The Man of Bronze

by James Alan Gardner

  “Not a whim,” Silver protested. “Destroying Bronze is more important to me than anything else in the world. But if you remove Bronze’s threat hanging over my head, I would have no reason to betray you. I would be safe . . . and grateful. Very, very—”

  “Oh shut up,” I said. “You’re a lying pig who’ll say anything. All you’ve accomplished with this talk is to make me think better of Bronze. I used to doubt the wisdom of reassembling a supernatural RoboCop; but if he’s here to drag your sorry carcass back to some android lockup, hallelujah and how do I help? You’re a worthless, conscienceless parasite who’s caused nothing but trouble since the day you came to Earth. I assume it’s the fault of your programming—you’re supposed to be a shallow wastrel—but that doesn’t mitigate the damage you’ve done. The sooner Bronze catches you, the better. I just hope I’m there to see it.”

  For a moment, Silver stared as if he couldn’t believe I’d resisted his charms. A real man might have seethed at my rejection; but after a few seconds, Silver just shrugged. He wasn’t programmed for furious outbursts—a pleasure bot, even a totally amoral one, would be designed to have an even temper.

  He’d also be long on patience—seducers have to be. Silver would always give a woman a chance to change her mind. I was counting on that.

  “Guards,” he said . . . not raising his voice, just speaking as if they were in the room with us. Half a second later, they were: running in from the corridor and through two side doors. Eight men—three with Uzis, two with Tasers, two with tranq guns, and one with handcuffs and leg irons. Only the last ventured within arm’s reach of me; the rest stayed well back, weapons ready, until I was thoroughly manacled.

  Silver came forward and caressed my chin. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I shall not take no as your final answer. Once you have thought this over—especially the danger to your friends if you do not cooperate—I’m sure you will choose more prudently. In the meantime . . .” He gave a dramatic sigh. “I allowed you to wake in a lovely bedroom to show you my generosity. But as I have mentioned, this house has less amiable accommodations.”

  He turned to the guards. “Take her to the dungeon. Do your best to make her uncomfortable.”

  14

  LOCATION UNKNOWN: THE CELL

  They didn’t actually torture me. They just disarmed me, marched me to the cellar, removed my chains, and locked me in a holding cell where I could contemplate my fate. Hours or days or weeks later, when Silver thought I’d be more pliable, he’d begin the next phase of “persuasion”—probably torturing Teresa, Ilya, or Lord Horatio right before my eyes.

  It was all entirely predictable . . . which is why I’d refused Silver’s offer. If I’d said yes, he would have whipped me onto a private jet and flown me straight to St. Bernward’s Monastery. Mercenaries would have flown with me, partly to attack the Order of Bronze after I’d set off the bomb and partly to make sure I didn’t try any funny business. Meanwhile, my friends would be held prisoner here, wherever “here” was, to be tortured or killed if I disobeyed orders.

  A bad situation no matter how you looked at it. Better to let myself be thrown into the dungeon. That way, I remained close to my friends. I also might find a way to escape. If worse came to worst, I could always say yes to Silver later . . . but only after I’d exhausted other alternatives.

  Besides, there was a chance Bronze would arrive on his own. Silver had slipped up: in the Sargasso Sea, he and Urdmann had communicated using an encryption method unknown to current technology. It must have been some coding technique Silver learned back “home.” Bronze had recognized the code as soon as we asked him to translate the message—that’s why the metal “detective” had been so excited. Now Bronze would focus his resources on Lancaster Urdmann, trying to find out how Urdmann had learned the code. The RoboCop android would track Urdmann’s every movement, calling in favors from law-enforcement agencies all around the world. It was only a matter of time before someone found a lead that connected Urdmann to Silver . . . and more time before someone sifted through enough data files to locate Silver’s hideout.

  Silver wouldn’t keep a low profile. I’d only just met him, but I knew his type. He’d spend money like water, leaving an audit trail that Bronze could eventually follow. Soon enough, an armed task force would arrive to catch Silver once and for all.

