Zachary Ricks's Blog, page 15

MPF 2.05 – Command Performance

I'd probably suggest you go read the story before I talk about the conceit behind it.

Done?

Great.

See, the story started out with the old Clarke's law – sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. So what if faeries were aliens? Trolls? Goblins? Gnomes? Etc? And all the crazy stories were people back in the day trying to understand things like lasers and spaceships and who knows what else? Okay, sure. There's been a lot of history channel playing in the house for the last few weeks – which seems to have devolved into constant commentary about ancient astronauts building the pyramids and providing the Children of Israel with a magic manna machine that fed them in the desert. Seriously.

So I initially started writing something like Mutineer's Moon (free at Baen's Free Library site) – a story where the rulers had to deal with the mutinous engineers who had crashed the ship on Earth. And about three paragraphs in, I knew the idea was right, but given the crazy idea I'd come up with, I needed to make the plot equally fantastic.

So, naturally, what else do you do but speculate that Elvis was kidnapped by faeries and taken into space?

Command Performance is dedicated with grateful appreciation to my daughter's third grade teacher, for helping my daughter with her reading, and helping instill an appreciation of the finer things in her – like the musical stylings of a certain Mr. Presley. This one's for you, Mrs. Campbell.

MPF Classic – High Moon

I realized something interesting. The story that precedes the current "live" story, The Devil's Due, does not appear in text on the site. It's appeared elsewhere, but not here in text – just audio. So, because this will go up on Amazon when Devil's Due will, and because I'm a completist, here's the text of my Great Hites story – "High Moon".

The little town, if you could call eight buildings and one street a town, seemed peaceful enough. A little stream meandered out of the mountains that surrounded the town on two sides, the afternoon air was cool and fresh, and the sky shone overhead. It looked like a little slice of heaven. But I knew a few things about sleepy little towns, and I wasn't about to let this one get the drop on me.

I got down off Bones, and thought. It was the evening of the 14th, I might be early. But knowing the Preacher, he'd meant me to be here today. Or tonight. I shook my head. The things one does for one's immortal soul. Such as it is.

Three done and down, Sinner, the Preacher had cackled.  Now, go NORTH, young man! North!  I still remembered his scarecrow frame, his crazy silver hair, and his harsh crooked nose below beady blue eyes.  Up in Colorado, they're sipping the Earth's black blood! Canon City! You've got to be there by the fifteenth, or…  and the Preacher had paused.

I'd finished the sentence for him. "Or there'll be Hell to pay."

The Preacher had cackled.  That's right, Sinner. Hell to pay, indeed!

And now here we were. "Well, Bones, it's a pretty little Eden we've found ourselves, isn't it? Will we play the snake or find it?" Bones shook his mane with a whinny. I chuckled at him. "I know, I know. But if my Daddy can reference the Book, why can't I?"

Bones did his best to ignore that. Horses are good at ignoring things when they want to. I checked my pistol and the silver circles on my black hat. Then I started walking, leading Bones by the reins. Where the Preacher sent me, there was trouble, no doubt about it. This would be no different.

Canon City was a pretentious name for a handful of ramshackle buildings even if it did have a hotel and a bathhouse. I stabled Bones for the night, and considered the bathhouse. Goodness knew I needed it after a week on the trail, but it was already early evening. I shrugged, totaled my meager sums in my head, and reckoned I had time for a bath.

Let no man say otherwise, hot water is absolute proof of God's love for His children. A hot meal isn't bad either, and this was also provided by the accommodating proprietor of the bath house, prior to a good soak. He was a large, jolly man, slightly balding, but his fantastic black mustache drew most of the attention away from those areas. Midnight black, waxed and curled at the ends, it did an almost adequate job of distracting one from the way his eyes kept straying to the door… to the window beyond, and the setting sun.

"Waiting for someone, Mister?" He started at the sound of my voice.

"I'm sorry… what?" He was tapping the fingers of either hand together, only half paying attention to me. His eyes were still fixed on the door.

"Are you waiting for someone? You keep staring out there."

He jerked his head away from the door and back to me. "It's only that it's getting late," he said with an apologetic laugh. "I've got to be home by dark."

I considered his answer. "I can pay extra if that's an issue. And getting home shouldn't be too much of a problem – there's a full moon tonight."

The color drained from the bath house owner's face at that, and he laughed again – strained, nervous. "No, it's my wife. If I'm not home, she'll… worry."

I considered that for a moment, then nodded. The picture was starting to get a little clearer. I stood and held my hand out for a towel, which the man was only too glad to give, and he practically sighed with relief as I stepped out of the tub to dry and dress myself.

I changed into a clean white shirt, covering it with my usual ensemble. Black pants and vest. A string tie, as I would be visiting a local saloon to replenish my funds, and my black hat, with the silver chain of circles around my head.

"You might not want to show your gun here," the bath house owner said, as he drained the water and prepared to close up the place.

I looked at the man, and snorted a chuckle. If there was evil here, and the Preacher had sent me after it, most likely it was centered in the saloon. And even if it wasn't, it would more than likely stop by for a drink. Really, I was killing two or three birds with one stone by heading in that direction. And knowing the Preacher and his tasks, I'd be killing more than birds before the night was through.

I took the gun.

The saloon was nearly empty. The bartender gave me a hard look as I entered, but seeing I was a stranger, he kept whatever he had to say to himself.

There were a few tables, but except for me and the bartender, there were only four men in the place, sitting at a table in the back corner. The shades had been drawn in such a way that the dying rays of the sun lit up the room – except for that corner.

I walked up to the bartender, and put a hand on the bar.

"Bar's closed, stranger." the bartender said.

"Doesn't look closed to me," I said, looking back at the men playing cards.

"That's a private party, and you're not invited." the bartender said, jerking his head toward the open door.

"Now, Sully, that's no way to treat a stranger who's just come to town." The voice reminded me of someone grating stones together. Deep, dry, maybe a bit of growl at the end.

The bartender hesitated, then nodded toward the corner. "Sure thing, Mr. Travis." He turned back to me. "What'll you have?"

I shrugged. "What can I get for this?" I pulled a dollar from my vest and laid it on the dark-colored wood. He glanced at it, then at me, and took the dollar. Strolling to the back, he came back with a brown bottle, which he set down next to me.

I took the bottle – it was cool! He must have been keeping these in water from the mountain stream. I raised it slowly to my lips, and almost spit it back out again. I looked at the bartender from under raised eyebrows. "Sasparilla?"

The bartender didn't look up, he just kept wiping. "You're going to want to keep your wits around you tonight, stranger," he muttered under his breath.

I considered that, shrugged, and took another pull from the bottle. Turning to the corner, I raised it in salute. "Thank you, sir, for allowing me to attend your party."

The voice laughed at me with its grating voice, and I could see white teeth bared in what I assume was a smile. It was the only thing I could make out in the corner. "Care to join us for a round of poker?"

I took another pull at the dark bottle. "Don't mind if I do." I approached the corner slowly, letting my eyes adjust. The man who had addressed me had a broad face, dark thick hair that came down into big sideburns on either side of his mouth. The mouth full of shiny white teeth that seemed to glisten as I got closer.

He shuffled the cards expertly, sniffing the air. Cutting the deck, he licked his lips. "You smell like blood, stranger. Blood and… sulfur?" He sniffed again, and his eyes – and the disconcerting smile – grew even wider. "Well, tan my hide. Royalty. You'll fit in here just fine."

The smile on my face died somewhere between my lips and my eyes. "'Fraid not, mister. Momma was a simple Scottish girl from the old country."

The man shuffled the cards again with a throaty chuckle. "Don't think it's your mother's side of the family I'm smelling."

I quickly glanced at the other people sitting at the table. The one to my left was pale, with stringy yellow hair hanging down around his thin face. The one to my right had a huge, bulbous nose, and what appeared to be a permanent scowl under cold, grey eyes. And the other one, sitting to the leader's right, had a thick, curly black beard and a tan hat. The leader motioned to the space between the two opposite him. "Pull up a chair, Mr…"

"McAllen. Seth McAllen."

"And I'm Daniel Travis. These are my deputies. Conroe," he nodded at the stringy-haired man, "and Will", the scowling big-nosed one on my right, "and Matthias here is my brother."

I pulled a chair over to the table. "Deputies?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm the local sheriff." He pulled back his jacket to show the tin star pinned to his vest.

"Mmm… Spent some time in Texas with the Rangers myself. But I imagine you don't have too much trouble here in this little town."

"You might be surprised. Local folks aren't any trouble, but every now and then we get… strangers, and they're usually up to no good. They've heard about the oil." He started dealing the cards.

Conroe piped up. "Greedy little con-men from back East, mostly." His voice was nasal, and his breath reeked of onions.

The smile disappeared from Mr. Travis' face for a moment. "Yes, we've had some troubles. But nothing we couldn't take care of, right boys?" They all laughed short, hard barks of laughter. The cards were dealt and I took a glance at my hand.

Three nines, an ace, and the Queen of Hearts. It was a good hand. But then, cards and I had something of an understanding. They were always good hands.

We played, and I nursed that big bottle while we did. The men around me drank like fish, but it didn't seem to affect them. At least, it didn't affect their card playing, not that it mattered. Oh, I folded occasionally, and dealt off the bottom to the men around me when I could. After three hours, I was only up thirty dollars. It was part of the understanding. But it was also getting late, and I had a good idea of what I needed to do.

