Driftmetal III

by J. C. Staudt

  I grabbed the pepper shaker and showered my eggs with it. “I guess not.”

  An hour later, I was standing on the prow of my command vessel, a sleek, spotless hovercruiser called Highjinks. No doubt the wordplay in that name was a little of Maclin’s synodic sense of humor. A light blanket of cumulus clouds lay over the crisp morning horizon, the perfect cover to shroud our passage. Luckily, I’d had the forethought to arrange the construction of a black velvet cape for myself. The wind picked it up, cracking the fabric like a good sail. It also ruffled my hair, which was now almost long enough to stay in one of the tiebacks my dear old dad always used to wear. I didn’t use a tieback though; my hair was the best way to hide the big circle of missing ear on the left side of my head.

  I wondered if my mom and dad were frustrated that they hadn’t been able to track me down. It made me smile to think of how confused Ludolf Kupfer and his law-loving jerkwads must’ve been when the most wanted man in the stream disappeared off the face of the planet. And then there was Gilfoyle, and the bounty hunters he’d surely hired to find me. He must’ve given them an earful on more than one occasion over the previous months. I’d been about as easy to find as a chip in the Churn. As of today, that was going to change. But somehow, as I observed the sheer strength of my clockwork legion, that thought didn’t frighten me at all.

  I could smell the rough burnoff of newly minted machinery as the displacer engines whined into high-power mode. We were doing the blasted thing. I didn’t know whether the shakiness I felt was my heart pounding, or the world itself throbbing under the gravity of such a force.

  Speaking of the world, I hadn’t quite come to grips with the fact that we were about to wrench it loose from the cold, dead hands of a royal dynasty with centuries of illustrious history, only to deliver it into the hands of a greedy corporation that had been around for less than one. Not an ideal proposition, perhaps. I just had to hope that Maclin was the lesser of those two evils, as I believed it to be. More importantly, I had to hope Maclin’s synod would hold up their end of our bargain.

  I rubbed the empty, medallion-less patch on my chest as the fleet lifted off and bore us into the wind. I watched Maclin’s hard gray confines diminish below us, then turned my eyes skyward to take in the true vastness of the entire legion in flight. Suddenly, getting my old streamboat back seemed small potatoes in comparison to this. I had a whole fleet under my command; my Ostelle could rot, for all I cared.

  I had never aspired to greater things, as the synod had advised me to do, because I’d never thought in a million years that something as great as this was possible. Admittedly, I felt the same way I’d felt when I discovered Yingler’s true identity—like a pawn in a big game. The difference was that in this game, I knew I was the pawn.

  Maclin was using me because I gave them the option of hitting the eject button if things went wrong; I had no delusions about that. They weren’t the only conglomerate in the world with the resources to start a revolution. They could do it faster and easier than anyone else, sure, but the evidence of their involvement would be far from cut-and-dried. Every piece in the entire fleet, from the largest warship down to the tiniest gear in the automatons’ bodies, was without serial number, branding imprint, or identifying mark of any kind. No one had told me that specifically, but I’m smarter than I look, and I was back then, too.

  Roathea was a long way from Maclin. Our fuel tanks were full, and our engines drove us onward with an urgency. We flew all day and into the night, then for most of the next day, and the one after that. The best thing about a robotic army is that they don’t need clothes, food, or bathroom facilities. All you have to do is get them there.

  The sun was low in the afternoon sky by the time Roathea first appeared as a blip on our navigational charts. The blip, of course, was only as large as the bluewave beacon in Roathea’s crow’s nest. I knew from my previous visits that its signal tower was its centerpiece, protruding from the capital city like an arrogant middle finger, demonstrating its superiority to anyone flying by. Even with unobstructed views in every direction, you could raise your spyglass from the top of that tower on a clear day and not come close to seeing Roathea’s edge.

  We were all standing out on deck in the black-rimmed aviator goggles Maclin had issued us, looking like a bunch of nerdy renegades, when the last wisps of cloud cover rushed past our faces and brought Roathea into view. If the Kalican Heights was a massive floater, Roathea was positively gargantuan. Our trajectory had put us in place high above the capital city, right where we needed to be.

