Bella Read online

  MICHAEL CONLEY

  BELLA

  Wild West Press

  Louisville, KY

  Copyright © 2019 by Wild West Press

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover and Art Design by Rebecacovers

  No portion of this book may be copied or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise, without express written consent of the publisher or authors.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, events, and incidents are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual people (living or dead), places, events, or incidents is unintentional and purely coincidental.

  Thank you for reading! If you like the book, please leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. Even if you don’t like it, please still leave a review.

  MICHAEL CONLEY

  BELLA

  CHAPTER ONE – WASCO

  “ Red Legs are attacking! Red Legs are attacking!”

  “Shut up, they are not, it’s only one person,” I elbowed Josh in his ribs. “What kind of attack would one Native be, chucklehead?”

  “You don't know everything, Topher! What if it’s a shaman come to make another curse?” Josh said.

  “Yer a chucklehead. You ain’t even ever seen no shaman! Nobody has and there ain’t been no curses in a hundred years! Wait here, I'll get my pa's ol’ spyglass and show ya.”

  I climbed down from the balcony of the old boarded up hotel and took off through the muddy streets. The buildings of the city proper loomed high above, reaching for the cloudless sky. A glint from one of the glass windows caught my eye and I wondered if the people up there were watching me as I ran through the narrow streets of the Ends.

  As I passed an apple cart, I reached behind a customer, grabbed an apple, and kept running. No calls followed me, so I smiled and took a bite as I sprinted toward home. I turned down my street, which was really an ally any respectable street would be offended to have been compared with, and skipped through the legs of some mutated Foggies.

  I still didn't know why the steam from the Ember mines made some people sick and not others, but the people we called Foggies had gotten the worst of it. They were the unfortunates that clung to life, even if it meant begging for scraps and living in misery. The mutations weren’t all bad though. I remember a man who lived a few rows over that had made good use of his. He could compress his body, much like a rat and squeeze into places others couldn’t. He did some work in the mines, but I think now he might have been using his skills for thievery. He lived in the Ends with the rest the poor people, but never seemed to be without food or good clothes. Most who were inflicted chose the Edge, the cliff that gave the city its name and broke the continent in half. They would throw themselves off to fall past the mines which were the cause of their pain and crash to the Blacklands below. That day though, they were just another obstacle in the streets for my young feet to dance past without a second thought.

  Our house was a one-room shack in a row of one-room shacks. I think they had been tool sheds back when the mines first opened, but they were better than the streets. Most of my friends didn’t have any house at all, so I was lucky. I ducked through the curtain that was our front door and ripped the old canvas bag out from under the bed and found the worn leather case that held the spyglass. Without bothering to replace the bag, I tore back out the door and down the street. Ma wouldn’t be home till the end of the week, so I would just put it back later. I danced back past the Foggies and weaved in and out of people going about their daily chores. Little swirls of fog followed in my wake.

  When I got back I shimmied up the post and shoved William and Josh to either side to get the best view of the supposed Red Legs.

  William’s pa was a miner and his ma stayed home but hadn’t paid him much mind. He liked to pretend he was the leader of our little group. His father beat him bad sometimes, so I guess he needed to be in control of something in his life. Some kids who got beat like him took to bullying, others took to getting bullied, but William didn’t do either. He was a good friend and funny enough to not have to fight other kids.

  Josh and Sandy were orphans. Josh split his loyalties between me and William and Sandy was just quiet and went where the wind blew. I don’t know what Sandy’s real name was; I just know it wasn’t Sandy. Everyone just called him that because of his light brown hair and eyes.

  I was somewhere between orphan and not. My ma worked the mines and my pa was gone years now, so I was mostly alone and running the streets, but at least I had a house to go to on cold nights. I guess independence caused me to be more assertive than some. Not that we were a gang or had a real leader or anything. It was just one of those things that kids did, one always taking the lead.

  I looked out and found the figure across the snow-blown plane and locked my eyes on it while I pulled out the spyglass. They were a lot closer now and they definitely looked like they were wearing red leggings like a Native. Not that all Natives wore red leggings, just one tribe did, but they were the most aggressive tribe in the area, and the only one people were truly afraid of even though they hadn’t done anything to warrant fear in years. Unlike most tribes, they didn’t stay in the Nations and were said to still attack people traveling to and from the city.

  The spyglass made a clunk, clunk, clunk as I opened it to its full length and raised it to my eye. I couldn't see anything at first, just an array of colors streaking around the lens. I was trying to hurry so I could show off how cool the spyglass was before the figure got so close everyone could see it anyway, but all I got for my efforts were blurs of motion. I remembered when I was little my pa telling Ma she had to move the spyglass slow when he was showing her how to use it. I looked up from it and marked the spot again, then slowly raised the glass back to my eye and moved it very slowly. I caught a flash of bright red-fringed leggings and I sucked in a breath. Maybe it was a Red Legs!

  “What is it Topher?” William asked.

  “I’m still looking, shut up chucklehead,” I said.

  William tried to snatch the spyglass, causing me to lose sight of the figure again. After winning a tussle for control I found the red pants again and slowly raised the glass up past the fur cloak to the face buried beneath a thick dark beard streaked with grey. The wind blew his beard to the side and I noticed a bone choker around his neck, like those the natives favored.

