Wild Cards and Iron Horses (2 page)

Prosperity Ridge could have been one of a thousand small towns in England freshly recreated in the New World. If it hadn’t been for the obvious American influences in dress, he would have thought he was back home in London or one of the little villages dotting the English landscape.

A thin dark mist hung in the streets, the most obvious source being the smokestacks piercing the sky from brick buildings nearby. Overhead he heard loud droning, most likely the transport and passenger airships moving in and out of the area—the military scouts scampering around to maintain airspace control and to keep an eye on the horizon, so to speak. There weren’t many routes running into the “wild, wild west” at the moment, and those were usually reserved for the wealthy and the military. He could have probably paid for the flight in, but it would be against the rules he had set for himself. Still…his mind wandered to the last flight, with the champagne and the women both flowing easily.

Jon shook his head, pushing the memories away. He couldn’t afford to get distracted, not so close to the games. A rider on a horse trotted by, both animal and man wearing handkerchiefs over their faces. The horse whinnied as the pair pulled up at what had to be the local saloon. It took only a second to tether the beast to the post. The rider hopped off and disappeared into the tavern. The horse wandered a few feet to one side, then moved closer to the water trough, out of the main street. Obviously the horses had more common sense than many of the humans, who dawdled in the street despite the possible consequences.

As if on cue with his thoughts, a horseless carriage rumbled by, spewing even more filth into the air.

The driver blissfully waved at a group of young women gathered on the steps of a local store. His shiny goggles were brand new, the copper frames reflecting what little light managed to break through from the smog overhead. He drove away down a dimly lit street. His horn blared at some unfortunate soul who might or might not have been lucky enough to get out of his way.

A group of men wandered down the wooden sidewalks, joking and laughing. Some of them adjusted metal masks over their faces much like the stationmaster wore—small slits for their eyes and mouth. The others kept stopping at nearby water troughs to wet their handkerchiefs. One or two, like Jon, wore nothing over their faces at all. Either they were permanent residents who had just gotten used to the air and forsook the masks, or newcomers who didn’t know better.

He noticed a couple coming towards him, both wearing quite ornate masks. The woman’s covering had intricate golden swirls across her cheeks, mixing with the sparkling stones inset in the faux eyebrows.

Her partner’s mask held to an animal theme, a wolf-like snout being added to the nose area along with grey and white fur painted on.

Jon had seen their style before, but never such a variety of creative works. But, he mused while walking on, it was a booming industry. The masks seen here on the streets of Prosperity Ridge mirrored those being manufactured en masse in England and in even greater quantities on the Continent, what with the increasing concern about air quality. Strangely enough, one of the appeals of coming to America had been the promise of cleaner, fresher air. The edges of Jon’s mouth quirked upwards at the joke as he drew in a shallow breath.

He could taste the grit in the air. Staying out here for too long would probably affect his health—one of the few things he had left. Jon began making his way through the streets to Mrs. McGuire’s Inn and relative safety, walking as fast as he could. He stopped and stared at the map again, moving out of the way of pedestrian traffic.

Prosperity Ridge was laid out like a wagon wheel, the center of the town being the train station and the airship docking tower. From there the streets ran outwards, getting farther and farther apart, until at the very end they would be miles from each other. A series of smaller roads ran circles around the center, linking the streets together. But if you turned at the wrong intersection as the streets ran outward, you could add valuable minutes to your traveling time. Hardly optimal for couriers or those racing to get somewhere.

A street urchin ran out in front of him. “Carry your bag, sir?” The dark brown eyes poked out from under a long and unruly mop of black hair, his face speckled with coal dust. It didn’t take a genius to see the Native American blood in this boy, his ancestry a reminder that Jon and everyone else were really the immigrants to this new frontier.

“I only have the one.” Jon couldn’t help smiling. “And I’m not that old that I can’t carry one bag.”

“Gentlemen never carry their own bags, sir.” The child puffed out his chest, tugging on the threadbare suspenders holding up a pair of brown denim pants. The light blue shirt covering his frame was at least two sizes too large, the sleeves flopping around his tiny wrists. “Best to have your servant carrying it, you should.”

