Blowing off Some Steam (Rust and Ash: Storms over Cogtown #1), Page 2
David M DeMar
hand over Charlie’s mouth to keep him from letting out a whoop once we saw what was inside.
There, nestled in polystyrene foam packing peanuts like a collection of pressure-alloy Easter eggs, was an anarchist’s wet dream. The entire crate was packed to the brim with military-grade weapons. Large bore rifles, scatterguns, even a heavy semi-auto with a flamethrower attachment. “Jiminy,” Charlie hissed, “there’s enough stuff in here to start a war!”
“Or end one,” said Wachowski. He looked over as one of his men pulled up the tarp on a second crate to reveal another CA logo. “What do you think is behind door number two, boss?”
We pried the top off this one and blinked at the cornucopia of full-jacketed ammunition staring back at us, glittering in the dim light. Someone reached in and pulled out a heavy .80 caliber slug. “Damn, these are heavy duty! What’s the NHMC doing with this hardware?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. I think the CA is involved too. We’ve got to get out of here and warn Diomedes about this.”
“Sarge, we’re just gonna leave this stuff here!? We should take these gorilla suits and do some serious damage!” Charlie pointed at the line of inert war machines. “These ain’t gonna be used to haul rocks!”
Wachowski glared at him. “Keep your voice down, kid. These are military suits, they’re not the kind you’d run when you’re feeding coal into a steam cracker.” Wachowski turned to look at me. “He’s right, though, boss. If we leave this stuff here it’ll just end up being used against us.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do? We can’t take them all with us. I haven’t operated one of these in years, and the rest of us are just grease monkeys.” I fell silent for a moment, pinching the bridge of my nose between a thumb and forefinger. “All right, here’s what we’ll do,” I said, beckoning Charlie over. I pulled the steam core from his pack. “Wachowski, did you get a good look at that NHMC security guard on his way through?”
He nodded. “Yeah, boss. Refurbished civilian model, like always. Just a .50 cal revolver, probably not even enough to punch through reinforced pressure-alloy armor.”
“Alright.” I looked over each of the military suits. “Let’s go, you apes. Pull these steam cores out. Be careful, for Pete’s sake, I don’t wanna end up as little Sarge chunks thawing out all over the floor.” I watched the team scramble, disengaging the long cylinders with care and pulling them from their housings.
We all froze again as the security patrol passed by outside. This time the operator was grumbling to himself about the rain. Once he had lumbered around the corner again, I slid the steam core I had in my hands into the waiting gullet of the gorilla suit next to me. It clicked into place; the pneumatics made the suit vibrate until the pressure equalized. Tiny puffs of steam escaped from the primary and secondary bleed valves.
I turned around and leaned back, settling into the open suit. “Pull me a sidearm and a rifle from that crate, and plenty of ammo. Take the firing pins out of the rest of those weapons.” I slipped my feet into the leg stirrups of the suit and clamped them shut around me. Then I slid my arms down the sleeves and into the control gloves. It felt like I was putting on a snowsuit. “This thing’s gonna make a lot of noise once I kick it into gear,” I said as I straightened up from a slouch, the steam actuators translating my movements into the suit’s movements. The chestplate clamshell closed around me and I flexed the fingers of each hand. The pressure-alloy gauntlets wriggled. “Well, let’s hope I remember how to work one of these things,” I said. “Now let’s get me armed.”
Wachowski came over, carrying a .50 caliber revolver. It looked huge in his hands, but it was sized just right for the gorilla suit I was wearing. I thumbed the chamber open and loaded in six large pressure-alloy jacketed shells clumsily, cursing as I nearly dropped one.
“You’re not exactly filling me with confidence, boss.” Wachowski took the revolver from me and made sure the shells were seated properly before snapping the chamber closed. I took it back from him and attached it to the hardpoint on the suit’s right hip as Charlie and another of Wachowski’s men came over with a huge .80 caliber repeater. I took it from them easily, ratcheted the toggle open, and began carefully slipping the massive shells into the magazine.
