Blood Ties by Quincy J. Allen

position. A central platform within the terminal allowed passengers to disembark and make their way to ground level via a grand spiral staircase that Moritz Sigi had spent a fortune decorating.
    The staircase had deep crimson carpet all the way down, and artwork from around the world decorated its walls. There were chandeliers that glowed with bright, electric light powered by Sigi’s own steam-driven generators housed in the deep basement of the building. An army of handlers offloaded cargo into large elevators that took goods down to street level and waiting wagons.
    When Sigi had heard about Central Pacific looking for a location for their terminal, he shrewdly purchased the lots adjacent to his brewery and agreed to build the terminal specifically for the Central Pacific Line. He offered it up to the CPL for a fraction of its actual cost. Every crewman and passenger who came through Denver in a zeppelin would have to go through the Colorado Brewery to get to the city. And Sigi was free to charge non-CPL airships heavy docking fees. He also employed the crews that loaded and unloaded zeppelins, and all airships paid for that service.
    Jake and Cole hitched their mounts in front of the brewery and grabbed their saddlebags. Cole hefted the Thumper and they walked inside. Music washed over them as they stepped into the cool interior. Off to the left, well away from the bar, stood Sigi’s automaton band, which had been a real draw from the first day Sigi had either bought or rented it … or them . Jake wasn’t quite sure which.
    There were three automatons—shiny, clockwork-driven machines fashioned in the shapes of men. They wore bright clothing in a contemporary style. The gold one played drums in the back. The silver one played a guitar, and the bronze one had some sort of small piano keyboard that he held in his hands. He would occasionally blow into a tube that connected to the keyboard and played it like a weird, electric piano. They all sang, their mouths opening and closing stiffly, but the music sounded wonderful to Jake’s ears, and the harmonies, mechanical though they were, came out sweet and clear. Without skipping a beat, all three mechanical heads turned towards Jake, and their faces appeared to smile stiffly at him.
    “Them fellers, if you can call ’em that, have voices sweet as honey,” Jake observed. Cole nodded in agreement. As they headed for the bar, the automaton with the keyboard kept his eyes fixated on Jake.
    “Musta cost Sigi a fortune,” Cole added.
    The Colorado Brewery was, without a doubt, the largest and finest saloon Jake had ever set foot in. Its extravagant interior was done wall-to-wall in dark stained oak. Great copper vats lined up behind the bar, with pipes going in every direction. Sigi might be a drunken sod most of the time, but he had a grand vision when it came to the business of drinking. Truth be told, Jake thought he made some of the best beer on either side of the Mississippi, none of it as good as Cap’n Plat, though.
    “Two Cap’n Plats, Clara,” Jake said to one of the buxom barmaids behind the long, brass-finished bar.
    “Coming right up, Jake,” she said and gave him a more than friendly wink.
    Cole shook his head. “I still can’t believe you and your old man are the ones who came up with Cap’n Plat.”
    Jake shrugged. “Dad was a hell of a beer maker, and I’ve liked the dark stuff since I was a kid. Coming up with Cap’n Plat was one of my favorite summers with him.” Jake chuckled sadly. “He was an awful businessman, though.”
    Jake and Cole moved to a table near the door, and Jake proceeded to empty the spent cartridges from his Colt, replacing them with fresh ones. He started to put the spent one into one of the pouches on his gun belt and then caught sight of Marshal Sisty in the doorway. The marshal stepped into the brewery, scanned the interior, and locked eyes with Jake, giving him a concerned nod. Jake slid the Colt back into its