"What's the point?" someone shouted from the crowd.
"Excuse me?" Edison asked.
"You heard me," the heckler persisted. "What's the point of these inventions of yours? We already got lights better than them bulb things. Half the homes in Selwood got magic orbs to see at night, and what good's a talking machine? Sounds like somebody's talking inside a tin barrel!"
The rest of the crowd remained eerily silent as Edison stared at them intently. It took him a minute to gather his thoughts and channel his anger before making a response.
"You want to know why I seek to advance the frontiers of science? To make inventions that improve the lives of people around the globe?"
"I asked what's the point," the heckler persisted. "Your lights ain't nothing new."
"Ah, you want to know why I seek to break our dependency on magic!" Edison said, looking pleased with the realization. "Isn't it obvious? Magic is an archaic form of energy, utilized by only a handful of people. It is limited in its functionality, and those who can use it extort large sums of money from all of us for their little trinkets. I seek to liberate us from that tyrannical system." He grabbed his lapels and stuck out his chest like a politician before continuing. "To cast magic, you have to be born special, and be trained by other special men in order to adequately utilize your gifts. Yet, with true science, any man can learn to use its power. It doesn't take a Master of the Guild to make a light bulb. It only takes a man in a factory, copying a pattern, and the power that bulb needs is easily generated by scientific means, as well. As we speak, my work crews are setting up the first mass electrical distribution system, to supply power to customers in New York City. They aren't magic men using their minds to conjure that power. They are using science that anyone can utilize."
The heckler sought to continue. "Yeah, but..."
"You also asked about the phonograph, and there magic is sorely lacking. I have never encountered a magical device that can truly record sound and replay it. Yes, a skilled mentalist can speak into your mind or project a memory, but can any magician make a sound recording like the one I just played for you? No! Where magic has failed, science has succeeded!
"This is the purpose of my work; to advance the frontiers of knowledge, and invent devices that are built on sound principles that improve society. I seek to revolutionize the world with the truth of real science, not flighty mysticism."
The crowd came alive with applause, clearly impressed with Edison's speech. The heckler had been thoroughly trounced in the war of words.
Edison stood there in front of the podium, looking smug and satisfied for a few moments before a sudden spasm struck him. His back arched, and he fell over onto his side, drawing the attention of his loyal employees. The cheers and clapping from the crowd ceased, as they saw the great inventor lying on the stage.
Dwarven Deputy Ron Grimes made his way onto the stage and hurried over to the limp body. Checking him over along with the worried employees, he quickly discovered why the inventor had collapsed.
"Somebody, get a doctor," Ron shouted at the crowd. "Thomas Edison's just been shot!"
To Be Continued in
The Man Who Shot Thomas Edison
Coming Summer 2014!
Divided States of America
by Lauren A. Forry
On December 15, 1791, the United States of America adopted the Second Amendment to its constitution, giving all men the right to bear arms only during times of national conflict or crisis. Upon the end of the American Civil War in May 1865, citizens in both the Northern and Southern territories refused to surrender their firearms in accordance with federal laws. A new War Between the States began, where the conflict was no longer North versus South, but state versus state. In the 20th century, while other nations progressed, constant warfare and weak alliances plunged the entire North American continent into constant crisis. Despite the collaborative efforts of European and Asian nations, these still remain the Divided States of America...
Libby lowered her knapsack to the dry ground and wiped her brow on her sleeve. Standing in the shade cast by the Old Dog Saloon, she unbuckled the bag and took stock of what she had—one M1 Garand .30 caliber semi-automatic rifle, three en bloc .30-06 Springfield cartridge clips, one Colt Banker’s Special, eight .38 S&W bullets, sixteen other assorted bullets, one pouch dried beef jerky, one flask blended whisky (half-empty), one canteen (empty), one extra pair of jeans, one torn cotton-blend t-shirt, one pair sunglasses, Pennsylvania citizenship papers, a blue and white striped bandana, and exactly one hundred border credits for entry into the New England Neutrality.
