Daniel Ottalini - Brass Legionnaire

The four-man patrol were stationed at various points on theflat-topped walker as its four legs moved it like a giant beetle through thestreets. The vehicle was about ten feet tall, with the low railing fortifiedinto “nests” at the front and rear; the under-officer in charge of the patrolstood in the nest in the front tip, the best vantage point on the machine. Alantern just below the horn-like gantry illuminated the area in front of thewalker, and several searchlights swept back and forth, running off powersupplied by the clanking steam engine.

Moving through Sludge Bottom was always risky late at night,so they had both running lights and security lights on, temporarily brighteningthe narrow alleyways and side streets, washing over piles of debris and catchingthe furtive movements of scurrying rats and larger things in thedarkness.

An odd feeling tingled over the weathered skin at the backof the under-officer’s neck. Twenty years of constabulary instinct were tellinghim that something was not right. The streets shouldn’t be quite this silent,especially in the Sludge Bottom quarter. Where were the bar patrons? Theloitering drunks, the rabble, the downtrodden masses? It was still early intothe evening watch. So where were the people?

Clattering on the shingles of a nearby building caught hisattention. He turned toward the sound, one hand reaching for the control panelin front of him to swing the front searchlight up at the dark roof on hisright. The blazing light caught a flurry of movement, then nothing.

The under-officer turned to the other auxiliaries in hispatrol. The constable manning the rear post, watching behind the patrol, hadalso turned toward the noise on the roof. The helmsman and wireless operator,seated at their controls under a small canvas canopy rigged in the middle ofthe flat deck, remained focused on their jobs. They seemed ignorant of thesudden unease that permeated the soupy air.

He scanned the rooftops. A shadow poked out from behind achimney. Throwing his arm up to point at the figure, the under-officer called,“You there! Identify-”

A crossbow bolt tore through his neck, sending him over therailing circling the top of the walker. Spraying blood trailed him through theair, spattering the walker’s rust-streaked side as he tumbled toward thecobblestones below. He landed with a sickening thud and lay still.

At this point the helmsman made a grave error. Instead ofcontinuing on at full speed to escape the ambush, his hands left the controlsof the walker to reach for his weapons. The walker lurched to a stop, one legraised precariously a foot or so off the ground. The auxiliary next to himlooked surprised, and the helmsman smacked him on the head. “Quick, boy, get amessage off that we are under attack!” If the operator could get a message off,help would arrive quickly.

The last member of the patrol was fighting for his lifeagainst a cloaked figure that had jumped from the slate roof onto the walker.He’d lifted his spatha in time to block the first blow, but subsequent thrustsof the cloaked figure’s twin daggers pushed him back toward the center of thewalker. The half-trained constable could do little more than parry and retreatagain and again, his boots clanking along the gantry until his foot caught on aprotruding screw and he stumbled. His sword wavered for a moment as heinstinctively turned his head to look behind him.

That one moment was all the shadowy figure needed. Silverflashed in the security lights as a dagger shot out, quickly jabbing into hisleg, then his arm, then his neck. Blood spurted and the luckless auxiliaryslumped to the deck. With a powerful kick, the cloaked figure sent the bodyrolling under the railing and over the side of the gantry.

Seeing this, the helmsman drew his sword and battered shieldfrom the rack beside him and charged. Several grappling hooks arched over thesides and fixed on the railings, and he knew it was only a matter of time untilthey were overrun. All he could do was stall. He slowed, keeping himselfbetween the cloaked figure at the rear of the walker and the young auxiliarymanning the radio. “Hurry! Get that signal off!” the helmsman shouted at theyoung operator, who sat seemingly frozen in fear.

The cloaked figure was suddenly before him, and a flurry ofimpacts hit his shield. The helmsman backed off, then, whirling his sword,pressed forward. For a moment, it appeared that momentum was on his side. Heclosed in, stabbing low.

The shadow warrior seemed to flow to one side. Thehelmsman’s eyes widened in surprise. His sword clanged loudly off the metaldecking, sparks flying. In response, the figure swept the dagger it grippedsideways into the helmsman’s head, the force of the blow lifting him off hisfeet to fall with a thud and clank of gear to the deck plating.

The shadow figure stepped over him and approached theauxiliary at the radio, who turned around, hand grasping for the hilt of hisscabbarded sword. The cloaked figure’s arm snapped out, impossibly fast-

And severed the wireless radio’s power cable.

The auxiliary looked up. “Hello, Mother.”

The figure in the cloak nodded imperceptibly and rested ahand on his shoulder before moving away to give quiet directions to theboarders climbing from the scaling ropes over the rails. They swiftly moved tohide all evidence of their ambush while one man walked to the control consoleand activated the steam engines. The Maxentius III lurched forward.

Seeing the helmsman’s chest still rising and falling, thetraitorous auxiliary drew his sword and walked over to hold it over the fallenman’s neck. “You never were a very good driver.” He pushed the sword down.

The morning sun did not rise over Brittenburg, it oozed.Sliding over the massive black iron walls to touch the tallest chimneys andsmokestacks first, it turned beige messenger doves white and blinded the wallguards manning their posts as it limned the glimmering brass towers and shiningsteel arches. As the sun rose higher, its light reached lower into the city, pushingthrough dirty panes of glass and warming clothes on wash lines.

The light worked its way down the airfield’s massivewireless antennae, and slid off the ribbed canvas sides of a massive transportflyer. It glowed gold in the exhaust fumes of the cargo forklifts that idledwhile the transport flyer was being secured to steel posts. Gears clattered andpistons hissed as an operator jockeyed a long telescoping causeway from thesquat terminal to the dirigible’s passenger portal. A legionnaire stood behindhim, waiting for the tube to connect to the portal.

“You guys must be born with that look,” the operator said tothe scowling legionnaire, who shrugged, but didn’t respond. The operator turnedaway to carefully align the various rods and connectors that would secure theflyer’s gondola to the causeway, adding, “I hope those idiotic fielders checkthe connection points properly this time.”

At the legionnaire’s quizzical look, the operator explained,“We’ve had more than one accident happen because some careless groundlingfailed to check the connection points between ship and gangway. Here by thesea, the salt air corrupts everything.” The operator paused, but still got noresponse from the taciturn legionnaire. Turning back to his controls, hewhispered a prayer to Vulcan for a successful connection as the pistons hissedand all four of the eagle seals on the causeway glowed a dull green.

The operator reached for the speaking tube. “System is set,causeway locked in place. Opening portal.”

With a jet of smoke and a faint whiff of ozone, the steeldoor oscillated into its frame. After a moment, the passengers stepped throughthe portal and walked along the causeway. A waiting legionnaire scanned eachface that passed his point on the corrugated metal wall where he leaned, faceimpassive. Constantine Tiberius Appius noted his presence as he stepped throughthe portal.