The mansion jutting from the edge of a hillside loomed large and menacing. Jon stared up at it, hoping his errand here wasn't in vain. No windows betrayed any light from within, and the only path led to a blank metal plate nearly eight feet on a side. The metal gleamed, polished to a high gloss, as was most of the exterior of the building. Whoever kept the grounds was meticulous. That only made sense if it was some form of Mechanical servant, but Jon saw none in evidence.
Jon took a moment to check his appearance. Tesla was reputed to be eccentric and easily offended. If Jon appeared at his door scruffy and looking like a beggar, it certainly wouldn't help his cause. His hair, black as the coal mines he was born to, was streaked with white that hadn't been there before the war. It lay slicked back across his head, neatly trimmed. Jon eschewed hats; they reminded him too much of the uncomfortable helmets he'd worn in the Army. His clothes were a serviceable black, gone slightly gray from long, hard use. He brushed the worst of the trail dirt from his jacket, and then beat his gloves together to banish the dust to the ground.
His only two adornments were a plain leather holster holding a Colt Peacemaker revolver and a shiny silver star ringed by a circle. He took a moment to be sure the safety on the Colt was set, took another to polish his badge until it gleamed in the afternoon light, and knocked on the door. He'd knocked on doors countless times before; this time should have been no different.
The doors Jon had knocked on in the past had been those of his suspects. None of those were wealthy enough to own a door made entirely of metal. His first thought on seeing the great black expanse of it had been how difficult it must be to open. His second thought had been how expensive it must be to maintain in the damp Pacific Northwest.
Still, he'd struck metal doors before. He'd hammered on quite a few in the war, both with his fists and the butt of his rifle. It would have been a familiar sound, but for the enemy blade that had severed his right forearm. He still hadn’t got used to the prosthesis. Made of the same parts as the Mechanical Man that removed his hand, it was nearly as useful as the old one, but it had a few properties that still surprised him. Not least of which was the deep, metal on metal echo that rang out when he pounded on the door. The thin leather of his glove helped a little, but not enough. The note echoed for far longer than he thought possible. Just when Jon began looking for a way to kill the sound, it cut off as if with a switch.
"Yes?"
The disembodied voice reminded him of a few of the prisoners of war Jon had met in the hospital. It had the slightly nasal pronunciation he associated with Germans, but slightly softer. If memory served, the man with a similar accent had been an Austrian mercenary from the Croatian Military Frontier. The mercenary had given his parole and asked for noncombat employment, but few unites in the AEF were willing to accept the services of a former enemy. Jon thought they were being foolish; with the manpower shortages the only reason he'd been given the option of shipping out was his injury.
If he'd had the prosthesis before he returned stateside, they probably wouldn't have let him go.
"You knocked, but you do not answer. Are you planning to lay siege, or are you just simple?"
Shaken from his reverie by the acerbic comment from nowhere, Jon took himself to task and answered. "Excuse me, I apologize for calling without notice, but my need is urgent. My name is Marshal Jonathan Eastman, and I seek the assistance of Mister Nikola Tesla."
"And why would Doctor Tesla be interested in helping you, young man?"
"There has been a series of crimes. Robberies and murders. The perpetrators used military grade Mechanical Men to breach the defenses of a museum and several bank vaults. I suspect they are enemy agents acting to disrupt the war effort."
"And why would you need my help?"
"You are the foremost expert on Mechanical Men, especially the more esoteric models such as the daVincis."
"I know very little about the reproductions used by the Italian armed forces. I care about them even less."
"The criminals have an original daVinci."
Jon hadn't noticed the faint hum coming from the door until it stopped. He stood staring at the door in the sudden silence. Just when he was about to turn and walk away, a clanking, ratcheting noise emanated from the edges of the door. After a few moments, the noise stopped, and the door swung open.
It took far longer than Jon expected. At least two feet thick, the door had sophisticated gears sandwiched into the sides. When he could finally see inside the manor, he saw a large entry hall. A stair rose in a long, elegant sweep to allow access to two upper floors. Large French doors opened onto rooms to either side, and a discreet smaller door almost hidden under the staircase was almost certainly a servant's passageway. Deeper inside the house heavy gears worked, the sound felt through his feet more than heard with his ears.
