﻿For Whom The Tinker Toils By Liam R.W. Doyle Published by Tragic Sans Press at Smashwords. Copyright 2012 Liam R.W. Doyle Discover other titles by Liam R.W. Doyle, such as the science fiction novel: Singularity Deferred, where you got this story and most places where ebooks are sold. For more, information, visit www.Tragic-Sans.com. Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. The mechanized man with the blue markings swung the sword, that was as tall as he was, through the last two of the soldiers from the other side. The soldiers had nothing but their wool uniforms and were easily cut in half. Jon grimaced as he watched this, though at the distance he was he couldn't see much detail. The other mechanized man, painted with yellow markings, punched the remaining soldier from the blue side, likely breaking his neck, then leveled his gun at the blue mechanized man. Even from far away, Jon could tell the gun was less a rifle and more a small cannon with a bore large enough for him to be able to stick his leg in. The blue one brought his sword up, overhand and parallel with the ground, and thrust it down into the head of the yellow one just as his victim fired his hand cannon into the blue's chest. Jon heard the resulting boom nearly a second later and felt the concussion in his own chest. His mule, Toothy, reacted to the sound then quickly appeared as though nothing happened. The mechanized men stopped moving as one's head was destroyed by the blade easily as wide as Jon, and the other had a smoking hole through its middle. Jon waited a moment, looking over the the battlefield. He'd only just arrived, moments earlier, when he heard the sound of battle from the road and watched the last few humans and the two walking suits of armor slaughter each other. And now, there was nothing. No sound, no movement. Only bodies and trails of smoke here and there. At the far end of the open field were two giant metal boxes. Jon assumed they were flying carriers that brought these groups of soldiers to this previously uninteresting piece of land. He wondered, briefly, who they were and why did they choose this place in all the world to have this fight. It was too late to get any answers and, truth be told, he didn't really much care. So long as the battle wasn't brought to his village, they could hold their wars wherever they wanted. He picked his way across the field, occasionally stepping over and around bodies. He was glad no one was moving and there was no moaning or calling out. If he'd discovered anyone still alive, he wasn't sure he'd know what to do to help. He was a trader, a tinkerer, a metalsmith--not a physic, and the village and its doctor was a good hour away. Jon reached the two metal men, locked in death. Yellow was pinned to the ground by the sword still clutched in blue's hands, who was stopped on top of yellow's gun. The metal around the edge of the hole in blue's back was ragged and curled. Now that he was next to them, it was easy to see the metal men were twice as big as he. He eased around the tableau and peeked into the hole in blue's back, and beyond a devastated layer of cables was the bloody and devastated torso of a human. The metal men were indeed suits of armor that completely enclosed the wearer. And, by the looks of the remains in the hole and the pieces that made up the suits' joints, the suit also moved from a different power than human muscle. Who they belonged to, who these men inside were, also made only a pause in Jon's mind. Why only these two among the three or four score bodies didn't matter. Maybe they were royalty, maybe they were wealthy. All Jon knew was that they were now as dead as everyone one else in the field, and didn't have any more use for their suits. He went back to the road and led Toothy, and the cart he pulled, through the field and up to the metal suits. It wasn't easy getting them loaded up onto the cart, but with makeshift ramps, rope, and Toothy's grudging help, Jon eventually rolled out onto the road with both suits. And, unfortunately, the men inside them. That fact was distasteful to him, but there wasn't anything to do for it until he got back home and figured out how to open the suits. The cart creaked and groaned with the weight, and Toothy had to be frequently motivated, but Jon figured they should be able to get back to town before nightfall. Fortunately, he'd left Greenwood that morning just before sunrise, with an empty cart after dropping dropping two plow blades. About an hour down the road, as he approached the eastern crossroads, Jon had to drive the cart off to the edge of the road to make way for a column of men and a couple of large motorized trucks. The men were dressed in mismatched and ill-fitting pieces of uniform resembling one of the two sides back at the field--which was apparently where they were marching off to. They must have been coming from the city up north, which was a full