Chapter Three

My logic pathways, flashing through my memories with lightning speed as my pitchblende chamber heated to critical levels, identified this as the first point at which I may have erred. My status as a Marshal has never yet been confirmed by any outside authority. Marshal Jon Eastman gave me my badge after he deputized me during his pursuit of the stolen daVinci Mechanical Man, Phobos.

But the moment he deputized me, something in me changed. I was no longer Tina, apprentice to Doctor Tesla. I was Deputy Marshal Tina, and I had responsibilities. Duties. Heavy weights I could not, for some reason, put down.

As my memories flashed past, so did a branch. I lashed out, my hand latching onto the branch like the mechanical clamp it was...

...the damaged mechanical clamp it was. The ceramic and steel bones of my arm gave way at the same moment as the branch itself. I fell once more into the chasm of memory.

***

"Vergeben sie mich... Forgive me, Marshal..."

I am not oblivious to social cues. I also am capable of prevarication. "Marshal Tina."

The title wasn't a total lie. I was deputized by Marshal Eastman. I had killed him too, in the end. Accidentally, like Doctor Tesla. I'd buried him above the mansion, under an old oak tree, then gone on to finish the mission to which he had set himself. To which he had set me. With the delivery of Phobos to the museum, it was done, but it seemed I needed to trade on my dubious status yet again to get home.

The barkeep kept staring at me, his face hard to read with the leather covering so much of it. He muttered, but my sharp stereophones caught his words. "Lady Officers the Army now has, but Lady Marshals? When did this begin?"

Acting on impulse, I reached up and pulled my scarf down around my neck. Doctor Tesla was a genius, and my sister Forge his equal at fabrication, but the man in front of me had lived too long with leather covering his face. It only took him a moment to realize that the skin he could see was nothing of the sort. His jaw dropped open in horror, his claw reached up and stroked his mask; he stared at my face so intently I don't think he realized he did it.

"Mein Gott. I did not realize the casualties had come so soon." I realized his mistake but saw no need to correct it. I needed a friendly host, not a maintenance shop.

"How much for a room and two gallons of water?"

As I spoke, a sea change came over him yet again, a smile overtaking the shock. "It is good to hear the sound of the old country in a voice again. You are... not German. Not Austrian." He stopped me with a raised hook when I opened my mouth to speak. "Not Polish. Croat?"

I shook my head. "Serb. My... father emigrated." The barkeep noticed my hesitation, but he said nothing. As many families as bodies had been shattered by the War. He tried to cover the awkwardness with humor.

"Eh, Croats, Serbs, you're all a little strange down there. I think it's the Ottomans corrupting you." A broad smile took the sting out of his words. Not that I felt any. "Not that it matters. We're all immigrants here, eh? Your father, I can meet him?"

I can smile and frown, but neither joy nor sorrow come readily to me. The frown when I replied was one of the few I can remember coming without my deliberate intent. "He died. Recently."

I was learning to read the barkeep's expressions quickly. It helped how expressive his face was. I suppose that must be an asset in his line of work. He frowned, but it was a sympathetic frown, accompanied by a quiet clucking noise. "Ah, well. I can't afford to let you the room for free, but for a recent orphan, I offer you a deal. One dollar for room, board, and stabling."

I was shocked. That rate was higher than I'd come to expect from the historical prices I'd researched. Inflation had made the dollar yet another casualty of the war. I glanced over at the longshoremen again; with the prices up, they didn't look to be wealthy enough to afford the beer they were putting away. "I won't need..."

The waitress stumbling up to the bar, half a dozen steins clutched in her hands, interrupted me. "Papa, the regulars need their drinks." Her accent was far less pronounced. The bartender just raised his remaining eyebrow at her. "I need the mech to help."

The bartender shook his head with a sigh, then bent over to reach beneath the bar. After a few seconds, I heard the distinctive sound of a small gas burner heating a boiler. He muttered "table two, table two.." and clicked over several switches. A section of the bar front slid aside, revealing a small Mechanical Man. I recognized it immediately as a scaled down Prussian Blitzman. It took three steps, spun about, and reached up to lift a tray loaded with steins from the bar.

As precise as I expected it to be from its construction, the Mechanical spun in place and stepped across the room toward the table full of longshoremen. It carried more full steins on the tray than the girl had carried in both overloaded hands. It was, however, slower than she was; for many small trips, she was the better choice. I turned back to the bartender, new respect for him coloring my voice. "It's a remarkable replica. Did you make it?"

"Ja. Not a replica, though." A sad smile stretched the remains of his face as he set out drinks for the serving girl to take to the regulars.

"Pardon? As far as I can see it's nearly a perfect scale copy of a Prussian Blitzman Main Battle Mechanical. I suppose you might have taken some liberties with the internal construction, which would classify it as an homage rather than a replica, but still..."

He never stopped pouring drinks, but one corner of his smile quirked up. "Not ein replica. Ein prototype."

