Chapter 31
The Dominion League of Robot Wars
The steel doors of the Iron Arena, twice as high as a man, stood open wide to the street. From within came the beehive buzz of hundreds of voices, and rousing strains of music, noted by the discerning ear to be at one time something of Wagner's and then later from the Russian; Tchaikovsky, each loud and heroic.
Metal skinned, stitched with penny sized rivets, and high, at least three stories high, the Iron Arena stood in brutal splendour. Out of place in its circular uniformity, it was at home in its elemental construction, surrounded as it was by the mills and manufactories of the rusted industrial zone between Newtown and Addingtown.
A steam tram, loaded with passengers, and running on what was normally a freight only line, drew up before the ferric Colosseum. Upon dismounting the newcomers were instantly drawn, like magnetised iron filings, toward the aperture in the structure's side and the gas-lit beyond.
Although one unaffected individual, stood his ground, gazing up at the curving walls, as bonneted ladies and hatted gents swept past him.
“There's Dickie now,” announced Max, pointing out the motionless inventor. At once the three friends crossed Cochrane Street and reacquainted themselves with the latest arrival.
“Evening Gentleman,” began Dickie. “I was just thinking to myself how the whole thing looks from the air very much like... well nothing more than a giant American doughnut, if you will. We sit around the outside to watch, while in the hole in the middle the robots do battle."
"Like so many sugar strived ants?" quizzed Max, bemused by Dickie's saccharine analogy. "The metaphor goes too far," replied Dickie shortly. "Shall we?” And the four friends joined the inward moving throng.
On either side of the doors orange gas flames rose from heavy wall mounted sconces, casting the faces of those waiting in a ruddy glow. Above their heads, in a bold Roman font, the words 'THE IRON ARENA', and beneath these 'THE DOMINION LEAGUE OF ROBOTS WARS' had been machine cut from thick steel and affixed to the wall.
The excited crowd jostled each other politely as they were drawn into the bottle neck. While within the doors eager spectators had their precious tickets exchanged for printed programs by smartly uniformed booth ladies, before passing further on and into the arena proper.
At the glass Max handed his ticket to an attractive attendant who, like her co-workers, was outfitted in a burgundy Hussar's uniform, complete with gold rope frogging across the front and Hungarian knots at the sleeves. At her breast was pinned a silver broach in the shape of a multi-toothed cog, from the centre of which rose a mailed fist with the letters DLRW engraved across the four knuckles.
“Up the stairs to the left,” she instructed, slightly out of breath. “If you will.”
“Thank you,” answered Max, taking the programme and noting that, although she was well made up, the rush and excitement was showing warm colour in her cheeks. Max moved away and joined the others as they mounted the stairs.
“Shall we?” said Dickie again, before leading the way up the internal flight. With a foot on the bottom step Max glanced back and caught the girl watching him. She snapped back to her work at once, but he was sure her colour deepened still. A little surprised, Max smiled to himself and followed the others on up the noisy stair.
A minute later they emerged, wide-eyed, into the night air. The cumulative roar of a thousand excited voices and the music of horn, violin and bass drum, enveloped them. The packed bleachers towered above and the ranks of seats curved away in both directions, to meet on the far side, a perfect circle, Dickie's Doughnut. Above, the grandstand roof arched over, in case of poor weather.
But even as the friend’s eyes swept across the void of the heavens above and over teeming expectant faces below, they were inevitably drawn down into the centre of the massive ring. Here, on the primitive sand, the combat would unfold, as it had on a million similar grounds throughout all of human history. This time however, gladiator would not stand toe to toe with gladiator. A new age had dawned. Robot would stand toe, boot? stomper?... who knew!?
“Amazing,” whispered Wang, momentarily awestruck. Max hid a smile; he hoped Wang was counting the outing worthwhile. He knew his friend had been sorely tempted to scalp his ticket and take the money for feeding his Grandfather.
“Seats Gentlemen,” announced Wiremu, pointing around the stands a little.
“Lead on!”
They set off, as all round them others were emerging from the stairs to likewise stand and gape at the open heart of The Iron Arena.
When they were at last seated, four in a row, no one spoke, each content with his own observations and sightly shocked to silence by what he was seeing.
Their seats were three rows up. But the tilt of the stand was so severe that the view into the arena was not at all obscured by the bobbing heads in front. Beneath the feet of those in the first row the riveted sheet walls dropped straight down fifteen feet to the battle ground.
