The Adventures of the Colt Apollo – Reload, Part 2 Wednesday, Feb 3 2010

“You want me to do what!”

It was not an unfamiliar sound to hear inside Etheric Delights, even from the professional girls of Madame Ether’s employ. But this was no dulcet tone or scream of high-pitched indignation. There were two-dollar banjos that had less twang than the drawl dripping off that shout.

Jac Lightning had never been cleaner, or more uncomfortable in her life. The bath had smelled funny, the scrubbing brushes stung like hell, there were at least three layers of clothing that, to the Lightning Marshal’s reckoning, all did the same blasted thing; which was cover up the unmentionables and seek to confound her at every step. The hat was so small it had to be pinned in place and there was nowhere she could find that would give her quick access to her gun.

Then Wilhemina Ether had showed her the boots.

Jac Lightning had worn riding boots for about as long as she’d been able to walk, so the notion of a heel wasn’t strange to her. Why, though, somebody would want to walk on such an uneven and tiny scrap of leather, balanced on point sharper than some knives she owned, for any length of time beggared belief. She’d have just as soon have Thunder’s horseshoes nailed to her feet.

Madame Ether was both unperturbed and undaunted. All three of the Marshals had explained the vital importance of her tutelage, and the proprietor of Etheric Delights owed her business and her life to the actions of these lawmen.

Jac Lightning squeezed her foot into the boot, lost her grip and skewered through the plush velvet settee nearby.

Madame Ether figured this would make them about even.

With as much grace as a newborn foal, the Lightning Marshal descended the stairs of Etheric Delights, feet arched like never before, breaths coming in short gasps and sweat beading on her forehead. Off the stairs and sighing as much as her garments allowed, Jac peered around the lobby and saw the other girls in the whorehouse had been busy.

There was a long table laid out and covered in a shining white tablecloth. Motes of silver danced off fine polished cutlery from the candlelight arrayed between delicate crockery. It was the most crowded Jac Lightning had seen a table that didn’t have any food on it.

Adjusting the silverware with fastidious attention was Hans Octavius Wilhem, who had, along with Wendell Caine, decided discretion to be the better part of valour and had returned to the office. The Iron Marshal had divested himself of his armour and was wearing a tightly pressed dinner suit.

It was possible that Wendell Caine had combed his beard but none were eager to study close enough to prove it.

“Holl-y… She really is a woman!” Caine exclaimed under his breath. Wilhem, for his part, demonstrated diplomacy by not showing amusement at Jac’s discomfort.

There would be plenty of time for that over dinner.

Jac Lightning approached the table, watching the candlesticks and collection of utensils with a wary gaze in case she were to stumble over them. To the assembled crowd of lawmen and prostitutes though, the steps came more confident, more balanced. The Lightning Marshal was making a case for being the fastest student in the west.

It didn’t stop her complaining.

“These things pinch my feet like the deepest darkest circles of Hell! Why would you wear ‘em at all?”

“It adds a wonderful swish to your hips though,” Madam Ether offered. Jac looked down.

“Hey look at that!” Jac exclaimed.

“Yeah, you got ‘em!” Caine said equally shocked.

Wilhem took out Jac’s chair, which earned him a severe frown but she took her seat at the table, shifting about as she tried to arrange the countless folds in her dress so that she wouldn’t put her heel through them. Wilhem then did the same for Madame Ether, noticing that she had watched with a forlorn stare as Wendell Caine had marched straight to his chair and slumped into it. The Iron Marshal sat last.

“Vhile ve vait for dinner, zhere is zhe matter of your diction,” he said.

“What’s wrong with my fuckin’ diction!” Jac snapped.

“Do you even know what ‘diction’ is?” Ether asked.

Jac thought about it for a moment, “nope.”

“Let’s begin there. It is what makes up your speech and pronunciation as to how easily you are understood.”

Jac Lightning already looked lost.

“How Marshal Wilhem talks,” Ether continued. “I believe the more familiar vernacular is ‘Hoighty-Toighty’?”

Wilhem interjected. “If you’re going to look like you’re rich, you need to sound like it too.”

Having looked like she’d caught up with the idea, Jac listened as Madam Ether continued.

“Try saying this: The rain, in Spain, falls mainly on the plain.”

Madame Ether’s eardrums hummed like a plucked guitar string as Jac repeated the exercise.

“Why would it just fall in the fuckin’ plain! It would fall everywhere else in Spain too! This is fuckin’ stupid!” she said almost before she finished up.

“…okay.” Madame Ether looked helpless.

“Try zhis instead,” Wilhem suggested. “She sells sea shells by the sea shore.”

“Zhee zells zhee zhells by zhe zhee zzzzzzssshore.” Jac attempted. Wilhem pinched his brow.

“Let me try that again,” and then all traces of weariness and accent were lost as Wilhem repeated the phrase like he’d been schooled in Oxford. The German Marshal had always been gifted in languages, speaking more than either of his partners reckoned, though it was only in English Wilhem maintained his German affectation.

“She sells sea shells by the sea shore.” Jac repeated. Madame Ether’s eardrums hummed less that time.

“Shore,” she corrected.

“Sure,” Jac parroted.

“No. Shore!” Ether repeated.

“Sho-reee,” Jac apologised. Ether sighed.

“I got one!” Caine called out. “Moses supposes his toeses are roses.” And then everyone’s jaw dropped as he continued. “But Moses supposes erroneously.”

Wilhem nearly fell of his chair while Wilhemina Ether raised her fan above her nose to hide her blushing cheeks.

“That ain’t bad!” Jac said, lessons already gone like water of a duck’s back.

“Just somethin’ I heard once,” Caine shrugged.

The lessons continued until the first course of dinner arrived, and the curriculum changed to topics ranging from ‘What Utensil Gets Used for What Dish’, ‘Yes, There Will Be More Food, Just Not in This Course’, and ‘It’s Not Water, It’s Gin!’ Resorting to his upbringing, Wilhem would admonish the Lightning Marshal with a smack on the wrist each time she did something ‘unladylike’ and the lessons were obviously taking because Jac didn’t respond by decking the German Marshal.

There followed a number of simple dances and it was here that Jac Lightning stunned everyone gathered as she swayed, turned and stepped in both perfect time and perfect poise, the shoes no longer appearing to hobble her; and as the evening drew to its close, Madame Ether bad the marshals farewell, confident that Jac Lightning would be seen as ladylike or, at the very worse, eccentric.

…

Pinkerton Detective, James Lovelace, had not had the most pleasant of evenings.

It was bad enough that there was all manner of ungodly cursing taking place in the House of Etheric Delights, which was interrupting what had started out as a relaxing day. Madame Ether had made the Pinkerton swear by everything he held dear that he not enter the lobby, no matter what he heard. In return, a girl had been given to him, free of charge, to attend any of his needs beyond the room. This had been pleasant enough that was until his client and partner of Ithaca Rifling Company, William Henry Baker had summoned him into the ostentatious bedroom.

The corpulent businessman was huffing and puffing as he moved from cupboard to suitcase and back again. The day had seen the most exercise Baker had ever undertaken, making laps between Etheric Delights and the telegraph office.

“Where you are going, Mr Baker?” Lovelace asked, catching him mid-stride.

“I think you mean ‘where are we going’,” Baker said over his shoulder, retrieving a tent-like dinner jacket and pushing it into the overflowing suitcase. “We got an appointment with a number of very wealthy folk attending the Aces High Poker Tournament.”

Lovelace, having been in the country for some years, as well as being a keen poker player himself, had heard of the grand game and the type of wealth or skill it took to enter. The Pinkerton Detective Agency had made him further familiar with the event as a number of agents had been hired to provide security. Unfortunately his employment, or his skill, had seen him attend until now.

Playing down his excitement with the very same card skill-set, Lovelace calmly said “I didn’t know you played poker.”

“I don’t. Well not really. I know how to play the game but I make my money using my head, not throwing it away to luck.” Lovelace frowned at the obvious scorn his client held.

Baker continued. “But there are a number of industry representatives in attendance who would be of great assistance to the company and the Space Gun project. So much so it demands a face-to-face meeting and so long as they don’t care what happens to their money, it might as well benefit me some.”

Baker froze, then spun on his heel toward his safe, spun the combination and produced a sturdy, reinforced, and locked leather bag. Approaching the Pinkerton, Baker ignored propriety by cuffing the bag to Lovelace’s wrist.

“Entry fee,” was all he offered by way of explanation.

Lovelace looked down his nose at the latest attachment and his treatment. Baker had no regard for anyone in his employ. The Pinkerton bit his tongue though as that same assignment might get him a seat at the tournament if he, to use the phrase, played his cards right.

“We got an early start tomorrow. Aces High picks up the contestants in Phoenix and we need to be there in less than two days,” Baker finished, and then continued to pack, having all but politely dismissed Lovelace for the evening.

Left holding a bag with what would be a vast sum, James Lovelace fought down the urge to start fresh and returned to his room where a bed and a very large scotch was waiting.

…

Breakfast had turned into another opportunity to continue Jac Lightning’s lessons in etiquette, with Wilhem having prepared a four-course repast and cutlery for each meal.

“Which one’s the bean-fork?” Jac asked, still struggling to get comfortable in her new clothes.

“Zhere is no bean fork. Vone vould eat beans vith a spoon.” Wilhem replied.

“Okay, which one is the bean-spoon?” Jac asked.

“Zhere is no beans!” Wilhem said, making his point with another smack to her wrist.

With Jac was sullen and Wilhem annoyed, only Wendell Caine looked to be enjoying breakfast. So was Smokey, who had been given all four courses Wilhem had painstakingly prepared while the Mountain Marshal had made himself to chilli.

“Mighty fine, this,” Caine beamed around each overflowing spoonful.

Jac glared across her pitifully small plate.

“Reckon there might be some cornbread left too,” Caine grinned.

Under the reproachful glare of Wilhem, Jac bit back her first response and negotiated her way around something more civilised.

“Wouldn’t that be… delightful,” she replied tight-lipped. Smokey’s ears went flat at that as he looked to the door.

Wilhem’s gaze left Jac and focused on Caine. “Zhere remains the detail ov vhat your role in zhis vill be.”

“Simple,” Caine shrugged. “I’ll be goin’ as one of them fellas which carry all the baggage.”

“Vell, zhat shall require a bath, a suit and a trim of both beard und hair.”

Chilli spilled off the spoon as Caine froze. “I meant one of them whatchamacallits. A porter.”

“So did I,” Wilhem replied.

“I ain’t doin’ all that just to haul luggage” Caine growled.

“You vouldn’t pass as vone othervise,” Wilhem growled back.

Smokey picked up her bucket of very delicious breakfast and carried it to the porch as each of the lawmen started shouting at one another.

“At zhe very least, you vill have to wear pants, shirt und jacket. Not ‘overalls und pie’!” Wilhem ordered.

“But pumpkin’s my favourite!” Caine protested, fishing errant chunk and popping it into his mouth.

“How could you tell?” Wilhem yelled, disgusted.

“It was orange!” Caine shouted back. “If it were apple, it would be brown!”

For a brief moment, Jac Lightning was the most civilised person at the table. In the end, a grudging truce was reached where Caine would dress to the role and at least comb his hair and beard.

Breakfast finished, the lawmen set out to the stagecoach Wilhem had arranged to convey them across the half-day desert journey to the train to Phoenix. The boxes of counterfeit cash had been transported from the Cartwright house and were loaded, along with Jac’s new parade of luggage, Wilhem’s suitcases – as he would also masquerade as somebody rich enough to participate in the tournament and keep a watch for anything suspicious – and Annie, who Madame Ether had been gracious enough to assign to the Lightning Marshal as a maid and clothes assistant.

Ready to depart, they saw both William Henry Baker and James Lovelace making the same arrangements.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jac said in a voice much smoothed by the diction lessons.

James Lovelace turned and beheld a vision of white silk and lavender, a coiffed and refined lady who peered through her lashes at him.

“Well, well,” Lovelace began. “I don’t believe we’ve been intro-erk!”

His throat seized up as he deduced who stood behind the parasol and petticoats.

“What on earth…” Lovelace asked or at least tried to before he was cut off.

“Why, I  don’t believe we’ve met, young lady,” Baker interrupted.

Both Lovelace and Lightning repressed a shudder as the otherwise reprehensible industrialist attempted to be charming.

It was going to be an even longer journey.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3

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The Adventures of the Colt Apollo – Reload, Part 1 Tuesday, Feb 2 2010

Jac Lightning gasped!

There wasn’t anything of woman-born that got the Lightning Marshal to do more than raise an eyebrow or narrow a stare – being that the Lightning clan were possessed of a confidence that meant any surprise could, at worst, be shot dead – but for Hans Octavius Wilhem and Wendell Caine, the prospect of racing to their partner’s aid was outdone by the fact that she’d be fixing to shoot somebody and what had caused her to gasp was, in part, their fault.

There were even fewer things got Jac Lightning into petticoats, dresses and corsetry.

One knee braced against her back, two hands pulling back on string that would make any beast of burden, no matter how mistreated, thank its rider for their kindness; the Lightning Marshal swore things to Annie, one of the girls of Etheric Delighs, that would turn the most vicious desperado into a whipped cur.

Annie kept tugging, Jac’s epithet lost as air bolted out of her lungs like a stallion near a wasp nest. The girl had something on her side that trumped a Lightning’s curse:

A Lightning’s pride; and Jac Lightning was going to be a lady, dammit!

EARLIER

It was the other side of Pay Day in the small town of Ascension. The workers of Colt Industries and Ithaca Rifling Company had, once again, descended on the town like cash-laden hurricane and had cleared it of almost every bottle and woman bearing a price tag. Despite the frivolity, no laws were broke and people made sure to tip their hat or shake the hands of the marshals when they saw them patrol. The lawmen, as well as Pinkerton Detective James Lovelace, had saved the town from fiery ruin while dooming perpetual menace ‘Spokey Sampon’ to that very fate.

With the town safe, though shy a marshal’s office resulting from the battle, the town hadn’t been this quiet since the death of Harry Winsome. Spokey’s criminal empire in tatters made the job of upholding the law a lot easier in Ascension. The most contentious affair to occur was the growing battle between Buckshot Buchannan of the Ignit-Inn and James Brasshorn of Brasshorn’s Tavern as each campaigned for the office of Mayor of Ascension. The town was inundated with posters, banners and ribbons that proclaimed the virtues of one and extolling the vices of the other. It affected the town insofar as it meant each drink seemed to come with a campaign pledge, which hadn’t done each business very well until it was announced by each bartender that their first act of office would be a free round for whoever voted for them.

Other than slower whiskey and some name-calling, it was a war that, in light of everything that had happened to Ascension since their arrival, the marshals were content to let lie.

Jac Lightning and Wendell Caine lazed on the porch while Hans Octavius Wilhem was busy finishing the new office around them.

“…as in person ov ill vill, or a chicken,” Octavius was explaining in between hammering nails into the shingles on the roof.

“Why don’t you just call them a chicken?” Jac Lightning asked, a pen in her hand staining an already ink-blot heavy piece of paper addressed to Ma Lightning.

“It’s a family name zhat’s spelled differently: F-O-W-L,” Octavius continued, as did the hammering. “Like tigers and cats.”