She zipped the border credits into the inner pocket of her jacket, buckled the knapsack, and, with the M1 slung over her shoulder, entered the Old Dog. Her boots left tracks in the sawdust floor as she made her way to the bar—tracks quickly swept away as a scuffle broke out behind her. She leaned on the counter beside an empty glass and nodded to the barman, who was speaking with a one-eyed man. The barman looked her way then continued his conversation. The weight of the knapsack strained her side, but Libby daren’t set it down. A crumpled sign taped to the back bar mirror read “No Fed Money.” She drummed her fingers on the sticky counter, but the barman continued to ignore her. Libby glanced at the empty glass then elbowed it to the floor. It shattered, silencing the barman as well as the rest of the saloon. The barman tossed an old, red rag onto his shoulder and finally strolled over. Libby nodded to the blackboard behind him.
“How much for the special?”
“Six. Seven if you want a roll.”
“And a drink?”
“Your poison?”
“Just water.”
“Three.”
“For a glass of plain, old tap water?”
He shrugged. “The drought.”
Libby removed her munitions bag from her waste. “Just the special. Skip the bread.”
She left six of the non-Smith & Wesson cartridges on the counter and wandered to an empty booth at the side of the saloon. She tossed the knapsack beside her but kept the M1 on her shoulder. From her pocket, she pulled out a pale blue coat button, dusted off the lint, and popped it in her mouth. She sucked on it as she rubbed her right side, hoping to knead out some of the pain. Ten bullets left, not counting the S&Ws or the Springfields. Not enough to reach the Mason-Dixon, let alone New England. Pinned on the wall opposite was a torn recruitment poster for the United Carolinas militia. Libby bit the button so hard it nearly cracked.
The barman slid a plate of lumpy mashed potatoes, green beans, and a thin roasted turkey leg onto her table. Libby spit the button into her hand and returned it to her pocket.
“For six bullets, I should at least get butter.”
She had just started on her mashed potatoes when a crash silenced the room. She drew her Banker’s Special but holstered it when she saw she wasn’t under fire. At a table by the door, three men wearing Carolinas colors surrounded a red-headed woman in jeans, a beige t-shirt, and gray bandana—neutral colors. A broken plate and spilled food lay by her feet. Libby took a bite of her potatoes but kept her eyes on the scene.
“Enough questions,” the tallest man snarled. He had captain’s stripes on his shoulders, but it was the ragged scar down his neck that attracted Libby’s gaze.
“I meant no disrespect.” The woman spoke in a funny voice. Libby wracked her brain to place the accent.
“Your kind never do, ain’t that right?” The scarred captain stepped forward. The woman tried to move back, but another of the Carolinas men stood behind her and she stepped on his toe. The man feigned pain.
“Aw, that wasn’t very nice now, was it?” The captain laughed. The others joined in.
The woman had no weapons and kept trying to placate the militia men with words. Libby glanced around the saloon. No one else paid the group any attention, not even the barman, who had suddenly become very interested in polishing a glass. The captain’s hand reached towards his holster. Libby sighed, ate one more bite of her
potatoes, then threw down her fork.
The men didn’t notice her approach.
“There a problem here?” she asked. The three regarded her, surprised. She was at least a foot shorter than them, but her firearms were in much better condition. The captain recovered from his shock and laughed.
“None that’s any of your business, little lady,” he said. Libby kept a hand on the grip of her Banker’s Special.
“Oh, really? ‘Cause it looked like three respectable men from the...” Libby checked the patch on their jackets, “...45th United Carolinas militia were harassing one, unarmed woman. A clear violation of the Carolinas own statute on fair fighting. Respectable... or should that be reprehensible? I always get them two confused.”