  His face was weathered and old and had the dark look of the Native tribes, but this was no Red Legs, he was just an old mountain man.

  “He ain't no Red Legs,” I said.

  I handed over the spyglass to William.

  “Aw, he's just an old trapper.” William’s voice reeked of disappointment after a minute of looking. “I seen his type before at the General when I was sweepin’.” He stood up and tossed the spyglass at me.

  I yelled at him, “Be careful, that was my pa's from the war!”

  “Lemme see,” Sandy whined.

  “Don’t bother Sandy,” William told him, “It’s just an old trapper. Let’s go cut some drinker root, mine’s wore out. Coming Topher?”

  I looked back at the man in the red leggings. He was walking right down the old wagon road that was used when the city was just a little mining town called The End of the World. Then they built Edge City and the old town became the slums that they called The Ends. I guessed he didn’t know he couldn’t get through that way.

  “Na, my spitshot's still good, I'm gonna see if I can get a penny or two from that there guy,” I said. “Looks like he’s lost.”

  The others climbed down after William.

  “See ya later, mud face,” William called up once he was on the street and took off running as he laughed. The others echoed him with calls of, “See ya, mud-face!” as they ran.

  I chucked the apple co
re I had been chewing on at William but missed.

  “Stupid chuckleheaded ghost!” I shouted after him.

  He always liked to make fun of my brown skin. I loved my brown skin and mass of curly hair. Everyone else I knew was white, so I figured it made me special.

  “Gonna shove his face in some mud one of these days,” I mumbled and stuck the spyglass into the waist of my britches.

  I climbed back down the pole and headed to the section of wall the stranger was headed toward. I ignored the dirty looks of a couple of Enlightened followers preaching the perils of the city for not worshiping the Enlightened Emperor. I knew they thought themselves my better because they were white skinned. Luckily, there weren’t many Enlightened who lived here, so they didn’t take it any further than preaching and giving me a glare. I showed them my middle finger. In some parts they would gang up on what they called lesser races and beat them. In the Ends they knew better.

  I followed Main Street until it dead-ended at the wooden wall surrounding the city and then peeked through the slats to find the mountain man standing there staring at the fence like it was going to open for him.

  “Closest gates about a two-mile walk,” I called between the slats of the wall, sticking my face through.

  The city was completely walled in except where it hit the mountain or the cliff that gave it its name. Down in the Ends where I lived, the wall was more of a fence. It was left over from when the Ends was just a small mining town and was barely maintained at all, even though it was the part of the city closest to the Red Legs Tribes.

  His eyes flicked over to where I had stuck my face through and his forehead creased a little. He looked left and right, then back at the wall the old road dead-ended into. He didn’t move for what seemed like minutes, like he was a stone that had rolled out of the mountains and just happened to stop there.

  I said, “I know how you can get in if you don’t wanna go around. If you gimme a penny, I’ll show ya.”

  With a slight nod of his chin, he said, “Fine”.

  The word rolled out of him, tentative but deep and gravelly. Almost like his voice had been uncovered in a rockslide.

  I had him shadow me to an old fence post about a block down behind an old warehouse. The wall was nothing but wooden pickets and most of it was old and rarely repaired. When they did fix it, it was with a few cheap nails in the same old holes, which made them loose and the wood soft. All the kids knew about it. I climbed onto the post and hung from it, pulling hard. It shifted with my pull and made a slight screech as the nails pulled out of the rails.

  The fence sagged, and the bottom hit hard in the dirt before leaning forward, pulling mostly free on the far end with a sharp squeal. The result was a man-sized opening even the trapper could fit through. Once he did I pulled the fence back against the leaning post. Someone would come by later and put new nails in without securing the post in the ground but I would still be able to open it.

  He was a big man, but not as big as I remember thinking he was at first. He was hairy and rough with crystal blue eyes that made me shiver. Sure enough he was wearing Red Leg leggings and moccasins, a linen shirt covered with a fringed buckskin jacket and furs that smelled wet. He would be an intimidating man to most, I imagined. His hair was streaked with grey and as unkempt as his white streaked beard.

  I held out my hand, “Gimme a penny or I'm gonna yell for the guards and tell them you broke the fence”

  He looked down at me, “What's yer name?”

  “I'm Christopher, but everyone calls me Topher.”

  “You sound like a girl,” he said.

  “I am a girl, lushington! Maybe you ought a lay off the bottle!” I said. “I got a boy’s name like the girls in the Capital do! They all get boys names ya know. Pa wanted me to be a lady like them.”

  He made a noise that sounded like two stones being rubbed together.

  “Ok, Topher,” he said. “My name’s Wasco and I ain't got no money. But if you take me somewhere I can trade these pelts, I'll give ya three pennies when I sell ‘em. If I can buy a rifle there too, I’ll give you a nickel.”

  “Sonofabitch. You said you had a penny!” I yelled.

  “No, I said fine, you assumed that meant I had a penny,” he said.

  “Better not be lying this time,” I said, and pushed past him to stalk up the street.

