Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  “We’ll meet up with the rest of the detachment, then get you out of here,” Aestius said over his shoulder to Lucius as the heir moved to follow him, Aura on his heels. “That sounded like an explosion to me, and that can mean several things, none of them good for you or the city.” Aestius’ voice echoed in the narrow confines of the hallway.

  When they finally exited into the main causeway, the rest of the guard detachment was no longer there. Aestius frowned. “Where are they?” Lucius asked. The guard would not have abandoned their posts for any reason. If pressed, they could have withdrawn into the narrow hallway and hidden or easily held off the mob inside the close quarters.

  Flavius pointed to the ground with his sword. “Blood, sir. This doesn’t look right.”

  Aestius went down on one knee and touched the blood droplets. His fingers came away smeared with red—the blood was still wet. He looked around, as did Lucius. Not another person was in sight.

  “It’s awfully quiet,” Aura suddenly interjected, making Lucius and the other men start with surprise. “If we’re going to leave, then let’s leave,” she complained.

  Lucius looked to Aestius, whose jaw firmed as he made a decision. “This way, My Lord,” he said, pointing along the causeway as he stepped forward himself. “Move quickly, now. I don’t like the look of this. We have to get you out of here.”

  The more corpulent Lucius struggled to keep up with the fitter soldiers as they broke into a steady jog. Aura kicked off her shoes so she could move faster, and he struggled to keep up with her. Aestius led the small party down a staircase that brought them to the main concourse level. Lucius saw light ahead, and streets packed with people, raucous with noise and confusion. “This way to the ostrichines,” Aestius called, leading the party around a last curve in the concourse.

  Lucius paused to rest his arm against the wall. His lungs were on fire, and his breath came in gasps. “Come on, My Lord, we have to leave here, now!” Flavius pulled at Lucius’s other arm, urging him forward.

  They ran past overturned vendor stands below beautifully painted murals. Their feet clattered over tessellated floors commemorating the first mecha-gladiator battle. Then Aestius halted abruptly, throwing his arm up to stop the others. “Shhhhh!” he hissed, pushing Lucius and Aura against the wall. Flavius backed up and knelt down. “Listen.”

  Lucius heard voices farther down the concourse, close to the entrance. He leaned cautiously forward and saw a large group of armed men guarding the entrance. They were in legionnaire uniforms, but something didn’t seem quite right about them. Flavius pointed to the weapons and whispered to Aestius about Gallic swords and small round bucklers that had gone out of style among even poor mercenary outfits long ago.

  The two guards crept forward and listened for a moment, then pulled back. “They look like our guys, but they don’t really act like them. They’ve got gear that isn’t standard, and I don’t recognize their accents,” Flavius reported.

  Aestius nodded agreement. “Could be Germans, maybe even Nortlanders, but I’m not certain.”

  “Nonsense!” Lucius interrupted. “Those men are legionaries and will be perfectly willing to help us get out of here.”

  “Sire, though we can’t be certain, I’m pretty sure those are not our men. No moderately competent under-officer would ever allow his men to lounge about in that manner. And because we aren’t certain, we can’t possibly escape that way,” Aestius insisted.

  “Ridiculous. We shall leave by the front gate. I am the primus imperio. I demand that you follow my instructions.” He put every ounce of royal bearing into his voice. It wasn’t much.

  “No sir, my job is to protect you. I will gladly face your father afterward for insubordination if it means keeping you alive now. We’re going to do the following ...” He laid out a quick plan, finishing with, “We’ll escape through the lower entrance. They can’t be guarding everywhere.”

  The party backed away from the corner and retreated to the last set of stairs. They descended. A short while later, Lucius found himself being guided through the facilities below the main level of the coliseum, still used by human gladiators who occasionally fought for pay—and died. The training yards were empty, but blacksmiths and artificers still worked down here, building, repairing, and modifying the mecha-gladiators that fought in the arena above them. It was darker here, the corridors more confined, those moving through them sounding like skittering denizens of the dark due to distance. They passed sputtering gas lanterns as they hurried toward the workers’ entrance that opened at street level.