That last hand was fantastic. The cards knew I was done, and they seemed determined to send me off in style. I played the men as well as I could, growing the pot bigger and bigger. By the time we were done, there was a few hundred dollars on the table, and the ownership of Bones was in question. He hated it when I gambled with him. And he absolutely refused to believe me when I insisted that I never gamble.

So when I revealed the royal flush, the color drained out of Will's nose, and Connor growled at me. Travis and his brother both smiled coldly at me.

"I do believe you are a cheater." Sheriff Travis said.

"I beg your pardon, Sheriff. But I never cheat." And I reached for the pot.

Connor grabbed my hand as I was pulling the money my way. "You'd have to have the devil's own luck to come up with that hand."

I glared at him. "Let go of my hand, sir."

"You are a liar and a cheat," Will growled.

"And there's more of us than there are of you. And we happen to be the law." Connor added.

I could feel the heat rise in my face, and Connor, seeing my eyes, removed his hand. "In the Rangers we had a saying. No man in the wrong can stand up against a fellow that's in the right and keeps on a-comin'. But if you're so upset, then here." I threw half the bills back on the table. "I won that hand, fair and square, but I'm not a heartless dog." Now, I'll admit, saying that I'd won the hand fair and square may have been a bit of a stretch, but luck isn't cheating. Still, at my comment they all stood up, and Will and Connor reached for their guns. I held my hands up in protest. "I didn't mean anything by it, Sheriff… Deputies… Matthias. Can't imagine why anyone would take offense at that anyway."

Sheriff Travis just grinned his white-toothed grin, and gestured to the door. "Why don't we settle this outside?"

I shrugged, and waved to the door. And that was when I got a glance at the bartender as he strolled to the back. He had gone sheet-white, and I heard the latch lock as he closed the door behind him.

I stood. "After you, gentlemen."

Travis and his brother led the way, while Connor and Will followed me out. I left the pot on the table. I'd be back for it.

The four men paused before they left the saloon to fix their hats. As we walked to the street, the bright full moon shone directly overhead, and their faces were shadowed by their wide brims. Will and Connor followed the Sheriff and Matthias to one side of the street.

"Four against one? Hardly seems fair."

"Well," Matthias talked – for the first time that night – "Like Connor said… you do have the devil's own luck," and the four men took off their hats.

Under the silver moonlight, their forms grew hazy, melting and changing until four large wolves stood in their stead. One was pale, yellow, and mangy – Connor. One had a huge nose, and cold eyes – Will, and the two in the middle – thick and black-furred – those would be the Sheriff and his Brother.

I smiled, and reached up to pull the Rangers badge from my vest pocket. I pinned the silver star in the circle to my vest, just over my heart. If anything, it was the wolves that seemed nervous to see the silver. I shook my head. Silver on my hat all night, and now they cringed? I shrugged. "All right, Sheriff. You know my daddy. But I'm here representing someone else. In the name of the Power that sustains this land, I'm here to end you."

The stringy haired wolf and the large nosed one charged. My hand dropped to my revolver, and I drew, firing once at the smaller werewolf, twice at the larger one. They dropped where they'd been hit, Connor yelping once in pain, and Will not making a sound at all as they fell dead.

"HOW?" the Sheriff-wolf growled at me.

I pulled a bullet from my pocket and held it up in the moonlight. The glint of the silver shone under the moon as if illuminated from within.

I fired again, missing as they scattered to either side of the street. Only two bullets left in my pistol. Another miss would mean I'd have to reload. And whichever was left would have me.

I walked slowly down the street, pausing at the gaps between buildings. One street, nothing. Two, still nothing. At the third, I saw the gleam of white teeth on my left, but as I turned to shoot, I heard a scrabble behind me. I whirled and fired as Matthias leapt for my face.

Two shots rang out in the night, then Matthias hit, his bulk dragging me to the ground. But he was limp and heavy – dead before he'd landed. I shoved him off to one side, and the Sheriff was on me.

He paused, straddling my chest and staring down at me with his cold eyes. "You killed my brother, and my friends. But you'll not end me this day, demon child."

That was when I jammed the bullet I still held in my left hand into his eye. The wolf howled in pain, rolling over and over as the silver burned blue flame in the moonlight. I stood and pulled a single bullet from my belt, loading my Peacemaker.

Unlike my daddy, I am not a cruel man. A single shot rang out in the night, and it was done. The wolves shimmered in the moonlight, transforming back into men. I shook my head and turned back towards the hotel.

After two steps, I saw something shining in the dust of the road. Bending over, I picked up a single silver dime. I fingered the silver coin for a moment, then tucked it behind one of the circles on my hat.  Four done and down, I thought to myself, hearing the Preacher's mad cackle in my head.  Twenty-six to go.

The inn was locked, of course, but after a few minutes of insistent pounding, the innkeeper had let me in to grab what sleep I could before the dawn.

As I left the hotel the next morning, the whole town was out waiting for me. There were thanks, and tears, and hands were shook. A reward was offered, which I declined.

Then I remembered that I'd left the pot sitting on the saloon table. I headed in that direction, not really believing it would still be there.

Of course it was. No one goes to a saloon first thing in the morning. The bartender nodded as I entered. "I figured, I really shouldn't touch the money either way." He put a cold brown bottle on the bar, and went back to polishing glasses.

I strolled back to the corner, bottle in hand, and found the Preacher sitting in Dan Travis' seat. "Well done, Sinner. Claim your prize?"

I stared at the Preacher, sipping from the bottle, and not reaching for the pot. "Where to now?"

The Preacher's wrinkled pale face broke into a wide grin. "Virginia!"

I stared at him. "Virginia?"

The Preacher nodded at me. "That's right, Sinner. Alabama hedge-wizard trying his hand at necromancy in Richmond. Seems convinced the South will rise again!"

I shook my head at the Preacher. It would be a few days ride to Wyoming, but the railroad had just been finished there. And chances were good that I'd need more bullets when I got to Virginia. So I grabbed a fistful of dollars, and strolled out into the morning sun.

END

The cover image is by Michael Martelli. It's used under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License, the text of which is available here. And the original picture is available here.

MPF 2.04 – The Devil's Due

I woke from a dream of warmth and comfort to the smell of coffee on the pot, and the soft whickering of Bones. I raised an eyebrow under my hat. Bones is a smart horse, but he doesn't much care for coffee.

"Bout time you woke up, Sinner." The Preacher cackled to himself at nothing in particular. I raised the brim of my hat just enough to see the scarecrow thin man in black hunched over the fire, his back to me. Long stringy grey hair flowed from under his wide brimmed black hat and hung down his back just past his shoulders. "Got a job for you."

"Always another job."

"No rest for the wicked, Sinner. You know that better than most."

I took a single deep breath as the last of the dream slipped away and cold hard ground of the Rocky Mountains reintroduced itself to me. I rolled to a sitting postion, rearranging my poncho about me and looking for my cup. Then I saw it. In the Preacher's hands as he poured himself a cup of the strong black coffee and stood up. "Gonna be a beautiful day, Sinner."And he took a long drink, slurping loudly and smacking his lips enthusiastically.

"You're gonna burn yourself if you keep that up."

The Preacher cackled again. "Burn. Well, that's something you might know a bit about, I reckon."

I reached into my bag and pulled out a piece of pemmican I'd bought from a Nez Perce trading store. I offered the Preacher a piece. Sometimes the best way to teach manners is to show them, my mama always said.

The Preacher grunted, selected a large piece of the dried beef, and took another long pull at the coffee. "Time's a wastin', Sinner. You've got a train to catch."

I checked the silver circled brim of my black hat. Six silver dimes were arranged around the circle. "Train?" Bones snorted once. "Bones is right. We're not exactly fans of trains."

Trains are predictable, and full of people. Neither of which particularly appeal to me. Bones just doesn't like being carried anywhere. Come to think of it, he's not an especially big fan of the Preacher, either.

"The train will be in Salt Lake in a day. Catch it. There's precious cargo aboard."

I chewed my pemmican, my dry, dry pemmican, and stared pointedly at the cup in the Preacher's hand. "Bones can get me to San Francisco fast enough. And neither of us particularly care for trains."

"It's the job, Sinner. Take it or leave it. Precious. Cargo. You do want to get the fruit of your labors, don't you?"

I stared at the Preacher's cold blue eyes, and felt their piercing gaze again. I stood, but he was a tall cuss, and he still looked down on me. I figured he always would. "Fine. Catch the train. Salt Lake to San Francisco. Work to be done." I checked my pistol, feeling the cold metal in my fingers.

"See you in 'Frisco." The Preacher said, and he placed the cup in my hands. I glanced down to see it was full to the brim. He hadn't touched the pot since his first pour. I looked up sharply at his retreating back as he strolled off, whistling and snickering to himself. A snatch of song drifted over his shoulder as he walked away on those long skinny legs. "Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves… we shall come rejoicing…" A whisp of wind kicked up dust in my eye, and when I looked back up, the Preacher was gone. I frowned at my coffee, and glanced in the direction the old man had set out in. "Bones? Remind me why I put up with that crazy old man." Bones shook his head.

"Well, the old man was right about one thing – we'll have to hoof it if we were going to make it to Salt Lake in a day." I sipped my coffee as Bones rolled his eyes at me. Bones was a smart horse, but he had no sense of humor at all.

