speeding back and forth.
She had seen Mexicans before. They came through the San Joaquin valley and picked the crops every year, but the Mexicans here were different. They didn't seem to be passing through, they looked like they lived here. Faye saw other colors of people for the first time too. They were just part of the crowd, working just like everybody else, and nobody here seemed to pay them any extra mind. She tried not to stare, because that just didn't seem polite.
When she looked up, the sheer massive tallness of the surrounding buildings took her breath away. A great black shadow was moving down the street, and she nearly broke her neck craning her head back to watch the super-dirigible passing overhead. She watched the giant bag until she could no longer track it behind the big buildings and it was the most magical thing she had ever seen.
San Francisco was supposedly one of the least harmed cities by the depression, being such a mighty cosmopolitan hub of commerce. Having all of those military folks stationed at the nearby Peace Ray Station spending all their money here had to help things. Faye could only begin to imagine how this place could have possibly been any fancier four years before. Compared to the Vierra farm, or especially the shack she had lived in before that, San Francisco was astounding.
Gilbert had told her about how taxicabs could drive her right to the address on Grandpa's note for a fee. At first she thought that sounded absurd. Paying somebody good money to ride when you could just walk? But her foot still hurt from the stupid beetle and the city was so overwhelming that the idea of walking across it was terrifying, so she got in line behind the other travelers waving at the curb, and studied them, so that when it got to be her turn she wouldn't look too much like a stupid hick.
Faye was so distracted by her new surroundings that she didn't see the man watching her from the steps of the train station. He paused long enough to crumple and toss a telegram sheet before following. Unknown Location Sullivan's head hurt, and the inside of his mouth was dry and tasted like he'd been chewing on rotten mouse- flavored cotton balls. The first thing he saw as he came to was a cup of water sitting by the side of the bed. Forcing himself up with a groan, he reached for it, but the fresh stitches in his arm and chest pulled and burned. His head swam, so he had to give up and lay back down.
The water just sat there, taunting him.
At first Sullivan thought that he was really dizzy, because the tiny room seemed to be swaying, but then he saw the vibrating ripples in the water cup, and realized that it was the room that was moving, and not him. There was a rhythmic noise coming from under the floor, and after a moment his fogged brain put together that it was steel wheels on a train track. The thick curtains had been drawn, but enough light leaked around the corners to indicate it was afternoon.
He was on a train, in a private luxury car, apparently.
He vaguely remembered stumbling up a ramp under his own power, being led by the German on one arm, and the fellow with glasses on the other, and at some point he had wound up in a wheelchair. The trip from the Rasmussen was a blur, and Sullivan knew that he'd lost a lot of blood on the way. That swordsman had stabbed him good. It was only through luck and the timely intervention of the two strangers that he hadn't got his head chopped off.
Sullivan frowned at the water, contemplating his next move.
There was something fishy about the swordsman. The goons he'd popped had been Lenny Torrio's boys, but the Japanese was way out of Lenny's league. He'd never met someone with a Power like that, or with the ability to adapt so quickly. Sullivan had been challenged by all sorts in Rockville, and he'd always won because he was meaner, tougher, and faster than the other guy. This one had been different. But he'd still managed to squish him like a bug, nonetheless. He hadn't used his Power like that since he had last lost his temper. That time had got him sent to prison, but strangely enough he felt equally justified in both uses.
It hurt to move his head, but he tried to rise a bit. There was a wheelchair shoved in one corner, blocked in by a regular wooden chair so it wouldn't be able to roll about. Several bloody towels were piled on it. Beside the water cup was a leather surgeon's bag, still open, and a few implements were sitting on a white cloth. He couldn't remember a thing, but apparently he'd had one hell of a night.
One wood-paneled wall slid open, revealing itself as a door. The man that entered was in his forties, short and chubby. 'Good afternoon, Mr. Sullivan. Glad to see you're awake,' he said, walking over to the bedside, humming absently. He spared no time manhandling Sullivan's arm so he could inspect the stitches. Sullivan cringed in pain, but the man didn't seem to notice. 'Hmm… Not my best work, but you're not dead, so I'll call it a win.'
