by Anna Bowman
Black Recluse
Roanoke Desperados
Book One
Anna Bowman
For my amazing husband, You are one hundred percent awesome.
Black Recluse © 2019 by Anna Bowman. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by GermanCreative
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Anna Bowman
Visit my website at www.aebowman.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: 2019
Rivet Wing Press
ISBN-13: 978-1-7331279-0-5
Disclaimer
The author is in no way responsible for the views, opinions or actions of the characters in this book or the predicaments they get themselves into. They are rebellious and do what they want. She just wrote it down.
Chapter 1
Solomand
Captain Black was not having a good day. The saloon’s working girls wanted him to buy services at Racketrath. His throat constricted at the thought of it.
God knows what I’d come away with! He thought.
“Sorry, I have an urgent meeting,” he told the smoky-eyed woman, straining his eyes to the doorway in search of his First Mate.
“Ah, come on, Captain Black—no time for fun?” She gave him a heavy-lidded wink, pursing deep-red lips toward his face.
“Sadly, no,” he said, ducking beneath her grasp. He stood, shoving his sweat-stained cap on his head. “There he is now. Next time.”
He blew her a kiss, stifling a gag, and hurried in an almost desperate pace to meet the man at the door.
“About damn time, Will,” he said, taking his cap off to run a hand through his coal-black hair.
Will, a head taller than Solomand, glanced over his shoulder into the saloon. A group of women wearing low-cut blouses and hiked skirts waved at him. He looked back at his Captain.
“Sorry. Didn’t realize that was something you couldn’t handle.”
Solomand lit a cigarette, his fingers shaking as he struck the lighter multiple times before returning it to the pocket of his navy overcoat.
“They are becoming more insistent—one even offered herself for free.” He shuddered. “And no useful knowledge about the airman’s movements for all my trouble, either.”
It was becoming more difficult to weasel his way out of ‘relations’ with the unsavory bar women. There had to be a better way to get information besides talking with them.
He pulled his cap down over his eyes as he started to walk away from the dingy saloon at a hurried pace. Neon lights flickered in the window of closed shops advertising everything from solar pocket watches to lightweight dusters imported from the Continent Argos.
Solomand casually sidled up to the wall of a building where wanted posters were pasted up for passers-by to see. Wanted: Black Recluse—For crimes against the Coalition. The faded words were barely legible and were followed by an even less discernible drawing of a man dressed in black—a mask over his face.
Tearing it down, Solomand balled the poster up and threw it into a water fountain as he passed by. Running a finger under the leather eyepatch over his left eye, Will gave him a sideways glance. Solomand blew out a puff of cigarette smoke, looking straight ahead.
Newsprints were not popular here anymore. If anyone cared to know the current events elsewhere, they could view it on the moving screen in the town’s center. Most people in Racketrath were not concerned about whatever the Coalition had to say these days, especially if it was old news.
Today, there was the usual small crowd of people, looking in shop windows and paying little heed to the propaganda that sounded overhead. Solomand would have walked straight through and on his way to the docks, but he heard a familiar voice on the viewing screen. Anyone else might have thought it the deep, assured tone, a pleasant voice. Solomand, however, froze in place, feeling cold as his eyes were drawn involuntarily to look on the face of Stefan LeFrost, governor of the Plains City Corcyra.
“Our citizens are safer today, thanks to the fine men and women of our 201st Airborne,” LeFrost said through the moving screen.
A banner ran across the bottom of the screen, saying ‘Live coverage: Public Execution of War Criminal, Stanley Simonson.’ The screen split to show a view of the unfortunate Simonson. He wore the green uniform of the insurgents and was tied by either arm to posts on a pavilion surrounded by a crowd of spectators. His eyes were filled with terror as the savage barking of dogs interrupted the governor’s speech.
“Governor LeFrost suffered the loss of his own daughter six years ago when the war came to a close.”
The banner came across again.
Solomand frowned. They made it out like the man was some sort of tragic hero when he was a sadistic, calculating, bastard.
One spectator checked his watch, while a lady fanned herself in the sun. Six years. That was how long Simonson must have been a prisoner unless he was recently caught. Either way, that crisp uniform hid details of lengthy torture that always preceded LeFrost’s condemnation. It would soon be torn and bloody when the dogs were released to carry out the final sentence.
Solomand tensed. Screams flooded his mind and blood soaked the cold, stone of the pavilion, even though the governor had not yet given the word to release the dogs. A hand gripped his shoulder, and he jerked, ready to draw the revolver hidden under his coat. It was Will. Solomand relaxed, allowing his friend to maneuver him away from the square.
“Yeah…” Sol cast a hateful look at the face of the governor and spit on the ground.
Your time will come, LeFrost, Sol thought. It was more of a promise to himself than anything. Aloud, he muttered, “You’d think they’d let a thing go after six damn years.”
Will’s hand tightened on Solomand’s shoulder before he let go, his brow furrowing for an instant.
