Part the Second - Reaping

Chapter One

As I dangled upside down, trying to figure out what mistake I'd made to wind up this way, sounds filtered in from above. Evelyn's voice, faint from distance and muffled by wind. "Marshal Tina! Marshal Tina! Are you all right?"

I tried to call out, but the last impact had knocked something loose in my vocoder. Nothing came out but a muffled burst of static, indistinguishable from the wind. The first thing I needed to do was calm the children, and I could not do that without a voice. Working with my one good hand, I reached up and began the long, painstaking process of troubleshooting the problem.

While I worked, a small stubborn part of me kept looking for the reason why I was here.

***

Mrs. Jennings and I left town two days later. She carried two small bags; one of food and one of ammunition, both donated by the veterans in Herr Vollmer's bar. She also carried the shotgun we'd liberated from the mission. I had an abbreviated maintenance kit, Eastman's badge and gun, and my electric sling. If it came down to a confrontation, I needed the advantage the sling might give me, as the slavers would have the numerical advantage.

Herr Vollmer had created a new cog for my hip, but without time to properly adjust it I still limped slightly. The ceramic covering the bones of my arm remained cracked; my upper and lower arm were splinted with shafts of steel reinforcing rod. It was uncomfortable, and it did nothing for my wrist, but it would serve. At this point speed was more important than perfection. Forge could repair everything to full operation when I returned to the mansion.

We would have left sooner, but my bicycle was the one advantage we had over the slavers. I am slower than a fast horse, especially over broken terrain, but I can do one thing a horse cannot. In an emergency I can keep moving twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with only occasional stops to adjust my knees. We might not catch the slavers that day, but eventually we would run them to ground.

After the first day, one flaw in my plan became clear. Mrs. Jennings only needed to hang on, and I did the work, but after the novelty of our mode of transport wore off, she started to fall asleep. At first, I had her sing to stay awake, but the only songs she knew were old hymns. After a while those lulled her as well. Torn between talking with her and tying her to the saddle, I chose to make conversation first.

"Where is your husband, Mrs. Jennings?"

She met my question with silence. For a few moments, I thought she'd fallen asleep and fallen off the bicycle again, but a quiet sob told me otherwise.

"Mrs. Jennings? Are you well?"

"He's not dead."

That seemed like a strange way to answer my question. I was built to be curious, not tactful. "I did not say he was. Why would you feel the need to state that?"

"Because he's not. I have a letter."

"I accept that you believe he is not dead. I trust you will allow me to withhold judgment until after I have more evidence of his demise or continued existence." This both fascinated and frustrated me, but it kept her awake, so I continued.

"What does the letter say, Mrs. Jennings?"

"I have a lot of them, really. They're in my valise. I left it with Herr Vollmer. The last two are the important ones though."

I waited, silently, willing her to explain herself. Eventually she broke down and continued her explanation.

"My husband and I met when he started working at the general store in town. His dream was to own his own store, and when men started rushing out here to pan for gold, we spent our savings to open a little place up north. It wasn't making us rich, but it kept us fed. It even let us save up to get Evelyn an education by correspondence. She wants to be a writer, like Jane Austen or one of the Bronte sisters. She's so..."

She broke down sobbing. I remained busy keeping us upright, watching the trail ahead of us, and keeping an eye out for the slavers, so I just waited, silent, while she dealt with her grief. After a while she started talking again, words seeping out of her one by one.

"Harold wasn't especially patriotic, but when the call came from the Army, when that horrible proclamation came out of Berlin, he decided to sign up. It made sense. Our custom was down. Most of the men who had been panning for gold had already signed up or had gone deep into the mountains to avoid being drafted into service.

"He sent every paycheck home to us. The Army fed him and housed him, and my Harold was never one to spend frivolously. Between our few remaining regular customers and his checks, Evelyn and I survived. When he was promoted to Sergeant, we even prospered.

"He shipped out to Europe eighteen months ago. The checks got a little bigger right away. Everywhere in Europe is considered a combat zone, so he got combat pay. Then, two months ago, I got a letter from the Army. From his commanding officer. Harold was... he had..."

Mrs. Jennings broke down again. This time I didn't need her to finish the sentence. There were only two kinds of letters that would make an Army wife break down like that, and Harold's commanding officer would only send one of those two. I waited for her to quiet before I finished her sentence. "He was killed in action?"

