The Mostly Weird Chronicles of Steffan McFessel

THE MOSTLY WEIRD CHRONICLES

OF STEFFAN McFESSEL

By Marcos Donnelly and Ted Wenskus

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

Copyright 2011 by Marcos Donnelly and Ted Wenskus

Cover Illustration: Beth Erin Stanley

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Dedications

For Andre and Sam, because they read. – MPD

To every English teacher who let my imagination fly – this is all your fault. – TW

CONTENTS

1. The Importance of Being Steffan

2. Portrait of the Marakah as a Young Man

3. Unquiet on the Western Frontier

4. The Bovine Comedy

5. A Crass Menagerie

6. To Quell a Mocking Horde

7. The Taming of the ‘Ru

8. Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Ogden

9. Of Inhuman Bondage

10. Close to the Maddening Crowd

11. Infiltration to a Beheading

12. Fall of the House of Solter

A VERY IMPORTANT INTRODUCTION

BY CHRONICLER PAULY & CHRONICLER DIANA

From Chronicler Diana:

Once the radiation had pretty much died out, and people started building new villages far away from any of the old cities, and the East Coast had stopped burning, mostly, I turned to Pauly where he was sitting by the campfire and said, Pauly, civilization will be starting up again soon.

So? Pauly said. He always took a bitter tone with me. I think it was because I was the one who did all of the hunting and trapping and fishing, which might have made him feel a little inferior.

Well, I said, that means we should, you know, start thinking about our future.

What about it?

What do we want to do for a living? Like, what sort of jobs should we get?

Pauly rolled his eyes the way he does when he thinks I’ve said something stupid. Diana, he said, "I hate to be the one to break this to you, but the world has been obliterated. Most of New York’s been sunk, the U.K.’s been downsized to the Isle of Scotland, and the Middle East’s been turned into a canyon. A damned canyon!"

Not that we’d actually been to any of those places. They were just things we’d heard. That was pretty much how we got all our news after Last War—by talking with people we met, who were few and far between, even after considering that we lived in Iowa.

And you know what’s really exciting? A lot of the things we heard turned out to be true! You’ll know that after you’ve read this, of course. I don’t want to spoil it, and I don’t want to give anything away about extinct animals coming back and nymphs and fairies revealing their existence and cell phones working long after they should and armies and coups and Steffan McFessel. Pauly says tell things in order, so I’ll tell things in order. I won’t spoil it by revealing stuff you shouldn’t know about until exactly the right moment. Like the quagga, for instance.

So, back at our campfire, that night this all started, Pauly shook his head. I had such hopes when the last president was elected. I was only a child then, you know.

Yeah, I said. And I miss television.

From Chronicler Pauly:

What my colleague is so clumsily trying to communicate is the origin of our designation as Chroniclers of the Post-Apocalyptic Age. Her suggestion to embrace a focused, goal-oriented profession was, despite the murky nature of most of her ideas, a good one. I passed much of that evening staring into the embers of our dying fire—embers symbolic, for me, of the ruins of a squandered Human Age, yet still glowing with the hope of new flame, new burning adventure worthy of the stifled human spirit. Rage, I intoned silently. Rage against the dying of the light.

We could work in the webcast industry! my associate proposed.

Brilliant, I said, my sarcasm undoubtedly ricocheting harmlessly through the caverns of her consciousness. "Perhaps in several centuries, someone may have the actual ability and resources to create a vast, new Internet for us to access. Wouldn’t that be convenient?"

No, no, Diana murmured, lost to the dimly familiar strain of thought. We’d be dead by then.

Ah. A minor barrier to her plan.

But then my traveling partner uttered a statement rife with significance, words so brilliantly subtle that her own brain cells, failing to register their importance, simply continued undisturbed with the chore of sustaining her vital bodily functions. She said: We’ll just have to write the stories down and store them in a safe place until people come along to make movies or webcasts out of them.

I jumped up from beside the fire. My god! I said. "That’s it!"

From Chronicler Diana:

So Pauly starts hopping around and pacing funny, something he never does unless I’ve put too many mutant jalapeños in his dinner. "Woman, you’ve stumbled on it! These are the new Dark Ages, and centuries from now, historians will argue about what life was like in these times, and how civilization finally managed its own rebirth. And to whom shall they turn for an authoritative voice? To me!"

I got a little confused, since I’d already pointed out that we’d be dead by then. But Pauly kept raving.

I shall document the spirit and nature of these times! Scholars of the future shall turn to my texts, and will hail me as the Herodotus of the Holocaust, the Gibbon of the Great Devastation, the Spielberg of the Cyber Era.

