A Clockwork Sergeant Major: A Gear Grunt Tale, #1

By Mark Malcolm

When the Ogre Mage defeated the kingdom of Ioudas in the Great War he ordered all battle gears and gear grunts decommissioned or destroyed. For Sergeant Major 03111337, sole survivor of the Battle of the King's Way it meant hiding his regimental colors and becoming a greeter for a struggling repair shop deep in the city. After decades of disrepair and neglect, the passing of his beloved master, and the taking over of the business by his three sons there may yet be an opportunity for the honor of the regiment to shine once more. First, he will have to convince his new master, the youngest of the three sons that his plan will work and that honor is worth fighting for or the city and the kingdom will remain firmly within the iron grip of the tyrannical Ogre Mage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Malcolm
• Release date: Mar 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393175674

Mark Malcolm

Mark Malcolm is a child of God, husband, father, project manager, technical writer, gamer, fiction writer, Marine (’87-’91), has practiced Shao Lin Kung Fu and Tai Chi, been published in magazines and newspapers (editorial anyway), and seen the Southern Cross. The goals he has currently are to more accurately identify the path God has for him to walk, continue to provide for his family, establish a solid web presence, build a career writing novels through both traditional and independent publishing, and learn to better relate to the people around him.

Book preview

Other works by Mark E. Malcolm

(Available from his website and other fine locations)

Books

Guardians of the Herald Book 1: Angels and Demons

Guardians of the Herald Book 2: The Templars’ Return

Short Stories

Guardians of the Herald Short Stories

He Liked Soaring

The Paladin

Other Short Stories by Mark E. Malcolm

Bar None

The Clockwork Sergeant Major

A Gear Grunt Tale

by

Mark E. Malcolm

© Copyright Mark Malcolm 2018

The Clockwork Sergeant Major a Gear Grunt Tale is written by Mark Malcolm. All names used are either fictional or were used with permission via Kickstarter backer’s consent. Names, characters, places, descriptions, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, places, descriptions, or situations are purely coincidental. The contents of this story line may not be reproduced, reused, or built upon without the written permission of the author. All previous creative commons licenses are hereby revoked for all previous versions of this story line/world.

Please send all inquiries to Firstchevalier Books, [e-mail].

All scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV)

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The Clockwork Sergeant Major

A Gear Grunt Tale

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The sergeant major sat in his chair by the door as he did every day, waiting. The overcast sky created a pale mirror out of the plate glass of the door, catching the reflection of his face. His reflection sparked a memory of forty years ago when he’d stepped off the royal assembly line, a brand-new soldier in the king’s army, a Gear Grunt he’d been called by his maker. His hair had been the very finest of black-dyed spun cotton thread cut short all the way around. His spherical head, made of the finest brass plates, had all its rivets in place and perfectly flush with the surface. Chrome edging protected all his joints, and fresh oiled leather gaskets sealed every spot to keep the weather out so he could defend the realm no matter the conditions.

The memory faded as his eye lenses refocused on the image now reflected in the glass. Sitting in the same chair every day for the past twenty years the sun had bleached the black of his hair to nearly totally white, well dirty grey really. Most of the threads had fallen out or been pulled out by unruly children of the shop’s patrons, leaving three nearly complete rings around the base, and the top bare. They liked to grab the top for some reason. There were eight rivets missing along his left jaw where he’d taken a blow in one campaign or other that he’d long forgotten. The missing rivets had been filled in with simple solder and flushed to the surface. They held well enough, and he thought they gave him a sort of dashing appearance that an unmarred surface lacked. A soldier should have some scars if he were a true warrior, after all.

The thought of scars naturally moved his gaze to his legs. In a sitting position the tops of his thighs shone brightly in the shop’s lamp light. The brass reflected the flickering gaslight with a mirror-like shine. He lingered there, but frowned, knowing he could not resist looking lower. His knees parted and revealed not a continuation of shiny brass, but exposed leather pulleys, gears, and struts. His mind took him back to the fateful day of the cart accident, but his lenses whirred back into his head as his hands covered his audio receptors, trying desperately to shut out the sights and sounds of that day. He rocked slowly in his chair until the old images faded, which felt like longer than it actually was. He was able to refocus his lenses, let the irises open, and lower his arms. An audible click issued from his right shoulder. That was new.