A figure dressed in anachronistic robes stood in the middle of the hall. Swathed head to toe as they were, Jon had no idea whether they were a man or a woman.
"The master will arrive shortly. Please, be seated in the display room."
The figure's voice gave little clue as to gender; muffled as it was by the concealing cloak it could be a man with a tenor voice or a woman with a mezzo-soprano. The glove-covered hand that waved him through the French doors to Jon's right was slim and long fingered, but that again wasn't strong enough evidence to draw a conclusion. Jon stepped to the doors, turned to ask his host how long he would be waiting, and stopped in shock, staring at an empty hall.
Shaking his head to clear it, Jon stepped into the display room. For all that the room was inside a modern fortress, the room looked remarkably like other curio rooms he had seen out East. The items along the walls were made of metal, not the remains of savage beasts, but the leather chairs, the low side tables, even the globes and the single great desk were the same.
Out of curiosity and to kill time until Tesla arrived, Jon looked through the displays. In a single huge case that took up most of one wall, the remains of at least three Prussian Blitzmen had been disassembled, each part labeled with a function and how it connected to the other parts. Jon shuddered; his hand had been lost to a daVinci reproduction, but he'd faced many a Blitzman on the field of battle. They were the most efficient killing machines man had ever devised.
He turned his back on the display, trying to retain his composure. As he worked his good left hand in an effort to remind himself that he could still feel, he looked at the central display of the other wall. The upper half of a Gypsy fortune teller rested in a glass case, her eyes closed, her fingers laced atop a stack of cards. Fascinated, Jon walked over to the case. He couldn't figure out if the woman was a sculpture, a carefully preserved cadaver, or something entirely different. In the house of Tesla anything was rumored to be possible.
The woman took a long, slow breath. Jon leapt backward in shock, a grunt of horror escaping him. He couldn't see where the woman's lower half entered the bottom of the display case, but there wasn't enough room for her to be comfortable in the case. A quick scan of the case showed no method of egress. Part of him wondered how he had convinced himself to come to this house of horrors for assistance, but most of his mind was working on a way to get the woman free.
With his good left hand, he tapped lightly on the glass to get the woman's attention. The moment his fingers touched the case, her eyes flew open, glassy orbs rolling slightly before settling on his face. She didn't look him in the eye, instead staring at his mouth. Before he could speak, she was shuffling the cards, the action repetitive and mesmerizing despite his horror.
"Please put your hand in the opening." The woman's mouth moved out of synch with her words. The confusion caused by that oddity was the only reason Jon complied with her request. He reached his right hand into a recess exposed by a cleverly hidden sliding panel. He groped about, trying to reach the woman, to get a grip on her to rescue her. After a moment he cursed himself for a fool. His right hand might be more durable, but without feeling, he couldn't tell if he was grappling her, waving his hand uselessly, or had already injured her.
The tiny yet insistent pain of an insect bite lanced through the crook of his elbow. He tried to pull his hand out, only to find it clamped in place. Before panic could set in, the pain in his arm subsided, and his hand gently but firmly ejected from the bottom half of the case. The panel slid shut, but Jon ignored it to stare at the tiny, neat wound in the crook of his elbow. A thin coat of liquid covered the wound. If he hadn't felt the earlier pain, hadn't known where to look, he likely wouldn't have known he'd been wounded.
"I am peering into the ether, tracing your connections now."
With a start, Jon realized the voice was the same as the greeter in the hallway. Enlightenment hit, made him feel foolish. He'd seen things like this before at travelling shows and on midways. Disgust with his gullibility mixed oddly with admiration for how lifelike the mechanical doll seemed. The hands impressed him especially; few Mechanicals he'd seen had the manual dexterity to shuffle. He knew his own prosthesis was barely able to handle simple tasks like eating and firing a gun. He was still learning to write with his left.
After nearly a minute of shuffling, the mechanical doll stopped and, with great ceremony, selected a single card from the deck. She slid it into a slot in front of her. After a few moments of ratcheting noise, the card slid out through a slot in front of him. Jon plucked the card from the slot and turned it over more to stave off annoyance and boredom than out of any desire to read his fortune.
Written across the blank card in perfect block letters was a list of personal traits. Age, weight, height, and origin stared up at him, along with the mechanical fortune teller's guesses at each.
It would have been more impressive if anything other than the height was correct.
"I would not read the card, were I you."
