Cole Jenkins & The Mechanical Advantage, by Sevan Taylor

Cole stuck close to the buildings, the collar of his nankeen jacket turned up and his slouch hat pulled low, thankful for the waning light and the incessant clamor. He had done his best to dampen the clutches of the Mechanical Advantage, but despite all his efforts there was still a discernible whirr and click as the clock springs in the articulated joints stored potential energy with each movement.

Illustration by Rob Torno

A chemiluminescent sign, hanging low over the alley, flashed Chinese writing and a picture of flames rising from a cooking pot in lurid glowing scarlet. The tang of ginger and rotting seafood assaulted Cole’s nose, his stomach curdled and he swallowed hard before pressing on through the crowd. Cole’s skin crawled, he felt greasy and tired, and his gut was as wet and tangled as a plate of chop suey. Symptoms of withdrawal from opiates, or maybe just nerves. He couldn’t tell, and didn’t care which.

He tromped down Ross Alley, feeling the weight of the steel foot pieces. Although covered in leather, and holding the outward appearance of a pair of worn boots, they had to be fifteen pounds each. The weight was necessary; it served as an anchor for the brass external skeleton that was strapped to Cole’s body under his loose-fitting clothes. He dialed the level of assist for the knee and hip joints up- two clicks each, a conservative amount. He didn’t want to risk depleting the springs, but it wouldn’t do to arrive exhausted.

His eyes darted about restively; fear lurked in darkened doorways, and anxiety hid in the gathering shadows. He jumped nearly a foot when a string of firecrackers went off in the alley behind him.

Revelers in Waverly Place, the veritable heart of San Francisco’s Chinatown, welcomed the Year of the Rabbit with beating drums and fireworks. Children bolted down the street, slippered feet whispering against the pavement and round faces glowing in the warmth of paper lanterns. A singular blend of Chinese dialects colored the chatter and shouts of celebration, occasionally eclipsed by the chug-chug-chug of a passing steam-driven rickshaw.

Dozens more glowing signs, reds and blues and greens competed with the strings of paper lanterns and banners hanging from building to building. The drums had already started their churning rhythm, and the acrobats dressed as mythical creatures swam and twirled through the crowd.

Looming above it all, stoic amid the festivity all around, stood the hall of the Howloon Benevolent Association, a blunt, ugly building with red awnings. The house of four dragons. Cole looked to the top floor, and his stomach crawled, an empty pit inside him wanting to be filled.

Cole, like many other men, had come to the four dragons many times in a desperate attempt to fill their emptiness with money, sex, or the dulling miasma of opium. These satisfied like spun sugar, dissolving to nothing but a sweet taste and a hunger for more.

What Cole really wanted- what he needed, what would complete him and make him a whole man again, was on the top floor. And he meant to get it, or die trying. The pack of bodies thinned as he approached the wide steps that spilled out onto the street, and by the time he stood at the bottom step, looking up toward the etched glass double doors, he was standing alone. Two burly highbinders stood motionless on either side of the doorway, hands clasped in front of them. Cole couldn’t tell if their narrow eyes were fixed on him or not.

Cole stood, feet planted shoulder width apart, hands at his sides, and steeled himself against what was about to come. He could hear the song of the White Dragon, calling to him from the dingy side alley, where he knew rusted green door stood waiting. The proper knock and a bit of coin, and the door would open to him, a pipe and a mat were waiting…

He snorted, angry with himself for listening to the White Dragon’s lies, then put a foot on the bottom step. It groaned under his augmented weight. The doormen might have been made of stone; they stood motionless as Cole ascended the steps. It was not until he reached the wide landing in front of the doors that the two men moved in unison to block his path.

“You are not welcome here, Ghost Person,” the one on the left said. The one on the right said nothing and stared straight ahead.

“Let me pass…” Cole bunched his fists, the Advantage made a ratcheting noise as his muscles tensed.

“Not going to happen,” the doorman said, and stepped forward, placing a hand flat against Cole’s chest. Cole reached up with his left hand and grabbed the doorman’s meaty thumb. The springs at the shoulder and elbow joints of the Advantage gave him surprising speed, the gear driven gauntlets made his grip a vise. He twisted the doorman’s thick arm, rotating the socket out, away from the body. The shoulder dislocated with a satisfying pop that could be heard over the whine of gears.