Sullivan nodded his head at the water. 'What? Oh yes? The side effects of opiate based pain relievers can include cotton mouth, which can be rather unpleasant,' the man stated matter-of-factly. It took him a second to realize that Sullivan didn't want a medical lesson, he just wanted a drink. 'Oh, yes, sorry. Here you go.'
He managed to spill half of it, but Sullivan cherished the victory over his enemy, the cup. 'Who are you?' he finally croaked. 'Where am I?'
'Dr. Ira Rosenstein. I was harassed by Mr. Garrett into coming on this trek. Mr. Koenig is in the next room getting some sleep. They had a late flight. I believe Mr. Garrett is in the dining car. I tried to tell him that I would prefer for you not to move for several days, but he was adamant that you must return to California immediately. The General must be briefed on the presence of an Iron Guard. Can you imagine? An actual Iron Guard acting with impunity within the United States? But of course you can, obviously. You did kill him after all, and in a particularly spectacular manner, if Heinrich is to be believed, though he does tend to embellish.'
Sullivan just nodded, as if he had any clue what the doctor was talking about.
'You will need to take it easy for a while. Your physical condition indicates to me a rather intense life-style. In addition to what I attempted to fix last night, without my regular staff or equipment, in a moving train car rather than a proper operating room, but I digress… As I was saying, you are suffering from several other very recent punctures, contusions, and lacerations. I would strongly suggest that you tone down your activities, Mr. Sullivan.'
'You a Healer?'
Rosenstein snorted. 'As if… No. I am a doctor. I work for a living. Yes, I do happen to be a Cog, so I am a particularly gifted surgeon when the opportunity arises, the finest in Chicago. But I went to medical school and have continually educated myself at every opportunity to further my knowledge of anatomy and the most cutting edge surgical techniques, if you will excuse the pun.' He smiled.
Sullivan didn't get it, but he'd had a really hard week. 'Sure…'
The doctor continued. 'Most people do not realize that Cogs are not just limited to machines or theoretical equations capped with bursts of magical brilliance. Some of us prefer to toil in fields of a medical nature. Whereas Healers'-he waved his hand dismissively-'know absolutely nothing of anatomy or biology, but work their magic from base intuition, and oh how everybody just loves Healers. They just put their hands on you and poof, you are all better. And then everyone showers them in money. Do you know how many years I went to school, Mr. Sullivan?'
'Uh… a lot?' He could tell it was a sore spot.
'Yes. A lot.' Rosenstein raised his voice. 'Have you ever met an Active Healer that wasn't an insufferable bore? Full of themselves with a God complex and an ego bigger than Lake Superior?'
Sullivan had never actually had a conversation with a Healer. They were, after all, the rarest of the rare of Actives, or so he had thought, until he met a Jap who could shrug off dozens of rounds of.30-06. He shrugged.
'Well, trust me, sir. They're all pompous, the lot of them. The only thing they're good for is publicity.'
Sullivan nodded. The miraculous ability of the Healer and the wondrous ingenuity of the Cog were the single biggest reasons Actives had been so accepted, even celebrated in American society. Some types of Powers did not fare so well. Heavies were generally valuable as dumb lugs, useful in industry, so he was in the middle of the pack. Other types were actually discriminated against, even despised.
Rosenstein checked the chest wound next, clucking approvingly at his work. 'I am rather surprised that you survived this wound. It struck bone, but managed not to shear through. It is almost as if your bones are extremely dense… hmmm… You should be dead.'
Sullivan didn't say anything, but he knew that it was probably because of all of his experimentation at Rockville. When breaking rocks had become too easy, he'd broken rocks in increased gravity. Sullivan had made his body as hard as his attitude. Even when he wasn't altering his weight through magic, he tipped the scales at eighty pounds heavier than he looked. Toward the end, when he was using all his Power, he'd broken rock with his