“I’m getting the hang of it; relax.” Pushing the last shell into the repeater’s magazine, I worked the lever closed, chambering the first round. I slung the rifle over my gorilla suit’s shoulder and slid it into place, and it clicked as it latched on to another hardpoint. The boys held out two grenades, which I clipped to a pair of D-rings on the suit’s waist, but I waved off the bandoliers of ammo they held out to me next.
“I’m not going to have time to reload,” I said, reaching up to lower the suit’s helmet into place. I rapped the thick, pressure-alloy glass faceplate with a steel-sheathed knuckle. Speaking through the grill on my helmet, I said, “We’ll wait until that security gorilla is at the far end. I’ll create a diversion and leave through the loading door here, leading the patrol off while Wachowski gets you all out the way we came in. Then we’ll meet up at the rendezvous point. Now toss those bandoliers back into the ammo box. Push it up next to those gorilla suits and move out.”
“All right, you bums, you heard the man. Let’s move!” Wachowski rounded up the two squads and herded them towards the side door. “Watch your ass out there, boss.”
I waited another thirty count, testing the feel of the suit. Just like the old days. At least my damn knees don’t hurt in this thing. I shook my head and strode forward to grab the loading door. The actuators in the suit’s hand and wrist hissed, emitting minuscule puffs of steam as I slid it open with one quick jerk.
The howling rain and hail began to pour inside. I cursed as the faceplate of my stolen suit completely fogged over and flipped my lid back up, the wind tearing at my eyes and sending my hair whipping about. What I wouldn’t give for a damned heating element, I thought. Well, time for that diversion.
I pulled one of the grenades from its D-ring and pulled its pin. Hefting it in my hand, I gave it a hard toss, the suit amplifying my movements and sending the thing a full fifty yards. It smashed into the rocky mountainside behind the supply depot and exploded in a roar.
The entire complex boiled over like a beehive poked with a stick — NHMC employees came pouring out of their buildings into the stormy evening, shouting and running. The security suit jogged around the corner, the operator having drawn his revolver. I watched him level it at me, the muzzle gleaming in the frequent flashes of lightning, and turned away from him as he thumbed back the hammer.
There was a roar and I was kicked hard in the back of the shoulder. The momentum spun me around and sent me down to my hands and knees. I looked over at the shoulder of the suit and shook my head at the scorched dent the slug had left in the armor plating.
“Right,” I growled, pushing my suit’s hands down into the ground and getting my feet under me. Another shot rang out, sending a spray of gravel across my path, and I pawed for the repeater on the back of my suit as I stumbled to the cover of a nearby rock outcropping.
I finished struggling with the rifle and peered around the edge of my cover. The security gorilla was circling around, trying to flank me, so I put the repeater to my shoulder and squinted down its sights in the hail. My ears rang as I pulled the trigger and the massive shell went spiraling out the pressure-alloy barrel.
The mook operating the security gorilla dove to the side as the shell screamed by and gouged a long, deep furrow in the gravel. I cursed and worked the lever, ejecting a spent shell casing the size of a coffee cup and slamming another one home. After taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of sending him scrambling, I poked my head out, waited for the next flash of lightning, and took another shot, this time tagging him right in the gearbox humped up between the suit’s shoulder blades.
The operator went ape as his suit began to vent its steam pressure explosively. Screaming in fear, he rolled over
on his back and frantically tugged on the harness holding him in place. Unlike my stolen suit, he didn’t have the extra armor of a chestplate, but it probably saved his life, as he managed to break free and leg it before the steam core breached and shattered the entire suit into a million little frost-covered pieces, blasting gravel everywhere.
I think that’s a pretty good diversion. I slung the repeater back over my shoulder and got moving as another security gorilla came around the corner of the far administrative building, revolver in hand. “Oh, the hell with this,” I said, picking the second grenade from its D-ring.
I pushed myself into a long-striding lope, letting the suit do most of the work, and skidded around the corner of the warehouse as more shots rang out behind me, ricocheting off the building. I ran by the open loading door and, with a little salute to the handful of mining company stooges gathered inside, tossed the second grenade. It rolled over and went clunk against the open crate of ammunition.