The second man was in motion now, and Cole grabbed him by the front of his coat and lifted him, kicking and squirming, off his feet before tossing him through the glass and brass double doors.

Cole’s footpieces crunched on shattered glass and kicked aside the broken body of the doorman as he stepped through the ruined doorway and into the lair of the Gold Dragon.

A haze of cigarette smoke clung to the men who clustered around the Mah Jong and Fan Tan tables in the crowded casino. Cole’s flamboyant entrance had been wasted on the majority of them, so intent was their focus on the clattering bone tallies, the dice, and the tiles.

Before he could pass under the gilt dragon that adorned the casino entryway, four hatchetmen were crossing the room to converge on him. They threaded through the crowd even as Cole stepped down the three stairs to the casino floor, and by the time the first pair came at him from opposite directions, he had the assist cranked up thirty percent.

Cole crouched, low enough that he heard the limiters on the knee joints engage. Patrons backed away, clearing a space for the confrontation. A trickle of sweat ran down Cole’s ribcage. His eyes darted from one unfriendly face to another, looking for the weak spot. his ears pricked as he heard movement behind him.

He sprang, driving his shoulder into the nearest enemy’s chest and plowing the helpless man backwards into the crowd behind him. Cole didn’t stop, just kept his head down and let his augmented strength push his lowered shoulder through the crowd like the prow of a ship cleaving a furrow through the sea.

Panic erupted. Men shouted in at least three languages. A Mah Jong table was overturned in the tumult, the tiles and counters raining down on the plush red carpet. Some of the patrons fled in a blind impulse, some of the more opportunistic grabbed up chips and money from the floor and the upset tables.

Cole’s feet tangled in the press of limbs. Something bit into his right thigh. He turned his head, saw a maniacal face with bared teeth and narrow eyes, a small hatchet in the grip of a pale hand, bloodied and drawing back to strike again. He held up his left hand, palm out as if to ward off the blow with his gauntlet. A flick of his wrist tripped the trigger, and the shotgun barrel running the length of his forearm belched flame and buckshot. He flexed his arm, racking another shell, and plowed on toward the grand staircase at the rear of the casino.

It took a running vault from one table to another and two more blasts from the shotgun before Cole gained the stairway. He bound up the stairs four at a time, wincing each time the weight came down on his injured thigh.

He hit the landing and his leg buckled, threatening to spill him. His duck trousers were sticky with blood and the still smoking shotgun barrel seared his left forearm. His hat was gone. Lank hair, dripping with sweat, hung down over his eyes.

Broken tables and broken bodies littered the casino floor in his wake. The smell of gunpowder and blood mingled with the aroma of cigarette smoke and greed. Cole took a moment to work the joints of the Advantage; a quick function check and a chance to wind the clocksprings a bit. Satisfied that the harsh ratcheting noise he detected in the right shoulder articulator was not going to be a severe problem, he set the assist to nearly zero, and trudged up the last flight of stairs, winding springs and storing energy as he climbed toward the den of the Scarlet Dragon.

He crested the top of the stair and found himself in a parlor with flocked wallpaper and a wrought iron chandelier. Sing Song girls lounged on velvet couches, some fanning themselves languidly; others casting sultry looks in Cole’s direction. The light was dim, thick perfume attempted to mask the sweat of desperation. It wasn’t successful.

“Kun Shu?” Cole said, squinting into the weak light, trying to make out the painted faces. He took a step closer to the nearest girl. “Kun Shu…Do you know Kun Shu?”

Long eyelashes fluttered and a smile played on luscious red lips. The girl nodded. “I can be Kun Shu, if it is your desire.”

Cole snorted, then grabbed the girl by her porcelain chin. He twisted her head to the side and looked for the maker’s mark behind her ear. An early model Ai-Shun, always eager to please. Built especially for playing any part that was asked of her. If he’d had more time, Cole could speak the failsafe word into her perfectly sculpted little ear, unlocking her control functions. Had he hours to spend, whispering the correct series of commands softly to her, he could send this little Ai-Shun marching happily into the maw of any dragon, ready to defend him to the end.

