Fighting Iron

by Jake Bible

  “I don’t doubt that,” Clay said.

  He and the General were in front of the house. Hansen’s people followed them around, pistols still up, still aimed, hammers still back.

  “Is there a roller in there?” Clay asked, making a quick motion with his head to the garage.

  He almost caught a bullet for it. He could see the Captain’s finger tighten slightly, but then she relaxed as the moment was lost.

  “Garage! Roller!” he shouted.

  One of the men fired off a shot and the lead whizzed past Clay and Hansen’s heads.

  “Yes,” Hansen snarled. “Shoot the bastard!”

  “Hold your fire,” the Captain said. “Jang? Put that pistol away. You’re half blind in your right eye, you moron.”

  The man that had fired reluctantly put his pistol back in its holster.

  “Good,” Clay said. “You can open the garage and bring the roller out here. Now.”

  Jang didn’t move.

  “Captain? I ain’t staying here,” Clay said. “I’m either leaving in that roller or I leave in a pine box. If I leave in the roller then you all can stay right here. If I leave in a pine box, I am for sure taking a few of you with me. Decide. Now.”

  “Get the roller,” the Captain said.

  “Don’t you dare,” Hansen snapped.

  “Do it,” the Captain said. “I’ll take the heat from the General. Go get the god damned roller, Jang!”

  Jang hesitated then took off at a run towards the garage. Clay heard the door open, the click of the roller’s latch, the hum of the engine starting up, then the crunch of the wheels as it was driven out into the open. Jang pulled it up right next to Clay and hopped out, leaving the vehicle running.

  “Let her go,” the Captain said.

  “I plan to,” Clay said, shuffling his way to the roller, Hansen pressed tight to his body. He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “You are shit in the sack.”

  Her entire body jerked and bucked and he shoved her away. Clay dove for the open door of the roller and landed with half his body on top of the driver’s seat. Gunfire erupted everywhere. He expected that. What he didn’t expect was for Hansen to come at him like a screaming banshee.

  Yes, the taunt had been a tactic. But it was meant to unsettle her, not send her into a blind rage like a rabid harpy.

  Hansen grabbed Clay’s belt from behind and pulled him from the roller. He slipped and hit the dirt hard, but managed to flip himself over and get his revolver up. He fired twice. The first slug tore into Hansen’s left thigh, sending her spinning to the side and down.

  The second slug missed the General completely and took the top of Jang’s head off. The man stood there for a half-second, his eyes blinking over and over, before he collapsed to his knees then fell face first in the dirt, what was left of his brain tumbling from his wide open skull.

  Clay scrambled up into the roller, his revolver firing again and again and again and again then clicked empty.

  He tossed the empty revolver onto the passenger’s seat and slammed his foot on the accelerator. Bullets whined off the hull of the roller as he aimed the vehicle straight at the shooting men and women. Most dove out of the way, but one woman, obviously wanting to be the one to kill Clay and avoid the lash, fired until her pistol was empty. Then she crumpled under the roller as Clay hit her head on.

  He felt the thump thump of her body under the wheels then he was free. There was nothing but open land ahead of him. Well, except for the closed gate. Clay searched the roller’s console for the weapons controls, but couldn’t find anything.

  “Crap,” he said as he tensed his whole body just before impact.

  The roller hit the gate and tore through. The gate also tore through the roller and Clay cried out as a five foot hunk of wood shattered the windshield and pierced his right shoulder, pinning him to the driver’s seat.

  He didn’t slow down. He kept his foot on the accelerator and kept the roller moving as fast as it would go. Clay let go of the wheel with his right hand and let the limb dangle at his side, taking some of the pressure off the insane wound. He steered around a bend with his left arm and followed the road for about six kilometers.

  No one was following him. He had a pretty good idea why. It was their roller. They knew exactly where it was at all times. He could put distance between himself and Hansen’s people, but he’d never lose them as long as he was in the vehicle.