“Tigers and cats are of the same family?” Jac asked agog at the revelation.

Octavius sighed. “Surely even you can tell zhe similarities between zhem.”

“Well yeah,” Jac retorted, a little indignant at being treated like a fool. “I just figured cats grew into tigers,”

“What, while you weren’t looking,” Caine shot back. Above them the hammering continued which, to both marshals, sounded louder than before.

Deciding to pick it up later, the Lightning Marshal abandoned the letter and went to the stables, mounting her horse Thunder and riding out, once more, to the former house of Bethany Cartwright and hideout of Spokey Sampson.

Since the revelation of the outlaw’s true identity, only Jac Lightning had taken some time to investigate the cottage on the far outskirts of town. Wilhem being occupied with resurrecting the office as well as mollifying the workers of Colt and Ithaca about their inability to vote in the elections by suggesting the formation of a town council that would accept applicants of either camps, while Caine had no interest in either pursuit and had settled for lifting or holding things that aided construction efforts. There wasn’t much to find though as the Mountain Marshal had thoroughly destroyed the shed where spare airship parts, explosives and who knew what else were kept. The house had revealed little about Cartwright herself or the occupants she’d, no doubt, stolen it from, until Lightning had searched the basement. Something that would have been a cursory glance for the Wilhem, had taken most of the day in investigation from Lightning but had, nonetheless, revealed letters between Cartwright and her former husband; shedding a little more light on the recently deceased crime-boss:

Bethany Cartwright had been Bethany Sampson, once upon a time. Her husband, Samuel, had been an inventor, engineer and ruthless head of outlaw activity across the new frontier until, being caught cheating in a poker game, had died under gunfire from a disgruntled player. With no means of supporting herself or her son, Bethany had covered up the death of her husband and masqueraded as him as she took over the criminal activities for ten years. Harry Winsome, who changed his surname to protect his mother’s identity, ensured the secret by acting as liaison and enforcer to Spokey Sampson and the rest was history and, now, obituarary.

It was back in the basement that Jac Lightning found herself, poking around with the toe of her boot and more pleased about getting out of town and doing something, rather than listen to Wilhem go on about ‘gee-net-tics’ again. Other than the letters, the basement had been a workshop for Cartwright, who was the equal of her former husband as far as cog-wrangling went. Plans and half-finished designs had been shipped lock-stock to the new office for Wilhem to study when time permitted. All that was left was shelves and benches.

The Lightning Marshal finished a circuit of the basement as the sun descended on another day and rays of golden light streamed through the small window overhead, spotlighting the dancing dust motes and drawing Jac’s eye to a heavy shelf placed against a wall. It might have been a trick of the light but she could swear that the light continued past the shelf and the brick wall behind it.

With a heave, Jac Lightning pushed at the shelf, discovering that it was, in fact, bolted to the wall and that both wall and shelf hadn’t budged an inch under her shoulder. Regardless of the wall’s stubbornness, she could see that there was something behind it that swallowed up the sunlight. Unable to do anything about it, the Lightning Marshal decided she needed either brains or brawn to do the work and was back atop Thunder and racing back to Ascension in no time.

Tired of listening to the sounds of either Wilhem’s yammering or hammering, Wendell Caine decided to patrol Ascension; the focus of his patrol being a loop between any place still offering him free whiskey, making the streets between the Ignit-Inn and Brasshorn’s the safest place in town. There had been one other place only too happy to provide anything he desired, but it weren’t proper for him to be visiting Etheric Delights or Wilhemina Ether who had extended him the offer.

The ‘patrol’ came to a halt as Jac reined Thunder up next to him.

“Howdy Jac,” Caine drawled.

“Howdy Caine. Something strange goin’ on out by the old Cartwright place. Wanna check it out?”

“Yeah, pretty quiet here.”

The two marshals gathered Wilhem along the way, catching his interest at the mention of a secret door, and arrived back at the basement.

There was a click and a whirr as Wilhem’s magnificent armor lowered a spidery collection of magnifying lenses over his eyes and the Iron Marshal studied both wall and shelf intently.

“Y’know if we just grabbed it and pulled, that should get it open,” Caine suggested.

“Und likely our heads blown off,” Wilhem replied, not looking up as each knot of wood was brought under his intense scrutiny.

“Seems like Spokey was a big fan of explosives,” Jac added. Caine let Wilhem go about his work. A short minute later, the combination keen perception and intuitive engineering prowess revealed the mechanism and the door swung on greased rails, revealing the room beyond.

Thee marshals stood at the doorway, sunlight now pouring in and revealing a very large and complex-looking machine, possessed of two large rollers and a conveyor belt dominating the centre and four heavy wooden crates stacked against the wall.

“It’s a printing press…” Wilhem said, frowning at the machine’s very presence, “how odd.”

Caine, meanwhile, turned his attention to the crates. The boards were nailed shut, sealing its contents inside until the Mountain Marshal found his grip. With a wrench, the boards were pulled back and off the lid, revealing the largest sum of money Wendell Caine had seen in his life.

“Whooeee,” he whistled as the other marshals gathered around him. Reaching inside, Caine produced a thick wad of hundred dollars bills that was plucked out of his paw by the Iron Marshal as he fished around the machine with his other hand, producing two embossed and shiny plates of metal.

“Counterfeit, if I’m any judge,” Wilhem declared and the magnifying glasses crawled over his eyes again. Currency of the United States had certain identifiers both in the pattern and the paper that proved its authenticity and Wilhem was proficient enough to distinguish each of them. The paper was not authentic, but it was close enough. A casual handler might think the notes crisp or new but not suspicious. The patterns and designs were remarkable feats of replication and more than once, Wilhem had to check the plates to confirm they weren’t the real thing.

“Remarkable counterfeit though,” Wilhem concluded. “I daresay Spokey vas using this to bankroll her criminal activities. It vould be a serious concern, had ve not already dealt vith zhe perpetrator.”

“How much is in there?” Jac asked, keeping the breathlessness out her voice.

“If zhe rest are like zhis, perhaps two-hundred zhousand dollars.” Wilhem replied, the incredulity more than present in his.

“We can’t tell anyone about this,” Caine spoke up. Both marshals whipped around to him. “We take this thing apart and burn the rest.”

It was a while before Jac spoke. “You sayin’ we should burn the evidence.”

“Word gets out that Cartwright’s been passin’ around funny money and we’s got ourselves a riot.” Caine said with flat solemnity. To Jac’s right, she saw Wilhem carefully nodding.

The Lightning Marshal looked down at her boots, considering what this meant for her honor as a marshal versus what it would mean for the town and the hundreds of workers either side of it when something under the printing press caught her eye. Thinking it a discarded counterfeit bill, she picked it up and found it to be thicker, heavier and gold-inlaid. Not the product of this machine.

The other marshals gathered around her, eyes catching the sparkle of sunlight as it bounced of the golden gilt borders and caused the embossed zeppelins at each corner to shine. Reading the intricate and expensive calligraphy, Wilhem announced what it was.

“It’s an invitation. A tournament called Aces High.”

Wilhem and Caine had heard rumor of Aces High: a tournament for poker players who gambled vast sums of money. Jac Lightning knew more;

“Got me a brother who played in that tournament once; said it was held aboard a fleet of fancy airships. Winners get to go to the biggest airship of ‘em all: The Colarado. Aint’ nothin’ but two types of people who get close to playin’ in a tournament; real good or real rich.”

“Vich vone vas your brother?” Wilhem asked.

Jac fixed him with a look. Lightnings’ were known for being loaded, just not with cash.

“Jedidiah Lightning got hisself a big re-ward ‘bout the time them airships had docked. One of the better gamblers of us, he was able to use it for entry fee when he got invited. Ten thousand dollars it cost him. Told me it was fan-cy!”

“I vould hope so,” Wilhem replied. To the German Marshal, it was not an inconsiderable sum of money – him being of minor Prussian nobility and the benefactor of a healthy inheritance – but it wasn’t the kind of number you threw away on chance.

“Ma gave him hell for wastin’ it all but Jedidiah told me he’d do it all over again even with the whuppin’. Best game and time of his life though some shifty fellas up there. Heard tell cheaters get dropped off the side.”

Wilhem took it all in as Caine spoke up. “So all this is her stake in this here tournament?”

“Perhaps, but unlikely,” Wilhem said as much to himself as to the others. “Vhile zhe amounts of money for such a game vould be considerable, two crates vould easily bankroll such an event.

“Two participants then?” Caine suggested.

“But vone invitation,” Wilhem replied. “She vas a secret crime-boss who stashed zhis in a secret room vithin a secret hideout. She vas not a big spender. Zhere is a larger purpose to zhis.”

“So what do we do about it?” Jac asked.

“Vell, I suppose ve should contact zhe Aces High organizers und find out more about vhat is happening,” Wilhem shrugged.

Jac turned the invitation over in her hand, quick fingers made the sunlight dance across the gilt writing until it shone on the, as yet, unnoticed name.

“This ain’t addressed to Spokey Sampson,” Jac frowned. “This here’s for Bethany Cartwright. Why would she get an invitation?”

“Perhaps she meant to circulate her phony cash vith zhe real thing. But even zhen, zhere is vay too much money, including buy in and stakes zhat she could get avay vith that. Zhere is no profit in it,” Wilhem said, the problem needling at his considerable intellect.

“Too bad we can’t ask her,” Caine said with no remorse whatsoever.

Wilhem look up to the stone ceiling at that and then, as if propelled by one of his inventions, turned to regard Jac Lightning with a look.

It did not go unnoticed.

“I’ve seen that look before, Wilhem,” Jac said with wary caution.

“You’re only a small amount taller zhan her,” Wilhem muttered, thinking out loud rather than answering her.

“I’d keep thinkin’ if I were you,” Jac warned. Wilhem didn’t seem to hear her.

“You could possibly fit into her wardrobe,” he continued. Jac Lightning eyes got wide at that but before she could snap off her opinion of the addled German’s idea, she was interrupted.

“I don’t know, Wilhem,” Caine said glancing for one brief moment at the tense Lightning Marshal. “If anybody knew what Bethany Cartwright looked like, there’d be trouble; might be too risky.”

Risky.

Jac Lightning always left consideration and thought for when the ozone cleared and the shooting stopped. Often it was that instinct and reaction which saved her. This time, though…

“Too risky for a Lightning!” she rounded on the Mountain Marshal. “Ain’t nothin’ too risky for a Lightning, I’ll have you know! What, you think I can’t pull off a dress?”

“I think you can’t put on a dress!” Caine snapped back and Jac not only swallowed the bait, she asked for seconds.

“I’ll have you know I am a lady, and what’s more, I can act like one too when I want,” she spat. Wilhem squeezed his eyes shut at that while it began to dawn on the Lightning Marshal what she just agreed to.

“I mean, if that’s what the situation calls for…”

“I zhink ve can assume zhat, given the sums of money, zhere is a situation here,” Wilhem sighed.

“A situation worth about $200,000.00,” Caine added.

“Might be she was looking transfer zhe cash.” Wilhem suggested.

“Or hold the place up,” Caine said.

“Not with the security on board,” Jac replied. “Cross these guys and you cease to be ballast.”

“Zhen zhe poker tournament is a front for something else,” Wilhem declared. “Perhaps she meant to meet more ov zhe criminal element and garner more power. If so, ve have an opportunity to bring zhose people down as vell.”

“Except it all depends on Jac wearin’ a dress,” Caine shrugged.

“I can wear a dress just fine!” Jac shouted, her dander up. “I am, after all, a fe-male!”

It did not go unnoticed to either of them that ‘fe’ was nailed on like a fifth wheel to a carriage. But it was clear that Jac’s pride was now on the line and whether she could or couldn’t masquerade as a lady, let alone Bethany Cartwright, the cards had been dealt.

“How long we got?” Caine asked

“According to zhe invitation, two days.” Wilhem replied.

“Only one person who can turn Jac into a lady in that kinda time.”

…

Madam Ether considered the request, her black lace fan approaching hummingbird speed.

“…does it come off?”

“Does what come off?” Jac drawled.

“…anything?” Ether stammered.

NOW

“Each curse is can bring that waist down another inch,” Madame Ether said as Annie continued to tug. After the trouble of getting the Lightning Marshal to give up her father’s hat, the Madame of Etheric Delights was wholly without mercy.

And so began the schooling in the one skillset avoided at large by the Lightning clan:

Etiquette.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2

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The Adventures of the Colt Apollo: 2nd Round 6th Salvo, Part 2 Wednesday, Jan 20 2010

The bandits watched agog as two leviathans of machinery circled each other. On the ground, the steam driven half-train of Marshal Hans Octavius Wilhem, dragged behind it a huge harpoon gun like a giant iron stinger. High above, the airship of Samuel Spokey Sampson who had dropped a bomb that just missed both the half-train and the bandits nearby and under Spokey’s employ.

Those outlaws were under something much worse now. They knew it. And they knew that the only casualty in a fight like this was the landscape and anyone on it.

Jac Lightning and Wendell Caine glanced away for a second as the bandits, to a man, abandoned the battle and rode hard for the horizon. Neither of them pursued.

A cold gust blew a tumbleweed across the dust, it’s haunting whistle the only sound. And then a voice, distorted by speakers and distance, boomed from the heavens.

“Consider this your only warning if you try anything, Marshals!”

The airship hung overhead, out of the range of the Lightning Coil Throwers and the Wave Mortar, but maybe not of the other weapons about. Wendell Caine looked about the ruined tank for any weapon that hadn’t been pulverised. Jac Lightning cantered toward the half-train where Hans Octavius Wilhem had his gauntleted hands poised over the control panel.

And James Lovelace edged toward the harpoon gun.

“If you had just played along like Sheriff Benson did, we wouldn’t have ourselves in this mess!” The voice echoed as Jac Lightning tried to pick out the voice through the distance and distortion. Both were too much to give up the airship pilot’s identity.

“We could have kept this civil, quiet and be rich, but no! No you had to turn up in Ascension and ruin everything!’

Wilhem allowed himself a trace of a smile. Money had never been a concern for either of the Marshals. Lightning did the work because that was all what their family did. Caine didn’t need anything that he couldn’t eat, drink or fight and he himself had only seen his wealth as a means to continuing his inventions. Lovelace though…

Wilhem looked over his shoulder to see the Pinkerton Detective at the harpoon gun, doing something with the very long length of cable attached to it. Whatever his history, Lovelace had helped the Marshals out at each turn. Wilhem kept the boiler hot and the half-train ready to move.

Aboard the ruined tank, Caine sifted through broken and shredded metal but nothing of the tank’s armaments had survived Wave Mortar’s onslaught. His rifle unable to find the range of the airship, the Mountain Marshal sat astride Smokey, whose flank while injured, was able to bear the weight, and made his way toward the half-train too.

At a thousand metres up, it might not be clear what any of the lawmen were doing on the ground, but it clearly wasn’t surrender. The voice boomed again, playing its hole card.

“Be advised, marshals: the bomb I planted in your office wasn’t the only one I left in Ascension! If you don’t surrender, that town and everyone in it get blown to kingdom come!”