However, the commotion coming from the stairway behind him told him he didn’t have hours, or even minutes to spare, so he let the Sing Song girl go, pointed his shotgun arm toward the stairs, and looked for his next move. “Up, ladies.” He barked. “Where are the stairs up?”

The girls didn’t answer his question, but enough furtive glances were cast toward the door to the east to tell Cole all he needed to know. Cole opened it with his boot and bolted through; rushing headlong into a hallway lined with gas lamps and shut doors.

Cole heard the sounds of pursuit, and discharged a blast from the shotgun without breaking stride, or even turning to look behind him. The corridor ended in a small saloon, empty except for an old woman who sat behind the bar counting out money. She didn’t look up when Cole came barreling in, but said in heavily accented English, “Bar closed! Not for Gwai-lou, you go!”

Cole threw the door shut, then used seventy percent assist to shove a massive player piano against it, blocking his pursuers. He heaved a sigh of relief, then froze as he heard the unmistakable sound of a firearm being cocked behind him.

By the time Cole turned, the old woman had pulled the trigger. The concussive blast threw the muzzle in the air and propelled the woman backwards, where she stumbled over a chair and toppled. The old player piano suffered a mortal wound, judging by the discordant jangle, but Cole was spared any new holes. When the smoke cleared, the old woman was on the floor, trying to squirm to her feet. Cole yanked the rifle from her hands and bent it in half.

The stairway up was near the bar, narrow and winding, Cole’s wounded leg protested every one of the worn wooden steps. His ears still rang from the shots fired. His jaw was clenched so tight he thought his teeth might shatter.

Topping the stairway, he opened a door to reveal a modestly furnished barrack. Sitting on the floor around a short table, a group of Tong men nattered at each other while slurping noodles from the bamboo sticks they used like forks. The windows lining the room were open, allowing the night air and the sounds of the New Year celebration to drift in from the street below.

Cole pointed his left arm at the group seated at the table. One of the men turned and saw Cole silhouetted in the stairway, and grabbed the shoulder of his companion. A string of fireworks crackled outside. Shouted warnings were drowned by the noise, and Cole used the opportunity to loose a blast from the shotgun.

Two men went down in a crimson mist of blood and tissue, the others scrabbled to their feet, clutching for anything that might be used as a weapon. Cole cycled the shotgun and activated the trigger. Nothing happened.

The hatchetmen recovered quickly, and formed a semicircle around Cole. He cycled the shotgun once again, and the trigger clicked without effect, again. A hideous smile contorted the face of a wiry little man holding a kitchen knife, and he charged at Cole, wailing and windmilling the knife through the air as he came.

Cole dropped his right arm to his side, and twisted his wrist. A baton slid out of his coat sleeve and into his waiting palm. His fingers grasped the leather grip, his thumb tripped the activation lever on the side of it, and the spring-loaded sword blade rasped out of the handle, three segments of precision machined steel clicking into a seamless whole in a split second.

The knife wielding highbinder was dead before he even saw the blade. Cole advanced with inhuman speed on the rest, swinging the gleaming blade in savage arcs to the churning rhythm of the drums outside. He used the Advantage with wild abandon, letting himself get carried away with the sheer power, the might of spring steel and brass over these fragile creatures of flesh and bone.

He had more than enough strength to heave the blade through bodies, rip through torsos, sever flailing arms, and lay waste to whatever lay in his path. Cole grinned like a devil. He tasted sweat and blood, his leg howled as if the muscle were being torn in two. Hell, maybe it was.

He took two men with a single stroke, starting low and angling upwards, two-handed. At the apex of his swing, blood flew from the tip of the sword, and the right shoulder joint ratcheted past its tolerance, and locked up tight. His center of gravity was thrown off by the momentum of his swing, and fate picked this instant for the left knee joint to deplete its spring tension. The full weight of man and machine bore down upon his already overtaxed leg, and it gave way, dumping Cole onto the wooden plank floor.

