wait.”
Bang!
The action of the pistol felt alien in Sam’s hand, but the
resulting progress was satisfying. Sam’s bullet blew both the lock and doorknob off the door and kicked the
door open, revealing a thin man in suspenders and a knotted tie cowering at the
message table. Behind him gleamed
the brass trap doors over the bank of circular glass cubbyholes that Sam
remembered from only the day before.
Young glared at Sam fiercely. “Thank you,” he said, without softening his expression. He turned and barreled through the
door. “Lindemuth!” he barked. “Pens and ink and a stack of blank
message slips!”
The clerk scurried to comply, and Young shoved aside papers
on the room’s central table, clearing the entire space.
“I trust you gentlemen all know how to write?” Young asked,
shrugging out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
“So long as the writing’s short,” Rockwell said.
“I’d have said the same,” Sam agreed. “But it would have been funnier.”
“ I am alive and John Lee is a traitor ,” Young dictated. “I trust that’s short enough.” He grabbed a pen and bottle of ink and stationed himself at
the end of the table. “I will sign
my name to each. Lindemuth will
shove them into the message transmitter as fast as we can create them.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jed Coltrane slipped out a window. It was easier than trying to find a door; he just tipped up
a big pane and crouched in it like a gargoyle for a minute, checking his exit
route. Outside the Lion House, or
the Beehive House, whichever it was he was now leaving, a man in a long coat
paced in the bushes, rifle in both hands. He looked too alert to be a casual sentry—the man had obviously
been warned to expect something.
Jed’s uneasy sense that he was playing a gaffed game
ratcheted up a notch. He was in
deep shadow, invisible to the guard (who was watching for people breaking in,
anyway, and not for people trying to break out), so he waited.
When the man passed, Jed jumped onto his back with the piano
wire looped between his fists.
The man fired his rifle twice, but he couldn’t get it
swiveled around tightly enough to get a good shot at Jed. The sound of his shots was lost in the
general firefight noise, and then he was collapsing on the green grass,
unconscious.
You really ought to cut the bastard’s throat, Coltrane, Jed
told himself, but hell, the guy might have family, so he didn’t. He put the wire back into his pocket
and crept out into the park to reconnoiter. The bellows inside the glass bells still pumped up and down,
but unlike in the daytime, nothing whizzed through the glass tubes
overhead. He wondered what the
bellows did—maybe they circulated the air inside the Tabernacle, or
powered the electricks? Poe would
have a good guess.
Of course, if he kept coughing up blood like he had been
last time Jed had seen him, Poe might not live long enough to ever see the
bellows.
The area outside Brigham Young’s twin houses was well lit by
a series of Franklin Poles running up both South Tabernacle and North
Tabernacle, as well as Poles dotted throughout the open park space. Ahead of Jed was the Tabernacle, the
gigantic plascrete egg that seemed to be the center of the Kingdom of
Deseret. Faint lights shone
through its glass doors, lights that flickered a bit, if Jed was not mistaken,
and were yellow. It was almost
like the enormous building might be on fire.
Off to his left, Jed saw the ZIONS COOPERATIVE MERCANTILE
INSTITUTE building and the gunfight that
enveloped it. Men in gray on
clocksprung horses were leaping in through the front doors and windows now, shattering
glass and splintering wood as they went. He didn’t see any of the Massachusetts soldiers in blue, and guessed
they must be running away, out the back doors of the building.
If they weren’t being outright massacred on the inside.
Jed felt
Bang!
The action of the pistol felt alien in Sam’s hand, but the
resulting progress was satisfying. Sam’s bullet blew both the lock and doorknob off the door and kicked the
door open, revealing a thin man in suspenders and a knotted tie cowering at the
message table. Behind him gleamed
the brass trap doors over the bank of circular glass cubbyholes that Sam
remembered from only the day before.
Young glared at Sam fiercely. “Thank you,” he said, without softening his expression. He turned and barreled through the
door. “Lindemuth!” he barked. “Pens and ink and a stack of blank
message slips!”
The clerk scurried to comply, and Young shoved aside papers
on the room’s central table, clearing the entire space.
“I trust you gentlemen all know how to write?” Young asked,
shrugging out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
“So long as the writing’s short,” Rockwell said.
“I’d have said the same,” Sam agreed. “But it would have been funnier.”
“ I am alive and John Lee is a traitor ,” Young dictated. “I trust that’s short enough.” He grabbed a pen and bottle of ink and stationed himself at
the end of the table. “I will sign
my name to each. Lindemuth will
shove them into the message transmitter as fast as we can create them.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jed Coltrane slipped out a window. It was easier than trying to find a door; he just tipped up
a big pane and crouched in it like a gargoyle for a minute, checking his exit
route. Outside the Lion House, or
the Beehive House, whichever it was he was now leaving, a man in a long coat
paced in the bushes, rifle in both hands. He looked too alert to be a casual sentry—the man had obviously
been warned to expect something.
Jed’s uneasy sense that he was playing a gaffed game
ratcheted up a notch. He was in
deep shadow, invisible to the guard (who was watching for people breaking in,
anyway, and not for people trying to break out), so he waited.
When the man passed, Jed jumped onto his back with the piano
wire looped between his fists.
The man fired his rifle twice, but he couldn’t get it
swiveled around tightly enough to get a good shot at Jed. The sound of his shots was lost in the
general firefight noise, and then he was collapsing on the green grass,
unconscious.
You really ought to cut the bastard’s throat, Coltrane, Jed
told himself, but hell, the guy might have family, so he didn’t. He put the wire back into his pocket
and crept out into the park to reconnoiter. The bellows inside the glass bells still pumped up and down,
but unlike in the daytime, nothing whizzed through the glass tubes
overhead. He wondered what the
bellows did—maybe they circulated the air inside the Tabernacle, or
powered the electricks? Poe would
have a good guess.
Of course, if he kept coughing up blood like he had been
last time Jed had seen him, Poe might not live long enough to ever see the
bellows.
The area outside Brigham Young’s twin houses was well lit by
a series of Franklin Poles running up both South Tabernacle and North
Tabernacle, as well as Poles dotted throughout the open park space. Ahead of Jed was the Tabernacle, the
gigantic plascrete egg that seemed to be the center of the Kingdom of
Deseret. Faint lights shone
through its glass doors, lights that flickered a bit, if Jed was not mistaken,
and were yellow. It was almost
like the enormous building might be on fire.
Off to his left, Jed saw the ZIONS COOPERATIVE MERCANTILE
INSTITUTE building and the gunfight that
enveloped it. Men in gray on
clocksprung horses were leaping in through the front doors and windows now, shattering
glass and splintering wood as they went. He didn’t see any of the Massachusetts soldiers in blue, and guessed
they must be running away, out the back doors of the building.
If they weren’t being outright massacred on the inside.
Jed felt
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