Kincade jerked awake with the banging of the lock against the boxcar door. The door slid open, and after only a few centimeters, it caught and abruptly stopped jumping out of its runners. Kincade jumped to his feet and grabbed the opportunity and slim chance at freedom. Before, the other poor wretches in the box could do the same. He slapped a palm against the door and the door jam took a quick breath, braced himself, and heaved.

The heavy door did not budge. Kincade rallied and, with a yell that channeled the voice of Cerberus, the dog at the gates of hell. The door gave and slid open. Kincade was powerless against exhaustion and his emotional relief. Dropping to his knees before the rays of sunlight. Kincade was safe in the light, and the truth was shining on him; the warmth and sunshine were his shield and sword against this madness.

The boxcar denizens called out a cheer and began to crowd around him.

"Get back, you dirty dog," said a rough, deep voice outside the door.

Before Kincade could protest, a double shotgun barrel was jammed into his gut, knocking him back. The door opened fully, and six men were standing, ready, with shotguns aimed into the boxcar.

"You land rats stand, too," said the same rough voice.

From his position on his back, Kincade could hear his travel companions' protests.

"Let's us go!"; "Don't shoot!"; "I nut do nuffen!" cried the men one after the other, clamoring to let the words free even as they were held in place.

"Settle down, you lot. If'in one of the yous run, all of yous will die," called the same rough voice.

As the collected fury in the boxcar started to lessen when presented with the shotguns aimed directly at them, Kincade got to his feet. He watched a thin, red-haired man wearing respectable blue wool pants and a jacket— a uniform. On the right breast was the emblem.

A palm tree crossed with a cutlass, the blade turned up over the top of an airship in a cloud of steam and SRTS monogram initials. On the right sleeve was a series of looping lines indicating a rank. The shotgun stock braced against the leather patch on his shoulder, and the gun barrel danced across the men in the train car.

"Fuck me. It's Steamspire. We're dead!" One of the men in the box car called out.

The man holding the shotgun owned a beard speckled with grey. Kincade stepped forward. The gun stopped moving from prisoner to prisoner, pointing directly at Kincades chest. The soldier's finger moved from its rest on the trigger guard to the back trigger of the two.

"Don't open your mouth," he shouted at Kincade.

"I am Sergeant Reynolds of Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate, by Royal Commission. You will follow my instructions without deviation. You will follow my instructions without comment," he stated emphatically without pausing for questions.

"You will leave the car and stand in a single line, facing me. Attempt to run or talk, and these fine gentlemen will open fire on all of you," Reynolds said, quietly gesturing to the men in line behind him with a nod of his head and jerking the shotgun barrel with the directions given.

"Now, get down and stand in a line," Reynolds barked the command. The men shuffled out and lined up; most recognized the power behind the instructions and followed them without question. The others followed habitually like sheep, following the Judas animal down the cattle race to their fate.

"Now, get down on your knees and hold your arms straight out, before you," Reynolds instructed. He nodded to one of his officers. The man moved down the line stopping to handcuff each of them. The soldier settled before Kincade and latched the handcuffs around his wrists with two firm clicks. Kincade looked directly into the man's eyes, a queue to talk. The heavily rusted iron pulled his hands down toward the ground.

"Sir," Kincade started. In response came a swift kick to Kincade's groin, and he doubled over. Above his pain, Kincade was aware that a man to his right got up and started to run. The crunch of gravel under his feet was drowned out by a shotgun blast above him. Leaving his ears ringing. Then came the smoke and smell of gun power invading Kincade's nostrils and the metallic scent of blood.

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* * *

After hours of waiting outside the boxcar in the morning sun, the dead man's body remained where it had fallen. Seagulls, and the rats from the train yard, were competing for a quick taste of the remains. The birds and rodents had started to fight each other for the new food source.

Kincade could see his shoes on the dead man. "I wonder if he'd started to understand me. After all, he did not quite get to walk a mile in my shoes," Kincade thought. "Gallows humor already; this does not bode well."

The prisoners were left waiting, sitting in the sun, in the shadow of the boxcar. Kincade's mind began to wander and explore the last few days.