The accent was the same as the one Jon had talked to at the door, but the voice wasn't as powerful without the enhancement the door provided. Jon turned and looked across the room, the card still in his right hand.
An older gentleman sat, back straight, in a heavy wheeled chair. Jon recognized Tesla from pictures, but some disease had ravaged him, giving him the physique and appearance of a man far older than his actual years. Before Jon could say anything, the androgynous greeter from earlier pushed the chair into the room, navigating around the chairs to the great desk. While moving, Tesla kept speaking to Jon.
"The device does not function as I desired it to. Most find the results disturbing."
"Why would inaccurate results be disturbing?"
"But that is the issue, Mr. Eastman. The results are perfectly accurate, just labeled inversely."
Jon took another moment to read the card, but still didn't understand. "This says my age is three weeks, my weight is squiggle three by ten carat fifty two kilograms, my height is two meters, and my origin is 'decay'. Some of those answers are just incorrect. Others are plain gibberish."
Tesla frowned, waving his attendant away. She moved to his side and stood motionless. "Do not assume, young man, that because something does not fit your preconceived notions of knowledge that it is gibberish. In each case, the machine has determined the opposite of what it should."
"With all due respect, sir, that is nonsense. How can this… this… mess be the opposite of my weight?"
"That nonsense, as you call it, is the abbreviated notation scientists such as myself use for the expression of very large numbers. The value is the weight of everything save you." For a moment Tesla looked away, embarrassed. "Of course, rounding errors cause that value to be constant, no matter the subject of the divination."
"How is it that the height is correct then?"
"That is not your height. That is your eventual depth. Again, that is fairly constant, but at least it lets you know you are likely to receive a proper burial."
Jon felt the thinnest tendril of dread creeping up his spine. It made his words harsh and robbed him of any semblance of calm. "What of origin, then, sir? Am I to believe that my destination is 'decay'?"
"In a manner or speaking. The cause of your demise will be 'decay'."
Jon stared, horror overtaking him for the third time since he'd entered the display room. "And my age? Three weeks? I suppose I have but three weeks until decay overtakes me?"
Tesla smiled, a mix of pride and satisfaction painting his features. "That is it exactly!"
"This is preposterous. I have no time for this."
"This is science, Mr. Eastman. If you have no time for science, I do not see how I can be of help to you."
"I find this entire farce to be in extremely poor taste, sir. Were I not in dire need of your help to apprehend the villains I chase, I would bid you good day. As it is, I cannot conceive of a reason you would not fix such a machine."
Tesla shrugged. "It works, and in doing so proves the theories on which it was built. Fixing it would be a childishly simple exercise in applied engineering, and I have no time remaining for unproductive work."
Jon couldn't help it; a sigh escaped him. The weight of responsibility bowed his shoulders, and he readied himself to take his leave. "I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time, then, sir. Should you have no time to fix a simple device, you should certainly not have any time to assist me in my quest for justice."
Tesla shook his head once in negation. "Of course not, my dear man. Justice is and has always been my one great passion beside science. Why do you think I formed my own state?"
"The failed state of Telsa, you mean?"
"Failed? I will admit," said Tesla with a throwaway gesture, "That my choice of names was presumptuous and, worse, unwise. The state itself, however…" Tesla rummaged a moment in his desk, pulling two plaques from a deep drawer. "I would put these on my wall, but I still feel a twinge of shame when I think how my hubris may have stood in the way of justice. Look at them a moment."
Jon walked over, still hoping to receive the help he so desperately needed. "I see the one on the right is the Constitution of the State of Washington."
"And the other?"
"The Constitution of the Independent Nation of Tesla."
"Well? Compare them, my good sir."
Dutifully Jon did so. After reading for a few minutes, he realized that despite the differences in the lettering and names attached to the document, the two documents were obviously fundamentally the same.
"You see? I will garner no credit. This, perhaps, is karma for my hubris. But my state, it will endure. Read the requirements for citizenship."
Jon scanned through, finally finding the section of which Tesla spoke. "Any person wishing to become a citizen of the State of Washington may do so, regardless of origins, beliefs, or gender. Provided…"
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Tesla's triumphant voice cut Jon's recitation off. "You see, Mr. Eastman? I did not fail. I may not have the credit, but someday, when they are ready, my children will walk free."
