Broken Hero Read Free

clenched in my attacker’s large fist, I reach out a hand toward her. “Stop th—” I start.
    I don’t finish.
    The floor of the bar erupts. A monumental explosion of wood and cement and steel. Pipes and wires, unmoored, slam around the room. I am thrown from my attacker’s grasp, over a table, crash backwards, as
something
emerges.
    At first I can’t really make it out. My vision is shaky, and I’m half upside down, and whatever is at the explosion’s heart is obscured by billowing dust and dirt. One of the men from the bar is yelling, deep baritone bellows of fear. A bare wire is snapping and crackling across the floor. I can hear water gushing out of a pipe, down into the basement.
    And there, beneath that, another sound. Something mechanical. An irregular ticking, a grinding like rusty metal on rusty metal. An angry whir. It makes me think of a thousand grandfather clocks all quietly breaking down at the same time.
    And then the dust clears.
    The man bellowing stops so short, it’s like his legs have been taken off at the knees.
    It is massive, hulking, vaguely humanoid but hewn in shades of copper and bronze. Vast curving sheets of metal define its hunched shoulders, its barrel-thick arms. Fists the size of arm chairs but with little of the implied comfort, press dented steel fingers into the floor. Its chest is a massive mesh of exposed gears, all twitching and whirling.
    It stands. The gears scream. A piercing metallic cry for help. Perched between the massive shoulders, a vaguely insectile head swings back and forth. It is all round glassy eyes and broad chattering mouth. Key-like teeth piston up and down and it emits an odd string of harsh syllables. “
Da va ga sca, shna, gick.
”
    It shudders, then with abrupt and terrifying speed slams its fist into a wall that looks like it probably enjoys the responsibility of some important weight-bearing duties. Bricks turn to dust.
    “
Da sha va!
” it howls.
    The man starts bellowing in terror again, twice as loud and twice as fast, whimpering hyperventilations making an odd backbeat.
    And you know how you can be fairly certain that the agency retreat has gone awry? When the giant mechanical robot smashes through the floor and starts to destroy everything in sight. That is exactly when.

2
    All in all, it seems to me like a good moment to be upright. I heave myself back over the table, find my feet. I even go the whole hog and pull my gun.
    The man who was, moments ago, considering a little light reconstructive surgery to my face via the medium of his fist, backs into me hard.
    “Would you mind?” I ask.
    He spins, fists up, sees the gun, and decides to cower instead.
    “Thanks,” I say.
    Then I start shooting.
    I’m not even the first one to that party. Felicity has assumed a shooter’s stance, feet squared, gun held out in front of her in both hands. She empties a magazine into the mechanical robot’s churning guts. Things ping and whine, metal screams.
    I have a worse angle. My shots smash against its massive shoulder, denting metal. They achieve little else.
    “
Ma da ga ma!
” the robot yells, and it starts to move.
    Its first step leaves a crater in the floor. The second almost punches a new hole into the basement. By the third it’s starting to accelerate beyond human speeds.
    It’s heading for Felicity.
    She flings herself aside, rolls over the shrapnel-laden floor, ripping her suit, hair whipping around her face. The robot’s massive foot plows into the floor inches from her, then she is gone from its path. It crashes into a wall, sends plasterboard spraying across the room.
    “
Damak ma shnek!
” it bellows as it turns.
    “Clyde!” is my response.
    Magic is a subtle and nuanced tool. With near infinite realities to reach into, magicians have a near infinite array of tools with which they can carefully manipulate the situation to their advantage. Typically Clyde goes for something that resembles hitting things with a large invisible