Instantly, a he felt the weight of a foot on his chest, and saw the downward stroke of a hatchet. He backhanded his attacker with his left, striking the knee hard enough that he heard bone snap, then rolled to the right to escape the swing of a hickory staff from a second assailant that nearly crushed his skull. The man with the staff followed through with his strike, bringing the other end whipping around toward Cole’s head. Cole blocked the blow with his forearm, the shotgun barrel absorbed most of the impact. The staff cracked, but didn’t break completely, and the Chinese man spun in a circle, concentrating all his momentum into a roundhouse strike that would have split Cole’s skull if it had connected. Cole ducked and the blow missed by such a narrow margin that Cole felt the wind of it.

Cole got his feet under him, and blocked the next strike with his forearm, then twisted his hand around and grabbed the staff in a vise like grip. He yanked hard on it, and the cracked staff gave way, splitting in two. Cole reversed the splintered end and drove it through the man’s chest. The Tong man convulsed and vomited red foam, then collapsed onto the wooden floor.

Cole looked for is next attacker, gasping for a lungful of air. His right arm was locked stiffly out to the side and his leg felt like a sledge was striking it with every beat of his pounding heart. But not a man was left standing to oppose him.

He stripped off the remnants of his jacket and shirt. There was a nasty gash on his side that he hadn’t noticed before, but now that he saw it, it hurt like hell. He cleared the jam in the shotgun feed, but the barrel was stove in, rendering that particular piece of equipment useless. His right shoulder joint had sheared two teeth off the drive cog, but they were the last two, and as long as he didn’t overextend it, it should be serviceable.

He grabbed a bottle of rice wine from the sideboard, and gulped down a quarter of it. Then carefully, using the external winding handles, he recharged every spring in the Advantage, starting with the ankles and working his way up. Then he slicked back his sweat soaked hair with a hand, and tested his weight on his wounded leg. With the support of the Mechanical Advantage, it would hold long enough.

The stairway up lay to the west, through an archway hung with banners of embroidered silk, red with the motif of a rampant Black Dragon gnashing its hideous fangs and rolling its fearsome eyes. Cole tore the banners down as he passed, and started up the stairs.

The lair of the Black Dragon was an oasis of calm, candles placed at intervals along the plastered walls provided muted light. Incense perfumed the air and the clamor of the revelry outside was muffled by thick curtains and masked by the soothing trickle of a fountain.

A table had been set, gleaming with fine crystal and silver and draped with crisp white linen. Hei Lung dressed in impeccable black tie, sat and sipped a glass of wine. His narrow face showed no concern for the arrival of Cole. His dining companion was Kun Shu.

She sat almost motionless, not looking up from her empty plate. Only a slight quiver of her lower lip and a darting of her eyes in Cole’s direction betrayed the fact that she was conscious at all.

“Mr Jenkins,” Hei Lung said without turning his gaze from Kun Shu. “I must say, I’m surprised you are here. I thought that the White Dragon had done you in, but as it turns out-“ He raised his wine glass in a toast to the Sing Song girl seated across from him. “As it turns out, it may be that the Red Dragon is to be your downfall after all. It matters not, White, Red, Gold, they all serve Black.”

“She’s mine, Lung.” Cole took a step in the direction of the table.

“On the contrary, she is mine.” Hei Lung stood and walked over to Kun Shu. He put his greedy hands on her shoulders. “Built with my materials, with my financing, in my workshop.”

“By my hands, to my design. She has my soul built into her.”

“Your soul belongs to me. You sold it for a bamboo pipe and a comfortable mat to lie on. Your kind is so easily corrupted. You sell your souls cheaply, and become walking ghosts, trying to fill the emptiness inside you with more opium, more money, more sex, more, more, more. But it will never be enough, you misjudge the vast size of a soul, no amount of material can fill the void it leaves.”

Cole mopped the slimy stubble on his face with his hand and toyed with the idea of giving up. He could still turn back, it wasn’t too late. He shouldn’t be here at all, he should be in the basement, on a worn but comfortable mat. He would hold the ceramic bowl over the flame, watch the contents liquefy. He longed for the bite of it, hugging his lungs as he inhaled the vapor through the little bamboo straw. His membranes ached for it, every sinew of his being screamed for it. The Chinese from Shanghai had a name for it, they called it chasing the dragon, but Cole knew they had it wrong. You didn’t chase the dragon, the dragon chased you, and Cole Jenkins was done running.

