Blood Ties Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One – The Taste of Black Powder

  Chapter Two – Battlefield

  Chapter Three – Sore Loser

  Chapter Four – This Can’t Last

  Chapter Five – Qi’s Telegram

  Chapter Six – Sometimes Settled Ain’t Settled

  Chapter Seven – Consarned Contraptions

  Chapter Eight – Civil Enemies

  Chapter Nine – Cards and Bluffs

  Chapter Ten – Bluffs and Guns

  Chapter Eleven – Just One Lump, Please

  Chapter Twelve – Hard Questions

  Chapter Thirteen – Morse for Breakfast

  Chapter Fourteen – Big Trouble in Little China

  Chapter Fifteen – Tong for Two

  Chapter Sixteen – The Mad Emperor

  Chapter Seventeen – Nitro for the Lady

  Chapter Eighteen – Master Chung

  Chapter Nineteen – Memories of a Ghost Hunter

  Chapter Twenty – Comrades in Arms

  Chapter Twenty-one – Moonlight Ruckus

  Chapter Twenty-two – Rock and a Hard Place

  Chapter Twenty-three – Settled Finally Gets Settled

  Chapter Twenty-four – The Gauntlet

  Chapter Twenty-five – The Enemy of My Enemy

  Chapter Twenty-six – A Deal Deal

  About the Author

  Book Description

  Clockwork Gunslingers • Chinese Tongs • An Epic Quest

  THE BLOOD WAR CHRONICLES

  When assassins jump half-clockwork gunslinger Jake Lasater, he knows the Chinese Tong wants to finally settle an old score. Unfortunately, Jake has no idea the Tong is just the first milepost on the road toward a destiny he refuses to believe in.

  With his riding partner Cole McJunkins in tow and his ward Skeeter secretly hidden away, Jake squares off against a deadly clockwork mercenary from his past and a troop of crazed European soldiers who want him dead. Add an insane Emperor with knowledge of Jake’s past and a mysterious noblewoman who desperately needs his help—and Jake is faced with a whole mess of trouble, with no end in sight.

  Blood Ties launches an epic saga that spans worlds and threatens the human race itself.

  Digital Edition – 2015

  WordFire Press

  wordfirepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61475-336-0

  Copyright © 2015 Quincy J. Allen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover design by Janet McDonald and Kathryn S. Renta

  Art Director Kevin J. Anderson

  Cover artwork photo by Quincy J. Allen

  Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

  www.RuneWright.com

  Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

  Published by

  WordFire Press, an imprint of

  WordFire, Inc.

  PO Box 1840

  Monument, CO 80132

  Dedication

  To Kathryn.

  The greatest fan a writer could ever hope for.

  Acknowledgements

  This novel has been both a lifetime and six years in the making, with its roots set squarely in the works of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells as well as the antics of James West in a TV series most of you probably don’t remember. My love of this genre existed long before I ever heard the word “steampunk.” Five years ago, shortly after deciding not to go back to IT and actually pursue the career I always wanted, I ran into a group of steampunkers at MileHiCon. They were promoting a new Internet radio show they were in the process of producing. I wanted writing gigs and we sort of found each other. Such was my introduction to the 21st century notion of steampunk. I’ll tell you, it sure is prettier.

  In those first few conversations Jake Lasater became a reality. So, to Kronda and all the corset, spats, and modified Nerf-gun devotees in the Colorado Steampunks, I’d like say thanks. This work (and hopefully the works to follow) owes you all a debt of gratitude.

  I’d like to thank Mick, Gary, and Randy over at BDS. Whether they knew it or not, they are patrons of the arts. The gig they let me work for the past couple of years has made completing this novel possible. This work would not exist in the form it is, nor in the time I completed it, without them. Also, a thank you goes out to Ty Christopher, one of the first beta readers.

  I’d also like to thank Peter J. Wacks, David Boop, Guy Anthony De Marco, James Sams, and Travis Heermann over at the Handsome Authors Society (no I didn’t name it) for all the time we spent at signings and conventions and chewing the fat about this madness we call writing careers.

  I must thank Kathryn Renta for her significant involvement in this particular novel. She read almost every draft. She is ever patient, supportive, and honest, especially in the face of that original first chapter. Gracias, amiga.

  A first novel, or in my case a first good novel, takes a lifetime to create. In it lies the hopes and dreams of an individual who, in all likelihood, decided to buck tradition and tell the naysayers to go hell. I often joke about “being waylaid by bandits armed with the phrase ‘So you wanna be a starving artist the rest of your life?’” It’s on my site and in a number of anthologies. The truth is it’s not a joke. I can still hear my father saying it.

  So, finally, I’d like to thank you, the reader … the person kind enough to buy, borrow, or steal this novel. Because if you did any one of those three things, it’s a validation that somewhere along the way, at some point, I made the right choice in trying to become an author.

  So, THANK YOU.

  All I can add is that I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Chapter One – The Taste of Black Powder

  “The Jake I knew was born of thunder, blood, and lies. It made him a better man, but at such a terrible price. And the villain who set it all in motion didn’t realize what he’d done until it was far too late.”

