Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech (5 page)

“Sometimes,” Zahnganunvi repeated, his green face splitting in a toothy grin. “Maybe I need one part to fix a big job.” He lifted a greasy hand and tugged at his long, bat-like ear. “Maybe I’ll never need it. Mother goddess knows.” He shrugged and returned his attention to the object laid out on the workbench, the immense left hand of a steamjack. The gobber was intent on scouring the bloodstains that had soaked into the gaps between the fingers. “Seals are bad,” he clucked. “Not opening right. Make big trouble later.”

Rutger stared up at the inert hulk of his warjack. As soon as they’d escaped Chaser Island, Taryn insisted they visit Junkers Zahn. It was the gobber who salvaged the ’jack following the battle on the
Winking Maiden
a month ago. As far as Taryn was concerned, that made him equally responsible for whatever was wrong with the machine. Rutger wasn’t so sure. The Toro was one of the most complicated of Ordic chassis designs, and it only made sense that the cortex installed into such a steamjack would be equally sophisticated. There was no telling how long Amok had been in the service of the murderous Ariztid Olt, or what sort of purpose he’d put the machine to.

Steamjacks, especially those with complex cortexes, evolved over time. They could develop elements of initiative and intuition, becoming almost alive in their interactions with the world around them. A ’jack in continued service became more efficient at its tasks, more adaptable to changes in routine. At the same time, it could develop eccentricities in its logic, flaws and quirks in its implementation of commands. Sometimes these operational peculiarities became debilitating to the ’jack’s performance. Occasionally, they became dangerous.

By rights, the safest way to deal with a ’jack as complex as Amok was to wipe its cortex clean. Doing so, however, would erase all the experience and efficiency the machine had developed, rendering it as raw as a ’jack fresh off the assembly line. Moreover, the process was expensive, prohibitively so for Rutger and Taryn. Junkers Zahn, in restoring the damaged Toro, had promised a cheap alternative to wiping the warjack’s cortex. By extracting Amok’s mechanikal brain and placing it inside a special magnetized case for a few days, the gobber claimed he could jumble the ’jack’s memory, breaking it of old patterns and leaving it receptive to its new owner.

The incident in Blood Alley had left Rutger with serious misgivings about Junkers Zahn’s results. And the gobber’s first reaction to his account had been to dismantle and examine the warjack’s arm to see why it was sluggish.

“Junkers,” Rutger sighed, “I appreciate your looking at Amok’s arm, but that’s not the problem.”

The mechanik looked up from his work, the left side of his face magnified by the enormous monocle covering his eye. “You said the hand’s not working.”

Rutger sighed again. “Yes, but it’s more than that. Something’s wrong with Amok’s cortex.”

Junkers Zahn spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Five Fingers is a good place to find old parts. Not so good for finding new cortexes.” On their first meeting, the gobber had explained to Rutger the shortage of cortexes in the city. There was an abundance of old chassis and spare bits and bobs scattered throughout the islands, even some small-scale production in Five Fingers Jackworks and Dragon’s Maw Engines. Cortexes, however, were in short supply. It was common practice for the brain of an old worn-out ’jack to be reinstalled in a new chassis again and again. Buyers sometimes purchased steamjacks just to recycle the cortex.

The gobber squinted through the lens and thrust a long green finger accusingly at Rutger. “You don’t like Amok to act like Amok, don’t call him Amok.”

Rutger shook his head. There was a widespread superstition among those who commanded ’jacks, a tradition that had spread across the Iron Kingdoms. Much like the belief of sailors regarding their ships, it was held to be bad luck to rename a ’jack. He explained as much to the gobber.

“Oh, that makes absolute sense!” Taryn scoffed. She walked away from the rack of oversized steam hammers she’d been examining and ambled toward Rutger and his warjack, ticked off points on her fingers as she spoke. “We didn’t get paid by Udric. We demolished an entire building. The watch is looking for us. And we’re just about down to our last crown.” Junkers Zahn abruptly set down his tools.

“Your point?” Rutger asked, fishing coins from his belt to assure the mechanik that he would indeed get paid.

Taryn slapped her hand against the warjack’s leg. “My point is, I don’t think our luck can get any worse.” She laughed. “Unless the watch has decided to put posters out on us.” Watching Rutger’s expression darken, she immediately regretted her choice of words. There had been times in his past when her comrade had dealt with bounty hunters on his trail. She hadn’t intended to remind him of those dark days.

“We’ll get enough money together to bribe the right people before that happens,” Rutger said. He pointed up at the warjack. “We’ll have no trouble getting work once we’ve got him back together.” He stepped back, craning his neck to get a better look at the machine. “First, before he wrecks anything else, he needs a new name.” He looked expectantly at Taryn, a broad smile on his face. The gun mage rolled her eyes and muttered a suggestion.

“Rex!” Rutger laughed, clapping his hands together. “I like it! A kingly name!”

“That’s not what I said. I said ‘Wrecks’ because it’s good at wrecking things.”

But Rutger didn’t hear her. Already, he was dragging a ladder across the yard to the Toro’s side so he could reach the cortex access panel and throw the switch that would make it receptive to its rechristening.