"Had it been days or maybe a week?" he said aloud. He wondered if Amelia was missing him and vowed that he would return to her and his life soon. But not until he had a pound of someone's flesh for this egregious error. And, whoever is responsible for this will be hauled before a Justice. Harry will help me with that. "He's a good man," he thought, just before a flash of memory jumped into his thoughts. The shape of the man, the one who had given the orders when he was attacked, who was that?

In the shimmering heat, Kincade watched as a slim, short man in a black robe walked towards the group, carrying a large carpet bag in one hand and a book tucked under the other arm.

He approached Reynolds. "Sargeant, hold this," he said, opening, then handing over his bag. The small man rummaged around in the bag, pulled out a white, elaborately curled wig, and placed it on his balding head, brushed the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate monogram on the left breast of his robe with the back of his right hand.

"Very well, Sargeant, let's get on with proceedings. I don't have all day," he said.

"OK, you dogs stand, too, and on your feet," barked Reynolds. At the same time, he nodded to his officers, who moved around the prisoners, randomly kicking them into action.

Once the chained men were on their feet, the man in the wig cleared his throat.

"I am Justice Archibald Paris of Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate and under the orders of their majesties of Great Britain and the commonwealth dominions. You are all guilty of the crime of vagrancy, making you eligible for compulsory service with the Steamspire, as mentioned earlier, the Royal Trading syndicate. It is incumbent on me to confirm you are destitute and cannot pay your fines. As such, I will ask you to take a step forward to refute your guilt," Paris proclaimed.

"Sir, I am Kincade Rollins, a gentleman industrialist of Wellington. I am here in error," Kincade blurted out.

"I see," said Justice Paris. "Can you prove this claim?" he continued, waving a hand toward Kincade. "I ask because you seem to be without the refinement of such a person. Indeed, with only a single sock and smelling of the privy," he finished.

"Sir, my current appearance is merely an outcome of unfortunate circumstances. I assure you that should I be permitted to contact my family, I shall produce documentary evidence. However, for now, Sir, my carriage and baring should be sufficient to prove my assertion," Kincade concluded.

"Indeed. You seem to have an education. However, education is not evidence of the innocence of your crime." retorted Justice Paris, who chuckled at his little joke.

"Sir, I implore you not to dismiss my plea for clemency. I reaffirm that I am, indeed, a gentleman with means and property," Kincade pleaded with Justice Paris.

"Say that I am inclined to believe your... assertions, as you put it," Justice Paris waived his open hand in the air.

"Sir, it would be simple to send a telegraph to my family," Kincade replied.

The prisoners in line with Kincade were becoming visibly agitated at the exchange between the two men, sensing that Kincade's plea was meeting with receptive ears. Then one of the others stepped forward. Kincade recognized him as Shamus, one of the men who would not return property and was wearing his waistcoat.

"Look, see here, old man. Err, I am also whats you also call a gentleman and are well deserving of, er, pardon," he stated, chin outstretched. The whole line of men joined in a chorus of pleas at that queue. One of them started yelling, "I is a right toff!" again and again.

"I have had enough of this man's gibbering, Corporal," said Justice Paris.

At that queue, one of the Corporals stepped forward with an outstretched hand. The prisoner was ready for him and ducked inside the arm, delivering a bone-crunching head butt. The Corporal and his shotgun dropped, and the man and the gun fell hard. Shamus looked at Paris and started to run at him. Reynolds dropping the carpetbag, swung the butt of his rifle up and into the Shamus' face, dropping him. The crunch of the gavel competed with the crunch of Shamus's nose.

Faster than the span of a clock's secondhand ticking, Reynolds brought the shotgun butt to his shoulder. Aiming back towards Kincade, he panned his aim left-to-right across the disheveled line of prisoners.

"Settle down, now, doggies. We will have no more of your lip, or I will put you down." Reynolds screamed at the stunned prisoners.

Kincade looked down at the unconscious man. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, but he made no other sound. Neither did the others in the line.

"I have had enough of this poppycock," said Paris. "All of these men are guilty. There is no doubt of that. The sentence is to be served onboard the airships of the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate for no less than two years," he said.

"No, Sir. No. I am not a criminal," shouted Kincade, stepping forward. Gerald grabbed his arm.

"Remember the guns, son. Remember the guns," Gerald hissed.