The Best of Penny Dread Tales by Kevin J. Anderson, Quincy J. Allen, Cayleigh Hickey, Aaron Michael Ritchey Ritchey, J. M. Franklin, Gerry Huntman, Laura Givens, Keith Good, David Boop, Peter J. Wacks Page B
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson, Quincy J. Allen, Cayleigh Hickey, Aaron Michael Ritchey Ritchey, J. M. Franklin, Gerry Huntman, Laura Givens, Keith Good, David Boop, Peter J. Wacks
Tags: Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Steampunk, Anthologies, Anthologies & Short Stories
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thundering gallop, the tubes grafted to her hooves screaming steam. Too proud for bit or saddle, the Rider tugged her mane to maintain his seat.
“Whoa, chica,” he croaked. His words did nothing. Rosalina put the greasy outlaw under hoof and reared back to deliver vengeance, but a forceful pull on her mane felled the blow wide. The mare stomped murderous intent, snorting and spitting. The Rider, minding his grip lest he end up on the brick-hard ground, whispered in Rosalina’s perked ear.
She settled, and the Rider, rifle in hand, hopped to the ground. The bandito slouched in the shade of his dead horse, gnawing a grisled femur. Yellow blisters and the blackness of encroaching death dotted his book-leather skin. Blood mottled his cheek, flies landing without reprove on eyelids, nose, and cheeks.
“¿Hablas íngles?” The Rider trained his rifle on the bandito, custom scope flickering a red dot between heavy-lidded eyes.
The bandit laughed and tossed the femur away. “No. I sprecken zee Doitch.”
“Get smart with me again and I’ll relieve you of your brains.” The Rider punctuated his warning with a kick to the bandito’s ribs. “You one of the Banditos Rouges that held up the Union Pacific last week?”
“What if I am? You a law dog?”
The Rider lowered his rifle. “If I’m a dog, then you’re the bitch, bandito.” He turned from the wretch and whispered in Rosie’s ear. She snorted, putting a rare smile onto the Rider’s face. He pulled the small book from Rosie’s saddlebag and secreted it to a pants pocket.
“Today is the luckiest day of your life, amigo. The way I figure, your boys are whoring in Santa Fe by now. Rosie here will take you to them.” The Rider took a canteen from his hip, emptied half into the aluminum tanks on Rosie’s haunches and tossed it to the bandito. “Take it easy with the water and you’ll live.”
The bandito laughed.
“You’re gonna give away your horse and your water in the center of hell? Gringo, you’ll be dead by sundown.”
“Doubt it.” The Rider slung the bandito by his collar over Rosie’s back. “Thinking ain’t your strong suit, bandito. You leave the logic to me. Consider yourself fortunate—I’m in a charitable mood. That only happens every two hundred years or so.” The Rider pointed to the rectangular metal case strapped to Rosalina’s hind. “Whatever you do, don’t open Pandora’s box. Hell’s inside.”
With a swift slap, Rosalina and the crusty bandito set off into the plain. He bounced as if strapped to a bucking bull. The boots grafted to Rosie’s hooves hissed pressurized steam, driving hydraulic rods to the ground in concert with her gallop. The machine amplified her speed tenfold.
“What the hell kind of horseshoes is these?” the bandito roared, voice heavy with the echo of distance. Within seconds Rosie and the thief plunged under the horizon. The Rider thought of the noose awaiting the gullible bastard and flashed another rare smile.
The sun needled exposed skin, fighting a battle it could never win. Alone again, he pulled the book from his pants pocket and put it back. Denver City congealed out of the haze. He stood at the arched door of his old workshop, the damned machine just beyond. Decades wound back like the gears in his pocket watch.
The Rider walked through the arch and into a daydream, shuttled from 1913 New Mexico to the floor of his workshop, at the end of the High Street in Denver City, 1861.