“No.” It was a hoarse croak.

Hei Lung put his head down close to Kun Shu’s chest, not a hair on his head fell out of place. “If you listen closely, you can hear the clockwork. Almost like a beating heart.” He smiled, flashing gleaming white teeth, a bit sharper than natural. “Do you think her clockwork heart will break for you after you are dead? Are you fool enough to believe it feels anything for you now?” Kun Shu hitched, an oily tear ran down her porcelain face.

Cole wiped sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. His vision grew misty. He blinked, tried to focus on the shifting form of Hei Lung. He saw a glint of a yellow eye, the play of light off a dark scale. He heard the hush of a leathery wing, the scrape of a talon against the floor. He instinctively recoiled at these small glimpses of evil, they incited a foreboding in him with no basis in rationality. Fear for the sake of fear. Dread, free of reason. Hei Lung was working the old dark magic on him.

“Stop!” Cole screamed, he raised the sword over his head two-handed, and tensed, ready to cover the length of the room in two or three bounds.

Hei Lung laughed, a wisp of smoke escaped his nostrils. He had a pistol pointed at Kun Shu’s head. “Let’s not be so dramatic, Cole. She would be a lifeless pile of gears by the time you got to me.”

“Return her to me.”

“For what reason? Even this magnificent construction of yours, as wonderful as it may be, this cannot replace what you have already given to me.”

Cole’s knuckles whitened on the grip of the sword. “I will cut my soul from you.”

“An interesting notion. I wish you the best of luck.” He motioned with a manicured hand, summoning a bald, heavily muscled man from the shadows. Kong Shen moved with the animal grace of a big cat, padding onto the rattan mats. He was shirtless, and wore the loose orange pants of a Shaolin, but his empty eyes spoke of long service to a darker religion. He bowed, then stepped forward into a lunge stance, arms up in the ready position. The tiger branded into his right forearm and the dragon branded into his left shifted and writhed in the flickering candlelight.

Cole came at him with a leap and a vicious slash of the sword, which Shen easily sidestepped. Cole barely dodged a palm strike to his cheek, delivered with the dragon arm, the heat from the shaolin’s open palm seared Cole’s face. Shen followed with a leg sweep that clanged against the Advantage’s steel leg support.

Shen’s face betrayed a moment of surprise. Cole was stripped to the waist, and the framework of the Advantage was clearly visible running the length of his arms and encasing his torso in an articulated truss of metal. Still the monk had not anticipated the rigidity it provided.

Cole brought his sword into the guard position, and attempted to circle Shen, but the Shaolin was having none of it. He stamped his foot to draw Cole off guard, then came in to the left of the sword, diving inside its arc before Cole could react, and jabbing the searing fingertips of a stiff palm up into the unprotected area of Cole’s armpit.

Cole’s world went white and his breath left him, he nearly dropped the sword, and would have been completely incapacitated if it weren’t for the Advantage. He let the apparatus put the speed and power into his retaliatory stroke, which caught Shen on the right shoulder. The blade glanced off Shen’s skin as if he were wearing a shirt of iron.

Two more clumsy strokes from Cole, and Shen bent like a reed in the wind, letting each pass. Cole blocked a feint from Shen’s white hot left hand with the flat of the sword, but the monk followed through with an inside palm strike to Cole’s wounded leg. The pain stunned Cole, allowed Shen to slip around behind him and deliver a sledgehammer blow to Cole’s kidney. Cole heard a tiger growl and felt claws dig into his flesh at the instant of impact.

Cole arched his back in agony, he staggered out of reach of the punishing hands of the Shaolin monk. His heart was pounding in his ears, he gulped great heaps of air, he beat a stumbling retreat into a defensive position near the corner of the room.

Hei Lung laughed, a sound like hot grease sizzling in a pan. “Give up while you can, Cole. You can come back to my workshop, you can build another fifty Kun Shu.” He bent low and kissed her delicate neck. “You really did fine work before the White Dragon claimed you.”

