Tesla's Revenge

by Renee Sebastian

  I didn't know what to say, but I detested the idea of defending Tesla blindly, without knowing his end game. I was a goal orientated kind of girl and this irked me. I was quite certain Dorian would feel the same. I looked around for him and noticed that he was still with the crone.

  I turned to Tesla and asked, “Have you told Dorian your plans yet?”

  “No, only Stefan. The Horse Master was properly put out when he was asked to give up three of his horses with the three saddles to go with them.” I then studied the saddles and they were indeed all works of art in tooled leather and paint.

  “All right, it would seem time is a precious commodity right now, so let’s collect Dorian and leave.”

  We both eyed him and the crone, with whom he was still conversing. It appeared that she was done looking at his palm and they were deep in discussion. She barely even spoke to me and what she did say was vague and confusing to say the least. But with Dorian, apparently she had had ton of things to tell him.

  I turned to Tesla and asked, “So did she read your palm, too?”

  He replied, “Naturally.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Oh, just some driveling nonsense about me dying. Obviously, she doesn't have the gift or she would know that I have cheated death all these years and would continue to cheat him now. Oh, how I could tell you stories about my mother. She was a lady who had the gift.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Why yes, and I have been told on occasion that I do, as well.”

  “Do tell,” I urged him.

  “Well, I have managed to avoid detection all these years. I seem to know when traps are laid for me. The kind of thing where you know which streets to turn down and which to not.”

  “Until Dorian and myself caught up with you.”

  He cleared his throat, “True, but I am close to the reaping the fruits of my labors.”

  “When will you divulge your plans, Tesla?”

  “Soon, Miss Darling, soon. Please try to exhibit some patience. It is rather unbecoming of a lady to have so little of it in reserves.”

  The nerve of him. I looked up on the ridge and thought on the need for patience. Well, I could have patience for only so long, before indecision would catch up with us all.

  We said farewell to Stefan and the caravan. They waved and wished us well. Dorian joined us at last, but said nothing to us about his conversation with the crone. He did say that he had the coordinates for the falls and initially even led our line of horses. Before too long, he handed the position over to me, when his sense of direction failed him. We trotted one behind the other at as clipped a pace as I could muster over the rough terrain.

  After a few hours, we left the heavily wooded land and headed into an old growth forest, which opened up the underbrush much better than we had seen that day. I preferred this type of terrain, because it meant it was more difficult to hide oneself or set up an ambush. I decided that I needed to discuss a few things with Dorian, so I pointed Tesla in the correct direction by indicating a landmark in the distance, a rock at the base of a hill, for us trot towards. He seemed to enjoy taking the lead as I fell back to converse with Dorian.

  I let my horse drop back to ride flank to flank with his. I let my curiosity win out over better judgment, so first I asked, “What did the Chiromancer have to say to you about your palm?”

  “A little of this and a little of that,” he answered cryptically while staring straight ahead of us.

  “Anything pertinent to the Tesla or the Necromancer situation?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Why was he vexing me with his evasive answers? Ah, I think I knew why, so I said, “She was vague with you too, huh?”

  “In matters concerning Tesla and the Necromancer, yes.”

  “What can you say with certainty concerning that which she told you?” I asked.

  “I am an Air hand.”

  “Well la-tee-dah. How is that going to help us with our problems?”

  “It won't help with Tesla until we know what he plans, but it might help with our little visitor trailing us.”

  I glance behind me, but saw nothing. “Is it the Necromancer?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Not the Necromancer, but one, I think.” Then he paused his horse and said in a sing song voice, “Come out, come out, wherever you are?”

  Tesla paused ahead us, turned in his saddle, and stared back at us. I sidestepped my horse and about faced. Then I waited. At first, I saw nothing, but then I saw a little tow headed boy, running zigzag through the forest that we had just ridden through. He finally stepped out into our wake and stood there staring at us. To call him unkempt would be a kindness. He was barefoot, wore torn clothing, and his face was a camouflage artist's dream of smears and stains.