  Several times, Lucius demanded a halt so he could catch his breath. Sweat had soaked his toga. “We’re almost there, My Lord.” Flavius said. “Once we’re out into the city, we can conceal our identity, blend in, and get back to the Palace.” Lucius nodded and reluctantly pushed away from the wall.

  They entered a wider passage and Aestius pushed for a faster pace, their shoes clattering hollowly on the cobblestone floors and their shadows flickering ahead of them along the walls. They raced around a corner—the last corner before the exit, Flavius told Lucius—and stopped dead. A huge mecha-gladiator stood silhouetted in the maintenance entrance. Lucius saw the flag on its head and realized it was the same one that had been victorious in the earlier match. The massive trident was still held high in the air. A steel net hung in the other hand, ball bearings the size of a man’s head weighting its edges.

  No one moved.

  “Sir, what should we do? Is it active?” Flavius asked Aestius. A dark stain of sweat made a V down the back of his tunic, and his spatha seemed heavy in his hand. After a moment he sheathed it and wiped his hands on his trousers.

  Aestius looked around. Lucius followed his gaze, saw no other way out other than right past that giant, steam-powered death machine in front of them.

  “We’ll split up,” Aestius said decisively. “I’ll take His Highness right. Flavius, you take the woman left. We’ll meet up back out on the plaza.” Everyone nodded, and Aestius beckoned for Lucius to press his back against the left wall as Flavius and Aura crept to the right side.

  “I’ll go first, Your Highness. If for some reason I’m eliminated, keep moving. Don’t stop. Run until you find somewhere you can hide. Someone will come rescue you. Do you understand me? You are more important than I. Do not stop for me.”

  Lucius nodded, his cold arrogance washed away by peril. This was life or death. It was not a play or a game in the coliseum. He would certainly not be coming back for any uncouth soldier, bodyguard or not.

  Flavius looked over at Aestius. Aestius motioned him forward. “Go!”

  The two pairs bolted toward the exit. They had just barely crossed into the sunshine when the mecha-gladiator moved. Pistons shrieking, it rotated, thrusting the giant trident at Flavius and Aura. Flavius raised his shield as Aura sprinted past him. The left tip of the trident grazed the shield, splintering it and hurling Flavius against the wall. He slumped there a moment, stunned, his left arm hanging limp. The trident stabbed into the wall above him, digging deep into the layers of brick and concrete. Flavius, still woozy, slithered out from under the trident and staggered forward. For a brief moment, the automaton’s pilot tried to pull the huge weapon free, but its initial thrust had penetrated the solid Roman construction so completely that it was a lost cause.

  Lucius and Aestius sprinted past, then continued running across the marble-paved plaza. Aura caught up with them. Lucius, wiping brown hair now slick with sweat off his forehead, took a quick look behind him. Flavius, still shaky, was approaching—but so was the mechanical gladiator; it had turned and was taking great strides toward them. It would catch Flavius any second now.

  “Keep moving!” Aestius shouted.

  Scrambling across the road, they ran toward the massive complex on Palatine Hill. “Get out of the way!” roared Lucius as a steam hauler stopped just short of them. If they could just get to the Temple of Venus, they could hide amongst its towering columns. Fixing his g
aze on the two large Venus mecha-statues on either side of the temple’s large, ornate doors, Lucius moved toward them with the others, then hesitated as a scream split the air behind them.

  The mecha-gladiator had caught up to Flavius, who had turned and swung his sword in a useless gesture of defiance. The pilot brought the automaton’s free hand around and swatted Flavius aside as if he were a bug. The young man flew through the air and crashed into the side of the steam hauler. The impact left a dent in the side of the vehicle. Its operator bailed, bolting across the pavement and out of sight. Flavius slid to the ground and lay in a crumpled heap, blood leaking from his helmet.

  Aestius cried out when he saw Flavius fly through the air. Pedestrians fled in all directions. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Lucius found new strength, and led the remainder of the party onward, away from the death machine.

  A shadow fell over them.