"Yes. He had been injured. His leg. He couldn't run, and the Hun were about to overrun the trench his unit were defending. He volunteered to remain behind, hold as long as he could to allow the rest of the men to retreat.

"They retreated. They regrouped. They counterattacked, supported by men of the 54th Massachusetts. When everything settled, they found his body surrounded by dead and dying Germans. They sent me a letter, told me that when the Army had the men to deliver it, I would get his medals... a flag... the honors he'd won.

"I didn't want them. I wanted my Harold back. I was near catatonic with grief for... I don't know. Days. I hadn't told Evelyn yet. I hid the letter from her. She took over running the store, told everyone I had come down with a cold. Then one day the letter arrived."

The mysterious second letter. My curiosity wouldn't allow me to wait. "What letter?"

"She brought it to me, thrilled that she'd gotten a letter from her father. It described how he'd been injured, how he'd just been in a battle, and how he thought the Army might be sending him home due to his injuries. I was horrified by the thought of my Harold missing a foot, a shin, or even a whole leg, but I was so overjoyed that he was alive that I wept. I told Evelyn about the first letter, the one from the Army, explained to her how it was a mistake, that her father was still alive."

I spared a moment to look over my shoulder so I could see her expression. Her face matched her voice, and neither expressed the relief I would expect to hear in a woman who had seen her husband retrieved from the jaws of death. I returned my gaze to the road ahead, but the part of my mind that was always calculating could already predict several ways in which either letter could be mistaken.

"A few days later the Army courier arrived with the medals and flag. He conveyed apologies from General Shaw himself, that his men hadn't arrived in time to rescue my poor Harold. I showed him Harold's letter, he told me it was a mistake, that it must have been delayed. Death notices took priority over normal mail, he told me."

Mrs. Jennings sobbed again. Worse, she drifted. I interjected to keep her alert and coherent. "He is right. They do."

"Oh, I know that. Our store was also the local post office. I think that's why Evelyn noticed the dates. Harold's letter was marked after the Army's official death notice."

I thought about how many reasons there could be for that. Faulty dating. Harold not knowing the actual date. Men were often imprecise about such things. I kept all of this to myself, as Mrs. Jennings still spoke, and I didn't want to set her to crying again.

"At any rate, custom was still dropping off. I sold off our perishable stock, locked up the store, and set off with Evelyn in tow."

"Where were you going?"

"I was headed to Saint Louis, to the fort there. They keep the records, and I was going to get them changed."

That brought a frown to my face. The thought that changing records would change reality was an irrational one. If she was irrational, I wasn't sure releasing her with a child was the best solution. Still, that was a problem for another day.

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Another thought occurred to me, "There are forts closer than the one in Saint Louis. Why didn't you go to one of those?"

"You mean the ones on the coast? They're near deserted, now. After that armored division came through a year and a half back the last of the volunteers crawled out of the woodwork." She quieted into a humming, introspective silence for a bit. "If we didn't have Evelyn, or if she were a little older, I might have gone myself. Anyhow, when the new recruits shuffled out, most of the cadre went with them. The only ones left at the forts are old men and a few women.

"No one important to the war effort is out here in the West anymore," she concluded. "If I want answers, I have to head East."

"What about the forts in Shoshone?"

She gasped, "You mean the savage states?"

Her response startled me. I hadn't expected her to be a bigot. After all, she accepted me. Even if she didn't realize I was a Mechanical, my accent clearly marked me as European. I couldn't think of what to say, so I said nothing and let the subject drop.

We cycled in silence a while. The trail was torn up by the passage of at least three wagons, and it hadn't been the best terrain to begin with. I concentrated on my bicycling, and Mrs. Jennings thought about whatever humans think about when they have nothing to do. That had puzzled me for a long time; since I became functional, I had tasks to complete. Doctor Tesla had been adamant about that. If I wasn't working, I would be learning. The one time I'd travelled before Marshal Eastman's arrival at the mansion, I wound up shutting myself most of the way down while a train carried me from place to place.

Hours rolled past, and the sun sank toward the horizon. I slowed, lenses in my optics cycled to adjust to the lower light, and I continued on. Mrs. Jennings snored lightly behind me. I glanced back, concerned, but she had ported her shotgun in her pack and tied her hands to the handlebars with her handkerchief. I pushed a little harder, just to test my new cog. It wasn't quite right, but it showed no signs of failure. My knees, on the other hand, would need a short cool down and maintenance period around dawn.

