Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  In the next bunk, Gwendyrn turned toward him, raising an eyebrow. “What’s so funny, Julius?” he drawled. Julius showed him the drawing. “Must be nice to have family around here. I’m the only one in my family who can read, much less write.”

  “I saved up money for her to go to school. That’s where my signing bonus went,” Julius confided. “I want her to have a better life than my family. I want her to be able to marry up, maybe become the wife of some merchant or artificer. She’d be a real asset, with her drawing skills. I know my family couldn’t pay a dowry, but the way I see it, education ought to be a dowry.”

  “Do you miss them?” Gwendyrn asked as he handed the drawing back to Julius, who nodded. The other man rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I would say that I miss my family too, but I sincerely doubt they miss me. I was too much trouble for them. I ate too much food and got into too many fights with the neighbors. Magistrate finally gave me the choice: prison or the army. Guess I picked the right one. At least here, I get to blow things up.” He rubbed at the reddish fuzz growing in on his shaven head.

  Julius grabbed his helmet from his open trunk at the foot of his bed. He carefully folded up the letter from his sister and placed it under the lining on the inside of his helmet. He returned the helmet to the trunk, making sure it was in perfect condition before shutting the lid. It wouldn’t do for a surprise inspection to find something amiss with his gear.

  “Anyone know what new torture they have for us tomorrow?” Recruit Hespinus asked from a few bunks down.

  “I heard that we we’re finally getting our real equipment. No more of these mock double-weight sword fights. Now we’re going to be using the real thing,” another man answered.

  Julius was excited. Real equipment—they must be getting closer to the end now! They didn’t let the complete rejects handle the real weapons. It was too easy to hurt yourself with a failed thrust. He turned so he could see the tribune’s room at the end of the barracks. The door was open, and inside, the tribune was having a conversation with Centurion Vibius. Constantine hadn’t been around for a few days. I wonder where he went, Julius thought.

  The centurion walked out of the room and over to a dial on the wall. “Lights out, men,” he called out. “Tomorrow is the start of your last month of training. Hopefully, you all make it. Alive.” Vibius rotated the dial, and the lights above Julius and the other men winked out.

  Julius pulled the sheets up over him, and was asleep in moments. He dreamed of a large, nameless monster chasing him through his dreams, oblivious to all his attempts to stop it.

  ~ * * * ~

  After a breakfast of warm hash and something possibly identifiable as oatmeal, the men of the 13th Cohort filed out of the dining hall with 7th Cohort and drew themselves up on opposite sides of the field, centurions and tribunes in front of them.

  Legate General Minnicus rounded the corner of the administration building, trailing aides, and advanced to the middle of the drill ground. Tribune Appius, 7th Cohort Tribune Lominus, and Master Drill Instructor Felix all saluted him. The legionnaires stood at attention.

  The general’s arm moved up quickly, then slowed into a picture-perfect salute, his iron prosthesis whirring and clicking into position. Components audibly clicked as he slowly lowered it, each part shifting back into place. Looking at each cohort, Minnicus said, “Men, from now on, your two cohorts will be partnered up. You will compete against each other. You will train with each other. After two weeks, there will be a series of tests. How well you do in each test will determine your final assignment and role within our legion.

  “As you well know, not every man can be a front line legionnaire! We have need of engineers, quartermasters, rear guards, artillerymen, and skirmishers. A legion is just like a human body. Muscle means nothing if we can’t out-think or out-maneuver our opponents.”

  He paused, sweeping his eyes over each cohort and stopping on the leaders. “Of course, in addition to the results of the trials, outside factors, observations, and the like will be taken into account. I will be making the final decision. May the goddess of victory, Nike, bring you success.” He ended with another salute.

  Drill Instructor Felix marched out and with a crisp turn, faced the assembled cohorts. He sucked in a deep breath. “Alright, men, we’re going to quick-march to the armory, where you will receive your full equipment kits. Then I will spend the day showing you weaklings how to put on all the equipment and how to use it all. And—Jupiter forbid—if you break anything, I will spend all day watching you clean everyone else’s equipment with a toothbrush until it is spotless!”

