Dark Iron King II: Arcadia Falls (Unreal Universe Book 5)

by Lee Bond

  No, Arcadia hadn’t seen an infusion of fresh people since the King’d gone all sorts of wobbly, and that led to … personality disorders. Crime. Violence. Hatred. Anger.

  A tortured scream split the air. Dom ignored it. The first half-dozen times those piteous cries of pain had filled his senses, naturally he’d gone to check, only to see that it were nothing more than gearheads falling dead from exposure to the Giant Green Men.

  Dom’s lip curled into a nasty sneer. Gods, he hated gearheads. Hated everything about them, from the way they stank to the way the talked and everything in between. There weren’t a single redeeming quality about the Dark Iron infested goons, and as much as there were thousands and thousands of innocent people in Ickford, King Blake had made the right decision in doing for the place and it’s people.

  And such majestic destruction! The Gearman looked up and around until he found the nearest of the gigantic metal men and –were his hands not full of Ickfordian weaponry- he would’ve applauded. Bigger than the biggest King anyone had ever summoned, almost completely resistant to all damage … Dom did wonder if their King was somewhere nearby, paying close attention to what was happening down here in the dirt, as it were; the scholarly Gearman rather doubted that their monarch had any clue at all that the smiths in Ickford had developed weapons that fell very far indeed from the required.

  And such weapons! Never in his life had he seen such … perfection.

  Dom scooted quickly through an open courtyard, glaring warningly at a gaggle of gearheads who appeared to be hiding from something; they started suddenly when they caught sight of the brilliant red pits that gleamed nastily from the recesses of his helmet, dipping their heads low and throwing their hands up in the air. The Gearman kindly ignored them for their obeisance.

  Through the courtyard, Dom began angling himself properly for the bank. Given Master Nickel’s previous statements concerning available methods of dealing with the Gunboys it was certain that his quarry was either at the bank or hunting the metal man nearest to the Dark Iron repository. Course laid in, as it were, the leader of the Book Club focused his attention back to the weapons ‘gifted’ to him by the gearheads.

  The sword–for lack of a better word- was immaculate. The cleanest, sharpest edges he’d ever seen anywhere outside those belonging to the nearly unkillable Water Ladies, the blade gripped tightly in his right hand seemed sharp enough to cut through anything he set it’s edge against. There wasn’t a single scrap of the filigree-gears that Chevril often took time out of his day to mock, nor were there any unnecessary moving parts or odd bits stuck everywhere that served no purpose whatsoever.

  After all his time as a Gearman, Dominic had never seen something so beautiful. As a Gearman, the younger man could –would and had- tell anyone within earshot precisely the moment when the King had switched over to the gears-and-glass, brass-and-steel, and as a Gearman, he well appreciated the wondrous nature of how all that meshed together, but there was something … pleasing … about a keen edge with no superfluous bits.

  Dom slashed the sword through the air a bit, admiring the way the light glinted off the wickedly sharp edges. Though the thing lacked sawing, vibrating bits, the Book Club Regular was certain that the blade would do for any gearhead just the same –if not better- than the buzzer variety.

  Keen to continue, the Gearman turned his attention to the gun.

  Like the Ickfordian melee weapon, the gun was … perfect. Nary a gear nor sprocket nor piston anywhere across the surface and a quick dismantling of the thing had shown Dom that the process by which this gun threw bullets at a target was perhaps the most simplistic method imaginable; combustible powder in the bullets themselves launched said bullets through the air at considerable velocity, and all from a single, solid tap from a spring-driven hammer.

  Far less moving parts meant anyone could fire the blasted thing, from a wee toddler all the way up to an ancient grandmother, and this was precisely why –Dom understood this in the way that he understood most things about the King’s wise decisions- nothing like it had ever been allowed to see the light of day; regular, proper, geared-up guns had so many moving parts and extraneous tick-tocking pieces that it took, at the very least, a wardog with decades of experience with a particular firearm’s foibles to fire it safely, much less getting the bullet anywhere near the target. A regular old lad or lass trying to fire a gun such as that would like as not be treated to the grim spectacle of their hand being torn clean off their wrist.

