FROST WAS HUNCHED over a cherry wood desk, elbows firmly planted on the surface. His eyes were struggling to stay open in the dark and windowless room while his arms strained against the tight fabric of his black dress shirt, unbuttoned nearly halfway until he needed to put on a tie for the evening’s celebrations at Grand Hall.
A lamp comprised of a single bulb of orange glass was screwed into a series of interconnected bronze armatures, bent at angles like pipes to illuminate an array of parchment splayed across the work surface. Some of the errant light caught in the hairs that peeked through the top of his chest. Upon the paper were schematics for several devices, the largest yet simplest of which was a cylinder one half meter in length and half that again in circumference. Per the plans, the other devices on the page were to be placed within it, along with a material referenced only as Soil.
Frost mumbled incoherently as a peaceful sleep took over, until a loud buzzer woke him with a start, snatching away a dream where he had been victorious in his plight against Winthrope. Jumping at the noise, he struck a knee on a sharply decorated panel.
“Damnit!” Frost yelled, pain shooting up his leg while his fist came down, rattling a half glass of liquor and sending a pair of magnifying lenses dancing across the parchment. “What is it now?”
Kicking back from the desk, Frost tugged at the bottom of his shirt before marching toward a faint glow on the other side of the room.
Aero happened to be there, unconscious as he laid in two halves on a metal table. A dim, blue light emanated from beneath him (the table itself was glowing) and tubes had been attached to open compartments across his forehead. His legs were separated and unmoving, while both of his chest plates had been cracked open like a parcel, exposing a radiant canister in the middle. Made of silver, it pulsed erratically, red light mixing with the blue hues to cast a purple glow on the monitors that beeped and gauges that joggled above.
“Aaron, why are you being so difficult,” Lucas whispered gently, rubbing Aero’s soft hair while his eyes darted between the displays and incessant flashes of red. It wasn’t long before he found the cause of the alarm.
“The new alloys failed to keep the temperatures moderated,” he spat, noting several indicators were pointed at zero while others were pegged on the maximums.
With an annoyed grunt, Frost grabbed hold of the cylinder and yanked it out. The slick lubricant covering it was flung everywhere, even more of it splashing when he slammed the whole array on the table beside Aero.
“Fuck you!” he shouted. “FUCK!”
Pressing a small button just below the steel table, a long drawer slid out without a sound. Inside, there was an identical silver cylinder resting on a bed of silken fabric. Frost took it, then jammed the unit into the slot left in Aero’s chest. Once far enough, there was a subtle click followed by a low, building whine. A faint blue glow appeared a moment later, pulsing with a steady rhythm like a heartbeat.
“That’s how the other one should be!” he shouted, his mechanical eye whirring madly in its socket. “I need these damn modifications to work!”
Pushing back from the table with such force that Aero’s body shook violently, Frost marched over to a large device about three meters to the left. There, a heavy glass screen was suspended above an array of buttons, knobs, and levers. An inviting leather chair was placed front and center.
Opting to stay standing, Frost rested both hands on the soft, padded edge and squeezed hard. It wasn’t doing much to calm him, though pretending it was Jesse’s neck helped tremendously.
You are leaving me with very little choice, Frost thought, placing blame for his failures on the enterprising Winthrope instead of his own inept staff. I WILL get my hands on your secrets and my plans WILL succeed, even if it means getting you out of my way.
Frost was working to improve his bot designs and accessories, like those illustrated in the collection of plans on his desk, for mass production with better alloys that were independent of Winthrope and his affiliated mining operations. So far, attempts to do so had gotten close but ultimately met with failure, his teams unable to replicate or even steal the formulations Jesse was using to perfect his proprietary steam capsules.
“I’ll have to find out what he’s paying those damnable technicians and triple it. And more if necessary,” Frost murmured darkly, scratching himself a note with a fountain pen on a scrap of paper. It simply said ‘field bonuses’. “I’m sure that Mr. Butler would not mind a receiving one of those to help me discover that information.”
As if to add insult to injury, another chime shrieked, slicing through Frost’s focus like a whetted dagger. Ahead of him, an amber light flickered to life on the console, drawing his threadbare attention as it grew in brightness.
“Your timing is impeccable as always,” Frost groused, a hand perched just over the light, ready to press down. “Once I am done with Winthrope I guarantee my full attention will be on taking care of you.”
