– H.L. Mencken,
Editorial in the Baltimore Mercurium about the Tennessee Magic-Monkey Trial. 1926 New York City, New York Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant was enjoying the view from the top of the Empire State Building's super-dirigible dock. A mighty six-hundred-foot hybrid lifter was in the final moments of docking. Cables were coming out of the sky in great unfurling masses and his UBF employees were scurrying about securing the great beast. Two smaller dirigibles had been serviced in the last hour, and each one had been moved along with shocking efficiency.
The wind over the city was potent today, but with two full-time Weathermen dedicated to calming the skies, dirigibles would be able to dock safely on even the gustiest of days. There were two more Cracklers on staff to deal with the static electricity and lightning issues, and even a single underpaid Torch just in case there was a fire. This might not have been the largest United Blimp amp; Freight station, but it was certainly the crown jewel of innovation.
One of his retainers arrived, moving familiarly past his security man, and passed over the latest daily business summaries. There were two new orders from the British for small patrol craft and two complete air trains for Belgium, and they'd received the third installment payment for the Imperium's diplomatic flagship vessel. Construction was complete and it was being taken for its test runs at the Michigan facility. If everything shook out to spec it could be shipped to Japan in a matter of days. He looked forward to the last payment, since the Japs always paid in gold bars, and he couldn't care less if some of it had surely been melted down from Chinamen's teeth.
A further note indicated that one of the admirals he was paying under the table at the Navy Department had confirmed that the general staff were very frightened of the new Japanese Kaga-class super-dirigibles, and would be ordering their own fleet upgrades in the next fiscal year. Perfect. "It's a good day to be me," he said aloud, then chuckled. Every day was a good day when you were the richest man in the world.
"Yes, Mr. Stuyvesant," his bodyguard agreed. Cornelius couldn't remember this one's name, but he was a big Brute, and had come highly recommended.
"I wasn't talking to you, idiot," Cornelius snapped. The Brute nodded politely. It was best to keep such men in their proper place. Fighting dogs should always be kept on a leash. He made a few notes on the file and passed it back to his retainer, who then retreated from the balcony with ratlike swiftness.
Cornelius leaned on the balcony and savored his cigar. The dirigible was almost locked down. Who said that it was an economic depression? He was doing just fine.
"Hello, Mr. Stuyvesant."
The voice had come from behind. Nobody was supposed to be out here except for him and his immediate entourage. Somebody was getting fired for this. He turned around, ready to bellow his fury, and stopped, surprised.
"Harkeness…"
The Pale Horse had returned. He was standing there, calm as death, in a pitch-black suit, a craggy shadow of a man. One bony hand was resting on his bodyguard's shoulder, and the giant Brute collapsed to the deck, grey-faced and gasping for air. Harkeness removed his hand and stepped forward.
"Good evening, sir. I have come for that favor."
Cornelius took an involuntary step back and crashed violently into the railing. "Don't come any closer."
Harkeness smiled with his yellowed teeth. "I'm a businessman, Mr. Stuyvesant. Why would I hurt you now? I'm just here to collect on our deal… You weren't thinking of backing out now, were you?" His accent seemed to accentuate every wrong word. "That'd be rather upsetting."
The bodyguard turned on his side and vomited blood in a great gushing mass. He convulsed violently, then was still. Cornelius screamed.
"Oh, sorry about that. I get carried away sometimes. You're going to want to have a Torch clean that up. Perhaps throw down some peroxide as well. Now as I was saying-"
Cornelius thought fast. "He's still alive! I don't owe you anything until he's dead. That was the deal."
"Come now. We both know General Pershing is as good as dead. I've given him three years of terrible suffering, and I stand in awe of the man's will. Anyone else would have eaten a bullet by now. I know that you know I speak the truth."
"It hasn't accomplished what I wanted," Cornelius shouted. "I wanted results."
"No. You wanted to fill the hole your son's death left in your soul. You wanted to fill it with revenge, and you wanted the once-favored heir that had forsaken you to come crawling back to your fold, his pride broken. That did not occur, but that's not my concern. You came to me for one thing, and one thing only: Death. Painful, lingering, death." Harkeness stepped forward, crowding Cornelius, until he could smell the tobacco on his breath. "Black Jack Pershing will be dead soon, but I need my favor now."
Cornelius briefly contemplated throwing himself off the ledge, but he was too scared. His fear seemed to cause his own Power to flare, and he reached inside, gathered all his energy and threw it at Harkeness.
The Pale Horse was hit by the telekinetic wave, and his polished dress shoes slid across the marble and into the puddle of blood. Harkeness looked up in disbelief. "That's it? That's all you have?"
Cornelius tried again, but his Power was exhausted.
Harkness stepped forward, glaring down at his shoes in disgust. When he looked up again, his face was flushed, with anger. "You think that Power is something you can mistreat your whole life and never respect, and then when in your time of need it will somehow rise to the occasion?" He covered the distance the feeble push had moved him in two steps and grabbed Cornelius by the lapels. "You have to earn Power, fool!"
Cornelius screamed when he saw the hands curled into claws next to his body. He could almost see the flesh crawling with disease. One narrow finger came up and stroked his lips with a yellow nail. His bladder let go. "Fine! Fine! Name it. Name your price, fiend! Please, just don't hurt me. I beg you! I'll give you anything."
"I do not want anything more than our agreed upon price." Harkeness released him. "You will make a change to one of your client's specifications and you will not inform them." He removed an envelope from his jacket and shoved it between the buttons of Cornelius's shirt. "You will follow the instructions on these blueprints exactly, down to the most precise measurement. These changes will be made under your direct supervision. It will be done in utmost secrecy."
Cornelius slid down the balcony, curled his knees up to his chest, and whimpered in a puddle of his own urine.
"You've been touched by the Pale Horse. You've heard what's happened to Pershing despite the constant ministrations of Healers. Failure to follow these plans exactly will result in you sharing his fate. I will know if you try to betray me. I am inside your skin now, Mr. Stuyvesant. Good bye."
When Cornelius finally looked up with tear-filled eyes, a set of bloody footprints were all that remained of the Pale Horse. Tremonton, Utah Sullivan sat under the shade of a scraggly tree. The narrow box canyon was covered in the little trees, hardly more than sagebrush, and the grass was tall and yellow. The gentle hills were broken with occasional gashes of ancient stone. It was a beautiful spot in its own rugged way. He could see why the old Grimnoir had chosen this as his hiding spot.
The Box Elder County Sheriff's Deputies were still combing through the wreckage of the cabin, but Sullivan pieced together what had happened after a few minutes of wandering around.
Two cars full of men had come up the dirt road. Sven Christiansen was no fool. He'd abandoned the structure, which was the obvious target, and headed up one of the hills. Despite Garrett saying that the old Dane was in his late sixties, he'd managed to lug a Browning 1919 and its tripod up there, and when the men in the cars had proven to be who he'd expected, he'd hosed them down.