The Tin Soldiers (Final Dawn, Book 5)

by T W M Ashford

  They followed the mist inside.

  Jack didn’t enjoy not being able to see where he was putting his boots, but at least he could hear the clang of them coming down against some sort of metal grate where the floor should be. Rogan and Tuner’s footsteps rang out most of all. He really hoped nothing too alien came hunting them. There wasn’t much space for them to run.

  Something dripped onto his helmet. Jack raised his head with his heart in his mouth. Another droplet splattered against his visor, further obscuring his vision. He anxiously wiped the viscous liquid away and discovered the source – a busted pipe running overhead. A few bolts had eroded away and now the whole section looked one bad wobble from slipping loose.

  Tuner waddled past him. Jack shook his glove clear of gunk and then carried on.

  He told himself he was probably overreacting. Just because a place was creepy didn’t actually increase the odds of them finding anything creepy in it. And who really knew why part of the facility was up and running again? Maybe one of the technicians didn’t shut the production line down properly before they left. Maybe this was all some kind of unfortunate glitch.

  Yeah. Maybe.

  They’d gotten lucky plenty of times before. But that’s exactly what Jack was worried about – one of these days their luck was going to run out.

  “Stop,” said Rogan. “Just a moment, please.”

  She stood motionless, staring down the corridor ahead. For a terrifying second, Jack thought she’d seen something stalk through the gloom. Then he realised she was just consulting the blueprints for the factory again.

  “I can’t make head nor tail of this,” she admitted. “It’s like the engineers just re-plumbed the whole factory as they saw fit. This is an architect’s worst nightmare.”

  “Are you telling me we’re lost?” said Klik.

  “We’re not lost.” Tuner put his hands on his sides in a way that was supposed to look defiant. “We’re still inside the factory, I’m sure of it.”

  “I know where we are within the facility’s walls,” said Rogan, stubbornly. She pointed at a solid wall of pipes. “Chamber 3 is a few hundred metres that way. But the corridors don’t match up with the plans. I’ve found us a simpler route, however. It might just take us a little longer to get there.”

  “How much longer?” asked Jack.

  “Not long. We can cut through the cafeteria.”

  “Cafeteria.” Jack took a deep breath. “Boy, I can’t wait to see what one of those looks like in a place like this.”

  “Well, you won’t have to wait long.” Rogan resumed marching down the corridor, then turned right at the next intersection. “It should be just about…”

  She stopped and rapped her metal knuckles against a bulbous, derelict pump. It most certainly was not a door.

  “…here?”

  “Erm, Rogan?” Tuner waved at her from beside a door half a dozen metres back along the corridor. “Looking for this?”

  “Don’t,” she snapped at Jack as she hurried over. “Just don’t.”

  “Losing it in our old age, are we?”

  “It’s this factory that’s wrong, not me.” She glared at him. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Cyclone Manufacturing who started production again. They demonstrate a blatant disregard for regulations of every kind.”

  “Really?” Jack crossed his arms. “Whatever gave you that idea? Was it the weird mist pooling about our feet?”

  “That’s coolant discharge, Jack. Obviously. It’s the only thing keeping this factory habitable, if you could call it that.”

  Klik rolled her eyes.

  “The grown-ups are fighting again,” she said, slamming her palm against the button in the centre of the door. “Come on, Tuner. Let’s leave them to it.”

  The door chugged open. Tuner and Klik wandered through. Rogan and Jack glanced at one another as if to ask, What the hell was that about?, and then followed.

  The cafeteria was marginally less industrial than the corridors that preceded it, though barely less oily. It was better lit than the pipework in the halls, too. Much of the ceiling consisted of luminous panels that smothered the cafeteria in a soft, pale green glow, though Jack noticed that a good half a dozen of these were either broken or missing. Twenty-something tables were laid out in uniform rows down the hall’s middle, each not dissimilar in curved, warped design to the reception desk back in the welcome lobby. Given that the facility had been shut down not long ago, most were bare and covered in only a thin snowfall of dust. But a couple of glass jars had been left out on a table much cleaner than the others; the sealant beneath their lids had been pierced as if by some sort of needle or proboscis, and half of the gloopy, orange gunk inside had been sucked out.

