by D. L. Denham
According to Gibson, they could make it to the train station in six minutes if nothing interfered. But first, they had to get around the Fighter.
Four Monets wearing black-glassed goggles, piped hats, and long coats fired from behind parked vehicles. Several shots from their modified guns ricocheted off the armored cargo vehicle. From around the corner, five more appeared.
“Now we shoot!” Thursday said, sending a dozen pulses through the air, scattering the approaching men.
Ends kept point, his eyes fixed on the Fighter.
Thursday’s attention was drawn to three more Monets cornering their side of the street. Reho leapt, rolling through the ash to Thursday’s side, and released three shots from his rifle. Each shot opened a five-inch-wide cavity in the Monets’ chests.
“You took my blasted shot!”
“Didn’t look like yours to me,” Sola said, smiling at Reho.
The Fighter had now positioned itself directly ahead of them, but still unaware of their location.
“There is no way this Fighter is going to let us stroll past,” Gibson said.
“We can’t wait it out?” Sola asked.
“No,” Ends replied, recharging his blaster. “We’ll be swarmed by these guys if we pause any longer.”
“Wait here,” Reho said. “I’ll take care of the Fighter. Get the cargo to the station.”
“How?” Sola asked.
“Trust me,” Reho replied, grabbing two hand grenades off Gibson’s vest. He took the walkway leading to the Fighter, clipping the grenades onto his jacket. He stashed his rifle and pack against a hydrant a hundred feet from the Fighter. He unholstered his pistol and shot out the copper lamps ahead, blacking out the area.
He heard the steam-mule move behind him. They would take an alternate route to the station. With any luck, they wouldn’t run into any heavy resistance.
With their doors and windows closed off, frightened citizens waited out the violent conflict in safety. The new moon and thick clouds hid Reho as he skimmed the building’s wall, nearing the steam-fueled armored machine.
He took a mental inventory. His pistol contained thirteen rounds, with two clips on his belt and two grenades dangling off his jacket’s zipper. He would need to get close to the Fighter to even have a chance at taking it out. The center of the machine was a cast-iron boiler, which powered the rest of it. Hundreds of pipes ran across the metal frame, each powering a different part. One main arm contained a spinning machine gun; the other was equipped with a pair of pincers big enough to crush a gasoline. Everything has a weakness.
Reho had already spotted one of the Fighter’s vulnerabilities: it was built with human proportions. It had stocky, metal legs and a bulky, globe-shaped body, like a ball with massive, lethal arms. Its head was square and the size of a small car. Someone was in there, controlling it, defending the city from the Monets that were dropping from the sky.
He fired several shots at the Fighter, drawing its attention. Its response was exactly what he had expected. Its torso moved, twisted, then its legs lurched forward. He watched as it scanned the darkness. A faint glow at the Fighter’s head gave away its movements. He was not sure if the machine had night vision but thought it safer to assume it did. The Fighter scanned again, moving closer to where Reho waited.
He fired twice more, then tossed a hand grenade, taking cover behind a nearby building. Reho did not expect much from the hand grenade, but it did one thing right: he now had the Fighter’s full attention.
The machine hissed and whined, its spinning machine gun spraying bullets in a semicircle. Reho dove from behind the vehicle. Its rounds tore through some of the building’s metal as it attempted to lock onto him.
Reho rounded the corner and readied his pistol. The second grenade would have a different purpose than the first.
The Fighter pursued Reho at a speed he hadn’t anticipated. One of the massive legs grazed his forehead as he peeked around the corner of the now tattered building. The impact broke his skin, sending blood down the side of his face.
Reho dove under the Fighter, the one spot where the machine would be vulnerable.
To keep from being trampled, he had to anticipate the machine’s movements. At first he was knocked back and forth between its legs, but he was a fast learner. He could hear the whining sound of a leg lifting, then the cringing sound of steam escaping as it lowered its leg. Then came the inevitable thud of the leg hammering to the ground, followed by an earthquake-like aftershock in its wake.
