Broken Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  Without Kayla’s strength I cannot tear metal sheets, cannot split armor, but even in the thin wiggle room I can lever the blade through, I can feel gears crunching, wires snapping. I wrench the blade free and oils spurts wildly about. The Uhrwerkmänn bellows, and as it raises its arms back up, both fists hang loose. I allow myself a brief moment to cheer.

  The Uhrwerkmänn kicks me.

  It does not kick me in my ribs, or my legs, or even my groin. It kicks me in all of me. My entire body is mashed by the pistoning limb that lifts me across the full length of the floor.

  Kayla’s sword spins out of my hands. Spittle and most of my sense flies out of my mouth. I almost fly out of my shoes. And then I come down. A crunch and a bang, my mouth snapping open and shut, mashing on my tongue, blood filling my mouth as colored lights fill my vision.

  I feel as if I’ve come apart. I am still legs and arms, hands and feet, head and torso, but the order of things no longer makes sense. I am a jigsaw puzzle scattered across the floor, and my head is spinning far too hard for me to have a chance to solve this problem.

  If I work out how my stomach and mouth connect, I think I’m going to vomit again.

  My vision is the first thing to come back. I kind of wish it hadn’t. An Uhrwerkmänn standing over me. Foot raised.

  At least it’s not a fist this time. No flashbacks.

  Fuck.

  The foot comes down.

  And then the foot comes loose.

  A line of white fire slices through the limb, smashing through armor sheets, metal buckling under the fury of the impact. It drops to the ground less than a yard short of me, the impact jostling my assorted limbs. The Uhrwerkmänn staggers, stumbles, sits down next to me. Kayla stands where it did, oil-soaked blade in one hand.

  She holds the other one out to me. “There,” she says, “that’s how you take off a feckin’ limb.”

  I fight for control of my body, find it enough to reach out my hand to her. She grabs it, hauls me to my feet.

  “Spending too much of this job knocked on your feckin’ arse,” she says. “Going to end up dead that way.”

  I can’t even laugh. I just can’t.

  16

  Kayla drags me to the Uhrwerkmänn that Clyde felled before we entered the room. Hannah stands there, shooting with one hand, shaking Clyde with the other. “I can’t focus,” I hear him saying. “Say it one more time.”

  “Concentrate, damnit.” Tabitha eschews encouragement in favor of castigation.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake.” My voice is thick thanks to my bitten tongue. But I’m done trying to communicate. The room stinks of gasoline. My pistol is still clenched in a death grip in my hand. I point it at an advancing Uhrwerkmänn, dripping black oil from numerous gashes. I aim at its bleeding head. The first three shots go wide, the next two hit armor, raising sparks. The third shot raises enough to do what I’m looking for.

  Flame encases the Uhrwerkmänn’s head. It bellows, flailing. Its hemorrhaging arm catches fire, slams into one of its cohorts, forced next to it in the tight confines of the room. Fire rips from one Uhrwerkmänn to the next.

  With Kayla still propping me up, I turn to Clyde. “Can you at least blow a hole in that wall?”

  He seems to understand me, despite my mangled tongue. At least, he turns, stretches out an arm, and mutters. His arm jolts and bricks spray out into the Oxford street.

  “That bloody way!” I am done with this mission. Bloody done.

  At least Hannah doesn’t question the order. Or try to shoot me in the legs or something.

  We careen over the fallen Uhrwerkmänn. Kayla still half carries me. I have a feeling I’m not going to like it when the adrenaline wears off and I can feel all of this. But for now I let the madness of it all carry me along. If I can just keep moving, find my way back to the status quo.

  Brick dust clogs the world, and then a cool breeze is sweeping it away. The world is clear and we are free. We skid to a halt, out in the open Oxford street.

  Except, no, not quite open.

  “Told you,” comes Tabitha’s voice in my ear. “Street is not a good idea.”

  And no. No it was not.

  17

  The Uhrwerkmänn is monumental. A literal monument to Joseph Lang’s genius and madness. He stands at least twice as tall as the largest Uhrwerkmänn I have seen before. His head is only a foot or two shy of the windows on the second story of Lang’s house.

