Every
bron in Sinkside has toiled in the Scorch Works at one time or
another, and every bron will tell you that no-one bossed the forge
mobs like Heavy Wrecks: strong as an ambot, quick as a lashworm,
crafty as a downhive rattler. His task was to see smooth slabs of
Goliath steel off the end of the line, all shift, every shift. He
prowled unceasingly from towering blast furnace to hissing finishing
mill, drawing and testing samples from the hearths, checking and
rechecking the sacks of alloy additives, lending his brawn to help
haul the great cradles from platform to platform. He picked the right
moment to drain the furnaces with unerring accuracy, always first to
get his hands on the great plug drill, first to drive it home and
unleash the molten flow.
For
any forge boss, the paramount task is to keep his gangs in line. When
to shovel, when to plug, when to haul. Wrecks called it. Who's
trusted enough to work the snort valve? Whose stimm-tolerance suits
them to lugging ladles or piledriving scrap? Who's been running
sloppy and deserves a shift skimming slag at the blast furnace top?
Wrecks knew. And when stimms overspiked and tempers frayed, Wrecks
didn't hesitate to smack some sense into any fractious bron that
needed it.
One
such situation was afoot this particular shift. Heavy Wrecks was on
Line Four, marching down from the blast furnace end on a timeworn
catwalk ten metres above the forge floor. He was passing over the
midline row of open hearths, eyes alert. Subcrews were shovelling
scrap into the furnaces to mix with the molten iron, and there should
have been an unbroken row of fountaining sparks as each spadeload was
heaved into the heat. But there - hearth number seven agape, glowing
red, undisturbed. No spark showers. The crew wasn't on it. Wrecks
squinted through the heat-shimmer at the half-shadowed forms of the
crew, picking out distinctive crest-cuts and tattoos – he knew
every man on the line. A solid bruiser by the name of Thrag-13 was
kicking off, and something needed to be done.
Heavy
Wrecks stepped to the edge of the catwalk, squatted and sprang off
into the open dome. He grabbed hold of a swagging of chains dangling
from an overhead crane arm, trusting the pulleys and counterweights
to drop him swiftly and safely to the pit floor. Throwing his weight
to the left, he came down by hearth number seven, right in the middle
of the brewing ruckus. Thrag had knocked three of his crewmates on
their arses, and now stood, flexing and defiant, shovel held
fight-ready, silhouetted by the furnace mouth behind him.
The
sheer noise of the activity across the Scorch Works – clanging
hammers, screeching sirens, grinding machinery, roaring forges -
would drive an unaugmented human deaf in a slice of a shift, but it
was mere inconvenience to the rubbery eardrums of a Goliath. Though
vocals were all but useless down here, Half-hand could express all
that needed to be said.
Wrecks
had the subcrew's attention, and he chopped his fingers through three
different formations and gestured to distinct points on his
muscle-thick upper torso.
Back
to work. Now.
Thrag-13
grinned as he half-handed back.
Make
me, boss-meyn.
Wrecks
couldn't make out Thrag's eyes in the thick shadows, but he saw that
the bruiser's hands were shaking as he signed. Not fear. Stimm
withdrawal. Thrag had been overcooking it and his body had gone into
adrenaline overdrive to fight off the heavy comedown.
One
warning. Stand down, signed Wrecks.
He
knew that Thrag, with his brain glitching, wouldn't pay any heed, and
the rest of the subcrew knew it too – they'd backed off to make
enough space for the inevitable brawl. As Thrag and Wrecks circled
each other, the boss noted with satisfaction that the crews at the
rest of the hearths hadn't stopped work. This wasn't a stop-and-scope
Slamdrome spectacle. He'd trained them well to keep their minds on
the graft, and nodded as he glanced up and down the line.
Thrag
saw an opportunity in Wrecks's moment of distraction, and lunged
forward, shovel swinging. Heavy Wrecks was expecting this, of course
– he could second guess a stimm-starved lunk any shift of the
cycle, and he'd exaggerated his glances along the line precisely to
provoke the upstart bruiser.
Thrag's
shovel swung a full crescent through empty air. Wrecks had ducked
aside, reaching to his belt and unclipping the brute cleaver that
hung there. Thrag stumbled forward, dragged by the momentum of his
shovel swipe. Wrecks moved fluidly around his hunched opponent,
raising his left foot and bringing it down with steady, inexorable
force on the haft of the shovel. The tool was forced down, but Thrag
refused to let go even as his knuckles scraped the grainy rockcrete
floor. Wrecks raised his cleaver and swung downwards - another heavy,
smooth action.
The
watching crew winced despite themselves. But there was a scrape and a
clang, half lost in the din of the dome, as the cleaver sliced
cleanly through the steel haft of the shovel, a fingerwidth away from
Thrag's hand.
Any
sensible bron would have known there and then that they were beat,
but chem-jagged Thrag was far from sensible. He reeled back,
brandishing the shovel haft. Wrecks straightened his back and let the
cleaver hang loosely at his side. His power spoke through his
stillness.
Thrag
came at him again, driving the haft ahead of himself as if it were a
plug drill. It was easy work for Wrecks to slap the haft aside with
the flat of his blade. Again, the bruiser stumbled, and again, the
boss raised the cleaver high.
Wrecks
chopped down, but as his arm swung, he relaxed his grip for a split
klik and let the cleaver swing round in his hand. The blunt edge of
the weapon caught Thrag on the back of the head, just above his
slugsocket. The upstart was knocked unconscious and dropped to the
floor.
It
was over in less time than it took to reload a rivet cannon.
Heavy
Wrecks beckoned over a couple of juves who were shunting an empty
scrapcart past. He signed to them to lug Thrag-13 off the forge floor
and back to the Hablocks. He didn't expect any more trouble from him,
at least not for a cycle or two. Every bron acts out now and then.
Nothing a few shifts skimming slag won't fix. No need to sign to the
rest of the subcrew – they were already back at work.
Few
forge bosses in Sinkside could match Heavy Wrecks for respect. He was
born to it – natborn, in fact, the product of generations of
carefully arranged breeding accords between Palatine enclaves, all
part of the Overtyrant's grand plan. The skinnies have it that
Goliaths are dumb folk, but short lifespans inevitably focus the mind
on legacy. Such things were beyond Wrecks's station, though, and he
turned away from the hearths to head down to the finishing mills.
He'd
barely moved when he saw something in the shadows, away from the
line. A hooded figure, wrapped in a heavy scrapcloak, plate armour
beneath. The figure gestured Half-hand:
Saw
the fight. Good work.
Wrecks
presented his full bulk, flexing hostility, and signed back at the
intruder.
My
forge. Who are you?
The
figure took a step forward, enough for the forgelight to reach
beneath the hood. More Half-hand:
An
old bron. We talk.
It
was Fraggenstein, former Graav of Sinkside.
Talk?
I'm working.
Fraggenstein
grimaced.
Got
new work for you.
Every
bron will tell you that no-one bossed the forge mobs like Heavy
Wrecks. And then came the shift when Fraggenstein roped Wrecks into
his downhive death quest.