Metal and Ash (Apex Trilogy)

by Jake Bible

  Fear gripped his nuts when he realized he had no idea if he could find help. So far he hadn’t seen or heard another living soul in the Maze. Just the undead.

  “Where the fuck are the slits?” he whispered then winced at his use of the name slit. He wasn’t ready to go Eden native yet.

  He retrieved his bone from the dead creature’s head and shook the gore from it as much as he could. He reached out and braced himself against the wall, making sure he had a good grip, then slowly, step by painful step, he continued deeper into the Maze.

  Twenty-Six

  “Holy fucking nut clusters,” Jethro said as he watched the deep scans. With relays not properly maintained he hadn’t bothered with checking them regularly. But the data that streamed into the mainframe was too large for him to ignore. “Not good.”

  ***

  “Stomper!” Jay shouted. “Crouch the fuck down! I ain’t climbing all the fucking way up there!”

  “I am sorry, Jay Rind,” Stomper said. “I was not being considerate.”

  “Lay off, Jay,” Harlow said as she stepped from the cockpit and swung herself down to the ground once Stomper was low enough. “You don’t have to yell at him.”

  “Want me to start yelling at you?” Jay asked as he grabbed a span-wrench and pulled himself up to Stomper’s shoulder. He set the span-wrench to work and started tweaking a coupler that was leaking fluid. “I’m gonna fucking yell at someone so take your fucking pick.”

  “What’s up his asshole?” Specialist Sol asked as he stretched and twisted, getting the kinks worked out after the long haul from the Great Maker’s valley.

  “That,” Bisby said as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the mech that was One Arm. “The thing killed Stanislaw, one of our pilots. Jay’s not too happy that I brought it back.”

  “I don’t think any of use are too happy, dickhead,” Masters said. “Because you had to have that fucking thing we almost got ourselves killed.”

  “Pussy,” Bisby sneered.

  “Old bitch,” Masters snapped back.

  “Fucking mechheads,” Lt. Murphy said, shaking her head. “Crazy as shit.”

  “All personnel!” Jethro announced over the PA. “Get cleaned up, get fed and meet in the main conference hall in one hour. That means everybody.”

  “That’ll give me just enough time to take a shit,” Specialist Grendetti grinned. “Good to be home.”

  “Didn’t like the commode on the Hybrid?” Specialist Kafar asked as he shouldered his gear.

  “You know me, Kafar,” Grendetti said. “I get all backed up on missions.”

  “Nice,” Harlow frowned as she walked past.

  “Didn’t mean to offend your ladylike sensibilities!” Grendetti shouted after her. “Bitch.”

  He had Masters and Bisby in his face in a blink.

  “Cool down, folks,” Capreze said as he walked into the hangar. “You heard Jethro. Meeting in one hour. Don’t be late.” He waited until Masters and Bisby let Grendetti pass then turned to find Jay. “Hold off on Stomper. I want you going through that dead mech from top to bottom. Bolt it to the fucking floor until we know for certain it’s safe.”

  “I’m not going to forget Stomper,” Jay snapped. “He keeps leaking like this and we won’t have enough fluid to put back in him. I’ll get to the deader next.”

  “Where’s Marin?” Capreze asked.

  “Here, Commander,” Marin said as she wiped grease from her face, effectively smearing it even worse. “Whatcha need?”

  “Get your people on Stomper and stop that leak,” Capreze ordered. “I want you and Jay on the dead mech now. Either that or take it outside and blast it to hell.”

  “No you don’t!” Bisby yelled. “I fucking fought my ass off to get that thing to heel!”

  “If I’d known exactly what you were doing, Biz, I’d have ordered you off it,” Capreze countered. “Next time you decide to make a mission personal will be the last time you have a mission.”

  “Just ridding the wasteland of the dead mech menace, sir,” Bisby smirked.

  “Fuck you, Biz,” Capreze said. “Go get cleaned up. You smell like you shit yourself.”

  “One Arm wouldn’t let him out of the cockpit for over twenty-four hours!” Masters yelled as he left the hangar.

