Sgt. Golem: Royal Mech Hussar - Stubs Soon!

I looked at the massive armored land train, and then at the giant pile of equipment against the wall. Crates, boxes, racks. There must have been a literal half a ton of it.

I turned back to the guy—the geek, I was calling him, but that wouldn't do for much longer.

"What's your name?"

The man looked at me in surprise again. It seemed like everything that came out of my mouth caused him to jerk in surprise and stare at me.

"What's your name?" I repeated.

"Alexander Pjyorna. Warrant Officer first class Pjyorna."

“I got out of the army two years ago, don’t expect me to salute. So, Alex. Why do we need to move all this stuff?"

His brows pulled together again. “Because the Russians are coming.”

"Right. Care to elaborate?" We were in Poland and Russians were coming but didn’t give me much to work with. I had a feeling if there was a Polish Paul Revere he’d have been out of bed four nights a week giving warning.

“The Russians launched a surprise attack last night, pushing over the Polish border. They've already taken over Rzescow. They overran this garrison sometime this morning.”

He pointed out the main doors and I looked. Smoke rose in the distance. With a shock, I saw the building across the tarmac lay in smoldering ruins. I could see lumps on the ground near it. Bodies.

Ever since I had woken up in this insane place, I thought I was hearing rumbles of thunder in the distance, but the sky was clear other than the plume of smoke. My heart sank as I realized I knew those sounds.

That was an artillery barrage. Somewhere, not more than 20 miles away, was getting the hell pounded out of them. Maybe Rzescow, which I guessed was the name of the nearest town. I wasn’t up on my Polish geography, so it meant nothing to me.

This wasn't good. At least Dorothy, when she landed in Oz, didn't get stuck in the middle of a war zone. I'd had my fill of those already.

"Look, uh, Alex, so we're going to get out of here on this thing? How far away are these Russian guys, anyway?"

The man pulled himself together. “You don't need to worry yourself with all of that. Just load the hauler. The Russians moved on. If we load fast, we can get out of here before they return.”

I stared at him for a moment, mind whirling as I tried to make sense of all this. He and Angelica were both wearing uniforms. This was clearly a military installation, judging by the guns, armored vehicles, and heavy equipment, to say nothing of the bodies and the smoke.

They were being constantly surprised that I had opinions on things, and certainly not treating me like I had any rights. That was concerning; it meant I was either a slave or junior enlisted. Historically, neither have been treated very well when they decide to go against orders.

I couldn't stand for this in the long run, but for now, until I figured out what was going on, maybe it was time to shut up and do as I was told.

I didn't like it. I'd had my fill of that shit in the army. But I knew how to work the system. I knew how to keep my head down and do what I was told.

“Yes, Warrant Officer! What do we need to load? Just give me the orders and point me to it. Oh, but first, do you have clothes for me?”

He gave me a long, suspicious look. At last, he nodded and went to a box next to the row of shelves holding the bodies. He dug around and tossed me a set of featureless gray coveralls. I pulled them on, fastening the buttons, as he dug me out a pair of boots.

After I laced up my boots, relishing the treat of tying on both shoes for a change, he led me over to a large set of rolling doors. These led to another section of the hangar, this one a warehouse, stacked high with wooden crates of all sizes.

“We need much as we can fit. We need food, ammo, everything.”

I looked at the crates. They were well labeled with large, stenciled letters. I couldn’t read a word of it. “Sorry, I don’t read this language.” But I could speak it. That was weird. I’d have to think about it when I wasn’t worried about being blown up.

He sighed. “Figures. Start with these cases here, and I'll tell you what comes next."

The cases were huge. Three feet on a side, solid wood. Anything that required a case that sturdy couldn't be light. I glanced around. No forklifts in sight. There was an overhead crane, but that seemed like way too much work. I gave the crate an experimental push, and it moved. Was it lighter than it looked?

I glanced down at my hulking form, the bulging biceps, the sculpted pectorals. Oh yeah.

I grabbed the rope handles on either side of the case, braced myself, and heaved. The case lifted right off the ground. It wasn’t exactly light as a feather, but it definitely moved a lot easier than I expected. I was able to carry it across the floor without straining myself, taking my time with measured steps. I had no idea how much it weighed but I was certain my old body wouldn’t have been able to budge it.

There was a hatch gaping open high up on the side of this giant truck. The hauler, Alex had called it. Below the hatch was a lift with big pistons, and a sturdy platform, sort of like you see on the back of a panel truck. That should make things easier.

I put the case on the hoist, sliding it over into the corner. Then I went back to the supply pile, heaved the next crate into the air, and repeated the operation.

Four cases filled most of the platform. I eyed the pistons that operated the lift. How much weight could these take? I didn't want to risk breaking it on the first go.

On the side of the platform was a space for someone to stand and a lever. It only took a moment to figure out how it worked. The labels were unreadable but arrows next to them were clear enough. Heavy equipment is always designed to be used by some really dumb assholes, and the “push this” and “don’t push that” bits are pretty easy to spot.