We made it as far as the Cache Valley that night – a day of hard riding. We stopped and I made arrangements for Bones and myself with a local farmer. Crazy folk, moving away from civilization like they did, but the wives were good cooks. And they knew their way around horses. We slept in the barn.

The next day, without a pot of coffee to help us on our way, we started on down the trail. Like I said, crazy folk.

We had made it almost all the way to the outskirts of town when I heard the whistle of the train. Bones said something ungentlemanly, sparing me the trouble of saying it myself, and saving the ears of any good farmers around us. We broke into a gallop toward the far side of Salt Lake. The train was already leaving. We rode hard and fast, the wind whistling through my ears, and I leaned forward, letting Bones stretch out his legs like he hadn't in a good while. He's usually pretty good about keeping his stride, but to catch that train, we moved like the wind. Bones pulled alongside the train as it accelerated, and I reached out for the railing on a passenger car. No good getting on in the caboose. I swung a leg over the horse, and landed solidly on the passenger car. I glanced back at Bones as he kept pace with the passenger car, just to show he could, then he whinnied once at me and started to slow. I waved.

He knew the way to San Francisco. I figured we'd meet up there.

I turned to see a rather pale looking conductor trying to pick his jaw up off the floor. "Uh… ticket to San Francisco?"

The question snapped him back to himself and he blinked a couple of times. He mumbled the price, still staring back at Bones. I nodded, and reached in my vest for the depleting lump of my Canon city winnings. It was getting to the point where I was going to need to find a card game.

I entered the passenger car and began making my way forward.

###

As I moved up the passenger car, my eyes drifted across the faces of the men and women aboard. People dressed up for the train, trying to impress someone, I suppose. My dusty clothes were a little inappropriate, given the company, but honest dirt is the mark of the laborer, my mama used to say.

I found a seat toward the front of the passenger car, across from a redheaded woman in a green dress. As I strode forward, something about the way she held her head, the way she kept her eyes out the window brought to mind a young woman I'd been acquainted with long ago and far away. Her name was…

"Jane." The name fell out of my mouth as it dropped open in my surprise. There she was. Janet Lydia Worthing, big as life and plain as day. She glanced up, and her expression was one of hostile curiosity.

"I'm sorry… I don't believe we've been-" She looked up, taking in my dusty boots, pants, hat held in front of me, vest, but as they reached my face, her eyes widened, and she gasped. "Seth!" In the space of a heartbeat, her arms were around me and she appeared to be attempting to squeeze me to death then and there. "Oh, Seth, where have you been! We hadn't heard, feared the worst, your mother…" Amused smiles from our fellow passengers surrounded us.

I gave her a squeeze back, then managed to extricate myself from her enthusiastic greeting. "Jane Worthing, it's been too long."

She pulled me down to sit across from her, and no sooner had my posterior kissed the seat than she started laying in to me. "Too long? Seth McAllen? It's been ten years. You all up and disappeared, not a word from anyone, no letters, not even a note for your mother. She's fine, incidentally. And what have you been doing all this time?"

I shrugged. "Well, you know, this and that."

Her eyes narrowed, and the corners of her mouth turned down in a rare, disapproving frown. "You're not an outlaw, are you?"

I chuckled. "No, Jane. No. I've been busy, but I'm not an outlaw." Not any more, I thought to myself. "I'm definitely on the side of the angels."

Her expression evinced a certain suspicion of my assertion. She leaned back, crossing her arms, still frowning. "Well, then I suppose you can explain why you're going to San Francisco."

Oh, sure, I thought to myself. I'm off to San Francisco on a holy quest given to me by a Preacher who may or may not be human. You understand how these things happen, right? That'll satisfy her. Heh.

"As it happens, my current employer has me riding the train to provide protection." Her expression did not improve. "He seemed to think that a particular piece of cargo might not make it to its destination."

"So… you're working for the Pinkertons now?" It was a close approximation, I supposed.

"Not exactly – but someone like that. Just trying to make sure we keep law and order, I suppose."

She considered that for a moment, then her expression softened. "Well, it's good to see you, Seth. It's been so long. I suppose you've got all kinds of stories!"

I chuckled. Stories, sure.

I mentioned the time I'd spent with the Rangers, which seemed to satisfy her a bit. "So, the Rangers? Not even a jaunt home to see your Mother?" She hesitated, biting her lip. "… or anyone else?"

Of course I hadn't. Couldn't. Not after what I'd done. There was no home for me to go back to, not really. Not any more. All that was left was the work in front of me, and perhaps sweet release when it was finished. Though even that wasn't certain. And as attractive as the prospect of remaining her and catching up with Jane Worthing was, there were still work to be done.

I stood, catching her by surprise. "I'm sorry, Jane, but I do have work I need to be getting to. If you'll excuse me?" I tipped my hat to her and made my way forward into the next car. Leaving her behind. Again.

The next car was also filled with passengers. No one seemed to be holding or carrying anything especially out of the ordinary. I kept moving forward, looking for the Preacher's "precious cargo", but I couldn't see anything or anyone that seemed to be worthy of special protection. The dining car beckoned, but I passed through without sampling its various comestibles. There would be plenty of time to eat between here and 'Frisco, I told my grumbling stomach. Man is not to live by bread alone, and all that. When I'd gotten up to the front of the train, just before the coal car and the engine, I stopped. Nothing here seemed like the "precious cargo" the Preacher had been talking about, and I'm usually pretty quick to pick up on those kinds of things. I shrugged, hoping I hadn't gotten on the wrong train. I had yet to miss a task, but I was only human.

Well, mostly.

I made my way back to the last passenger car. The baggage car was in back of that, then the caboose. I considered the possibility of the cargo being in the baggage car, which seemed unlikely if it was so darn precious. Curse all preachers and their need to be cryptic. Why can't a man come out and just say "I need four werewolves shot in Canon City"? I thought to myself.

I purchased a sandwich in the dining car, and munched it on my way back to the baggage car. As I passed Jane's seat, she kept her head turned to the window. I didn't say a word as I passed by.

Just outside the baggage car, I felt the hair on the back of my arms start to stand up. Whatever it was, it was in the baggage car. I slid the door open and entered.

Inside the baggage car, I just strolled toward the back, feeling the oddness increase as I went until I was about three-quarters of the way down the aisle. I stopped, reached out my right hand and laid it on a small black case. The case was monogrammed. J. L. W. Goodness. Jane Lydia Worthing.

My childhood friend was carrying whatever it was to Frisco. I had to make sure she – and it – safely arrived in San Francisco. I made my way back to the passenger car where she'd been seated. But when I got there, the bench was empty.

I started forward, telling myself that perhaps she'd made her way to the dining car. That perhaps my boss was merciful after all. That I might be allowed to spend time in the not unwelcome company of Jane Worthing. But she wasn't in the dining car. Nor was she in any of the other passenger cars that I could see.

Jane Worthing was gone.

###

I made my way quickly back toward the baggage car – the case was still there, thank goodness, but where could Jane have disappeared to? We were on a moving train. We hadn't stopped. She hadn't passed me on my way back up from the baggage car, and I'd moved up and back since I came back from back there. I came back to the place where we'd been sitting, and a chubby man sporting a bowler cap and a walking stick was sitting in Jane's old spot. He smiled up at me with a cherubic face, rosy colored cheeks, and shiny white teeth. Something about him was slightly offputting, maybe a hint of odor that I couldn't quite place.

He nodded at the seat across from his and spoke. "Have a seat, Mr. McAllen. We may have a bit of business to conduct."

My palm started itching, and I had to fight down the urge to draw my pistol. I glanced around at the other occupants of the passenger car, but they paid us no mind, staring out the window. In fact, all of them were staring out the window. Without moving. And now that I noticed, the view out the window was odd – darker, like the train was running under a shaded tree, though there wasn't a tree to be seen.

I sat down across from the chubby man. "You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Mister…?"

The man's smile broadened. "Oh, names. I love names. You can call me… let's see… Les. Call me Les."

"Les."

"Oh, yes, exactly. I do so love names, Mr. McAllen."

"Well, You said we might have some business to conduct. What kind of business are we talking about?"

"A simple exchange," Les said, spreading his hands, and leaning his walking stick against his knee.

"Hmmm. Well, I don't have a lot of value here," I said, reaching for the cash in my pocket.

"Oh, now, Mr. McAllen, we're not engaging in the gross exchange of currencies. We're going to talk about an exchange of items with a somewhat more…" His tongue lingered on these last words, relishing the taste of them in his mouth. "Things of a more lasting value." He grinned and leaned forward. I wanted to stand and walk away, but I'd have had to touch him to rise, and something in me felt that to merely touch the man before me would be less than prudent.

"Well, Les, you again have me at something of a disadvantage. You say you're not interested in money, but I don't have anything I'm willing to trade."

"That's the beauty of the arrangement that we're about to enter into. What you're going to give me isn't something you own. Just as what I'm going to give you isn't something I own." The man's eyes went cold then, cold and glittering, but the smile stayed on his face. "You may know that your boyhood friend, Miss Worthing, is transporting a particular item, an ancient item of great importance and significance I can assure you, to the West Coast. The item doesn't belong to her any more than it belongs to you, and I've been given the assignment of making sure that it is returned to its rightful owner."

