Fighting Iron 2: Perdition Plains

by Jake Bible

  “It’s just a simple interface,” Clay said, reaching out again with his eyes locked onto Torsten. “You can scroll through different readings and activate the long-range coms.”

  “Such as you did last evening,” Thaddeus said.

  “If you say so,” Clay replied as he took the watch again. He began swiping through the readings, puzzled at why it didn’t work for Thaddeus. “Only the lock is dialed into my specific biometrics. Once open, anyone can navigate the different settings.”

  “That does not seem secure,” Thaddeus said, watching Clay’s movements carefully. “You could be coerced into opening it then anyone will have control of your mech.”

  “You really don’t know how mechs work, do you?” Clay said then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. No, the watch doesn’t control the mech. Only a pilot can do that.”

  “We have a pilot,” Thaddeus said. “You will grant him access to your mech.”

  “Why?” Clay asked and snapped the watch closed. Estelle hissed.

  Clay tucked the watch into his vest pocket and Torsten moved towards him, but Thaddeus stayed the giant with the touch of his hand on the man’s leg. Torsten stayed where he was for a second then returned to the corner once again.

  “Why would I grant some stranger access to my mech?” Clay asked.

  “Because we will it,” Thaddeus said.

  “You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?” Clay sighed. “Yeah, I’ve been around your lot most of my life. The Brazilian Empire is full of people like you.”

  “We are the folks in charge,” Thaddeus said. “You will grant our pilot access to your mech.”

  “I don’t think so,” Clay said.

  “You will grant our pilot access to your mech,” Thaddeus repeated. “You will do this. There is no question of it.”

  “You know what? I think there is a huge question of it,” Clay said.

  His body was still weak, tired, beat up, and starving, but hell if he was going to sit there and just let some skin-clad skeleton from another century tell him what he was and wasn’t going to do with his mech.

  Clay was up on his feet. He lifted the chair and swung it as hard as he could manage as Torsten rushed him. The chair became splinters, and Clay quickly found himself lifted off his feet by his neck as the freak gripped his throat with one hand. But that’s exactly what Clay had expected.

  The knife slid into Torsten’s chest with surprising ease. Clay gagged, not just because Torsten was choking the life out of him, but because the smell that emanated from the knife wound was severely overpowering. Clay had thought the place stunk before, it was a million times worse in a matter of one thrust of his knife.

  Despite the olfactory assault, Clay yanked the knife free and plunged it into Torsten’s chest again and again, each stab perfectly aimed where Torsten’s heart lay. Or should have. After the sixth stab, and absolutely no reaction from the giant, Clay wondered if perhaps Torsten’s anatomy was as off as his appearance.

  He didn’t have much time to wonder as his vision began to darken in direct proportion to his airway being crushed.

  “That is enough, Torsten,” Thaddeus said.

  Clay was dropped instantly. It was a long fall.

  “Please provide Mr. MacAulay with another chair,” Thaddeus ordered. Torsten clomped off then returned with a new chair.

  Clay grabbed a splintered chair leg that was close at hand and jammed it directly into Torsten’s crotch. The giant showed no sign his junk had been stabbed. He simply grabbed Clay’s wrist and pulled, removing the chair leg from his nether regions. Then he backhanded Clay.

  After flying halfway across the room and landing in an almost broken heap, Clay lay there for a couple minutes before he painfully held his hands up.

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Clay said. “Don’t tussle with Torsten. Message received loud and clear.”

  It took him considerable effort to get to his feet, but he did. The folks in charge waited patiently until he was able to hobble his way into the new chair.

  “What the hell is he?” Clay asked, his eyes going to Torsten’s corner where the giant had returned yet again. “He’s not human.”

  “That is not for you to say,” Thaddeus replied.

  “No, I suppose it’s not,” Clay said.

  “You will grant our pilot access to your mech,” Thaddeus said.

  “I reckon I will,” Clay said. “But, I’m telling you, granting your pilot access isn’t going to make a damn bit of difference. Piloting a mech isn’t like driving a roller, especially not the wagon kind you all have. Hell, even if your pilot had the skills needed, which I highly doubt, my mech is in no shape to do anything.”

