This is an old story from Deviantart. I haven't posted my Leviathan stuff over at Fan Fiction Net as most of it is tied into writing challenges over at Deviantart. But: what I'm putting out these days just keeps on getting darker. so I wanted to pitch in something earlier and lighter for a contrast.
Under strict orders not to move, the invalid could only lie still; raging at the chain of events that had led to an injured limb and the inability to walk. Clart, great steaming clart; it would have been so funny if had been on in the picture houses in town. The voyage had been a fiasco from the very start; a string of comic interludes: a lady boffin lording it over the ship like some shrew wife; crashing and being rescued by their enemies, then rescuing the enemies, an oh so exotic mission to the back of beyond. Well, that last part might not have been so bad if it had included a spot of liberty (after all it was an exotic backwater and worth some exploring); naturally not though, as everyone was kept on duty. Whatever had been their intentions in the Turkic Capital they'd been well and truly trashed and the Leviathan had been sent packing like a cur with its tail between its legs.
It hadn't just been the invalid who'd been out of sorts with that turn-up of events either, indeed not; just about all of the lower level grunts on board where chafing at the lack of any chance of action. Oh, there had been incidents in plenty: falls, fight, fires and sparks and more; all of it as mundane as could be for the grunts. Shovelling fodder was shovelling fodder, whether in the Alps or in England; patching the ship was risky, dirty, tiresome and tiring; guarding prisoners who lived in cushty and couldn't hardly sprout wings and fly off anyways, that was plain daft. Yes, and all of it was topped off by the extra workload that was coming down on Matthews and his mates, with only two middies left aboard. He oughtn't have been jealous, he'd not had the smarts to make middie and was lucky enough to have such a good posting at all but it rankled that the middies were in the thick of it all: making sweet with the brass, playing the hero, running into action ashore and, most likely, coming out of it all with a clutch of medals.
What chance had he of any of that? It had perked him right up when the bosun had chosen him for "A little rumpus the brass have on" and he'd been right proud that he was one of the three, out of all the crew, that'd been picked for a boarding party onto the Turkic Lands. He hadn't cared in the least that he was kept entirely in the dark or that the skinny, slip of a middy was playing the cards close to his chest. That was how the brass played it; but he was going to be out and in action with a small crew; plenty of excitement there and a good chance for him to make an impression, to get a bit of recognition. So why the clarting cods had he had to go and turn his ankle and get left here like a stranded fish! "Matthews, just wait here and don't let anyone see you"; that was Mr Sharp's answer to a gammy ankle.
Not that his ankle was all that bad, now he'd rested it; it probably hadn't ever been really hurt ... just the excitement and confusion of the landing, that was all. They'd only have had to wait a few minutes and he'd have been up and on his feet and on his way with the rest of them, into the heart of things, not left like a dog to be picked up after the master came out of the shop. No ! He wasn't a spare part to be picked up and put down; he'd make his own way after them. They'd be glad of rearguard, he felt sure, two men and a commander were a pitifully small force for any kind of operation and he certainly wasn't going to make any kind of mark cooling his heels here.
He could leave the extra rations behind and all the other kit had gone on ahead with the rest of the men, so he hadn't to worry about carrying any weight except his own. There had to be a suitable bit of timber amongst the brushwood and driftwood around here, not that he really needed a crutch but why make things harder than they need be. He'd been right: that piece there was ideal; he was on his way, hobbling a little maybe but making good progress from one bit of cover to the next. It was hot, tiring work though and, he couldn't deny (for all that he'd covered a good distance by now and managed to keep going for several hours), his ankle was really giving him gyp now. He needed to find cover, good cover, to rest up a while and use some of the water he had thought to bring along after all. There, not to far ahead, that was a good, large, thick shadow being thrown out by that crane.
He must've got nearer to the docks than he'd thought but nobody would be operating it this hour so he'd e safe to lie up in its shade for a little. That was good, to lean up against the leg of it and take the weight off that leg of his; he'd let himself sit down in moment, when he didn't feel quite so stiff. He was more tired than he'd thought, after all; the metal seemed to be warm and the shadows were dancing in front of him, even the leg he was resting against seemed to be shifting. Did they have earthquakes in this part of the world?
Clart! It was a bumragging Clanker. There was no time to react, to respond, to run (even if he could have); it moved so fast he'd barely caught sight of the snaking, pincer arm before the claw had him round the chest and heaved off the ground. It was getting tighter too ... "Oh God" ... he could feel his ribs creaking, the breath flying out him. This was no way for a man to die, not snuffed out like a spent candle; it ought to have been face to face, man to man ... knowing that the hand on the gun, the knife was human; that his killer drew warm breath not gassy exhausts. But, wait ... what was that ... there ... movement !
Some kind of an officer had shown up from around the other side of this mad mincing machine; a German for sure by his uniform and the accent to his English. It made sense, not even those walking slide-rules would dare leave their horrors unattended ... suppose it slipped a cog and ran amok. Thankfully it seemed to be primed to obey simple hand signals, one motion from the officer paused the deathly grasp and another eased the pressure enough that he could recover his breath to reply to the officer who was full of questions.
"Where have you come from?" / "Got left by my ship" ... a gesture, pincers tightening, ribs straining.
"To repeat: What ship are you from?" / "Yes, yes; it was the airship that left me" ... crushed again, pain rising.
"To clarify. Why were you deposited here?"
It was hopeless, Matthews knew he could have faced down any questioning by any man and he did all he humanly could to resist, to give the least information and the least harmful information to this enemy officer. He wasn't scared of the man, on the level he'd have laughed in his face, defied him, scorned his chances of getting any useable information but how could you fight a thoughtless, spiritless, unfeeling mechanism that would crush and keep on crushing beyond all sense till it had turned him to pulp, if it wasn't given the command to stop. It was a barking mercy that Mr Sharp had had the sense not to confide in him; even so bit by bit, drop by drop Matthews felt the machine wringing his small secrets out of him till he had nothing left to give.
Matthews felt utterly defeated, just like in battle no great time had passed by chronometer, but it felt like an eternity before the officer vanished around the flanks of the steel demon and Matthews was alone and at the mercy of a machine without mercy. He swung like a ragdoll in the terrible nutcracker as the machine lurched into life and strode across the terrain. He hadn't a squick of hope left, whatever was coming next it wasn't going to be good.