Gathering around the half-train, the Marshals looked to one another for an instant at the news that Ascension could end up a smoking crater. It was only for an instant though. It could be a bluff and even if it wasn’t, the bombs, if they were the same as the one in their former office, would be on timers as well. If they acted fast, they could catch Spokey and get back to the town in time to defuse them all.

Quick as the marshals considered this, James Lovelace had been even quicker. Standing up from the harpoon gun, he kicked the lock out from the trigger and said one word.

“Talley-ho!”

And with an echoing twang, both harpoon and Pinkerton shot into the sky at the airship.

It was a risky venture to say the least and none knew that more than the man tethered to the soaring harpoon. First he had to have judged his target correctly, and then be dexterous enough to grab onto the gondola together, as well as strong enough to hang on and tough enough to take what he expected to be a very hard stop. In essence, he needed each of three marshals singular talents to ensure he survived this idea.

And when the harpoon ploughed into the gondola and his tether snapped, leaving him with nothing but a thousand yards between him and the ground, James Lovelace needed a new plan.

Back on earth, Hans Octavius Wilhem, seeing the harpoon sink home but not the beginning of Lovelace’s fall, slammed on the half-train’s brakes to leash the airship. The jolt sent a slow rippling wave up the length of the steel cable a moment before Jac Lightning, still astride Thunder mid-canter, reached out for the taught cable between half-train and airship. With her trusty Lightning Coil Thrower in the other, The Lightning Marshal was an instant too late as the cable snapped out of her reach and lashed against her gun, sending a charge along the cable. There was a heavy thump to her left as Wendell Caine had leapt off Smokey and onto the cable winch and spool, reading to climb up himself.

The result high above was the electric blast travelled into the Mountain Marshal’s body, leaving only a small current to travel the length of cable and into James Lovelace’s arms. Muscles clamped shut like a steel trap around the cable, until the whiplash from Wilhem’s piloting bodily flung the Pinkerton off his perch like a bucking bronco and into the webbing of the airship’s balloon. His hands scrambled with fury though it was more because of the tangled mess he’d been flung into that kept Lovelace aloft and anchored to the airship.
Muscles twitching, bruises forming and blood pooling around his feet, the Pinkerton Detective froze, hanging upside down on the side of the balloon but safe from the vagaries of gravity. After a minute of stark terror, he decided that it was safe enough to start breathing again.

“Keep it steady, Wilhem!” Jac Lightning called out. “That fool Englishman’s still up there!”

Wilhem released the brakes and stoked the boiler, the half-train picking up speed again and travelling south.

“Where are you going?” Lighting yelled over the machinery, having drawn Thunder into a gallop beside the cabin.

“Ascension!” Wilhem yelled back. “If Spokey has rigged zhe town, he’ll tell us vhere zhe bombs are or he gets a close look at his handiverk.

The Lightning Marshal nodded and then her eyes went wide as inspiration struck like her namesake.

“I’ll meet you there!” She cried, digging the spurs into Thunder and storming ahead toward town.

Hand-over-hand Wendell Caine began the herculean task of climbing the cable. The half-train was moving at break-neck pace that the airship was unable to maintain, the result being that Spokey’s vessel trailed behind like a kite. Further helping the ascent was the mechanical winch that fought against the airship as it wound the cable, dragging the airship down. With the rope at a somewhat more comfortable angle and getting shorter, the burly lawman was making decent time as he swung from hand to hand, legs dangling over an ever-growing drop.

Breathing established and limbs willing to trust him again, James Lovelace explored the ropes and cables that kept him from falling head-first off the airship. It hurt to move or breathe so the investigation crawled, but the thoroughness made him a little more confident when he, with ginger care, extricated one leg from the webbing. Certain that he had wrapped ropes around his arms three times over, he disentangled the other leg and in a terrified jarring movement, found himself right ways up. Against better judgement, the Pinkerton looked down and was relieved to see that the ground was, in fact, getting closer. So was Wendell Caine who was nearing the centre of the harpoon’s cable. It was then that Spokey had enough.

Mounted at each corners of the gondola was a light belt-fed machine gun, designed to repel that which the bombs did not obliterate. The Mountain Marshal’s quick ascent had brought him into range and Spokey made no bones at firing at the dangling target. The distance remained considerable as the opening salvo went wide but over the whistling wind, Wendell Caine could hear the buzzing of bullets getting closer as the machine guns were finding their mark.

As fast as he was able, Lovelace scaled down the balloon and toward the gondola. He needed to find a way in to disable the guns before they riddled the Mountain Marshal’s hairy bulk. The door at the side of the Gondola was obstinate, locked to prevent intruders even from this altitude.

Hot lead stung the shoulder of Wendell Caine and blood poured down his arm, matting his beard in red clumps. Despite this, the Mountain Marshal’s hands stayed locked around the cable and, over the agony of his shoulder, continued to swing hand over hand, getting closer to the airship. The bullets would get closer to him before that happened but the only reason Caine’s hands would leave the cable was when Spokey’s throat was in reach. Another bullet spat into his leg, kicking him around like a bed sheet on a clothesline and still he climbed.

Gunfire caught Wilhem’s ear over the pounding engine and the Iron Marshal looked up to see the line of bullets picking off pieces of his partner. Trusting in his vehicle to keep travelling straight and true, Wilhem fed another shell into the Wave Mortar and, with the airship having been pulled into range, fired it into the machine gun. A white-hot explosion rocked the airship but the harpoon remained lodged into the gondola and Caine remained attached to the cable and still climbed!

Unable to attempt picking the lock while one hand gripped the shaking rope with white-knuckled fury, the Pinkerton Detective, over the roar of exploding ammunition, searched the gondola for another means of entry. There was only one door, the bomb hatch that in likelihood would be closed until Spokey found a target, the hole where the harpoon had torn through the wood walls and the newest hole that now on fire. Locked, burning or too small to use, James Lovelace cursed between gritted teeth as his eyes scoured the length of the airship.

It was then he saw that Jac Lightning had found a way in.

Dragged to the outskirts of Ascension, where pillars of towering rock reached to the sky, the Lightning Marshal had left the half-train and airship in her dust as she urged Thunder across the desert night and up the tallest pillar.

One the airship would inevitably float past.

Having been reeled in, the airship was at just enough altitude that Jac Lightning could fling herself off her galloping horse, over the precipice of the plateau and, with Lightning Coil Throwers blazing before her, through the shattered glass window of the cockpit. She rolled to her feet, guns trained on the only seat in a cabin off buttons levers and dials.

In the centre, hands looped with lengths of wire that manipulated the machine guns like marionettes, periscopes affording a magnified view of the ground only a glance away and securely buckled to the chair sat the marshal’s housekeeper: Bethany Cartwright.

“You,” she hissed and rage poured out her lips that had, until then, held nothing more than a smile and a kind word for the marshals. “You have ruined everything!”

Having climbed around the gondola, James Lovelace crawled through the broken windscreen and into the cabin.

“Wilhem would positively have a German helmet if he was here,” he said as he took in the copious amounts of instruments. Then his eyes landed on Cartwright.

“What the deuce?” he exclaimed as furious eyes locked onto his.

“Meet Spokey Sampson,” Jac Lightning said with cold and grim finality, the Lightning Coil Throwers not budging and inch from their target.

Sore, bleeding but having reached the harpoon itself, Wendell Caine pounded his fist into the wood, ripping out planks with one hand to make the hole big enough that he could crawl through. Feet grateful to be reacquainted with something solid beneath them, The Mountain Marshal found himself in the back half of the gondola, surrounded by racks upon racks of black-shelled bombs.

A smile formed beneath blood-soaked whiskers.

“This can all end peacefully if you tell us where the bombs are,” Jac Lightning said in a voice as hard as tombstones.

“I’m done with peace, Marshal,” Spokey rasped back. “You took my town, my men and my son!”

“Your son,” Lovelace interjected. “I’m afraid you might have to be more specific.” The Pinkerton slammed his mouth closed then as he could feel anger upon him from two of the deadliest people in Arizona.

“Harry,” she whispered. “My poor, dear Harry…”

There was a twitch across Jac Lightning’s face. Harry Winsome, the only person who had known who Spokey Sampson was, the only person good or lucky enough to outdraw the Lightning Marshal, the one who Jac had gunned down in the middle of Ascension after a furious battle.

“Harry, who protected me. Kept my secret. Did my business until he met you, marshal,” she said. “And without him now you’ve found me.”

“The bombs. Now,” was the Lightning Marshal’s only response.

Silence filled the cabin, the airship having been dragged low enough that there was no longer a howl through the broken windscreen. And then…

“Attention citizens of Ascension!” The voice of Hans Octavius Wilhem thundered through a bullhorn.

“Evacuate zhe town, immediately!”

Inside the bomb bay, Caine searched for an opening to the cockpit, but the two rooms remained wholly separate, accessible to each other only when the airship was on the ground. Short of climbing outside and searching for another entrance, the Mountain Marshal was stuck here.

Which suited him fine as this room was armed with possibilities.

Hefting one of the black shells and pondering how to set it off while escaping to safety, he heard, beyond the wall of the armoury the words of his partner and that Limey Pinkerton. Jac and Lovelace were onboard. That complicated things.

And then he heard another voice that made things simple again.

“I’m going to see my son now,” Bethany Cartwright said and something under her hand on the armrest of the chair clicked.

“And you’re coming with me!” she screamed as one of the dials switched on, counting down from five, four…

“Everybody out!” Jac yelled and she ran for the broken windscreen with Lovelace close behind, his narrow brush with death forgotten as he leapt out the after the Lightning Marshal and scrambled to the harpoon.

Wendell Caine heard everything but hadn’t finished in the bomb bay yet. With titanic strength, the Mountain Marshal wrenched the floor-mounted bay doors, twisting the catch until and they were wedged shut and ensuring the bombs wouldn’t drop on Ascension below.

Jac and Lovelace leapt to the cable, her hand catching onto it. Lovelace fell short and while the airship wasn’t as high up before, it remained a fall he wouldn’t walk away from. Just as gravity asserted itself upon the Pinkerton, Jac Lightning let go of one of her father’s precious Lightning Coil Throwers and grabbed his hand as the gun shattered on the streets below. For one precious second they both hung there before Lovelace managed to grab the line.

One second too late.

With the bomb doors sealing the shells inside, the explosion above Ascension was the biggest and loudest yet. The townsfolk, having acted immediately on Wilhem’s orders, watched as a fiery cloud billowed out before washing across the night sky with the brightness of the sun. Shielding their eyes, they did not see Jac Lightning or James Lovelace sliding down the cable.

They did, however, see someone ablaze who slid, quite literally, hot on their heels.

Wendell Caine’s beard, hair and overalls were on fire, he was shot and tired.

He was alive though. And Spokey Sampson, clearly, was not.

All three lawmen landed in a tumbling heap, bruised and battered but still able to feel out. Hans Octavius Wilhem leapt out of the cabin of his half-train and deployed the chemical fire extinguisher, coating Wendell Caine in white foam.
“It’s not over yet,” he said. “Zhere are still zhe bombs to vorry about.”

Nobody wanted to move but each of them did as the lawmen split up. Wilhem took the blacksmith. Caine, the Ignit-Inn. Lovelace, the doctor’s surgery and Lightning ran for Etheric Delights.

Wilhem and Lovelace knew what to look for and quickly located similar bombs to that which had blown up the marshal’s office. The timers had two minutes remaining but each of them were proficient enough to defuse the explosives with time to spare.

Where time would work against them would be covering the entire town. Which is why Lighting and Caine had gone ahead to scout the bombs’ locations.

Jac Lightning stormed through the foyer of Etheric Delights and, on the briefest of briefings, headed for the cellar where, in all likelihood, the bomb would be found within the foundations. Barrels of wine and liquor were stacked in long rows and Lightning sprinted from end to the other, looking for anything that didn’t fit. She found it in the form of a heavy steel door that had been double-locked and padlocked, built into the brick of the building.

Returning to the street, Wilhem heard his name yelled and joined Jac at the whorehouse, running down the stairs with only one minute remaining. He was shown the door and its solid foundations and shook his head.

“Nein,” he said. “Not enough damage.”

Leading Jac through the rows of the wine cellar, the Iron Marshal found the bomb on the third load-bearing post and, with mechanical precision, defused it.

Having dealt with his bomb at the surgery, James Lovelace ran toward the Ignit-Inn where Wendell Caine emerged, the explosive in his hand. So focused on the urgency of the situation, the normally perceptive Pinkerton hadn’t noticed that the foam had spilled off and the fire had burnt his overalls to ashes.

“Give it here!” Lovelace yelled, but Caine shook his head.

“Check the tavern,” he called back. “I got this.”

Less than a minute left no time to argue with the naked mountain man and Lovelace sped into the tavern and straight for the foundations. He defused the bomb just as heard an explosion outside.

Lovelace, Lightning and Wilhem returned to the street where cinders rained down from the heavens. Caine hadn’t bothered trying to defuse the bomb. He had simply hurled into the air as far from Ascension as he could. And thanks to his and everyone else’s quick actions, the town had been spared of everything but a night of fireworks.

Grateful citizens returned to town, dousing the last burning embers and offering free drinks to the lawmen for removing the menace of Spokey Sampson.

All that is, except for Wilhemina Ether, the Madam of Etheric Delights who took one look at the naked Wendell Caine and fainted right there on the street.

JAC LIGHTNING, WENDELL CAINE, HANS OCTAVIUS WILHEM AND JAMES LOVELACE CONTINUE IN THE ONE-SHOT RELOAD, BEFORE RETURNING IN THE NEXT INSTALLMENT:

THE ADVENTURES OF THE COLT APOLLO: 3RD ROUND, FIRST SALVO.

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The Adventures of the Colt Apollo: 2nd Round 6th Salvo, Part 1 Tuesday, Jan 19 2010

Fire shot into the night sky like the desert dunes had pulled an enormous trigger.

Away from the orange stained horizon, Jack Lightning and Wendell Caine rode hard toward Ascension. At their heels no less than a dozen gunmen pursued, their horses galloping as much to get away from the towering inferno as to bring the lawmen down.

“What the hell was that?” Jack Lighting called over the rain of hooves pounding the dirt.

“Explosion,” Caine replied.

“Explosion of what?”

“Dirigible.”

It was five minutes to Ascension and Marshals Lightning and Caine had a head start but while The Lightning Marshal’s mount, Thunder could keep up this pace until they reached the town, the grizzly bear that Caine sat astride wasn’t built for speed.

But then they weren’t trying to reach Ascension.

Booming from the outskirts, their partner, Marshal Hans Octavius Wilhem, stoked the boiler of his transport, the steam gushing out of in furious clouds as he and Pinkerton Detective James Lovelace sped toward the fire. The steam tank, Wilhem’s vehicle and invention, dragged both of its trailers skipping along the dirt, one of them sporting a long-barrelled cannon with an even longer harpoon at its side. A weapon of singular purpose:

Bring down the airship of Samuel Spokey Sampson.

The bandits, also in Spokey’s employ, were closing on the furry mount and it’s equally hairy rider, guns drawn and hammers cocked. This wasn’t quite according to the plan, chasing down the lawmen who, they were assured, would be off their mounts and out of luck when they arrived at the Cartwright Cottage. Instead they were trying to catch up to the infamous Jack Lightning and her savage companion: What any outlaw in the west would avoid.