  “Didn’t you shit yourself the last time you hung out with this deader?” Jay asked. “You need to start wearing diapers when you go into the waste, man.”

  “Fuck all of you,” Bisby growled.

  ***

  “By headaches what do you mean?” Themopolous asked Rachel. “Tension behind the eyes? Stabbing pain in the temples? Slow, dull ache that just won’t go away?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” Themopolous said as she scanned Rachel’s body.

  “Not good then?” Mathew asked, his hand in Rachel’s.

  “Not good,” Themopolous replied. “Rachel has a specific condition that manifested when she was an infant. It was maintained through most of her life by pure luck. But that luck has run out.”

  “What condition?” Rachel asked. “I’ve never known of any condition. Sure, I get those dizzy spells and have passed out a few times, but that’s it.”

  Themopolous set her tablet aside and stared at Rachel. “Being in a coma for more than three months and then suddenly waking up like nothing happened doesn’t qualify as ‘that’s it’. Your neurological make-up is not what is called in scientific circles ‘normal’.”

  “Did you find all of this out while she was asleep?” Mathew said. “Because you never said a word to me about it the whole time I slept next to her and helped you and June take care of her. This is news to me, Doc.”

  “It’s not my place to say,” Themopolous said. “I think her father should fill her in.”

  “He knows what’s going on?” Mathew asked, his voice rising, his cheeks flushed with anger. “So he could have told me? What the fuck people?!”

  “You’re family, Mathew,” Capreze said as he stepped into the infirmary. “No doubt about that. But what is happening to Rachel is between her and me.”

  “What is happening to me?” Rachel snapped. “Fucking tell me!”

  Themopolous looked to Capreze and they locked eyes. It was obvious that the two were still not on good terms and hadn’t worked out Themopolous’s place within Capreze’s order of command, but she was the Stronghold doctor and he finally nodded, deferring to her.

  “Rachel was born with a one of a kind genetic disposition,” Themopolous said. “One that allows her to be more sensitive and in tune with technology than your average person.”

  “When she was a baby,” Capreze started. “She had issues with her Reaper chips.”

  “Whoa,” Mathew interrupted. “Chips? Did you just say chips?”

  “She kept frying them,” Capreze explained. “It’s the only way to describe it.” He took a deep breath. “The chip she has in her head now, the one she’s had since she was a year old, is a dummy.”

  Mathew and Rachel stared at the commander, their jaws open.

  “I had a doctor put in a dead chip,” Capreze continued. “She didn’t have a problem after that.”

  “How…but…?” Mathew stammered.

  “I knew enough people, pulled enough strings-.” Capreze started.

  “And falsified enough docs,” Themopolous interrupted.

  “-and falsified enough documents, yes,” Capreze nodded. “Something our good doctor is quite proficient in.” Again the two locked eyes. “When she decided to become a mech pilot I couldn’t have been more relieved. Not only is she a natural, but I could make sure to keep her close and keep an eye on her.”

  “And all this time I thought it was because you loved me, Papa Bear,” Rachel smirked.

  “You know it is, Baby Girl,” Capreze responded.

  “So what does this have to do with her coma? With what’s happening now?” Mathew asked.

  “The continual
cerebral integration has taken its toll,” Themopolous answered. “She’s been doing it raw, without a Reaper chip. That has caused a lot of stress on the brain.”

  “That’s why I knew I could integrate with that mech to come help,” Rachel said. “I mean I didn’tknow know, but I knew.”

  “But she’ll be okay, right?” Mathew asked.

  “Maybe,” Themopolous said. “There is someone who can help her.”

  “That’s why I’ve called the briefing,” Capreze said. “Or one of the reasons. The wasteland is under siege, and normally I wouldn’t give a shit, but it’s all we have and there are a lot of people that want to take it away from us.”

  “We going to war, Papa Bear?” Rachel asked, a huge grin on her face despite her raging headache.

  “We’re going to war, Baby Girl.”

