Nick's Nose
A decopunk story by @CarolinaC

The first thing that you need to know about me is that I don't go out in the field. And when I do, I usually don't do anything dangerous – nothing that would result in a broken nose. Not usually. Except here I am, nursing the broken nose I got on a field trip. I never should have gone out at all.

See, I'm a draftsman; I draw things. Things like bridge abutments, or household rocket gantries, or foundations for fallout shelters. This means I learn a lot of random facts. Our chief designer tells me you need at least thirty centimetres of concrete to protect from gamma radiation. The shelter's got to be away from trees, too, and I make sure I show you just how far away. That's what drawings are for. Don't tell me that nuclear bombs aren't a serious threat; just because nobody's used one yet doesn't mean that they won't, some day. And when they do, you'll be thankful to have a genuine TrelCo Shelterama (All rights reserved). After all, who else is going to give you gently curved, streamlined styling, built-in telecommunications equipment, glass-brick walls, and TrelCo's patented reverse-osmosis water filtration system? Nobody, that's who.

It was one of the shelters that got me in trouble that day. Well, one of the shelters, and a girl. The girl was Marguerite. When she leans over your shoulder, her hair smells like honey. She's a surveyor, and a good one, but she also does sales work, now and then. She's got a fiancé, Tom, so I know I'll never get anywhere with her – but a guy can dream, can't he? Anyhow, when Marguerite came to speak to me last week, she smelled of honey and manipulation. In case you're wondering, manipulation smells like citrus fruit, motor oil and death - a sort of lemony-fresh mechanical destruction.

“Nick?” She asked, batting her eyelashes. She knows I'm a sucker for that. “I don't suppose you can spare a couple of hours for a field trip, can you?”

I wanted to say 'anything for you, Marguerite' while staring into those big, dark eyes. Instead, I said, “I guess so. But why me?”

“Burrows said you were free. Also,” Marguerite leaned over my tilted drafting table and tapped the certificate pinned to the cubicle wall. “TrelCo Staff Picnic Pulse Rifle Competition. First Prize,” she read, smiling. “You do have the pulse rifle handy, right?”

“You figure there'll be some clay pigeons that need shooting?” I offered. I'll admit I was confused. When I'd gone out into the field before, all I'd brought was my satellite watch, an orange vest, and steel-toed boots.

“No! Look, I used to be, um, involved,” she gave a little shrug, “with the landowner, before I met Tom. It wasn't a pretty breakup. He's a robotics entrepreneur, and you know how sensitive those guys can be. I don't expect any trouble, but if we run into some, I need you to, you know, look intimidating. Convincingly intimidating. Also, I need someone to carry the theodolite for me. Come on, I'll even fly the skimmer, okay?”

I sighed. I was incapable of telling her no.

***

When Marguerite gently lowered the skimmer to the ground, we were parked in front of a house - and the house was huge. It looked like one of those fancy hotels the transcontinental railways used to build, back when the transcontinental railways were a going concern. The house was an imposing mass of grey stone - stone, in this day and age! - with turrets and steeply pitched silvery roofs jutting towards the sky in impressive profusion. I only realised that I was staring when Marguerite leaned in the window and said, "Youare going to come with me, right, Nick?"

I shook myself out of my reverie and unbuckled my safety harness. Boosting myself out of the seat and over the side of the skimmer, I said, "You didn't tell me that your ex was a billionaire. Who ever heard of a robotics engineer with money like this?"

Marguerite snorted, hanging her tripod over one shoulder, and tucking her levelling rod under her arm. "I said he was a robotics entrepreneur. A successful entrepreneur."

"Successful is an understatement!" I gave a low whistle to punctuate my comment. Marguerite rolled her eyes.

"Get moving, Nicky. I need you to carry the theodolite. Remember, if you drop it, Burrows will have your head," she announced cheerfully.

I grimaced, and slung the pulse rifle behind my back, and hauled the theodolite to the door.

If the house had looked large when I was sitting in the skimmer, it was humongous up close. The central portion of the building soared six stories – you could fit a jetliner in there. The door that opened, however, wasn't in that central area; instead, a small door opened in a side wing.

A portly man with sandy brown hair poked his head out. “Yes?”

Marguerite immediately turned on that thousand watt smile of hers.

“Well, fancy that!” she exclaimed, “Is that you, James Wilson? Imagine meeting you out here!”

The man blinked twice, and then a smile spread across his face. “Marguerite! What are you doing here?”

“Didn't anyone tell you, Jimmy? I work for TrelCo, now. We're here about the bomb shelter.”

