Clockwork Heart

by Dru Pagliassotti

  “No, but the exalted and I smelled something strange,” Victor replied. “Ammonia, he says. Smelled like methanol, to me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s a funny smell to come from a refinery that’s been shut down for nearly a week.”

  Taya gave the shattered walls a second, worried look.

  “Victor and I will go inside to look around,” Cristof stated. “I want the rest of you to spread out and give an alarm if anyone runs outside. Don’t shoot. Just shout. Pyke, can you stay up in the air to follow anyone who leaves?”

  “Sure.”

  “You think there’s still someone inside?” Isobel asked.

  “Chemical fumes disperse quickly, so the smell worries me.” Cristof checked his rifle. “I should probably send one of you back to alert the nearest Tertius station, but I don’t want to risk raising a false alarm while Captain Scarios has another operation going.”

  “Cassi can go if there’s trouble,” Pyke said. “Taya needs to stay grounded.”

  Taya started to object, and Pyke laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey, I just saw you land. Your leg can’t take many more jolts like that. You want to hurt yourself so bad you’re grounded the rest of your life, like Paulo?”

  Taya thought of the crippled night watchman and shook her head. Her leg was still throbbing. She had a bad feeling she might have pulled a few stitches.

  “I’ll stay grounded unless it’s an emergency,” she acquiesced. Pyke squeezed her shoulder.

  Frowning, the exalted took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. “All right. There are three doors: the big bay door in front and the two smaller doors in back. Gregor can watch the front, and Isobel, you watch the back. You should be able to cover both doors at once. Cassilta’s got a clear view of the west side, so Lars, I want you on the east. Taya, stay with Lars. Neither of you is armed, so if you see someone, stay hidden and shout an alarm.”

  “Got it.” The big man nodded. Taya nodded, too. She would have preferred to be with Cristof and Victor, but she knew she wouldn’t be much use with a bad leg.

  They found a doorway where they could sit on the sooty stone steps and see most of the east wall of the refinery. Lars sat on the bottom step, and Taya sat higher, her wings brushing the brick sides of the entryway.

  “You okay?” Lars asked, as she bent over and touched her injured leg.

  “I think I’m bleeding again.” She tugged at the laces that were tying down the shredded leather of her pants leg and winced. “I hate being hurt.”

  “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “I had to.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  They waited, their eyes fixed on the shadowy building. The gaping windows looked like wounds, and the rubble in the street glittered with shards of broken glass.

  Minutes crawled past, and then Taya saw a glimmer of light inside the refinery. She straightened, straining to see it again.

  A shot echoed through the building, and she shot to her feet, stumbling into Lars. He steadied her and they both rushed into the street as a woman shrieked.

  Now lamplight was clearly visible from the windows, as if some barrier had fallen.

  “Don’t move,” Cristof shouted, inside the building.

  “Come on!” Taya ran across the street and scrambled over broken masonry, hardly noticing the pain shooting through her calf.

  “Wait, wait!” Lars wrapped a hand around one of the metal bars of her tailset as she braced her leather-gloved hands on a windowsill. “What are you doing?”

  “Somebody might be hurt!”

  “Emelie!” Victor’s voice, from inside the refinery. “Emelie, wait!”

  Lars shoved her away, heaving his bulk through the window. Taya waited until he was clear and then started to climb through, only to have the big man grab her by the metal keel and lift her inside. A wing hit the side of the windowsill and sent vibrations rattling through her armature.

  “You’re lighter than you look,” he grunted, setting her on her feet.

  “Ondium.” She turned.

  They stood in a huge open space filled with equipment. Several lamps burned farther away, in some kind of makeshift encampment. Another gunshot rang out, and then a third. Voices began to shout in Alzanan:

  “Put your weapons down!”

  “I only see one! Where’d the second one go?”

  Lars ran, and Taya limped after him until she spotted a metal staircase that led to a catwalk that circled the open workspace.

  A door slammed. “Vic?” Isobel’s voice.