  A few sniggers came from the assembled cohorts. The drill instructor glared. “Don’t think I didn’t see who was laughing. You will be cleaning everyone’s equipment and they will find it funny. Seventh Cohort, move out!”

  Seventh Cohort stepped forward, their tribune pacing his men smartly. Felix waited until the 7th had passed, their boots kicking up a modest dust cloud, before ordering the 13th forward as well. He turned and marched alongside as they marched toward the most grueling, challenging, and strenuous two weeks of their lives.

  General Minnicus watched the procession, his dark eyes never leaving the tall tribune of the 13th Cohort. Even after the cohorts had passed out of sight, he remained standing on the field, lost in thought. With a slight shake of his head, he turned back toward his aides.

  Chapter 6

  It was rush hour in central Brittenburg’s train station and the massive building, more a vault nearly a mile long and almost ten stories high, was bustling. All motortrolley lines in the city converged outside the station, and multiple trains departed and arrived on a strict schedule. Thousands of people walked among the columns, passing or pausing at vendors working the station, either out on the floor or in the restaurants, pubs, shops, and ticket booths set into alcoves in the walls. Most were oblivious to the glory of the ceiling arching high overhead, the frescoes and stained glass windows portraying images of Emperor Caesar III, reigning monarch during the station’s completion. What they did pay attention to was the humongous board listing train departures and arrivals along one sidewall, continuously updated by teams of men, or the large clock tower in the center of the terminal.

  Corbus wore workingman clothes, neither too shabby nor too fine, but a simple brown, sleeved tunic over coarse canvas pants, and a blue cap pulled down low over his eyes. A dark leather utility belt, faded and cracked with time, completed his disguise. Not that he truly needed one, but it would help if he happened to run into an auxiliary officer. Avoid standing out not by being invisible, but by being so typical you are uninteresting—he’d taken the words to heart.

  He’d allowed the flow and pull of the crowd to guide his movements toward his goal, a small maintenance hatch just behind one of the massive support columns. It had taken him almost half an hour to work his way close to the door, but he’d been in no hurry. Now he stepped close and quickly picked its lock, defeating the basic tumbler in under ten seconds. It clicked open and he scooted inside, gently closing the door behind him. He stood in a barren hallway stretching left and right, wanly lit by overhead lights and currently empty of people in both directions. Pulling a tin badge from a pouch on his belt, he fixed it to his tunic, then consulted the small sign hanging on the wall across from the door, turned, and briskly strode off to the right. March straight ahead. If you act like you know what you are doing, no one will challenge you, especially armed with this important piece of tin.

  Several times he passed other employees in the hallway though, sure enough, he was ignored. Eventually the hallway widened into a larger area with a series of doors in walls that were scarred and stained with age. Despite its decrepit appearance, the place hummed with activity, with workers, managers, and assistants moving this way and that. Ignoring the cold tingle of sweat on the back of his neck, he grabbed a rolling cart resting against the wall and moved quickly through this area, not wanting his disguise to be called in
to question. He abandoned the cart when he reached a set of stairs, and began climbing them. Halfway up, he paused and took a deep breath, feeling weak with tension. You are the instigator of freedom. You are the cloaked hand, the most hidden dagger that strikes without warning. Get it together! Corbus told himself.

  At the top of the stairs he stopped, reading the signs again before turning left. Halfway down the hall, he finally halted in front of a blue door, its paint chipped and faded. A discolored sign on the door read Secondus Domino Apparatus Gnaevous. Corbus rapped on the door.

  “Come in,” called a voice. Corbus entered the room.

  A middle-aged administrator was busily writing notes on a massive metal desk. “Just put the reports on a table over there,” he said without looking up. “I have to head over to the control room in a minute.” When the man did look up, he frowned in confusion. “You aren’t Lucius.”

