Unusual Events: A Short Story Collection

by Max Florschutz

  She’d been poisoned. Someone had ruined the judge-adjudicator’s mind. She couldn’t see. None of them could.

  All because of the inquisitor standing in the back of the room. She’d been the cause of all of it.

  “So, Ms. Varay,” the judge-adjudicator continued. “I, as judge-adjudicator of the empire, sentence you to lifetime imprisonment in The Gulag—”

  Her heart froze, her eyes widening. The Gulag? For what she’d done? For what she’d been trying to accomplish?

  “—where you will serve out the remainder of your life, without parole, working in the prison mines.”

  “No.” The word slipped out as a whisper from her mouth. Not The Gulag. Not there. It was a prison. For those who had committed horrible, unspeakable acts. For those who were gifted. Where the prisoners ran free in gangs, watched over at all times by the Imperial Army. “No.”

  She looked up at the judge-adjudicator. “No!” she shouted, her voice rising in intensity as she rose. “No! You can’t do this!”

  “Ms. Varay,” the judge-adjudicator said, speaking over her. “You’re a gifted woman who murdered, in cold blood, nine men and two women. Your actions could only warrant one other punishment—”

  “Then give it to me!” She could already see what it would be like in her head. She’d heard the stories. The roving gangs. The prisoners that used their powers to beat one another to death in wanton fights. It was no place for a lady.

  “And since your doctor suggested that you would relish such a chance to make a martyr of yourself,” the judge-adjudicator continued. “I am disinclined to let you receive what you desire so easily. The punishment should be the equivalent of the crime, and yours’ will be to labor with your hands in The Gulag—”

  “No! I refuse!” She began to step forward, reaching for her power. A hand grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her back.

  “—until you die,” the judge-adjudicator finished. “The sentence is final.”

  “No!” She shoved every bit of power into her shout, but it was gone before it had even left her mouth, sucked up along with all the sound around her. Strong arms were pulling her back, her mouth opening and closing in complete silence as the two mufflers hauled her away. She was powerless. Again. None of her shouts, none of her yells … nothing got past the power of the two mufflers next to her. She was simply too weak to fight back.

  They were hauling her backwards out of the courtroom as she kicked and screamed. Control was gone. Only purpose remained. She had to find it. She had to escape, break free of the fate they’d so cruelly assigned her.

  Her eyes locked on a single woman, still standing with her hands clasped behind her back, her face carved as if from stone.

  Inquisitor Meelo Karn.

  “You!” she shouted, though her voice vanished into the ether the moment it left her throat, absorbed by the mufflers who were dragging her back. She didn’t care. She screamed anyway. “This was all you! Your fault!”

  It was. How had she not fully realized it until now? The inquisitor had trapped her, betrayed her, and kept her from her work. She was the reason for the sentencing, for the charges, all of it.

  “You!” she shouted again, her voice a silent scream into the void. “You will pay for this! I will find you, and I will make you pay!” She was kicking out now, fighting with every bit of her strength to stay within eyeshot. “You will suffer for all the young women who fall because of you! I swear—”

  Something hit her in the back of the head, hard, and the world exploded into stars.

  FOUR

  The chamber she was locked in was almost completely silent.

  It was, of course, by design. The cell was small, maybe three feet to a side, thought at least a foot of that was the sculpted cloth padding through which her restraints protruded. The only light came through a thick pane of glass set in the door—a pane that was thicker than it was tall. Three times a day a guard came by to deliver food and watch her eat through the glass. She was allowed to use the bathroom at those times as well, though under a number of armed guards. They would open her door, letting her out into the rest of the train car—which was padded as well, well enough that it was sometimes hard to imagine she was on a train carriage until she looked out one of the thick, glass windows.

  The car held eight chambers like the one she’d been locked in, in total, four to each side of the car. Her escort would lead her down the center of the carriage, towards a small, slightly covered washroom at the end. It wasn’t total privacy, but it was as much as they were willing to give her.

  Then it was back to her locked box, to sit in the near darkness and think. After all, there wasn’t much else she could do. She was on her way to The Gulag, traveling with who knew how many prisoners from across the empire, most of them gifted.

  She was going to The Gulag. There was no running from that now. She was stuck in soft, padded cell, one specially designed for muffler criminals, seating and stinking, and she was bound for not just a prison, but the prison.

  It was unfair. Unjust. She’d saved those women from men and their machinations, if even for a short time. She was not a criminal. She was misunderstood. A victim.

  And that inquisitor had been the one who had wronged her.

  Her hands tightened into fists as she thought of her. Meelo Karn. The Imperial Inquisitor who had been her downfall. Faithfully and blindly serving the emperor to the end.

  She is the one who put me here, Varay thought as she looked up at the soft contours of her chamber … No, far worse. Her cage. She is the one to blame for this.

  She wasn’t the only one to blame, either. There had been that judge-adjudicator, and her council. The other inquisitors. But Karn … What’d she’d done was the worst. Impersonating a young lady, setting a trap … all to stop Varay from making the world a better place?

