Fighting Iron

by Jake Bible

  “You meet Nuggins?” the Captain asked. “Not the brightest star in the sky, but he is wicked fast with that trigger finger. Might be the best shot on the ranch.”

  Clay turned and studied the guard with renewed interest. The man was about Clay’s age, maybe a couple years younger, which put him in the late-twenties range. Stocky, but not too short, the man’s shoulders were broad and muscular. He held the freshly oiled carbine like it wasn’t even there, a casual grip that Clay knew, upon further inspection, was far from casual. Clay had known his fair share of shooters over the years and when he stared right into Nuggins’s eyes, he saw the deadness that all great shooters have.

  Clay was just another target, nothing more, and the smell of oil was because that carbine was used. Often. Clay guessed the revolvers on each of Nuggins’s hips were as well.

  “Pleased to meet ya,” Clay said and extended a manacled hand.

  Nuggins snorted and looked to the Captain.

  “I have it from here, Nuggins,” the Captain said as she hitched up her trousers and placed a strong, firm hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Do me a favor and make sure those wrench monkeys inside don’t forget to check the coolant in my roller, will ya? Last thing I want is to be stranded out in the scrub overnight on my way back considering I ain’t got no top no more.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nuggins said. “I’ll supervise the work myself.”

  “I didn’t ask you to supervise anything, Nuggins,” the Captain said, exasperated. “I asked you to make sure the wrench monkeys put coolant in the engine. You got to listen more carefully, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nuggins replied and nodded, standing even straighter than before. “Loud and clear.”

  “Good,” the Captain said and gave Clay a slight shove towards the big ranch house.

  When they reached the stone steps and were halfway up to the cool and inviting covered porch that wrapped around the entire house, the Captain squeezed down on Clay’s shoulder, her fingers digging into a nerve center that made him gasp.

  “You’ll be polite as can be when in General Hansen’s presence, understood?” she said, her voice calm and clear. “No smart ass, no speaking out of turn, no questions unless given permission to ask them. Best to just shut up and speak only when spoken to. First sign of rudeness out of you and I’ll have you back out here, naked and staked to the dirt so the sun can bake your raisins right off. I won’t tell you again.”

  “I was raised to be polite,” Clay said.

  “I surely hope so, for your sake, Clay MacAulay,” the Captain said and pushed him the rest of the way up the steps.

  There was a row of ceiling fans whirling lazily over the porch. An old woman was at the far end on a bicycle, peddling steadily, her efforts responsible for the fans’ movements. A belt went from the bicycle to a system of pulleys and gears in the corner of the porch. Another belt reached from the system up to a secondary system bolted to the porch’s ceiling, from there it was a simple line of belts that kept the fans moving.

  Clay nodded to the old woman, but she didn’t respond, just kept her wrinkled face pointed out towards the far-off gate.

  “Blind as a bat,” the Captain said. “Lost her sight when she was a little girl. Stared right at a nuke blast.”

  “Nuke blast?” Clay asked. “They didn’t use nukes in the conflict.”

  “You see how old she is?” the Captain frowned. “That woman was the far side of life well before the Bloody Conflict even started. You think this land is wild now? Ain’t nothing compared to what life was like last century.”

  Last century. Clay shook his head at the words, not believing anyone still lived that had seen the previous century, let alone an old, blind woman riding a bicycle that powered some porch fans. Without warning, the woman threw her head back and let out a high cackle. Every hair on Clay’s arms stood straight up, joining the hair on the back of his neck.

  “She does that. Also starts cursing at you for no reason,” the Captain said, shivering. “Damned creepy.”

  “How can she work the peddles like that?” Clay asked, amazed at the old woman’s strength. “She can’t be older than the Bloody Conflict. That’d put her at over a hundred years, easy.”

  “Best to keep those kinds of questions to yourself, like I warned you,” the Captain responded. She grabbed the handle to the screen door that covered the wide front entrance to the ranch house. “Come on, Clay MacAulay. Time to meet the woman in charge.”