  To the left and right of us, I could see our fleet emerging from the cloud cover like a company of steel ghosts. We descended upon the city from the thin briskness of that elevation with the clockwork precision befitting our troops, as swift and merciless as a cold knife wind. Dropships settled onto streets bustling with pedestrians and motorcars while bombardiers dropped mobilized gun emplacements on the roofs of buildings. I shouted commands into my remote, executing our plan to the letter. I knew that if everything went according to that plan, we could take the capital without firing a shot.

  The invasion didn’t start out like the nightmare scenario I’d been dreading; I had imagined that somehow, word of our coming had reached the city in advance, and that there would be an entrenched defense force awaiting our arrival. No one had been expecting us. No one had known we were coming.

  Now that we were here, however, the people of Roathea were fast becoming aware that something was wrong. It didn’t have to be wrong, if they minded their own business. But with an entire city full of people, not everyone’s just going to stand by and watch their homes being invaded.

  At first, most people fled. Then, a few brave souls got hold of themselves and realized what was happening. As the dropships lowered their doors and the automatons flooded out into the streets, these individuals took to throwing rocks, garbage, food, and pretty much anything else they could get their hands on. The automatons responded like most robots would’ve—they didn’t care.

  That’s another benefit of using robots to do the work of ordinary men: they don’t have tempers. So far, I had identified several of these benefits. It was at about this same time that I began to discover a few of the drawbacks.

  As I laid down the invasion forces like chess pieces from my safe vantage point above, they began to form a circular pattern of gleaming metal around the city center. There stood the high houses of government, gallant and majestic, bastions of ancient stonework in palatial form. Seconds turned into minutes, and the surrounding streets became a milieu of noise and traffic jams. The crowd’s initial fear and confusion turned into curiosity and unrest. With that unrest came the first signs of trouble.

  I watched as citizens, like ants, first dared one another to run up and touch the automatons before scurrying back to the safety of the crowds. The people quickly grew bored of these simple games as they realized the automatons weren’t moving. Frightened dares turned into more lighthearted pursuits. People threw their arms around the unresponsive robots, children climbed them, and inquisitive men inspected their weapons. They were in no real danger, as the hybrid rifles were hardwired in, and thus couldn’t be activated by anyone but the robots themselves—and by extension, me.

  To this point, I had done nothing to divert my legion from its default mode of stand in place and look formidable. I had planned to wait until the protective circle was complete to change my orders. But when the first group of men decided to push one of the automatons until it toppled over and cracked open on the pavement like a burst grandfather clock, I decided it was time to don the riot gear.

  “Legion,” I said, broadcasting to all units. “Guard perimeter.”

  In a stunning display of simultaneous obedience, the robotic ring slid into a defensive stance, their bodies glinting in the late afternoon sunlight like a circle of mirrors. Climbing children were sent tumbling. Encroaching citizens were nabbed by the collar and tossed out. Even above the whine of the displ
acer engines, I thought I could hear the crowds give a collective gasp of surprise.

  This first preventative measure resulted in little more than some bruises and a few skinned knees and elbows. But in the minds of the citizenry, even such minor offenses as these were grounds for retaliation. There was more object-throwing. The objects were harder, and bigger—stones, bottles, pots and pans, two-by-fours. Yes, I heard the first crack of wood on metal as someone slugged a robot with a wooden plank.

  “Legion. Two steps forward. Guard perimeter,” I said, hoping a massive unified advance might deter some number of would-be attackers.

  The automatons advanced, sending a wave of panic through the crowd. The wave only lasted a few seconds, after which the crowd regrouped and held fast, taunting and jeering and trying to do whatever damage they could. This had gone far enough, I decided. I flicked on the vocal comm, turned the volume all the way up, and spoke into the remote.

  “WILL YOU PEOPLE STOP BEING IDIOTS AND GO HOME?” The sound of my own voice booming out below made me jump, every automaton in the legion spitting my words through the speaker in its chest, a chorus of metallic death machines. “THIS IS A BLASTED INVASION,” I continued. “AND UNLESS YOU GET LOST REAL QUICK, IT’S GOING TO BE THE LAST ONE YOU EVER SEE. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING.”