  ***

  The entire Stronghold was seated in the conference hall, all eyes glued on what Jethro was projecting on the main vid screen.

  “Those are all mechs?” Mathew asked. “Like mech mechs? Not dead mechs?”

  “They are all mechs,” Jethro responded. “I usually can’t pick up signals from that distance, but the sheer size of the contingent and the energy signals being put off are hard to miss.”

  “This means we have enemies coming from the north and from the west,” Capreze said. “And I don’t know how to cover all of this. I need suggestions.”

  “But isn’t the west protected by the shield?” Lt. Murphy asked. “So they can’t really get through, can they?”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Capreze said. “We lost contact with Colonel Masterson and the American naval forces. We are blind on that end. I would prefer to think we are safe, but we cannot guarantee it.”

  “Do we know for sure that those mechs are coming for us?” Harlow asked. “They could be going to Monterey to shut the shield down.”

  “They could be,” Capreze said. “But I doubt they’ll send them all.”

  “So what’s the plan, Commander?” Masters asked. “Where we going to blow shit up?”

  “Who said you were going anywhere, Mitch?” Capreze smiled. “You’re still benched from mech duty.”

  “What?!” Masters shouted as he jumped to his feet. “Are you fucking kidding me? Look at those numbers! You need me!”

  “I do need you,” Capreze nodded. “I need you here. You and Stomper.”

  “Stomper won’t be happy about that,” Harlow said. “So what mech do I get?”

  “We’ve got one for you,” Marin smiled. “I made it special for ya.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Harlow smiled and looked at Mitch. “Sucks to be you.”

  “I can’t believe I’m still grounded,” Masters grumbled. “Guard duty? Fucking bullshit. At least I get Stomper again.”

  “That’s not what I said,” Capreze smiled, clearly enjoying himself. “You and Stomper. Separate. His AI doesn’t need human interface anymore. He can fight on his own.”

  “And I’ve got a mech for you,” Jay said. “All ready to go.”

  “Whatever,” Masters pouted.

  “Quit being a baby, Masters,” Jay said. “You’re gonna like what I made. It’s a Tumbler.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Masters replied.

  “Sir?” Mathew asked, ignoring Jay and Masters. “What about the deaders that came at us? The horde that tried to take down the outer perimeter? We still don’t know where that threat came from.”

  “I know, Mathew,” Capreze said. “And that does worry me. But this is the wasteland. We can’t stop because something we don’t understand may be looming out there. That’s just fucking life.”

  Twenty-Seven

  “That is different,” the Pope frowned as he lowered his binocs. “How long has it been sitting out there?”

  “A day,” Brother Reynaldo replied. “We’ve been watching it, but it hasn’t moved in hours.”

  “You say it just stopped there?” the Pope asked. Brother Reynaldo nodded. “And hasn’t moved since?” Reynaldo shook his head. “Then maybe we should go have a look.”

  ***

  “What is this I hear?” the Great Maker asked himself as the sound of ATVs approaching roused him from his heat induced delirium. “A welcoming committee? A parade? A jaunty band of well wishers?”

  The Great Maker uncoupled his cyborg body from his arachnimech. He made sure systems were powered down, which wasn’t an issue since the mech had run out of power hours earlier. In his haste to escape Harlow and Masters the Great Maker hadn’t checked his geothermal charging system and unfortunately left his lair without all components.

  He hadn’t left the lair in decades and had never intended to. The sudden expulsion from his secure home hadn’t been ideal and there were many components he wished he’d thought to bring along.

  Knowing he was helpless to fight off any serious attack, the Great Maker stood up and waved at the approaching ATVs, intending to ingratiate himself upon them and present as unimposing a figure as possible.

  Unused to social interaction with anything less than a few tons, he forgot how he appeared to others.

  “Holy…,” Brother Reynaldo muttered as he stopped the ATV. “What is it?”

  “I believe at one time it was a man,” the Pope answered as he shouldered his carbine and stepped from the ATV. “Hello there, stranger! I must insist you slowly remove yourself from your interesting machine and come forward. Hands raised, slow steps.”