  Gun and sword glinted in the light. Dom loathed them even as he loved them. King Blake had made the right decision to destroy Ickford, for no other reason than the two weapons the Gearman held in his hands; should it be revealed to the rest of Arcade City that Havilland Harvard and Twisted Mickel were crafting arms flouting King’s Will, what little remained of the city under The Dome would erupt into warfare.

  Quick, furtive movement from above brought Dom to a heart-pounding standstill just inside a doorway and he knew he’d made the right decision in choosing to run through the streets rather than leap from rooftop to rooftop as he’d wanted; Master Nickels was no dummy and he’d made the mistake in making his displeasure of the man and his possessions no small secret. And, this close to the Gunboy… Dom knew no other being would risk the rooftops for fear of catching the attention of that monolithic man.

  Nickels, in his handmade Geared Armor that made him more than a match for a Gearman, would immediately figure things out, and that was the last thing Dominic Breton wanted.

  As abhorrent as the act of assassination was, it was the only way to get the Book from Nickels. The very second that the battle was engaged properly, the man from the Outside would do for him in the blink of an eye.

  Dom spared a thought for his best friend in all the world. Chevy would be more than displeased. That took no thinking at all to realize, and yet, there was little other choice.

  The Book was not Nickels’ to possess. The armor he wore was an affront to the King. Why –though he’d come to accept the devastation- the vast bulk of the blame for Ickford’s current situation was easily be laid Nickels’ feet.

  As much as Chevy wanted to use Nickels’ apparent skills to do for the Gunboys and thus save as many innocents as possible, it was all a matter of math. Nickels’ continued existence equaled too much aggravation for Dom to bear and besides, there were far more gearheads than one lone Outsider and they were in possession of weapons capable of doing for the Gunboys. Thus. No need for Master Nickels.

  Dom knew he were goin’ round and round in his mind with it, but it were necessary. When Chevy caught wind of this deed, Dom wanted to have the reasons for doing such right on the tip of his tongue.

  “Simple as all that, hey, isn’t it just?” Dom grinned beneath his helmet. Tracking Nickels’ movements back the way he’d come and moving quickly, quietly through the alleys, the crafty Gearman finally set about working on just how he planned on doing for Nickels.

  It didn’t take long at all to track the man down, though as he scrutinized the Outsider secretively, Dom sorely wished his armor was working properly: his target was having a very heated discussion. With himself. What he wouldn’t give to hear the matter that had Nickels so obviously overwrought.

  Alas, it truly boiled down to a matter of power. The reserves left in the clockwork armor were earmarked for the actual killing, putting prying all the way out of the question.

  “’sides which,” Dom whispered softly, “I shall wager my horse it’s nowt but Iron Madness either way. The man took longer to go barmy than anyone I ever met ‘ere now, but there he is, bickering with his own self.”

  Just another reason to do for the man sooner rather than later. Armed and armored as he was with a paramount example of what King’s Will could do, a sane Nickels loose in Arcade City spelled disaster for all those who fell afoul of his whim. A madman with the same powers?

  For all his learned education and intelligence, Dom could find no word that meant ‘worse than apo
calyptic’. The hidden Gearman turned his attention back to Garth, curious to see what’d happen now the man’s vehement argument with himself had drawn to a close.

  What Dom saw caused his heart to stutter and his visored helmet to flicker with static. “I can scarcely credit what I am hearing!”

  The alley in which Nickels argued to and fro with an invisible compatriot was suddenly filled with the unmistakable sounds of King’s Will being used!

  This were impossible!

  There was absolutely no way …

  Risking everything, Gearman Breton crept as close as he dared.

  “By the King!” Dominic Breton’s heart hammered in his chest. Impossible as it should be, his eyes told nothing but truth.

  Master Nickels’ armor was eating the wall against which he was pressed, the air chiming with the familiar sound of matter being digested by direct manifestation of Will!

  It was beyond comprehension!