  Clay jumped a little when he heard the gender of General Hansen. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. The way the Captain had been talking, Clay had expected a grizzled old general missing half an arm with an eyepatch over one eye and a smoking pipe jammed between his teeth. He shifted his expectations and added some long grey hair and a fuller chest to his mental image.

  The Captain led him down a long, cool entrance hall, through a massive sitting area, what Clay thought was called a great room, around a huge double-sided fireplace, and back to a door made of well-oiled dark wood. She knocked twice and waited. When the call to enter came, the Captain opened the door, stepped aside and shoved Clay through, before following in and closing the door behind them both.

  It took a moment for Clay’s eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. It wasn’t an office like he expected to see, but some anterior sitting room filled with high-backed leather chairs and a couple of well-worn leather couches, all centered around a circular coffee table that had to be half the size of the Captain’s roller.

  “This him?” a soft voice asked from a chair that had its back to the door.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the Captain said, pushing Clay farther into the sitting room.

  “Bring him around so I can get a look at him,” the voice ordered.

  The Captain maneuvered Clay through the gaps in the chairs then spun him about so he could face the soft-voiced woman. He tried to keep the surprise from his face, but he could see from the twinkle in the woman’s eyes that he had failed completely.

  “Clay MacAulay, meet General Olivia Hansen,” the Captain said. “She is the law in this corner of the world, so remember what I said about being polite and respectful.”

  “The Captain likes to make me out as some cruel despot that has a short fuse and a penchant for quick violence,” the woman said as she stood and offered her hand.

  It was a delicate hand, small boned and looked as soft as her voice. Clay’s eyes followed from the offered hand, up the bare forearm to the short-sleeved blouse the woman wore then on to the face that was the main reason for his surprise. Not old, not one-eyed or scarred. Nothing grizzled about that face at all.

  Standing before Clay was a gorgeous woman with short-cropped brown hair and wide set, dazzling blue eyes. Her lips were full, but not pouty. They held a cold strength in them even as she gave him a genuinely friendly smile. Her skin was tan, but not weathered. Soft like her hands and her voice. Her left eyebrow raised and she pursed those full lips.

  “Do you have a problem with shaking hands with women, Mr. MacAulay?” Hansen asked.

  “No, ma’am, sorry, ma’am,” Clay said quickly and shook the woman’s hand as fast as he could. “It’s just…”

  Hansen waved him off. “I know what it is,” she said, her eyes telling him she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Not what you expected to see. Tell me, Mr. MacAulay, what was it you expected to see? An eyepatch? A grey beard and an old corn-cob pipe sticking out from some brown and yellowed teeth?”

  “Uh, all of that,” Clay admitted.

  “Really? How creative,” Hansen said. Then she gestured to the couch directly across from her chair. “Have a seat, please. Can I offer you anything to drink?”

  Clay stumbled his way to the couch and sat down hard. He looked up at the Captain whose scarred face was nothing but one wide, mocking smirk.

  “I think I’ll take that coffee now,” he said. “And maybe something stronger in it, if you have anything available.”

  “I believ
e we do,” Hansen said as she retook her seat. “In fact, I know we do.”

  Six

  The General sat in silence, her eyes studying Clay from head to toe as they waited for a servant to set down a carafe of coffee and quart jar of some sort of brown liquor. The servant poured two cups of coffee and looked towards the General before opening the quart jar and adding a splash of the liquor to both mugs.

  The servant, a man closer to the Captain’s age than Clay’s, handed Hansen one of the mugs then went back for the second and carried it over to Clay.

  “My apologies that we don’t have proper cups and saucers,” Hansen said after sipping her coffee. She lifted the earthen mug slightly and gave Clay a wink. “Not all the niceties survived the Bloody Conflict and I just haven’t found the need to replace them. Not that I ever knew those niceties, as I am sure neither did you, if my guess at your age is correct.”