  “The power cell alternators do not work,” Thaddeus said. “Yes, we are aware of that. Repairs are being made as we speak.”

  “They are?” Clay asked, pleasantly surprised.

  Working alternators solved a lot of his problems. His mind quickly began to formulate an exit strategy. All he needed to do was get inside his mech, and Gibbons could get him the hell out of Perdition Plains. Maybe not back to NorthAm, considering the prior reception, but anywhere was preferable to the nightmare that was the Midlands.

  “You have power cell alternators for a battle mech just lying around?” Clay asked. “But you don’t have grey?”

  “Grey is not the issue,” Thaddeus said. “And we do not have power cell alternators lying around. There is no need for them. Our people are quite proficient making do with the parts we do have at hand. You would be surprised with what nature provides.”

  Clay didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Holcomb has been busy working through the night to make the appropriate repairs,” Thaddeus said.

  “He has?” Clay asked. “He didn’t say anything to me. The way he was talking, it sounded like he’d left it alone.”

  “He said there had been no additional harm done to your mech,” Thaddeus stated.

  “Yeah, that is what he said,” Clay responded. “How’d you know…? Never mind. I don’t care. Can someone just take me to my mech so I can see what you have done?”

  “Of course,” Thaddeus said. “Torsten will drive you.”

  “Oh, come on,” Clay exclaimed. “After what I just did to him? I don’t know how the guy is standing.”

  “That is not for you to know,” Estelle said. “Nature has a way.”

  “Pretty sure our definitions of nature ain’t exactly the same, lady,” Clay said.

  “Torsten,” Thaddeus called. “Please take Mr. MacAulay back to the locks. He has much work to do today.”

  Clay sighed and stood up. If everything had hurt before, it hurt doubly at that moment. Torsten walked past him and out the doors. Clay looked each of the folks in charge directly in the eye then shook his head.

  “You all have one strange town here,” Clay said. “I’ll be glad when our business is concluded and I can be on my way.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Mr. MacAulay,” Thaddeus said. He nodded at the open doors, causing a loud creak from his neck. “You had better catch up with Torsten. He does not like to wait once an order is given.”

  “Yeah, I’d hate to make Torsten wait or anything,” Clay said. He tipped his nonexistent hat. “Dammit…”

  It was a long and quiet ride. Torsten was not much of a conversationalist, and Clay felt no need to fill the silence with useless chatter. Instead, he took the time to close his eyes and catch some much-needed rest. It wasn’t exactly sleep, but it was better than nothing.

  When they reached the locks, Clay was surprised by how much work had been done. The grounds were clear of the piles of dead bison and in their place waited roller wagon after roller wagon with trailers attached. Several had hides stacked up over the sides with quite a few more holding piles of stripped bones. About three dozen roller wagons were covered over with heavy tarps, and Clay guessed those held the bison meat.

  Even from inside the roller wagon Clay rode in, he could
smell the meat had already turned. He looked away from the tarp-covered wagons as the sight of the fluids dripping from their seams turned his stomach even more sour than it already was.

  “You got some busy bees working for the folks in charge,” Clay said as Torsten brought the roller wagon to a stop. The tweeners team settled down, becoming as motionless as Torsten was next to Clay. “Thanks for the ride. Much appreciated.”

  Clay extricated himself from the roller wagon, which took a lot longer than it should since his body was less than healthy. Torsten didn’t even wait a second before snapping the reins and turning the roller wagon around in a tight circle, just barely avoiding running Clay over. Clay watched the roller wagon until it was a speck in the distance then searched the area for his mech.

  Considering its size, it should have been easy to spot, but Clay didn’t see it anywhere.

  “Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said as he jogged up to Clay. “I’ve been told you are here to help Mr. Bell get acquainted with your mech.”

  “Not that I have much choice,” Clay said. Holcomb shifted uncomfortably. “Doesn’t matter. Getting into these types of situations is something I’m good at. I’m also good at getting myself out of these situations, Holcomb. Just thought you should know.”

