Patriot's Game (Engines of Liberty Book 3) Read online

  ENGINES OF LIBERTY

  PATRIOT’S GAME

  Published 2016 by DreadPennies USA, via the CreateSpace platform.

  Engines of Liberty: Patriot’s Game. Copyright 2016 © by Graham Bradley. All rights reserved.

  This entire novel was written by one dude who mostly stared into the digital bleakness of a six year-old computer monitor, hopped up on natural Argentinean yerba mate, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it could someday make him eleventy jillion dollars. The dream lives on. No part of this publication, be it the text or illustrations, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, ranging from carrier pigeon to telepathic emission, and maybe even more than that, like digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, tattooing, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a Web site, without my expressed permission, most likely in writing, unless you’re just quoting it for a review or an article or something, in which case by all means, spread the word. Basically all I ask is that you don’t steal this book, distribute it for free, or for profit for yourself or something, ‘cause that’s not cool. Even if I were an eleventy-jillionaire, the principle stands. And it’s not like I wouldn’t spot you five bucks for some tacos in that situation anyhow, you know? Thanks, go Colts.

  Cover illustration by Carter Reid (www.thezombienation.com)

  Interior illustrations by Graham Bradley

  Got inquiries? My Twitter handle is @GrahamBeRad

  I’d give you an email address, but I get enough spam as-is, so just Tweet me.

  As of 1 July 2016, this book is not registered with the Library of Congress. I reserve the right to change that as soon as I have the resources, and/or feel like doing so.

  Grahampbradley.wordpress.com

  Printed in the good old United States of America.

  PATRIOT’S GAME

  Engines of Liberty, Book 3

  . Graham Bradley .

  Also available:

  Rebel Heart

  Suicide Run

  DreadPennies USA

  For Nana, who never missed a birthday, and always believed I could do this from the start.

  And for Grandpa, whose final gift to me made this book possible. We miss you, Papa.

  “Do you want to know who you are? Don’t ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.”

  -Rebel Benefactor Thomas Jefferson

  Date Unknown

  And now the conclusion

  to the Engines of Liberty trilogy.

  CHAPTER 1

  A brilliant November sunrise lit the eastern horizon, and it was no longer safe to fly.

  Amelia eased off the throttle and slowed the wyvern mimic over a dark Philadelphia swamp, checking the dashboard compass to confirm the location. This place hadn’t always been so muddy, and she knew of a few solid patches of earth to land this heavy machine.

  Using the foot pedals to control the lifter fans, Amelia descended to a gap in the trees, partially closed by new growth. She nosed the wyvern through it and winced as the propellers chopped up the low branches. Unfortunately, there was no other way under the trees without punching straight down through the canopy, leaving an obvious hole. She couldn’t leave evidence like that; the

  mages might still be hunting them.

  Inside the mossy grove, she extended the landing gear and let the mechanical beast rest on a layer of cushy mulch atop harder soil. The mimic sagged, almost exhaling, and Amelia stifled a yawn as she finally, finally powered down the turbines. The silence left her with only the ringing in her ears to distract her, but it wasn’t enough to take her thoughts off of Dad.

  He couldn’t be dead.

  And yet there was no way he had survived.

  Her brain warred with her soul over the fact of his death. Dad had been her last great invincible constant since Mom had died. The explosion and the skeletons had taken that from her in an instant. How could anyone live through that?

  Oh, she was going to be sick. Get up. Move around. Do something. Yes. That would bring him back. She’d get to work, and she’d bungle her chores, and Dad would be right there to chide her. That was all it ever took.

  What about Peter and Brian?

  That was too much to think about. Amelia choked back a sob, causing Calvin to stir, and she bit down on her knuckles to quiet herself. Calvin lay asleep in the spacious rear of the wyvern, secured to the bench with a cargo harness. One hand rested on the big wad of cotton she’d taped to his chest. Would he live through the day?

  She had to stop thinking about death. One thing at a time, Amy, Mom had always said. Amelia forced herself through the motions of unbuckling the harness and groaned as she stretched the stiffness out of her legs. Outside the cockpit window, sunlight touched the steeple of an old moss-covered building, eliciting a faint smile from her. At least the hideout was still there.

  Bracing herself for the bite of cold air on her bare arms, Amelia lowered the exit ramp and hurried to the building a hundred yards away, mostly submerged in the hard-packed swamp mud. It had sunk nearly two hundred years ago. Now the technomancers used it as a secret base.

  She eyed the aged bricks, looking for the telltale mortar cracks that outlined the concealed entrance. The interior would be colder still, but down there she could build a fire, gather her thoughts, and maybe figure out what to do next.

  *

  He was dying again.

  Calvin’s mind swam through a suffocating fog, where past and present were indistinguishable.

  He was on the Saint George. Hamilton pounded that damned device into him. Shoved him off the back of a mimic. Laughed as he flew away.

  It just kept going. He relived every horror of his trek from Pennsylvania to Virginia, and when he did actually jolt awake, panting and sweating and cold, he had to remind himself that it was over, that he was alive, and that Amelia was there with him.

  Somewhere.