“Rex,” Taryn grumbled, slapping the warjack’s leg. “Well, you’d better start earning your keep.” She glared up into the Toro’s vacant optics. “If you don’t, I’m going to start selling you back to Junkers Zahn piece by piece.”

Lorca reclined in the high-backed chair and considered the man on the other side of the marble-topped desk. There was no anger, no accusation in the man’s expression as he studied his underling, only a blank, emotionless contemplation. Lorca’s men knew their boss was never more dangerous than when he kept his feelings hidden.

“You were supposed to tell nobody about the
Black Anne
,” Lorca said. The grizzled dock walloper shuddered under his boss’s scrutiny, glancing at the wood-paneled walls, the rich rugs scattered across the floor, the tall window that looked out from Lorca’s gambling-hall headquarters across the monolithic structures in the Governor’s District. His straying eyes chanced across the other occupant of Lorca’s office, hidden in shadow. A visible shiver ran through the thug, and he hastily looked back to his boss.

“Nobody knew,” he said. If any of the ship crews and stevedore compacts he extorted protection from could hear him now, they would be amazed at the desperate appeal in his voice. “I didn’t tell nobody. We just kept anybody who didn’t look right away from your ship. Just like you said.”

Lorca shook his head. “You told somebody. Somebody found out because somebody tried to break into the hold last night.”

The dock walloper cringed. “Not from me. Maybe it was just some independents looking for a quick score. Couldn’t it just be coincidence?”

A thin, cheerless smile appeared on Lorca’s face. He laid a pistol on the desk, aimed directly at his underling, and left his hand on it. “In this business, you live longer if you don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Wait.” A low, brittle voice held Lorca from firing. Whatever relief the dock walloper might have felt evaporated as the other occupant of Lorca’s office emerged from the shadows. She had the appearance of an aged dowager, dressed in a gaudy gown dripping with sequins and lace. A filigreed headdress crowned her, billowing around her in spiraling towers of silk and satin. She held her hands before her, nestled within a thick fur muff. The face that watched the henchman was caked in powder, lips and cheeks endowed with rouge, eyebrows painted across a narrow brow. Despite such efforts, however, there was no hiding the hoary antiquity of those sunken amber eyes.

The burly extortionist cowered before the old woman’s approach. The crone’s tight mouth curled.

“Give him to me,” she said.

Lorca decided to ignore the commanding tone, staring instead at the doomed thug. “He’s yours, Azaam. Enjoy him.”

The crone’s smiled widened, displaying sharp, fang-like teeth. One of her hands emerged from inside the fur muff. Between her bony talons she gripped an ugly-looking knife engraved with the profane symbols of some strange and alien script.

Like a bird transfixed by a serpent, the dock walloper could only watch as the blood hag brought the razored edge of her blade against his skin.

“My enjoyment,” Azaam said, “depends on how long he lasts.”

CHAPTER II

T
he Ten Kings was the ostentatious name engraved in the sign hanging outside the tavern, the words haloed by seven crudely etched crowns. The joke on Channel Lane was that anyone smart or sober enough to notice that the crowns were three shy was obviously in no condition to patronize the place. Brandle Wester, the proprietor, specialized in poor beer, cheap rum, and weak sangre. The accoutrements inside the tavern looked as though they dated from the days of Scion Bolis, ramshackle tables and benches a worm would be too proud to nibble on. A moldy old canvas purporting to depict the view seaward from the Porpoise Isles hung behind the bar, its pigments slowly fading into muddy indistinctness. From the ceiling, the decaying husk of a stuffed shark lent the place a final ambiance of dereliction.

Rutger sniffed at the brown murk clinging to the bottom of his cup, trying not to think what the smell reminded him of. He glanced across the gloomy room, squinting at the other patrons. Sailors down to their last coppers, beggars squandering their morning’s earnings, inveterate drunkards trying to stretch their drinking money beyond rational expectations. If he was back in Cygnar, he would have thought this was about as low as someone could sink. In a place like Five Fingers, he knew it was just a way station to the bottom.

Taryn pinched her nose and bolted the stuff in her own cup. Tears gleamed in her eyes, and she made a bold effort not to cough as the liquor slid down. “It . . . it has . . . a certain . . . taste,” she said.

“You wanted someplace discreet,” Rutger said. “We could have stayed with Junkers while he was finishing Rex’s overhaul.”

Taryn rapped a finger against her cup. “We’d probably have been better off drinking lubricant.” She made a sour expression and clapped a hand quickly to her belly. “Certainly couldn’t be any worse.”

“But then we’d miss this lovely ambiance,” Rutger laughed, plucking a splinter from the table that had found its way into his thumb.

“Some things have to be experienced to be appreciated,” Taryn said. Her expression became wistful. “If the aristocrats in Merywyn could see me now, what they would say.” She shrugged and shook her head. “Then again, they’d probably be too busy looking down their noses to notice.”

Rutger decided to risk a sip of the purported rum in his cup. “About now they’re probably so sick of Khadoran
vyatka
they just might be jealous.” He grimaced and clenched his eyes as the taste struck him. “Then again . . . ”

Taryn patted her comrade’s hand. “At least nobody would ever think to look for us here.”

The smile that had started to grow across Rutger’s face faded. He hung his head and mumbled.

“What’s that?” Taryn asked, puzzled by his sudden change in attitude.