“Jank didn’t pass his flight assessment,” he said, keeping close to Solomand as a group of strangers walked past.
“Eh well,” Solomand shrugged, glad Will did not comment on LeFrost and shove him further down that road of painful memories. It was better to ignore it for now. “I’ll just manufacture him a license then. Like I did with mine.” He gave Will a sly grin.
Adjusting his eyepatch again, Will remarked. “I think you should have taken the test. We are lucky no one has noticed yours is a fake. They are looked at closer than identification cards.”
“Why, Will, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have an issue with my flying.”
“You know I do,” Will said, not missing a beat.
Solomand pretended not to hear. The docks of Racketrath came into view. It was one of the few towns actually on the ground and not perched on a cliff or mountain. The buildings were made of brick with roofs that collected the sun’s power for electricity. In the Western desert landscape, there was plenty of sun to be harnessed.
Racketrath was neither respectable, like the great Coalition cities to its East, or disreputable like some of the other one-horse towns scattered throughout the Plains. The constant thrum of noise from radios and communication devices swelled like the rumbling of thunder. Sleek, two-wheeled ironhorse bikes buzzed as their riders shot through the streets, weaving around everyone on foot. Solomand glanced around, feeling like the world was pressing in on him
. Sometimes it was easier to hide within the bustle and noise, but he couldn’t fight the urgent need to leave.
Pacing, he placed a hand in his coat pocket as he sucked on his cigarette. Among the advertisements papering the wall of the station platform, there was a prominent poster displaying a firebolt catcher dressed in robes with all but his eyes covered. His gloved hand seized lightning from a storm cloud with a dramatic desert background. A stack of empty firebolt cores were stacked at his feet, presumably awaiting to be charged. The various sized cores were marked with red lightning bolts of Sky Enterprises. Fly, with a piece of the Sky!
A scoffing noise escaped Solomand’s lips as he rolled his eyes. What an idiotic slogan. “I hope someone was fired over that,” he muttered.
Everyone that could afford the lightning-powered cells already used them. Here, on the continent Lyonese, they were mainly reserved for airships and some motorized vehicles. Anything else was too expensive. People resorted to what power was available—steam—solar—electricity, whatever was cheapest.
White lights flashed at the end of the runway. A small, sky rail tilted as a gust of stale air blew across the skyport. The left wing lifted slightly as the wheels touched down and the aircraft pulled to a stop. Flaggers waved orange banners, motioning the sleek, two-man craft to a halt. Further down the platform, a girl of twelve and a young man of around eighteen walked toward them. The girl was holding an ice cream in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.
“Sol!” The girl raised her hand, waving. She ran up to him. “I passed!”
Solomand flicked the remains of his cigarette away.
“Impressive, Zee!” He grinned as she held out the license to him and read the name from the fake paperwork he had given the administrator. “I mean, Tenzin Forge.”
Zee took a lick of her ice cream and stuffed the paper in the pocket of her baggy trousers.
“Good job.” Will ruffled the girl’s short, silky black hair. “Knew you could do it.”
The unhappy engineer, scowled, his hands stuffed in his grease-stained overall pockets.
“Why so glum, Jank?” Solomand asked, motioning for Zee to give him a taste of the ice cream. After one lick, he handed it back and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “The legal way is overrated. You should get one like mine.”
Jank scowled.
“No thanks,” he mumbled, adding louder, “That’s not what’s bothering me, anyway. I can’t get the fuel cell here. At least, not for a reasonable damned price.” He muttered something about bastard pirates.
Solomand ran his finger underneath the chain around his neck as he glanced up at the sky. Dusk in Racketrath was always heralded by orange and red streaks of cloud that looked like a paintbrush had been dragged across the sky. One way or another they had to have that fuel cell. They would not survive another encounter with the 201st Airborne Division if it wasn’t replaced.
The transmitter on his wrist gave off a series of low beeps. He looked down as red and blue lights flashed in a series of long and short bursts.
I-know-what-you-are-hiding.
When the message was finished, another low tone sounded.
Damn that woman! Solomad rubbed the back of his neck.
“What’s wrong?” Will asked
“We have to get to Ashbury once this fuel cell is settled. That damned woman knows too much.”
Jank stiffened his already pale face whitening.
“I told you she was more trouble than she was worth!”
Solomand turned his collar up, wishing it would rain. The people here were too cheery for his liking.
“So, we don’t have enough money for a fuel cell. He started down the platform toward Dock 6, where his airship was waiting. “We’ll just have to annex one,” he said, as the others hurried after him.
“By annex one, you mean?” Will asked.
“Misappropriate,” Zee spoke up as she finished her ice cream.
Solomand smiled over his shoulder at her proudly. “That’s a new one. Haven’t used that yet.”
Zee let her long sleeve slide down to her elbow. “I don’t know why you even ask, Will. You know how we always end up getting everything we need.”