When she said 'we', Marguerite gestured in my general direction. I would have waved, but then I'd probably have dropped the theodolite. So I nodded. James Wilson glared at me.

“Don't frown at Nicky, Jim!” Marguerite cautioned. “He's from the office. Now then, about that fallout shelter?”

“Yes, of course. Right this way.”

Wilson ushered us in through the door. I was slightly depressed to find myself in what looked to be an ordinary house – an open-concept sort of place with a den that opened onto a kitchen. At the far end was a shiny chrome-and-glass staircase up, and a plain concrete staircase down. To the right was a door, propped open with a chair and leading outside. That was it; this wing didn't even appear to connect to the big, centre section of the building.

“I've made some notes,” Wilson was saying as he led us through the cool, dimly-lit rooms.

“Notes? What did you have in mind, Jimmy?” Marguerite asked. Her tone was soothing, almost sweet.

“Sketches, ideas. The usual.” Wilson led us to the down staircase. At the bottom was a metal, trapdoor-style exit. The metal surface was dull and grey; I wondered if it might be some alloy of lead.

Marguerite shrugged, and we followed Wilson down into what a former owner must have used as a wine cellar. It was a fairly small room, solid concrete, with old, wooden shelves. But instead of casks of wine, the shelves bore various pieces of mechanical equipment: gear boxes, spark plugs, even a set of gimbals. In the middle of the room was a desk, covered in papers. At the back of the room was a stack of boxes of potato chips and some flats of pop cans – it seemed our new client liked to snack while he worked.

Ignoring me, Wilson passed Marguerite a sheet of paper. Her eyes grew wide.

“You serious about this, Jimmy?” she asked.

“Serious as anything. Why? You think your new company can't deliver?”

I craned my neck, trying to see around Marguerite's shoulder and get an idea of what was on that piece of paper.

“Well, sure, we can deliver, but I've never seen a fallout shelter this large! It'll cost you.”

I finally caught a glimpse of the paper. What Wilson had sketched out was a fallout shelter big enough to entomb an aircraft carrier. This was going to cost millions.

“I can pay,” Wilson replied, shrugging. He began to lead us back up the stairs.

“What do you want it for, anyhow?” Marguerite asked.

James Wilson didn't answer her.

***

The location in Wilson's sketch had been out behind the house. The three of us found ourselves on a grassy sward big enough for three children's soccer games to be played simultaneously. Marguerite tromped all over the place, checking the map on her watch repeatedly, until she found a geodetic benchmark back at the property line. Then she walked back, and called me over to a spot beside the staircase that led up to the huge central wing of the house.

“Set the tripod up here,” she said, dropping it on the ground in front of me, “and make sure the theodolite is screwed on properly. Remember, if it breaks -”

“I know, I know. Burrows will have my head. And I'll be fired.”

“Exactly,” she confirmed.

I fiddled with the theodolite, trying to get it properly levelled while Marguerite began dictating notes - weather conditions, mostly - into her watch. Wilson sidled over to me.

"She's quite the girl, isn't she?" he asked, in a probing tone.

I nodded. "Gorgeous. Smart, too."

"How well do you know her?" he inquired, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Er, well, you know," I tried to gesture airily without knocking down the theodolite. "We've worked together for a couple of years now, and -"

"You just work with her? There's nothing personal between you?" His tone now was downright threatening.

"Personal? Oh, no, no, of course not!" I tried to smile. I imagine the smile looked rather sickly. "Nothing at all! She's engaged, you know."

"Engaged?!"

I could feel myself cringing. "Not to me!" I sputtered, but Wilson had already turned and was striding towards Marguerite.

"What's this I hear about you being engaged, Marguerite?"

With a sigh, Marguerite scampered up the steps. "None of your business, Jimmy! We split up for a reason - you're a violent, pig-headed, possessive, hypocritical, dishonest cad - and so I'm not any of your business anymore!"

"This is not acceptable." Wilson said in a cold, oddly calm voice.

"Pulse rifle, please, Nicky." Marguerite called, backing one more step up the staircase.

I blinked in confusion. "what?"

Wilson continued his slow, but inexorable progress.

"It would be a good time to use the pulse rifle, Nick! Now!" Marguerite yelled.

She vaulted over the railing, landing in a gymnast's pose before taking off running. I brought the pulse rifle down and around, meaning to shoot over Wilson's head. I didn't want to kill him, just scare him out of that weird, jealous rage. I expected Wilson to turn and follow Marguerite, but he didn't. He just kept going up those stairs.

Marguerite ran to where I was standing and began unscrewing the bolts holding the theodolite onto the tripod.

“Help me, Nick, we've got to get moving before he comes back out here!”