  Taya grabbed the staircase railing and half-climbed, half-hauled herself upward to see what was happening.

  “Lars, get down!” Cristof cried out. Another shot cracked through the building. Taya yanked herself up to the catwalk and saw a figure leaning over the railing, aiming a rifle.

  “Wait!” she shouted, panicked. Then, switching to Alzanan: “Stop! You must surrender! The building is surrounded!”

  The man turned, his rifle barrel dropping. Taya threw herself forward.

  The Alzanan yanked the rifle back up, but ondium and desperation gave her the momentum she needed to close the distance before he could squeeze off a shot. Taya’s gloved hands grabbed the weapon’s barrel, shoving it aside, and she rammed a metal-protected shoulder into him. The man staggered and the rifle went off, bucking in both of their hands.

  Then she tore it from his grasp and he tried to ram an elbow into her ribs, only to hit the metal of her armature keel. He winced and used an Alzanan word she hadn’t learned yet.

  Taya slammed the rifle’s butt against the side of his head. He staggered and his legs buckled.

  “Sorry,” she said as she kicked him in groin with her metal-toed flight boot. With a strangled groan he collapsed, holding himself.

  She set the rifle down with distaste and looked over the railing.

  The Alzanans had cleared away the fallen rubble to set up a small lair inside the refinery, using scrounged blankets and boards as makeshift walls. The center was dominated by a work table covered with wire, metal pipes, buckets, and cord. Sleeping mats were scattered along one side of the room, and a wagon filled with crates stood at the northernmost end, close to the bay doors in front.

  One Alzanan was lying on the soot-covered floor next to the table, holding his arm. Blood trickled through his fingers, and his face was pale as his dark eyes darted back and forth.

  Three Alzanan gunmen crouched by the wagon, two aiming, the other reloading. They were focused on Cristof, who had taken cover behind a low stack of wooden crates. He was digging in his coat pockets for something, but from the looks of things, he wasn’t finding it. His rifle was on his lap, its breech open. The crates had several splintered bullet holes in them.

  A few feet away, Lars crouched beside some kind of heavy equipment that had been twisted and bent by the explosion. The Alzanans had a clear shot at him, but he was low and in shadow and the Alzanan with the gun seemed more worried about Cristof.

  She didn’t see Isobel, Victor, or Emelie, but from where she was standing, she could just make out someone huddled against one of the makeshift walls in an awkward position.

  Cristof stopped searching his pockets and pinched the arch of his nose. Then he set the rifle aside and rolled onto his stomach, peering around the boxes.

  One of the armed Alzanans tensed, but Cristof ducked back and the man’s finger loosened on the trigger.

  “Out of cartridges?” the Alzanan mocked, his voice loud.

  Cartridges! Taya crouched and searched the groaning Alzanan at her feet. Her hands closed on the paper-wrapped cylinders. Hoping that all rifles took the same kind of ammunition, she leaned out as far as she could.

  “Here
!” She threw them down at Cristof.

  The second Alzanan spun, squeezing off a shot that slammed into one of the catwalk supports. The whole walkway shuddered.

  “Dammit, be careful!” her victim shouted, hoarsely, in his own language. “I’m up here!”

  Taya grabbed his weapon and kicked him to make sure he’d stay down.

  “Cris!” She hurled the Alzanan’s rifle toward the exalted as hard as she could. It clattered several feet beyond him. She’d done better with the cartridges, which were now scattered around his crate.

  “I thought I told you to stay outside!” Cristof shouted, snatching up one of the cartridges and loading his rifle.

  “There are three men by the wagon. One’s reloading. It looks they’ve got four pistols between them,” she reported, gambling that the Alzanans wouldn’t take another shot at her voice and risk hitting their friend.

  She gambled wrong. She shrieked as the bullet tore into the catwalk and made it shudder and creak again.

  “Taya!”

  “I’m okay!” She backed up as far as she could, finding a shadowed area out of the circles of light cast by the lamps below. “There’s another man by the far wall. He’s not moving. It might be Kyle.”