  Jack shivered as they pressed on through the mist. He had a horrible suspicion they weren’t alone after all.

  Something rattled over in the kitchens on the other side of the cafeteria. Everybody jumped. Jack reached for the rifle that wasn’t slung over his shoulder and cursed under his breath.

  Nobody said anything, and nothing stirred.

  “Hello?” said Rogan. “Is somebody there?”

  “What are you doing?” Jack hissed. “It could be anybody! We’re not armed!”

  Klik grumbled and clenched her gloved fists.

  “Bet you wish I could use my bone-blades now, don’t you?”

  “It’s probably just vermin of some kind,” said Rogan, relaxing her joints. “I imagine plenty got carried here in the cargo freighters. Still, it’s worth checking out.”

  “Is it?” whined Jack.

  The shutters were down over the kitchen’s serving windows, but its old-fashioned swing-doors were wide open. They inched forward with their fists raised. Rogan led their group. Despite hating any and all unnecessary violence, her punches would land the hardest by far.

  Though unlike anything he saw back on Earth, Jack had no trouble recognising the kitchen for what it was – large cauldrons that came up to his chest sat on burners built into the floor, whilst others hung from hooks jutting from the walls. The shelves and counters were lined with industrial barrels and empty jars just like the ones he saw outside on the cafeteria table. Whatever the workforce here ate, they appeared to like it blended.

  “I guess that’s what we heard fall,” said Tuner, pointing at an upturned saucepan down at the other end of the narrow kitchen. “Must have been a critter like you said.”

  Rogan squinted past it.

  “I’m not so sure anymore,” she said slowly and quietly. “That freezer. Notice anything?”

  His stomach wrestling with itself, Jack tried to see what Rogan was alluding to – the giant metal doors of the walk-in freezer occupied the entire far wall of the kitchen, and there wasn’t so much as a stalactite hinting at the sub-zero temperature that lurked on the other side. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary – certainly not compared to all the weird equipment occupying the rest of the room.

  “No. Should I?”

  “Look closer at the handles.”

  Jack squinted as hard as his eyes could take. Suddenly, with his stomach pulling itself tight into a knot, he spotted it. The doors were closed and the handles set in their regular position parallel to the floor. But something gloopy and orange dripped from the handle of the left-hand door. Something fresh.

  “Something’s hiding in there,” he whispered, taking a step backwards. “It must have come out for food and then scarpered back in there when it heard us arrive.”

  “Let’s get it open,” said Rogan.

  “What? Are you…?” Jack balked. Did all of his plans sound this insane when he suggested them? “It could be anything in there!”

  “It could be somebody who needs our help,” Rogan replied. “It is hiding, after all. Tuner, Klik – take a handle each and get ready to pull. Jack and I will deal with whatever comes out.”

  “With what?”

  “We’re in a kitchen. Improvise!”

  Jack
hurried along the counters while everybody else got into position. Most of the whisks and blenders and knives belonged to torturous contraptions permanently attached to the walls. He found something curved and blunt, the original purpose of which he struggled to fathom. It didn’t matter. It was metal and he could swing it, so it would have to do.

  He stood beside Rogan and gritted his teeth so hard his jaw hurt.

  “Okay…” Rogan pulled back her right arm. “Now!”

  Klik and Tuner yanked the two handles down. They made a chunky clunking sound and then the doors swung open.

  Something terrifying came rushing out.

  It was seven feet tall with a head like that of a praying mantis, only with smaller, darker and more mammalian eyes. Its stubby mandibles – much fatter and blunter than Klik’s pair – flared out in front of Jack’s face in a quivering scream, spraying him with saliva. Oil-stained scraps of blue plastic and leather hung around its concave chest. It waved its two gangly arms – bent backwards at their elbows, and adorned with narrow mohawks of fine hair – manically above its head.

  “Aaaargh!” screamed Jack, raising his makeshift club.