The orchestra was set up on a special cantilevered stage on the far side, and all around it the faces of the Dominion's worthies, the famous, the infamous and the rich, shone with expectation in the glow of hundreds of gas lamps. Max recognised many of the faces, noting each one to himself. All the groups and factions were present. Government and military, business and investment, University Professors and students, Goths, Classics and Steam Engineers. The last decorated in the modified fashion of their craft, with broaches designed to look like train wheels and hanging cogs. Many had bronze goggles in place about their hats, as if they too might be called upon at a moment’s notice to drive a robot or weld a join, or cling to the outside of a speeding train.
When Max had located in the crowd; Julian Roil, Sampson Rumbold, The Five and Gilbert Lavisham, he relaxed and began to study the printed program that he held in his hand. It was a detailed work, obviously designed for a long life as a souvenir. The DLRW fist emblem was brazened on the front cover and inside the reader was met with written greetings and detailed pontifications from Mr Lud Milligan about the event before them. These were followed by semi-technical drawings of each entrant's robot, including lists of specifications and armaments.
Max glanced at his friends, each of whom had their own noses buried in their programs, before flicking his page to the machine marked 'Sponsored by Leith Engineering' and entitled 'The Thagomizer' and 'Pilot: Harriet Leith'.
"What the heck is a Thagomizer?" he asked out loud.
"I believe," said Dickie, looking up momentarily from his program. "That is the name given to the sharp spikes on the tail of Stegosaurid dinosaurs."
Max nodded slowly, studying the picture.
How does he know these things?
"And who on earth," said Wiremu. "Is Guinan McCreddy."
"Mad McCreddy," answered Dickie, matter-of-factly. "Is the crippled hermit owner of the Parapara Paint Works."
"Sounds lovely," responded Wiremu.
"I thought you would have heard of him, Wiremu. After all he's mining one of your ancestors favourite ore deposits."
"He sounds harmless enough," said Wiremu with a shrug.
"What about the word Mad sounds harmless?" returned Dickie, before noticing Max. "You seem to be taking a particular interest in the Leith entry."
"Nothing new there," quipped Wiremu. Max rolled his eyes.
Harriet's robot 'The Thagomizer' was a brutal looking construct, apparently of the 'walker' type. Obvious from the picture were its two legs, where one of the other entries had 'caterpillar tracks' and another while also having legs featured some kind of stabilising wheel out the back end. The measurements on the page edge seemed to indicate that the Thagomizer stood about the height of a house. Long weapon-wielding arms hung either side of the cockpit, boiler and drive gear, giving it the appearance of some kind of primitive iron ape. Under the title for 'Armaments' were listed; steam shears and pick-ended maul. According to the picture the shears were a pair of wicked looking, hook-ended scissors, affixed where the left hand should be. In place of the right was an iron hammer head with a sharp spike from its back end.
"I don't blame him," said Wang, speaking for the first time since they had taken their seats. "After all, if my memory serves me right, we have Ms Leith to thank for all of this." He indicated the entire Iron Arena with a sweep of his hand before tapping his programme with his knuckles.
"True. We shall have our entertainment!" echoed Wiremu, quoting Harriet grandly.
"I myself have long thought Ms Leith quite remarkable," began Dickie. "She is a veritable engineering genius, top of her year. As Wang says she has initiated this very league by turning the primitive first year bot race on its head. She helps build a revolutionary locomotive and then races it to victory in the Haast trial. She fights with a sword and in a moment's time she will stride before us in a robot walker, of her design, the likes of which has never been seen, not even within the hallowed halls of the Crystal Palace!"
"And she's damned fine looking," said Wiremu.
"And she's damned fine looking," repeated Dickie. "A most suitable match, I do say, for our noble friend Master Skilton."
And she kisses like an angel! Max wanted to scream in frustration. She rested her head against my back! I held her in my arms!
"Shut up you lot!" he snapped instead. "That is all long gone! You can keep your hot air to yourselves!" And returned to studying his programme, darkly.
Before long the other three fell to discussing the fact that most of the money for the league had come from Mr Lud Milligan & Co, and maybe the Wakefields, who, it was known, were a bunch of rogues who made their fortune, back before the exile from the north, buying land from Māori for not much and selling to the colonists for... well quite a bit more.
As it happened, when formal proceedings did finally begin, it was Lud Milligan himself who appeared before the crowd, in fine suit and top hat, on the orchestra stage opposite. When he spoke, his practised voice was strangely amplified and seemed to come primarily from a set of large, bronze lily bloom like horns, hung above the stage.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to this, the first ever meeting of the Dominion League of Robot Wars! The BATTLE ROYALE! Tonight, you are the envy of the Empire! As this fair Dominion is the first to see the new dawn each day, we shall be the first also to behold the marvels of this new age of technology! Not in South Africa, nor in New South Wales, not in India, nor in Egypt, or Hong Kong, can such things as you shall see, be seen! Nor even in London, in Mother England, can one see what you shall witness. Tomorrow the world will hear, second hand, by telegraph and newssheet, of what you shall see tonight with your own eyes!" With this announcement there was the sudden boom of cannons and great clouds of blue, red and white confetti shot into the air to quickly descend on the applauding people. A moment later a suspended iron stencil of a raised fist within a great cog and the letters D.L.R.W burst into flames and the band struck up a vigorous fanfare. When this and the subsequent cheering had abated Milligan took the podium again and resumed his oratory.
"Tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, you shall see the titans of the forge, the monsters of the industrial age, do fearsome battle, one with another! I direct you to the draw in your program and give you round one! Raisonnable verses Cuchullain!"
Again, people cheered and clapped. And as the big base drum started pounding Max heard Dickie say;
"Here we go."
The gas lamps up in the bleachers faded away, while a second set down on the arena walls shone up brighter. Every eye swung to the big steel pit doors in the arena walls, scanning left and right to see which pair the two combatants would emerge from.
With loud clicks, as twin locks were released and hisses of steam, doors at either end of the combat area began to slide up. White vapour, tuned pink by the red lights within, swirled out. The shutters rose, as the pounding base drums built to a climax, before suddenly stopping, the doors completing their ascent with a convincing crunch. The crowd, at once silent and straining to see within, were now confronted with two outward marching monstrosities. They gasped as they beheld them, and the arena seemed to shake with their footfalls.
Max looked from robot to programme page and back again.
The Anchor Foundry's machine 'The Raisonnable', which every boy knew was the name of Lord Nelson's first ship, appeared almost comical at first glance. Though no one could see him, the pilot obviously sat at his controls behind and peered out through, the lattice window of what looked like a large diver’s helmet. Beneath this 'head' the torso and legs were comparatively short. Arms, if such things could really be called so, protruded from the bot’s sides. A smoking funnel stuck straight up from the boiler and firebox on its back. Despite its slight story book look, the programme stated that Raisonnable was armed with a formidable sounding power crawl and hydraulic harpoon.
Still Max couldn't help but wonder if the Raisonnable's pilot, now that all was revealed, might just be thinking that his team, currently safe in the stands above the Anchor Foundry's hanger door, may have got it all wrong.
For Cuchullain, the construct of the Parapara Paint Company, stood easily a third higher. It was a giant, the biggest of the combatants according to the booklet. With twin chimneys at its back and boxy in appearance, it was all rivets and rusting salvage iron. Its great flat feet had clanked when it walked out, leaving tracks in the sand big enough to have a picnic in. A black slit in the wall of steel, like that in a knight’s visor, was the only window for Mad McCreddy. The massive power crawl, now springing open and shut menacingly, and the sledge hammer, of which the programme boasted, were plain to see.
"What are the rules?" asked Wang, not taking his eyes off the spectacle. Wiremu thumbed to the back of his programme.
"No firearms. No deliberate targeting of pilots. All combat to cease on Judge's whistle."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Milligan was back at his podium.
"Gentleman, state you’re ready."
Cuchullain banged it's two weapons together at once. Raisonnable, it was easy to imagine reluctantly, raised its crawl in salute. At which Mr Milligan produced a pistol and pointing in the air shouted
"BEEEEGIN!" The sharp report of the detonation was instantly swallowed up by an ear aching cacophony bursting from the steam powered carnyx horns mounted atop Cuchullain. The robot shook its uplifted arms, like an enraged gorilla, while the metallic blast reverberated the air, then died away.
For a long moment every breath was held. Both machines stood motionless.
Then with a giant step Cuchullain rushed forward. The crowd, unacquainted with anything like this, seemed not to know what to do; cheer? shout? scream? hide? For a second or two all were in near shock. Max was only barely aware that he was half out of his chair, hands gripping the armrests and ready to spring.
But much good money had been bet, and as whenever the stakes are high, the people quickly found their voices. Seconds later nearly everybody was on their feet, shouting and cheering.
The bigger machine closed in directly, but when it was almost on top of him, Raisonnable's pilot engaged a steam ram sending its retractable harpoon lancing outward like a bright metal tongue. The harpoon, seemingly well aimed, drove into the side of onrushing Cuchullain, momentary piecing it's thick hull.
But to no apparent effect. And while the weapon was being drawn back for a second attempt, by way of a short chain, the robot's arm was gripped in the Irishman's claw and unceremoniously yanked up and down. Those with bets on the Nelsonian roared their disapproval of the current action.
