He aimed at the claws clutching Luke, but he knew he didn't quite have the shot just yet. Even then, he could hear the scurrying and ticking of the horde of constructs behind him. The Iron Gunslinger barely moved, but Luke kept on struggling, forcing the construct to adjust position.
Hold steady, boy, Nox thought. He meant it also for his gun.
Then he felt the constructs grab him, and he tensed his arms to keep the gun in place. They leapt upon him and each other, scrambling up each other's backs, crawling between the cracks of their kin, until he was almost buried beneath them. Just his head and gun popped through.
He waited, even as he drowned beneath the metal, until he found that perfect shot. He fired, and the armour-piercing bullet cleaved through one of the Iron Gunslinger's fingers. Luke dropped to the ground, landing on his back with a thud. Nox barely had time to see the boy twist and turn in place before his sight was blocked entirely. Even the rifle was washed away by the iron tide and left on some distant scrapyard shore.
Nox didn't bother with prayers, even though he now had the empty hands for them. He wouldn't know who to pray to, and he damn well knew no one was answering. Not here. The Wild North was its own kind of limbo. For some, it was Heaven. For most, it was Hell. Nox knew this moment would come sooner or later. He'd been lucky to put it off for so long. You got your ration of luck like you got your ration of water, but unlike the latter, you couldn't pay for more. For most, it pretty quickly ran out. Nox felt he'd probably had a few drops more than he should've, but then so did some criminals. And maybe that was how you got more—by taking it from someone else.
But just when all seemed lost, the darkness broke, and he saw gaps forming again in his cage of metal. The constructs clambered off him. For a moment, he thought they were letting him go. Then he felt their tight pincers clamping his wrists and ankles, holding him in place. They weren't going anywhere. They were just letting someone else get a better view.
The kids' mama approached, but right now there was nothing motherly about her. She stood right over him, writing his name in her notebook. He didn't know hers, but he knew she was Mrs. Mayfield. That was enough for a poster, enough for a prize. When she was done with his name, which she recorded as Nathaniel Osley Xander, she crossed off some items from a list, then tucked the notepad back into her belt. She was done with the name, but she wasn't done with him. He could see sketches of human-machine hybrids on the first page. Now he knew where Luke'd got it from. He hoped he hadn't inherited anything else.
Mrs. Mayfield didn't even smile. “Open him up,” she said, with that same kind of deadpan tone. After all, she was doing this for science. There was no room for emotion. Only logic. Nox didn't see much of that himself. Only madness.
A construct hobbled over, with a large rotating saw for an arm. Two other constructs held it in place before the saw started spinning. Nox squinted as the sparks flew in all directions. He took a deep puff of that numbing mix of oxygen and chemicals in his tank, his own kind of hybrid.
Then Mrs. Mayfield made her first smile. “Let's see what makes him tick.”
43 – MAKING MONSTERS
The saw struck the armour, slicing it in two. Nox struggled with his bonds, but the constructs held him tight. He couldn't reach any of the gadgets on his belt, and he didn't have many left there to begin with. They'd soon add those to their mechanical bodies, and his to the scrap heap.
And then they stopped. The saw didn't go through his flesh, like he expected, and like how the Clockwork Commune had operated to date. They had a new ruler, or perhaps this group was just one of many factions, like the dozens of gangs that made the Wild North their home. These constructs didn't dig through flesh in search of metal. They wanted to merge the two.
So, they stripped him of his armour, taking it off plate by plate. There was a lot to remove, so it took some time, and in the process of it all, where Nox vacillated between utter resignation and a periodic determination to form a plan of escape, he spotted Luke scurrying behind the rubble far away. He also saw the Iron Gunslinger, now frozen, as if it didn't entirely operate of its own accord. Laura's sobs were audible from the makeshift cage she sat inside.
Mrs. Mayfield must've noticed his stares. “Don't worry about her,” she said, pointing to the massive construct. “I made that.” She said the rest with her eyes: I made it for you.
