Mons angels, p.3
Mon's Angels, page 3
Liza looked up and smiled at Blair.
“We’ll be good, Lady Brooke. But I hope this team is active. Lord Sharp always made sure we had plenty to . . . eat.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that will be a problem, with Darhaven especially,” Rip said, leaning back in his chair. “Okay. We’ll go with ‘Rangers.’ If people want to stick ‘Ripley’ in front of it, that’s fine, too.”
“And so, the Rangers are born,” Chance said, raising a cup. “Hear, hear.”
Twig said, “Not quite as pleasing to the ear as ‘Sharp’s Swashbucklers,’ but I’ll take it.”
He lifted his tankard along with everyone else, and they clinked around the table.
Twig and Chance downed their drinks in a single gulp. The vampires took dainty sips and grimaced, expressing dissatisfaction at the “liquid plants.”
Rip and Blair took a sip and smiled at each other.
“ ‘Rangers’ sounds fine,” Blair said. “And, as noted, our exploits will be the important thing.”
“No, the important thing is how much money we make,” Chance said. “Not all of us have a relationship with the famous Dr. Colfax. Who is that bloke, anyway? I’ve never heard of him before his petroleum jelly and toothpaste came on the market. Now you can’t open a paper without seeing his smiling mug on every other advert.”
“He’s a marketing fiction.”
“A what, now?”
Rip sighed and tried to think of the best way to explain marketing to them.
Before he could start, Blair jumped in.
“Marketing is essentially lying to the public in order to sell them your product.”
He looked at her and frowned.
She said, “What? I’ve been paying attention. Is this not correct?”
“Yes, but . . . it helps if the product really is good. You may say on your sign, ‘Best sandwiches in town.’ But if they’re not good, the marketing won’t help.”
“So, it’s lying for the common good.”
He tried again.
“It’s creating a narrative to portray your product to the public in a positive light, in hopes people will buy it.”
“Lying to sell.”
“It’s more nuanced than that . . .”
“So, you’ll introduce us to Dr. Colfax?” Chance said.
Rip sighed again, and gave up.
4
In the morning, Rip left the guest cottage in Blair’s spacious courtyard, locking it with his picks out of habit. He crossed over to the backdoor to her townhome, unlocking it in the same way.
He took a quick look at his stats through his implant, which continued working in this world. The screen popped up in his mind’s eye.
[You are a Tier 2.78 Battle Rogue Technologist.]
[Nobility Achieved. Level: Knight]
[Skill: Unbreakable Will, 1.13]
[Skill: Detect Traps, 1.12]
[Skill: Vampiric Speed (Boon), 1.27]
[Skill: Transporter (Combo), 1.30]
[Skill: Night Vision (Boon), 1.35]
[Skill: Disarm Traps, 1.45]
[Skill: Lock Picking, 1.54]
[Skill: Mechanical Discernment, 1.55]
[Skill: Stealth, 1.57]
[Skill: Weaponry, 2.32]
[Skill: General Combat, 2.49]
After looking things over, he felt a little disappointed. His gains had come mostly in [Lock Picking]. By tackling almost every lock he came to lately, he had raised the skill by four points in recent days. But the law of diminishing returns had set in, and it was taking him more and more tries to gain a point.
His other gains were also in skills he could use while not fighting. He had gained in [Night Vision] also by using it at every opportunity. Additionally, he had picked up two points each in [Vampiric Speed] and [Mechanical Discernment], and one in [Stealth] and [Unbreakable Will].
The last two were the most recent gains, appearing earlier this morning. He woke up with a brainy idea about how to jog through the neighborhood without causing alarm.
Previously, the police had been called when Rip had been spotted jogging, especially in fog or foul weather, which seemed to occur frequently in the city.
No one jogged in this world, at least not on urban streets. Everyone perceived it as nefarious. A person did not run in public unless they were up to no good or there was some emergency.
This morning, after donning appropriate attire, he activated [Stealth] before leaving the courtyard. Then he jogged his regular route.
No one saw him. He even ran by a couple of policemen on a street corner, and the officers never looked up.
Feeling pretty good about himself, when he came in for a bath, he noticed [Unbreakable Will] had notched up another point as well.
Idly, he wondered if he could start grinding other skills during his morning jog as well. Perhaps, since he had found a way to do it in public unnoticed, he could activate [Vampiric Speed] a few times and work that one up, too.
Nancy, the maid, met him at the breakfast table and immediately set down a pitcher of coffee along with a cup. He thanked her and poured it himself. The maid frowned at this self-serving attitude, but had long grown used to his commoner ways, despite his relatively new title.
She had given up on fussing at him for doing things like that.
Blair walked in, yawning but dressed for the day. Nancy set out a tea service for her, pouring her a cup, then brought in a breakfast of pancakes and sausages for both of them.
Blair said, “Today we need to visit Father. He wants you to address some people who work for him about how materials from your world can be developed in ours.”
Rip nodded. “I read his letter. I’ve thought of a few things to say.”
Once again, Rip marveled at the Greater Umbrian postal system. The mail came at least five times a day. It worked almost as efficiently as email, if you didn’t mind waiting a couple hours between replies.