  “No, not Lucius,” Corbus agreed, lifting the miniature crossbow. It twanged, and Domino Gnaevous slumped forward, a needle-sharp bolt piercing his heart. Blood seeped in a dark stain across the papers on his desk.

  Corbus hurried around the desk and eased the dead man back in his chair. Now, where is the key? He looked through pockets and desk drawers, pulling out massive piles of junk that the thoroughly entrenched bureaucrat seemed to have accumulated everywhere. Finally, he triumphantly held up a chain from which dangled a small pyramid with several grooves and dashes encoded along its flat bottom—the key. Mission accomplished. The first part, anyway. Now all he had to do was get to the control room.

  Corbus carefully rested Gnaevous’s head back on the desk, hoping the dead man would appear to be sleeping, then hastily shoved piles of paper back under the desk, and straightened to scan the room, looking for any minor detail he might have missed. Good.

  Moving quickly now, he exited the room, pausing only to hang an Out for lunch sign on the doorknob. That would delay an alarm only so long before somebody investigated why the murdered man was taking an exceptionally long lunch at ten in the morning. Corbus hoped it would be long enough.

  He almost ran now, heading higher and higher up into the building. When an alarm began ringing faintly far below him, he knew he had only minutes. The corridor he was in turned sharply and he pressed himself against the wall to peek around the corner. Finally! The control room was just ahead. Corbus pulled a bandana up over the lower half of his face. Although time was precious now, it would all be for naught if someone could identify him later on.

  He raced around the corner, down the hall, and pushed the door open so violently, it banged off the wall. He stopped over the threshold and looked at the two large banks of machines, all humming and whirring away, warming the room with their electrical activity: the control center of the entire Brittenburg Central Station complex. Steam lines, fuel lines, electrical lines, water lines—all were controlled from this room. Behind the banks of machines were large windows that overlooked the snarl of train tracks in the yard outside. Although there was only one line into and out of the city, the station could accommodate almost twenty trains at once, and the lines quickly split outside the city.

  Several steam and control valve operators working in the room whirled when Corbus burst in, their mouths dropping open in surprise. In an instant, Corbus was among them, delivering a sharp jab to one man’s neck, then a tight punch to another operator’s gut as he raced down the central aisle. Other operators advanced, scrambling up from their positions.

  Brannnnng ... Brannnnnng ... Brannnnnng the main yard alarm blared. Someone had hit an alert switch

  “Son of Pluto!” Corbus swore as he continued his dance of death in the control room. Two more men went down, one knocking his head against a panel, the other one eliminated with the quick thrust of a dagger to his neck.

  The last three men charged, one brandishing a lamp, the other two wielding a screwdriver and a belt knife. Corbus slid to the right, concealing himself behind a bank of controls. Quick as a striking snake, he tripped the man bearing the lamp, sending him flying down the aisle to land with a thump and a clang as the lamp rolled free. He ducked the screwdriver swung by the man whose nametag identified him as Ruvius, then grabbed his arm and bent it sharply back. With a cry, Ruvius crumpled to curl into a ball around his shattered wrist.

  One man remained, and he kept his distance, obviously realizing that, the longer he remained functional to keep Corbus from damaging too many critical control valves, the more likely it was that help would arrive. After circling for a moment or two, Corbus ran out of patience. He drew out his miniature crossbow and fired, the bolt lancing across the space between the two men. Seeing the movement, the operator dove out of the way just in time. With his quarry distracted for the moment, Corbus hurdled the control panel between them and hit the man with both feet as he stood up, his opponent’s belt knife flashing forward. It scored along his arm, but Corbus’s momentum knocked the man hard against the large observation window. Cracks radiated outward, then the window shattered, and the screaming man disappeared from view.

  With the last threat eliminated, Corbus checked his bleeding arm. It wasn’t serious now, but it would definitely worsen, the longer he left it untreated. He ripped some material from a cloak slung over the back of a chair and tied it around his forearm as best he could to staunch the bleeding. Then he refocused on his mission.

