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

The Russian guard at the factory gate eyed me suspiciously. He started to question why my troop of Poles didn't have proper badging, but Pierre laid into him with a stream of indignant French that left the man reeling. Eventually, he waved us through, desperately trying to end the tirade. Pierre, I'm pretty sure, was still drunk, though he held his liquor remarkably well. He had made one of the Polish privates carry a crate of wine with a pile of engineering documents on top.

Inside the factory was a buzzing hive of activity. There were a dozen or so uniformed soldiers around, but many times as many technicians and engineers in civilian garb. They looked to be from half-a-dozen different countries. They swarmed about in twos and threes and were quick to get out of the way of our marching troop.

"We have plenty of our own men here, of course," Pierre was explaining. "They have been getting our machines ready. Leave everything to me." He hesitated momentarily, "Just stay out of the way of our chief engineer. He is an insufferable little man. Not even French; he is from Belgium. I believe he was once with the police, and now he applies himself to engineering with the dogged determination of a detective searching for the culprit. Just do not antagonize him. If you compliment his designs and his mustache, you will do fine."

I wondered what we were getting ourselves into. Did our whole plan now revolve around these characters? Still, if his tanks were half as good as he claimed, we had a real chance of pulling something off today.

The factory floor, when we reached it, was a marvel, a deafening cacophony of rumbling generators and shouting workmen. Everywhere, war machines crouched, and technicians tinkered. Flaring work lights blinded through drifting clouds of smoke. I tasted a mixture of generator exhaust, welding fumes, and the cigars and cigarettes that dangled from nearly everyone's lips. An OSHA inspector would have had a coronary before he’d gotten ten feet out onto the floor.

We came out onto the floor near some mechs. I saw a group of uniformed girls being lectured by some guy with a heavy German accent and refrained from looking in their direction. It was tough to resist. I really wanted to see if Hannah was getting along okay. Hopefully, everything had gone well, and she was with that group about to bond to the German mechs. I caught a brief glimpse in the crowd that I thought was Hannah, but I didn't want to call attention to myself by looking more closely.

We moved on, weaving through an entire parking lot worth of armored cars. Pierre nodded in their direction. "The Italians have brought many of their machines. The Fiat cars are quaint, and I suppose they have their uses." He shook his head to indicate he didn't believe that and was merely being polite, as he led us past the armored cars to reveal row upon row of tanks.

The tanks were the same TF-17s we had seen in the parade earlier that day. Up close, their workmanship did not look any better. The Polish private with me muttered derisively. “Really?” I asked.

Pierre waved dismissively at them as he continued past. "Not these Russian replicas. They have licensed our designs for their own pathetic copies." Now he wasn't even making a pretense of politeness. "Their workmanship is," he sniffed, "tres crude. No, no, we are here for these." He gestured ahead, and I finally cracked a grin.

Here was a row of far more impressive machines, six of them in all. I didn't recognize their type, which made sense because he said they were a new model. But it was clear to my eye and my implanted knowledge that they were based off the TF-17, though almost twice as large. Where the 17's treads were tall in the front and tapered to the rear, and the whole machine was not much larger than an SUV with a turret on top, these were wider and half again as long, their treads nearly symmetric front and back. Their lines were much smoother, and they gleamed. Overall, they exuded an air of good craftsmanship, unlike the ones we had just been looking at.

The six models came in three types. One pair had a traditional-looking gun in proportion with their turret, which was quite small compared to a modern tank. The next set had the turret enlarged and opened at the back. The gun had been replaced with a larger artillery piece to turn them into gun carriages. The final pair had a pair of heavy machine guns poking out of the turret instead of a single cannon.

Sergeant Wysocki whistled low at the sight of them, and Pierre beamed, "Yes, yes, are they not magnificent? Come and meet my engineer. He will show you what incredible machines they are."

The man in question was a short, well-fed individual. He wore a beautifully tailored vest over an immaculately pressed shirt. It was a marvel that he was free of grease or grime of any kind. He looked like he was ready for a promenade on a luxury cruise liner. A gleaming watch chain hung from one pocket of his vest. His mustache was most impressively groomed and waxed to razor points. By comparison, Pierre's mustache looked bushy and unkempt.

The portly man was saying, "You must not secure the cover before checking all the torque specifications. Do it again."

"Yes, monsieur," the technician replied before re-opening the access cover he had just been securing.

"Come, gentlemen, this is my engineer, Monsieur Poirot. These machines are all his doing."

The engineer eyed us. "Oh, and who might these be, Pierre? We are most busy."

