Arches of sparks flew from dark, inert sheets of steel as tongues of concentrated heat were driven through them by faceless men. An air of molten metal and charred rock thrived and became one with the breaths of the metalworkers who were busy shaping both ore and old minerals into new forms. Pounding of hammers, crushing of rock, and the hiss of water dousing the red-orange blood of the furnaces played a gritty, uncoordinated melody in the Gray Fox's mind.

  His head turned around and observed the sweating arms of muscled men whose skin was becoming one with the poorly-lit smithy. They all stood in a line where they molded, tempered, and shaped the metals into artificial forms. Lines of finished products were revealed by the high and seething flames of the kilns. Large-bodied, sweltering workers did not remove their eyes from their hammers and anvils as each new item was created, identical to the last piece of metal their hands worked on. The crime lord did not mind those people not paying attention to his journey past their assembly line; carts filled with their finished products were being brought to a place beyond their unbearably hot workshops.

  He drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiping off the thin film of sweat that formed on his head and neck before moving to the next section of the facility, where only a few people were spared from the grinding noise and the blistering heat of the kilns. Men donning leathery aprons and wearing metal masks assembled what they received from the carts and formed mockeries of arms, legs, and torsos. Some of the completed products were hoisted in chains to be pulled up to the awaiting chambers of other workers who would put new components and mechanisms inside the artificial husks. The Gray Fox reached a single wide room where an almost complete construct stood still, awaiting its left arm to the attached to the rest of the body.

  It was a sleek, although clumsy-looking machine. The automaton had the sloped head of a dragonfly held by a heart-shaped frame, which was then supported by a pair of grasshopper-like legs.

  "Truly, it is the revolutionary light that creates such marvels out of lowly rock. With these, the true power of the nation will be awakened."

  A man, round in both face and figure, was observing an arm-like mechanism placed on a podium. Its hand was replaced by a gun barrel that faced a target board at exactly thirty yards in front of it. Parallel to the gun arm was another limb that had two thin, pointed rods for its fingers.

  The engrossed worker stopped tinkering with the displaced arm when his glasses reflected the crime lord's face.

  "Glad to see you in good health, Doctor! What made you drop by?"

  "Still busy as right before I left for the Schweiglands, Mister Hollgrehenn." The crime lord walked past the man and went for the unmoving construct, holding it by the chin. "Is this the Class 64 you've promised?"

  "Aw... of course, Doctor!" Hollgrehenn went beside the eight-foot mechanism and struck the chest twice with a gloved hand. "It's a beauty when it moves; I'm still considering whether the armament should be the repeating rifle or the new Type 3 beam rod."

  "Have you measured the toll both weapons would exert on the power cell?"

  "Why, yes, Doctor. The rifle can be fired up to eighty times without recharging, but only six shots can be made with the beam rod. We are yet to come up with a solution to the 'disintegrating sigils problem'. I believe we can address that if there's a way we can have them engraved in more heat-resistant alloys."

  "I see." The Gray Fox cupped his chin as he approached the second left arm. "I suppose Mister Norton would prefer a weapon that could do battle longer than one with more power but less... reliability."

  "I have approximated that an improved power cell can make the beam rod usable by up to eighteen shots."

  "That would be a great improvement, Mister Hollgrehenn. I'm afraid that eighteen is a far cry from eighty, even with the sheer potential the beam rod promises. I would approve of both weapons, but keep it to a ratio of six rifle units for one beam unit."

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  The master mechanic gave a satisfied look that went through the pair of thick, round glasses he sported.

  "I was about to test both arms on Number Twelve here. Care to watch, Doctor?" Hollgrehenn offered.

  "By all means, impress me."

  The machinist pulled out of his pocket a bulb-shaped crystal attached to a small metal block. Hollgrehenn spoke "Come on" to the device.

  In split-second precision came the construct's response; its large eyes gave off a blue light and started three heavy and slow steps towards Hollgrehenn. The gun arm was removed from its platform and was mounted on the animate machine with several turns on its heavy screws.

  "Aim target board," was the fat man's command. The construct aligned the gun barrel at the red and white circle at the end of the hall; its waist pivot took three seconds to establish the weapon's line of sight.

  "Fire."

  Six loud pops were forced out of the gun arm in half-second intervals before the machinist issued the "stop" command. The construct kept the weapon leveled, unaffected by the recoil of the rifle system; tinkling noises of fallen slugs climbed up the syndicate leader's right ear. All bullets riddled the central area of the target.

  "Excellent work on this." His metal hand closed into a fist. "How many of these constructs are we expecting to have in nine months?"

  "We have thirty waiting to be assembled at present; sixty others still waiting for a new batch of command seals and weapon activation sigils, for the beam rods. Nine months can give us three hundred fifty new units if we get a constant supply of the needed symbols," a glorious Hollgrehenn replied. "You would love the beam rod."

  A switch hidden in the construct's armpit was toggled, and the gun-bearing limb was deactivated. Hollgrehenn was about to mount the beam rod weapon when a tall young man dressed in a flowing brown cape rushed to The Gray Fox's side.

  "My apologies for this untimely entrance, Sir." The man swept his cape and gave a slight bow. "Norton has arrived with a guest."

  "Very well." He exhaled softly and looked at the still-excited machinist. "I would have to watch your demonstration later, Mister Hollgrehenn. I need to see this recruit Mister Norton, is delivering and find out if he was true to his word."

  "Not a problem, Doctor. Do come back later."

  The Gray Fox was on his feet again, moving out of the testing area, away from the noisy assembly line, and finally out of the blazing furnaces. He walked past three long hallways, went up two staircases, and headed for a moderately lit room between the mess hall and the entrance to one of the storage rooms.

  It was a wide room, almost a chamber if not for the lack of a stage to perform, that was almost empty except for a simple wooden table and four armchairs; two of them were occupied by the green-eyed Winston Norton and a cape-wearing woman carrying a long, leathery staff.

  "I have to say this place is amazing."

  Cornelia seemed to be talking to herself, though it was loud enough for the other men to hear her thoughts. The swordswoman was lost in thought, watching the automatons being assembled below; she would have jumped into the production lines to look at them if not for the glass barriers that stood in her way.

  "Sure, I've worked with syndicates with some makeshift kitchen they call laboratories, but a whole factory underground? The Gray Fox sure is one of the big names, all right."

  "Good timing, Master. Here's a fine addition to your force."

  "Cornelia Sauvant." The woman did not wait for Norton's introduction and stood up, extending her hand to the crime lord. "It will be a great pleasure working with you. So, what's it going to be?"

  "You understand well that this is not a simple one-task contract you are accustomed to," He said.

  "Machine-eyed man here made me aware of that back at the Golden Hart." Cornelia's thumb jerked, pointing at the perplexed Winston Norton before looking back and returning to her seat.

  "Excellent. I will arrange your accommodations here. You are to stay on our domain while under our employ. All your comforts will be provided here and will not be charged to your monthly keep."

  "It's an..." Cornelia looked around the gray and metallic hues of the place; her head wandered around before looking at the syndicate lord with a smile. "...interesting place you have here. It would take a matter of getting used to, but nothing too hard about that. But then again, if it's a free room, food, and everything else on top of the gold, you have my sword."

  The Gray Fox took the swordswoman's hand and shook it firmly. He figured out what the staff-like weapon was. It was a sword of foreign make; the thin, long blade concealed by a sleek, wooden scabbard with a piece of metal that guarded the pointed edge. He did not further examine Cornelia's armament for now and decided to reserve his thoughts on the matter before saying:

  "Welcome to the organization, Miss Sauvant."