"Sir, I'm afraid I don't understand, but I am happy for your success."
Tesla stared at him, head shaking slowly. "Someday, men will understand. Not in my lifetime, though. However, you mentioned an original daVinci Mechanical Man?"
"Yes. It was on loan to a museum in San Francisco."
"Phobos, then?"
"I believe that was the designation, yes. A group claiming to be working for the Italian government broke in and stole the daVinci, claiming it as property of Italy. The local police prevented them from leaving by sea. They've been working their way north since then. They've robbed five banks, killed more than thirty assorted law enforcement officials, and are responsible for the death and injury of countless civilians as well."
"And you thought I could help you capture them?"
"They have four Mechanical Men other than the daVinci; two reproductions, two Blitzmen. I thought perhaps you might have some way to stop them. If you can, my men and I can deal with the Italians."
"Confident in yourself. Good. I…" Tesla stopped, a strange look coming over his face. His face went still, his eyes bulging a bit. An explosive cough rang out through the room, followed by a bout of hacking. His attendant stepped forward; pulling a handkerchief from a pocket and helping the scientist cover his mouth. When he settled, she whipped the soiled linen away, but not before Jon spotted spots of blood on the white linen.
"I am afraid that I, myself, cannot help you, Mr. Eastman. I have only a short while longer, according to the machine you take so lightly. However, my apprentice has access to all of my materials, and will travel with you to assist you."
Before Jon could reply, the attendant stepped forward. "Doctor, your condition is dire. What will happen if I am not here when you need me?"
"I understand now, Tina. You will go with Mr. Eastman. Bring the daVinci back here when you have rescued her. Go prepare. Now."
The attendant bowed her hooded head in submission. "Yes, sir." She turned, and Jon caught a glimpse of her frowning face before she lowered her gaze once more. "I will meet you at the base of the drive, Mr. Eastman."
With that she left at a near run. Jon turned to his unexpected benefactor, a thousand questions on his lips. Before he could speak, Tesla cut him off.
"I have little time, Mr. Eastman. My price for my assistance is simple. I wish to study the daVinci. Once I have done so, she will return to the museum. You may even stay as my guest until she does. This is not negotiable."
"Sir. How much help will one young woman be, no matter how well trained?"
"You haven't been following the news of the war in Europe, have you young man?"
Jon turned away, shame pushing him to barely contained anger. "No, Mr. Tesla. After I lost my hand, I put that behind me."
"Suffice to say our Lady Officers seem to have turned the tide. At the very least, they seem to be giving the Central Powers doubt as to their eventual victory. At any rate, Tina is the help I have to give. Now, I tire. I trust you can find your way out?"
***
When he reached the base of the long, winding drive that led to Tesla's mansion-cum-fortress, Jon found Tina waiting beside his horse, still swathed in her concealing robes. Black pranced nervously, and when Jon got a good look at what she leaned against, he understood. He'd seen bicycles before, so he understood the basic concept, but the details were disturbingly foreign.
He'd seen bicycles with both wheels the same size, but they were a rarity. The tires themselves were nothing like the thin tires he'd seen on the bicycles on the streets of New York and Chicago. Instead, they were wide and knobby. Solid plates covered the chains and spokes, hiding them entirely. Finally, while he'd heard of them, he'd never seen a tandem bicycle before.
"Well, get on. Your horse can follow."
Tina’s hood and riding scarf muffled her voice slightly. Jon blinked, certain he'd misheard.
"Pardon? We are on a mission of some urgency."
"I know. You've only three weeks. The horse will slow us down a little, but I doubted you'd leave it behind."
"Of course I won't." Jon swung a leg up, mounting with only a slight hitch due to his artificial hand. He heard Tina's sigh, followed by the sound of latches and buckles. When he turned to look, she'd attached an absurdly large pack behind the front seat of the bicycle. She was in the process of swinging a leg over the seat, and he quickly averted his eyes.
"You can look now.”
She balanced perfectly on her two wheels, staring at him expectantly. He flicked Black’s reins, and the horse took off as if glad to be away from Tina’s metal contraption. A few seconds later, the sounds of smoothly interlocking metal gears slid up beside him. After calming Black, Jon looked down to see Tina staring up at him. Her feet pumped the pedals effortlessly.
“I thought you were in a hurry, Mister Eastman.”
