They passed similar checkpoints leaving Brooklyn and Queens. The levels of vigilance may have been different, but the results were the same. Passable papers, an immaculate uniform, and a haughty demeanor were all of the identification needed to get the women to the outer baronies of Long Island. Security became lighter the further out from the city they went. That the Empire had put their facility, Research Division 9 according to Resistance intelligence, out in the sticks put strategy on unobtrusiveness rather than brute force. The women's plan was counting on it.
The car rounded the last corner and the target came into sight. There was no sign of the larger Resistance team, but their job was to stay hidden until they were called. Until then, it was all on Rachel and Frieda.
"Let me do the talking," said Rachel.
"You have nothing to worry about there," said Frieda. "I suppose we can not do this as we did at the airfield?"
"Afraid not. Last I heard, they are working twenty-four hours to keep up a supply of the Ambulamort going to the front."
Frieda sighed. She didn't like being in front of people when she was being honest, and this masquerade was far outside of her experience. No, Rachel had no need to worry on the speaking score.
"The key to something like this is to keep them off balance," said Rachel. "Don't give them a chance to think about what you are saying."
“I am simply hoping that I can keep up with you on that respect.”
“Just look official and act as if you expected everything that happens.”
“That would be easier if I actually knew what you have in mind.”
“If it makes you feel better, I usually don’t have much of a plan to begin with. Sure, I may have the basics, who I am et cetera. From then on, I prefer not to have a plan, that would just be another thing to worry about.”
Oddly, that did not make Frieda feel any better.
The facility was a converted factory, seemingly unmodified from the exterior. The only sign of current occupation was the eight-foot tall, barbed wire topped fence and a small guard shack by the sole gate. A guard stepped in front of the gate and held up a hand for the car to stop.
“Return to the street, this is a restricted facility,” said the guard as he approached the driver’s window.
“I am well aware of what this place is, Corporal,” said Rachel, her voice icy with affronted superiority. “I am Major Magda Devora of the Imperial Demonic Division. I have orders from Colonel Meinard to escort Dr. Helga Messner on an inspection of all Ambulamort production facilities in the County. These are our papers.”
Rachel was quite proud of the papers she had managed to acquire. The mere mention of the commander of the Imperial-aligned demons in the County was enough to conjure the guard’s attention. What she regretted was the debt that she accrued with the eldest of her sisters in the city in order to get the forgery made. At least Melisande was an independent operator. The end result would be a payment made to Melisande’s whim rather than some unknown superior.
“I was not informed of an inspection, ma’am.”
Rachel gave an exasperated sigh and locked eyes with the young man.
“Then since your readiness appears to be lacking, I would suggest that you make up for it with compliance. Perhaps then your name will not go down as one of the problems.”
The corporal swallowed visibly. He looked back to his compatriot for support. He found none, his friend having gotten an eyeful of the wrathful angel in the driver’s seat.
“Very well, ma’am, please pull on through.”
“Thank you, Corporal.”
Frieda let out the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. It struck her that the guards seemed to count themselves the lucky ones in the exchange.
The car headed toward a small parking lot near large truck doors. Another guard manned the single pedestrian door. As the car pulled into a space, a squat figure in a fitted lab coat exited and approached the car. Rachel caught the dwarf composing himself as he walked around to her door. By then, he was smiling and extending a hand.
“Major, however surprising, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Dr. Konrad Tabbert. May I ask what brings you to our laboratory?”
Rachel used the fact that the dwarf only came up to her shoulder to look down her nose at him.
“Colonel Meinard has been made aware of the imminent deployment of this new compound…” she looked to Frieda as if for a memory cue.
“Ambulamort, Major,” prompted Frieda while cursing Rachel for breaking the promise to do the talking.
“Thank you, Doctor. Ambulamort, yes,” said Rachel with a tone that said that she wouldn’t bother to remember the name thereafter.
Rachel continued.
“Yes, Colonel Meinard, in his capacity as advisor to the Court on all matters demonic, has expressed some great concern regarding the deployment of this new weapon. This is Dr. Helga Messner, exobiologist from the Dresden Institute. She is here to ascertain what impact the weapon will have on supernatural subjects.”
“I would be more than happy to discuss these matters, but we are quite busy at this time. Perhaps if we can arrange an inspection for a later time?”
“No.”
“No?”
“There are some questions regarding the very nature of this weapon that have not been answered to my superior’s satisfaction, questions that need to addressed before some overlooked circumstance brings the entire project crashing down about our ears.”
The dwarf looked perplexed.
“Why don’t we go inside and discuss this?” asked Dr. Tabbert. “Please, follow me.”
The Imperial scientist turned to lead the women into the facility. Frieda looked up at Rachel in time to catch the wink from the temptress. It was a mere flicker in the persona, from Imperial officer to party girl and back again. Frieda was almost dizzy trying to keep up with the changes.
The guard at the door snapped to attention as the party entered the converted factory. Once inside, they found themselves in an immaculate white hallway. Doors broke the lines of the walls, plaques reading various functions with the first bearing the legend: Security. Another guard came to attention as they passed. Frieda watched the young man blush furiously when Rachel made eye contact with him and touched the sleeve of his uniform.
The hall turned after twenty yards into a cavernous space, clearly the main floor of the old factory. The space was empty save for a walled-in area roughly in the center. A man, balding and well into middle age, was visible by the interior structure speaking with a younger man. The young man hurried away; apparently to complete whatever task he had been given. Another could be seen writing notes on a clipboard and taking glances through a small window in a door. A third was using a handcart to wheel a gas canister up to one of the doors along a side wall.
Dr. Tabbert waved the older gentleman over, and started the introductions as the newcomer closed the distance.
“Major Devora, Dr. Messner, may I introduce Dr. Wilbur Hobbard, head of Imperial Research Division 9. Dr. Hobbard, Major Magda Devora of the Imperial Demonic Division and Dr. Helga Messner of the Dresden Institute.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Dr. Hobbard, his tone and expression conveying just the opposite.
“These ladies have some questions pertaining to the research, sir.”
“It is rather late in the process for any new questions to be coming up.”
“I disagree, Doctor,” said Rachel, pulling herself up to the full height her heeled boots allowed. She only came to the man’s chin, yet she still dominated the space. “My superiors feel that their concerns have been given short shrift throughout this entire process.”
“By ‘your superiors’ I presume you mean Colonel Meinrad.” Color had flushed Dr. Hobbard’s face.
“Among others, yes.”
“If you wouldn’t mind having this discussion on the move, I have to supervise the tests for the latest batch.”
“Certainly, Doctor.”
Dr. Hobbard turned and walked back to his previous position without looking back to see if the visitors were following. He rounded a corner to the far side of the interior building. On closer approach, Frieda could peer through the small windows on the doors she passed. Each door led into a small cell with another door on the far side. Ragged men occupied some of the cells. One of the men began pounding on his door as the group passed by.
“Where do these men come from, Doctor?” asked Frieda.
“We get our test subjects primarily from Anti-Resistance Force sweeps.”
“Resistance fighters,” said Rachel. “There’s a certain symmetry to it.”
The group stopped in front of a large window looking into the open center space ringed by the cells. Stains on the floors and walls indicated a history that turned Frieda’s stomach.
“More on point,” continued Rachel, “is what type of testing is being done with respect to supernatural entities. Colonel Meinrad is particularly interested with its effects on enemy summoned demons, although others have spoken about Native American lycanthrope warriors.”
“As your superiors should know, I nor any of my colleagues have been provided such subjects to experiment upon. In the meantime, this Research Division shall continue to carry out its duties with the human subjects that we have been provided with.”
During that portion of the conversation, Rachel maneuvered so that she was next to Dr. Hobbard, Frieda next to her, leaving Dr. Tabbert to the far end of the line.
“Could you please describe your testing procedure, Doctor?” asked Frieda, fighting hard to maintain an air of clinical detachment.
“Certainly. Each test employs two subjects. One is exposed to the Ambulamort, the second is kept as control. Once the effect is complete, both subjects are released into the common area on the other side of the glass. From there we are able to assess the aggressive potential of the effected subject.”
“In fact,” offered Dr. Tabbert, “you are in time to observe the testing of the newest lot.”
“Really?” asked Frieda, slipping her hand into her purse. She looked up and caught Rachel’s eye in the reflection off the glass. Rachel gave a barely perceptible nod that Frieda returned.
“Dr. Tabbert?” Frieda asked turning toward the dwarf and drawing her hand out of the purse.
“Yes?” he asked, turning into the atomizer of knockout solution that Frieda had just removed from her purse. The spray caught him full in the face. He barely had time to show surprise before he slumped to the ground.
Dr. Hobbard saw the motion out of the corner of his eye. When he turned to see his assistant collapsed on the floor, Rachel stepped in front of him and grasped his face. She pulled him down until her lips met his. Dr. Hobbard’s eyes opened wide in shock, and then he relaxed deeper and deeper until he slid boneless to the floor.
“I think I prefer my method,” said Rachel, wiping an unseen mote from the corner of her mouth.
“Succubus,” said Frieda, “I should have known.”
“Well, yeah. But I’m still one of the good guys.”
Rachel removed a ring of keys from Dr. Hobbard’s coat pocket.
“Here,” said Rachel giving the keys to Frieda, “get the men out of the cells and round up the lab assistants. I’ll take care of the security office and call in the cavalry.
Frieda nodded, took the keys, replaced the atomizer and drew her ray gun.
Rachel ran back toward the hallway. She waited until Frieda opened the first cells before she rounded the corner and affected an inability to run in her heeled boots. The young guard outside of the security office saw her coming and, reacting to her obvious distress, rushed to aid her.
“The prisoners are escaping! The doctors need your help!” she said, stumbling into his arms.
“Umm, get, get to the security office,” he stammered, “I’ll go help the doctors.
Rachel looked up into his eyes, her hands full of his uniform lapels.
“Be careful,” she said, her voice suddenly soft and frightened. She pulled gently on the lapels, and the young man took the cue, bent down and kissed her. Rachel enjoyed the kiss for the three seconds it took for the young man to pass out.
She straightened her uniform jacket and strode into the security office. There was a pair of guards playing cards. They snapped to attention and saluted.
“Stay where you are,” said Rachel, “there has been a release of the Ambulamort, and the laboratory has been contaminated.”
The two guards shared a panicked glance. In that pause, Rachel walked over to the phone and dialed the number that would connect her to the waiting Resistance force.
“This is Major Magda Devora, Imperial Demonic Division. There has been an incident at Research Division 9. We need a containment team here immediately. Code: Lamb, I say again, Code: Lamb.”
“Confirm Code: Lamb,” said the recognizable voice of Liberty. “We are on our way.”
“My God,” said the one on Rachel’s right, “we have to get out of here.”
“No,” snapped Rachel in her best tone of command, “stay in here and seal the door the best you can. I will also need your weapons.”
“Our weapons? You’re not going back in there? What about the Ambulamort?”
Rachel pointed to the red trim on her uniform.
“Demonic Division. The gas won’t affect me. Someone has to keep the victims under control until the containment team gets here. In the meantime, seal up this room and do not open it for any reason or for anyone other than me, am I clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rachel walked back to the main laboratory. There she found four men standing behind Frieda who was covering three white-coated men who were on their knees with their hands behind their heads.
“All clear?” asked Frieda.
“Yes, the Resistance is on the way.” Rachel handed what guns she had to the released prisoners. “I’m Lamb, this is Knocker, and we’re here to get you out of here.”
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Walking Death, Chapter 11
The debriefing took place in another storeroom in a different business, but the impression of the location was the same. Completely anonymous. Rachel and Liberty listened as Frieda gave a no nonsense account of her part of the mission.
“You are certain of the address?” he asked.
“My memory is very precise. I often found myself where I could not take the information with me, and I prefer not to rely on cameras whenever possible. A simple address is hardly a challenge.”
“Was there any technical data on the Ambulamort itself?”
“No, that information is not important in respect to the deployment of the weapon, so it was not provided to the squadron.”
“We know that the Imperials have a facility at that location, but none of our agents have been able to find any word as to what goes on there.”
“Are you considering an assault on the facility?”
“I had, briefly, but there is an army garrison less than half a mile away. The perimeter defenses will have to be circumvented and their communications cut off so that they can’t call for help.”
Rachel chimed in.
“Sounds like you need someone to go in all sneaky-like.”
“That’s right. I want you to bluff your way in, Rachel. I believe you already have a costume and identification?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can throw something together. I even know which face I’m going to put on.”
“Excellent. Dr. Kellner, I need you to back her up. We don’t know how much more of the stuff they have, or even what other surprises they may have stored there. Your job is to secure a sample of the Ambulamort for analysis, find any records of antidotes, and take samples of any other projects.”
“Understood.”
By the next night, Rachel had provided Dr. Kellner with a very smart looking skirt and jacket set, perfectly appropriate for a serious minded scientist. She also produced an impressive forgery of a Bureau of Advanced Sciences identification card in the name of Helga Messner.
For her part, Rachel had donned an Imperial uniform: black with red trim and major epaulets. Frieda recognized the meaning of the red in the uniform. It meant membership in the Imperial Demonic Forces. Frieda had met members of those ranks in the past. There was no doubt that Rachel was going to be the center of attention, even if she evoked dread in her admirers. The basic details of Rachel’s face were the same, but now they composed themselves into a beautifully austere visage. Gone was the little girl Frieda first met, replaced with a mien worthy of Athena.
Frieda saw to transportation. One of the neighbors, a few blocks removed, unknowingly provided an official looking vehicle for the night. The work of the night should be just that, with the car returned before it was missed.
The first test of their disguises came at the checkpoint on the Brooklyn Bridge. The Empire kept a tight rein on travel, particularly between the baronies of the troubled County of New York. The bridge was typically crowded at the checkpoint where soldiers scrutinized travel authorizations. The early evening traffic only made the wait longer.
Frieda had to school her tension as the line crept slowly along the bridge. The wait stretched her nerves. She was certain that the tension showed on her face, marking her with anxiety that would rouse the soldier’s suspicions.
Rachel on the other hand, seemed as calm and collected as if she were out for a leisurely drive in the country. She chatted away on various topics ranging from the men at Club Hades to the latest fashions to her complaints about some gangsters who seem to think that they own whatever crosses their eye line.
Rachel was in the driver’s seat for the trip, playing the part of the military escort for a newly arrived scientist. Frieda had reservations about the arrangement up until they approached the checkpoint. Rachel’s chatter scarcely paused as the car pulled into earshot of the roadblock. Her face went from animated into annoyed iciness.