  He walked along the bank of controls, frantically searching the identification tags for the one he sought. He paused to close the control room door as he passed, and shoved a chair up under the doorknob. Finally he located the control panel he wanted and began pulling levers down. In the yard, lights began flashing green as tracks were designated “open” for traffic.

  After opening every line, Corbus pressed several buttons that triggered green lights outside the station in both the wall tunnel and exterior “wait” stations, where trains idled for their opportunity to enter the city. That done, he set about damaging, destroying, incapacitating, and generally wreaking havoc upon the banks of machines. Sparks flew as he used a found hammer to knock levers out of alignment and break internal gears and gauges, then he cut and ripped out power lines.

  At last, drained by the labor, Corbus wiped sweat from his brow and leaned on a windowsill to look out into the yard at the fruit of his endeavors. He grinned. Several trains had all left at the same time, and one had run into another, derailing several passenger cars. One had flipped over, and fire licked up its side. Passengers climbed out of windows, several injured; others appeared trapped. He could hear the distant wail of emergency responders approaching the scene, but it was a squawk from the speaking tube nearby that got his attention.

  He lifted the stopper. “Control Room here,” he stated calmly.

  “This is the mainline switch operator. What in Jupiter’s name is going on?” a voice shouted.

  Corbus smiled at the fear and panic in the man’s voice. “Whatever are you talking about?” he asked sweetly.

  “Don’t you give me that, sonny,” the voice growled. “What is your name and employee number? You’ll face the board for this!” the switch operator shouted.

  “Too bad I honestly don’t care. Enjoy cleaning up your massive problem.” Corbus began to replace the stopper in the tube, then thought of an idea. Lifting several paperweights from the table beside the tube, he dropped them one by one down the tube. The tube would look functional, but it would require great effort to clear the blockage.

  Confident now that his work was done, Corbus headed for the door, then stopped, hearing heavy footsteps pounding closer out in the hallway. Moments later a resounding crash shook the door, which bent inward slightly under the force of the blow. Alright, on to Plan B. He fiddled with his utility belt for a moment, then secured one end of a coil of thin, high tensile rope to a control unit. He tossed the other end out the broken window, cleared the larger shards of glass away with his belt knife, and swung over the sill, hands gripping the rope. As the door burst open under the force of
another crash, he was already lowering himself down the rope to freedom. All this work, and it wasn’t even the main event! I wonder how Mom’s mission is going?

  ~ * * * ~

  Amalia and her men had successfully infiltrated the military supply compound on the edge of the main train yard. It had been simple work to eliminate the two bored legionnaires at the front gate, and now her men stood guard in their uniforms. The rest of her small party stuck close to the shadows of the supply warehouse, waiting for the distraction that would pull most of the remaining guards away from the central records room and armory section of the facility.

  As alarms began to scream in the distance, Amalia peered around a large stack of wooden crates, watching as several guards lazily picked up their equipment and wandered over in curiosity. A clattering in the office behind them indicated that the telegraph machine was typing out a message. Several moments later, an officer came out of the office and, arms waving, shouted orders. An under-officer quickly formed up a squad and away they marched, double-timing it across the tracks toward the main station.

  This was their chance. Amalia silently gathered her team about her and outlined her plan in a whisper. Her second in command, a young ganger named Fustus, took charge of most of the team. Silent as ghosts, they rushed the quartermaster’s office. There were a few shouts and some screams during a brief skirmish between the surprised office workers and the ambushers, then silence. A shadow behind the window curtains revealed Fustus as he poked his head out to beckon to her.

  He was wiping his sword with a rag as she approached. “Three corrupt workers dead; one of ours got unlucky in the exchange.” He gestured to the long, gawky body of a ganger lying on the floor. The young man’s eyes were open, still looking surprised at the foot of steel that had been thrust through his stomach to sever his spine. The legionary who had been quick enough to draw his weapon to inflict the death blow was dying as well, bleeding out from several stab wounds a few feet away from the dead ganger.