by Quincy Allen
“Don’t worry about Ghiss, Mr. Lasater. We’ll be taking care of that ourselves. He will remember only what we want him to.” The Thibodeaux on the right smiled, and then the other did. Cole couldn’t keep from grinning a bit mischievously.
Jake was about to ask how they’d deal with Ghiss, but one of the bridge crew stepped up to a Thibodeaux with an expectant look on his face. Both Thibodeaux’ turned to the young man of Asian descent with bright green eyes and close-cropped hair.
“What is it, Mr. Lau?”
“We’ve received the new personnel and are ready to depart on your order, Captain.” The young man held out a clipboard, which a Thibodeaux took and reviewed quickly.
The other Thibodeaux nodded once. “Very good,” she said curtly.
The right-hand Thibodeaux handed the clipboard back to Mr. Lau. “We’re just about done here,” she said as the young man nodded and turned back to his station. She turned to the door. “Mr. Onawa!”
The Indian stepped through the door. Jake was starting to get dizzy watching the two women interact with others.
“Will you please escort our guests back to their wagon and see that they are introduced to Shadowcat?”
Onawa stepped into the doorway. “Yes, Captain!”
“Mr. Lasater,” one Thibodeaux said and nodded.
“Mr. McJunkins,” the other said and nodded as well, “it’s been a pleasure meeting you. Please do your best to get that cargo out of the Free Territories.” Turning, she said, “And remember what I said, Mr. Lasater. We’re trusting you.”
Cole spoke up, “That’s the one thing you can do, Captain.”
Both Thibodeaux’ turned in unison back to the charts on the table and started muttering to each other in Creole.
“Gentlemen, if you will follow me,” Onawa said from behind them, “we’ll get you and your wagon over to Pandora Celtica. Shadowcat is probably preoccupied with tearing down his carnival, but he may be able to spare us a minute.”
They followed Onawa back down to the hold where the crew was busy moving an assortment of crates and gear through one of the other doorways. Ghiss and Skeeter were exactly where he’d left them, although both were now lying down, apparently getting a little shut-eye.
Jake and Cole got up into the driver’s seat, waking Ghiss and Skeeter, as Onawa motioned to a soldier standing by a lever. A flip of the lever set the platform to sinking through the floor.
“Skeeter, get ready for a surprise,” Jake called over his shoulder.
She sat up just as Pandora Celtica came into view.
“It’s beautiful!” she said. “I’ve never seen anything …” her voice trailed off as the dragon turned his head toward them.
Jake was ready for what was coming next.
“Holy sh—” she started.
“Language, Skeeter,” but he was smiling as he said it.
“Well, I’m sure I have never seen the like,” Ghiss chimed in. Jake couldn’t tell if Ghiss was talking about Pandora Celtica or the people of Roswell, although he assumed the former.
The platform touched down just as Skeeter gave a twist to the aether valve, causing the wagon to lift off the platform a few inches. Onawa grabbed the side of the wagon and climbed up, nodding to Jake. With a shake of Lumpy’s reins, they moved off with a jolt toward Pandora Celtica.
“That’s quite a captain you have there,” Jake gave the Indian an easy smile.
Onawa returned the grin. “They do take some getting used to, but they’re the best officers I’ve ever known, and I’ve served under quite a few over the years, American, Mexican … a few others.” Onawa’s face told Jake that there was a great deal more to what he meant by “others” but he clearly didn’t want to elaborate.
“You don’t seem that old,” Jake looked for wrinkles and any sign of gray hair, but Onawa looked younger than Jake.
Onawa smiled. “I’m older than you think.…”
Jake couldn’t help but marvel at the people and machines and combinations thereof that moved along the streets. Moritz Sigi’s steam carriage, as well as Jake’s ocular and clockwork limbs, were nothing compared to what rolled, sputtered, clicked, clacked, and whirred along in a busy montage of clockwork contraptions.
For the first time since Tinker Farris let Jake get up off the operating table, Jake felt normal.
