“Yes,” I manage. “Yeah, that had occurred to me.”
“So,” says Kayla from behind the three of us. “Any bright ideas on how to get to that feckin’ weak point then? Once more into the feckin’ breach and all that shite?”
Is there something like emotion in her voice? It’s very hard to tell.
I look down again, try to see the space as a tactical problem rather than a meat grinder I am about to throw myself into.
“Erm,” I say. This has never been my strong point, despite the fact that it’s at least fifty percent of my job description. Cat-herding, that’s really what I can do.
And now I’m going to leave them all behind. MI37. The dysfunctional bastards. Some MI6 wanker will be in charge of them next, I suppose. Jesus.
Unfinished business…
I really do wish Felicity were here. Then I could apologize. I could try and set things right.
I look over at Hermann. There is a man at peace with his future. At least that is how he appears, readying his troops, going through the ranks, talking to them one-by-one, making sure that they too are ready for the sacrifice.
I’m bloody not. Not at all.
I should have said something to Felicity. Explained myself. I could have done so much differently.
That’s a sad thought to have just before… this.
God, I really fucked up the past few days. Trapped in my own head instead of thinking about all the things going on outside of it.
This was always coming. That’s the sad little revelation I have at the end. This moment was always inevitable. I didn’t perhaps expect it to be as startlingly apparent as it is now, but there may be some good in that too. A moment of clarity before it’s all over.
I got too caught up in the dying. Not in all the bits that happened on the way, that’s the problem.
And now… Felicity. She’s never going to have… I don’t know… what I could have offered. Who knows if that really would have been that good, but for a while she seemed to enjoy my particular brand of boyfriend-ing.
God, I fucked it all up at the end.
I look down at the stairs. Feel the eyes on me, waiting expectantly. The plan…
What goddamn plan? We’ll get down the stairs and the Uhrwerkmänner will meet us like a metal fist connecting with a soft fleshy jaw.
I glance to Hannah. “You’re meant to be good at this, right?” I say. “You got any ideas?”
She looks at me for a moment, suspicious.
“No,” she says. “Honestly. I’ve got nothing right now.”
And that’s something else I’ve screwed up, I see now. Felicity was right all along. Hannah is a resource I could have used, rather than someone for me to butt my head against.
Ah well, better late than never.
Hannah waits until it’s clear that really no one is about to make a sarcastic comment, and then creeps forward to the ledge.
“Well,” she says, “point of ingress is obviously the stairs. Don’t have any rappeling gear. Bit under-prepared, but I think we can manage. But it means we’re going to need a pretty hardcore tip of the spear and then some fairly withering support fire from up here.”
Support fire. I look around. “Clyde,” I say, “that’s you.”
“Yeah,” Hannah agrees. “I’d say me too, but you and I need to leg it down there and get in position.”
I nod, and try to avoid dealing with the reality of that statement. “So we’re helping lead the charge.”
“What? No! Are you bloody mental?” Her eyebrows pop up.
Maybe there was a reason why I didn’t consult Hannah on this stuff more frequently.
“It’s vital,” Hannah points out, “that you stay alive right up until the point where, well, you know, you need to…” She whistles, looks upward, closes her eyes, and crosses her hands over her heart. I think that might be meant to pass for sensitive. “Any premature rigor mortis on your part,” she continues, “and that bomb’s going to be as pissed as any girl who’s been cheated of the main event. She’s going to blow up all over the place.”
I probably could have gone to my grave without having seen the poetry that lurks in Hannah’s soul.
“Nah,” Hannah continues. “I think, actually, we send the Uhrwerkmänner down first. Hermann and his boys. They’re outnumbered like crazy, but their goal is pretty specific—open a path. You and me, we let them pile down there. Help Tabitha and Clyde out a bit. Then, once the path is open, we head down and see how much shit we can fuck up.”
That last bit sounds a lot like one of my plans.
“What the feck am I supposed to be doing?” Kayla asks. “Sitting here twiddling my feckin’ thumbs?”
“Well, you’re fucking up shit already, aren’t you?” Hannah doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “That’s your whole thing. Didn’t think I’d have to hold you back.”