  Dorian asked, “I daresay, standing in the road saying nothing is getting us nowhere fast boy, now come now, what do you have to say to us?”

  “Mama says you're to come to supper.”

  Was there no end to the human life in these hills?

  Dorian replied, “What will happen if we don't, young man?”

  He dug the tip of his foot in the dirt and said, “Mama says I can sick the big cat on ya', if ya' don't?” The boy tilted his head to the side and smiled as he said, “You might wannna’ come sooner rather than later.” Suddenly, a loping hound trooped up to the boy that was more carcass than dog. The horses pranced a little sidestep, nervous to be near the undead animal. I would hate to see the big cat.

  I said, “That beast of yours is outstanding. How old is it? Six, seven months dead?”

  He puffs up his chest and replies, “Right near a year, best as I can figure, lady.”

  “Who teaches you?” I am careful not to mention the government school system. Obviously, he was existing off of the grid, and I hoped he was receiving some sort of training in the form of an apprenticeship.

  “My Pappy did a'fore he died, right about last spring, a’fore the floods.”

  “I'm sorry for your...”

  “I don't need no sympathy. You're trespassin'.”

  This is what I should have expected traversing through unfenced lands. I asked, “What do you want for safe passage?”

  “Come on up to the house and make amends to my Mama.” He walked past us to Tesla's horse and said directly to him, “You don't want to meet the big kitty. She's hard to control when she finds something to pounce on.” I touched the Westinghouse, which was still in my pocket. I nodded to Dorian who opened my bag and tossed me my Widow.

  He gave his dead dog a pet and then wiped off the juices from the beast onto his overalls. Then he said to us, “Follow me, if you know what is good for ya'.”

  My mind began to wrap around the possibilities of meeting another Necromancer. One that was not tied to the government. Too bad I didn't work for S.O.A.R. anymore, they could have protected him. Or on second thought, more than likely they would have used him, just as the government would have. If Tesla was correct, then S.O.A.R. may be one and the same as the government.

  Having the boy unschooled would be better and worse. We could be leading a potentially deadly Necromancer straight to him and his Mama. I've heard Necromancers could be territorial and did not react well around each other. Or he might just be the ace in the hole we needed. Mainly, I just wanted to go and meet his Mama, if only to warn her of the danger that trailed us like hoof prints in the soil.

  Chapter 12

  Tinkerers and Their Toys

  “On the importance of being industrious: Being lackadaisical is not an option in this era of light.”

  -Madam Lillian Hurst, Spoken at a luncheon for Ladies in Support of the President, L.I.S.P., 2228

  From Dorian's Journal of Memorable Quotes to Live By

  We followed the boy as he seemingly meandered through the forest where leaves littered the floor making a patchwork quilt of sorts. The leaves were quiet underfoot of the hooves, so it must have rained here recently. After about fifteen mi
nutes, we approached an ancient cabin, whose wooden plank walls were blackened with mold, and it had a ramshackle front porch, complete with a rotted overhang.

  A rail-thin, weathered woman shouldered a modified shotgun that appeared taller than she herself was. She was a study of brown, with her brunette hair in a tight little bun and slightly wrinkled tan skin. Even though I couldn't see her eyes quite yet, I just knew that she had brown eyes. It didn't help that she wore a brown calico print dress spattered with brown mud. She looked very carefully between the three of us, while her boy slipped behind her to sit on the porch's old rocking chair, obviously broken, since it was no longer rocking in the light wind.

  She snorted once and spat a black tar like substance off to the side, before she addressed me directly, “Who are the toffs?”

  I gave Tesla the eyeball to not do or say anything out of sorts. I didn't bother with Dorian. I knew he wouldn't interrupt. This was a woman who was done with men and wasn't dealing with their shenanigans anymore. I think I liked her.

  “They are my business associates.”

  She looked at them again and said, “Which one are ya' screwin'?”