"These men are here to help and to crew our machines."

"Did not the Russians insist on their own crews?"

"Bah!" Pierre waved a hand dismissively. "The Russians insist on many things, but it is clear they have no intention of giving our machines a fair evaluation. No, no, these men will help us show off the full capability of our machines."

"Is that so?" Poirot surveyed our group intently. His eyes landed on me, and he nodded while stroking his mustache. "We could use a strong set of hands. Does this one know anything about mechanics?"

Pierre glanced at me almost apologetically before nodding to Poirot. "This one is rather unique," he said hesitantly.

I was about to interject and explain my capabilities when Poirot threw up his hands. "Ah, what a pity. If only we had a Frankenstein machine to get him loaded with our specifications. I told you we should bring a machine of our own. What good is bringing the module if we do not bring the machine? These Russians, they have nothing we can use?"

I raised a hand. "Are you saying you have a skill module for a Frankenstein machine with the specifications of your vehicles in it?"

The engineer’s mouth dropped open. He closed it a moment later. His reaction to the unexpected did him credit for a quick mind. "Yes, I see. It is a unique specimen, isn't it?"

I gave the engineer a wry smile with an extra quirk to emphasize normal human emotion instead of the usual golem stoic expression. "Yes, Monsieur, different enough to appreciate your incredible designs," I said in perfect French with a respectful tilt of my head. "I am well trained enough to know good engineering when I see it."

I was in the middle of flattering the small Belgian engineer when I had a sudden thought. "Perhaps the Germans could help us?”

“Eh? What was that?" My sudden change of topic seemed to surprise the man.

"They have golems. I've seen they have some golems. Might they not also have a Frankenstein machine?"

"Oh!" Poirot exclaimed. "This golem!" He turned to Pierre. "This golem! He truly does know how to think." He peered at me with a quizzical expression. "Do golems even have the little grey cells? How extraordinary! You, Jean-Claude, get our Frankenstein module from the tool chest."

"But monsieur!" One of the technicians called from the nearby tank. "We need to finish the..."

"Ah!" Poirot cut him off with a wave of the hand. "Ah! No! Do it yourself! That is what you are paid for. I have a little matter I would like to see to."

He turned to me. "Come, monsieur golem who is a sergeant. Show me how you deal with these Germans."

Jean-Claude, the French technician, came back holding a box the size of a large handbag and the three of us set off across the factory floor. We made a strange trio, with the short and portly engineer leading the way, me towering almost twice his height behind him, and the workman puffing along behind with the heavy case.

"How did you get a module loaded with your latest designs?"

The engineer slowed down and cast a quizzical glance in my direction. "Oh, you know something about knowledge modules?"

"I know they are not easy to create."

He looked at me again, this time studying more intently. "I think you know more than that. Come, tell me. I am curious what the creation knows about how it was created."

"I know the usual method of creating a module involves destroying a well-trained human mind." I kept my voice even and tried not to betray the extreme revulsion the thought produced.

"Ah yes, just so. You are not wrong, though I find it very curious that you know this thing. While that is, how you say, the most efficient method, there are other means. They are less effective and more expensive, you understand, but the older method is," the Belgian shrugged, "quite illegal in most countries, to say nothing of immoral."

At this, I couldn't help but snort in derision. The little man shot me an amused expression. "And the golem fancies he knows something of morality. Curiouser and curiouser." He picked up his pace. "Come, we are almost there."

"Monsieur," I interjected, "would it not be better to do the talking yourself? Since we are asking them for a favor, perhaps we do not want to put them on their guard by presenting them," I gestured at my own body, "something of a conundrum."

The engineer laughed. "Quite so, quite so," he chuckled and shook his head. "Though I was looking forward to seeing their reaction to you, if our chief objective is to get the knowledge from our module, then you are quite right."

Monsieur Poirot addressed himself to the first German tech we came to and inquired about a Frankenstein machine. The man merely shrugged and directed us to their chief engineer. The man, who I had seen before addressing a crowd of young women, now stood with only two of them in front of a large four-legged mech. The other mech-riding women were spread around, one to a machine. The other young women were all spread out, each standing near a mech with her hand pressed to the armor. I assumed this was part of the bonding process. I saw Hannah from a distance, but she wasn't looking my way. I was relieved; she’d made it this far without getting through.

"Ah, Meister Franz," Poirot said as he approached. "So good to see you again."

The German broke off in mid-sentence and turned to glare at the short Belgian. "That's Doctor Franz. What is it you want?" he asked through clenched teeth.