“Really?” Jon replied. The pair continued to walk along the sidewalk, the young legs trotting at double speed to keep up with Handleston’s pace. “And if I gave this to you, what are the odds that I would see you disappear down one of these side alleys, never to be seen again?”

“You hurt me, sir!” The youngster clutched at his chest, the linen shirt threads stretching to show light brown skin. “Here I am, offering to help out and all. Being friendly, I am.” He coughed, turning his head to spit into the street.

“Yes, yes you are.” Jon kept a tight grip on the well-worn handle. “Actually, what you can tell me is if there’s a metalworker in town. Someone who deals with delicate things, can repair them.”

“You mean like a watchmaker? There’s Jonesy over on Washington Street.” The boy raised his hands, ticking the names off on his fingers. “Or Mr. Downey, he’s always tinkering with the clocks. Wants to fix the clock tower next, but he’s afraid of heights, so that could be a problem.”

Jon put up his right hand to stop the boy, feeling the brace flex against his skin. “I need someone who can deal with, well, the new technology. Someone’s who’s up-to-date with the latest developments.”

The boy chewed on his lower lip, frowning. “Well, there’s the Heinrich brothers, but they’re drunk half the time. Or Dayafter, but he’s still recuperating from that electric shock he got from licking something, I heard.” His brown eyes widened. “Oh, you want Miss Sam! Fixes all the newfangled toys that keep showing up in town, she does. Best at what she does.”

“
She
?”

The kid punted a stone into the street. It bounced under the hooves of a pair of horses pulling a mud-spattered carriage. “She’s the one who fixes stuff. Used to be her pa and her, but he got torn up by one of those horses and all. Now she does almost all of the work.”

Jon frowned. “He got torn up by a horse?”

“Well, not a live one.” The urchin shuffled back and forth, hands in his pockets. “They was working on the steam horses, the ones they want to put on the stages, and his arm got pulled in. Torn right off, they say.” He grinned. “I heard the other fellow they had working for them fainted. It was her that took him to the doctor with his arm hanging in a bag by her side.”

“Ah.” The conversation had taken a suddenly morbid turn. The pain in his right hand intensified in sympathy with the unseen man’s injuries. “And they were unable to reattach it?”

“Nope.” The child spat again into the street. Jon followed suit, noting the darkness in his saliva. This was worse than London, a considerable feat. “So she took over his business whole, and he just does what he can.”

“A woman.” He couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice.

“Well, sure.” The boy kicked up a cloud of dust around them with his feet. “This is America. You can be whoever you want to be.”

If only that were true, Jon’s inner voice mumbled. He had seen too many good men and women held down by the same class restrictions that permeated Europe, before and after the war.

“And where is this great woman mechanic?” Before the words left his mouth he knew it would cost him. A quick glance at the map showed that he would be hopelessly lost if he moved much farther away from the train depot, much less navigate to the rooming house and this workshop. Another few steps to a new location would have him totally confused.

The street kid grinned. “Well, that’s another whole thing. She could be anywhere, fixing things. With her pa hurt and all, she’s in pretty high demand. Especially with the new horses. They’re setting out to get the repair contract for the county. Lots of people wanting things fixed. Boilers, airship engines, things like that.”

“I guess so. What’s going to happen to all the horses if they replace them with these metal creatures?”

“Well, I never thought much about that.” The boy laughed. “The meat’s good, if that’s what you like.

So, where ya want to go?”

Jon fell into the familiar banter that never changed, even if the names of the towns did. “I’m looking for Mrs. McGuire’s place, to start with. If you can take me there first, we’ll discuss further employment.”

He gave another furtive look at the map in his hand. “Third street to the left, that’s what the stationmaster said. But I don’t see anything that says where—”

“Nah,” the youngster interjected, “he’ll have you taking the long way ’round.” He pointed at a dark alley. “I’ve got the shortcuts, take you there in five minutes.” He paused for exactly two heartbeats. “For free. To start with.”

Jon grinned. The boy had a good sales pitch.

