by Phil Foglio
The metal girl preened and flicked her ear with a fingertip. “Oh yes, these marvelous ears can hear the most amazing things. He’s still in Recovery, which is why I, ‘Princess Anevka of Sturmhalten,’ am still here as well.”
In response to Zola’s blank look, she continued. “The clank body. It was hers, and now it’s mine, but they have no idea. As far as they know, darling, I’m just a poor little lost toy being run by the ghost of the Sturmhalten princess. My case is unusual enough that they are keeping me here so I can actually talk to him.”
The memories bubbling up from within Zola made her gasp. “You must get to him as soon as possible!”
“Oh, there’s no rush.” Lucrezia sighed. “It’s not as if I could actually smother him. Guards, you know.”
Zola gave a devilish grin. “All you have to do is talk to him, darling. Dear Klaus is already ours.”
Lucrezia looked at her uncertainly. Zola continued. “Do you remember that Professor Snarlantz fellow?”39
Lucrezia snapped her fingers. “The one with the unfortunate teeth.”
“The very same. He was the one the Council entrusted with overseeing our wasp engines. The impudent fellow actually examined the things, and . . . well, he managed to improve them.”
Lucrezia gasped. “He must die.”
Zola twitched her fingers. “Already taken care of, darling. He managed, however, to create a wasp that can enslave a spark, and I used the prototype to capture dear Klaus.”
Lucrezia leaned in. “And it works? You’re sure?”
“Oh yes. Completely.”
The clank squealed, hugged herself, then drooped slightly. “Oh, curse this metal body of mine. I shan’t be able to take full advantage of this at all!” She spun to face Zola. “When you’re done with him, you must tell me all about it! Or . . . ” she held her face in her hands and peeked out between her fingers. “Even better yet, I shall get him to tell me all about it!”
It took every bit of acting ability Zola had to respond with the scandalized grin she knew was expected. “You wicked, wicked girl,” she weakly responded.
Instantly, Lucrezia was all business. “I’ve been wearing you out,” she declared. “That won’t do at all. I should let you rest.” She paused to examine the array of medical devices and said: “Tch. I can tweak these just a bit. Nothing that old fool Sun will notice, but it will have you up on your feet sooner than they expect.”
“Could you, darling? That would be ever so clever of you.”
A few minutes later, Zola gasped as waves of agony washed through her. Lucrezia hovered over her, frowning. “That isn’t a bit too much, is it? It’s so hard remembering what pain felt like.”
“No!” Zola grit her teeth and began running through Smoke Knight pain management mantras. “We need every advantage,” she gasped.
“That’s very true,” Lucrezia admitted. “Good girl.”
Zola had had more than enough of the clank and desperately wanted to be by herself. “Now you must go! If they find you here . . . ”
“True again! Hang in there, darling!”
But the pain became too much and Zola gave a small scream. “EEEEAARRG!”
Lucrezia frowned and waved a finger in mock severity. “Quietly, dear.” Humming to herself, she slipped out the door, past the sleeping guards, and into the corridor. She had not gone two meters before a shout from behind her checked her progress.
“There you are!”
Lucrezia turned to see her physician stomping towards her, his beard bristling in righteous indignation. “Hello, Herr Doktor,” she simpered.
“You were not supposed to leave your room,” he thundered. “How did you get past your attendants?”
Lucrezia looked up at him contritely. The alpha wave projectors embedded within her metallic frame were still undiscovered. “Oh, they were asleep and I didn’t want to disturb them. I’m so sorry! All of these terrible events! I—I just needed to walk and . . . and think. My poor town! My poor people! What will become of them? I’m so worried! Oh, Herr Doktor . . . ” And here she used every bit of innocently seductive body language she could. “What will become of me?” As she had calculated, the cognitive dissonance caused by having a clank send such signals derailed all intellectual concerns about her method of evading her guards.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, “That’s quite understandable, but the Baron will have it all under control in no time. You’ll see.”
Lucrezia smiled at him. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll feel ever so much better once I’ve talked to him.”
