Given my experience I’m going to give some credence to Kayla’s insistence that Hannah is an infiltrations expert.
“So I get in here, and I can’t take any of this shit out with the tunnel guarded and all. So I figure I’ll just photo stuff. But where the hell to start? And I’m working that out when there’s this weird feeling in my head. Like when we set off that reality key that first time. And then there’s that archway over there appearing out of bloody nowhere.” She points to the wall, the pile of books, the recently arrived archway. “And then—” she pauses, twisting her head to the side, trying to recapture the memory. “And then there was noise, someone coming, so I hid. And there were bloody Uhrwerkmänner everywhere. Coming in and out, dragging things through here. Construction materials, bits of… themselves. Other Uhrwerkmänner. And I was hiding for-bloody-ever. And then I felt that feeling again, that twist in my head. And suddenly books were on the floor, and you were there, and that thing was coming at you. And I just…” She shrugs awkwardly.
“Went and saved my life,” I say. “That’s what you just did.”
She shrugs again.
And God, we are not good at this. I don’t know how to express gratitude to her. She doesn’t know how to receive it.
We stand in awkward silence.
“Erm,” I say. Down to business perhaps. “Any idea what’s going on through there?” I point to the archway.
She shakes her head. “I haven’t been through there yet,” she says, “but we should. There’s a ton of them back there. We should figure it out.”
The view through the archway itself is less than revealing. All I can see is a short passageway. Large stones making a wall that defines a corridor angling sharply to the right. Nothing visible beyond that. A few dull clanking sounds emanate from it.
But we were just screaming. Yelling. There were gunshots. We must have garnered something’s attention. We won’t be alone for long. But how do we close that hole? We have no reality key.
I turn to the Uhrwerkmänner’s corpse, lying massively across the room. It must have a key on it somewhere. To get in here it must have one. So there must be a way to turn it back. But can I use it without magic?
“The rest of MI37 is coming,” I tell her. “We should wait for them.” I get down on my hands and knees, search the corpse, looking for the key. Maybe I could use it, close the archway, keep us safe ’til Clyde, and Kayla, and Tabitha all arrive.
Hannah walks slowly toward the arch. “But if we just do some recon…?” she says.
I find the key, reach out, take it. It is cold and flat, sharp edged in my hand. It is made of something that feels halfway between stone and metal. I run my fingers down the grooves in its sides. It has no obvious give.
“The Uhrwerkgerät is through there,” I say distractedly. I’d forgotten how out of the loop Hannah was. “They’re building it.”
I hear the scuff of Hannah’s feet and she whips around. “It’s the what?”
I push and pull at the reality key. Clyde made it look so simple. Something grates, something deep and internal, but there is no change in its external appearance.
“Yeah,” I say without looking up. “Just found out. Didn’t know that when I sent you here. Obviously. Well… hopefully obviously, anyway. I tried to call and warn you. But I think you were already underground.”
Silence. I don’t really mind. It lets me concentrate on this damn key. I need to close that door, buy us some time. At least until Kayla or Clyde arrives. Preferably both.
“I ignored your call,” Hannah says quietly. Almost as if it’s not really a statement for me.
I answer anyway. “Understandable,” I say. There’s no ire in my voice for once. It’s hard to be mad at someone who just risked their life to save yours.
“Not very professional of me,” she says. Something between embarrassment and humor.
And what the hell is up with this damn key? Does it have a child safety lock on it or something?
“Best that could have been expected under the circumstances,” I say. This really isn’t the time.
Another long silence. Electricity, I realize. The reality key is magical. It’ll need electricity to work. And I doubt Lang fitted this place with outlets.
“Yeah,” Hannah says. Her feet scuff again, turning away.
My cellphone battery? Do I just jam that in my mouth the same way Clyde does with a nine volt? That’s not very appealing.
“But—” Hannah continues. Then doesn’t.
I yank on the key again. Still nothing.
The silence from Hannah is still going on. It feels wrong. I glance up.
Hannah is frozen. Staring.
At the giant bloody Uhrwerkmänn that fills the archway.
