The Hangman's Revolution (W.A.R.P. 2)

And she had, for Half Moon Street had a particular significance in Boxite history. Following the Emergence from London’s catacombs, the hangman for Box, Major Anton Farley, had set up his operations headquarters on this very road. In fact, he had occupied the top-floor suite of a hotel that had previously gone by the name Flemings, which overlooked Smart’s town house. Farley’s first move had been to hang half a dozen of the writers and artists who infested the area and move in his own Box-fearing people.

Clover Vallicose had no qualms about hanging artists who would much rather take up the pen or brush than the rifle in support of an empire that needed them. She herself had once shot a Welsh mime who had constructed a pantomime that could be interpreted as saying that the Thundercats were a bit trigger-happy, even though the wounded man had sworn that all it said was that he was stuck in a well.

Happy days.

And here she was on Half Moon Street, where it all began. And apparently when it all began.

Vallicose had spent countless hours poring over microfiche and photographs from the period, fascinated by the Empire’s origins, regretting bitterly that she had not been there at the birth of the glorious reign.

And now I am here. Is it possible that God has granted my wish?

There was a lot more pondering to be done on this subject, and a lot more information to be beaten out of people; but that would have to wait, because Clover spotted Chevron Savano running away. Fleeing, Jax scum that she was. And no matter the circumstances, Clover had been given an order from the Blessed Colonel himself.

Kill the spy.

And she could no sooner forget that order than she could forget the existence of Box himself.

She sensed rather than heard her partner approach.

“What’s happening, Clove?”

Clove. Lunka rarely used that endearment. Too much blood had stained the earth under their feet for them to be true friends. That’s not to say they wouldn’t die for each other. But that was duty.

“Later, Sister. The Jax coward runs from her fate. We must follow.”

“Wait,” protested Witmeyer, wiping sheaves of her long dark hair between gloved thumb and forefinger. “I need to…”

But her partner had engaged in her most annoying habit of leaving in the middle of a discussion. And to make her departure even more irritating, Vallicose tossed a comment back over her shoulder.

“That’s why I keep my hair cropped. In this occupation, one never knows when one might need to vomit.”

It was always duty first with Clover Vallicose. First and last. Duty was the steel at her core, and it strengthened her resolve to serve Box every minute of every day. Duty helped Vallicose sleep at night, wrapped her in layers of absolution, and dispelled the dark dreams brought on by any remaining scraps of conscience. She was that most dangerous of adversaries: a true believer.

At age six she had been plucked from her orphanage by an army scout who had seen a video of her beating up a boy twice her size for not making the sign of the Box as he passed a portrait of the Blessed Colonel. In the orphanage Clover had shared a sleeping cupboard with eight other kids, whereas in the academy she was given her own cubicle and three square meals a day. Her faith grew even stronger as a result.

The Blessed Colonel had chosen her for something great, she believed. And her belief never faltered through those years in the academy. Through the decade of service in France her belief grew even stronger, and she was promoted from regular army to Thundercat. The most public of secret police.

My time is at hand, she thought every day.

And on this day, perhaps she was right.

If Vallicose was a true believer, then Witmeyer, on the other hand, was an opportunist. To Lunka, the Thundercat badge was a free pass to act as she pleased. Oh, she could quote scripture all day long if it aligned with her chosen course of action; but with Witmeyer the action came first, then the scripture to back it up. Neither Thundercat was naive enough to think the other shared her beliefs or lack thereof, but both knew they could rely on the other in a tight spot, and each knew very well how to turn a tight spot to their own advantage.

The spot they found themselves in on this particular day in 1899 was tighter than most, even for a couple of seasoned Thundercats with buzz batons and automatic sidearms. Witmeyer, normally the optimist, was finding it hard to put her finger on the upside. But Vallicose, usually the truculent grunter, was positively ebullient as they followed Chevie’s boot heels across London.