day's walk to be sure. He wondered why they didn't get to use one of those flying carriers like were now sitting abandoned back at the field. Jon noted a variety of expressions as he looked down on the men of various ages, ranging from fear to barely contained excitement. Many carried rifles of various types, but most had spears and pikes, sickles and scythes, wheat flails and hunting bows. But what interested him most were the three trucks. The rubber tires were nearly as tall as the cart, and the engines belched black smoke into the misty air. Jon had the opportunity to get a good look at a gas engine once, but it was so old and rusted he couldn't get any of the parts to move. Even so, he felt he understood well enough how it must work. But then, he'd always been good at figuring out how mechanical things worked. His father, five years dead this autumn, saw that and encouraged him to tear things up and put them back together all through his childhood. His grandfather, on the other hand, tolerated his presence only so long as Jon was able to bring money into the house. The passing soldiers and what must have been their leaders (as they rode horses and wore complete uniforms) barely noticed Jon as they passed. One or two nodded at him, a few more scowled instead. Jon vaguely wondered if there was another column of similar men and trucks approaching the field from the other direction. Once the column passed, Jon made sure the tarp covering the metal suits was still securely tied, then continued on. He reached his village just as the sun passed below the horizon and the sky had deepened to a rich blue marred with a swath of rust. Coming this direction, he had to ride through town on his way to his home on the edge of the woods on the other side. There were many people out at this time of the evening as people who worked out of doors stopped for the day, and those who worked in-doors would step out into the cool air and listen to the night insects start their music--before it got too dark and they'd have to put themselves back inside where the fire and dinner stew were. He rode by Blackburn's store and Ham Blackburn himself sat on the porch smoking that stubby pipe of his. Ham smiled as Jon approached, showing teeth that were as crooked and discolored as the boards of his porch. “You got those barrels I asked ya for last week?” Puff puff. “Inna couple days.” “Well, I'll be lookin' for ya.” Puff puff. Jon stared forward and drove on. Halfway through the village, he rode by Bethany and her friend Alixa. They seemed not to notice him. “Bethany,” Jon called. Alixa glanced up, then at her friend, then back down as they continued walking. “Bethany,” he called again. Bethany stopped and sighed, then turned to Jon. “Yes, Jon? What do you need?” He slowed the mule (an easy task) in order to stay with the girls' pace. “Uhm, do you want to go to the river tomorrow?” “No, Jon, I don't.” “Oh. Do you want to hike through Catchdown Trail?” “We haven't done that since we were kids, Jon.” “Oh.” He wondered why that should matter, but didn't ask. “Can I walk you back home?” Bethany stopped walking; Alixa stopped short. “Jon, why don't you get it? We're not children anymore; we live in different worlds now.” “We live in the same village.” “Different worlds, Jon. My father owns the mill and yours . . . you, do what you do.” “Yeah, OK.” He looked down, and then back as Bethany with her hands on her hips. “You still don't get it.” Jon shook his head. “Did I do something mean to you?” She sighed. “No, you didn't. We just grew up. Now please, stop asking me to do things and go places with you. We're not friends anymore, Jon. Alright?” Jon's neck and face grew hot as he turned forward in the seat and urged Toothy on, leaving the girls watching after him. He didn't talk to anyone else on the way home, including Missus Dell who called across the road to ask him if he'd stop to look at her new water pipes. The road to his house turned off the main village road and quickly became a path. It was still muddy from all the rain earlier in the week, and, at one point, he was worried that the weight of the metal suits was going to get the cart stuck--but Toothy's determination won out. Finally, as the last of the light drained from the sky, the trees opened up and the house he shared with his grandfather revealed itself in all its patchwork glory. What started long ago as a cottage, over the years had turned into a pile of house parts stuck together and built onto itself. Generations of men and women who seemed to not consider tearing down and rebuilding was an option. Around the clearing sat various sheds and shops and storage buildings. Jon drove the cart into the open side of the larger of the shops, the one he did most his metalwork in. He stoked the coke in the forge, lit a couple of lamps, then got to work unloading his cargo. When the first suit fell off the ramp and crashed to the ground, Jon's