  “Aaaargh!” screamed the giant insect in front of him, flinching.

  “Aaaar—wait, what?”

  “Don’t hit him!” shouted Rogan, grabbing Jack’s arm before he could do anything with it. “He’s part of the missing skeleton crew!”

  His terror slipping, Jack realised they weren’t rags hanging from the creature’s body but the tattered and dirty overalls of an engineer’s uniform. They even sported a faded insignia, one which he’d seen etched into the lobby’s reception desk and stamped onto various copper appliances in the hallways. And there was unquestionable intelligence in the worker’s eyes, though at that very moment not nearly as much as there was fear. The Ghuk continued to wince up at the raised utensil from behind his raised, insectoid hands.

  “Oh God,” said Jack, throwing the weapon onto the counter next to them. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you worked here.”

  The creature lowered his arms and nervously studied their group. The hairs on his forearms bristled.

  “Of course I work here,” he replied. “Name’s Silo. I’ve been waiting for Negoti’s rescue team for days now. Took you long enough, I must say. You are the rescue team… right?”

  “Afraid not,” said Jack. “Though we do have a ship. We can get you off-world if you want.”

  “Erm, excuse me,” said Tuner. Silo peered down at him inquisitively as if looking for nuts to be tightened. “Forgive the stupid question, but why would Negoti be sending a rescue team and not Cyclone Manufacturing?”

  “Because Cyclone Manufacturing is a subsidiary of the Negoti Corporation, of course.” Silo shook his head. “Silly machine. Everybody in the business knows that.”

  “Every Ghuk might,” replied Rogan, crossing her arms. “Us silly machines have better things to do than follow every merger and acquisition your species gets involved in.”

  “Ah, what have we here?” Silo admired Rogan for the first time since emerging from cold storage. “Aren’t you a unique specimen? Yes, one of a kind. Good condition. Ought to be in a museum, really,” he said to Jack. “Don’t want to depreciate the value.”

  “On second thought,” Jack said to Rogan, “our ship is pretty crowded already. Maybe he should go back in the freezer.”

  “Why were you hiding in the freezer, anyway?” asked Klik.

  “Is that a Krettelian?” asked Silo, staring through the visor of Klik’s helmet with growing amusement. “What an odd rescue team you lot are turning out to be.”

  “Not a rescue team…” sighed Jack. “Please answer her question. We really are dying to know.”

  “Because of the pirates, of course!” Silo crept past them and poked his head through the kitchen doors. “But you idiots must know that. Why else would you be here?”

  “I’ve been asking that question ever since we arrived,” Jack grumbled. “See, Rogan? I told you it would be pirates. Now let’s get out of here before we get ourselves killed.”

  “Great idea,” said Silo, satisfied that the cafeteria was clear. “You’ve found the others already, yes?”

  “Others?” Tuner asked.

  “Yes, the other workers!” Silo turned and snapped at Tuner like a headmaster to a student who refuses to learn his calculus. “I got separated from the rest of the crew when the pirates attacked the upper chambers. I assumed they were the ones who sent out the distress call. Unless nobody did…”

  “Sorry.” Jack shrugged. “You’re the only Ghuk we’ve come across so far. This whole place is deserted.”

  “Then you’ve got to find them!” Silo grabbed the front of Jack’s suit and shook him. “They’re valuable assets. The company will be furious!”

  “No can do,” said Jack, pulling himself free. “We were sent here to find out why your facility was operational when it shouldn’t be. You’ve given us all the answers we need. You really are welcome to come with us, of course. I’m sure the Ministry would appreciate a first-hand report of what happened.”

  “We’re not abandoning anyone who needs our help,” said Rogan. “Silo, are there any weapons kept on site?”

  “For employees?” The Ghuk shook his head. “Certainly not. But we do have a munitions processor right next to Chamber 3. The rifles still need to be activated, though. They’re supposed to be paired with LX-14s, you see.”

  “Wouldn’t be my first choice,” Tuner whispered to Jack. “Their lasers are weak and their fusion coils have a tendency to jam.”