Oh goddamn it.
It has its arm outstretched. A barrel protrudes from its arm, extends over its fist. A thick, greasy black pipe, swelling at the end. Like an enormous version of Hermann’s flamethrower.
Oh shit.
I stumble to my feet. The reality key is still in my hands. Some part of my brain that hasn’t quite caught up yet, still fumbling with it.
I plow a shoulder into Hannah as the barrel starts to hiss. Blue light shines through the exposed gears of the monster’s arm.
Hannah sprawls. I stare at the barrel.
Giant sparks crack down the Uhrwerkmänn’s arm. The blue light swells, bursts out down the barrel. Not a flamethrower then. But I don’t think it’s going to shower me with rose-petals and rainbows.
Shit and balls.
Sparks race to the barrel’s tip, seem to cluster there. And then one arches out, strikes me like a whip. I scream, feeling every muscle in my body tense.
The key suddenly gives in my hands. A grinding jerking movement that feels deeply and profoundly wrong. Planes of movement that shouldn’t be possible. Stone intersecting with stone, passing through stone. And light flashes bright, blinding me from everything, from the flame racing down the barrel about to turn me into part of a nutritious breakfast.
Something wrenches at the inside of my head.
And then back. Back in the same room. Still waiting to die.
But the archway is gone. The archway that the Uhrwerkmänn was standing in.
And so is half of the robot.
We have shifted realities. And the Uhrwerkmänn stood on the threshold. Half in. Half out. When the wall of broken bookshelves reappeared it cut the creature in two, neatly bisecting it from brow to heel, making it less of a threat and more of a Damien Hirst artwork.
And then it starts to fall. But not away this time. There is no away now. There’s a great bloody wall in the way. It falls forward. Toward me. Toward Hannah, lying where I knocked her.
I dive on top of her. No real thoughts in my head. Just some dull stupid version of anger, that after having gone to the trouble of actually saving us, I’ve managed to just put us in more danger. I have no real illusions that my body will stop a ton or more of metal from crushing Hannah to death—hell, the annihilation of reality subsequent to my death will do for her regardless—but it just seems like the right thing to do.
The front half of the Uhrwerkmänn lands. The floor quakes beneath us.
But we do not die.
After a moment, I become aware that I am lying directly on top of Hannah, and holding her very tight. If Felicity walked in right now, I’d likely have some explaining to do.
As it is, I think I have some explaining to do.
“Erm,” I say, which seems as good a way to start as any. “Just, you know…” I push myself off her as quickly as I can. “Well…” I finish.
Hannah looks at me, then to the side. The Uhrwerkmänn’s splayed arm has landed perhaps six inches from where we landed.
She looks back at me. “Little bit bloody close that,” she says. Her eyes are very wide.
“Well,” I try again, “you know. You’d just saved my life. Wanted to, erm… well, just repay the, err…”
“Yeah,” Hannah
says quickly, mercifully cutting me off. “I mean, erm, thank you. Like a shit ton.”
“Not a problem.” I reach out as if to shake her hand, realize what I’m doing and turn it into an awkward pointing gesture. “Fellow team members.” I point back at myself. What the hell am I doing?
Hannah looks awkward. “Yeah, but I quit,” she says. Then, just for a moment, she looks as if she wishes she hadn’t.
“Well,” I say, “papers probably haven’t been processed yet. Once they are, you’re on your own. But up until then…” I shrug.
“Yeah,” Hannah nods. “Until then.” And is that a smile at the corners of both our mouths?
Maybe this whole shit show would have all gone so much more smoothly if Hannah and I had had our lives mutually threatened earlier on. Though that might have been a slightly more contentious team building exercise than the night-club trip.
There is a sound from behind us. A door being opened. We spin. Hannah points her pistol. I point the reality key. I’m honestly not sure why.
Kayla looks at us both. She has a black eye, is missing one shirt sleeve and is dripping blood onto the carpet.
“Put that down, you silly feck,” she says, “feckin’ cavalry’s arrived already.”