“Your machine is impressive. How long can you keep that up?”
“Longer than your horse can. Set the pace, sir.”
Jon urged Black into a trot, keeping half his attention on Tesla’s apprentice. She picked up the pace without apparent effort, and even looked up to continue their conversation.
“Is this the best your horse can maintain?”
Affronted, Jon was silent until he could respond civilly. “Yes, over a distance. We’ll be meeting up with the rest of my men in a few days. Will you be able to keep this pace up until then?”
She shrugged her reply. “I might need to work on my knees every few nights, but that’s why I have my gear. You’re sure we can catch this kidnapping fiend in less than three weeks?”
“Certainly. Why?”
She looked up at him, the angle of her head alone implying mental deficiency on his part. “Because you only have three weeks to live.”
“You really believe in that superstitious claptrap?”
“I’ve seen the equations. I can even run them, given a blood sample and a stable connection to the ether.”
Jon pondered that a while. “So no matter what I do, I’m to die of decay in three weeks?”
“I’ve no reason to believe that could change.”
He shook his head to clear the funk that had been trying to claim him every day since he awoke in the hospital ward short a hand. “Well then. I’ve been living on borrowed time every day since Paris. Let’s ride!”
***
Three days later, Jon's fascination with Tina had grown as fast as his belief in the fortune-telling machine's prophecy had faded. For two and a half days, she had kept pace with Black without fail. Whether they were on a paved road or a dirt trail, through rain showers and blistering sun, she pedaled along as if it were a balmy spring day.
After the first day, she'd kept her conversation to a minimum, which suited Jon fine. He paid for their rooms when they stopped for the night at small logging towns. He offered to pay for meals, but she had declined, nodding to her pack. Other than that, neither had spoken since the day they met. Each night, as Jon saw to Black, she would unpack a few tools and service her bicycle. Tonight, the first night they would spend camped in the wild, was no exception.
She pumped the bicycle's tires full of air, tightened chains and bolts, and when she was done closed up all the panels and polished the exterior until it gleamed. As Jon checked Black's shoes for rocks, removed his tack, and ran a curry comb over his flanks, he smiled at the parallels of their nightly rituals. His smile went away when he went to make a fire. They were still in the western portion of the state, and it rained far too often for any wood to be dry. He still stared at his collected lumber, trying to figure a way to light it, when Tina spoke.
"If you require a fire, I can light it."
Jon turned to look at her, surprised at her offer. After seeing her keep her boast of keeping up with Black, he expected her to be useful when dealing with the Mechanical Men, but he didn't expect her to be a woodswoman. She remained still and silent, staring at his unlit fire, her hood and scarf covering most of her face.
"Require is rather a strong term. I would like one for a variety of reasons, but I don't require one."
She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming in the gathering twilight. "You are very self-sacrificing. Is that a characteristic of all Officers of the Law?"
Her question took him aback for a moment, coming without any preamble. In an effort to be polite, he thought about it before he answered. While he thought, ran his thumb across his badge while memories of Marshals, Soldiers, and Policemen he'd known chased one another through his mind.
"No. I don't think it is. I think it might be a requirement to enjoy the duty though."
"What is that?"
Jon shook himself from his reverie and glanced down at Tina. As he did, a flame flickered through the damp wood, igniting the core of the teepee she'd arranged. Her gaze focused on his badge.
"You don't know what a Marshal's badge is?"
She looked back up at him. The first evening stars and the edges of the campfire reflected from her eyes. "I have lived my entire life in Doctor Tesla's mansion. I suspect there are a great many things I do not know."
He thought about that for a while, what it would be like to live all alone with a mad genius as her only companion. A sudden thought occurred to him. If she'd lived there her whole life, she must be a child of one of his servants, or possibly Tesla's own child from the wrong side of the blankets. She also couldn't be far into her majority, if she even was.
"What is the meaning of a Marshal's badge, then? Why do you stroke it like a talisman?"
Her question caught him off guard. Since his injury, he was prone more than ever to introspection. He would have to guard against that when they met up with the mercenaries he'd hired. With an effort of will he focused on her question.