Using his AIM as a light, Reho searched for a weakness in the Fighter’s underbelly.
Its body was impressive; thick metal protected nearly every space. It was scarred and dented, but there was no sign that it had ever been pierced. How much metal does it take to make something indestructible?
He spotted it. Under its belly, where the legs connected, there was a crevice where the metal did not completely join. This would be it. It has to work, what else—
Reho’s thought was cut short as the top half of the machine spun and fired into the distance. Had it spotted the crew? Reho felt a sting on his neck followed by dozens more along his neck, then his cheek, then down his back.
Red-hot shells glowed in the darkness, raining down from the spinning machine gun. The shells continued to pelt his skin. Pushing aside the pain, he pulled the metal pin in the hand grenade and shoved it deep into the crevice near the Fighter’s belly, timing the move carefully to avoid having his hand crushed by the creaking metal legs.
Reho rolled out from under the Fighter and slid in the ash as the explosion sent shards of metal flying into the air. An intense heat blanketed him, followed by the slushing sound of flowing water.
Reho did not look back.
Behind him, steam rose into the air, disappearing into the coal clouds that had destroyed the health of those living in Darksteam. A bubbly sluice of water roared down the gravel streets, passing him as he ran. The torrent of lava-like water soaked his boots and burned his legs as he sloshed through it. The ash on the ground floated to the top, making a morbid, soupy mixture.
***
The streets had been empty since the Fighter’s destruction. Reho had seen the zeppelin once more, farther east, its spotlight scanning the town. Our buyer arranged for a surprise. How important were these devices they were bringing? Did this buyer do this, turn rival political parties against each other, simply because he had the power to make it happen?
The train station was vacant. There were no Monets, Industrialists or their children with strange words. The Monets spoke English. What were the Industrialists speaking?
The station covered nearly fifty feet along the train tracks. The steam train still hissed, having been parked for less than half an hour. A round clock, its face at least six feet in diameter, illuminated the lonely platform: 7:58. Reho glanced at his Casio: 2:56. Was his time wrong or did New Afrika use a different time, like in the OldWorld?
The crew had not yet arrived. It was possible they had encountered resistance a few blocks over.
Reho adjusted his Casio and decided that waiting for the crew to arrive wasn’t going to help them get out of Darksteam any faster.
Everything in the town was dark, except for the light beaming down from the zeppelin, moving closer to the area he suspected Ends and the crew had traveled.
Chapter 6
Something exploded, sending a burst of smoke into the air a few blocks from the station. The vibration that followed shook its rusted infrastructure. Smoke continued to stream above the buildings, mixing with the thick clouds above. Farther away, to the west, another boom was followed by a flash of light. And out on the water, a storm had gathered.
Reho checked his AIM. The device had mapped the entire town, but that wasn’t what Reho wanted to see. He checked the air pressure; it had dropped significantly. As if on cue, a gust of wind sent a chill down his spine.
The rain flooded his vision as he made his way from the station toward the source of the
smoke. He switched back to the map; he still had another block to go. A gust of wind rushed through the street, slinging wet ash into the air. Reho shielded his eyes and wished he had grabbed some goggles off one of the dead guys when he’d had the chance. Lighting flashed again, revealing nine dead Monets on the ground.
Gunfire sounded from nearby. As he rounded the corner of Division Street, Reho saw the steam-mule, the crew pinned behind it. Ahead, several vehicles and a temporary barricade had prevented them from making it to the station.
The crew fired wildly from behind their armored cargo. Reho wondered whether the steam-mule had been damaged. The rain turned into a full-blown storm as Reho reached the crew. Sola leaned against the wagon, her eyes bloodshot and her hands trembling. Her weapon blinked red as she waited for the cells in the pulse rifle to recharge.
“Reho!” Ends said. The steam engine was still running, but they couldn’t access the controls without taking fire.
“We can’t move! There are too many of them firing, and they’re blasting us with these things!” Ends pulled a metal cylinder the size of his index finger from his pocket. It had a dozen spikes sticking out from it.
