All four horsemen fired at once, but the Tommy guns barked out a loud response.

Two of the horses reared, including Redhead’s. He pulled back on the reins and galloped off, trailing blood from multiple shots.

Rip and Blair each took hits from the old pistols. They rolled to either side, Rip to the left and Blair to the right.

The man in front wheeled his horse away, galloping down to the next intersection before turning back and charging the carriage again. He managed to pop off two more shots, one plopping into Blair’s shoulder.

She glared at him and sprayed bullets at man and horse, knocking both down to the street. They died before hitting the cobblestones, the great beast sliding from its own momentum on a carpet of blood.

Rip came out of his roll and squeezed off a short burst at the horseman on the far right, aiming up for the man’s face. He fell backwards off the saddle, his head riddled with bullets.

The final horseman shot three more times, emptying his pistol. Two of the bullets sunk into Rip’s chest before he could swing the Tommy gun around and squeeze off one more short burst.

When the shooting stopped, three Luddites were down along with one horse.

Blair walked over, bleeding from her shoulder wound.

“What do mean, ‘save the horses?’ You’re as bad as Mr. Twig.”

Rip smiled at her as he swapped out drums on his submachine gun.

“We need to replace the ones they killed. For our driver. Fair’s fair.”

Her irritation faded as she acknowledged the logic in his statement. Then she walked over to check the bodies for loot.

A policeman arrived soon after, followed by a steam truck filled with cops. Soon, blue uniforms swarmed the area. Rip and Blair put their guns away, just to keep everybody calm. A harried police sergeant asked them to give statements to an officer with a notepad.

Rip decided their RVS badges helped a lot in dealing with the police. While they remained suspicious of everyone, the officers did seem to acknowledge that Venture Society people held a modicum of authority when dealing with shootouts and other violent episodes.

A horse-drawn wagon with “Morgue” painted on the side showed up. The dead men were placed on stretchers and loaded inside. The police sergeant ordered two officers to direct traffic around the dead horses until a glue factory wagon arrived.

No one had any objections to the carriage driver swapping out horses. He looked regretfully at the two dead animals he left behind. The first Luddite horseman shot both in the head and they had died instantly. It seemed clear the driver had been attached to them and had not treated them poorly, like some.

His two replacements were unused to being hitched, but after some soothing words and a few handfuls of sugar cubes, he was able to coax them into working together in the harness.

As twilight spread across the sky, the driver continued on his way to the Umbrian Businessmen’s Club without further incident.

Inside the carriage, Blair quickly pulled out a medical bag from her interspatial wallet.

“These things are very handy, Father. I’ll get you one for Christmas.”

“How are they made?”

Brooke looked at the item curiously, which obviously held quite a bit of content despite its relatively small size.

“I’ve no idea. Lyceum boffinry.”

“Pah. There’s no way we could capitalize on it, then. They Lyceum will sew up their monopoly faster than a claptrap.”

Ignoring her own wounds for the moment, she quickly produced an enhanced razor and a set of forceps. Then Blair went to work pulling bullets out of Rip. As she extracted each one, she dropped them into an empty tin can, making a clink each time.

“I’m afraid your shirt is ruined,” she said after cutting a bigger hole for the last bullet.

“I’ve got more in my wallet.”

He chuckled suddenly, making the other two glance at him.

“It’s nothing. I was just remembering an old ad campaign on my world, where the spokesperson always wanted to know what was in your wallet.”

He took the razor and forceps from her, wiped them off, then started the same procedure on Blair’s shoulder and arm. Rip felt a deep sense of relief that she did not have any bullets lower than that, especially since they sat across the seat from her father at the moment.

“Do you miss your world, Sir Coulter?”

“Of course.”

Blair grimaced as he cut into her flesh, then probed with the forceps.

“I’ve only been here a few days, so I guess I really haven’t had time to get homesick. But the card files for the tabulator which Dr. Oggolopoli used to bring me here were lost during our escape from Gretna Green. So, while it may be possible to send me back someday, it will take a great deal of time to make a new set, from what he said.”

“I see. Well, you seem rather sanguine about the whole affair.”

“I was taught to focus on the things you have control over, and not to obsess about things you can’t. And getting home is something beyond my control right now.”

He pulled with the forceps and the bullet slurped out of Blair’s shoulder. He dropped it into the can with a clang.

“How is it you got shot fewer times than me?”

“I’m a smaller target, Muscles. You’re a virtual wall of meat.”

Both men blushed in embarrassment at this remark.

Brooke coughed into his fist and said, “Quite so. We’ll let you both get cleaned up once we arrive at the club.”

-+-

Cream strolled this early evening through the filthy streets of Whitechapel. Many lamps remained unlit, either because they were broken or the lamplighter never made it this far into the blighted neighborhood.

He walked deep in thought, oblivious to the looks he received from thugs in the shadows. A large man, most thought twice before approaching. A few brave or particularly hungry souls had already tried jumping him with blackjacks and knives. Cream had dispatched them quickly with his enhanced razor, using a sharp jab to the heart to kill them before moving on down the street.

The paltry attempts on his life had done nothing to shake his mood, as he thought more about the best ways to inflict harm on the city.

He had been mulling this problem over the entire day, and the night before.

At last he stopped before a rubbish bin, lost in thought. There on top, a used newspaper fluttered in the light evening breeze.

He picked it up and glanced at the front page, reading it under a rare gaslight.

“So that’s what happened.”

He read on and even flipped to the interior pages.

“An otherworlder. Why do they extol him so?”

A hot streak of jealousy flashed through him. He suddenly seemed to realize the depravity of the Whitechapel location, while this stranger was feted by the king.

These simpletons had no idea of greatness. They were just spoon fed by words . . .

“The papers. The newspapers are the answer.”

In the darkness outside the pale dome of flickering gaslight, a prostitute stood on the pavement waiting for customers.

They locked eyes across the distance.

“Fancy a night out, sirrah?”

He smiled, flashing his yellow teeth.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

She smiled back at the prospect of a customer, and turned his way.

He crushed the newspaper in an iron fist and walked toward her with a sense of urgency.