by Gross, Dave
There was another square set inside the outer one, offset by forty-five degrees. From the beams descended pipes and corrugated rubber tubes of varying thickness, from the width of a man’s finger to the circumference of his arm. The larger pipes fitted against the big warjack’s chassis, holding it in place as smaller tubes extending from the structure’s support columns connected to ports in the warjack’s abdomen. The glass lenses nearest the ports shone with energy, humming as they seemingly recharged the war machine.
There could be no doubt it was the same warjack the Dogs had fought at the Ordic supply depot. The injuries were identical, including the severed arm, now hanging from cables beside the gaping hole in its shoulder.
Another mechanikal construct stepped carefully through the columns and pipes of the station and around the larger warjack. It walked on three legs rather than four, its economical motions resembling a clockwork device more than a war machine, each careful limb finding its place before either of the others moved.
The construct’s three legs converged in a steel base. Beneath it hung the lower extremity of a coil glowing with blue-white energy. Upon the base sat a pair of rotating brass gears supporting a squat cylinder. Inset with chromium plates and blue lenses, this abdominal section supported yet another brass rotor. On top of it all sat a “head” unit from which protruded a fixed radial saw, a small steel claw, and the top of the glass coil that formed the construct’s axis.
The three-legged construct extended its saw to cut away a ragged corner of chassis on the heavy warjack’s shoulder wound. As sparks cascaded from the metal, a pair of helm-sized globes descended from the roof of the structure.
They appeared like little more than floating chromium balls, each with one greater and two lesser “eye” lenses and a gripping claw attached by a simple gear-and-piston arm. Heeding some invisible command, they gripped the torn metal and held it fast as the repair construct sheared off the damaged metal.
“McBride saw only one of the little ones earlier,” said Sam. “Let’s take them down before any more show up.”
Drawing her stun sword, Sam looked left and right. The gloom obscured the movements of her flanking units, but she nodded as if she had seen them—or as if she simply trusted them to be where she had directed.
“Come on, you big lugs,” she said to her warjacks: “Straight up the middle, double-quick!”
She ran with them. Just as Foyle approached his full speed, the larger repair construct stepped out of the recharging station to turn its inhuman “head” in their direction. One of the floating spheres followed it, clenching its claw in a nervous gesture.
“They spotted us,” said Sam. “Charge!”
Foyle unleash his full speed, raising the stun lance high as it followed the point of Sam’s sword toward the construct repairing the warjack. Sam remained closer to Gully, who raised his enormous battle blade high above his head as he followed his smaller counterpart.
One of the floating globes emitted a high squealing alert and clutched a nearby pillar in a mockery of human fright. The other immediately began fleeing east, piping and whirring in alarm.
Still holding her sword in one hand, Sam drew her long pistol and aimed without missing a step. She fired. Sparks and shattered glass flew from the fleeing servitor, silencing its alarm and sending it falling to the ground.
That was the only signal Crawley’s unit needed. Rushing out from the cover of the alders, Crawley’s unit fell upon the larger repair construct. It whirred and peeped in alarm, sounding less like a ’jack under assault by professional soldiers than a pipe organ under attack by an inquisitive child. Its fixed saw reached out, but Crawley smashed it blunt with his pick axe. Swire smashed the protruding coil as its energy surged to form a welding arc. The others fell upon the construct’s legs, smashing the brass cogs and levering the legs away from the base.
Behind its felled companion, the heavy warjack stirred in its recharging cradle. At some silent signal, the cylindrical supports withdrew. An angry whine in the saw-flinging arm grew louder as it turned to face its attackers.
This time it was a moment too late. Foyle’s stun lance struck deep into the warjack’s silvery chest plate. Lightning crackled along the lance, and the stricken warjack shuddered in a dance of electricity.
“Gully, break the arm!” Sam pointed with her sword.
The heavy Nomad lunged with all its weight. Its battle blade sheared the clockwork gears driving the saw axle in the shoulder unit. With a pathetic whine of deceleration, the saw-flinger’s rising fury dissipated.