  I flicked off the vocal, breathing heavily. My hands were shaking, my palms clammy, even in the brisk high-altitude wind. There were better ways to end my day than with the deaths of twenty thousand people on my hands. But it soon became apparent that the people were more willing to lay down their lives for their homeland than I was to let them do so.

  Some of them did run; others stayed. I ordered my legion to ready their weapons, and watched them swing their rifles toward the crowds. This resulted in a few more lost nerves, but thousands kept standing their ground. I was thinning the herd, but it seemed there was nothing I could do to disperse it completely.

  Now people had retreated to rooftops and window ledges. They had houses full of heavy objects, which they seemed happy to give to the invading army, along with a few hundred pounds of downward force. The automatons were sturdy, but they were far from invulnerable. I saw them begin to dent, malfunction, and drop as the onslaught continued. This parade was turning into a nightmare.

  I lifted the remote to my lips, my breath ragged, feeling as though I might puke before I could speak. “Legion…” I paused for a long time—I mean, a really long time—before I said what I said next. “Fire on all hostiles.”

  The sun was setting. Bright strokes of neon lit the darkening streets. Every time an unknown airship came toward the circle, the gun emplacements brought it down. I could hear the buzz of laser fire and flecker particles, smell the char of burning wood and seared flesh. I let my arm fall to my side, numb and listless. I was still holding the remote as I parted the crowd and descended to the ship’s dark interior.

  The Highjinks carried us past the protective circle and into the heart of the city, toward the capital mansion where the Regent and his family lived. They were likely hunkered down in some bunker beneath, scared and confused, praying for deliverance. But they would find no such thing today. Today, their lives were forfeit. In place of someone to answer their prayers, they would find only me.

  7

  The hovercruiser settled down in front of the Regent’s mansion, which should never have been referred to as anything shy of a palace. After a short debate over who was coming inside, I wound up choosing Thomas, Rindhi, and Blaylocke. Thomas and Rindhi were easy choices, given the negotiations I was sure would ensue; Blaylocke was the best bodyguard humankind had to offer just now, and I didn’t exactly mind putting him in harm’s way. I told Chaz and Ezra they’d better stay aboard to man the guns and keep tabs on the battle while we were gone.

  We descended the boarding ramp and crossed the lawn, my retinue of automatons at our heels and my cape fluttering behind me in the wake of the displacer engines. We were the envoy of peace in the midst of the chaos, mass confusion, and warfare erupting around us. I could hear it more plainly the further we got from the ship. Night was drawing on, and by the sights and sounds of it on every horizon, my legion was holding its own.

  “Evelyn,” I said, speaking loudly without using the remote. “Guard us.”

  My unit fell in close, resolved to carry out my orders. I had my own entourage now, just like Ms. Foxglove. Except mine was larger, shinier, and more deadly. We came to the front steps, where two long rows of Civs decked out in their Red-and-Tans stood by, trying not to shake in their boots.

  “We’re coming in,” I said. “Step aside or die. Whichever you choose, do it quickly.”

  I waited. No one moved.

  “Evelyn, prepare to fire.”

  The automatons leveled their weapons. The steps cleared out.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Evelyn, guard us.”

  “Why Evelyn?” Thomas asked, as we ascended the stairs and entered the palace through its high gilded doors.

  I lifted one corner of my mouth into a crooked smile. “It’s my ma’s name.”

  After passing through an entry hall the size of a small stadium, we came to the Regent’s throne room. Yes—a real live throne room, with a pair of guards standing on either side of a gilded marble throne upholstered in purple velvet. The room smelled exactly like I’d thought it would—rich and new, despite being centuries old. The whole ceiling glittered like gold, and the long purple carpet that led us to the Regent’s dais was as thin as a wafer but soft as a pillow. And there, to my complete surprise, was the Regent, leaning forward on his elbows, like a man who hasn’t finished pooping yet but is seriously considering it.

