Steamrolled

by Pauline Baird Jones

  * * * *

  Smith stared down at the hellish piece of New York, the ground giving the occasional shake, lightning making brief appearances in sky that still clung to night.

  It was a lie. It was the one immutable truth of this hell: The master would do anything, say anything, to get what he wanted. And when he’d got it? He tossed you aside. To the master, all of them were useful specimens until they weren’t useful anymore. Then they became his entertainment. That was the other immutable truth of this place.

  The master liked watching people die.

  They were people, not specimens, but none were allowed to say it. Perhaps the master used the word to distance himself from them, from what he really was: a filthy little murderer.

  His mind knew that the Olivia he’d seen in the cage wasn’t his Olivia, she couldn’t be because the master lied and he felt it to his core, but his heart still felt tight from the horror of seeing her like that, trapped like an animal, her bright gaze deadened by the master’s mind control device.

  He forced himself to push the image aside. He couldn’t help her, at least not until the master said he could. Could he do it? Could he, without being forced, do what the master bid? It was hard to do, hard to obey with the control device in his head. Not that he believed that master would remove the device. He never willingly gave up an advantage. But if he turned it off or down? What could he do with the advantage? He knew more than he’d known when he’d first been “collected.” And what advantage did the master hope to gain by offering him the illusion of freedom and a woman? There had to be something the master thought he’d get, because he could make Smith do what he wanted without the pretense—

  Smith stiffened. Unless he couldn’t. The failed missions? Did the master believe, or fear that Smith was slipping free of his control? Why else offer what he usually took? The master never gave gifts, unless it was one of pain and suffering, of taking away—was that what this was? A feint? A test? If he said yes, would the master use Olivia to taunt and torment him more? Because if he took her, the master would know how Smith felt. Right now he only suspected. Knowing gave him more power.

  And if he said no, he’d kill her for sure. He’d delete her and make him watch. But if he said yes, if he accepted the poisoned chalice, that moment would come anyway. He’d never had Olivia. He repeated this to shore up his resolve. You can’t have what isn’t freely given.

  The question wasn’t should he or shouldn’t he take the offer and maybe, just maybe have the girl for the time allotted, but which answer would tell him the most about the master’s intent? Which choice would tell him what he needed to know? And which answer would frustrate the master the most?

  * * * *

  If it hadn’t been so serious, Emily might have found the slow motion race between the shambling zombies and the expanding envelope of the airship funny. Even with possible zombification in the mix, Emily felt the urge to grin at being in an actual steampunk type adventure. She was aware it was whacky to get a kick out of it all, even as a thrill of fear shot down her spine and back up again. On the other hand, whacky was a better reaction, in her opinion, than the shrieks emerging from the not-Belle between whacks at zombie heads. At least the position of the lift control, right by the door, let her see most of the field of battle.

  The airship achieved modest lift at the same time the first wave of zombies reached it. They grabbed at the sides of gondola, perhaps hoping to hold it down until the automatons got there. If the motley crew hadn’t been very motivated, it might have worked, or if all the zombies had arrived at the same time.

  Emily let more hot air into the envelope to counter their move, while the visible motleys pounded zombie heads and arms. She felt a pang that she wasn’t pounding, too. That was new. The thrill of ninja kicking zombie ass. Her task was less cool, but important. She needed to create enough lift to raise the gondola with all of them aboard, but not so much it popped through the top of their prison, assuming the top had the same “walls” as the sides.

  In the shadowy depths of the engine room the Abrams’ ball pulsed as steam built inside the boiler. Something about the Abram’s ball made the steam steamier because the envelope filled faster than it should for a normal steam engine set-up. It was very steampunkish, and similar to the set-up in Uncle E’s bug, though with a twist, like a Rubik’s Cube from outer space. Emily would have liked to strip it down and figure it out. A pity the zombie and automaton hordes seemed determined to play spoiler, though that’s what zombie’s and automatons did, so she couldn’t be bitter about it.

