Fighting Iron

by Jake Bible

  Clay had his own candle with a small flint and steel set, but he decided to leave the cave dark. He was exhausted, his body hurt, and Nasta’s mysterious offer was churning his brain like butter. He needed sleep. Desperately.

  He worked his way painfully under his deer hide blanket and settled his head on the hemp fiber pillow he’d been given. He stared up into the pitch blackness of the cave’s ceiling and waited for sleep to take him. He was so tired he knew as soon as he closed his eyes he’d be out. So he closed his eyes.

  He wasn’t out. Sleep did not take him. It mocked him, laughing just out of reach.

  Escaped slaves and land barons and rapey generals filled his mind. It all spun together, shoved aside occasionally with a stab of panic and fright at the thought that his mech was probably being disassembled and Gibbons was about to be found out and eliminated from existence.

  Clay had only known a life with mechs. He’d lived out on the open range, whether it was the MexiCali Republics or down south in the Brazilian Empire, his life had been that of a mech pilot’s life. He didn’t know how to do anything else. He didn’t farm, couldn’t track anything without his scanners, didn’t have any skills that a shopkeeper or respectable businessperson would want. Not that he thought he could handle being stuck in one place, doing the same job over and over again, day in and day out, until he died.

  No, he’d been forced to do the same thing again and again once. Once. It wouldn’t happen again. He preferred the thought of running screaming right out of the tunnel cave and plummeting to his death. A much better way to check out of life than shackled to a dawn to dusk job or being someone’s dent.

  Which meant, as his subconscious had intended for him to figure out, that no matter what Nasta had planned, Clay had to agree to do it. If it meant getting his mech back and keeping Gibbons from oblivion then he was prepared to do anything. Well, almost anything. No, pretty much anything. Okay, not quite anything. Maybe anything. Maybe not.

  That back and forth filled his mind until the elusive sleep finally tapped him on the forehead and took him for the night.

  When he woke up the next day, he was ready to face the world. Mentally. His body was still total shit.

  It took him three days of rest and eating to get enough strength to put on his own clothes without wincing and convince Nasta he could handle a trip into Del Rado.

  She was almost as antsy to get Clay’s mech back as he was. She had broken her promise of telling him why the next day, and had ignored his asking for two more days, but Clay wasn’t going anywhere. And he had the upper hand. If she wanted his mech for something, eventually she would have to tell him what that something was. All roads led to Clay getting the answer.

  But first, he found himself in an ancient joke of a roller on the road to Del Rado.

  “You need me to punch holes in a mountain,” Clay said, enjoying a game of guess the reason and annoy Nasta at the same time as the two of them sat in the backseat of the ancient roller while Firoa drove. “Or, hold on, you want me to dig you a swimming pool, but up on top of the mesa where you guys are hiding. That’s it, isn’t it? Mesa top swimming pool.”

  “No,” was all Nasta said as she rolled her eyes and looked past Firoa through the roller’s windshield at the desolate landscape.

  It wasn’t just Firoa up front. A man named Hank sat in the passenger seat, a wide array of weapons spread across his lap and at his feet. He hadn’t said a single word to Clay back in the caves and hadn’t said a single word since they hit the road. Clay wasn’t sure if that was just his personality or if the man was some kind of mute.

  What Clay did know was the man was a magician when it came to weapons. He could simultaneously disassemble a carbine while reassembling a revolver. And he could do that while also oiling and sharpening two blades at once. It was enough of a show to almost distract Clay from annoying Nasta. Almost.

  “World’s largest game of leap frog,” Clay said and clapped his hands. “That’s it. That has to be.”

  “We obviously want you to fight,” Firoa snapped from up front. “So stop being an ass.”

  “Fi,” Nasta admonished. “Let the pilot have his fun.”

  Clay still hadn’t gotten Nasta to call him by his first name. He was still the “pilot” or “pilot boy.” It added fuel to his fire of annoying the woman as much as possible.

