THE DAYS WENT by and on the morning of the fourth one, Jesse’s assumption was proven wrong. His father had returned and was there with him as promised, though sadly unaware of his son’s presence.
Jesse wore a stiff black suit, gloves, and a dark cravat, looking out through misty eyes onto a sea of gathered people. He saw the silent faces of his father’s colleagues and business associates, motionless while dipped in mourning. Jesse himself was far from still, fidgeting with a top hat that was perched on one knee.
The downpour that had started earlier in the week hadn’t stopped, rumbling on the steep-sloped roof of the extravagant cathedral. A shower ran down the stained-glass windows like tears, casting rolling hues of muted color across the assembly. The noise grew overbearing at times, drowning out the minister’s words as he waved his arms beneath formal robes. The sound drew Jesse’s gaze upward to the lofty, ribbed vaults. There he admired the space, grand yet empty like his chest.
After a few minutes, Jesse lowered his eyes to stave off sleep and they met his father’s stoic face, embalmed. He wept once more before composing himself.
Maximillian had been laid in repose, nestled in a bed of satin that lined his coffin, which in turn rested atop a catafalque of cherry cloth. A silver plaque bore his name while the plain white coffin handles sparkled despite the gloomy light. Simple opposed to decadent, it was customary that all persons, despite their status, were equal in death and the judgement that awaited beyond. Thus, the richest of society – save the most pretentious of course – would suppress pomp and circumstance to avoid loading needless expenses on top of the grief already endured by those they were leaving behind.
The minister was wrapping up his comforting remarks and Jesse firmed his stance, knowing that he would be standing there for a while. Once the minister uttered his final words, the congregation rose and those in the front pews strode up a short set of steps toward the coffin, followed by those behind in succession. Forming a single file, they walked by Maximillian to pay their quiet respects.
Jesse was positioned beside his father’s head, shaking the hands of those who walked by him. He saw expressions of all sorts; some were sad, some clearly tired, while others seemed to suppress an urge to smile. He tried not to dwell on those for long. In fact, all those faces were forgettable that day, blurring together with each passing person. However, given the way the world worked, Jesse knew he would get a chance to know some of them more and even their motives as time passed.
The mindless process repeated countless times and Jesse’s hand was tiring. The line stretched on and his mind had already left, strolling in lands far outside the city walls where the sun was shining.
Suddenly, a leather-clad hand gripped his own rather tightly. Shaken out of his trance, Jesse darted his gaze up into waiting brown eyes.
In front of him was a man in his early twenties; something about him was different than the rest he had seen that morning. The stranger’s face was fresh, topped with black hair edged with a well-groomed beard. The suit he was wearing was appropriately black, too, yet filigreed with showy gold threads. A faint damask pattern flowed throughout and his golden ascot beamed nearly as bright as the grin he wore.
“That’s quite the handshake you have,” Jesse said, suspecting the man’s ostentatious manner extended beyond his attire.
Two figures accompanied him, standing to either side. Jesse’s eyes darted between them and he found them rather surly, even though they were well-presented with bowler hats hanging by the tips of their rough fingers. The one on the left was the more intimidating of the two, looking more like a scruffy brawler than a gentleman. The one on the right was just downright scary, especially when he showed any part of his crooked, yellow teeth. The trio managed to make Jesse edgy just by standing there.
“Strength is undoubtedly a quality possessed by superior men to have and present,” he replied haughtily, confirming Jesse’s suspicion.
Jesse could feel the man trying to twist his hand so his palm was facing upward.
“That may be the case,” Jesse replied, resisting a little longer, then allowing him to do so, “but I feel that the strongest of us don’t have the desire, or need, to flaunt it.”
The man scoffed at the notion.
“Whatever you say, my friend,” he continued, eyes narrowing. “Regardless, your father possessed those qualities in some capacity, both physically and in his ambitions, as did mine before he passed away.”
Jesse could feel the man’s grip easing at last.
“Forgive my ignorance, but I’m at a loss. Your name is?”
“Frost,” he replied, smattered with offense – surely everyone knew who the Frosts were. He withdrew his hand and shoved it in a trouser pocket. “Lucas Frost the Third, owner of Frost Enterprises.”
Jesse still had no idea who he was and wanted to reply that it was a pleasure, but that would have been an outright lie.
“Ah, yes, Frost!” he said anyway with emphasis on the surname.
Glancing to his hand, Jesse noticed that Lucas had placed a few scraps of metal in it. They were rough and misshapen, one piece longer than the others, coated with brown and white paint. Jesse gasped as he examined it closely, realizing the snowy tint was part of the Winthrope logo and that these were, in fact, pieces of the ornithopter his father used when he fled the tower.
Jesse’s hand trembled, the emotionless metal conjuring an emotion-filled memory of what he was told the night before…
Per Logan, three days earlier – in the hours that followed Maximillian’s departure – a small group of Rangers set out in the dim light from Blackstone Pass. They rode with the rising sun behind them and a storm far ahead, following the gently curved lines of the railroad. They were heading just shy of fifty kilometers from the town limits to look into claims of a raider attack. Expecting to find a gang of wastelanders preying on a group of travelers, or the carnage normally left behind, the Rangers were surprised by the lack of evidence of an ambush. Not a railcar in sight, there were no signs of any trouble as far as their eyes could see.
Removing a pair of grungy goggles, one of the men took out a set of brass binoculars from a leather satchel and surveyed the area. Flicking additional glassware in front of the eyepieces, he zoomed further into the surrounding landscape. Nothing immediately caught his attention but as the billowing soil settled to the south, he spotted a plume of what could be steam. As it was close, the group rode in that direction, cresting a small hill that bordered the Delgado a short time later.