  While the other Uhrwerkmänner gleam bronze, this mechanical man has been painted a flat black. They reflect the light; he absorbs it. Interlocking plates of armor coat his gargantuan form. Not a single gear is exposed. No weak point. No chink to exploit. His head is low-slung, angular, shaped like a knight’s helmet of old, a dark narrow slit for his eyes. The armor on his shoulders and chest is worked in fancifully decorative scenes depicting armies marching, tanks rolling, and enemies being crushed to a thick meaty paste. In the center of his chest, a large circular disk bears the likeness of an eagle, its mouth open in a scream. In its claws it grasps a swastika.

  This is it. Lang’s Meisterwerk.

  “He’s Friedrich, isn’t he?” I say.

  “I’d guess so,” Clyde says. He seems to be recovering himself.

  “Fuck me,” I hear Hannah whisper. “This job is bloody mental.”

  That realization, I feel, marks the end of Hannah’s orientation period. She gets what the job’s about now.

  “Oh buggeration,” says Clyde. Which is when I notice that one of Friedrich’s feet is planted on top of Clyde’s Mini. It no longer resembles a car so much as it resembles the sort of mechanical pancake Joseph Lang might have made if he’d been of a more culinary bent.

  “All right,” I say. “We need to get to Hannah’s Renault, and then we need to drive away very fast.”

  As plans go, I am pleased with the fact that it gets everything into one sentence. The only potential flaw is that it ignores the issue that Friedrich is between us and the car.

  Behind us, I hear bricks collapse, heavy mechanical footsteps. The other Uhrwerkmänner have not stopped their pursuit just because we have left the building. We are caught between the metaphorical rock and death-dealing automaton.

  “Any suggestions on how the feck we’re going to do that?” asks Kayla.

  I put my finger to my ear. “Tabitha, find Clyde the biggest spell we have in the database and make it goddamn rain.”

  There is a pause, and then a malevolent cackle.

  Behind us the footsteps grow louder. Before us, Friedrich spreads his arms. “Welcome, little ones,” he booms, accent so thick that I can barely make out the words.

  “Two car batteries,” Tabitha’s voice cuts in. “Got access to them?”

  I scan the street fast. Clyde’s car is totaled, and if we take the one out of Hannah’s then our escape plan is buggered. But the Uhrwerkmänner did come here in three large trucks, also parked down the street.

  “Maybe,” I venture.

  “Wait,” says Clyde, “you’re not thinking about the Viennese Pike are you?”

  Again the malevolent chuckle.

  Hannah has her gun out again, is pointing it behind us at the encroaching machines. Before us, Friedrich’s bulk blocks the street.

  “Would you deny us life, little ones?” asks Friedrich. I think he’s trying to croon, but the syllables are too harsh, tearing through any pretense of softness.

  “Remember how I said I never wanted to try that due to the high likelihood that I would fry my liver inside my body? Which, while it sounds academically interesting, and as if it would make for a fascinating autopsy, is less the sort of thing I’d like to do to myself on a Wednesday morning,” Clyde continues.

  “Well,” Friedrich continues, unaware of the team’s internal debate. “If you would try to deny me, then I can but only try to deny you.”

  He’s a bit long-winded when it comes to his threats, is old Friedrich.

  “Is the chance of your liver getting toasty higher or l
ower than the chance of that Uhrwerkmänn doing to us what he did to your car?” asks Hannah.

  Clyde pauses, swallows. “Fair point,” he says. “Any chance anyone could help me get a hold of two car batteries?”

  “Bloody mental,” Hannah mutters again.

  I point to the nearest truck. “Hannah and I are on that one. Kayla,” I point to the next nearest, “that’s yours.” I look to Clyde. “Just try to buy us time.”

  “Can do.” And Clyde starts to mutter as the rest of us start to run. He flings out an arm toward Friedrich. I recognize the cadence of the nonsense. The spell Clyde calls Elkman’s Push. The one he used to damage the Uhrwerkmänner inside and knock down the walls so we could make our escape.

  Friedrich doesn’t even flinch. Clyde skids backwards, sneakers squeaking over the surface of the road, arms pinwheeling, trying to keep his balance. Friedrich’s laugh is deep and hollow, booming out of his chest.

  Shit and balls.

