Chapter Four

"I got her!" A hand twisted into my hair and lifted. By the grunt of surprise, the longshoreman hadn't known how much a human-sized mechanical weighed. He didn't know it yet, but he'd made another mistake as well. As fists and feet pounded into my torso, the pipe wielder yanked on my hair. I let him twist my head around until I could see him from the corner of my optic receptors.

My head is where my vocoder, optics, and stereophones are located. Cracking my skull is inconvenient, but not even remotely lethal. When the fireplug pulled a flensing knife from his jacket, I decided enough was enough. Before he could cut my hair from my head, I lashed out, grabbing his arm just above the wrist. I squeezed. When I heard bones crack, I didn't stop. He screamed, and the pipe swung down at my head again. Before it could hit, I pulled the fireplug into the way. The pipe still cracked my skull again, but this time it caught the fireplug as it rebounded. He and his friend went down in a tangled heap.

"Dammit, Karl!", the fireplug screamed. I let go of his arm and the knife, still clutched in his maimed hand, slashed wildly through the tangled bodies. He whipped it back at me, driving the point into my side. Between his injury and my armor, it did nothing but mar my covering. I grabbed his wrist again before he could realize his mistake.

"Mother whore son! Watch that gutting knife, Ed!"

Of course Karl didn't let go of my hair, and I was towed further into the pile of struggling, sweating bodies. Most of the blows bounced off harmlessly, but there was still a lead pipe in the melee, and if Karl began using it on my arm, Ed would have his knife back in action in short order. My boiler and pitchblende chamber are armored, but my limbs and head are simply very tough. The pipe started hammering my chest, working its way toward my arm. For the sake of the other patrons I had to stop them; if they used the pipe and knife in combination, they might be able to breach my chamber shielding. That was how Marshal Eastman and Doctor Tesla met their end, and it was a horrible way to die. I wouldn't even wish it on the men who were beating me to death now.

I strained, pulling Karl's arm into the path of the pipe. If he dropped the knife, it might be lost in the scuffle. The lead pipe slammed into my shoulder, then into my forearm. The steel lined ceramic of my bones held, but the crackle was audible to human ears. Ed hit me again, and again. I shifted, trying to make him hit a new spot each time, but that only spread the damage across my already weakened arm. Karl's arm slipped from my grasp once more. I grabbed at the pipe, the bones in the palm of my hand crackling with the impact. I tried to hold on, but the pipe was too slick. Ed yanked, and the pipe flew. It clanged away across the floor.

I waited for one of them to go collect it, for the knife to begin carving away my skin, exposing the welds and screws and cotter pins holding me together. Once those could be reached by grasping fingers, I would wind up strewn across the floor in pieces. Ed rolled away from me, headed to recover the pipe. I tried to scramble to my feet. My damaged arm went out from under me, and I fell to the floor once more.

"Stand easy, Marshal." The thick, gravelly voice coming from above my head held the echoes of old command. I wasn't a simple combat Mechanical to be ordered about, but even humans respond to a voice that expects to be obeyed. I stopped scrabbling at the floor with my bad arm. Only then did I realize the sounds of struggle had ceased. Other than the sounds of heavy breathing and quiet whimpers of pain, the bar was silent.

Moving with deliberate, planned precision, I rolled over and used my good arm to lever myself up to my feet. Halfway there, a hand of unadorned bronze and steel reached down to help. I clasped the arm of the old officer who had been so intent on drinking himself to insensibility. By the fumes wafting from his mouth, he was well on his way, but his words were clear.

"We don't move as fast as we did in Europe, but we won't stand for scum like that assaulting an officer of the law," here he stumbled for the first time, as he found a concept he seemed unfamiliar with, "or a lady."

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All seven longshoremen were held by the bar's patrons. In most cases, they were held by arms twisted behind their backs by limbs no longer limited by the frailty of flesh, but the officer in front of me held Karl by the simple expedient of a pistol shoved into his mouth, the back of his head pressed against the wall. The gun was small in caliber, more likely to punch a hole in the back of his neck than do any real damage, but Karl seemed cowed well enough.

