by Jake Bible
Clay watched her for a few stunned seconds then slowly let the mirth infect him. He started to laugh as well, letting it bubble up from deep inside.
They both stayed that way, laughing like idiots until Zeus came in to announce lunch. The old man didn’t seem to even notice the two laughing fools, just made his announcement, turned on his heel, and left the sitting room.
“Come,” Hansen said after she got herself together. She stood and held out a hand. Her tongue wet her lips and Clay swallowed hard. “Let’s get some food in you. I know I need some in me. And how about we remove those ugly manacles?”
Seven
Lunch was served on a back veranda. Screened in from the bugs with a large, slowly rotating fan above the stone table set in the center. The fan spun lazily in the stiflingly warm air, its blades barely making a dent in the heat. Clay looked about, expecting to see the cackling old woman, but she was nowhere. Maybe the pulleys worked all the way from the porch to the veranda, he didn’t know, couldn’t tell.
Hansen sat with her back to the house, her chair facing out on the acres and acres of rough landscape that stretched to the horizon. Instead of being seated across from her, Clay was shown to a chair to her left, an arm’s reach away from her place setting. Zeus held the chair out for him and Clay nodded, took his seat, and waited for the show to begin.
But instead of an elaborate spread designed to impress, and intimidate, modest platters of salted beef, thick, heavy greens, and steaming biscuits were set in the center of the table. Hansen cleared her throat as a slab of fresh butter was set next to the biscuits and Clay heard the slightest hiss of annoyance come from between Zeus’s lips as he rearranged the platters, moving them closer to Clay and Hansen’s settings.
“Thank you, Zeus,” Hansen said. “This looks delicious. Can we get a pitcher of tea as well as a pitcher of ice water? Slices of yellow, if we have them.”
“We do not, ma’am,” Zeus said. “We do not expect another shipment of yellow until the end of the month.”
“The end of the month?” Hansen snapped. Anger fired up in her eyes then faded away as she nodded to Zeus. “Yes, of course. The Mister’s thousand head of cattle. Heaven forbid he deliver our trade early so we can maintain a civilized house. Just the tea and water then, Zeus. We will suffer without the yellow.”
Zeus left and returned in the blink of an eye, both pitchers in hand. Clay figured the old man had them ready and Hansen’s request was part of their servant and master dance. There was always a servant and master dance. Clay had seen it a thousand times and expected to see it a thousand more.
Clay waited until Zeus was gone before he cleared his throat and nodded at the pitchers.
“Would you like me to pour?” Clay asked.
“Thank you, Mr. MacAulay, that would be lovely,” Hansen replied, her eyes on him.
Clay stood and reached for the pitcher of iced tea. He looked at Hansen and she nodded. Careful not to spill a drop, he poured the tea into hers then his glasses, set the pitcher back, and settled into his chair.
“Haven’t had iced tea in years,” Clay said as he raised the glass in appreciation, his eyes looking longingly at the deep amber liquid. He took a hesitant sip and sighed. “Unsweetened. The best way.”
“I believe so as well,” Hansen said and sipped from her own glass. “But I do prefer a slice of yellow in mine.”
“Yellow is hard to get even this close to Southwest MexiCali,” Clay replied.
He set his glass down and watched Hansen for a moment. She had her face turned from him, her eyes focused on the range that surrounded the house. The fan above was useless and Clay could see beads of sweat already forming on her temple and corner of her upper lip. He had a sudden urge to reach out and wipe one of the beads from her lip, tracing the outline of her mouth down to her chin, back across her jawline, until his hand could cup her by the back of the head and turn her to him. He shook the thought away and focused on the problem at hand.
He was a prisoner of a woman that commanded a vast amount of land, quite a few hired guns, and seven mechs. He couldn’t let her distract him from those facts. Clay was more than certain other men had been distracted by her and met less than favorable ends.
“Try the beef,” Hansen said without turning to look directly at him. “It’s from my personal stock, kept here close on the ranch, not out on the wide open range. I make sure to monitor the cattle’s diets carefully. Wouldn’t want them to eat the wrong cactus and spoil the meat with that bitter flavor.”