Below them was the fresh wreckage of an ornithopter, its tanks still venting beneath crumpled wings as it was lapped by the cold waters of the river. The metallic, insect-like frame and bulbous glass were riddled with bullet holes, the obvious cause of both the crash and the report of an ambush.
Wasting no time and whipped by the same wind that relentlessly stirred up dust, the men looked for survivors, finding none. There was only a single, well-dressed body amongst the plundered heap of mangled metal.
From there, the Rangers radioed Blackstone and word traveled quickly, reaching the ears of the High Sheriff. Once he was aware of who his Rangers had found, he immediately contacted Diablo and made arrangements with the city to have Winthrope’s body returned.
He never made it to Barro, Jesse thought, the fear and pain his father endured singeing his mind. He never made it.
His heart sank to his feet; the hope his father lauded for the future was gone and the contents of his case had no doubt lost to the brutes that pillaged the debris.
“Apparently, the pleasure of this meeting is all mine,” Lucas said, his stern tone jabbing Jesse back to the present. “Very well then.”
He cleared his throat and began to make way for the exit. Donning his top hat while still inside the building, a few ladies standing nearby murmured with displeasure. They were met by Lucas’ piercing stare and a smirk as he tipped the hat, falling silent thereafter.
“H-how did you get this?” Jesse asked, unsure of the emotions he was feeling. They were shifting so fast it was hard to latch onto one for very long.
Unseen by Jesse, Lucas beamed.
Unseen by Lucas, Jesse’s upper lip quivered.
Lucas might as well have stabbed Jesse for all the pain it brought him, but Jesse knew better than to acquiesce to the man’s goading by responding in kind. It would have been ill-mannered to do so at a time and in a place where all animosities should be left outside. Outwardly, the young man remained cool but his thoughts raged hotter than a boiler.
Meanwhile, Lucas was apparently unbothered by such formalities, used to getting what he wanted given his status.
“I have my ways,” he replied confidently, stopping just short of the topmost step. He positioned himself where he could look over his shoulder right at Jesse. “I would be doing myself and my company a disservice if I didn’t have eyes, ears, and hands everywhere. You should take note. I simply thought you would want a memento to remember your father. It’s no large matter though; after all, it’s the thought that counts, right?”
Jesse didn’t respond and with a grimace, he placed the pieces in his jacket pocket so he could shake the next hand that was in line.
Lucas didn’t take that gesture very well; he wasn’t fond of being ignored and despite the procession, his temper flared. Marching toward Jesse, he heaved a portly gentleman out of the way. The man wobbled so much that he nearly fell over.
“I beg your pardon!” the patron grunted, his face swelling like a balloon about to pop.
Before the man said anything else, one of Lucas’ associates had appeared behind him, clamping a large hand on the round man’s shoulder. He squeezed.
“Well, I never…” the guest continued and the associate’s grip grew more forceful. The man’s knees quivered and he gulped, then fell quiet.
Lucas dropped his voice into a sinister whisper, staring at Jesse with a fire in his eyes.
“Listen,” he said to Jesse, who was staring at him intensely. “While I am offering you my sincere condolences for your loss, I sincerely hope that you realize a lot of those gathered here today see it as a gain. I want to be the first to offer my assistance, should you need it of course. Do not hesitate to get in touch; I would hate to see you end up like your father.”
Was that a warning, or a threat?
Jesse couldn’t decide so closed his eyes; much more of this and his fists might become ungentlemanly.
Lucas peered down at Jesse’s balled up hands and smiled, a low chuckle seeping out between his lips.
“That said, Frost Enterprises wishes you and the future of Winthrope Limited well,” Lucas stated, spinning on the spot. He departed, his thugs in tow. “Farewell for now, Jesse. I am sure the both of us will see each other again. I will look forward to that day with great interest.”
Jesse felt relief mixed with irritation and opening his eyes, Lucas was gone. Composing himself, Jesse reached out to the rotund man to finish his handshake.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Mister…”
“Newsam,” the man replied, smoothing out his stubby mustache. “Charles Newsam and yes, yes, I am fine.”
“Mr. Newsam,” Jesse uttered with a warm and thankful smile, “I want you to know that all things considered, it is a great pleasure to meet you.”
Newsam nodded politely, though his forehead had filled with confused wrinkles. He supposed Winthrope’s words were part of an inside joke, but nonetheless carried on bobbing his globular head.
“Why, um, thank you,” he said, coughing briefly before lowering his voice so his wife couldn’t hear his next words. “You know sir, had we not been in here, I would have liked to show those hooligans a thing or two.”
“Me too,” Jesse whispered with a subtle glance to the man’s wife, knowing that she had heard. “Me too.”
Taking a final look at the church’s grand entrance, Jesse saw Lucas standing in front of the open door. He was looking back at him, the rain coming down in heavy sheets beyond.
Jesse realized that no matter what he truly wanted, life was going to change for him even more than it already had. How that road would take shape he couldn’t predict, but in a few short days he would formally be in control of Winthrope Limited, and all the blessings and curses of the position would be seeking him out.
Watching Lucas open an umbrella only to hand it off to one of his men as if he were a stand, Jesse sighed. A part of him held on to the hope of bringing the world the change he wanted, but a larger piece realized people like Lucas Frost – remaining dry in the rain at the expense of drenching his own associates – would try to stop that from happening at any cost.