Chapter Five

My logic pathways identified this as the next decision point. I could have ignored her, begged off due to my injuries. I am a Mechanical. I do not heal. I require repairs when I have been damaged. Many of them I can make myself, but without time, tools, and parts, I gradually degrade into uselessness.

But I had a Duty to fulfill. A crime had been committed, an innocent needed help, and I was the only help available. The choice was no choice at all.

My abused chassis bounced down the cliff face, and I had no chance at all to grab a handhold, to slow my fall. The heavy armor of my pitchblende chamber held, but only just. My left foot snagged on a crack in the rock, and the skeletal frame of my leg pulled free with a wrench and snap, leaving my limb connected only by the hydraulics and cosmetic covering. I dangled upside down by my useless leg, halfway between my past and my fate, and pondered both.

***

"Excuse me, Marshal?"

"Yes, Miss...?"

"Mrs. Mrs. Haley Jennings. I wish to report a kidnapping. My daughter Evelyn disappeared this morning. I know I sound like a hysterical woman, but Evelyn is a very responsible girl. I know there are a lot of things that could have distracted her in the city, but with talk of white slavers and opium dens and even those orphan catchers everywhere, I..."

I stilled the woman with an upraised hand. "A moment." My logic circuits accessed my memories of the day. Though it was hard to see under her hat, the wisps of hair I could see on the woman before me were brilliant flame red. I checked the face from my memory with the one before me. The resemblance was uncanny.

"Your daughter resembles you?"

"I'm told so, yes."

"I believe I have seen her. Herr Vollmer?"

He leaned back through the kitchen door. Beyond him I could see a trap door leading down into his basement. "Yes, Marshal?"

"I will be escorting Mrs. Jennings to the Lost Angels Orphan Mission. I will be returning once I have assisted her with recovery of her daughter." I paused, a slight shudder running through me as diagnostic routines flexed each of my hydraulics, spun each of my gears just a fraction. "My most urgent maintenance needs are a single cog and three replacement steel-cored ceramic bones. If I leave you the specifications, can you begin work on the machining?"

Vollmer stared at me for a few moments. "With my machine shop here, I cannot create steel-cored ceramic. Steel I can make. Ceramic I cannot. If you leave me the measurements of your cog I will begin machining it for you."

I borrowed a pencil and paper from the Fraulein and jotted down the measurements of my misbehaving cog. That done, I motioned to Mrs. Jennings and limped to the door.

***

I left my bicycle chained to the hitching post outside of Die Gepanzerte Faust in deference to the fact that Mrs. Jennings was on foot. I wasn't certain I would be able to ride it in any case; one of the cogs in my hip wouldn't mesh properly, and that forced a terrible limp into my stride.

At one point during our walk we passed two large men lounging in the mouth of an alley. Remembering the effect it had on Mister Delcaroix, I let my injured hand rest on the handle of Marshal Eastman's pistol. They backed into the alley until we were past.

By the time we reached the Lost Angels Mission building it was well after dark. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. After waiting patiently for a full minute, I adjusted the gain on my stereophones. Mrs. Jennings opened her mouth, but I silenced her with a raised index finger. Someone muttered quietly on the far side of the door.

"Cover your ears please, Mrs. Jennings."

Once I was certain her ears were protected, I lifted my good hand and hammered on the door with the full force of my pistons. The frame itself shook, bits of plaster raining down on my head. After a solid five seconds of pounding, I stopped and listened again.

Footsteps alerted me to the person about to unlock the door. It swung open a crack, the small security chain a poor defense should I decide to enter anyhow. I looked down into the watery blue eyes of a diminutive, elderly woman.

"Who's there?"

I turned so she could see my badge. "My name is Tina. I am a Federal Marshal. You are?"

"I'm Sister Margaret, dear. How can I help you?"

"I have a report of a kidnapping, and the last known location of the kidnapped child was on a string of orphans being delivered to this mission."

The old woman's eyes narrowed. "We don't have any red headed orphans here."

Circuit pathways closed. I set my weight against the door and pushed. The old woman slid backward, the chain snapped. I stepped into the mission's entryway. The old woman, far spryer than she first appeared, skittered backward. I grabbed at her, but my damaged hand couldn't hold. She slipped free, scrambling for a shotgun hanging from the wall. She had one hand on it when a valise slammed into her head.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She went face first into the shotgun, and she, the valise, and the gun all wound up in a pile on the floor. Unfortunately, it went off. A scattergun is nearly as dangerous unaimed as it is used deliberately. Pellets ricocheted through the room, pocking the walls, embedding themselves into my covering, and eliciting a shriek from Mrs. Jennings. I leapt forward...

...I tried to leap forward. I landed halfway to the old woman. The damaged cog slipped out of place entirely, and my left leg no longer functioned properly. I dragged myself forward, intent on getting a hand onto the scattergun as quickly as possible. If she managed to fire it deliberately, she might inflict serious damage on me. She would likely kill Mrs. Jennings if she hadn't already.

I reached the gun before she could fire, yanking it away from her. When I pulled the scattergun away, her hand fell limp to the floor.

"Mrs. Jennings, can you use a scattergun?"

"I grew up on a farm, Marshal. I'm not much of a shot, but I know enough."