  “Kyle!” Lars stood, his hands wrapped around a twisted metal bar that he held like a club. “Kyle, is that you?”

  Both Alzanans turned to aim. Cristof swore and leaped to his feet, his rifle pointed at the armed men.

  Lars charged.

  “No! Don’t!” Taya ran to the rail, jamming her arms into her wings.

  Cristof’s shot grazed one of the gunmen, who shouted and staggered backward. The other Alzanan fired at Lars and ducked.

  Lars stumbled, then grabbed the worktable with his free hand and flung it toward the wagon. Glass and chemicals flew, and the Alzanan flinched, throwing his arms over his face.

  Taya swung her legs over the railing, holding her arms wide.

  Cristof stood upright, holding a second cartridge between his teeth as he broke open the rifle’s breech.

  The third gunner grabbed one of the loaded pistols as Lars swung his metal club at the man who’d just fired. The club smashed into the side of the wagon, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere. His would-be victim whacked him across the shins with his empty pistol. Lars snarled and swung again. This time the Alzanan howled.

  The third Alzanan rolled under the wagon and aimed his gun at Cristof.

  “Look out!” Taya shouted, kicking away from the catwalk.

  It was a short drop, and she took it hard, the ondium barely managing to slow her fall. Cristof was still jamming his cartridge into place when she landed in front of him, her metal wings spread as wide as possible. The Alzanan’s shot reverberated through the building.

  The bullet hit one of her ondium feathers and sent a jolt running through her arm, but that was nothing compared to the agony tearing through her calf. She staggered, her wings sweeping down and clattering on the floor as she tried to catch herself.

  Then Cristof was beside her, one arm sliding under hers. Gasping, she threw an arm over his shoulder, her ondium feathers fanned out around his back.

  He spun her out of his way and fired his rifle one-handed.

  The weapon jerked out of his hand and the bullet buried itself in one of the crates on the wagon.

  Lars stomped on the fingers that were reaching for the last loaded pistol, then kicked the weapon away into the shadows.

  Taya gasped as Cristof hauled her back behind the boxes.

  “Taya?” His face was white. “Were you hit?”

  “No.” She leaned against him, tears stinging her eyes. She was sure she’d torn out her stitches this time. “Help me sit.”

  “What happened?” He lowered her to the floor. His hands were shaking.

  Taya shrugged out of her wings, letting them float uselessly around her as she looked at her leg. Blood seeped around the edges of the torn leather flight suit. She rested her forehead against her knee, feeling faint.

  Then Isobel rose up from the shadows, a rifle in her hands. She gave them a cursory glance, turned to the wagon, and swung her firearm up to her shoulder in a practiced move.

  “Lars, I have you covered,” she said, her voice calm.

  “It’s about time you got here,” the big man growled. Taya heard a thud. Someone grunted with pain. “Keep these assholes in line while I look for Kyle.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Taya felt Cristof’s cool hand on her forehead and looked up.

  “I’m all right,” she said, knowing her voice was thin with pain but unable to steady it for him. “Go help them.”

  “Just a few more minutes,” he promised, still looking ashen. He grabbed the rifle she’d thrown from the catwalk and stood, taking aim next to Isobel.

  “Got him,” Lars roared, in triumph. “It’s Kyle! He’s all right!”

  Despite her pain, Taya smiled.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cristof and Isobel finished tying up their captives. Taya sat next to Lars, who had only admitted to being winged by a bullet after Cristof had noticed the blood staining his shirt. Now he was bare-chested, his shirt pressed against his side as he inspected the boxes in the wagon.

  “This is our engine, all right,” he said, fingering a splintered hole. “I hope your bullet didn’t go all the way through, Exalted.”

  “If it did, we’ll blame it on the Alzanans,” Kyle said. As Lieutenant Amcathra had guessed, he’d suffered a head wound, but his captors had bandaged it. Other than some bruises and scraping, he looked none the worse for wear.

