Sgt. Golem: Royal Mech Hussar - Books 2 & 3

"Explain to me again why this isn't a terrible idea." Frank leaned in his chair as the gunship’s control cabin tilted crazily again. Through the forward windows of the gunship we watched as the Russian airship droned on, the long tow cable snaking back to our barely functional craft, tugging us along at an upward angle. I adjusted the desh engine to bring us level.

Frank sat in the front pilot seat. He didn't have much to do there other than try to keep from spilling his coffee and occasionally change the angle of the steering vanes. Our engines were silent as the Russian zeppelin towed us along.

Frank and I both wore nondescript gray coveralls. Mine had actually been taken off one of the dead Frankenstein golems, patched and cleaned up. It felt strange being out of uniform. Were we violating the rules of warfare? Would we be considered spies and shot if we were caught? I hadn't sat in on all the discussions that the officers had had with the Russians, so I felt about as skeptical as Frank sounded, but orders were orders “Angelica seems to think the Widow’s plan is sound.”

"And why the hell is Angelica trusting her? What could the Widow possibly have said to convince her?"

I shrugged, though he couldn't see me since I was behind him at the engineer’s panel, monitoring the desh engine. "Beats me. She seems to think the Widow's lost her bond to her mech and would do anything to get it back."

"Anything?" Frank was incredulous. "Even teaming up with people she’s at war with? How do we know this isn't a trap?"

We were speaking English. I had been maybe a little too surprised and pleased when I figured out I could still speak my own language. Though I had a native understanding of Polish – and now Hungarian, Russian, and German thanks to the educational tapes – there’s something about being able to use the swear words you’ve grown up with to make you feel at home. I thought Frank felt the same way. He seemed more relaxed than he usually did, forgetting the distinctions between Captain and Sergeant, pilot and grunt, man and golem. Right now we were both Americans stranded in a strange land, and that meant we had more in common with each other than with anyone else here.

"We’re already in a trap. You heard the radio transmissions. Frankenstein’s golems have attacked this whole region. The Hungarian army is in full retreat. The way I see it, Angelica didn’t have much choice. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s thinking the same thing we are."

"And that's another thing," Frank gestured with his coffee mug, slopping a little over onto the floor plates. "How the hell did that guy get so many golems anyway?"

I smiled at his back from the engineer's seat.

"Are you really asking how the guy that invented mass production of golems got a lot of golems mass-produced?"

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "I mean, I thought it was silly when he had dozens and dozens just pouring out at us from the woods. But now we hear he's got hundreds, thousands even, scattered all over the whole area."

"It sounds like he's been preparing this for a long time," I had a thought. “Speaking of mass production. You ever hear of Henry Ford?”

Frank looked over his shoulder. “Have I – I used to drive a Model T around back home. Sold it before I came over here. I’d love to see what he’d do with desh engines.”

That reminded me. I looked at the desh gauges again on the luff engine panel. We were getting too low again and I tweaked the levels. With the luff engine active, the gunship bobbed through the air, as Russians towed us along like a toy boat behind an ocean liner. When our propulsion engines turned off, it was a wild ride.

The nose of our gunship dropped again and Frank pulled back the control levers to get us back level. The pilot station had control over the steering vanes and the main drive motors, one of which was missing its propeller, and the trim rotors on the top, both of which were shut down but windmilling wildly in the breeze.

"Ford and Frankenstein have the same idea. Build a lot of cheap versions of a product and flood the market. Quantity has a quality all its own.”

Frank nodded agreement. “I get how he built so many golems. That's his thing. But they had some serious firepower. Plus cannons and these gunships," he gestured to the cabin around us. "They had two of those, at least."

"And probably a fleet of trucks to get his troops all over this whole area for their big attack,” I agreed, thinking about it. "He must have been planning this for years. He’s got allies he's made deals with. From the sound of it, he originally had a deal with the Red Widow. She was supposed to get him the stone and he was going to get her immortality or magic or whatever it is she's after."

"Just so she can drive a robot again?"

When he put it that way, it did sound unlikely, but I got it. If someone had offered me a chance to get my leg back, even a slim one, I’d have jumped at it. Now that I was whole again, I’d do a lot to keep all my limbs. Maybe even consider a devil’s bargain. "What if someone told you that you can never fly a plane again? Would you do something rash to keep that from happening?"

"I don't know," Frank glanced back at me with a thoughtful expression. "Flying's a young man's game, so I always kind of thought I'd have to give it up someday. It feels like there’s more to her motives."

"Maybe magic's addictive," I said.

He glanced back at me again. "What do you mean?"

"Like, you know, cigarettes or something. Have you ever tried to give those up?"

