by Jake Bible
“Take me to Del Rado and I’ll be fine,” Nasta said. “I can contact my colleagues there.”
“Del Rado,” the Mister chuckled. “I am afraid that town is no longer a welcome place for underground scum like you. Sheriff Trang has made that very clear. If you or your colleagues are seen within a hundred meters of the town limits, I’m afraid you’ll be shot. No questions asked. I don’t agree with his decision, but then I guess my scrip isn’t as tantalizing as General Hansen’s.”
“I doubt that,” Clay said.
“Yes, I do as well, yet here we have it,” the Mister said. He raised his eyebrows at Nasta. “Where shall it be, dear? Even if my driver doesn’t take you all the way, he will have to get you close. No water, no food, not even a hat, and a person can waste away within hours out there in the heat. Such a dangerous, dangerous land we live in.”
“I’ll tell him once we’re on the road,” Nasta said. “No need to give you any hints.”
“No, I suppose there isn’t,” the Mister said. He gestured to the lift he stood on. “Shall we?”
Nasta looked from Clay to the Mister then shrugged and stepped out of the cockpit and onto the lift. Clay followed right behind her, keeping her within grabbing distance in case the Mister’s attendants happened to make any sudden movements. Sudden movements like tossing her off the lift to fall fifty feet to the hard, concrete floor below.
Once out of the cockpit, Clay was able to look about the garage. He still kept an eye on Nasta, but he also scanned the huge space, studying every detail.
“Impressive, yes?” the Mister asked. “I built it after the Bloody Conflict.”
“You were in the Bloody Conflict?” Nasta asked, her tone less than believing.
“He was,” Clay said. “Youngest mech pilot to ride with Xavier’s Cutters. Killed more mech cavalry than any other mech pilot had the previous ten years combined.”
The Mister held his breath as he glared at Clay. He shook his head and let the breath out, a thin whistle between his front teeth.
“I did not know you were a student of history, Mr. MacAulay,” the Mister said. “You seem to know an awful lot about me.”
“Once you mentioned Xavier’s Cutters, I had an idea of who you were,” Clay said. “Only one to escape the Battle of Knobby Bones. At least for your side. Quite a few on the other side walked away without a scratch.”
“You trying to rile me up, Mr. MacAulay?” the Mister asked. “Get me steamed over some fight that happened a long, long time ago?”
“Just seeing how stable you are, Mister,” Clay said.
The lift had reached the floor and the two attendants pushed open the gate for the Mister. He held up his arms, showing the crutches to Clay.
“I am considerably more stable than I look, Mr. MacAulay,” the Mister said. “Considerably.”
“I suspect you are,” Clay said. He looked about the garage. “Where’s Nasta’s roller?”
“I’ll have Right show her to it,” the Mister said. “It’s waiting outside the garage.”
“Nope,” Clay said. “How about you call it in here so I can watch her get inside, make sure there’s only the driver, and see her off properly?”
“Of course,” the Mister said.
Left spoke into a com and after a couple of minutes a roller hurried inside the garage, barely braking to avoid hitting the techs and mechanics that scurried about.
“Life debt paid,” Clay said once he’d inspected the roller and the driver. “We’re even now.”
“Are we?” Nasta said, but didn’t wait for an answer as she climbed into the roller, slammed down the door, and stared straight ahead, avoiding Clay’s eyes completely.
“Lovely woman,” the Mister said as the roller left the garage and sped out to the compound’s gate.
Clay watched it go, staring after it until it was barely a speck on the horizon.
“There, satisfied?” the Mister asked.
“Hardly,” Clay said. “Not exactly here by choice.”
“We all have a choice, Mr. MacAulay,” the Mister said. “But sometimes those choices are harder than we’d like to face. Come now, let’s get you something to eat while we talk.”
“I’d rather see my mech,” Clay said. “Make sure it’s in working order before I sit down to any eats or drinks.”
“Spoken like a dedicated pilot,” the Mister laughed. “My Magdalena has that same dedication. True mech pilots are born, not made.”