  The motley crew and Robert whacked at hands and heads from the first wave, as the second wave shambled forward with no sign the vigorous defense troubled them. Zombies fell back as red automaton eyes grew ever closer in the black night, their ponderous, metal bodies visible for eerie seconds when the lightning lit them up. Errant air currents caught the ship now that it wasn’t roped down, the gondola whacking a couple of zombies, but also bringing them closer to the automatons, then swinging them toward the horizon.

  Emily hoped the moves meant that Purple-not-people-eater was gaining control. Beneath her feet, the deck creaked from the movement of the steering rudder cable and the shudder of the propeller. Based on observed movement, it seemed to indicate he’d overestimated his flying ability just a bit. The horizon edged unnervingly close to her three o’clock, then steadied. She felt the ship settle, felt a sense of purpose settle over them all as they laid their automaton trap. The timing had to be perfect. If even one of those bad boys hooked an over-sized hand on the edge of the gondola, not even the Abram’s ball could keep them airborne.

  The airship shifted uneasily as the horizon ate some more of the prison—and took a chunk out near the stern, that also put a hole in the side of the engine room, just short of the engine itself. Creepy how quiet it was when the anomaly ate stuff. The wood ought to crunch a little, if only for effect. Good thing it didn’t get the rudder or the engine, or they’d be hosed. It did widen her view though in a way she could have done without. Now she could see the red glow of three sets of automaton eyes. Stuff like this was more fun reading about than living.

  Robert pointed up, even as he whacked at an obdurate zombie. She released more air into the envelope, felt the ship wobble up a few feet. It wasn’t a precise art, which was a pity because they could have used precise.

  The automatons were coming in at their twelve, three and six o’clock, their approach designed to bring them to the airship at the same time, from three sides, and trapping them against the horizon. It might have worked had the airship been stationary, but precise wasn’t an option for the automatons either. Emily didn’t know if it was a flaw in their design or the earthquakes that put the wobble in their plodding approach.

  Robert signaled for more lift. She gave him some more, managed it slower this time, though the ship still jerked some. It seemed like the Purple-not-people-eater was getting the hang of it, but it might be wishful thinking. Most of their plan involved a lot of wishing and trying not to think too much. The motley crew wasn’t hitting at the zombies anymore, which implied they’d achieved enough height to eliminate that threat—a flash of lightning gave her a glimpse out what used to be the side of her engine room. They were about automaton shoulder height, maybe a bit lower.

  And one of them was closer than she thought they were. They must have shifted closer to it during one of the jerks.

  She looked at Robert, saw him point up again.

  She resisted the urge to yank it open, managing to ease it up with remarkable cool that, sadly, no one saw to remark on. Was it her imagination she heard air hissing into the pipe, rising toward the envelope as the airship lifted—

  Robert signaled her to stop.

  Something, perhaps a prickling along her spine made Emily look toward the hole again—right into the red eyes of an automaton. He didn’t blink. Maybe he couldn’t.

  Emily glanced at Robert, with some frantic in it. No signal yet. The
other two must not be in position—a flash of lightning told her no, not yet. The goal was to take out all three of them, though Emily would have settled for one out of three right now.

  The automaton shifted back so, she realized, he could raise his arm.

  The huge, like really huge, hand creaked into sight, the movement scary slow and yet fast, too, as if time were off in this place, along with everything else.

  The fingers flexed wide, then angled to fit through the hole.

  She tore her glance from it long enough to look at Robert.

  Still no signal.

  It banged against the side of the engine room wall, its splayed hand wider than the hole, and sent them shuddering toward the horizon. It clipped some off the other side and almost got the not-Belle, who shrieked long and loud. That might be why Robert looked her way. The attention grabbing bitch.

  The massive fingers curled into a fist.

  The arm pulled back.

  Still no sign for more lift from Robert.

  She realized he couldn’t see the threat.

