by L. Brown
Then quite unannounced, a seismic Thud knocked him off his ledge. Flailing for a handhold, Garth slid back until stopping his fall with a stab of his knife. Hanging by a blade, he scraped for more purchase with the knowledge he’d been right, he was going to fall.
But he didn’t, at least not yet. Writhing and clawing, he slithered back up, reclaimed every inch and gained a few more. All perspective lost, his life was ice, just chunks of freeze randomly piled tearing his hands and freezing his face and now, he noticed, also going dark.
A curtain, his first thought, a drape of darkness now drew his way, an invasion of shade behind this Great Wall of Ice. And while the source of the shade had no discernible shape, not through the refractions and cracks, it did come with sound, and as the tectonic rumble increased, it confirmed what he already knew: this was it, what he had heard, an entity abhorrently big was closing on in. Yet whatever it was, it occupied the other side of the wall, so — could he just stay where he was, just cling to the ice and wait till it passed?
He could, that made sense. But sense could be tenuous, could also slip, and though every habit told him to hide, Garth found himself climbing, he had to know.
Eight feet remained to the top of the wall when the second Thud shuddered the ice. Garth toppled back, but his blade held firm, so pushing and struggling, he stretched toward the summit. Six feet remained, then it was four, and now on his gut, he bellied onto the narrow plateau atop the Great Wall, an arrival coincident with the third and worst Thud.
But that was just prelude, now came the noise. A great turbid growl, the fusion of rumble and power and brutish raw groan shook teeth in the jaw and knocked bone into bone, yet when he squinted toward the fury, Garth saw only billows of mist. But as it all swirled, as vapors cyclone’d and swelled before this Niagara of roil, the shade within began to come out.
An oncoming mass rendering monstrous and large deficient and frail, a vision of revulsion emerged, a mammoth Machine glazed with ice and ghosted in steam parted the mist like a black wedge of night. And conjured, to Garth, a merge of inchoate malevolence with Hendrix from the grave, Peace in Mississippi reanimated in steel.
An inconceivable leviathan, this off-rail locomotive exuded a primal belligerence, some bloodthirsty intent Garth could neither grasp nor guess. Nor did he try, for as its armored flank slowly passed, as he gaped at the pipes glazed with ice and the blisters of ports exhaling steam while draining some rust-colored pus, he felt again what he’d felt once before, the tug.
The same gravitational pull generated by Logaht’s craft, only stronger, much more intense, it dragged him to the edge of the wall. Garth planted his knife and heels, but the tug overpowered, so losing his grip and nearly his mind, he rose toward the Machine, toward two rotating crescents, one inside the next.
Some sort of engine, the crescents dwarfed Logaht’s entire craft. Attractive force maximized when they aligned, and as Garth watched the crescents do just that, he accelerated, rose fast, and in seconds, he’d hurtle into the masses and be crushed. Flailing against this inglorious end, his mashing finale just three seconds out, he now felt the force level off. No longer approaching, hanging just a few feet away, Garth watched the crescents turn out of alignment, a geometry relaxing the tug and easing him down.
Not saved, just momentarily spared, for as he descended, Garth sunk toward the gap, the narrow space between the Machine and Great Wall of Ice. His choice now clear, get crushed between crescents or plummet two-hundred feet between the Machine and the wall, he looked for something, anything else.
An icy pipe caught his eye, one of thousands nested on the Machine. But this was close, just to his left, so he lunged for it, made a desperate swipe. And missed by inches, maybe six.
Yet he missed with his left hand, but in his right? His right hand held the knife, so swapping the blade to his left, he swung again.
The curved blade caught, pierced the pipe’s icy glaze. Barely secured, maybe enough, it trembled in Garth’s grip as he pulled himself in. Then he grabbed it, hugged the pipe and hung on for life as it came once again, the tug from the crescents starting to realign.
Aware he couldn’t beat it, withstand the overpowering pull, Garth knew he had to move, he needed separation now.
Could I jump, he wondered, land back on the wall?
He looked below. But imagining his leap, a backward lunge onto a precipice of shivering ice, Garth saw only disaster, his premonition of a fall dramatically fulfilled.