The steel bolt was heavy in his hand. It looked like a fishhook, designed to enter the skin and not come out. An eye loop had been welded to the top of it. Reho didn’t have to imagine what it was for. A cable attached to it would turn a gunfight into a fishing game.
“Gibson!” Ends called through the gunfire. He crossed Reho and butted Gibson with his rifle. Gibson immediately ceased fire. He had been firing an OldWorld nonstop since Reho arrived. Rain poured down his face and around his goggles.
Gibson had noticed steps near the building, about fifty feet way. “There’s a lower level.” He pointed past the Monets. “It comes out over there.”
They were low on ammunition. Sola’s weapon had recharged, but Ends had her wait. They wouldn’t last much longer unless they unpinned themselves and made a quick dash to the station.
The storm had done something Reho hadn’t expected. He searched the sky but couldn’t find any sign of the zeppelin. Its spotlight would have been the end to their travels; thankfully it was gone. Whatever kept it afloat, the storm was a danger to it.
Reho checked his AIM. The grid showed an underground level, just as Gibson had suspected. The plan was simple and it could work, if he moved quickly.
Ends reloaded his weapon for the third time since Reho arrived. There was no way they would last much longer at this rate.
“Ends!” Reho said through the blasts and over the roar of the steam-mule.
“I hope you have something.”
“Gibson’s got a plan.”
“Gibson?” Ends asked. “What did he say?” a volley of steel shots skidded across the top of the cargo as one sparked against Thursday’s rifle. Thursday kept shooting. Reho wasn’t sure if he was actually hitting anything; it sounded as though just as many men were still firing.
“I’ll come up from behind,” Reho said. “Don’t shoot me, and be ready to go.”
Gibson nodded. “I’ll cover you!”
Behind Reho, Ends grabbed his secondary rifle and blasted both barrels at the Monets. Grabbing two more grenades from Gibson, Reho launched across the street, protected from the fray only by Ends’ guns.
A few had taken notice as Reho positioned himself behind a vehicle parked near the steps. He fired three shots into a gaslight near the entrance and ran for the lower level.
Reho heard the scrape of metal and an ominous clanking somewhere in the darkness. Gunshots continued above. After every ten or so rounds, he heard a loud puft, followed by an even louder metallic thud as one of the fishing bolts hooked into something above.
Again, a scraping noise followed by a child’s whimper. “Shhh. Honey, don’t move,” a woman’s voice whispered to her child in the darkness somewhere to his right. Reho continued north to the stairwell that would take him to the surface, behind the barricade that the Monets had set up after pinning down the crew.
Mechanical hands reached through the darkness and latched onto Reho’s back as he lifted his leg to ascend the stairs. Powerful digits dug into his midsection, then flung him aside. Reho landed on the sublevel’s floor, his ribcage on fire, bruised from the contraption’s brutal grip. He heard someone crying in the distance. Reho felt for his rifle but couldn’t find it. He leveled his pistol but would have no target from where he crouched. As he darted toward the stairs, something embedded itself inside his shoulder. He spun around and felt wire wrap his chest.
Then, like a fish caught with a hook in its mouth, came the inevitable tug. Blood poured down his chest.
Reho pushed back as the line tightened. Not wanting to be dragged farther into the darkness, he reached for his knife and slashed at the line. The blade slid across the wire, and whoever—or whatever—was at the other end jerked hard. Reho hurried forward, loosening the wire’s tug, and wrapped the wire around the barrel of his pistol. The pain in his shoulder subsided for a moment as blood gushed down his arm and onto the entwined pistol. With enough force to fling a car, Reho jerked on the wire with all his might. The mechanism his opponent was using came loose and slid to a stop at Reho’s feet. It was the size of a rifle with a cast-iron barrel and reel built into the handle. The barrel was pressurized, capable of blasting out steel hooks at its target.
Whoever had fired the weapon was still in the darkness. Reho fired off two shots into the wire, five feet from his wounded shoulder. He would have to dig the hook out later. No sounds came from below. He couldn't hear the woman’s voice or the child’s whimpering. If not for them, he would empty his pistol into the darkness. Instead, he collected his rifle and ascended the stairs.