"Where is Miss Worthing?"

"Your dear Miss Worthing is close at hand, to be sure. Just as the item my employer has sent me for is close at hand. But just as you cannot perceive Miss Worthing, I cannot seem to perceive the item I need to complete my task."

I considered the smiling man for a moment. "What do you propose?"

Les smiled at me. "As I said, a simple trade. You present me with my master's belongings, and I shall release Miss Worthing."

"What exactly is it you're after?"

"Oh, come now, Mr. McAllen. You know exactly what I'm looking for. I know some of your history. I know you were in the baggage car. It's the kind of thing that would be hard – no – impossible for you to miss. So please don't patronize me."

"You know it's in the baggage car. Get it yourself." I took my hat off, and took a moment to check the silver circles that surrounded it. I knew he wasn't trying anything just then, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Mr. Les' smile grew more strained. "It's something that must be given of the free will of the holder. It's not the kind of thing I'm allowed to take."

"It has to be given by a mortal of their own free will."

"Yes. That's a rather direct way of putting it, but you are correct. It has to be given up, and cannot be taken."

I nodded, replacing the hat on my head. "So you want me to betray Miss Worthing, steal her property, and give it to you when she wouldn't do that herself."

Mr. Les' smile widened. "I prefer to say that we're giving you the opportunity to return property to its rightful owner, something any good citizen would do. I'd also say that you were doing so out of a desire to help Miss Worthing, who seems to have gotten herself into a right pickle. And I'd dare say that she'll come around to see your side of things eventually." He leered at me. "She is quite fetching, and any man trying to win her hand would naturally run to her aid, wouldn't he?"

A flood of memories washed over me – the smell of Jane's hair, the soft touch of her hand on mine – her lips as we kissed for the first time. My hand went to my revolver. "Tell me why I shouldn't just take care of you right here and now."

Mr. Les glanced down at my hand over the Colt Peacemaker and burst out in a high-pitched giggle. It sounded strange coming from his corpulent frame. "Oh, Mr. McAllen, you really are too much. You really think that any weapon made by mortal hands could touch me?" He giggled some more. "Ah, that's the danger of dealing with men who've held a gun as long as you have. They start to think that every problem can be solved with it. If it will make you feel better, draw. Draw, and see what happens." He leaned in closer, and I could feel the heat coming off his body – his eyes turned yellow, like a cat's, and his skin went red for just a moment. I blinked, and it was over. He was sitting back in his bench, smiling pleasantly at me.

I eased the hand back into my lap. "I'm going to have to think it over."

Mr. Les stood, taking his cane in a hand and gesturing at me with it. "One hour, Mr. McAllen. One hour to save the woman you love." He strode up the passageway and exited the passenger car.

When he was gone, there was a strange sigh, as though everyone in the car with me had been holding their breath, and the sun suddenly came through bright through the windows. Blinking at the light, I pulled a pocketwatch from my vest. One hour.

I set my jaw.

And then I stood and strode back to the baggage car.

###

The case was exactly where I'd left it. I reached up and touched it, feeling the sense of warmth flow up into me. Whatever was in this case, it most certainly did not belong to Mr. Les, or his master. I stood there, my hand on the case, for a long time, trying to figure a way out of my predicament. I thought about Jane again. The memory of her had been an anchor to me at a time when I'd been lost at sea. She'd always been strong, always been true. And I… I had not. I remembered the sound of her voice, the thrill that ran up me whenever I caught her eye… and the look she'd given me when I'd ridden off to war. She'd been so hurt. She'd been betrayed. I was not about to leave Jane to her fate at the hands of Mr. Les and whomever he had with him. Nor could I surrender the case Jane was transporting to San Francisco.

But Mr. Les was not going to surrender Jane to me without something to trade – something of, as he'd said, lasting value. And I didn't have anything else to offer.

Well, I told myself that, anyway, but I knew better. I drew my gun, checking the loads again. Six silver bullets, each etched with the cross of St. George across the top. They flew straight and true, and they'd serve well in what was to come. I reloaded, snapping the chamber closed and holstering the pistol. I felt its comforting weight at my hip. Then I took the hat of my head and began removing the six silver dimes from where they lay hidden behind the circles that ringed my hat.

Mr. Les couldn't perceive the thing they wanted, and wouldn't be able to until it was surrendered to him. Six dimes. Six tasks. It had taken me a year to gather them. Sometimes, the tasks were near together, at others, a month would go by before I'd see the Preacher again. A year of my life, collecting payment for work completed. "The Laborer is worthy of his hire", the good book said. Well, I was about to cash in.

It wouldn't be so bad, I told myself. There was plenty of work to be done, and one year more or less was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. That is, if the Preacher and the Power that I served didn't look on this as an insult, or as an abandonment. Or demand payment in full when they assumed I had completed the requisite number of tasks.

I swallowed at that thought. And then I placed the silver dimes in a little sack, and headed for the private cabins at the front of the train.

###

The final car – the one nearest the coal car and locomotive – is where they were. As soon as I entered the car, I could feel it – a cold feeling that ran up my legs, and threatened to turn me around and send me back toward the back of the train immediately. No one would come up here. I forced myself to step into it. The chill increased, becoming frost on the rail as I strode forward. My breath fogged in front of me.

I gritted my teeth, clutching my sack of dimes in my left hand, and pulling the Peacemaker from the holster. I shifted it, holding it by the barrel. When I reached the final cabin, and the cold, sick feeling was strongest, I reached out and knocked – the butt of my gun against the wood of the cabin.

The door opened, but all I could see was blackness. No ray of light penetrated the inky threshold. Cold came at me in waves, but I stepped into the blackness.

The door slid shut behind me.

I turned, but there was no one there, and I couldn't feel the door. But after a moment, I realized that I could see just a little ways – my gun was glowing with a cold blue fire.

Looking around, I saw no one and nothing, but I could tell Mr. Les was there, close and watching. "Let's get to it, Mr. Les."

"You have something to give me?"

"I'm here to trade." I'd dealt with Mr. Les' kind before. They were always trying to change the words of an agreement to their own favor. "Let's trade."

I heard Jane's voice from the void, cold and distant as a whisper. "No, Seth! Don't!"

Mr. Les stepped out of the shadows before me, his cherubic face beaming in delight. "Where is it?"

I hid my left hand behind my leg. "Jane. Where is she?"

Mr. Les made a flourish with his cane, and suddenly, I saw Jane. She was suspended in the air, surrounded by a silver circle about four feet wide. Sitting at the circle, a man sat cross legged. He wore a black top hat, and his face was covered by a thick black beard and mustache. His eyes and face glowed with an eerie light, both silver and red.

Then I saw that below Jane there was no floor – just a pit that led down who knew where, with a ruddy light coming from the bottom.

"There, you see?" Mr. Les said. "She's perfectly fine. Once we've made our trade, she will be released."

I nodded at his choice of words, and measured the distance between myself and the circle.

"All right, Mr. Les, I'm ready to trade." The grin on his face became positively devilish.

I tossed the sack of dimes at Mr. Les' face, sprinting toward Jane as I did so. I heard him start to scream as I ran, but I couldn't turn to watch. I flipped the Peacemaker around, bringing the barrel up and firing. The man in the top hat pulled back from where the bullet landed – directly between his outstretched hands. As he did, the glow from the circle faded, and Jane began to fall with a scream. I flew across the circle, tackling her headlong as he began to drop, and we landed roughly on the other side of the circle. I rolled off her, bringing my gun up toward Mr. Les.

I needn't have bothered. He was still screaming, holding the dimes in his hand as a cold blue fire flowed up his arm toward his head. His skin had turned bright red, and his golden cat eyes blazed in fury and pain. He cast the dimes back toward me – toward the pit. I reached out, but missed them and they tumbled into the pit and the fiery inferno beneath. My gun came back up to cover Mr. Les. The fire had gone out when he'd tossed the dimes, but smoke still rose from his arm. He snarled at me, then smiled. "Don't think this is over, Sinner. When it's said and done, we'll have an eternity to discuss what happens when you try to cheat the devil."

"Get thee behind me, Mephistopheles." I said. And I pulled the trigger. The devil disappeared in a burst of orange flame.

"That was interesting," a voice came from behind me. I turned and pointed my gun at the magician in the top hat. He held a black staff carved in sigils and runes. Staring into his eyes, I saw the same cold look I'd seen from men who held a gun and were prepared to use it. I put myself between him and Jane.

"You'll pay for that, I imagine, McAllen," the Magician said.

I shrugged. "This is payment already. Now, do I have a quarrel with you or not?"

The Magician smiled then, a genuine smile with real human warmth behind it. He raised the staff and put it down. "Not today, I think."

I released the hammer on my gun and holstered it, but didn't take my hand too far from it as I helped Jane to her feet. "Now, if you don't mind, we've got a train to get back to."

The Magician nodded, and tapped the floor with his staff. My eyes were dazzled as the blackness of the place we'd been was replaced with the glow of the light streaming in from the windows of the cabin. Jane collapsed onto the bench and began to sob. I sat and placed my arm around her, silently holding her until she stopped. We sat that way, unspeaking, until night came and she fell asleep in my arms.