  “Great.” Jack pursed his lips. “Better than nothing, I suppose.”

  “We should be able to reconfigure them for regular use,” said Rogan. “Just tell us where to go.”

  Jack waited until Silo had relayed the best way of reaching the compromised chamber before pulling Rogan to one side.

  “Just to be clear,” he whispered, “we’re only going to see if we can rescue any more workers. We’re not actually going to engage with these pirates, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Rogan replied. Much to Jack’s relief, he could tell she was just as hesitant to get into an actual firefight as he was. “If the other Ghuk are still alive, maybe we can get some of them to safety. But if there’s any chance one of us could get hurt – any chance at all – we’ll head back to Adi and let the Ministry send an executor team instead. That’s a promise.”

  “Okay. Good.” Jack nodded. “Just so long as these automata guns Silo mentioned are a contingency and nothing else.”

  “Of course.” Rogan smiled reassuringly. “I just don’t want us getting caught empty-handed, that’s all. You know, you can say ‘I told you so’ if it makes you feel better.”

  Jack laughed, but there was no humour in it.

  “Get us back to Adi in one piece first,” he sighed. “Then I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

  5

  [Zero] Days Without an Accident

  Back into the misty corridors they ventured. Having worked at the facility for over a decade, Silo’s instructions on how to reach Chamber 3 were a far more effective guide than the map Rogan had retrieved from Cyclone Manufacturing’s records. This was good, because the Ghuk refused to go with them. Too afraid to face the pirates again, Silo instead made his way back to the deserted welcome lobby. He had been generous enough to give them his all-access keycard, however.

  Rogan had to press it against a battered scanner three times before it unlocked the door ahead of them. And even then, it took as many seconds again before the door chugged open wide enough for them to squeeze through.

  Jack supposed it was no wonder Negoti shut the factory down as soon as the Ministry brought in new automata regulations. Clearly Cyclone Manufacturing was in dire straits. They’d probably been looking for an excuse to lay everyone off anyway.

  “Do you think the pirates are still here?” Klik whispered, her voice drifting over the comms in Jack’s helmet. “I mean
, what’s the use in hanging around a dump like this? Wouldn’t they just take what they came for and leave?”

  “Not if what they came for was hostages,” said Rogan. “Though why they think Negoti would pay the ransom is beyond me. Besides, the production lines were still operational when I checked the factory’s systems.”

  “Could be they left them running when they scarpered,” said Tuner, shrugging. “You know, just to wind Negoti up, or something.”

  “Could be,” Rogan agreed. “I suppose we’ll see.”

  “Hey.” Jack tapped the top of Tuner’s head. “What was your production plant like? Nothing like this, I hope.”

  “Nowhere’s quite like this,” said Rogan, glancing back at them from up front. “Cyclone’s always carried a reputation for shoddiness, and for good reason.”

  “I don’t really remember if I’m honest,” said Tuner, hurriedly waddling through the white fog. It came up to his middle. “Most automata’s first few hours are a bit of a blur while our data cores and subsystems come online. But I know I was put together by Sentient Solutions over in the Elo quadrant. I’ve heard their facilities are quite nice.”

  “How about you, Rogan?” asked Klik.

  “Oh, that was much too long ago.” Rogan smiled politely. “I don’t think the factories that produced my parts even exist anymore. And like Silo said, I’m a custom model. No assembly line for me.”

  “One of a kind,” said Jack, whistling with pretend wonder. “Very fancy.”

  “I don’t know about that,” replied Rogan, smiling as she shook her head. “Most fleshies are genetically unique, and yet there are trillions of you. Being a one-off has never seemed all that special to me.”

  They arrived at a security door much wider than the rest. The others were one well-placed boot away from being knocked off their runners. This one, on the other hand, looked thick enough to withstand an intercontinental missile. It was covered in rivets and rust.

  Good thing they had their keycard.

  Rogan tapped it against the scanner beside the door. It flashed red. She tried tapping it again. The scanner responded with an even darker shade of red the second time. It didn’t seem wise to risk a third attempt.