“Papers,” demanded the sergeant as the car pulled up.
Rachel looked out the window and cleared her throat. Even that she did with a quiet authority that caught up the sergeant’s eyes.
The man snapped to attention.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. May I please have your papers?”
“Of course,” said Rachel as she handed over the forged documents. Frieda did her best not to look like she was holding her breath.
The sergeant scarcely looked away from Rachel’s gaze. The examination he gave the papers was cursory at best, and he handed them back as if he were ashamed to have had them in the first place.
“Everything is in order, please drive through.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Ma’am,” he said with a salute.
She returned the salute and pulled out onto the remainder of the bridge. Once the checkpoint was safely in the rearview mirror, Rachel turned toward Frieda.
“I really enjoy scamming soldiers. They’re so darn predictable. Could you light me a cigarette, please?”
“You are certain of the address?” he asked.
“My memory is very precise. I often found myself where I could not take the information with me, and I prefer not to rely on cameras whenever possible. A simple address is hardly a challenge.”
“Was there any technical data on the Ambulamort itself?”
“No, that information is not important in respect to the deployment of the weapon, so it was not provided to the squadron.”
“We know that the Imperials have a facility at that location, but none of our agents have been able to find any word as to what goes on there.”
“Are you considering an assault on the facility?”
“I had, briefly, but there is an army garrison less than half a mile away. The perimeter defenses will have to be circumvented and their communications cut off so that they can’t call for help.”
Rachel chimed in.
“Sounds like you need someone to go in all sneaky-like.”
“That’s right. I want you to bluff your way in, Rachel. I believe you already have a costume and identification?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can throw something together. I even know which face I’m going to put on.”
“Excellent. Dr. Kellner, I need you to back her up. We don’t know how much more of the stuff they have, or even what other surprises they may have stored there. Your job is to secure a sample of the Ambulamort for analysis, find any records of antidotes, and take samples of any other projects.”
“Understood.”
By the next night, Rachel had provided Dr. Kellner with a very smart looking skirt and jacket set, perfectly appropriate for a serious minded scientist. She also produced an impressive forgery of a Bureau of Advanced Sciences identification card in the name of Helga Messner.
For her part, Rachel had donned an Imperial uniform: black with red trim and major epaulets. Frieda recognized the meaning of the red in the uniform. It meant membership in the Imperial Demonic Forces. Frieda had met members of those ranks in the past. There was no doubt that Rachel was going to be the center of attention, even if she evoked dread in her admirers. The basic details of Rachel’s face were the same, but now they composed themselves into a beautifully austere visage. Gone was the little girl Frieda first met, replaced with a mien worthy of Athena.
Frieda saw to transportation. One of the neighbors, a few blocks removed, unknowingly provided an official looking vehicle for the night. The work of the night should be just that, with the car returned before it was missed.
The first test of their disguises came at the checkpoint on the Brooklyn Bridge. The Empire kept a tight rein on travel, particularly between the baronies of the troubled County of New York. The bridge was typically crowded at the checkpoint where soldiers scrutinized travel authorizations. The early evening traffic only made the wait longer.
Frieda had to school her tension as the line crept slowly along the bridge. The wait stretched her nerves. She was certain that the tension showed on her face, marking her with anxiety that would rouse the soldier’s suspicions.
Rachel on the other hand, seemed as calm and collected as if she were out for a leisurely drive in the country. She chatted away on various topics ranging from the men at Club Hades to the latest fashions to her complaints about some gangsters who seem to think that they own whatever crosses their eye line.
Rachel was in the driver’s seat for the trip, playing the part of the military escort for a newly arrived scientist. Frieda had reservations about the arrangement up until they approached the checkpoint. Rachel’s chatter scarcely paused as the car pulled into earshot of the roadblock. Her face went from animated into annoyed iciness.
“Papers,” demanded the sergeant as the car pulled up.
Rachel looked out the window and cleared her throat. Even that she did with a quiet authority that caught up the sergeant’s eyes.
The man snapped to attention.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. May I please have your papers?”
“Of course,” said Rachel as she handed over the forged documents. Frieda did her best not to look like she was holding her breath.
The sergeant scarcely looked away from Rachel’s gaze. The examination he gave the papers was cursory at best, and he handed them back as if he were ashamed to have had them in the first place.
“Everything is in order, please drive through.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Ma’am,” he said with a salute.
She returned the salute and pulled out onto the remainder of the bridge. Once the checkpoint was safely in the rearview mirror, Rachel turned toward Frieda.
“I really enjoy scamming soldiers. They’re so darn predictable. Could you light me a cigarette, please?”
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Walking Death, Chapter 10
Frieda worked her way across the tarmac of Bennett Field. She changed a look back to toward the gatehouse nearest her entry point. She saw Rachel vamping to beat the band. This part of an infiltration was all about timing and not being where eyes were looking. Rachel owned the eyes of not only the guardhouse but of the patrolling pair that had just passed by. Captivation like that from a story of a broken down car just wasn’t natural. Frieda once again affirmed her desire to get that girl under mystic examination.
Liberty had provided travel passes for Rachel and Frieda to get past the Imperial checkpoints coming off Manhattan and into Brooklyn. The bored soldiers at the checkpoint barely looked at the Frieda while chatting up Rachel.
The dark gray sweater and pants she wore made her unremarkable. The canisters of gremlins were wrapped in cloth and packed in her shoulder bag.
The closer the time came to the mission, the more she regretted the tools chosen. Gremlins were the opposite of tools, they existed not only to break things, but also to make things go wrong. Worse, they had no loyalty. If one of the embodiments of bad luck got it into its head to be contrary, then she might find a jammed door or a breaking pane of glass alerting a guard. She would almost prefer to be carrying raw excelsiol. Almost.
She took cover in the shadows underneath a fuel truck. Hangar Twenty stood perhaps fifty yards away. Fifty yards of clear, lighted ground. There was no sign of a patrol, but their timing was erratic. She could have five minutes, she could have thirty seconds.
She broke cover before she could talk herself out of it. Long strides covered the ground as her hand gripped her set of lock picks. Eight seconds and she was kneeling by the doorway. The picks felt the workings of the lock. Tumblers fell, as did boot treads around the corner. Only discipline kept her heart in her chest as her fingers worked with new urgency. Steps came faster than the clicks inside. There were two strides approaching, a foot patrol. Frieda knew her life might be down to heartbeats.
The last tumbler slid out of the way and the knob turned. Frieda slipped inside just before the patrolling guards made it to the corner. She closed the door and eased the latch shut. She turned the lock an instant before the knob rattled. The guards never stopped their conversation about the latest football game.
Regaining control of her heart took a couple of moments. Looking about, she took stock of the hangar office. The desk was clean, but the floor safe looked promising.
First things first. She went into the hangar proper and opened the engine cowling of the first plane she came upon. Carefully, she directed the nozzle toward the distributor cap. An angry hiss escaped from the canister. Her curiosity ached to use her aetheric spectacles to see the gremlins infect the engine. More likely the gremlin would turn to feed on the magical energies of the device.
Infecting the rest of the planes took less than five minutes of careful work. A nagging doubt hung at the back of her mind about the malicious creatures she had just set loose. Her next step would be the test of that. The safe was more than they had planned, but she calculated that there must be plans on hand for the transfer of the Ambulamort. Any plan would have to have the origin of the compound.
In for a pfennig, in for a mark, she thought. She removed a stethoscope from her kit and set to work on the safe. The simple safe reminded her of her early years as a burglar. She smiled as the poorly lubricated gears clicked and springs slid. The safe was the work of only a few moments.
Inside was the treasure trove she had hoped for. The Ambulamort was arriving the next afternoon from a laboratory in Long Island. She memorized the address and returned the forms back into the safe, making certain that the dial was turned back to where she found it. After returning from this mission, she knew what her next stop would be.
Liberty had provided travel passes for Rachel and Frieda to get past the Imperial checkpoints coming off Manhattan and into Brooklyn. The bored soldiers at the checkpoint barely looked at the Frieda while chatting up Rachel.
The dark gray sweater and pants she wore made her unremarkable. The canisters of gremlins were wrapped in cloth and packed in her shoulder bag.
The closer the time came to the mission, the more she regretted the tools chosen. Gremlins were the opposite of tools, they existed not only to break things, but also to make things go wrong. Worse, they had no loyalty. If one of the embodiments of bad luck got it into its head to be contrary, then she might find a jammed door or a breaking pane of glass alerting a guard. She would almost prefer to be carrying raw excelsiol. Almost.
She took cover in the shadows underneath a fuel truck. Hangar Twenty stood perhaps fifty yards away. Fifty yards of clear, lighted ground. There was no sign of a patrol, but their timing was erratic. She could have five minutes, she could have thirty seconds.
She broke cover before she could talk herself out of it. Long strides covered the ground as her hand gripped her set of lock picks. Eight seconds and she was kneeling by the doorway. The picks felt the workings of the lock. Tumblers fell, as did boot treads around the corner. Only discipline kept her heart in her chest as her fingers worked with new urgency. Steps came faster than the clicks inside. There were two strides approaching, a foot patrol. Frieda knew her life might be down to heartbeats.
The last tumbler slid out of the way and the knob turned. Frieda slipped inside just before the patrolling guards made it to the corner. She closed the door and eased the latch shut. She turned the lock an instant before the knob rattled. The guards never stopped their conversation about the latest football game.
Regaining control of her heart took a couple of moments. Looking about, she took stock of the hangar office. The desk was clean, but the floor safe looked promising.
First things first. She went into the hangar proper and opened the engine cowling of the first plane she came upon. Carefully, she directed the nozzle toward the distributor cap. An angry hiss escaped from the canister. Her curiosity ached to use her aetheric spectacles to see the gremlins infect the engine. More likely the gremlin would turn to feed on the magical energies of the device.
Infecting the rest of the planes took less than five minutes of careful work. A nagging doubt hung at the back of her mind about the malicious creatures she had just set loose. Her next step would be the test of that. The safe was more than they had planned, but she calculated that there must be plans on hand for the transfer of the Ambulamort. Any plan would have to have the origin of the compound.
In for a pfennig, in for a mark, she thought. She removed a stethoscope from her kit and set to work on the safe. The simple safe reminded her of her early years as a burglar. She smiled as the poorly lubricated gears clicked and springs slid. The safe was the work of only a few moments.
Inside was the treasure trove she had hoped for. The Ambulamort was arriving the next afternoon from a laboratory in Long Island. She memorized the address and returned the forms back into the safe, making certain that the dial was turned back to where she found it. After returning from this mission, she knew what her next stop would be.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Walking Death, Chapter 9
Rachel listened to the tale of the Ambulamort for the second time as Frieda recounted the tale to Liberty. Once the recounting of events was complete, the leader of the New York City Resistance leaned back into his chair.
“This combines too nicely with some other matters that have come to my attention,” he said. “Word is that the planes of the Iron Falcon squadron has been refitted to disperse chemicals.”
“You mean that they’ve been turned into crop dusters?” asked Rachel.
“It seems funny until you remember that it’s our people that are going to be sprayed down like pests,” returned Liberty. Rachel looked down abashed.
Frieda looked past the girl and at the tight confines of the room. It was a storage space converted to a meeting room by the addition of a folding table and three chairs. Mr. Watson was not present. Liberty had sent him to investigate a new Order of Illumination mage that had just arrived in the city. That left Frieda and Rachel to take the meeting with the leader of the Resistance.
“We do have a plan for dealing with the air squadron, however,” said Liberty, picking up a crate and setting it on the table.
Rachel reached in and pulled out a canister the size of a hand grenade. The body was smooth and was topped with an assemblage of flanges and valves covered over in obscure runes.
Frieda noted seven more just like the first in the crate. She carefully picked the one from Rachel’s hand and scrutinized it.
“Excelsiol steel for body, warding runes on the valves. They are clearly some sort of containment devices for non-corporeal creatures. I must say, however, that I have not seen a model with this degree of sealant before.”
Liberty nodded in agreement with Dr. Kellner’s analysis.
“That is because of the nature of the creatures. What we have here are eight gremlins, one for each of the planes of the Iron Falcon Squadron. Those containment devices had to be specially reinforced so that they can’t jinx their way out of them.”
Frieda had to stifle an urge to throw the canister out of her hands. Gremlins were the bane of scientists who pursued the new arcane paths of science. The creatures fed off the enforced order of engineered structures, especially those devices that drew their energy from excelsiol. She had seen more than one experiment go horribly awry due to their contagion.
“I take it that we’re going to do a take a little trip to the airfield?” asked Rachel.
“Yes, go to the airfield, gain access to the hangar, place the gremlins, and get out,” said Liberty. “The squadron should be airborne by the time the first indications of the gremlins will appear. At the very least, it will force them back to the ground. At best, they come down hard.”
Frieda looked over at Rachel.
“Tonight?”
“Tonight,” said Rachel. “I do love playing with flyboys.”
“This combines too nicely with some other matters that have come to my attention,” he said. “Word is that the planes of the Iron Falcon squadron has been refitted to disperse chemicals.”
“You mean that they’ve been turned into crop dusters?” asked Rachel.
“It seems funny until you remember that it’s our people that are going to be sprayed down like pests,” returned Liberty. Rachel looked down abashed.
Frieda looked past the girl and at the tight confines of the room. It was a storage space converted to a meeting room by the addition of a folding table and three chairs. Mr. Watson was not present. Liberty had sent him to investigate a new Order of Illumination mage that had just arrived in the city. That left Frieda and Rachel to take the meeting with the leader of the Resistance.
“We do have a plan for dealing with the air squadron, however,” said Liberty, picking up a crate and setting it on the table.
Rachel reached in and pulled out a canister the size of a hand grenade. The body was smooth and was topped with an assemblage of flanges and valves covered over in obscure runes.
Frieda noted seven more just like the first in the crate. She carefully picked the one from Rachel’s hand and scrutinized it.
“Excelsiol steel for body, warding runes on the valves. They are clearly some sort of containment devices for non-corporeal creatures. I must say, however, that I have not seen a model with this degree of sealant before.”
Liberty nodded in agreement with Dr. Kellner’s analysis.
“That is because of the nature of the creatures. What we have here are eight gremlins, one for each of the planes of the Iron Falcon Squadron. Those containment devices had to be specially reinforced so that they can’t jinx their way out of them.”
Frieda had to stifle an urge to throw the canister out of her hands. Gremlins were the bane of scientists who pursued the new arcane paths of science. The creatures fed off the enforced order of engineered structures, especially those devices that drew their energy from excelsiol. She had seen more than one experiment go horribly awry due to their contagion.