He grabbed me by the shoulders. His hands and forehead were all sweaty.

The Chronicler of the Post-Apocalyptic Age!

Chroniclers, I said There are two of us.

He made one of his little harrumph! noises and crossed his arms. Good lord, Diana, how could you expect to be a chronicler? You can hardly spell your own name.

He had a point. Letters always seem to jump around when I try to read or write, like a small animal running from a big one. It was so frustrating, I gave up trying years ago and practiced hard at hunting instead. At least with hunting, once you caught something, it stayed caught. Still, I wanted to help Pauly, so I said, I know a good story when I hear one.

And I proved that was true, too. Because once we started out to gather stockpiled paper and pencils, and once we started visiting small tribes and villages for the first time in about a decade, it was me who turned up the rumors that led us to The Prophecy of the Marakah.

CHAPTER 1: THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING STEFFAN

Ever thought about getting into politics? Colonel Dorwin asked as he tried to slit Steffan’s throat for the third time. Steffan easily sidestepped the blade, then used the Colonel’s own momentum against him by seizing his elbow, twisting, and tossing him to the rocky ground.

Politics? Steffan asked. He tensed for the Colonel’s counterattack. I don’t think I’d like it. Too dangerous.

He’d expected Dorwin to roll left, not right, so Steffan was surprised by the heel-kick to his gut. By the time he’d staggered to recovery, Colonel Dorwin’s dagger was nearly at the back of his neck. Steffan spun, and the point only managed to nick his ear. Steffan’s elbow connected under the Colonel’s chin. The dagger dropped to the dirt.

Steffan grabbed the dagger and repositioned to a crouch. I mean, every time you turn around, a politician gets killed or a government liaison mysteriously disappears. Too violent for my taste. I’m more the bookworm type.

You and your books, Colonel Dorwin groaned. He kicked to Steffan’s groin, and almost managed to connect, finding upper thigh instead. The knife was loose again.

Hey, Steffan wheezed, that move’s illegal.

Colonel Dorwin grinned. Not since last week. Don’t you ever read your Militia Manual Updates? Or are those too lowbrow for you bookworm types? Dorwin leapt—a skillful jump, a Kill Jump, knife close to his body, a mid-air half-flip to position his extending arm in a down-thrust aimed directly for the bottom of Steffan’s spine. A brilliant move, artistically executed ... and completely by the book.

Steffan reached, grabbed the wrist, quickly chopped to unlock the Colonel’s elbow, and let gravity do the rest. He broke the Colonel’s fall with the tip of the blade less than half an inch from the Colonel’s jugular.

Slice. You’re dead.

Colonel Dorwin sighed and relaxed. That’s the fifth time you’ve gotten me this month. When the hell do I get to beat you?

They broke from the position and fell to their haunches. Only then did Steffan let himself breathe hard.

"Now the Army, this is the life for me. Every time the government falls into rebellion, what does the new government do? Court the Army. Make friends with the Army. Keep the Army very, very happy. Why trade it in for a life of back-stabbing and possible coups?"

Colonel Dorwin shook his head. The pay’s better in government.

Yeah, said Steffan, but a guy could get killed.

They sat quietly, then, regaining strength. The sun sank to the west, and the dusk breeze dropped fifteen degrees in a matter of minutes, as it always did in mid-Nebraskan Conglomerate Territory. The horizon turned a bloody charcoal magenta, as if to say, Way over here was where you used to have some ground called California. Steffan stood. It was late spring, Ball Lightning Season, and the static bursts would start soon.

They walked north, back toward the rusted gates of Capitol City. It hadn’t changed a great deal during the last five years. Not much of it, anyway. The twenty-foot-tall conductor poles surrounding the city walls had shifted positions a few dozen times, until the current eight-and-a-half foot spacings proved effective for keeping ball lightning from roaming the streets of Capitol and haphazardly toasting or even disintegrating citizens. The Regent’s Palace had tripled in size. Most other buildings remained external shambles, although most families had gone to the trouble of improving the interiors of their homes. Only Central Court, the plaza in front of the Palace, looked anything like the pictures of pre-War towns Steffan had seen in books and magazines he’d stolen from his father.

He shuddered. Steffan hadn’t thought of his father in years. Or of his mother, or of Biblaville, the village of his youth.

I’m not sure politics is as dangerous as it used to be, Colonel Dorwin said. There hasn’t been an assassination in thirty-six months. Nicholas III, he seems to have stabilized the Conglomerate. Five years! Before that, you could count on a coup every twelve weeks, clockwork.

