Dark Convergence - By Dave Gross Page 0,12

leg,” she said. Her tone turned serious. “You could help me out with that, if you wanted to. Put in a good word for me again.”

Nemo sighed and nodded, trying not to let the guilt show on his face. He’d promised Mags he would cut through the red tape at logistics and move her name to the top of the waiting list, but the truth was that he’d forgotten. There was always a more urgent matter demanding his attention. She assumed he’d already interceded, and he felt too ashamed to tell her otherwise. “I will,” he said. “Just as soon as we have a moment’s peace.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Mags bobbed her head, but her smile never quite reached her eyes. “So, about this Cyriss thing, there’re a couple of boys in the shop who know more than I do. You want me to send them your way?”

Nemo blotted his mustache with a napkin, grateful that the gesture allowed him to cover his embarrassment, both at her crass remarks about her missing breasts and his chagrin that he had not done more to help her acquire a better prosthetic. “Yes, after our briefing.”

“What briefing?” she asked.

“The one you’re giving on the clockwork soldiers,” said Nemo. “It takes place in the map tent, and it begins in an hour.”

Despite himself, Nemo savored the sound of Mags running back to the workshop, but he winced at the squeals her old mechanikal leg let out at every second step. He could have fixed it himself, if only he could find the time for something less urgent than a threat to the country. Soon, he promised himself, he would make that time. Hell, he would make her the finest mechanikal leg in all of Cygnar. Despite their merry war, Mags was more than a friend to him. She was the closest thing he had to family.

That thought brought a pang of guilt to his stomach. How many promises had he made—and broken—to his family? Mags was right to give him a hard time, even if she took an indecent pleasure in tweaking him.

Nemo sometimes wondered why he surrounded himself with incorrigibles like Mags Jernigan and Ford Blackburn instead of more disciplined soldiers. He knew the answer, even if he didn’t like to admit it.

“Irritation forms the pearl. Your best ideas always come after someone has made you grumpy.” That’s what Mina had always said to him, back when she still loved him.

It felt like a thousand years ago.

Nemo shook away the nostalgia clouding his thoughts. It was crucial that he focus on present issues, not his past failings.

While his small company awaited reinforcements from Point Bourne, Nemo felt vulnerable so close to the Cyrissist force holding Calbeck. Part of that, he realized, was purely a psychological reaction to the extraordinary sights of the past two days. The enormous tower in the center of the village made an intimidating sight. That anyone could erect such a huge structure in secret was nigh inconceivable.

Nemo had employed a mercenary company to investigate reports of unusual warjacks in the area, but until the Devil Dogs’ captain, Samantha MacHorne, showed him what lay on the south bank of the Dragon’s Tongue River, he could never have imagined an enemy force had established a foothold in his country.

Nemo found his tent flap open and Caitlin Finch waiting beside the frame that bore his storm armor. She had already donned her own armor, and she didn’t see him at first, as she covered a yawn with her hand. She turned the gesture into a smart salute once she saw him standing in the entrance.

Nemo turned his back without a word. Finch knew what to do.

Despite his constant improvements, his custom armor remained awkward to put on without assistance. Finch fit his boots, greaves, and chausses into place, securing and double-checking that the recessed latches and conductor assemblies remained flush with the armor’s surface.

Nemo donned his battle robe and allowed its skirts to fall to his feet before raising his arms to receive the breastplate. After securing the gauntlets, vambraces, upper cannons, and pauldrons, he braced himself to receive the weight of the arcane turbine. These days, it was always heavier than he expected.

Nemo activated the turbine and felt its static field run invisible fingers through his hair. His mustache bristled, and the last grains of sleep evaporated from his eyelashes.

Finch stepped back, her face stark in the blue-white glow of Nemo’s electrical aura. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Briefing in the workshop,” he said, checking