Gun Machine

“That’s right. I wasn’t done yet. Every piece had to be just right. Every piece had to have its own little bit of machine magic, its own piece of code.”

“What was it for?”

“What do you know about the Ghost Dance, Detective?”

Tallow frowned. “That’s older history than I’m usually good for. I know it was a Native American thing. Something magical about killing all the white people.”

“In one interpretation. The history is more complex than I really have the strength for. But the gist of it is that the Ghost Dance was a complicated ritual dance, rich in information, which, if completed correctly, would lead to several things. The removal of whites and all their evil from North America. The restoration of the native dead. And the renewal and replenishment of the land, free of all the structures imposed by the white man. Do you see where I’m going, Detective?”

“I don’t know,” said Tallow, slowly.

“I was building a ritual machine that, when completed, would do the work of the Ghost Dance. When it finished and ran, or danced or told itself or whatever, it would restore Manhattan to old Mannahatta, the island of many hills, and my people would return.”

“You’re not actually Native American, are you,” said Tallow.

“Not even a little bit,” the hunter agreed.

“And you built a machine out of murder weapons to destroy New York and replace it with the Happy Hunting Ground.”

“In my own defense, I was completely insane.” The hunter smiled.

“So I’ve heard,” said Tallow. “Sing Sing, then?”

“Yes indeed,” said the hunter, wriggling a little on his bunk. “My very own cell. Lots of books and paints. Probably some limited interaction with the state’s other guests, which I imagine will grow somewhat looser before too many years pass. Do you know where the name Sing Sing comes from, Detective?”

Tallow did know this one, but he shook his head anyway.

“It comes from the word Sint Sinck. The Sint Sincks were a tribe of Mohegan who lived on the coast there. Neighbors to the Lenape. Sing Sing is actually built on Native American ground.”

The hunter’s smile widened, to show his teeth.

Fifteen minutes later, Tallow was outside his car, patting his pockets for the keys. There was a crinkling in his jacket, and he withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes, untouched for a week. He looked at them and thought for a minute. He selected a cigarette, and tossed the pack in the gutter. He tore off the filter and lit the cigarette.

John Tallow, with his bruised fingertips, pushed a skein of smoke up into the sky for Emily Westover, and another for Jim Rosato.

John Tallow pushed a curl of smoke up toward someone else’s heaven for himself too, and then crushed the cigarette out and left for the 1st Precinct.

Acknowledgments

TK

About the Author

TK

Also by Warren Ellis

Crooked Little Vein

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2013 by Warren Ellis

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ISBN: 978-0-316-18740-4

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