  Grunting, he rolled onto his side, only to come against the

  cargo net. His fingers fumbled with the buckles until he got it open. His muscles were frozen stiff, and the wound in his chest was quite unforgiving. By the time he’d worked his way into a sitting position, the floor was vibrating and a ramp dropped down to the ground outside. Amelia trudged up the metal grate.

  “Calvin! You’re awake!”

  “Ungh,” Calvin said. Every part of him hurt.

  Her soft hands found his shoulders and gently helped him lean back against the wall. “Sorry, I thought I’d be back before you got up. You shouldn’t move too much. You’ll just aggravate your wounds.”

  “Watch that be the thing that finally does me in,” he said, coughing.

  He hadn’t expected her to laugh, but she did. Oh, how he loved that sound.

  “That looks good on you,” he said.

  “What, this?” She considered her button-down blouse with a dark blue vest and a long skirt.

  “No, your smile. Only seen it once since I got back.”

  Her smile stayed when he said that, but slowly faded into a sad smile, with wet eyes and a tremble in her lips that held back a dam of tears. She had to be hurting; her dad was gone, and her brothers, well, who could say? The fire at Mount Vernon would have merited inspection by the local mages. Peter and Brian couldn’t have lingered in that area with a bunch of recruits, so they had to be on the run in the forest. How long could they survive?

  Calvin read the same haunting thoughts on Amelia’s face as her eyes stared off at nothing. When he put an arm around her and

  drew her close to his side, she melted against him, burying her face in the tatters of his shirt. She was warm, and she smelled like wood smoke, and he ached to take away her sorrows.

  He’d dreamed of their reunion for weeks. In those dreams, it had never looked like this.

  Too soon for his liking, Amelia pulled away, wiping tears from her eyes. Calvin dutifully looked aside as she composed herself.

  “I brought you some water. It’s not the best, but it’s clear and cold.” She offered him a leather canteen.

  “Man alive, I’d drink mud right now if I had to.” He snatched up the skin and tipped the open end into his mouth, ignoring her warning not to guzzle it too swiftly, lest he harm himself. The shock of cold water on his throat slowed him down.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked once he finished.

  “Bad. Cold. Sluggish. About what you’d expect. Might move about if I could warm up. What food have we got?”

  Amelia shook her head. “Haven’t found any. I’ve never had to look for it in here before. As for getting warm, I’ve got a fix. How’s your chest?”

  “Same as the rest of me, plus it itches.” He prodded at the bandages.

  “Don’t do that, you’ll break the scab. It can’t heal if it’s open.”

  “But it’s not open. That’s why it itches.” He hooked a finger under one edge and peeled the cotton back before she could stop him. Under the corner of the gauze he saw a hole where one nail had gone in. Though it was a deep purple and tender to the touch, the edges of the bruise were a greenish yellow, and the hole was closed.

  “I...wow. Is that where it got you?” Amelia leaned in to see it better. Calvin peeled the bandage just a touch more to see the wound from the sawtooth dial, and it had healed much the same way.

  “Well that’s coming along nicely,” Calvin said.

  “That’s impossible. That wound is only a few hours old.”


  He shrugged. “Hamilton did this almost two weeks ago.”

  “That doesn’t matter. It’s been open and infected ever since. I made it worse by tearing that thing out, and yet...wow. I wonder.” She trailed off, chasing a thought.

  “Wonder what?”

  “Are your parents latent?”

  “What’s that mean?” he asked.

  “Magically latent. Sometimes people with magic have kids that can’t cast spells or make potions. The magic is there, but it’s weak,” Amelia said.

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “I doubt it. My parents never said anything about us having magical family. I just figured we were normal duffers.”

  Amelia tapped her lip. “If you had magic, it would account for you healing so fast. Do you remember the last time you were sick?”

  He had to think about it. “I really can’t.”

  Amelia turned his palms up and studied the scars on his forearms from the day that the painter cat had attacked him

  and Edsel in the woods. Her hands were soft, her fingers gentle, tickling the skin in a way that distracted him.

  “Cal, I’ve helped my brothers treat injuries since I was little. Scars don’t lighten like this for many months, maybe even years after the wounds happen. That cat attacked you what, two months ago?”

  He almost laughed. “Maybe the scars healed fast, but my legs are still killing me. All that running really did me in. I’m definitely not a mage.”

  “You wouldn’t have to be. Latent magic sometimes works without you trying. It’s hard to notice because it’s so subtle.”

  Calvin shrugged again. “I don’t know much about my ancestors other than they lived in a Bavarian colony before Mother and Father came to Meryka.” He shivered and rubbed at the gooseflesh on his arms. It was cold in here, but Amelia’s touch lessened that a bit.

  She traced a finger around the darkest claw mark on his arm. “Well, we can try to figure that out later. Let’s get you warm, there’s something I want to show you. Can you walk?”

  “How far?”

  “It’s close. Come on.”

  Getting down the ramp was tricky. His legs refused to stand steady in his stolen boots, and Amelia had to sling one of his arms over her shoulders to help him down. In both heart and body, Calvin was still new to the idea of being close to a girl. He wished he could enjoy it more.