Will shook his head slightly. “She may be starting to fit in too much,” he told Solomand.
Solomand caught Zee’s gaze, and she gave him a crooked grin.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He took off his Captain’s cap and put it on the girl’s head. “You’re flying this one,” he said as they walked up the ramp to his docked airship.
“Where to first?” Jank asked giving him a dubious look.
“Where else? Port Bilboa.” Solomand felt his gut tighten as he said it out loud. Going there always seemed to end in a frantic, death-defying departure.
Chapter 2
Rayn
What if I stowed away on one of those airships docked outside?
Rayn sat on a stool, leaning forward onto the bar, tracing ringed stains from beer bottles on the mahogany wood. A tin cup of water rested within arm’s reach. She didn’t come here to drink nor did she care for the company. But today, the deep sting of loneliness pressed her to be anywhere but by herself.
The shadow of the low ceiling fan swept across the room in a steady pattern, stirring the cloud of cigar smoke, which stung her eyes. The bartender, a fat, balding man called Absalom, stood behind the counter, drying dirty glasses in preparation for the crowd of customers that would soon swamp the High Flyerz Saloon.
Rayn gripped the cup of water, her fingerless gloves soaking in the condensation as she took a drink and glanced at the clock over the bar. Through the fogged, broken glass she read the time: 1400 hours. Inane, chipper laughter sounded as girls dressed in corsets and high-heeled boots descended from the stairs, preparing for their nightly work.
Hunching her shoulders, Rayn lowered her head, her long braid of red hair drooping onto the soiled bar. Idiots. She couldn’t stand women who were too stupid to make a living doing anything that involved actual skill. Her thoughts returned to the airships again and the impossible problem of not having traveling papers. The problem with that plan was that sooner or later she’d be found out and likely turned into the authorities for illegal and suspicious activities. That would lead her back here where she started, or—at worst—branded a sky pirate. It was all impossible. She sighed heavily.
I’m tired of waiting, she thought.
A creaking noise sounded as the door opened and a tall man walked in. Rayn glanced sideways as he walked up to the bar without making a noise, dust falling from his black overcoat. Uncomfortable silence settled on the room.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Stranger.” Absalom’s voice wavered as he set an empty glass in front of the man. “What’ll it be?”
The man pushed his sweat-stained hat up, revealing dark eyes. There was a thin scar underneath his right eye, barely visible in the dim lighting.
“The usual.” His voice was low and steady. There was something of an edge to it. He never looked at Rayn, and she still had the apprehensive feeling he was watching her.
Absalom poured water into the glass, spilling some onto the bar. “Here on business?”
The stranger picked up the glass with a tanned hand, swirling the water around as he stared at the bartender.
“I know. I know. None of mine.”
Tense, Absalom turned and went back to drying his glasses. The stranger tipped the cup, and his sleeve fell down, revealing the thick, dark lines of tattoos on his wrist. Trying not to stare, Rayn’s curiosity piqued.
He was not like any of the others who came and went. Nothing here seemed to interest him, aside from the glass of water in his hand. Water? An unusual choice in a bar. No one drank water here, except for her. She had a nagging feeling that there was something familiar about him, though she was sure she had never seen him before.
But what if I have? She thought.
What if he was from before she lost her memories
? Lifting her gaze to carefully assess the stranger, she found his dark eyes fixed on her in an appraising way. A chill worked its way up her spine, and she quickly looked away.
Pilots began to stream in, along with other gentlemen passengers, and Rayn forgot about the stranger. This new crowd all had the familiar, tired, yet hungry for new experiences look about them. Rayn rolled her eyes as the saloon girls led them to a table. The STDs are beginning to outnumber the people in here. She gave an unsavory glance around the room before digging two copper coins from her pocket. Placing them by the empty cup, she stood to leave, noticing the stranger was nowhere to be seen.
Oh well. She dismissed him from her mind. He probably had one of those faces that everybody thought they’d seen before. Adjusting her overcoat, she made for the door, passing a stocky looking pilot with a worn look about him and a younger man wearing a bowler hat and a Highbrow.
Port Ashbury was a rest stop for these passengers. The man in the bowler hat should have stayed on his airship. As Rayn passed him, his eyes slid up and down her, and, with a stupid grin, his hand reached out.
She spun around, her eyes wide in shock. Who the hell did he think she was? One of these bar trollops? Her hand caught his wrist before it reached her, and she twisted. The bowler hat man’s face contorted in pain, then, a look of anger spread across him, and he raised his other hand. Rayn pulled her coat open and drew her revolver, sticking it in the man’s gut with a forceful jab. She gave his other wrist one more jerk before releasing him, his hands raised, his face whitening. Rayn spoke through gritted teeth.
“Go on. Try it.”
She shoved him away from her with the barrel of her revolver and gave him one last savage glare. The man’s companion grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away from Rayn, shoving him along his way into the saloon. He gave her an amused grin before tipping his cap and following his dazed passenger.