“I take it that we’re going to do a take a little trip to the airfield?” asked Rachel.
“Yes, go to the airfield, gain access to the hangar, place the gremlins, and get out,” said Liberty. “The squadron should be airborne by the time the first indications of the gremlins will appear. At the very least, it will force them back to the ground. At best, they come down hard.”
Frieda looked over at Rachel.
“Tonight?”
“Tonight,” said Rachel. “I do love playing with flyboys.”
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Walking Death, Chapter 8
Frieda took the glass of amber liquid from Sam, took a contemplative sip, and gathered her thoughts.
“Ambulamort? Is that the new weapon you’ve come to tell us about?” asked Sam.
He mentally translated the name and didn’t care for the implication.
“Yes,” said Frieda. She tossed back the rest of the bourbon, as if to wash a bad taste out of her mouth.
“Was it something that you were working on?” asked Sam.
“No, thank God. It was another’s project.”
“So is the Empire aware that you know about it?”
“I do not believe so. I legitimately know enough of the workings of the Bureau of Advanced Sciences to do great harm to the security of many projects. You can rest assured that they are going to turn this city upside down looking for me, just on general principle.”
Rachel asked, “So what got you to New York is something that you know illegitimately? How did that happen?”
Dr. Kellner smiled over another shot of bourbon.
“The Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences is in theory a scientific organization, producing research and conducting experiments for the benefit of the Empire. In practice, rewards are granted for being the creator of the most useful devices for the battlefield. The result is a good deal of infighting and secrecy within the ranks. My forte was in maintaining collegial openness by other means.”
Rachel looked confused while Sam chortled. He’d had experience in such an environment. Yet another similarity between Weird Scientists and Mages, he thought.
“You mean that you looked at their notes without permission,” he said.
“Yes. While my official research was in the medical field, I have much more experience with security systems.”
“And in that way you maintained collegial openness in one direction at least.”
“Yes. My mentor and I were always careful not to allow others to suspect that we were privy to their secrets. We kept it to a matter of releasing our projects just before others or using others’ breakthroughs to accelerate our developments so that the stolen ideas would remain in the deep workings.”
Sam nodded. He was letting his left hand cut and re-cut an oversized deck of cards while his mind was absorbing the information he was hearing. Frieda occasionally caught glimpses of full-face illustrations. Rachel sat on the desk, leaning forward as if enthralled by the tale.
“I see where you’re headed,” said Rachel, “You were digging through someone’s files one night and you tripped over this Ambulamort stuff.”
“Correct,” said the doctor. “Dr. Reinwald suspected that Dr. Grelzer was going to publish a paper using some of Reinwald’s data without permission. Catch him at it before publication, and Grelzer would have no choice but to include Reinwald on co-authorship.”
“You’d break into someone’s lab just for that?” asked Rachel.
“Authorship is highly prized within an academic setting. Aside from completed inventions, it is the prime method of determining status within the Bureau.”
Frieda accepted another drink from Sam before continuing.
“Ambulamort evolved out of medical experiments to restore limbs lost to clean amputations. It was found to be compatible only with dead tissue; the living portion of the body always reacted as if poisoned. The first discovery found that whole organisms could be reanimated, so the plan became to use it to reanimate dead soldiers. Gather up the dead from both sides, reanimate them, and then their casualties become your soldiers. The first problem with that project was that the re-animated soldiers did not possess enough intelligence to command. The second was the prevalence of hyper-aggressive rogues that turned on anything around them.”
The doctor broke her lecture rhythm to take her drink in one shot.
“The plan was then to turn it into an offensive weapon. Increase the aggressive percentage. Package the Ambulamort with another battlefield gas and release it into and behind enemy lines. The army would then attack while the enemy is fighting its own casualties.”
Rachel shivered.
“Kill them and zombie them at the same time.”
“Precisely,” agreed the doctor.
“I suppose,” said Sam, “that leaves us the question of what to do about it.”
“Ambulamort? Is that the new weapon you’ve come to tell us about?” asked Sam.
He mentally translated the name and didn’t care for the implication.
“Yes,” said Frieda. She tossed back the rest of the bourbon, as if to wash a bad taste out of her mouth.
“Was it something that you were working on?” asked Sam.
“No, thank God. It was another’s project.”
“So is the Empire aware that you know about it?”
“I do not believe so. I legitimately know enough of the workings of the Bureau of Advanced Sciences to do great harm to the security of many projects. You can rest assured that they are going to turn this city upside down looking for me, just on general principle.”
Rachel asked, “So what got you to New York is something that you know illegitimately? How did that happen?”
Dr. Kellner smiled over another shot of bourbon.
“The Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences is in theory a scientific organization, producing research and conducting experiments for the benefit of the Empire. In practice, rewards are granted for being the creator of the most useful devices for the battlefield. The result is a good deal of infighting and secrecy within the ranks. My forte was in maintaining collegial openness by other means.”
Rachel looked confused while Sam chortled. He’d had experience in such an environment. Yet another similarity between Weird Scientists and Mages, he thought.
“You mean that you looked at their notes without permission,” he said.
“Yes. While my official research was in the medical field, I have much more experience with security systems.”
“And in that way you maintained collegial openness in one direction at least.”
“Yes. My mentor and I were always careful not to allow others to suspect that we were privy to their secrets. We kept it to a matter of releasing our projects just before others or using others’ breakthroughs to accelerate our developments so that the stolen ideas would remain in the deep workings.”
Sam nodded. He was letting his left hand cut and re-cut an oversized deck of cards while his mind was absorbing the information he was hearing. Frieda occasionally caught glimpses of full-face illustrations. Rachel sat on the desk, leaning forward as if enthralled by the tale.
“I see where you’re headed,” said Rachel, “You were digging through someone’s files one night and you tripped over this Ambulamort stuff.”
“Correct,” said the doctor. “Dr. Reinwald suspected that Dr. Grelzer was going to publish a paper using some of Reinwald’s data without permission. Catch him at it before publication, and Grelzer would have no choice but to include Reinwald on co-authorship.”
“You’d break into someone’s lab just for that?” asked Rachel.
“Authorship is highly prized within an academic setting. Aside from completed inventions, it is the prime method of determining status within the Bureau.”
Frieda accepted another drink from Sam before continuing.
“Ambulamort evolved out of medical experiments to restore limbs lost to clean amputations. It was found to be compatible only with dead tissue; the living portion of the body always reacted as if poisoned. The first discovery found that whole organisms could be reanimated, so the plan became to use it to reanimate dead soldiers. Gather up the dead from both sides, reanimate them, and then their casualties become your soldiers. The first problem with that project was that the re-animated soldiers did not possess enough intelligence to command. The second was the prevalence of hyper-aggressive rogues that turned on anything around them.”
The doctor broke her lecture rhythm to take her drink in one shot.
“The plan was then to turn it into an offensive weapon. Increase the aggressive percentage. Package the Ambulamort with another battlefield gas and release it into and behind enemy lines. The army would then attack while the enemy is fighting its own casualties.”
Rachel shivered.
“Kill them and zombie them at the same time.”
“Precisely,” agreed the doctor.
“I suppose,” said Sam, “that leaves us the question of what to do about it.”
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Walking Death, Chapter 7
Hack dropped Rachel and Frieda off in front of a place called Molly’s Diner. He was heading down the road before he could notice that the two women weren’t interested the blue plate special.
Rachel gave a jaunty little wave to Molly as she led Frieda by the hand toward the building’s small lobby. The door wasn’t locked in case someone had to see Dr. Moss, whose office shared a reception room with Sam’s, for an emergency. The bulb on the stairwell was out, but Rachel’s eyes scarcely registered the gloom. Between the low-light vision and the beauty of their angelic cousins, all of the Lilliam had the full see-and-be-seen package.
Enough light came down from the floor above for Frieda to see well enough by the time they reached the first landing. The light, she judged, was from a single lamp behind the frosted glass door labeled “Sam Watson, Private Investigator”.
Rachel stopped for a moment, appraising the door with an unfocused look in her eyes. Her scrutiny satisfied, she squared her shoulders, strode the three paces across the small reception area and knocked on the door. A shadow moved in the office.
“Who is it?” asked a masculine voice.
“Advance agent for Santa Clause, Mr. Watson,” said the dark-haired girl. “I’m here to discuss some irregularities of your behavior for proper listing.”
The door opened. The man inside wore shirtsleeves, suspenders, and an empty shoulder holster. He kept his right hand behind the door. The smile on his face died away as quickly as his eyes went from the girl to the woman behind her.
“Oh,” said Rachel, “introductions as soon as you let us in, Sam.”
He stepped aside with a nod into the room. The two women were barely in before he closed the door and locked it behind them. Sam re-holstered the handgun as Rachel took a seat on the desk.
Frieda chose to remain standing, taking a position along the wall opposite the door. The man, Mr. Sam Watson, Private Investigator she presumed, was of middling height and a fit build. His hair was light brown tending to red in the light of the hooded desk lamp. He didn’t seem particularly young, maybe late thirties, forty at most. He looked the tired of a man who had just completed some vigorous activity. If the girl was bringing her to this man, Frieda concluded that the activity would have been the fight at the warehouse.
Now that she finally had some decent light to make an assessment, Frieda looked at her guide. She had been assuming that her rescuer was young, and now her appraisal confirmed it. The black haired girl was more than a waif, probably sixteen or seventeen, with a pale-skinned, expressive, face.
The question was forming in Frieda’s mind when the girl answered it.
“My name’s Rachel.”
Sam had by then reclaimed his composure.
“May I offer you a drink, Doctor?”
“Are we safe here?”
“So long as you weren’t followed the Imperials would have no reason to look for you here.”
Frieda let out a breath that she hadn’t been aware of holding.
“Then thank you, I need a drink.”
“Set me up one too, Sam,” said Rachel.
Frieda quirked an eyebrow as Sam took a pair of glasses out of a desk drawer.
Rachel smiled and said, “I’m older than I look.” With another look, Frieda saw that despite nothing seeming to change about Rachel, she had to reassess her age into the mid-twenties. Frieda made a note to rebuild her magic sensing glasses as soon as possible.
“I need to make a call, pardon me, ladies,” said Sam, now sitting behind the desk and pulling the phone over to him. He took pains to keep the number he dialed covered up. Frieda was still able to tell by counting the clicks of the rotor.
“Quisitor. I’m checking in for Lamb as well. Yes, about that, Knocker is secure. Yes, Lamb brought her to my office.”
“Tell him I thought there would be road blocks between the pick up and the safe house,” offered Rachel.
“I agree,” said Sam, ignoring Rachel’s intrusion, “the damage has been done, she knows both of our names. Uh-huh, thought you’d say that. She’s right here.” With that, Sam held the phone out to Frieda. “Liberty for you.”
“Thank you. Hello?”
“Dr. Kellner, I am glad to hear you made it out safely.”
“Good to be out, but what about your men?”
“We did lose some, both killed and captured, but we are already working to find them. For now, it is enough that you are safe.”
“Thank you, but what now?”
“For now, I’m going to have you work in Mr. Watson’s cell with Rachel. I had other plans, but it is better that you stay with them for now.”
“How much can I tell them?”
“I would have brought Sam in regardless, so you may tell them everything about the project.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll remain in touch to get you set up with a new identity in the meantime.”
“Thank you, again.”
“Thank you for taking the risk, Doctor. Good bye.” The line then went dead.
Sam and Rachel were watching her through the conversation. Frieda replaced the phone onto the cradle.
“Liberty says that I am to trust the two of you with the information I have. That being the case, I need to tell you about Ambulamort.”
Rachel gave a jaunty little wave to Molly as she led Frieda by the hand toward the building’s small lobby. The door wasn’t locked in case someone had to see Dr. Moss, whose office shared a reception room with Sam’s, for an emergency. The bulb on the stairwell was out, but Rachel’s eyes scarcely registered the gloom. Between the low-light vision and the beauty of their angelic cousins, all of the Lilliam had the full see-and-be-seen package.
Enough light came down from the floor above for Frieda to see well enough by the time they reached the first landing. The light, she judged, was from a single lamp behind the frosted glass door labeled “Sam Watson, Private Investigator”.
Rachel stopped for a moment, appraising the door with an unfocused look in her eyes. Her scrutiny satisfied, she squared her shoulders, strode the three paces across the small reception area and knocked on the door. A shadow moved in the office.
“Who is it?” asked a masculine voice.
“Advance agent for Santa Clause, Mr. Watson,” said the dark-haired girl. “I’m here to discuss some irregularities of your behavior for proper listing.”
The door opened. The man inside wore shirtsleeves, suspenders, and an empty shoulder holster. He kept his right hand behind the door. The smile on his face died away as quickly as his eyes went from the girl to the woman behind her.
“Oh,” said Rachel, “introductions as soon as you let us in, Sam.”
He stepped aside with a nod into the room. The two women were barely in before he closed the door and locked it behind them. Sam re-holstered the handgun as Rachel took a seat on the desk.
Frieda chose to remain standing, taking a position along the wall opposite the door. The man, Mr. Sam Watson, Private Investigator she presumed, was of middling height and a fit build. His hair was light brown tending to red in the light of the hooded desk lamp. He didn’t seem particularly young, maybe late thirties, forty at most. He looked the tired of a man who had just completed some vigorous activity. If the girl was bringing her to this man, Frieda concluded that the activity would have been the fight at the warehouse.
Now that she finally had some decent light to make an assessment, Frieda looked at her guide. She had been assuming that her rescuer was young, and now her appraisal confirmed it. The black haired girl was more than a waif, probably sixteen or seventeen, with a pale-skinned, expressive, face.
The question was forming in Frieda’s mind when the girl answered it.
“My name’s Rachel.”
Sam had by then reclaimed his composure.
“May I offer you a drink, Doctor?”
“Are we safe here?”
“So long as you weren’t followed the Imperials would have no reason to look for you here.”
Frieda let out a breath that she hadn’t been aware of holding.
“Then thank you, I need a drink.”
“Set me up one too, Sam,” said Rachel.
Frieda quirked an eyebrow as Sam took a pair of glasses out of a desk drawer.
Rachel smiled and said, “I’m older than I look.” With another look, Frieda saw that despite nothing seeming to change about Rachel, she had to reassess her age into the mid-twenties. Frieda made a note to rebuild her magic sensing glasses as soon as possible.
“I need to make a call, pardon me, ladies,” said Sam, now sitting behind the desk and pulling the phone over to him. He took pains to keep the number he dialed covered up. Frieda was still able to tell by counting the clicks of the rotor.