  Hannah and I reach the first truck. She tries to get purchase on the lid, but it won’t even raise an inch or two.

  “Get in the cab,” she yells, “unlock this!”

  She’s got the who’s-in-command order mixed up again, but it’s probably not time to push the issue.

  Kayla’s over at the other truck, slicing through steel with her sword, flinging the hood away. The whole supernatural strength thing does seem like it would be terribly helpful.

  Clyde is still recovering. The recoil of his failed spell has shoved him close to the three Uhrwerkmänner pushing their way out of the building. All of them are still on fire. One whips a blazing arm in his direction. Clyde dodges forward but oil jets out of the Uhrwerkmänn’s injured limb in a flaming stream, spattering his tweed jacket. He howls, drops, and rolls. He comes back up smoking but no longer aflame.

  Friedrich continues his advance.

  The massive Uhrwerkmänn is in line with Kayla and her truck. She has her fists deep in the engine block, fishing with wires.

  Friedrich brings his fist down, a blur of motion, and a crack of displaced air. Kayla glances up, flings herself backwards.

  Friedrich’s fist buries itself in the engine block. There is a short sharp electrical crack and a momentary spurt of fire. Then his fist comes up. The engine is flatter than Clyde’s car. Kayla stands a foot away from the crater he’s made, empty-handed. And that’s one battery we’re not getting.

  I’m up at the driver’s door, flinging it open, diving into the footwell, grabbing desperately for any handle that seems like it will pop open the hood. It’s only going to take Friedrich two more footsteps before he’s in line with our truck.

  I grab something, yank, hear Hannah shout. She sounds at least vaguely positive. I beat my retreat.

  Clyde is still caught between the flaming Uhrwerkmänn and Friedrich. He looks as if he’s going to make a dash between Friedrich’s legs, then thinks better of it. He glances back at the robots behind him. Thinks better of that. Instead he goes sideways, but that only takes him to the façade of the facing house. For a moment I fear he’s going to head into it. This is not a problem we want to bring to someone else’s doorstep. It’s bad enough we’ve destroyed Lang’s house without us causing the destruction of one whose owners are still actually alive. That is not at all our mandate.

  Fortunately Clyde seems to remember that. Unfortunately that doesn’t give him many places to go.

  “Got it!” Hannah yells, hauling the car battery aloft.

  Friedrich advances on Clyde, ignoring us. We actually have a straight shot to Hannah’s Renault now. The three of us. Only Clyde is trapped.

  I glance back at Kayla. She has recovered quickly, is at the third truck, eviscerating its internal mechanics.

  Clyde is trapped. So we all are. I wrench the car battery out of Hannah’s hands. She yells but I ignore her. I pitch the car battery up through the air, wrenching my already screaming shoulder. It lands with a heavy thud at Clyde’s feet, barely bounces.

  “Kayla!” I yell.

  And then a second car battery whistles up through the air like a mortar. It comes down hard, slamming into Friedrich’s shoulder and ricocheting off without him even adjusting his stride. It lands on its end, next to the battery I threw.

  “He has the batteries!” I yell to Tabitha.

  Friedrich stands before Clyde. The three other Uhrwerkmänner complete a flaming crescent around him.

  Tabitha starts intoning random syllables for Clyde to repeat.

  Clyde kneels, seizes hold of both batteries. His arms shake violently, his head bucks back and forth, but I can see his lips move. “Meshtar mal folthar cal ulthar met yunedar—”

  Friedrich raises a fist.

  Clyde’s legs start to spasm.

  Friedrich’s fist comes down.

  18

  Clyde’s lips are still moving.

  And then they’re not.

  Friedrich’s fists are a blur. There is the meaty crunch of impact. I close my eyes.

  “Holy crap.” Hannah’s voice, her cockney accent very pronounced for a moment.

  I open my eyes.

  Clyde is still sitting on the street, still spasming and twitching. Smoke is wafting up from his palms.

  Friedrich’s fists are a foot above his head. They are still balled. The Uhrwerkmänn is leaning forward, putting all his weight into them. I can hear the metal groaning. But they stay a foot above Clyde’s head, not moving, frozen in midair.

  And then Clyde’s lips start to move again. Metal creaks. Friedrich’s titanic shoulders start to shake, picking up the spastic shivering of Clyde’s body. And then slowly, inevitably, his hands are pushed back.

