Dead Man’s Hand (60 page)

Leslie reached the base of the lizard’s head and peered over its snout at the ley
line coursing beneath it. A gently spinning cylinder of infinitesimally narrow beams
of blue, gold, and green light coursed from horizon to horizon. Below he could see
they were just now crossing a massive ravine through which coursed the Humboldt River.

“This is where I was going to have us jump off anyway,” he yelled over the thunderous
whomp of the dragon’s wings. “Are you ready?”

“
Of course not
,” Nicola yelled back. She wrapped her arms around his neck, nearly choking him. “
Do it anyway!
”

A Pinkerton’s ocular blast shot past him. Already the Neversleeps had reached the
driver’s car; already they were climbing across the lizard’s back in pursuit.

“Fuck it,” he said to no one in particular.

He planted his foot on the skull ridge between the dragon’s hate-filled eyes and leapt
over its snorting nostrils. The expanded field of magic-annihilation from the Chrysalis
met the psychic resonance of the ley line, and confronted it with its own impossibility.

And in that instant, it ceased to exist.

* * *

The enormous dragon did not need the ley line in order to fly, of course; it had wings
for that. But the enchantments cast on the ten train cars it towed required interactions
with the line to stay aloft. And when the ley that cut through the Sierra Madre abruptly
winked out of existence, the train plunged like a ponderous chain into the canyon
below, dragging the screaming, spouting dragon down with it.

Leslie hit the water first, dislodging Tesla from his neck. Even the breathing apparatus
built into the Chrysalis could not keep the wind from getting knocked out of his chest.
Gasping, the first thing he did was unhook Tesla’s resonator from his waist for he
could feel it overheating, trying to burn a hole in his side as he fell.

As he pushed it away from him he saw out of the corner of his eye, in what little
light could be stolen from the murky brown by his goggles’ enhancements, Tesla’s curls
trailing behind her as she sank unconscious into blackness.

At the same time out of the corner of his other eye the shadows of the dropping train
cars blotted out the surface of the river above him.

Then a great invisible hand swatted him out of the way just as the train crashed into
the water in the exact spot where he had been; the river vomited him upward onto a
stony heap of slate in a shallow narrow.

He watched the Li Ying Lung dragon crashing down atop the heap of compartments jutting
from the water. The wyrm wriggled and ripped his way free of the damaged harness,
then sprang into the sky with a breathless shriek of terror; it disappeared with frantic
flaps over the nearest peak, the two dragons that had brought the army of Pinkertons
instinctively chasing after it.

Leslie spotted Tesla lying facedown in the water near the edge of the shale bar, sputtering
and coughing. He raced to her and picked her up from behind, gripping her abdomen
and forcing her to cough up as much water as he could. He saw bits and pieces of the
resonator floating past on the current and he realized what had happened: the device
overheated and exploded, creating a shockwave that hurled its creator and him to safety.

“We’ve made ‘atomist’ synonymous with murderer and anarchist in the headlines,” Morgan
Ash chuckled in his ear. “Thank you so much for providing the newspapers pictures
to match.”

The bodies of Pinkertons floated everywhere around him as glass-ravaged passengers
splashed out of the train through shattered windows and took turns in desperate dives
below the surface to rescue those trapped in the two or three fully submerged cars.
He burned with regret and nearly dropped Tesla to dash and help them.

But descending all around him were Neversleeps and All-Seeing Eyes. Their stunt had
killed many, even most, but not all. Not enough. And when Simon Leslie had torn off
the resonator he’d exposed the breach in the Chrysalis to the outside air; he might
as well have torn it to shreds for all the protection it provided him now. The Pinkertons
knew it, too; they were just waiting for Ash’s orders to boil his blood, to turn his
skin inside out and dump his organs out onto the river rocks like wet sacks of garbage.

“For what it’s worth… I’m sorry it had to end like this, Si,” Ash said. “As I’m sure
you are too.”

The Eyes closed in a tight circle around Leslie and Tesla. “Don’t tell me what to
think, you preening ass. This is exactly how I wanted it to end.”

Ash’s mahogany chuckle. “Si, Si. Cocky little shit to the last, huh?”

