by Gareth Ward
Stoneheart spun on her heels and paced through the candidate’s ranks. “You will refer to me as Staff and to yourselves as COG and your last name. This is to remind you that you’re all parts of a bigger machine.” Stoneheart clacked to a halt and planted her feet apart in front of a fearful-looking Zonda. She flicked the end of her riding crop onto Zonda’s shoulder. “If you fail, the whole machine fails, which is why you will be tested to destruction so we can discard those of you who are weak and break.”
Zonda’s face turned deathly white with an unhealthy hint of green. Sin half expected her to puke. He smiled encouragingly, but Zonda focused only on Stoneheart. The instructor scrutinised Zonda with ill-concealed contempt. “Name?”
“COG Chubb, Staff.”
“Front and centre, Chubb. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Zonda shuffled to the start line as Stoneheart retrieved a battered stopwatch from a chain around her neck. “There are two rules. ONE: You must complete every obstacle. TWO: No one can help you during your run.”
Zonda picked at the hem of her baggy gym smock as she stared at the ground, her shoulders hunched. Stoneheart twisted the button on the top of the stopwatch, returning the hands to zero. “COG Chubb, you go on my mark. Three, two, one, MARK.”
Wild-eyed panic on her face, Zonda sprinted from the line. She executed the worst attempt at a jump Sin had ever seen and thudded into the wall with an audible whoomf. Kicking at the metal, she heaved herself upwards then her arms gave out and she slid into a crumpled heap.
“COG Chubb, that is a fail. Get off my assault course.”
As Zonda limped back to the candidate’s ranks Stoneheart sneered in disgust. “There are no second chances in the real world. When you’re being chased down by a squad of mounted Teutonian Dragoons you either get over that wall or you get run through with a lance.”
She reset her stopwatch and turned back to the candidates. “Test day’s in four weeks, but you could be sent on missions at any time, so we’re going to have a little competition this morning to motivate you.”
The candidates ran the course two at a time, East Wing versus West Wing. The team that won would go to morning tea, the team that lost would carry sandbags to the lake and back. Stoneheart picked the draw, skilfully matching the candidates so that as the last two prepared to run the score was level at seven each.
Sin walked to the line, where Velvet limbered up. She turned to him and tapped a finger against his temple. “I know you’re short a few cogs up top so I’ll do the maths for you. I win. You get zero points. We get tea and crumpets. You get to chaperone Chubbs to the lake.”
Sin slapped Velvet’s hand away. “If your legs ran as fast as your mouth, I’d be worried.”
A clanking echoed through the gymnasium. Major C marched towards them, steam spurting from his mekaniks.
“Attention,” commanded Stoneheart and the candidates brought their feet together, their arms rigid at their sides.
“Thank you, Staff,” said the Major, hissing to a halt in front of them. “A COG agent needs to be multi-skilled. You may be dancing a waltz at a foreign embassy before cracking a safe and then escaping across the rooftops.” The Major’s eyes focused on Zonda. “If Sergeant Stoneheart is hard on you, it’s because I’ve told her to be. You cannot afford to fail.” He about-turned and clunked over to where Sin and Velvet waited. “Ms Von Darque and the boy who nearly outpaced Eldritch. I think we can give these two a proper test, don’t you, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.” Stoneheart retrieved a flat metal card peppered with holes from the pocket of her riding blouse. She slotted the card into an octagonal column at the start of the course and the gymnasium floor rumbled. A siren sounded and the mekanikal contraptions around the course came to life. Pistons wobbled obstacles, landing platforms moved side to side and padded beams, balls and boxing gloves rotated, swung and punched, ready to foil an unwary candidate. Sin stared at the steam-powered mekaniks. The obstacles were just like the rooftops of Coxford with its swings, jumps and climbs – they were child’s play – but the mekaniks, they were going to hurt like hell if they hit you.
Stoneheart reset her watch. “Candidates ready. Three, two, one, MARK.”
Sin sprinted hard and sprang at the wall, planting his hands on top. He somersaulted over and, maintaining his momentum, barrelled towards the monkey bars. To his surprise, Velvet matched him.
By the course’s midpoint, they were still neck and neck as they traversed balance beams over a water pool. Velvet crouched and flicked out a shapely muscled leg, kicking Sin on the ankle. He wobbled, arms flailing as a rotating spar caught his knees, toppling him into the water below.