  Lucius turned his head to see the massive net dropping down around them, just before its weight knocked them all to the ground and engulfed them, knocking Aura unconscious. He struggled to get to his feet, but the heavy net weighed him down and cut into his skin. Scrabbling for his belt knife with sweat-slick hands, Lucius finally freed it and started slicing at the net’s thick metal strands. Aestius soon joined him, hacking away with his long curved cavalry sword. We only need to free one strand, Lucius thought desperately. Then maybe I can squeeze through and escape! He looked at the tight weave of the net. Okay, two strands, then I can escape.

  Screech, screech, screech. Sparks flew as the two men worked hard to cut the metal cables. Lucius’s arm burned with the effort. Beside him, Aura moaned as she slowly regained consciousness. The twined wires gave way just as a shadow loomed up behind them. Aestius glanced upward, then pushed Lucius through the gap. Then he turned to face the monstrosity.

  Without pause, the mecha-gladiator reached down—and squelched the veteran officer. Shards of wood and metal shot like projectiles into Lucius’ exposed legs as the guard’s shield shattered. He screamed in pain, then scrambled away on all fours. Her dress soaked with the dead bodyguard’s blood, Aura crawled out of the gap behind him. The automaton’s pilot raised the mecha-gladiator’s arm, gears and crankshafts whirring as it moved closer. Lucius crawled faster.

  Aura suddenly gave a high-pitched laugh. Lucius turned his head to see what was happening. The mecha-gladiator had stopped and now seemed to be waiting for something.

  “Quick, Aura! Help me up, we’ve got to get out of here,” Lucius ordered, his voice raw with panic and pain. He gasped when he saw the bloody gashes crisscrossing the backs of his legs.

  Aura moved closer, carrying Aestius’s discarded spatha. “I’d be glad to help, My Lord, but I’m just your paid wench, someone to be used and discarded. Isn’t that what you were thinking earlier? Hmmm? I’ll show you how I feel about being discarded.” With that, she plunged the spatha into Lucius’ chest.

  The blade bit deep. Searing pain sucked the ability to speak, to make any kind of sound, away from Lucius for a moment. But only for a moment. When she yanked the sword out, he screamed. He stared down in disbelief at the red stain blossoming across his white toga as blood gushed from the wound. “Why ... how could ...you ...” He choked, gurgled, drooled blood. Its bitter tang filled his mouth.

  Aura stabbed down again. Lucius felt everything go hazy. His eyes rolled back and he stopped thrashing.

  ~ * * * ~

  Aura dropped the sword. She stepped back, chest heaving as she sucked in great ragged breaths. She stared a moment at the two dead bodies, then turned to the side and was noisily sick. A few moments later, she wiped her mouth and looked up at the hulking mecha-gladiator. A large brass arm came down and settled gently on the ground next to her. She nodded up at the pilot’s chair.

  A mechanical voice said through a speaker, “This is but another great moment in the cause of liberty.”

  Aura nodded, looking down at the corpse of the heir to the throne. She felt a brief moment of sadness that was quickly replaced by joy. She had succeeded where others had failed. “Shall we make our getaway?” she said lightly.

  In response, the cockpit opened and a middle-aged man stepped out. He climbed down the hand, using the many armored segments like a ladder. They came together for a quick hug, then they raced off, disappearing into the crowd now pressing closer to the scene of the assassination.

  ~ * * * ~

  Captain Kartinis and his crew arrived five minutes too late. Looking up at the mecha-gladiator standing quiescent next to the bodies, he knew that, even had they shown up in time, their weaponry would have been insufficient against the monstrous automaton.

  Around them, people in the crowd wept openly; others simply stared, grim-faced. Leaving half of his command to contain the scene and recover the heir’s remains, he began the slow ride back to the palace. He spent the journey trying to figure out how to break such tragic news to the most powerful man in the Empire.

  Alas, there was no easy way.

  Chapter 9

  The speaking tube gurgled. The officer of the day leaned forward in the command chair and unstoppered the device to listen. The voice was teeny but clear as it exited the tube: “Sir, I have a skimmer on the horizon. Colors are friendly. It’s flashing the pass code of the week.”