"Crazy! Crazy!" shouted Wang in the din, clearly barely believing what he was seeing. Then the besieged machine struggled free and turning staggered away. People retook their seats, ready for the next action. But The Raisonable's fate was already sealed.
With a crisp click a small silver blade, the only piece of new metal on Cuchullain, suddenly folded out from the flat centre of its massive hammerhead. Drawing that hammer arm back Cuchullain strode after his retreating adversary. Closing the gap, the weapon swung around and collected Raisonnable square in the back, right on the boiler.
The stuck machine staggered forward like a pushed drunk, and when the hammer and its little blade came away, a white stream of super-heated steam whistled from a small breech. The hammer, hungry for destruction, quickly came again. But this time it swung only though thin air, for the punctured robot was gone, jet propelled across the arena. For a moment it's arms and legs dangled back, as if it were a child riding an unbroken horse.
Then gravity, having quickly lost all interest, reasserted its hash rules, and Raisonnable crashed, knees, then face into the sand. The crowd roared with excitement.
But Cuchullain was not done. It strode to where the ruptured machine lay, its spirit escaping though the geyser in its back, and gave it one almighty kick. With arms flailing the loser rolled across the floor and smashed into the far wall, the crowd above rocking back in their seats, as if a great shock wave had hit them.
Mr Milligan’s steam whistle was shrieking and the hanger doors from which the robots had emerged rolled open again. Cuchullain stalked into its pen, the door concealing him as it closed down again. While from the other door pale looking team members rushed out to attend their stricken machine and their comrade within. The audience murmured among themselves reverently for a couple of minutes, then broke into polite and relieved applause when a shaken, but alive pilot emerged from the wreckage and gave them a hesitant wave, not unlike the one with which he had begun the match.
Up in the stands Max's stomach lurched sickeningly. Pale faced he tried to study the draw for the upcoming duels, while below the carnage was cleared away and around him people went to find the book keepers and make adjustments to their bets on the final.
Harriet was going to be in very real danger.
He knew he shouldn't care.
The next conflict would be fought between the combined apprentices of Rotheram & Scott and A&G Price, in their 'Mangler' and the boiler men and engineers of Onekaka Iron & Steel Works, with something named 'The Weta'. After which Harriet's Thagomizer would face SempleBob, created by The Royal New Zealand Army Engineering Corp.
When Max looked up again, the movement of a group of people at the opposite edge handrail, just above one of the hanger doors, caught his eye. They had stood and were moving to a trap door, then descending a ladder to the hanger below. He was looking at one of the robot teams, who had themselves been watching the first conflict. Max scanned the faces above the other hanger doors within seconds had found, at the far right hand end who he had been looking for; Morris Walker, hydraulic specialist, Fredrick Ferguson, cognisant, Torquil Tickham, called Tick, Chief Winder and clockwork genius, and Harriet Leith. Max's heart skipped a beat and he let his eyes slide past.
He shouldn't care, He didn't care.
Ladies actually screamed when The Weta came out. Scuttling on six legs the insectoid robot had emerged from its lair beneath the friend’s seats and was an impressive parody of its tree dwelling name’s sake. Everyone knew about wetas, the great ant-like creatures that came out of a household's firewood pile and lodged themselves in the coats and boots of its hosts. There hidden, not by design but mistake, until discovered by unwary hand or foot when coat or boot is again pressed into use. Ladies always scream at the sight of the over-large black head with its viscous, biting mouth, it's zebra striped body and large barbed hind legs. Gentlemen scream when their soft hands reach, unsuspecting into pockets or shoes, searching for handkerchiefs or socks, and are latched onto by those same strong mandibles.
The robot Weta halted in front of its hanger, head flicking left and right, steel jaws clanging open and shut.
"Hate those things," muttered Wang, and he would know, living as he did in a forest full of them. The gas lamps reflected off the enamelled plates that formed the creature’s torso giving it an even stronger impression of possessing life. It was incredible to think that a person lay somehow inside the carapace with enough space to both control it and to let there be any mechanics to control. As they watched, the Weta drew up its two grasshopper-like back legs and let them kick back like a horse.
Mangler, the creation of the combined apprentices of Rotheram & Scott and A&G Price, was a strange looking machine. Clearly a 'walker' like Cuchullain, it also had a long rigid tail that dropped to the ground and ended in a single stabilising wheel.
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"Looks like they couldn't sort out the gyros," observed Dickie.
"The what?" asked Wang.
"The gyroscopes. The spinning internal globes that allow a machine to balance. It looks like these clowns didn't master the technique and thus had to build that balance wheel out the back."