  Not that I intended to wait for rescue like a damsel in distress. I allowed myself a moment to daydream: imagining myself breaking out of the cell, sneaking upstairs, finding the bomb Silver wanted to use on Bronze, blowing Silver to pieces using his own “ethereal energies.”

  Yes. That would be nice. I set about making the dream a reality.

  My cell was spartan: stone block walls, a stout wooden ceiling with eight-by-eight beams running across it, a bare cement floor with an open drain in the back, and a single door made from iron bars. I’d seen similar setups in castles dating to the 1500s.

  There was, however, a modern touch: the lock on the door was electronic, controlled by a swipe-card and keypad arrangement on the opposite wall. Even if I somehow got hold of a security card, the swipe receptacle was too far away for me to reach from the cell. I also didn’t know the numeric key code. When I’d been locked in, a guard stood directly in front of the keypad as he entered the code, making it impossible for me to see what numbers he punched in.

  I could see no security cameras spying on me. The room outside my door was almost as barren as my cell; blank walls, another cell—empty—and a solid steel door leading away. I’d seen what lay beyond that door when I was escorted down here: a wine cellar filled with racks of dusty bottles, plus a staircase ascending to the main floor. If there really was a torture chamber down here, I hadn’t seen it . . . but then, the wine cellar’s racks had blocked my view of much of the basement.

  With nothing else to do, I began a careful investigation of my cell—on the off chance I’d find some vulnerability to exploit. I was still searching when the door to the outer room opened.

  “Lara. Fancy meeting you here.”

  It was Urdmann. He had a gun.

  The gun was a gawky-looking thing: an LEI Mark 2 pistol, similar to a Ruger Mark 2 but with an extended barrel. I happened to know the barrel served as an excellent silencer. The pistol had an international reputation as an assassin’s weapon; its caliber was small—it only shot .22s—but it was very quiet and acceptably lethal when fired point-blank into the heart or skull. No sensible killer would use the LEI Mark 2 at long range or against a moving target—it just didn’t have the stopping power. But for shooting an unarmed victim locked in a tiny cell? The gun was perfect.

  “Hello, Lancaster,” I said. “Here for a visit?”

  “No. This is business.”

  He closed the door behind him. Just the two of us together. Old chums having a chat.

  “What kind of business?” I asked.

  He gave me a nasty smile. “I took the liberty of eavesdropping on your conversation with my employer. I heard what he offered you.” Urdmann checked the pistol to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber. “Silver is a double-crossing bastard: always has been, always will be. I expected he’d invite you to take my place. He’s told me plenty about his past; and in the stories, his second in command is always a beautiful woman. I should feel honored to be an exception—my skills and connections are so good, he hired me even though I’m a man. But Silver can never resist a pretty face. I’ve already killed four women he was grooming to replace me. You’ll be the fifth.”

  “And Silver keeps you on, even though you execute his women?”

  “I get him other women,” Urdmann said. “Ones without brains but with all the physical charms Silver could desire. In other words, women who don’t threaten my position. Silver has such a short attention span, he can’t hold grudges. If I kill one of his favorites but find him somebody else, he forgets there was ever a problem.”

  “He might not be forgiving this time.” I’d moved to the back of my cell, but
was uncomfortably aware that wouldn’t be good enough. I had no room to dodge, and Urdmann was standing far enough from the door that I couldn’t reach him. I didn’t even have anything to throw; the guards had divested me of everything except the improvised clothing I wore. “The other women you killed,” I told Urdmann, “weren’t as valuable as I am. I have connections with the Order of Bronze. Silver cares more about neutralizing his bronze enemy than anything else in the world.”

  “I’ll say I was only protecting him.” Urdmann gave me a look. “No one really believes you’ll join Silver’s team. You’re too much the hero—too noble by half, defending the realm and its outdated virtues. Few people ever believed in those virtues, Lara . . . certainly not the people who built the British Empire by killing every wog who got in the way. But there were always a handful of blue-blooded toffs so out of touch with reality, they insisted on acting honorably: like knights of the bleedin’ Round Table.”