“Thank you,” Clay said and forked two large slices of the beef onto his plate. He took a generous helping of greens and two biscuits as well.
“The butter is fresh,” Hansen said, lifting the small plate and offering it to him. That was when she looked directly at him again. “Creamy. Just the right amount of salt. It dances lightly on your tongue, coats your palate, and makes the biscuits taste like God’s own.”
Clay swallowed hard. He took the offered butter and nearly bobbled the plate. The corner of Hansen’s mouth twitched slightly then settled down. Clay knifed a slab of butter and brushed it across both of his biscuits. Hansen set the plate down and began to serve herself from the beef and greens.
“You are worried I’ll take your mech as my own,” Hansen stated before slicing a bite of beef and forking it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, swallowed slowly. “That is the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Good, because I don’t know where my mech is,” Clay replied. “Like I said, I don’t even know where I am. I have a general idea, but if you pressed me to find myself on a map, I wouldn’t be able to.”
“That watch,” Hansen said, ignoring Clay’s words. “That isn’t a normal mech pilot’s watch. I’ve seen pocket watches from almost every cavalry regiment established. Both sides, I’ve seen them. That watch isn’t like the others.”
“Only one I’ve ever had,” Clay said, shrugging as he took a bite of greens. They were bitter, but seasoned well. “I’ve never seen any other watches.”
Hansen glanced at him, surprised. “Is that so?” she asked. “Come now, Mr. MacAulay, surely you’ve met other mechs on your travels. They are rare, but not extinct. Iron finds iron, as they say.”
“Who says?” Clay asked.
“Just an expression I heard once from an old pilot,” Hansen said. “Iron finds iron.”
“Huh,” Clay replied and kept eating.
Hansen took a sip of her tea then pushed her plate away, indicating she was done eating even though she’d only taken a couple of bites.
Clay knew the big hit was coming. He didn’t know what it was, if it would be violence or just a life-changing request, but he knew it was coming. So he did the most sensible thing he could think of and stuffed his face with as much food as possible. Best to face whatever was coming with a full stomach, and by Hansen’s body language, it was coming fast.
“Where’d you get the mech, Mr. MacAulay?” Hansen asked. “That watch. That’s special issue. Individualized. No regiment number or name on it. No markings of any kind to say which side it is from. Could have been MexiCali or could have been NorthAm. Hard to say.”
Clay shrugged and kept eating. Hansen let him for a couple of minutes then placed a soft hand on his as his fork was halfway from plate to mouth. Clay looked over at her, swallowed hard again, and gave a slight shake of his head.
“Won it,” Clay said. “Game of cards. I’m very good at cards.”
The soft hand became a harsh talon as Hansen’s fingers wrapped around Clay’s wrist, her nails digging into his flesh. He winced, hard not to, but didn’t offer anything else to say.
“I have been polite and pleasant,” Hansen said. “Offered you food and drink. Haven’t pointed a single gun at you, except your own, but that was just a friendly show. I sit you at my table and treat you like a guest. Please stop lying to me, Mr. MacAulay. The next lie will be met with a punishment you do not want.”
Clay tried to pull his hand away, but Ha
nsen’s grip was like lace made of steel. Her soft skin was in direct opposition to the brutal strength that held him tight. Clay reached out with his other hand, picked up his glass, took a long drink of iced tea, set his glass down, then nodded. Hansen slowly let go of his wrist and relaxed into her chair.
“The mech is a family heirloom,” Clay said.
He unconsciously rubbed at his wrist, realized what he was doing and stopped. But not before Hansen caught him doing it. The smirk on her lips was infuriating to Clay. Partly because it said that she knew she was in complete control and had broken him, partly because it just made him want her more, which was a serious problem. Wanting a woman like General Hansen was a surefire way to end up buried up to his neck in the middle of the desert.
“Family heirloom?” Hansen asked, all soft and polite again. The steel was gone. Just like that. “Your father’s? Did he fight for the MexiCali side? I’m guessing from your hat that he did. I saw your hat before Zeus took it and placed it in the closet. MexiCali, for sure. But that don’t mean much. Hats are easy to get, pocket watches like yours are not.”