Tug increasing, overpowering his grip, he eyed the other glazed pipes, then glimpsed something else: twenty feet long and hung in a row, giant icicles led toward rectangular vents, ice-free slots that laddered high up the Machine.
Dimly aware of the dimmest of thoughts — Get to the vents, climb out of the pull? — Garth stabbed the nearest icicle and shimmied on. But if glazed pipe was slippery, ice was worse, and as the increasing tug overtook his grip, he started to rise, slide back toward the crescents above.
A bright panic relit, Garth stabbed the next icicle, then grabbed hold. He held it, rose a bit more, then lunged for the next. And repeating the process, he scrambled across icicles, and as distance from the crescents increased, the tug declined. Finally in range of the vents, that marvelous ladder devoid of ice, he sheathed his knife; then holding the last icicle with his left hand, he lunged for a vent with his right.
The vent burned. Devoid of ice for a reason, it seared every uncovered finger and exposed bit of palm. Ice in one hand and agony in the next, Garth had to choose between freeze or fire, but with the tug behind, his only hope was up, so that’s why he shrieked, why he screamed with the pain he knew would come as he jumped to the vents and clambered on up.
Boots saved his feet, but the burn to his hands drove him higher and faster up the ladder of vents. Energy spent, he’d wasted every calorie up that Great Wall of Ice, but fueled by pain, lacerations of heat, Garth kept climbing, kept clambering on up into a thick, fogging mist without slowing or stopping until he grabbed only air. But his legs kept driving, just couldn’t stop, and sprung by momentum, he tumbled from the mist into a cold crunch of snow.
Where he now vomited, dry-heaved from the strain of two climbs, a wall of ice and the wrath of vents. But feeling his fingers in the glorious chill, Garth also found pleasure, a shaky waver between torture and balm; and though damage to his hands appeared less than the pain, his utter exhaustion kept him flat, a physical collapse interrupted by a Thud.
The same percussion previously heard, it brought him back. But to what? he wondered, and as his mind caught up to where his body now was, as he looked beyond his fingers and hands, he realized he occupied a runoff duct, some snow-filled gutter attached to a roof.
Of the Machine?
So it seemed. But more than this gutter, he just couldn’t see, he’d have to rise a few feet to glimpse what else, what horrors infested this roof. And though his legs refused and his arms hung limp, his awful curiosity again overruled, so with great grimace and cringe, a slow wobble up, Garth beheld the top of the Machine.
Big, the benumbing first impression, and for a moment, that’s all that stuck. Larger than a Lake Erie freighter, shaped like a ship as well, the Machine wore a glisten of ice over a gloom of armored steel. Yet though its appearance seeded an expectation of weapons, some Iowa-class turrets or Big Bertha guns, this view from the top seemed more fit for a factory. Miles of coiled conduit, thousands of valves — and while some bottomless reservoir of power thrummed deep down, dozens of smokestack portals rippled with heat, and taken together, the sum of it all suggested a purpose more mill than military, a Machine built not to conquer, but create.
Another solid Thud reverberated below. Yet whatever the cause, Garth no longer cared, nothing mattered but catching his breath and absorbing the view, this Machine as massive as a downtown block. That moved. But where it was going and what was aboard? Unanswerable questions, too much for his mind, so shoving his hands back down in the snow, he wondered if he could sur
vive up here, just camp by a heat portal and hide.
But hide from what? Had he seen any evidence of life, any movement or tracks?
Garth stood again, rose a bit more. Seeing nothing, no sign of life, he wondered if he rode a drone, some autonomous factory ship working alone. Something to hope for, the best possible result, because if no one was here, no one could throw him off. Warming a bit, wondering if he might just survive, he then saw the smoke, a thin blue wisp laced with white. Nothing threatening, not by itself, but it rose from a window both open and dark.
The Thud made him drop. Back in the snow and laying stock-still, Garth knew windows implied guards, aliens certainly armed. But as he shivered and waited for shouts and alarm, he heard only the usual thrum; so gathering his courage, he craned once more.
Still no movement, nothing animated the window but the blue-white smoke. And occasionally, oddly — a spark?