“Quisitor. I’m checking in for Lamb as well. Yes, about that, Knocker is secure. Yes, Lamb brought her to my office.”
“Tell him I thought there would be road blocks between the pick up and the safe house,” offered Rachel.
“I agree,” said Sam, ignoring Rachel’s intrusion, “the damage has been done, she knows both of our names. Uh-huh, thought you’d say that. She’s right here.” With that, Sam held the phone out to Frieda. “Liberty for you.”
“Thank you. Hello?”
“Dr. Kellner, I am glad to hear you made it out safely.”
“Good to be out, but what about your men?”
“We did lose some, both killed and captured, but we are already working to find them. For now, it is enough that you are safe.”
“Thank you, but what now?”
“For now, I’m going to have you work in Mr. Watson’s cell with Rachel. I had other plans, but it is better that you stay with them for now.”
“How much can I tell them?”
“I would have brought Sam in regardless, so you may tell them everything about the project.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll remain in touch to get you set up with a new identity in the meantime.”
“Thank you, again.”
“Thank you for taking the risk, Doctor. Good bye.” The line then went dead.
Sam and Rachel were watching her through the conversation. Frieda replaced the phone onto the cradle.
“Liberty says that I am to trust the two of you with the information I have. That being the case, I need to tell you about Ambulamort.”
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Walking Death, Chapter 6
Leaping aside from the toppling truck, Frieda reset her grip on her ray gun. She took a quick stock of her situation. She knew that the side of the ambush with the burning truck was clear. What she didn’t know was how long it would take for the Imperials from the front to get to that side, or if that would be long enough to get through the corner and into cover for a stealthy escape. She had her ray gun, no self-respecting weird scientist traveled without one, but she knew that it would not be enough to hold off a company of Imperials.
“We need cover!” she yelled to the Resistance man ahead of her.
“There’s an alley across the street. We can make it if we give these guys the bum’s rush.”
“Go!” she said, following tight on the man’s hip.
The pair spun around the corner of the disguised panel truck. A pair of controlled bursts from his Thompson brought down the first two soldiers in the line. The third one was not completely surprised and let of a blind shot. The man was panicked, and lucky. Frieda’s escort let out a muffled groan and started to collapse.
The doughboy was marveling at his shot when Frieda’s first ray took him in the chest. Her next two went off as she loosened the focus on the emitter with her thumb. The widened beam wasn’t enough to kill any of the remaining three men, but it was enough to catch them all and knock them senseless.
Frieda knelt and rolled the Resistance man over onto his back. The hole, gasping and bloody in his chest, put paid to any idea of helping him escape. She had no false modesty. She knew that the man took the risk to get her safely away from the Empire. There would be no purpose in both being captured in her stopping to render aid.
Instead, she ran, head down, for the now visible alley mouth. She had momentum on her side as she crossed the dangerous open space where she would be visible to the third truck. A shout of “Halt!” and a pair of rifle reports sounded behind her. The darkness of the alley was welcome shelter, an old ally that she worked very well with.
She discovered quickly that she did not have the shadows to herself. A figure stepped out from the cover of a cluster of trashcans. Frieda’s heart almost gave out until the new shadow spoke.
“Knocker.”
Frieda needed a restarted heartbeat to remember the countersign.
“White Rabbit?”
“Call me Lamb,” her rescuer said with a released breath. “Follow me.”
On closer inspection, Lamb proved to be little more than a slip of a girl. At first, it gave Frieda pause that her fate had fallen into the hands of someone so young, let alone small. A second thought revealed that it could be ideal. If one ever had an image of a fighter, Lamb was not it. If this one had a method of escaping this situation, it would be a stealthy escape and one that had been thought out well before hand.
Whatever plans the girl had had to be put into motion quickly. By the time they rounded the first corner they came upon there were at least two Imperials in the alleyway. A few more twists and turns put them out onto the street on the far side of the block.
Lamb took Frieda’s arm.
“Just look like a fella out with his girl,” she whispered. Frieda had forgotten that she was wearing workman’s clothes and could reasonably expect to pass from a distance.
Sirens sounded in the distance, and as the pair crossed the street they saw police cars go roaring toward the warehouse. Once across the street, Lamb danced up the steps to a tenement call box. She pressed three buttons simultaneously, and the door buzzed open. They slipped through as a sleep addled voice demanded to know who was bothering him at that time of the night.
Their path took them up the stairs.
“We need to get some distance before we get a ride,” said Lamb. “I hope that you don’t mind heights.”
Their climb took them to the roof. Lamb pointed the direction, and Dr. Kellner saw the almost stair like arrangement of rooftops. Before the girl could say anything, Frieda took off at a run and leapt the gap to the next roof. She drew more than a little satisfaction at the girl’s surprised look.
Then Lamb made her jump. Frieda could have sworn that she heard the girl make a quiet “Whee” sound. The two then set off at an easy run across the rooftops, making the leaps across the alleys. Just before the end of the block, Lamb pointed out a fire escape and headed over there. At the bottom was a cab with its engine running.
“Heya, Hack,” said Lamb to the driver. To Frieda: “Don’t worry, he’s one of ours.”
“Is this the Doc?” asked Hack.
“Yep, let’s do the introductions on the road, shall we?”
“Right, safe house.”
“No,” said Lamb. “The pickup got busted, I don’t know if the safe house is safe anymore.”
“So where do we go?” asked Frieda.
Lamb was silent for a moment. Then she smiled.
“I know just the place.”
“We need cover!” she yelled to the Resistance man ahead of her.
“There’s an alley across the street. We can make it if we give these guys the bum’s rush.”
“Go!” she said, following tight on the man’s hip.
The pair spun around the corner of the disguised panel truck. A pair of controlled bursts from his Thompson brought down the first two soldiers in the line. The third one was not completely surprised and let of a blind shot. The man was panicked, and lucky. Frieda’s escort let out a muffled groan and started to collapse.
The doughboy was marveling at his shot when Frieda’s first ray took him in the chest. Her next two went off as she loosened the focus on the emitter with her thumb. The widened beam wasn’t enough to kill any of the remaining three men, but it was enough to catch them all and knock them senseless.
Frieda knelt and rolled the Resistance man over onto his back. The hole, gasping and bloody in his chest, put paid to any idea of helping him escape. She had no false modesty. She knew that the man took the risk to get her safely away from the Empire. There would be no purpose in both being captured in her stopping to render aid.
Instead, she ran, head down, for the now visible alley mouth. She had momentum on her side as she crossed the dangerous open space where she would be visible to the third truck. A shout of “Halt!” and a pair of rifle reports sounded behind her. The darkness of the alley was welcome shelter, an old ally that she worked very well with.
She discovered quickly that she did not have the shadows to herself. A figure stepped out from the cover of a cluster of trashcans. Frieda’s heart almost gave out until the new shadow spoke.
“Knocker.”
Frieda needed a restarted heartbeat to remember the countersign.
“White Rabbit?”
“Call me Lamb,” her rescuer said with a released breath. “Follow me.”
On closer inspection, Lamb proved to be little more than a slip of a girl. At first, it gave Frieda pause that her fate had fallen into the hands of someone so young, let alone small. A second thought revealed that it could be ideal. If one ever had an image of a fighter, Lamb was not it. If this one had a method of escaping this situation, it would be a stealthy escape and one that had been thought out well before hand.
Whatever plans the girl had had to be put into motion quickly. By the time they rounded the first corner they came upon there were at least two Imperials in the alleyway. A few more twists and turns put them out onto the street on the far side of the block.
Lamb took Frieda’s arm.
“Just look like a fella out with his girl,” she whispered. Frieda had forgotten that she was wearing workman’s clothes and could reasonably expect to pass from a distance.
Sirens sounded in the distance, and as the pair crossed the street they saw police cars go roaring toward the warehouse. Once across the street, Lamb danced up the steps to a tenement call box. She pressed three buttons simultaneously, and the door buzzed open. They slipped through as a sleep addled voice demanded to know who was bothering him at that time of the night.
Their path took them up the stairs.
“We need to get some distance before we get a ride,” said Lamb. “I hope that you don’t mind heights.”
Their climb took them to the roof. Lamb pointed the direction, and Dr. Kellner saw the almost stair like arrangement of rooftops. Before the girl could say anything, Frieda took off at a run and leapt the gap to the next roof. She drew more than a little satisfaction at the girl’s surprised look.
Then Lamb made her jump. Frieda could have sworn that she heard the girl make a quiet “Whee” sound. The two then set off at an easy run across the rooftops, making the leaps across the alleys. Just before the end of the block, Lamb pointed out a fire escape and headed over there. At the bottom was a cab with its engine running.
“Heya, Hack,” said Lamb to the driver. To Frieda: “Don’t worry, he’s one of ours.”
“Is this the Doc?” asked Hack.
“Yep, let’s do the introductions on the road, shall we?”
“Right, safe house.”
“No,” said Lamb. “The pickup got busted, I don’t know if the safe house is safe anymore.”
“So where do we go?” asked Frieda.
Lamb was silent for a moment. Then she smiled.
“I know just the place.”
Monday, November 28, 2005
Walking Death, Chapter 5
Sam’s second spell was to cast darkness about himself. It filled a sphere five yards out with impenetrable blackness. The darkness itself was simple, making it so that he could see through it was one complication, but allowing select others to see through it took the greatest finesse. That Jericho and Petra had already gunned down three soldiers testified to their sight through the dark.
The first spell had been a fireball into nearest truck before most of the men inside could get clear. The rest, lacking any cover from both the warehouse and the outside guns, fell quickly.
For the moment, Sam found himself without a target. He kept a wary eye off to his right, the direction from which forces from the front of the warehouse would do the most damage. Unless Liberty got his people out of the warehouse in a hurry Sam’s position would become untenable in an all-fired hurry.
The gout of white smoke that erupted from the rear doors answered that concern very quickly. The smoke was thick, and it further reduced Sam’s view more than the burning panel truck had.
Sam ran to Jericho’s position at the edge of the circle of darkness. From there he was able to see a half dozen men hunkered down behind the second truck. That truck had been parked so that it was directly opposite the doors in a semicircle with the other two.
“Cover me,” yelled Jericho. Sam obliged with three shots toward the rear of the truck as the Resistance fighter took cover behind the corner. One Imperial had been spraying rounds randomly into the darkness, peppering holes into the car but making little real damage. Sam’s shots forced the man to pull back behind the decreasingly effective cover of the truck. From his new position, Jericho had traded the relative safety of the mage darkness for a better attack angle. He made the most of it.
Meanwhile, Liberty and the inside Resistance came rolling out of the warehouse, taking cover behind the truck that had picked up Dr. Kellner. He kept Frieda close to his side as he fired over the bed of the truck at the position to the right of the doors.
“When we get as far as we can, get across to the alley and make for your escape…” started Liberty.
“VIENTO” pronounced a loud voice from within the warehouse. With that, the Resistance was again covered by rapidly thinning smoke as a sorcerous wind purged the air.
“Move, move, move!” ordered Liberty. Once the smoke was gone, there would be nothing left to cover them from more magic. Nothing except an out of position Quisitor.
Sam’s blood ran cold when he heard the voice. Incantations were as unique as the casting mage, and Sam knew that Captain Bren was aiding in this raid. Sam looked to his two compatriots. Neither responded very much to the sound of the spell being cast. That left Sam to protect them and the rest of the Resistance.
He ran for the burning truck, praying that there weren’t any rounds yet to cook off. By the time he got there, the truck had nosed itself into the far enemy vehicle. Sam prepared to block an attack from the inside, but the tactic used caught him flatfooted. The truck lifted an inch off the ground and then rolled over on its side. Sam reacted, but too slowly to prevent it from landing on Spanner and two others. The best Sam could do was preventing the vehicle from crushing the men to death.
Liberty and the other men moved to roll the truck back off of their fellows, but a fresh barrage of gunfire from inside the warehouse stopped them, killing one man in the process.
“Retreat, retreat,” yelled Liberty. To the rest he said, “Be strong, we’ll get you out.”
Sam ran for his car, giving Petra and Jericho the wave off signal. Driving away, he did not know if they had managed to free the scientist.
The first spell had been a fireball into nearest truck before most of the men inside could get clear. The rest, lacking any cover from both the warehouse and the outside guns, fell quickly.
For the moment, Sam found himself without a target. He kept a wary eye off to his right, the direction from which forces from the front of the warehouse would do the most damage. Unless Liberty got his people out of the warehouse in a hurry Sam’s position would become untenable in an all-fired hurry.
The gout of white smoke that erupted from the rear doors answered that concern very quickly. The smoke was thick, and it further reduced Sam’s view more than the burning panel truck had.
Sam ran to Jericho’s position at the edge of the circle of darkness. From there he was able to see a half dozen men hunkered down behind the second truck. That truck had been parked so that it was directly opposite the doors in a semicircle with the other two.
“Cover me,” yelled Jericho. Sam obliged with three shots toward the rear of the truck as the Resistance fighter took cover behind the corner. One Imperial had been spraying rounds randomly into the darkness, peppering holes into the car but making little real damage. Sam’s shots forced the man to pull back behind the decreasingly effective cover of the truck. From his new position, Jericho had traded the relative safety of the mage darkness for a better attack angle. He made the most of it.
Meanwhile, Liberty and the inside Resistance came rolling out of the warehouse, taking cover behind the truck that had picked up Dr. Kellner. He kept Frieda close to his side as he fired over the bed of the truck at the position to the right of the doors.
“When we get as far as we can, get across to the alley and make for your escape…” started Liberty.
“VIENTO” pronounced a loud voice from within the warehouse. With that, the Resistance was again covered by rapidly thinning smoke as a sorcerous wind purged the air.
“Move, move, move!” ordered Liberty. Once the smoke was gone, there would be nothing left to cover them from more magic. Nothing except an out of position Quisitor.
Sam’s blood ran cold when he heard the voice. Incantations were as unique as the casting mage, and Sam knew that Captain Bren was aiding in this raid. Sam looked to his two compatriots. Neither responded very much to the sound of the spell being cast. That left Sam to protect them and the rest of the Resistance.
He ran for the burning truck, praying that there weren’t any rounds yet to cook off. By the time he got there, the truck had nosed itself into the far enemy vehicle. Sam prepared to block an attack from the inside, but the tactic used caught him flatfooted. The truck lifted an inch off the ground and then rolled over on its side. Sam reacted, but too slowly to prevent it from landing on Spanner and two others. The best Sam could do was preventing the vehicle from crushing the men to death.