He watched a junker steam carriage covered with gleaming brass pipes clatter by on metal wheels, gasping like an old man as it fumed black smoke into the air. Around a nearby street corner, a ten-legged contraption resembling a centipede skittered towards him, stepping carefully around the citizenry.
The woman nestled in its standard saddle, her hands working a row of levers protruding from the back of the machine, wore a classic cowboy hat, blue denim shirt, and weather-beaten chaps, looking as natural as if she were riding nothing more than a palomino. Such machines seemed to be the norm. Although there weren’t many, what did traverse the streets of Roswell were mad-capped, noisy, and eminently functional.
The populace was equally bizarre to Jake’s eyes, and he found it comforting. A dark woman with Polynesian features grasped a bright pink parasol in an intricate, claw-like right hand. She clicked along with the delicate grace of a spider on eight spindly clockwork legs that someone had used to replace her real ones. An impossibly tall man in an impossibly red suit and wearing an impossibly tall top hat strolled by and nodded down to Jake as if they were old friends.
The man wore a backpack with two large cylinders down the middle and multiple bellows along the sides that appeared to force air through tubes connected to the strange, leather mask that covered most of his face. The stranger looked at the world through thick, red goggles decorated with a variety of attachments, and at his cuff, Jake swore he spotted blue skin beneath the lacy frills of a fine dress shirt.
Couples of damn near every race he knew walked by hand-in-hand, some of them in drab leather, some in bright finery, a few with complex goggles hiding their faces or intricate brass gadgetry adorning their limbs. It was as if the hidden world of magic and metal Jake had only dabbled with since he lost his limbs had taken full root in Roswell, New Mexico and sprouted into an entire city.
Jake saw something new and different with each person or human-machine mix that passed by. Even some of the animals that went by at a close heel or on a leash made Jake wonder about Cole’s mention of other worlds. There were a few leashed critters with trunks and spines and tentacles that he’d never heard of in school.
Jake found himself contemplating what he had originally considered the “strange” Captain Thibodeaux’ of the Dragun. Amongst these people, the women would be just another different in a whole city of different. Jake needed to redefine what normal meant because, in Roswell, the rules he grew up with simply didn’t apply. He wondered if they allowed people from outside to take up residence within the city. He wasn’t much for big cities, but a place with so much diversity would be a place where he could feel like a normal person again. And Skeeter? She’d be happier than a pig in shit with so much steam and clockwork around. It’d be like heaven for her.
His thoughts trailed off as a group of people beneath the dragon caught his eye. In brightly colored outfits, they stood in front of a carnival tent where a number of people were struggling to pull down.
“There’s Shadowcat,” Onawa said, nodding toward the group, “and if you think our captain was a bit out of the ordinary, wait till you get a load of him.” There was that loaded smile again. “I guarantee he’s not like anyone you’ve ever met.” Jake gave the Indian a curious look.
Pandora Celtica loomed above them, and Jake still couldn’t believe his eyes. The dragon was simply beautiful. Its scales were iridescent, glittering and shifting in hue as the creature moved. The gondola below was nestled inside a wooden dock that rose six feet, and a ramp led up to a partially filled cargo hold.
As they approached the people milling about in front of the hold, a muscular, dark-skinned man stepped out of the
group with a pale, diminutive, ginger-haired woman at his side.
Jake redefined his notion of impossible for the second time in as many hours.
Clad in dark brown boots, a green leather jerkin, and a brown leather kilt, Shadowcat stood before the wagon. His smile was warm and welcoming. He had a basket rapier at one hip and a reverse-pull revolver of very foreign design upon the other. A thick leather belt covered with pouches held a forest green sash in place across his chest.
His piercing, green eyes were a distraction, to be sure, as were the pointed ears, but something else caught Jake’s attention. A pair of small, black horns protruded from Shadowcat’s head, nestled into a deep widow’s peak of short, ebony hair. At first Jake thought they were fake, some kind of carnival costume, but as the wagon stopped he realized they were real. They reminded Jake of faerie woodland creatures, fauns and satyrs he’d seen in woodcuts as a boy.