The Colonel looked a bit of a shambles from the fight practice—hair ruffled, camouflage Conglomerate Army jacket and underlying Conglomerate sweater covered in dirt, the waist of his pants drooping to reveal regulation black spandex leotards. One of the laces of his hightop Nikes was untied. But you were expected to look a shambles after fight practice.

Another benefit of politics is that you’d get closer to a certain dream-babe who’s had you drooling for years.

Don’t get into that, Steffan warned.

"Face it. She doesn’t go for the military type. Won’t even give you more than a polite ‘hello’. Now, if you were a diplomat, or an ambassador, who knows what sort of fun you might find yourself getting into—"

I said don’t go there! That’s an order.

Dorwin didn’t look the least bit intimidated. Yes, sir, Commander. Not another word.

Despite Dorwin’s sarcasm, Steffan felt guilty. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pulled rank on you.

You weren’t pulling anything. You’re Commander.

And I’m your best friend. Steffan knew he shouldn’t confuse the two. Dorwin was ribbing him as a friend.

The Colonel grinned. What can I say? Sometimes you’re a jerk. I’ll live with it.

Steffan laughed, but then answered quietly. Yeah. Sometimes, as a friend, I’m a total jerk.

Colonel Dorwin clapped him once on the shoulder, roughly, friendly. You see, Commander? he said. "That was very politic. You’d make a great politician."

Steffan knew Dorwin well. When the man hammered home a point, it usually was more than simple rumination. What are you getting at? Steffan asked. If you’re trying to convince me to—

A figure burst from the gates of Capitol. The camouflage and Nikes showed it was a soldier, a Lieutenant judging by the blue regulation sweater, but he was still too far away for Steffan to recognize. Commander! the soldier cried. Commander McFessel! Quickly!

It’s Andre Salgüero, Dorwin said. He’s a Bogart Squad Lieutenant. Dorwin was good with names, knew many of the soldiers personally. Steffan admired that and envied it. But Steffan didn’t need to be told who Andre was. He’d known Andre even longer than he’d known Dorwin.

"What’s he doing coming out of the city? The ball lightning’s gonna start any minute now. Unless there’s ..."

Trouble was the unspoken word. They ran to meet him.

Andre dropped to one knee before them, out of breath. The Regent, he said. They’ve taken him and his family!

Steffan pulled Andre to his feet. Who? What do you mean, ‘taken’?

Outsiders. The soldier steadied himself. Professionals, I think. They’ve taken the residence floor of the Palace. And Commander ... they’ve got guns.

Dorwin whistled low. Haven’t seen a gun in years.

"I’ve never seen a gun." Steffan felt an unexpected shiver of defenselessness. Dorwin and he had been dagger training, and there was only a single knife between them.

Steffan grabbed the collar of Andre’s sweater. "You said they have the whole family?" He regretted grabbing the soldier as soon as he’d done it. He wasn’t that sort of leader. Andre was a good soldier, Steffan’s oldest acquaintance from Biblaville. But it was her. Every time he thought of her, thought she might be in danger, the anxiety seethed, and he felt a push toward violent outburst.

Andre’s eyes were averted, but he kept talking. The family and some visitors, yes. Regent Nicholas. His wife. And then, slower, because he knew what was behind Steffan’s insistence, His daughter.

A rapid sequence of loud, static cracks caused all three of them to look back toward the training grounds. Five, six, then eight spheres of jagged fire materialized. Three traced tight, frantic circles only a few inches above the ground. One followed a straight path ten feet up into the air, down to the ground, back up, back down. But the remaining four slowly, almost tentatively, started drifting toward the soldiers.

Steffan released Andre’s collar. Give Dorwin your sword.

Oh, good, said Dorwin. My own conductor. Despite his sarcastic tone, Dorwin’s face was blank and steady, the way it looked before training matches with Steffan. The Colonel latched Andre’s sheath and sword to his back. All right, I’m armed. What about you, Commander?

Another crackling, and two more spheres of ball lightning appeared just a few hundred feet from them. Let’s go, said Steffan, already running.

* * * * *

Crowds had started to gather at Central Court plaza in front of the Palace, people dressed either in the shabby remains of pre-War jeans and T-shirts or in the simple drape-tunics that were becoming popular. After sending Andre back to rejoin his squad, Steffan and the Colonel elbowed their way through the mob, finally coming upon a Division Captain who seemed to have taken charge.

What’s your name, Captain?