"It's a symbol of my office. It tells people that I'm to be trusted. It tells them I'm to be obeyed. It…" Jon stared into the fire, wondering about why he'd taken up the post of Marshal. He could have lived out his life as a pensioner. He could have learned a trade. Instead, he replaced his Soldier's rifle with a Marshal's pistol, traded his uniform for a badge, and set out on another mission. Suddenly he had an answer.
"It reminds me who I am. It reminds me that I have a Duty to be worthy of that trust, that obedience. It reminds me," He said with a smile, "that I'm a hero, not a villain."
Tina cocked her head and stared at his badge in the flickering firelight. Faintly he saw her eyes moving, like she was memorizing every detail of it. His arm tired before her gaze snapped up to meet his.
"I need to care for my knees now. I believe you should retire for the evening. Do you require assistance setting up your tent?"
Jon stood, mouth open, taken aback by her question. His artificial hand had given him problems pitching his tent, but he thought she hadn't noticed. He didn't want to admit his weakness to a woman, but tonight was the first time since the day they'd met that she had offered her help in any way. He suspected he would need her help against the Mechanicals, so he swallowed his pride and nodded.
With no comments or wasted movements, she shoved the stakes into the ground, tied off the lines, and pushed the poles into place. Faster than he thought possible, his tent was up and ready. He checked the stakes; it seemed impossible that a young girl could push them into the ground securely when he had to use a mallet. When he couldn't move the first one, he shook his head and resigned himself to strangeness.
"Will you be eating dinner tonight?" Her voice was solicitous, but something about her movements told him she was waiting for him to retire.
"No. I haven't been feeling well. I'll turn in, if you can take first watch while you're working on your knees."
"I will. Sleep well, Mister Eastman."
"You too, Miss… Actually, I don't believe we've ever been properly introduced. Shameful of me. I'm Jonathan Eastman, late an officer of the American Expeditionary Force, now a United States Marshal. And you are?"
She cocked her head and looked at him. When she spoke, each word was enunciated slowly and carefully. "Tina. Apprentice to Doctor Nikola Tesla. Assigned by him to assist you."
"You don't have a family name?"
She shrugged. The movement seemed artificial, like she’d watched someone do it and copied them. “My sisters and I have never seen the need.”
“Ah. Well. It’s good to meet you, Miss Tina. Sleep well.”
With that, he laid his head down and drifted off to sleep.
***
The next day they found the trail they sought. Even Jon’s poor tracking skills were enough to spot the deep footprints of a group of Mechanical Men, and the broader trail left by Jon’s mercenaries was even easier to follow. Piles of rubbish, uncovered campfires, and even a dead horse littered the sides of the path. By the time they rode into the mercenary encampment two days later, Jon was furious at the men he'd hired.
He also worried about their reaction to Tina.
When they spotted the camp, set up loosely centered on a clearing, he leaned over to her. "Miss Tina, I must warn you about the men we are about to meet. Some of them are of less than sterling character."
Her response filtered out of the depths of her hood. She sounded puzzled. More importantly, she spoke at her normal volume, one which might be heard by any scouts the mercenaries had out. "Why would you hire them then?"
"Because against a squad of trained soldiers backed by four Mechanical Men, it pays to have numbers on your side. Now, you see the big one over on the right?"
Tina stared directly at the huge, red-haired man. "Yes, Mr. Eastman."
"He's known as Bear. He and his men are dockside ruffians. Before I hired them, they were acting as 'protection' for businesses on the docks in San Francisco. He is savage, but he has eighteen men who can fight."
"Yes, Mr. Eastman."
"The small one over to the left is The Weasel. I have a number of accusations of white slavery against him, but no evidence."
Her gaze swiveled to lock onto the wiry, scarred villain, "Why would you hire such a criminal, Mr. Eastman?"
"Because I have no evidence to charge him, but while he is working for me, he's not committing any crimes. Do not allow yourself to be alone with The Weasel or any of the eight men with him."
"Understood, Mr. Eastman." Her gaze tracked across the glade to the three tents set up in neat, military fashion at the far end. "Whose encampment is that, Mr. Eastman?"
"That would be Sergeant Phineas Falk, a pensioner like me. Unlike me, he went into private security. He has four men with him. They are all veterans, all pensioners, and they can be counted on to be reasonably close to civil."
Tina nodded her understanding. They’d gotten too close by far to talk without being overheard, so Jon stopped conversing and rode forward toward Falk's tents. Halfway there Bear intercepted him.