Garth shivered. Maybe it was instinct, how smoke and spark meant heat, but as fear wore off and the cold crept in, he advanced. He snuck toward the window, toward an oval-shaped void in a building fairly squat, an armored enclosure showing no light. What his goal was — food and water, heat? — he couldn’t quite say, but that didn’t bother, nothing mattered but a quick peek in. Yet when he arrived, he could only crouch under the window and wonder what next.
Do I just look in? Completely unnerved, a cold-soaked lump, he knew as soon as he rose, some alien abomination would lop off his head. About to slink away, he then caught something strange, a scent of cedars — and fish?
It reminded of a forest, a breeze off a lake, yet it came from the window just two feet above. Wishing he could ignore it, knowing he should, Garth rose to the window and peeked in.
But instead of aliens, he faced five silver chimes. Hung in the open window, a small carousel of thumb-size shapes turned in the breeze and sparked with every ringing collision. That explained the light, but the mystery of the scent still remained, so leaning farther in, he squinted into the dark, blockhouse-bare room.
A steel stairwell led down into murk, some depth lit in red, but what intrigued was the smoke, how it churned from a small brass pot. Apparently, a vessel for incense, it bore the same five shapes as the chimes. Leave, ordered his anxious side, this isn’t a cultural exchange. Maybe not, but lost in the shapes, the work of an other-worldly hand, Garth wondered what they meant.
The first shape he recognized, it resembled the pinwheel moon. And the second suggested liquid, three stylized drops; but as for the last three chimes, he had to get closer, lean still farther in. Squirming a bit, he discovered a chime shaped like X-blades, then a boat under sail. And then he shivered and it wasn’t from cold, because the last chime reminded of pirates and Nazi SS, the shape was a death’s head skull.
‘Rek!” roared a voice. Heavy boots clanging the stairwell, a shadow in dark goggles and a greatcoat charged up the steps. A club-size device sleeved his right arm, a mass now swung up like a gun.
Lurching back as it shot, Garth dropped from the window just as green flame torched overhead. He crashed hard to the icy deck, but lit with a panic as hot as the flame, he ignored his daze to slide under pipes and scramble between valves. Losing his footing, he slipped down an incline, then slammed a storage tank. The impact bounced him toward a vertical shaft, an opening in the deck blocked by grates, but perhaps due to maintenance, ice jamming a track, one grate was open, slightly ajar; and without plan or intent, Garth departed the roof and fell into the Machine.
Landing hard and accelerating fast, Garth careened down a circular duct until it split, funneled left and right. But Garth continued straight on, just plowed through a spring-loaded flap, a route leading to a spillway, a long, open drain slick with oil from great screaming gears and fusion-bright flash. Deafened and dazzled, but seeing just enough, he hurtled toward the spillway’s end, a sump of bubbling ooze. Lethal, no doubt, but it bubbled near a catwalk just twelve feet below.
It had to be perfect, this last-chance jump; miss, and he’d boil. So, rallying all focus, every non-panicked thought, he leapt for the catwalk and prepared to land.
And missed, just sailed right past. Falling toward the ooze, unable to turn, Garth instead slammed into flexible glass, a transparent lid now deflecting him toward a dark, spidery web. At least that’s how it looked, but whatever it was, now rushing-up below, he could do nothing but cringe, just hope this interminable fall had a non-terminal end.
Garth hit the web hard and nearly blacked out. Not spider silk, not even close, the dark weave he hit felt like firehose, hard rubber tubes, and after crashing through several, he abruptly stopped. Then realized, blinking and dazed, he now hung inverted, swayed upside-down.
Snagged, his muddled conclusion, a tube caught my vest. Which was, by the look, a decent result, because had he fell another twenty feet? Unless his eyes deceived, he hung over ice.
A drop from the top of the Machine to its rumbled below, Garth had fallen clear through. Yet unlike outside, this ice gleamed not with starlight, but a wash of fluorescent blue. An unexpected end to his accidental start, his plummet ended with a close-jolting THUD.
Shocked by the immediacy, the point-blank scare, Garth twisted toward a massive pile driver, some vertical mechanical ram. It retracted now, rose off the ice, but as it did, it left its mark, a steaming ice crater twenty-feet across. Yet that, apparently, was just step one, and as the Machine slowly advanced, a second ram slammed a pre-formed base into the crater, a metal collar securing itself, self-threading into the ice. Mute in his sway, Garth now watched the finale, a silo-shaped tower first lowered, then bolted to the base. And as the last bolt turned, the tower came alive, stirred with a flicker and an ominous hum.