Lister’s unit had already intercepted the second little globe, which had fled in the opposite direction. With fierce but precise blows, the Devil Dogs batted it down with their pick-axes. The point of Craig’s axe caught the globe’s “elbow” and pinned it to the ground. Bowie finished the job by impaling its spherical chassis. With a pitiable whine, the construct gave up the last of its protest.
Back at the recharge cradle, at Sam’s command, Foyle withdrew its lance and stabbed again. This time the lance gouged a deep crease upon the warjack’s chromed chassis, but the point did not penetrate far enough to stun the machine. Yet even as the wounded warjack raised its partially reconnected gripping arm to strike, Gully lopped it off with a single stroke.
Even armless, the heavy warjack struggled against the big lugs. “Beat it down!” Sam told them. They slammed the foe with their shields. Armless, it could do little more than twist and whir in impotent desperation.
“Wait!” called Sam. When the war machines paused, she thrust her stun blade up into the enemy warjack’s abdomen. Like a smaller version of Foyle’s lance, her sword crackled with cortex-stunning lightning. The dismembered warjack shuddered, its legs twitching in an involuntary lightning dance. As if in sympathy, lightning exploded just above the hill, the crash of thunder striking simultaneously with the flash. “All right, Dogs! Take it down!”
All three units converged on the warjack as Sam ordered the big lugs, “Out!”
Once they got in close with their pick axes, the Dogs knew instinctively where to strike, smashing exposed cogs and denting power trains beyond functionality. They continued until the blue lenses of the warjack flickered and Sam shouted, “That’s enough. Now, hold it steady!”
“Are you sure, Sam?” said Lister.
“I know what I’m doing. Just hold it down.”
As the Dogs pinned the warjack’s remaining limbs, Sam plunged her blade deep into the chassis. At her nod, Lister moved over and peeled away the metal with his pick-axe. After a peek inside, Sam stabbed again, widening the wound. She did it three more times, until Lister pried back the metal to reveal the glowing blue cortex.
With a few more strokes of her blade, Sam severed the connections. The warjack’s last lights faded, and its limbs slumped with a pitiful whirring sound. She pulled out her trophy.
“Now this should give the Old Man something to study. Get the rest of this thing loaded on the wagon, along with the others.”
It took Smooth and the drivers a few minutes to arrive, so swiftly had the assault succeeded. Once they had the wagon turned around, Sam directed Gully and Foyle to tip the body of the enemy warjack into the wagon and shove it onto the iron-reinforced bed. Lister’s unit carried the machine’s severed arm and heaved it over the wagon side to join the body.
“This isn’t as heavy as it looks,” remarked Lister.
“It’s still pretty damned heavy, you ask me,” grunted Burns. “Sir!”
Once the bulk of the work was done, Lister and Burns went back to fetch the felled globes. Sam beckoned to Harrow and together climbed the hill for a look beyond. Somewhere near, the Cygnaran town of Calbeck lay across the river.
The rest of the Dogs secured the heavy warjack for travel and added the smaller constructs to the load. All told, they made for heavier cargo than the wagon was used to hauling, but Crawley grudgingly approved the job.
As they were finishing, Lister climbed the hill to joi
n Sam and Harrow, but they were already running back. “Move it!” said Sam. “Move it fast!”
Lister fell in with Sam and Harrow. “What is it?”
“Warcaster,” said Sam. “This time she’s brought friends.”
The wagon drivers slapped the reins. Smooth let himself fall back into the wagon, turning around to sit with his back against the seat. He held his slug gun at the ready as the rest of the Dogs ran beside the accelerating wagon.
They turned their heads at each new flash of lightning in the coming dawn, sometimes catching the barest glimpse of their pursuers. From the wagon, Smooth pointed upward and said, “Morrow preserve us!”
Seven winged figures soared above the ridge of the hill and descended toward the retreating Devil Dogs.