The captain forgot the red-headed woman and turned to Libby. His name was sewed onto his jacket—Landers. “You best watch your mouth with me, miss. You might think you’re tough where you come from, but there’s reasons women ain’t allowed in the Carolinas militia.”
“Yeah, ‘cause we’d put all y’all men outta work.”
Captain Landers lunged toward her, but his two cronies held him back.
“Cap’n, she’s got PA colors.” The man nodded to the bandana tied to Libby’s belt. “We can’t.”
“That’s right,” Libby smiled. “Can’t go breaking that new alliance, can you? Governor General Blackwood would not be pleased, I don’t think.”
Landers held his position a moment longer, then shook off his men. “Come on. Let’s go. Sick of this place anyhow. Letting in women...” he grumbled as he grabbed his hat from the table. He pointed at the redhead woman. “Don’t think I’m done with you. You print a word o’ that, well, we’ll just see how easy it is for you to get outta this country then.” He spat chaw on her shoes, fixed his hat, then led his men from the saloon.
As soon as they were gone, Libby, without a word to the woman, returned to her booth. Her dinner was gone.
“What the hell…What’d you do with my plate?” she shouted at the barman.
“You left your table,” he shrugged. “Thought you were done.”
“That is bull—”
“We’ll take another,” said the red-headed woman in her funny voice. “And two glasses of water.”
Libby eyed her suspiciously, and the woman added, “As my way of saying thanks.”
Libby held her tongue and plopped into the booth. The woman sat across from her and smiled. Libby raised an eyebrow.
“If you don’t mind,” the woman said. “I have a feeling I shouldn’t leave just yet.”
Libby could hear Landers outside, cussing up a storm.
“You shouldn’t be traveling around down here without a gun,” Libby said.
“Now allowed.” She held out a hand. “Althea Hudson. North American News Correspondent for the BBC.”
Libby slapped her hand on the table. “British! Knew it was something like that.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t talk to reporters.”
Althea Hudson slowly withdrew her hand. “Neither did they, apparently.”
They sat in silence until Libby’s food arrived. She threw the barman an angry look then dug in.
“Miss... I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”
Libby spoke through a mouth full of green beans. “Liberty Strunk.”
“Miss Strunk, may I ask you a question?”
Libby rolled her eyes. “I knew it.”
“No, not like that. I need safe transport north, out of the Southern territories. You are with Pennsylvania?”
Libby untied the bandana and used it to wipe her mouth. “Was. Retired.”
“Oh. So you’re not heading north then.”
“Never said that.”
Althea Hudson’s face brightened.
“Never said I’d transport nobody, either.”
“I can pay. Bullets or federal money.”
Libby shoveled more green beans into her mouth. “Ain’t got an automobile.”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“How many bullets?”
“Ten a day, for as long as it takes to cross the Mason-Dixon. I’ll also pay for food and lodgings.”
“Lemme think.” Libby finished her green beans and drank her water. At least three days to reach the Mason-Dixon line, four if she took her the long way. Forty bullets plus the ten she had, that could get her through New Jersey, maybe into New York. “All right, then. Let’s get going.” She stuffed the uneaten turkey leg between her teeth and held it there as she put on her knapsack and slid out of the booth.
“But you haven’t finished your potatoes.”
Libby bit off a piece of turkey. “Course not.” She nodded to the barman. “He spit in ‘em.”
* * *
The hot, cloudless day leeched the perspiration from Libby’s skin. To conserve water, she sucked on the button to generate saliva. The outpost across the border would refill their canteens, if they could get there. After three days of travel, the Mason-Dixon line still rested another fifteen miles away. Libby’s legs were rubber, but she marched on. Althea Hudson didn’t cause too much bother, except when she needed to stop at a Western Union to file a story. Other than that, she asked for nothing and kept up with the pace, though the pace Libby set was slower than she would’ve liked. She rubbed her side now and then, but it made no difference. What had started as a gentle, occasional ache in Atlanta was now a constant throbbing sting. No more detours, she decided, and cut back to the main road, the reporter following behind.