Still, at least they outnumbered them fifteen to two, and once they had the range of that gambolling bear, the odds would get better.

Then they noticed that the lead horse no longer had a rider!

Synapses fired at the alarm in the same amount of time for the Lightning Marshal to loose two bolts, shooting from Thunder’s flank and out of sight from any sharpshooters amongst the bandits. Her aim, even clutching to the side of her horse was unerring as each shot slammed into one of the bandit’s mounts, the voltage sending it into a spasmodic kicking frenzy that, in one shot, claimed another bandit who fell under the lashing hooves. The other buzzed past another three horses’ flared nostrils, pulling them up sharply as their riders fought to get them under control and stay in the saddle.

Upright once more, Jack’s sharp gaze saw that the bandits had fallen back, out of range of her guns but also out of range of Caine. But they hadn’t given up yet. With muted shouts, the bandits split up, riding hard to present less of a group target and more to outflank the lawmen. This was not over yet.

And then, with a piercing whistle, reinforcements pistoned down the dune.

The German Marshal took it all in: the bandits, his friends and the ranges of each. The light machine gun Wilhem had mounted to his armour retracted and with a whirr and a clunk, it was replaced by his Wave Mortar. Sighting a clump of three bandits, Wilhem’s armour deployed hydraulic pistons into designed slots on the floor to anchor him into place before it let fly with a FOOWOOSH!

Dust and dirt fountained into the sky just ahead of the riders, raining debris down on the spooked mounts and their equally spooked riders, but harming neither.

And then there came another piercing whistle.

Another group of bandits rode in from the west, much closer to the Wilhem’s vessel. They were ten in number but they had brought something with them. It was old, but it still moved and, in likelihood, could still shoot.

A tank from the Civil War.

Still locked to the floor, Wilhem turned to Lovelace stared agog at the reinforced reinforcements.

“Move!”

The shell sped down.

Lovelace snapped an arm out to the control panel.

And the half-train tore off an instant before they were pelted with rocks from the latest explosion that pockmarked the desert, just where they had been.

Lovelace’s hand stayed firm on the big red button that triggered the rockets underneath the vehicle, trusting in German craftsmanship to keep him anchored in the cabin. Wilhem, secured to the floor, engaged a crank wheel and rotated his footing to orient himself with the pursuing tank.

Jack Lighting glanced at the battlefield.Anywhere between two dozen to thirty bandits filled the area to the south and to the west and riding toward Wilhem would just put her in range of the tank and the other horsemen. But the bandits behind her, while mitigating the risk of a group target had also meant that someone quick enough could pick them off one at a time.

The Lightning Marshal pulled hard on the reigns, taking Thunder in a tight wheeling turn and put them both into a charging course toward one of the flanking outlaws. Best to leave the tank to Wilhem, she thought.

Wendell Caine disagreed.

Smokey’s powerful strides sent him and the Mountain Marshal on a direct course for the tank. He still had a ways to go to catch up to it, but he figured Wilhem could keep it busy until he arrived to take it off his hands.

Wilhem had bigger plans than just keeping it busy. The tank was powerful, somewhat quick and packed a wallop, but it was a relic. Wilhem, on the other hand, had thought of bigger things and while it was true that his vehicle sported no weaponry whatsoever, the German Marshal had found the inclusion of guns to be a wasted effort when he himself was a weapons platform.

Lining up the Wave Mortar was going to prove a challenge though. The weapon was meant to be fired from a stable position and while he was, in effect, stapled to the iron floor of the vehicle, it was rocketing across rough Arizona desert, bouncing from ditch to dune. Add to that the speed of their pursuers and it was a shot that was nigh impossible but a Lightning to make.

Wilhem wasn’t a Lightning but all one ever needed in a crisis was a cool head and calculus.

The half train blasted along at 90 miles per hour.

The pursuing tank trundled at 45 miles per hour.

The distance between them was 240 yards and gaining.

The range of the Wave Mortar was a good thousand yards.

Two hundred and sixty yards flashed by and at that moment, Wilhem hit the trigger.

The Wave Mortar launched its shell in booming yet graceful ark as the enemy tank crested another dune. At the apex of its trundling descent, advanced weaponry collided with the relic to a catastrophic explosion.

Debris shot out across the dusty ground, kicking it up and mixing it with an acrid black smoke that billowed out and swallowed the charging Wendell Caine and Smokey as they continued headlong toward the tank.

Lovelace nervously removed his eyes from the control panel and the rapidly approaching horizon to glance at Wilhem.

“Well?”

“Zhat vent better zhan expected…”

The clouds were swept away to reveal the tank dead in its tracks, its armoured hull shredded away and three very confused, and fortunate bandits, alive inside.

Fortunate for a moment.

Wendell Caine leapt off Smokey and landed atop one of the bandits, his arms reaching out for one as he drove his knuckles into another. Dragging the last bandit toward him, the outlaw was introduced to The Mountain Marshal’s forehead with an echoing crack, fell pole-axed.

Caine, like Wilhem, kept a cool head too, though he did use it knock others out cold.

Galloping toward one of the isolated bandits, Jac Lightning, with weapons drawn, sent a bolt dead-centre into his chest, the shock travelling down the horse who reared up and kicked its rider off before he could tumble out of the saddle. At the same time, one of the Lightning Marshal’s legs kicked out over Thunder’s head, placing her side-saddle in the closest instance she’d come to riding like a lady. In this case, the practicality of aiming at the rider behind her left propriety standing at the gate. Her other weapon in hand, another sizzling crackle sounded and another bandit fell.

Another dozen bandits were closing on the Lightning Marshal though and as good as the legend of the Lightning was, it would be even more impressive if she survived. Thunder stayed at full gallop as Jac’s legs kicked again, spinning in the saddle with both hands filled with the Lightning Coil Throwers. The moment she found the stirrups, Thunder pulled a hard right and she set her eyes upon the next outlaw urging his horse and himself to his doom.

The Civil War tank was dead, its pilots knocked out, but there remained the outlaws who were only now catching up to the smoking husk with Wendell Caine still inside. Hurling himself over the jagged metal, he landed and charged the approaching posse, hurling himself right and left as the bullets flew past him.

But some weren’t aimed at him.

Smokey, gambolling after his master wasn’t deterred as dust spat in front of him, but even the 10 foot grizzly bear came to a roaring stop as lead stung his flank. The Mountain Marshal froze in his tracks, head whipping toward his longest companion and oldest friend.

“Smokey! Cover!” he cried as he ran back toward his bear.

Smokey turned and limped his way to the remains of the tank, joined a moment later as Wendell Caine skidded next to him. The bullet was in there alright, but it was not too deep and was a small calibre besides. Smokey let out a rumbling growl.

“Good thinkin’,” Caine said as he cracked his knuckles. “Let them come to us.”

The rockets now spent, Hans Octavius Wilhem disengaged the spurs and stomped back to the control panel. Lovelace managed to unclench his hands and let the Marshal take over.

“Time we headed back, I’d say,” Lovelace said, his keen eyesight taking in the numbers of the outlaws.

“Coming about!” Wilhem called out and the half-train made its turn toward the carnage.

Bullets spat every which way but into Jac Lightning as she spun, twisted and leapt from side to side, her acrobatic riding lost to the approaching outlaws as blue lightning left spots in their eyes and their companions twitching in the dirt. At the exploded tank, Caine hurled himself at the bandits who circled the remains, tackling both horse and rider and not caring a jot about either. Smokey roared and while more bullets flew at him, panic overrode the outlaws’ aim and each swat of his claws left riders clinging both to their horses and their innards. Wilhem’s half-train powered toward the battle, steam billowing out behind him.

There came another piercing whistle.

Both Wilhem and Lovelace looked up.

And both saw, high above them, the underside of an airship moments before an explosion, sent a rain of dirt over them.

Spokey Sampson had arrived.

To be concluded in Part 2

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Freaky Game Friday: Tales of Gaea Friday, Jan 8 2010

Freaky Game Friday: Tales of Gaea

1974: Gary Gygax publishes the first edition of Dungeons & Dragons
1974 and One Day: Games Designers around the world cry “ME TOO!”

Our seminal history of roleplaying aside, it would be well after the sound and fury – some 26 years hence – that Hinterwelt Enterprises would publish Tales of Gaea, but it does go to show that even after two and a half decades of new games, reprints of old games and wholly different ideas about roleplaying that there are still bits of the dead horse to wail on.

Absent a webpage, this is taken from RPGNet’s database:

Set in a world of many races, Tales of Gaea is the story of sacrifice of the goddess Gaea for the creation she loves. The children of Gaea go on about their lives, seeking their fortunes and building their empires.

And I have to say, this pretty well sums up the extent of the game world. Deity dies to save the world; populace continues to fuck about regardless. The extent to which the meta-narrative affects the game world is as staggering as any “surprise” you’d find in the first three Star Wars movies and just about as relevant to the overall plot. It boils down to the usual fantasy fare of meet in tavern, find a dungeon, empty the dungeon, cash-in and repeat…

Though it should be said that Freaky Game Friday (Weird Game Wednesday) doesn’t have the luxury of deconstructing backstory and game-world history or whatever narrative exists to justify the world. The questions are: ‘Can we create a character and run a game in one night?’ and ‘How much fun do we have doing it?’

The answer, to the first question at least, was ‘No’.

Chosen because there was a dragon on a cover, a sure sign that the book is to be taken seriously, Wednesday Adam (maybe now Friday Adam) familiarised himself with the book. Four days before the game, we get this:

In preparation for the game, please make sure to print a character
sheet:

http://tog.hinterwelt.com/TOGData/Charsheet.pdf

(at least the first 2 pages, anyway)

Please also go to the following link and read the example of character creation:

http://tog.hinterwelt.com/TOGHtml/Output/TogChap1.html#39436

Then cry a little inside, when you realise that, other than the
setting’s creation myth, this is the FIRST THING IN THE RULEBOOK.

Or how about going here:

http://tog.hinterwelt.com/TOGHtml/Output/TogChap3.html

And scrolling to the “Money” section at the bottom. If you don’t die a little from reading that, you’re already in Hell.

It should be mentioned that while Rhys, Ness and I have the chore of playing the game, Adam is the one who has to learn about it enough to it, and it’s impressive that he does this, particularly when you go back through the write-ups and see what we’ve all endured.

Of course, despite this preview of things to come, only Ness bothered to read the attachments and, on the night of the game, completely changed her character anyway so we remain true to the spirit of Freaky Game Friday which may also explain why it took 2 hours to create characters.

CHARACTER CREATION:

First of all, we learn that the layout of the book is as follows.

1: Creation Myth
2: Character Creation
3: Experience and Spells …together at last! (?)
4: Stuff
5: More stuff.
6: Races for Character Creation

…wait, what?

Not wanting to sand Adam’s thumb to a nub, we elect to start our character creation with Race. The wholly original lexicon of characters you can choose from is found on Page 23 of the Dungeons & Dragons Player’s Guide, reprinted here for your convenience. The choices are:

Human
Elf
Halfing
Dwarf
Gnome

Where things get a little chica-crazie is the introduction of Lizardmen (Suan-Lesthra), which is pretty much what you’re thinking if you’re thinking about Spider-Man’s foe ‘The Lizard’, sans the labcoat.

You then get told about sub-races of the species, except for humans because all humans are the same regardless of geographical location and please don’t sue us because we didn’t get into roleplay game design and publishing for the money at least not now that we know better. Sub-races convey bonuses on top of any racial abilities or defects. They are also only relevant to the characters we elected to play because we’re on a timetable. Buy the book if you want to learn more, which, by the way, is the closest thing to an endorsement you’ll get.

It’s important to note that, once again, in addition to being ‘inspired’ by Tolkien’s works, Tales of Gaea also thought randomly rolling attributes was a nifty idea.

Actually, to its credit, this is handled better than most randomly rolled characters (I’m looking at you, Palladium!) by the luxury of rolling three 20 sided dice and then taking the highest one. Certain races start with a set value and then have you roll a 2 sided dice (or flip a coin) to see how average or better you are. There is also the optional rule of assigning rolled values to stats instead of letting the dice fall where they may. This, however, was a rule Adam decided not to employ so, once again, what we’d like to play and what we end up with are as dissimilar as Michael Jordan to Stephen Hawking.

Ness: Originally wanting to play an Elven Ranger, elected instead to play a Dwarven Footman (not actually a joke– is in fact a soldier). The choice of ‘Dwarf’ was hers to make as she up and decided to change her mind in the last furlough of conceptualisation. The Footman class was chosen because who’s wants a Dwarven Ranger. Initially it was going to be a Dwarven Blacksmith until it was explained that the involvement of her game would be working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week building stuff that actual adventurers would use to fight dragons, save damsels and recover treasure. Her choice of sub-races included:

Steel: Armour Forging Skill for Free.
Green: Disarm traps and locate traps for free. (Also serve as ornaments in people’s gardens so maybe there is some veracity to the Dwarven Ranger concept). Not, in fact, green skinned.
Balen: Get a 10% bonus in metalworking, weapon-forging, armour-forging, but don’t get these skills for free.
Achlen: Free weapon-forging skill
Ivory: Jewel-crafting
Malyn: +1 to hit and damage with hammers.
Hecklen: +1 to hit and damage with axes

Ness was fixated on hammers at the time and opted to be a Malyn Dwarf. This fixation did not, on occasion, prevent her from announcing that she’d ‘stab’ the enemy.

Rhys had decided his character was going to be a human cavalryman (which in the world of Gaea means a bard of some description for reasons unknown) and, unburdened with the complexities of sub-races and attribute modifiers, will rejoin us later in the write-up.

Not having a clue what I wanted, I was going to take up the Elf flag that Ness had dropped until Adam threw down the gauntlet that I ‘get into the spirit of the game’ and choose a Lizardman. Why not! I had also decided to take the closest approximate of a mage this game had to offer, in keeping with our usual character choices for Freaky Game Fridays. Neither of us knew anything about Lizardmen including why there would never be a Lizardman mage or, for that matter, a Lizardman capable of basic literacy. More on that later…

Sub-races for Lizardmen:
Brown
Black
Green
Grey
White
Tan

This, in addition to coordinating with my shoes and handbag, had varying bonuses or feats to do with my Tail Attack.

Rhys, Ness and Me: …TAIL ATTACK!?

As it turned out, this was not to the strangest feat the Lizardmen could boast.

Because it was cool and gave me a hefty 5D8 Bonus damage to Tail Attacks, I chose ‘Black’.

We then moved onto rolling our characters…

Ness got an 18 in Strength, 20 in Agility, 11 Constitution, Dexterity 8 Intelligence, 19 Wisdom, 20 Appearance, 12 Charisma, 18 Piety, 1 Luck and 14 Will.

Rhys got 9 Strength, 12 Agility, 9 Constitution, 14 Dexterity, 13 Intelligence, 20 Wisdom, 20 Appearance, 20 Charisma, 10 Luck and 17 Will

I got 20 Strength, 10 Agility, 18 Constitution, 20 Dexterity, 13 Intelligence, 15 Luck, 19 Piety

We were told not to get too attached to these stats as there were bonuses and handicaps to be applied, except for Rhys who being human, would be unchanged; begging the question that given how naturally gifted the other races are, why would humans be the dominant race at every fantasy setting? It was postulated that, caught up in the wave of envy and depression because every other race was better in some way, humans had lots of consolation sex.

