-JULY 2023 TTALES PROMPT: VICTORIA REGEN

Cantate Dominatrix

She was not sleeping that night in 2086

“I’m looking for Tori — Tori Rain!”

To this day, I don’t know why I was chosen for the mission. Younger women were, in the aftermath of the Climate Crisis, when the supposed solution to climate change ended up making matters worse, very wary of anyone over 40. Nothing quite like a quasi-apocalypse to bring out the worst in people.

In the cities and towns battered by either incessant rain or the expanding desert, quite a few men above a certain age took it upon themselves to try spreading their seed throughout the younger population before they succumbed to an altered world. I was among those who had a hand in reducing that threat in the lawless towns and settlements and suburbs where lawlessness took hold; nonetheless, I was sixty-four years of age and still considered another rogue penis with a weapon.

Especially in the eyes of Tori Rain, who also had a hand in solving the problem — very violently. She was a well-regarded protector of women in the desert; she moved quickly and allegedly kept an arsenal that was the envy of the entire High Desert. She was a dominant figure among those communities, all the more so because she worked solo. Many called her “The Steampunk Mistress.”

Now we needed her guns and her knowledge of the long-abandoned cement plant in the Tehachapi mountains just outside the western Mojave Desert. That plant was a sorely needed outpost and fortress to keep tabs on the fascist tribes from Bakersfield — who we knew wanted to spread into the desert and effectively take over. Civil conflicts had broken out in the Midwest and Deep South, yet never in California. The people of the desert weren’t going to have it.

I agreed with the concept, except the part where I was told, “We want you to recruit her. You’re a father figure type, Jack — she’ll listen to you.”

“Father figure? Look, we weren’t among those lechers, Gary; you and I may know that, but she doesn’t. There aren’t ‘father figures’ anymore, at least not for women under thirty-five. I’ll just be one more dirty old man to her.”

“All of the younger guys are out manning the ramparts. Can’t spare even one right now. They’ve got the strength and stamina to go bouncing around that landscape at a moment’s notice, whereas you — ”

“Might fall and break my gray-haired ass? Fuck you, Gary.”

After another day of Gary’s cajoling, and two nights of surreptitious travel to the decayed Mormon village of North Edwards, I stood at the entrance to an ancient-looking group of mobile homes, and made my way to the only one with a dim light in the window, near the end of the dirt lane next to a surprisingly sturdy water tower. Gathering my courage, I called out.

“I’m looking for Tori — Tori Rain!”-

I heard the all-too-familiar sound of an M-7 automatic rifle being loaded.

“Who the fuck wants to know where she is?” came a gritty female voice from the water tower. She probably saw me coming from a mile away, even in the desert darkness.

“My name’s Fanning — Jack Fanning. I was sent by Gary and Laura Taylor, out of Baker; I’m certain you know who they are. I just wanna talk.”

“Talk about what?”

I was afraid that would happen. A paranoid warrior’s game of 20 Questions or However Many She Pleased...

“Look — I’m laying my weapons on the ground.” I slowly placed my M-4 and .44 Magnum at my feet, stepped over them with hands raised, and continued.

“We’d like you to join forces with us, to keep the Red County boys out of the desert.”

“They’ve done nothing to me, Jack Fanning from Baker.”

“Tori, would you please come down here so we can discuss this a bit more quietly?”

“So you can scoop up the rifle and open up on me? Fat fucking chance!”

Okay, so you are Tori the Steampunk Mistress. I was right in not concluding that the dominatrix sleeps tonight.

I stepped several meters further away from my weapons. “See? I’ll never get to them in time while you’re descending. Shit, Tori, can I get any more vulnerable? Should I strip naked, too?”

I heard a light snicker from the height. “Don’t even.”

I could hear her heading down the stairs leading to the base of the tower. When I caught sight of her she had the M-7 trained on me, and I figured the slightest twitch on my part would be the last thing I ever did.

She reached the ground, a five-foot-seven-inch woman of about thirty with light red hair, cargo pants and a beige tank top. The ignorant and foolhardy would simply see a youngster who was Spunky Personified; I knew I was looking at a self-taught warrior who took no shit and fewer prisoners, and who could turn an enemy’s wife into a widow at 700 yards.

I saw the night-vision glasses which explained her awareness of my approach, although she probably also had enough motion sensors spread throughout the area to let her know if a baby tarantula walked through.

“You can stand down with the fire stick, Tori. Mine are twenty yards behind me in the dark and my fucking arms are getting tired.”

She lowered her rifle and I did the same with my arms.

