Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus)

by Robert McCarroll

  “Is she still driving the Humvee?”

  “No, it was easier to have her fly a construct. Tekton still has the right leg to work the pedals, so he’s following me. Ukar’s with him in case he needs a hand.”

  “Three heavies and a tracker of legend. It’s not enough to make me feel sorry for that bug.”

  “At this point, we’re not willing to take chances.”

  “Where do you want me?”

  “At the prison. Keep an eye on the doctor and your brother.”

  I fought my frustration as I watched the three work inside the isolation chamber. The time crawled along in what felt like ever-slower increments. I couldn’t understand half of what was being said. I had started to wish I could doze off when there was a tap on my shoulder. It was one of the guards. “Warden Ellison wants to talk to you.” I nodded and followed him out of the infirmary. I was briefly confused when we headed out of the main building and crossed the outer yard. We entered one of the guard towers and climbed to the top of the wall. Among the khaki clad guards was a man in a suit. He had dark hair streaked with gray, and a lined face. In the amber light of the waning day, I wasn’t sure how tanned he was.

  “Shadowdemon was it? Cyril Ellison.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “I hope you can explain what that thing is.” Warden Ellison handed me a pair of binoculars and pointed in the distance. I took a look at the patch of farmland he was indicated. Before my eyes, plant stalks wilted and shriveled, turning gray and brittle. Several snapped in the breeze and fell in the now-desiccated soil. The rest of the field was a vibrant green and well-irrigated. Rising above the dying crops was a frame of old, weathered wood. Thin posts connected by narrow strips formed a trestle fan of about thirty degrees. Tattered banners of stylized birds fluttered behind the posts, and crows sat upon the crossbars. It swayed with the steady stride of the creature to which it was strapped.

  Stepping out of the grain field, leaving a trail of desiccated plant life behind it, the gray form idly cast empty seed hulls from bony and emaciated fingers. The hand dipped into a satchel on its hip to draw forth another handful of empty husks, dripping them through its loose grasp. The other hand held the weather-grayed haft of an octagonal rod. The end of the rod was connected by three or four links of chain to a shorter rod, this one lined with iron studs. The figure itself was dressed in colorless rags and crudely stitched leather moccasins. Its dry lips were shriveled back into an involuntary rictus, exposing a mouth of cracked teeth with several missing. Its deep, sunken features sprouted a thin, gnarled mass of beard that hung down to its chest as dejectedly as the rags about its bony form. A hungry white light glowed from the depths of its hollow eyes. It crossed the ground with a deceptively slow stride that ate up the distance alarmingly quickly. There was no color to it all all, as if it had stepped from a black and white photograph.

  “That is not good,” I said. I handed back the binoculars and pulled out my phone. I dialed Dad. “Our unknown spirit has just made an appearance outside Rockstead.”

  “What does it look like?” Dad asked.

  “A starving serf, or one that has already died but forgot to stop moving. Its mere presence kills nearby plants. Actually, let me see if I can get you a picture.” I zoomed in my phone’s camera as far as it would go and clicked off the best image I could, sending it off to Dad.

  “Got it. What’s your assessment?”

  “If its anything like the other two, I’m not sure how long I can hold it alone. Ixa’s still in helping with the Baron’s disease.”

  “Find out what the prison has that can be of use. They have to be ready in case a powered prisoner slips his mantle.”

  “All right.” He hung up, and I turned back to the warden. “That thing is bad news. Probably in the weight class of a Fund heavy hitter, definitely a tier one or two threat. We’re going to need to work together to stop it from compromising this facility.”

  “We got new exosuits, but not many of the guards have been trained on them yet,” Ellison said. “There’s no one who can operate the Ogres the Fund sent us.”

  “Ogres?” I asked.

  “Sorry, O-six, R-three. They’re extra-heavy exosuits meant to buy us even more time in case of the Code Seven. But the moment someone hears they’re controlled by psychic circuitry, they get leery of climbing into the thing. I guess they fear it’s going to read too much of their mind, or control their mind, or something untoward.”

