Chapter Two

"I cannot authorize payment of the reward for this... this... mess!"

The museum curator's persistent misunderstanding was becoming tiresome. "Mister Delacroix, I am not here for a reward. I am here to deliver the remains of the daVinci Mechanical Man, Phobos, to her owner of record. Marshal Eastman indicated this museum was the last to display her."

Delacroix raised his hands in the air and threw his head back to face the ceiling. "In working condition! It was a work of art! Beautiful in every way! Now it is..."

The curator spluttered to a stop, derailed by my lack of reaction to his histrionics. Then again, he may have been reacting to the way my brows beetled down. I am no one's idea of beautiful. I can pass for human in bad lighting, or when someone doesn’t look very closely, or when I cover myself. I am a work of engineering, not art. I reached up to adjust the bandanna covering the kidskin of my lower face, then resettle the spectacles that hid the glassy sheen of my eyes.

"I require your signature of receipt, Mr. Delacroix."

"We paid an exorbitant fee to the Smithsonian in order to display it. Now... I must insist someone take responsibility for this!"

I am a mechanical device, my body a thing of cables and gears, my mind a thing of wax and wire, but even I have limits to my patience. "I am certain the federal government will reimburse you accordingly should you petition them. For my part, I simply wish you to sign this receipt for her remains." I shoved the clipboard with the indicated receipt at him until it was inches from his nose. My other hand dropped to my hip, resting comfortably on the carved wooden handle of Marshal Eastman's Peacemaker.

It was an entirely innocent action on my part. For some reason the curator went pale. He glanced at Marshal Eastman's badge pinned to my chest and his fear was banished by a narrow-eyed look of greedy calculation. He grabbed the clipboard and scratched his name onto the receipt as quickly as his hands could move. Satisfied, I retrieved my clipboard and pen and started out of the door.

"So what am I to do with this mess?"

I didn't bother to reply. I had the signature I had come for. Now I had to refit my knees, refill my water-cooling system, and return to Doctor Tesla's mansion. My sisters awaited my return; none of them except Gypsy were suitable for interacting with humans, and Gypsy was both immobile and, according to Doctor Tesla, slightly disturbing. The mansion was mostly self-sufficient, but we still had needs, notably large amounts of whale oil and small amounts of pitchblende.

The square outside the museum had once been an area for quiet contemplation. As the war in Europe worsened, conditions here on the West Coast of the United States slipped further and further backward. The fountain in the center of the quadrangle was now used for watering animals. Small vendors covered the paving stones; some with carts, some with stalls, most with nothing more than a blanket and a collection of odds and ends. A disproportionate number of the food vendors sold large fowl; mostly turkeys, with a goose here and there. Most still lived, but a few were already slaughtered, plucked, and ready for cooking.

Off in one corner of the square stood another sign of the war. A 'truant officer', an orphan catcher in all but name, towed a string of scrawny street children to a small building. The sign hanging above the front door read "Lost Angels Mission". The girl at the front of the string, a pubescent girl with flame red hair, looked half-asleep; the man leading the string practically carried her by the rope attached to her waist.

I removed the lock from my bicycle chain, swung the chain away from the hitching post, and pushed the overloaded tandem cargo bike into the street. A passing mare leapt sideways, whickering in fear. I wasn't sure if she feared the appearance of my machine or the smell of my coolant. Whichever it was, she skittered sideways until she menaced the string of orphans.

The girl at the front of the string looked up at the sound of the horse. Her eyes went wide, and she screamed. When the rider finally brought his mount under control, she kept shrieking, repeating a few words over and over. After a few repetitions I made out what she said.

"Momma! I want my momma! Let me go home!"

The catcher leaned over and took a firm grip on her arm. Other passerby took no notice, but he squeezed her hard enough to make her gasp in pain. "Your mother is dead, child. Sister Margaret at Lost Angels will take care of you now." His attitude made no sense. The human's duty was to collect children and deliver them to proper care, but he seemed to dislike them intensely. I could not comprehend why he would accept such a duty if he didn't like young ones. At times I fear I will never understand humans.

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As I swung a leg over my bicycle, broad legged pants fluttering in the breeze off the ocean, I considered my options. I needed privacy for my knee maintenance. I could ride until I was not close to any human settlements, but they clustered around water sources, and coolant was nearly as important as the work on my knees. I glanced briefly at the sky, the distance between the sun and the horizon told me the time. The argument with the curator had dragged on longer than I planned, and nightfall approached. I didn't like the idea of riding at night. I had done so while campaigning with Marshal Eastman, and it had nearly crippled me before I returned to the mansion for repairs.