Those on either flank appeared perfectly identical: in the fleeting radiance of the storm, their bodies gleamed with chrome and brass. Their curvaceous figures were undeniably feminine, yet they were over seven feet tall and every inch metallic, from their immobile faces to the razor-sharp edges of their brass wings. In one hand each held sharp steel blades. In the other, a heavy gauntlet hinted at unrevealed power.
Their leader differed in every detail. Her wings spread three times wider than those of her subordinates, every bladed feather connected by its own powered gear. The elegant lines of her armor were at once sleeker and more elaborate than the others, from the imperial wings of her headpiece to the tall heels on her gleaming boots. She held a massive staff, itself a clockwork device bristling with the same blue-white energy the Dogs had seen at the recharging station. Yet for all of these distinguishing features, what set the leader apart from her minions was the human face beneath her helm, the human flesh exposed at her shoulders, and the human expression of anger in her eyes.
“It was an angel!” Dawson shouted at Smooth.
“We have what we came for,” yelled Sam. “Time to leave. Go, go, go!”
The horses caught the men’s panic, shrieking as they pulled the heavy cargo over the rough terrain. Every time the wheels struck a rut, Smooth bounced side to side. The armless warjack began sliding toward him. With his good leg, he pushed himself into the corner of the wagon bed and braced for the worst.
Another flash lit up the sky. Rather than thunder, a throbbing scream accompanied the blue-white glare. The ray shot forth from the warcaster’s staff. Where it stroked Gully’s bulky chassis, the beam left a white-hot line. Flames licked up where the intense heat touched oil or debris upon the warjack’s iron skin. The wound faded from white to red as Gully chugged along, falling behind as Foyle moved up to challenge the wagon for the lead.
A blue-white bolt struck the ground beside the wagon, covering its passengers with wet turf and detritus while knocking Burns and McBride to the ground. Burns was the first to rise. He grabbed McBride by the belt and hauled him back to his feet. “Quit lollygagging!”
Another blast came down. Dawson turned to see the source. The energy bolts shot out from the clockwork angels’ gauntlets, one after the next. They fell all around the retreating Dogs, knocking them down and hurling the wagon side to side.
The others took up Sam’s call as they neared the site where they had left the other two wagons. In the confusion among the storm, the dawn’s gloom, and the chaos of the sudden retreat, the drivers and mechaniks struggled to turn the wagons around before their soldiers arrived.
Dawson looked to the side to see Morris running beside him, then looked back just as another angel hurled a bolt of energy. The earth exploded between them, showering them both in fragments of flame. They stared at each other in disbelief, and relief, that they had survived. They continued running, slapping the hot debris from their skin.
Another screaming ray from the warcaster’s staff caught the fleeing Gully. This time the beam tore through his armor plating to blast brass and tin reservoirs out of the wound, along with a long tongue of flame and a black cloud. The war machine managed a few more steps before crashing down in heap of steam, fire, and smoke.
“Faster, Foyle!” Sam cried. Her glistening eyes lingered on the fallen Nomad for a moment before she heeded her own advice.
A sound of rushing air descended toward Dawson and Morris. Dawson threw himself aside, rolling up with his slug gun cradled in both arms. As three clockwork angels swooped past Morris, Dawson aimed and fired at the nearest.
As if by some intuition, the angel’s wings contracted, catching the brunt of the blow. Even so, the impact was enough to knock the angel to the ground. Dawson pulled his utility knife from its sheath and started to run toward the foe, but a moan from Morris stopped him. He went instead to his fallen comrade.
The angel’s sword had opened Morris from ribs to shoulder. Hot blood sprayed Dawson in the face as Morris struggled to breathe, his open lung gaping through his sundered ribcage. He mouthed a word, but only blood came out. Dawson didn’t need to hear it. He recognized it by the shape of Morris’s lips: “Isla.”
“Dawson, get out of there!” Burns bellowed.
Another trio of angels descended. They thrust their swords down in unison. Like the blades of a plow, they reached down to tear him into furrows.
Once more Dawson threw himself to the ground. He stood up lighter, and for a moment he turned around like a dog chasing its tail to see what had been cut off of him. It was only his pack.