Cole spat blood onto the floormats, then steadied himself for another round with Shen. The sword came up, and Shen moved forward, attempting another feint. But Cole was ready for him this time, and held his swing until his opponent had committed himself, then backed his swing and slashed diagonally across the Shaolin’s chest.

The strike was vicious, and Shen was knocked onto his back by its force. Cole was certain he had split the Shaolin nearly in two, and felt relief wash over him like a wave. The wave of relief quickly turned to a rising tide of panic, however, when he saw Shen stir, then scramble onto his feet, bearing no more than a scrape across his chest. The man’s muscle was as hard as stone.

Cole took a long last look at Kun Shu, she had to be protected at any cost. Within the cogs and levers of her analytical engine, she held all his best intentions, all his most beautiful thoughts. He had left out all his human failings, all his weaknesses, and built only his best self into her. He could not let his greatest creation be subject to the contamination of Hei Lung.

Cole ripped the brass access plate from the chest piece of the Advantage, then pulled the torsional limiter completely free and cast it aside. The Mechanical Advantage felt instantly lighter, more responsive. Cole felt as if he could move a mountain, crushing a stone shouldn’t be a problem. He stood perfectly motionless, sword held two-handed in a defensive posture. And he waited.

Shen moved in quickly, and stopped just out of strike range of the sword, trying to draw Cole out, make him move first. Cole remained still. Shen circled to the left, then stamped a foot before dodging to the right. He moved with the grace of the dragon and the speed of the tiger, misdirecting high before going in low, ducking inside the sweep of the sword once again. His extended fingers, rigid and as deadly as a spear point, went directly toward Cole’s throat, except that his throat was not there by the time the strike arrived.

The Mechanical Advantage, in an unregulated state, had a potential of energy stored within its various springs and drive gears that far exceeded the shear strength of the brass and steel it was constructed of, to say nothing of the flesh and bone strapped into it. Cole unleashed the full might of his apparatus in a blur of fury that left the machine in shattered pieces, his own body bone broke and muscle ripped, and the sword broken in two. Cole’s hand spasmed in pain and the hilt dropped from his grip. The blade was buried six inches into Shen’s skull.

Cole remained standing, if you could call it that. More accurately, the remnants of the Mechanical Advantage held his ruined carcass upright. He was still in shock, so the pain hadn’t crippled him yet, though any cohesive movement was completely out of the question. He struggled to raise his head, roll his eyes far enough to get a glimpse of Kun Shu through the sheet of blood in his eyes and the mat of soggy hair hanging in his face.

Hei Lung took Kun Shu’s delicate hand, and bid her stand next to him. The man’s reptilian eyes remained riveted on Cole as he grabbed her around her slender waist and pulled her tightly close. He grinned wickedly as he slipped one of his corrupting hands up the back of her leg, under her short skirt.

“Now, Kun Shu,” Cole said. “Heaven lends a soul, earth will lend a grave.”

Kun Shu nodded obediently, and shoved the heel of her palm under Hei Lung’s chin. A click and a snap, and a two foot blade telescoped from her wrist, penetrating Hei Lung’s skull. Cole had built his heart and soul into the clockwork Sing Song girl. He had also built-in a tempered steel blade and control phrase. The surprised look on Hei Lung’s face faded as the lights left his eyes, and the smell of sulfur permeated the room.

Cole’s eyes glazed, his breathing stilled, he hung suspended limply from the straps holding him into the Advantage’s mangled framework. But the emptiness he had felt inside, the gnawing hunger that drove him like a hunted animal, subsided. He felt peace. He felt whole.

Kun Shu retraced the blade from Hei Lung’s skull, and wiped the blood off with the linen tablecloth. She padded over to Cole and cradled his face in a smooth white hand. Then she carefully removed the wrecked body of her creator from the grasp of his final creation and carried him down three flights of stairs, across the shambles of the casino and out into the night air. None dared oppose the automaton as she passed; the placid expression on her bloodstained face projected far more menace than the most fearsome scowl could possibly have done.

She tilted her head, and whispered into his ear, her tiny pipe organ voice box gave her words a melodious air. “Worry not, Shi-fu, a broken body is more simply replaced than a missing soul.”