The Captain snapped to attention when he saw Steffan. "Commander McFessel, sir! My name is Division Captain Roland Terregon, Captain of Division Potpourri, accounting for Squad Pismo, Squad Gallstone, Squad Couscous, Squad Shih Tzu, Commander, sir!"

Can you tell me what’s going on?

"Yes, sir, Commander, sir! At nineteen hundred oh-six hours, five armed assailants stormed the Regent’s Palace, carrying four handguns and one rifle, sequestering the Regent, his wife, his daughter, the Minister of Waste Reclamation, and two visiting llama merchants representing townships in the southern hemisphere, sir!"

Llama merchants? Steffan asked Dorwin.

Most of the Colonel’s attention was focused on scrutinizing the Regent’s Palace. Don’t ask me. I didn’t even know we had a Squad Couscous. He unsheathed his sword, eyes never leaving the Palace. If they’ve got guns, we can’t storm.

Where would they get guns? Steffan demanded.

Northwest territories, maybe. A few of the old U.S. states were still holding out on the civilian weapons collections when Last War hit.

Wonderful, Steffan said.

"Commander, sir! Captain Terregon bellowed, taking a stiff half-step sideways to reclaim attention. The assailants have yet to make demands. However, they have announced that should any demands be ignored, they will slaughter the hostages, youngest to oldest, Commander, sir!"

Mythanda would be the youngest.

What actions have you taken so far? Steffan scanned the facade of the Palace: five floors, the residence floor the highest, with eight possible stairways accessing the first four, only two rising to the fifth.

"Commander, sir! The Joint Captaincy Staff have consulted and decided, considering the lack of demands, that the Army should wait until said demands have been issued by the assailing force, Commander, sir!"

No demands, no proclamations of a new government taking over, no bargaining for an alliance with the Military ... Steffan had never seen a coup, but the ones he’d read about didn’t go like this.

Captain, um ...

"Terregon, Commander, sir!"

Get these crowds out of here. These streets might be hit by bullets. Tell them to go home.

"I think I can convince them to leave, sir!" Terregon snapped. Steffan took the Captain’s sword without asking. The Captain continued to stand there at attention.

What are you waiting for?

Official dismissal from the Commander, Commander!

Dismissed, Steffan waved him away. When he was out of earshot, Steffan asked Dorwin, Is he always that tense?

It’s how he was raised, Dorwin said. Before Last War, his father was a college ROTC candidate.

Gotcha, said Steffan.

"Listen, I need two more men, and I’d like a follow-up force only if you see us wave from the residence floor windows. Surprise is all we have. If the front force blows it, this could be the end of the current government."

Steffan nodded, understanding. I’m going with you.

Dorwin turned to him. Sir?

I’m going with you. Pick a third, and inform Captain Terregon that the follow-up force should wait for a signal. When Dorwin kept staring, not moving a muscle, Steffan hollered. "C’mon, Colonel, is everyone going to stand around until I dismiss them tonight?"

Colonel Dorwin started to move, then stopped again. "Steffan. This isn’t an exercise. We’re not storming a fantasy castle to rescue a damsel in distress, not like in your fairy-tale books. This is real."

Ordinarily, Steffan would have bristled at the impudence. Except that at the very moment Dorwin chided him, Steffan had been entertaining fictional images of Lancelot, of knights on horseback, and of that prince who’d fought the witch-dragon to get to the sleeping princess.

Steffan, you’ve never even killed anyone. Not ever.

Steffan broke eye contact first. I’ll take the east stair. You go mid, cut west at the fourth floor. That sound good to you?

Steffan could see the moment Dorwin decided that there was no way to talk him out of this.

Fine, Dorwin said. Tell me again about how this is so much safer than politics. When he returned to Steffan, it was with a Major Kevin French, their third.

* * * * *

At the bottom of the west stairway on the fourth floor, Steffan found Major French dead, a single charred hole in the middle of his forehead. Dorwin was unconscious, resting against four steps in an angle pointing up the stairs, his sword still clutched in his fist. Blood came from under where his head lay, and his breathing was shallow.

Oh god. Dorwin, oh god.

Steffan felt a cold circle of metallic pressure at the base of his neck. And then a high-pitched, nasally voice: I think he ain’t gonna be answering you any time soon, soldier. Even with the man behind him at arm’s length, Steffan could smell his liquored breath.

So now you shoot me. The muscles in Steffan’s lower back were like stretched rubber bands.

So now we go upstairs and meet the rest of the gang. March, soldier. And drop the blade.

