It happened so fast. They knew where and when to strike. Most of the 'jacks were cold from a long night and our rations of coal were cut back for the third time in as many weeks - damn war.
We couldn't afford to keep them running all night, so the boilers cooled and we spent many frost-coated mornings getting their boilers up to pressure. This, and the mandatory overtime kept all of us stevedores exhausted and sloppy.
Their ship came in an hour before dawn. We couldn't even see it in the dense fog that rolled in overnight. The thing was silent as it rode the black waters right up to our docks. The only warning we had was the smell of death on the wind and the sudden whirring up of the Reapers before they charged down the ramps onto the docks.
I was still shaking off the cold when the first explosion occurred. Through the fog, an orange-green glow filled the northern sky. A slick layer of rime covered the docks and probably saved my life. As I jumped at the explosion, I fell flat - all 414 pounds. The wind knocked out of me, I stared up into the fog in time to see an enormous harpoon fly over my head. I rolled to my side just before a thick chain dragged the empty harpoon back past me at an alarming rate. Then, the screaming started – men, horses. The sounds of heavy necro-jacks racing down the docks spearing people and hauling them off by the dozens engulfed the foggy night.
My momentary lapse of concentration was my undoing. The second blast of the harpoon gun was much closer and it pinned my arm to the dock. It should've hurt more than it did - it certainly looked terrible. Blood and bone caked the dock. That's when I felt the chains retracting, pulling, and tugging against the weathered wooden dock. The harpoon ripped loose of the dock but caught my arm and started to drag me toward whatever fell beast waited just beyond my vision. That's when I felt the weight of almost 3 tons of scalding hot iron fall top of me, its spear piercing the links on the enemy's harpoon chain clear through the wood, locking it in place. The necro-beast whirred loudly as it struggled to reel me in. A moment later the sound of chains hitting the dock reverberated in the predawn air and the line went slack. The scalding weight pressed deeper onto me as a harpoon-less Reaper lumbered by, seeking new victims.
I lay, crushed under the 'jack that saved me - wondering if I were to be cooked alive or crushed before I bled out from my injuries. The soft chuffing of a boiler was the last sound I heard before I passed out.
It was still early when the sun finally broke the horizon and burned off the morning fog. Deep, commanding voices pierced the air and a staccato of gunshots could be heard in the distance. Metal on metal screeched, reigniting the pain in my arm as a gentler female voice yelled, "We have a survivor!"
"The arm is too far gone to save and look at how it atrophied already. Those Cryx bastards and their fell magics."
Another voice asked, "What about that? It's been following him since we brought him in. It must be his labor 'jack, looks pretty old though and these look like scorch marks."
"Keep an eye on it, those things can get crazy when they're that old."
"Sir we could use them to fill-in for our recent losses."
My arm never healed, it's half the size of my other one but still bigger than most human's though –ha. Cotter is still with me too. I have no idea where he came from or how he got up and running this morning but I thank Dhunia, Morrow or even Cryss for that miracle.
Cotter and I have been together ever since, we were conscripted briefly for the Cygnar wars. Cotter and I rose quickly through the ranks. I wasn't as good as those Warcasters, though and Ogren rarely make it past field mechanic. But I was granted field officer status (unofficially) when we led a rescue operation for a captured Warcaster and her unit.
But those days are behind us now; Cotter is too old to fight and has gotten quirky in his old age. But he's loyal - if not eccentric. "Experts" have told me he's an original model of the first Warjack or at least a good copy. When I looked into it, no one seemed to know when Cotter came into service or when he started with the company. They all thought he came with me. All I remember was an old dwarf handing him off to me on my first day –"Here are the codes, his name is Cotter, good luck son."
I rise early to start our morning routine. I walk past rows of modern labor 'jacks still slumbering in their ports. The automated coal and water fillers won't be online for another hour. Still shaking the cobwebs from my hung over mind, I head over to the corner where Cotter stands silently, patiently awaiting his ration of coal. Luckily for us, he burns it more efficiently and we still use a regular ration even though we start an hour early and end an hour later due to his - shall we say - quirks.
I manually shovel some coal into Cotter's furnace and top off the boiler. In a few minutes Cotter groans to life. His rusted and damaged cogs and servos need constant maintenance. So I start the rehabilitative process I've grown so accustomed to.
Cotter, on the other hand, starts into his series of bizarre rituals. His small hands flex and he slowly stands up. He proceeds to do, what I can guess, are calisthenics - stretching and squatting. I adeptly dodge his swinging arms and continue to oil joints and grease rotational points. It is the same every day and our well practiced routine is watched by the silent sentinels awaiting their own 'jack marshals to awaken them.
Cotter then proceeds to break camp, folding tents that only he sees, stomping out invisible fires and cleaning and reloading weapons no one has used in years. After an hour, he finally starts to respond to my commands - just as the automated feeders spring to life and the rest of the 'jacks prepare for their day of work.
The sun's rays haven't quite pierced the horizon when our first cargo ship arrives. A merchant vessel from Mercir returning with what we know only as "fragile cargo". Due to the crowded conditions on deck, Cotter and I go first. His slimmer size more easily maneuvering among the steamship's tightly packed cargo crates. Cotter picks up a crate in two hands and carries it down the ramp, handing it off to a lumbering 'jack to complete its journey to the warehouse.
Soon the 'jack dance' is underway – a ballet of machines working in unison. The other 'jack marshalls rest easily, as their modern 'jacks complete their instructed routines flawlessly, mindlessly. Cotter, though, needs constant supervision. He tends to interpret directions differently and we're already back on probation for recent accidents.
A haughty and cologne-drenched dwarf idles over, "Gorin, that old 'jack is as useless as your arm. Why don't you scrap it out or wipe its Cortex and start over. It'll save you the trouble and leave you with more coin for drinking!" He slaps my dead shoulder and walks back to his friends all of them are subtly laughing.
*Crash* the sound of a dropped crate breaking open on the docks draws my attention back. On board, Cotter has another crate over his head and he throws it overboard onto the rocks below, the contents spilling - no oozing into the sea. I run up to try to regain control as shiphands try to restrain Cotter to no avail.
Cotter is able to throw two more crates overboard before another 'jack subdues him. In a flash, Cotter sweeps the legs out from under the 'jack, dropping him to the deck and freeing himself. Cotter then emptied a portion of this coal furnace onto the deck, setting it ablaze before jumping to the docs below.
The captain and six crewmen died in the inferno and the remains of the ship now rest at the bottom of the harbor. I was let go and Cotter was ordered scrapped the next morning. We left well before that happened.
Word on the street a few weeks later was the cargo on the ship was infected with a rip lung variant supposedly developed in Cryx. It devastated any who came in contact with it. A few 'jack marshals were infected and died when their diseased-coated 'jacks came in contact with them during the recovery process. Rumors hold the bodies rose from the dead the next day. Mind you, these are sailor's tales told in bars on lonely nights.
Cotter and I left Highgate. We're heading northeast to Caspia to find work but rail travel is expensive so we had to book cargo passage. Cotter is conserving what little fuel we have to survive the journey. During our frequent stops, I scavenge dropped coal from the trackside to keep him going.
The long cold trip has me thinking - did he know? Nothing has changed in his behavior and 'jacks aren't really talkative. I hope we can leave our past behind and start anew in Caspia.