by Lee Bond
Then, if they were lucky and skilled enough, they would stand before the pearlescent gates of far fabled Arcadia itself, where they would do battle with the Platinum King, whereupon…
Whereupon –if successful- they’d transform into Platinum Brigadiers, the end result of thirty thousand years of hunting for the perfect spiritual batteries to drive his great, deadly machine. Thinking on the route gearheads were supposed to take threatened to anger the King in a flash. Those damned metal-headed devils … bunged up by the squatting termite calling itself Ickford. Everything were all out of balance because of that bitch, and it were that bitch that Nickels was hot to see now.
Barnabas mused with bitter humor; thirty thousand years in search of the perfect way to fuel the greatest weapon in all existence, and he’d done for them in a fit of pique. And now it seemed that Nickels was interested only in pushing him to that point once again.
Yet Garth was clearly not a calm man, an even-keeled man. Stuffed to the gills and beyond with rage-inducing crudest Kingsblood, he sat and simmered just shy of apocalypse, asleep or awake. He cracked jokes and told stupid stories, but behind the horizon, nothing but darkness.
He was on a hair-trigger, yet that hair-trigger was apparently unbreakable.
Barnabas reached a decision. It wasn’t optimal, but the damn fool had thrown him into a corner. Smiling wide as he could, the King clapped a friendly hand on Garth’s shoulder. The tattoos on Nickels’ forearm jostled and jiggled but kept on spinning. Miraculous!
And it could be all gone, soon rather than late.
“Very well, my temporary and otherwise surly and irascible young apprentice, it shall be as you wish. We shall travel together to Ickford, whereupon we shall entreat Agnethea to see about siphoning the Dark Iron from your soul.” Barnabas plastered another smile on his face. “And failing that, you and I shall part ways amicably. That being said …”
Garth nodded grimly. When Barnabas wasn’t busy being a blacksmith, he was busy being a backstreet lawyer. Of course there were going to be adjustments and alterations. “Do tell.”
“I have my own addendums and a burning question that must be answered.” Barnabas rose, ostensibly to stretch his old legs after having being sat down for so long, but more in caution against the man’s unpredictable ire. He caught the smirk on Nickels’ face but ignored it.
“I’m waiting.” Garth sniped. Damn Barnabas. He was pacing on the other side of the fire, flicking in and out of lens-range, each moment a pop of static and a stab of pain. “Dealer’s choice.”
“Our … previous arrangement, in terms of you using my equipment and materials for your little gadgets and what-not that you’ve been working on whilst I sleep, all free of charge … stops.” Barnabas gauged Garth’s mood to be okay, so he continued. “I was willing to waive the Dark Iron cost in activating my machines and to turn a blind eye to the positive pile of spare parts you’ve been monkeying with in exchange for opportunities to, as you put it, plumb the depths of your condition.”
“I understand.” It was a fair demand, really. The man did have a business to run and since he wasn’t getting anything out of their traveling together any longer… “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, since in all the time I’ve, er, poked and prodded you during those moments when you hain’t workin’ like a fiend on this or that and you were feelin’ condescending enough to let me do so and I did find nowt I could understand, I ask that That you be a smith in truth while we journey to Ickford. It isn’t terribly long, but it is long enough. A few weeks, sadly, so not quite as the arrow flies as you imagined. And as I’ve seen you work, I know you cannot hold yourself away from tinkering. You’re a smith in your heart, sure as anything.” Barnabas inhaled the fresh night air, looked above him to the where the closed portion of his Gear of Domes rest, and wondered what damage –if any- Erg could really cause left untended for that long. “Our next scheduled stop is just outside Middleshire, two days hence. The folk of this little Estate are especially fond of my work, and they also have a crew or two that usually hangs about. I only come this route once every three or four years, so they will have a fair bit for us to do. I shall waive the initial start-up for the equipment you will use. In exchange, you will pay me thirty percent of any Dark Iron you receive. That will cover the cost of powering the equipment for our next scheduled stop, which is five days away, whereupon you shall do more work. If, during the remainder of our travels, you wish to use my equipment for personal use, I ask that you use your own stockpile of Dark Iron. I feel that I am …”
Garth interrupted. “Fine.”