Jake let out a long breath and smiled at the horned man, well, obviously not quite a human, standing before him. Roswell was really going to take some getting used to.
“Salutations, Onawa.” Shadowcat raised an open palm and nodded his head. “I take it these are my passengers?” His voice was smooth, almost lyrical.
“Indeed.” Onawa leapt off the wagon and embraced Shadowcat warmly as Skeeter released some aether, lowering the wagon. Everyone got off, and Onawa turned to them. “Shadowcat, this is Jake, Skeeter, and Ghiss.”
“And this is Nessa,” Shadowcat said, nodding to the woman at his side. She too had pointed ears, and the smile she gave was as bright as the sun. She seemed to squirm and almost bounce in place.
“It’s a delight to meet you all,” she practically squealed.
Jake held out his hand, wondering why the Indian had left Cole out of the introductions. They shook, and Shadowcat clasped Jake’s left shoulder in a friendly manner, getting a curious look when he felt the metal limb. Jake smiled, winking his eye, and then tipped his hat to Nessa.
“We’re obliged to ya for giving us a lift,” Jake said.
Shadowcat smiled, and it was one of those smiles that made Jake feel immediately at ease. His guts told him Shadowcat was someone to be trusted, and there wasn’t a reason in the world Jake could come up with for feeling that way.
“Well, technically, I’m not doing this for you,” Shadowcat said seriously. “I’m doing it for them.” He motioned to the people of Roswell going about their business around them. “But I’m generally inclined to help people in need to pay some old debts I have. So it seems this works out for everyone involved, which is a rare thing.” He turned to Cole and shook his hand, giving that same smile. “Good to see you again, Cole.”
“Shadowcat,” Cole nodded with a warm smile. “It’s been a long time.”
That answered Jake’s question about the introductions.
Shadowcat nodded to Skeeter and Ghiss, and then his eyes fixed on the tarp that covered the Lady’s reliquary, narrowing them to slits. His nostrils flared, and he sniffed the air a few times. He gave a curious, almost concerned look to Onawa and then Jake.
“So,” he started slowly, “it seems that you all have some time to kill before our departure. I recommend the White Mare on the east side of town. They have good food and a comfortable beds for you before we set off. And sunrises seen from the third story are spectacular this time of year, if you’re in one of the suites.”
“I think we can manage that,” Jake said.
“I believe there’s a hoedown tomorrow night in the park near the Mare,” Shadowcat added with a smile. “You’ll get to see Roswell at its finest. The folks here really do know how to let loose in times like these.”
Glancing at Cole, Shadowcat said, “It was Ian MacReady’s place. When Mac died, the man tending bar for him sort of inherited it. He’s a newcomer.”
Cole nodded, knowing exactly where MacReady’s used to be.
“He earned the place, though. One of the hardest working men I ever met. Had some troubles back in the war, and I got the sense he was looking for a new home. He’s carrying a weight, though.”
Stepping up to Onawa, he said, “We won’t have the rest of the carnival taken down and stowed until sometime tomorrow, and we’re pulling out first thing on the following morning.”
Onawa got a concerned look on his face. “Are you sure you can’t leave any sooner,” he asked. “Cromwell’s almost certainly coming here … and soon,” he looked at Jake and added, “which is the reason for the dance.”
Shadowcat shook his head. “I’m afraid we can’t. The currents on the other side would be dangerous before then. And besides, we only started tearing down a few hours ago. Some of our gear has to be handled carefully. The consequences could be … severe. You know that.”
Onawa nodded, a disappointed look on his face. “I understand. When will you be coming back?”
“A few months.” Shadowcat looked at the reliquary again, his eyes darting to Jake and then back to Onawa. “Maybe sooner. There are things happening that I need to become more aware of … people I must see … and they are spread throughout the Traleil Sea.”