Ness’s Constitution went from 11 to 23, and her Strength went from 18 to 24, though her appearance dropped from 20 to 10 and her Charisma from 20 to 15. Notable bonuses came in the form of Metalworking Skill, Dark-Sight, and a +6 to save versus Poison and a +8 to Magic Resistance. With the Dwarven and Gnome languages, and despite her bitching about losing points off her only 20-valued attributes, Ness’s rolls had favoured her warrior character really well.

Not so much in my mage’s case…

Impressive scores in Strength, Dexterity and Constitution had me hemming and hawing on choosing a Mage. That my Strength went to 25 and Constitution to 23 because of racial bonus made compelling arguments for a warrior class. What clinched it was the announcement that I had to subtract 10(!) from my paltry 13 Intelligence, as well as 5 from Wisdom, making me wonder how Lizardmen had survived as a species at all considering they could get an Intelligence of 0. With Intelligent Design successfully debunked, it seems that I would be a warrior.

In addition to my mighty Tail Attack at level 3, I got 2 levels in Swimming, and 1 level of Swamp Survival. Adam then dropped the bombshell.

Adam: I am going to read the next sentence verbatim: ‘See Heat Sources With Their Tongue’.

All:

Me: …where would I possibly write that?!

Turns out there isn’t a “Tongue Section” on any of the four pages of character sheets AT ALL, so it got squeezed into “Skills”. It didn’t even come with a rank. I could just do it. So there!

I also got a Magic Resistance of 7, but nobody cared after the ‘gifts’ nature (which would be Gaea, I suppose) gave the Lizardmen.

Fortitude Points, the measure of a character’s survivability was next and was involved, to say the least. (Strength + Constitution + Will) divided by 3 + Half Constitution (again). Then roll 1D4 for every point of Constitution over 20 to determine the final score. Phew! Final scores:

Ness: 40
Me: 40
Rhys: 16

At this point Rhys was considering the change to any Class that involved staying away from the enemy. Adding Strength, Constitution and Dexterity to work out our Defence value, leaving Rhys with ‘10’, sealed the deal.

But the math adventure did not stop there! The character sheet had a hit location drawn up as a stick-cube figure (picture included for your reference because, frankly, words fail me).

Base Fortitude Points are placed in the boxes, multiplied or divided by a value determined by the location on the stick figure: half Base Fortitude for Head and Chest; double Base Fortitude for Arms, Hands and Feet. The intent, such as Adam was able to determine, was to build the fragility of the locations into damage results while rolling a consistent number of dice and bonuses. What it also does is give you arms of steel with Ness and myself having 160 hit-points in our fingers and toes.

Attribute bonuses were awarded next with the discovery that Ness would be the slowest member of the party but able to lift 2500 pounds, I would be able to lift 8000 pounds and still be fastest and Rhys could manage 12 pounds before he started to slow.

Rhys: 12 pounds?! A child could carry 12 pounds!
Me: Yeah, but eventually they get bored with it.
Adam: At least you didn’t get a Constitution of 1 to 3. You could carry 0 pounds before being encumbered. Anything below 8 means you can only carry 1 pound, which is pretty much light clothing.
Rhys: Did they do any kind of test or real-world reference before pulling these numbers out of their arse?!

The 20’s in Wisdom, Appearance and Charisma being the only part of the character in any way redeemable, Rhys decided to keep foes at range and leverage off his high scores by being a Cleric. As a consequence, he would be lumbered with testing the Magic System. Anyone who’s read the ‘Proteus’ review will recall how stunningly this went…

As it turned out though, being magical isn’t that unique, as everyone is and each can get 3 spells regardless of your character type. However, given Ness’s current “affection” for hammers and my natural abilities for sucking at magic, this was going to be Rhys’s bag.

Skills, dependent on our classes, were quickly awarded and the salient points for the purpose of this write-up is that if you wanted to defend yourself further than the paltry number you were given: get a skill in Armour Type unless you wanted to operate under penalties and also learn the Parry Skill. As it turns out, the Parry Skill isn’t commensurate with learning how to use a weapon which, in Fencing Terms, translates to learning all the attacks and trusting that your arms are longer than your opponent’s. The other interesting discovery was…

Adam: Natural Attacks can not be parried!
Ben: OhhhhhhhhhhhReally…
Ness: Your tail is awesome!
Rhys: Hang on! You can’t parry punches or kicks with a weapon?
Adam: Yep!
Rhys: Now I really want to meet the game designers. I’ll have a sword and they can try punching me. There! You’re parried… and bleeding!

The Gods decree with attributes and rules like these, my Lizardman would be a Specialist. Further, he would be a Specialist in Tail-Fu! Unfortunately, the six specialty weapons that came with the class don’t include Tails, and so I threw all of them into Archery and put whatever bonus points that I got from Wisdom and Intelligence (not a lot) I had were put into Parry, Armour and a Level 6 Tail.

Rhys: I want it on record that this game was designed by Moon Logic.

Rhys was then treated to a quick overview of what he could do as Cleric. From the book:

Clerics may call on their God’s spheres of power. If you worship a God of Healing, Peace and Chickens, you can calm a person, heal damage or create fried chicken. However you would not be able to create a Chicken-Bomb or cast Fireball. A really, really hot chicken maybe…

Basically the player declares what miracle under the spheres of his God he is trying to accomplish, which is then rolled against Piety, the idea being to get under its value on D20. There is a cumulative -3 to Piety for each miracle after the first until you pray for an hour. Further, after the miracle is performed, the Cleric must roll under his constitution or take damage because Gods don’t seem to like it when you ask for help. This is probably why nobody really gives a shit about Gaea’s sacrifice.

After getting a summary of what gods exist, Rhys chooses Amagatafishii, Avatar of Knowledge whose symbol is, in fact, a golden disk with a fish stencilled onto it. Rhys’s character worships The Sunfish!

The next hurdle came in the form of hard cash. Our skill selections in weapons and armour had left Adam giggling and it wasn’t until this chapter that we learnt why.

Adam: Roll percentile dice and don’t get between 1 and 5.

Rhys rolled 8, I rolled 14 and Ness rolled 87, which translated into 1D10 gold sovereigns for Rhys and I while Ness rolled 9D20 (you heard me). Our skill selections were then called into sharp relief as Adam announced Rhys’s Lucien Hammer he’d pondered taking would cost 40 gold sovereigns, as would my longbow.

Me: What about a short bow?
Adam: That’s 20 gold sovereigns.
Me: Well, you can’t fault their maths, I suppose…

Actually it went a little more like…

Me: WHAT THE HELL!? This weapon predates Bronze Age development! I can rip off a branch, tie some string and make a bloody fortune selling it at market! Hell, with my strength I could use a tree trunk with some catgut!

Rhys was not thrilled that the most he could afford would be a staff or cudgel, weighing in at 15 copper and leaving something of a gap in finances between crap found in the dirt and the double digit figures of gold sovereigns for everything else, but accepted that to afford armour, he had no choice in the matter. Rhys and I chucked out 4 gold pieces for Boiled Leather Armour, which was a real problem for Rhys’s character as his survivability was already in serious doubt.

Ness, meanwhile, bought up a hammer, chainmail and a shield with change enough to jingle whenever she walked down a street. It was easy to see why our characters hung around each other.

The final thing to note about the cash of Gaea is 100 Gold is equal to 1 Platinum, but it takes 150 Copper pieces to equal 1 Gold Sovereign. Base 10 mathematics, it seemed, had no place in stories of high fantasy.
As mentioned, everyone is magic though the extent to which you’re magic isn’t just limited by your intelligence. Humans and Halflings got access to higher realms of magic while every other race could suck it in the lower realms of magic. This, apparently, is due to a better connection with the gods by the kiss-arse Humans and Halflings despite the fact that there is a God of Dwarves present in the pantheon.

Higher realm magic is based of Piety whereas lesser realm isn’t. Rhys’s character had one more chance to redeem itself and we all listened as Adam read out the magic groupings of the greater powers.

Adam: Natural Powers, Wolfsbane, Underworld, Vampiric…
Rhys: What does ‘Vampiric’ get?
Adam: Mental Manipulation, Illusion and Fire powers.
Rhys: I’ll take that
Me: Is your name going to be ‘Edward’.
Rhys: No, and fuck you, in short.
Me: Your priest is going to be walking about in the daylight, right?
Rhys: Yes, and no he will not ‘sparkle’. I’m going for Vampiric to get Fire spells that possibly won’t suck.
Adam: Okay, First Level Powers: Glow–
Ness and Me:

After learning that Rhys wouldn’t get a combat power in the Higher Realms until level 4, we discovered that Lesser Realms magic is all about the fighting. Deciding to go with that despite it rolling on Intelligence rather than Piety, Rhys chose ‘Bolt’, ‘Heal’ and ‘Create Staff’ which ended up saving him 40 coppper.

Final step was to name our characters:

Rhys: Joe
Ness: Thera Thunderthighs
Me: Gorn (I’m perfectly safe so long as I don’t face an enemy with a giant rock!)

Not wanting to waste any more time, we skipped the tedium of buying the standard adventurer’s layout of equipment (Flint, tinder, rope, pouches, 10 foot pole, etc) and threw ourselves into the game proper.

No it didn’t take this long after all. This is the edited version…

THE ADVENTURE

Joe and Gorn reside in a human village near a dwarven stronghold where Thyra hails from. Thyra is in town and awaiting the arrival of dwarven caravan of merchants with whom she can catch a ride back to her home. A good plan until it becomes apparent that the caravan is late (gasp!) even for dwarfs whose movement-rate is shit! Deciding to investigate, the three of us set out though this does take some effort to convince Joe as he doesn’t want to die. Movement is slow as Joe is over his weight limit, but still not as slow as Thyra, who is handicapped by her race. After much travelling, the party encounters a tree that has fallen across the path and beyond that, the remains of the caravan.

Thyra believes it was a trap sprung by bandits. Gorn believes that the tree killed them all when it fell on top of them, despite the fact that the corpses have arrows sticking out of them (Gorn hypothesizes it was an ‘Arrow Tree’). Joe just shakes his head (which is roleplayed excellently by Rhys) and fights the urge to go home.

After much debate over the death of the dwarfs (CSI: Gaea, this ain’t) and lucrative gains of being bandits as they get bows and can throw about arrows like they were nothing, Adam asks:

Adam: Does anyone have a ‘Tracking’ skill?
All: No.
Adam: Does anyone have any spare skill points to take ‘Tracking’?

The adventure is clearly riding on this, so…

Ness: I have tracking!
Adam: Do you…
Ness: Yep! I misspelled it as ‘Tapping’! (Tapping is the skill used to determine whether a wall is hollow or not).
Adam: …great.

And we set off, following the trail to a cave where a scruffy human emerges to take a leak.

Gorn: Hey! Seen any bandits?

The bandit yelps, pisses on himself and runs into the cave. Gorn is confused despite Joe pointing out that he is, in fact, a bandit. In hot pursuit we enter the cave after him and an alarm is called.

A quick word on one of the big things I hate about Dungeons & Dragons: At level one, it doesn’t matter if you’re Krull III, Son of Krull II and wielder of the mighty axe Goreful. At level one, you are Pest Control. You are Krull-Sterminator, A Family Business in Vermin Removal. And not only is this your lot until the lofty heights of level 4, it is the only thing you’re capable of doing! Those dungeon rats and caterpillars are hardcore at this level and don’t even think about Goblins until you’ve dropped your first 5000 experience points. I don’t know how D&D; retains its audience but I’ll bet real money that Exterminator – The Scuttling or Timber & Termites was not the game described to you when you purchased the book.

So it’s to the book’s credit, as well as Adam’s, that we weren’t lumbered with foes that could be dispatched with a boot heel.

COMBAT

Initiative is determined by rolling a D6 and adding initiative modifiers determined by high scores in Agility and/or using the ‘Draw Weapon’ Skill.

Tales of Gaea works on that oh-so-delightful randomizer of rolling a D20 against a static defence value, which has the benefit, rare as it is, of calling out ’Natural 20!’ when it’s rolled and the many drawbacks of needing to roll 16 or more to have a chance of landing a blow. When a rare natural 20 comes up, Tales of Gaea also seems to like the idea of teasing the player with a critical hit by having you roll percentile dice and getting under 5% to see if you do double damage! At least, again, they’ve improved on the D&D; mechanic and let you deliver maximum damage if you fail to beat the astronomical odds. Where things go further askew is in the sequence after landing a blow.

The player rolls his/her ‘Targeting’ skill on percentile dice, hoping to get under his/her score so he/she can decide where on the stick figure the blow lands. As you’ll have noticed, hitting the hand is a waste of time. If the Targeting skill fails, a random roll of a D10 determines where the blow makes contact. Once ascertained where the blow ends up, damage is rolled.

The defender, if possessed of the ‘Parry’ skill, can roll under its value to see if the blow is deflected. This turns out to be worse as another table is consulted which compares strength and dexterity of the combatants, size, level of character and other factors to modify what value you have to roll under.

Back to the adventure, Gorn catches up with the urine-soaked intruder and launches his first tail attack which turned out to be a fumble. Some quick table consultation and a random roll determines that he missed both this attack and his second attack.

Joe casts his Bolt spell and fumbles as well! Another table consultation reveals that he hit himself with the spell, in the head (!), for 6 points of damage. Fortunately the Boiled Leather Armour soaks this, though we grimly consider that this could be the shortest combat exchange in the history of roleplay.

Thyra hasn’t caught up yet so we roll initiative again. Thyra gets to go first and while she misses with her first attack, but hits on the second. Missing with her Target skill, the blow lands on his arm, smashing through the armour and into meaty hit points just as reinforcements emerge from deeper in the cave.

Joe tries another Bolt, fumbles again and trips over himself. The bandits go next, failing to hit Thyra thanks to her armour and preternatural agility. I go next and redeem myself by hitting a bandit for 43 points of damage with my tail. The bandit still stands but only because he makes a Will save and is primed for my second attack, which fumbles! Another roll reveals that I too have tripped and I swap for another D20 that’s more amenable for combat.

Turns out this D20 isn’t much better though I don’t fumble again. Both of Gorn’s attacks miss while Thyra wounds her bandit in the groin. Consumed with pain and rage, the bandit counterattacks and fumbles. The bandits attacking Gorn launch a bevy of four strikes with only one of them landing a blow, which is easily parried. One of the bandits fumbles in the attempt and hits himself in the groin.

Joe, or Rhys, tired of this shit brings out the big guns and calls on the power of his god against four of the bandits. Taking the penalty of attacking so many opponents (which only turns out to be -2), Joe successfully calls upon the power, creating a Firestorm spell, but fails his Constitution check, causing himself damage in the process. Fortunately he isn’t the only one to take damage and the four bandits take much more, to the tune of 26 points of damage (2xD20+1D8+1D6) with the damage spread out over random hit locations. Fortunately one of those locations was the head and the bandit dies.

Despite the damage Joe sustained in the process, miracles prove their effectiveness this round.