Which, now that he thought of it, was not all that unusual with email, either.
“I think Father looks at you as the son he never had,” Blair said with a wry smile. “He genuinely likes you, you know. And that’s saying something.”
Rip finished his cup of coffee and poured himself another. He ignored Nancy’s glare as she dawdled nearby, listening in on their conversation.
“I think he’s still upset with our living arrangements.”
“I’ve been telling him to kick sod most of my life. And after that airship attack on my home, I feel much safer having you here. Nancy does, too”
Rip smiled and dropped it. He had more than enough money now to buy his own townhome, or even a fine country manor, for that matter. But Blair did not want him leaving.
And truth to tell, he did not particularly want to live somewhere else, either. He rather enjoyed having these moments with her. Even with Nancy openly eavesdropping.
Half an hour later, they walked out the front gate and strolled down the sidewalk looking for a cabbie. One stopped, and they gave the driver an address in an industrial district.
They climbed in and leaned back for a long ride. At an intersection, Rip bought a copy of the Standard Trumpet’s morning edition.
When they finally arrived at a factory and office complex on the edge of the city, they walked in and headed straight for Sir Winston Brooke’s office.
“Ah, there you are!” the older Brooke said when they opened the door.
Tall, gray-haired and sporting a gray handlebar mustache reaching out prodigiously on both sides of his face, the elder Brooke wore a tweed jacket with patches at the elbows.
Rip thought he might could pass for a college professor, if not for the fact he was one of the most successful industrialists in the empire.
“I’ve several people for you to meet this morning. They are all waiting in conference.”
Without further word, Sir Winston walked past them and out into the hallway.
Blair smiled at Rip as if to say, “What can you do?”
They followed her father. He led them to a large open room, with several junior staffers running around pouring tea for two dozen older gentlemen. Everyone turned to the door when they walked in.
“My good fellows, welcome. You all know my daughter, Blair. And here is our celebrated otherworlder, Sir Ripley Coulter. I have asked him to share a few words with you in regards to the industrialization of our world, so that we may have some hints as how best to do it. Sir Coulter, a few words, if you please. Everyone give him your undivided attention.”
The men dutifully found a chair, and all sat down except for Rip. He frowned, finding himself once again in a public speaking role. But at least he felt a little better prepared for this one.
He cleared his throat and began.
“So, there are four fundamental building blocks comprising my world. These are cement, steel, plastics and the synthesizing of ammonia. Cement and steel you have already. In fact, should you obtain the superior rustproof steel of Remulan origin, you will be far ahead of my world, in that regard. Plastics and the synthesis of ammonia are the two you have not yet unlocked.”
Everyone listened intently, hanging on his words.
“Plastics are the larger name for synthetic materials derived from petroleum products. This can be used to create practically anything. In my world, plastics are used to make carpets, clothing, car parts and countless other items. More versatile than wood or metal, and lighter, it is irreplaceable in many ways. One of its most important functions is in the use of medical equipment. Literally, from a person’s birth to their death, plastics touch all parts of their lives, and it is one of the most important components of my world’s civilization.”
He paused and accepted a cup of tea from one of the staffers walking by with a tray. He took a quick sip.
“Last but not least, when you figure out how to synthesize ammonia you’ll unlock nitrogen fertilizers, resulting in an enormous expansion of crop yields by a magnitude of a hundred percent over organic fertilizers. These man-made fertilizers will help feed the coming population explosions in the decades ahead. My world is approaching twelve billion people, all living without mass starvation unless war or dictators impose it upon a particular group.”
Gasps went up around the room as those in attendance gazed at him with varying degrees of incredulity.
Someone murmured, “Twelve billion?”
Rip heard shouting outside the room, and he turned to look at the door. Someone kicked it open and three men ran inside, carrying guns.
The first one stopped and yelled, “Long live the Luddites!”
He opened fire, spraying bullets at Rip and everyone else.
5
Rip felt bullets plunk into him and stop, his enhanced body preventing the lead from going past his skin. He rolled, pulling out his interspatial wallet in a practiced maneuver.
Reaching in, he grabbed the first gun available, a Walther semiautomatic pistol loaded with 38s.
When he came out of the roll on a knee, Rip raised the weapon to eye level and shot the first Luddite he saw in the face.
The man went down, dropping his submachine gun. To the right, he heard Blair shoot another one.
A third man stopped. He came through the door last and had not yet fired on anyone. He blinked at the sight of the first two, bleeding on the floor.
The man turned and ran back out the door.
“Stay here and make sure they don’t come back,” Rip said to Blair.
She nodded, holding her own gun, a Webley with a thin trail of smoke drifting out of the barrel.
No one else in the room would have a gun, Rip thought. This was not an armed society. So if another terrorist ran in, she would have to be the one to deal with the situation. Somebody with a gun would need to stay behind. He raced after the coward who ran away.
Rip hurried down halls, glancing at open doorways. He did not worry about an ambush. Logic dictated that the gunmen wanted to maximize casualties, and everyone of importance in Sir Brooke’s companies happened to be in that one room. Still, he glanced through all the doors as he ran past.