  “I see,” Holcomb responded, showing no sign he understood the implication. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your mech.”

  Holcomb began walking towards the locks and the Vernacht mech. Clay frowned.

  “I don’t see it,” Clay said. “You sure you didn’t lose it?”

  “Oh, no, it is safe,” Holcomb said. “We placed it in the drained locks. It made it much easier to repair. It would have become a quagmire if we tried to work on it in the dirt.”

  “Quagmire? How?” Clay asked.

  “Best to see with your own eyes,” Holcomb said.

  “Do I want to?” Clay asked.

  “You get used to it,” Holcomb said.

  “Everyone keeps talking like I’m going to be here for a while,” Clay said. “I really don’t think I am.”

  “I thought that once too,” Holcomb muttered. “That was a long while ago.”

  Clay’s intended response was lost as they reached the concrete edge of the locks. His jaw dropped as he saw what was being done to his mech. He immediately pulled out his watch and thumbed it open so Gibbons would know he was there. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t have to.

  “Clay!” Gibbons shouted into his ear. “They’re using bison parts on my mech! BISON PARTS!”

  Eleven

  “Clay! Are you listening to me?” Gibbons kept shouting. “These people are fusing dead flesh to my mech! Half the right knee is being retrofitted with what I think are hip tendons! Clay! Dammit, pal, talk to me!”

  Holcomb side-eyed Clay. “I’m willing to wager your AI is a little upset right now,” Holcomb said.

  “My what?” Clay responded, trying to act like that very AI wasn’t screeching in his ear.

  “No need to pretend with me,” Holcomb said as he pointed at the Vernacht several meters away. “I’m familiar with mechs enough to know that a battle mech like yours ain’t gonna work without a sophisticated AI. You got one of them outlawed thinkers in there, don’t ya?”

  “Hold on, Gibbons,” Clay said. “Let me work this out. Keep the com open.” He snapped the watch closed since he was in range of the mech’s systems and didn’t need the long-range booster. Clay faced Holcomb. “Explain. Now.”

  With a jerk of his head, Holcomb indicated the dozens and dozens of roller wagons with their teams of tweeners.

  “You seen what we can do to bison,” Holcomb said. “Same principal, but in reverse. Instead of augmenting a body made of flesh with mechanical parts, we’re augmenting your mech’s mechanical body with flesh parts.”

  “That’s not possible,” Clay said.

  “Of course it is,” Holcomb replied. “Take a closer look at the Vernacht.”

  Clay had to force himself to look away from the sight of the abomination his mech was quickly becoming. He glanced over at the Vernacht, not seeing anything. Then he realized that’s because parts of the Vernacht had browned and greyed with not only age, but layers and layers of dust and dirt. There was a roundness to some parts that shouldn’t have been there.

  “Holy shit,” Clay said. “How?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Holcomb said. “And I’d be lying if I told you I developed the process.”

  “Who did?” Clay asked.

  “That’s a different story for different day,” Holcomb said. “I hope I can tell it to you one day.”

  “Why the hell can’t you?” Clay snapped. Holcomb just gave him a sad look. “Because you don’t know if the folks in charge are going to keep me alive or not, right?”

  “It really is up to you, Mr. MacAulay,” Holcomb said. “I mean that in all sincerity. We all had to make a hard choice when we came to Perdition Plains. The Midlands ain’t no place where a person can survive on their own. A man or woman can choose to live or die. I made my choice, and I have learned to live with it, in a way. This moment, right now, is where you make your choice.”

  “What? Right now, right now?” Clay asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Holcomb put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

  “What ya need?” a familiar face below shouted up at them.

  “Clear it out, Regan,” Holcomb ordered. “Time to let Mr. MacAulay do his part.”

  “Got ya,” Regan said and started barking orders at the men and women that covered the surface of the mech.

  They quickly scattered, gathering up tools into bison hide bags, and waited by the sides of the locks. Someone in the Vernacht manipulated the huge claw down into the locks and lifted the men and women up in groups. It took a few minutes, but soon the locks were clear of everyone except Regan and one other man.

