Jason Underwood stepped off the ramp of the Behemoth. His boots hit the polished concrete of the station platform.
He looked like a man who had crawled out of hell. His coat was torn, stained with oil and blood. His face was smeared with soot from the tunnel collapse.
In front of him stood Adolf Hitler.
The CEO of Germania Meat & Power looked pristine. His white industrial suit was tailored, spotless. He leaned lightly on an ebony cane.
"Herr Prentice," Hitler extended a hand. His skin was pale, manicured. "Welcome to Chicago."
Jason hesitated.
Every instinct in his body screamed run. He was standing in front of the man who would turn Europe into a graveyard in another timeline.
But here, he was just a businessman. And he had the one thing Jason needed.
Jason took the hand. It was dry and cold.
"Let's make a deal," Jason said. His voice was rough.
"Direct," Hitler smiled thinly. "I appreciate American efficiency. Come. We will discuss the terms in my office."
Hitler turned and walked toward the factory gates. A drone—a spinning ball of brass and Tesla coils—hovered silently behind his shoulder.
Jason signaled the crew.
O'Malley racked his shotgun and fell in step beside Jason. Einstein and Oppenheimer followed, clutching their meager belongings. Sarah limped behind, supported by a crutch.
And behind them all, the Gates-Machine walked.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The iron giant's footsteps shook the platform. Its red eye scanned the factory, processing data.
They entered the complex.
It wasn't a factory. It was an intestine.
They walked along a glass catwalk suspended fifty feet above the floor. Below them, the air shimmered with heat.
Conveyor belts stretched for miles. They carried mounds of gray, shapeless "biomass."
"What is that?" Oppenheimer whispered, looking over the rail. "Is that... meat?"
Hitler stopped. He tapped his cane on the glass.
"It is fuel, Doctor Oppenheimer," Hitler said. "Refugees. Deserters. The unwanted surplus of Mr. Pelley's war. They come to me, and I give them purpose."
A vat below bubbled violently. Green sludge poured into a centrifuge.
"We render the fat," Hitler explained calmly. "High-octane biodiesel. 'Soul Power,' I call it. It burns cleaner than coal. It powers the entire East Coast grid."
Oppenheimer gagged. He turned away, clutching his stomach.
"You're burning people," Jason said. He didn't look away. He forced himself to stare at the vats. "You turned Chicago into a crematorium."
"I turned it into a battery," Hitler corrected. "Morality is a luxury of the pre-war world. Survival requires calories."
He pointed his cane at a massive steel door ahead.
"My office. The Centrifuge is waiting."
They entered the control room.
It was a stark contrast to the bloody factory floor. White walls. Analog servers humming softly. A wall of dials monitoring the grid pressure.
In the center of the room sat a heavy lead-lined crate.
"Open it," Jason ordered.
Two of Hitler's "Butchers"—men in rubber aprons—pried the lid open.
Inside was a stainless steel cylinder. A medical-grade centrifuge, capable of 50,000 RPM.
"It works?" Jason asked.
"Tested this morning," Hitler said. "On a donor."
Jason looked at Sarah. She was leaning against the doorframe, her skin pale and clammy. The radiation treatment had bought her time, but the virus was fighting back. She needed the P-32 isotope injected daily. Without this machine, she was dead.
"The price," Hitler said softly.
He turned to the Gates-Machine.
The iron giant stood by the window, silent.
"The Logic Core," Hitler said, hunger in his eyes. "The brain that never sleeps. I have the hardware, Mr. Prentice, but I lack the software to optimize the grid. My ovens run at 60% efficiency. With him... I could reach 99%."
Jason looked at Gates.
The machine that had saved them in the glass desert. The monster that had crushed men with its bare hands.
"He's not a pet," Jason said. "He has protocols."
"I will rewrite them," Hitler waved a hand. "Transfer of ownership. Now."
Jason walked over to the machine. He put a hand on the cold iron chest plate.
He leaned in close.
"I'm sorry," Jason whispered.