  First Officer Travins confirmed and restoppered the speaking tube. He turned. “Captain, topside lookouts report a skimmer coming this way. Recommend we come to a heading west-southwest for the landing.”

  “Very well, Mister Travins, follow the landing procedures. Have the stern batteries manned as well and extend the landing platform.” Captain Alexandros opened the bridge portal and moved toward the landing dock at the stern of the ship.

  Claxons began to wail. Red lights pulsed, splashing the hallway with the color of blood as men donned vests of light flak armor and raced to their battle stations. A squad of airmen raced past, their apologies lost in the howl of a ship coming to combat readiness. By the time the skimmer had circled the airship Scioparto, the retractable landing platform had been winched down from the open rear decks and extended out. Two large steel arms held the narrow wooden platform firmly in place.

  The skimmer pilot brought his small recon vessel directly under the aft portion of the dirigible. Two rotating propellers on either side of the main body kept the small skimmer stable as it gently descended onto the landing platform. The whine of the engines cut off, and the propeller blades slowed, then stopped. The mechanical arms holding the platform began retracting. Finally, with a bang of steel and wood meeting, the landing platform returned to its original place. A squad of airmen trained to act as ground crew moved forward, securing the skimmer to the deck with thick ropes run through loops on the deck. “All secure!” shouted the senior enlisted man on deck.

  Alexandros studied the skimmer, which looked like a cigar that had grown wings and spouted large barrels on either side. The end of the skimmer was wasp-like and needle sharp. It was possible, technically, for a skimmer to kill an airship by “stinging” it to death. With the exception of the “stinger,” engines, and glass cockpit window, the skimmer was created entirely from wood to save on weight. To further save on weight, the craft were piloted by boys and some girls between the ages of twelve and fifteen. Although established Air Fleet doctrine, Alexandros thought this was pure idiocy. Who in their right mind expected a thirteen-year-old to understand the military complexities of a battle? Their brains had not yet developed enough to function fully!

  Realizing he was philosophizing again, Alexandros quickly brought himself back to reality and watched two crewmen help a small figure from the cockpit.

  The pilot strode toward Captain Alexandros and stopped before him. The young man’s head barely came up to the medals on the older man’s uniform. “Sir, request permission to board your airship, Captain!” The last word came as a squeak as the boy’s voice cracked. His hand came up in a crisp salute that stopped just short of the bill of the wool and lea
ther flying cap on his head. Several nearby crewmen sniggered as his voice broke, and the lad’s face colored, but he did not give in to the temptation to chew out the technically junior deckhands.

  Alexandros returned his salute. “Permission given. What is the nature of your visit? You have a private message?” Alexandros doubted that; most messages could be exchanged through the wireless set just off the bridge—although it had been quiet for the last few hours.

  “Sir, the message is to be delivered only upon my decision that the location is secure and private. Is there someplace we can talk?” the boy asked. This time his voice didn’t squeak. He rubbed his hands together and looked around, the gesture making him look older, until he added plaintively, “Perhaps somewhere out of the wind?” Skimmers were not exceptionally warm at any altitude, or in any season.

  Smiling, Alexandros gave a crewman an order to go to the galley and round up some food. If he remembered anything about his teenage nephews, it was that they were always hungry. While his crew stood down from their battle stations, the captain strode back into the shelter of the bridge, the young pilot on his heels. The portal closed behind them, cutting short the wind gusting across the platform. The pilot sighed.

  “Recon Pilot Second Class Fero Juvas Garius, sir,” the boy answered when Alexandros asked him his name. “Based at Fort Tiberius on the skim launcher Praecedo under Wing Commander Silenia Juna Octavia.”

  Alexandros nodded. He had met the wing commander, briefly, at a soirée held in Roma a few years back. She was incredibly young, but she had an exceptionally strong sense of strategy and was ahead of the curve of many of her classmates at the Northern Fleet Command’s Air Academy. She was also an incredibly gifted dancer. He smiled at that memory.

  They climbed up a level to Deck B, stepping off the ladder to walk down the short hallway to the captain’s quarters occupying the stern quarter. An armed airman posted at the door saluted and swung the door open with an accompanying, “Sir.”