  “That’s Mr. Bell,” Holcomb said. There was a tone in Holcomb’s voice that caused Clay to shiver uncontrollably. “He’ll be piloting your mech.”

  “Then what the hell am I here for?” Clay snapped.

  “To help him do that,” Holcomb said. “What your role will be in the future ain’t for me to say. The folks in charge will decide that based on how you cooperate. It was the same for all of us. I was a skilled engineer before I came here and they happened to need a new one when I arrived. I got to keep doing what I’ve done most of my life.”

  “I’ve always been a mech pilot,” Clay said. “If they already have one then I have to say I ain’t exactly thrilled at my prospects.”

  “You seem resourceful,” Holcomb said. “I’m sure you can convince the folks in charge of your usefulness. Just once you do, never give them reason to doubt it.”

  “That what happened to the person in the town square last night?” Clay asked. “Did they give the folks in charge reason to doubt their usefulness?”

  “Not for me to say,” Holcomb replied quietly.

  The Vernacht claw was lowered before them. Holcomb stepped from the concrete edge and onto the claw. He turned and waited for Clay to follow.

  “We all had to make the choice you have to make,” Holcomb said. “It’s the only way.”

  “I doubt that,” Clay said. “There’re always other ways.”

  But he didn’t argue and followed Holcomb onto the claw. It was lowered slowly into the locks, setting them down next to the mech’s right hip joint. Clay was hesitant to step onto the concrete since it was covered in close to an inch of congealed blood and fluids, but Holcomb wasn’t so squeamish and stepped off the claw and made his way over to Regan and Mr. Bell.

  “How the hell do I get myself into this shit?” Clay muttered as he reluctantly followed.

  Regan, Clay knew, but Mr. Bell was a complete stranger. Emphasis on the strange.

  The man was short, well under two meters, and seemed oddly proportioned. His shoulders were wide, but arms skinny. His legs thick in the calves, as evidenced by how they bulged against his
trousers, yet the thighs seemed loose. The man’s torso was barrel-chested, which matched the shoulders, but his waist was almost nonexistent.

  To top it off, literally, he had an oversized head with the same mottled skin that covered Torsten’s face and neck. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dusty goggles and his scalp was covered with a hat.

  Clay’s hat.

  “Hey!” Clay yelled, quickly ignoring the man’s odd appearance. “My hat!”

  “It’s a mech pilot’s hat,” Regan said. “Cavalry, yeah? Goes to Mr. Bell now. He’s the mech pilot. You ain’t nothing no more.”

  “Stow it, Regan,” Holcomb ordered. “No need to rub it in.”

  Clay went for his revolver, it wasn’t there. He went for his knife, it wasn’t there either.

  “Dammit,” he swore then began to bring his arm back.

  “I wouldn’t,” Holcomb said, placing a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Mr. Bell is an experienced fighter.”

  “I’ve been in an altercation or two myself,” Clay snarled as he shrugged off Holcomb’s hand.

  “In the same condition you’re in now?” Holcomb asked. “How’d those altercations work out for you, Mr. MacAulay?”

  Regan gave a short bark of a laugh and sneered at Clay.

  “I want my hat back,” Clay said. He held out his hand to Mr. Bell. “Now.”

  Mr. Bell growled, a deep sound from low in his belly.

  Clay pulled his hand back, the image of a wild animal biting it off prevalent in his mind.

  “Don’t want to be messing with Mr. Bell,” Regan said.

  “That’s enough!” Holcomb shouted. “Regan get your ass up top and tell the rollers to move on to town. I want the supplies put in before it’s dark.”

  “Yes, sir,” Regan said, that sneer still affixed to his face as he pushed past Clay and walked to the Vernacht’s claw.

  Once Regan and the claw were out of the locks, Holcomb turned to Clay and sighed. “I believe it’s time you showed Mr. Bell the secrets of your mech. Ain’t no delaying the inevitable. The folks in charge will out wait you every damn time.”

  “I have a feeling those people can out wait time itself,” Clay said.