Dipping a finger, the button clicked and another light above it came on and was green. Frost cleared his throat and spoke clearly toward the screen, “President Archer, to what do I owe this great honor?”
The glass display burst to life, a jittery field of mossy static filling the holotube from edge to curved edge. After a few seconds, it dwindled, replaced by a deep-toned warble that remained until the distorted, almost three-dimensional image of a man appeared. He was obviously tall and quite broad chested, the tinted display making his black suit look a shade of forest green. A subtle damask pattern was noticeable in the fabric, along with a neat line of four buttons on his each of the lapels. Lengthy, peppered hair dangled gracefully in front of his eyes while his beard was comparable to Frost’s own.
“Let’s not start adding formalities while pretending to be enthusiastic about my calls,” President Alistair Michael Archer said bitterly. “I know you despise them half as much as I do.”
Frost couldn’t disagree, choosing to remain silent instead; his sour expression answered on his behalf.
“So tell me, how are things advancing with the new power source?” Archer asked forcefully, chin raised high in anticipation though his low-slung eyes predicted disappointment.
“Well enough,” Frost said quietly but clearly, “but we have encountered a slight… hindrance to mass producing the unit.”
“A slight hindrance?” Archer barked, followed by a tremendous sigh. “A major problem is what you mean to say.”
“Not at all…”
“Then explain to me these delays!” Archer bellowed, his hair shaking wildly as his head quaked with wrath. “Frost, I am growing weary. No, correction: I AM weary! You have already spent far too much time working this matter with no further, measurable progress. How is it you can build a single unit in a comparable fraction of the time and have enough gall to place it in that disgusting plaything of yours, yet you cannot seem to find the aptitude to develop another one after a few more years?”
“A3R0 has nothing to do with this!” Frost retorted hotly; obviously, a nerve had been struck. “I built that prototype cell at great personal cost! Do you have any idea the finances required to produce such a complex thing AND keep the entirety of its production hidden from the officials?”
On the other side of the room, Aero stirred at the mention of his call-sign, opening his blue eyes. Readying to piece himself back together so he could join them, Archer’s words booming through room at the top of his voice kept Aero quiet and motionless. Shutting his eyes again, he listened covertly.
“I do know the cost of such things!” Archer snarled, his face flushed with red although the screen remained a steady shade of green. “I am sure you would not want to find out yourself how deep my pockets actually go.”
“No,” Frost submitted, plunging his head in a reverent bow.
In the span of a blink, Frost envisioned Archer burning in flames so intense that his screams echoed all the way from Angelus, across three-thousand kilometers of wasteland until they could be heard resoundingly in Diablo. Frost struggled to make sure a smile did not appear, gazing back at Archer with an expressionless face.
“Then we both agree that mass production of these self-contained arrays must be completed as soon as possible?” queried Archer.
“Yes, but the President does understand that perfection takes time…”
It was as if Archer heard him, yet didn’t care.
“I understand that progress takes time, but don’t be silly Frost. Verily, perfection only exists in Angelus. We will, of course, be sure to make do with whatever solution you come up with, provided it is, actually, a successful one.”
Lucas averted his eyes in haste, looking back toward Aero who was still deactivated on the table. His mind wandered into his own plans, where those perfected energy cells would power the next generation of soldier bots, capable of operating out in the dry environment of the wastes without the need for frequent refueling like the current steam units, nor ineffectual winding like older clockwork models. With such a force at his command, Frost could sweep across not only Diablo but the world – including the lofty Angelus – until all was under his authority. He would not stop until his name was not only known, but chanted from all corners of the world.
Frost!
Frost!
Frost!
“FROST!” Archer was screaming, at last regaining the man’s attention after nearly thirty seconds of calling. “A word of warning as you devise your course of action: do not overstep your bounds, or what you may think your bounds are. Make no mistake, the devices you are developing are for Angelus and Angelus alone.” He leaned forward with a very contemptuous look on his face, filling the screen to the point that it looked as if he would bump his head on the glass. “If at any point something to the contrary becomes evident, you had best be prepared for a great hand to come reaching out of the sky to smite you and all you have ever known.”
Frost’s nostrils flared at the not-so-veiled threat and his mouth curled at once as if ready to hurl an insult.
The President withdrew from the screen, preparing to receive a verbal volley but no words came, causing Archer to simply smile at Frost’s pitiful response.