grandfather stormed out of the house, lantern in hand, and called out, “Jon! Jon, izzat you? You know I can't see anymore like I used't. Is that you, Jon?” “Yes, numpa. It's me.” “You just getting back? You're late! You're supposed to be back mid-day. I had to make my own supper.” “Sorry, numpa.” “You working on some new fool project? That Cooper got you making another metal fence he don't need?” “No, numpa. Not for Mister Cooper.” “You keep making fool noises, keep me up, I'm not going to be able to net the creek tomorrow. My leg the way it is, prob'ly won't be able to anyway,” he mumbled as he walked back into the house. Jon continued to work on the suits through the night. # # # The sun rose between two fir trees, shining directly on Jon's face as he lay on one of the workbenches. He sat up with a groan as a hot metal bar seemed to have replaced a neck muscle on one side. He rubbed and kneaded the muscle cramp while he stumbled blearily to the power suit that stood at the end of the shop. Most of it was covered in swaths of yellow paint, but there were pieces, particularly near the top of the torso, that were covered in blue. The remains of the suits that weren't needed to make one fully working suit were scattered around the ground. The grisly remains of the men that were inside were wrapped in blankets in the back of the cart. Jon planned on hitching up Toothy later in the morning and burying the bodies in the family cemetery farther down the path. He had considered bringing the preacher up to the house to say prayers for them, as that was the proper way of dealing with the dead, but he didn't want to have to talk about them--it'd make him uncomfortable. And besides, their god would surely do whatever he wanted done with their souls regardless of what happened to their bodies. Jon was glad for the sunlight so he could now see his work better. He spent most of the day working on the fine gears and cables, hoses and wires, that made the suits walk and move under their own power, guided by the person inside. It was fortunate, Jon considered, that outside the surface coating of paint, the two suits were nearly identical--it made creating one mostly whole suit so much easier. He wondered how the two sides of a war would have such similar devices when it seemed there was only one to a side. Were they made by the same individual and sold to both sides? Were the sides of the battle once cooperative, and something drove them apart? This question occupied his thoughts for only a thin moment before it led him to think about himself and Bethany. Thinking about the way she chided him and sent him away made his face hot all over again. So, she seemed to wear her nice clothes all the time now instead of just on Prayer Day like she did when they were younger--that didn't have to mean they were suddenly different people, did it? Jon didn't feel any different than he used to be: He was the same as he'd always been, just taller. Obviously, he decided, if she was the one who took it to mind to become a different person, that's not his fault, is it? She can be different if she wants; Jon was going to continue hopping the stones at the creek and feeding stale bread to the loons. Only, he'd just continue to do it alone. Jon sighed as he wrapped a wire end to a tiny post in one of the mechanical hands in a way that just seemed to be the right way to do it. Grandfather came out to complain about breakfast, then about the banging in the pipes from the well Jon fixed, again, only a few days ago. Then came out to complain about lunch, then about the tears in his net that have been there for months. Then, as the air began to grow colder and the birds called their tune to each other to find evening roosts, grandfather came out to complain about dinner, and Jon finally went inside to slice some cheese and salted pork and mix some garden greens. “Numpa,” he said as he stood in the dim house, “half the wheel is gone since I left yesterday morning. I don't need to make every meal for you,” he said as patiently as he could. “Boy, every time I pick up that knife I risk Mother's Luck in cutting my own hand off. You want me to cut my own hand off, boy?” “No, numpa.” “I think you want me to cut my own hand off. Leaving me all day, out playing with your metal all day,” he grumbled as he deftly cut his own serving of cheese into smaller bites. “Is that new bucket of scraps you got out there gonna bring in some coin, boy?” Jon shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.” It occurred to him that all that day and the previous night, he'd only been thinking about getting a suit into working order, and nothing about what he was going to use it for. “It . . . will help me do work for people.” “Tell you what will help you do work, boy. Respect! Respect for your elders, that's what.” “Numpa, I . . . I don't know what . . . what's that mean?” “See what I tell you? No respect. Darn fool