“Actually,” Kayla says with a nod, “I think I feckin’ like it when you plan.”
And seriously? The moment of disloyalty couldn’t have waited until after I’m too dead to hear it?
Footsteps behind us, heavy and clanking. I turn. Hermann, it seems, is done getting his forces on board. “We are ready,” he announces.
Everyone just looks at me. Apparently I have to condemn myself. As if I’d have the opportunity to hold it against them for longer than five minutes.
I nod. “Same here. More or less.”
“Buck up,” says Clyde, “blaze of glory and all that.” His voice breaks at the end, and he turns away, eyes glistening.
I worry that if we hold on any longer we’re going to slide away from more and toward less.
“The Uhrwerkmänner have to lead the charge,” I say to Hermann. “Hannah and I will head to the Uhrwerkgerät as soon as you open a path.”
Hermann nods. “Then the honor will be all ours,” he says. “It is as it should be.”
I decide not to be offended, and just take his agreement as a victory.
“Feckin’ wanker.” Kayla is less charitable.
Fortunately Hermann is too wrapped up in his moment of glory to pay even the slightest attention to Kayla. He turns to the gathered Uhrwerkmänner.
“For our past!” he shouts. “For the future that lies beyond us! For honor! For victory!”
And then, before I can really get a handle on the fact that this is actually finally happening, he’s moving. The charge is on. The end begins.
77
It is, I have to say, an impressive sight. As battered, dented, and outnumbered as they are, Hermann’s troops do put on a pretty good show at the end.
They move with all the mechanical precision they have been endowed with. Their feet fall with one motion. The ground shakes at the combined impact. Their arms swing—thirty pairs of synchronous pendulums. The glowing blue light that suffuses the Uhrwerkgerät reflects off the sharp edges of the gashes in their metal skin. Their battle-scarring becomes their glory in this moment.
They are going to die. They know that. And they charge into the moment with their heads held high.
Personally I’m more concerned with not shitting myself. Nobody wants soiled trousers to be part of their legacy.
Clyde is muttering to himself. I can hear the battery clacking around behind his teeth. “Hold,” I say. “Hold.”
The Uhrwerkmänner are only a quarter of the way down the stairs before they’re spotted. A cry rises from below. Another. Robots turn and stare.
I can see Kayla among the descending Uhrwerkmänner. She rides first on one robot’s shoulders, then another’s. She dances over them, making her way forward, blade gleaming.
The dull boom of Friedrich’s voice joins the chorus rising up to meet them. The sentries start to move, to bunch at the bottom of the stairs.
Hermann, Kayla, and the others are halfway down now.
Friedrich keeps yelling. The Uhrwerkmänner start to form ranks. Row upon row of them. Weapons begin to bristle.
On the ledge, Clyde has his battery in
his mouth. It click-click-clicks against his teeth. Hannah has her gun drawn. Tabitha’s laptop is open.
“Hold,” I say.
Three-quarters of the way down the stairs now. Clyde begins to mutter.
“Hold.”
Closing the distance. Clyde’s voice starting to rise.
“Now!”
Clyde flings out his arms. “Maldor!” he bellows. And then he is flying backwards through the air, as if yanked by an enormous bungee cord, up and away, slamming against the ceiling of the stone corridor before collapsing like a rag doll to the floor.
Below us, the front ranks of Friedrich’s Uhrwerkmänner come apart. Something massive detonates in the heart of them. They fly like steel leaves caught in an autumn tempest.
Hermann’s forces hit the bottom of the stairs, pile into the suddenly tattered ranks. Fists fly. Flame arches and leaps. Harsh Germanic cries fill the air, like seagulls without a sense of humor. I see Kayla fly from the shoulders of the Uhrwerkmänn she was riding, arc up over Friedrich’s forces. She comes down blade first.
Hermann buries a fist into the face of one of his opponents, crushes metal, turns the skull inside out. Cogs and gears fly, but his opponent keeps on swinging. Wild, uncoordinated limbs crash against Hermann’s sides, denting the bronze panels. Hermann brings a fist down on the truncated skull, exposing the stump of the neck. His fist opens, closes, rips. Gears spill like silver rain. The body collapses to the floor, still kicking spastically.