  When he was a good ways away, he started looking for options. He saw a bluff off to the north, hit the brakes and brought the vehicle to a stop. Scanners showed no one behind him. He had to be fast if he was going to ditch Hansen’s people. Clay grabbed the wood that had him pinned to his seat. He gripped it in both hands, although the strength in his right was minimal, more like a toddler’s than a full grown man’s.

  Clay shoved. The wood moved an inch. He was no longer pinned to the seat, but he was far from free of the wood. He shoved again, screamed every curse word he knew, then shoved a third time. The wood popped free. Clay screamed quite a bit more. He grabbed his revolver off the passenger’s seat, shoved it in his holster, then clamped his left hand to his shoulder as he tumbled out of the roller to the hard, dry earth.

  He struggled to his feet then screamed yet again. He’d been so preoccupied with the wood in his shoulder that he hadn’t noticed the hole in his belly.

  “Crap,” he grunted as he looked at the wide, wet stain that covered his shirt and the bottom of his vest. “Double crap.”

  He made it about twenty steps before he fell to his knees. Not far enough. He had to get up. Had to keep moving, get his ass to the bluff in the distance. He needed the higher ground, needed an advantage when they came for him.

  Up he shoved. Another twenty steps. He fell once more. Up, ten steps, fall, repeat. Five steps. Two steps. No steps. He lay in the dirt, his face pressed against the small rocks and bits of dried wood.

  His right arm was done. No strength there. He was able to get his left arm under him, but when he tried to push up, it felt like his insides were about to spill out beneath him. He decided to use his left hand to hold his guts in. Smart thing to do. Not that it mattered. Hansen would find him soon enough and then he’d have his guts strewn all over that table of hers in that freaky torture dungeon.

  At least he’d have a roommate if she didn’t kill him right away.

  Clay chuckled at the thought then coughed hard. He wanted to scream from the pain, but he didn’t have the energy. Instead he rested his cheek against the dirt once again, coughed some more, and stared at the bright red spittle that he’d expelled.

  The sun beat down and the heat was beyond intense, yet the world began to darken around the edges of Clay’s sight. He started to shiver all over.

  “Crap,” he whispered just as the darkness swallowed him up. “Crap…”

  Eleven

  The man stood on thin, wobbly legs, an attendant on either side, ready to catch him if he fell. But despite the weak legs, which were held straight by some very severe-looking leg braces, the man never fell. For fifty-eight years he’d dealt with his traitor legs and not once had they beat him and sent him to the ground.

  Not while he was in charge. And he was always in charge.

  But there was a first for everything, and the wobble in his legs increased as he stared up at the marvel before him. His attendants saw the uncertainty of his stance and they gave each other a glance, neither sure how to proceed since this was a new occurrence.

  The man turned his head back and forth, giving his attendants a wide smile and a confident look. They both relaxed and let the man stand there and have his moment.

  “Never thought I’d see a sight like this again,” the Mister said as he pointed up at the mech that had been hauled into the massive garage just seconds earlier by his people.

  A crutch dangled from his forearm as he continued pointing. It was made of heavy duty metal and had a cuff that wrapped itself around his arm so it wouldn’t come loose if he
stumbled or fell. Which he never did, of course. But he was a man that didn’t believe in stupid risks. Regular risks, risks that couldn’t be helped were fine, but stupid ones were abhorrent. And leaving your crutches unsecured when they were your stability and reason you could move from Point A to Point B would be a stupid risk.

  So the crutch dangled from his forearm as he pointed up at the mech and rested his weight on his other arm and the crutch that it held.

  “Do you know what you have here, boys and girls?” the Mister laughed. “Do you see what you have brought me?”

  No one answered. They weren’t expected to. The men and women waited until he was ready to continue.

  “That there is Fighting Iron,” the Mister said, shaking his head in disbelief. “One of the elite machines from back in the day. This ain’t any old iron, no sir. This is a battle mech supreme built to kill and keep killing until there is nothing left to kill.”