"I never really got into them."

"Right, but you know people that smoke, and you must know how they get when they haven't had one in a while."

He thought about this for a minute. "Maybe. That still doesn't seem like a good enough reason to turn traitor against her czar."

I laughed out loud. Frank looked at me, eyebrows furrowing. "What's so funny?"

"Back in my world, the czar's already out by 1920. Just about everybody turned traitor to the czar. Russia was such a shithole that they were willing to bring in one of the most oppressive regimes humanity has ever seen to try to improve things."

Frank stared at me in disbelief. "That's ridiculous. And what do you mean by 1920? You say you're from some other world, but you make it sound like you're from the future or something."

I smiled. "Yeah, I kind of am."

Now Frank turned his chair to look me in the eye, his incredulity turned to outright disbelief. “The future. Really. How far in the future?”

“Oh, about a hundred years."

His eyes bulged out. "A hundred years? You gotta be shitting me."

"Nope. Just a little over a hundred years, actually."

"No way, man. Prove it. Tell me something about the future. What are airplanes like in the future?"

"Well, everyday, tens of thousands of people fly all over the world in planes that can hold hundreds of people at a time."

"Hundreds?" His eyes boggled. "That's ridiculous. A plane that could hold hundreds of people would be colossal. You'd have to have wings 500 feet across."

I shook my head. "No. Actually, many of them aren't any larger than your heavy bombers."

"That's impossible."

"No, it's true. They're just made of all metal and fly much, much faster."

He opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again. Then he rubbed his chin. "How much faster?”

“Like, 500 miles an hour?" I guessed. I didn't know how fast airliners flew, but that sounded about right.

Frank nodded. "Yeah, they'd have to be all metal. And that actually sounds about right…"

He asked me a few more questions about planes of the future, but I didn't have much else to tell him. I had no idea how much horsepower a turbofan engine could produce, or anything like that, or what a 737 weighed. Eventually, Frank lapsed into thoughtful silence, which was an improvement over him ranting about Russian treachery and female officers being too trusting.

After we cleared the mountains, we began our steady descent. We crossed over into farmland, then came down right in the middle of a sprawling Russian encampment.

Fields full of tents spread out in all directions. An airstrip had been carved into the fallow field directly in front of us. All around it were huge tents and makeshift structures. I saw rows of mechs under stretched-out canvas canopies and a couple of those moving fortresses like my men and I had stuck in the ravine, one with side panels off and a couple of mechanics, jackets tossed aside, crawling all over it with wrenches and big hammers.

“Look at the bombers,” Frank said with a low whistle. He pointed at a row of airplanes at one end of the airfield. They were massive multi-engine biplane bombers. “Get a load of those! Ever see anything that crazy?”

World War I bombers always looked strange to me. The ones Frank pointed out had extremely tall tires on the bottom. They were narrow like bicycle tires, but three or four meters in diameter.

“Man, I’d love to get inside one of those cockpits and see how they’re laid out.” Frank sounded like a man who’s just entered a strange bar and found a dozen craft brews on sale, like he wanted to try them all.

The airship landed in the middle of the field. A small army of ground crew rushed out to secure the mooring lines.

"Okay, Sergeant," Frank said when we were secure. "Time to face the music. The most important thing about being somewhere you don't belong is to act like you belong there."

“Amen,” I said fervently. We climbed out of the gunship. Frank waved dismissively at the ground crew and strode over to the airship.

As we walked toward the big airship, we couldn't help but gawk at the strange array of Russian armaments. Frank craned his head, trying to get a look at the big-wheeled bombers on the airfield. They were too far away to get more than a glimpse, but soon we were both distracted by a line of gunships.

This was the first time I'd gotten a look in decent light at the strange machines. They looked like someone took a Chinook helicopter, stuck several large gun turrets to the sides, shrank the main rotors down to almost nothing, and slapped a couple of propellers on outboard motors on either side. Then they topped it off by redecorating the whole thing with steampunk flair. I knew the rotors were not the main source of lift; the machines were equipped with luff engines powered by desh. But the truncated rotors still looked ludicrous in my eyes. As far as I could tell, they had two different models of the machines here: some of them with extra gun turrets, and others with larger side hatches for troop deployment.

I heard Frank make an exclamation of surprise. He was staring at a row of what I could only describe as bombs with windows on the sides. They were massive, the size of a small SUV, and had fins in the front and back. I couldn't always directly access my implanted knowledge, but I was pretty sure nothing in my knowledge base could explain what they were. I muttered to Frank, "Do you know what those are?"

"No idea. I'm gonna go take a closer look."

