Agatha was surprised to see a lone Jägermonster strolling casually down the street. People looked at it nervously out of the corner of their eyes, but were determined to act casual… which the monster soldier seemed to find quite amusing, but then, apparently, Jägermonsters found everything amusing. Except when people tried to beg for mercy. That they found downright hilarious.
This one still retained most of its humanity, as far as Agatha could see. Its frame still fit into an obviously scrounged uniform, although its arms were disturbingly long. The face was covered in what appeared to be small spikes, but that didn’t keep it from sporting a large, disturbing grin.
These days the Jägermonsters served Baron Wulfenbach, whose rule currently stretched across most of Europa, but it was unusual to see any forces of the Empire here. Relations between the Tyrant of Beetleburg and the House of Wulfenbach had been cordial ever since the city had been peacefully annexed into the Pax Transylvania over a decade ago. In spite of this, Beetleburg continued to be patrolled by the Tyrant’s own mechanical forces. Even now, one quick-stepped around the corner, jogged to the center of the block, stopped, and swiveled twice around its axis, looking for trouble. It registered the Jäger, and with a snap, extruded a pair of guns as it skipped towards it. Agatha always thought the watchmen clanks looked like indignant wind-up toys. Everyone did, really, until they started shooting.
The Jäger went still. The clank stopped three meters away from the monster soldier. There was a hiss, and then a scratchy voice asked the Jäger to slowly and clearly state its business. This should be amusing, thought Agatha. The Jägermonsters carefully cultivated and maintained their original Mechanicsburg accent. There had been numerous instances where clanks or other devices that relied on verbal instructions had, upon hearing it, simply opened fire. This was especially disconcerting when said devices were otherwise harmless household appliances.
Agatha was again surprised, as the soldier fumbled at its belt, and pulled out a crumpled bit of paper. It nervously scrutinized it for a minute, turned it upside down, checked it again and then laboriously stated, “I am coming to… the mar-ket to…” The Jäger was visibly sweating now. “To buy, not schteal… a piece of… ham.” He looked up expectantly. The entire street had gone still, and Agatha could hear the clacking as wax disks shuffled about inside the steel watchman.
The voicebox crackled to life. “Please move this horse. I believe it is dead.” With that the mechanical soldier swiveled about, and continued on down the street and bobbled around the next corner.
The Jäger blew out a huge sigh of relief, saw Agatha looking at him and gave her a cocky “thumbs up,” before tucking the paper back into the pouch at his belt and strolling on.
As the Jäger passed, the rumble and buzz of the town resumed. Housefraus resumed their dickering over soup bones, peddlers hawked candied fruits and insects, and swarms of children flowed through the crowds shrieking and looking for dropped treasures.
Agatha frowned. It wasn’t the first time that the Tyrant’s clockwork soldiers had made a harmless error, but she had been noticing them more often. Discussing it with the Tyrant, however, had proved fruitless. He frequently avowed that the Clockwork Army that had successfully defended Beetleburg for over thirty years had been declared the finest fighting force in Europa by the Baron himself, and thus wasting time and resources on them was unnecessary. Still, Agatha had heard stories about the battle clanks that the Baron’s armies used, and more and more she had found herself thinking about ways Beetleburg’s defenders could be improved—until a quick, sharp blossom of pain behind her eyes ended the chain of thought. It never failed.
Massaging her brow, Agatha found her progress was suddenly slowed by a crowd of people clustered in front of her. Focusing, she saw that she was in front of the familiar windows of the local booksellers. The display inside explained the crowd, a new Heterodyne Boys novel had arrived, and people were in line waiting for the shop to open. A card in the window displayed the title: The Heterodyne Boys and the Mystery of the Cast Iron Glacier. That sounded promising. Agatha made a mental note to put her name down on the request list at the university library. Agatha’s parents disliked the Heterodyne Boys novels, and refused to permit them in the house.
People in the bookstore line were eagerly discussing the book, analyzing the cover art, or just reminiscing about the actual Heterodyne Boys themselves.