  “Or it runs out of ammunition,” Able said as he walked up to the Mister and handed the old man a tablet. “Here are the specs. Did a full workup before we loaded it onto the crawler. No ammo, no pilot. Systems went completely dark about halfway here. That thing ain’t got a spit of juice left in it.”

  The Mister took the tablet in his hand and typed in a quick code. Able kept his head averted so he didn’t accidentally see the code. That was not a healthy accident. A chime sounded and the Mister gave the tablet back.

  “Thank you, Able,” the Mister said. “I have transferred the data to my personal system. I’ll look it over later.”

  “It’s been around, that’s for sure,” Able said. “Lincoln rode inside it and checked the travel logs before it up and quit on him. Been down to the Brazilian Empire, all the way up through MexiCali, Southwest and now Northeast. It may have come from NorthAm originally, but we ain’t 100% sure since those logs were archived and like I said, it ran out of juice.”

  “I don’t need logs to tell me where this beautiful machine has been,” the Mister said. “Because it has been everywhere.”

  “Do you know it, sir?” Lincoln asked as he sauntered over next to Able.

  The Mister turned and fixed him with his cold gaze.

  “I know it, yes,” the Mister said. “I know it well.”

  Lincoln nodded like he understood, but it was obvious he didn’t. Obvious because no one understood. They just nodded as if they did and looked up at the massive machine.

  “Give it juice,” the Mister said. “But strip the weapons first. I don’t want any residual defense protocol to fire up and destroy my garage. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Able said as he nodded then turned and started barking orders.

  The Mister looked at Lincoln and raised an eyebrow.

  “You may want to assist him,” the Mister said.

  Lincoln jolted and took off after Able without saying a word. Putting space between himself and the Mister was the priority.

  “As soon as that mech is powered up and secured have someone fetch me,” the Mister said to his right hand attendant.

  The man had no name except for Right. The second attendant was known as Left. Didn’t matter what names they were born with, they were Right and Left until the day they died or the day they were no longer the Mister’s attendants. That was usually the same day since no one quit a job the Mister assigned. Not willingly, at least.

  The Mister put crutch in front of crutch, then foot in front of foot, and slowly made his way to the wide open doors of the huge garage. Right and Left stayed close, but gave him plenty of room to move. He could have lashed out with a crutch and missed them completely, but they were still close enough to catch him if needed.

  Once outside in the heat of the day, the Mister stopped and closed his eyes. He turned his face up to the boiling sun and sneered. He liked to taunt the sun. He liked to taunt anything that dared to presume superiority over him. The sun, the moon, the Earth itself; the desert range, the towns and settlements in Northeast MexiCali, the other landowners and self-proclaimed rulers of the territory.

  There was nothing like a good taunting to get the blood pumping.

  With that in mind, he activated his com as he walked towards a row of a dozen mechs, all being serviced by techs as the pilots climbed the fifty feet up to their cockpits. Training, training, training. It was never done.

  “Magdalena?” the Mister called over the com.

  “Yes, Mister?” a strong, alto voice replied.

  Not masculine in any way, but not a high-pitched feminine voice, either. It was powerful and resonated in any ear that heard it. The Mister smiled the smile he always smiled when he heard the voice for the first time each day.

  “Do the pilots know today is the cut?” the Mister asked.

  “They do, sir,” Magdalena replied. “They know that only six of us will be allowed to fight in the tournament. I have informed each that they are to go full out and fight as if their lives depend on it.”

  “Which they do,” the Mister said.

  “Which they do,” Magdalena echoed. “All pilots have prepared their last words in case they do not make the cut. Each one has said they will be honored when you read their words during their remembrance ceremonies.”

  “They will be dead when I read those words, not honored,” the Mister said.

  “Sir? Must the losing pilots die?” Magdalena asked. It was not the first time she’d asked the question and the Mister knew it would not be the last time, either. “I find it such a waste. Training new pilots is not an easy task.”