  “I’m used to tin cups, so this is fine dining for me,” Clay said, taking a sip from his own mug. He winced then coughed as both the strength of the coffee and the liquor hit his throat. “Oh, wow. Pardon me.”

  “He does have manners,” Hansen said to the Captain then looked at the servant. “That is all, Zeus. I’ll call you when we’re ready for lunch.”

  The servant gave a short bow and left the room with the tray empty, the carafe and jar having been set on a side table across the room.

  “Same for you, Captain,” Hansen said. “I believe myself and Mr. MacAulay will be fine on our own.”

  “Are you sure, General?” the Captain asked, looking less than pleased with the command. “I do not believe it’s a good idea to take this man for granted. My guts are telling me he’s more than he seems.”

  “Well, we both know that or he wouldn’t be here, would he?” Hansen said and smiled.

  That smile was the first glimpse Clay got into why the woman was in charge of whatever she was in charge of. It wasn’t the genuine and friendly smile from before. Not at all. It said volumes with just the slightest of twitches at the corners of Hansen’s lips. The Captain’s entire demeanor changed and she gave a short bow before hurrying to the door.

  “Captain?” Hansen called out.

  “Yes, ma’am?” the Captain replied as her hand grabbed the door’s handle.

  “Stay close by in case I do need your assistance,” Hansen said.

  “Of course, General,” the Captain said. She shot a look of cold violence at Clay then left quickly, the door latching securely behind her.

  “She’s a bit overprotective at times,” Hansen said as she set her mug down on a side table by the right side of her chair. She leaned forward and studied Clay for several seconds then clapped her hands and reached under the side table, pulling out a wooden box. “Now, let’s see what I can deduce from your belongings.”

  Clay froze in mid sip as Hansen hefted the box into her lap and started to pull out Clay’s pistol and belt, his pocket watch, and a couple other tools he kept on hand that had been stripped from him when he was captured. She set each item on her end of the large coffee table and studied them even more thoroughly than she had studied Clay.

  “Better take that drink or you’re going to cramp up,” Hansen said to Clay without looking up from the table.

  Clay completed his sip then set the mug down on his end of the coffee table. He slowly leaned back and placed his hands in his lap, adjusting them over and over until he found a comfortable position without the manacles biting into his wrists. He watched the General and waited for her to speak again.

  It was a long time before she shifted in her seat and reached down to take the revolver from its holster. She drew it out effortlessly, barely moving the leather at all. She held it loosely, letting its heft balance in her palm. Then she pointed it directly at Clay and cocked back the hammer.

  “Tight trigger,” she said as her index finger caressed the thin hook of metal briefly then moved out and rested against the guard.

  Her eyes sighted down the barrel and locked onto Clay’s eyes. They stared at each other for a while before she eased the hammer back in place with her thumb and spun the revolver around her index finger twice then settled it into its holster. Her eyes never left Clay’s.

  Still staring directly at him, in him, through him, Hansen picked up the pocket watch and tried to flick it open. It refused to reveal its face to her and she frowned.

  “Coded or DNA locked?” she asked Clay.

  “DNA locked,” Clay said and slowly extended his hand.

  Hansen tossed the pocket watch across the table and Clay caught it easily. He flicked the watch open with the barest touch of his thumb then threw it back to the woman. Hansen carefully caught it in her palm and cradled the pocket watch as she finally tore her eyes from Clay. The watch had landed face up and she looked down at its interior with mild amusement and surprise.

  “Well, well, well,” she said. “The Captain was right. You do know something about mechs. Or is this just a family heirloom and you keep it working only for sentimentality’s sake?”

  The softness of her voice nearly cajoled an answer from him, but Clay had a feeling that silence was his best bet. He settled deeper into the couch and waited for the next question.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hansen said as she closed the watch and set it back on the table. “Between what the Captain has observed, and the report that you knew one of my mechs was going to throw a strut, I am fairly certain the watch works.”