In an upper room of Castle Heterodyne, decorated in tastefully arranged bones, two people were resting. One was a girl: slim and well-muscled under her prison coverall. Her elfin face was capped with a shock of lightly tinted pink hair. A slight overbite revealed a noticeable gap in her front teeth. “I dunno, big brother. Something is wrong,” she was saying.
Her brother was tall and broad at the shoulder. Although he wore a loose sweater, it failed to hide the muscles that rippled whenever he moved. His hair, as well as his neat beard, was a snowy white, and his ageless face was half-hidden by a pair of snow goggles.
The goggles alone meant he would be recognizable to a significant portion of the population of Europa as none other than Othar Tryggvassen, Gentleman Adventurer.40 The girl was his sister, Saana.41
He considered her words. “We’re in Castle Heterodyne,” he pointed out. “With exploding collars around our necks, caught between a fake Heterodyne and a real one (as well as assorted criminals, maniacs, and various monsters). I suspect—even if we found any beer in here—it would be evil,42 or at the very least, flat. Try to be a bit more specific.”
Sanaa threw her arms wide. “Where is everybody?”
“If I knew where young Wulfenbach was, I’d finish the job, and we could leave this infernal place.”
“Not just him. I mean anybody. There’s a whole bunch of prisoners in here.”
Othar considered this as he rose to his feet. “Hmm. Yes, we’ve certainly covered enough ground. We should have found more people.”
“Maybe if you stopped shouting ‘Othar Tryggvassen, Gentleman Adventurer, has arrived!’ every time we walk into a room—”
Othar frowned. “But . . . that’s my thing.”
Suddenly the entire castle rumbled. The floor tilted slightly beneath them. Reflexively, Othar scooped his sister into his arms, but nothing more happened.
“What was that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Sanaa replied in a low voice. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”
“Maybe it was something good?”
Sanaa looked at him bleakly. “You haven’t been here very long.”
Suddenly a roar filled the room, quickly coalescing into the all-too-familiar voice of Castle Heterodyne itself. “Well, well! Who do we have here?”
Othar looked up. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Sanaa shivered. “No, no, we’re not dead. I’m encouraged.”
“Ah, you are Sanaa Wilhelm.43 The clever one who works with Professor Tiktoffen!”
“Um . . . yes. We were trying to repair you.”
“I remember. And who is this?” The Castle asked.
Sanaa spun about and frantically waved her hands, but of course, it was too late. “I am Othar Tryggvassen,” her brother boomed. “Gentleman Adventurer!”
“Gentleman . . . great heavens, are you a hero?”
“Indeed I am! You’ve heard of me?” The floor opened beneath him and Othar vanished into the depths, a faint cry of “Foul!” ringing up from the darkness.
“Othar!” Sanaa cried as she peered down into the pitiless blackness. Furious, she glared upward.44 “What did you do that for?”
“Eh. He was a hero. I don’t need much more of a reason than that.”
“But . . . the Heterodyne Boys were heroes.”
The Castle sounded distant. “Yes, but they didn’t come home much.”45
“No, really?”
“Well, if you drop them down bottomless pits—”
“Oh tosh. If he’d been a real hero—”
Othar stomped in, brushing at his sweater. “This is an annoying place, isn’t it?”
“Heavens,” the Castle tittered in pleasure. “A real hero indeed! Why, I haven’t squashed one in years!”
“NO!” Sanaa yelled as a stone block dropped from the ceiling.
Othar languidly slapped it and the block crashed off to one side. “I can see that I shall have to speak to Agatha about making some serious home repairs.”
The Castle paused. “Ah . . . you know the mistress?”
Othar beamed, “Why, she’s going to be my spunky girl sidekick!”
Sanaa looked amazed. “Really?”
Othar shrugged. “Well . . . we’re still haggling over the details, vacation days, dental insurance, you know . . . ”
“Hmm . . . ” the Castle mused. “The mistress might not like it if I squashed you.”
Sanaa’s eyes went round in astonishment. “Wow.”
