like everyone else trying to figure out how to stay afloat.
She killed the engine and opened the door. In the ditch next to the road, she stretched, rolling her neck around her shoulders, clearing the road weariness from her head. What a time getting here. The last few days had been some of the most loco of Valentine’s life.
First, detained in Pinedale by Jefe’s guards on some crazy charge about stealing from the till in a local pub. They’d snatched her at the diner when she’d had a cup of steaming cafe con leche in one hand and a burrito in the other. The sheer surprise of it was why she hadn’t retaliated when they came for her.
If Valentine had stolen from the till she would have been prepared. But the whole episode flabbergasted her, and she didn’t realize she was being arrested until they’d thrown her into the jail cell in the basement of Jefe’s office.
Breaking out was no problem. All she had to do was use her fingernail to remove a screw securing the bed to the floor and then jiggle it into the lock on the cell bars to open it up. All of her possessions had been stashed upstairs, in a locked area of the office. The trick was thinking through what she would do next, moment to moment.
And, deciding how many people would need to die on her way out.
All told, there were four dead in her wake. The guard tasked with watching her cell, two door guards outside Jefe’s residence, and then the man himself. She hadn’t needed to kill Jefe by sneaking into his bedroom and slitting his throat, but she’d done it anyway. No one accuses Valentine of a crime she didn’t commit, not even the mighty Jefe of Pinedale.
She’d had to make a hasty escape from the town after that, and the owner of this car she was driving had given his life for a valiant purpose. He hadn’t done so willingly, but sometimes, you have to make people see things your way.
She wouldn’t ever be welcome again in Pinedale, and that was fine with her. Absent their Jefe, the town would probably collapse into chaos, anyway.
Valentine rounded the car and knelt next to the road. The dusty object sat there, in the dirt. She reached into it and found the tracker she’d dropped into Malina’s backpack four days ago.
“Damn,” she said, and shoved the tracker into her pocket. A sense of disappointment throbbed in the base of her skull, like a headache trying to worm its way up. Valentine did not like being duped.
Then, she looked toward the town. Would Malina and her three friends still be in Rock Springs? Valentine had to hope so. Unlike Pinedale, there were no walls to keep them in, but the odds were still good they were here, gathering supplies and securing a ride to the next town.
She got back in the car and drove a little closer, keeping her eyes on the corpses spiked outside of town. Posting the dead for all to see was the callous sort of thing no local gang would dare do. This was not a gang message.
And, she hit the brakes when she recognized one of the bodies.
Galeno. And, right next to him, Blaine and Red. Freshly dead, within a day.
She gripped the steering wheel. “Galeno,” she whispered, and a sinking feeling pulled at her stomach. She could see the terrified wince on his face, frozen in death. He had not died with honor.
The killing of her three running buddies could only mean one thing: the king’s soldados were in Rock Springs. Cleaning up the gangs as part of their tax service for the town.
Engine humming, she considered jerking the wheel and going back the way she’d come. Not back to Pinedale, obviously, but somewhere else. Somewhere new.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, and she chewed on her lower lip. If she turned around, she would definitely never catch up to the four owners of the control chips. But, she could just as easily be caught and killed in this town. Capture had happened in Pinedale. Would she be better prepared for it this time?
Again, she cut the engine and walked around to the trunk. She changed out of the clothes that would give her away as a member of the White Flames and
instead changed into neutral colors. She seemed to remember that people in Rock Springs were fond of blues and reds.
And then, she drove into town to find out what was going on.
After Rosia informed him she was leaving with Malina, Yorick stayed in the room to continue his vigil over Tenney. But, within a couple minutes, he realized that had been a mistake. As capable as Rosia was, giving her sole responsibility to watch over Malina while venturing out to look for transport was not smart. He needed to go with them.
When he rushed down the stairs, Rosia was standing in the living room, her face awash with regret. She shut the front door behind her. Yorick noted a bruise on the side of her face, and she was holding one arm to her chest, her hand hanging limply as if injured.
“She’s gone,” Rosia said.
“Malina? She’s dead?”
“No, but they took her. White Flames, I think. Or some other gang, maybe. I don’t even know anymore. Probably the ones from the brothel. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have listened to you.”
Yorick gritted his teeth. He pulled the pistol from the back of his waistband and checked the magazine.
Rosia’s brow creased. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ve had enough. I’m going to find that brothel and demand they let her go. Whatever she’s done, they have no right to snatch her off the street and hold her hostage.”
Rosia frowned. “What’s gotten into you? I don’t think walking in there is a smart idea.”
She had a point. Rushing off was more Rosia’s style, not his. But, it didn’t matter. Yorick put the pistol back into his waistband and pulled his shirt down to cover it. “Maybe not, but I’m going to do it, anyway.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“No. Please stay here with Tenney. I don’t want him to find out yet because he’s resting upstairs. But, when he wakes up, someone will need to tell him. And also stop him from trying to save her. He’s still too weak.”
Rosia pulled on her lower lip for a few seconds, her unfocused eyes staring at the floor. “I can’t talk you out of this?”
He shook his head.
She crossed the room and put her arms around him. For a moment, all the stress melted away, and he held onto her for an eternity. He could feel her heart racing, pressed against his chest.
“Come back to me,” she said.
“I will.”
With a kiss, he left her there, and Yorick set out the front door. As he did, he caught a flash of something hanging on the wall among the curiosities in the old lady’s living room. A shiny object. In the moment, it didn’t occur to him what the shiny object was.
Maybe if he had recognized it then, none of the unfortunate incidents that happened after would’ve happened.
