Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Moving through Sludge Bottom was always risky late at night, so they had both running lights and security lights on, temporarily brightening the narrow alleyways and side streets, washing over piles of debris and catching the furtive movements of scurrying rats and larger things in the darkness.

  An odd feeling tingled over the weathered skin at the back of the under-officer’s neck. Twenty years of constabulary instinct were telling him that something was not right. The streets shouldn’t be quite this silent, especially in the Sludge Bottom quarter. Where were the bar patrons? The loitering drunks, the rabble, the downtrodden masses? It was still early into the evening watch. So where were the people?

  Clattering on the shingles of a nearby building caught his attention. He turned toward the sound, one hand reaching for the control panel in front of him to swing the front searchlight up at the dark roof on his right. The blazing light caught a flurry of movement, then nothing.

  The under-officer turned to the other auxiliaries in his patrol. The constable manning the rear post, watching behind the patrol, had also turned toward the noise on the roof. The helmsman and wireless operator, seated at their controls under a small canvas canopy rigged in the middle of the flat deck, remained focused on their jobs. They seemed ignorant of the sudden unease that permeated the soupy air.

  He scanned the rooftops. A shadow poked out from behind a chimney. Throwing his arm up to point at the figure, the under-officer called, “You there! Identify—”

  A crossbow bolt tore through his neck, sending him over the railing circling the top of the walker. Spraying blood trailed him through the air, spattering the walker’s rust-streaked side as he tumbled toward the cobblestones below. He landed with a sickening thud and lay still.

  At this point the helmsman made a grave error. Instead of continuing on at full speed to escape the ambush, his hands left the controls of the walker to reach for his weapons. The walker lurched to a stop, one leg raised precariously a foot or so off the ground. The auxiliary next to him looked surprised, and the helmsman smacked him on the head. “Quick, boy, get a message off that we are under attack!” If the operator could get a message off, help would arrive quickly.

  The last member of the patrol was fighting for his life against a cloaked figure that had jumped from the slate roof onto the walker. He’d lifted his spatha in time to block the first blow, but subsequent thrusts of the cloaked figure’s twin daggers pushed him back toward the center of the walker. The half-trained constable could do little more than parry and retreat again and again, his boots clanking along the gantry until his foot caught on a protruding screw and he stumbled. His sword wavered for a moment as he instinctively turned his head to look behind him.

  That one moment was all the shadowy figure needed. Silver flashed in the security lights as a dagger shot out, quickly jabbing into his leg, then his arm, then his neck. Blood spurted and the luckless auxiliary slumped to the deck. With a powerful kick, the cloaked figure sent the body rolling under the railing and over the side of the gantry.

  Seeing this, the helmsman drew his sword and battered shield from the rack beside him and charged. Several grappling hooks arched over the sides and fixed on the railings, and he knew it was only a matter of time until they were overrun. All he could do was stall. He slowed, keeping himself between the cloaked figure at the rear of the walker and the young auxiliary manning the radio. “Hurry! Get that signal off!” the helmsman shouted at the young operator, who sat seemingly frozen in fear.

  The cloaked figure was suddenly before him, and a flurry of impacts hit his shield. The helmsman backed off, then, whirling his sword, pressed forward. For a moment, it appeared that momentum was on his side. He closed in, stabbing low.

  The shadow warrior seemed to flow to one side. The helmsman’s eyes widened in surprise. His sword clanged loudly off the metal decking, sparks flying. In response, the figure swept the dagger it gripped sideways into the helmsman’s head, the force of the blow lifting him off his feet to fall with a thud and clank of gear to the deck plating.

  The shadow figure stepped over him and approached the auxiliary at the radio, who turned around, hand grasping for the hilt of his scabbarded sword. The cloaked figure’s arm snapped out, impossibly fast—

  And severed the wireless radio’s power cable.

  The auxiliary looked up. “Hello, Mother.”