The source of every thump and thud, Garth had no idea of the tower’s purpose. But neither did he give it much thought, for now, something else distracted, a sight stranger by far.
Fifty yards wide and half as deep, a smooth trench paralleled the Great Wall of Ice. Something had dug it, had plowed up the ice, and though Garth didn’t run the numbers, didn’t calculate the volume and fill, all that missing mass had perhaps built the wall. Yet though the trench confused, it was merely the vessel, the cradle for the enigma it held.
Seething and smoking, glowing molten blue, a massive cable occupied the trench. But instead of laying straight, it stretched in the shape of an S, a frozen sinusoid extending, behind the Machine, as far as Garth could see. The cable’s nearest portion looked shiny, just formed, but here and there it also appeared… to twitch? It wasn’t alive, certainly — though at this point, Garth was certain of nothing at all — yet neither did the cable seem entirely inert. But whatever it was, between the twitch and the curves? To Garth, it reminded of a snake.
Serpent?
Startled by it, how the word fit, Garth recalled the last time he’d heard the term, how Dahkaa described a thing immune to attack. But as he tried to remember more, bring back its name, a faint clank pierced the din.
The Flame Shooter, was it him?
Garth twisted toward the front of the Machine. But instead of Shooter, he saw just a wilder, more stupefying view. Haunted by smoke and furies of steam, the under-Machine world brought to mind not just Dante’s inferno, but four infernal more.
Five furnaces blazed with fires worthy of the abyss. Suspended by I-beams, massive rafters overhead, each furnace burned with a different tint, hues from red to blue, yet all issued similar offspring, large molten wires as wide as Hamtramck roads.
Arrays of rotating crescents squeezed the five wires into the cable, and when the scorching result descended into the trench, when the cable’s searing skin flashed ice into steam, the aborning horror didn’t just twitch, it writhed. Perhaps a reaction to thermal extremes, maybe a Frankensteinian moment of matter shocked into life, but regardless of cause, the cable raged, it seemed, against its very self.
Garth tried to stay calm. But fear comes easy when hung upside down, and as blood rushed his brain, he fought for clarity,
some scruff of perspective on the madness all round. But best guess? This Machine was a forge, some rolling thunder mother birthing a serpent, an undead cable steaming a trench. And right or wrong, he was fine with that, Garth just wanted, for starters, to simply get down. But as the shock wore off and his brain slowed down, something new distracted; and squinting toward the furnaces, the billows of steam obscuring the trench, he wondered at the curious racket, sounds more suited to digging a mine or laying iron rails.
Hard to see through steam, but the longer he looked, the more he saw glints, metallic flashes reminding of…tools? But in this under-Machine world of self-bolting towers and autonomous crescents squeezing fat wire, who would swing a tool? And besides, could anyone survive in that trench, its thermal extremes of ice and steam? So maybe the tools were swung by things, by an army of impervious droids. But if so, was the Shooter of Flame their leader, were he and Garth the only living beings here?
The answer came on the wail of a horn. Booming and grating, the klaxon-like screed scared Garth upright, and as he clung to the tube still caught on his vest, he gawked at the frenzy, the steam coming alive.
Not robots or droids, waves of humanity charged from the trench with poles and blades. Tools, by the look, and after tossing them onto hanging racks, they pivoted, horribly, straight for Garth.
Unable to flee and no place to hide, Garth just hung there, watched the stampede. Led by the strong and lagged by the weak, the hundreds — thousands? — never slowed, not even for a man in a mottled fur coat, someone in front who suddenly tripped. But nobody veered, all kept on, just trampled the man with what looked like cleats. The sight repulsed, added to the fright, but now, so did the ceiling, the panels groaning open for dozens of descending vats.
Or so they appeared, but whatever they were, their coming sprang cheers, an excitement compounded when dozens of long, black tubes also came down. The same kind of tube holding Garth aloft, they now spit and sputtered, sprayed brown liquid into the troughs, a rapid filling welcomed by every hollering mouth.