"Gentleman, state you’re ready," commanded Milligan. In response Mangler flexed its steam claw and spun it's roto-mace a couple of revolutions. The Weta snapped its mandibles open and closed, and its glass eyes suddenly shone up with the ruddy red fires of hades! Max noted the two teams returning to their seats from the hangers below, their work done and honour now resting in the hands of the pilots. Milligan had his pistol out again.
"BEEEEGIN!" Crack! The shot rang out and the cheering restarted. The two combatants appeared to size each other up like pit fighting boxers. The Weta scuttled to the left and back to the right, Mangler spun its chain and mace menacingly. Then Mangler or at least it's pilot, overcame any initial hesitation and strode forward, its little wheel cutting a single farrow in the sand behind. The Weta seemed intimidated by the advance and started to back up. But those who watched closely saw that it had in fact planted its big hind legs in the earth and was compressing them, not unlike a spring. The Mangler came on, then when it had closed half the short distance The Weta, with a great blast of steam, sprung forward! People gasped with astonishment. The Weta was momentary airborne before striking Mangler full on its barrel chest, just below the pilots view slit. People cried out at the impact. Mangler staggered sideways, struggling desperately to maintain balance. The Weta, having struck, tumbled off, rolled and came to rest most unfortunately, on its back, with legs waving in the air.
The pilot of Mangler finally managed to wrest his bot back under control, only barely avoiding ploughing into the arenas iron wall. Then turning slowly, it advanced once more on the prone Weta, roto-mace spinning to a blur. In a moment it was standing over its helpless advisory, ready to smash the enamelled armour to shards. Max wondered why The Weta didn't somehow signal a yield and have Milligan call the round to an end. Maybe it couldn't.
The gamblers watching from the stands were either howling their protests or shouting encouragements, both pounding the hand rail with closed fists.
There were bright sparks the moment that spinning, spiked iron ball made its first contact with The Weta. But at its touch those long hind legs struck down onto the ground. They moved with such speed and force that The Weta's abdomen lifted right off the ground and in a spit second the creature had flipped end-over-head and was right way up again.
Gouts of sand and dust flew into the air as Mangler's mace bit into the ground where The Weta had lain a heartbeat ago. The crowd roared its approval. Then The Weta raced forward and latched its steel mandibles onto the Mangler's trailing stabilising wheel. The Weta was now frustratingly beyond the reach of either of Mangler's weapons. All he could manage was to pull the tenacious insect a few feet across the sand. The Weta simply hung on and worked away at the wheel.
The crowd didn't hold back from shouting their encourage or dismay. Then, rather quickly, the wheel came free, and the victorious insect scuttled away with the prize in its mouth. In the stands the Mangler's supporters sunk back in their seats to watch the inevitable, some even covering their eyes, apparently unable to witness the end of their champions bid for glory.
Without the all-important wheel Mangler staggered forward like a child still learning to walk. The four friends couldn't help but laugh to see it. Just before the wall at the far end it managed to arrest its forward momentum, only to sit back on the tail appendage, which shortly before had held a wheel. Once there, there was no help for it. The big steel feet worked hopelessly at the ground, like someone trying to back themselves out of quicksand, and the robot started to rock to the left, then back to the right. The young men in the audience joined together to chorus "WoeooO" as the Mangler, like a slow metronome, swung back, then "WoeooO" as it returned. Finally, to the loud cries of everyone, it tipped too far and crashed, like a side-swiped wino, to the ground. The legs churned a moment longer and then became still. The two hanger doors started up again and the crews rushed out, one to dance around a triumphant Weta, the other to attach a hook and rope, most likely from a steam winch at the back of the hanger and drag their Mangler from the field of battle.
As the steaming hulk was pulled away a trap door in the side opened and the defeated pilot emerged in a cloud of vapour. Having gained fresh air he sat, like legendary Paikea Kahutiaterangi. on the back of his whale, and let the journey across the ocean of sand, complete with bow wave and a furrowed wake, take him where it would.
"Beer," asked Max standing suddenly. "My shout."
"If you don't mind," replied Wang.
"Much obliged" affirmed Dickie.
"Naturally," stated Wiremu. Max began his search for a refreshment stand. But at the stairs that led down though the bleachers and back to the main door, he found the girl he had seen earlier in the ticket booth, watching his approach.
"Good evening," he said, as she stepped forward and joined him at the hand rail. Other people moved past them on their ways to and from the beer taps and betting stands.
"Good evening," she responded, moving closer still as someone seemed to push past behind her. A shy smile touched her lips and a very alluring blush sprung into her checks again.
"Are you enjoying the spectacle?" he asked.
"Very much so," she responded at once. "Those parts that I have managed to see."