“I guess,” Clay said as he was led through a normal-sized door in the garage wall and into a long, concrete hallway.
Techs and mechanics, plus a couple of people that Clay thought could be mech pilots, filed past, all bowing low to the Mister until he’d gone at least a meter beyond where they stood, hunched over. Clay shook his head at the pointlessness of it all.
“Where are we going?” Clay asked. “Your garage is back that way.”
“Did you see your mech in that garage, Mr. MacAulay?” the Mister asked.
“Nope,” Clay replied.
“Then I obviously have it somewhere else, don’t I?” the Mister said. “Do try to keep up.”
They reached the door at the far end of the corridor and Right opened it, indicated that Clay should step through, let the Mister go through next, then followed right behind next to Left.
Clay was never so glad to see his mech before in his life. There it was, standing tall and in one piece in an auxiliary garage. He ignored Right’s grunt of protest as he hurried forward so he could place a hand on the machine’s massive leg. Clay looked up and shook his head. It was there, right there.
“Hey,” Clay said after a couple seconds inspection. “You sons of bitches. You rotten bastards. Oh, I swear I’ll gut whoever did this to my mech.”
“Did what, Mr. MacAulay?” the Mister asked, but the smile on his face said he knew exactly what Clay was talking about. “Oh, right. The weapons. Yes, well, they aren’t allowed in the tournament so they had to be removed. I am sure you understand. Can’t have a fully armed piece of Fighting Iron destroying half the landscape with some plasma cannons and RPGs, now can we? Not to mention those belt guns. Works of art, those. Nothing like the belt guns on my rollers.”
“No, they are nothing like those belt guns,” Clay said. “Which is why I’d like to have them put back on, thank you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I not make it clear that weaponry of any sort is not allowed in the tournament?” the Mister asked.
“You made it clear, I just don’t care,” Clay said. “I want my weapons back on my mech so I can take it and go.”
The Mister shook his head. He started to speak then closed his mouth. He looked from Right to Left and back to Right.
“I am speaking English, yes?” the Mister asked.
Right and Left nodded.
“Phew,” the Mister laughed. “I thought the senility was getting me for a second there.”
“My weapons,” Clay said. “Have your mechanics restore them and then I am out of your hair, Mister. It’s best for all of us, for this whole area, if I am on my way. The longer I stay the higher the risk you won’t live to see the new year.”
“Oh, such big talk,” the Mister said. “Here that, boys? Mr. MacAulay is looking out for my well-being by ignoring my insistence that he be Pilot Bunting’s second. Well, if that’s how he’s going to act then I think I may have to put him directly into the tournament. No sitting on the sidelines in case Pilot Bunting is hurt too much to compete.”
“You aren’t getting it,” Clay said. “I ain’t fighting for you or any of the goddamn landowners around here. I have somewhere else I need to be, I needed to be there last month, but I was sidetracked.”
“Getting gut shot will do that,” the Mister said. He laughed. “Oh, stop looking so surprised every time I reveal information about you. I didn’t get as rich as I am by not having eyes and ears in every single inch of this whole territory. Nothing slips my gaze, Mr. MacAulay. Nothing.”
; “Okay,” Clay said and shrugged. “Can I at least inspect my cockpit? Make sure none of your techs have damaged my interface?”
“Yes, of course,” the Mister said. “Climb on up.”
Clay looked at his mech, looked back at the Mister, then glanced around the small garage.
“Can I use that lift there?” Clay asked.
“No, you may not,” the Mister said. “If you want to inspect your cockpit then climb the leg ladder and go inspect your cockpit. You haven’t exactly been very gracious since you arrived, so I figure that I should perhaps rethink the graciousness I have extended you. Climb away, Mr. MacAulay.”
“Screw you,” Clay said and walked to his mech’s leg. He grabbed the first rung on the ladder set into the mech’s metal hull, took a deep breath, and climbed.
He made it halfway up before he started to see black spots. His guts felt like fire, his shoulder hurt so much that it had gone numb, and all his other injuries had joined together in a union of pain that threatened to go on strike at any second.