boy, leaving his grandfather helpless at home to cut his own hand off.” Jon knew it was okay to stop listening, and he looked out the open front door of the house to where the growing shadows were cast over the nearly rebuilt suit of chipped and scuffed yellow and blue. He wondered if it would allow him to bend horseshoes into shape without hammer and anvil: He was supposed to run a new set out to Grayton's farm in the next day or two. That would be handy. # # # The stars were brilliant and blanketed the entire sky by the time he'd driven the mule and cart down the trail to the family graves. Jon felt guilty that it took him a full day to remember to bring the bodies of the former suit owners out here. When he'd walked back out to his work shed after supper, he caught the smell he hadn't noticed in his concentration during the day. He apologized to the blanket-wrapped bodies as he hitched Toothy up. He stopped the mule as the cart pulled alongside his father's stone, stark and alive in the swaying light from the lantern on the corner of the cart. Jon pulled out another lantern, lit it and adjusted the wick, and set it atop the headstone. The ground here was less rocky than it was nearly everywhere else, so it didn't take Jon long to dig a hole of reasonable depth next to where his father rested. Since he'd began thinking about what the suit could do at supper, he couldn't help but wonder how long it would take to dig the hole if he used it instead of the shovel and his own muscles. But, he decided, this was the kind of work meant for hands and not machines. At least, that's what he imagined his father would tell him if we were there instead of in the ground. He stood in the hole he dug, a good four or five feet deep--his head and shoulders just above the surface--and he realized his father was probably laying in the ground just next to his own ankles, over a few feet or so. Jon imagined the once impressive man floating in the ground next to him, as if in water. Reclined, peaceful, buoyed by the ground. When he stood atop the ground, his father below, the distance seemed as if they existed in two different worlds and not several feet. However, while he was below the surface, at the same level as him, it felt as if they were as close to each other as any time when his father had been alive. Jon sat on the cold, damp ground at the bottom of his hole, the light from the lantern unable to reach him. He placed his hand against the wall of the fresh grave and felt the tickle of dirt shifting and falling from the touch of his palm. For the first time since his father died and was buried, Jon felt a desire to talk to him, as if now was the first time his father would have been able to hear him. He had the desire, but not the words. Finally, the sweat he had worked up earlier chilled him in the night air. The wind had changed sometime while he worked and Jon could smell the nearby sea clinging to the night. He stood and climbed out of the pit. Jon looked back down at his father's headstone. Once again, different worlds. He wondered why he suddenly thought of Bethany. Once both damaged bodies were at the bottom, still covered in the blankets he decided he didn't really need so much anymore, Jon once again wondered about what the preacher would say about two bodies in one grave, and decided if the dead didn't complain, why should he think himself so important as to need to care overly much about it. He said a little prayer he sincerely hoped the preacher's god heard, and began filling the hole back up. By the time he got back to the house and Toothy back in the barn, the Swan in the stars had moved across the sky to perch below the western trees. The eastern sky was just beginning to show a pall of blue over the black. Jon curled up next to the still warm furnace in his work area and watched the suit keep silent sentinel over him, until he drifted off into a deep and peaceful sleep. # # # “Where do you put the coin you earn in that monstrosity?” “You keep saying how you can't see, numpa.” “Even the dead can see that blasted thing you're walkin' around in like some . . . monstrosity, boy.” “In my pocket, of course. There's lots of room in here.” Jon had just gotten home from delivering the Grayton horseshoes. When he woke up in the late morning, shaping new shoes was the first thing he tried in the suit. After he bent four beyond recovery, he finally got the hang of controlling the arms and hands and was able to cold-shoe two pair. The trip to Grayton's farm and back allowed him to get comfortable walking the suit. He left the head off the suit so that his own could look out and about mostly unobstructed, but that hadn't stopped Tannor Grayton from taking a couple shots at him from across the field as he arrived. The bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the suit as Jon pulled his head down into the armored torso. The suit kept walking of its own accord with