lightning sparked from them like Thor ’ s hammer. Rising above these were the city ’ s Faced Towers — four art nouveau buildings linked by a dozen skyways. Each was crowned with a sculpted face of copper that stared in a different cardinal direction. The tallest structures on the island, they were always featured on postcards.
At the airfield, I checked my electronics into a security deposit box. I ’ d been concerned they were going to give me grief about the Glock. It was a polymer framed autoloader, after all, and I wasn ’ t sure if that would get it on the forbidden technologies list. But the customs agent handed it back to me without comment after he ’ d finished rifling through my bags.
“ Enjoy your stay, miss, ” he said, smiling politely. Maybe it was the Steamies ’ weird accent — the bastard child of a Central Pennsylvanian dialect wrapped in a Victorian grammar obsession — but the way he said miss made it sound like he was dubious I ’ d actually qualify.
There was a small crowd of travelers moving through customs, mostly returning Steamies. Some of the men had worn more traditional western suits, as you might see on the streets of New York. Even so, the occasional pocket watch, handlebar mustache, or dueling scar betrayed their citizenship. The rest, however, hadn ’ t even bothered trying to mask their nationality while overseas. These men wore dark, three piece suits and derby hats, a look which, though slightly updated with deep blue or crimson shirts and gold cravats, had probably last been fashionable in America when Jack the Ripper was making a name for himself.
The women wore high-collared blouses and ankle-length skirts. Yet what could have been a stern style was mitigated by bright violets, yellows, and emeralds. Their hair, too, kept them from looking like daguerreotypes of Emily Dickinson. They wore it long, kept in place by jeweled hairbands. In addition to their bags, they collected their pets from the crates where they ’ d been stowed during the flight. Trained raccoons had first been used here to remove gear obstructions from heavy machinery, and had eventually been domesticated.
Making my way through stares and whispers from women who had raccoons peeking out from their purses, I eventually made it through customs. A tall man in a dark suit was waiting for me.
He was maybe 6 ’ 4 ” , with eyes as blue as frozen seawater. I figured he was in his late thirties — about 10 years my senior — but the mustache made him look older. His hands were hitched at his belt, on which hanged a holstered revolver, and sheathed dagger.
“ Mackenzie Hoff, Federal Bureau of Investigations, I presume, ” he said.
“ Yeah, ” I said brusquely, annoyed by the looks I ’ d been getting. Didn ’ t these people know it was wrong to judge others? To make them uncomfortable?
“ Hiram Speer, Sensitive Inquiries Office, Boothcross branch, ” the tall man announced. He held up his left hand to show me a ring inlaid with a red jewel and I saw that his knuckles were misshapen and swollen, as if repeatedly broken. It made me think he must have been a boxer.
It occurred to me that I should probably show him ID. “ Please, don ’ t bother showing me your badge, ” he said as I reached inside my jacket pocket. “ One doesn ’ t have to be an Arthur Conan Doyle protagonist to recognize you as an American federal agent. ”
“ How so? ” I asked, prepared to be flattered.
“ The harsh coarseness of your pantsuit combined with an overly aggressive attitude, as if you ’ re an actress in a man ’ s role playing your part more for stereotype than for nuance. Also, I received your description over the telewrite, and knew you were a redhead. ”
I was stunned by his rudeness, but all that came out was: “ I ’ m strawberry blonde . ”
“ Of course you are, ” he said evenly. “ Shall we? ” He turned on his heel and walked away without asking if he could help me with my bag.
At the airfield, I checked my electronics into a security deposit box. I ’ d been concerned they were going to give me grief about the Glock. It was a polymer framed autoloader, after all, and I wasn ’ t sure if that would get it on the forbidden technologies list. But the customs agent handed it back to me without comment after he ’ d finished rifling through my bags.
“ Enjoy your stay, miss, ” he said, smiling politely. Maybe it was the Steamies ’ weird accent — the bastard child of a Central Pennsylvanian dialect wrapped in a Victorian grammar obsession — but the way he said miss made it sound like he was dubious I ’ d actually qualify.
There was a small crowd of travelers moving through customs, mostly returning Steamies. Some of the men had worn more traditional western suits, as you might see on the streets of New York. Even so, the occasional pocket watch, handlebar mustache, or dueling scar betrayed their citizenship. The rest, however, hadn ’ t even bothered trying to mask their nationality while overseas. These men wore dark, three piece suits and derby hats, a look which, though slightly updated with deep blue or crimson shirts and gold cravats, had probably last been fashionable in America when Jack the Ripper was making a name for himself.
The women wore high-collared blouses and ankle-length skirts. Yet what could have been a stern style was mitigated by bright violets, yellows, and emeralds. Their hair, too, kept them from looking like daguerreotypes of Emily Dickinson. They wore it long, kept in place by jeweled hairbands. In addition to their bags, they collected their pets from the crates where they ’ d been stowed during the flight. Trained raccoons had first been used here to remove gear obstructions from heavy machinery, and had eventually been domesticated.
Making my way through stares and whispers from women who had raccoons peeking out from their purses, I eventually made it through customs. A tall man in a dark suit was waiting for me.
He was maybe 6 ’ 4 ” , with eyes as blue as frozen seawater. I figured he was in his late thirties — about 10 years my senior — but the mustache made him look older. His hands were hitched at his belt, on which hanged a holstered revolver, and sheathed dagger.
“ Mackenzie Hoff, Federal Bureau of Investigations, I presume, ” he said.
“ Yeah, ” I said brusquely, annoyed by the looks I ’ d been getting. Didn ’ t these people know it was wrong to judge others? To make them uncomfortable?
“ Hiram Speer, Sensitive Inquiries Office, Boothcross branch, ” the tall man announced. He held up his left hand to show me a ring inlaid with a red jewel and I saw that his knuckles were misshapen and swollen, as if repeatedly broken. It made me think he must have been a boxer.
It occurred to me that I should probably show him ID. “ Please, don ’ t bother showing me your badge, ” he said as I reached inside my jacket pocket. “ One doesn ’ t have to be an Arthur Conan Doyle protagonist to recognize you as an American federal agent. ”
“ How so? ” I asked, prepared to be flattered.
“ The harsh coarseness of your pantsuit combined with an overly aggressive attitude, as if you ’ re an actress in a man ’ s role playing your part more for stereotype than for nuance. Also, I received your description over the telewrite, and knew you were a redhead. ”
I was stunned by his rudeness, but all that came out was: “ I ’ m strawberry blonde . ”
“ Of course you are, ” he said evenly. “ Shall we? ” He turned on his heel and walked away without asking if he could help me with my bag.
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