  It made her want to kill her. Or anyone, really. To feel the sweet sensation of her blade parting flesh once more, to smell the hot scent of warm blood as it spilled out across the ground …

  She shivered. It would be intoxicating. Especially after her last kill had been thwarted.

  How long had she been in her box anyway? A day? Maybe two? It was hard to tell the passage of time, since the interior of the train carriage had lights. Not lamps, either. Electric lights. Without the telltale flicker of lamplight to guide her at night, it was hard to tell how long they’d been traveling.

  Her legs felt cramped, tired after being shoved into such a small space and forced to sit chained. She twisted, trying to stretch them a little, but the limited movement only made her legs feel worse.

  The Gulag, she thought, her mind once again drifting to the massive prison complex. Built in the middle of the mountains on the far west side of the empire, and home to a massive mining complex determined to seek out metal of some kind. What she didn’t know. She’d find out as soon as she arrived, most likely. Provided she could find a group of fellow women to fall in with.

  Then again, they’d be criminals. Maybe her best course of action would be to stay alone. Or to befriend the first group she came across, using her upbringing and station to win some sort of support.

  I suppose I’ll need to think on my feet, she thought as she shifted once more, her legs quivering in protest. Find a way to survive, and if possible, to escape.

  Escape. That would be the most important thing. Somehow, it had to be possible, even with the Imperial Army guarding the whole prison, there had to be ways in and out, didn’t there? Maybe if she could find the right—

  Her thoughts stopped as she felt a quiet, faint sound push its way through the padding of her cell. It had been muted, distant, and lacking almost all pitch and depth due to her surroundings, but it had been there. And, for her to have heard it, it must have been loud.

  She held her breath, waiting, and the noise came again, not once but twice in quick succession, each with more form than the last. They were getting closer. She shut her eyes, cutting out the external world.
There they were again. Faint pops to her, but outside, accounting for the padding and soundproofing …

  Her eyes snapped open. They were gunshots. Someone was shooting.

  She looked down at her restraints, giving them a futile tug. Maybe this was how it was going to end. Sent to The Gulag, traveled some distance outside of Indrim, and then killed. Lost in transit, her message never to be heard again.

  A shadow fell over the window, and she froze. Someone was standing outside her cell. There was a very faint mumble of muted conversation, and then a click as the lock to her cell released.

  Light flooded the small chamber as the door was thrown open, along with a rush of fresh, cool air, and she recoiled, squeezing her eyes shut against the sharp glare. Even as her eyes adjusted, however, sound—beautiful sound—swept through her. The distant rush of air screaming over an open aperture. The metal clack of the train’s wheels rolling across the tracks.

  It was wrong, all of it. The doors to the rest of the train were supposed to remain shut when her chamber was opened, to deny sound to as much of the car as possible. Whoever had opened her cell, they either didn’t care or didn’t know. Blinking against the light, she looked up at the one responsible.

  It was a man, but not one she recognized. Though he was wearing the uniform of the guards who had held her captive, he lacked the coat, in its place an expensive-looking, long, dark-colored leather jacket of some kind. A duster, if she was recalling the name properly.

  Also, he didn’t look like a guard. There was a sardonic smile to his young face, one of deep satisfaction … but there was more to him than that. He looked like someone who was used to being in control, someone used to giving orders and being followed. A noble, perhaps, or a businessman. His face was sharp and thin, with a slightly larger than normal nose and a well-trimmed beard. His eyes seemed to bore into her, much like the judge-adjudicator’s had, only where that woman’s had returned only disgust, this man’s only seemed to return … contentment. As if breaking into her cage—for that was certainly what he was doing—was as satisfying as rising to eat breakfast in the morning.

  The most important thing she saw, however, even before either of the two rough-looking men standing on either side of him, was his gun.

  It was a revolver, she knew that much. Another weapon hung at his side, secured by a strap across his shoulder, but it was the barrel of the gun aimed at her face that she was most concerned with.

  “Well, well, well,” the man said, his pronunciation of the word betraying a more cultured upbringing than his uncouth language indicated. His other hand came up with a slip of paper, and she recognized it as the criminal docket her guards had always carried with them when dealing with her cell. “Ms. Amacitia Varay,” the man continued. “Eleven murders, all with a knife. Very nice.” He nodded as he looked up at her, a smile on his lips. “Tell me, Ms. Varay—”

  “Lady Varay,” she said, almost habitually. The man laughed, tipping the barrel of his revolver at her as he spoke.

  “Lady Varay? All right then, Lady Varay it is.” He propped one foot up on the edge of her chamber, leaning towards her on his knee. “Tell me, Lady Varay, would you like to get out of that cell?”

  “Yes,” she said. From elsewhere on the train came the sound of another shot, and she couldn’t help but absorb part of it, like a starving beggar grasping for food.

  “I see,” the man said, dropping his leg and standing back. A gesture with one hand sent one of the two men flanking him in the direction of the gunfire. “And what would you do if I let you out? Do you have a plan in mind?”

  “I …” She wasn’t sure what to say. The truth seemed the best. “I’d want to hunt down the one who imprisoned me.”

  “You mean the empire?” the man asked.