It’s more likely the guy will try to get away, he thought as he came to an intersection.
His sense of direction told him the main door was to the left. Pausing, he could hear footsteps running in that direction.
He painfully rubbed his chest. Four bullets had lodged just outside his ribcage. Irritably, he flicked one away that stuck out a bit.
If ever there was an edge in this world over his, enhancement would be it. But, the enhancement process was severely limited.
It’d be great if everybody could be essentially bulletproof, he thought, racing toward the front of the building. Probably change the social dynamics quite a bit, though. Maybe it’s better to keep it limited.
He heard the door to the front of the building smash open as he drew near. Then he was in the lobby heading toward the same door.
Rip ran outside and stopped at the top of the front steps. The Luddite headed for a large black carriage, a driver at the front. The carriage door swung open and two people looked out from inside.
It would be a carriage and not a steam truck, he thought.
Carefully, Rip lined up a shot, standing in a shooter’s stance. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger, tapping into his [Weaponry] skill.
The gunman stopped at the carriage. He twirled and brought his rifle about, aiming back toward the door.
Rip squeezed ever so tighter on the Walther’s trigger. He felt contact, as if gently breaking a thin layer of glass. The gun barked, jerking slightly up in his hands as the bullet left the muzzle.
A red flower blossomed on the gunman’s forehead. The shot knocked him down, his gun clattering on the cobblestones.
Rip let out his breath, silently noting an uptick in his skill thanks to the implant. He lowered his gun.
Two heads popped out of the open carriage door, looking down at the body in the street. They slowly pivoted up and stared at Rip, eyes flashing in anger.
He held the Walther at waist level as he walked down the steps and slowly approached the carriage.
“You know, if you guys are really opposed to technology, you shouldn’t be using modern guns.”
He nudged the rifle with his foot, sending it sliding along the cobblestones and away from the carriage.
“Seems odd for a group calling themselves ‘Luddites’ to use a semi-auto like that. Now, I could understand employing a musket. Something muzzle-loaded. But that? That’s a modern mechanism, using modern gunpowder.”
He looked at the two in the carriage, snarling back at him. One, he now realized, was a woman.
His eyebrows went up and his lips quirked into a smile. He stopped at the body, aiming the Walther at them.
“You know what you are? You guys are a bunch of modern day, technological hypocrites.”
The woman turned to the man and said, “Go!”
He jumped out of the carriage in a blur. Rip’s mind barely processed what he saw. Six and a half feet of muscle moved abnormally fast.
Rip squeezed off three rounds, his wrist jerking, trying to track the exceptionally fast-moving human.
The two horses reared at the sound of close gunshots, neighing loudly. The driver let the brake off and tapped their backs with his whip. They raced away, wheels clattering on the cobblestones along with their hooves. The door to the carriage bounced shut, taking the woman inside to safety.
The man stopped moving. Now he stood to the side and slightly behind Rip.
Rip pivoted, still covering him with his gun. His eyes narrowed. He did not think he had missed.
The big man stared at Rip, breathing hard. His head looked clean-shaven. A thin layer of light brown hair appeared almost blond, glinting in the sunlight. His head looked small for the size of his body, like a conical cannonball on top of a massive chest and shoulders.
Rip shot off three more rounds at pointblank range, into the man’s center mass.
He stood there, taking the shots. Then he gave Rip a deadly smile and reached for the middle of his shirt. He ripped it open, revealing a rippling bare chest, and dropped the shirt to the street. The bullets stuck out of his skin.
“Ah.” Rip said. “Enhanced.”
Mentally, Rip counted up his shots and realized he had only one left. He aimed at the man’s eyes, the one vulnerable place on an enhanced person, as the shirtless man took another step toward him.
He squeezed the trigger, and the man made a blurring motion with his hand. He smiled a deadly grin and slowly opened his fist, showing Rip the bullet. A thin trail of vapor rose from his palm.
“You know, I’ve never actually seen anyone do that before,” Rip said. “I’m impressed.”
The big man took another step and swung a haymaker at Rip’s face. He ducked under it and took a step back.
“At least give me a name. If not, I’ll have to think up a nickname for you, like ‘Bullet Catcher’ or something.”
The mass of muscles stepped forward again, cutting the distance between them. This time his right arm blurred out with impossible speed, the uppercut landing squarely on Rip’s jaw.
The impact made Rip step back. His eyebrows rose as he rubbed his face, feeling a bruise coming on.
“This one is named Wallace Biggin.”
Rip smiled now, despite the pain in his face.
“Seriously? I mean, ‘Biggin.’ It kind of fits you.”
Biggin frowned and swung again, his fist lashing out lightning fast.
Forewarned this time, Rip activated [Vampiric Speed]. He too blurred, moving quickly behind the man.
Still holding the Walther, he used it like a sapper, whacking the man hard as he could behind the ear.
The impact stunned Biggin, bringing him to his knees. Rip struck again and again, slamming the metal into the man’s head.
At last, Biggin slumped forward, landing face down in the street.
Rip looked at the Walther in his hand. The metal was deformed, twisted and bent from being slammed repeatedly against Biggin’s enhanced skull. It would never fire again.
“Aw, man.”