“Done.” He kept a tight grip on his single piece of luggage as he followed the child into the darkness.

The derringer pushed against his torso, reminding him of its presence. The urchin may be small, but Jon had no doubt that in a scrap he could hold his own. And if that energy were turned on Jon, especially right now, it would be a tough battle. Straightening up, he marched into the shadows behind the boy.

Ten minutes later, Jon Handleston was totally lost, more than he had ever been. And that included a drunken party in London that wandered through thirteen bars and at least three whorehouses, not to mention two airship hangars and supposedly a submarine.

Finally they exited the dank corridors, and Jon took a deep breath of what almost passed for breathable air. He glanced behind them into the darkness, hoping that the liquid on his boots was more water than urine. Whatever that piece of paper was, it wasn’t a map in any sense of the word. The lanes connecting the spokes did so, but also branched off into smaller and smaller alleys as each shop demanded space for their deliveries and outgoing shipments. The constant dripping of unidentified fluids onto the overhanging awnings and roughly built roofs reminded him of some old tale of water torture.

He blinked the tears out of his eyes, taking in the view of row upon row of wooden buildings, flags and sashes waving proudly in the foul breeze. It was as if he had never left the previous street, except for the air being a bit cleaner.

But there was some sort of urgency emanating from it all. A sense of speed and charging forward and hell take the hindmost. Everyone seemed to be working at double speed, maybe even triple, in their walking, their breathing, everything.

Jon snapped out of his reverie as the scamp pulled up in front of a nondescript house. It could have been a shop, it could have been a hotel. The building had no sign in front of it to offer pedestrians any sense of what it contained. The large windows were covered with soot, making it impossible to peer inside. But the steps were swept clean of any dirt or dust and the porch held a single rocking chair for any who dared to sit outside.

“Here’s Mrs. McGuire’s place. If you want, I’ll take you to Sam’s shop for two dollars.”

“Two dollars!” Jon tried to sound surprised. He figured the child would ask for five. “I’ll give you fifty cents and not a penny more.”

The urchin scowled. “You gonna be long?” He poked at the suspenders. “I got things to do, you know. A busy man.”

“I see.” Jon resisted the urge to smile. “Let me just get my room, drop my things off and then I’ll be out.” He dug in his pocket for a minute. Withdrawing a quarter, he flipped it to the child. “Stay here and I’ll be back out soon enough.”

“Yessir! Yessir!” The thin fingers turned the shiny quarter over and over. “I’ll be here.” He took up his position beside the rocking chair, snapping to attention.

Getting hold of the brass doorknob, Jonathan pulled in one last forced shallow breath of the street air.

He opened the door, moving as quickly as possible to get inside.

The air was fresher, much cleaner. A scrubber sat on the floor directly to his left, the short stout machine chugging along at a ferocious rate to try and filter out the worst of the soot. It clicked up a gear, reacting to Jon’s intrusion into the room.

The windows looked onto the street he had left, bright colorful curtains doing their best to hide the dust and ash accumulating on the outside of the panes. Mrs. McGuire’s hotel was a startling change from the soot staining everything and everyone he had seen so far. The parlor was spotless, the paisley sofa in pristine condition. The finely polished oak tables could have come out of the latest catalog, a few thick reference books stacked on the varnished surfaces.

“Hello,” Jon called, raising his voice slightly.

A woman appeared on the stairs, wiping her hands on a faded blue towel. Her dress was a neutral blue pastel, the white blouse sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Grey hair with white streaks running through it contrasted with a young, almost girlish face. “You must be Mr. Handleston.”

Jon reached up to tip an invisible hat, catching himself at the last minute. His fingers touched his forehead instead. “At your service, ma’am.”

“Your mother can be ma’am. I’m Mrs. McGuire.” She nodded towards the door behind him. “Just checked on your room. I heard the train had come in, figured you’d be along in a bit.”

“Yes, well…I had a bit of a problem with…well, adjusting to the air. And finding my way here.” His chest ached as if he’d run a marathon.

She shook her head as she walked down the stairs. “Aye, we get that a lot from the newcomers.