Thyra goes first this round and lashes out with her hammer, landing her blow in the arm again so keeping her opponent in the game. Another flurry of attacks by the bandits result in little happening and another of them fumbling which, in this case, means he hits another bandit. Nobody is dead though a lot are wounded and one of Gorn’s attacks are successful, destroying another bandit’s head. Joe calls on another miracle, same as the first but only to two targets this time, fails both Piety and Constitution checks and hurts his everything to tune of five points.

Thyra misses her bandit on the next round, I hit but fail to kill the bandit. Rhys tries his miracle again in an attempt to either kill the bandits or die trying. The miracle works but the Constitution check fails again and Rhys, now in negative hit points, makes a will save while being 1 hit point away from death. Both bandits are still standing, but not by much.

The next round of combat sees me hit my bandit but miss my targeting roll. I deal 47 points to the bandit’s right hand, which is absorbed by the location’s gargantuan number of hit points. Rhys decides to employ a Heal spell, regaining 15 hit points to five locations, completely restoring himself except for in his legs. Thyra kills her bandit and the last one legs it.

Chasing after him, Gorn triggers the second combat encounter which, after Adam flips through the book, turns out to be Orcs. Demonstrating the wonkiness of the game, Adam elects to put us up against two of the “weakest” orcs. Initiative is rolled and the orcs go first, making their hit but being parried by Gorn’s tail. It is here we discover that the weakest kind of orcs in Gaea:

Have chainmail and a plate helm.
Have a Dexerity of 22
Have two attacks a round
Have a Defence Value of 21

The weakest orc is on par with the either Gorn or Thyra, the luckiest members of the party!

Fortunately my orc misses the second attack and the second charges toward Thyra, who manages to parry the blows on account of the revelation that these mighty orcs and a dwarf are considered to be in the same size class!

Keeping to the back of the group, Joe decides to check out early, leaving this fight to Thyra and Gorn. It’s less a fight and more an experiment so I won’t recount the blow-by-blow of it except to say that while wounded in Gorn’s case, and scratched in Thyra’s case, we at least manage to walk away with their chainmail. The bandits are dead, the dwarves avenged and Adam takes the time to read out the stats of the ‘High Orc’ to make ourselves feel worse:

90 points of armour everywhere except his head where he has 240!
152 Fortitude Points in arms and legs, 76 in the chest, and 32 in the head.
3 Attacks at +9 to hit and does 6D10+26 Damage with a 70% Target Skill
Parry Skill at 70% and the rank to parry twice.

FINAL THOUGHTS

It’s a belief of mine that layouts and book design really didn’t sink in until White Wolf. It’s a consistent problem with the Weird/Freaky games played thus far. Also, its random rolled characters and I’m not sure what merit there is in playing a character that you lack such control over unless you couldn’t make a decision to save your life.

Consistent mechanics also help in terms of understanding rules and, more importantly, avoid taking up time by flipping back through the book. I mean rolling over numbers for combat, but under values for miracles, and skills, not to mention that this is the only time where I’ve seen a Natural 20 as something to be feared.

That said, I do like the idea of rolling 3D20 for attributes. Seems like more than a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a heroic character than rolling 3D6 (Might work as a substitute mechanic for Palladium). There are improvements on the D&D; model but, for 2002, Tales of Gaea was looking into the past for ideas instead of looking forward.

Rhys: It’s like, between 1st and 2nd Ed Dungeons & Dragons if it had never, ever been play-tested once. The notion of game balance went completely over their heads. It’s not horrible, but it’s also not good, though the best of the Weird Games so far.

Ness: I think the gap between characters can get ridiculous. Also, the fact I can add magic to my character, just cause, makes it even more absurd.

Adam: It’s classic D&D; Heartbreaker. What about this game do you have that wouldn’t make me just play D&D;?

So we can say it’s the best of a bad bunch, but when it’s being compared to Fringeworthy and Proteus, how much pride can you take in that?

Posted by Wordmobi

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The Adventures of the Colt Apollo: 2nd Round, 5th Salvo – Part 4 Saturday, Jan 2 2010

The tower of fire that erupted from the marshal’s office washed the town of Ascension in a wave a heat and light and left it’s citizens dumbfounded in the street.

Not so much, the marshals.

With James Lovelace, Pinkerton Detective in tow, Jac Lightning, Hans Octavius Wilhem and Wendell Caine charged toward the conflagration. Neither spoke but then they didn’t need to.

Wilhem headed for his workshop.

Jac for the stables.

Caine for the water trough.

And Lovelace scanned the slack jawed crowd for any who weren’t.

The German Marshal was grateful, how minute it may have been, that the explosion had been contained to the office and, while it was horrific to see his improvements to building go up in smoke, the relief that it hadn’t reached his workshop of prized contraptions and, equally important, volatile products, allowed him to retain a cool head as his armour deployed the trusty chemical fire extinguisher.

The stables, however, had not been gifted with such a blessing and it was into fire that Jac Lightning leapt. It was fortunate that each had reacted with calm manner for if not fast reflexes, Jac’s mount, Thunder, might have encountered a dire end. The Lightning Marshal took the reigns in one hand and placed the other on the stallion’s neck, stroking the terrified horse and leading her out of the stable just as the building grew hotter and brighter. Caine’s bear, Smoky, who sat a very safe distance away alongside Alphonse, The Six Gun Gorilla, lucky enough to be patrolling the streets at the time, watched as the fire roared, neither beast willing to get closer, but neither willing to abandon the marshals.

Wendell Caine had, by experience with Wilhem’s inventions, become a fire-fighter of some skill. Skill that combined with the muscles born of West Virginia saw the Mountain Marshal uproot the full trough of water and hurled it in a wave at the fire where it burned white hot. It splashed over the flames, soothing the fire though not completely extinguishing it. What it had done though was buy Caine enough time to run further down the street to the next trough before the fire resurfaced.

Wilhem marched forward into the burning building, the helmet of his armour slamming over his face and the orange wash of light changing it from dark iron to burnished copper. Before him went a cloud of white foam, destroying the flames and leaving only a white carpet of chemicals that he strode over.. Another torrent of water followed, killing the growing the flames as Caine returned, stacking another empty trough on top of the first.

With the fire in hand, James Lovelace focused his attention on the crowd, sifting through the countless faces, all awash in orange light and stunned shock. The reaction was to be expected but the Pinkerton Detective was searching for someone who had expected the explosion– the person who, no doubt, had set it. Dozens crowded the street, staring at the fire or at the marshals working to put it out and, in the flickering light and darkness of twilight, finding such a subtle expression would tax the keenest of observers.

The keenest observer did not have the gifts of James Lovelace though. His meticulous miraculous brain was processing everything his keen eyes saw, reading expression, body language, lips that mouthed silent prayers. Nobody in the masses was anything less than stunned at the fiery catastrophe, its orange light reflected in their unblinking eyes.

Lovelace scanned beyond the crowd, his eyesight sharp enough to peer through darkened windows of the surrounding buildings, searching for anyone. There were people sheltered there, looking at the fire but nobody looking suspicious. Content in nothing save that there was nobody present who wished him or his companions harm, Lovelace turned his gaze back to the building as the last of the flames were lost to darkness.

The explosion had destroyed most of the building, the fire had rendered much of the ruins unsalvageable. Some stubborn and blackened timbers stayed nailed together and there was an iron-built box that stuck out amidst the timbers – the super-containment cell for criminals that brick and steel could not contain – and while it was an edifice to Hans Octavius Wilhem’s construction skills, it was poor consolation given what surrounded it.

Wilhem hadn’t paused between fighting the fire and investigating the ruins. That somebody had destroyed his hard work was more than wilful destruction or a failed attempt at assassination; it was a slap in the face, a senseless disregard of both engineering talent as well as life. Servos in his armoured appendages whined and steam billowed from his iron suit as timber and rubble was cleared to the side, literally digging up the truth.

“Any ideas?” Lovelace asked.

The German Marshal did not answer, focused on removing one of the thick support beams. To a falling curtain of ash, the beam was exhumed and placed to the side as both Wilhem and Lovelace knelt amongst the charcoal and peered beneath.

“An explosive placed against zhe foundations,” Wilhem pronounced.

“Nitro-glycerine if I’m any judge,” Lovelace added, noting the blast pattern.

“Likely placed on a timer,” Wilhem continued. “Und easily procured from Camps Colt und Ithaca.”

“But you don’t think it’s them, do you?” Lovelace mused.

“I vould not eliminate eizer camp as yet. But, given zhe recent activities vith zhis new drug, I have a prime suspect.”

…

Jack Lightning did too but, unlike Wilhem, was not waiting for proof. Assuring the townsfolk that there was nothing they could do to help and, in fact, that the ruined office was now a crime scene, the citizens of Ascension had gone to the Ignit-Inn to console themselves with drink.

Lighting marched there too, bursting through the double doors with a slam that silenced all conversations. Her mission was far from consolatory.

“It’s important that the town see we’re still in control,” she had said before leaving the ruins. Now with all eyes upon her, looking for answers or worrying just what a Lightning might do, nobody so much as dared to breathe.

Jac Lightning spoke.

“Folks. Take quite kindly to your concern about this. I would also take quite kindly to you not wasting time on Spokey Sampson.”

Jac paused, eyes darting from table to table for anyone who might challenge or disagree; anyone who might be listening on Spokey’s behalf. Maybe even Spokey himself…

“It’s not worth worrying about, because the marshal’s office will deal with him. So waste no more time worrying about that kind of scum.”

Message delivered, Jac thought and, turning on her heel, stormed out of the bar.

Wendell Caine had simply said “I’ll be makin’ my rounds,” and, with Smoky and Alphonse with him, the Mountain Marshal did just that. Those who hadn’t sought comfort in the bottom of a glass whispered to each other about what had happened and, more worrying, what was yet to come. Those whispers stopped the moment Wendell Caine walked past, stern gaze set in stone letting nothing out save that before the night was over, he’d punch somebody.

Nobody wanted that fate.

“Marshal Caine,” a tremulous voice called and the Mountain Marshal turned to face Wilhelmina Ether in a state that he’d never seen before. Not even when she had brought one of her girls forward to confess to him. Panic.

“Ma’am,” Caine said.

“I was so worried,” she said, voice cracking under the weight of her words. “I thought you might have been inside when…”

“No fear on that, Miss Ether,” Caine said.

“You… You don’t think there’ll be more, do you? That maybe he knows Annie talked to you?”

“Won’t matter none if he did, ma’am. Sampson ain’t threatenin’ no one tonight.”

Wilhelmina Ether stood not more than a foot away from the towering figure of Wendell Caine, torn between saying more or throwing her arms around him. Caine was impassive though, offering nothing to the sobbing woman.

“Best get indoors, ma’am,” he suggested after a lengthy pause. “Get to your girls and keep em safe.”

Madam Ether dabbed her eyes, blinking the tears away. “Yes, of course,” she said while peering through her eyelashes at the stoic lawman. “But what of you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said and waited until she had left him and walked into Etheric Delights. Wendell Caine didn’t have room in himself for romance tonight.

Tonight every part of him sought justice.

…

Wilhem and Lovelace sought clues, having cleared the site of the explosion away and, between them deduced the nature of the explosion. Lovelace continued poring through the ruins for more evidence while Wilhem did that which gave him both peace and purpose.

He was building a gun.

Salvaging pipes from the site and combining them with parts from his workshop, the German Marshal’s gun was a long-barrelled weapon with secure housing that would attach to his Steam-Tank’s trailer. The ammunition had already been built and lay next to hundreds of feet of rope.

A harpoon. One that would increase the already long arm of the law and see Spokey’s fabled airship in his grasp.

“This Sampson fellow must feel somewhat stung by your persistence, Wilhem,” Lovelace said, the site not giving up anything further save for soot.

“He has been a thorn in our side since our arrival to Ascension,” Wilhem replied, not looking up from his work as he soldered the lengths of pipe together.

“And you’ve never seen him?”

“Yes.”

“And, as far as he may be aware, his grudge is with you, and the other marshals,” Lovelace queried.

“Spokey is a blight for any in zhis town.”

“But,” Lovelace smiled. “He doesn’t, as afar as I’m aware, have any animosity toward me,”

“Und you’re vondering vhy zhat should change?” The German said with a wry smile back.

“Well it’s hardly likely that my aid is something I’d be recompensed for,” Lovelace patted the lapel of his tweed jacket. “And I’m feeling a bit cold in the wallet.”

Wilhem turned to the Pinkerton, matching grin for grin. “Maybe I could varm you up,” he offered as his portable oxyacetylene torch came alight.

Lovelace shook his head and help load the rope and harpoon aboard the Steam-Tank.

…

“Marshal Lightning!” Jac spun around at the call.

Bethany Cartwright, the housekeeper for the Marshal’s office sat upon a horse-drawn cart, a shawl wrapped around what appeared to be a nightgown. But any chill she had was buried under the worried expression on her face.

“Thank heavens you’re alright, Marshal,” she exclaimed. “Are Mr Wilhem and Mr Caine safe as well?”

Jac Lightning tipped her hat at the elderly widow and approached her, spurs jangling with each step.

“Nobody was harmed, ma’am. Just timber and Wilhem’s pride.”

“Thank the Lord,” she sighed. “When I saw the fire, I feared the worst and with the office destroyed…”

“Ain’t nobody inside at the time save some poor unfortunate in the cells who was destined for the noose,” Lightning said, referring to one of Sampson’s henchmen who she’d disarmed, literally, with a nail gun some days earlier.

“I’m so happy to hear that,” Mrs Cartwright said, but then the budding smile withered. “But Marshal, you and the others have no place to stay.”

“Don’t think any of us feel much like sleepin’ right now,” Jac said.

“It won’t do,” Mrs Cartwright said as if she hadn’t heard her. ” With my boys out at the camp, there’s plenty of room at my place. I can give you their beds for as long as you need.”

“No need at all,” Lightning said. “‘Appreciate the offer, but its inconvenient as well as risky to you.”

“There’s no risk if you’re close by. And no inconvenience either. I can cook you a proper breakfast, no offence to Mr Wilhem’s kitchen.”

“Mighty temptin’ ma’am,” but I think we’ll be fine,” Jac said with finality. Bethany Cartwright nodded.

“Fair enough, Marshal. But the invitation stands should you change your mind.” The woman clicked her tongue and flicked the reigns at the horse and the cart rattled forward.

“You sure you’ll be safe, Mrs Cartwright?” Jac called after her.

“Nice of you to ask but I save the worry for yourself, Marshal. Nobody’s going to want to do anything with or to me,” she called back.

Jac nodded but watched her fade into the night, sucking wind between her teeth on edge. Spokey might just want to do something to anyone associated with the marshals and an old lady alone at night would be an easy target.

“So far, all clear,” Wendel Caine said behind her.

Jac nodded, her eyes still not having left the horizon where Mrs Cartwright travelled.

“You feel up to takin’ a journey?” she asked.

“Sounds good,” he replied and both lawmen saddled up.

…

Thunder and Smoky galloped and gambolled across the desert. The Cartwright place was ten minutes comfortable ride from Ascension and while Cartwright had a start, the horse was dragging both cart and an elderly woman across the broken stones and dirt.