“Now that we don’t have to yell,” she began, “let me reiterate: those Nazi wannabes have done nothing to me or my own.” I detected a slight Russian undertone to her voice.

“You and I both know that if they get the smallest foothold in the desert, they will do plenty to you and your own, and everyone else’s own. They’re negotiating with the State of Jefferson crazies up north to build a goddam army.”

“The Jeffys don’t trust anybody, and wanna be left alone, Mr. Fanning. They’ll tell the Sieg Heil crowd to pound sand and fuck themselves at the very same time.”

I had to admire her for the level of intel she clearly had; from who or where was anyone’s guess. “You want to take that bet, Tori? A chunk of Red California is probably moving south as we speak, like the bad guys marching to Mordor.”

“Well, Mr. Jack Fanning — we’re both brimming with strategic info, and we both read Tolkien. So what exactly do you and the Taylors want from me?”

A swell of relief came over me — she had lowered her weapon and was willing to talk turkey. Not the Tori Rain I heard of from the High Desert grapevine.

“We ask for three things: your leadership, your fighting skills, and your familiarity with the old Martin Marietta plant outside what’s left of Tehachapi.”

“You think you know how to butter a girl up, don’t you? Get the plant plans yourself.”

I started getting slightly angry at this attitude. Either Tori Rain wasn’t fully cognizant of the threat on the other side of the mountains, or she was and just didn’t give two nano-shits.

“You know, such plans aren’t within reach of just anybody if they still exist at all. By the way, the first two requests are because we know who you are and what you can do. We’re also willing to pay you.”

Tori turned away and began walking in small circles, clearly mulling over everything I said. She stopped walking, looked at me as if to see if I was telling the truth, and walked toward the mobile home before halting.

She turned and stared up at the star-filled desert sky.

“Believe it or not, Jack Fanning, I don’t want the money or whatever you use for payment. If I’m being honest, I’d send an ICBM straight to the heart of the San Joaquin Valley if innocent lives weren’t at risk. That holly-roller cesspool of right-wing cat shit belongs in a radioactive crater.

“I still got questions. Who’s gonna stand watch at Fort Marietta if take command? Is the plant the only outpost you’ll have? Most importantly, who else do you have on board with this? The Taylors can’t be the only ones. Sing to me, Jack.”

I organized my thoughts quickly, because I knew my answers would either tip the scales in my favor or result in Tori sending me packing.

“I’ll answer your questions in the order received.

“We have around 200 volunteers ready to head to Marietta. If you accept this proposal, you can add to that force or subtract any number of them you want.

“In addition to the cement plant, 500, maybe 600 guerillas, stationed in groups of 50 manning the mountain fire lookouts and patrolling the base of the mountains around the ruins.

“You know, Tori — I just unzipped our collective fly; if we get wind that you’ve tattled — ”

“Oh, so you don’t really trust me?” she snapped.

That did it. “We really don’t trust anybody, Tori! Would you?” I hissed.

She knew I was right. “Okay, fair enough. Your shit’s safe with me. Pinky swear?”

I just glared. My patience had long passed the “Thin Ice” sign.

“Sorry,” she said, almost sheepishly. “Now, last question. Who else have you talked into this?”

I gave her a cocky half-smile, just for effect.

“We have the Pleiades.”

The words had barely left my mouth when her scowling response came. “Oh, bullshit, Fanning.”

“I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“You pulled the Seven Sisters onto your side? They don’t take sides, Jacko. They’re bounty hunters and I’m sure even you know that.”

“They have a new leader who literally came out of nowhere after Mother Meaca died a few months ago, rest her soul,” I said. “Rumor is this new boss knows something about the Red Boys and some factions from the coastal cities that didn’t show up on anybody’s radar. She volunteered.”

Tori was silent for quite a while. “Meaca’s…gone?”

“She was 96 years old. Toughest human I ever knew. We only found this out last week. The Sisters don’t exactly advertise their comings and goings. Everything we know is second - or third - or fucking fourth-hand. You take what you can get.”

“Who’s this ‘new leader’ then? Know her name?” asked Tori.

“I think it’s Shannon, or something like that. Tall woman. Quite a presence, I’m told.”

Tori let out a heavy sigh. “The Barefoot Babes volunteered, huh?”

“That’s right. Believe me, or don’t.”

The Steampunk Mistress walked right up to me, less than a meter from my face. Her eyes locked onto mine and drilled in. I’ll admit, it made me very nervous.

“I’m in.”

Shout-out and big thank you to my beloved May More for this prompt. I have a couple pix of Victoria in my work. She’s quite the Russian doll.