  “Losers do not deserve a second chance,” the Mister said. “That is why I take as much as I can each year when I win the tournament. The losing landowners of the territory deserve only enough to keep them stable throughout the year. But not enough for them to grow stronger. Stability is good for everyone, but strength is only good for me. I win so I get all the strength.”

  “Yes, sir,” Magdalena replied, her voice making it obvious she still did not agree with the answer that she always got in response to her question. “I am finalizing our expectations for the next tournament. I’ll have you read them before I send them out to the other landowners. Would you like me to prepare a separate set for General Hansen since she is hosting this year’s tournament? Perhaps a reminder that the previous year’s winner has final say in any disputes, not the host leader?”

  “I do not believe you need to remind the General of those terms,” the Mister replied, his eyes locked on to every movement of the dozen mechs as the techs pulled back thick cables and hoses while the pilots got through their pre-fight checklists. “She is a smart woman and knows the stakes if she steps out of bounds.”

  Magdalena began to speak, but stopped. The Mister waited patiently for her to say what she wanted to say. It was a trait he liked about the woman. She never spoke unless she had thought her words through thoroughly.

  “I have received some information about a mech pilot being picked up by General Hansen’s people,” Magdalena said finally. “It is almost certainly the pilot that belongs to the battle mech we just took possession of.”

  “That would be a logical conclusion,” the Mister said. “Is the man or woman alive?”

  “It is a man and he was alive as of this morning,” Magdalena said. “But he has escaped the General and is out on the range somewhere. Should we perhaps go look for him?”

  “That would be a logical conclusion as well, Magdalena,” the Mister responded. “So why are you hesitant?”

  “Because General Hansen will be looking for him as well and I would hate for our search parties to cross paths and for there to be any incident or incidents,” Magdalena said. “We are within the all-out truce window and if one of our men even spits at one of the General’s men then she will have the right to retaliate without consequence from us. The other territory landowners will back her up even if they hate her as much as we do.”

  “Good point, my dear,” the Mister said. He thought about it for a couple of minutes and Magdalen
a waited patiently, the sound of her breathing a small comfort in the Mister’s ear. “We let her have her fun with the pilot. We have the mech and that is all that matters.”

  “Very well, sir,” Magdalena said.

  “But keep me informed,” the Mister said. “I want to know if he is found or if he is not. Can our source handle that?”

  “Without issue,” Magdalena said.

  “Good, good,” the Mister replied as the mechs began to lumber across the ground and out into the wide open range that spread as far as the Mister’s eyes could see.

  “I am sorry to cut this short, but I need to concentrate on piloting now,” Magdalena said.

  “Very well, my dear,” the Mister said. “You can send the list of expectations to the other leaders after the fights. No need for me to double check them. I trust you completely.”

  “I will update you as to the other landowners’ responses once I hear back from them,” Magdalena replied. “Good day, sir.”

  “Good day, my dear,” the Mister said as his eyes focused on one specific mech. Her mech.

  He snapped his fingers and a small roller was by his side in less than ten seconds. He climbed into the passenger seat as Right and Left climbed into the cramped backseat. The driver looked over at the Mister.

  “Follow the mechs, boy,” the Mister said. “I refuse to miss a second of this.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said and took off after the stomping mechs, keeping enough distance so that the impacts of the battle machines’ footfalls didn’t rock the roller too hard.

  Twelve

  The mech pilot checked her controls, making sure each limb was fully responsive to her motions and movements. While the machine could be worked just as any roller, with simple forward and back, left to right commands, it was a mech so it was designed to mimic the movements of humans. Specifically, the movements of the pilot inside the cockpit.

  Once satisfied that the controls were in working order, the pilot stood up from her seat and plugged a cable into receptors on each of her limbs as well as the base of the helmet she wore. With the special integration control suit connected to the mech’s directional systems, the pilot lifted each leg, checked that the response time was immeasurable, as it should be, then swung her arms left and right, and confirmed that they reacted in less than a tenth of a millisecond.