“No,” it continued, “I believe she will want to squash you herself. So . . . to the Torture Room with you!” Again the floor opened up. This time, both Tryggvassens fell. They slid down a winding series of chutes and slides until a vent swung up before them and, with a thump, they found themselves in a small, well-lit room furnished entirely in nauseatingly cheerful shades of pink. They sat up and looked around.
“Wilhelm!” came a surprised voice. Approaching them was the avuncular figure of Professor Hristo Tiktoffen.46 “Look at you! You’re not dead!”
“I’m glad you’re all right, Professor.”
Meanwhile Othar was looking about, a puzzled look on his face. “This is a torture room?”
Tiktoffen shrugged. “It’s more of a psychological torture chamber.”
Sanaa looked puzzled. “Does that even work?”
Othar stood defiantly in the center of the room and shook his fist at the unresponsive ceiling. “Take me seriously, you fiend!”
Tiktoffen smiled. “On some better than others.”
At Mamma Gkika’s, Airshipman Higgs turned the lights up a bit brighter and selected another needle preloaded with surgical catgut. He clenched his pipe a bit tighter between his teeth and, with a resigned sigh, drove it into the flesh of his arm, stitching up the last of the slices that Zola had inflicted on him. He worked quickly and methodically, using an airman’s cross-herringbone stitch, typically used to repair gasbags. It left a distinctive scar after healing, and if Higgs’ skin was to be believed, it was a ritual he had performed often. He tied off the end and clipped the thread free with his teeth just as a ragged moan rose from the bed beside him. When he heard it, he closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. When he turned, his face was its usual mask of imperturbability.
Zeetha stirred. She had several hoses and tubes hooked up to her arms. Higgs examined the smallest hanging bottle. It was empty, except for a faint purple residue. He nodded and closed the drip valve. For good or ill, it was a done thing now.
Zeetha’s eyelids fluttered slowly. Her color was still wan and the whites of her eyes were actually a faint yellow. Her long green hair had been braided up and draped over the back of the pillow. She ran her tongue across her dry lips. Higgs held out a cup of water and, wordlessly, she took it. She sipped carefully until it was empty.
Higgs leaned in. “How d’you feel?”
Zeetha seemed to see him for the first time. She gave a start and snarled. Then she blinked in astonishment, but Higgs merely nodded. “That’s good.”
She tried again. “Agatha . . . ” she growled.
This time, Higgs actually smiled. “Good priorities,” he whispered. He reached over and delicately pushed a lock of hair from her face. “But don’t you worry about her at the moment. She’ll be just fine. At least for a while.”
Memories came crashing down on Zeetha and she twisted away from Higgs’s hand. To her alarm, she discovered that every muscle ached as if she’d been beaten. “No thanks to me. I’ve completely failed her—”
Higgs tapped her nose. “Now you stop that.” She looked at him. “Near as I can tell, one of the reasons she’s still alive is because of what you taught her.” Zeetha opened her mouth, but Higgs interrupted her. “You’re good, but you’re what—early twenties? And that Sturmvoraus fella called you ‘Princess.’” He leaned back and hoisted one of Zeetha’s swords. Her eyes bugged out at this assumed familiarity, but he ignored her as he scrutinized the handle, then slid the sword out of its scabbard slightly and examined the steel. He nodded as if it confirmed something he’d already suspected.
“Probably from some cut-off backwater, yes? Where, I’m guessin’, you were used to bein’ one of the toughest things around.” He looked at her face and nodded again. “And that overconfidence . . . ”
Zeetha could take no more. “Don’t talk to me like you’re my wise old grandma, you—”
Higgs cut her off by taking her hand. “You died.”
During her travels with Master Payne’s Circus of Adventure, Zeetha had become convinced that when sparks were talking, there were always jokes flying somewhere high over her head. She felt like that now, but if this was a joke, it was more abstruse than usual.
She tried to pull her hand free and discovered she couldn’t—even though Higgs’s grip appeared to be a casual one.
“But I don’t feel . . . ” The words ground to a halt.
Higgs reached towards the space between her breasts, where she had felt the stolen sword punch through. Without hesitation, he gave it a solid thump with his fingers.