Ignoring his reaction, Poirot beamed at him. "Merely use of your Frankenstein machine. I find my Golem in need of a skill refresher.”

The German looked from Poirot to me and back again. "So you brought one after all. Why didn't you load it before... Never mind, never mind," he broke off with an exasperated huff. "Go, leave me alone. Can't you see I'm quite busy? You!" he pointed to a technician.

The man straightened up from where he had been sorting tools into a chest and came over. "You are trained on the Frankenstein machine, yes? Good, good. Take these men to use it." He leaned in closer to the German technician and I could just make out what he said next.

"Make certain our own memory module is disconnected." The man nodded. "Good, go. Trouble me no more."

Franz dismissed us and turned back to address the two girls. As we turned to leave, I heard him explaining how they were both going to bond the same mech. That was interesting, but I was more fascinated by what he had said before about removing the connection to their own skill module. Ideas were churning in my brain.

The machine was off to the side past the German mechs by a pile of crates and other equipment. A tarp had been thrown over it. It was connected to a powered-down generator. Hannah's mech was nearby. She stood next to it with her hands on it, but she was watching me. I gave the tiniest nod while not looking in her direction and then tried to ignore her presence.

"Have your construct lay on the slab," the German technician demanded as he pulled the tarp off the machine. It looked to be a newer model than I had seen before, but the controls were the same.

I laid down as the technician went over to the generator and set about starting it. While he was busy, I studied the configuration of the Frankenstein machine A cabinet stood next to the control panel. It had slots for multiple skill modules, but there were only two installed in it. One of them was stenciled with the letters "Project GroßmannsgestaltmechanischesKampfgerät", and the other declared itself to be a "Mechanic Skill Module Type 3B." The modules and control panel were close to the table. Close enough I could almost reach them from where I lay.

The French technician brought our module over and set it down next to the rack. "Come on, come on, plug it in," the German demanded, pointing to the slot, an empty bay on the rack.

The Frenchman clumsily slid the unit into the slot. When he made no move to hook it up, the German technician huffed indignantly and shooed him away. The technician leaned down and disconnected the other two modules.

I carefully glanced around, looking for a distraction. If I could just have a moment before he switched the machine on, I spotted Hannah watching me from not far away, her hand still on the side of her mech. I gave her a quick nod and then gestured my chin towards the German technician. It took a moment before she caught on.

"Excuse me," she called, in passable German. "Excuse me, can you help me for a minute?"

The technician looked up. His expression was annoyed, but as he caught sight of Hannah, it softened. I swear she batted her eyes and gave him a toothy smile. "There's something odd about this machine. Could you help me?"

The man harrumphed without a lot of feeling and too quietly for her to hear, but turned and went to go see what she wanted. The French technician was standing nearby with a confused look. Engineer Poirot stood several feet away. He had an enigmatic smile on his face and was watching all the proceedings with a keen eye. I didn't have time to explain anything to him, so instead I just leaned over off the table until I could reach the rack of modules, and then I reconnected the one that said "Project GroßmannsgestaltmechanischesKampfgerät".

In the distance I could hear Hannah gushing about how big and impressive the mech was as she asked questions about its shoulder joint. When had she turned into such a little vampress? I lay back on the table quickly. Poirot stood nearer now, almost leaning over me, except for his short stature. He murmured softly, "Do you want me to connect the other one as well, monsieur?"

I gave my head a tiny shake. "No, I have plenty of mechanic skills and integrating new ones can be a conflict."

"Fascinating," the little man murmured before stepping away. He went around to the other side of the slab table and stood near the rack, making no move to hook up the other module.

"All right, let's get started. Stay clear," the German technician said as he came back over to the console. I realized Poirot had positioned himself to block the man's view of the modules rack. He shifted away as the man approached, but not very far, still close enough to obscure what I had done with the rack.

He needn't have bothered, because the German immediately busied himself firing up the machine. A couple of minutes and a pounding headache later, and I was climbing off the table. As I did, the French technician went to get our module from the rack, and Poirot moved to help him. I noticed as they stepped away that the German modules were both once again disconnected. The little Belgian was clever and quick-thinking.

As we made our way back to the French contingent, I wondered what use I could make of these new skills.

First of all, what the hell did “GroßmannsgestaltmechanischesKampfgerät” even mean?

I felt a dull pang of headache. Oh. Oh really?

Freaking German. What sort of language just mashes everything up together into one big word? They were like the Navy with their weird-ass acronyms that aren’t acronyms, only sounding like something coughed up by a cat.

But… interesting.