I heard a chorus of panicked yells as the workers ran for cover, and I spared a glance over my shoulder as I saw them pour out of the warehouse in terror. Coming up on the embankment, I planted my feet and vaulted, sailing through the air like a rag doll as a dull
There, nestled in polystyrene foam packing peanuts like a collection of pressure-alloy Easter eggs, was an anarchist’s wet dream. The entire crate was packed to the brim with military-grade weapons. Large bore rifles, scatterguns, even a heavy semi-auto with a flamethrower attachment. “Jiminy,” Charlie hissed, “there’s enough stuff in here to start a war!”
“Or end one,” said Wachowski. He looked over as one of his men pulled up the tarp on a second crate to reveal another CA logo. “What do you think is behind door number two, boss?”
We pried the top off this one and blinked at the cornucopia of full-jacketed ammunition staring back at us, glittering in the dim light. Someone reached in and pulled out a heavy .80 caliber slug. “Damn, these are heavy duty! What’s the NHMC doing with this hardware?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. I think the CA is involved too. We’ve got to get out of here and warn Diomedes about this.”
“Sarge, we’re just gonna leave this stuff here!? We should take these gorilla suits and do some serious damage!” Charlie pointed at the line of inert war machines. “These ain’t gonna be used to haul rocks!”
Wachowski glared at him. “Keep your voice down, kid. These are military suits, they’re not the kind you’d run when you’re feeding coal into a steam cracker.” Wachowski turned to look at me. “He’s right, though, boss. If we leave this stuff here it’ll just end up being used against us.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do? We can’t take them all with us. I haven’t operated one of these in years, and the rest of us are just grease monkeys.” I fell silent for a moment, pinching the bridge of my nose between a thumb and forefinger. “All right, here’s what we’ll do,” I said, beckoning Charlie over. I pulled the steam core from his pack. “Wachowski, did you get a good look at that NHMC security guard on his way through?”
He nodded. “Yeah, boss. Refurbished civilian model, like always. Just a .50 cal revolver, probably not even enough to punch through reinforced pressure-alloy armor.”
“Alright.” I looked over each of the military suits. “Let’s go, you apes. Pull these steam cores out. Be careful, for Pete’s sake, I don’t wanna end up as little Sarge chunks thawing out all over the floor.” I watched the team scramble, disengaging the long cylinders with care and pulling them from their housings.
We all froze again as the security patrol passed by outside. This time the operator was grumbling to himself about the rain. Once he had lumbered around the corner again, I slid the steam core I had in my hands into the waiting gullet of the gorilla suit next to me. It clicked into place; the pneumatics made the suit vibrate until the pressure equalized. Tiny puffs of steam escaped from the primary and secondary bleed valves.
I turned around and leaned back, settling into the open suit. “Pull me a sidearm and a rifle from that crate, and plenty of ammo. Take the firing pins out of the rest of those weapons.” I slipped my feet into the leg stirrups of the suit and clamped them shut around me. Then I slid my arms down the sleeves and into the control gloves. It felt like I was putting on a snowsuit. “This thing’s gonna make a lot of noise once I kick it into gear,” I said as I straightened up from a slouch, the steam actuators translating my movements into the suit’s movements. The chestplate clamshell closed around me and I flexed the fingers of each hand. The pressure-alloy gauntlets wriggled. “Well, let’s hope I remember how to work one of these things,” I said. “Now let’s get me armed.”
Wachowski came over, carrying a .50 caliber revolver. It looked huge in his hands, but it was sized just right for the gorilla suit I was wearing. I thumbed the chamber open and loaded in six large pressure-alloy jacketed shells clumsily, cursing as I nearly dropped one.
“You’re not exactly filling me with confidence, boss.” Wachowski took the revolver from me and made sure the shells were seated properly before snapping the chamber closed. I took it back from him and attached it to the hardpoint on the suit’s right hip as Charlie and another of Wachowski’s men came over with a huge .80 caliber repeater. I took it from them easily, ratcheted the toggle open, and began carefully slipping the massive shells into the magazine.
“I’m getting the hang of it; relax.” Pushing the last shell into the repeater’s magazine, I worked the lever closed, chambering the first round. I slung the rifle over my gorilla suit’s shoulder and slid it into place, and it clicked as it latched on to another hardpoint. The boys held out two grenades, which I clipped to a pair of D-rings on the suit’s waist, but I waved off the bandoliers of ammo they held out to me next.