72
“Oh thank Christ for that.” I collapse down onto what’s left of a desk. It wobbles ominously.
“Shit,” Hannah says, looking at Kayla. “What the bloody hell happened to you?”
Kayla shrugs. “Other way around. I feckin’ happened to about ten of those mechanical bastards out there.”
That seems to take Hannah back a step. Though it’s possibly a lesser blow than the one I land when I clap Hannah on the shoulder and say, “Don’t worry, eventually you get used to her saying things like that.”
Kayla’s eyes flick back and forth, suspicious. “What’s with the feckin’ camaraderie bullshit? If I have to fight feckin’ doppelgangers today,” she says, “well, that’s feckin’ it. Big German bomb or no big German bomb, I’m going home after that. Feck with your head, doppelgangers do. They’re my feckin’ limit.”
“Oooh!” says a voice from behind Kayla. “Doppelgangers? Really? I’ve read all about them, but never actually met one. Should be fascinating. Though watch out for the poisonous spit.”
Clyde pushes his way into a field of crumpled brows.
“Hello,” he says. “Sorry it took so long to get… oh wait, are you the doppelgangers? Well I must say that really is quite impressive. Really took me in at first. I never thought it would be that—”
“I am bloody Arthur,” I say to Clyde. “This is Hannah.” We don’t have time for this now. There is the bisected half of an Uhrwerkmänn lying unguarded in a reality not too far from here.
Clyde nods, then slows. “Wait,” he says, “you would say that if you were a doppelganger…”
“Clyde,” I say, “there are no doppelgangers here. Kayla was making a joke.”
Clyde’s eyes narrow. “If you were the real Arthur, you would know that Kayla doesn’t make jokes.”
Kayla wheels on him. “What? I’m funny as feck.” It is possibly fortunate for Clyde that I still have Kayla’s sword.
Clyde, pressed up against the wall, flicks his eyes from me and Hannah to Kayla. “You’re all doppelgangers!” he gasps.
This job makes too many implausible things seem possible.
“Clear the damn doorway already. A pissing queue out here.” Tabitha shoves her way into the room. “No damn doppelgangers in here,” she snaps at Clyde. “Goddamn idiot.”
For some reason Clyde smiles at this.
“Good,” I say, “everyone’s here. Now we can—”
But the influx of irate people doesn’t stop there. Stooping through the tight corridor of shelves into the room, comes Hermann.
“Wait…”
And then another Uhrwerkmänn. And another. Four of them. Five. We are rapidly running out of space.
“What the hell?” I’m knee deep in the pile of books I dislodged from the far wall. “What’s going on?”
“Bumped into them on the way down,” Clyde says as if this is the most perfectly natural thing to do on any given day.
But I fix my eyes on Hermann. Fresh plates of metal are welded to his body. The seams still shine fresh. His ruined arm has been straightened, splints of steel bracing the joint. “You didn’t want anything to do with us,” I say. “You told us to go away.”
Hermann snorts. “This is not help. This is not trusting you to do things correctly.” It’s hard to tell but I don’t think he quite meets my eye as he says that.
“Machen Sie Platz,” calls a voice from back through the doorway.
“How many of you are there?” I ask.
Hermann shrugs. “All of us.”
Holy crap. It may be small, but I think MI37 suddenly has an army at its disposal.
“Just out of interest,” Clyde pipes up, “but just before this becomes one of those tricks involving clowns and small cars. Like a Mini for example. Pretty quintessential small car, though I do think they use VW Beetles from time to time. And probably some less well known, cheaper vehicles, I imagine. Not that the type of vehicle matters I imagine. Imagine it’s all done with trapdoors really. Unless clowns are all part of some underground magical fraternity, I suppose. Not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Take Morris men for example. Seem totally harmless, then you deflate one’s pig bladder, and good lord, you better be on the move fast. Which is a useful life tip, I suppose, but not what I was aiming to say. Actually more interested in the sort of why and wherefore of the aforementioned cramming. At least I think I mentioned cramming. Us that is. Cramming in here. Still not understanding why we’re doing it. Lovely room as this is, of course. Didn’t mean to cast aspersions on Lang’s decorating aesthetic. Totally fine with aspersions on his political point of view. Total shit of a man. But I do sort of dig this room.”