“Beg pardon?” Barnabas stopped pacing and stared at Garth. He’d been enjoying himself immensely and he hadn’t even had a chance to sound like he was being immensely charitable.
“I said its fine. The terms you present are agreeable. Charitable, even.” Truth was, Garth didn’t mind the idea of working on mindless gewgaws as they traveled. Since the incident with Mental Marc, Barnabas had insisted he stay well out of sight of any gearheads, which had meant staying hidden in one tent or another whilst the blacksmith plied his trade. Being ‘permitted’ to do things once more would be a nice way to get his mind off all the gloomy shit he had on his mind. “And we won’t need to worry about anyone seeing my tattoos. I’ve got a fix for that.”
“Do tell.” Barnabas knew it had something to do with the incredibly intricate and detailed framework on the work table, he just couldn’t figure out how without communicating directly with King’s Will to see how it was all connected.
“In due time.” Garth replied mysteriously, enjoying the huff of displeasure escaping the older man. “What was your burning question?”
Barnabas chewed at his lower lip for a second. No doubt, it wasn’t that Garth had forgotten about the three King-summoning tattoos on his back, but more that he had so much else on his mind that the threat of a Big’Un coming at him out of the darkness seemed very far away. But that was only because he’d been intentionally suppressing the Kingspawn points from evoking a King as they journeyed.
That, too, would stop. Barnabas needed Nickels yoked. Needed to get him to into the Armory in Arcadia, where the vast, intricate machines that spawned the Gearman’s armor and a whole host of other fanciful equipment would be able to yank Nickels apart atom by atom.
The lure of Agnethea was just that. A lure. Once they got there and the damnable ’Queen of Ickford’ confessed she lacked the skill to do anything with Garth’s particular Iron malady, hints of another smith, hidden in some deep cave or some difficult-to-reach estate would percolate through his ‘addled’ mind, further in, and so on and so forth until they stood before the shining silver gates of Arcadia Itself.
There was but a single way to squash Garth’s appalling bid for freedom, and that were to incite Specter to burn bright and hot. And the way to that particular end was to introduce Nickels to a tattoo-spawned Big King.
No matter how powerful Specter was or how capable of doing for gearheads he was, neither persona could do for a King on his own. It took a lifetime of fighting Big’Uns and the kind of Kingsblood saturation that ultimately proved lethal to get to that state, and Barnabas Blake couldn’t see Nickels as reaching that same level as he was.
The fool would lose and be hurt so bloody badly that the only thing to save his life would be tremendous infusions of Kingsblood.
At which point, Garth would be irrevocably hooked on Dark Iron, ever more eager, ever more desperate, to find his way to freedom. He’d become pliable then, for certain. This fresh new plan as had sprung up in his mind were a great one.
“Them Gearman markings on your back. Have you forgotten about them?”
“Nope.” Garth turned away from Barnabas and headed for his gadgets.
Barnabas followed quickly after the younger man. “How do you plan on defeating a Big King on your own? Or should I remind you, three Big Kings. Or do you intend on attempting to evade spawn points the whole way? Because I tell you now,
my son, that will only work for so long. Sooner or later you will come across a point, a King will rise, and you shall be on your own. If,” Barnabas added, tossing heavy skepticism into his tone for good measure, “Agnethea fails and we part ways, that is.”
Garth looked at his creation. Creations. Mental Marc’s long coat had been jam-packed with fine, intricate machines from the bottom of the flapping cloak all the way to the stiff, huge collar that’d held his stupid head in place, more than enough material to build what was in front of him.
Barnabas came up beside Garth, pointed wordlessly at the very large frames on the table. Try as he might, he couldn’t think on his own what they were, and with the way Garth was acting, Barnabas was extremely loathe to use any of his … gifts … around the man to see what was what. Their journey would end very quickly in that event.