  Three other ATVs emptied of their occupants and the Pope had an even dozen Brothers and Sisters backing him up with shouldered carbines.

  “Oh, of course! Of course!” the Great Maker said as he climbed from his arachnimech. “I assure you I am of no threat!”

  He winced as he landed on the sun baked earth. His knees had been troubling him and he’d, of course, neglected to prepare and pack enough hydraulic fluid. He had used what was aboard the arachnimech several miles back in order to keep the machine moving.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have some water on your person?” the Great Maker asked.

  The Pope surveyed the semi-human before him, taking in all of the struts and wires, hoses and cables. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer motor oil, Colonel Maker?”

  The Great Maker’s smile faltered and his red eyes focused on the group in front of him.

  “Have we met, sir?” he asked. “You seem to know me, yet I am unsure of who you are.”

  “I make it a point of knowing all of the players in the wasteland,” the Pope smiled then bowed slightly. “Pope John Paul Ringo George the Eighteenth. Please, call me JP.”

  “Ranchers,” the Great Maker sneered. “I should have known.”

  “Not a fan of our fair congregation?” the Pope asked.

  “You worship the dead flesh,” the Great Maker scoffed.

  “One such as yourself shouldn’t be casting stones,” the Pope replied curtly.

  “At least my children are made of metal,” the Great Maker said, puffing out his girded chest. “That will last forever.”

  The Pope eyed the Great Maker’s leaking hydraulics. “Due tell.”

  The two men of the wasteland looked each other over.

  “But where are my manners?” the Pope said. “I am a man of God here to tend his flock. And although you may not be a Disciple, you are a part of Him. Please join us and rest your weary self. I am sure you have some tales to tell of your journey and how you came to be stranded here.”

  ***

  “Thank you,” the Great Maker said as he was handed a canteen of slightly cool water. “And could I trouble-?”

  He was also handed a small container of hydraulic fluid by a young Rancher Sister. She curtsied and then left quickly. The Great Maker watched her go, the look of hunger on his face.

  “That should be enough, yes?” the Pope asked as he leaned back in his well worn chair. “Unless you require some other sustenance? Something a little warmer…and redder?”

  “I have b
eaten those urges,” the Great Maker said. “Willpower is the only true power.”

  “Is it?” the Pope mused. “I suppose so. You must be very powerful then.”

  The Great Maker did not respond as he sipped his water.

  The two of them sat in the Pope’s office and bed chambers. It was not ornately adorned as the Great Maker had expected. It was simple, with plain furnishings and a single bed. A rug had been thrown down on the packed earth floor and the interior of the room was lit by tallow candles, not halogens.

  The Pope saw the Great Maker eying the candles.

  “They are rendered fat,” the Pope acknowledged. “We waste nothing here. I assure you no lives were sacrificed for their making. We use only bodies that God takes of his own wish. It is a hard choice since the rendering process denies the individual of becoming a Disciple, but it is a sacrifice they decide before leaving. We all make our decisions well before the decisions are made for us. All must be prepared in the wasteland.”

  “I whole heartedly agree,” the Great Maker replied after taking a few short sips of the water. “Clean.”

  “You were expecting mud and sand?” the Pope asked as he swept his hand about. “Humble does not mean we live without basic standards.”

  “My apologies,” the Great Maker nodded. He took a couple more sips then set about patching and refilling his knee hydraulics. “My condolences on the loss of the Archbishop. Both of them.”

  “Yes, well the first one was a political nightmare,” the Pope said, rolling his eyes. “How that branch decided to elect a mere boy to Archbishop I cannot say. And Archbishop Wyble? His death was only a few days ago, but not quite soon enough for my taste.”

  “Oh?” the Great Maker inquired.

  “Like all powerful organizations we Ranchers had our divisions,” the Pope explained as he stood up and began to pace the room. “As I am sure you have heard.”

  “Rumors even made it to my hermetic ears, yes.”