Passions were easily aroused by this, even though the Heterodyne Boys had vanished over fifteen years ago. Things were a lot quieter now, the older people constantly reminded the younger generation, but before the Baron had imposed the Pax Transylvania, all of Europa had been a crazy quilt of kingdoms ruled by Sparks, embattled royalty, or any number of improbable and unstable combinations thereof. If a mad scientist wasn’t at war with at least two of his neighbors, it was because he had his back to the sea, and even then he had to watch out for an invasion of intelligent sea urchins. The populace at large was used mostly as soldiers, laborers, bargaining chips, or in some of the worst cases, monster chow. Into this nightmare world had come the Heterodynes, a pair of Sparks who had taken on the Sisyphean task of stopping the more malignant despots, a task which seemed to involve battling an endless stream of monsters, clanks, armies of various species, and the insane madmen who’d created them.
Now there was a legitimate school of thought that held that the Heterodynes did not actually accomplish all that much. They were, when all was said and done, just two men, two incredibly gifted Sparks accompanied by an ever-changing coterie of friends, assistants and fellow adventurers to be sure, but they could only do so much. The world produced a never-ending supply of dangerous creatures, as well as the scientists who had spawned them. But the point wasn’t that they had taken down the diabolical Doctor Doomfrenzy and his giant moss-bees, it was that there was someone actively out there, in the world, trying to make said world a better place, and in some small, measurable way, succeeding. They gave people hope, when hope was in desperately short supply.
And because of this, people remembered them as heroes. Almost everyone over a certain age could recite an incident that had, in some way, touched them personally. As she moved through the crowd, Agatha heard the old arguments about how the world would be better if the Heterodyne Boys were still around, as well as the fervent assurances that one day, Bill and Barry would return and make everything better, starting with the price of oats.
By the time Agatha cleared the crowd and hit the Street of the Cheesemongers, she had slowed to a walk and was once again deep in the mists of her own thoughts. Her feet followed the route to the University automatically, which brought her near the institution’s great bronze gates.
The answer she’d glimpsed in her dream was still there, somewhere in her head. If she concentrated, she could almost visualize the correct assembly that would make her little machine actually work. Almost… and then the order of the parts would muddle and blur, the formulae would lose themselves in the murk of her mind and her head would feel as though it were filled with honey—thick and comforting, but impossible to work through. If she could just filter out all of the distractions… She unconsciously hummed a few notes… trying to sharpen her mental sight and cut through the sticky thoughts…
She was so busy chasing ideas around her own head that she didn’t notice the cries of surprise from the people around her, or the electrical smell on the air. A small arc of blue electricity leaping from the metal rims of her glasses to her nose brought her back to the present and she gave a small yelp.
And then a hole in the sky opened up. A huge silver figure pointed the accusation at her as an unearthly voice rang out: “—LIKE THAT?”
In his long military career, Machinist Second Class Moloch von Zinzer had sampled quite a wide variety of alcoholic concoctions. In good times they were made from potatoes, grapes, or sometimes barley. However, in his experience, decent brews could be wrung from wheat, oats, rye, honey, pears, melons, corn, apples, berries, tur
nips, seaweed, sorghum, sugar beets, buckwheat, zucchini, rice, yams, sunflowers, artichokes, cattails or giant mushrooms. It was sort of a hobby, and one that made him popular with his fellows.
One used what one was able to scrounge, which meant that the drinks were usually brewed up on spare bits of madboy equipment, so occasionally the stuff was blue, or caused you to grow an extra set of ears, but it usually got the job done. But this—this was a new low. He looked at the crudely printed label on the bottle in his hand. “Beetle Beer” it proclaimed. Fair enough, he thought, I can believe that.
Moloch sighed and took another pull. What made it even worse were the smells that even the dank air of the little back alley couldn’t hide. Shops selling all kinds of foodstuffs lined the streets, the rich aromas of cheese, sausages and pastries filled his head. To a soldier who’d seen the outside world, a world filled with shattered towns and endless kilometers of abandoned farms, the sight of shops piled high with food that could be bought directly off the street by anyone with a little money was astonishing. It was like stepping into a world he’d thought lost forever. The bread was the worst. He’d have killed for any one of the fresh loaves he could smell baking.
So what had Omar spent the last of their money on? Beetle Beer. Well, it was sort of like bread, and it was all the breakfast he was going to get. When money failed, philosophy would have to do.
