The rain had a mind of its own. Coupled with the wind, Nature's Mafia blew in every direction, sans sensibility. It assaulted the envoy from the Red Nations, from his first steps off the swarthy Vieux Port teeming with mammoth ships and grimy laborers, to the tram-filled, umbrella-dotted streets overpopulated by rushing French people. If they could still be considered French since the Hun overhaul and rebranding, that is. He trotted across the umbral tundra of this urban masterpiece, neutral ground for enemy nations, ground zero for spies, to see one clique and ruin it forever.
The buffalo hide duster with hairy shoulders and broad-rimmed leather tando hat saved most of Xever's clothing from disaster, but as he entered the double doors of the Hôtel de Noailles, opened by a stout gent in a smart red slicker, his gunmetal trousers from the knees down looked like the victim of a mob hit. An eager bellboy in red jacket and monkey cap gave him the bum's rush.
"Monsieur Clah, I was informed to await you! Bienvenue!" He cast a nervous eye at a stern concierge. "Consider this your Navajo home away from home!" He clicked his heels and about faced. Bellboy made a beeline for the chamber to the east. Xever followed.
A three-dimensional film of a beauteous blonde blew kisses his way. Brune Adenauer, film Fantasie. Someone shelled out top dollar to get her to do a propaganda piece. Even a shadow from Plateau City in the Southwest knew the world's greatest actress. Loved her too. Inside. Bad for the trade to crease one's face with feelings. The doll repeated the same phrase as he entered the chamber.
"Wilkommen to German Gaul. Everything you need, everytime you need it!"
The chamber had breadth and depth like an ocean liner, a huge cavern decked in paintings both Renaissance and Impressionist. Western decadence. The chandelier bore the only new touch, a spiral of reflective mylar, gemstones and bulbs dangling within. By a roaring fireplace they stood. Europeans. Two men. A woman. Elegant. Bland. Duplicitous. Smoking and murmuring, stopping dead seeing the newcomer.
"Herr Gauchot! Mister Xever Clah of the Red Nations!" Heels clicked, bellboy accepted a crisp Deutschmark and vamoosed while grownups talked with their suspicious eyes.
Herr approached. "Ya-at-eeh! That is the proper wording, yes?" He voiced hordes of confidence under a mocha moustache. "I wasn't aware of a meeting today." He took up a militant posture.
A hand raised by Xever, steel, skeletal, a timepiece surrounded by turquoise ovals imbedded above the wrist, bleak barrels below, encouraged Gauchot to retreat. "The Red Letter Group?" Eyes behind spinning ebony goggles and windswept black locks studied them.
"Yes," the broad gulped twice before the answer.
"Perfect." Pneumatic hiss made a good echo. Three flechettes struck three targets. All slumped over as Xever wasted no time on the exit. "You sold native arms to the Reich. Bad call."
They words heard were their last.
At the chamber door, bellboy tossed a set of keys on the pass, slick like. Xever doubled his pace, hit the morose, drenched street, the pushy people and found the getaway.
Into the comfort of a humming '22 Renault 50X he ducked, key in the ignition. He liked the 30" racing wheels, her long black hood and rectangular body. As good as native autos. Almost. Xever floored the accelerator, dragged the car down the road just as the flechettes released their surprise. Nitro detonator.
Windows at the fancy hôtel blew out, filled the street with chaos. He studied it in the rearview, relaxed as the 50X surpassed eighty mph.
Germany may have won the Sky War, but crossing allies? No. The lesson must be taught. Three down, an empire to go.
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NEWSFLASH! Dieselpunk Flash Fiction From The Legacy Universe
Short StoryIn the 20th Century, diesel power in Germany, Russia and beyond is life, competing against the superior micro-steam of America. Beside the grit and grime, fabulous architecture, panic in the streets, espionage, the worst war in history blooms and ch...