“Oh, praise be,” Vallicose gushed. “There is Victory Square, where they dragged out Queen Victoria herself. Swore like a fishwife, apparently. That devil spawn ruled over Albion like a dragon squatting on a tower. They say her blood still stains the cobbles.” She elbowed her partner. “Perhaps we will witness that happy day when her neck gets stretched.”

Witmeyer walked stiffly, like a drunkard imitating the sober. “Smart’s machine sent us into the past, Clove. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Ahead, Chevie grabbed a lamppost, swinging herself around a corner onto Piccadilly. Vallicose settled into double-time to keep her prey in view.

“Of course. Smart was conducting illegal experiments, obviously. Savano nearly escaped, but thank heavens we have managed to follow.”

Witmeyer matched her partner’s pace. “Thank heavens,” she said weakly.

The street widened to a thoroughfare, and the Thundercats drew stunned gazes from a bunch of shady loiterers warming the seats of their pants by a brazier.

One character, a pale streak of a man, decided to make a remark. “What ho!” he called. “The oxen have shrugged off their yokes.”

Witmeyer channeled her anxiety into an uppercut that drove the man into the brazier, sending coal and sparks tumbling into the street. The remaining vertical loiterers were too shocked to even contemplate reprisals.

Vallicose grunted her approval, a familiar sound that comforted Witmeyer somewhat.

They double-timed on, Vallicose apparently delighted rather than perturbed by the absolute strangeness of their circumstances. Witmeyer found that the best strategy was to bite down on her knuckles and focus on their prey. Once Savano was dead she could deal with her unexpected situation.

“This is Picadilly as it used to be,” breathed Vallicose. “I’ve seen pictures.”

Witmeyer was in no mood for a history lesson, being up to her neck in it, so to speak; but Clover seemed on the point of fainting from excitement.

“Piccadilly,” said Witmeyer, unimpressed by the entire avenue and the smell of animal doings hanging like a pall over the street.

“You don’t understand, Sister,” said Vallicose. “After the first round of Boxstrike, Farley used these lampposts to hang any royals or politicians who survived the missiles. This is Swingers’ Row, but it was known as Piccadilly

.”

I don’t believe this, thought Witmeyer, biting her knuckles. None of this is happening.

They tailed Chevie from a distance, their trousered legs, flesh-colored greatcoats, and splashback visors drawing double takes from the throngs of office clerks, corner boys, street vendors, and fella-me-lads spilling over the footpaths onto Piccadilly. Dozens of comments were thrown their way, but the Thundercats were forced to bear these insults or risk losing Chevie.

Vallicose and Witmeyer were seasoned trackers, having honed their skills in the poppy fields of Normandy, hunting down shooters from the notorious Jax guerrillas division, Les Invisibles. They could have taken Chevie at their pleasure but held back, timing their swoop to coincide with a break in the crowds. This was not their London, and more attention on their heads was the last thing they wanted.

There was no danger of Savano escaping. Her run was like that of a headless chicken. The girl was dead already but didn’t know it.

This would indeed have been the case had not a constable appeared before them on the footpath three turns later, blocking their way.

“Halt!” he said, raising a baton. “I want a word with you two…ladies.”

As a representative of the era’s law keepers, the man was a disgrace. He was unshaven and generally unkempt, with a uniform that seemed to bear the grime of several years upon it and the stink of stale gin on his breath.

Vallicose was loath to slow down, but the only alternative was to incapacitate a policeman in broad daylight on a crowded avenue.

“Is there a problem, brother?” she said testily. “Because much as I respect your office, I have no moments to spare at this particular time.”

Witmeyer and Vallicose towered over the scruffy constable, but he appeared not to notice their threatening loom.

“Not a problem as it were…eh…ladies. I just fancied a closer look at the pair of you. Foreign, is it? From overseas?”

Wordplay, falsehood, and bogus reportage were Lunka’s areas of expertise, so a question like this would generally fall to her, but today she was chewing on her fist and rolling her eyes.