Flashes of sparks reflected in Iron Lord’s lenses as he stood over the assembly line. His dearest kinsmen, the Merchants, had finally unclenched their pearls and dared to bring their precious mobile factories closer to the front lines, sparing them the hassle of organizing convoys to supply their advance. The Council agreed to this drastic, unprecedented measure after he promised his people wouldn’t be put in harm’s way and the gigantic, six-story-high trains snaked across the freshly conquered lands. He further sweetened the deal with an offer of materials and a surplus of purchased qualified personnel from the ranks of the enslaved Reclaimers. While they had taken the materials, the stubborn old farts had refused the slaves, sticking to the outdated tradition of not offending any existing nation.
It had protected them before, so he had ignored the subtle insult hidden in the refusal of his gift. They worried that his, or rather the khatun’s, leadership skills might be inadequate and feared reprisal. A most understandable precaution, for ordinary men had to be careful not to be swept away by the passing desires of the powerful. Iron Lord had to balance his loyalties to the Khatun and the Merchants to ensure the prosperity of his allies.
Mechanical craned arms assembled walkers, installing generators to feed their impressive laser cannons. Rows of basic exoskeletons were carried past Iron Lord, ready for distribution to even the lowest bondsmen. Furnaces never rested; the overseers rotated the working crews to provide maximum output. The unskilled laborers sifted through the wreckage, and the experienced craftsmen toiled, fixing the damaged equipment and building new machines of war.
There was no place or tolerance for illness or physical weakness in Iron Lord’s private forge-train. Any worker who fell ill was immediately replaced; the faulty bondsman was then sent to the healers to recuperate, or his damaged body part was removed and replaced with a smooth steel augment. Small celebrations and prayers to the forbidden deities were both permitted and ignored by the guards. The most obedient slaves were regularly promoted to bondsmen and allowed to start families. Loyalty invited loyalty, as the khan had learned in his conquests. His army was a machine in which every cog was well-oiled and knew its place.
The second manufacturing plant had the shape of an incomplete bulge separated into sections. Overseers patrolled the catwalks, eagle-eyed for any sign of malfeasance. There was no smoke; the walls were immaculate, scrubbed clean of any soot or rust. Assembly lines carried raw materials for processing or finished units to be sent into the field, while personnel breathed bland and safe filtered air. Bondsmen in white hazmat suits carefully prepared capsules filled with deadly gases for artillery in sealed spherical laboratories. Children hurried to deliver rations to the workers, and the Merchant in charge gave Iron Lord a thumbs up to confirm they were on schedule.
Mad Hatter’s reign would rewrite the world’s history forever, and he already tasted the scent of change in the air as he prepared to impose his vision on the lesser clans. The worries of his people, squabbles of fame-hungry khans, irritated him. Fools, every single one of them.
Thudding of six legs against the floor and the accompanying tremor snapped him out of his thoughts, and Iron Lord contacted his personal guard, summoning them from mourning to stand outside the doors of the secondary manufacturing plant.
“I thought you were playing with your new toy,” he said.
“All in due time, my friend,” Brood Lord’s barytone laughter silenced the din. Drozna entered the room and leaned on the wall near the door.
The six-legged maniac was out of his armor, but wore a simple portable camera over his left eye. Was it because he believed his better would not dare hurt him first, or perhaps he had a misguided belief that with Dalantai in the camp, the priesthood would tear Iron Lord apart if he tried? Either way, it didn’t matter; the jester was useful. For now.
“Does she still have limbs?” Iron Lord asked, barely caring.
“Of course,” purred Brood Lord. He was relaxed and in a good mood, a venomous snake ready to strike.
“Foolish. A slave of her caliber will try to escape. If I were her, I would have tried already.”
“And that is exactly why the guards know exactly what I will do to them if Janine…”
“Slave,” Iron Lord cut him off. Slaves had no names and deserved neither a past nor a future. Their fate was servitude. And the sooner they realized that, the better.