Nox spoke through gritted teeth. “Monsters making monsters.”
“In the world of the bounty hunter, everything's conveniently so black and white. You don't see the grey, or the myriad of other colours, all mixing together, becoming better for it, becoming indefinable.”
“I know evil when I see it.”
“But you don't know good.”
The last piece of armour was removed, but they left him with his mask and oxygen tank. Mrs. Mayfield ran her fingers across it, then down the pipes to the back.
“You're halfway there already, Coilhunter.”
“And so are you,” he said, forcing the thick black smoke into her face. “Halfway to Hell.”
“You and your religion.”
“You and your science. Let's meet halfway and just call it all madness.”
“It's what you do with it,” she said.
“Exactly. And you ain't doin' nothin' good.”
“The families of those you kill for money might say somethin' similar.”
He was no construct, but she was pushing his buttons now. Many had tried that, but he pushed back.
“You're one to talk about families,” he said. He knew that was one of her buttons. He could see the reaction in her eyes. If you had a soul—and some acted like they didn't—you had to contend with a little niggling thing called guilt. You could push it down like you pushed other people's buttons. You could bury it beneath the scrapyard of the soul. But just like the hidden things beneath the debris of the Rust Valley, sooner or later it came out.
So Mrs. Mayfield stopped pushing buttons. Instead, she pulled off his mask, exposing the scars, and exposing his lungs to the cool night air. He tried to hold his breath, but his lungs were too badly damaged to hold it for long.
“We could fix this,” she said, running her fingers across his scars. They didn't hurt now—not the physical ones. She moved her hand down his chest, pressing against his ribcage. He felt the tenderness there, even now. “We could fix all of it.”
There were quack doctors throughout Altadas who'd said the same. Some showed him their iron lungs. Some went with copper instead. He even met a young man who'd had the operation. He didn't live long. And when those quacks turned up on the Wanted posters, well, they didn't live long either.
“A mechanic like you'd be useful,” Mrs. Mayfield said.
There it was: the price. He was on her own Wanted poster. All it'd cost was his soul. It didn't have the words “Dead or Alive.” As a hybrid, you didn't get a choice. You'd be both.
“I'll never join your army,” Nox spat. He got to spit it now, without his mask. He couldn't use those menacing puffs of smoke instead.
“You don't have to. We'll take out those parts of your brain that make you say no.”
“You should probably use a bullet for that,” he replied, taking a painful gasp at the end. “That's the only thing that'll work on me.”
Or this, Nox thought. Just leave the mask off long enough.
“We'll see about that,” Mrs. Mayfield said, putting the mask back and standing up. “We'll see soon enough.”
But their sight was suddenly drawn by something else. The battered hull of a landship slid down from the mountain of scrap nearby, bringing an avalanche of other mangled parts. And with that movement, there was something else.
Oddcopper.
The little rolling construct scurried through the debris, making straight for the fallen rifle. Nox was never so happy in his life to see a construct. He silently rooted it on, calling out its name in his mind. Laura wasn't silent at all. She yelled the name through her iron bars.
“Od
dcopper! Go! Go!”
And it went, zooming past flying debris, dodging leaping constructs. It seemed like no matter what they threw at it, nothing hit.
And then Nox thought he saw it start to slow.
No, he thought. He couldn't even shake his head.
Oddcopper approached the weapon and reached down, but its body locked into place, with one arm outstretched towards the gun. And it froze. The little wind-up heart inside it ran out of beats, and its ticking, which had been slowing for days, ceased entirely. Its little eyes went dark. So too did everyone's hope.
And then Luke raced out from his cover. He grabbed the rifle, struggling to hold it up. He pointed it at his mother, who turned in amazement to see her gun-shy son before her.
“Put that down, Luke.”
“No,” he said, not much more than a whisper.
“Put it down.”
“No!” he shouted, like the bang of bullet fire.
“You'll hurt someone,” his mother said, holding her hands out. She almost seemed calm and gentle, almost like a mother. She stepped forward.
