Mad queen, p.17
Mad Queen, page 17
His sword work was economical, precise, beautiful in its deadly efficiency. Each cut found vital points with surgical accuracy. With no wasted motion and no unnecessary flourishes—just the pure application of centuries of combat experience channeled through Lancelot’s flesh—Ironside dropped his opponents before they could recover from their previous mistakes.
The sergeant was the last to fall, getting a solid bead just as Ironside's blade severed his gun arm at the elbow. The Draconite's scream, more from surprise than pain, echoed across the landing pad as he stumbled backward, trailing blood and clutching at the stump.
"You're dead!" the soldier snarled, reaching with his remaining hand for the backup weapon sheathed at his back. "The whole garrison will hunt you down! There's nowhere to run!"
Laughing, Ironside thrust his sword through the sergeant’s heart, ending his threats and his life in the same motion. He toppled backward, bronze scales already losing their metallic luster as death claimed him.
Silence settled over the landing pad as Ironside scanned the six bodies scattered around the shuttle, their blood dark puddles surrounding them. The entire engagement had lasted perhaps fifteen seconds.
He cleaned his blade on the sergeant's uniform before returning it to its scabbard, his movements calm and methodical despite alarms now wailing across the spaceport. These had been poor soldiers, garrison troops grown soft from bullying helpless civilians rather than facing competent opposition. Their marksmanship was adequate for intimidating merchants and bureaucrats, but utterly woeful for combat against skilled opponents.
He gathered a couple of the energy rifles from the deck. It wasn’t stealing. These Draconite were the enemy. Such were the spoils of war. Being military grade, they were far superior to civilian models, but still below his standards. Nevertheless, they would likely fetch a decent price from someone.
Alarms continued wailing as he abandoned the shuttle and sprinted to the edge of the landing pad, the lowest on the tower—one of the reasons he’d chosen it. He didn’t question Lancelot’s ability to handle the drop before he jumped, entering a controlled fall toward the ground below. He tucked his armored shoulder to roll through the impact and back to his feet. The hit still jarred him, but he knew any damage he sustained would be quickly healed by his host’s nanites.
With this body, he was practically invincible.
He resumed his run, racing toward the spaceport's perimeter. Behind him, security forces were mobilizing—vehicles starting, soldiers shouting orders , and heavy weapons deployed to seal potential escape routes. But the response came much too late.
A maintenance gate stood slightly ajar near the eastern fence, probably left open by workers servicing external communications arrays. Ironside squeezed through the gap and found himself in a service alley that led into an industrial area surrounding the spaceport.
He had landed successfully. Now what he needed most was some sort of disguise.
That shouldn’t be difficult at all.
CHAPTER 19
The industrial district stretched before Ironside like a maze of smoke-belching forges and clattering machinery. Steam hissed from vents along towering brick walls. The acrid scent of molten metal and chemical solvents burned his nostrils. The architecture reminded him of the great foundries of his youth—massive stone buildings with soaring arches and reinforced buttresses—but these structures hummed with the energy of advanced manufacturing systems rather than simple hammers and anvils.
Through grimy windows, he could make out assembly lines where workers bent over weapon components. Energy rifle barrels gleamed on conveyor belts, and armor plating moved through automated welding stations that painted the air with brilliant sparks. The entire district had clearly been retooled from civilian production to military manufacture. Judging by the newness of the machinery and the lag of an assembly line not fully optimized, probably within the last few weeks.
The wail of security alarms echoed off the industrial canyon walls, growing more distant but still audible. Behind him, he could hear the rumble of vehicles moving through the spaceport's perimeter roads, search teams spreading outward like ripples from a dropped stone.
As a patrol of Ursan garrison soldiers jogged toward the mouth of his alley, Ironside pressed himself against the shadowed wall of a manufacturing complex. Their armor clinked with each step, while their eyes swept the surrounding area.
When they disappeared around a corner, he resumed his careful progress deeper into the district. The stolen energy rifles, representing the closest thing to currency he possessed, felt awkward slung across his shoulders. Their unfamiliar weight threw off the natural balance that sword work demanded, but survival required pragmatic thinking over personal preference.
A factory door stood propped open. He sidled up to it, warm air flowing outward carrying the scent of heated metal and machine oil. Inside, workers in stained protective coveralls operated massive presses shaping armor components. Beyond them, an open door led into a back area lined with lockers. A couple of the lockers had fresh coveralls hanging from them, likely replacements for work clothes that had failed beyond repair.
Ironside studied the garments. They would provide perfect camouflage, allowing him to blend in among the district's workforce while search teams focused on more obvious hiding places. Even passing through the occupied factory, the theft would be simple for him. He could circumvent the workers, slip into the locker room, pull on the coveralls, and walk out like he belonged there.
His honor demanded otherwise. These uniforms belonged to working people, probably all they owned beyond basic necessities. Taking them would leave some laborer without proper clothing for his job, possibly leading to dismissal or worse punishment from Draconite supervisors.
No. He wouldn't steal, no matter how desperate his circumstances were. He would find another way.