“The hat was my grandmother’s,” Clay said. “She was in the 12th Armored Mech Cavalry division when she was young.”
“No, no, no,” Hansen said. The steel returned. “That watch is newer than those ancient campaigns. That watch is end of the Bloody Conflict tech. I know what I’m talking about here, Mr. MacAulay. I also warned you about lying.”
“I’m not lying,” Clay said. “I said the hat was my grandmother’s. I didn’t say the watch or the mech were.”
Hansen smiled and nodded. “My apologies.”
“The mech was my mother’s,” Clay said. “When she died it became mine.”
“Understandable,” Hansen said. “Most pilots decided to keep their mechs after the Conflict was over. I know both the governments of MexiCali and NorthAm preferred they not, but what were they going to do against fully armed battle mechs?”
“Not a hell of a lot,” Clay said. “Except make it illegal for licensed establishments to sell fuel, ammunition, or spare parts to the pilots to continue outfitting their mechs. Hard to take a mech from a pilot, but easy to cut off the supplies needed to operate them.”
“Good thing I have my own store of grey, isn’t it?” Hansen said and smiled.
“Yes, it is,” Clay said. “But I do have to ask why your mechs are stripped of their weapons? Not even a blow torch.”
“Against the rules,” Hansen said.
“The rules? What rules?” Clay asked.
“The rules of the tournament,” Hansen said. “I’ve mentioned the tournament, Mr. MacAulay. I know the Captain has mentioned it as well. Why do you think you’re here?”
Clay was confused. He made no attempt to hide that fact as his face scrunched up and he thought back on everything he’d been told since he woke that morning. Yes, a tournament had been mentioned. Something about cattle needed to supply it. Something else about the Mister and locals. To be honest, he hadn’t been paying too much attention to the details. His mind had been on his predicament, not some local event that had nothing to do with him.
Except it appeared the local event did have something to do with him and he silently cursed himself for not paying attention better. It was a failing that Gibbons constantly pointed out. But that was what Gibbons was for, to pay attention to the details for him.
“You really don’t understand, do you?” Hansen chuckled. “You should see your face.”
“Explain it to me,” Clay said and pushed his plate away. He settled into his chair, matching Hansen’s relaxed posture, and waited.
“I intend to explain it all to you,” Hansen said. “But, do pay attention, will you? My schedule is tight today and I do not have the time to go over everything twice.”
Clay nodded.
“You are a mech pilot,” Hansen said. “A rogue with no allegiance or alliances, correct?”
“I don’t consider myself rogue,” Clay said. “Independent, more like.”
“Monikers, monikers,” Hansen replied. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is you are free to make your own choices about who you fight for. I am guessing that your mech is a capable machine from the look of your pocket watch. I’ve salvaged mechs that are in bad shape and the condition of their watches always matches the condition of the bigger machines. Neglectful pilots that roam the range looking for the next saloon and whorehouse, no care about the power they possess under them. Their mechs were no different than a share cropper’s roller wagon. A means to get from one place to another, one drink to another, one slit to another.”
“Sounds like a horrible life,” Clay said. He was being honest. He may not have had much direction in life, but he did have a respect for the life he led. Drinking and whoring had their place, but that was New Year’s Eve, not every old day. “A short, horrible life.”
“That right there,” Hansen said, wagging a finger at Clay. “A short, horrible life. Exactly my point. Experienced mech pilots are hard to find. Most of them end up dead in the gutter, horse piss pooled about them. I don’t know what it is with mech pilots and self-destruction, but they go hand in hand.”
She smiled at him and her wagging finger moved closer, stopped wagging, the tip pressing under Clay’s chin. The pressure was gentle and Clay felt an electric shock ripple through him.
“You are not self-destructive,” Hansen said. “You’re a survivor. A man that knows how to live out on the range on his own. A lonely life, yes, but not a short, horrible one. I need a man like you. I need your skills, your experience and expertise.”