  The figure in the cloak nodded imperceptibly and rested a hand on his shoulder before moving away to give quiet directions to the boarders climbing from the scaling ropes over the rails. They swiftly moved to hide all evidence of their ambush while one man walked to the control console and activated the steam engines. The Maxentius III lurched forward.

  Seeing the helmsman’s chest still rising and falling, the traitorous auxiliary drew his sword and walked over to hold it over the fallen man’s neck. “You never were a very good driver.” He pushed the sword down.

  Chapter 2

  The morning sun did not rise over Brittenburg, it oozed. Sliding over the massive black iron walls to touch the tallest chimneys and smokestacks first, it turned beige messenger doves white and blinded the wall guards manning their posts as it limned the glimmering brass towers and shining steel arches. As the sun rose higher, its light reached lower into the city, pushing through dirty panes of glass and warming clothes on wash lines.

  The light worked its way down the airfield’s massive wireless antennae, and slid off the ribbed canvas sides of a massive transport flyer. It glowed gold in the exhaust fumes of the cargo forklifts that idled while the transport flyer was being secured to steel posts. Gears clattered and pistons hissed as an operator jockeyed a long telescoping causeway from the squat terminal to the dirigible’s passenger portal. A legionnaire stood behind him, waiting for the tube to connect to the portal.

  “You guys must be born with that look,” the operator said to the scowling legionnaire, who shrugged, but didn’t respond. The operator turned away to carefully align the various rods and connectors that would secure the flyer’s gondola to the causeway, adding, “I hope those idiotic fielders check the connection points properly this time.”

  At the legionnaire’s quizzical look, the operator explained, “We’ve had more than one accident happen because some careless groundling failed to check the connection points between ship and gangway. Here by the sea, the salt air corrupts everything.” The operator paused, but still got no response from the taciturn legionnaire. Turning back to his controls, he whispered a prayer to Vulcan for a successful connection as the pistons hissed and all four of the eagle seals on the causeway glowed a dull green.

  The operator reached for the speaking tube. “System is set, causeway locked in place. Opening portal.”

  ~ * * * ~

  With a jet of smoke and a faint whiff of ozone, the steel door oscillated into its frame. After a moment, the passengers stepped through the portal and walked along the causeway. A waiting legionnaire scanned each face that passed his point on the corrugated metal wall where he leaned, face impassive. Constantine Tiberius Appius noted his presence as he stepped through the portal.

  A fitful breeze tugged at his silk trousers and dark blue tunic and ruffled his brown hair as he paused to adjust his grip on his satchel. Then he walked up to the legionnaire and said, “Legate General Minnicus sent you?”

  The soldier straightened. “Yes sir, Your Lordship, sir.”

  Constantine waved a tanned hand. “Don’t call me that. I’m simply a tribune—just plain Tribune Appius, a simple officer, newly assigned to a new legion.” He smiled, torn between amusement and relief at being able to say those words.

  “Well, sir, if you don’t mind me saying, we ought to get going,” the older man replied, tapping his wrist chronometer. “You don’t want to make a poor showing on your first day.”

  “And you are…?”

  “Centurion Germanicus Horatitus Vibius, sir. Thirteenth Cohort, XIII Germania Legion. I’m your second in command. I’ve got fifteen
years’ experience with the III Galitica and the VII Hispana. The new legion will be based twenty-five miles northeast, at Fort Tiberius. We’ve been awaiting your arrival. Legion specialties include—”

  Constantine cut him off. “I’ve read my briefing files, Centurion Vibius. I know what the legion’s specialties are—or rather, what they will be.” His fingers slipped under the neck of his tunic to absently fiddle with the gold medallion resting against his chest. He had found himself doing that frequently, the last few days, a nervous reaction to his first solo flight from Roma to Brittenburg via Massila along the southern coast of Gaul. Although he was “in disguise,” he was certain that his parents had ensured the… acceptability of the other passengers and the crew, and probably had a few secret constable types hidden among them. Not that he cared; just not being waited on hand and foot by the others gave him a sense of freedom. He was sure he would get over it soon enough, but in the meantime, he was enjoying it. A chuckle escaped his lips. His older brother would have been outraged by the lack of servants, fanfare, and general respect for his position that he believed he deserved.