Ironside continued deeper into the industrial maze. Behind him, more vehicles rumbled past while searchlights began sweeping the area in methodical patterns. The net was tightening, but it hadn't closed yet.
Or had it?
Again, the sound of boots on stone echoed across the loading dock, this time from two directions at once. Ironside pressed himself into a shadowed alcove.
"Section four clear," came a gruff voice from his left, carrying through the narrow canyon between factory walls. "Moving to section five."
"Copy that," replied another voice from ahead, growing closer.
The opposing footsteps drew nearer, one patrol approaching from the industrial thoroughfare to his left, another advancing through the maze of service alleys ahead. In moments, they would meet at the intersection where he crouched, eliminating any possibility of him remaining hidden.
He urgently scanned his immediate surroundings. The loading dock offered minimal concealment, little more than a shallow depression in the factory wall where cargo haulers could back up to receive shipments. Above, there were dirty windows too high and too exposed to reach without being spotted. Below, the stone foundation offered no hiding places, its surface worn smooth by decades of industrial traffic. But a narrow gap between two massive steam pipes ran along the factory's base, barely wide enough for a man of Lancelot's size. The space was partially concealed by accumulated debris and chemical stains that had dripped from overhead conduits, creating deep shadows that might swallow him completely if he could reach it unseen and in time.
Ironside dropped to his belly and rolled beneath the nearest steam pipe, its surface radiating heat that scorched the air above him. The space was cramped, with barely enough room for him and his procured rifles. He was forced to press his face against stone still warm from the day's industrial processes while scalding vapor hissed inches above his back.
The first patrol, six Draconite soldiers in standard garrison armor, rounded the corner just as his boots disappeared into the shadows. Both their equipment and physical fitness showed the wear and tear that marked them as long-term occupation forces.
The second patrol emerged from the alley system thirty seconds later, their approach more cautious as they processed the possibility that their quarry might be watching from concealment. These were local garrison troops. Ursans, like him. It disgusted him to see them working with the dragonfolk, who thus far had proven themselves wholly dishonorable.
"Nothing in the main thoroughfare," reported the Ursan unit sergeant. "But there's plenty of places to hide in these service areas."
The combined patrols began a systematic search of the immediate area, probing into corners and crevices while voices called out status reports. Ironside pressed himself deeper into his hiding place as boots approached within arm's reach of his position, the chemical-stained debris above his head providing precious concealment from their searching eyes.
One of the Ursans stopped directly beside the steam pipes, playing his light beam across the accumulated refuse and stains. "Lots of garbage down here," he reported. "Looks like maintenance crews dump their waste behind these pipes."
"Keep looking," the Draconite commander ordered. "He's got to be here somewhere.”
A Draconite soldier approached from the opposite side, his light beam sweeping methodically across the shadows holding the industrial debris. For a terrifying moment, the illumination passed directly over Ironside's hiding spot, but the angle was wrong. Blocked by the pipe assembly and accumulated waste, the deep shadows worked to conceal him from view.
"Just trash and chemical stains over here," the soldier reported. "Smells like something died."
"Probably lots of dead things down there,” came the reply. "These old factories are full of vermin."
Minutes passed like hours as the search teams methodically examined every potential hiding spot within fifty meters of Ironside's position. Steam continued hissing overhead, its scalding moisture making breathing difficult while the confined space sent cramps through his legs and shoulders. But he remained perfectly still, using meditation techniques learned long ago to control his body's responses to discomfort. In the background of his mind, he could sense Lancelot’s consciousness pressing at his defenses, using the opportunity to further his efforts to regain control.
A soft, unbidden cough passed through his lips. The closest soldiers turned in his direction, beams sweeping back across the pipes and garbage. “Did you hear that?” he asked.
“Probably just the pipes,” one of the others replied. “They creak and groan a lot, especially as the air gets cooler.”
They stared at Ironside’s hiding place while he fought to bring Lancelot back under control. Do you want to get these Ursan killed? Ironside asked silently, pushing him away once more.
Lancelot gave up his attempts. For now.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the patrol leader's voice cut through the industrial noise. "Section clear. Moving to the next grid. Stay sharp. If he’s here, we're going to find him."
"Confirmed. Proceeding to section eight."
The sound of boots on stone gradually faded as both patrols moved deeper into the industrial district, their systematic search pattern carrying them away from Ironside's hiding place. He remained motionless for several more minutes, counting his heartbeats while ensuring they wouldn't double back or leave concealed observers behind.
When silence finally returned to the area, he carefully extracted himself and his rifles from beneath the steam pipes. His armor bore new stains from the chemical residue, but he’d remained unnoticed, and that’s what counted. He continued through the area, remaining cautious as he sought his escape.
Three blocks further down, he discovered what he needed. A waste collection point where several factories deposited their refuse—broken machinery, chemical containers, and piles of discarded things too damaged for continued use. Among the debris, a container overflowed with worn work clothes that had been deemed unfit for service.