Part Two: Compañera
1861
I
Electric dragons roamed the warehouse. Birthed from copper and steel obelisks, they flew to the center of the shop, leaving a wake of sapphires. He shoveled one last load of compressed coal into the boiler’s mouth and stepped back. His conglomeration of magnets and locomotive parts conducted a beautiful symphony: coal fire from the boiler shot compressed steam to each of the four magneto towers, forcing the magnets across copper screws that pulled electricity to the domes
“Whoa, chica,” he croaked. His words did nothing. Rosalina put the greasy outlaw under hoof and reared back to deliver vengeance, but a forceful pull on her mane felled the blow wide. The mare stomped murderous intent, snorting and spitting. The Rider, minding his grip lest he end up on the brick-hard ground, whispered in Rosalina’s perked ear.
She settled, and the Rider, rifle in hand, hopped to the ground. The bandito slouched in the shade of his dead horse, gnawing a grisled femur. Yellow blisters and the blackness of encroaching death dotted his book-leather skin. Blood mottled his cheek, flies landing without reprove on eyelids, nose, and cheeks.
“¿Hablas íngles?” The Rider trained his rifle on the bandito, custom scope flickering a red dot between heavy-lidded eyes.
The bandit laughed and tossed the femur away. “No. I sprecken zee Doitch.”
“Get smart with me again and I’ll relieve you of your brains.” The Rider punctuated his warning with a kick to the bandito’s ribs. “You one of the Banditos Rouges that held up the Union Pacific last week?”
“What if I am? You a law dog?”
The Rider lowered his rifle. “If I’m a dog, then you’re the bitch, bandito.” He turned from the wretch and whispered in Rosie’s ear. She snorted, putting a rare smile onto the Rider’s face. He pulled the small book from Rosie’s saddlebag and secreted it to a pants pocket.
“Today is the luckiest day of your life, amigo. The way I figure, your boys are whoring in Santa Fe by now. Rosie here will take you to them.” The Rider took a canteen from his hip, emptied half into the aluminum tanks on Rosie’s haunches and tossed it to the bandito. “Take it easy with the water and you’ll live.”
The bandito laughed.
“You’re gonna give away your horse and your water in the center of hell? Gringo, you’ll be dead by sundown.”
“Doubt it.” The Rider slung the bandito by his collar over Rosie’s back. “Thinking ain’t your strong suit, bandito. You leave the logic to me. Consider yourself fortunate—I’m in a charitable mood. That only happens every two hundred years or so.” The Rider pointed to the rectangular metal case strapped to Rosalina’s hind. “Whatever you do, don’t open Pandora’s box. Hell’s inside.”
With a swift slap, Rosalina and the crusty bandito set off into the plain. He bounced as if strapped to a bucking bull. The boots grafted to Rosie’s hooves hissed pressurized steam, driving hydraulic rods to the ground in concert with her gallop. The machine amplified her speed tenfold.
“What the hell kind of horseshoes is these?” the bandito roared, voice heavy with the echo of distance. Within seconds Rosie and the thief plunged under the horizon. The Rider thought of the noose awaiting the gullible bastard and flashed another rare smile.
The sun needled exposed skin, fighting a battle it could never win. Alone again, he pulled the book from his pants pocket and put it back. Denver City congealed out of the haze. He stood at the arched door of his old workshop, the damned machine just beyond. Decades wound back like the gears in his pocket watch.
The Rider walked through the arch and into a daydream, shuttled from 1913 New Mexico to the floor of his workshop, at the end of the High Street in Denver City, 1861.
Part Two: Compañera
1861
I
Electric dragons roamed the warehouse. Birthed from copper and steel obelisks, they flew to the center of the shop, leaving a wake of sapphires. He shoveled one last load of compressed coal into the boiler’s mouth and stepped back. His conglomeration of magnets and locomotive parts conducted a beautiful symphony: coal fire from the boiler shot compressed steam to each of the four magneto towers, forcing the magnets across copper screws that pulled electricity to the domes
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