  Centurion Vibius looked at him quizzically. “Are you ready to take command of your first cohort, sir? The last officer I worked with thought he was Augustus Caesar in the flesh. He didn’t last too long. Hero types tend to get themselves—and their men—killed pretty frequently; Imperial Roman history makes that clear, sir.”

  Constantine understood the unasked question. The centurion was simply trying to get a feel for Constantine’s thoughts about his own military prowess. He thought for a moment, crafting his reply. “Honestly, Centurion, I’m excited to be here, with the opportunity to learn the art of warfare from our more experienced officers. I believe I’ve got a few things I can bring to the table.” The centurion inclined his head, accepting the answer.

  “Besides, I’m sure that the legate has told you, in no uncertain terms, that if anything happens to me, there will be Hades to pay,” Constantine continued, smiling at the older man.

  Vibius smirked at the comment, then reached for Constantine’s bag. “Are you ready to go, sir?”

  “Yes, Vibius, I think it’s time we left this causeway. Although the view is stunning from here, I think we ought to see more of this industrial powerhouse, don’t you?”

  Vibius sighed with the air of a long-suffering assistant and led the way into the terminal’s bright atrium, where they were swallowed in the crowds.

  Neither noticed the man wearing grubby, well-patched overalls who followed them at a distance.

  ~ * * * ~

  The sun continued its daily ascent into the heavens. By now it was almost ten o’clock in the morning, and the light was finally reaching the lower parts of the city, piled high with tenements and apartment complexes. Julius raised a hand to shield his eyes as he walked around a corner into bright sunlight.

  A high, clear horn blast echoed down the street. Pedestrians scurried out of the way as a troop of auxiliaries quick-marched past, led by an officer on an ostrichine, the mechanical walker’s speakers squawking a general alarm over and over again. Its odd bobbing movements looked realistic, as far as Julius could tell. Then again, he’d never seen a real ostrich, so what did he know?

  “Something must be going on,” a leathery old man next to him commented.

  Another passerby mentioned that a patrol had gone missing the night before. The conversation flowed around conspiracy theories, invasions by Nortlander sky pirates, and rumors of rebellions. Although Julius discounted all of those, it was rare that a fairly lawful city like Brittenburg would have a patrol disappear. There were the usual low-scale illegal activities, the occasional murder, and racketeering, prostitution, and robbery, but rarely were the actual police auxiliaries attacked. That tended to bring lots of unwelcome attention down onto every criminal’s head. Brittenburgers were inventors and tinkerers, not murderers and rebels.

  While Julius pondered this, the last pair of auxiliaries marched past, and he took advantage of the near-empty street to run most of the rest of the way to the factory.

  His footsteps echoed as he walked into the building. It was oddly empty for a second shift on a Wednesday. The weedy paymaster stepped out of his office, and Julius saw a shadow in the room behind him that indicated the presence of another person. “Where is everyone?” Julius asked him. “What’s going on?”

  “The factory owners have declared that today is a day off,” the paymaster said. “Go home and enjoy your freedom. They’ll even count today as a full working day for you, so you’ll get your full pay.”

  Julius stared at him as he digested this unexpected news. As far as he knew, the owners, whom he had never seen, had never given their workers a day off. They liked squeezing every ounce of productivity out of their employees, even at risk of their health. Even in his father’s time, he doubted that there had been occasion for an unofficial day off. Well, he decided, stepping forward, now he had a chance to end his time here at the factory on a high note.

  After securing his remaining pay from the paymaster, Julius informed him that he was leaving to join the army. The man’s brown eyes widened and a muscle in his cheek twitched. The figure in the office behind him shifted, then settled back down.

  “Well then, good luck to ya!” The paymaster shook his hand. His bones felt frail and thin within Julius’s calloused grip.