“But why didn't he chase you? Why'd he go inside?” I demanded.

“You don't want to know, Nicky. Help me unscrew this!”

Desperately, I tried to work the screw closest to me, knowing I needed to get the theodolite off of the tripod. And then there was a sound.

The sound started as a deep rumble that I could feel more than hear, but it quickly grew higher in pitch, and louder, until it was a terrible groan. The clanking and grinding of metal parts came from the direction of the house. As I turned to look, the roof of the central block disappeared, replaced by a cloud of dust and smoke that rose into the sky like some grotesque imitation of a Christmas tree.

A rush of hot, metal-scented air tore at my arms and legs as the terrible screech grew louder. When the dust cleared, what I saw made my entrails turn to water.

The thing was huge. Picture a pair of chrome legs, glistening in the sun, each as thick as a factory chimney, a body like a locomotive, arms like tree trunks - the thing was a robot, in the shape of a huge man. There wasn't a head; instead, the chrome shoulders came together to form a small cockpit. James Wilson the ex was sitting there, grinning maniacally. He reached out and pressed a button, and the thing began to walk – which I guess means it was more a humanoid car than a robot, but that’s splitting hairs.

And then the thing began to run.

“He's gone mad! Grab the equipment and make for the skimmer!” Marguerite yelled, starting to run herself.

I awkwardly tried to scoop up the tripod, but it was too late. The huge robot could run, shaking the earth which each step, and now it was in front of us.

“Shoot it! Shoot the leg or something!” Marguerite demanded.

I brought the pulse rifle around again, and shot. And shot, and shot, aiming always for the same point, right above the left knee. Finally, with a splintering sound, the thing began to fall. Perfect timing, too – I was out of power. Wilson screamed.

The thing hit the ground with a shuddering thump, knocking over the theodolite as it fell. There was a cracking noise from the surveying equipment, and I groaned internally. The robot broke, too - the beautiful chrome body split open, leaking hydraulic fluid and spilling gears and pistons onto the grass. Gears, pistons, and something else, too – a neat little box, with a rounded, black and yellow trefoil symbol painted on it.

Wilson, who had been spilled out onto the grass with the guts of his machine, stumbled to his feet. Then he began to run, away from the broken robot.

It took my brain a moment to process the meaning of the symbol “It's radioactive!” I exclaimed.

Wilson leaped into our skimmer, then yelled, “Yes, though it's perfectly safe right now. But if I press this button,” he held up a small box with a bright red button dead centre, “will make the whole machine explode. Showering this area – and you – with radiation. You can't run fast enough to get away.”

Then he hit the accelerator, sending the skimmer drunkenly into the sky. I didn't know what kind of range his little radio-control button might have, but it was sure possible that he was telling the truth, and we were cooked.

Marguerite swore loudly, in words I didn't think a young lady of her high moral calibre would ever use.

“I can't die, Nick!” she pleaded with me, “I'm too busy to die!”

A thought suddenly surfaced, unbidden, and floated to the front of my consciousness. “Thirty centimetres,” I said.

“What?” Marguerite stared at me. “What are you talking about?”

“That cellar – how thick were those walls?”

“Pretty thick. Forty centimetres? Fifty?”

“You only need thirty to survive gamma radiation from a bomb! Run!”

***

Not that I want to ruin the suspense, but we were fine in the end. Well, mostly fine. We pulled the lead door closed behind us seconds before the explosion. Marguerite got in touch with emergency services using my watch, and then we waited. It took two days for the Scientific Catastrophe Response Team to get enough radioactive material removed for the yard and what was left of the house to be considered safe. During that time, Marguerite and I sat in the cellar, drinking pop and eating chips. We even played checkers – Marguerite was pop-can-tabs, and I was tiny-bits-of-chip. By the time the Response Team let us out, the police had even hauled in Wilson. Turns out he tried to fly the office skimmer over a game reserve and caused a stampede of moose. Any police officer would notice that. As for the theodolite – and the rod and tripod – they were so radioactive they had to be destroyed, so the boss never found out that anything had been broken.

Of course, none of that explains how my little field trip resulted in a broken nose. That didn't happen until we were out of the cellar. The fact is, Marguerite and I had been holed up in there for two whole days, alone, with no chaperone. Now, I'm a gentleman, and like I said, her hair smells like honey. So I did the honourable thing; I asked her to marry me. She thought it was a joke. Unfortunately, the guy standing next her didn't. He was Tom, her fiancé. He decked me.

Turns out, Tom's got a heck of a right – and, it turns out, I've learned my lesson. Next time some girl asks me to go out in the field with her, I'll be smart enough to turn her down flat.