“Oh, no. I’m serious. Don’t you read the guidebooks?”

A gust of wind howled through the canyon. The Neversleeps hesitated, spinning their
great ocular globes an extra few revolutions.

“You ever hear about the Donner Party, Ash?”

“
Wendigos!
” somebody cried. But it was too late.

The Cannibal Spirits dropped from the edges of the ravine, their spindly arms spread
out to envelop the Pinkertons like a net. Jaws retracted to head-width and sank themselves
into the meat and bone of the Pinkertons, ignoring the ectoplasmic eyes. One Neversleep
was able to blast back a Wendigo with a manna missile but he was immediately dropped
with a claw swipe from behind.

Leslie could feel Tesla tense beneath his arms and he pulled her close to him, hoping
he could seal off the breach in the Chrysalis with her body—not enough to fool the
sophisticated spells of the Neversleeps, but to confuse the primitive senses of the
Wendigos. One came near Nicola trailing long, straggling corpse-hair and sniffed her
cheek with his noseless skull, but Leslie put a gloved hand over her face, hoping
that would make her partially invisible to the Cannibal Spirit.

With a snort and a dissatisfied shake of the head, the Wendigo turned, spotted a Pinkerton
with his left leg ripped off below the knee trying to crawl across the crimson-choked
river to safety. The spirit gave up on Tesla and launched itself atop the fugitive
and commenced to feast.

“Better luck next time, Morgan,” Leslie said, but silence was his only reply. He ripped
the receiver out of his hood in case the bosses figured out how to track that, too,
and, keeping Tesla close to his body, fled up the ridge through the pines to safety.

* * *

At dawn they stumbled across a ghost town on the side of the mountain: pale gray timber
shells like giant wasps’ nests. It had been settled since its abandonment, as one
might expect, by ghosts, mindless revenants acting out the routines of life: children
chasing hoops, women hanging invisible clothing on non-existent lines, men fighting
in the streets over long-dead causes.

Inside the largest intact structure, half-burned and festooned with meadow heath,
Simon Leslie ripped off the Chrysalis in a stream of muttered self-denunciations.

Tesla watched him with a furrowed brow. “Whatever is the matter?”

“What…?” He looked at her, astounded and naked, sweat slick on muscles still taut
for battle. “Did you not see what just happened? How many innocent people did we kill
with that stunt?”

Tesla shrugged. “The train couldn’t have been traveling more than forty-five, perhaps
forty-eight kilometers an hour. I’m sure there were far fewer fatalities than you
think.”

“
One
is unacceptable. You hear me? One innocent life is far too many.”

She laughed at him. “You are trying to remake the world, Edison man. How did you hope
to accomplish that without blood and thunder? You think our enemies give one thought
to these ‘innocents’ of yours, whoever they are?”

“We’re supposed to be better than they are. We have to be. Otherwise, what’s the point
of any of it?”

An exasperated sigh exploded out of her. “My great-grand-uncle had a laboratory in
Colorado Springs, just after the Awakening. You heard of it?”

“Yes. He was conducting wireless telegraph experiments. Before magic rendered them
obsolete, of course—”

“No. No, no, no. That’s just what the Inquisition wanted everyone to believe, after
they arrested him, and he burned. He was working on the wireless transmission of
energy
. My uncle wanted to generate free power for all, everywhere around the world. That’s
what scared them. Not the science. Not the difference of philosophies, whether faith
or facts is the superior basis for living. The people who run the world have no use
for such trivia. All they want is
control
.

“That is why you are better than your enemies, Edison man. Not because of your body
count. Because you are fighting for what is real and true and natural. The world behind
their veil of lies and superstition… The common man, the worker, the peasant, does
not need oracles and magicians to get ahead in that world. All she needs is what she
was born with. That is what makes us different, Edison man. That is what makes us
different.” She jabbed a finger into his bare sternum. “And that is why we will win.”

Simon Leslie couldn’t stop grinning. “I think I love you, Nicola Tesla.”

“I would not be surprised if you did. I am quite attractive by conventional standards.”