I slid the gun back toward the sound of her voice without taking my eyes off the old woman. When I heard Jennings pick it up, I pulled myself forward again, watching her for any sign she was about to renew her attack on us. When I finally reached her, I realized how unlikely that was. A welt the size and shape of the shotgun butt was etched across the underside of her throat, and I could find no sign of a pulse.

"Oh, god. Is she... dead?"

"It appears so, Mrs. Jennings."

"I'm a murderess. Oh, god. My daughter..."

"I believe any judge will deem this self defense. I will testify on your behalf. I will require your word, however, that you will not attempt to escape, and will turn yourself in should I be incapacitated."

The distinctive sound of a scattergun breaking and discharging its shells filled the room. I looked over my shoulder to see Mrs. Jennings loading the gun from a box of shells sitting on a shelf. She sighted down the barrel, shrugged her satisfaction at whatever she saw, then set the safety and extended the gun, butt first, to me.

"You'll find my daughter first?"

"I believe I made that clear. Now, if you could please back away, I have been damaged to an unknown degree, and we must search the rest of this building."

She waved the gun at me again. "What about this?"

"Keep it. I do not believe the employees of the Lost Angels Mission are advocates of the nonviolent lifestyle advocated by Christ."

"Marshal, I do believe you're the oddest woman I've met yet. Maybe it's all the Mechanical parts, but," she paused, a strange look on her face. "I don't think there's anyone else here."

"Why not?"

"You hear a gunshot, you run. Toward or away, but you run."

I nodded as I levered myself back up to my feet. "You are correct. It would still be wise to investigate the rest of the building; we may find out where the children have been taken."

Mrs. Jennings nodded her agreement. Before I went any further, I backed up to one of the timber supports in the outer wall. I slammed my back into the sturdy post and, with an audible crunch, the misbehaving cog snapped back into place. Ignoring the look my companion gave me, I staggered on through the Mission.

***

We found what we sought in Sister Margaret's office. Correspondence from the head of the 'Lost Angels Mission', although by the contents of the letter, neither he nor the Sister had ever been members of the clergy. The head of the 'Mission', a man who signed the letter Timothy Cartwright, decried the quality of the stock in recent shipments, and made a specific request for more redheads.

Mrs. Jennings watched over my shoulder, the whispered words coming from her lips hinting at someone who had never learned the art of reading silently. I heard her breath catch when she got to the part about the redheads. "God. Little Evelyn. She's... she's all I have left, Marshal. Please, tell me you can save her."

"I will do my best. It appears the last 'shipment' left under cover of darkness. I will need to move as soon as Herr Vollmer effects my repairs. Those he can do, at least."

She looked down at the gun still clutched in her hands. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

I nodded, "Yes. By the beds in the other room, there are at least four men with the wagons. Probably more. Rescuing the children without casualties will be difficult alone."

"Children?"

"I know you are focused on your own child, Mrs. Jennings, but slavery has been illegal in the United States of America for over thirty years. Even for minors. Even for orphans."

She nodded, her jaw firming. "Let's get you back to Herr Vollmer, then."

***

We met the local police as we left the Mission. They'd come to investigate the shots. My badge kept them from firing on sight, but they were still less than friendly.

"Hello, Officers. My name is Tina. I am a Federal Marshal investigating a kidnapping."

The senior police officer, a sergeant by his insignia, looked unimpressed by my title. "I don't recall hearing about any women in the Marshal's service."

"I am working in the stead of Marshal Jonathan Eastman. He was injured severely while recovering the stolen daVinci Mechanical Man." That much was true. Marshal Eastman had been shot in the leg, gut, and arm. None of those killed him, but only because the rupture to my pitchblende chamber's shielding killed him first. Still, his name seemed to have an effect.

"You know Marshal Eastman?"

"He taught me everything I know about being a Marshal." Again, true as far as it went.

The sergeant frowned, this time in apparent confusion. He leaned in and looked around. We'd arranged Margaret on the floor, but it was obvious from the angle of her neck and her still chest that she was dead. A low whistle escaped him. "Missy, you bought yourself a heap of trouble with this."

"How have I done that?"

"We've suspected this batch of being a front for slavers for the better part of a year now. They're bad news. I lost two men who were investigating to 'accidents'." The sergeant's frown deepened. His gaze flickered across Mrs. Jennings, taking in the scattergun, the worn but serviceable dress, and the look of furious determination in her eyes. "They normally take them younger than this, though. Orphans."

Mrs. Jennings reply was short and to the point. "They have my daughter."

"Well then, I guess I'm not going to convince you to stand off. I wish I could help, but I'm stretched for manpower as it is."

"If this group is as large as you say, why didn't you report this to the State or Federal authorities?"

"Why do you think Eastman was here in the first place? It was just dumb luck that he was in town when the Italians robbed that museum."

The reference to the theft of Phobos reminded me of the group of thugs and mercenaries he'd brought to deal with the group that stole her. "That explains the final item which was bothering me."

"What's that, Miss... er... Marshal?"

"Where the rest of the slavers at this location had gone. Marshal Eastman recruited them into the posse he formed to chase down Phobos' kidnappers."

The sergeant's face fell. "Damn. I was hoping Weasel had run afoul of something. There is going to be trouble when he gets back."

"He won't be coming back. Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to make repairs, and we need to prepare to chase down the slavers before they make it to wherever they're meeting a ship."

The sergeant stood aside as we left, a look of speculation on his face. As we walked away, he called out to me. "What happened to the Weasel, anyhow?"

"I killed him."