  “No.” She shook her head. Another shot echoed through the train. “An inquisitor.”

  “I see.” He looked at the slip of paper once more. “It says here that you, Lady Varay, are a man-killer. As in, you target men. Now, if I and my team let you go …” He tossed the docket over his shoulder, papers scattering across the inside of the train. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  She glanced at the other man once more. He looked rough … dangerous. “Will they bother me?”

  “You have my word they will not,” the man said with a shake of his head. “If one of them tries, I’ll shoot him myself. Or hand him over to you.”

  “And what do you want in return?” she asked quickly as another succession of distant shots rang through the air.

  The man shrugged. “Not much,” he said. “A chance, maybe. To prove that there’s more to the world than the empire. That their grip is slipping. That things in the outlands could be far better.”

  “And if I don’t like your chance?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Then we part ways. You to do what you do, and I to do what I do. No hard feelings.” A distant shout echoed through the carriage, and the man glanced toward the forward door. “Of course, you’ll be expected at the very least to repay us for your freedom—”

  Ah. There it was.

  “—by assisting us in freeing the rest of the wrongfully or rightfully accused on this train who would like to avoid the horrors of The Gulag.”

  “That’s it?” It sounded too good to be true. “Just help?”

  “Naturally,” he said, smiling again. “Are you any good with a gun?”

  She shook her head.

  “No? Well, I’m sure we can find a knife for you somewhere. Now,” he said, gesturing to the other man, who procured a heavy ring of keys. “One final word of warning.” There was a click as her restraints came free, the man with the keys stepping back as she began to massage her limbs.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  The smile vanished, a look of complete seriousness on his face. “Betray me or our agreement, and I will shoot you and leave your corpse for the chort to feed on. Understood?”

  She nodded.

  The smile returned. “Excellent.” He held out a hand to help her up, but she waved it away, pushing herself up on unsteady legs. “If you’ll follow me …”

  “If you don’t mind,” she asked, glancing out the window as she turned to hobble after him. The scenery was still rushing by. Up ahead gunfire was echoing from all directions, a full firefight having apparently erupted on the forward part of the train. “Might I ask who you are?”

  “Me?” the man asked. He paused and turned, giving her a slight bow. “Lord Markus Nirren, at your service. As you are at mine for the moment.” He straightened, his expression once more business. “Find her a blade. And a uniform that will fit from the guard car. Quickly.” The last word came out with emphasis. “We have only minutes.”

  Then he turned and ran through the forward door, ahead onto the next car.

  “This way,” the other man said, gesturing towards the back of the car. “Uniforms’re back here.”

  She followed him, still trying to process what had just happened. It was very simple when she thought about it, though overwhelming. It was a prison break, before the prisoners even arrived at the prison. But why? And for what? What had he meant about the outlands?

  It doesn’t matter, she decided. The armory was deserted save for a spray of blood on one wall, and she quickly threw an armored vest over her yellow jumpsuit. Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was the Creator, giving her a second chance to redeem herself.

  Whatever the reason, she was free now. Free to work with this … Lord Nirren—whoever that was, the name wasn’t familiar—or leave.

  She tightened the vest down. It was loose, but it would work. She was out.

  She opened her power, sucking in the sound all around her, feeling her reserves swell. She’d never used her gift for combat before, but she’d heard rumors of how it was done. Direct the sound. Compress it. Shatter the ears, or stun your oppressor.

  She was free, now. Free to do whatever she wanted. And as she turned and nodded toward her escort, she knew exa
ctly what she was going to do at the nearest opportunity.

  She would kill Inquisitor Karn. Get her revenge for what she’d done to her.

  And it would be glorious.

  She stepped forward, following the escort back towards the front of the train, gathering her power as she went. She’d play along, see what this … noble, for certainly he had been that at one point … was up to. But when the time was right?

  Karn would be hers.

  Stories in Alaska

  Vacation

  And now for something completely different.

  You know, being an author kind of occupies this weird place in everyone’s minds. Before you publish anything, you’re just that person who has aspirations of writing a book. Once you’re published, you’re suddenly—and strangely—the one responsible for writing the aspirations of everyone else who’s never written a book.

  Does that sound harsh? Well, maybe. But it’s no less true. Publish anything, and you’re going to find yourself a lightning rod for people who either think you should write something else or want you to write something for them.

  The next story is the former. Long story short, I hail from Alaska, and still travel home to visit from time to time. And every time I do, I face the inevitable barrage of questions about why my stories aren’t set in Alaska or why I haven’t written any stories about Alaska yet or why I’m writing about other worlds when I could just set things in my hometown.

  Squeaky wheel gets the grease, I guess. And now it’s my turn. Next time I go home I’ll be able to say “I did! Why haven’t you read it yet?”

  Now, full disclaimer, that doesn’t mean the story you’re about to read is bad. I wouldn’t do that. I put the same amount of work into this as I put into everything else. And it’s set in Alaska, just like everyone wanted. No fantasy here, or fantastical monsters and magic. Just people being people, which sometimes is plenty fantastical on its own.

  Especially when set in a wild, untamed country known as The Last Frontier.