  I smirked. “I’ve been using psychic circuitry for the better part of a year now. I have no qualms about it. Might I borrow your Ogre and a few of your SRTs?”

  The warden peered through the binoculars at the spirit striding towards us. “I suppose it’s better to fight it out there than let it reach the walls.”

  The O-6R3 was smaller than the UM-3, but it was still a hulking piece of ironmongery studded with armor plates and overpowered servos. They had compacted it enough to operate within the halls and galleries of the prison, but still loaded it with enough to give the operator a fighting chance against a powered criminal attempting escape. It was blue and silver, with ‘Rockstead Penitentiary’ stenciled on the oversized pauldrons. Its beetle-like head was scrunched down between the massive armatures. It gave the impression of a limited field of view, but that wasn’t where the operator’s head was. Stout arms and heavily armored legs gave it a shape that looked like it could be used to block off a corridor with its bulk alone. Both arms ended in mechanical hands, which struck me as a bit odd for some reason. Coiled about the left arm was the ammunition feed for a short-barreled launcher slung under it. It was currently full of tear gas grenades, but I suppose it could be loaded with any compatible grenades. The launchers on the back of the right arm were less obvious as to their function.

  “What are these?” I asked.

  “Net launchers,” Warden Ellison said. “One fires shock nets, the other fires glue nets. This is meant to try to take prisoners back alive after all.”

  The whole chest plate swung forward about forty-five degrees to allow access to the interior. It didn’t strike me as a very convenient access way given the size of the gap, but with the power plant, the heavy-duty chassis, and the armor, there wasn’t a whole lot of room for a spacious door. It was as much room as a top or bottom hatch would have provided, just at an angle. There were an ample number of strategically placed hand- and foot-holds to get in and out. As I climbed into the operator’s harness, my head ended up just below that of the O-6R3, behind seriously thick armor. My exterior view was provided by a visor that tied into the exosuit’s own sensors. Looking around, I found it displayed whatever I would see with my head at that angle without the suit around me. Being Fund tech, my eye interfaced quite readily with it, taking over for the visor for that side of my view. There were a few places on the field of vision that were designated as mirrors and showed the view behind the suit. I could adjust their position to wherever I felt comfortable with them.

  I finished strapping in and pulled the operator’s compartment closed. Once I was sure no one could see me, an oversized grin split my features. There was just something undeniably fun about the prospect of operating a mech suit, even if it was only ten feet tall. I settled my hands onto the grips within the cavity and relaxed my body. I let my mind slip into a calm state as I tried to command my new limbs. Psychic circuitry was supposed to adapt to the wearer and be insanely easy to utilize. It picked up on my intent to take a few steps forward.

  “Are you ready?” Ellison asked over the radio. I gave him a thumb’s up with the O-6R3’s manipulator hand.

  “Ready.” I didn’t tell him that I now had all of thirty seconds experience operating this type of hardware. We stood in a vehicle bay with a lot of ordinary cars, trucks, and vans; racks of two different models of exosuits and five more O-6R3s. A pack of SRTs in exosuits in the same blue
and silver livery as my machine formed up behind me like a pack of ducklings following their mother. Being only slightly bulkier than normal people, they carried man-portable weapons. We strode along the sealed concrete floor to a heavy blast door that rose to permit our egress. I was once again reminded that Rockstead was both a prison and a fortress. I guess a better analogy than the ducklings was that of a knightly lance and his men-at-arms. That didn’t sit well in my gut as I remembered my earlier comparison of the spirit’s appearance to that of a starving serf.

  The line of withered plant life had just passed the Alabama/Georgia border sign as we emerged into the waning daylight. The spirit turned its gaze upon us and let out a groan not unlike a death rattle. It changed course to face us, but did not stop casting its empty seed hulls to the ground. I was already getting fairly confident about moving the O-6R3’s limbs instead of my own. This confidence was not fully justified as my knuckles rapped against the inside of the operator’s compartment. I returned my hand to the grip and raised the suit’s arm. I’d meant to take aim with the net launchers. Something told me tear gas wasn’t going to do anything to this guy.