Max nodded. Even in her work uniform she was very fetching. The Hussar's jacket fitted her exquisitely, flared over her hips just so, tailored around her slender waist, tight across her breasts, buttoned to the top, with the little imperial collar standing up to frame her neck. Her brown hair was up and back, and although a small side cap perched atop her head, a lock of hair had come loose and hung down next to her temple.
"And yourself?" she asked, turning her sparkling brown eyes full on him. Max turned away from the pit and lent the small of his back against the hand rail.
"Indeed," he answered. "It is like nothing I have ever seen."
"Have you placed a bet?" she inquired, smiling at him and tucking the loose hair behind her ear. He was about to answer, but she had suddenly become distracted and was looking at something beyond him. Max turned his head to follow her line of sight and saw Harriet leading her team down the stairs to their hanger beneath. When Max turned back he had his companion's full attention again.
"No, no I haven't paced any bets," he answered. She smiled.
"You're Max Skilton, aren’t you?"
"Indeed... I am," he answered, surprised. "And may I inquire as to your name?"
"Rebecca," she responded, the sweet smile in place.
"Then I am pleased to make your acquaintance Rebecca." And he was.
"And I yours," she answered, with a dip of her head so that her eyes were hidden momentarily beneath thick lashes. Max smiled to himself.
"They say that you are one of the Murderer's Bay Musketeers."
If Max had previously been surprised by her knowing his name this last statement had him completely dumbstruck. He worked hard to hide his shock, to keep his breathing even, his eyes not wide in alarm or tight in cunning.
"One of the what?" he asked, as if he had simply misheard the name of a flower or the title of a book.
"One of the Murderer's Bay Musketeers," she repeated. "The so-called Gibbstown Three."
Max swallowed.
"I'm not sure what you mean," he lied. "Were those the fellows involved in some uproar on Wapping Point?"
"Exactly."
"A strange notion Rebecca," he laughed. "But tell me who is this 'they' who say these things?"
"Just around the University Cafés, Steamers."
"I find that hard to believe," he reflected, trying to sound casual, working hard to keep the rising panic he felt from creeping into his voice. "I'm only a first year. I mean the only cafés I've been in are The Canteen, if that even counts, and Steamers, for all of five minutes."
"I guess you don't have to believe me," she said, looking out into the pit. "But everyone has heard of Max Skilton. You made sure of that the day you defeated Gilbert Lavisham in what you also claimed was your first ever fencing class."
Some of this was flattering, Max wished he could focus on that part. But the alarm bells were clanging much too loud. Being somehow, anyhow, traced to the theft of the Wapping Point Pou whenua could end him up... he wasn't quite sure, imprisoned in Old Morty? Certainly, the University Archaeology Department would not look favourably on such actions.
Max tried not to grip the hand rail too hard, he knew his fear must be showing. He needed to dismiss Rebecca's suspicions, and not confirm them by appearing either guiltily avoidant or guiltily incredulous.
You can play this game. Don't flee from her. Don't attack or ridicule her. Nothing to hide.
To use the start of the next round as an excuse to depart would be too obvious. The fool part of him was too proud or weak to simply be rude to an attractive lady who had offered him compliments, whether she knew dangerous information or not.
Be genuinely innocent.
"I am at a total loss Rebecca..." he begun, shaking his head and looking confused. "These ideas... well, I've never... I really don't understand..." She was watching him closely. Max couldn't read what she was thinking. "...but listen I was just on my way to retrieve refreshments. Would you care to join me for a drink?"
"Very kind," again the smile. "But no, thank you. I must get back to my post. It was a pleasure to meet you Max. I would hope, if it isn't too forward to say, to see you again sometime." Max swallowed.
"Likewise, Rebecca. The pleasure was all mine." He watched her descend the stairs before setting off again in search of beer.
"We've got trouble," whispered Max, handing each of his friends a foaming handle. One of the hanger doors was already up.
"Oh ho?" said Wiremu. Max waved them into something like a conspirator’s huddle.
"I've just been chatting with a rather nice young lady..."
"Right," interrupted Dickie, rather dryly.
"...and she asked me, to me face, if I was one of the Murderer's Bay Musketeers? Claimed as much can be heard being discussed in the University Cafés."
Wiremu and Wang stared at him with wide eyes.
"I told you..." said Dickie.
"Told me what?"
"....that it wasn't a safe secret."
"Indeed," recalled Max. "But the question is; is it a dangerous secret?"
"What was her name?" asked Dickie.
"Rebecca," answer Max, looking over his shoulder like she still might be stationed at the top of the stairs.
"Her full name?"
"Ah, she didn't give it." Max felt foolish.
"Rebecca Salasor," provided Dickie. "Daughter of..."