“When I was a kid growing up,” Garth put on his story-telling voice as he took off his shirt, revealing the extent of the tattoo work for Barnabas to see, “there were these toys I used to play with. I can’t for the life of me remember what they were called, but they were … fun, I guess? They were these dense little plastic balls made up of interlocking plastic bars or whatever, and you could, like, take this little ball and basically pull it apart until it was five or six times the size. One of those fun little perception toys.”
Barnabas couldn’t take his eyes off the Dark Iron tattoos all but covering both of Garth’s arms and upper chest. They’d crawled across his neck and spread, a thick coat of whirring liquid Iron artwork that brought a thrill of excitement rising through the blacksmith in ways he’d long thought impossible. He stepped closer to get a better look, but Garth put a hand against his chest.
“Trying to get this ‘on’ right the first time, here, Barnabas.” When the smith nodded his understanding, Garth fed a hand into the contraption with the tiniest bit of apprehension; the trick was feed his arm through until his fingertips found the brass caps at the end, without cutting his arm open on the … things. That was a little surprise for Barnabas, who thought he knew so much about everything.
“What does your growing bigger plastic ball have to do with what we’re looking at here?” Now that Nickels was done sticking an arm into the cunning device, Barnabas feared rather sourly what the man had accomplished. If Garth had built what it looked like he had, then … then things would have to grow much worse, much quicker. The King wondered if Garth even knew what he’d wrought.
Garth felt the fingertips on his left hand slide into the cool brass caps. The brass and copper framework was now fully along the length of his arm, up his shoulder and across the front of his chest. He filled his lungs with a trembling breath and blinked sudden sweat from his eyes. This was a big moment and there was only the one chance for things to go right. Working from first principles with an uber-powerful tech like nanotech meant equal chances for tremendous rewards or colossally deadly results. When the clockwork started spinning and the device started collapsing to its proper size and the siphons punctured flesh, things could go sideways in a big fucking hurry.
Too much power, the thing would tear the flesh and muscle from his left arm in a haze of cog-and-spring driven fury.
Too little and … the thing wouldn’t work and then he’d look like a dork, which no one wanted to see. Except Barnabas. Because he was a dick like that. Garth didn’t want to hear the older smith’s bemused chortle. Not at all.
Briefly, the Kin’kithal considered warning Barnabas about potential Specter risings, but dismissed it just as quickly. It would be a learning experience for the both of them. After all, didn’t Barnie have a Specter-boner? Having his head torn off would be just the sort of thing that’d have the blacksmith satisfied, if only for a few bloody seconds.
Holding his left arm carefully inside the clockwork matrix, Garth grabbed a screwdriver with his right hand and ever-so-gently spun a big fat screw set into the center of an artfully engraved cog. The genius engineer wondered if Barnabas, who also claimed to be a genius, had noticed that the mechanics of the matrix matched his Dark Iron tattoos gear for gear, cog for cog, and spring for spring.
Nah. Barnabas stuck fast and hard to the crude-but-effective construction methods demanded by King’s Will, making it impossible for him to recognize the smooth beauty of proper steampunk perfectionism even if it bonked him right on the nose and said ‘Yea, verily, I be a badass machine of Victorian wonder, eh, wot?’
The spinning cog made one full revolution, and now other gears and other mechanisms were in motion, transforming his left arm into a living, mechanical jigsaw puzzle that was solving itself.
Blake, the Dark Iron King, watched, nonplussed, as Garth’s infinitely intricate armored arm began a clockwork dance of mind-numbingly inspired grace. Whole portions of the assemblage shifted and spun in place, drawing the skeleton of metal closer and closer to the man’s arm, a whirring, clacking vision of perfection. As he watched, Barnabas Blake thought certain a few times that Garth’s concept had overreached his technical skill, only to watch a completely missed section of gears and cogs pop open to accept insertion of the sudden arrival of new material.
This … this was not the work of a sophomore. This wasn’t even the work of a skilled tradesman. Whoever or whatever else Garth Nickels had been in the outside –whether in Trinity’s employ or not- he had turned his hand to creation on more than one occasion.
This thing he’d built, out here in the wilds with nowt but spare parts and on-loan tools rivaled anything that might come from the King’s Forges in Arcadia. And the deft manipulation of King’s Will? Fairly took an ancient King’s breath away, hey? There’d been others with this kind of talent and skill, but it took decades.