  Through some means, Nickels’ suit held the properties of a Mistress’ crucible!

  Never more certain of a decision as the one he held close to him now, Dominic prepared to do for Nickels. The travesty and madness of the Suit the outsider wore had to be dealt with now, before anyone else in Ickford …

  “Well, now.” Dom muttered bitterly, eyes boggling in their sockets as Nickels’ left arm began transforming itself into a sniper rifle. His suit of armor tried to pull data from the air concerning the methods behind the nearly mystical arrival of the sniper rifle and was met with failure. The miasma was just too strong. “That really is it, hain’t it just? That be for the realm of the King alone, no two ways about it.”

  Dom sheathed the Ickfordian sword so that –when the time came- he could fire the gun directly into Master Nickels’ head. It was better than what the man deserved, as he were more inclined to cause the man the kind of hurt normally reserved for gearheads who’d done awful things.

  Prancing about with a stolen Book strapped to your chest! Using Will in ways left only to the King and his Matrons.

  Who did Nickels think he was?

  Through hooded eyes, heart racing, palms itching as adrenalin began to flow, Dom watched on as the sniper rifle –fully realized now, a thing of elegant, devastating beauty- began … Dom wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing; the wall behind Nickels had obviously provided the sniper rifle with extra material, presumably bolstering it’s already considerable strength so that it might do some real damage to the Gunboy, so what, then, was with the flickering lights and the ever-intensifying beads of light being drawn through the air towards the muzzle of the weapon?

  Whatever purpose the light show provided, Dom had to admit to himself –even as he ground his teeth at Book’s most recent failure in trying to gauge the strength of the rifle grown from Nickels’ arm- it was a damn sight more impressive than anything he’d ever seen.

  Straining to hear the conversation Garth was having with himself, Dominic decided the risk in getting closer at this point far outweighed remaining ignorant. The armored Outsider was heavily involved both in talking to himself and staring ruminatively at his immense victim, leaving Dom confident enough he’d remain unnoticed.

  Garth pushed off from the almost wholly consumed wall, coming to a rest on five feet closer to the Gunboy. “Head, heart, or shoulder, DB? Which should I pick? Pew. Pew. Pew.”

  Dom grinned despite concerns that he was closer than he ought to be, he did a little dance of victory. Not only was Chevy’s new best friend a plethora of walking outrages and violations against the King, he truly were mad as a hatter!

  Nickels was as twitchy as any gearhead when it came to smelling impending violence, and being mad enough to talk to yourself only made things worse. The Book Club Regular had half a foot ready to run the second, the very instant anything seemed awry.

  Dom watched and listened. Half a second later, he commanded his suit to record the moment for posterity. The loss of battery power in this instance would be well worth it; when the dust settled and Chevy found out that his ‘last, best hope’ for Ickford and the innocents within had been done for by his boon companion, proof –and considerable proof at that- would be needed.

  A familiar red dot appeared in his vision, filling Dom with a bit of relief.

  At least some things were working properly.

  “Head might not guarantee a kill. Might miss the computer brain altogether.” Garth said fussily, switching to heart. “Same with the heart. There’s no telling what this thing looks like inside?”

  Nickels tracked to a shoulder. “Then, DB, there’s the matter of the armor. You say it’s ’thick’, but what’s it made out of? Steel-VII? Duronium? Striated nanomolecular composite? Pure, living particulate? Who’s to say this rebuilt sniper cannon will even dent the fucking thing? I will bet you a gazillion dollars that if brain and heart are in the right spots that they’ll be more fortified than the Virgin Queen of Salterex’s sexy knickers. I might be more successful in blowing a fucking arm off this thing. Yeah, the arm. Best bet. To … calibrate. Yeah. That’s it. Calibration. No, no, I’m not taking a leg. That Gunboy is ginormous! You want that fucker crashing to the ground, find someone else. Look, DarkBook the Surprisingly and Reasonably Efficient AI, you’re not the boss of me, I am the boss of you, and … well, yes, obviously, if it’s on the ground I could crawl in through a nostril but … no. I have my fucking dignity. And FYI, I don’t like those jetpack blueprints you just showed me. Looks like crap. 1980’s James Bond had better shit than that. This is the future, dude, Get your shit together or don’t try at all. So. Get me some readings. I wanna fire this bitch in a big way.”