My gaze darted to the miniature Blitzman, then back to the bartender. My optics cross referenced with memories of photographs read into memory at Doctor Tesla's mansion. I adjusted for age, for the scarring done by whatever had damaged his face, and a conclusion formed in my mind. "Herr Vollmer?"

"Ja. That is me, Herr Joseph Vollmer, barmann and gastvirt, at your service." The wax of my mind flowed and bent around the wires, the etched silica of my memory feeding it the words.

"Bartender and innkeeper? But you... you were the mind behind the original Blitzmen."

"Und das new model of Colt, und Doctor Tesla consulted with me on his designs, und now, after too many years and too many limbs spent in that life, I am a bartender. We all have pasts, Marshal Tina. That is the trick to the past. Remember it is behind you."

I thought at once of two graves atop a hill. My desire to grill this man about Doctor Tesla, about my own origins, about the history of those like me, dimmed, but did not dissipate entirely. "I see. I should love to talk to you about Mechanicals some time, especially the logic pathways and control runs."

"Ach. That was my weakness, you see. With the chassis? The drive train? Even," here he half turned his head and made a spitting motion, "the weapons and armoring? With those I am a master. With the programming? With that bit I gave my limbs to master?" My optics zoomed in on a glint in his remaining eye; it watered from old, old pain. "With those I am hopeless." He shrugged; a man resigned to his fate. "Still, with brewing I am good. With cooking I am good. With serving I am good. With providing an open ear I am good. This trade I can master all of, you see."

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That thought brought a frown to my face. The man standing before me was one of the pioneers of mass-produced Mechanical Men, yet here he stood tending bar. The waste of such a great mind shocked me to my core. Doctor Tesla had been adamant about every one of my sisters stretching themselves in all ways, becoming whatever they could, improving the world around them to the greatest degree possible. To see someone who likely had been unknowingly instrumental in my own design reduced to mixing drinks made me wish I could cry.

"Don't fret, Marshal. It is a good life, and these," he clacked his claw around his hook, "aren't much good on a drawing board anyway."

I looked down at my own long, beautifully articulated fingers. Even covered in two layers of kidskin, the outer a pair of gloves dyed midnight, the inner my own 'skin', they were likely more dexterous than Vollmer's. "You realize there are more advanced prostheses available now."

His gaze tracked down to where I looked, and sudden realization lit in his remaining eye. "A daVinci replication, was it? No matter how badly my creations misbehaved, they never matched the sheer bestial nature of those things."

"Yes, I have reason to hate the daVincis." That much was true. It had nothing to do with the cruel nature of the machines, and everything to do with the misanthropy Phobos displayed before I dismantled her. I shook myself free of the memory and brought my gaze up to meet the barkeep's. "Should you ever change your mind about your hands, visit Doctor Tesla's mansion again."

A small shake of his head, "I could not afford such things, und I would not trade on old acquaintance."

I quirked my lips into a smile. It felt unnatural, but I learned more about how humans communicated with every conversation. "Who said anything about past or price? I am certain they will have many questions about chassis and drive trains. Tell them Tina sent you."

Vollmer's mouth dropped open at that. Marshal Eastman had his prosthesis from the Army, where such things had become more and more common. If he hadn't, there was no way a working man could afford such a thing. My sister Forge, on the other hand, needed to keep in practice should she ever need to recreate any of my parts, and a chance to speak with Vollmer could only improve her designs.

He started to stutter something, thanks or denial, but I did not get to hear which he intended. Behind me a huge crash echoed through the low-ceilinged saloon. I spun, worried that Vollmer's self-proclaimed problems with control runs had caused someone in the bar some mischief. What I saw immediately set my pitchblende to heating.

The poor little Blitzman prototype lay on its back, the tray of steins scattered around it. Most of them spilled, at least two directly onto the machine, where the beer erupted instantly into steam when it came in contact with the Mechanical Man's boiler. My stereophones picked up the unmistakable sound of overstressed metal cracking as the cold beer encountered the hot metal.

My first thought was the safety of the patrons. "Herr Vollmer, shut your machine down!" If the prototype kept moving, it would only crack its boiler further, and eventually it would either explode or send scalding steam through the room. Either would be deadly for any humans standing nearby. Neither would be good for me, either.

A moment after I cried out to Vollmer, I realized my mistake. The Blitzman hadn't fallen due to some mistake of programming or machinery; it had been shoved over by one of the longshoreman, who stood and kicked it's arm out from under it as it tried to rise.

"Damned Hun monstrosity!" The venom in the workman's voice took me aback for a moment. I might expect that level of hatred from one of the men sporting replacement limbs, especially veterans of the War in Europe, but hearing it from a whole, hale man was surprising.

The longshoreman aimed a kick at the prototype's side, and I winced at the cracking noise when the steel toed work boot contacted the unarmored chassis. Every bit of damage weakened the boiler's integrity a little more, brought catastrophe just a little bit closer. I had to stop the irate man from damaging Herr Vollmer's property, but I also had to stop the idiot from killing everyone in the room with a boiler explosion.