###

The rest of the train ride was uneventful. Jane, when she woke, had excused herself to go to the baggage car to check on something. I waited in the private cabin, but she didn't come back. Somehow, I wasn't surprised. I didn't look for her – I'd been gone so long, and I had work to do still. It wouldn't be fair to make her wait, or drag her along. And it would be even longer now that I'd lost the dimes. I checked the ring of circles around my hat, but they were gone.

An hour outside of San Francisco, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door, but it wasn't Jane. The Preacher stood there, with an uncharacteristically soft expression on his face.

"Well, you done good, Sinner. Better'n I thought you would, and that's a fact." He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, and sat on the bench opposite me.

I sat across from him. "You thought I'd hand over whatever it is Jane's protecting."

The Preacher shook his head. "Tell the truth, I figured you'd 'a spit in Les' eye, and told him to go back to hell."

I felt a small black pit open inside of me. "And you figured I'd abandon Jane?"

The Preacher took off his hat and frowned, looking at it. He shrugged. "You already rode away from her once. I owe you an apology. It wasn't a very flattering thought I had of you."

"Well, I am a sinner, after all."

The Preacher smiled at that. "As are we all." He reached into a pocket and withdrew a slightly singed sack, tossing it to me. "I think you dropped this somewhere a ways back." I dropped the six dimes into my hand. They were a little blackened, but a good rub got the soot off. The seventh one was new, crisp and shiny. "Thank you for this," I said, and I began slotting the dimes back behind the circles of my hat.

We rode in silence for a full two minutes before the crazy light came back in his eyes. "Well, way I figure it, you done well enough to earn yourself a little rest before your next task."

My eyebrows went up. "Rest?"

"Sure, Sinner. Forty days and forty nights worth of rest, I imagine. Ride about. See the land."

I thought about it. "That's it? Ride around? See the land?"

The Preacher nodded.

"Do I need to go fasting?"

He cackled at that, and I knew that things between us were getting back to normal. "Well, if I were you, I'd take some vittles." He stood, chuckling to himself. "Fasting. Heh." The door closed behind him.

I caught a glimpse of Jane on the platform. She blushed and turned away, clutching her little bag. A Franciscan monk was taking her arm and gesturing away from the platform. I turned away myself. I don't believe either of us looked back.

At least… I didn't see it if she did…

MPF 2.04 update

Well, you have less than 24 hours to read Athena and the Mechanic for free, because the new story (featuring Seth "The Sinner" McAllen) is done. The first Sinner Story, High Moon, will go up on Amazon/BN.com/etc as soon as possible. I've been getting the illustrations for Athena and The Mechanic, and as soon as I have those in hand, that'll go to the online retailers also.

Now I just have to figure out a name for this Seth McAllen story…

MPF 2.03 – Athena and The Mechanic

Cover Art by Madeleine Fisher

Okay, look. I know what you're thinking. Superhero, tights, saving the day, all that jazz. Must be pretty cool, right? Or maybe you're one of those people who buy into the idea that it's got to suck, that you've got to have no personal life, that you're on call twenty-four seven, and tangling with some of the most dangerous people in the world.

Truth is, it's a job. Firefighters, EMT's, police… it's a job. Sure, it's one that impacts people in a fairly direct manner, and you hope you're up to saving the day so Mom can go home to the family at the end of the day without… oh, just thinking at random… being crushed by a giant killer robot.

Like today.

The Mechanic had been out of the joint for a little more than a week, and already it looked like he was up to his old tricks. Of course, this was a pretty big 'bot for a week's work, but… he was the Mechanic, for crying out loud! I came in fast and hard, hoping to punch through its armor and take out the core like you see in the movies. I can move fast when I have to. Supersonic, even. But you don't want to do that in the middle of a downtown urban area – the bills from broken glass are insane, and having to fend off multiple lawsuits for reckless endangerment takes time away from more important activities. Like derring-do and heroism. And laundry.

This particular 'bot was a cylinder supported by four long tentacular legs with big metal claws on the ends. Where it was headed was anyone's guess, but it looked like it was headed for the banking district. Classic super-villain mistake. Bank heists and power grabs when you could just as easily sell your inventions or use your powers to increase your name-recognition and parlay it into a run at Congress… or the Presidency. Plenty of supers up on the Hill, and not many I'd put in the hero category. All this went through my mind just before it plucked me out of the air with a metal claw and drove me head-first into the road. It released me and continued its rampage – occasionally tossing cars and firing laser blasts as it went.

As I pulled myself out of the hole, I glared at the 'bot. It had just gone from being a purely professional concern to being at the very tip-top of my "I've got a problem with you" list. I cracked my knuckles and bored down into the sewer mains. Yeah, property damage is a problem, but this thing was already tearing holes in the street fifteen feet across just from walking. One extra hole? No one would notice.

Well, maybe two extra holes. I burst up from the street straight into the thing's guts. Or at least that was the intention. Instead of penetrating it, I knocked it straight up about forty feet.

"OW!" I yelled, flying up to hit it again and again. It's not the most inspiring battle cry in the world, but the headache I had just given myself on this things diamond-hard skin was not exactly making it easy to think. I punched it again, thinking that maybe if I just kept it up in the air I'd have a chance of getting it out of the city to one of my favorite pounding spots and going severely bat-shit crazy on its ass.

I try not to swear. But this headache was all kinds of inspiring. I was actually making up new curse words.

"You armagedderatin' piece of SHI-" My tirade was cut off as one of its rear claws grabbed me, tossing me back to the ground. It twisted in the air, landing on three claws, and fired a laser blast from some kind of point defense at me, driving me back about thirty feet and tearing a new furrow in the ground.

I checked my costume for damage. Tears in places, some melting, but it didn't feel like it had penetrated to skin. My outfit (unlike what they draw in the comics) is functional – plenty of kevlar, steel mesh, and force-absorbing putty layered over and over – mostly to keep it from tearing. I was already going to have to spend most of the evening trying to get tar out of my hair. I was not going to be running around flashing the paparazzi. That happened three years ago to Marvelous Girl, and the tabloids had run the pictures for WEEKS. She'd gone seriously underground while it was going on. Hadn't shown her face at the regular places. And the fact that she was fighting a giant ape just raised the situation to ridiculous levels of irony.

She hadn't shown back up until a small meteor had hit one of the tabloid's printing presses. Freak accident, really. Could have happened to anyone. End result – Marvelous Girl owed me a favor and I (and most every other super heroine on the planet) upgraded our wardrobe.

A hand reached down to help me up – the palms thick and callused, oil under the nails. I looked up and saw the face of The Mechanic. Timothy Bristow, Supervillain and ex-con. I came up without his help, cursing him out the whole way. "You're out for a week and you can't just walk away? Make some nice electric cars? Make a boatload of money and retire to the Caymans?" I reared a hand back for a nice love tap – a gentle one, I promise – when I saw the fear in his eyes. "What?"

"It's not mine, Athena." He held up the remote in his other hand. The display was blinking Failure To Connect. "I swear. I'm going totally legit. Hell, I… I thought I could help, but it's not responding to anything I'm trying."

I glared at him a second longer. Timmy Bristow was many things. He was a genius inventor, possible madman. He was also a really bad liar. I'd tangled with him enough to see when he was telling the truth, and when he was just trying to steer me or someone else toward a giant mechanical man-trap.

He really was going legit. Whaddayaknow? The system worked.

I brushed my palms off on my pant legs. "All right, genius. This thing's covered in something harder than pretty much anything I've tried to punch through before." I looked at my knuckles. They were probably going to bruise. I glowered at them for a second, then turned to The Mechanic. "Ideas? Rip off a tentacle and punch through it with it's own material?" You'd be surprised how many superheroes watch movies and cartoons to get ideas. That and NFL films.

"Yeah, you've been watching The Incredibles too much."

"Giant robot – city rampage – seems like the obvious choice."

"If that stuff is what I think it is, you're not going to be able to punch through it any time soon." He squinted at it. "Those lasers are coming from someplace. Try hitting it in those spots, see if you can screw up its internals. I'd bring in one of my own robots, but it'd be a parole violation."

"Riiiiight," I said, looking again at the remote control thing in his hand. Point defense lasers. I narrowed my eyes, and picked up two hunks of asphalt. I hefted them, compressing them in my palms, watching carefully. My aim is pretty good. Why, some people have even idly speculated that I could hit a printing press from space. "You may want to step back, Mechanic. This might make it mad." My arm went back and quicker than the eye could follow, two hunks of compressed asphalt flew down and impacted just off center of the focusing lens of one of the lasers. There was a *POP* sound and some sparking, and one of the legs went limp.

"Heh, good idea," I managed to get out just before the thing opened fire with its remaining point defense lasers. It caught a hip, twisting me as I took off but I managed to dodge most of the blasts. It knocked me off balance, and I did punch a small hole through a building on my way up. I stopped in the middle of a cubicle farm – luckily I hadn't hit any office workers on the way in. I waved at the gawking… bankers or phone jockeys or whatever, and flew down the office until I could surprise it by punching my way back out through a window. I came in again, hard and fast toward the thing's wounded flank. The hole I'd made in its laser port was just about fist wide, and it made a halfway decent handle. I heaved the thing into the air again, whirling it over my head and back down into the asphalt on the abandoned road behind me. It crackled and fizzed a little, but after a moment, the limbs started working with purpose again, pushing it up from the ground.

