Furious Incompatibility

Wednesday Night

Wiping cool sweat from a hot brow, broiling inside steaming armor while rain assailed the exterior, Samuel Stockwell focused on the dials to his left to take his mind off the battle. Levers were caked in grease and skin oil. Five separate pressure gauges were registering normal. Yet for some reason, the ticking from the chronometer dials drew his attention the most:

                                                                                    09 - 05 - 1877

                                                                                        01:17 AM

Instead, the date only made him recollect how short a time it had been since this lunacy began. The inventor rubbed his stubble chin, fingered his sweaty blond hair and sighed heavily.

He paused. Outside, a shrill whistle went past him far to the left. One second after, a vibrant explosion rocked the land. His ironclad armor, Steam's Vassal, reverberated slightly. He knew that to be the ninth shell fired from over the ridge. Muddy soil slapped the hull. Damage from number nine was negligible. Intelligent Engine ticked away numbers gathered by the telescopic eye.

There was no way Jansen could have more than ten.

Why had this devil returned? It made no sense. Hours before, he sat in the clock shop of Edwin Seer, surrounded by friends old and new. The Guild of Honor was growing in power and need. Even Mayor Mason Levy had applauded their most recent ventures.

Another whistle sounded. Stockwell returned to the double periscope, but saw only mud stains and darkness. Again, that whirlwind voice could be heard over the wind, blowing metallic and tinny through what must be a tremendous bullhorn:

"ARE YOU STILL THERE SAMUEL STOCKWELL? IS THE GAME IN PLAY?

His powerful mind did the mathematics in a fraction of a second. Intelligent Engine lagged somewhat behind in coming to conclusive data. Pulling two gears, the ironclad ducked and rolled to the right, exactly at the moment the squealing rocket bounced off of its plated shoulder. A deep bang echoed into Stockwell's ear, followed by an even more severe rocking of the armor as the projectile exploded at his rear.

Samuel's ears rang. That's number ten, he thought, time to do some whistling of my own now.

Steam's Vassal took seventeen mighty steps on legs powered by steam pressure forced into the pumps between them, much like a locomotive. Its steps sank five inches into muck with every motion, but the raw power of the ironclad kept it mobile.

Nineteen feet in height by nine feet wide at the shoulders, the raw epitome of technological warfare, a moving humanoid colossus with a Gatling gun on the left arm, five meat hooks at the right. Twelve plates of iron and steel one inch thick apiece guarded the broad torso and shoulder mounts. In the front of the chestpiece, an upside down cow catcher, purely for style. A cylindrical head with a flat top held the double periscope 'eyes'. Two huge smokestacks pumped out black fog into the night.

While the beast moved, the man inside remembered...

"Where did you run off to after the blue light hit?" Lars asked. He looked pale and sickly on sight. "That was four days ago! Mister Seer's been worried half to death!"

"I'm fine, Jansen. You remember the iron battle wagon I've been trying to build for the Army contract?"

"The one you can't figure out, you mean?" Lars snipped.

He punched the tall Jansen in the arm. "That's my point, you dumb ditch digger! The blue light contained some form of mutative properties. I figured out how to make the wagon as soon as I woke up! I need to build a moving man, not some solid ship on land. And, I remember my schoolhouse Latin and Greek without fail, and unraveled a few more things in my sleep. My mind expanded exponentially overnight!"