  The roller rumbled on over the rutted track that served as a road in that part of the open range. Eventually, they’d hit a better road which would connect to an even better one that led directly into Del Rado. But for that moment, they had to deal with the constant bouncing and jiggling of the roller as potholes and gouges in the dirt played havoc with their wheels.

  Yet even with all that chaos, Hank never bobbled or dropped a single weapon. Impressive.

  “Where’d you learn all that?” Clay asked Hank. The man didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch at Clay’s words. “Hey, dude. Were you in the military? MexiCali or NorthAm?”

  Still no answer.

  Clay leaned forward, even though it hurt to do so, and tapped Hank on the shoulder. The man whipped around and Clay found himself faced with a loaded .44 revolver and a very sharp knife. The former was aimed at his heart while the latter was a hair’s breadth from his jugular.

  “Hank is deaf,” Firoa said with great amusement. “You don’t want to spook him.”

  “I am seeing that,” Clay said, both hands up in the air. “Can he read lips?”

  Hank nodded.

  “Sorry,” Clay said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. My bad, man.”

  Hank nodded again and the pistol and knife disappeared faster than Clay could track. But Hank still watched him, his eyes narrowed and questioning.

  “Were you born deaf?” Clay asked.

  Hank nodded.

  “Where’d you learn to handle weapons like that?” Clay asked. “Military?”

  Hank shook his head. He made a sign with his right hand.

  “What?” Clay asked.

  “His uncle taught him everything he knows,” Nasta said.

  Hank’s attention shifted to Nasta and she repeated what she had told Clay. Hank nodded and smiled. Then the smile went away and he turned back in his seat. He started cleaning another set of weapons. Clay leaned forward and tried to count them all, but there were just too many and Hank was fast. The man had a weapon torn apart, cleaned, put back together, and stowed in a large case at his feet before Clay could barely even identify the weapon.

  “His parents were slaves,” Nasta said. “Hank was born deaf because of a beating his mother took while pregnant. She’d dropped her mistress’s favorite tea cup and was whipped and tortured for three days because of it.”

  “One of the MexiCali Republics?” Clay asked.

  “Brazilian Empire,” Nasta said.

  “Oh,” Clay said and nodded. The BE was not a place where a slave stepped out of line. They had very strict caste rules.

  “His parents escaped when he was five, but they were tracked down in a couple of days,” Nasta said. “Hank was able to hide in a rotting log. His uncle found him a week later, licking the log for water and eating the bugs that crawled around him.”

  “How the hell did his uncle find him?” Clay asked.

  “Malcolm was one of the first to help people escape north,” Nasta said. “He knew he couldn’t save his sister or brother-in-law, so he retraced their escape route and found Hank. Taught him everything he knew.”

  “So this Malcolm was military?” Clay asked.

  Nasta nodded. Clay could see she was holding something back.

  “What?” Clay asked.

  “Malcolm was EM,” Nasta said. “He lived a double life of torturing the people he needed to save. Once he was able to get Hank north and with us, he took his own life.”

  “And took out six members of the Empire’s court,” Firoa said.

  “That was him?” Clay asked, shocked. “He was the Escuadron de la Muerte traitor?”

  “
He wasn’t a traitor!” Firoa snapped and the roller swerved as she whipped her head around to glare at Clay.

  Hank tapped her shoulder and pointed forward. Firoa reluctantly returned her attention to the road ahead.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Clay said. “That was what the newswire was calling him. I remember because news like that rarely gets out of the Brazilian Empire. They clamp down on bad press pretty fast.”

  Firoa slowed the roller and came to a stop at a crossroads.

  “Shit,” she muttered as they all looked at a small roadblock.

  Three women and two men stood by the makeshift barrier, each holding a high-caliber automatic rifle. A woman walked towards the roller and Firoa lowered the window.

  “Let’s see your travel papers,” the woman demanded.

  “Sure thing,” Firoa said, her voice dripping with contempt and sarcasm.

  She handed the woman her papers and the woman made a big show of reading them over carefully. She nodded and handed them back.

  “The rest of you. Papers. Now,” the woman ordered.

  “Here you go,” Nasta said as she leaned forward and handed over three sheets of worn and ratty-looking paper.