It couldn't grab at me and support itself, not with only three working limbs. I flew to the other back corner, punching through another point defense laser. It tried to reach up with its remaining rear leg, lowering itself to the ground, but when it did, I let it go crashing to the ground. I could hear parts rattling around inside of it, the crackle of electrical systems shorting themselves out.

Then the point defense lasers started firing randomly.

I grabbed another hunk of asphalt from the broken street and threw it as hard as I could into the machine. I could hear it ricochet back and forth against the outer armor. The remaining rear leg went down, as did one of the front ones. The point lasers stopped. At that point, I grabbed it by the hole in its laser lens again, and picked it up, flying it as quickly as I could haul it to one of my favorite places – an abandoned open-air strip mine.

I call it the Boneyard.

I stuck it butt-first into the ground, one leg waving about to no avail, and considered my options. I could satisfy my mood and beat the stuffing out of it. I could haul it into orbit and give it a good shove towards the Sun.

Beating it might be emotionally satisfying, but would probably bruise my knuckles some more. And I wouldn't get any idea of who made the thing. Funny thing – usually supervillains are pretty open about their handiwork. They perch themselves on the top of their mechanical monstrosities laughing maniacally as the world burns, or they're soliloquizing about how soon they will rule the (slightly burned) world. You know the type, you've seen them in the news. This one would normally have been chalked up to the Mechanic, but he was going straight… or so he claimed.

Throwing it into the Sun would get rid of it – permanently – but still leave me without clues.

So there was really one option. I flew off to find Timothy Bristow and haul him out here to take a look at this thing.

Hopefully, his parole officer would understand.

###

Timothy wasn't too hard to find. After I'd flown off with the robot, he'd headed in to work. At a local Radio Shack. I managed to avoid telling his parole officer that this may have been the functional equivalent of giving a known alcoholic a job tending bar.

He'd been expecting me, as it was. The manager took a look at my mangled suit, the tar still stuck in my hair, and the expression on my face, and he graciously allowed that maybe he could spare Mr. Bristow for the remainder of the day.

Once we got to the Boneyard, Timothy stared at the monster sticking up from the mine floor, still waving a tentacle in what may have been grim purpose, but looked pretty silly.

"So, you want me to tell you who built that thing?"

"I figured you might have some insight."

The Mechanic looked at the robot, lips pursed. "Um, you want me to examine it while it's still functioning?"

"You want me to smash it into a pancake? Would you still be able to tell who made it?"

"I guess not… okay." He took a confident step toward one of the limp tentacles hanging off the base of the implanted robot monster. I suppose when you've been around giant mechanical things as much as the Mechanic, they get less impressive.

He ran a hand over the metal claw, and paused. "Well, I think you killed this part of it, at least." He leaned over it, putting the palm of his hand on the defunct limb. "Come here, and feel this."

I waited for the inevitable "that's what she said" crack, but when it didn't come, I shrugged and put my hand where Timothy had indicated. I hadn't noticed it while punching the monster, but the skin of the robot felt odd to the touch.  Almost… squirmy, though it wasn't moving.

"Eww. What the heck is that?" My headache had receded enough that I was able to censor myself a little better.

"Well, if I had to make a guess, I'd say the skin of this robot monster was quantum entangled – that it's existing in two places at once."

I gave him what I hoped was an intelligent nod, and thankfully he ignored it and kept talking.

"This wouldn't be easy to pull off. Wouldn't be cheap, either. Buckyball coating on the outside, quantum entangled – I'd be willing to bet you that there's an identical robot monster – or at least the outside casing of one – embedded in a mountain or something, that was absorbing a lot of the shock of your blows."

"So, when I hit it with my head earlier…"

"The force of the blow was transferred to the entangled copy, and probably transferred to the surrounding material."

"So I hit my head with a mountain."

The Mechanic grinned at me. "Yeah, something like that."

"So, who would do something like that?"

"The number of organizations that could pull something like this off are pretty small." The Mechanic started ticking them off on his fingers. "Could be the RoboNazis, but the design is off – no swastikas. Could be the Tartarus Titans, but they have a strong preference for bipedal robots – human-forms, cyborgs, that kind of thing." He paused. "Really, it looks like something I would put together – functional, gets the job done. The quantum entanglement is a nice touch…" His voice drifted off. "Maybe it's someone new. A number of my designs wound up in evidence, and I know at least a couple of them leaked to the internet. Could even be… oh hell."

"What?"

"Cindy."

His answer was remarkable in its lack of helpfulness. "Cindy?"

"Cindy Bergstrom. My… ex-girlfriend. Well, ex-fiancé, if you want to get technical about it."

"You were engaged?"

He shrugged. "What? Supervillains can't have a social life? You think all our time is spent plotting new ways to cause chaos and sow destruction, that sort of thing?"

Well… yeah, but I couldn't admit that now. "No, of course not," I said, shaking my head. "It's just… you never think about that kind of thing."

"Yeah, whatever." Timothy turned and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, took a puff, then shook all over and tossed it. And the pack. "Damn it, I'm supposed to be quitting." He sighed, opened and closed his hands, then stuck them in his pocket and leaned back against the robot tentacle.

"I met Cindy about a year before I went to the joint. Bumped into her at one of the usual places. Cindy was… pretty, and perky, and she seemed so fascinated by me. I was thinking about going legit – you know. Cashing in the chips and getting an industrial design job making construction equipment or something. I thought she was making an honest man out of me. I proposed, she moved in to the lair…"

He paused, his eyes far away. I leaned back up against the tentacle myself, letting him tell the story at his own pace, though I was dying to hear how this story ended.

"Well, it turns out that Cindy wasn't as interested in me as she was in my designs. I came home one day, and found that she'd cobbled together an armored suit, working lasers and masers, enhanced strength, and she was working on a flight pack. She was a genius at materials, too. It was all flexible, light, bullet proof, really amazing stuff. This skin feels like the kind of thing she'd put together." He nodded. "Yeah. Might not be, but something about it just feels… like crazy ex-girlfriend." He shrugged, and looked over at where he'd thrown the cigarettes.

"So what happened when you found the suit?"

"Well, we had a fight. I said something like 'I want to get out of the supervillain business and start a family', and she was all 'You're a weak insignificant fool', and it kind of went downhill from there."

Suddenly I put two and two together. "Wait a second… you had a fight… in your LAIR? With a woman wearing an armored suit? And was familiar with all of your designs?"

He nodded. "Yup. When the smoke cleared, that's where the Supreme Seven found me, and brought me in. I told them one of my 'bots had gone haywire – it happens – and they bought it. And Cindy walked away clean."

"Wow…" There wasn't really anything else to be said. One of the most notorious tech-villains in the country, laid out by an ex-girlfriend.

Well, ex-fiancé. With access to all of his designs. I started getting a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"You have any idea where she is?"

He shrugged. "I haven't exactly been looking for her, if that's what you…" He froze for a moment, then reached for a pocket. I raised a fist – reflex action, I swear – but all he pulled out was a smartphone. A moment later, he shook his head.

"No good, she's blocked me from her Facebook profile."

"Your insane villain ex-girlfriend is on Facebook." It wasn't a question.

"Ex-fiancé. And yes. Spent at least an hour a day on it." He paused, staring at the screen before he put the phone away. He put a hand on the tentacle again, but pulled it back with a grimace. Squirmy, like I said. But then he put the hand back down on it and got a funny look on his face. "Ummm… hm. I'm not saying that I know for a fact that it's her, but if this quantum entangled like I thought, I've got an idea of how we can find her. Well, whoever. And at least get us close, maybe."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Maybe. We'll need some information, though."

"What kind of information?"

"Seismic activity." I thought about that, and nodded. At least the headache would serve some purpose other than the invention of new and improbable curse words.

###

We got back to Timothy's place just before evening. I glanced around the apartment while he reviewed seismic records of the surrounding area. The apartment was spare – no decorations on the walls – not even a television. Just the one computer, and a workbench that had components and a couple of scribbled designs on it.

I pointed at the workbench and gave him the look. He shrugged. "Fish gotta swim, Birds gotta fly, right?" The look continued. "Look, it's all legit work, okay? Geez. Nothing huge. I'm trying to miniaturize anyway." He tried a self-deprecating grin. "It's the future."

I shook my head. Villains.

A google search or two later showed that around the time of the battle, there'd been a sharp seismic event in the Sierra Madres. Timothy's eyes were wide. "Oh, that no-good double-crossing b-" he glanced at where I was standing. "Broad." He finished lamely.

I looked at the map. The location really didn't mean anything to me.

"She's not using your old base, is she?"

Tim was gritting his teeth. "Well, that does seem to be where the seismic events were coming from," he muttered.

"Uh huh." I tried to keep my voice calm. Work bench. Just out of prison. Crazy robot attack. Crazy story about ex-fiancee. And now he seemed to be getting a little upset. I kept my eyes on him just in case he tried something.

"The Supreme Six took me in. What did they do with the base?"

I shrugged. Usually, something like that is in the hands of government lawyers. Old supervillain lairs are quite the buy if you're looking for good real estate. Survivalist groups, military, movie stars… I think Bill Paxton bought a place that used to be the Red Shadow's old lair. "Beats me. Might not even be through the process of clearing out the traps. That can take time, expertise, and money…"

"We'll have to do a title search to make sure we know who we're actually walking in on. You know… legally."

"Now hang on there, Mechanic. Who says you're coming?"