Steffan released his sword and stepped over Dorwin’s unconscious form. As they ascended, the nasal-voiced man kept the gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck. Steffan hesitated, and the barrel slipped over his right shoulder. He felt the touch of the assailant’s knuckles.

A small gun, then. Held very close.

Just wondering if you’d fill me in, Steffan said, slowly. Is this a coup?

The pistol jabbed sharply at the base of his skull. Yeah, it’s a coup. Keep on walking.

Well, since this is a coup, I think you should know that I’m Commander of the Army. This isn’t a very good way to suck up to the Military.

This is an Anarchist coup. Death to all leadership! End to all government! And may the people live without the chains of the oppressors! The man wheezed unsteadily.

Steffan started walking again. Anarchists, huh? I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I was just kidding about that Commander of the Army stuff, right?

I oughta kill you right now anyways. I was just settling in, ready to have me a little fun with the royal family’s cutest piece of ass.

Steffan reacted without thought, as if it were a knife at his neck and not some legendary projectile shooter that could kill him from any number of paces. In a single twist, he pinned the man’s wrist and shoulder against the concrete wall of the stairway. The pistol dangled uselessly from the man’s right pinky.

One sound, and I’ll rip your arm from its socket.

The man made no sound. Two pinpoint pupils inset on a chubby face carefully scanned Steffan, head to chest. The man held his breath, waiting.

You killed poor French. And you tried to kill Dorwin.

The man kept staring, his face hard but fear plain in his eyes.

And— Steffan twisted the arm, and the man grimaced, a breathy squeal escaping through clenched teeth — I’m a kind of upset about the ‘piece of ass’ reference.

The man jerked a knee upward, something Steffan expected since it was the only option he’d left available. Steffan hooked a toe behind the man’s ankle and pulled. The man’s feet flew forward, and his chubby frame slammed against the stairs, head pointed downward. Steffan held him by one ankle. The pistol clattered down the stairs.

You like that? Steffan asked. The man gasped, trying to regain his wind. "It’s a defense tactic from the Conglomerate Militia Assault Manual. Section Twelve, ‘How to Fight Anarchists in a Stairwell.’"

As Steffan tried to decide what he’d do with the prisoner now that he had him, the man kicked. Instinct—Steffan dodged, released the ankle, and the man’s bulky frame jostled down the steps head-first. At the fourth stair up, the man’s shoulder contacted Dorwin’s sword. The sword cut in, the man kept sliding head-first, and he didn’t stop until the sword point exited his body, halfway down his thigh. The hilt remained firmly in Dorwin’s fist.

Steffan stared. He couldn’t help himself. He watched the man’s blood flow down the sword, over Dorwin’s fist, down Dorwin’s arm. He fought a sudden impulse to run down the stairs, revive Dorwin, say, Dorwin, I killed someone! I didn’t mean to! It was an accident!

The dull shock left him immobile until he heard the scream from behind him. Her scream. No time to retrieve the pistol, and a part of him was relieved. But before moving away from the stairs, he heard his own unbidden voice saying, with awe, I killed someone.

* * * * *

Steffan scanned the room before entering. He’d found them gathered in a large conference hall bearing a plaque that read, The Regent’s Large Conference Hall—Formal Attire Required. At the north end of the hall, the wall farthest from Steffan, the Regent and his wife’s Presiding Chairs had been turned back-to-back. The chairs looked like they’d been salvaged from the altar of an old Episcopalian Church, the tops scorched from the flames of a forgotten fire. In the chairs sat Nicholas III himself, his arms pulled back taut and bound to the arms of Solter, Minister of Waste Reclamation. On the floor next to them were two bronze-skinned men, bound and gagged. To both the west and east sides on the hall were meticulous rows of folding metal chairs. Behind the chairs on the east side was the only formal decoration in the entire room, a gargantuan velvet drapery bearing the logo of the Conglomerate Territories, the Regent’s name in bright gold, and the Regent’s motto, "Nomina stultorum parietibus haerent." It was below that drapery that the assailants—four more of them—were circled around the Regent’s wife and daughter. Both women were half naked.

Mythanda. Steffan stared at her, her top exposed, and her slim, gentle hips covered only by a tattered robe clenched in her fingers. But when one of the assailants reached out and grabbed her, Steffan snapped from the daze.

Fury.

If he needed to, he would kill again.

Four of them. Four guns. Dramatic entry. He dug his fingers into the inner corners of his eyes, and pressed until the pain almost burned him unconscious.