“That's the point,” Nox said, drawing her attention his way. He saw she was getting a little too close. People had done that in his early days too, and he'd learned the hard way. You never let them close the gap. If they tried, they died.
As she turned back to Luke, Nox gave the slightest of gestures to the boy to move back. That kid wasn't just inexperienced—he had no experience at all. You couldn't draw yourself out of this fight. He had to replace the lead pencil with just lead.
Luke stepped back, glancing down at his feet as he did. It was easy to see why, with all the debris around. He could've backed into anything. That was why you studied your terrain first. Then you spent the rest of the time studying your foe. You didn't look away in the showdown or more than likely you'd go down first.
But Mrs. Mayfield didn't want to kill Luke. Deep beneath the monster was a mother. By the looks of it, very deep. If nothing else, the boy was a specimen, young and healthy, just like Coilcountin' Lawson saw him. An asset. Who knew how the hybrid process would take to his developing organs. There was only one way to know for sure.
“Step back!” Luke yelled, nudging the rifle towards her.
She halted, but she didn't step back.
“Son,” she said, soft and gentle. How she must've said that at night when she tucked him in. How she must've said it with a kiss as morning came.
“You're not my mama,” he said, though it didn't sound like he wholly believed it. His brow was furrowed, and his features shifted between a grimace and a pout.
“Don't say that.”
“Don't be this,” he whimpered.
“I'm still your mama.” Maybe she meant it as a form of comfort, but Nox couldn't help but hear it as: Put that down, boy. I can still give you a whoopin'. But the Coilhunter had his own thought: So can he.
“You left us,” Luke said, his voice soft again. No doubt he wanted an explanation. He'd already gotten an answer to that, but it wasn't good enough. She wasn't good enough.
“I only went—”
“You left us,” he said again, a little louder.
“It was only—”
“You left us!” Laura screamed from her iron prison. If only leaving were the worst of their mother's crimes.
Their father stepped forward, with a clang in his step. “It was for a good cause,” he said. Maybe he even believed it. Or maybe he always just operated like a machine, responding to his wife's every beck and call.
“A good cause,” his mama repeated, like a mantra. She wrung her hands together as if she really hoped he believed her, or maybe she just hoped she'd believe herself.
Luke shook his head. “It don't look good, mama.”
“Things don't always look the way they are.”
Luke snuffled. “Then it's lies, mama.”
“Don't you talk to your mama like that,” his papa said. He raised an admonitory finger, but it was made of metal.
Luke turned the gun on him. “You left us too.”
“I had to,” he said. Just like clockwork.
“We had to fight,” Luke said, looking at the rifle like he'd looked at the one he held when the bandits came. “You weren't there. The raiders came and you weren't there. I kept drawin' you, both of you, in my pictures, 'cause you weren't there!”
“We're here now, love,” his mama said.
He pointed the gun back to her.
“We're here now.”
Don't let 'em fool ya, Nox thought. He urged the boy on with his eyes. He didn't want him to shoot, but he didn't want him to not shoot either. He just wanted him to get out of there, alive. He couldn't do that if he gave in that gun.
“Let him go, mama,” Laura shouted over. She had one arm hanging down through a gap in the cage. “Let them both go. You can have me instead.”
“No,” Nox said. “Let the kids go. I'm more useful to you.”
“But I already have you,” Mrs. Mayfield said, and then she looked at Laura. “I already have the both o' you.”
Luke looked at them, and then to his mother. Nox could see the thoughts in his eyes. He was thinking of offering the same. No, Nox thought, shaking his head gently. No, Luke. Don't give in. You're the only one of us with a gun.
“Hand the weapon over,” his papa urged. Back in the towns, folk used to call him Wholesome Hank. He was that full of good morals, a true upstanding citizen, an obeyer of the law, even when there wasn't any law to obey. Luke had heard his mother call his papa that in jest, and he'd watched from the bannisters as she tickled Hank's chin, and as he grabbed her up and kissed her neck.