Before the heated exchange could resume, a muffled voice unexpectedly came out of a voice tube in Archer’s luxuriant office.
“Sir, pardon the interruption, but I have the update you requested.”
“Go on,” Archer replied, bending an ear toward the device.
“Two and a half kilograms of Soil has arrived from Muelle Esta by rail. It is currently being screened in customs, secured on platform nine, pending your inspection and approval before being flown to the facility.”
Archer’s face grew wide as he beamed, a definite contrast to his look when speaking to, or even glancing at, Frost.
“Thank you. Alert the dock agents to prepare for my arrival. I will be there within the hour.”
“Yes, My President,” the voice replied in such a way that Frost pictured the person on the other end gesticulating obediently. “All hail Angelus.”
“All hail Angelus, indeed,” said Archer, now speaking directly to Frost. His sullen face had returned. “So you see Lucas, we have been more than ready for you to deliver on your end of this bargain.”
Frost scrutinized Archer as he cleared away strands of long hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. Both his left hand and arm were constructed from the same synthetic material as Aero, bordered and hinged at all the joints. On his wrist was a present from Lucas’ father: an elaborate gold chronometer affixed by a thick brown leather band. Exquisitely, it ticked away each passing second since being gifted in far better days.
“How long do I have?” Frost asked hesitantly.
“Thirty days at most,” Archer offered, “though I would preferably like to see action in half that time.”
“I can work with that timeframe, assuming Winthrope cooperates with his technology.”
“Cooperation is the very last thing on that man’s mind, brilliant as it may be. Especially you factor in it.” Archer’s reply was ominous. “You know as well as I do that we need his assets in hand and the man himself gone.”
Silence fell between the two men as they stood, poised on a point of no return.
“Get rid of him,” Archer stressed, shattering both the quiet and any remaining reservations Frost might have had. “I don’t care how it’s done, just do it.”
Aero’s eyes sprung open with worry and as much as he disliked the treatment from master at times (there were times it seemed two versions of Lucas existed in the same body), he hoped that he wasn’t going to go down that path. Without time to ponder the outcome, Aero snapped his eyes shut again for fear of being noticed and consequently deactivated.
“And what of the others?” Frost asked, his expression becoming sinister. “Mayors, prefects, sheriffs…”
“All in due time,” Archer responded, his words initially grating against Frost’s ears due to the President’s insistence that he hurry, while others need not. “Their palms can be greased for now and, ultimately, they will be compelled to comply.”
Frost liked the sound of that. With the joint drive from both of their extensive bank accounts working on the development of the energy cells, and with Winthrope out of the way for good, they – no, HE – would become unstoppable.
“Then we are done here,” Archer said hollowly from his side of the screen. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“Of course not,” Frost replied, the soft green light bending the shadows across his features into dreadful shapes. His brow and cheek-tops were especially rutted, as was his Cheshire smile.
“That remains to be seen,” Archer replied with doubt dripping off his words and not a second later his image disappeared from the screen with a dull hum and no goodbye.
The moment Frost was sure the signal was disconnected and all the green light had faded, he dropped his counterfeit smile.
“What remains to be seen, President, is how long I shall tolerate your belittling once these units are produced.”
Still talking to himself about malicious things, Frost swept past Aero, rapping his knuckles on the steel table as he continued to a distant door tucked off in the shadows. Opening it, light cascaded into the room from a line of lamps along the wall of a long passageway. The fixtures resembled oil lanterns, held by brass hands with orange bulbs instead of flames. Frost stepped into the hallway, still muttering, and closed the door behind him.
Aero waited for a few minutes after hearing the door latch before he made any moves, just in case Lucas returned. When all remained clear, he opened his eyes and pushing himself up and around, dangled himself over the edge of the tabletop. Reaching for his legs, he attached each one to his frame, bending his knees and wiggling his toes. He didn’t get down immediately, instead setting his elbows atop his thighs and his face into his padded palms. A prolonged sigh escaped and if he were human it would have been followed by tears.
I am torn, Aero thought to himself, between the duty I have for my creator and the lives he is about to affect.
He struggled with which option would take precedence, considering both would violate one, if not more, of the fundamental principles hardwired into his brain.
Aero remained, head in hands as he mulled over his options, deciding that he would pay close attention to Lucas and his dealings going forward. Pressed to act, it would not be long before his master made moves and Aero would be there, watching.