"You have my thanks, Mister...?"

"Roger Canford, Ma'am. United States Army Engineers, Captain, retired."

"Good to meet you, Captain Canford. I am Tina, Federal Marshal. It seems my actions were unnecessary."

"Hardly, Ma'am. If you hadn't occupied them, the men and I would never have caught up with them. We all know how to handle ourselves, especially against idiots who are so drunk they'd try to wrestle a combat Mechanical, but if they'd seen us coming it would have been an uphill battle. I'm certain we wouldn't have been able to keep them away from Herr Vollmer."

The admission, along with the very real worry in Roger's voice, tripped my curiosity. "Not to pry, Captain, but I don't understand why combat veterans would be patronizing the bar of the man who designed the weapons of their enemy."

Far from offending the Captain, my question brought a smile to his face. "I could tell you he designed our new model Colts as well, but that's not really it. It's a lot simpler than that."

I waited, and his smile turned a little sheepish. "We're all Army Engineers. Well, Becker is Mechanical Command, but we forgive him. He got into it for the same reason we became Engineers, after all."

"And that is?"

"We all really like Mechanicals."

I examined him for a while, but I detected no sarcasm, no duplicity. He meant what he said. I wondered if he even realized that the longshoremen had been correct. I replayed his comment about Marshals and Ladies. It seemed likely he was under the impression I was just another amputee, albeit more thoroughly replaced than anyone else in the bar.

"Would you like us to take care of these?" Canford pulled back the hammer on his little pistol, and Karl's eyes shot wide open. Before Roger could do anything I would have to take action about, I reached out and laid a shaking hand on his arm.

"No, thank you, Captain. If you could direct me to the local jail, and perhaps bind their arms and legs, I will take it from here."

Roger took charge quickly and efficiently, for which I was grateful; I had no great skill with restraints. "You heard the Marshal, lads. Herr Vollmer, do you have any rope?"

While the old soldiers tied the ruffians up, I staggered over to Vollmer. At some point during the fight someone must have smashed my hip. The joint wasn't meshing properly now. The old man took in my injury at a glance, clucking at me when he did.

"You will need a workroom, not a bedroom, first, I think. Hilde!"

"Yes, Papa?" The young waitress scurried over from where she was standing between the two women and the room at large. She carried a heavy iron poker, even though the room had no fireplace.

"Tend the bar. I must show the Marshal to my workroom."

A workroom was what I needed, but I felt a sense of obligation. It made no sense; Marshal Eastman's task was done. Perhaps it was the badge.

"First I must see these men," I waved my hand toward the troublemakers, "to the local authorities."

Roger looked up from where he was tightening a rope around Karl's wrists. "We can deliver them for you, Marshal. Unless you need to see to it personal-like?"

"No, Captain. I have no personal animus against these men. I would be very grateful if you could take them to the local authorities. Inform them that these men assaulted a Federal Marshal, as well as attempting to destroy..." I suddenly remembered the damaged prototype. I looked over to where it had been lying, but it was no longer there. A trail of leaking coolant fluid led back to the bar. The damaged Mechanical had returned to Herr Vollmer. I looked back to him, and he nodded confirmation.

"Ja. I will need to fix him as well. Follow me, Marshal."

With that, Vollmer went through the door behind the bar, which I presumed led to a kitchen. As I was about to follow, the sound of a feminine voice in distress caught at my stereophones.

"You heard her, she's a Federal Marshal. The Sherriff said kidnapping is a Federal crime, which is why he could do nothing until a Marshal arrived. I have to speak with her!"

I wanted to follow Herr Vollmer through the door, to leave the woman and whatever problems she had behind me, but my legs wouldn't move. Perhaps my drive train was slipping. Perhaps my control circuits were misfiring. Or perhaps I didn't really want to go. Whatever the reason, I was half turned around when one of the two women I'd spied earlier stepped up to me, valise in hand.

"Excuse me, Marshal?"