  As the spirit swung it down from its shoulder, I finally recognized what it was holding - an agricultural flail. It slammed into the ground with a boom just shy of what I expected the fist of God to sound like. Cracks propagated in the ground, braiding forward in a broad line towards me. The ground erupted under the suit’s foot, tipping me onto my back with a crash. The SRTs hadn’t taken the hit directly, but some of them had fallen over too. Those that remained standing were somewhat surprised when I was back on my feet before their friends. What looked like a slow, clumsy machine actually moved rather fluidly. It helped that my control schema was entirely mental.

  I fired a shock net at the creature. Thin metal filaments spread wide almost as soon as they’d left the launcher. Spinning through the air, the gossamer strands of silver pulled taut, then wrapped themselves in an electrified embrace around the spirit. Coruscating electrical discharges danced around the creature. It hardly noticed, ripping away the net with its sowing hand and tossing it aside. Well, I hadn’t really expected that to work anyway.

  Counting the banner frame on its back, the spirit was nearly as tall as the O-6R3. The crows were at eye level with me. The unnatural white glow within their eyes told me everything I needed to know about where they’d come from. The flail smashed into my left pauldron with enough force to stagger the whole suit and leave an indented line up the composite armor. A wireframe outline of the suit appeared on my vision with a slight yellow discoloration of that area.

  Being too close to try any of the other weapons, I punched the creature. If I’d hit it with a normal fist, the motion would have driven the blow right into the solar plexus. Being the iron fist of a mech suit, the blow struck half the spirit’s torso, the middle half. The crows took flight and the banner frame swatted against the front armor of the O-6R3 as the creature doubled over and was propelled back the way it had come. It tumbled along the dead grass and came to a stop just shy of the sign.

  Rising up, it reset a variety of dislocated bits like its arm and its neck in a series of casual motions. It showed no particular concern for the injury I’d inflicted. The crows settled back on their perch, and it turned to face me again. A volley of fire from the SRTs did nothing but raise small clouds of ashen dust from its form. It raised its sowing hand and pointed a finger at me. The crows took flight again, rapidly multiplying into a murder that swarmed me. Their beaks and claws did nothing to the armored frame, but their black bodies and flapping wings obscured my vision. I was lucky to catch a flash of green beyond flapping feathers.

  My vision cleared only as I was knocked from my feet by the spirit’s flail and slammed into the ground again. The murder had split up, smaller groups harassing the SRTs as the spirit stood astride the supine form of the O-6R3. Despite another yellow patch on my wireframe, the suit was not significantly damaged. I grabbed the spirit by the leg and slammed it into the ground. I rolled to deliver a punch with my other fist. It blocked me with its free foot. The flail slammed down against that arm, smashing the ammo feed for the grenade launcher and releasing a cloud of tear gas.

  An indicator icon for that weapon system blinked red as roiling white vapors obstructed my view. The O-6R3 jerked violently back, and the wireframe began blinking red at the left elbow. I could only guess that the flail had found the joint and made a mess of the servos. The back of my mind mimicked Donny’s voice and made a bad pun about ‘taking a good threshing’. I told it to shut up and powered my way into a standing position. I must have let go or slackened my grip, because the spirit was moving on towards the prison again. I took aim with my good arm and fired a glue net.

  Sticky strands the beige-brown of two-part polyurethane foam spread out in a spiderweb and expanded rapidly to fat ropes of adhesive. It pegged the spirit square on the harness holding its banner frame and messily entangled the spirit. Pulling against the sticky strands, the spirit bellowed in rage, and finally spoke. Unfortunately, whatever it shouted was in some Nordic tongue, and I had no idea what it was saying. The crows, however, seemed to understand perfectly, as they flocked to the spirit and began tugging at the adhesive webbing. I smirked as they became stuck, talons and feathers both, transforming the spirit into a writhing, fluttering mass of black plumage.

