Fighting Iron

by Jake Bible

  “Not that I know of,” Clay said.

  “Good,” Nasta replied and nodded. “Wouldn’t want to have had you detox only to get you hooked again. We have a strict no poppies rule here except for medicinal purposes. Junkies talk. I, we, can’t afford that.” She smiled at him. “Be right back.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Clay said.

  He watched her go and could swear she put a little wiggle in her walk just to mock him. Didn’t matter to him. It was a nice wiggle.

  Clay turned his attention to the dead pocket watch in his hand. He closed the lid and flipped it over. His thumb pressed gently at a hidden depression just next to the side seam and the back. The back plate slid up a fraction and Clay helped it all the way off with his fingernail. It was a long fingernail. He needed a trim.

  He checked the inner workings of the watch and was happy to find everything in good condition. The crystal wasn’t broken, the few gears it had were locked together snuggly, the reactor was slightly warm, so he knew it hadn’t died.

  That meant that the connection with his mech had been severed on the mech’s end, not because the watch was broken. Gibbons was in trouble. His mech was in trouble. He was in trouble if both of Gibbons and his mech were in trouble. There was a lot of trouble stemming from such a little watch.

  Clay closed the watch up and went to tuck it in his pocket, but realized that he had no pockets. He had no clothes. Want to keep a person from wandering around? Leave them buck naked under some deerskin in a dark cave. If that person has the choice of staying under the deer hide blanket or wandering about with his junk hanging out, he’ll pick the blanket.

  It was only a couple of minutes before Nasta was back. She had another woman with her, but Clay couldn’t make her out as she stayed by the small opening to his cave, hidden from sight by the shadows that the small candle couldn’t reach.

  “This is Firoa,” Nasta said. “She’s going to make sure you weren’t lying about being addicted to the poppies. Firoa has some experience with that sort of thing and she’ll know the moment the tincture kicks in whether or not you’re a junkie.”

  “She can tell that from over there?” Clay asked.

  “Yeah,” Firoa replied. Her voice was all grunt and gravel. “No junkie can hide the ecstasy of a fix.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Clay said. “Seen my share. They downright come close to creaming in their trousers when they get that first hit.”

  “Exactly,” Firoa said. “You can fight it, but you’ll lose. The poppies always win. Always.”

  “Not gonna fight anything if this tincture helps my guts feel better,” Clay said. “And my shoulder.”

  “Mostly your guts,” Nasta said as she handed a small, blue bottle to Clay with one hand and held a clay mug in her other. “Drink that down then you can have your water. Sometimes a tincture will make folks sick, so I’d rather you retch on an empty stomach than one that has just been filled with water.”

  “Bottoms up,” Clay said as he took the blue bottle, popped the cork with his teeth, spit the tiny cork across the cave, and downed the bottle’s contents in one quick gulp. “Oh, shit, that tastes nasty! Give me the damn water!”

  “Hold on,” Nasta said. “Waiting thirty seconds for the retching.”

  “If I retch it’s because of this taste in my mouth!” Clay snapped.

  “Be nice, pilot,” Firoa growled. “Don’t get pissy with people that have been wiping runny shit from your ass for the past two weeks.”

  Clay sat there with his mouth wide open and tongue sticking out. It was the best way to minimize the godawful taste that coated his mouth.

  “No retching,” Nasta said and handed Clay the mug.

  He downed it in two gulps. Then regretted that as his stomach started to churn.

  “You gonna puke?” Nasta asked. “I was gonna tell you to sip, but it was all over before I could say anything.”

  “Not gonna puke,” Clay said and waited before he said anything else. He’d only been half truthful about the not gonna puke statement. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was right. “Okay. Okay. Staying down.”

  He sighed and laid back in the cot. His belly had already started to go numb, as had his extremities. His shoulder still screamed at him when he shifted, but the constant thrum of pain wasn’t there as much.

  He closed his eyes and let the poppies get to work.

  “Smells like piss in here?” Firoa said just as Clay started to drift off into an opiate-induced sleep. “Why does it smell like piss in here?”