He looked up at me and held up a finger. "First, please call me Tim. Or Timothy. Or whatever. Just… not Mechanic, okay? Not any more." He looked back at the computer and sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Second, it's my place. I know it like nobody else, and if you're going in there- trust me, you're going to need help."

"I'll get the Supremes. Or the Maniacs."

"The Supremes are off-world fighting Unitron-8. And the Maniacs? I mean, really?"

Okay, maybe the Maniacs had a reputation for being a little unpredictable… and for massive collateral property damage. I'd rethink that. "Can't take you, Tim. It'd be a parole violation."

Timothy – Tim – looked at me… then looked over at his bench.

"Fine. Tell you what, give me… two days."

Uh-oh. "Two days? For what?"

"Whether you admit it or not, you are going to need help, and right now it looks like I'm it, but I can't go with you. And if you think I'm going to miss out on the opportunity to have a hand in kicking someone out of my old base, you've got another thing coming. Besides, you'd never have found this without me.  So give me two days. It'll at least give me a chance to get you a map of the facility the way it was when I was there."

"That's not going to take two days. What are you really going to do? Send another giant robot in with me?"

He grinned, and there was a glint in his eye that struck me as just a little unsettling. "Miniaturization, remember?"

"So… a small robot then?"

"Two days."

I was about to leave, but I saw the look in his eyes. He was going to build something. And if I didn't take it with me, he was going to sic it on the facility anyway. And I couldn't help it. He was the first supervillain I'd had a real conversation with in, well, ever. I didn't want him to go back to prison because I shut him out when I could have brought him in.

Anyway, it would give me a chance to get the grit out of my hair and change the outfit.

"Fine. Two days." It was going to take at least that long to prepare anyway.

###

I stared at the thing Tim the Mechanic had made, and couldn't help busting out laughing. "Oh, you have GOT to be kidding."

"What? Super heroine, Athena, seemed like the right choice."

"I think you've been watching a little too much Harryhausen, Tim."

There on the workbench was a black mechanical owl. It peered at me with yellow eyes, turned to preen a bit, then hooted – a modulated little sound.

Tim shrugged. "Gotta go with the classics. And it's all yours. Access to the maps I drew up, sonic and laser weapons, real-time 4G internet access. Automatically scans for and logs in to wireless networks. The AI is limited, but it'll adapt and learn to complement your style."

I looked at Tim. "This is really cool, Mechanic, but isn't it technically a parole violation?"

Tim shrugged. "The terms are pretty clear that I can't work on anything larger than an automobile. And none of my previous 'bots have been smaller than a double-decker bus. This should be fine."

"Just tell me that you don't have hidden cameras or anything like that. I'd hate to take this thing home and think that you might be taking pictures of me and selling them."

Tim's eyes went wide for a second and he gave me a nervous smile. "What? Hidden cameras?" My gaze narrowed, and his hands went up in surrender. "I… okay… I was planning on monitoring your progress through the base and checking the performance of Bubo here, but I swear dirty pictures were the furthest thing from my mind." He stopped for a moment, seeing my unbelieving stare. "Okay, I've THOUGHT about it, but remember, I've seen you bat around buses like they were bowling pins. You could probably hit a printing press from space. Like I'm really going to take secret pictures of you? Do I look like I want to wind up at the bottom of a crater?"

I looked back at the owl. "All right, I'll take him… it… with me. But as soon as I'm done, I'm bringing it back here. It's kind of giving me the creeps," I lied. Actually, it was sort of cute for a mechanical robot built by a maybe former supervillain, "…but it might come in handy. Can it keep up with me?"

"Anything up to Mach 1 – you're not going too high or breaking the sound barrier are you?"

I considered that, then shrugged. "Probably not. All right, Bubo. You're in."

"Hoot!"

Tim held up a hand. "I've got good news and bad news. The title search says that the property is still in my name. That's the good news. The bad news is, it's technically being held by the US government while it's being disarmed and made available for resale."

I nodded. "It's not a problem. I'll make a call on the way over."

"Must be nice, being able to make a call and smooth things over before you go knocking heads."

I gave him a grin. "Fighting on the side of the angels does have its perks."

###

I got up to the roof, and waved Bubo off. "Patrol or something. I don't want you guys listening to my conversation."

Bubo hooted and started circling.

Bob Binney was on the phone less than a minute after I dialed in. Must have been a slow day. "Athena," he grumbled in a raspy basso. "And I was having such a great day. You about to bury me in paperwork?"

"Hope not. I've got a potential supervillain base I've got to take down."

"Yeah? Have fun with that."

"Hah. Yeah. It's the Mechanic's old place."

"What? The Garage?"

"You named it?"

"Yeah. What else were we gonna call the home base of someone called the Mechanic?" He paused, probably looking something up on his phone. "We don't have any crews in there yet. No one goes in to dismantle a place until we have a serious buyer lined up. Just try not to make too much of a mess."

I glanced up at where Bubo was circling. "Well, hopefully there won't be a lot of need for that."

"You bringing backup?" Huh. He actually sounded worried. "I saw that footage from the other day. That robot seemed to be giving you a bit of a hard time."

"Yeah, sort of."

"It's not the Maniacs is it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Of course not."

"Okay. Who is it?"

"Well, Bob, it's kind of the Mechanic…"

The rest of the call did not go well. After a brief discussion of the perils of re-introducing a villain to his old lair, of the perils of accepting strange gifts from former enemies, blah blah blah… he grunted at me, told me to be careful, and hung up. It actually went better than most of my conversations with Bob Binney – government liaison for super-heroes.

###

Knocking on the front door when you're a superheroine is typically something that gives the opposition time to arm particularly lethal responses, so it's generally not the accepted manner of entering a supervillain's lair. When that supervillain happens to be in the employ of a government contractor, well, sometimes you have to knock. And sometimes you have an intimate knowledge of the layout of a villain's lair embedded in the electronic brain of an artificially intelligent owl. That last one doesn't happen often.

Bubo led the way, and he was pretty fast. Just under Mach 1, slowed down when we got near population centers, managed to circle some of the bigger ones, and before you knew it, he was headed straight for the side of a mountain. He slowed as we descended, and he landed next to what appeared to be an air shaft.

"A ventilation shaft? Isn't this, like, number two on the Evil Overlord list?"

"Hoot."

"Hey, Tim. Seriously? A ventilation shaft?" I knew he had to be listening.

"It's not really a ventilation shaft. Give me just a second…" Suddenly, there was a whirring as the shaft rose, revealing a staircase that led down into the mountainside.

"You guys think we build these places like fortresses, but really they're more like rabbit warrens. Always at least three exits, and one of them never goes on the plans."

"Any lasers or gas traps or spiky things to worry about?"

"Not when I left." That was comforting. Not.

"Well, she didn't change the password on this, at least."

"Password? I'm using a generic garage door opener signal. Wal-Mart."

Shaking my head, I gave a shake of the head to Bubo, and together we started down.

The staircase ended with a little door. "Well, Bubo, you got a garage door opener for this?" Its flashlight eyes were doing a fairly good job of illuminating the corridor.

The little owl hooted once and its flashlight eyes focused on a particular piece of the wall. I pushed gently, and it gave a little. As it did, the wall in front of us opened up to reveal a large, well-lit facility.

"Okay…" Tim's voice came from Bubo. "Let me see what we've got here… huh. She hasn't changed any of the passwords? That's weird…"

"Good weird or uh-oh weird?" I had a sinking feeling in my guts.

"Probably set up to start something the moment I log in."

I shrugged. Materials or no, I'd beaten everything the Mechanic had thrown at me. "She's expecting you, right?"

"Yeah. But it'll only take a minute to-"

"Don't bother. Log in."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." I cracked my knuckles. "Let's get this party started."

"All right… done."

Turrets dropped from the tunnel behind and from the floor of the room in front of me. "Honey," a voice cooed over the loudspeakers, "so glad you're HOME!"

I dove for one of the turrets, crumpling the barrel with a fist, and feeling the crump as the internals fried themselves. That always felt good.

I moved to the second turret while it was trying to track on me, punching it and tearing it from its footing. "Hey!" I heard a voice protest. "You're not Timmy!"

"Bubo, find her!" I yelled.

But I needn't have bothered. Behind me, down the massive empty chamber, something rumbled. Something big. I smiled. Someone was about to pay for the worst hair day I'd ever had.

I grabbed the turret I'd knocked from the ground and hefted it as I approached the giant black robot that was stamping its way up the chamber. Another featureless black cylinder, maybe half-again as large as the one I'd previously defeated, with six legs. It reared up, waving its front claws at me, and firing point defense lasers. From the holes they punched in the holes and wall, these packed a much more serious punch than the prior lasers had.

Not that they hit me, of course. I wound up with the turret, and swung it as hard as I could. It disintegrated against the black surface with a crunch, but the skin of the 'bot was untouched. Naturally. "Entangled armor? Fantastic." I dodged one claw, then another, sailing towards the back of the 'bot, still holding the tangled barrel of the turret.

"Athena! How nice. I rarely get house guests." Turrets popped out from the bot, turning to focus on me.

"That's new…." I managed to get out just before they opened fire. The blast knocked me back into the wall of the massive garage, and I lost my grip on the bent turret barrel.. I checked my outfit – still intact, even if it was smoking… and melted in places. The turrets turned again to track me – much faster than the ones on the floor, I noticed.