  He caught up to me and said, “You an African, are ya?”

  “No, I fell face-first into a mud hole!” I said looking at him sidewise. “Of course I'm African. Pa used to say we wasn't, said Africans weren't as good as others so we was supposed to say we was from somewhere else. I forget where. He fought for the Enlightenment in the war. Ma said he was a no-good cocksucker though, and that we ain't no less than anyone and we're African.”

  “How come you don’t live in the Nation? Most Africans live in the Nation these days.”

  “‘Cause we live here. Never been to the Nation.”

  He didn’t say anything else, just kept walking and looking around. At times he seemed to know which way to go, but he would stop sometimes and wait for me to show him and make that rumbling grunt. I led him to the General because it was the closest store I could think of that sold furs and guns and wouldn’t throw us out.

  Wasco walked in and began talking to the clerk. I pocketed a few pieces of hard candy while they were busy before walking over to listen.

  “What the hell is this?” I heard Wasco say.

  He was holding a steam rifle and looking at it like the man had just handed him cow dung.

  “Why that's the Sam Thomson Steam Powered T-17. Best rifle on the market. You want a rifle worthy of the name, that's the one!” the clerk said.

  He wasn’t the owner. I knew the owner because he would never take his eyes off me long enough for me to take the candy which was filling my pockets. This guy must have been new. He was kind of young and very enthusiastic about selling things.

  “This ain't no goddamned rifle, son. I ain’t sure what this is, but it ain’t no damned rifle,” Wasco growled.

  “I assure you it is the top of the line, good sir. One gram of Ember will fuel it for a month, you just refill the reservoir.” His clean fingernail tapped the screw cap on the stock. “Of course, you'll need bullets as well,” the clerk said with a fake chuckle, then reached under the counter and produced a box of ammo. Wasco eyed the box then looked back at the clerk.

  “Got somethin’ that uses gun powder?” he asked.

  “Oh, you're looking for an antique! I thought…well, you seemed like a man that knows how to use a rifle is all. No sir, we don't carry anything like that, only the newest and the best at the General!” the clerk said.

  “And how much is this newest and best?” Wasco asked.

  “That's only ninety-five dollars my friend, and I'll toss in the Ember and the ammo for just five dollars more!” the clerk responded.

  “Yer kidding me. This mess a tubes and copper costs near a hundred dollars? Ya only gave me twenty-nine fer those pelts!”

  The clerk was starting back into his sales pitch when the door jingled, creaked, slammed, and three uniformed men walked in.

  “I'll be a son of a whore; we got a real live Red Legs right here in the store? I thought you ran a clean place here, Ned,” one of them said loudly.

  Wasco handed the steam rifle back to the clerk.

  “I'll just take the money for the pelts.”

  The newcomers came up to the counter and gathered around Wasco, who didn’t spare them a glance. The loudmouth leaned around to look at Wasco and saw his white face and beard and stepped back.

  “Sorry ‘bout that mister. You runnin’ around in them red pants, well you looked like one of those horse-sucking savages. You take them from a dead one? You ain’t one of them Native-loving types that do men’s business with savages are ya?” He said the last with a fist bump to one of the others’ arm and they laughed.

  Wasco turned his head as slow as a growing mountain and looked at h
im. His eyes slid down to the little badge the man wore on his collar, it had two letters in a set of wings. K.I. They were Keaton's men, steamship flyers home from a trip. Wasco’s hand reached out, still slow as could be, grabbed the little badge between thick fingers and pulled. There was a ripping sound as the badge came loose.

  “What's this?” He turned the badge towards the man's face.

  “What in the hell? It’s my damn badge and you got you an ass whoopin’ comin’ for tearin’ my blues!”

  He hauled his fist back and took a swing that looked like it came all the way from the Capital. Even I could have gotten out the way. My ma could've. Wasco didn't move. His head snapped to the right a little when the fist hit him, then slowly turned back to the man, eyes going hard.

  “I said, what is this?” He held the badge up again. “What is K.I.?”

  I spoke up. “It's Keaton Industries; Keaton pretty much owns Edge City.”

  The man was just staring at Wasco and flexing his hand.

  Wasco's voice grated across the air again. “You fly in one of those ships? The ones that fly with bags of air or somethin’?”

  Still unsure what to make of the situation, the man nodded his head.

  “When?” Wasco asked.

  “When what?”

  “When did you last fly in one of them ships?” Wasco repeated.

  “What the hell does it matter? You tore my damn uniform, now we're gonna tear your ass! Grab him Bob!”

  One of his buddies had walked behind Wasco and tried to grab him in a bear hug. He might as well have tried to grab an actual bear. Loudmouth let fly with another punch and this time Wasco did move. Without any apparent effort he broke the hug and caught the punch on his thick forearm as his other fist slammed into Loudmouth’s ribs.

  I heard an awful crunch and Loudmouth fell to the floor wheezing. The man behind Wasco wrapped his arms around him again, trying to lift him. Wasco started moving backwards, gaining speed, and they crashed into the wall, knocking a cow skull to the floor. I heard the air leave the man's body in a whoosh. Wasco's head snapped back and Bob’s nose exploded.