Moloch took a long look at his brother. Of all of the companions that he could have been left with, lost in strange territory, his brother Omar was surely at the bottom of his list. He stood in the middle of the alley, despite his wounded leg, swilling his beer with characteristic nervous energy. Moloch wished that Omar would pull up a crate, relax, and for just once, not be poised to fight. Moloch was well-and-truly tired of fighting. Omar would never get enough. He had laughed off Moloch’s protests over the lack of breakfast. He’d find money enough, somewhere. Moloch didn’t like to think where.
Out in the street, shouts erupted. A bright electrical light flared, the shouts turned into screams and a girl wearing an overlarge officer’s coat ran down the alley toward them. In her panic she tripped on a box and landed sprawling at their feet. Her glasses flew off her nose and skittered out of arm’s reach.
Agatha blinked. There were muddy boots a few inches from her nose, and she realized that she had just missed plowing into their owner. She looked up. The uniform proclaimed a soldier, its condition implied hard use. Although his face was blurred, she could see that he was smiling, and that it wasn’t a nice smile. A bottle dangled from one hand.
Agatha had led a fairly sheltered life, but even she could tell that this person was bad news. Her eyes never left Omar’s as her hands franticly patted the ground about her, unsuccessfully searching for her glasses.
“Well! What have we here?” Omar eyed her speculatively. “Obviously our very own angel of mercy, here to help out a couple of poor lost soldiers who are down on their luck.”
Moloch could see his brother’s habitual nastiness gearing up. His heart sank. Begging and intimidation. So they were reduced to that. He shifted in his seat on a stack of crates. The girl started, she hadn’t seen him right away. “Ha. She must know that you just spent our last groat on this swill you call booze. Well, help her up, Omar. Show her we can be friendly.” Moloch tried to keep his tone happy. Maybe she wouldn’t notice the edge to Omar’s voice. Maybe she could be convinced to give them a handout quickly, and go away, before Omar had a chance to get them into trouble. Ho ho, look at us, two jolly soldier boys, just like in the music halls. Except one of us is a murderous bastard who couldn’t keep out of trouble in a locked duffel… He smiled at Agatha. “Spare some change, Miss?”
Omar stepped toward Agatha. He had got round her as she stumbled to her feet, and was now between her and the alley mouth. “Oh, no, she can spare more than that, look at that fine locket!”
Agatha abandoned the search for her glasses and backed up, eyes huge. Beetleburg was a safe town, but mothers still passed down stories about what soldiers did to girls who didn’t take care. Being mugged was a new experience, and her head was still humming from the shock of the apparition in the street, but Agatha still knew she was in trouble.
“A pretty little townie like this, she’ll have a whole box of the stuff at home. She’ll never miss a couple of small gifts to the deserving. And then—” Omar’s grin grew even larger. “Maybe she’ll let us show her just how nice we can be.”
While a lot of the advice and instruction that Agatha’s parents had passed down had been either tantalizingly vague or dryly academic, certain situations had been discussed in detail, as well as their possible consequences. This was one of them.
As Omar reached out towards her chest, Agatha sidestepped him neatly, grabbed Moloch’s bottle and in one fluid motion swung it round to connect with Omar’s face. Moloch had to admit that it was a superb shot, but with nowhere near enough force to do anything useful. Agatha looked a bit surprised at what she had done, but gamely swung again, and this time Omar was ready. He stepped within her swing, grabbed her lapel, jerked her off balance and delivered two quick slaps that set Agatha’s head ringing. As she slumped, Omar’s eyes narrowed and a grin of anticipation crossed his face as he slowly drew his fist back.
Suddenly Moloch’s hand gripped his upper arm. “That’s enough, Sergeant,” he roared in his best military voice. As he’d hoped, the reference to rank checked Omar’s swing.
Omar had endured enough punishment duty that its memory could stop him when appeals to reason failed. “She hit me,” he hissed petulantly. “I am not taking that from a lousy civilian!” He tried to shake off Moloch’s restraining arm.
“Stop it, you fool! Don’t you remember what they do to people in this town? Do you want to wind up in one of those damned jars?”