***

Mrs. Jennings ate a meager meal of dried meat and hard biscuit while I performed routine maintenance on my knees. I had never had a human other than Doctor Tesla observe me doing so, but we travelled without tents, so I could not hide away. Step by step, one knee at a time, I stripped back the kidskin of my outer covering, removed the cotter pins, lock nuts, and clips holding my knees together, then disassembled, oiled, and reassembled them. By long habit I did the right knee first. When I had the left knee disassembled, Mrs. Jennings finished her food and drank from a old Army canteen. She motioned toward me with it.

"Would you like some?"

"The amount you are carrying would be insufficient to my needs, but if we should happen past a stream or lake I may ask to borrow your canteen. Submersing to evacuate and change my coolant is always a tedious business."

Her mouth worked, like she wasn't sure what she wanted to say. When I had my knee halfway back together, she settled on, "You weren't injured in the war, were you?"

I understood her implied question but saw no need to answer it unless she explicitly asked. Instead, I simply said, "I never claimed I was."

Scandal lit her eyes. "You... I didn't think Mechanicals could lie!"

"Mechanicals can do whatever their control circuits and logic pathways direct them to do. A mechanical librarian will give you the book you ask for, even if it is fiction."

She half glared at me. "And what were you designed to do, Marshal Tina?"

I stared back at her, my hands completing the reconstruction of my knee without the need of my eyes for assistance. "I was made to emulate human behavior to the greatest degree possible." A sudden moment of self-realization silenced me. I was even programmed to improve how well I could emulate humans. My logic pathways were self-modifying and could do so without my awareness.

I stood, pulling my foot into the small of my back, releasing it, and doing so with the other foot. My knees functioned normally, with a full range of motion. My hip still caught, and I stumbled as I dropped my left foot. Without thinking, Mrs. Jennings reached out and caught at my arm to stabilize me. Her physical support meant nothing, but the gesture meant more to me than I could express.

"Will you be all right?"

"Barring effective action by the bandits we are tracking. I will be brought back to full function when I return to Doctor Tesla's mansion."

"Should we go there first?"

"No. It is in the wrong direction, and full repairs will take time we do not have. I need to perform maintenance on my electric sling, and then we will get back on the trail. Based on the tracks I have seen, the group we are chasing has been joined by another, similarly laden group. If we wait longer, I fear there will be too many for us to confront."

Mrs. Jennings' mouth turned down at the corners. "You'll stop chasing them if that happens?"

"No, but I cannot guarantee rescuing the children if there are more than six."

"How many are we chasing now?"

"Six."

She twisted around to kneel, face down and eyes closed. While I prepared my weapon for the upcoming confrontation, she mouthed words of supplication to her creator. I wondered for a moment if I ought to do the same. I decided not. He was, after all, dead.

***

That afternoon we caught up with the slavers.

I spotted a smudge of smoke in the sky ahead of us. It was joined by two more as we travelled closer. I reduced the gain on my stereophones to human normal, then slowed down until I could barely hear the quiet metal on metal sound of my bicycle's chain dragging us forward. My companion's whisper cut through the silence.

"Are we close?"

I half turned so she could see my glower. I was getting quite good at it. She caught the silent suggestion immediately, pulling her shotgun from her pack and silently, efficiently checking to be sure it was loaded. I focused my attention back on the trail. The marks of the slaver's horses and wagons were clear on the ground. Horse droppings still steamed where they'd fallen. A pinched off coal, remnants of a cigarette, smoldered in a damp pool of horse urine.

There are occasions when I am dismayed that I cannot detect scents. This was not one of them.

The slavers had no scouts out. They had not reason to; to the best of their knowledge the local authorities still believed them a legitimate orphanage. We got to the ridge above their camp without being spotted. I pushed my bicycle into the brush beside the trail and looked down on a deceptively idyllic scene.

Six wagons were drawn up in two rings. Tall canopies covered the wagons of the inner ring, obscuring the area in the center. From the smoke, the slavers had their fires there. The wagons of the outer ring had simple tarps drawn over the wagon's beds, but the lumps under the fabric hinted at supplies for the trip. Half a dozen men walked around the camp attending to chores. I saw no sign of children.