"Benjamin Salasor," finished Wiremu.
"Editor of The Murderer's Bay Argus?" clarified Wang.
Dickie nodded. Max felt his stomach jump.
"Consider it a very dangerous secret," said Dickie, taking a sip of his beer.
"What can we do?" asked Wang. Max sat back.
"Nothing," he said slowly, focusing on the robot trundling out of the door in the side of the arena. "We do nothing. Because in doing nothing we confirm to anyone who is watching that we know nothing and have nothing to hide."
The orchestra’s big bass drum rumbled and rolled in a way that seemed to match the arrival and advance of the Royal New Zealand Army Engineering Corp's robot 'SempleBob'. For SempleBob, the newest marvel before the crowd, did not walk on legs or roll on wheels, but moved ahead on what the program paper called 'caterpillar tracks'. These 'tracks' appeared to be toothed cogs moving, like wheels, but inside a loop of chain. SempleBob processed two such chain sets, one on each side. These allowed, by way of some kind of cunning bi-directional hub and differential arrangement, the cogs to spin in opposite directions and thus the machine to turn on the spot, very quickly. Or so Dickie said. The program said that SempleBob was armed, in the first instance like Mangler, with a roto-mace. But then with something called the Vulcan Saw.
SempleBob reminded Max a little, in shape, of a Russian doll, albeit a rather boxy one, with tracks at either side of a low chassis and a torso/conning tower rising out of the middle. The ball and chain of the roto-mace hung from the right shoulder, a robotic arm with a dangerous looking saw blade was at the left. The whole thing moved with an impressive clattering rumble and then came to a halt near the middle of the arena.
"Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" A swelling chant had begun. Max looked over and saw that her door was still down... but Tick, Morris and Fredrick Ferguson had returned to the hand rail above and were clearly leading the vocals.
"Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" The shout built and built and reminded Max at once of that first match late last year. But now instead of the call for "Rematch!" the fans had taken up the name of their champion; "Harriet!"
The four friends joined in. There was something infectious, powerful, about being caught up in unity with a mass of others. Something bigger than any one of them, bigger than even the Harriet whose name they used, was being experienced. Tick waved his arms like a conductor and when satisfied that he could not get any more from the crowd, banged his hand down on the door release button in front of him. The door rolled up and a massive cloud of steam billowed out. The chanting died away and... nothing.
Three long heart beats. Silence.
Then something menacing stirred within the vapour, first two iron horns appeared, then out marched The Thagomizer. The crowd went wild, cheering and clapping, whistles and loud shouts of approval.
The Thagomizer, as the programme had indicated, was a 'walker' type robot, not unlike Cuchullain in basic design, though smaller, slighter. Broad iron feet, beneath which hobnail sprigs could be seen pock-marking the arena's freshly swept sand, carried the robot forward with a smooth gait. It stopped at its starting position, twin exhaust stacks puffing gently. Max found it hard to believe that Harriet was sitting within the steel box in front of him, clutching some kind of controls and ready to do battle. Such a thing was totally foreign to him. It wasn't like fencing or boxing, and nor was it like riding in a steam train, or on a horse. Maybe it was a combination of all of these things. But whatever 'steam powered robot combat' was, it was totally new. Max felt proud of and scared for Harriet in equal measure.
Long arms hung down at the Thagomizer's sides, instantly recognisable, at least to Max, as being related in design and construction to the robotic wielding arms that he had seen Coval Leith wearing that time he had visited the engine works. The right arm carried a 'pick-ended maul' which appeared to be an iron hammer with a single pick tooth off the back. The left arm supported the hawk's break-like 'steam shears'.
Atop the neatly riveted torso, which Harriet shared with a firebox and boiler, as well as all the drive gear, control systems and hydraulic pumps for both the arms and legs, had been affixed two sharp looking iron tusks. Possibly a folly, the horns looked intimidating and dangerous none the less.
"Round Three," boomed Milligan’s voice, silencing all others. "SempleBob verse The Thagomizer. Combatants, state you’re ready."
SempleBob raised its Vulcan Saw and spun it so that it whined in a way that put the teeth on edge. A shiver ran up Max's spine. But if Harriet was worried, nothing showed, for immediately The Thagomizer's shears pointed, on out stretched arm and snapped open and closed at SempleBob. Mr Milligan raised his pistol and fired. Crack!
"Begin!"