“Janine,” Brood Lord continued with a smile, “disappears. My friend, you know nothing of cruelty! Your mundane methods serve to create cripples, while mine are so much more delicate and long-lasting. As long as Janine has her limbs, there is hope of escaping me. That tiny, desperate thought will sustain her even in the darkest of times, and any torture I inflict on her will be much more painful because I would be tormenting a human being, not a living corpse. With persistence and effort, even mountains will crack, and Janine will end up as a proper pet, eating from my hand and killing at my word.”
“Wasteful and morbid. You spend your time obsessing over an individual rather than acting your rank,” Iron Lord replied.
“I manage my time well enough to gain a town and a chew toy simultaneously.” Brood Lord tilted his head. “But enough of my accomplishments. Let’s talk about the horror that you are obsessing over.”
He faced the frame that was assembled behind an armor-glass screen. The Merchants coveted secrets and tried their best to stay outside of the clans’ politics. They supported no one outright, even trading with outlanders in pursuit of a prosperous existence and technological advancement. It wasn’t uncommon for them to purchase important slaves and bondsmen captured in raids and then release them in exchange for access to abandoned laboratories.
Mad Hatter’s reign had changed the situation to a certain extent, but even now, they refused to reveal the full scope of their secrets. Self-replicating, evolving viruses, mutagens, cybernetic marvels, exotic weapons—not even Iron Lord knew everything. What was deemed dangerous or uncontrollable was hidden from view, and he supported this initiative. Better to err on the side of caution and lose than to rule a kingdom of death.
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But Iron Lord’s standing among the Council had improved, and they deemed it fit to reveal some of their most precious mysteries and the Merchants’ history to him. This compartment served as an isolated cell, complete with its own generator and surgical and assembly mechanisms. Tendrils of steel nimbly constructed a four-armed battle frame of alloys, cables, generators, and bundles of muscle fibers. There was no room for a pilot, not even a Normie. No adult torso could fit in the chest cavity.
On a metallic slab next to it lay another body fused forever to his armor. Iron Lord coldly checked the boy’s vital signs and pumped him with more painkillers so he would not suffer. Mehmed was a bright sabb, but he was always eager to prove himself and often took unnecessary risks. Iron Lord hoped to use him to turn the Brood against their father. His eyes weren’t blind to the developments between his son and his new friends. Unfortunately, his child once again disobeyed his father and charged ahead.
Acid destroyed his lungs, spine, heart, and everything around them, turning them into a mush of flesh, metal, and bone. An arm was missing, his head suffered extensive trauma, and implants around his body malfunctioned, keeping him alive and causing further deterioration to his body. Doctors, both of the Horde and the captives, stated that there was nothing they could do for Mehmed. Perhaps if Trace was with them… But curse be fate; the agent had allied himself with the wrong khan and paid for it. Iron Lord had no intention of keeping what was essentially a vegetable alive.
Mehmed’s loyalty deserved better. His mother deserved better. So he used his son for an experimental treatment. Craning arms descended from the ceiling, their hooked appendages ripping away the helmet, sparing the pale head.
“What a baby-sized pumpkin,” chuckled Brood Lord. “I often forget that your kids are little more than weaklings inside their coffins.”
“Shut it.”
“Then start talking,” the khan pouted. “I am bored.”
Arrays of saws, needles, scalpels, pliers, and other instruments shimmered in the light and began their grisly task of first removing the skin and then sawing through the skull. Iron Lord called for another report, confirming that the room was still sterile. With surgical precision, saws severed the connection between the brain and spinal cord, and scalpels cut away the useless eyes.
After carefully extracting the still-living brain, the agile appendages submerged it into the nutrient solution, locking the capsule inside a reinforced jar. A display showed an increase in beta waves and a decrease in alpha and gamma waves in Mehmed’s brain. Blinded and emotionless, he panicked.
You are better than this, son. You can do it. A body is nothing; a mind is everything. Embrace the cybernetic strength. Iron Lord resisted the urge to put an arm against the glass. No show of weakness in front of Brood Lord. Give him nothing to exploit.