Jac Lightning wanted to get to the homestead well before Bethany Cartwright showed up to check for any signs of an ambush and be gone so as not to worry the old girl.

Wendel Caine was just happy to be doing something more than keeping a frightened populace from giving way to chaos. Wilhem and Lovelace were engrossed in whatever it was they were building and had blithely nodded when he informed them of their plans to safeguard the Cartwright homestead.

It was a cottage with a small vegetable garden, a paddock for a couple of horses and a cow, and a large shed. Humble, but well built, a family would be comfortable in a place like this. At the moment though, no home fires burned as Mrs Cartwright was still en route and her boys were working at Camp Colt. Jac hitched Thunder to a post while Smoky stayed at Caine’s side.

“I’ll check out the house,” Lightning said.

“And I’ve got the dunes and the shed,” Caine finished.

Splitting up, Jac climbed up to the cottage’s porch and, with little difficulty, forced a door open as quietly as she could. Inside, the house was very well kept, barely any dust adorned the shelves and it was tidy.

No, not tidy. Sparse.

Mrs Cartwright wasn’t much for sentiment, or couldn’t afford it, it seemed. There were few trinkets or pictures, nothing acquired or saved over the home-owner’s long life. A couple of paintings and some books seemed the extent of the cottage’s inventory.

The Lightning Marshal crept along the hall, eyes darting about for anyone who may be lurking in wait. The house was empty.

Too empty.

Wendel Caine and Smoky walked across the paddock, both of them studying the ground for tracks. Aside from the livestock, there didn’t seem to be anything else about. Hell, it didn’t even seem like the Cartwrights got anyone visiting them.

Satisfied, for the moment, Caine walked up to the shed and heaved a massive door open.

Jac passed a small bedroom. Two smaller beds were pushed against either wall, the sheets and blankets smooth and fastidiously prepared. More example of the standard Mrs Cartwright kept her home.

Except, if these beds were meant to accommodate grown men, then they’d have to be the shortest fellows she’d lay eyes upon, because these beds looked built for children.

Wendel Caine peered inside the darkness of the shed, the moonlight was the only source of illumination. It was enough, though.

It was enough to see a shelf of securely packed bottles filled with liquid that looked like that nitro stuff Wilhem had described to him earlier.

It was enough to see large metal canisters stacked against a wall.

It was enough to see a very large and thick folded canvas sheet bound with rope.

It was enough for the Mountain Marshal to guess that what was stored here was gas and a spare balloon for an airship.

Jac finished searching the house. It wasn’t full of trinkets, it wasn’t full of bandits. It was, however, full of lies.

Caine might not be the quickest thinker of the marshals, but when he wasn’t thinking at all, there was a deadly suddenness to the Mountain Marshal. With a scream of metal, the bolts to the heavy door were sheered in half as he wrenched it clean off its hinges.

And then, with a mighty heave, he flung the door and broke into a dead run, Smoky already having got a head start.

The door soared into shed, bowled the metal cylinder of gas over and crashed into the nitro that was not nearly packed securely enough to withstand the impact.

Jac opened the door. “I think there’s*”

BOOOOOM!

The Lightning Marshal slammed the door close as the second towering explosion of the night filled her gaze.

Wendell Caine dived for the ground but was picked up before he could land and flung into the paddock. Bits of shed sailed through the air and fell around him.

James Lovelace and Hans Octavius Wilhem looked up from their work at the billowing orange cloud that lit up the horizon. Without a word, they boarded the steam-tank and, with weapon secured, stoked the boiler.

Lightning peered out the door, Caine looked up from the ground. The shed and everything in it was lost. The Lightning Marshal’s jaw went slack.

“What have you done?” she whispered.

Before Caine could tell her, confirm her suspicions about the Cartwrights, both lawmen heard the chorus of hoof beats getting louder.

And riding over the hills, at least a dozen men on horseback closed in on them.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE ADVENTURES OF THE COLT APOLLO: 2ND ROUND, 6TH SALVO

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New Year’s Plan Friday, Jan 1 2010

Ahhh, New Years Day, new years laundry. Hardly the stuff of celebrations but while a child swaddled in sheets makes for sublime imagery for the birth of a new year, the same fashion applied to me would just see me arrested.

Besides which, the celebrations occurred last night in one of Dracula’s best shows that I’ve seen in the now five years I’ve attended. Added to that was the joy of being conveyed to and fro by limousine and 2009 was seen off in style. New Years Eve is for revelry; New Years Day is for contemplation.

Maybe that’s why they give us the latter, but not the former, off.

At any rate; things I’d like to do in 2010…

You may notice that some of these goals carry from 2009.

Obtain new weaponry

Obtain new computer

Continue mingling various groups of friends

Get a new apartment (Ah that chestnut…)

Attend a photography course (which strikes me as an easier and better alternative than my ‘five shots a week’ goal of yesteryear)

Do better in Swordplay 10 (or, at the very least, beat Justin of ACA)

Continue losing weight (rather than losing kilos though, this goal shall be go down in size to 72 pants)

Develop consistent routine of updating Manifesto once a week.

Put aside $100 dollars a fortnight for express purpose of meeting these goals.

To hedge my bets for the above, clear credit card debt by end of year.

Continue Tae Kwon Do (This seems dull, howabout, obtain red belt by end of year)

Get to Provost Terza by end of year.

Spend at least one Friday a month catching up with old friends.

Travel to Dracula’s by limousine (because it’s simply better)

Make or do something new…

I think, all in all, a merry spread of goals that will vex me to no end of achieving. But it is the attempt that matters, at least it is for me.

Happy New Year everyone. Get excited and make things!

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Year in Review: 2009 Thursday, Dec 31 2009

A Year in Review 2009

For those unaware, this is the yearly accounting, the balancing of the books, the time where I see whether I’m happy with 2009 or whether I kept the receipt.

In all, I feel 2009 went well. There were instances where things did get uncomfortable but, for the most part, I feel it worked out to one of my better years. Although, it has to be said, reviewing the goals I had at the start of the year, that, in a measurable sense, I  haven’t accomplished all that I hoped. And while I  am disappointed in myself, it is the recognition of these failings and, more importantly, the attempt to achieve them that matter for me. After all, there is little to feel discontent about.

What I lost a lot of was time. Money too, I suppose, but I felt that there hours in the day where I could be doing more things. Excercise, writing, reading, going out with friends, general improving of myself. While I didn’t get the new apartment (owing to some backdoor things to do with the agent in the beginning, and a lack of funds in the end), I’m still well-placed in my suburb and close to the city and many other activities. While I didn’t get weapons, I did manage to climb the ranks of fencing regardless. The photography plans will have to wait until time permits, but I believe I could be taking more photos, even if it’s not five a week.

While it wasn’t in the spirit of the goal, I had thought to make up the shortfall over Abbey and History Alive, but I was too busy dying in the circle to fit it in.

I haven’t weighed myself lately but I’m sure I  haven’t lost eight kilos. I do know that I’ve come down another pants size and that is what really matters. Still fat, I’m afraid, though not as fat as last year.

Joining Tae Kwon Do is one of the decisions that I’ve been pleased with. Moreso as I’d realised that what I was looking for in a martial art versus what was available wasn’t possible. I like the people and professionalism, the facilities and the comraderie, and I think this will play a big part in 2010

The goal I am pleased about is getting groups of friends to mingle. Munchkin Royale helped a lot with this, though there needs to be more social events where this can occur. The inclusion of Neil in Colt Apollo is something I’m thrilled with in particular

The part I grimace about in 2009 was Delia and I breaking up. I don’t regret the decision, I feel we make better friends and seeing how happy Robert and her are together cements that even more. I was worried that this would also be the end of our friendship and it makes me both happy and relieved in immesurable quantities that we aren’t.

Fencing-wise I’m teaching scholars, which is an obvious improvement in my teaching skills. At least I hope so. The Maestro seems to think so. More importantly, my skills as a fencer have grown and I can’t help but take pride in the recognition of this. I love fencing and to see that improvement makes me happy about 2009 overall and eager for 2010 to develop my skills further.

Two things have been a big part of this. The Swordplay experimental tournament, which allowed me to pit my skills against others of differing schools and philosophies. This sharpened both reflexes and combat awareness and it is this, especially in light of a rematch with Justin at ACA, that got me into Tae Kwon Do so that I could stand on better footing and endurance against him.

The other, and more significant motivator, has been the The Maestro himself. Not just in terms of coaching and support but also in asking or seeking my advice in matters relating to the school. It is near indescribable the pride I have when this occurs and I won’t bog things down in trying to capture it here. But it is the largest part of why I wish to continue and improve.

Work has been the mix of boring and challenging. Project work does seem to contain these in equal measure. I felt I was floundering at the start, doing a poor job and wondered about changing emplyment. Toward the end of it all, I see it was a lack of confidence on my part and I feel as invested in the project as those who have been working on it years before I joined.

Also, I got to visit other depots in Queensland and do further teaching with people, even if they were far from grateful with the change we were training them in. The opportunity is what matters for this article’s purposes and it’s what matters to me.

The other significant accomplishment I  have is getting a regular game off the ground. Returning to GMing has been a welcome improvement and one that has lead to rewards outside the pleasure of storytelling for friends. It brings Neil into another group and it gives me things to write on The Manifesto. Rhys, Ness and Adam deserve weighty gratitude for being encouraging and supportive of what I do and they have been a joy with whom to share a story with.

In terms of friends, I made new ones from the Steampunk side of my life, and it is grand both in number and quality. This has, unfortunately, chewed up time I would spend with old and dear friends though and I believe I’ll have to reconcile that in 2010. That said, each person who I can call ‘friend’ has demonstrated themselves to be people of exceptional kindness, intellect and humour and it will be my pleasure to learn more of them in the new year.

It does need to be said that Karen and Neil rule for the New Year arrangements (Dracula’s by way of limo) and Liam and Katherine’s foray into parenthood demand attention that I am all to happy to provide.

Need to get this posted and I think that’s a solid accounting. Also need to write up many other things including 2010’s goals.

Happy New Year!

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The Adventures Of The Colt Apollo: 2nd Round, 5th Salvo – Part 3 Monday, Dec 28 2009

Sailing in a holding pattern above Ascension, the recorded deposition of Hans Octavius Wilhem began.

“For the record, please state your name,” Deputy-Director Warren Buckley said, staring down at a list of questions.

“Hans Octavius Wilhem, sir,” the German Marshal replied and it was echoed by a furious clacking of typewriter keys.

“How long have you been in the employ of the United States Marshal’s office?”

“Since zhe first year of zhe office’s inception, sir,” Wilhem replied

“A warhorse, then,” Buckley commented. “And what moved you to join our ranks?”

“I have always placed a premium regarding justice and zhe safety of zhe people.”

“Commendable,” Buckley commented. The cabin was quiet save for the scratching of pen on paper as Buckley appeared to be making some notes himself. Then…

“Three days ago there was an attempt on the lives of three Congressmen. Could you explain how you and your partners, Marshal Caine and Marshal Lightning, became involved?”

“It vas a matter of circumstance, sir. Ve had been be made avare of a murder zhat had been committed at an iron mine. Zhe victim vas a Chinese man und his means of dispatch had proved a quandry.”

Wilhem paused his delivery at this point as he felt, at this point, he needed to sound calm and rational and not the least bit insane as the events he was about to describe.

“Following zhe investigation, ve discovered zhe murder of a travelling group ov performers.”

“The name of this group, Marshal Wilhem?”

“Lugwrench’s Mechanical Marvels, If I’m not mistaken, sir,” Wilhem answered.

“To continue; zhere vas vone survivor ov see massacre who vas able to lead us to zhe conclusion that zhe rest vere murdered by the Chinese victim I mentioned earlier, und his disciples.”

There was a brief pause in the typing as the stenographer wrestled with the herculean task of adapting Wilhem’s accent to typed font.

“Disciples? I was unaware that the instigator of this attack was a holy man?”

“Not holy in our comprehension ov zhe word, sir.” Wilhem explained. “Zhe best explanation iz zhat of ‘Master’ und ‘Apprentice’, zhough even zhen it does not capture zhe bond of respect.”

“I see,” Buckley mumbled as he made note of this on paper. “And the survivor of this massacre; does he or she have a name?”

“Not specifically zhough Marshal Caine has rectified zhis, sir,” Wilhem answered and watched with no surprise as one eyebrow rose up. “Vhat zhe survivor had vas more of a title.”

Buckley placed the paper down on the desk, the pen near the inkpot and clasped his hands.

“That title is?” he asked.

“Zhe Six-Gun Gorillia, sir,” Wilhem replied.

James Lovelace sat in one of the deeper excavated caves, set aside for storage of valuable equipment. In this case, it was a makeshift prison cell occupied by the crazed gunman that the Pinkerton Detective had luckily rendered unconcious. Bound hand a foot, he was showing signs of waking.

“How’s the head?” Lovelace asked, more to ascertain whether he was rational enough to speak.

“Hurts like hell,” the man groaned and shifted. “What’s going on? Where am I? Why am I tied up? What are you about?” his voice increasing in pitch and volume at each question.

Lovelace did not answer immediately, adding to his discomfort by peering at the bound man, and noticed that the strange red discolouration to his eyes had all but vanished, leaving a pink stain that made them look bloodshot rather than devillish.

“I’m afraid you’ve had something of a busy day, old chap. Put the camp in quite a stir.”

“What are you on about? Who are you?”

“James Lovelace, my good chap. In the employ of William Henry Baker to whose protection I’ve been charged and whose life you placed in jeapordy,”

“I don’t know you. I don’t know what any of this is!” The man yelled. Lovelace steepled his fingers and raised an eyebrow in concern.

“You don’t recall your actions, then?”

“No! Tell me what’s going on and why I’m like this! Now!”

“How odd. I had introduced myself earlier, you know,” Lovelace said.

“I don’t remember it!” The man shouted back.

“Surely you must. It was just after you were recounting about how you climbed the gun.”

“I didn’t say anything of the sort!” The man shouted as red indignation exploded off his cheeks.

Lovelace smiled.

“How would you remember that then?”

The Ithaca worker gaped and shut his mouth over and over, trapped between letting something out and holding it back. Lovelace was content to watch and wait; the measure of each man had been found in the opening exchange and both knew who had come up short.

“Alright, look,” the former worker started. “It’s not like I meant to do that.   I’d been a bit angry about a bad poker game is all and took something to calm down.”

“Which was?” Lovelace asked.

“Just a little snuff,” the man replied. Lovelace’s expression didn’t change.

“Your quarters are being searched right now, you’re aware?” And I’ll wager a shilling to whatever’s left in your pockets that snuff won’t be that which is found.”

Lovelace paused, gathered his breath and continued.

“The line outside is far longer than the rope they’ll use to hang you and unless you decide to cooperate by telling me what you took and where you got it, I’ll have no choice but to let them go about it.”

The man’s eyes from Lovelace to the door, flickering between the two in a fearfully frenzied gaze. To his credit, it was not a long one.

“Alright, alright!” He shouted for the benefit of anyone beyond the door who might be waiting for the signal to string him up. “It was just a little Sunset.”

Lovelace frowned. “Which is?”