Crouching down, he wrapped the wire twice around his shoulder, then looped it to keep it out of the way. His shoulder throbbed as the metal shifted in his flesh. It felt as though one of the spikes had shattered a bone. He scanned the street and counted seven men. He peered down the stairs but saw no one.
The men behind the makeshift barricade were definitely Monets. Reho had noticed it before. They all dressed the same, resembling the first soldiers who had dropped from the zeppelin. Society in New Afrika—at least in Darksteam—had developed differently from anything in Usona. Their use of steam and metal altered every aspect of their life. Whether for better or worse, Reho couldn’t say. Considering he had a human fishhook in his shoulder, he opted for the latter.
Reho remained unnoticed as he waited for an opportunity to kill most of the picturesque soldiers with his grenades. Two wandered farther, close enough to a vehicle where two other Monets were positioned. The grenade arched, landing on top of the machine. Three of the men noticed and dove, but it was useless. A moment later, four of the seven were dead, sending the other three to hover together away from the fire. The second grenade rolled, but a pile of shells sent it off course, exploding next to one of the men. Reho met the survivors as they fled away from the blast. The first one fired twice, aiming too low as dust blinded him from the bullets impact against the ground. Reho was too close, but he fired his rifle anyway. Blood erupted between them.
Reho jumped backward as a blade attached to the body of a steam-altered rifle spun toward him. Reho hit the ground hard, sliding past the stairs and into the building. The ground was covered in wet ash and blood. Reho felt a lighting bolt of pain in his shoulder as the steel bullet-hook reminded him of its presence. Reho picked up an altered rifle; there was no time to figure out the gears. He ran for the last Monet. Midair, a bullet ripped between them, pulverizing half the man’s face and sending his goggles sky-high. Thank you, Ends.
The rain continued to pour, showering the streets as though exacting revenge on the town. He grabbed the goggles that had landed near him; its straps were severed. Reho unstrapped a pair from one of the other dead Monets and fitted them to his face. He could see clearer. In the distance, the crew had taken the opportunity and was already moving toward the train station. Reho grabbed one
of the gadget-rifles and a brass lantern covered with etched flower designs. Reho twisted the knob, allowing it to emit more light, and headed for the lower level. He wasn’t quite ready to leave.
***
The woman and child were on the far end of the room. He could see them tucked into each other on the lighted stairs that led back to the street. Reho knew that whatever had attacked him still lurked in the darkness between them.
The lower level contained various shops he hadn’t noticed before. The gas lantern revealed a posted directory of shop names: Albert’s Watches, ETC., Jane’s Book Cove & Antiquities, George’s Modified Guns & Defensive Mechanics. An arrow directed him across the lower level to where George’s shop was located. Dammit.
The door was propped open by a melted mass of what looked to be an amalgamation of copper scraps. The lantern illuminated the shop; items hung from its walls and ceiling. Some were OldWorld guns, modified to use pressurized gas canisters, springs, and cranking gears to fire what he assumed to be the same steel hooks as the one lodged in his shoulder. The pain had abated, but he could feel the tightening as it swelled.
His pity party ended as something struck his back, sending him to the ground. Reho twisted, his gadget-rifle pointing into the face of an old man who looked more mechanical than human. His eyes were gone, replaced by clocks, both displaying different times. His hands were covered with brass rods that looked robotic and uncomfortable. Cogs and spinning gears connected to a device on the man’s back that looked remarkably similar to the inside of a clock. Every piece moved as he lowered his hands toward Reho’s neck. He had knocked him down with his forearms and now seemed determined to strangle him.
Any other time, Reho would have killed the attacker instantly, but something was different about this clock-man. He wasn’t like those knock-down-drag-outs he’d faced in Usona. Neither was he like the Monets or Industrialists. Reho didn’t know what he was, but he knew he wasn’t the enemy. He was protecting what he owned. Had he even been a threat or just scared?