“Hand the weapon over,” his papa repeated, looking at him with one wholesome eye, and one that was made of machinery.
Don't do it, Nox said with his own.
“Hand it over, son.”
But little Luke, who never had a nickname, who never fired a weapon, didn't hand it over.
“You ain't got it in you to shoot,” his papa said.
Little Luke, little Gun-shy Luke, who the Mayfields thought they knew so well, little Lead-chewin' Luke, who'd spent so long looking down at his journal. He cocked the rifle. The sound echoed through the Rust Valley.
“I don't wanna shoot you,” he said to his papa.
“Then don't. Just put it down, son.” Hank stepped forward with one metal foot.
“Stay back!” Luke yelled.
“Give me the gun, Luke.” Hank advanced again.
“Go back!” Luke screamed.
“Give. Me. The gun.” Hank strode forward, abandoning all wariness. He grasped the barrel of the rifle, and was about to yank it from Luke's hands.
Then Luke pulled the trigger.
The blast covered them for a moment in a little cloud of smoke. It hid Luke's stream of tears and the shaking of his hands. It hid the blood rolling down his father's chest.
Hank looked down at the wound, then back at Luke. “You shot me.”
“I didn't wanna,” Luke sobbed.
“You shot ...” Hank didn't finish his sentence. He stumbled back a pace, then collapsed to the ground. That armour-piercing round was enough to kill both parts of him. No one, human or construct, could escape death.
Mrs. Mayfield ran to her husband, shrieking as she went. Nox wasn't sure if it was because he was her spouse or her experiment. Either way, the horror in her voice sounded real. He could see the effect it had on Luke, who looked like he was fighting the urge to run to them too.
The Iron Gunslinger, who had stood so silently watching guard over Laura, shifted in place. Luke wasn't just a boy any more. There he was, not quite ten, making his own rules, laying down the law. He didn't like it, and most law-makers didn't, but he gripped that rifle tighter, keeping his finger poised on the trigger.
“Wait,” Mrs. Mayfield told the Iron Gunslinger, holding out her hand towards it. Nox knew it was too close. If it charged, Luke would barely have time to swing the gun around to fire. And unl
ike his father, one shot wouldn't count so much. They say everyone has a bullet with their name on it. The Iron Gunslinger needed a whole barrel full.
Mrs. Mayfield looked at her son with a faceful of tears. It was better, perhaps, than a faceful of lead. She shook her head in admonishment, as if her little boy had grown up to be a terrible disappointment. Not that she was there in recent months to see him grow.
“Let sis go,” Luke said, choking on the words. The tears didn't make them slide out any easier. “Let Nox go.” And, when his mother didn't respond. “Let them go, mama.”
Mrs. Mayfield rose up, letting her husband's hand slip through hers, then clatter off the cold, cracked earth. The tears were still wet on her cheeks, but no new ones came now.
“I could crush you,” she whispered. She flicked the fingers of her right hand. “Just like that.”
Luke's eyes were drawn by the shifting of the Iron Gunslinger, by the grinding of its metal claws as they formed into fists.
“It would be so easy,” his mother said. “So quick.”
Nox watched Luke's reaction as she spoke. More than anything, he watched the position of the boy's index finger on the trigger. Instead of getting closer, it moved farther away. Nox shook his head. Luke wasn't going to shoot.
44 – RUST IN THE CHAMBER
Luke threw the rifle towards the Coilhunter. It clattered off his chest, then landed a few feet away. Nox looked at the kid, incredulous. The constructs still held him down. He couldn't catch the gun, let alone fire it.
Then some of the constructs clambered off him, reaching their rusty fingers out for the weapon. It left one of his legs free, which was just in reach to kick the weapon farther away. In the process, he saw something he didn't expect: another construct parked near Oddcopper, winding him back up. So Nox struggled even more with his captors, kicking another one off with his boot.
Rustkiller - A Science Fiction Western Adventure (The Coilhunter Chronicles Book 2) Page 13