  “Fine with me.” Lars stood, then winced and peeled his balled-up shirt away to look at his wound. “I can’t believe I got shot for you, Kyle. I expect a raise when we get our next contract.”

  “Oh, stop complaining,” Isobel said, checking a knot. “You’re looking good compared to this guy.” She gestured to the Alzanan that Lars had caught across the ribs with his metal club. The man was fighting to breathe, wincing each time he inhaled. “He needs a doctor.”

  “He shot me.” Lars scowled. “I got scared.”

  “If that’s how you react when you’re scared, Lars, I’d hate to see you angry,” Kyle joked.

  “Hello?” Pyke edged in, then relaxed when he saw that everything was under control. “Everyone all right?”

  “We’re alive,” Cristof reported. “Have you seen Victor?”

  “He caught Emelie about two blocks from here.” Pyke looked serious. “She began babbling about bombs, so he’s taking her to the Tertius station in Gregor’s hack, and Cassi’s flying to Slagside to warn the captain. If everyone’s okay here, I’m going to head up to Primus to spread the alarm.”

  Cristof’s jaw tightened. “What bombs? How many?”

  “She called them triton bombs and said the Alzanans had made about ten of ’em. They’re set to go off at four in the morning. They were supposed to be a distraction while these guys drove the stolen engine out the city gates.”

  Cristof yanked out a pocket watch and checked it. Diamonds glittered in the lamplight, and Taya realized he was wearing his brother’s watch.

  “Three more hours.” He sounded relieved, then turned a cold look on his five prisoners. “What do you know about the bombs and their locations?”

  The Alzanans looked at each other.

  “Talk, and your cooperation will be taken under consideration when they sentence you,” Taya said, in Alzanan. “Believe me, you’d rather be sentenced as thieves than as terrorists. The Council’s not very happy with the Torn Cards right now.”

  “We’re not Torn Cards!” one of the men protested. “The cards were fakes, to fool the police. Everyone knows the Torn Cards are blamed for everything in Ondinium.”

  Taya translate
d.

  “He’s got a point,” Pyke admitted.

  “They’ll have to prove it in court.” Cristof picked up one of the Alzanans’ loaded pistols and set it against a prisoner’s kneecap. “Where are the bombs?”

  “You’d better tell him,” Taya said, in Alzanan. “He’s in a really bad mood.” She gave Cristof a warning look, but his face was blank. She hoped he was bluffing.

  After a hasty conference, the Alzanans began to talk, and Taya translated. Pyke lingered long enough to get a list of locations, then ran outside to carry the information to lictor stations across the city.

  Soon a group of lictors arrived with a wagon to pick everyone up. They stopped at the hospital to drop off the programmers, Taya, and Cristof, and then continued onward to take the prisoners to the nearest jail.

  “You don’t have to report in?” Taya asked, as Cristof slid an arm under her armature and helped her up the hospital steps.

  “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Do you think the bombs will be found?”

  Cristof’s arm tightened around her waist.

  “I hope so,” he said at last. “The Alzanans don’t have anything to gain anymore, and everything to lose.”

  A physician pulled out and replaced Taya’s stitches, a painful procedure that she bore with clenched teeth and tears in her eyes as she clung to Cristof’s hand. The physician recommended another dose of painkiller, but she refused. It would put her to sleep, and she wanted to make sure Lars and Kyle were all right.

  Then, to her dismay, the physician proceeded to give her the lecture Cristof had been visibly biting back all evening, delivering stern warnings about infection and permanent muscle damage. She was given a second set of crutches and ordered to use them, this time.

  Taya meekly complied. Her leg throbbed and her head hurt, and she would have agreed to anything to get out of there. By the time she limped into the main room, the programmers were already waiting for her.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Three stitches and some new bandages,” Kyle said, touching the back of his head. “I’ll have a bald spot for a while.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” Taya gave him a quick, awkward hug, careful not to jab him with her armature. “We were worried about you.”