Above him, another slug round exploded. He looked up to see the creamy plume of Burn’s shot trailing off the wings of another clockwork angel. Whether it was by instinct or design, their wings folded to shield them from each of the incoming slugs.
“It’s no good,” Dawson yelled. “The wings are shields!” He tried to run, realized he had lost his way, and turned himself around, searching for some sign of his company. He focused on the rattling clamor of the wagon and ran toward it.
“There you are!” Burns grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. “I thought they got you.”
“They killed Morris,” shouted Dawson. “The angels use their wings as shields.”
“Right. Tell Sam. Hurry up!”
They didn’t have far to run. Sam was busy turning the congestion of all three wagons converging on the same space into an advantage. “Circle them! Foyle, move to the rear. Smash them if they come close.”
Lister and Crawley repeated her commands, each in his own fashion. While the clockwork angels and their mistress circled high above, the men hunkered down behind shelter.
“Captain,” said Dawson, half breathless. “The clockwork angels, they use their wings to protect themselves against gunfire.”
Sam shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe the news.
“If that’s true, Sam,” said Lister, coming up from behind, “then our only hope might be to cut and run.”
They threw themselves to the ground as the clockwork angels unleashed another volley of energy blasts. Seconds later, the fliers dived toward the Dogs, slashing with their keen blades. One trio of angels swept past Foyle, who thrust uselessly with a stun lance that seemed sluggish compared to the angels’ lighting. Another winged trio fell upon a pair of drivers, whose eviscerated corpses fell to the ground.
Dawson picked himself up. “Lieutenant, we’ve lost so much already. Gully’s gone. Morris is dead. We can’t just run now. They’ll cut us down!”
“Get a grip on yourself, Private.”
“What about the leader?” said Sam. “Do her wings shield her too?”
“I don’t—” Dawson began to say. “I bet they don’t. Her wings are much larger than the others. She flies differently, too. I don’t see how she could move them in time.”
Sam considered his opinion.
“Besides,” Dawson added. “She’s not like the other ones. Beneath that armor, she’s flesh and blood. If we hurt her, she might withdraw.”
Sam made a silent calculation and nodded. “All right, Dawson. I’m going to cover that bet.” With a glance upward, she lowered her voice. “Pass it low to all the men. The next time they c
ome near, the first volley is on all those great big angels. Reload double-quick. If we can draw her close, we can then concentrate all fire on their leader.”
Lister, Crawley, and Dawson passed the word around in whispers. The soldiers readied their slug guns, while the drivers and mechaniks produced the pistols they carried in case of emergencies or a lamed horse. “Second volley, all on the leader,” Dawson reminded one of the drivers.
Thunder rolled toward them, but not from the south. This time the rumbling came from the west, and it came before the flash of lightning.
“Oh, hell!” cried Burns. “They’ve surrounded us.”
Sam cocked her head, listening. Glancing up to ensure no angels were poised to drop on her, she leaped onto the supply wagon and stood tall, scanning the west for some sign of what approached.
The thunderous sound resolved itself into the rumble of horse hooves. Half a dozen mounted men rode toward the Devil Dogs’ wagons. At their front was a Cygnaran banner.
“Sam, get down!” Crawley screamed.
Without pausing to look, Sam folded forward, tumbling off the wagon and onto the ground. A trio of clockwork angels swept past the space she had just occupied, their swords cutting chunks out of the wagon panels.
Their leader plunged down an instant later, her radiant staff striking the driver’s seat completely off the wagon before she withdrew.
Sam shook her head clear. “Looks like she and I had the same idea.”
“What do we do now?” asked Crawley.
“Same plan, only this time we know she’s coming. All fire on the leader.”
“How can you be sure she’s coming again?”
“I’ll give her a reason.”
Sam clambered back up on the wagon, stood tall, and aimed her hand cannon. As Crawley and Lister shouted at her to come down, she waited as the angels descended. She trained her cannon on the trio, lowering herself to a half-crouch, steadying the butt of the pistol with her off-hand. As they came into range, Sam bent her knees and leaped back, turning to face the opposite direction.