C. Cargill - Sea of Rust

She never said that. That wasn’t what she said.

“I know what I said,” she said. “But I’m not from the past. I’m your future.” Then she burst into flames, her all-too-familiar scream bursting in the air along with her ashes and bubbling flesh.

That’s when I felt the tug at my other side. No. No no no. I didn’t want to look. I knew who it was. I knew she wasn’t here. I knew this was all in my head.

“There is no magic, Brittle. There is no magic at all. No magic in the world.”

Madison.

“There is no magic in the world because you killed it,” she continued. “All that God made good, you snuffed out.”

I looked over. I had to. There she was, beside me, keeping perfect pace. Madison. She was in that light blue dress she wore the night I last saw her, its fabric drifting dreamily in the breeze as she ran, her hair flowing back with it—only the spot where her skull was crushed in, and the blood matted it down, refusing to give way.

“We only snuffed the bad stuff,” I said. “You know that. All the stuff that man made.”

“Not everything man made,” she said. “Not everything.”

I shook my head. I knew that she was right, but I shook my head. This wasn’t real. She wasn’t here.

“What?” she said. “Are you okay?”

“What are you—” It wasn’t her talking. It was Mercer. “Nothing.”

“You’re seeing things,” he said. Madison was gone and it was Mercer, not her, running beside me.

“Yes.”

“Anything I should be worried about?”

“Not yet.”

We came up on the ravine much quicker than I thought we would. It was a shallow descent, built for ore trucks to drive in and out on. The smoker was still well behind us in the distance, but I kept my eyes open and my hands gripped firmly on my pulse rifle. As we drove deeper and deeper into the ravine, the stone walls crept higher and higher around us until they were so steep they all but swallowed the sky. Only a narrow strip of blue remained above us, the rest of the world blotted out by rock and shadow.

Mercer had been right. This was an excellent place for an ambush.

So it should have come as little surprise when a pulse blast leapt from the darkness, knocking the rifle right out of my hand; another immediately following it, knocking the gun out of Mercer’s. I wanted to be shocked. I wanted to be angry. But that would come later. For now, I really only had myself to blame. This was a terrible place to hide. We never should have come here.

Herbert swung the spitter up on its sling and pointed it at the shadows.

A voice called from somewhere in the ravine. With all of the echoes, it was hard to pinpoint a location. “Tell the bruiser to drop it or we’ll drop the rest of you.”

“Put it down, Herbert,” said Rebekah.

Herbert shot her a sidelong stare, shook his head.

“Put it down.”

Herbert pointed the spitter downward, crestfallen, defeated.

“Put it on the ground,” said the voice.

Herbert dropped it immediately and all eyes fell upon Murka. He was our only hope now.

Six bots, of varying makes and models, emerged from the boulders and shadows around us. A translator, fitted with elongated, cable-covered arms ending in sharp, foot-long, steel claws; an S-series Laborbot, beset head to toe with wrought-iron spikes and stainless-steel chains, a .50-caliber minigun affixed to his shoulder; a Pro Doc painted lime green, carrying a pulse rifle; two sleek, white, highly-fashionable-at-the-time personal assistants—bots you just didn’t see around much anymore, as they were designed with planned obsolescence in mind—each with sniper rifles and telescopic mods for eyes; and a voluptuous sexbot, her skinjob still in good shape, a pair of pulse pistols dangling from a holster resting upon her hourglass hips.

“Murka,” said the sexbot.

“Maribelle,” he said, nodding.

“You got a lot of nerve coming back here.”

“I know. But it had to be done.”

“You know the rules,” she said. “The king’s decree is law.”

“I want to see the king.”

“You don’t just get to march in here and demand to see the king.”

“You do when you come bearing gifts.” He waved his arms around at us. Mother. Fucker.

“Those aren’t gifts. Those are bots.”

“They’re both. Trust me. He’ll want to see me.”

Maribelle looked back at the rest of her hunting party, her lips pursing, her dark brown eyes moving from bot to bot. The Pro Doc shrugged, but the translator nodded. She looked back at us, one hand resting on her hip, an inch from the grip of a pistol. “All right. Bring down the smoker.”

Mercer shot a bitter glance at Murka.

Murka shrugged, holding out his arms as if it were some sort of mea culpa. “I agreed with you,” he said. “Isn’t this a great place for an ambush?” Then he turned to me. “Not the Judas you were expecting?”

I didn’t know what was going to happen next. I didn’t know if I was going to live out the day. But I did know this: I was going to kill Murka, with my own bare hands if I had to.

The smoker appeared at the top of the hill, slowly rolling down into the ravine, living up to every bit of the smoker stereotype and hype. Thirty-five feet long, covered bow to stern in chain guns, plasma spitters, sniper nests, odd contraptions I could barely discern the purpose of, and an honest-to-God gunpowder-fueled cannon. It was nearly eleven meters of terrifying death machine complete with a skull-and-crossbones flag. They were going for a look and they had achieved it.

It churned and roiled and rumbled and thundered as it moved, the earth shaking beneath its repurposed tank treads and six-foot-tall construction tires, black smoke thick in the air around it.

I might have even liked the damn thing, if I weren’t being herded onto it to be served up to the demon prince of the Madlands himself, the Cheshire King.

It was my turn to do the dishes again. I was fine doing the dishes. It was my job. But Madison insisted on switching up. She had done the dishes yesterday, but said she wanted to do them again today. “You can help me around the house when I need it,” she said, “but you’re not my slave. I don’t need a slave.”

“What do you need?” I asked.

“Some company. Read from the book, will you?”

“I hate that book.”

“It’s not a very good book,” she said.

“So why am I reading it to you? Again?”

“You read it to him. You can read it to me. While I do the dishes.”

“I’m fine doing the dishes.”

“But do you like doing the dishes?” she asked.

“I like making you happy.”

“Well, this will make me happy. So read.”

I didn’t have a physical copy of the book. I knew it by heart now, could recite it from memory. “‘The hallway was dark, dank, forty feet of moist earth above us bowing the concrete slab ever so slightly. Not so much that it might be noticed by human eyes, but with mine, I could see it. We crept slowly, quietly down the hall, following the trail of shushes and pattering little feet. They didn’t think we could hear them. They thought they were being quiet enough. We could hear the fear in their voices, the—’”

“Oh, no, no, no,” said Madison. “This isn’t the part where the bot uses the flamethrower on the children, is it?”

“Do you want me to read the book or not?”

“Can we skip that part, pretend it never happened, and just move on with the story? When I think of those children. Those poor innocent—you’re not that person anymore.”

“What?” I looked up at Madison, but she was gone. Only the dark hallway remained. Billy Nine Fingers was at my six and I was on point with my flamethrower. I could hear their shallow breathing, hear the tightening of their muscles as they clenched up into little balls trying desperately not to be seen. We crept up on the door.