Around him, further chaos reigns. Uhrwerkmänner stomp and kick. I see one of Friedrich’s robots bury its foot in the knee of one of Hermann’s men. The joint is crushed, the leg splays out sideways. The Uhrwerkmänn goes down and within moments he is trampled to death.
Kayla appears for a moment, flitting from shoulder to shoulder. Her sword snicker-snacks in and out of Uhrwerkmänner joints, introducing limps, stutters, and jerks. Her blade is black with oil. Hermann’s forces take full advantage.
Friedrich himself wanders into the fray. He is like a giant among children. He backhands one Uhrwerkmänn out of his way. Whether it was on his side or Hermann’s I’m not sure. I don’t think Friedrich cares. The Uhrwerkmänn goes flying, cracks against one wall, lies still. Friedrich sends another after that one. His fist floors another. He piles toward Hermann as the fighting swirls around him.
I turn to Tabitha. “We need to take Friedrich down.”
Behind us, Clyde is lying on the floor, blood dripping from one ear. Tabitha runs to him.
“Shit,” she says. “Get up. Get up, you stupid shit.” She slaps him about the head and neck.
It’s not the most tender expression of affection I’ve ever seen, but there is a chance—
“Get up, you dumb fuck.”
OK. Possibly not affection after all.
Beside me, at the ledge, Hannah has her gun up, is firing down into the crowd. Whether she’s hitting our Uhrwerkmänner or Friedrich’s, I have no idea. I doubt she’s doing much to any of them at this range. But it’s better than nothing. Neither time nor numbers are on our side.
I try to assess the situation. Can we descend yet? But the path to the Uhrwerkgerät is still clogged with mechanical bodies fighting and flailing.
I glance back at Clyde.
“What the hell happened to him?” I ask.
“Recoil,” is all the explanation Tabitha is willing to give. She slaps Clyde again. His head snaps sideways.
“Come on,” she mutters. “Stupid lack of team redundancy.” She grabs him by the lapels, heaves him into a sitting position, and proceeds to vigorously shake him.
“Maybe,” I suggest, “that’s not the best way to—”
“Have to agree!” Clyde blurts, his eyes flying open. “Could we perhaps, possibly, please…”
Tabitha stops her shaking, releases his lapels, drops him. Clyde sags, only just catching himself on one elbow.
“Oh,” he moans, raising the other to his bruised temple. “Going to feel that tomorrow.” He looks about. “Did it help at least? One does like to feel that one is being helpful. Sort of validates oneself. Especially when significant personal injury is involved.”
“Get back there,” is all the encouragement Tabitha gives him.
“Fair enough.” Clyde stumbles to his feet, manages to scamper two steps forward, lands on all fours, regains his feet, and makes it the rest of the way leaning heavily against the wall of the corridor.
I glance at Tabitha. She shrugs. “Best we’ve got,” she says.
Best we’ve got. God, that’s actually a pretty accurate assessment of the entire situation.
I meet Clyde at the ledge. “We’ve got to take down Friedrich,” I tell him. “Something substantial.”
Clyde turns. “Tabby, what have you got?” He starts rooting through his pockets, pulls out a large oblong battery about the size of his fist. “Preferably something that involves this.” He licks both his thumbs, presses one to one contact on the battery, leaves the other hovering over the second.
“All right,” Tabitha mutters. “Try this.” She flips around the screen of her laptop so Clyde can see.
“Oooh.” His eyes light up. “I always wanted to try that one. Possibly not very sporting of us. But then it doesn’t seem to me like the chap aiming to end all of reality as we know it is particularly sporting either. So let’s see what sort of damage we can do, shall we?”
He grins at Tabitha. Her utterly blank expression meets the smile and absorbs it without a ripple. Clyde appears oblivious. He starts to mutter.
“Calthor mal maltor cal talto.” The gibberish of magic. “Caltem kel talnor.” He presses his spare thumb to the battery’s second contact. “Feltor!” he yells. And as he does, something begins to emerge from his mouth.
A black cloud explodes out of his mouth. Smoke exhaled with a speed and ferocity that makes it seem as if it possesses a will of its own.