I pulled the lever in the up direction. With a squeal, the platform smoothly lifted me and my crates up to the hatch. The hatch led into an interior cargo space. The ceiling wasn't particularly high, but the bay went down quite a way and was wider than I expected. It was already half full of crates. In no time, my crates were stacked neatly with the rest.

Moving the crates felt good. My body didn’t hurt. It had been a long time since I woke up without pain, whether from my missing leg or just the other aches that went with having been blown up once. I was strong. Too damn strong, but it was fun tossing those 600-pound crates around like toys.

Then I started wondering where the hell I was. Poland and Russia at war was… not exactly a surprise, but the giant mechs and hell, the magic people-making machine should have made headlines news. So this wasn’t my world. I was definitely in Polish Oz.

And I wouldn’t be getting home, not even with help from a wizard. My own body was Sam jelly, squashed under a front-end loader I was still making payments on. I hoped my sister and that asshole didn’t find out I’d mortgaged my house for the loan until after they moved in. He deserved to get evicted, what with killing me and all.

I was depositing my third load into the cargo bay when a girl stepped through the hatch. She was in uniform like the others, but smaller and with a mousy air about her.

"Can I help?"

I stared at her for a moment. "Um, ma'am?”

“I want to help. My mech's destroyed but I can still help."

The girl seemed to be in a very fragile state of mind. Her lip trembled. It looked like she might cry at any moment. This was someone badly in need of being distracted.

I glanced around. I had just set down a case weighing more than 300 pounds and the marks of the rope handles were only just now fading from my palms. There was no way she was going to be able to help. I looked at the crate again. On second thought…

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I don't know how to read Polish." At least that’s what I guessed it was. The other two had mentioned Russia and Poland, and these weren’t Cyrillic letters. Everytime I looked at them I felt a strange headache coming up. “I need someone to help me catalog these things as I load them and maybe tell me which ones we should take and which ones we shouldn't. Can you help me read what these labels say?"

She lit up like the 4th of July and boy did she have a cute smile. "All right, let me get a clipboard or something." She was through the door before she was done speaking.

I took my time going down. In less than a minute she was out breathless with a clipboard full of paper and a pencil. "Okay, let's go. I’m Hussar Second Lieutenant Hannah Dabrowski.”

“Good to meet you, Hannah. Call me Sam.”

She followed me like a lost puppy as we finished the loading, me grabbing cases and her telling me what each one was, jotting them down on her paper as she counted them up. A cargo bay with no idea what's in it is about as useless as a junkyard when it comes to combat operations. At least this way we would know how much food we had. How much ammo. How much “desh”, whatever that was.

After a dozen or more loads Alex reappeared. He seemed surprised to find Hannah with me, but she just smiled and kept taking notes.

Alex led us to another storage room and had us start loading crates of weapons. The long cases looked familiar. Hannah told me they were anti-mech rifles, 14mm.

Once I got a load of them into the cargo bay, I just had to open one and satisfy my curiosity. They were huge. They had a straight-forward bolt action but in a bullpup configuration with the action behind the grip and trigger.

I found the release for the magazine. It looked like it only held four or five rounds. Then the safety lever. Click, snick, snack, and I had it all figured out. Modern combat rifles have a lot more levers and gizmos, but these old school ones were pretty straightforward.

We went back down and loaded several more cases. Can never have too many guns. At least not until you run out of ammo.

After those, we found some shorter, fatter crates that held “Bomb Thrower, portable.” I supposed that was a literal translation of “grenade launcher”. They had longer barrels than grenade launchers I was familiar with, almost like a handheld mortar. They looked like they would come in handy. Why shoot one enemy when you can blow up a dozen? I went back for three more crates of those babies.

I hauled two loads of crates containing smaller guns. I didn’t take the time to open more of them and didn’t grab any fewer than six crates of any one type. Next, we started in on ammo cases. We went on like this for a while, slowly filling up the bay. Alex wandered over occasionally and suggested different piles to load.

I guess I should describe the hauler itself. This thing was huge, wider than a locomotive, and long, like a jumbo jet set on tires 10 feet around. It was styled like an old school armored car, with big rivets and heavy steel plates.

These guys had such a bizarre mix of old-fashioned technology and stuff that blew my mind. I made it out of high school and through diesel mechanic vo-tech before I signed up for the Army, but nothing on the mechs looked like it worked by normal rules. The hauler was just so big.

Up on the top there were two sets of turrets: a pair near the front and a pair in the middle. The main body was large, with windows up front for steering and a crew section behind. Aft of that was the big hatch that we had been loading stuff into. Our cargo hold was maybe ten or twelve meters long and six or eight wide.

Yeah, like I said, this thing wasn't small.

All of that made up the front car of the land train. Behind that was a flatbed car. It already had two hulking robots onto it, strapped down and covered with tarps. I could tell that's what they were because of the way they crouched. They looked just like the ones lined up along the wall.

While we loaded cargo the big overhead crane was in operation. Groaning and moaning and crawling back and forth, it was being used to hoist massive pieces of robot onto the flatbed.

I was in the middle of loading a batch of ammo boxes for the grenade launchers when I heard a chugging sound in the distance like an old generator. Come to think of it everything around here looked old timey. Maybe 1920's or 30's era. It was probably a car.