Jon yelling from within, “Mister Grayton, it's me! Jon Tinker, Mister Grayton!” Finally, he heard a familiar voice shout, “Well stop that damn thing before it crashes into the house!” Stopping the suit once it got walking was trickier than he'd expected, but it was accomplished without any damage to Grayton's property. “Well, did you get paid any more 'cause of using that monstrosity?” his grandfather was now asking. “No, numpa. Same thing.” In truth, he hadn't even considered changing what he asked for, for doing services for people, with the use of this new tool. Now that he had, it didn't seem fair that he would ask for any more. As he walked the suit back to the work area, he caught sight of a couple of dark shapes moving through the air in a manner entirely unnatural. “What's that?” His grandfather looked out over the trees to where Jon was looking, and said, “What'd I just tell you, boy? I can't seen nothing.” “They're boxes, in the sky.” As soon as he said that, recognition came to him. They were flying carriers like what were on the battlefield two days before. “I wonder what they're doing here?” “What? Where?” They finally arrived over the clearing in the forest and the family buildings, and passed them over, before circling back around and coming to a rest within a blast of wind and sound next to the house. There were two of them: large black boxes, one with markings in white and blue, and the other with white and yellow. Doors and ramps appeared out of their sides and immediately several soldiers marched out, dressed in similar wool uniforms as their dead brethren had worn. Many of these soldiers looked as though they were survivors of the battle, but just barely. Behind them, from each ship, came a man each dressed in uniforms with metallic decorations of gold and silver, indicating they were somehow more important than the soldiers. They were certainly cleaner and devoid of crusted blood stains. One of them, the one with a long mustache, marched directly toward Jon, yelling, “You, there. What do you mean by wearing the moto-armor of Lord Banyon?” “You arrogant fool,” the other, who sported a full, red beard, said. “He's wearing the moto-armor of Baron Lleweling. Come down from there and tell us where the Baron is or face immediate execution.” “Boy,” Jon's grandfather said, “what fool mess did you get yourself into, now?” Jon looked from grandfather to mustache to beard to soldiers and back to the puffed up and decorated men. “They didn't need them anymore.” Mustache said, “So you admit to the theft! You are under arrest.” “No,” said beard, “he is our prisoner. Come out of there before we shoot!” “The devil you say!” And the two decorated men continued to argue while the soldiers avoided watching it by watching Jon. Jon decided it didn't matter one way or the other who was arresting him. He slowly turned the suit around and began walking away from the scene. His grandfather watched him go, saying, “Now, boy, don't go making it worse. You take your lumps.” Jon kept the suit walking toward the road. The soldiers must have finally gotten the leaders' attention as Jon heard two voices order, “Fire!” followed by the ping and poing of bullets hitting the back of the suit. Jon urged the suit to walk faster until it was running. At the speed it got up to, faster than he'd even gone on a horse before, guiding the suit became nearly impossible--which wasn't as much of a problem as Jon feared as it was able to crash through the brush and didn't give any impression of falling or tripping easily. The sound of gunfire was drowned out by the workings of the suit once he started it running; though, by the time he made it to the outer town road, Jon was certain he wasn't being chased. He started urging the suit to slow down when he noticed a roar that overpowered the sound of the suit. He pulled himself up in the torso as far as he dared without the legs of the suit breaking his own inside them, and craned his head around. He could barely see over the metal torso, but he caught sight of the two carriers following behind him, occasionally clipping each other as they maneuvered for position. Whenever one did get in the right position, it fired a cannon that would blast a chunk of dirt, rock, and bush into the air. Jon made the suit run as fast as it could, which caused the scenery to pass by in a blur while pieces of branches, twigs, and leaves flew up and around him. Until he ran beyond the sparse trees and out onto the plains where the obstacles became scrub and outcroppings of rock. He craned around again and saw that the ships had fallen behind. Then, the suit clipped one of the juttings of rock erupting from the ground, and it completely lost balance. The gyros and servos, trying in vain to compensate, became a choir of mechanical screams of horror as the suit tumbled and rolled. Jon was protected from direct injury, but when the suit finally ground to a halt