  The woman snatched them out of Nasta’s hand and checked them over. She gave Hank a hard glare then turned the glare onto Nasta. She handed two of the papers back, but held the last one like it was a winning lottery ticket.

  “This is expired,” she said to Clay. “I should report you to the local constabulary. How about you step out of the roller and come have a chat with me and my colleagues.”

  Clay stared at her, but didn’t answer.

  “You stupid or something?” the woman snapped. “Get the hell out of the roller.”

  “Who are you with?” Nasta asked. “Which of the landowners do you work for?”

  “None of your damn business,” the woman said.

  “That’s not quite true,” Nasta said. “If I don’t know who you work for then I don’t know who to complain about. We have a big meeting in Del Rado and our boss is going to be mighty pissed if we’re late. I just need to know your boss’s name so I can have my boss give him or her a call. I’m sure it will get worked out amiably, but you just never know out here on the range.”

  “You didn’t have a boss designation on your papers,” the woman said.

  Clay could see the rest of the roadblock group getting antsy. Two of the men gripped their rifles tighter and one of the women started to walk towards the roller, her rifle up and aimed directly at Firoa.

  “We’re employees, not slaves or dents,” Nasta said. “We aren’t owned so we don’t have to put our boss’s name on our papers.”

  “Then what is his name?” the woman asked.

  “Who says it’s a him?” Nasta replied. “And I asked you first.”

  The second woman stopped directly in front of the roller and kept her rifle squarely on Firoa. Clay could smell violence in the air. Nasta was doing her best to deflect with a solid offense, but Clay knew the woman wasn’t going to just let them roll on without a good reason.

  “I gotta poo,” Clay said.

  Firoa and Nasta turned and looked right at him, their eyes wide and confused. Hank followed their gaze and gave Clay a questioning look. The woman outside the roller leaned in and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” the woman asked.

  “I gotta poo,” Clay said. “My butt hurts. Stingy butt. I gotta poo now. Gonna poo my pants. Gonna poo my pants! GONNA POO MY PANTS!”

  He slammed a fist against the side of his head. Hard. The thud echoed in the roller loud enough to make Firoa and Nasta flinch. Hank gave Clay a sly grin.

  “Goota poo!” Clay yelled and slammed his fist against his head again.

  Hank started signing like crazy then reached out to grab Clay’s hand, but Clay pulled away fast.

  “No! Gotta poo! Giotta poo!” Clay yelled as Hank slapped at him, trying to get a hold of Clay’s fists.

  “Sweet mother of Hell,” the woman outside the roller said. “Bunch of retards.” She stepped back and slapped the top of the roller. “Get the hell out of here. Freaks. Just go. I better not see you this way again today. Stay over in Del Rado if you know what’s good for you.”

  “We’ll have to come back through tomorrow,” Firoa said, her voice raised so she could be heard over Clay’s shouting and Hank’s thrashing.

  “I’m off tomorrow,” the woman said. “You’ll be someone else’s problem. Now get!”

  Firoa didn’t say another word, just hit the accelerator as the men and women at the roadblock moved the barrier out of the way. They stared at the roller as it eased by and kept staring until the vehicle was lost from sight over a hill.

  “They should drown scum like that at birth,” the woman said to the others as they moved the barrier back in place. “Taints the gene pool.”

  Seventeen

  Rollers, mule-drawn wagons, people on horseback, short four-legged mechs, bicycles, even a man riding an ancient looking ox, clogged the one road into Del Rado. Firoa gripped the wheel with tight knuckled fists, her annoyance at the delay written on her face and in her body language.

  “Deep breaths,” Nasta said to her. “Don’t get riled up before we’re even in the town limits.”

  “Look at this guy,” Firoa snapped, pointing out at a man that was riding something that looked like a skateboard, but had huge all-terrain wheels and a small motor strapped to the back. “What is that? What use could that be out here on the range?”

  “Putter stick,” Clay said. “All the kids use them down in Southwest MexiCali.”

  “Well, this is Northeast MexiCali and that thing looks stupid,” Firoa grumbled. “And it’s in my way.”