Liberty and the other men moved to roll the truck back off of their fellows, but a fresh barrage of gunfire from inside the warehouse stopped them, killing one man in the process.
“Retreat, retreat,” yelled Liberty. To the rest he said, “Be strong, we’ll get you out.”
Sam ran for his car, giving Petra and Jericho the wave off signal. Driving away, he did not know if they had managed to free the scientist.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Walking Death, Chapter 4
Liberty watched as his team unloaded the casket-like box from the rear of the truck. Tarrytown and Goodyear hopped out of the truck while Sampson, Digger, and Cross did the unloading.
Liberty knew he had a good plan, and good people to see it through. He was still bothered, however, bothered beyond the usual anxiety inherent to any operation. The defection of a scientist of Kellner’s stature had rightly caused a furor back in the Old World. It was also a given that the Resistance would somehow get her to the Free States. The blockade of all Free State ports meant smuggling through a controlled port.
That was the first part of Liberty’s worries. The only means available to the Resistance was the Trident, the world spanning smuggling ring controlled by “Zeus” Pandareos. He was let in on neither the contents of the package nor who was paying him to move it. Both pieces of information were classically taboo in Zeus’s line of work, but he was still able to put two and two together with respect to the timing to know that four was going to cost more than normal. It was a gaping hole in the security of the transport, but there was no way around it.
The second thing that had him worried was that the local garrisons hadn’t seemed to react to the news. No extra security at the ports, no extra crackdown on freelance practitioners of weird science. The Count seemed to be making a show of his pants being down.
That was why Liberty had laid on so much protection for this operation. Five men in case the Imperials made their way inside, in addition to himself and Spanner, who was there for his technical expertise. Outside, he had four more: Quisitor, Lamb, Jericho, and Petra. They were primarily lookouts, but Jericho and Petra were fair gun hands, and Quisitor was the sole mage in Liberty’s New York operation. Should fighting start, Jericho and Petra would form on Quisitor and provide him cover. Both sides of this war knew: when in doubt, shoot the guy throwing fireballs. If things went particularly badly, he had Lamb holding back as eyes to gauge the activities of the Imperials post raid. Lamb may have been more than just a girl, but she was far more valuable for intelligence than fighting.
Sampson didn’t bother with a pry bar as he removed the lid from the crate. He was one more surprise in case things went bad. Sampson’s strength was normally impressive. When pushed, he could use some of the world’s magic to augment his might.
Once the lid was removed, Spanner was right over the doctor and snapped a capsule he had removed from his heavily laden vest under her nose. Sawbones was right next to him checking the doctor’s vital signs. Frieda sat up with a gasp and a long fit of coughing. Liberty waited until her coughing came under control before speaking.
“Knocker?”
Dr. Kellner had to pause for a moment to focus her eyes on the masked man standing next to the crate.
“White Rabbit?”
Liberty smiled under the mask at his alternate codename. It was his first in truth, selected due to his heritage. Henry Fitzpatrick counted himself a descendant of Patrick Henry and saw it as a duty to re-fight the Revolution as fate would have it. “White Rabbit” had been a joke made by one of his commando platoon during the Great War to mean that he was “late for the Tea Party”.
“Good to have you here with us, Doctor,” said the Resistance leader.
Before she could respond, Spanner’s miniaturized wireless gave out a call.
“Base, Quisitor: the wolf is at the door, the wolf is at the door.”
“Soldiers front!” called Cross.
“Soldiers rear!” called Goodyear.
“Hold them back!” ordered Liberty.
With that, two men each at the front and rear opened fire with their Thompsons through windows at catwalk level. Liberty could not see anything from his ground floor position. The warehouse faced the waterfront to the west and had a second set of loading doors on the east. North and south were unbroken brick walls.
Glass rained down when the Imperials opened fire. Digger screamed and fell backward off of the catwalk. Liberty grabbed Dr. Kellner and pushed her into the truck.
The light bloomed through the windows of the west face.
“One of their trucks just blew!”
Liberty knew that it must have been Quisitor engaging the enemy.
“Digger, Cross, pin them down up front. The rest, get ready to punch our way out the…”
A crash of wood and metal prevented Liberty from completing his order. The doors flew inward as if a truck had hit them. The force was enough that the doors took out three of the supports for the catwalk. Digger and Cross found the metal they were standing on suddenly no longer supporting them, and they fell in front of the now open maw that had been the front doors.
“Mage!” yelled Liberty. “Spanner, smoke now!”
“Spectacles down, smoke now!” Spanner removed two canisters from his vest, popped a pair of levers, and tossed the small smoke generators toward the doors. With the spectacles he had provided, the Resistance members could see as well as a clear day. Meanwhile, the Imperials, and most importantly the Imperial mage Captain Rupert Bren, could not see more than five feet into the smoke.
It sadly did little for Digger and Cross, for whom the pain of their injuries magnified ten fold under the magic of Captain Bren. Their capture would be easy enough, and the Anti-Resistance Force wasted no further thought on them.
Liberty grabbed Frieda by the arm and moved quickly to the rear doors.
“Spanner, notify the outer teams that we are coming out the back. And have your smoke ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sampson, hit the door.”
The rear doors buckled outward with little less force than the front ones had. The new cross ventilation threatened to dissipate the smoke more quickly, and Liberty knew they didn’t have time to waste.
“Charge!”
Liberty knew he had a good plan, and good people to see it through. He was still bothered, however, bothered beyond the usual anxiety inherent to any operation. The defection of a scientist of Kellner’s stature had rightly caused a furor back in the Old World. It was also a given that the Resistance would somehow get her to the Free States. The blockade of all Free State ports meant smuggling through a controlled port.
That was the first part of Liberty’s worries. The only means available to the Resistance was the Trident, the world spanning smuggling ring controlled by “Zeus” Pandareos. He was let in on neither the contents of the package nor who was paying him to move it. Both pieces of information were classically taboo in Zeus’s line of work, but he was still able to put two and two together with respect to the timing to know that four was going to cost more than normal. It was a gaping hole in the security of the transport, but there was no way around it.
The second thing that had him worried was that the local garrisons hadn’t seemed to react to the news. No extra security at the ports, no extra crackdown on freelance practitioners of weird science. The Count seemed to be making a show of his pants being down.
That was why Liberty had laid on so much protection for this operation. Five men in case the Imperials made their way inside, in addition to himself and Spanner, who was there for his technical expertise. Outside, he had four more: Quisitor, Lamb, Jericho, and Petra. They were primarily lookouts, but Jericho and Petra were fair gun hands, and Quisitor was the sole mage in Liberty’s New York operation. Should fighting start, Jericho and Petra would form on Quisitor and provide him cover. Both sides of this war knew: when in doubt, shoot the guy throwing fireballs. If things went particularly badly, he had Lamb holding back as eyes to gauge the activities of the Imperials post raid. Lamb may have been more than just a girl, but she was far more valuable for intelligence than fighting.
Sampson didn’t bother with a pry bar as he removed the lid from the crate. He was one more surprise in case things went bad. Sampson’s strength was normally impressive. When pushed, he could use some of the world’s magic to augment his might.
Once the lid was removed, Spanner was right over the doctor and snapped a capsule he had removed from his heavily laden vest under her nose. Sawbones was right next to him checking the doctor’s vital signs. Frieda sat up with a gasp and a long fit of coughing. Liberty waited until her coughing came under control before speaking.
“Knocker?”
Dr. Kellner had to pause for a moment to focus her eyes on the masked man standing next to the crate.
“White Rabbit?”
Liberty smiled under the mask at his alternate codename. It was his first in truth, selected due to his heritage. Henry Fitzpatrick counted himself a descendant of Patrick Henry and saw it as a duty to re-fight the Revolution as fate would have it. “White Rabbit” had been a joke made by one of his commando platoon during the Great War to mean that he was “late for the Tea Party”.
“Good to have you here with us, Doctor,” said the Resistance leader.
Before she could respond, Spanner’s miniaturized wireless gave out a call.
“Base, Quisitor: the wolf is at the door, the wolf is at the door.”
“Soldiers front!” called Cross.
“Soldiers rear!” called Goodyear.
“Hold them back!” ordered Liberty.
With that, two men each at the front and rear opened fire with their Thompsons through windows at catwalk level. Liberty could not see anything from his ground floor position. The warehouse faced the waterfront to the west and had a second set of loading doors on the east. North and south were unbroken brick walls.
Glass rained down when the Imperials opened fire. Digger screamed and fell backward off of the catwalk. Liberty grabbed Dr. Kellner and pushed her into the truck.
The light bloomed through the windows of the west face.
“One of their trucks just blew!”
Liberty knew that it must have been Quisitor engaging the enemy.
“Digger, Cross, pin them down up front. The rest, get ready to punch our way out the…”
A crash of wood and metal prevented Liberty from completing his order. The doors flew inward as if a truck had hit them. The force was enough that the doors took out three of the supports for the catwalk. Digger and Cross found the metal they were standing on suddenly no longer supporting them, and they fell in front of the now open maw that had been the front doors.
“Mage!” yelled Liberty. “Spanner, smoke now!”
“Spectacles down, smoke now!” Spanner removed two canisters from his vest, popped a pair of levers, and tossed the small smoke generators toward the doors. With the spectacles he had provided, the Resistance members could see as well as a clear day. Meanwhile, the Imperials, and most importantly the Imperial mage Captain Rupert Bren, could not see more than five feet into the smoke.
It sadly did little for Digger and Cross, for whom the pain of their injuries magnified ten fold under the magic of Captain Bren. Their capture would be easy enough, and the Anti-Resistance Force wasted no further thought on them.
Liberty grabbed Frieda by the arm and moved quickly to the rear doors.
“Spanner, notify the outer teams that we are coming out the back. And have your smoke ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sampson, hit the door.”
The rear doors buckled outward with little less force than the front ones had. The new cross ventilation threatened to dissipate the smoke more quickly, and Liberty knew they didn’t have time to waste.
“Charge!”
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Walking Death, Chapter 3
Sam and Rachel met up prior to the meeting and made their way. Virtually everyone on the call out list was present. The meeting was to make plans for the recovery of a defecting Imperial scientist who was referred to only by the codename Knocker. Knocker would be arriving via a cargo ship and in a casket sized box. Sam shuddered to think about a passage of three weeks inside a coffin, and thought that the woman had to have ice water in her veins.
The plan was simple: two men would recover the box and transport it to a warehouse rented for the night from the Rinaldi Family. Once there, Spanner, a weird science specialist, and Sawbones, team medic, would awaken the scientist. Goodyear would be standing by to drive. Four others, not including the pick-up men, would be present as close security. All of this would be overseen by the masked Liberty, head of the New York City resistance. That he was in on this was too much of a risk so far as Sam was concerned, but Liberty made it clear that he would not remove himself from the plan.
Outside of the warehouse, Liberty had placed four lookouts, Rachel/Lamb among them. Sam was to be outside as well; ready as magical back up and to cover the escape should the Law come down.
Sam and Rachel took a position a couple of blocks away from the warehouse.
“I feel ridiculous,” said Rachel as she leaned into the passenger side of Sam’s car. She was wearing a low-cut top and old flapper dress purchased from a second-hand store.
“What? I’ve seen you wearing less than that during dance numbers.”
“At least those outfits had class. And they matched. These look like you just dug them up from random out of a charity bin.”
Sam decided to button his trap on that one. He did pull them out of a bin at the store.
“Hey, I had to work hard to find something that would class you down. Anything you might have had would have been too nice for a working girl in this neighborhood.”
“Well, I would have found something better.”
Rachel was had to remind herself to keep from stomping as she made her way up and down the street. She was running ways of getting back at Sam for this indignity. Not only was she passing up a night at Club Hades, but she was positively mortified that one of her sisters might spot her done up like this. The Lilliam were certainly not uptight when it came to sex as a business matter, but they definitely considered mere street walking beneath their station. Besides, cash was not the true medium of exchange in such matters.
She continued her walk up the street, back toward Sam to report nothing of interest. She even managed to put on a smile and a cant of the hip to the whistle of the shotgun man of a panel truck heading toward the docks. The whistler’s truck was the first of a half dozen traveling in convoy. Rachel stopped her strut and looked closer as the trucks traveled in convoy.
They were all commercial lorries, but something about the drivers bothered her. The passenger of the first truck made a smart whistle and got a punch in the shoulder from his driver. None of the others made any sign of having seen her. The last truck’s passenger did notice her, however. In a brief flash of eye contact, Rachel recognized the scarred face of the last passenger: Major Helmut Stein of the Imperial Anti-Resistance Forces.
Panic flashed before composure resettled over Rachel’s mind. She gave the major a wink, a twitch of the hip, and a lewd comment. Stein’s gaze slid right off of her. Rachel hoped that he had just brushed her off his mind like he would a speck of lint off of his normally perfect uniform. He had been wearing coveralls. She did the math as she hurried to Sam’s car: driver and passenger in each truck was twelve, plus unknown number in the back of each.
She had to get back to Sam immediately.
The plan was simple: two men would recover the box and transport it to a warehouse rented for the night from the Rinaldi Family. Once there, Spanner, a weird science specialist, and Sawbones, team medic, would awaken the scientist. Goodyear would be standing by to drive. Four others, not including the pick-up men, would be present as close security. All of this would be overseen by the masked Liberty, head of the New York City resistance. That he was in on this was too much of a risk so far as Sam was concerned, but Liberty made it clear that he would not remove himself from the plan.
Outside of the warehouse, Liberty had placed four lookouts, Rachel/Lamb among them. Sam was to be outside as well; ready as magical back up and to cover the escape should the Law come down.
Sam and Rachel took a position a couple of blocks away from the warehouse.
“I feel ridiculous,” said Rachel as she leaned into the passenger side of Sam’s car. She was wearing a low-cut top and old flapper dress purchased from a second-hand store.
“What? I’ve seen you wearing less than that during dance numbers.”
“At least those outfits had class. And they matched. These look like you just dug them up from random out of a charity bin.”
Sam decided to button his trap on that one. He did pull them out of a bin at the store.
“Hey, I had to work hard to find something that would class you down. Anything you might have had would have been too nice for a working girl in this neighborhood.”
“Well, I would have found something better.”
Rachel was had to remind herself to keep from stomping as she made her way up and down the street. She was running ways of getting back at Sam for this indignity. Not only was she passing up a night at Club Hades, but she was positively mortified that one of her sisters might spot her done up like this. The Lilliam were certainly not uptight when it came to sex as a business matter, but they definitely considered mere street walking beneath their station. Besides, cash was not the true medium of exchange in such matters.