He turned to Nessa. “Gather the others. We need to talk.” She nodded her head and literally skipped off toward the gondola squatting beneath the dragon.
Shadowcat continued, “If you will excuse me, I have to make sure we stay on schedule. I’d like to come by the hoedown and speak with you, too, if that’s alright Jake.”
“I look forward to it,” Jake said in a serious tone. He knew something was up and wondered if Shadowcat somehow knew more about the reliquary … and what was inside. He’d just have to wait until the dance to find out what was on Shadowcat’s mind.
Chapter Twelve
The White Mare
“There’s nothing quite like taking regret and turning it into something worth keeping.”
~ Jake Lasater
Jake heard the muffled approach of a zeppelin, but it didn’t sound right, as if a thin layer of cotton covered his ears. He looked up. The clouds seemed slightly hazy, a half-shade darker than they should be in bright morning sunshine.
The zeppelin, a small, ruddy transport, also seemed to be dimmer to his eyes as it approached the edge of the city. The moment it cleared the perimeter, however, its ruddy hue turned bright red. The dulled hum of its rotors resolved into a clear thrum, as if it had passed through a thick veil.
The barrier, Jake thought. This place is both in and out of the world. He could only shake his head at the wonder of it all.
As Lumpy pulled them through the main causeway of Roswell, Jake couldn’t get over the people and places and things passing by.
Every city or town he’d ever seen had a feel to it, and he’d learn to pay attention to that feeling ever since they ran him out of Topeka, Kansas. Chicago felt like money, a person had to watch his wallet more than anything else. New Orleans was like two halves of a coin, one side a big party with loud music, good food, and better libations, while the other side was a place where you could lose your soul if you weren’t careful. Lincoln had welcomed him like he was home, but he knew folks with darker skin got an altogether different welcome.
And Denver, what he called home—for the time being, at least—was a little bit of everything good and not too much bad. There were hardworking folk and a fair shake for anyone who needed it. There was a dirty underbelly, on account of it being a hub between north, south, east, and west, but that underbelly wasn’t wicked so much as not meant for polite society. Jake’s line of work put him squarely in both halves of Denver, and he had to admit he always felt a little more comfortable with the roughshod, underside folks than the fancy dressers and the politicians.
Roswell, on the other hand … hell, it just felt like heaven, and he’d only been in town for an hour. Water flowed freely from the moats via chugging water pumps that he heard occasionally as they ambled through the city. Most houses had a garden next door or in the back. There were markets and folks working hard everywhere he looked.
People from across the globe walked the streets, farmed their gardens, and went about whatever jobs they might have—from tinker to blacksmith to teacher—each one appearing to live out their lives like normal folks, but without any sense that the differences between them was even worth mentioning. There wasn’t an ounce of tension, and that was despite the shooting war everyone knew was going on beyond the illusion protecting the city.
A handful of different churches and other structures devoted to spirituality dotted the thoroughfare, small buildings with all manner of symbol at the steeple or on the door, and folks didn’t pay them a second thought. He didn’t see rich lording over poor. He didn’t see shady men in alleys looking for their next mark. He only witnessed people living life and doing their best to enjoy it as best they could along the way.
It was a comfortable, happy place. He’d never seen the like, as if all the things men fought about in the rest of the world simply didn’t exist on the streets of Roswell. And if that ain’t heaven, Jake thought, I don’t know what is. As the wagon moved deeper into the city, something occurred to him that didn’t make any sense.
“Cole?” he asked and turned to his riding partner. Cole reclined in the seat next to him, a pleasant smile on his face.
“Yeah, Jake?”
“For the life of me, I can’t figure out why the hell you ever left this place.”
“It is nice, ain’t it?” Cole replied easily.
“Without a doubt.”
“There’s nothing like it in the rest of the world, from what I hear. And as you can tell, we get a fair amount of traffic from all over creation.”
“I can see that. Which makes my question all that much more meaningful.” He eyed Cole almost suspiciously. “So, why did you leave?”