  Julius left him to clean out his locker. Twisting an antiquated key in the lock, he swung the door open and removed from within his utility belt, an oil-covered smock, and a small phonogadget he was building out of spare parts for Marciena. She loved playing with the odds and ends he managed to piece together into something new. He had been saving money to send her to the Brittenburg Girls’ Academy, where they taught engineering and science to girls, not just needlework and cooking. That is what a modern girl needs to know, he thought as he regarded his handiwork on the phonogadget. With my army paycheck, it will be far more likely that she will attend.

  He stuffed his things into his bag and turned to go, then paused as he noticed a large, canvas-covered shape at the back of the warehouse. Had third shift completed a new mechaniphant that was now awaiting transport? But no, the bulges and protrusions that would denote the contours of a standard mechaniphant were missing. They must not have completed it entirely. It doesn’t have the horns, or the enclosed driver’s compartment in the front. He frowned. But why would it be over near the doors, rather than in the middle of the assembly line? If it isn’t complete, it shouldn’t have been moved. Then he shrugged. He didn’t work here anymore, so he didn’t really have to care.

  The warmth of the noonday sun banished any further thoughts of the mysterious, canvas-covered object from his mind as he stepped out into the bright sunlight. He grinned at the shining city around him, Germania Inferior’s gear-studded jewel.

  ~ * * * ~

  There was no sunlight on the day that Julius joined the Germania XIII Legion, only the gray smog from innumerable smokestacks that blended seamlessly with the gray clouds overhead. The warm air was motionless; even the breeze off the ocean seemed lackluster. He was one of over two thousand new recruits; another one thousand men from the surrounding towns, villages, and sub-provinces of Germania Inferior would join the legion at Fort Tiberius. Standing with his fellows in a large clump at the center of the plaza, Julius listened to the droning speeches of various bigwigs, dignitaries, and important people of the city, too bored with their self-aggrandizement and big words meant to inspire loyalty, strength, and moral fiber to be bothered by their hypocrisy.

  Tuning out the latest speech, Julius turned to stare at the even larger crowd of spectators that had gathered to witness the first founding of a legion in Brittenburg’s history. He spotted his little sister, sitting on his father’s shoulders, and waved to her. After what seemed like an eternity, Marciena spotted him and smiled, pointing at him before waving her small arm back and forth over her head.

  Her other hand clutched his goodbye gift,
the phonogadget. He had recorded his voice inside it so that she could hear him even when he was away at camp. Julius had also taught her how to repair it using the tiny tool kit he had bought for her with some of his savings. If that doesn’t get her inquisitive little mind chugging away, I’m not fit to be her brother, he thought as he returned his attention to the speakers on the platform elevated about fifty feet above the crowd.

  Ceremonial horns trumpeted across the plaza. The high, clear notes silenced the low murmurs of the crowd. A tall man in a traditional toga stepped to the front of the platform to stand before the crowd, his purple sash and the brilliant white of his toga screaming wealth and power. Well, he was a senator. Julius wondered if that was his standard dress or if it was for the audience’s sake.

  Blasted out by the loudspeakers and hastily erected speakerphones set up the night before, the senator’s voice echoed through the plaza as he too blabbered on endlessly about duty and moral fortitude. After the seventh mention of his (indubitably distant) relation to Emperor Julius Caesar, some nearby attendant must have given him the ‘wrap it up’ signal, because he got down to business with, “I now have the distinct honor—no, no, indeed—the privilege to introduce your new commanding officer, crusher of the Danube uprising and victor over the cowardly Persians at Tbilisi, Legate General Kruscus Minnicus!”

  There was a loud roar of approval from the audience, recruits and citizens alike. Are they cheering the end of the senator’s speech, or for the general? Julius wondered, squinting past red banners stamped with the gold Laurel Crown being waved between him and the tiny figure on the platform far above. Rows of medals on his crisp red and brown uniform glinted dully in the overcast light, overshadowed by the clean white strap that crossed his chest from right shoulder to left hip to hold his dress sword.