  Gears start to grind. With a bellow Friedrich eases up on the pressure of his blow. His arms fly back. Beneath Clyde, the ground is starting to deform. Weeds pushing up through the asphalt are pressed flat, leaves are crushed, oozing fluid. Cracks start to run through the pavement. The wall of the house behind him creaks. A windowsill cracks, is crushed down to splinters. An invisible ball of force expands around Clyde.

  Friedrich is forced back a step, slams into a flaming Uhrwerkmänn, stumbles, steps on another, crushing it.

  “Back up!” I yell, though I’m yelling at myself as much as Hannah and Kayla. There is something transfixing about watching the cracks in the pavement racing toward me.

  I back-pedal, my eyes still on Clyde. The truck we just looted groans as the ball of force hits it, starts shoving it down the road after us. I start back-pedalling faster.

  Friedrich is pressed up against Joseph Lang’s house. The Uhrwerkmänn he trampled is now half flattened beneath the weight of Clyde’s spell. I watch as its legs are crushed, then its torso. Friedrich is pushed back another step. Lang’s house crumbles around him. Bricks tumble about his legs, beams raining down over his massive shoulders. The start of a landslide.

  Clyde’s feet are kicking so hard they’re starting to blur. His torso thrashes back and forth between the batteries. Somehow he’s still holding on to the contacts, but I don’t know how.

  “Oh crap.” The expletive slips from between my lips. Clyde has to hang on. Inter-reality friction. If his spell is no longer powered by electricity then—and I don’t pretend to understand exactly how—the two realities, ours and the one he’s reaching into to craft this spell, will rub together, and the end result will be Clyde going boom in a fairly substantial way.

  I slam my finger against my earpiece. “He has to end it,” I tell Tabitha. “Tell him to end it, before he shakes himself loose of the batteries.”

  She understands immediately. “Shut it down! Shut it down, now!” There is uncharacteristic concern in her voice.

  Next to me, the front of the truck gives way. I feel something invisible slam into me, send me reeling back. Hannah has turned and is just straight up, running away.

  “End it!” I yell at Clyde, though I can’t imagine a way he can hear me. “End the spell now!”

  The ball of force buffets me again, ha
rder, bowls me over. Friedrich is buried deep in the façade of Lang’s house, now concave. Clyde’s spell is the only thing still holding it up. And the spell keeps on, continues to expand. I feel a crushing pressure start to roll over my toes, my feet. Bone grinds against bone. I moan.

  “Shut it down, you plonker!” Tabitha snaps.

  And then it’s gone. Everything gone. There is a second of perfect stillness. And then the air rushes back, a thunderclap of sound, dragging down the front of Lang’s house, flipping over the truck beside me in a great angry scream of flying metal. Hurling me onto my feet, sending me several running steps back toward Clyde. Friedrich slumps, staggers. Dust is a whirlwind before me.

  The truck slams, upside down, onto the street. The quake of the impact tears through my gut. Hannah slams into a tree by the side of the road, peels herself off it, staggers on toward her car. Kayla is already there.

  I try to pick myself up, get my bearings. I glance back at Hannah. And has she kept her cool? If she panics and takes the car, we’re all doomed. Still, Kayla’s with her. Kayla will help keep her sane.

  And Clyde. Where the hell is Clyde? He was in the middle of that thing. And from the looks of the swirling maelstrom of dust and destruction filling the street, a lightly flambéd liver may be the least of his worries.

  Plus, he has the only object we managed to recover from the house, even if it was just a desk ornament. This fight will not have been worth surviving if we arrive back at MI37 empty-handed.

  I need to go back in to the chaos. I need to get him out.

  And I can’t.

  I stand there, and my legs just won’t move. I try to get them to go but they simply refuse. Sweat coats my face. I’m breathing hard. And I need to go in there. I need to get Clyde. I focus on that, but other images keep flickering through my head. Bronze fists descending, buildings collapsing, Felicity standing before a house alone, her telling me she wants me to move in with her. All of my pains seem suddenly so much worse, seem to weigh so much heavier. I cannot move for the weight of them. They hold me to the spot. I gasp for air.