He raised and lowered his right arm, hearing a soft metal on metal protest as he did so. The leather gasket in that shoulder had failed some eight years ago and being the arm closest to the door the damp of the world seemed to seep in, making all the gears, pulleys and struts move less harmoniously. Master Cobblepot had intended to replace the gasket, but he had to work so hard just to keep the family fed he never had time for simple repairs on shop servants. The binding in the arm had become so bad in the last two years he could no longer swing a sword and had to resort to tricks and strategies to keep the scavenger gears from pillaging the shop’s spare parts. His gaze returned to the outside world as he dutifully waited for his master’s three sons to return.

The ever-changing hustle and bustle of gears and their Makers hurrying through the rain in the street fascinated him. On most days he kept silent vigil until someone approached the shop. Then, he’d rise and open the door, greeting them as they entered the shop. Not as glorious or important as his days in the Gear Grunts, defending the town from the Ogre Mage’s raiding hordes of goblins, but it gave him value, purpose. Master Cobblepot always said first impressions were important. Having a retired soldier, all polished brass and shiny chrome, meeting customers made a good first impression, he said.

Motion in the street brought his attention back to his duties as he half rose, reaching for the door handle. Unfortunately, it was just a young boy and his gear, though something caused him to pause. The young boy’s gear moved slowly, stepping very deliberately. It appeared to be a military model like him, but much newer, perhaps only a single decade old. The gear took a final step, slumped, and remained motionless. The young man walked on, failing to notice his companion no longer with him.

The sergeant major reached under his chair and pulled out a large key ring with thirty or forty large watch keys and stem winders attached. He’d seen this many times over the years. He rose, opened the door, and stepped out into the rain of the day without a thought for the damage he was doing to the leather workings of his exposed legs. He hadn’t taken two steps toward the stalled gear when the young man came dashing back to his companion.

Oh no, no, no Corporal! We’re almost home. Just a little further, the young man said.

Fear not, young Maker, sergeant major said as he approached, selecting a large, worn key on the ring. We’ll have the Corporal back on the march shortly.

I forgot to wind him this morning. Momma said it’s my responsibility, but I forgot, the boy said.

Part of growing up, sir. No harm done, sergeant major cupped his left hand over the side of the Corporal and expertly flipped open a panel revealing a squared shaft. He slipped the end of the key over it and began winding. As soon as he turned the key, the Corporal’s head slowly rose, looked left, and then right. His lenses whirled into focus on the sergeant major as he continued to wind. You just ran down Corporal. You’ll be ready to step off shortly.

Thank you, the Corporal caught sight of his benefactor’s rank engraved on his chest and straightened up. Thank you, Sergeant Major.

Corporal! I’m so sorry, I won’t let it happen again. I promise! the young man said.

My springs aren’t as tight as they used to be Sergeant Major, and some of my struts are rusting through, he said as the sergeant major completed his task, closing the access panel.

It’s a common problem with the models from your era. The war was running long, and they had to use some untested alloys. We can fix you right up if you’ll get your maker to bring you in. sergeant major stepped aside and waved his good hand at the shop as he did. Cobblepot Sprocket and Spring uses only the very best brass and non-corrosive alloys in their repairs.

Thank you again, Sergeant Major, but tribute to the Ogre Mage is just a couple of months away. You know how tight things get at tribute time, the Corporal replied.

Yes, I do, he said.

You deserve better master Brian. Perhaps next year if the harvest is good, we can get you a newer model, one with a spring that’s tighter, that can better keep up with you, he said patting the young man on the shoulder affectionately. Turning to the sergeant major he said, They grow so fast.

They do indeed, but you mustn’t sell yourself short, the sergeant major admonished as the young man identified as Brian stepped close to his companion and hugged him hard.

I don’t want another gear Corporal. You’re the very best one, Brian said. The Corporal continued to hang his head. The sergeant major straightened his back and snapped his heels together, coming to a position of attention. The Corporal recognized the sound and instantly mirrored the position.

Get the tin out of your voice, Corporal. You listen to me, soldier and listen good. Your young maker here doesn’t have another gear, he has you. You will perform your duties to the utmost of your ability. Is that understood? The sergeant major barked. Passersby slowed to watch the spectacle. He was happy to see he could still muster the brass in his voice when he needed.

Yes, Sergeant Major, the Corporal replied back with firm resolve in his voice.

Understand this, you are needed by your maker. You are important to his family. This young maker depends on you. You have value in the machinery of life. The sergeant major strutted around the corporal as he spoke, leaning in to add emphasis at key points of his speech. "Now, you will make it home before that wind runs out, and your young maker will hook you up to