“For what?” Clay asked. “The fight is long over. If you want a war with your rival… The Mister? That’s his name? Then count me out. I don’t hire on for anything other than maybe some heavy lifting and demolition. Then I am on my way, living my lonely life out on the range.”
“I don’t want war,” Hansen said. “The total opposite, in fact. The Mister and I have an agreement. A way to settle all differences and to establish the terms of trade for the coming year all at the same time. Keeps our people from fighting when they meet up in town. Yes, there might be a drunken scuffle now and again, but like I said, we have a way to settle those problems without going to war.”
“The tournament,” Clay said.
“The tournament,” Hansen echoed.
“You want me to fight for you against the Mister in the tournament,” Clay stated. “You want me to use my mech against his since all of yours look like they can hardly take a punch without turning into a pile of nuts and bolts.”
Hansen drew back, shocked. “Nuts and bolts? My mechs are far from that, Mr. MacAulay, and I take offense to the insinuation that I do not maintain my machines properly.”
Clay shrugged. “Like you said, you need an experienced pilot. I am an experienced pilot. Been doing the repairs on my mech myself for a long time. I know stressed metal and warped joints when I see them. I know a strut ready to crack and a piston ready to pop. Of those seven mechs, only two are battle worthy. And it would be a short battle.”
“Says the young man that has never been in battle before,” Hansen replied. She held up her hands in defense then pressed her palms to her chest. “I know, I know, I am too young to have seen battle in the Bloody Conflict, as well. True, true. But I have been attending the tournament my entire life. My father established the practice with the Mister decades ago.”
“Decades?” Clay asked.
“Decades,” Hansen responded.
“Then you should be a pro at this,” Clay said. “What do you need me for?”
“The Mister has won the past five years running,” Hansen said. “The first four years he took a quarter of my hemp, a quarter of my cattle, and a quarter of my grey. Frustrating numbers, but livable.”
“And last year?” Clay asked. “Let me guess. He asked for more than that?”
“He did,” Hansen said. “Half of everything. Even took half my men. Then had them hanged.”
>
“Hanged?” Clay coughed. “Did you say hanged? I thought the tournament was to settle disagreements. Hanging your men isn’t exactly settling anything.”
“The prize of the tournament is set before the fights begin,” Hansen said. “I made the mistake of agreeing to the Mister’s terms, believing I had the winning pilots last year. I would have too. But his star pilot is just too good. I even hired a ringer, but he went down in the final bracket. Son of a bitch.”
“A ringer? What’s that?” Clay asked.
“You’ve never heard the term?” Hansen laughed. “You have been living all alone for a long time. A ringer is a sure bet. A winner. I found myself an experienced pilot. An old, scarred cuss of a man that said he fought in the Bloody Conflict when he was barely a teenager. Said he fought in the Battle of Carlsbad Mansion.”
Clay’s blood ran cold. Hansen’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head.
“You’ve heard of it,” she said. “Of course you have. The most brutal mech battle ever fought. Less than one percent of the mechs that day were able to shamble off the field of battle under their own power. Both sides took horrendous casualties.”
Clay nodded. He knew of the battle. He’d studied it his entire life. Watched the vids over and over again to pass the time as his mech lumbered across the land.
“Whether it’s true or not,” Hansen continued, “this ringer demolished the other pilots like they were a bunch of hemp farmers that had only operated tractors and hover tillers. One after the other, he put them down until he was the last mech standing. Thenshe came in and ended it all, like always, and the Mister had his half of everything.”
“What’s the pilot’s name?” Clay asked. “You’re ringer?”
“Don’t know,” Hansen said. “Never got a look at him. Wore a masked helmet while he fought. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a masked pilot in the Battle of Carlsbad Mansion. The man was under no obligation to reveal his identity. I had his mech inspected thoroughly. Every system checked and double checked. No clue as to his identity. No hidden weapons. No illegal enhancements. He beat my pilots fair and square when I tested him. Barely had to take two steps to do it. But in the end he wasn’t enough, and I have been handing the Mister half of everything since last October.”