"No, don't, you'll get us in trouble,” but he was already headed the other way. "Shit."

I hesitated only for a moment, before deciding to keep going toward the airship. It would be on his head. I just hope he didn't get the rest of us in trouble.

Angelica and the Hussars were forming up outside of the Zeppelin hangar doors as the Russian crews began unloading their mechs. The girls stood stiffly, and I could tell it had been a very long journey.

I joined the group of Poles not wearing uniforms. Their bland coveralls and glum expressions made them look exactly like prisoners of war.

I joined Tamara, Hannah, and Veronica.

"What now? I thought we were leaving the mechs on board.”

The ones being unloaded were our mechs—a ragtag bunch if I’d ever seen one. Tamara's Russian machine, with its flying attachment point, looked nothing like the other Russian mechs I’d seen. We had two Polish Chargers, a sleek Hungarian unit, and Eva's antique Napoleonic War relic. They were also unloading the Widow's inert machine and several damaged Russians.

Tamara spoke up through gritted teeth. "They say they're taking the mechs for maintenance."

The Widow had assured us that there would be high-ranking allies who would support our mission to go after Frankenstein. That was the crux of this entire plan: that Frankenstein was a big enough threat to everyone involved—Hungary, Russia, and Poland— that even in this time of war we would be able to assemble a force to go after him.

None of that rationale made me feel any more comfortable being in the enemy —the camp that very likely had launched the forces we had been fighting for the last several days. Had the Russian wounded been brought back here? Were there people we had fought in this very encampment? Probably.

A truck chugged up, and a pair of soldiers jumped out. A Russian lieutenant stepped forward, snapping a quick salute. “The general requests the presence of Major Popova and her esteemed guest." He started pointedly at Angelica.

The implication was clear. He knew who we were, and the invitation was not optional. The fact that he wasn't accompanied by a platoon was probably a good sign.

Angelica turned to us. "The rest of you stand by here. Sergeant, organize the men. I’ll ask the general about accommodations and send word back."

The soldier spoke up. "The general has heard stories about your golem and would like to meet it."

Several of us exchanged looks. Who the hell was this general? But again, the invitation was not a request but a command. Angelica sighed. “Come along, sergeant.”

I climbed into the back of the truck after Angelica and the Widow. Mikhail climbed in last, settling in next to me with a glare. He still had red marks around his throat. I was pretty sure he was holding a grudge. As the truck started up, the Red Widow addressed us. "Keep calm and let me do most of the talking. General Morozov is one of the most powerful men in all of Russia. He's completely ruthless, but he has a fondness for curiosities and interesting artifacts.”

“Like Wraith troops," Mikhail interjected.

Natasha nodded. "Those special troops are his doing."

There was a political subtext going on here that I didn't understand. The way she spoke of the general implied a very strange chain of command. We were all going to have to tread carefully.

Angelica frowned. “I thought you said he was going to support our cause against Frankenstein.”

“He will. I hope he will,” the Widow said. “We just have to make sure he sees that it's in his best interests."

Angelica cocked her head. "Don't you mean in Russia's best interests?"

“I told you before, Russian has been controlled by powerful warlords since Tsar Alexander was forced to step down. Collectively, these men rule Russia, and the current Tsar is more figurehead than anything else."

"And he's okay with this?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I think he knew what he was getting into when he married Grand Duchess Olga Romanov. The marriage made him Tsar, but mostly in name. The nobility sets domestic policy, and the top generals set foreign policy."

This was starting to make sense. "So that's why Russia keeps picking these random wars with people."

Natasha actually looked uncomfortable. "That's why our war strategy is somewhat diverse."

"You mean dysfunctional," I interjected.

The Widow shot me a glare but did not disagree.

I pressed on. "So these warlords' primary interest is their own power. The good of Russia is at best a distant second."

Natasha looked like she had swallowed something rotten, but she nodded. "The invasion of Hungary through Romania was masterminded by General Morozov. He thought his wonder weapons could knock Hungary out of the war before they even entered."

I leaned back. "And you think the chance to get his hands on Frankenstein will make this general abandon his pet invasion?" The others seemed uncomfortable to put questions directly to Natasha, but I had no such hesitation. We were already in the lion's mouth; we might as well find out how likely he was to chomp down.

"If it means a chance to get his hands on Frankenstein's secrets, then yes. Yes, I think he will support this. And I think the only real question is if he will accept your team being a part of the attack," she looked significantly around at Angelica and myself, "or whether he would rather make the assault on his own."

The conversation broke off as the truck shuddered to a halt. We pulled aside the canvas tarp and piled out. We had stopped beside a massive armored train.