She continued her walk up the street, back toward Sam to report nothing of interest. She even managed to put on a smile and a cant of the hip to the whistle of the shotgun man of a panel truck heading toward the docks. The whistler’s truck was the first of a half dozen traveling in convoy. Rachel stopped her strut and looked closer as the trucks traveled in convoy.
They were all commercial lorries, but something about the drivers bothered her. The passenger of the first truck made a smart whistle and got a punch in the shoulder from his driver. None of the others made any sign of having seen her. The last truck’s passenger did notice her, however. In a brief flash of eye contact, Rachel recognized the scarred face of the last passenger: Major Helmut Stein of the Imperial Anti-Resistance Forces.
Panic flashed before composure resettled over Rachel’s mind. She gave the major a wink, a twitch of the hip, and a lewd comment. Stein’s gaze slid right off of her. Rachel hoped that he had just brushed her off his mind like he would a speck of lint off of his normally perfect uniform. He had been wearing coveralls. She did the math as she hurried to Sam’s car: driver and passenger in each truck was twelve, plus unknown number in the back of each.
She had to get back to Sam immediately.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Walking Death, Chapter 2.5
The most powerful men in New York City waited for the meeting to start. They stood about the long mahogany table set with coffee cups, water glasses, pens and dossier folders. None of them had yet moved to look into the folders, instead preferring to conduct what business they could with the underlings that had come with them to the Cloisters.
The largest such group stood behind the man seated at the end of the table. That man was Jasper Addney, the meeting’s host and Count of the City of New York and Long Island. He spoke quietly to each of the functionaries that came to him for instruction or authorization for the many issues that demanded his attention. The County of New York was far from a quiet sinecure from which to plot future political advances, but Addney relished the potential that the largest city in the re-established colonies offered.
The Count’s ambition was well matched by his youth. It was rare for someone to rise to the rule of a county before the age of forty, but it was also rare that someone would actually want the rule of the New York City powder keg.
He forswore the affectations common to the newly minted nobility of the reconquered Americas. Rather than wear medals, ceremonial swords, or sashes of office, Addney preferred precisely tailored Saville Row suits and ties. The only concession to noble accoutrement was his coat of arms executed in a silver pin attached through his lapel. He felt, in this modern age, that people should recognize him more from frequent newspaper photographs than from trappings of office.
One person in his retinue kept to the back of the crush. Her name was Babette de Loring, and the others always kept clear of her space. She was the Imperial Court Sorceress, a position from where she wielded almost as much political influence as she did magical power. She wore a long skirt, tailored jacket, and a white ruffled blouse. She kept her chestnut hair in a bob cut. The faint smile on her lips added to the sense of youth about her, maybe a decade shy of her true age of thirty-five. She held her arms crossed in front of her, and lightly drummed the fingers of her right hand on her left elbow. The silver ring she wore on her third finger seemed to reflect more light than fell upon it.
Uniformed men, and one woman, were the balance of the other groups in the room. The right hand side of the table was dominated by Lord General Einhard Ubell, commander of all Imperial military units for the county. He was a tall man in his fifties. His hair was two shades of silver separated from his rock grey imperial uniform. He stood ramrod straight, and the monocle he wore was the only indication of decline with age.
With Ubell was Major Helmutt Stein, head of the Anti-Resistance Forces in New York City. His silver-fringed uniform was similarly immaculate. The wound badge on his jacket was superfluous measured next to the long scar on his cheek. His dark brown goatee was the only hair on his head.
The far side of the table hosted an odd assortment of people, all in black uniforms trimmed in red. Two men, one slight and the other gigantic, and a beautiful blonde woman waited in attendance to a dashing figure of an apparent fifty years. No one in the room mistook them for human, the red on black marked them as members of the Imperial Demonic Division. The center of the group was Colonel Aldrick Meinrad, a name that was no more true than the face he showed.
“Gentlemen,” said the Count, his voice cutting through the conversations taking place around the table, “we all have a great deal to occupy our time. Let us get to business.”
“That would be greatly appreciated, Your Excellency,” said General Ubell. His tone was cool. A lifetime military man, he knew precisely were the line of insubordination rested. His willingness to dance that line with respect to Count Addney was something that did not go unnoticed in the city’s court.
Once again, Addney chose to allow the unspoken slight to pass by. Strictly speaking, Addney was the one in command, but he knew that the military was fiercely loyal to Ubell. If anything, Ubell’s ruthlessness was a useful threat against those who proved less than cooperative. It was Ubell’s command that brought death, complete and merciless, to the population of Scranton. It played to Addney’s advantage to appear to be the one preventing a similar fate from befalling New York.
All of the attendants took the cue to leave the room save for de Loring. She remained next to one of the guards flanking the double doors behind the head of the table.
The Count remained standing, and rested his hands on the table.
“I have been given leave to discuss a new weapon developed on the Continent that shall be produced here within the County for deployment along the Mississippi front.” The count reached over to a small console and pressed down a toggle.
“Edna, would you please show in the gentlemen?”
“Right away, your Excellency,” replied the tinny voice from the speaker.
A matronly woman opened the double doors behind the foot of the table. She stood aside so that three men could enter. The first, a tall, reed thin, man in a wool overcoat and gloves, stopped and handed the coffee cup in his hand to the taken-aback secretary.
“Might I trouble you for a refill, madam?” he asked.
Edna regained her composure and said, “Of course, Doctor.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
He proceeded to the table and took a position behind the chair at the foot of the table. Two other men entered close on his heels. The first was a man of fifty-odd years. He had an intellectual’s high forehead and a pair of pince-nez glasses. The other man stood no more than four foot six inches tall and nearly that abroad. He was of indeterminate age and sported a beard that nearly obliterated any evidence of the necktie that he wore. The man went to the left side of the table and the dwarf took the right.
“I am certain that you gentlemen are familiar with Doctors Hobbard and Tabbert of Research Division 9,” said the Count. The second man and the dwarf inclined their heads in response to their names and took their seats. “Well, allow me to introduce Dr. Everet Felson of the Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences. He shall be the one to brief you on the new weapon that shall be manufactured in the County of use along the Mississippi front. Dr. Felson, the floor is yours.”
“Thank you, your Excellency. It is my pleasure to present to you the latest in advanced technological achievements for use on the battlefield. In the folders before each of you is the technical data on what has been named Ambulamort. While delivered as a gas…,” the doctor was interrupted by a knock at the secretary’s door. The guard looked to the Count who gestured his leave to open the door. Outside was Edna with a fresh cup of coffee on a coaster. She stepped into the room, although the confident stride she showed previously was now gone. Instead, she seemed unsteady on her feet. She was concentrating fiercely on delivering the cup of coffee to Dr. Felson.
“Shut the door please, guard,” said the Doctor. The guard looked up again to the Count who again gestured his consent.
“As is was about to say…,”
“I believe,” interrupted Major Stein, “that I must point out that she does not have the clearance for this briefing.”
“Her clearance,” rejoined Dr. Felson, “is of little concern at this point. If I may continue without further interruption, I was saying that while Ambulamort is dispersed as a gas, its action is actually through skin contact. It can be spread via, say, a glove or a coffee cup. The compound remains active in the environment for fifteen minutes before oxidizing to an inert state. The subject experiences an intense headache and dizziness before all neurological activity shuts down, causing death.”
Edna tried to walk back to the doors, oblivious that they had been shut behind her. She was two steps away from them when she fell boneless to the floor.
“This seems to be nothing more than another generation of nerve gas,” said Gen. Ubell. “While the forces of the Rebel States may not have an antidote for this one, what is so special about this compound?”
“The difference, my Lord, is in the secondary effects.”
One of the guards from the secretary’s door had been checking the woman for signs of life. He screamed in pain and pulled back, his sleeve tattered and bloody. Edna rose to her feet, her face the color of dirty chalk and contorted in rage. She leapt at the soldier, slashing with grossly extended claws in place of fingers. Her victim brought his bayoneted rifle up, but Edna ran upon the blade with no concern. The damage to her gut was extensive, and blood clung to the bayonet, and yet she charged down on the hapless soldier and tore out his throat.
The other soldier opened fire, striking the creature that had been Edna full in the back of the chest. All that it accomplished was get her attention. She turned quickly, sending the embedded rife flying.
“Lamnas!” came the cry from the sorceress. A barely visible ripple of air leapt from her hand as she made a cutting gesture. The spell struck the zombie precisely in the neck, severing the head in the blink of an eye. The headless corpse fell to the ground.
De Loring turned on Felson.
“Necromancy,” she hissed.
“I prefer necrotic revitalization.”
“What is there to prevent our forces from coming under attack from these, creatures?” asked Ubell.
“If you will note, neither I, Doctor Hobbard, nor Doctor Tabbert were attacked. That is because prior to our coming in here, we applied a repellant pheromone compound. My research indicates that a person might as well be invisible while protected. Additionally, our forces can be inoculated to prevent casualties during the brief interval of chemical activity.”
“Thank you very much, Doctor,” said Count Addney. “Are there any questions from the table? No? Then I adjourn this meeting.”
The largest such group stood behind the man seated at the end of the table. That man was Jasper Addney, the meeting’s host and Count of the City of New York and Long Island. He spoke quietly to each of the functionaries that came to him for instruction or authorization for the many issues that demanded his attention. The County of New York was far from a quiet sinecure from which to plot future political advances, but Addney relished the potential that the largest city in the re-established colonies offered.
The Count’s ambition was well matched by his youth. It was rare for someone to rise to the rule of a county before the age of forty, but it was also rare that someone would actually want the rule of the New York City powder keg.
He forswore the affectations common to the newly minted nobility of the reconquered Americas. Rather than wear medals, ceremonial swords, or sashes of office, Addney preferred precisely tailored Saville Row suits and ties. The only concession to noble accoutrement was his coat of arms executed in a silver pin attached through his lapel. He felt, in this modern age, that people should recognize him more from frequent newspaper photographs than from trappings of office.
One person in his retinue kept to the back of the crush. Her name was Babette de Loring, and the others always kept clear of her space. She was the Imperial Court Sorceress, a position from where she wielded almost as much political influence as she did magical power. She wore a long skirt, tailored jacket, and a white ruffled blouse. She kept her chestnut hair in a bob cut. The faint smile on her lips added to the sense of youth about her, maybe a decade shy of her true age of thirty-five. She held her arms crossed in front of her, and lightly drummed the fingers of her right hand on her left elbow. The silver ring she wore on her third finger seemed to reflect more light than fell upon it.
Uniformed men, and one woman, were the balance of the other groups in the room. The right hand side of the table was dominated by Lord General Einhard Ubell, commander of all Imperial military units for the county. He was a tall man in his fifties. His hair was two shades of silver separated from his rock grey imperial uniform. He stood ramrod straight, and the monocle he wore was the only indication of decline with age.
With Ubell was Major Helmutt Stein, head of the Anti-Resistance Forces in New York City. His silver-fringed uniform was similarly immaculate. The wound badge on his jacket was superfluous measured next to the long scar on his cheek. His dark brown goatee was the only hair on his head.
The far side of the table hosted an odd assortment of people, all in black uniforms trimmed in red. Two men, one slight and the other gigantic, and a beautiful blonde woman waited in attendance to a dashing figure of an apparent fifty years. No one in the room mistook them for human, the red on black marked them as members of the Imperial Demonic Division. The center of the group was Colonel Aldrick Meinrad, a name that was no more true than the face he showed.
“Gentlemen,” said the Count, his voice cutting through the conversations taking place around the table, “we all have a great deal to occupy our time. Let us get to business.”
“That would be greatly appreciated, Your Excellency,” said General Ubell. His tone was cool. A lifetime military man, he knew precisely were the line of insubordination rested. His willingness to dance that line with respect to Count Addney was something that did not go unnoticed in the city’s court.
Once again, Addney chose to allow the unspoken slight to pass by. Strictly speaking, Addney was the one in command, but he knew that the military was fiercely loyal to Ubell. If anything, Ubell’s ruthlessness was a useful threat against those who proved less than cooperative. It was Ubell’s command that brought death, complete and merciless, to the population of Scranton. It played to Addney’s advantage to appear to be the one preventing a similar fate from befalling New York.
All of the attendants took the cue to leave the room save for de Loring. She remained next to one of the guards flanking the double doors behind the head of the table.
The Count remained standing, and rested his hands on the table.
“I have been given leave to discuss a new weapon developed on the Continent that shall be produced here within the County for deployment along the Mississippi front.” The count reached over to a small console and pressed down a toggle.
“Edna, would you please show in the gentlemen?”
“Right away, your Excellency,” replied the tinny voice from the speaker.
A matronly woman opened the double doors behind the foot of the table. She stood aside so that three men could enter. The first, a tall, reed thin, man in a wool overcoat and gloves, stopped and handed the coffee cup in his hand to the taken-aback secretary.
“Might I trouble you for a refill, madam?” he asked.
Edna regained her composure and said, “Of course, Doctor.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
He proceeded to the table and took a position behind the chair at the foot of the table. Two other men entered close on his heels. The first was a man of fifty-odd years. He had an intellectual’s high forehead and a pair of pince-nez glasses. The other man stood no more than four foot six inches tall and nearly that abroad. He was of indeterminate age and sported a beard that nearly obliterated any evidence of the necktie that he wore. The man went to the left side of the table and the dwarf took the right.
“I am certain that you gentlemen are familiar with Doctors Hobbard and Tabbert of Research Division 9,” said the Count. The second man and the dwarf inclined their heads in response to their names and took their seats. “Well, allow me to introduce Dr. Everet Felson of the Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences. He shall be the one to brief you on the new weapon that shall be manufactured in the County of use along the Mississippi front. Dr. Felson, the floor is yours.”
“Thank you, your Excellency. It is my pleasure to present to you the latest in advanced technological achievements for use on the battlefield. In the folders before each of you is the technical data on what has been named Ambulamort. While delivered as a gas…,” the doctor was interrupted by a knock at the secretary’s door. The guard looked to the Count who gestured his leave to open the door. Outside was Edna with a fresh cup of coffee on a coaster. She stepped into the room, although the confident stride she showed previously was now gone. Instead, she seemed unsteady on her feet. She was concentrating fiercely on delivering the cup of coffee to Dr. Felson.
“Shut the door please, guard,” said the Doctor. The guard looked up again to the Count who again gestured his consent.
“As is was about to say…,”
“I believe,” interrupted Major Stein, “that I must point out that she does not have the clearance for this briefing.”