Sin waded to the side of the pool and, ignoring the heavy pull of his sodden clothes, heaved himself out. Spurred on by rage he powered into the course, determined to catch Velvet.
The last obstacle was the boxing net. Velvet scrambled on her belly, already halfway through as Sin dived beneath the rough rope. Piston-powered boxing gloves rained down blows, the pain fuelled Sin’s anger, driving him onwards. Velvet was now only yards in front, slowed by her desire to avoid a battering. Sin’s ears rang, a shock of colour flooding his vision as toughened leather slammed into his head. Dazed, he pulled himself clear of the net but Velvet was already over the line.
“Victory to the West Wing,” shouted Stoneheart.
Gears grinding, Major C stomped from the course.
His body battered and bruised, Sin limped past the finish line. He thumped his fist against his chest venting his rage. He wasn’t angry at Velvet for cheating – fair play to the girl. He was angry at himself for not cheating first.
With a self-satisfied smirk on her lips, Velvet held her hand in front of her face. “Zero,” she mouthed, touching her finger and thumb to make a circle.
* * *
A sandbag over each shoulder, Sin hobbled down the gravel track. Next to him shuffled an unburdened Zonda. “This isn’t fair,” she complained.
Sin inhaled a breath of fresh, clean air. Across the lake majestic oaks stood, centuries proud on the gently rolling grass hills while the weeping willows bowed at the water’s edge. A smile crept onto his face. “I’ve a soft bed, warm clothes and as much food as I can eat. Seems pretty fair to me.”
“But Velvet cheated, we shouldn’t have lost.”
“We didn’t lose, we won.”
Zonda eyed him suspiciously. “Err, wrongarooney. Fewer points and a punishment run, that’s losing.”
“Do you want to fail the assault course on test day?”
“Of course not.”
“This is like my remedial maths, extra practice. We’re getting fitter and stronger while the West Wingers gain nothing. So we won.”
“We won,” Zonda repeated. “We won. This will help me get over the wall, so we won.” She hefted a sandbag from Sin and clutched it awkwardly to her body.
“What are you doing?” said Sin.
Zonda smiled through the exertion. “I’m not letting you steal my winnings.”
CHAPTER 9
ICE COOL CHALLENGE
Still aching from the morning’s punishment run, Sin marched with the other candidates onto the shooting range. The tendons pulled taut on the backs of his hands, the polished wood stock of the steamrifle he grasped felt alien and frightening. The gun’s cylindrical pressure boiler was warm against his chest, unlike the cold sweat prickling his palms and fingers. He was a stranger to guns, only ever having seen them from afar, carried by the King’s Militia in the streets of Coxford. The Fixer had claimed to own a Teutonian revolver but Sin suspected that was a lie as no one had ever laid eyes on it.
Sin ran a finger along one of the copper pipes. There was something unnerving about the gun. The muzzle flared beautifully from the clean straight lines of the dark steel barrel. The steam hardware curved with geometric precision. It was like a work of art.
“Dinnae be scared of the weapon, she’ll nay bite you if you treat her well,” said Staff Ma
cKigh. He was a short, barrel-chested Scotsman with luminous ginger hair and tattoos. He locked his own steamrifle into his shoulder and aimed it down range. “This is the NB78 steamrifle. It is the canniest weapon in the Empire. It makes a distinctive retort when fired, which is why we call it the Banshee.” He squeezed the trigger and the steamrifle screamed. Halfway down the range a target fell with a clunk. “This little beauty saved my hide in the Ceylon Tea Mutiny of ’79. Get to know her and she’ll serve you well too.”
Claude Maggot leaned towards Velvet. “It’s just a gun,” he whispered, his face scrunched into a disparaging expression.
MacKigh’s body stiffened. “It’s a steamrifle or a weapon, ne’er a gun. And if you’d defended a sangar from three hundred screaming Chinasians, you’d appreciate there’s nae ‘just’ about it.” The shade of MacKigh’s face now matched his hair. “COG Maggot, hold your weapon above your head and run to the fifty-yard mark and back. GO!”