  ~ Lady Corina Dănești

  Confederate irregulars—gutsy, pissed off farmers, really—had sniped at the camp for three days. Scouts reported some of the Rebs with repeaters, unusual for hog and cotton farmers. Under such circumstances, Union colonels normally did nothing more than post more guards and wait out the sniping. It was practically policy.

  This time, however, as Captain Jake Lasater scraped stubble off his jaw with cold water and a dull straight-razor, Major Wilkes—a pudgy, brown-nosing weasel new to the regiment—stepped into Jake’s tent without even the courtesy of clearing his throat before throwing back the flap.

  “Captain Lasater!” Wilkes barked in a nose-pinched, New England accent.

  Jake turned his eyes from the mirror hanging on his tent pole, his hands frozen in place with the blade angled across his jaw and a fresh nick leaking crimson down the razor’s edge.

  “Colonel Forsythe orders you to take your company along Rabbit Creek and up Jackinaw Ridge to engage Confederate irregulars we believe are encamped there. You are to attack immediately after breakfast!” Without another wor
d, Wilkes disappeared through the tent flap. Not once had the little bastard looked Jake in the eyes.

  It was a bullshit order.

  Jake knew it. The weasel probably knew it. And Colonel Forsythe sure as hell knew it. Jake knew exactly why the order had been given, which made it that much worse.

  Rich-man politics.

  Over the years he’d seen far too many good men thrown into meat-grinders for no other reason than the whims of cowardly bastards with too much money, not enough brains, or an axe to grind.

  Jake finished shaving, put on his uniform, and strode through camp up to the Colonel’s tent, dead set on convincing Colonel Forsythe to either call off the attack or send more than just Jake’s cavalry company.

  Jake threw a salute barely deserving of the term to the guards, brushed the tent flap aside, and stepped in like he owned the place. He stood before Forsythe with his arms crossed and his feet set wide. The tent flap slithered closed with a hissing of worn canvas. Seconds ticked by as Forsythe continued writing the letter in front of him, the quill in his hand skittering across the paper.

  Jake’s heavy Missouri drawl carried piss and vinegar as he barked, “Colonel, the next time you want to give me a shit job, at least have the gumption to do it yourself. Don’t send some Podunk, boot-licking major to do it for you.”

  The two men, old friends in the extreme, had gone round and round on orders plenty of times. Forsythe was the sort of man who wouldn’t tolerate back talk from anyone under his command. But Jake was practically family. Forsythe and Jake’s father had fought together in the Mexican-American war. Upon their return, Forsythe fed the little scoundrel and even changed Jake’s diapers on more than one occasion. It was, in fact, a much younger Forsythe who had given Jake the nickname “Trouble.”

  The Colonel slowly raised his eyes from the tan parchment before him and gave Jake a blank, expectant stare. So began the dance. His Union blue jacket and hat were draped over the chair, but his pressed, white shirt was buttoned to the collar. He slowly laid the white plumed quill down upon the desk and took a pull from the cherry wood pipe angled out the corner of his mouth. As the silence drew out, Forsythe raised an expectant eyebrow. They were both masters of brinksmanship, and they’d done the dance more times than either of them would ever admit.

  Jake got the message.

  He stood straight and put up a salute considerably better than the one he gave the guards.

  “Is something on your mind, Captain?” Forsythe asked in a Missouri drawl identical to Jake’s.

  “This whole thing stinks!” Jake blurted. He knew he was pushing his luck, but the salute and the question made it legal. Jake was a good card player and knew that if he pushed just hard enough he could get a straight story out of the Colonel and maybe get the decision he wanted.

  Forsythe leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on the desk, deliberately forcing Jake to keep his arm up. The middle finger of the Colonel’s right hand tapped out one second after another.

  Forsythe finally returned a slow, mechanical salute, allowing Jake to lower his arm.

  Forsythe’s kept his tone level, but Jake couldn’t miss the iron in it. “Why, Captain Lasater, I believe you’d like to discuss the order to take Jackinaw Ridge. Am I correct in my assessment of your intentions?”

  “Hell, yes!” Jake nearly shouted. “Everyone in the regiment knows that one of those soldiers killed is the son of that pig-butchering war profiteer Cromwell.”

  Forsythe didn’t hesitate. “Why, that’s true, Captain. Mr. Cromwell did lose his son in a recent attack. Mr. Cromwell is also the man supplying both the grain and pork for the entire regiment. It’s commendable that you keep apprised of current affairs. Are you also aware that our supply lines were cut by Confederate assault units three weeks ago?”

  “Of course I am,” Jake conceded. “I lost seven of my own men in that attack.”

  “I am pleased to know that you take such serious responsibility when it comes to keeping count of the soldiers under your command. What you have obviously failed to realize is this places me in the less-than-envious position of still keeping you and the rest of my regiment fed.” Forsythe set his elbows firmly on the arms of his chair, laced his fingers together, and stared at Jake over the notch they made like they were the sights of a Winchester rifle.