  Those were the last words Clay heard before he was happily escorted from the land of the conscious.

  Fifteen

  When Clay awoke, the light in his cave was different. There was a bright glow to it, red and orange and alive. It took him a few seconds of blinking and staring straight up before he realized it was sunlight. The cave wasn’t completely isolated. Somewhere outside the small opening was the rest of the world and it blazed with a brilliant sunset.

  Or sunrise. Depended on which way the cave faced.

  How long had he been out? Clay wasn’t sure. He slowly sat up and was relieved that his belly didn’t protest by trying to separate from his body and crawl away. It hurt like ten kinds of Hell, but not as bad as when he’d first woken up.

  “There you are,” Nasta said, sitting on a stool with her back up against the cave wall. “Have a nice nap?”

  “How long?” Clay asked.

  “Day and a half,” Nasta said. “You slept through all of yesterday and almost all of today. Hungry?”

  “Starving,” Clay said.

  “I’m sure you are,” Nasta said. “You’ve been living off broth spoon fed to you for two weeks. You aren’t that muscled guy you were when we found you. Nothing but stringy tendons and loose skin now.”

  “You know how to flatter a guy,” Clay said and swung his legs off the cot. “Care to help me up so I can take a piss?”

  “Sure,” Nasta said and got up from her stool. She set a book aside and gave Clay a small smile. “This time we have a pot for you to piss in.”

  “Fancy,” Clay said.

  She crossed the cave with a utilitarian grace that reminded Clay of someone. Each step was intense and purposeful, but also effortless. She looked like a dancer on point, but with the soles of her boots firmly planted on the ground. Hmmm, boots, not bare feet.

  “Still not taking off these britches for you, pilot boy,” Nasta said.

  “Not what I was thinking,” Clay said. “You ever spend some time with the West Hills Rangers?”

  Nasta stopped dead in her tracks.

  “I take it that’s a yes,” Clay said. It was his turn to give a small smile. “I’ve known some Rangers in my time. You move like them.”

  “You’re wrong,” Nasta said. “I was never one of the West Hills Killers.”

  “Killers? Oh,” Clay said. “Full slave or just a dent?”

  “Full slave,” Nasta said. “And that is the last I say about that. Tread lightly, pilot boy.”

  “Clay,” Clay said.

  “I know your damn name,” Nasta hissed as she reached Clay and helped him hobble over to a large pot by the far wall. “Need me to hold it for you or do you got this?”

  “I got this,” Clay said and took charge of his bodily function. “Sorry for the observation. I didn’t know you were one of their slaves.”

  “No way you could,” Nasta said and shrugged. She turned and leaned her back against the cave wall so she faced Clay while he pissed. “It wasn’t as bad a time as some have had with the West Hills Killers. My owner was kind in his own way. Never used me for his bed. He wasn’t exactly bent that way, if you get my drift. Kept me around for show. Helped keep the other killers from guessing he liked the dick and not the twat.”

  “West Hills boys are not fans of deviants,” Clay said. “Not that I’m saying he was a deviant. I ain’t one to judge nobody about who they share their junk with. Just saying I’ve shared a campfire or t
wo with some Rangers and they aren’t exactly quiet on how they feel about folks that fit outside their norm.”

  “I’ve seen things,” Nasta said.

  “I’m sure you have,” Clay replied. “You have a code?”

  Nasta stared at him as he shook himself off. Then she rolled up the sleeve of her shirt and showed him the faded blue tattoo on her left forearm. Three numbers followed by three letters then three more numbers. A nine code.

  “Holy hell,” Clay said. “You were with the Commandant himself?”

  “Before he died and a new man took his place,” Nasta said. “That’s when I decided to leave. I thought the Commandant would release me in his will, but he gave me to the next man. I wasn’t having any of that. The new Commandant is a lowdown, disgusting—”

  “Yeah, I met him,” Clay said. “You dodged a bullet, a hot poker, and quite a few whip lashes to your privates.”