  The fist tracked toward her.

  She dropped flat. Saw Robert finally signal, see her peril, and start toward her.

  She lifted up, reaching for the lever.

  The automaton opened his fist, knocking her flat—and some air out of her lungs.

  The large fingers closed into grabbing position, scraping walls and floor. The pinkie just missed her head.

  She managed to roll away, but that put her farther from the lever. This bad boy, and his buddies, would bring them down if they couldn’t get out of reach.

  The large hand knocked the door closed in Robert’s face, his massive digits snagging one of her legs. It closed around it with bruising force, dragging her toward the hole. The drag pulled her coat over her head. She scrabbled at floor, and anything and everything she banged into during the very slow trip—her elbow hit the lever, sending air rushing into the envelope faster than it was supposed to. The airship needed to go up and couldn’t because of the automaton. Instead it tipped, speeding up her journey toward the hole. She had good reason to wish her midsection wasn’t bare as it—and she—scraped across badly finished wood.

  She heard thumps and bangs as the rest of their not-so-merry band also repositioned relative to the airship’s new position. She felt a need to tell them she was sorry, but didn’t think anyone would hear her.

  Her coat snagged on something. She grabbed it with both hands, managed to hang on for about two seconds. Okay, that hurt. The automaton won that round. No surprise, since he had a bigger weight to mass ratio. Her coat gave her shoulders and head some protection from the wooden walls, as she got dragged up and over, while some parts still managed impacts with the engine, then round two of bang-and-drag against the side of the gondola. With a prolonged scrape against wood, she popped clear, dangling upside down above the ground. All the dragging and banging had somehow freed her head, though not her arms, which were still tangled in coat. It was a view, she realized, she’d rather have missed.

  Without the weight of the automaton, the airship—her airship, with Robert oh-my-darling inside—shot up like an ungainly, steampunk rocket. The night closed around it, leaving only the steadily diminishing chug of the engine to taunt her with might-have-beens.

  Emily might have wallowed in angst, not to mention worried about their ability to slow before they hit the upper edge of the prison, but her own problems were a bit pressing. She twisted her body, trying to see the other two automatons—they staggered like they’d got a dose of bad oil, the staggers taking them within reach of the hungry horizon. It chewed into them without mercy. Four legs, severed from now missing torsos, fell back onto the stubby, churned up ground of the field, with four satisfying rattles, then got half eaten to the knees as the horizon took another bite, possibly because it could.

  It was the only good news and the victory whoops had to wait as her automaton wavered, then wobbled, both his arms swinging down, the one holding her taking her along for the ride. He was almost a knuckle dragger. Ground rushed at her. She curled up, using his downward momentum to fight gravity. Managed to hook an arm over his metal pinkie. Her back scraped along the ground. His arm swung up again, as he tried to find his balance. Not a lot of torque, but it didn’t take much to cause her problems holding onto slick metal. This swing almost put her in the horizon. As it was, she felt—or imagined she felt—her coat sizzle a bit as she brushed past it.

  When his arm motion steadied, followed by more general whole body stability, Emily got her other arm into the pinkie grabbing act, though it was both painful and awkward with her limited ability to bend her captured knee inside the metal grip.

  She should be sorry their plan had failed with this bad, metal boy, but she wasn’t. Hard to be sorry she hadn’t been eaten by an anomaly, though being snatched by an automaton was only marginally better than death by horizon.

  He made one, abortive way late grab at the swiftly rising airship, while Emily reached up to his next digit and tried to maneuver her leg free of his grip.

  Frustrated, she thumped the back of his hand. “Let me go you big, metal stereotype!”

  It was the worst insult she could come up with up while upside down. The unwise nature of the insult didn’t occur to her until she heard a buzz and his chin lowered and turned toward her, even as he lifted her until her head was level with his red, dead gaze.

  The unwinking gaze was, she could admit to herself, unnerving, quite possibly terrifying, though not a surprise since he lacked eyelids to wink with. Worse, she sensed a presence behind the gaze.