That second came and Clay scrambled to keep a grip on the ladder rungs. He failed.
The last thing he remembered was the sight of the garage’s ceiling getting farther and farther away. Then more pain, of course. So much more pain.
Twenty-Four
For the third time since he’d stepped foot in that godforsaken taint of a territory, Clay awoke to find himself with fresh bandages over new injuries.
“You took a serious knock to the head, ya did, ya did,” a small woman said from his side.
He pushed up on his elbows, didn’t pass out, then pushed all the way up so his back was against the cold plaster wall that the small cot was pushed up next to.
“Am I still in the Mister’s compound?” Clay asked.
“Sure is,” the woman said. “Where else would ya be, would ya be?”
“Hell,” Clay said. “The way my luck has been.”
The woman cackled and slapped him hard on the chest. Clay grunted under the impact, but ignored the pain so he could have a look around. Small infirmary. Seven other cots, eight total including his. Four to each side of the room. One was occupied, but the person was wrapped up in so many bandages that Clay had no idea if it was a man or woman.
“Fire ants,” the woman said. “Got drunk and fell asleep right on top of a mound. If he don’t get better soon, the Mister will toss him back on that mound.” The woman turned to the bandaged man on the cot. “You hear that, Kevin? Best be healing up fast or you’re gonna have ants in your crawlspaces again!”
She cackled hard, coughed hard, hacked up some brown phlegm, spat it on the floor, and pointed a finger at Clay.
“I’m supposed to tell you that you are welcome to climb up into your cockpit anytime you want,” the woman said. “I suppose that ain’t no euphemism for going to the heavenly gates.”
“No, it ain’t,” Clay replied. “I’m a mech pilot.”
“Well, la de da,” the woman said. “You’ll be wanting a hand job for being so special, I guess.”
She rolled up her sleeves and spit into both open palms then moved towards Clay’s cot. He held up his hands to ward her off.
“No, don’t need that,” Clay said.
“Good, ‘cause I ain’t gonna give ya one,” the woman said. “I was just gonna check the bandage on your scalp. Lean forward so I can see if that gash is healed up proper.”
“Healed up? How long was I out?” Clay asked, not wanting to know the answer. He’d already lost way too much time playing the part of an invalid.
“What? Oh, you just been out for a day is all,” the woman said. “I gots me a poultice of my own invention that heals up wounds like nothing you never seen before.”
She gestured for him to lean forward and he did. Clay waited patiently as she unwrapped the bandages from his head, pressed lightly on the wound on the back of his scalp, then replaced the bandages.
“Will you believe it,” the woman said, sounding very impressed with herself. “Healing up faster than I even thought. You must have yerself one strong constitution, Mr. Mech Pilot.”
“I guess I must,” Clay said. “Otherwise I think I should have been dead a long time ago.”
“I suspect you ain’t lying to me,” the woman said. “Seen ya naked, I has. Yer one patchwork quilt of scars. I bet there’s more of you out in the land than is on yer person right now. Left behind some chunks of yerself, you have, you have.”
“More true than you know,” Clay said.
She smiled at him and he smiled back. They stayed that way for a while.
“Is there something you need?” Clay asked.
“Oh, stupid me,” the woman laughed. “I’m supposed to wait and see if you was gonna climb that mech of yours.”
“Is that a good idea?” Clay asked, pointing to his head.
“Son, I doubt anything you do is a good idea,” the woman cackled. “But let me give you a bit of advice.”
Clay waited. And waited.
“Okay, what the hell is the advice?” he snapped.
“No need to be ungrateful,” the woman snapped back. “No need, no need.”
“Just give me the advice,” Clay said.
“I will, I will,” the woman said. She leaned in close and Clay could smell the sweat on her unwashed skin. There were other odors he preferred not to guess at. “You see, I believe the Mister has soured on you. He can be fickle like that. At first he talked all about how yous was gonna fight for him in the tournament. Then after his tenth drink he made sure everyone heard how he’d rather drive you out into the range and leave you for the buzzards. He did, he did. Probably better if you do try to climb that mech and get yerself out of here.”