  Urdmann raised his gun and sighted at me along the barrel. “That’s you, Lara: a deluded knight. You’ll never sign up with Silver—not really. You might make a show of playing along, but you’ll double-cross us as soon as you can. Even Silver knows that. He just hopes if he keeps you alive, you’ll give him a shag to pretend you’re on his side.” Urdmann rolled his eyes. “Look at it this way, Lara. If I kill you now, I’m saving you from that indignity.”

  “A better way to do that would be setting me free.” I looked Urdmann in the eye. “Onetime offer, Lancaster. Let me out right now, and I won’t kill you. You’re scum, and you deserve to be put down like a dog . . . but it’s obvious Silver is the greater evil. Whatever role you had in Reuben’s death, I’m willing to let you off the hook because Silver was the one in charge. Just this once, I promise not to hunt you down if you’ll open this door.”

  He looked at me a long moment . . . then laughed. “I admire your audacity, Lara, but your bargaining position is nonexistent. In a moment, your life will be too. Good-bye.”

  Urdmann pulled the trigger.

  Though I had almost no room, I tried to dodge anyway. The pistol gave a pock sound and something burned into my upper arm. At least it didn’t pierce my brain or aorta. I was preparing to dodge again when the door to the wine cellar flew open.

  Urdmann half turned to face the door. A gun went off outside, far louder than the silenced pistol. Urdmann jerked as if hit by a heavy impact and tried to lift his gun. Another shot rang out from the wine cellar. Scarlet splashed across Urdmann’s stomach. He grunted and opened his mouth in surprise. A third shot caught him right in the chest. More scarlet spilled onto his shirt. He fell.

  Three guards entered, Uzis drawn. The one at the front of the formation pointed to Urdmann’s body and told the other two, “Get him out.” The two guards scowled but grabbed Urdmann’s arms and dragged him away.

  “He tried his trick once too often,” the remaining guard said, more to himself than to me. “That arrogant son of a bitch always guns down Silver’s women. This time, the boss posted us to keep watch.”

  I said, “Wish you’d watched . . . a little better . . .” I toppled over, smacking the floor hard.

  Here’s what the guard must have seen: I was down on the ground, on my side, unmoving, clutching a bloodstained hand to my chest.

  Here’s what I hoped the guard didn’t see: the blood had come from my arm. Since I was lying on the injured side, the wound wouldn’t be visible. I definitely could feel it—yes, indeed, I felt it as it pressed the hard cement—but as a connoisseur of Grievous Bodily Harm, I could tell this gunshot was as mild as they come . . . “just a graze,” as they say in Hollywood Westerns. I couldn’t even feel a bullet embedded in my flesh. It had only brushed past me and flattened itself against the cell wall.

  But the guard didn’t know that. He’d come through the door after Urdmann fired. All he saw was my blood-damp hand pressed against my heart.

  “Damn!” he shouted. He fumbled with the security system: the swipe card and keypad. The electronic lock on my cell door went click . . . but I didn’t move until the guard rushed in and turned me over on my back to see how badly I was hurt.

  Never let it be said I’m an ingrate. The guard had apparently stopped Urdmann from killing me. He even showed concern I might die . . . though that may have been more on his own behalf than mine. Silver had commanded this guard to keep me safe; there’d be serious punishment if I gave up the ghost. But even if the guard was mostly worried for his own skin, I bore him no ill will.

  So I put him down gently. As he bent to check my wound, I lifted my legs and locked my calves around his neck: an application of the sleeper hold once popular in wrestling. The essence of the technique is to block the carotid arteries so blood stops flowing to the brain. Squeeze too long, and the effect is fatal . . . but if you time it right, you can knock someone out in under ten seconds.

  Not surprisingly, the guard went for his Uzi. My hands were free; I grabbed him and we tussled over the gun. It wasn’t much of a fight—my blood choke leg hold soon made him dizzy. Then it made him unconscious. I relaxed my grip as the man slumped out cold on top of me.

  Usually, I disdain the cliché of dressing in a guard’s uniform during a prison break. It seldom fools anyone, and you almost never get the right size shoes. Other apparel can be made to fit, approximately, with enough tucking or loosening of seams; but shoes have to be a decent match for your feet or they’re just more trouble than they’re worth.