  When the Regent looked up, his eyes were so droopy and inflamed I could’ve mistaken him for a bloodhound. He was dressed in loose, fur-lined robes of a deep royal blue, with a heavy golden crown resting on the feather-like wisps of blond hair that remained around the sides of his scalp. This was the man himself; the Regent, Lord Maxwell Baloncrake, who bore such titles as The Emperor of the Whole Wide World, and Ruler of Every Blasted Thing Everywhere, and I Own Your Socks.

  “Let me be the first to congratulate myself on how easy it was to defeat you,” I said, making sure my voice carried.

  The Regent did not reply. His guards, however, moved to defend him, standing in our way and pointing their rifles at us. I warned them. They didn’t listen. I commanded Evelyn to dispense with them, which the robots did without trouble.

  I had to step over one of the bodies and through a pool of blue blood on my way to the throne. “You’re a brave man to sit here while the establishment dissolves around you,” I said.

  “Am I brave? Or just doing my duty?” he said joylessly.

  “I don’t know that, so I couldn’t say one way or the other. I don’t suppose it’ll matter for much longer, anyhow. I’ve been ordered to execute you and your entire family.”

  He grasped the armrests of his throne and shifted, leaning against the backrest. He cleared his throat. “By whom?”

  I rubbed my feet on the carpet, wiping the blood off my boots. It blended with the fabric surprisingly well. “Someone who thinks it’s time for the world to change. Question is, how dead do you want to be?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You need an ally. As it happens, I’m in the market.”

  Thomas gave me his trademark ‘what-in-the-heavens-do-you-think-you’re-doing?’ look.

  “The Crown does not bargain with traitors,” said the Regent, spitting the words out like venom. “Come. Take me and be done with it.”

  “You will bargain with me if you’d see your family live out the night. I’m prepared to let you keep your seat, but only if you’ll meet me halfway.”

  Blaylocke tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Yes, what is it? Can’t you see I’m talking to the King of the Planet right now?”

  “Chester just bluewaved from the ship. Says there’s trouble. Says they’ve picked up an incoming sub-signal.”
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  “Like what kind of sub-signal?” The words turned to slurry in my mouth as my entire body erupted in jolts of blue pain. I sank to my knees and tried to scream, but my breath caught rigid in my throat.

  A memory came back to me, clear as day. I was lying on the examination table, and Doctor Gottlieb had just found the ciphered box in my arm. “We will see about this one,” he had said. I had passed out in a tumult of pain shortly thereafter. The crackler, I realized. Gottlieb, you sneak. You never removed it. You couldn’t decode the cipher, so you copied the sub-signal and left it there as an insurance policy…

  I ripped my arm open and examined the small box fused into my telerium bone structure, squinting through blurry eyes. Another jolt ripped through me. I arched my back and fell flat, fumbling blindly inside with my fingers. “Chaz,” I managed, gasping. “Chaz. Get Chaz. The crackler, Blaylocke. The crackler.”

  Blaylocke understood. He darted from the throne room and sprinted down the hall.

  Somewhere that seemed far away, I heard a comm ringing.

  Next I knew, Rindhi was kneeling beside me. “Call for you, Mr. Nordstrom. It is Maclin.” Rindhi handed me the comm.

  “What the—” Another shock, smaller this time. I raised the comm. “Who is this?”

  “This is the synod, Mr. Jakes. We couldn’t help but overhear that you’ve deviated from your path. Do not deviate again, or extreme measures will be taken.” The line went dead.

  I got another shock, the longest and most intense one yet. Seconds later, I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I looked up at the ceiling, trying to find Chaz or Blaylocke amongst its dark cavernous recesses. “Blaylocke,” I slurred. “Chaz.”

  His head came into view, looking down at me. “What are they doing to you?”

  I raised my hand. “Get it out, Chaz. Get it out.”

  He bit his lip, thinking. Trying to remember the cipher. He pressed a series of buttons. I got a shock. Another series. Another shock.

  “Sorry, Mull. I just—I can’t remember.”