I looked around for a weapon just in case whoever was coming wasn't friendly. There weren’t any guns around and I cursed myself for not getting one out and keeping it handy. I picked up a crowbar; in my oversize hand, it looked like a spatula.

The chugging and rattling got closer, then died away as the vehicle pulled up in front of the hangar. It looked like a dark green Model T, laden with soldiers, close to a dozen of them. Guns pointed every which way. Ripped, torn and dirty uniforms. Bandages around arms and heads. These guys had seen action. They deployed from the car like clowns at the circus, hurrying forward to secure the warehouse.

"Oh hell Sarge! This is just a mech hangar. No trucks, just a hauler,” one of the soldiers called back to someone still in the car.

A truck rolled up behind them, big and old-fashioned with hoops stretching a tarp over the back, full of soldiers. Alex had vanished again. Who the hell were these guys?

They wore the same gray uniforms as Alexander and the girls, but they looked like grunts, not officers and NCOs. Some of them wore overcoats, some of them didn't.

I lifted a friendly hand, not the one with the crowbar. “Can I help you?"

"Is it talking to us? Sounds like it was talking to us." The soldiers looked at each other, clearly confused.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you." I was getting tired of this routine. "What do you need?”

That got more confused looks but the driver got out and headed towards me. I was a sergeant before the IED got my leg. This guy had the bearing and manner of a ranking non-com and when he talked his tone of voice confirmed it.

"What's your serial number, Golem?"

This guy and the group with him looked tough as nails but dammit, I was fed up with this world. Things were just too crazy, and I was tired of getting pushed around. I had been playing it cool since I woke up here, but I knew a thing or two about taking charge.

I planted my feet, put two massive fists on my hips and fixed him with my best glare.

"Attention! Stand up straight, Sergeant!”

I was just guessing at his rank, and I hoped whatever had let me speak Polish was translating the term right.

The guy's eyes widened in surprise even as his reflexes responded to my tone of voice, his back snapping straight up. "What the…”

I didn't give him time to collect his thoughts. "What kind of a sorry outfit are you leading? Half your men are out of uniform. You got your asses shot to shit by a bunch of damn Russkies. You ought to be ashamed.”

“What would the..."

He was clearly still trying to come to terms with a golem ‘pulling rank’ so I pressed on. It occurred to me that Hannah had said something about a Royal Regiment earlier. "What would the King think of your actions, son? You got a lot to answer for, so don't come rolling in here with your attitude."

The man was still straight as an arrow but starting to splutter. He knew this wasn't right. Everything about my dress and body, and probably voice, said "slave”. But I had the tone that went straight to his hindbrain, pounded in him by years of military training. The tone of voice that said, "Obedience! Now!”

I folded my massive arms and gave him a moment to collect himself. It was hard to keep from grinning.

"What? No. We've come here to... What the hell kinda golem are you?” he demanded as he finally shook off the surprise.

I leaned forward to loom over him better. “That’s Sergeant Golem to you!” I bellowed.

The man wilted. I was glaring at him, trying desperately to pick my next move when a familiar voice spoke up behind me.

"Stand down, Sergeant.”

It was Angelica. Thank goodness. Had she been talking to him or me? Best be on the safe side. I unfolded my arms and snapped up straight.

"Lieutenant! Yes, Ma'am!” Did they ‘sir’ or ma’am’ their female officers? The other sergeant was still at a loss for words.

Angelica strode over and addressed the newcomer. “Sergeant. What unit are you with?”

I studied his insignia. I needed to learn to identify ranks fast. He had a green epaulet with a single inverted chevron and a ‘34’. Looking at it gave me a headache, which was strange.

The man visibly pulled himself together as he found familiar territory, a known superior officer with a clear line of inquiry. “Sir! Sergeant Wyzocki, 34th rifles!” Then he started in with an explanation of how they got the crap shot out of them and had fallen back here. He was on the back foot now, trying to defend his actions, and seemed to have forgotten about me.

Angelica cut off his explanations with a nod. “Very good, Sergeant. I'm commandeering your entire outfit. We've got to get this hauler moving and we’re going to get out of here. Get your men unloaded and on board. Anyone too wounded to help, get them stowed. Everyone else, help with the loading."

Sergeant Wysocki stood up straight. "Yes, sir!"

"Get to it!" This gal really knew how to throw out the orders. Sergeant Wysocki fell back and began bossing around his men.

Angelica studied me with cool eyes. “Sergeant Golem.” It was only the barest hint of a question.

“Yes, sir. Formerly Sergeant Sam Anderson, US Army.” I didn’t add ‘retired’.

She looked at me for a long moment. Her face did not register shock or surprised. This was a scary cool lady. “Very well. Report back to Warrant Officer Pjyorna to finish the loading.”

“Yes, Lieutenant!” I tossed her a salute. It almost certainly wasn’t the right style for her army, but respect is respect.

In no time at all, the new guys were hauling their people out on litters and heading for the big hauler. I looked around. Alex had shown back up. He was hanging back, waiting for the shouting to get done. I stepped over.

“What next, Warrant?”

That's when the shells started to fall.