  Tesla looked appalled and Dorian snickered. I am sure my face was aghast with the horror of such an accusation. I protested, perhaps a bit too much, when I exclaimed, “Neither! Neither of them is interested in me.”

  “Sister, you are the only female 'asides me for twenty miles. They're thinkin' it, even if they aren't doin' it.”

  I squared my shoulders and turned my nose slightly in the air, striving for a haughty expression, and replied, “What they think holds no truck with me. Their thoughts are their own. I have no inclinations at this time to indulge their baser instincts. I wish to only make reparations concerning the trespassing across your land.”

  She cackled at that and then waited a bit too long to be polite, but finally said, “Well, I guess you be all right, sister. You can come into my house with your all mighty and prissy self. But the toffs, they gotta' stay out, only after they be abringin' in yer bags. Let's see what ya' have to offer fo' supper and safe passage. You see, I own the forty square miles surrounding my house and the taxes are due soon. I need more than the potatoes and carrots that I planted to cover it.”

  As Dorian swung off his horse, he asked, “What did the caravan pay?”

  She spat off to the side again and said, “Some old woman read my fortune. Took a loss on that one, I did. Puts me in sour mood just thinkin' on it too.”

  Dorian persisted and asked, “Tell me what she said. Then I'll do as you say and bring in her bag.”

  She narrowed her eyes at Dorian, but answered, “Well, it was right silly, it was. No harm tellin' it, I suppose. Some nonsense about my house floodin' and that I better find a right, tall tree to climb plumb to the top of. I thought she was right crooked in the head; my land hasn't flooded outside of spring in my lifetime. Never.”

  Tesla choked out a cough. Dorian eyed him suspiciously. I then thought a moment. Obviously, Dorian believed whatever the old crone had told him, and he now suspected Tesla knew something, as well. Suddenly, an idea gained ground within me. I knew now what Dorian must have suspected and Tesla knew.

  Tesla was going to blow up Niagara Falls, flooding the valley south of it

  The only question that remained was why? Was this part of Tesla’s experiment or general mayhem and misdirection? It was hard to say.

  Tesla hurried off his horse and led it to a watering trough. Dorian and I exchanged bitter, knowing looks. What was Tesla getting us into, really? I noted how he astutely avoided our knowing gazes.

  I turned to the mother and said, “Did she say when this flood was going to happen?”

  She cackled and said, “Yer don't believe her, do ya'?”

  “I have seen many strange things in this world... Miss...?”

  “Miss Tallow, but you can call me Bea.”

  “Thank you, Bea. I am Wendy.” Then I pointed out and introduced Dorian and Tesla, who each nodded in acquaintance. I then asked, “So, did she say when?”

  “Well get a load of this, Wendy, she said tomorrow night. It's not even spring, how in the world is it going to flood? There's not a cloud in sight. Look around, we had a good rain here just last night.”

  “Bea, I might recommend you scout out a tree tomorrow. Maybe the boy has made a fort in one, if not, then set out with a hammock and some food and water. I think you should climb before sunset.” Then I leveled my stare at Tesla.

  Dorian added, “Climb high, Miss Tallow. Climb very high.”

  She didn't bat an eyelash, but grimaced as she said, “In wit' ya', now. I'll not be hearin' anymore of this nonsense.”

  After the men made a fire for themselves outside with the promise of potato and carrot stew coming out soon to them, they took care of the horses, and then settled in for the night on borrowed blankets. I could tell Dorian was a bit concerned about his blanket harboring bugs, since he took a full five minutes to shake it out to his satisfaction.

  She brought me into her small, four-square house. I approved of the parlor and kitchen being one room, since it could share the warmth of the wood-burning stove. It was sensibly economical. Their one bedroom held two beds. The larger bed was the old fashioned type that had a rope grid acting as the box spring that supported a feather mattress. The other was a cot, most likely for the boy, who had left to obtain fresh kill for the stew.