Clyde reels back, gasping.
The cloud streaks across the room. The smell of sulfur and soot clogs the space around us. I cough, back away, still trying to keep track of what’s happening even as my eyes start to stream.
The smoke smashes into Friedrich, seems to cling to him, cloying. He is enveloped in seconds. Jagged plumes spin out from the maelstrom, strike those around him. I see raw gashes of pitted metal left on those it hits.
“What the hell?” I manage.
“Invention of a Slovenian man, I believe,” Clyde says. His throat sounds raw. “Little caustic on the lungs unfortunately. Think I’m going to have to rest for a bit after that.” He coughs. Redness stains his lips. “Maybe longer than a moment.”
Friedrich flails. He is almost more deadly now than he was before. One hand catches an Uhrwerkmänn full in the face. The head lifts from the shoulders, flies across the room, smashes into another robot, sends it sprawling to the ground. Friedrich slams into one wall, spins around.
“Shit,” Hannah breathes. “If he blunders into the bloody Uhrwerkgerät…”
But the smoke is starting to dissipate now, the bulk of Friedrich emerging. He is still standing, but the surface of him is ruined. The once shining metal is pitted and scarred. In parts it’s worn away completely—the gearwork beneath exposed. The thick bulk of his head is ruined on one side, the steel skull showing through horribly.
“Ooph. Fucking right,” Hannah says. “Score one for the home team.”
Beside me, Clyde coughs again, more blood dribbling down his chin. “Might have to sit down in truth,” he manages, sagging downward.
I cast a look at him, concerned. “You OK?” I ask.
“Erm,” Clyde hedges, and hacks again.
“Shit,” Tabitha says, but she hasn’t looked over once at Clyde, she’s looking down into the pit.
I follow her gaze. Friedrich, the ruin of him, is standing at the heart of the frothing fight. He is staring directly at us. And I think Clyde’s spell just gave our position away.
Still at least there’s a considerable number of Uhrwe
rkmänner he’d have to wade through even to make it to the stairs. Maybe now he’s injured he’ll have a hard time making it all the way.
That thought seems to cross Friedrich’s mind too. He plunges a massive fist into the crowd, comes up clutching a smaller Uhrwerkmänn by the metallic scruff of its neck. It kicks and spits furiously. An angry dervish. Friedrich braces.
I realize what is about to happen the moment before it does.
“Oh shit.” Tabitha echoes my thoughts.
Then Friedrich’s arm sails forward. With a mighty heave he flings the Uhrwerkmänn through space toward us.
78
The Uhrwerkmänn lances through the air, a shrieking whirlwind of bronze and unfettered rage.
Tabitha shrieks, genuflects away. I dive for cover, though the chances of me making it to any sort of safety are so slim they make fashion models everywhere jealous. Whether Friedrich is aiming to land his acolyte among us, or just looking to use him as a vehicle-sized grenade, I don’t know, and I don’t think it matters.
Hannah stays on her feet, keeps firing. But those shots that do hit their target achieve nothing in impeding the course of our assailant.
Clyde staggers to his feet. Blood is running freely down his chin now. He jams a battery into his mouth. His jaw starts to work.
“No!” Tabitha yells.
The oncoming Uhrwerkmänn is yards away. Less than a fraction of a second.
Clyde’s arm comes up. He bellows a word. Blood sprays from his mouth in a great gout.
The flying Uhrwerkmänn detonates. Less than a yard from us it makes impact against a vast invisible wall. Limbs, and gears, and bronze sheet metal, and copper rods, and ball bearings fly through the air, bursting around us.
Clyde flies back as if struck. Blood sprays from his mouth and nose. He lands heavily on his back, not moving.
Pieces of the Uhrwerkmänn rain down on the Uhrwerkgerät and the fight below.
“Shit!” Tabitha rushes to Clyde, seizes his shoulder, stares. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I join her. Blood leaks from Clyde’s mouth, a slow but steady stream. It is starting to pool around his head. His breath is shallow and wet. Tabitha has an eyelid pulled back. His pupil is buried somewhere in the confines of his skull, staring at nothing.
Broken Hero Page 39