  The smirk vanished as the mass collapsed in on itself, crows and spirit appearing to implode, leaving the tangled glue web behind. I looked about frantically for sign of where it went.

  Part 9

  I didn’t have to look for long, as a murder of crows swarmed down from the sky and coalesced into the spirit on a patch of dead field past the Alabama border. With a motion that looked more resentful than casual, it sowed another handful of empty seed hulls. I stared it down, waiting for it to move. According to my heads-up display, there were only two more glue nets loaded into that launcher. If I wanted to maximize the time I delayed this thing, I’d have to be judicious in their use. While the elbow on the left arm would no longer un-bend, the hand and shoulder were still working. I held that arm in front of me as I took up a ready stance. The SRTs were still alive, but had fallen back to screening positions. They hadn’t made much of a difference in this fight so far, and I couldn’t blame them for being cautious.

  The spirit repeated its opening attack, beating its flail against the ground and sending a braid of cracks towards me. I darted to the side before the ground erupted along the length of the cracks. The buffet of its shock wave rocked my suit, but I retained my footing. I charged at him, gouging deep footprints in the dirt as I pushed the O-6R3 to as fast as it could manage. It still felt painfully slow compared to what I could manage on foot. I leapt as the flail came down, vaulting the braid of cracks and riding the shockwave down to the ground. I landed on one knee, but plowed the damaged forearm of the suit into the spirit with as much of my momentum as I could salvage.

  Having far less mass, the creature was bowled over by the impact and was pushed into the soil as I ran over it. By the time I skidded to a stop and turned around, it was already hauling itself out of the spirit-shaped indentation in the ground. I looped the broken arm about it in a poor imitation of a body lock and seized the flail-arm in my good hand. Despite its slow, deliberate movements, the spirit was not slow-witted and simply swapped the flail to its other hand. Swinging back over its shoulder at me, it struck the left pauldron again with a clang I felt in my real bones.

  Wielding the flail like a flagellant would a whip, it rained a string of armor-buckling blows against the same pauldron. As the pauldron deformed and bent inwards, its hue on my damage indicator faded through the orange towards the red. I threw the spirit into the ground and planted a boot on the small of its back. I reached for the flail proper. Before I got my metal fingers around it, I was blinded by a swarm of crows. The flail rang off my knee, forcing me to stagger back. While the am
mo feed was broken, the grenade launcher still had a round in the chamber. I fired it into the ground at my feet. The billowing cloud of tear gas did what I hoped it would and scattered the murder of crows. As I strode out of the choking fumes, something speared into the weakened pauldron.

  I stared at the green sign that read “Alabama|Georgia” for a half a moment in confusion. That half moment ended as the spirit’s flail struck the end of the signpost and drove it deep into the mechanism of the O-6R3. On the wireframe, the shoulder joined the chorus of blinking red indicators. I reached up with my good hand and snapped off the end of the sign to clear my field of vision. I wasn’t going to delude myself into thinking I could pull it back out. Swinging the nub of the sign like a flyswatter, I slapped the spirit into the ground again. I wasn’t sure how much time I needed to buy, or even what the delay was even going to accomplish.

  No, that wasn’t true.

  Letting the spirit break the prison walls would release who knows how many powered criminals back onto the streets. Depending on how many got loose, it might even be enough to overwhelm the Community. Victor and Doctor Omicron had each taken the combined efforts of a team to take down. Michelangelo... I shuddered inwardly. He’d taken even more effort to bring in, and far more loss. I had to keep this thing out here, for as long as I could manage.

  The creature ripped the sign from my grasp, and I had to take a step back to prevent the flail from smashing the net launchers on my good arm. I shoulder-checked it with the broken side of the mech suit, swinging about to position myself between the spirit and Rockstead. It hammered the flail against my left knee. The joint rang from yellow to orange, growing sluggish. I tried to step back, but the unresponsive limb went red, and I tipped to the ground. Rising slightly, I fired a glue net into the spirit’s face. It stumbled back in a snarl of sticky threads.