and lain prone, he took advantage of the pause while the suit's mechanisms recalibrated to crawl out of the device and scramble, dizzy and off-kilter, to a nearby cluster of rocks. The suit, never given a new direction of action, righted itself and continued its mad run across the landscape, leaving Jon to watch after it, his back pressed against the rock while he breathed in deep gasps to alleviate the nausea. The roar of a ship crackled above him as a blocky shape tore across the sky in pursuit of the unmanned suit, followed close by the other nearly identical ship. Neither appeared to notice Jon was no longer in control of the suit as they never paused or deviated from following their quarry. Jon continued to watch the suit as it became steadily smaller in the distance until, finally, it disappeared over the edge of the bluff and fell, still running, into the sea. The ships eventually stopped in the air above where the suit fell and circled in the sky for a long time before one, and then the other, of the ships broke off and flew back in the direction of town. Again, appearing to not notice Jon sitting, legs stretched out before him, against the rock. Once he no longer could hear the grim and rumbling sound of the ships, Jon stood up, rubbed his weak and wobbly legs, and began the trek back home. It was well into night by the time he made it back to his patchwork home. The ships weren't there. He grabbed the clay jug of water he kept out in his work area and chugged it, letting it splash over his face and run down his chest. Then, he went into the house. Grandfather was asleep, snoring, in a chair at the table. A plate of cheese and bread sat in front of Jon's usual chair. The lamp's oil had burned nearly completely and left a struggling flame trying desperately to provide light. Jon put it out of its misery, and began urging grandfather out of the chair and into bed. He woke up enough to growl, “'Bout time you got home, boy.” A long pause, then, with eyes barely open and voice at nearly a whisper, “Worried.” Jon got him down and pulled the musty blanket over his shoulders. As he stood up, his grandfather said, “Found bodies. Our graves. 'swrong with you, boy,” followed by a snore. Jon sighed, then turned and scooped up pieces of food from the plate left for him as he walked back out of the house into the cool night air. The grave he made for the men that were the source of so much trouble, had been torn open--dirt tossed about in no sense of proper digging. Perhaps they used something on the ship to just scoop the ground open, he thought. Fortunately, the tear in the ground didn't reach over into father's grave. The buried men were gone, but what was left behind were the bodies of several soldiers scattered around the ground. Only on close inspection in direct lantern light could Jon tell that both sides were represented by the discarded dead, apparently shot by each other. Jon shook his head at the scene. Nine or ten left behind to take two who had already been given a burial. Well, he thought, the dead were dead regardless of their clothes. Jon carefully pulled each soldier into the rough pit and, once again, the Swan had perched by the time he had finished shoveling dirt back into a single mound--darker than the dry and undisturbed ground around it. # # # “Well, I must say, that's the finest smoker I've laid eyes on. More than makes up for those barrels you took half of forever on. I'd say, that's going to earn you a fine consignment fee.” “Thank you, Mister Blackburn.” Jon put the last of the ramp boards in the cart and tied up the rear gate. “Say, you wouldn't happen to consider selling that arm contraption thing you got, would you?” Jon regarded the mechanical arm that lay in the cart. He had made it from parts of the suits that the visitors left behind, and used it for all manner of tasks, including helping him make and move things like an iron meat smoker. “No, Mister Blackburn. Thanks just the same, but I'm gonna try hanging on to this one.” “Well, for the best, I suppose. Don't think anyone in this town but you could probably work that thing, anyway. It's as big as your mule and probably half as stubborn.” Jon smiled politely as he climbed back onto the cart's driving bench. “Nah, Toothy here's no problem at all. See you next week, Mister Blackburn.” Without needing urging, Toothy started plodding forward. Ham Blackburn watched the cart rattle and bounce down the town road and shook his head. “Odd boy, that one. Damn fine tinkerer, though.” * * * Discover other titles by Liam R.W. Doyle, such as: The science fiction adventure novel, Singularity Deferred, and the story collection First Hand of the Night: A Collection of Five Early Stories, at Tragic-Sans.com. Connect with the author online: Twitter: twitter.com/tragicsans Blog: www.tragic-sans.com Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/tragicsans Facebook: www.facebook.com/LiamRWDoyle