She turned away from him, and began to remove her still-soaking blouse and her dress
to ring them out. Soon they would both be naked inside the burnt empty building, chests
heaving, breath not yet caught.

He heard a sound, and looked to the corner of the room. They must have been in a former
saloon, for the ghost of a guitar player sat on an invisible crate and stared at nothing
and moaned out a song:

I’m, I’m coming home

’Cause I feel so alone

I’m coming back home

And meet my dear old mother

Soon, however, the sun had risen all the way, and the light crept in through the open
doorway. The phantom faded with all the others, burned away with the morning fog.

The whisper of the cards as they’re shuffled is a deception, a ritual enacted to make
you believe that your hand will be fairly dealt.

The fly that lands on the whiskey glass by the dealer’s hand means that the deck is
cut three cards deeper than it would have been. The hand you’re dealt is not the one
that would have been dealt a moment before.

Your cards are dealt anew every moment of every day. So are the cards of the other
players.

A
♦
A
♣
8
♠
8
♣

Black Hills Weekly Pioneer

A.W. Merrick

Deadwood, Dakota Territory

August 2, 1876

J.B. “Wild Bill” Hickok Shot Dead at the No. 10 Saloon

A somber mood has gripped the town of Deadwood tonight, with the news that notable
gunman and showman “Wild Bill” Hickok has been shot and killed. A shot was heard throughout
the bustling community at 4:15 this afternoon, drawing a crowd of the concerned and
curious to the door of the Number 10 Saloon owned by Mssrs. Nuttal and Mann. The body
of James Butler Hickok was discovered therein, dead of a gunshot to the head.

Local miner Jack “Broken Nose” McCall approached Hickok from behind, drew his pistol,
and fired the bullet that instantly took Hickok’s life. McCall has claimed the act
was a matter of blood debt, Hickok having killed his own brother in Kansas.

Hickok was well known amongst frequenters of the No. 10 to always sit with his back
to the wall and facing the door, lest enemies made during a notable life on the plains
exploit a lack of vigilance. On this day it is said that the only seat available at
the table faced away from the door, and it was thus that McCall was able to enact
his craven deed.

The scene of the murder was one of solemn reflection and practical determination,
as the saloon proprietors and townspeople of Deadwood sought to put the shooting behind
them. After Hickok’s remains had been cleared away, there remained only a grim still
life to mark the event: on the floor beside the seat lately occupied by Wild Bill
lay the dead man’s hand—two pair, aces and eights—a good hand, this reporter is told,
but one which brought him no luck at all.

J
♠
J
♥
J
♦
7
♣
7
♦

Black Hills Pioneer Gazette

Albert Merrick

Deadwood Gulch, D.T.

March 1, 1877

“Wild Bill” (James) Hickok Hanged for Murder

After a decade of outwitting the law, no amount of ill-gotten gold could tip the Scales
of Justice in favor of the legendary outlaw and gunman James Butler Hickok, best known
by the infamous moniker “Wild Bill.” His last ride has ended in Yankton, Dakota Territory,
at the end of a rope.

On August 1, 1876, the Bella Union Saloon was the scene of violence as a man was callously
murdered over a debt in the amount of two dollars and fifty cents. The night had proceeded
in the usual fashion, until it was learned that local miner Jack McCall, sometimes
known as Sutherland, was unable to cover a hand lost to Hickok. Despite a promise
to pay the following day, Hickok reportedly grew incensed, and bellowed, “A man ought
never overbet his hand. That’s no way to play cards!”

Captain William Massey, who had also been at the table, attempted to intervene, despite
warnings from bystanders. “I told him not to get in Bill’s way when he gets like that,”
Mr. Tom Miller, proprietor, recalled. “But he wouldn’t listen. He’d been an officer
in the Union Army once, and I think that stayed with him.”

Hickok drew his gun and aimed it at McCall’s heart. Once a sharpshooter of world renown,
Hickok’s sight had reportedly been failing in recent years, driving him off the trail
and into the saloons to make a meager living as a card player. His first shot missed
McCall entirely, and the bullet instead struck Captain Massey, who Dr. McKinney says
will carry it ’til his dying day.