  Together, they hobbled through the swamp until he saw the outline of an old structure ahead, wrapped in vines, extending up from the ground.

  “We going to that tower?” Calvin gasped, sweating from exertion.

  “It’s a steeple. The rest of the building is underground. The First Patriots used this as their headquarters before Mount Vernon, back in the 1700s.”

  “Must be a tight fit.”

  Amelia laughed, but it sounded more like a huff as she helped him along. “It’s quite spacious inside.” She released his arm, and he leaned against the brick steeple, watching as she pulled open a hidden door that revealed a spiral staircase leading down. The emerging air smelled dank and smoky but warm. There was a fire at the bottom.

  “Think you can handle the stairs?” she asked.

  He made a sound that wasn’t exactly an agreement, and gave it a try. Halfway down, he wondered if the stairs might do the job that so many angry mages couldn’t, and put him in a grave. By the time they reached the bottom of the tight spiral, sweat made his tunic stick to his chest, and Amelia almost carried him to a nearby bench.

  “Sorry!” she said as he collapsed onto it.

  “If there’s magic in my blood, it’s busted,” he whimpered.

  “You’ve just been through a lot. Catch your breath, okay? You’re going to like this.”

  She took a small electric light from her pocket and mounted it on the wall next to an old mirror. The light reflected up at another mirror on the ceiling, then to another opposite it, bouncing off seven or eight more and casting a yellow glow over the wide open space. As Calvin’s eyes adjusted, he saw that he’d grossly underestimated the size of the place.

  Four high pillars supported the ceiling, and there was an upstairs wing on either side of the building that looked out over the main floor, where Calvin and Amelia stood. Two aisles of pews ran parallel from the back wall to the elevated stand up at the other end. The very front row consisted of individual chairs. Twin sets of steps led to a podium on the elevated stage, allowing people to ascend from either side. The very back wall of the stage had once held a giant window, but the frame had long since been filled up with a mixture of brick and oak planks.

  Calvin twisted around to see the rest of the enormous room; the wall behind him was covered with brass pipes of various sizes, arranged in such a way that suggested to his eyes a machine.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

  “It used to be an organ. They use air pressure and different-sized pipes to make music,” Amelia said. “That one hasn’t worked in two hundred years.”

  “Oh.” What a waste of such beautiful craftsmanship.

  Amelia went to a tall closet on one side of the room, retrieved

  a long blue coat from a hanger, and carried it to Calvin. “Here, you look like you could use some new clothes.”

  “That bad, huh?” He took the coat. It had a rise-and-fall collar, cuffs, lapels, and a buff wool lining. To top it all off, the buttons were metal, not wood like he was used to. His wool merchant’s eye immediately recognized the quality of its making. “This was just sitting down here?”

  “Yeah. Dad kept a bunch of them on hand so people could

  stay warm overnight. Even in the dead of summer, it’s cold down here, and the fireplace takes forever to warm it all up.”

  Calvin slipped the coat on. It practically sapped the chill from him, eliciting an involuntary moan. “Wow. Thank you.”

  Amelia smiled her sad smile and looked away as she fiddled with her own coat. An awkward silence stretched between them, and he cleared his throat, eager to fill the air with words.

  “How did this place end up down here? Surely Washington’s men were building stuff underground back then,” he said.

  “Aquamancy,” said Amelia. “Water magic, I mean. When the mages found out that the rebels met here, they artificially raised the river and dragged the building down with most of the people still inside. It stayed that way for decades before the next wave of patriots could organize and clear it out.”

  Calvin didn’t want to imagine what that must have been like, finding those bodies as they went. “But it’s not a headquarters anymore?”

  “Not really. Here, can you stand?”

  “Yeah.” He took her hand and pushed off of the pew, working past the stiffness in his legs as they walked to the west wall. Most of that side of the room was covered in small notes and photographs, forming a misshapen pattern from floor to ceiling.

  Each note was written in a different hand, and a wooden sign hung over the center of the wall. Calvin had to squint through a layer of gray dust to read its inscription.

  IN MEMORIAM

  Gone. Remembered. Loved.

  “This is the Wall of Heroes. All of these people died fighting the mages,” Amelia said. “We’ve kept this record for generations.”

  General Washington’s name was under the sign, surrounded by more old-sounding names that Calvin didn’t recognize. As the names branched out, the entries looked newer, and came with photographs instead of portraits.

  “So many of them,” he whispered. “I had no idea.”

  “And these are just the ones we know of.” Amelia touched an old photograph of a lady in her late twenties or early thirties, with black hair; she could only be Amelia’s mother.

  Edith Wilson McCracken

  b. 1944 (New Hampshire), d. 1978 (Maryland)

  Gunnery specialist, 38th Mimic Brigade, “Steel Jackets.”

  Struck down in active retreat; final words known but to God.

  God. Calvin had heard of that at school; it was a forbidden concept, one that invoked treason against the monarch. The only supplication one could legally make to such an icon was embedded in the imperial hymn, “God Save the King.” Had the First Patriots