Barnabas opened his mouth to say something, but Garth cut him off.
“The thing with this place, Barnabas, and I’m sure you know this,” Garth took a few calming breaths; the metallic arm was almost perfectly sealed, which meant ultrafine metallic siphons placed strategically throughout the design would begin burrowing deep into his flesh, whereupon –if old Lady Luck had managed to winnow her way through the King’s damnable Dome- they’d siphon the Vicious Elixir right into the contraption, powering it with crude, “is that normal physical laws don’t apply. There is something very close to magic going on in Arcade City, which allows for things like Mental Marc, or this,” Garth gestured with his free hand at the gleaming brass arm, “to happen. I … holy shit, here it comes…”
Cruel brass barbs sank into Garth’s skin and he felt the immediate sensation of Dark Iron swimming into the hidden, vein-thin piping inherent in all intricate works built according to Arcade City’s curious rules and King’s Law. The pain wasn’t as bad he’d imagined, so he took the unexpected opportunity to jam his right arm into the remaining skeletal framework and set its mechanics spinning with a flick of a switch set into one of the finger caps.
It was super awesome that the barbs hadn’t ripped the shit out of his arms in front Barnabas; the blacksmith struck him as the kind of dude who wasn’t above smashing another guy’s shit, especially when that shit was way cooler than anything he’d ever done, ever, in his entire life.
That being said, Garth braced himself, ever aware of Barnabas standing off to one side, watching the proceedings with a palpable sense of awe, jealousy and anger. Obviously the man was pissed that he was not only losing a traveling companion who had secrets in his veins that he coveted, but basically being forced to watch something unfurl that was pretty fucking awesome just had to gnaw at the fuck’s guts.
Barnabas watched angrily as the right arm’s mechanics, spun faster in Garth’s haste, clicked and clacked and meshed in perfect harmony. Even though the mechanism was moving at least three times as fast as the left, every single piece danced in a harmony, a graceful, pneumatic ballet, spinning and whirring and shrinking against Garth’s arm in a magisterial display of pure technical skill.
There was more to Garth Nickels than spy or desperado or destroyer.
; No, no, the deeper game he’d sensed behind the man’s casual appearance was no more apparent than right then. Perhaps Garth’s ultimate purpose might still be a mystery, but no one took to King’s Will so quickly, so flawlessly.
Nickels was here to either steal King’s Will or to replicate the science behind the nanotech for Trinity Itself.
And that could not come to pass.
Barnabas applauded sincerely as the last of the clasps on Garth’s intricate body armor closed shut, nodding with professional approval at the half-plates locking into place across the lad’s upper chest with clunking finality. The whole rig was permanently locked into Garth’s very body now, all by way of them cruel, cruel barbs, and it’d be hellaciously painful should the whole thing be yanked loose.
Barnabas nodded again, honestly impressed as he was angry. “This is all very well and good, young apprentice, but … ah. I see. Very good. Something else you figured out on your own. Blacksmith born and bred, indeed. Indeed.”
Garth smiled as faint traces of gleaming black Dark Iron grew more intense, shining in that weird inverse way that the crudey-crude did, glistening wetly amidst the profusion of spinning metal that was now –possibly irrevocably, should he never find a way to rid himself of the Iron in his blood- attached to his body. “You wondered how I was going to manage a King on my own? This is how. With this, and Thumper’s hammer. And now, I’m gonna eat because that food smells cooked.”
Barnabas watched Garth head back towards the fire, flexing and rolling his clockwork encased arms, the bright white Gearman marks rippling. He was bemused. There was no other way to put it.
How quickly things had changed. Not ten minutes ago, Barnabas had been trying desperately to come up with a way to save Nickels, to continue studying the man, to co-opt whatever miraculous thing lurked in his skin and bones, to apply whatever secret was there to his Dome, so he could in turn move against the Heshii that much sooner, trumping both the plodding, lumbering Trinity AI and the marginally better prepared Emperor-for-Life in their attempts to seize control of the ‘Unreal Universe’.