A half-mile later, they approached a house set back from the road, the first they’d seen in miles. An old brown horse grazed out front, along with a pair of goats. Sheep could be heard bleating from somewhere in the backyard. A dog’s bark echoed their cries. A telephone pole, stuck in the ground before the house, leaned precariously inward, the wire dangling low. A pregnant woman swept the wooden porch as two young children played at throwing small rocks over the swooping wires. Libby nodded politely as they passed by.
“Keep moving,” she told Althea, whose steps had slowed, but the reporter ignored her.
“Wait here,” Althea said.
“Miss Hudson!”
But she was already approaching the woman. Libby hung back, leaning against a high boulder protruding from the dry ground. She untied her bandana and wiped the sweat from her face. Resting like this only served to tell her how tired she was. She watched Althea talking to the woman, wondering if she’d be able to get her legs moving again once Althea came back.
The woman nodded at something Althea said and beckoned her into the house.
“Oh, come on now.” Libby stuffed the bandana into her pocket, wincing as she pulled at her side. She reached for the flask of whisky. The two kids were staring at her now. She made what she thought was an angry face, but they only laughed and started chasing the goats.
As she took a swig from the flask, Althea emerged from the house, a brown paper bag in her hands. She waved the woman thanks and stepped down the porch steps. The woman looked at Libby and gave her a little wave. Libby waved back, though she didn’t know what for.
“Ready now?” Libby asked, straightening herself up.
“Here.” She handed Libby the paper bag. “You can change those before we go too much farther.”
Libby opened it. Cloth bandages.
“I don’t need...”
“You're bleeding.”
Libby looked. Althea was right. Specks of blood stained her pale blue shirt.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s walk up here and you can have some privacy.”
Libby followed, still looking through the bag. It was too heavy to contain just bandages. She pushed them aside and pulled out a cold, glass bottle of Coca-Cola.
“How did you...?”
“It’s my job to connect with people.” Althea took the bottle and opened it with her pocket knife. “And I gave her an old baseball for the children.” She took a sip of soda and handed the bottle to Libby. Libby hesitated the
n spit the button into her hand and stuck it in her pocket.
* * *
The Mason-Dixon border was more heavily guarded than when Libby had come through seven months ago. Four checkpoint gates stood between heavy wooden fencing wrapped in barbed wire. The fence stretched in both directions as far as Libby could see. Refugees not turned away funnelled slowly through the open gates. Libby recognized the Indian-inspired dress of the Mississippi River people, but most families dressed in neutral colors, hiding their past allegiances. The guards, eight of them, carried M1 rifles like Libby’s and dressed in well-worn blue pants and shirts. Two beat up khaki-colored Jeeps sat parked behind the border. One man, another guard, reclined in one of the Jeeps with his feet up on the windshield and a newspaper in his hands.
Libby didn’t retrieve her papers until they were next in line. The guard on their gate was older, nearing forty, his face full of scars and wrinkles. He waved her forward, and she handed him her papers.
“Liberty Strunk, 76th Philadelphia Freedom Militia.”
He spat on the ground. “What were you doing below Mason-Dixon?”
“Seventh Battle of Atlanta.”
He regarded her more carefully. “Not many made it out of that.”
“No. Not many did.”
He spat again then returned her papers. “If you’re heading back to Philadelphia, stick to the main thoroughfare. Been trouble in the coal regions. People hiding West Virginia defectors.”
“‘Preciate the advice.”
He let her through then waved Althea forward. Libby waited just beyond the gate as Althea handed over her credentials.
“Miss Althea Hudson. Citizen of the United Kingdom. North American News Correspondent for the BBC.”
The man in the Jeep suddenly sat up. He glanced at the newspaper then back at Althea. As the guard was about to wave her through, the other man whistled and hurried over. He whispered something to the border guard, who then handed him Althea’s papers.
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