Yorick left the house and clung to the back roads and alleyways to cross the town toward the brothel. There were still soldados wandering about, bullying random members of the White Flames who happened to be dumb enough to show their faces in public. But, a large number of the king’s men seemed to have retired for the day, as Yorick could see them drinking in the local pubs as he passed by the windows.
They were as loud and cocky as Wybert’s guards, but they were a level above. They had better weapons and body armor built into their uniforms. And, they appeared to be better trained and much more vicious.
Yorick kept a scarf over his face, which seemed effective enough in masking his identity. With both the soldados and the White Flames out looking for him, any person he met could pose a threat.
Yorick stopped when he saw the sign reading Girls Girls Girls.
At the doors of the brothel, he took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. He had to will his hands not to shake as he opened the door and stepped inside. Panic throttled him, and he realized he had no idea what he was doing. He hadn’t thought this through.
Inside, the brothel seemed like any regular pub, a bar and tables filled with patrons sipping drinks. Groups of day drinkers played the card game Fours at several of the tables. Muted music drifted from an unknown source.
Unlike other pubs, however, there was also a gaggle of scantily clad women wandering the room, approaching men with their drinks. Stairs at the back led to a second floor, the landing above marked with doors to private rooms. Each room had a number stamped into the wood of the door. The whole system felt so cold and transactional to Yorick. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could pay for sex and find it satisfying.
Yorick walked up to the bar and removed the scarf from his face. He made eye contact with the bartender, a woman with a shaved head and deep bags under her eyes. A ring of flowers tattooed along her neckline. She gave him a tiny nod of the head as a greeting.
“I need to speak to the owner,” he said, keeping his chin high.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “And why is that, handsome?”
“Your boss kidnapped my friend. I’m here to negotiate for her release.”
The woman’s face lit up with recognition. “The pale girl who just came in? That one is your friend?”
He nodded.
“Oh yeah, she’s something special. Feisty. She’s going to do well in this business.”
“Can I see him or not?”
She laughed. “Sure thing, handsome. I’m not one to stand in the way of a young man and his demise.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hope you have enough money put away for your funeral already.”
“We’ll see.”
The woman smirked as she reached behind the bar and picked up a small plastic device. She pressed a button on the side and spoke into it. “Sir, there’s someone here to see you about our new friend. He looks pretty upset. Are you available?”
A scratchy reply came through, and the woman put the plastic device away. She pointed at a door at the end the bar marked Mgmt.
“Step right through the door. It was nice knowing you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Yorick made a point to conceal the fear rumbling around inside his head. He nodded his thanks at the woman tending to the bar and marched for the door at the end of it.
Shaky hands reached down for the knob. With a deep breath, he opened the door.
Inside was a dark office with a large wooden desk, a fan, and not much else in the way of furniture. Wooden slats covered the windows, letting in only a tiny amount of light.
Two bodyguards stood on either side of the desk, and a man was seated behind it. A large person, much like Pinedale’s Jefe. Except this man didn’t have the loud style and expressive mustache. He had skin as pale as Malina’s. Odd. He looked like the proverbial Frenchie.
“Hello,” the man said in a voice that was somehow both slick and labored. “Please, shut the door behind you.”
As Yorick entered, one of the bodyguards approached him. Metal heels on his boots clanked on the wood floor as he crossed it. He instantly reached around to Yorick’s back and liberated him of the pistol. Yorick barely had time to react. The bodyguard showed it to the boss and then set it on his desk.
“What is your name?” the man said, the last word rasping with the tone of a person afflicted with a raw throat.
“Yorick.”
“Well, Yorick, my name is Fenton. This is my establishment. It’s not often I have people coming in here, demanding to see me. You’re the first, actually. So, I assume you’re here about your friend. The pale girl we brought in an hour ago.”
Yorick nodded, ignoring the urge to correct Fenton when he’d said ‘brought in.’ It was a polite word for kidnapping. “I want to barter for her release. You seem like a reasonable man. There has to be a price we can agree on.”
“Well, well, aren’t you brave?” Fenton said, chuckling. “We don’t see your kind around Rock Springs often.”
“What kind is that?”
“The kind who speaks up. To be honest, it’s refreshing. People in this town fit into two categories: thugs and people who hide from thugs. People don’t like
the thugs, but you have to respect that you know where they stand. You can’t say anything so sure about the rest of them. They’ll just as likely sell you out to King Nichol’s soldados or inform his spies as they would buy you a pint at the pub.”
Yorick breathed and maintained eye contact with Fenton. For a kidnapper, he had a pleasant nature about him. Almost enough to make Yorick forget about snatching his friend off the street.
“What is it you have to barter you think I might be interested in?” asked the brothel owner.
For a second, Yorick considered trying to barter one of the Ramirez BattleSuit Control Chips. But, after Pinedale, he figured it was best to keep that quiet. With soldados in town, no telling what could happen if he revealed they had a collection of them.
Despite Fenton’s affable nature, there was no reason to trust him. About anything.
“I have gold. Lots of gold. Name your price, and we can do business.”
Fenton leaned forward. “I have no interest in gold. I have plenty of that. Gold may appear to be the oil that keeps the engine running, but that’s only the surface level.”
“Then what keeps the engine running?”
“Power, my boy. Influence, interest, respect, appeal. Most of all, desire. You make a person want something, and you’ve got them hooked. The more they want it, the deeper you have them hooked.”
“I don’t understand,” Yorick said.
The big man leveled a finger. “I don’t care about your gold, but I am interested in you.”
“What do you mean?” Yorick said. That finger jabbed in his direction made him uneasy, but he did his best to wipe the fear from his face.