"Who's this you've brought us, Eastman? Entertainment?"
Jon frowned his displeasure at the big man but kept his words mild. "She is Doctor Tesla's apprentice, and she is along to help us deal with the combat Mechanicals reported to be in use by our quarry. I will thank you to treat her with the respect due a lady."
Bear let loose a hearty guffaw, slapping his leg like a stage show comedian. He stepped up to Tina, towering over her despite her elevated seat on her bicycle. His smile wide and patently insincere, he said "I beg yer pardon, missy. We don't get many ladies out this far into the woods. So what you gonna do when the Colts are shootin' at us?"
"To the best of my knowledge, the miscreants we are tracking have no Colt Mechanicals. Their inventory consists of two Blitzmen, two daVinci reproductions, and one original daVinci. My intent is to destroy the four combat mechanicals and retrieve the daVinci for study by my master."
At the mention of daVinci's name, the camp went silent. Before the war, the reputation of the Italian Mechanical Men had been mysterious, since there were so few. Since the mass produced reproductions were unveiled at the war's beginning, however, tales had spread of how they were intelligent, deadly, and cruel beyond human ken. Jon had fought them before and won, but his false right hand was testament to how dangerous they could be. The enemy's last remaining Man had been taking the time to torture him when Jon's reinforcements arrived and destroyed it.
The Weasel slid up to Jon's side, palming a dagger. Jon wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know that or not. Either way, it wasn't a friendly move.
"Why didn’t you tell us about the daVincis before, law man?"
"It didn't matter. We are chasing four enemy Mechanicals to retrieve a fifth. Why does their design change things? Are you frightened by tales? A Colt will kill you just as dead as a Blitzman."
Bear broke in, his deep voice breaking midway through his roar. "Them daVincis ain't right! They keep you alive for days, cutting off a bit at a time. They drive you mad before they kill you!"
"Oh, shut up." The Weasel's tenor cut through the Bear's panic, "I meant the real one. Those things are worth a fortune, you yellow-bellied simpleton."
Bear let out a roar, and his meaty hands went for the Weasel's neck. Before the Weasel could gut his towering opponent, the sound of a gunshot rang through the clearing. Both criminals looked up to where Jon pointed his cocked gun at the back of Bear's skull. "Bear, you will let him go and return to your men or I swear by my good left hand that I will end you. Weasel, get back with your men, and stop throwing insults around."
Bear's growl was angry, but no longer filled with berserk panic. "Why am I gonna listen to you, law man?"
"Because you're getting paid good coin and because Weasel is right. You are a coward, and you're going to do what I say, because I'm not. Three."
Bear let go of Weasel, but instead of backing away he turned to face Jon. "And how are you gonna trust us when bullets are flying?"
"I haven't trusted you since the day I met you. Two."
Bear threw up his hands in surrender, tromping back to his men as he did. "Fine! Fine! I'm going! But this isn't over, law man."
When they arrived at Falk's tents, the Sergeant was waiting for him. "I don't understand why you hired those two, Marshall."
Jon let out a heavy sigh he'd been holding in for days. Falk might not be perfect, but he was a good soldier, and Jon trusted him to watch his back. "Do you think you and yours can take on four combat mechanicals while I take on a squad of Italian infantry?"
Falk's pause spoke volumes. "Maybe."
"I can't afford maybes. I need them as cannon fodder if nothing else."
"I just hope it doesn't backfire on us. Who's your lady friend?"
Jon accepted the change of subject gladly. "Sergeant Falk, this is Miss Tina, apprentice to Doctor Nikola Tesla. She may be able to help us with the Mechanicals."
"Good to meet you, Miss Tina."
"Likewise, Sergeant. I will be setting my tent up with your soldiers." She looked down at Falk's left leg. "Does your prosthetic require maintenance?"
Falk's eyes went wide. Jon knew he hid the loss of his foot the way Jon wished he could hide the loss of his hand. "I'm all right, Miss. You might ask the men, though. Ain't one of them ain't lost something. I think Willows was griping about his knee."
Tina pushed her bicycle toward the line of tents, and Falk leaned over to Jon. "You know, I was worried, but if she can really help with my men, we might be able to keep the rest of this sorry lot in line."
Jon grimaced as he led his horse to the hitching line. "I hope so, Phineas. I truly do."