  She placed her arms on her knees, leaning forward so that her blouse tightened in all the right places, revealing just enough cleavage that Clay’s mouth went a little dry. He struggled to keep his eyes up, on hers, but he’d been out in the land alone for a while. Nature won and his eyes strayed, glancing over Hansen’s chest briefly. He coughed and looked away, embarrassed.

  “Where’s your mech, Mr. MacAulay?” Hansen asked, her voice amused, but solid.

  Clay knew he would be in trouble if the amusement left that voice. He risked a look back at her. She was in the exact same position and nature won again. Clay cursed himself and shook his head.

  “I don’t have a mech,” Clay replied.

  Hansen leaned back and crossed her arms directly under her breasts. She settled herself into her chair and frowned over at Clay. Her tongue clucked a couple times and she sighed before uncrossing her arms and setting her hands on her thighs. She rubbed her trousers, up and down, up and down, her soft skin making the slightest of sounds against the finely spun hemp material.

  “Do you like your penis, Mr. MacAulay?” Hansen asked.

  “Uh…what?” Clay asked, not expecting the question at all. “Do I like it? How do you mean?”

  “Do you like having it attached to your person?” Hansen asked.

  “Yeah. I do,” Clay replied quickly. “Rather fond of it. Sometimes more than I should be, but it’s a lonely world out there.”

  Hansen’s eyebrows raised and her mouth spread into a genuine grin.

  “Cute,” she replied. “Now, how about we get back to my first question. Where is your mech?”

  “Don’t have one,” Clay said.

  “You see, that’s just a plain old lie there, Mr. MacAulay,” Hansen said. Her voice slipped into an affectation of a slow, rural drawl. Close to the Captain’s accent, but more clipped. Forced. “I asked you about your penis so I could see real truth on your face. I always ask that question. Most men think it’s because I intend to slice it off if they don’t talk, which in some cases has been the appropriate course of action.”

  Clay tried not to squirm.

  “But, really, it’s how I know when men’s responses to my other questions are lies or not,” Hansen continued. “It is called establishing a baseline. A simple tactic. You were telling me the truth about your penis, even about the part where you have paid too much lonely attention to it. But you are most certainly lying about not having a mech. I am going to ask again and you will be truthful this time. If I have to ask a fourth time then my baseline que
stion becomes a real possibility.”

  Clay sat there and waited, his answer ready. He’d figured out General Hansen. He knew the type. And it wasn’t the first time he’d been held against his will and asked where his mech was. He just hoped Gibbons had realized things weren’t going so well and taken appropriate actions.

  “Where is your mech, Mr. MacAulay?” Hansen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clay replied, his words spaced evenly and slowly. “I haven’t been this far north before. I don’t know the land. Your people jumped me and took me prisoner. I was unconscious the entire journey from the hemp fields to your compound. You tell me where my mech is. You have a better idea than I do.”

  Hansen sat there, her face set in passive contemplation. Clay waited. He’d told the truth. He just hoped she hadn’t been bullshitting about the baseline lie thing.

  “Fair enough,” she said. “You parked it close to the western hemp fields? The fields with the cooling tower set in them?”

  “Those would be the fields,” Clay said. “I thought I’d hit the motherlode with all that grey you have in that tower. Didn’t think anyone would notice if a few liters went missing. Just enough to get me closer to the border, maybe enough to get me into NorthAm. But seeing your mechs at the compound, I guess you would have noticed.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter since your boys found me and now we’re here.”

  “But it does matter,” Hansen said. “It matters a lot. Did you get a good look at my mechs?”

  “Not the best look, but good enough,” Clay said. Open and honest was his new policy with General Hansen. His usual silent and tough act would not work with her. He planned on being an open book. An evasive book, but still open. “The pilots I saw, except for one, can’t fight for shit.”

  Hansen threw her head back and laughed. It was the complete opposite of her soft voice. The laugh was a full throated, from the belly guffaw that shook her all over. She wrapped her arms about herself and rocked as she laughed, her eyes squeezed shut, wetness dampening the line where the lids pressed together.