Finally he takes a breath.
“Nested realities,” I say into the gap before he can get going again. Clyde’s mouth opens but no sound comes out. He twists his head, looks at me.
“An archway,” Hannah puts in. “It opens up right in that wall. Great big bloody thing. Goes to some place full of Uhrwerkmänner. Kept on coming in here and trying to off us, they did.”
“Sort of put paid to them, didn’t we?” I say.
“We did that.” Hannah grins.
Clyde looks at the mutual grins, gasps again. “Doppelgangers!”
“Oh shut up,” I manage.
“It’s not… No.” Hannah is infringing on my ineloquence copyright. “I still quit. It’s just…” She shakes her head. “Look, are we going to put an end to these arse-wipes or not?”
“I should probably mention,” I say, “they’re building the Uhrwerkgerät in there.”
Clyde’s jaw drops.
An exasperated snort bursts out of Hermann. “This is why I do not trust you,” he says. “You take too long.”
“Got a point,” Tabitha says. “The giant metallic arsehole does.”
“Would you mind ever so much just giving me the reality key?” Clyde asks. “I mean, if it’s not too much bother. And presuming you don’t—”
I shove the key into his hands. “Do what you need to do. I don’t understand the bloody thing.”
Clyde turns and twists the key this way and that, a puzzled look on his face. Then suddenly he grins. “Oh,” he says. “You clever bastard.” He twists hard, light blooms, and somewhere deep in my skull reality takes a punch in the nadgers again.
73
The Uhrwerkmänner stream past me through the archway. Watching them, I realize MI37’s army is a little less than might be hoped for. They’re in a bad way. Some limp. Others drag dead limbs after themselves. Some manage to limit themselves to just jerking and twitching, little spastic movements rippling through their bodies. And yet others mutter to themselves, grumbling and grinding as they move.
They’re breaking down. And th
at’s how we ended up in this whole mess. Volk and Hermann’s desire to save their people from decline.
Maybe the Uhrwerkmänner aren’t so different from me after all.
Kayla, Clyde, and Tabitha have gone ahead. Hannah and I form the rear-guard. We wait until the last Uhrwerkmänn has passed then turn and step through the archway. The column of robots jerks and shudders its way forward.
“What do you think?” I say to Hannah.
“Me?” She shakes her head. “I think we’re proper fucked.”
I decide that some witty pre-combat banter is perhaps not what I’m looking for after all, at least not here.
I follow the Uhrwerkmänner in silence. We are far from quiet, though. The robots’ combined shuddering and shaking fills the cold stone space with a mechanical sussuration. The sound seems to echo in the enclosed stone space. I wait for a cry from the front, for discovery. But none comes.
The corridor is shorter than I expected. Barely thirty yards from the archway it comes to an abrupt halt, overlooking a large, light-filled space. Sound echoes up. A growing industrial murmur—metal clanging against metal. And maybe it is enough to drown out any noise we might make.
The back of the column no longer seeming like the best place to be, I push forward between massive legs. The smells of oil and grease are thick in the air.
“What’s going on?” I whisper, as I approach Kayla.
“Hush,” she whispers. “Get down.”
I crouch, crawl forward. We’re on a ledge overlooking an enormous cylindrical hall, reaching down fifty, maybe sixty yards into the ground. The corridor we’re in breaks to the right, becomes an open stairway, spiraling down the wall to the ground below.
The space is full of Uhrwerkmänner. They are the source of the sound.
They are building.
They are building the Uhrwerkgerät.
And it is vast.
I can still make out Volk at the heart of it. A blunt coffin shape glowing with dull blue light. But he seems small now, an almost insignificant part of the whole. Other Uhrwerkmänner have been arranged around him. Their inner workings exposed. Pistons and gears laid bare. Bodies fusing. Amputated limbs reattached in a sickening mockery of form. A massive interconnected network of broken anatomy.
Broken Hero Page 37