  Jake got a bad feeling—he wasn’t going to win this one. Not ready to give up and unable to keep the surly out of his voice, he said, “Isn’t it a little convenient that Cromwell showed up only five hours after the attack, offering to step in and supply the regiment … at a substantial markup, I might add.”

  Deep down he suspected Cromwell had a hand in aiding the mechanized units that cut their supply lines. It wouldn’t surprise him if Cromwell had a Rebel heart. Half the regiment believed it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any proof, but Jake would be damned if he didn’t at least hint at the allegation.

  “Some would call Cromwell’s situation fortuitous, and with the correspondence he received from his brother-in-law Senator Willey, giving him considerable leeway in his pricing, there’s little I can do to alter the circumstances.” Forsythe paused and took a long pull on his pipe. He blew the smoke out with a huff. “Now, knowing camp gossip as I do, you are probably also aware that Mr. Cromwell discussed the matter of his son with me last night. He requested that we immediately attend to the Confederate irregulars.”

  Jake knew in that moment Colonel Forsythe wasn’t going to budge. “But—” he started.

  Forsythe cut him off with a raised finger. “What will you be having for breakfast, Captain?”

  The question took Jake off-guard. “Bacon and grits, same as yesterday … and the day before that.”

  “And where did they come from?” Forsythe asked slowly.

  Jake hesitated before answering. “Cromwell.” He felt like a zeppelin going down in flames.

  “Precisely.” Forsythe leaned forward and bored into Jake with narrowed eyes. “Captain Lasater, are you the most competent cavalry officer in this regiment?”

  They both knew the answer.

  “Yes, Colonel.” Jake’s tone held defeat not pride.

  “Do I need to ensure that Mr. Cromwell remains content with our supply arrangement? Thus ensuring that you and my regiment continue to eat something for breakfast?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do I have any choice but to send a small force up that hill?” They both knew of Forsythe’s obligation to go through the chain of command before moving more than a single company, which would take days Cromwell clearly hadn’t offered.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then buck up, Captain.” Forsythe’s tone was hardened steel. He took a long pull on his cherry wood pipe and gave Jake a steely glare. “I’ve read the reports, and Intelligence puts between forty and seventy irregulars up there, and they aren’t even dug in. You can beat a bunch of pig farmers, can’t you?”

  “Those reports are three days old … sir. That’s a hell of a long time for that ridge to get turned into a hornet’s nest.”

  “And if it did, Captain Lasater, then I mean for you to burn it down. You have your orders. Dis-MISSED!” Forsythe slowly picked up his quill and returned his eyes to the parchment. The dance was over, and all Jake had were broken toes to show for it.

  He wanted to argue but he knew he couldn’t go any further, and he wasn’t prepared to get busted down to a private—or worse. He saluted in proper, albeit somewhat exaggerated, military fashion, which Forsythe returned with eyes down and his quill again doing its dance across the parchment.

  Jake turned on his heel and marched up to the tent flap.

  “Jake?” Forsythe said with a hint of gentleness.

  Jake paused before the worn canvas and waited.

  “You know I don’t have a choice, right?” Forsythe asked. It wasn’t Colonel Forsythe speaking now. The question came from the man who had changed Jake’s diapers, cleaned oatmeal off his chin, and helped raise the boy into the man that
stood before him now.

  Jake heard it. Hell, he even felt it. He didn’t like it, but he had to admit it, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

  “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. Without another word, Jake pushed through the flap and made his way slowly through the tents, campfires, and men that surrounded the colonel’s tent. He suddenly wished he was back home and that the war had never started. For a fleeting moment he considered jumping on his horse, just heading out and disappearing into a western sunset, leaving the horror—and politicking—of the war behind him. He shook his head, wishing he didn’t take his sense of duty and honor so seriously. If he cut and run he’d never be able to look at his father’s grave without feeling ashamed. And, truth be told, he didn’t want to let Forsythe down. The colonel was as close to a father as Jake had left.

  He briefed his company with the bad news, and they all wordlessly ate a breakfast of grits and bacon. Every soldier in the company knew the score, and none of them wanted to talk about it. They also resented each spoonful of Cromwell’s grits, every mouthful of bacon, but hunger is hunger and a man can’t live off pride.

  As Jake looked at his men, he realized the whole camp seemed more quiet than usual. The lull was broken only by a murder of crows gathered high above in the full branches of an oak. The crows chattered and chuckled amongst themselves. Their presence filled Jake with an uneasy feeling. He’d learned as a boy that crows were an omen of power and change, and he’d come to trust them. Unfortunately, they never made it clear whether the change was good or bad. The only change Jake could see ahead was probably a lot of good men killed. His guts churned with anger and frustration. He’d left Forsythe’s tent with only the suspicion that he was in for a rough ride, but with the presence of the crows, he no longer had any doubt.

  Jake stood, cast a forlorn glance at the murder above him, and nodded to his men. Then, like the soldiers they were, they mounted up and raced along Rabbit Creek as if the devil rode behind them. Jake hoped that a fast pace would keep the rebel emplacement from getting any warning. He cast fleeting glances at the company spread out around him in the forest and wondered how many of them would be dead soon. Politics, he cursed as he spurred his horse to an even faster pace.