Maggot jogged onto the range. MacKigh squeezed the trigger and his weapon screamed. A target next to the terrified candidate dropped. “Faster, Maggot,” yelled MacKigh. The Scotsman lowered his steamrifle and addressed the group. “It fires a standard nail sabot round, which is lethal at up to three hundred yards.” He held up a rusted nail about two inches long that tapered to a point. “This one was removed from my shoulder after the battle of Tetley Hill.” He loosed two more rounds down range and Maggot doubled his pace, sprinting back to rejoin the candidates.
MacKigh flicked on the steamrifle’s safety. “As COG Maggot will now tell you, the nail makes a distinct sound when fired at you.”
Between pants, Maggot said, “A very distinct … zinging … sound, Staff.”
“At COG we are about preventing war but sometimes you have to fight for peace.”
MacKigh pulled a large silver guinea from his pocket. “I call this the ice cool challenge. The candidate who hits this at the furthest distance wins an ice-cream supper for their wing.” He flicked the coin in the air. “So who’s got the stones to start the bidding?”
Sin kept his mouth shut. He probably couldn’t hit the coin from ten yards. Heck, he probably couldn’t even get the steamrifle to shoot. MacKigh hadn’t taught them anything yet. He guessed this was to determine the candidate’s abilities like the tests in the other subjects. Well, like the maths and the reading he was starting from zero. He looked around the East Wingers hoping someone was a crack shot. Much as he’d talked up their defeat on the assault course he was smarting about losing to Velvet and being beaten by the West Wing twice in one day would be unbearable.
“COG Trimble, East Wing, one hundred yards, Staff,” said Esra in a plummy accent. He held his steamrifle confidently, and it was obvious that he’d shot before. Maybe only pheasants on his father’s estate but at least he knew how to handle a weapon.
Velvet glanced at Sin. She brushed some non-existent dust from the satin trimmings on her dress and lifted her steamrifle. Shouldering the weapon, she sighted down range. “COG Von Darque, West Wing, one-fifty, Staff.”
Sin had no idea if Velvet’s stance was correct, but the way she planted her feet leaning into the weapon, she looked confident. Mind you, Velvet tended to look confident whatever she did.
“COG Goose, East Wing. My parents shot in the Olympic team. I think two hundred yards shouldn’t be out of the question, Staff.”
Sin smiled as Velvet lowered her weapon and her nose wrinkled. Good old Mercy, not only generous with the barley sugars but hopefully an expert markswoman too.
With one hand, Beuford Wagtail waved his steamrifle in the air, the weapon’s weight a trifle to the large-framed Americanian. “COG Wagtail, West Wing. My pa taught me to shoot before I could walk,” he said in a southern drawl. “I normally hunt with something bigger than this little peashooter. Still, it’d be a damn shame if I couldn’t put a hole clean through your silver dollar at two hundred and fifty yards, Staff.”
Velvet patted Wagtail on the back and made the zero sign with her hand towards the East Wingers.
Sin fought the urge to say three hundred yards just to take the smirk from her face. You had to pick your fights and this was one where he was literally outgunned.
“COG Chubb, East Wing, three hundred and fifty, Staff.”
Uproar broke out among the candidates. The West Wingers jeered and catcalled while the East Wingers tried to get Zonda to recant.
“You can’t do that. Let Beuford take his shot and if he misses Mercy can nail it,” said Esra.
“I’ve definitely got this,” said Mercy.
Velvet muttered something to Trixie Asp, a pretty West Winger with a blonde bob and a smile spread across her face. “You’re obviously desperate for the ice-cream but think of your figure,” Trixie said to Zonda.
Jasper Jenkins placed a hand on Zonda’s arm. “We know you want to help, but maybe now isn’t the time.”
“SHUT IT,” shouted Sin, and both sides recoiled in silence. “Zonda’s made her bid; let her take the shot unless any of you have the pistons to bet further.” His challenging glare swept across the West Wingers. “Thought not. Zonda’s shot it is then.”
MacKigh flipped the guinea in the air and caught it. “I appreciate the wee lassie’s enthusiasm but the NB78 only has a range of three hundred yards.”
Zonda stood to attention. “Incorrect, Staff. The weapon has an effective lethal range of three hundred yards. Captain Chubb of Second Battalion King’s Steam Cavalry shot Zulu Chief Chianga through the eye at five hundred and fifty yards. As I don’t need to kill the guinea, just hit it, three hundred and fifty yards should be fine, Staff.”