  Her chin lifted, against the demands of gravity and fear. “An embarrassing cliché—” she tried to think of an insult worse than that to add, but couldn’t. She settled for, “You are so not a gentleman.” This world was founded on ladies and gentlemen and orchestrated manners. It might work.

  There was a long pause and more non-winking looking. Then, with another whir of machinery, his other hand lifted and metal digits closed around her torso, from shoulder to hip, one metal digit across her chest.

  Maybe she should have bagged the insults and tried pleading.

  “Hey, watch the…finger.” His grip tightened and for a moment that felt way too long, she thought he planned to pull her in half. Then he released her leg. The only advantage to the change was her head wasn’t down, allowing her blood to resume a more normal flow. His index and pinkie digits were tight enough to be painful and the middle digits loose enough, she jolted against metal as he lowered his hand and her to his side.

  Hanging like a rag doll in the grip of an automaton was not as fun as it sounded. A flash of lightning illuminated the almost out of sight airship, and then it turned itself—taking her with it—and started clumping toward the city and—one didn’t want to presume but one felt one couldn’t avoid it—a meeting with the zombie/scar maker/evil overlord.

  * * * *

  Two drone automatons and an airship gone? Faustus stared with disbelief as the third drone staggered, his video feed wobbling with him. It took him several seconds to identify the tightness in his chest. Rage. He hadn’t felt it, hadn’t need to feel it for a long time. There had been more than two unsecured specimens fending off attempts to retake the airship. The secured specimen the drone had captured was going to pay dearly for the sins of its companions—

  “Let me go you big metal stereotype!”

  His eye almost twitched. Stereotype? He’d gone to great trouble to make his laboratory special. Unique. He’d created the automatons because he could, because it amused him to take something fictional and make it real.

  “Let me see the specimen,” he ordered into the voice tube. After what felt like a long pause, Doctor got the drone to raise his arm until it was visible.

  “An embarrassing cliché.” A pause, and she scowled. “You are so not a gentlemen.”

  He jerked back. She didn’t, couldn’t see him. But it seemed like she spoke to him.

  “H
ave it secure the specimen and bring it in.” He almost added, “unharmed,” but not even Doctor could make sure that didn’t happen. “Notify me when it’s arrived. And as soon as it’s light, send out air and ground search parties. I want that airship back under control.”

  Who was she? He could admit to being a bit discomfited by her. She wasn’t a tracker. Might be a pin, though he didn’t recall her from any of the collection vids. There was that unscheduled arrival. Had she been snagged in the portal retrieval trap? She didn’t look like anyone who would be on the outpost or its incarnation as a base. She didn’t look like a scientist and wasn’t a soldier, not with that hair. She’d been framed in white, which was odd. Odd unsettled him. Her eyes, the look in them or something else about her, unsettled him, too. He gave a small shake. It was just because of the anomalies that he was unsettled, because time was still twitching its last. Once the lab was stabilized, he’d feel himself again. She was nothing special. Just another specimen, though…there had been something in her eyes, no. He shook his head harder. No question she was a puzzle, but she’d cease to be one once the drone delivered her—if it managed to do it without squeezing her head off. If it killed her, he could live without knowing, though…he hesitated, seeing her face again in his mind, he rather hoped she survived. She might, just might prove to be entertaining.

  Outside on the stone balcony, Tobias shifted his stance, the first move he’d made since he went out there. Faustus was not unhappy with the distraction. He almost regretted a future devoid of this specimen. He was like the pet his parents had never let him have.

  Tobias’ stance seemed particularly unyielding. Odd to not know what Tobias was going to do. And wrong. For so long he’d been able to predict, then to direct all of his specimens, even ones as reluctant as Tobias, to take direction. Even before the mind control devices, he’d been able to manipulate and direct those around him. This was different. It was—he didn’t like it.