“Her clearance,” rejoined Dr. Felson, “is of little concern at this point. If I may continue without further interruption, I was saying that while Ambulamort is dispersed as a gas, its action is actually through skin contact. It can be spread via, say, a glove or a coffee cup. The compound remains active in the environment for fifteen minutes before oxidizing to an inert state. The subject experiences an intense headache and dizziness before all neurological activity shuts down, causing death.”
Edna tried to walk back to the doors, oblivious that they had been shut behind her. She was two steps away from them when she fell boneless to the floor.
“This seems to be nothing more than another generation of nerve gas,” said Gen. Ubell. “While the forces of the Rebel States may not have an antidote for this one, what is so special about this compound?”
“The difference, my Lord, is in the secondary effects.”
One of the guards from the secretary’s door had been checking the woman for signs of life. He screamed in pain and pulled back, his sleeve tattered and bloody. Edna rose to her feet, her face the color of dirty chalk and contorted in rage. She leapt at the soldier, slashing with grossly extended claws in place of fingers. Her victim brought his bayoneted rifle up, but Edna ran upon the blade with no concern. The damage to her gut was extensive, and blood clung to the bayonet, and yet she charged down on the hapless soldier and tore out his throat.
The other soldier opened fire, striking the creature that had been Edna full in the back of the chest. All that it accomplished was get her attention. She turned quickly, sending the embedded rife flying.
“Lamnas!” came the cry from the sorceress. A barely visible ripple of air leapt from her hand as she made a cutting gesture. The spell struck the zombie precisely in the neck, severing the head in the blink of an eye. The headless corpse fell to the ground.
De Loring turned on Felson.
“Necromancy,” she hissed.
“I prefer necrotic revitalization.”
“What is there to prevent our forces from coming under attack from these, creatures?” asked Ubell.
“If you will note, neither I, Doctor Hobbard, nor Doctor Tabbert were attacked. That is because prior to our coming in here, we applied a repellant pheromone compound. My research indicates that a person might as well be invisible while protected. Additionally, our forces can be inoculated to prevent casualties during the brief interval of chemical activity.”
“Thank you very much, Doctor,” said Count Addney. “Are there any questions from the table? No? Then I adjourn this meeting.”
Monday, November 14, 2005
Walking Death, Chapter 2
Sam stepped out onto the street through the front door of his apartment building. He bid a half sincere good morning to Mrs. Kranski. Not that he had anything against the old lady who lived in the single first floor apartment. Merely that, to Sam’s reckoning, no morning was good until he found the bottom of his first cup of coffee.
For that he always went to Molly’s Café at the ground floor corner of his building. Molly had perhaps the second best cup of coffee in the city. The first best belonged to an alchemist of Sam’s acquaintance by the name of Akbar al Faruq. Akbar made coffee as if hoping that the drippings would come out gold.
Molly didn’t have such pretensions. She just made the coffee and kept it coming for your nickel. Either way, the difference between them was like the difference between a night at the Plaza and a night at the Plaza with an extra C-note in your pocket.
Molly’s husband Stan worked the grill behind the pass-through window, and Sam knew that his morning eggs and bacon would be passing through it very soon.
A twelve-year-old boy stood on the corner calling out the headlines. Sam thought that it must be one hell of a verge if Detroit was still about to fall off of it. He was picking through a handful of change when a roar overhead startled him into dropping the changed. Looking up, he saw a long formation of eight single engine fighter planes fly over at no more than four stories off the street.
Sam straightened up and looked up and down the street. Other people were doing the same. Most probably remembered the Invasion, and the sound of low flying craft was not one to be recalled fondly.
“Damn fly boys,” muttered Sam as he picked up his change. “No one’s sleeping now.” The kid with the papers merely looked impressed. He was too young to remember the war in all its glory.
Sam folded the paper and stepped into the diner. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and the heat coming out of the kitchen. Despite a brisk breakfast crowd, Sam managed to find a stool at the counter.
“Heya, Sam,” said Molly. Molly came to just under eye level when Sam was seated. She poured him a cup of coffee and handed over a menu. Sam didn’t even blink at the change in routine. Instead, he took the menu into the same hand as he had the folded Imperial Times. Sam always had the same thing each morning. What he didn’t always have was the latest issue of the Liberty Press, the underground resistance newspaper. He made a show of reading the menu while separating the newssheet from the back of the menu. Someone would have to be looking very closely to see that the front page of the Times had changed during the exchange.
“What the hell, Molly, I’ll have the ham steak rather than the bacon today.”
After breakfast, Sam took the paper back to his office.
“So what was all that noise about?” asked Calliope, the secretary he shared with Dr. Moss next door.
“Just a gaggle of flyboys making a nuisance of themselves.”
“Ooh, pilots,” said Calliope with a vaguely hungry look, “they’re always good for a little fun.”
Sam knew that that meant some pilot somewhere was going to get a better time than he could handle.
“Too bad,” Sam thought, “that he’d be waking up and writing it off as a hang over.”
It was three weeks since the Tierney case, and the truce with Boss Ambrosi seemed to be durable enough for Sam to finish what work he could. So long as no one was looking to lean on him, Sam was happy.
Happy, that was, until he opened up the Liberty Press and looked over the coded messages in the back. The codes were arranged in small boxes, and some wag ages before had the brainstorm to label the page “Classified Ads”. The name stuck.
So had Sam’s codename: Quisitor. Sam sighed as he mentally de-coded the message next to his name. Meeting, the next night, back room of a local pub, standard security protocols.
There were a few other names getting call-outs. Sam ran down the list and found the one he was looking for: Lamb. While he couldn’t make out her code, Sam was sure that she would be at the same meeting. The two of them worked most often together, typically as a means of vetting potential recruits into the Resistance.
If the others were also going to be there, then something big was going to happen.
Just what he needed.
For that he always went to Molly’s Café at the ground floor corner of his building. Molly had perhaps the second best cup of coffee in the city. The first best belonged to an alchemist of Sam’s acquaintance by the name of Akbar al Faruq. Akbar made coffee as if hoping that the drippings would come out gold.
Molly didn’t have such pretensions. She just made the coffee and kept it coming for your nickel. Either way, the difference between them was like the difference between a night at the Plaza and a night at the Plaza with an extra C-note in your pocket.
Molly’s husband Stan worked the grill behind the pass-through window, and Sam knew that his morning eggs and bacon would be passing through it very soon.
A twelve-year-old boy stood on the corner calling out the headlines. Sam thought that it must be one hell of a verge if Detroit was still about to fall off of it. He was picking through a handful of change when a roar overhead startled him into dropping the changed. Looking up, he saw a long formation of eight single engine fighter planes fly over at no more than four stories off the street.
Sam straightened up and looked up and down the street. Other people were doing the same. Most probably remembered the Invasion, and the sound of low flying craft was not one to be recalled fondly.
“Damn fly boys,” muttered Sam as he picked up his change. “No one’s sleeping now.” The kid with the papers merely looked impressed. He was too young to remember the war in all its glory.
Sam folded the paper and stepped into the diner. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and the heat coming out of the kitchen. Despite a brisk breakfast crowd, Sam managed to find a stool at the counter.
“Heya, Sam,” said Molly. Molly came to just under eye level when Sam was seated. She poured him a cup of coffee and handed over a menu. Sam didn’t even blink at the change in routine. Instead, he took the menu into the same hand as he had the folded Imperial Times. Sam always had the same thing each morning. What he didn’t always have was the latest issue of the Liberty Press, the underground resistance newspaper. He made a show of reading the menu while separating the newssheet from the back of the menu. Someone would have to be looking very closely to see that the front page of the Times had changed during the exchange.
“What the hell, Molly, I’ll have the ham steak rather than the bacon today.”
After breakfast, Sam took the paper back to his office.
“So what was all that noise about?” asked Calliope, the secretary he shared with Dr. Moss next door.
“Just a gaggle of flyboys making a nuisance of themselves.”
“Ooh, pilots,” said Calliope with a vaguely hungry look, “they’re always good for a little fun.”
Sam knew that that meant some pilot somewhere was going to get a better time than he could handle.
“Too bad,” Sam thought, “that he’d be waking up and writing it off as a hang over.”
It was three weeks since the Tierney case, and the truce with Boss Ambrosi seemed to be durable enough for Sam to finish what work he could. So long as no one was looking to lean on him, Sam was happy.
Happy, that was, until he opened up the Liberty Press and looked over the coded messages in the back. The codes were arranged in small boxes, and some wag ages before had the brainstorm to label the page “Classified Ads”. The name stuck.
So had Sam’s codename: Quisitor. Sam sighed as he mentally de-coded the message next to his name. Meeting, the next night, back room of a local pub, standard security protocols.
There were a few other names getting call-outs. Sam ran down the list and found the one he was looking for: Lamb. While he couldn’t make out her code, Sam was sure that she would be at the same meeting. The two of them worked most often together, typically as a means of vetting potential recruits into the Resistance.
If the others were also going to be there, then something big was going to happen.
Just what he needed.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Walking Death, Chapter 1
Dr. Frieda Kellner slipped away from the ballroom of the Court of Luxembourg on the balmy August night. Despite her formal court dress, she moved quietly and unobtrusively through the grounds. The guards were less alert than they should have been. Luxembourg was far from any place the Resistance considered important. If anything, their vigilance was focused inward. That vigilance was precisely what Dr. Kellner sought to avoid.
She slipped in between a pair of shadowed topiary. Two guards walked down the path, more interested in the previous night’s football match than in looking for people out of place. Their direction took them toward the palace, destroying their fragile human night vision. Frieda knew that the ork sentries would be the greater threat to her escape.
Dr. Kellner was a member of the Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences. Frieda was one of the small circle of scientists who designed the super weapons that aided the victories across Europe and the Americas. Fueled by excelsiol, the fuel derived from pure magical energies, their devices were of a technology that would have boggled the minds of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells.
Her course though the garden was no less roundabout than her path through life. Orphaned young, she made her way through the streets of Berlin avoiding the police and the pimps. She taught herself to pick pockets and slip through second story windows the by the time she was ten. Her burglary was as often to satisfy her curiosity as to find valuables, and books were often among the pilfered items.
When the Resurgence occurred, she found herself facing ever more sophisticated burglar alarms. That set of an arms race of sorts, as she had to devise ever more precise methods and tools to get by them. Her victims of choice became the scientists and universities that practiced the New Science. Each new piece of knowledge was added to her repertoire and refined her devices, while the Empire was driven to distraction by the near constant violations of its security.
Her anonymous career came to an end when she was nineteen when she failed the last part of a burglary, namely the “get out” portion of “get in, get the goods, and get out”. The scientist, Dr. Erick Reinwald of the University of Berlin, had set a surprise gas trap in his safe. After examining the gear Frieda was carrying, he considered himself quite lucky to have captured her, and he made the offer of joining him as a research assistant or be turned over to the Empire as the spy they had been looking for.
Her work in an academic setting made Dr. Reinwald regret that he had not had this prodigy to work with ten years before. She rapidly caught up in the mathematics and old science needed for her position and was soon pushing the boundaries in fields beyond her street experience. Not that her previous skills went dormant, Dr. Reinwald had many rivals in the field and having someone who could break and enter into the most secure facilities was a tremendous edge for her mentor.
It was one of those forays that led her to discover this latest alchemical abomination of the Empire, one that she could not allow to come to pass.
She had made contact with the Resistance a month previous, and the night to make her escape had arrived. No guards were in sight and she made her way down to the parking lot. A Resistance driver should have arrived by then, and she saw him by her car. Unfortunately, there was also an ork guard giving the driver a hard time. All of the drivers were to be kept in the garage. Nominally they were there to get food and drink, but really it was to limit the options of the party’s guests to slip their minders. Frieda’s driver was still in that small gathering; the man in the lot was a second. The guard was threatening to drag the driver to the watch commander as Frieda made her way behind the guard.
“Pardon me,” she said in her native German.
The ork turned to look into the business end of a pump atomizer. Frieda squeezed and a mist of fast acting knockout solution caught him square in the face. A human would have dropped like a stone, but for once an ork was doing a fair impression of a feather. Frieda gave him a sharp chop with the edge of her hand to the ork’s neck just under his jaw line. Only then did the stone-like quality set in.
“Frau Doktor,” said the driver, “we must be going.”
Frieda nodded and entered the held open door.
They changed vehicles three times by the time they reached Marseille the next day. She was dressed in a man’s work clothes as she exited the car. At a dockside warehouse, she was escorted to a body-sized crate that held a small device of her own design. A visibly nervous man handed her a tiny canister of the tremendously volatile excelsiol. Frieda dropped three drops of the precious fluid into the reservoir of the device. To that she added the powdery contents of a vial. The device would refresh the air of the soon to be sealed crate. The powder would be aerosolized by the air generator and would allow her to make her journey in a state of deepest sleep.
“It is time,” she said.
“New York has been alerted and will be awaiting your arrival, Frau Doktor.”
“They had better.”
She climbed into the crate. She contemplated the secret project that had found her conscience after all these years. There were things worthy of war, but the new plans were beyond the pale. Thoughts of the new world occupied her mind when she was given the signal that sealing was complete, and she toggled the device at her side to on.
Her last thoughts were on New York City.
She slipped in between a pair of shadowed topiary. Two guards walked down the path, more interested in the previous night’s football match than in looking for people out of place. Their direction took them toward the palace, destroying their fragile human night vision. Frieda knew that the ork sentries would be the greater threat to her escape.
Dr. Kellner was a member of the Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences. Frieda was one of the small circle of scientists who designed the super weapons that aided the victories across Europe and the Americas. Fueled by excelsiol, the fuel derived from pure magical energies, their devices were of a technology that would have boggled the minds of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells.
Her course though the garden was no less roundabout than her path through life. Orphaned young, she made her way through the streets of Berlin avoiding the police and the pimps. She taught herself to pick pockets and slip through second story windows the by the time she was ten. Her burglary was as often to satisfy her curiosity as to find valuables, and books were often among the pilfered items.
When the Resurgence occurred, she found herself facing ever more sophisticated burglar alarms. That set of an arms race of sorts, as she had to devise ever more precise methods and tools to get by them. Her victims of choice became the scientists and universities that practiced the New Science. Each new piece of knowledge was added to her repertoire and refined her devices, while the Empire was driven to distraction by the near constant violations of its security.