He began sorting through the container’s contents. Most of the garments were torn beyond use. But near the bottom, he found a set of coveralls that would serve his purpose. They were overly large, but he was wearing armor so their size was just what he needed. They bore dozens of chemical stains and burn marks, but the holes were few enough that the basic structure remained intact. The fabric was thick enough to conceal his armor's distinctive lines while the stains and damage would help him blend in among the district's workforce. Not elegant certainly, but functional. Ironside pulled the coveralls on and closed the fastenings.
Near the bottom of the container, his fingers encountered something else useful. He recovered a pair of welding goggles with a cracked lens on the left side. The damaged eyepiece would help disguise Lancelot's mismatched eyes, silver and gold irises that clearly marked him as Lancelot to anyone familiar with the legendary knight's appearance.
He adjusted the goggles over his eyes, the cracked lens fragmenting his vision on the left side but providing the concealment he needed. The disguise wasn't perfect, but it would pass casual inspection from search teams looking for an armored warrior rather than a common laborer.
Finally, he located a discarded pack, cast aside because acid had eaten through part of it, leaving a large hole. Even with the damage, it was large enough to conceal both his sword and the rifles he’d taken. He just had to make sure he held it over his shoulder with the hole against his back so the contents couldn’t be seen and wouldn’t fall out.
He had just secured the pack over his shoulder when he heard the approaching footsteps of one of the patrols returning. He quickly ducked behind the waste containers, peeking around the corner of one. It was the Ursans again.
“We’re running out of places to look,” the Ursan sergeant said.
"What about the transit lines?" another asked. "He could have reached the rail depot by now."
"Already covered. We've got teams at every station between here and the city center."
“I have to wonder,” the other commented. “If it is Sir Lancelot, do we really want to catch him?”
“We’re damned either way. If we don’t find him, our superiors will have our hides. If we do, he probably will.”
Ironside smiled as they continued their search in the wrong direction. The patrol leader was thinking like a soldier rather than a fugitive, focusing on obvious escape routes rather than considering how someone might disappear in plain sight.
When their voices faded, he emerged from concealment and made his way toward the rail depot the soldier had mentioned.
Two blocks further, he found it. A rail line that connected the industrial district to the nearby city.
Perfect.
CHAPTER 20
Designed for utility over beauty, Ironside didn’t think the train station was much to speak of, though the brutal simplicity created its own inadvertent charm. Thick stone arches supported a soot-stained ceiling blackened by decades of industrial smog. Electric lines ran in rough conduits bolted to walls that showed the scars of heavy use. The platforms themselves were worn stone, cracked and stained with oil and grime from countless workers who'd passed through over the generations.
A train waited at the central platform, its cars fashioned from burnished metal that gleamed like armor in the station's artificial lighting. Each car’s narrow windows, thick structure and decorative metalwork suggested the inside would look like a luxuriant hallway, with the same beauty and strength.
Passengers were boarding, most wearing the same type of stained coveralls that now concealed his armor. Factory workers heading home after their shifts, their movements showed the weariness that came from long hours of physical labor.
He would fit right in.
Ironside joined the boarding crowd, keeping his head down but still aware of his surroundings through the cracked goggles. Ursan guards stood at both ends of the platform, clearly keeping an eye out for him. They had yet to consider he might have disguised himself, and paid no attention to him or the rest of the workers as they boarded.
Ironside took a seat between a pair of tired workers on one of the simple wooden benches arranged along the walls of the train's interior. Hand-wrought metal light fixtures high on the walls between the windows, but with the windows they apparently weren’t turned on during the day.
The men he sat with were dressed similarly to him. As the train pulled out of the station with electric smoothness and quiet, heading toward the city proper, he mimicked their expressions as he leaned his head back against the wall.
“You should put in a requisition for new gear,” the man beside him commented, turning his head just enough to look at Ironside. “That cracked lens is a safety hazard. I know the Draconite are cheap bastards, but they’ll replace the goggles, I’m sure.”
Ironside lifted his head. His initial assessment was that the Ursan and Draconite were allies, but the comments he had heard since had quickly proven that theory wrong. The Draconite were oppressors then, in control of this world. And he had the impression they all had the same level of honor as Turquine.
“I have requested new equipment,” he answered. “I’m still waiting on a response.”
The man laughed. “Typical dragonshit,” he muttered. “Good luck, my friend.”
“Thank you,” Ironside answered.
As the train continued away from the industrial district, Ironside studied his fellow passengers with the calculating attention that had served him well throughout his life. Most were legitimate workers, their focus turned inward as they contemplated whatever awaited them at home.
But a few stood out as something different.
There was the man in the third row whose clothes were too clean for someone who worked with his hands. His posture was all wrong. He was carrying the alertness of someone accustomed to watching for threats rather than the slumped exhaustion of honest laborers. The bulge under his left arm suggested a concealed weapon, while his eyes constantly swept the car with predatory awareness. And there, near the rear door, an Ursan woman walked up the aisle with the fluid grace of someone trained in combat. She positioned herself where she could observe the entire car while maintaining quick access to an exit. Her disguise as a casual traveler didn’t even begin to mask her professional paranoia. He pegged both as underworld assets, members of whatever criminal organization controlled illegal activities in this part of Alorion. Ironside had encountered such people often enough during his lifetime.