Zeetha tried to jerk back and prepared to mentally block the pain, but there was only a faint twinge.
She stared at the bandaged spot, and then suddenly drew in a great gasping lungful of air, feeling her heart pounding within her chest. Higgs released her hand and prepared to sit back, but Zeetha reached out with both hands and clasped him tightly before he could move. “No,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said pitilessly. “You were drugged. The plants in that room were making everybody stupid and reckless. Consequently, you didn’t take the fight seriously. Even that fake Heterodyne was affected, but she still took you out with one thrust. You seriously underestimated her.”
Zeetha shuddered. Death—it was always there, but to be killed by someone like Zola—the shame. “Wait a minute. I don’t feel dead.” She looked around the room. “And this isn’t some resurrectionist’s.47 This is Mamma Gkika’s.”
Higgs nodded. “The old Heterodynes were dab hands at life and death. They didn’t share their secrets with many people, but they gave some of ’em to the Jägers. You weren’t dead for long, you weren’t too messed up, and you died fighting for a Heterodyne. It was a long shot, but the general thought it was worth tryin’.”
“General? What general?”
“The Jägers have generals. They’re Jägers that have lived long enough they actually have learned to think. They dictate what the rest of the Jägers do. Mamma is a general.”48
Zeetha looked at him shrewdly. “And she brought me back to life because you asked her to. What did you do for her?”
Higgs looked at her and shrugged. “Saved her life, along with a bunch of Jägers, and some other people she cared about.” He looked off into a distant memory that only he could see. “It was a long time ago, but Gkika’s got a long memory.”
Zeetha stared at him and licked her lips again. “I feel . . . strange.”
Higgs glanced at the empty bag. “Not surprised. Comin’ back from the dead ain’t easy.” His gaze sharpened. “You ain’t sorry I did it, are you?”
Zeetha considered this. Traditionally, in Skifander, if you were careless enough to get killed in battle, it was generally agreed you were better off dead. But . . . “My
grandmother always said that death comes to us soon enough. We shouldn’t welcome it.”
Higgs looked at her shrewdly. “That’s twice you’ve mentioned her. I’m guessin’ your old grandma’s one of the few back home who could take you on, and I’ll bet she’d say the same.” He leaned back in. “If you stay here, there’s old folks who could teach you plenty if you’re smart enough to realize you still have stuff to learn.”
Any lingering despair evaporated under the heat of Zeetha’s rising anger. To be lectured like this, by one who didn’t even wield a weapon. Who—what did he think he was? Oh sure, he’d somehow held off the Otilia Muse and hadn’t been killed by Zola, and the Jägers had failed to touch him during their bar fight. From out of nowhere a jolt of clarity shot through Zeetha and she gasped. “Omeetza.”49
Higgs looked at her quizzically, his pipe drooping comically. She immediately dismissed the idea. For one thing, he was too young. For another, there was no evidence of the drive and burning single-mindedness that was the legendary hallmark of the true Omeetza. But still, he had a point.
“I . . . I will learn whatever it takes to protect Agatha and then I will kick your smug butt.”
Higgs blinked and then smiled. “That’s a date.”
The Valley of the Heterodynes sits high in the mountains and contains not only the walled town of Mechanicsburg, but large swaths of farmland and managed forest. Here and there, a farmhouse, private villa, or military outpost adds interest to the landscape.
In an observation tower set some distance to the west of town, an unusual amount of activity was taking place. Uniformed figures were everywhere. Some were running through marching drills, many were sparring—wielding fearsome weapons—and some sprawled about, apparently doing nothing at all.
The uniforms of easily half-a-hundred armies were represented, including several that had been eradicated over a century ago. The faces of the troops were even more of a collection of oddities than the outfits they sported. This was a Jägermonster50 outpost.
Outside what had once been a modest feast hall, a dark blue Jäger in a sharp uniform (it had taken over eighty years to properly accessorize), led a small, disheveled group to a low wooden doorway. He rapped twice, threw the door open, and growled, “Hoy! Sirs, dey iz here.”