  “Yeah,” Nasta said. “I did.”

  Clay turned slowly and shuffled back to his cot. He looked at the bright line of sunlight that was slowly creeping up the wall.

  “Got you some clothes there,” Nasta said, pointing to a bundle on the foot of the bed. “Let’s get you dressed and I’ll show you one hell of a gorgeous sunset.”

  “Sounds like a deal,” Clay said.

  He couldn’t do much of his own dressing. Shaking the pee off his willy was about as much exertion as he could manage, so Nasta had to help him step into the old, but clean, hemp trousers. The shirt had small bone buttons on the front and almost as difficult to get on as the trousers, but at least it wasn’t a pullover. Clay went cold at the thought of pulling a shirt down and across his shoulder. Just getting the sleeve up and buttoning the shirt he had was sweat producing.

  Nasta stayed close to Clay, her hand only an inch from his elbow, but he was able to make it out of the cave and into a wide, bright tunnel on his own power. Nasta nodded towards the end of the tunnel and Clay gasped. He had no idea how high up they were, but it was high. And the view was incredible even from where he stood.

  They moved as close as Clay’s weak legs would carry him, which was about three meters away from the mouth of his cave and about twenty meters from the mouth of the larger, tunnel cave they stood in. Nasta dragged over an empty pony keg and offered it to him. Clay gratefully sat down and tried to situate his ass cheeks on the grooved metal depressions of top of the empty keg.

  He managed some bit of comfort then just stared out at the massive sun that was setting before him. It seemed to take up the entire mouth of the tunnel cave, all fiery oranges and sharp yellows.

  “No matter how many times I see it, I never get tired of that sight,” Nasta said. “It can pull me out of the worst funk ever with just a glance.”

  “I believe that,” Clay said.

  They sat there in silence for several minutes as the far-off sun dipped lower and lower on the horizon. Clay could see the outlines of a mountain range and he tried to orient himself, but he didn’t know the local area well enough to pinpoint his location. Once the sun was almost gone, and the blue sky was nothing but pinks and purples and a combination of the two that hadn’t been defined yet as far as Clay knew, he turned and looked at the woman that sat on the ground next to him.

  “Nasta?” he asked.

  “Yes?” she replied.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

  She looked up at him and Clay could see the debate behind her eyes. She didn’t trust him, and there was no reason she should, but she had nursed him back to health for two weeks, so she felt an obligation towards him. That obligation was in direct conflict with whatever it was she was doing there in the big cave.

  “How many of you are here?” Clay asked. He looked back behind him and noticed at least a half dozen other smaller cave openings besides his. “I’ve met Firoa, but are there others? There have to be. You hinted at them.”

  “There are others,” Nasta said after a long while. The sun’s laser light show had almost completely disappeared and the sky was taking on the inky indigo of night. “You’ll meet them. For now, it’s just me.”

  “And Firoa,” Clay said.

  “Yes, and Firoa,” Nasta replied. “Except she really doesn’t like you, so I doubt you’ll see her again.”

  “Okay,” Clay said and nodded. “But what are you doing here?”

  Nasta sighed. “Saving people. People that are lost or have escaped or just can’t handle the MexiCali and NorthAm bullshit anymore.”

  “NorthAm? What does that have to do with anything?” Clay asked. “I was headed to NorthAm when all of this happened.”

  “Yes, I want to talk to you about all that happened,” Nasta said.

  “Answer my one question first and I’ll open up like a book,” Clay said. “No searching through the table of contents needed.”

  Nasta frowned at the analogy and Clay shrugged.

  “A couple dozen centuries ago there was something called an Underground Railroad,” Nasta said. “They helped escaped slaves travel from wicked lands to free lands. That is what I do. I help others that have been owned against their will to get to lands that are free for everyone. Cold, but free.”

  “Where is that?” Clay asked. “NorthAm is all that is above the MexiCali Republics. Where else is there to go? The Continent won’t take refugees any longer. The Orient has been closed off since before the Bloody Conflict.”