Her anonymous career came to an end when she was nineteen when she failed the last part of a burglary, namely the “get out” portion of “get in, get the goods, and get out”. The scientist, Dr. Erick Reinwald of the University of Berlin, had set a surprise gas trap in his safe. After examining the gear Frieda was carrying, he considered himself quite lucky to have captured her, and he made the offer of joining him as a research assistant or be turned over to the Empire as the spy they had been looking for.
Her work in an academic setting made Dr. Reinwald regret that he had not had this prodigy to work with ten years before. She rapidly caught up in the mathematics and old science needed for her position and was soon pushing the boundaries in fields beyond her street experience. Not that her previous skills went dormant, Dr. Reinwald had many rivals in the field and having someone who could break and enter into the most secure facilities was a tremendous edge for her mentor.
It was one of those forays that led her to discover this latest alchemical abomination of the Empire, one that she could not allow to come to pass.
She had made contact with the Resistance a month previous, and the night to make her escape had arrived. No guards were in sight and she made her way down to the parking lot. A Resistance driver should have arrived by then, and she saw him by her car. Unfortunately, there was also an ork guard giving the driver a hard time. All of the drivers were to be kept in the garage. Nominally they were there to get food and drink, but really it was to limit the options of the party’s guests to slip their minders. Frieda’s driver was still in that small gathering; the man in the lot was a second. The guard was threatening to drag the driver to the watch commander as Frieda made her way behind the guard.
“Pardon me,” she said in her native German.
The ork turned to look into the business end of a pump atomizer. Frieda squeezed and a mist of fast acting knockout solution caught him square in the face. A human would have dropped like a stone, but for once an ork was doing a fair impression of a feather. Frieda gave him a sharp chop with the edge of her hand to the ork’s neck just under his jaw line. Only then did the stone-like quality set in.
“Frau Doktor,” said the driver, “we must be going.”
Frieda nodded and entered the held open door.
They changed vehicles three times by the time they reached Marseille the next day. She was dressed in a man’s work clothes as she exited the car. At a dockside warehouse, she was escorted to a body-sized crate that held a small device of her own design. A visibly nervous man handed her a tiny canister of the tremendously volatile excelsiol. Frieda dropped three drops of the precious fluid into the reservoir of the device. To that she added the powdery contents of a vial. The device would refresh the air of the soon to be sealed crate. The powder would be aerosolized by the air generator and would allow her to make her journey in a state of deepest sleep.
“It is time,” she said.
“New York has been alerted and will be awaiting your arrival, Frau Doktor.”
“They had better.”
She climbed into the crate. She contemplated the secret project that had found her conscience after all these years. There were things worthy of war, but the new plans were beyond the pale. Thoughts of the new world occupied her mind when she was given the signal that sealing was complete, and she toggled the device at her side to on.
Her last thoughts were on New York City.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Intangible Assets, Epilogue
Akbar was indeed impressed with the knife. He said that he could use it to make an enchanted weapon that would allow a corporeal user to effect spiritual entities. That end result was enough for him to trade even for Renfroe’s Compendium. Score another one for the Sam Watson not-yet-Memorial Library.
The jewelry I had lifted from my first visit to Allison’s apartment had been enough to get square with my landlord, kick Calliope a nice bonus, take Rachel out to dinner, and keep me off the soup line for a couple of weeks.
All that and one more thing. I walked into Cutler’s alley with a bag tucked under my arm. Removing the flask-like bottle of good whiskey, I pushed power into it. It took a bit more than the cigarettes, but I figured I owed him. The bottle broke easily against the wall, and I carefully set its ghost on a trash can lid.
Cutler was right there to pick it up. He unscrewed the cap and took a sniff and a snort.
“I’ve had better,” he pronounced, “but not recently. Thanks, Watson, you’re a pal.”
“I try,” I said, “I try.”
Intangible Assets, Chapter 19
Allison stood looking about her burnt out apartment. The firefighters had done what they could, but they didn’t stand a chance against the professionals Ambrosi had sent to torch the place. She remained intangible to the normal senses, but I was still keeping an Eye on her. It was several hours after sunset of the day after my meeting with Ambrosi.
A single candle burned next to me as I sat in a corner. Its light failed to penetrate into the room; my magic turned the feeble light around and into a circle about me. Only darkness and the faint luminescence of Allison’s astral form remained outside of that circle.
The apartment was a difficult place for Allison to be. Now that I understood her story, I could understand why. I reminded myself to apologize later for the moll crack I had made the first time I was here. The sense of sadness coming off of her would have been palpable to anyone in the room. No one would have needed my senses to be able to tell that this room was haunted. Where before the fire I hadn’t been able to keep my senses active, the desperation of putting the fire out and the fear of the neighbors diluted the resonance of Allison’s murder.
We had been waiting there for those hours before the other presence made it felt. Arrogance and Hatred imposed itself into the room. Allison turned toward it quickly, lashing out with her spectral stiletto.
The new form coalesced around its wound. It was a man of maybe thirty-five, although the look of rage on his face made him seem practically ancient. Despite the fine suit and hat, there was little about him that seemed human. His face appeared frozen, as if incapable of holding any other emotion, and at the first manifestation of his form he seemed to be drenched in blood all down the front of his jacket from a gaping wound to his throat. Without his body, there was no pretense as to what Sylvio Tenebrisi was deep down.
I drew the last of the warding spell as he appeared in the room. This time, the ward was set so that he could not get out.
Allison leapt backward away from Sylvio as I drew my gun and pulled the trigger. The report was both silent and deafening at the same time. To any other living person in the building, the round in the gun failed to fire. In actuality, the gun was only loaded with spent brass that I had fired off at a Resistance shooting range. Before I had fired them off, however, I had pushed some of my power into them, much like the cigarettes I had given Stewart Cutler. The crack of exploding powder reverberated through the ghostly aspect of the room, and my theory was born out by Tenebrisi falling to the ground.
He turned at me with a snarl of rage on his face. His move was like lightning; I had failed to consider what not having a body could do for one’s mobility. He was almost as fast as Bloody Giuliano had been in the warehouse.
I did learn another lesson very quickly after that. I learned that what my instructors had said was true in that looking at the spirit realm makes one vulnerable to that realm. He cut at me with his knife and I felt life flow out of my arm as I missed the clean block.
Tenebrisi had forgotten about Allison at this point, and she made him pay for that sloppiness with a stab to where his kidney once was. Evidently Victor had taught her how to use the blade when he gave it to her.
“Get clear of him!” I told Allison.
She again got clear before I hit Sylvio with a spell of Motion. He went flying back and to my right until he ran up against my ward. Despite the hard slam into the wall, he still managed to keep his feet. He kept his feet until I put a spectral bullet into his leg.
His form and fight went out from under him.
“You have to be a special kind of stupid to be messing with me, flatfoot. Your life ain’t gonna be worth a plugged nickel once my boss hears about this.”
I hunkered down at my spot across the room from him. Allison came over and stood to my left.
“I’d be concerned about that, Sylvio, if your boss didn’t already know about this little set-up here. You have to be the first I’d ever heard of a guy getting sold out by his boss twice.”
The realization crossed his face as the understanding dawned. In truth, he was only half of the deal. The other half was that I got to keep the journal. Ambrosi had been fit to blow a gasket, but then I pointed out that he had deadly blackmail on me. All he had to do was drop a dime on me and my soul would be fueling one of the emperor’s war machines by the end of the week. So rather than doing that, he could let the standoff continue indefinitely. Treaties had been signed on less, and that treaty would be keeping Allison, my friends, and me safe for as long as it lasted.
Tenebrisi did the math, and realized that he wouldn’t be getting out of here as alive as he entered. He leapt at me; the look on his face very reminiscent of the proverbial cornered rat. Again, however, he wrote off Allison as a frail and not a threat. She was in my line before I could get the shot off.
Sylvio’s knife slashed a new slit through Allison’s dress and into her side, but her knife caught him square in the chest. She took him right where his heart should have been, and that was enough.
She leaned into him and said into his ear, “Victor avenged me on you, now I do it for myself and him.”
Sylvio’s face was a mask of confusion. He must have never considered that a woman could ever have been a threat. It had driven him to murder her, and it had led him to die on her blade. The look of confusion faded with the rest of his form. He slowly faded, as if he was retreating into a black mist, and then the rest slid downward like sand through an hourglass.
Allison watched Sylvio disappear. Once he was gone, and there was no doubt that he was gone forever, she looked down at her knife and threw it aside like something evil.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be needing that anymore,” she said.
“I don’t reckon you will, either.”
It was then that I noticed a faint glow growing brighter in the former living room of Allison Tierney. I saw that the light was the perfect source for the sparkle of the sequins of her dress.
“He confessed,” said Allison through a smile and a sob, “thank God, he confessed.”
I couldn’t see anything either in or through the light. It wasn’t my time to know that, yet.
Allison turned after taking two steps toward what awaited her. She was already partly obscured by the glow.
“Thank you, Sam.” She giggled and took a last look about the place. “Help yourself to what you can find. I’m sorry I can’t pay you better.”
“Just go, and be happy.”
“I’ll visit if I can.” With that, she continued walking until she disappeared in the mists. Once she was gone, the light dimmed until I was alone in the burned out apartment.
I lit a cigarette and considered the apartment. Then, I took my handkerchief, pushed a touch of power into it, and used it to pick up her discarded knife. I was surprised it was still here, and I figured that I could get a decent trade from Akbar for it.
A single candle burned next to me as I sat in a corner. Its light failed to penetrate into the room; my magic turned the feeble light around and into a circle about me. Only darkness and the faint luminescence of Allison’s astral form remained outside of that circle.
The apartment was a difficult place for Allison to be. Now that I understood her story, I could understand why. I reminded myself to apologize later for the moll crack I had made the first time I was here. The sense of sadness coming off of her would have been palpable to anyone in the room. No one would have needed my senses to be able to tell that this room was haunted. Where before the fire I hadn’t been able to keep my senses active, the desperation of putting the fire out and the fear of the neighbors diluted the resonance of Allison’s murder.
We had been waiting there for those hours before the other presence made it felt. Arrogance and Hatred imposed itself into the room. Allison turned toward it quickly, lashing out with her spectral stiletto.
The new form coalesced around its wound. It was a man of maybe thirty-five, although the look of rage on his face made him seem practically ancient. Despite the fine suit and hat, there was little about him that seemed human. His face appeared frozen, as if incapable of holding any other emotion, and at the first manifestation of his form he seemed to be drenched in blood all down the front of his jacket from a gaping wound to his throat. Without his body, there was no pretense as to what Sylvio Tenebrisi was deep down.
I drew the last of the warding spell as he appeared in the room. This time, the ward was set so that he could not get out.
Allison leapt backward away from Sylvio as I drew my gun and pulled the trigger. The report was both silent and deafening at the same time. To any other living person in the building, the round in the gun failed to fire. In actuality, the gun was only loaded with spent brass that I had fired off at a Resistance shooting range. Before I had fired them off, however, I had pushed some of my power into them, much like the cigarettes I had given Stewart Cutler. The crack of exploding powder reverberated through the ghostly aspect of the room, and my theory was born out by Tenebrisi falling to the ground.
He turned at me with a snarl of rage on his face. His move was like lightning; I had failed to consider what not having a body could do for one’s mobility. He was almost as fast as Bloody Giuliano had been in the warehouse.
I did learn another lesson very quickly after that. I learned that what my instructors had said was true in that looking at the spirit realm makes one vulnerable to that realm. He cut at me with his knife and I felt life flow out of my arm as I missed the clean block.
Tenebrisi had forgotten about Allison at this point, and she made him pay for that sloppiness with a stab to where his kidney once was. Evidently Victor had taught her how to use the blade when he gave it to her.
“Get clear of him!” I told Allison.
She again got clear before I hit Sylvio with a spell of Motion. He went flying back and to my right until he ran up against my ward. Despite the hard slam into the wall, he still managed to keep his feet. He kept his feet until I put a spectral bullet into his leg.
His form and fight went out from under him.
“You have to be a special kind of stupid to be messing with me, flatfoot. Your life ain’t gonna be worth a plugged nickel once my boss hears about this.”
I hunkered down at my spot across the room from him. Allison came over and stood to my left.
“I’d be concerned about that, Sylvio, if your boss didn’t already know about this little set-up here. You have to be the first I’d ever heard of a guy getting sold out by his boss twice.”
The realization crossed his face as the understanding dawned. In truth, he was only half of the deal. The other half was that I got to keep the journal. Ambrosi had been fit to blow a gasket, but then I pointed out that he had deadly blackmail on me. All he had to do was drop a dime on me and my soul would be fueling one of the emperor’s war machines by the end of the week. So rather than doing that, he could let the standoff continue indefinitely. Treaties had been signed on less, and that treaty would be keeping Allison, my friends, and me safe for as long as it lasted.
Tenebrisi did the math, and realized that he wouldn’t be getting out of here as alive as he entered. He leapt at me; the look on his face very reminiscent of the proverbial cornered rat. Again, however, he wrote off Allison as a frail and not a threat. She was in my line before I could get the shot off.
Sylvio’s knife slashed a new slit through Allison’s dress and into her side, but her knife caught him square in the chest. She took him right where his heart should have been, and that was enough.
She leaned into him and said into his ear, “Victor avenged me on you, now I do it for myself and him.”
Sylvio’s face was a mask of confusion. He must have never considered that a woman could ever have been a threat. It had driven him to murder her, and it had led him to die on her blade. The look of confusion faded with the rest of his form. He slowly faded, as if he was retreating into a black mist, and then the rest slid downward like sand through an hourglass.
Allison watched Sylvio disappear. Once he was gone, and there was no doubt that he was gone forever, she looked down at her knife and threw it aside like something evil.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be needing that anymore,” she said.
“I don’t reckon you will, either.”
It was then that I noticed a faint glow growing brighter in the former living room of Allison Tierney. I saw that the light was the perfect source for the sparkle of the sequins of her dress.
“He confessed,” said Allison through a smile and a sob, “thank God, he confessed.”
I couldn’t see anything either in or through the light. It wasn’t my time to know that, yet.
Allison turned after taking two steps toward what awaited her. She was already partly obscured by the glow.
“Thank you, Sam.” She giggled and took a last look about the place. “Help yourself to what you can find. I’m sorry I can’t pay you better.”
“Just go, and be happy.”
“I’ll visit if I can.” With that, she continued walking until she disappeared in the mists. Once she was gone, the light dimmed until I was alone in the burned out apartment.
I lit a cigarette and considered the apartment. Then, I took my handkerchief, pushed a touch of power into it, and used it to pick up her discarded knife. I was surprised it was still here, and I figured that I could get a decent trade from Akbar for it.
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