In the comics, these kinds of fights are drawn out for dramatic effect. And the fight in the city had taken some time while I tried to weigh out my options and study the 'bot for weaknesses. But the thing about being outside a populated area is that a number of options become available that normally aren't. For example, moving faster than the speed of sound. The boom as I launched myself back out toward the robot crashed through the garage in a pressure wave that was sure to blow the eardrums of anyone in the room, and maybe anyone in the complex. I hoped Bubo would be all right… funny how attached I was getting to the little guy.

I grabbed the turret as it tracked toward the hole in the wall where I'd been, planted my feet, and pulled. The whole 'bot moved with my effort. While the external skin of the turret was entangled armor, the internal linkages and power conduits were not. It twisted back and up with a crunch, leaving a sparking hole in the armor of the 'bot.

I beat the other turret with the entangled one I was holding, feeling the shock of impact roll up into my hands, arms and shoulders, It only took two smashes to bend the other turret's barrel until it wasn't useful any more.

But in that time, the bot had moved to the side of the garage, planting its claws on the wall. It twisted then, rolling over, and threatening to bear me to the ground beneath its bulk. I shot out from under it, reaching out and picking up the twisted turret barrel I'd dropped when I got hit earlier. I turned, brought my arm back, took aim and let fly.

The thing about my namesake, the Goddess Athena, she's a spearwoman. The turret barrel shot into the gaping turret hole, leaving a sparking ruin in its wake. I followed it in, punching and tearing until I felt the thing stop moving around me. I emerged a moment later – a little singed, but not really that much worse for wear.

I grinned up at the ceiling. "What else you got, girlie? I haven't had this much fun since Ultratron-5."

A terrified shriek answered me. I looked around and from a side passage I'd missed on the way in, a petit blonde wearing a green hood and cape (yes, I know! A cape!) emerged, trying to fend off a zooming black 'bot.

Bubo was harrassing her, flapping his wings and tearing at her hood with his talons, but as far as I could tell, he wasn't hurting her. She came up with a pistol of some kind, but a laser blast from the little owl knocked it away. She held up her arms to cover her face as he beat about her head with his wings.

"Get him off! GET HIM OFF!"

I whistled at Bubo, and he left off beating the poor blonde girl and circled around to land on my shoulder. If 'bots could express emotion, I'd say he seemed pretty smug about the way he'd gotten her. Tim's laughter filled the room from the wall's speakers.

"Tim?" The fact that he was laughing from the lair's speakers meant he'd gotten control back. I was going to have to haul him in. But as I listened, I noticed that the laugh was… different. I've heard all kinds of villain laughs over the years. High, low, maniacal, grim… this was not a villain's laugh.

"Oh, that was… that was hilarious."

Cindy Bergstrom took a cautious look around her gauntlets, scanning the sky, then blanching a little when she saw me. "You don't fight fair," she said, pouting and stamping her foot.

Tim and I both laughed at that, and she gave us a venomous glare.

###

Duct tape. Every mechanic's garage has one, and this was no exception. Cindy was dropped like a wrapped present on the floor of the 57th Precinct. Good guys, they get a lot of crazy stuff in there from us, and they're mostly used to it. I was enjoying a glass of fruit juice back at The Mech… at Tim's apartment.

"That was some good work, Tim. Bubo had her so flustered, but he didn't lay a claw on her."

"That wasn't me, Athena. That was all him."

My eyes widened. "Huh. Really?"

"Yeah. Quantum-computer AI, programmed not to hurt anyone. Well, not too much. And besides, I don't have that much fine control – you really need a local AI to get that kind of finesse."

Bubo hooted a satisfied trill from my shoulder, and I nodded. "I guess you got your lair back."

Tim shrugged. "Not really. Government's just going to have an easy time prepping it for the buyer is all. And without the expense of hiring a team to clean it out, I might even see a little from the proceeds."

I nodded. "Good for you." The silence stretched out. "Hey Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"I think your little guy is gonna need a bit more of a trial run. I mean, one villain isn't really enough to show off what he can do, right?" I reached up and scratched the owl's head a little. He hooted pleasantly.

Tim got a funny grin on his face, following as I walked out to his balcony. "Yeah, and besides, I think he likes you."

"Just remember," I said over my shoulder, "A single picture of me gets out, I know where you live."

I gave Tim a crooked grin over my shoulder, and he had the decency to blush.

Bubo launched himself from my shoulder, and a half second later I followed my owl up and back out over the city.

 

A quick thought re: ebooks and pricing

Walking around today, I had a thought. When ever I hear people defend the prices on ebooks, one of the things they say is that the publishers' costs aren't all that lower with the production of an e-book as opposed to printing an actual book – that maybe it's a dollar or so per copy.

That could be correct, and still not justify current prices.

In the cost of the book you also have to figure the cost of shipment, warehousing, distribution, etc., and whatever else it takes to get the books to the store. I'd be very surprised if those costs were born by the publisher. Cut that person out, cut out the need to maintain a sales force, distribution, and warehousing, and the total cost of getting a book to you, the customer, drops. Whenever I order something, who pays shipping and handling? Me. And once it's out of the hands of Amazon or the eBay seller or whatever, their costs for it are zero. B&N, the now defunct Borders, and all the other bookstores bear those costs.

Now, even in the ebook world, those costs do not drop to zero. There's some bandwidth costs, some costs to maintain a payment system, credit card fees, power, etc. But I think those costs are reduced by the move to e-books.

Am I missing something?

MPF 1.01 – Frosty's Deposit

I'm posting the original Mad Poet Files stories up at Amazon, for those who are interested.

Frosty's Deposit is the tale of a man who just wants to fit in. He finds a place where he and his son can be… normal. Keeps a steady job. Keeps his head down.

Because someone is looking for them. Maybe.

And then one day he walks into his bank in the middle of a robbery. It's available from Amazon (link above) and bn.com for $0.99 US.

If you missed it, and you can search the site, I'm pretty sure it's stil available here. But I think it's worth at least one dollar.

Running the numbers

Writing is a business, and at the end of the day, any business is going to come down to numbers, which is what I'd like to go over today.

First, let's set a target – the amount of money I'd like to make from my writing every month. We'll use a nice, round number – $5,000 USD / month.

Using Amazon's royalty structure, I figured that each $0.99 short story gets me $0.297 USD. So, to make my $5,000 goal, I'd need to sell 16,835 stories at that price point.

That seems like a pretty high number. But I also have the six short stories I did last year that I'll be posting as individual stories this week. That gives me seven stories that will be available, and thus I'd only need to sell an average of 2,405 per story to hit my goal – much better numbers as a per-story basis. Plus, there's the hope that someone who reads one story will like it enough to buy the next one, and the next one, and so on.

Now, let's consider the numbers for a longer work. I've got three manuscripts out there that I've never edited for publication. I'm working on those now. When they go up, they'll sell for $4.99 apiece. According to Amazon's royalty structure, that would get me $3.493 USD per sale, so I'd only need to sell 1,431 or so per month to get that $5k.

I've been discussing price with a friend of mine, and we agree that at a certain point, a price makes something an impulse purchase, and I'm thinking $4.99 is above that threshold (which personally for an ebook is around $2.99).

So, here's where the business person has to make some decisions. Why price at $4.99 and not be an impulse purchase?

And for that matter, why mess with the short stories at all if you get a much higher return on the novels?

On the $4.99, I don't want my novels to be an impulse purchase. That could be arrogance, but I want to be worth $4.99 to my reader. I'm going to have plenty of $0.99 short stories available if someone wants to grab an impulse read.

The goal is to write the short stories well enough to encourage someone to buy the next short story (or the back catalog), and to consider buying a novel.

The novels have to be written well enough to encourage someone to buy the next one (and the back catalog).

The bottom line is, that quality only comes from writing more. And oddly enough, from writing more comes more content that potentially widens my reach and decreases the number of per-unit sales I've got to make to hit that $5k / month goal.

That leaves the question – why spend time on short stories when the per-unit sales make so much more sense on the novel side?

That's a good question. Maybe I'll run some more numbers and get back to you on that tomorrow.

In the meantime, I've got to get writing.

MPF 2.02 – Finding the Fire

Here's story number two. It's set in the same world as the collaboration Scott Roche and I did last year – the Battle of Wildspitze – but this one takes place half a world away and some years prior to Norris Tilney getting his first taste of magic and mayhem. I hope you like this, and I hope we'll see more of these characters.

Finding the Fire is down now because the new story is up. Once this is up at Amazon and BN.com, etc., links will be here.

###

The photo is used under a creative commons license, and the original version is on flickr at this link.

MPF 2 – Next Story Update

Still working on the next story, which is now clocking in at about 7800 words. It'll easily be over 10,000, but it's mostly written. I'm just adjusting, rewriting, editing, and polishing now. My anticipation is that if you want to read Cost of Duty without paying for it, you've probably got about 24 hours to do that. Because sometime tomorrow, I'll be posting a story in the Wildspitze universe that Scott Roche and I created. A story of magic, machines, and mayhem in Meiji Japan. A story that combines traditional Japanese mythology, history, family, swordplay, romance, and Nikolai Tesla.

Tomorrow's story – MPF 2.02 – Finding the Fire. IF you want to get a sense of this world that Scott and I are playing in, our earlier collaboration, The Battle of Wildspitze, is free today, using coupon code LN72C.