I needed a room. Fortunately, despite the stinginess of the curator, I had a small stockpile of cash in the saddlebags of my bicycle, courtesy of Marshal Eastman. He'd hired some criminals to help us apprehend Phobos' kidnappers; when they turned on us their pay had been forfeit, and when Marshal Eastman died my sisters and I claimed the funds as our rightful due for seeing the Marshal's Duty fulfilled.

My goal at least tentatively decided, I pushed off and began weaving my way through the light traffic on the main street of the city. While I pedaled, I let my gaze wander over the crowds, taking in the bewildering variety of human faces. I kept my own shrouded under scarf and goggles for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the reaction some people had when faced with a self-directing Mechanical. I found that strange; I'd studied enough biology to know chemistry drove them as my wax and wire did me.

With that in mind I kept my face covered as I studied the rainbow of skin around me. Here on the West Coast varying shades of yellow-brown dominated, some with the epicanthic folds of north Asia, some with the darker brown skin of Hispania. Here and there the red undertones of the Navajo States shone like raw copper, contrasting with the few pale pinkish tans of northern Europe, so like my own kidskin covering. I had seen pictures of these same streets not ten years before, at the height of the post-Civil War boom. Caucasian gold miners and their machines used to crowd the streets. Now those same men rested forever under battlefields in France.

Women, foreigners, criminals, and pensioners were all that remained. Most of that last group had fewer than the normal number of arms, legs, or eyes. Eastman had lost his hand in the war, and his gun was reinforced to hold up under the grip of a mechanical hand. With that thought in my head, my gaze drifted across a sign showing an armored fist grasping a German-style tankard. A sign below that read 'rooms to let', with a 'vacancy' placard dangling lower still. It looked as if I'd found myself a watering hole.

***

My entrance into Die Gepanzerte Faust went unremarked. A small crowd of dock workers went into the old-fashioned pub while I secured my bicycle, and all eyes still focused on them. The group had two tables pushed together and clamored for a second round of drinks already. The pub's only visible waitress ran laps between the bar and their table, trying to keep up with six thirsty mouths.

My eyes didn't take nearly as long to adjust as a human's might, but pretending they did gave me a moment to scan the rest of the room. A dozen regulars sat spaced around the place. Two faced each other across a chessboard, and the surreptitious glares they shot at the dock workers told me they didn't appreciate the noise. So engrossed in their game and their annoyance with the loud party of six they didn't even look up when I came in. Three more clustered around a table, their faces the studied nonchalance I had come to associate with men trying to restrain their tempers. Another pair caught my eye for a moment; they wore dresses and bonnets; not what I expected in a drinking establishment. A glance under their table showed me a small valise; travelers then, looking for sustenance and shelter like me.

Four others were passed out next to bottles, three at the bar and one at a table near the back of the room. None of them even stirred at the clamor the newcomers made. The last customer in the room worked hard to join his unconscious brethren. In the time I'd taken to scan the room, he tossed back a shot, refilled his small glass from the bottle at his elbow, then tossed back another.

I scanned the room one more time, this time double checking for any weapons. The longshoremen had no firearms, but a few had knives strapped to thighs or calves. None of the regulars were armed, but most of them were missing at least one limb. The bartender...

The bartender was the most augmented human I had ever seen, and at the same time the saddest. A hook adorned his left arm. A simple mechanical claw ended his right. A large leather patch covered the right side of his face, a goggle placed where his eye should be. The way it swiveled as he watched the room told me it was more than just decoration, but I had no idea whether it was a prosthetic eye, a monocle, or something else entirely. The limp when he moved from place to place behind the bar told me one of his legs no longer ended in a functional foot.

His extensive prostheses didn’t spawn my sadness; their primitive nature did. I watched him grab up another stein with his claw, work the tap with his hook, and awkwardly set the beer on the bar when it topped off. I suddenly realized why he had chosen the style of glass he did; the top kept the beer in when he slipped a little setting it down. My own hands worked as I watched him, wishing I could get him to the Doctor.

But the Doctor was no more. I had killed him. Unintentionally, but intent did not kill, and lack of intent did not bring the dead to life.

With a start I realized the bartender was staring at me. More specifically, he glared at my hand, which still worked in time with his as he poured drink after drink for the longshoremen. It was likely the only detail he could make out; scarf and goggles covered my face, my long poncho covered me from the neck to the knee, and I was backlit besides. Before annoyance could bloom into anger, I stepped into the room and up to the bar. The barman's eyes narrowed in suspicion when he saw the gun at my hip. Sidearms had faded out of fashion before the war, but as more and more good men were drawn into the cauldron in Europe, they had come back into fashion in the less civilized parts of the United States. The moment he saw Marshal Eastman's badge, his whole demeanor changed.

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