Clay sighed. He’d love to do just that, but he was naked under a thin blanket. He didn’t have a stitch of clothes to his name, let alone the one thing he needed to leave.
“You’re thinking about this, ain’t ya, ain’t ya?” the woman asked as she reached under the cot and pulled out a nice neat stack of clothes. His clothes. And on top was his pocket watch. “No one could get the darn thing to open, so they just left it with yer shirt and trousers.”
Clay snatched the pocket watch from the pile, thumbed it open, and nearly cried when he saw the readings streaming by. His mech was at full power. Geothermal power, all cells functioning at optimal levels.
“Help me get dressed,” Clay said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the woman said as Clay stood up from the cot. “Oh, yes, don’t mind if I do at all.”
Clay ignored the woman’s leers at his crotch and managed to get his trousers and shirt on. He glanced about for boots and gave the woman a questioning look.
“No boots, I’m afraid, I’m afraid,” the woman said. “The Mister didn’t want to make it too easy for ya.”
“Fine,” Clay said. “Show me to the garage where my mech is.”
The woman cackled once again.
“Garage? Didn’t I just say the Mister didn’t want to make it too easy for ya?” the woman said. “Yer mech is outside the compound. Sitting in the hot sun like a cactus.”
Clay stared at his bare feet. He thought for a second then looked at the cot.
“Help me strip this blanket.”
“You can take it off yerself,” the woman said.
“No, I mean tear it into strips,” Clay said. “For my feet.”
“Oh, aren’t you a clever one, a clever one,” the woman said and yanked the blanket right off. “A clever one, a clever one.”
Once his feet were thoroughly wrapped, Clay pointed at the door out of the room. “Lead on, lady.”
“Lady? Ain’t you kind,” the woman said. She led on.
A few people scrunched their faces as the small woman led Clay from the infirmary to a small courtyard, but most paid him no mind at all. He wasn’t part of their responsibility, so no need to get involved.
There was a short gate in the courtyard wall and the woman pointed at it.
“You get yerself out that way and keep going,” the woman said. “Walk until you bump yerself right into yer mech. Cain’t miss it, cain’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” Clay said. He looked at the gate and the landscape beyond then looked up in the sky. “You wouldn’t happen to have some water on you, would ya?”
“Do I look like a damn camel?” the woman cackled. “Now get before the Mister changes his mind and tells me to shoot you full of arsenic.”
Clay got.
He was out of the gate and hobbling across the hot earth before the woman had stopped cackling. He headed straight out into the desert, didn’t even bother to look back over his shoulder at the huge ranch house. If the Mister was going to taunt him with a chance at freedom then Clay had every intention of making the old man regret that taunt.
Five minutes of walking and he was soaked all the way through every inch of his clothes with sweat. The sun was harsh on his bare head and he prayed some winged deity would swoop down and deliver his hat.
His hat…
Where the hell had his hat gotten off to? Was it still at the General’s ranch? Sounded about right, but Clay honestly didn’t have a clue anymore. He’d been hustled from place to place, dealt with conflict after conflict, gotten himself damaged and dinged so much that he’d lost track of one of his prized possessions. He made a mental note to check Del Rado for his hat once he was gone from the Mister’s land. He doubted he’d be welcome in that town any more than Nasta was, but it would be hard for Sheriff Trang to argue with a fifty-foot battle mech stomping down the center of town.
He almost cackled to himself over the image that sprang to life in his mind. But he was afraid he’d never stop and end up sounding as crazy as that small woman had. Damn, the sun was harsh.
Another five minutes of walking and Clay knew the strips of cloth on his feet weren’t going to hold up. He could feel the blisters forming on his soles and had a distinct impression that those blisters were only seconds from splitting open and leaving a bloody trail in his wake.
Five more minutes and a bloody trail later, Clay saw his mech. He forced himself to keep going. He put one foot in front of the other with careful deliberation, mindful of the roughness of the ground and the tenderness of his blood-soaked, rag-covered feet.