But he didn't mean it.
"Execute Protocol: Judas," Jason breathed.
The red eye flickered.
It was a gamble. Before they left the train, Jason and Gates had run the numbers. They couldn't fight Hitler's army. There were thousands of Butchers in the city.
The only way to win was to lose.
Gates wasn't being sold. He was invading.
"ACKNOWLEDGED," the synthesized voice ground out. "PROTOCOL ACCEPTED."
Gates stepped forward.
"I SUBMIT TO NEW MANAGEMENT," the machine said loud enough for Hitler to hear.
Hitler clapped his hands. "Excellent! Prepare the interface!"
Technicians swarmed the machine. They dragged heavy data cables from the server wall.
"Tesla," Jason muttered.
Nikola Tesla was standing by the door. He checked his pocket watch.
It wasn't a watch. It was a localized EMP jammer.
"Now," Tesla whispered.
He clicked the stem.
HUMMM.
A silent pulse emitted from the watch.
The Tesla drone hovering behind Hitler dipped. Its gyros failed for three seconds. It wobbled, blind.
In that three-second window, Gates stepped into the containment rig. He didn't resist. He let the clamps slam shut around his wrists.
The technicians jammed a data spike into the port on the back of his head.
The screens on the wall flickered. Green text scrolled rapidly.
"Integration successful!" a technician shouted. "He's in the system!"
Hitler smiled. A look of pure, unadulterated greed.
"Take the crate," Hitler waved at Jason. "Our business is concluded."
Jason nodded to O'Malley.
"Grab it," Jason said.
They grabbed the handles of the heavy lead crate. It weighed two hundred pounds. They dragged it across the polished floor.
"Move," Jason hissed. "Don't run. Walk."
They exited the office. They crossed the catwalk.
The air felt heavy. The factory noise seemed louder. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Like a heartbeat.
They reached the platform. The Behemoth sat idling, steam rising from its vents.
"Get it on board!" Hughes shouted from the engine room. "Pressure is dropping! I don't like this!"
They heaved the crate up the ramp. It slammed onto the deck.
"We have the package!" O'Malley yelled. "Let's go!"
Jason turned to look back at the office.
Hitler was standing on the balcony. He wasn't looking at his new toy.
He was looking at Jason.
And he was smiling.
"Bridge!" Hughes screamed.
Jason spun around.
The drawbridge connecting the platform to the main track began to retract.
"No!" Jason yelled.
He scrambled to the edge of the deck. Too late. A five-foot gap opened up.
Then, the lights on the track turned red.
CLUNK.
A massive vibration shook the train.
"We're stuck!" Hughes yelled, slamming the throttle. The wheels spun, screeching, burning grooves into the steel rails, but the train didn't move an inch. "Magnetic clamps! They locked us to the track!"
Jason looked up at the balcony.
Hitler leaned over the railing.
"Thank you for the Logic Core, Herr Prentice!" Hitler shouted, his voice echoing over the factory PA. "But I'm afraid I cannot let the Cure leave. Scarcity drives the price up!"
He pressed a button on his cane.
Blast doors slammed down over the tunnel exits.
"Butchers!" Hitler commanded. "Seal the vessel!"
From the shadows of the platform, dozens of men in rubber aprons emerged. They carried welding torches.
They swarmed the train.
"Weld the doors shut!" the lead Butcher ordered.
Sparks flew as they began to fuse the Behemoth's exits closed.
"They're sealing us in!" Sarah screamed. "It's a tomb!"
Jason drew his pistol. He fired through a slit in the armor, hitting a welder in the shoulder. The man fell, but another took his place.
"Oppenheimer!" Jason yelled. "The ammonia! Gas them!"
"Tanks are empty!" Oppenheimer cried. "We used it all in the kill box!"
Jason looked at the sealed tunnel. He looked at the magnetic clamps holding his train hostage.
He looked at the office window where Gates was plugged into the wall.
"Come on, you rust bucket," Jason whispered. "Do it."