SempleBob rumbled forward at once, while Thagomizer began a cautious circling walk, which reminded Max of a weka stalking an unfamiliar picnic basket. A major point was instantly clear to all; compared to Thagomizer, SempleBob was slow. Harriet appeared to test this theory the very next minute. The Thagomizer came up to the still advancing SempleBob and stopped. SempleBob's steam engine roared at the chance of an easy hit, the but the increase in the machine's forward momentum was hardly noticeable. It swung its arm with the spinning saw wide, Harriet stepped back and the blow went by harmlessly. The crowd cheered and catcalled. The Thagomizer practically skipped away from its adversary and began a circling march, this time more like a lion scrutinising a cornered but still dangerous prey.
As Harriet's machine progressed on the wide arc the pilot of SempleBob made it's caterpillar tracks rotate in opposite directions causing the machine to swivel on the spot and thus keep its front armour and weapons facing The Thagomizer.
"She is going to have to do all the work," reflected Max.
"Indeed," responded Dickie. "The SempleBob won't be pressing any attack. It's a sitting duck. A very well armoured, weaponized, sitting duck."
The Thagomizer kept up its sideways stalking, the SempleBob matching it with its swivelling. Then Harriet's machine broke into a run, jogging in a wide circle around the other. Again, the machine in the middle couldn't keep up. In seconds the right flank, with its hanging ball and chain, was exposed to the running robot. The pilot spun up his roto-mace and suddenly there was a spinning grey shield of chain and ball between hunter and hunted. But still Harriet swept in, shears snapping. She was almost on top of the slower robot when it revealed a simple but potentially damaging ability. It swivelled in the middle. The tracks and lower chassis stayed where they were, but the whole conning tower twisted toward Harriet like a gun turret on the deck of an ironclad dreadnought. Suddenly the spinning iron ball had been brought to bear again.
Like a boxers upper-cut it caught the onrushing Thagomizer under the jaw. Bang! Bang! Bang! And the SempleBob pushed its frontal attack, moving ahead into Harriet as she staggered back. Bang! Bang! Bang! It was a long moment before the fast robot could pull safely away. In the crowd people were on their feet, amongst them Max and his friends.
The Thagomizer stalked off. People clapped the encounter and retook their seats. At a safe distance Harriet shook her machine and cleared some pipes by blasting a couple of shots of steam from beneath the boiler. Max imagined a pugilist spitting out some teeth. The Thagomizer's chin was certainly stoved in.
"That didn't work," muttered Wang.
"Wonder what'll be next," ventured Wiremu. Then; "Here we go."
The Thagomizer stood face on with SempleBob, apparently no worse for wear. Then without hesitation it strode forward. Everybody moved to the edge of their seats. SempleBob's left arm, with the screaming saw blade, came up high and struck down. But Thagomizer stepped further in and blocked with its right arm, catching the downward blow with the top of its pick-ended maul, safely beneath the fearful blade. The strike slid away, deflected into the sand, the saw blade sending clouds of tan dust into the air. At the same moment Harriet's left arm shot forward. The Steam-shears connected with SempleBob right at the point that on a person could only be described as 'the arm pit'. There was a quick snip and the roto-mace that was at one moment hardly visible due to it's high speed, came free, the ball and chain flying through the air like a spent comet, to crash loudly against the arena's inner wall. People hollered and cheered, and as the Thagomizer marched away from its clip-winged opponent once more, some craned their necks to see the dent left in the wall by the flying iron ball.
Max flexed his fingers. He was sweating and his heart was in his mouth.
Now the Army's entry was in real trouble. Thagomizer ran in again. This time it caught the saw arm in its left, with the Steam-shears, and holding it high and away, started working on the defenceless torso and chassis with the pick end of its maul.
"Wouldn't like to be in there," reflected Wiremu, as Harriet pounded away. And sure enough after each blow Max thought he could hear shouts of protest from the pilot inside, as his machine was rung like a bell. Then the besieged pilot spun his machine and Harriet lost her grip, the whining saw blade passing only itches in front of her control seat view slit.
But as she backed away again, it was plan to see that SempleBob was done in. There was a moment when the pilot tried again, throwing both tracks into advance. But when his machine rolled right out of its broken left hand track, leaving it behind like a piece of licorice in the dust, and swivelling around violently and almost pitching over, he had to admit that Harriet had placed her pick blows well, and the thing was over.
A hatch at the top of SempleBob opened and the pilot appeared, shrugged his shoulders once at the Thagomizer and then raised his arms in mock surrender. The audience clapped him good naturedly as his conqueror executed a robotic salute and his support crew ran out, wire tow rope in hand.
Then the cheering swelled and the clapping increased in tempo. Harriet Leith had opened her hatch and was sitting atop the Thagomizer, her legs tangling back inside. With flaming hair tied back and bronze goggles still in place, she waved at the people and most of them waved back. Then the Thagomizer carried her to the hanger, the door came down and she was gone.