“Can I take the bike today, Da?”

“No! You’ll break it again. Walk to school like I did your age.”

Chance snapped at his oldest son as he wheeled the bicycle out the doorway of his family’s flat and headed down the hall for the building’s front door.

“Besides, it’ll save me cab fare,” he mumbled quietly to himself.

No doorman serviced the entrance, but it nonetheless looked stately and impressive. The building catered to up-and-comers near Ethinium’s industrial sector. While Chance had long since accumulated enough money to place his family in an even more upscale home, he had resisted the temptation. Instead he chose to save additional money for the day he could move them out of the city altogether.

For now, the flat served them just fine. Already, Mrs. Chance spent time perusing glossy magazines she found at the newsstand that extolled the country life. He knew they would be buying a cottage by the sea someday soon. Or perhaps a little farm up north somewhere.

A farm would be nice, he thought. With a cow or two to milk in the mornings. Maybe some chickens. And a dog. I like mutton, maybe we can raise sheep. Hate to kill the blighters meself, though.

It was all still hazy to the couple, which was yet another reason to stay put for now, Chance thought.

Once we know what we really want, we’ll go out there and get it, he thought.

He pushed the main door open and wheeled his bicycle outside. Everyone out on the street stared as he mounted the newfangled contraption. Smiling at the attention, he began pedaling. He flicked the switch on the irritating little bell mounted on the handlebars as he picked up speed, giving fair warning to slower horses and lorries as he zipped by them in a rush.

At the intersection of Northumberland and Charing Cross, he slowed to a stop and hopped off the bike, choosing to push it north through the square rather than risk the ire of peelers keeping a sharp eye out for scofflaws.

The traffic here remained steady, but not atrocious. He made good time on foot.

Two blond men on horseback waited by a fountain, watching passersby. Chance noticed them, as he noticed everything and everyone while walking along.

When their attention remained fixed on him, eyes tracking his progress across the square, his alert level rose. When they eased their horses into the morning traffic and began following him, he slowly raised his eyebrows, reaching a decision.

As he entered the narrower part of the square to its north, known as St. Martin’s Place, he deftly hopped on the bike again and sped through the intersection, zipping past the peeler directing traffic.

She blew her whistle as he slipped neatly between two passing carriages and poured on the speed. The shrill cry of the whistle attracted the attention of every cop within a quarter mile.

The men on horseback galloped past the officer too, also ignoring the whistle and adding to her ire.

“They dinna pay attention to women!” she griped at the first fellow cop who trotted up to see what the matter was all about.

By that time, the horses and the bike were far beyond the square.

Chance pedaled easily, fat tires smoothly rolling over the cobblestones. He cut to the left and the right, tinging the little bell every so often as he blurred past horses and steam trucks.

Unencumbered by cart or carriage, the two men stayed up with him fairly well. They kept him in sight, speeding their steeds through traffic and ignoring the lines at intersections.

The center of the city quickly gave way to the industrialized north. Here, foot traffic thinned and delivery wagons comprised most of the lighter congestion. Officers directing traffic were few.

Chance, sweating now after pedaling hard for several miles, sneaked a peak over his shoulder. In a sudden break with no vehicles between them, the space between bike and horse opened.

The lead blond fellow dug his heels into the side of his mount and the animal galloped faster, cutting the distance. Chance turned back to the road and pedaled harder, increasing his speed.

He heard the crack of a gun firing behind him and swore as a bullet whippled overhead.

A slow moving cart loomed in front of him, and Chance jerked left as another bullet tumbled above his shoulder. He rushed past the cart, towed by an old draft horse, and immediately cut in front of the animal, making the gelding stop and jerk up in surprise.

The driver, who looked as old as the horse, rocked in his seat with the sudden change in motion. He raised his fist to yell.

“You young’uns! Scoundrel! Scalawag! What the—”

He ducked as the horsemen shot twice and raced past his cart.

The hoof beats quickly faded ahead and the old man sat up straight again.

“Where’re th’ bloomin’ peelers when y’need ’em?”

Grumbling, he shook the reins and his old horse started pulling the wagon again.