  Then she showed me the other two rooms, both of which held my interest. One was a bathroom. She explained that she wouldn't marry her now deceased husband unless he had one inside the house, and this one even had to have running water with a very expensive heating spell placed on it. I was pleasantly surprised and she garnered a little more respect from me.

  It was the last room that sequestered a true smile to my face. It was a full-blown tinkerer's workshop. Tools and bits of bots littered the counter's wooden countertops. I spotted diamond cutters, welding kits, tin cutters, pliers, screwdrivers, and oil cans. On one wall, lined from top to bottom were many tiny boxes, each labeled with little pictures of their contents. Even though it appeared incredibly cluttered, I sensed an organization that went beyond my senses. It didn’t stop my compulsion from rising up to want to organize the clutter to my satisfaction. I grabbed my hands behind my back in order to control those urges, else I might offend Bea.

  I immediately asked her, “This is your room?”

  She winked at me and replied proudly, “Well, it ain't be selling squirrel hides that earns the tax money, girlie.”

  “How in the world did you end up here?”

  “What?” she acted offended. I bit my tongue. “I growed up in these here backwoods, if that is what you're getting' at. I'm a Tallow.” She said it as if I was supposed to know what that meant. She went on to say, “And he was an Earlmann. My family thought it would be a good match. His had other ideas. Todd was a right good fellow, when he wasn't drinking moonshine, mind you.”

  That was neither here nor there, so I redirected the conversation, “How did you pick up your tinkering skills?”

  “The Tallows own one of the largest junkyards this side of the Mississippi. There were all sorts of gears, cogs, and sheet metal always lying around when I was little. My Ma was a bit of a tinkerer too, but don't let my Pa hear of it. He would be as likely to tan yer' hide, if ya' do. He says it's no kind of good woman's work, but I say it's a good thing to keep a woman's mind busy, elseways, they be all in their man's business, and no man wants that.”

  I smiled to myself. Even though this woman's vernacular was the antipode to my native dialect, I related to her in the most basic of ways: female to female. I went over and examined her creations.

  Several tiny bots roved over the table without falling off. Another was on the floor picking up odd bits of lint, tiny gold flakes, and sand. It was organizing it on its back, which held several compartments for storage. There was a clock on the wall that did not use a pendulum, but rather flashed in a neon lumin
escence not only the hours, minutes, and seconds on its round face, but also in milliseconds.

  “Do you have a patent on the clock yet?” I knew better than to ask a tinkerer how it worked. They were a proprietary bunch.

  “Naw, not yet. I just invented it, but it runs a wee bit on the slow side.”

  “How slow?”

  “I figure about a millisecond every two weeks. Gotta' tweak it some more.”

  “How small in size do you think you can get it?” Currently, it was about the size of a hatbox and not one of the current, fashionable hatboxes, which contained tiny hats, but was instead a proper straw-hat size. The hats that women wore for fashion these days were miniscule. What's the purpose of wearing something that won't keep the sun out of your eyes? It was an entirely impractical trend and I mourned for the days where women wore wide brims with ostrich feathers.

  “Once I be done fixin' the error, I will try to get it down to pocket watch size.” I wondered if I could use it to trigger dynamite. Normal clockwork detonators were notoriously unstable. Sometimes, things went boom, other times there was nothing, and the worst was when you heard of one going boom before the ammunition’s expert was able to get out.

  I asked, “Which of these bots do you find the most interesting to work on right now?”

  She beamed and I knew I had asked the right question. She went to a desk drawer and pulled out a bot that was tiny and copper colored with huge, oracular orbs. It had a flat, somewhat transparent back, which was only about two by three inches. Its legs danced a little jig across her table that she set it down upon.

  Then she picked it up, flipped a switch on its belly, and set it back down on the worktable. A set of little iridescent, insect wings popped out of its sides under the plate on its back, and then it hovered around us. She then removed a small cylindrical tube from the drawer in the table and mashed a button on its end. I heard a click, then she flipped the tube upside down and there was a small joystick protruding from that end.