That stopped Omar, as it stopped a lot of people. The Tyrant of Beetleburg had little patience for those who broke his laws. A popular punishment consisted of simply placing wrongdoers inside large glass jars in the public squares. There they eventually died of thirst or hunger. Their bodies lay undisturbed until a new lawbreaker was put in. Consequently, the locals rarely broke the law.
Omar nodded to his brother, but a smirk twisted his face as he drew a dazed Agatha toward him. “Okay, doll, it’s been fun, but we have to leave. To remember these happy times—” with a flick of his wrist, he gripped, twisted, and snapped off the large golden trilobite locket at Agatha’s throat, “—I’ll just take a little souvenir.”
Agatha’s eyes bugged, but before she could yell, Omar swung his foot and swept her feet out from under her. She collapsed in a heap on the ground as he took off down the alley with a laugh and a wave. “Thanks for the souvenir!”
Moloch trotted along after him, with both of their duffels under his arm. “You are such an asshole,” he hissed. Omar grinned.
Agatha scrambled to get up. She spotted a glint upon the ground, which proved to be her glasses, thankfully undamaged. Her anger finally roared up and gave voice. “BRING BACK MY LOCKET!” she screamed, as she went pounding up the alley in pursuit. She burst out onto the street and was confronted by a milling crowd of soldiers and ordinary citizens. Of the great hole in the sky, there was no sign, as there was no sign of the two thieves.
Agatha felt tears well up in her eyes. “You miserable wretched knaves,” she fumed. “I’ll inform the Watch on you!” Her voice started to climb in volume, and a wild note entered her voice. People in the vicinity began to regard her with suspicion and then fear, as her voice entered registers that set off alarm bells in their heads. “They’ll comb the city, and they’ll find you, and when they do, they’ll put you in the jars, and I’ll come down every day and watch you beg and scream and claw at the glass as you die slowly—like the miserable rats you are!”
She took another deep breath and then to the onlookers it seemed as if an invisible bolt of lightning had struck her in the head. Agatha clutched at her temples and screamed in pain as she collapsed to
her knees. Another headache. She always got them when she got worked up, and this one reflected her rage with skull-splitting force. A small crowd formed, but no one approached. When people acted strange, anything could happen. In addition to the pain, Agatha felt a wave of embarrassment flow over her.
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity over to one side, and a tall figure loomed over her. A greenish, hirsute hand offered her a canteen. Agatha looked up into the interested face of a Jägermonster. A different one than the one she’d spotted before. “Hey dere, gorgeous.” He smiled a smile with way too many teeth. “Iz you okeh, or iz you gonna change into sum kinda giant ting mit no clothes on?”
The concept caused Agatha to blink in surprise, and wonderfully, her headache began to recede, almost as quickly as it had arrived. That was a rare and welcome occurrence. She climbed unsteadily to her feet while trying desperately to look like she wasn’t avoiding the monster’s proffered hand. “Um… not this time.”
“Oh vell, ken’t vin dem all.” The canteen disappeared with a gurgle. The main clock in the Market Square began to toll. Agatha’s head whipped around. The hands stood at seven. “Oh no! Oh NO! I’m LATE!”
Taking off like a shot, Agatha pelted off down the street. The crowd dispersed and yet another Jägersoldier joined his companion. “So vot hyu say to her, eh? Not de old fang polish line again?”
“I din say notting!” He looked after the retreating girl and a quick smile twisted his upper lip. “Pity doh, she smelt verra nize.”
Late! Late! Late! Dr. Merlot would have her boil every bottle in the building before she could go home tonight, and little he’d care for her stolen locket. He was Dr. Beetle’s second in command, and while not a Spark himself, was as ruthlessly despotic as one. He drove everyone around him as hard as he drove himself, seemingly trying for a breakthrough by the sheer amount of misery he caused his subordinates. He had been with Dr. Beetle for the last twenty years, and had resented Agatha’s presence almost from the moment she had been brought into the lab as an assistant, but Dr. Beetle was The Tyrant, and one did not argue with The Tyrant. There were times Agatha wished that she had been assigned to another lab, but she had to admit that the most interesting work was being done by the Doctor himself.
Agatha H. and the Airship City Page 2