Please! Please, no more! He thrust himself into the room, and then wavered toward the assailants, tears streaming down his face and his hands clasped behind his head in surrender. Immediately, three pistols and a rifle were aimed at him. He turned his back to them, facing the doorway again. "Please! You don’t have to hit me so hard! Resigned, whimpering, a bit of snot trickling from his nose, he turned and walked right up to the closest assailant, allowing the gun to press against his chest. Please tell him not to hit me so hard anymore!"

Another assailant, thickly bearded, burly, and carrying the lone rifle, pulled the first man back. "Talk to me if you’ve got anything to say. I’m the leader of these Anarchists."

There was something unsettling about that assertion, but Steffan kept looking back toward the door. Is he upstairs yet? Don’t let him hit me when he comes! Please, you’ve got to tell him to stop hitting me!

Two of the men lowered their weapons. This guy is nuts, DiGuerro, one to the left said.

Steffan let a bit of drool dribble from the left side of his mouth. You’d be crazy, too! That guy, he’s an animal! A torturer!

The burly assailant, the one called DiGuerro, looked confused. Niemeyer? An animal?

A sadist! I mean— (anaerobic pressure) — he hit me (ready release) "— like this (elbow to DiGuerro’s chin) — and this (roundhouse, left side of DiGuerro’s head) — and this (drop, roll, up under Number Two’s gun arm, steal pistol) — and this (aim, fire, Number Three grabs leg and falls) — and this (bend Two’s elbow, gun to throat, knock him unconscious) —and this!" (spin with gun, level on Number Four, stop self really fast).

Number Four had shielded himself with Mythanda. His pistol pressed into her side.

From behind him, Steffan heard the booming voice of Regent Nicholas III. Well done, Commander McFessel! Finish him, boy, finish him! During the scuffle, the Regent’s wife had run to her husband. She had started to untie him, but now froze.

Um, Regent, his gun is right on your daughter.

Good lord! the Regent said. That’s horrible! If anything happens to her, I’ll hold you personally responsible!

"Me? I’m not the one with the gun! Saying that, he considered the pistol he still held, trained on Mythanda. He set it on the floor. See, no gun. He held up both hands, locking eyes with the assailant’s. You can let her go. If you need a hostage, take me. I’m a great hostage. Very conversational. Just look at her, she hasn’t said a word since I got here, so how much fun could she be?"

Peripherally, he noticed that Anarchist leader DiGuerro’s body and rifle weren’t lying where DiGuerro’s body and rifle were supposed to be. An impact on his right shoulder sent Steffan flying left, and he barely had time to break his fall, both palms slapping flat to the floor.

You little ... he heard from above. I’m gonna start at your toenails, shoot you apart piece by piece, and wake you up each time you fall unconscious from the pain.

Steffan felt a nudging under his right hand, which grew into a large, solid clump. He hazarded a glance: a palm-sized object, bright red, with a distinctive white emblem.

Crosby?

He checked again, but was already certain. It was the gift from Old Mother Whippet, the weapon called Crosby. It shouldn’t be here. Steffan kept it locked in a rusted tin souvenir box back in his barracks dorm. How on Earth?

It was five years ago, and Steffan was still just a boy in Biblaville. He was doing field work for his father in the Kansas City ruins.

"I’ve got a surprise for ya’, young man," Old Mother Whippet had cackled.

"Thanks."

"No, no, no. Think, Steffan McFessel! What comes to mind when you look at that?"

"Um, the Military?"

"Perfect! And what does the Military do?"

"I dunno. Beat people up?" Where was this all going, and what did it have to do with the gift?

"It’s magic, I tell ya’! Magic!"

Too much thinking. How Crosby got here didn’t matter. Steffan jumped to an attack crouch. Freeze, DiGuerro.

DiGuerro tensed, but then noticeably relaxed. "What’s that supposed to be?"

Steffan curled a lip, then grinned. Swiss Army knife. He flipped out one of the blades. Deluxe enchanted model.

It was only when DiGuerro started howling with laughter that Steffan realized he’d flipped out the corkscrew. No matter. DiGuerro was distracted, if even for a fraction of a second. Steffan’s arm snapped back, snapped forward, released, sent Crosby sailing at DiGuerro’s forehead.

DiGuerro slapped the air. The knife ricocheted harmlessly in an upward arc, the corkscrew becoming entangled in the Regent’s tapestry, lost in the folds.

DiGuerro’s eyes narrowed now. Carefully, he raised the barrel of his rifle.

Again, the booming voice of Regent Nicholas III: "Do something,