  To prove his point to the nonexistent DB, Garth waved his sniper arm around, filling the air with sound effects. The tip of the sniper rifle, scintillating with charged power so bright that it cast hard shadows everywhere, gleamed bright as the heart of a Matron’s Crucible.

  To Dom’s knowledge, there was nothing brighter in all the world.

  Dom could scarcely credit his luck. Only two minutes into recording, and the man had provided him with more than enough ammunition to prove his madness to any other Gearmen who might question this moment or his judgment. Sorely wishing that the miasma surrounding Ickford prevented clear transmission –Dom would give nearly anything under The Dome to beam this footage to Chevril straightaway, just so he could be on the up and up about the whole affair- it took everything the Gearman had to wait for the bloody fool to fire.

  Doing for Nickels was a thing that needed doing, as it was righteous and just and the King wanted it done. Doing so before learning whether or not the deadly weapon on the man’s arm was effective against Gunboy armor or not was another thing entirely. Doing for the man was still dead certain. That would never change, yet … if the rifle proved worthy ‘gainst their foes, surely there could be a way of preserving the weapon while still doing for the wielder, hey?

  Weren’t that the best thing? For the good of all?

  “Finally!” Garth shouted, voice full of exasperation. The armored warrior took a better stance, propped himself firmly against the wall, took careful aim, and waited.

  Dom found he was holding his breath. He urged the Geared Armor to record as much as possible, hoping against hope that while he was unable to access the deeper functions of the suit on an intimate level, those tools were nevertheless still operational, albeit invisibly.

  The sniper cannon fired a few seconds later.

  Everything went sideways, including both Dominic Breton and Garth N’Chalez.

  ***

  Master Pete, who’d taken up position next to the polite Gearman in an effort to remind his lovely lads and lasses –‘his’ crew had swollen to nearly forty, the largest gaggle since well before the King had lost his temper- that though Chevril was one of them coppers, he were nevertheless with them; as lads and lasses came went, their eyes all fell upon Chevy as he stared thoughtfully up at Crudesucker, and some unlatched their guns or their buzzers or knuckled their hands up.
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  Wouldn’t do for them gearheads to force Chevy into doing summat he were on record as saying he’d like to avoid, now would it? Especially since he were a fountain of information.

  “Reckon we did summat to it’s brain, hey?” Pete mentioned casually, trying to make heads or tails of that which Chevy was scrawling in the dirt. To him, it was nowt more than lines and circles, circles and lines.

  “How’s that?” Chevy looked up from the math he was working on, pleased that no one in the room –as it were- had any clue what he was trying to accomplish. It’d been nearly eight hundred years since he’d learned algebra, and in the intervening years, well. The helmet did all the heavy lifting as and when needed, and beyond all that, no one needed math. Not to ride a horse, not to build a campfire, not to turn a splashgun on an erratic gearhead.

  To figure out the best way to topple a Gunboy wasn’t something old Mister Sedgewick had thought to address in those algebra classes oh so many years ago.

  Pete jerked his thumb at their Gunboy. It wasn’t … wasn’t doing so well, which was why the gearheads under his command were taking it easy right then. Many of them were smoking foul-smelling hand rolled or engaging in a little Dark Iron top up. A considerable number were outright sleeping, though they had the wisdom to keep a peeper popped should Crudesucker get himself sorted properly.

  The massive beast was making a right hash of things, and were the metal death machine not a terrifying sight, they’d all of them be laughing into their sleeves; following it’s decision to do for them as had messed up it’s pretty robotic face, Crudesucker the Gunboy had indeed turned and started right for ‘em, forgetting –and this were the funny thing- forgetting that it had to work it’s way through the mazelike avenues leading up to their high building, if it were wanting to do for them straightaway and not spend a half hour playing Squash the Salon.