A rustle from behind me drew my attention. A quick glance showed it was only Mrs. Jennings, her skirts disturbing the underbrush as she pulled back from the ridge. I reminded myself that she was a shopkeeper, child of farmers, not a trained woodswoman or soldier, and went back to my observation. My patience was rewarded by the sight of a seventh man coming out from between the circled wagons carrying a dingy metal bucket. Steam wafted from the top of it, and a ladle dangled from the handle. He carried it to the back of one of the inner ring of wagons, where he ran the ladle across the back opening of the wagon. Metal rang on metal, and I increased the magnification on my optics. A dull iron grid of bars covered the back of the wagon, secured with a simple padlock.

A crowd of dirty hands, each one clutching a ratty wooden bowl, shoved through the bars. In the dim interior of the wagon, I couldn't make out details, even with my optics boosted as far as I could. I pushed the gain on my stereophones as high as I could as well. A wave of sounds crashed over me, drowning me in details for a few seconds while I dealt with them.

Humans are masters at ignoring things. They do it all the time, usually without meaning to. This is why they will step on snakes, trip over uneven ground, or spend endless money trying to decide which cup the bean is hidden under. I have the opposite problem. Unless I deliberately ignore it, every sound intrudes on my consciousness. That is why I don't keep the gain on my stereophones and magnification on my optics tuned up at all times.

However, when I can't see something, I can often hear it. In this case, once I filtered out the local wildlife, the wind rustling through the trees, the fire crackling in the slaver's stoves, and the quiet chuffing sounds of the oxen that pulled the carts, I heard the human sounds of the camp quite clearly.

"Eat up. That's all you're getting until we stop. And don't mess the wagon again, 'cause there ain't another deep stream to run the wagon through until we get south of Los Angeles."

The voice of a child or very small woman whispered out of the wagon. "Can we get out and walk? Please? My legs are so stiff."

"Get used to it. I ain't letting any of you out any time soon, girlie."

The nasal reply grated on my stereophones, but I kept them turned up. "But Mr. Black said we could get out and stretch our legs! He was even going to let us out!"

My optics picked up the edges of a cruel grin on the cook's face. "Yeah, I'll bet. Mr. Black would love to get his hands on you girls. Only reason I ain't let him is 'cause you go for more if you're undamaged."

"Mr. Black wouldn't hurt us!"

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't. He'd just use you a bit, is all. 'Course, we never did find that one little girl he took off, so maybe we just ain't found the ones he hurt."

Other than a few gasps, sobs, and the continuous background noises of hungry children eating, there were no more sounds from inside the wagon. I shut down my optics to concentrate on the human noises coming from the camp.

"When are those goat humping sons of bitches going to get here?"

Harsh envy filled the other guard's response. "The other convoys never make it in time. They're too busy culling the merchandise."

"Why do they even take boys if they're not going to keep 'em?"

"No idea. Maybe they get tired of carting these brats around and never laying a hand on them."

A new voice, one used to command, cut through the conversation. "The other three convoys are coming from towns where we have not yet suborned or intimidated the local police. If they only take girls someone will notice."

"Yes, Mr. Cartwright."

Focused on human voices, I hadn't heard the horse ride up. I flickered my optics for just a moment, long enough to get a picture of Cartwright astride his mount, a beautiful Arabian. Working by feel, listening to Cartwright, I pulled my electric sling around and laid it on the ground in front of me.

"You're waiting until the men are fed, then you're moving on. I'll go gather up the others and have them double time it to catch you up."

"At last! Those goat humpers will have to move their lazy asses!"

The unholy glee in the slaver's voice was cut short by Cartwright's quiet tone of command. "Stop gloating. I've got fresh horses and oxen following me. When I catch you up with the other groups we'll all be double timing it until we hit the mission."

"What? Why?"

"The Turk showed up two days ago. I've been riding north hurrying things up since then. I'm stopping the culling, too, where I'm in time."

"The Turk wants boys? Sick bastard."

Cartwright's tone was that of a man used to talking to himself, even when others were around. "Not that it matters, but they're looking for cannon fodder after the debacle in Italy."

"I thought Italy was just..."

I never heard what Cartwright's man thought Italy was.