The machine man stepped forward.
The ground vibrated.
He wasn't a soldier anymore. He was a weapon built by a desperate bank. Flesh grafted to brass. Blood mixed with Blue Drop.
Major Thomas raised his right arm. The pneumatic hammer at the end of it spun faster. WHINE. Steam hissed from a valve on his shoulder.
"You killed him," Thomas growled.
His voice was a wet, tearing sound. The Blue Drop had burned his vocal cords.
I stood still.
My coat was heavy with the damp sea air. Steam rose from my shoulders. My internal temperature was 105 degrees.
"I didn't kill him," I said. "He failed to meet projections. He was a bad investment."
Thomas roared.
He charged.
He moved with terrifying speed for a man carrying two hundred pounds of iron and brass. The steam boiler strapped to his back chugged furiously. Chug-chug-chug.
The cobblestones cracked under his heavy boots.
"Sire, get back!" Napoleon shouted behind me.
I heard the Old Guard cock their muskets.
"Hold your fire!" I ordered without looking back.
I didn't draw a sword. I didn't raise a pistol.
I planted my feet.
Thomas swung the hammer.
It was a downward arc, aimed at my skull. The pneumatic piston fired.
SHUCK.
The hammer shot forward, accelerating to the speed of a cannonball.
I raised my left arm.
I didn't try to dodge. I didn't try to deflect.
I caught it.
CRACK.
The sound was deafening. A thunderclap in the middle of the town square.
The shockwave blew outward. The windows of the tavern next to us shattered into thousands of pieces. Dust rained down from the rooftops.
Napoleon was knocked backward. He hit the cobblestones hard.
I didn't fall.
My boots were driven two inches into the solid granite blocks of the street.
My arm trembled. The bones in my forearm groaned under the strain. But they didn't break. The Golden Ichor had made them denser than oak.
I looked at the brass hammer, smoking in my bare hand.
I looked up at Thomas.
He was staring at me. His bloodshot eyes were wide with shock.
He had hit me with enough force to breach a fortress wall. And I had stopped it.
"My brother died because of you," Thomas snarled, pushing harder.
The piston hissed, trying to drive the hammer through my hand.
"Your brother was a depreciating asset," I said coldly. "And you are a sunk cost."
I squeezed the hammer.
My hand was already burning hot. I pushed my metabolism higher. I visualized the furnace doors opening wide.
110 degrees. 115 degrees.
The brass under my fingers began to glow.
It turned dull red. Then bright cherry red.
The heat transferred up the shaft of the weapon. It reached the graft point where the metal met his flesh.
Thomas screamed.
It was a high, piercing sound of absolute agony. The smell of burning meat filled the air.
He tried to pull his arm back.
I held on tight. My fingers left indentations in the melting brass.
"The market is closed," I whispered.
A shadow moved behind him.
Charles.
The boy had slid across the square silently. He wore his grey suit, his face a mask of terrifying calm.
He didn't look at Thomas's face. He looked at the steam boiler strapped to the giant's back.
Charles reached out.
He placed both his small, pale hands on the iron tank.
CONTACT.
Charles was a void. He was hungry.
He drained the heat from the boiler.
It didn't happen slowly. It happened instantly.
The water inside the boiler, pressurized and boiling, flash-froze.
The laws of thermodynamics snapped. The water expanded as it turned to solid ice inside a sealed iron container.
GROAN.
The iron tank bulged.
"No," Thomas gasped, feeling the sudden, unnatural cold on his spine.
I let go of the hammer.
I stepped back.
BOOM.
The boiler ruptured.
It wasn't a fire explosion. It was a pressure burst.
Shrapnel—chunks of iron and jagged spikes of solid ice—blew outward.
Thomas arched backward. The explosion shredded the leather straps holding the boiler to his back. It tore through his flesh.
He fell forward, landing face-first on the cobblestones.
The blue glow in his veins flickered.
It faded.
The pneumatic hammer whirred weakly, then stopped.
Silence fell over the square.
Even the rioters in the bank had stopped to watch the destruction of the machine man.
I stood over the body.
I wasn't panting. I wasn't sweating. I was perfectly still.
I looked down at the corpse.
A puddle of dark blood and blue fluid was pooling around his head, mixing with the melting ice.
I felt nothing.
No triumph. No regret.
He was a variable I had deleted from the equation.
Charles stepped around the body.
He looked at me. His eyes were gold, reflecting the dull morning light. He wasn't shivering anymore. He had fed on the massive thermal energy of the boiler.
He looked healthy. He looked terrifying.
I turned to Napoleon.
The General was picking himself up off the ground. He brushed the dust from his grey coat. His face was pale.
He looked at me. Then he looked at Charles.
He saw the father and son standing over the broken monster. Two beings of impossible physics.
"He's dead," Napoleon whispered.
"He was bankrupt the moment he swung," I said.
I looked at the bank. The doors were smashed. Smoke was starting to rise from the interior as the mob lit fires.
The Dover branch of the Bank of England was falling.
The panic would spread to London by noon.
"Rothschild sent his collection agent," I said.
I stepped over the body of Major Thomas.
I walked toward the steam carriage that had brought him here. It was still idling, venting black smoke.
"That means he's scared," I said.
I opened the iron door of the carriage. The interior was lined with brass dials and velvet seats.
I climbed inside.
"Are you coming, General?" I asked.
Napoleon hesitated. He looked at the Old Guard, who were staring at me with a mixture of awe and absolute terror.
He sheathed his saber. He walked to the carriage and climbed in.
Charles slid in next to me.
I looked at the array of levers and valves on the dashboard. I didn't know how to drive a steam carriage.
But I understood mechanics. I understood pressure and release.
I pulled a heavy brass lever.
The carriage lurched forward.
"Where are we going, Sire?" Napoleon asked, gripping the velvet armrest as the carriage picked up speed.
I steered the heavy machine onto the main road leading north out of Dover.
"London," I said.
I pushed the throttle forward. The steam engine roared.
I pointed toward the horizon, where the smoke of the capital stained the sky.
"The market is open, General," I said, my golden eyes fixed on the road.
"Let's go ring the bell."