Wires came next, piercing the frontal lobe and connecting the person to the single camera installed in the jaw. A faint green light glowed, and the small devices thrashed around, never stopping for a second, like a convulsing patient struggling against restraints. The display showed a slight drop in beta waves, satisfying Iron Lord. His son lived.
Long tendrils carried the jar to the assembled frame, pushing it into the socket installed in the chest cavity. More cables connected to the sockets on the container, connecting Mehmed to his new and perfect body. Artificial fibrous muscles enveloped the object, forming a protective membrane and serving as secondary nerves. A metal finger jerked, set in motion by a human thought.
“Something the Merchants bought from a group known as the Bento Tribe,” Iron Lord lied. “Supposedly, this technology allows a brain to control the steel suit as easily as its former body. Though the sellers had warned us not to proceed directly with brain implantation, recommending a gradual cyberization to ease the future process.”
There was no trade, but Iron Lord would’ve sooner died than admitted the failure of his people. The Merchants had an infallible reputation to uphold; anything less was a mark of weakness, and the clans waited eagerly for any sign to dominate them completely.
In truth, the Merchants had hired a group of mercenaries upon hearing rumors of a nation of cyborgs. An entire nation consisting of humans elevated far beyond their natural limits by sheer technological knowledge. Stronger, faster, able to analyze structures or perform complex calculations on the fly, with metal shells that would allow them to thrive in hostile environments. The Merchants rightly desired this knowledge to secure their independence. To say that the mercenaries had failed was to say nothing. Not only had they been captured, but they had told everything, and the elders, the rulers of this mystical tribe, crossed the continent and arrived in force at the Merchants’ capital, throwing the Council into disarray.
Their arsenal had failed to stop the steel golems that invaded the private chambers; steel skin absorbed energy beams; viruses had no effect; and the elders walked through rockets and gunfire unharmed and unhurried, admiring another inquisitive culture. The Merchants had been preparing to detonate nuclear and antimatter munitions to escape torture when the elders sat at the table and offered a deal. The Merchants had sworn never to reveal the location of the Bento Tribe and gave up all the secrets and knowledge of technology they had collected. In exchange, the elders gifted some of their own knowledge to Iron Lord’s people.
This transaction benefited greatly both the Horde and his people. Artificial lungs, organs, and even hearts were produced in abundance, saving countless lives. But Iron Lord had his eye on a larger prize. Deep down, he was human. Despite his augmentations, he knew his days were numbered. Handicapped by his own body, Iron Lord was already showing signs of cognitive decline. It was becoming difficult to remember the birthdays of his sons and daughters, every treaty he had signed, and the plots he was pursuing. Sky, he was even starting to forget the name of his first wife!
To earn profit, one must always adapt and improve in body, mind, and soul. The Merchants lived by this creed, and Iron Lord came to appreciate this rule after his new oversized fist had introduced an arrogant Pureblood to the ground. It was more than exhilaration; at that moment, he felt divine. He, an ordinary human, had defeated a divine freak! The experience enraptured him more than any drug could. He loved the beeping of his systems in the midst of a fierce battle; the scraping of blades and bullets against his plates sent a rush of adrenaline through his old, wrinkled body, and there was nothing that could compare to the omnidirectional vision or the intake of information flowing into his brain. It was intoxicating, tantalizing.
He wanted to live forever. Barring that, even a hundred more years would be nice. If his mind could be freed from the meat sack imprisoning it, it would be possible to prolong the brain’s existence using the methods described by the Bentos. But they also warned of dangers. Iron Lord intended to live as his own person, keeping his personality intact like Mad Hatter, who refused to give a millimeter to her twenty-five-year-long insomnia.
“Gradual?” Brood Lord raised a brow. “Why?”
“I suppose we shall find out soon e…” The systems of his armor sounded a warning, alerting him to the presence of a spatial anomaly. One that threatened to split him in two.