  This time, however, I made an exception. The clothes I had on—my assemblage of hastily altered frocks—had ripped and split shamefully just in my light scuffle with the guard. They’d never stand up to the sort of action I might encounter later. Better to dress myself in the guard’s kit, no matter how badly it fit. Besides, the unconscious man wasn’t grotesquely larger than me; his outfit bagged around my body, and I had to roll up his trouser cuffs more than six inches, but it could have been worse. And the boots were only a few sizes too big. I stuffed them with scraps of my former clothing—swatches ripped off the little black dress—until my feet stopped slopping about in the boots’ cavernous interiors.

  Clothes weren’t all I removed from the guard’s body. I also took his Uzi, a ring of keys, and his security swipe card. The card wouldn’t help much on its own—the security system needed both a card and a keyed-in code—but people have a silly habit of writing down codes in places they think no one will ever look. If I was lucky, I’d find one. If I was even luckier, I wouldn’t need it.

  I left the guard in my cell. The door automatically locked when I shut it. When the guard woke up he might holler for help, but I deemed the cell area adequately soundproof. Eventually some patrol or jail keeper would come down here and find I was missing, but by the time they raised an alarm, I hoped my friends and I would be long gone.

  The wine cellar was empty. No blood on the floor where the guards had dragged Urdmann away. Perhaps Urdmann hadn’t been fatally wounded; but at that moment, I didn’t especially care whether he was dead or alive. Silver was more of a blight than Lancaster Urdmann could ever be: ten thousand years of villainy. I’d have to find a way to put the android down.

  But not immediately. Though Silver wouldn’t hesitate to lie, I believed what he’d said about his metal body being difficult to damage. I couldn’t hurt Silver with any weapons that might come easily to hand; so rather than waste effort, now was the time to run. I’d get Teresa, Ilya, and Lord H. to safety. Then I’d go back to Bronze and see if he could arm me with something that would take the sparkle out of Silver’s day.

  Quietly, I climbed the cellar steps. No one was visible when I reached the main floor. For the benefit of watching security cameras, I put on a confident guardlike stride and walked down the corridor toward the stairs that led to the bedrooms.

  The door to Silver’s art studio, at the base of the stairs, was still open. I couldn’t help glancing inside as I passed. The room was empty—Silver must have given up painting for the night. On a sudden impulse
, I entered the room.

  People say art reflects the artist’s soul. I wanted to know my enemy. Not that the pictures told me much. As I’ve said, they were all female nudes—painted with an odd combination of precision and excess. Every portrait conveyed a photographic degree of accuracy, yet none of the pictures struck me as quite believable. The women all seemed to be gushing toward the viewer . . . as if Silver painted paramours who all wordlessly gave the message I want you, I need you, I love you! All these women were “gagging for it,” as the cruder girls at Gordonstoun used to say. I suspected that was more Silver’s fantasy than the unvarnished truth.

  In disgust, I began to leave . . . but something on the far wall caught my eye: a canvas showing a pale young woman from an era when fashionable ladies never exposed themselves to strong sunlight. One edge of the painting was a smidgen out of alignment with its neighbor—a hint of recent disturbance. I checked and found exactly what I suspected. The frame was hinged to swing out. Behind was a metal door: a wall safe.

  I smacked myself on the forehead. Of course, Silver would have a safe hidden behind a painting—it was the oldest trick in the book. The safe was old too: probably as old as the house, with its dusty wine cellar and aged marble stairs.

  If the safe had been more modern, I would have left it alone. I know better than to tamper with high-tech computerized locks that trigger an alarm if you look at them sideways. But this was an ordinary combination lock, with a big brass dial that ran from 1 to 60. I gave it a spin. I could hear tumblers tumbling. It almost embarrassed me to take advantage of such a poor defenseless security mechanism—it was probably state-of-the-art back in the 1800s but now it had become a pathetic pushover. Thirty seconds later, I had it open.

  Inside was a bronze leg: complete. Thigh, calf, and foot joined into a single whole. I thought of the mutating power in any single bronze body part and shuddered at how much there must be in three combined. Enough to make a dozen evil twins or to turn me into a demented bronze platypus.