  “There is a place,” Nasta said. “Above NorthAm.”

  “Above NorthAm? You’re joking,” Clay said and laughed. “All that’s above NorthAm is frozen rock and icebergs. Right? That’s what they’re called? Icebergs?”

  “They are called icebergs,” Nasta said. “But above NorthAm is still land. Unclaimed land where anyone can be free.”

  “Above NorthAm? What land is above NorthAm?” Clay asked.

  “Just islands,” Nasta replied. She scrunched up her face. “Cold ass islands that can’t really sustain much life, but people are working hard to change that. They have grow domes for food and have dug into the earth for shelter. The one thing the area has is unlimited geothermal. More power than NorthAm and the MexiCali Republics combined.”

  “Really?” Clay asked, shocked at the revelation. “And NorthAm doesn’t want it all for itself?”

  “Too much work,” Nasta said. “They would expend almost as much energy mining, containing, and transporting the geothermal as they would gain. Best to leave the area alone and let all the rebels, revolutionaries, and misfits take it over.”

  “You realize as soon as there is any type of solid infrastructure up there, NorthAm will come knocking and take it all away, right?”

  “The thought has crossed all of our minds,” Nasta said. “But steps are being taken to insure that doesn’t happen.”

  “If NorthAm wants it to happen then it will happen,” Clay said and laughed.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Nasta responded.

  The last of the sunlight was completely gone and the tunnel cave was dark with shadows. Clay could see the flickers of candlelight on the tunnel walls as those in the back caves began to get ready for the night. He still didn’t hear any voices and that bothered him, but he knew it was because there is one rule amongst slaves: keep your mouth shut and stay quiet or you will incur the wrath of your owner.

  “Tell me your story, pilot boy,” Nasta said, standing and offering her hand to Clay. “I’ll have Firoa bring some supper to us while we talk.”

  He took the hand and stood up, his legs nothing but pins and needles. It took a couple of seconds to get the feeling back and once he did, he started in on his story. Or, at least the story from when he parked his mech and went to take a look at an impossible water tower filled with an impossible amount of grey.

  Sixteen

  By the time Clay had told Nasta everything he knew about his time at General Hansen’s ranch, his head was pounding, his shoulder was way past grumpy and full-on pissed off, and his guts felt as if the fire an
ts had decided they wanted to be molten lava ants. Clay was not pleased with the evolutionary steps they were taking.

  Plus, the food Firoa had brought consisted of a thick root vegetable soup and some flatbread that may have been used as armor during the Bloody Conflict. Nasta gave no apologies for the provisions and Clay didn’t complain. At least not until his belly started to complain.

  “You should sleep,” Nasta said. “You are going to need your rest. We have somewhere to go soon.”

  “Only place I am going is to find my mech,” Clay said.

  Nasta gave him a knowing look and nodded. “I figured that would be your response. Which is why that’s exactly what I am going to help you do.”

  Clay started to speak, but couldn’t quite find the words. It took him a couple of tries before he was able to spit out, “And why would you do that? Why would you risk your life to help me get my mech back? That doesn’t help you or your cause in any way.”

  “Actually, it does,” Nasta said. “It’s complicated, but getting you your mech may be the best way for me and my people to help open new ways of travel up to and through NorthAm.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Clay said. “My mech only has two jump seats in the cockpit. And it’s not exactly inconspicuous. I get stopped at every border and every checkpoint. It’s why I go cross country half the time, just to avoid some bored guard and his damn clipboard. They always have clipboards. No tablets, just old and ancient clipboards.”

  “I don’t want to use your mech as transportation,” Nasta said. “But we’ll talk more tomorrow and over the next couple of days while you rest up for our little trip.”

  “What trip?” Clay asked.

  “To Del Rado,” Nasta said. “Right into the heart of things. I know some people that have the resources to get you your mech back.”

  “What do they want in return?” Clay asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Nasta said.

  She stood and picked up the empty dishes, juggling those and her candle as she gave Clay a quick nod then left the small cave, plunging everything into darkness.