  Nasta sighed and looked over at Clay as Firoa kept cursing and complaining.

  “That was fast thinking back at the roadblock,” Nasta said. “But stupid.”

  “How’s that?” Clay asked.

  “The simple minded are a burden around here,” Nasta said. “Most bosses have them killed before they can grow up. The worst ones make the parents do it themselves.”

  “Hansen would be in that category,” Clay said. “They do the same down south, but only if the simple ones can’t perform any duty like digging ditches or hammering nails. If the person can at least clean a toilet then they get to live.”

  “I know,” Nasta said. “In those bunk houses for the retarded. But this isn’t south. This is Northeast MexiCali. Things are rougher up here.”

  “No shit,” Clay said as he rubbed his shoulder.

  “Just be careful what you make up, okay?” Nasta said. “In fact, best to let me do all of the talking. The folks we’re meeting don’t like strangers. I’ve dealt with them for a while now and they are your best shot at getting your mech back. But let me handle the negotiations.”

  “Gladly,” Clay said. “I’ll be in the saloon at a table with a bottle of booze watching the show. There is a show, right? Tell me the saloon here in Del Rado has dancers.”

  “There’s a saloon,” Nasta said. “That’s where we’re meeting.”

  “Convenient,” Clay said.

  “Anonymous,” Firoa said, taking a break from shouting at the eclectic traffic to join the conversation. “Too much noise and chaos happening for anyone to pay attention to us.”

  “Maybe,” Clay said. “My experience is there are always at least three people in a saloon that see everything. The bartender, the bouncer, and the madame. You got enough scrip to hand them if they get curious? A wad of scrip will make any one of them folks forget all about us.”

  “Better,” Nasta said and pulled out a small black bag from her pocket. She opened it and Clay glanced inside to see a good amount of shiny stones.

  “Are those…?” he asked.

  “They are,” Nasta said. “Uncut emeralds, but emeralds. High grade. Perfectly good for optics and com systems. Push a gigawatt of geothermal through one of these and you double your en
ergy efficiency.”

  “Yeah, I know how they work,” Clay said. “I’ve got half a ton in my cargo hold just in case.”

  Nasta stared at Clay. Firoa brought the roller to a halt and turned to stare as well. Hank only looked around, puzzled by why they had stopped.

  “A half a ton?” Firoa asked. “Of emeralds? A half a ton of emeralds?”

  “Yeah,” Clay said. “Not that I can spend them. They are tech rocks only. Let’s say that I may have borrowed them without asking. If I, or anyone, were to spend them as currency, they’d be tracked down fast and that would be that. So they stay in my hold.”

  “Who’d you borrow them from?” Nasta asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Clay said. “Because whoever has my mech has the emeralds now. I doubt I’ll ever see them again.”

  “A half a ton?” Firoa said again. “No wonder you wanted to get up to NorthAm.”

  “Nope, that’s not the reason,” Clay said. “Not even close.”

  A man rode by on a horse and slapped the top of the roller with a rolled-up whip.

  “Keep it moving, folks,” he said, a bright, shiny star on his chest. “Park this piece of crap or get the hell outta here.”

  Firoa got the roller moving again, ignoring the hollers and shouts of derision that followed them. She drove them halfway through town then turned into an empty alley. She maneuvered the roller around a pile of trash and came to a wooden garage door. Two honks of the horn and the door opened up.

  “Who’s he?” a girl about thirteen asked as Firoa pulled into the garage, killed the engine, then got out and stretched.

  “Nunya,” Firoa replied.

  “Funny,” the girl said and sneered. “Nunya? Like none ya business? You’re so cute, Fi. Ha farting ha.”

  “Your mom around?” Firoa asked. “I want to make sure the roller’s safe here. Lot of folks in town today. Lot of out of towners that may be casing unprotected garages like this.”

  “Please,” the girl said. “This garage ain’t unprotected.” She produced a sawed-off pump action shotgun from under her dress, racked a shell into the chamber, and rested the barrel on her shoulder. “Thieves be coming here, but they don’t be going out.”