Out of the corner of my optic sensor I saw Fraulein Vollmer trying to shepherd the two women up the stairs, with little success. Some of the regulars levered themselves to their feet, although at the speed they were moving it was impossible to tell if they were evacuating or moving to Vollmer's aid. The longshoreman aimed another savage kick at the side of the machine. When it landed a new sound started up, right at the edge of my hearing: a whistle too high pitched for human ears to hear. If it was a relief valve, it might keep an explosion from happening. If it was the first crack in the boiler, I had just run out of time to consider the situation.

"Das ist nicht gut!" Vollmer cried out. If his ear had been replaced, he might be hearing the same noise I had. Before I could step toward the crazed workman, he spun and stomped toward Vollmer, savagery written in every line of his face.

"It's 'cause of things like that an honest man can't make a decent wage anymore. 'Cause of things like that and damn half-machine Huns like you!"

The longshoreman raised his fist, intending to strike at Vollmer. Predictive logic pathways clicked to solutions, and I knew the time to act had come. Between one second and the next, I reached out and grabbed the man by his upraised wrist. I barely felt it when he tried to swing, but I heard his tendons and ligaments tear from the strain. His shriek of pain was eclipsed by the sounds of a half dozen chairs hitting the floor as his friends stood to come to his aid.

"Sit down, gentlemen." I spoke clearly, but the amplifier in my vocoder carried my voice over the growing chaos. "At this time, the only crimes that have been committed are disorderly conduct and vandalism. Neither is a Federal offense, and as such I can overlook them. Should you choose to assault this gentleman, I will no longer be able to do so."

My vocoder was one of Doctor Tesla's proudest accomplishments. My voice sounds human. It is a little low pitched for a woman, a little high for a grown man, but on first hearing it most people I've met believe me to be human. These thugs were no exception.

"You some kind of Hun lover, girlie?"

"You hear her accent? She's a she-Hun, protecting one of her own. Let's teach this little girl whose soil she's on."

With that, the rest of the longshoremen advanced on me. They moved like experienced brawlers, but I could tell by the loose way they stood that they weren't yet taking me as a serious threat. By the way one casually kicked the Blitzman prototype out of the way, I knew they weren't aware of the danger it posed, either. I tried once more to defuse the situation before the little Mechanical's boiler ended it once and for all.

"Gentlemen, this is your last warning. Leave the premises immediately and no charges will be brought against you. Carry on, and I will see you charged with assaulting a Federal officer as well as interfering with..."

The thugs didn't listen to what they might be interfering with. The first one reached out and grabbed my wrist. As I still held his friend, who was moaning and clutching at his dislocated shoulder, I took the expeditious action of hitting my new assailant with his friend's still-balled fist. The sound of breaking bones came from both hands, the one I held and the one on my wrist, as well as the face of my new assailant. I counted them both out of the fight and moved onto their friends.

Five longshoremen remained. Forced to confront them, I took a moment to examine them more closely. The one on the far left was short but heavily muscled, a fireplug. The next was the only one armed with a meaningful weapon, a short pipe. The one in the center was the tallest but looked as if he weighed less than his short friend, a beanpole. To his right was the one who had taken time to kick the poor prototype; his face was a mask of rage. The last of them was the only one who looked doubtful about his course of action; he stared at the two men behind me, perhaps thinking that anyone who could take down his two friends so quickly would not be easy prey.

I hoped I could scare them off. Despite my heritage, I am not a combat Mechanical. I was yet another of Doctor Telsa's endless experiments, intended to emulate human appearance and behavior as closely as possible. That includes a hesitation when it comes to harming other human seeming beings.

The angry one jumped at me, his fist flailing. I may be made to emulate humanity, but Doctor Tesla was always trying to improve on things. I am faster than almost every human, and stronger than many machines. I caught his arm mid-swing and squeezed. His bones creaked, cracked, and I threw him sideways into the wall.

I said I hesitate when it comes to harming humans. I'm still quite good at it.

"She's not a Hun, she's a machine!"

The fireplug and the beanpole charged me. I lunged at the beanpole, catching him off his guard with a tackle. I suppose he was used to having longer reach than his opponents, but if you move fast enough it doesn't matter. My shoulder caught the upper edge of his pelvis, then slipped up into his gut, driving the wind from him and possibly cracking some bones. I pushed myself back up, backing toward Herr Vollmer as I did so. I did not trust men of this sort; they would sneak behind my back and hurt him.

A heavy weight slammed into the back of my knees. An arm snaked around my ankles, leveraging my feet back, forcing me to the floor. I twisted as I fell and landed on my side, one arm pinned beneath me. The longshoreman's pipe crashed down into my head. The thick horsehair and padded kidskin weren’t enough; everyone in the room heard the tough ceramic coating of my skull crack.