“I’m not going to have time to reload,” I said, reaching up to lower the suit’s helmet into place. I rapped the thick, pressure-alloy glass faceplate with a steel-sheathed knuckle. Speaking through the grill on my helmet, I said, “We’ll wait until that security gorilla is at the far end. I’ll create a diversion and leave through the loading door here, leading the patrol off while Wachowski gets you all out the way we came in. Then we’ll meet up at the rendezvous point. Now toss those bandoliers back into the ammo box. Push it up next to those gorilla suits and move out.”
“All right, you bums, you heard the man. Let’s move!” Wachowski rounded up the two squads and herded them towards the side door. “Watch your ass out there, boss.”
I waited another thirty count, testing the feel of the suit. Just like the old days. At least my damn knees don’t hurt in this thing. I shook my head and strode forward to grab the loading door. The actuators in the suit’s hand and wrist hissed, emitting minuscule puffs of steam as I slid it open with one quick jerk.
The howling rain and hail began to pour inside. I cursed as the faceplate of my stolen suit completely fogged over and flipped my lid back up, the wind tearing at my eyes and sending my hair whipping about. What I wouldn’t give for a damned heating element, I thought. Well, time for that diversion.
I pulled one of the grenades from its D-ring and pulled its pin. Hefting it in my hand, I gave it a hard toss, the suit amplifying my movements and sending the thing a full fifty yards. It smashed into the rocky mountainside behind the supply depot and exploded in a roar.
The entire complex boiled over like a beehive poked with a stick — NHMC employees came pouring out of their buildings into the stormy evening, shouting and running. The security suit jogged around the corner, the operator having drawn his revolver. I watched him level it at me, the muzzle gleaming in the frequent flashes of lightning, and turned away from him as he thumbed back the hammer.
There was a roar and I was kicked hard in the back of the shoulder. The momentum spun me around and sent me down to my hands and knees. I looked over at the shoulder of the suit and shook my head at the scorched dent the slug had left in the armor plating.
“Right,” I growled, pushing my suit’s hands down into the ground and getting my feet under me. Another shot rang out, sending a spray of gravel across my path, and I pawed for the repeater on the back of my suit as I stumbled to the cover of a nearby rock outcropping.
I finished struggling with the rifle and peered around the edge of my cover. The security gorilla was circling around, trying to flank me, so I put the repeater to my shoulder and squinted down its sights in the hail. My ears rang as I pulled the trigger and the massive shell went spiraling out the pressure-alloy barrel.
The mook operating the security gorilla dove to the side as the shell screamed by and gouged a long, deep furrow in the gravel. I cursed and worked the lever, ejecting a spent shell casing the size of a coffee cup and slamming another one home. After taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of sending him scrambling, I poked my head out, waited for the next flash of lightning, and took another shot, this time tagging him right in the gearbox humped up between the suit’s shoulder blades.
The operator went ape as his suit began to vent its steam pressure explosively. Screaming in fear, he rolled over
on his back and frantically tugged on the harness holding him in place. Unlike my stolen suit, he didn’t have the extra armor of a chestplate, but it probably saved his life, as he managed to break free and leg it before the steam core breached and shattered the entire suit into a million little frost-covered pieces, blasting gravel everywhere.
I think that’s a pretty good diversion. I slung the repeater back over my shoulder and got moving as another security gorilla came around the corner of the far administrative building, revolver in hand. “Oh, the hell with this,” I said, picking the second grenade from its D-ring.
I pushed myself into a long-striding lope, letting the suit do most of the work, and skidded around the corner of the warehouse as more shots rang out behind me, ricocheting off the building. I ran by the open loading door and, with a little salute to the handful of mining company stooges gathered inside, tossed the second grenade. It rolled over and went clunk against the open crate of ammunition.
I heard a chorus of panicked yells as the workers ran for cover, and I spared a glance over my shoulder as I saw them pour out of the warehouse in terror. Coming up on the embankment, I planted my feet and vaulted, sailing through the air like a rag doll as a dull