“Something new to help pass the time. How was I supposed to know it would make me shoot up the place! When I get my hands on Smith…” The man dug his nails into his palms like they were this ‘Smith’s’ neck.

“Your supplier, then?”

“Yeah. Comes and goes to the camp. Brings some essentials with him. He’s the one who sold me Sunset.”

Lovelace leaned in, his eyes locked with the prisoner across the table, refusing to release him from his gaze. The man gulped at the intense stare, moreso at the right eye that pitted him with eerie, unmoving look.

“And if I were to look for him, where would I start and whom would I approach?”

Lovelace closed the door behind him, nodding to the guards as he walked along the tunnel set into the quarry wall. He had a description of Smith and a date and time for his next visit. Information was valuable to someone.

He wondered if the Marshals would be willing to negotiate a reward.

…

As it happens Marshals Jac Lightning and Wendell Caine had saved James Lovelace the trouble and themselves some money by locating Smith and Jones in their cave hideout. A running gunfight had claimed both bandits and their cronies their lives.

But all of this had come with a cost of its own.

A bombardment, no doubt courtesy of Spokey Samson, had collapsed the marshals escape. An unintended but even more concerning consequence was that falling rock had dashed a kerosense lamp, spilling fire across the red root that grew within. A sharp bitter smell began to fill the cave where Lightning and Caine sheltered and it would be moments before a beserk rage would claim both their sanity, and each other’s lives at their partner’s hands.

Jac Lightning’s hands flew both to her water flask at her hip and the kerchief around her neck. Soaking the garment, she wrapped it around her nose and mouth, buying her a few moments of lucidity while Wendell Caine charged back the way they came toward the lab and storage section of the cavern.

Both marshals passed the lab littered with bodies and continued down a passage, the air around them clean, but with no means of escape, this was a temporary reprieve. Footprints in the dusty tunnel floor told Caine that there were still areas of this tunnel that were in use though and given how far they stretched under the surrounding desert of Ascension, perhaps there was another cave through which they could exit.

As it turns out, an exit was closer than either of them thought as the footprints lead them into an empty room whose ceiling was lost to blue sky. The height of the exit led Caine to believe that they stood inside the plateau itself and that it opened at the summit.

It led Jac to believe that a small airship might make berth here to take on and drop off supplies.

Regardless, its purpose was now a means of escape for while the odour of the red root hadn’t reached this far, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the crop caught alight and filled the cave and while it was easily thirty metres away, the marshals began a rapid ascent.

“It’s fun being Marshal,” Jac said in a voice as dry as the desert.

Higher than either of them, Marshal Wilhem continued to field the questions of Deputy Director Warren Buckley. The Iron Marshal had, with his fastidious memory, recounted the events and actions that lead the lawmen and the Pinkerton Detective to the aid of the airship besieged by Chinese agents. He explained the advances in technology that China had made as well extomporized on the cultural significance of the characters chosen. But Wilhem paused at one question.

“Do you think the Space Gun Project is viable, Marshal?” Buckley asked.

Wilhem studied Buckley, noting that the stenographer had stopped her typing, hands resting in her lap. Not a question nor answer for public record. But if not that, then who would want to know?

“I believe,” Wilhem started, considering each word like a jeweller searching for flaws in a diamond. “I believe zhat zhe pursuit ov knowledge is the noblest of causes. I envision zhat zhe results of each project vill produce marvels of science regardless ov zhere success or failure. A condition underpinned by zhe dewelopment ov zhe means to ensure zhe pilot’s survial and return to Earth.”

Buckley made a small and illegible note across a blank piece of paper and, careful to ensure the ink had dried, folded it up and placed it in his jacket pocket.

As the interview took on a deeper meaning – and Lovelace convinced William Henry Baker that the crazed gunman had not been part of a larger conspiracy to destroy the Ithaca chairman’s life after all – Jac and Wendell continued scaling up to the summit of the plateau. Caine grunted and heaved himself up the sheer face, having learnt to climb around the time he learnt to walk. Powerful arms hauled himself up the inside of the plateau like pistons. Jac Lightning, while no stranger to hard work, found the journey rougher with nothing but finger and toe holds to keep her moving. The distance between the noxious cloud and the climbing lawmen had grown, as the network of tunnels and caverns were accomodating raging gas, but with only one way to travel, it wouldn’t be long before it caught up.

Reaching down and hauling Jac up past an ‘insurmountable’ part of the rock wall, both lawmen inched closer to the summit. The Lightning Marshal’s arms burning from the climb, scrabbled across the edge of the final push and, with the slighest grunt that screamed of Jac’s suffering, she managed to throw up a leg and rolled over the lip to the top.

Both lawmen stared out across the desert high atop the plateau, the clouds of dust from Spokey’s bombardment of the cave entrance still reached up in a billowing tower. The mysterious bandit’s airship was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately the marshals’ own transport hadn’t disappeared as Thunder stamped and snorted at the temerity of a grizzly bear holding his reins between powerful jaws preventing the horse’s escape.

“At least it’s all downhill,” Lightning said as she eyed the climb down.

…

After several further questions, some cursory and procedural, others rich in hidden meaning, Hans Octavius Wilhem was returned to Ascension as the small airship descended to the tabletop plateau that served as a docking port. Making his way down the hewn staircase he could spy the approaching dust cloud trailing the velocipede containing James Lovelace and Baker, racing the sun threw purple and black across the sky in its wake.

The Iron Marshal reached Ascension as Baker hurried to his rooms at Etheric Delights, leaving Lovelace standing in the street. Both of them could see their companions, Lightning and Caine, astride their mounts and galloping across the desert toward them.

“There was something odd at the Ithaca camp…” Lovelace started.

“Found some folk out by that there sacred ground with the red root…” Lightning added.

“They dead now,” Caine finished as Wilhem looked to each in turn.

“Vhat are you all talking about?” The Iron Marshal asked.

But answers would have to wait as an explosion drowned out all noise and a pillar of fire shot into the sky in the middle of Ascension.

From the Marshal’s office.

TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART 4.

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The Adventures Of The Colt Apollo – 2nd Round, 5th Salvo – Part 2 Wednesday, Dec 9 2009

The driver of the Ithaca velocipede parked the car, opened the door for William Henry Baker and James Lovelace and then wandered off, presumably, to drink himself to stupor or shoot himself in the head. The man of industry and the Pinkerton Detective had found a lot in common in the general hate of this part of their lives and it was all he could ask of God if a piano were to fall on his boss’s head, that it be big enough to squash them both.

Oblivious to this, Baker and Lovelace wandered the man-made quarry that surrounding the unnamed Ithaca Space Gun. Much like the rifles it was famed for producing, their project was long barrelled and built into the ground as sturdy as a stock pressed into the shoulder of Mother Earth. Assembled over a gas vein, the work continued underground to cap and redirect the gas into a communal point where it would be ignited and the explosion would fire the first man to the moon.

Lovelace had got the overview of this as they approached the offices built into the quarry walls and found himself grateful that being stationed in Ascension meant that he wasn’t going to be anywhere near the site when the gun went off.

The office of Baker and his partner, Lerory Smith, was large in space and height. The rock walls kept things moderate in temperature and while it was still a drop in luxury that the Pinkerton Detective was used to, he had to admit that the furnishings that Baker was waving at – those being essential to his continued efforts in Ascension – did make the surroundings seem less than a hole in the wall.

“Bill! Where have you been? I’ve got new designs to talk to you about, some of the men are complaining about working after the trip to Ascension and we have a concern about supplies not arriving for another half-week?”

Lovelace looked at the thin, spidery-looking chap, all knees and elbows, who had unfolded himself from a large drawing desk and shuffled to his large partner. Leroy Smith, he’d been told, the engineer behind Ithaca Rifle Company and, by the Pinkerton’s own deductions, about half the brains of the business.

“Calm down, Leroy,” Baker started, a meaty arm crossing the distance and landing on his partner’s shoulder that had Lovelace conjure the image of Atlas holding up the world. “I told you that I might be away while the Committee was visiting. If you’re going to be like this when I’m gone for a couple of days, how are you going to manage when I’ve moved out?”

“Moved out?” Smith wailed, not noticing his partner’s eyes rolling back. “Why are you moving for?”

“Because it’s becoming apparent to me that you’ve got our project nearly wrapped up, my old friend,” Baker replied and it was the cheeriest that Lovelace had heard him. Ever.

“I’ve explained to you before that once things were rolling downhill, I was going to need to spend time spinning and marketing your ideas to an eager Congress, and that’s just what I’ve been doing. The Committee certainly had interest in our project and, even better, they might be realising what kind of snake-oil Colt’s selling them.”

“Really?” Smith asked, turning slowly under Baker’s arm and looking up at him. “They like my design?”

“Of course. It’s practical, simple and, most importantly, will work! Baker grinned. “Colt’s got some notion involving electricity and magnets. I mean seriously, magnets stick metal to other metal and you’ve told me enough times that combustion got us this far.”

“Yes, yes. And wait till I tell you what else I’ve been thinking about,” Smith beamed as he escaped Baker’s arm and almost danced back to his drawing table.

“Not now, Smith, would you mind?” It’s been a long trip and one not entirely peril-free.”

“Peril?” Smith stopped so suddenly that Lovelace thought something might snap. “What happened now?”

He then peered at the Pinkerton Detective for the first time since he looked up from the desk.

“And who’s this?”

“James Lovelace, an agent of the Pinkerton’s and recently a man of my employ. It was his actions that spared us a calamitous setback with the Committee.”

“Oh. Well,” Smith hemmed and hawed. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Lovelace,” he said without extending his hand.

“Likewise, I’m sure.” Lovelace replied and watched Baker spin a story about how it was vital that they not place all their eggs in one quarry and that this way he could keep an eye on Colt and of course Smith wasn’t in any danger as he had been left with all the guards.

“I even hired my own bodyguard rather than risk your life with the loss of a single man,” Baker finished.

Smith beamed at his partner’s thoughtfullness and Lovelace fought the urge to shake his head in disbelief.

It was then a gunshot rang out.

Smith wailed and leapt to the ground, Baker could shift his bulk to turn in the direction of the sound and Lovelace placed himself in front of Baker with about as much effect as using a fence post to protect an elephant.

“Get down!” Lovelace ordered and Baker joined his partner on the floor while the Pinkerton edged to the office door and peered outside.

The gunman was not hard to spot.

Perched high on the space gun, moving about a gangplank that swung each time he moved his rifle, the gunman was searching for a target from the countless people who had taken shelter and readied their own rifles.

Another gunshot rang out. Nobody dared return fire. This close to the space gun and all it’s gas could mean an explosive end to everyone in the quarry.

Lovelace focused on the erratic sniper, zooming his vision in to see if he could identify him or, at the very least, the reason he was risking his and everyone else’s life. The gunman was frantic, definitely agitated and his eyes had a perculiar shade of red to them.

Lovelace wondered what that could mean as he shouldered his Longshot rifle.

High above the clouds and away from the red-root-inspired madness that had infested Ithaca’s camp as well as Ascension, Hans Octavius Wilhem, painfully sober and grateful for it, walked across a metal gantry at 30,000 feet.

The gantry had been errected between the gigantic Missouri Class Airship and its diminutive, though much faster cousin: A Minuteman Dirigible.

Minutemen Class were built for speed and had no room for anything that impeded its purpose. It was used for time-senstive courier jobs. On rare occasions, it ferried people across the country at speeds unmatched by horse, car or rail.

Today it had sped the Deputy Director of the U.S. Marshal’s office to the border’s of Ascension, with the sole purpose of interviewing and recording Wilhem’s testimony.

To be honest, the Iron Marshal was less worried about the fall.

Once aboard the Minuteman, the gantry was disassembled and the larger airship semaphored its farewells before turning with grudging effort and sailing the skies back to the capital. Meanwhile, Wilhem shook hands with the second highest rank in the service. The only other person present was a woman who was perched over a small typewriter, ready to transcribe anything of import.

“Marshal Wilhem, a pleasure to meet you,” Deputy Director Warren Buckley said with no more warmth than was necessary.

“Apologies for distracting you from your duties but in addition to security, we believed it essential that you continue your work at Ascension with minimal disruption,” Buckley continued.

“Zhere is no inconvenience, Herr Buckley,” Wilhem said as he joined his superior at a small table. A large stack of paper was neatly arranged to the Deputy-Director’s left and a fountain pen was filled and ready on his right.

“There are some preliminary questions about your record and service we need to ask for background. Keep your answers short and to the point, if you would.”

Wilhem gave a slight smile. Buckley might make a decent German.

The first sheet of paper was placed before Buckley and the typewriter clacked as the interview began.

Back at Ithaca, things were less cordial.

“For God’s sake man!” Baker screamed at Lovelace, though this was muffled by the fact that the large man’s head was buried under his arms. “Do something!”

Lovelace had, in fact, been doing just that. He had been studying the movements of the manic gunman, his proximity to the structure of the space gun, the location of the guards who didn’t dare shoot for fear of exploding the gas and any other tools or obstacles that might prove a problem.

Setting the Longshot rifle to his shoulder, Lovelace raised the barrel and fixed his sights on the gunman. The range of the shot would have made any other guman think what happened next was luck.

Lovelace wasn’t about to let them know it was.

He fired, the Longshot kicking back and casting the shot well above target. It hit a toolbox that had been left at the mouth of the space gun’s barrel and, to the hissed breath of everyone watching, ignited a blowtorch.

“Gods, man! What the fuck have you done?” one of the nearby guards screamed at the Pinkerton Detective.

Lovelace stood out from the door and walked forward as calm as he could manage. He’d either saved or doomed them all depending on how the wind changed.

The gunman in the gangplank spotted his new target emerging from the manager’s office and lined up a shot, just as a sudden gust blew past the torch, pitching it over the side and slamming it down on the gunman, as he pulled the trigger.

The rock wall next to Lovelace’s face exploded but aside from a couple of scratches he, and the rest of the camp, were safe.

There was no cheering, no words of encouragement, nothing that would jinx the men as they scurried up the ropes and frames toward the now unconcious gunman to get him the hell away from the space gun and, likely, sink the boot into him more than a few times. Unseen by all, Lovelace let out the breath he was holding.

“Great shooting, man. I knew I was right to hire you,” Baker boomed as he and Smith picked themselves off the floor. He dusted off his partner and then sent him back to his desk while he shuffled over to Lovelace.

“Have the men get my things on the truck, I don’t need or want to be here any longer,” he whispered.

“I had hoped that I would get the chance to question the individual. Find out what was going on,” Lovelace whispered back.

“Takes too long and, frankly, I could care less. The men will have him strung up before you’d get a chance and I want us on the road before they tie the noose,” Baker hissed.

“Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” Lovelace whispered, even softer and up close to Baker’s ear. “Congressman Crankshaft did mention an increased danger and this could just be the start of a larger conspiracy.”

Lovelace watched as Baker went from dark red to pale before he continued. “Are you sure you’d be ignorant of another threat to your life before we set out for the long drive in the desert?”

“Alone?”

Baker swallowed hard and his voice was hoarse. “Find out what you can from him, but you’ve got as long as it takes to put my things on the truck.”

Lovelace smiled. “Thank you, sir,” and went off to save the unconcious gunman before he was lynched.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3

Posted by Wordmobi

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