Sin realised he was holding his breath, waiting to see how MacKigh would respond.
The hue of the Scotsman’s face deepened to an impressive crimson. MacKigh slowly brought his feet together and his arms to his side, in a position of attention. “I stand corrected, lassie. And if you can hit that coin at three hundred and fifty yards I will nay only buy you an ice-cream supper, I will wear a pink frilly dress for the remainder of the week because I say it canae be done, you wee Sassenach.”
Hoisting her rifle, Zonda said, “I think you’ll look fabuloso in pink, Staff.”
Maggot ran the coin to the three hundred and fifty yard post, balancing it carefully on top. Staff MacKigh fished in the breast pocket of his tunic and pulled out two rounds. “You get one practice shot to zero the weapon, then one attempt at the coin, lassie.”
With well-drilled precision, Zonda clicked both nails into the magazine, then tapped it against the rifle’s stock.
“You know it’s a soldier’s myth that it settles the rounds,” said MacKigh, pointing to the rifle.
Zonda slotted the magazine into its housing and it latched fast with a solid clunk. “So at the battle of Tetley Hill, you never did it?”
MacKigh grinned. “Every time, lassie, every time.”
Sin felt unsettled by the change in Zonda. Velvet may have looked competent with the steamrifle but Zonda appeared positively dangerous. It wasn’t just that she knew her way around the weapon; for someone of Zonda’s intellect that would have been easy to learn. It was more the way the steamrifle became a natural extension of her body.
The ruffles on her frilled dress flattened as Zonda adopted a prone position at the firing line. Mercy kneeled beside her and tossed some blades of grass in the air. “Moderate left to right crosswind,” she said.
Sighting down the barrel, Zonda dialled in the sights to three hundred and fifty yards.
A hush fell over the candidates. Sin’s gaze darted between Zonda, MacKigh and the target. The instructor didn’t think it was possible, but if she landed a good practice shot, she’d be in with a chance. Zonda’s finger pulled tighter.
Velvet sneezed and Zonda yanked at the trigger. The weapon twisted in her hands and screamed.
“Miss,” said Mercy. “Practice over.”
“Oops, sorry,” said Velvet, holding her hand to her face as if mortified. “I hope I d
idn’t put you off.”
Sin watched Zonda as she stared down range. To the unaided eye, the coin was nothing more than a bright sparkle. Zonda lowered her head to the eyepiece and pulled the weapon tight into her shoulder. The barrel moved rhythmically up and down with her breathing. Sin tensed as Zonda exhaled, tightening her finger on the trigger. The last of her breath left her lungs and the trigger pulled taut. The weapon screamed and the nail flew down range.
CHAPTER 10
SACRIFICIAL PAWNS
The setting sun’s rays drifted sluggishly through the high arched windows of the East Wing common room. Well-stocked bookcases lined the walls, while an eclectic mixture of seating and cushions provided ample space for the candidates to relax. Sin slouched on a battered leather sofa eating ice-cream and studying a book. It was a simple story with pictures about a dog and a ball – a big red ball. His finger traced along the words. The dog was called Spot and it was running after the ball. Sin’s chest burst with pride; this was the first book he’d ever read and he was doing it all by himself. Spot caught the ball and brought it back to a boy called Tom. Sin turned the page, eager to discover what happened next. He finished the story and snapped the book closed. A broad smile spread across his face. He could read.
Lottie Brazil, a serious-faced, dark-haired girl with an overindulgence of freckles, rested her far weightier tome on her chest. She spooned a generous helping of melted chocolate fudge sundae into her mouth and turned her head towards Sin. “So did Spot get the ball?”
“Spot fetched the big red ball for Tom and was given a bone for being a good boy.”
“Ah, so some sort of redemption tale.”
“Yeah, it was a long tail, a long waggy tail. How’s your book going?”
“It’s jolly scary. A mad scientist called Frankenstein has created a monster by combining dead people’s body parts.” Lottie turned a page. “Alas, no dogs or balls.”
From the armchair opposite, Stanley Nobbs sniggered. Lottie looked down her nose at him. “Really?”