Landquaker

by Dean F. Wilson

   “What are you making?” Rommond asked. He did not touch anything. He knew well that he did not fully understand how Brooklyn operated, but knew with greater certainty that nothing was arbitrary. Everything was a ritual.

   Brooklyn held up a tiny lens. The light caught it, shining beams upon the many tiny parts attached to it. There were adjustable mirrors, moved by minute cogs, and several other glass pieces, concave and convex, arranged into a little box.

   “An eye piece?”

   “For big eye.”

   Rommond raised an eyebrow. “It's a small piece.”

   “Of bigger glass.” He gestured towards the spyglass perched upon the city's wall, aimed at the Landquaker, just like the barrel of that scope was aimed at the city, with ammunition in place of an eye.

   “Will this help us see better?”

   “See farther than any glass can see,” Brooklyn said, but he sunk his head, “if I can get it all to work.”

   “If anyone can do it,” Rommond said, “you can.”

   Brooklyn did not seem so confident, and this worried Rommond. When the fabled mechanic took on a new project, it was from inspiration, and the fires never burned out. Even when he was finished, those fires would simply transmute into the enthusiasm for another creation, another invention. He said the spirits led him, and Rommond thought that if they really were spirits, they led him well. But why did it seem like they did not lead him now?

  Brooklyn worked tirelessly on the spyglass throughout the night, shunning sleep. He used to work until his dreams pulled him into slumber, and then woke periodically with new vigour, new ideas, and new guidance from the machine spirits. But now the dreams did not tug him, and the night was spent in restless toil, trying to get the material cogs to work, when the mental ones would not. Rommond also did not sleep that night, and he would have liked to have thought he turned his back on slumber in sympathy with Brooklyn, but instead his mind was restless with worry.

   When the cogs of night turned and produced the gentle glow of day, Rommond found an exhausted Brooklyn putting the finishing touches on the enhanced spyglass. His clothes were covered in oil, and his hands in soot.

   “All done?” the general asked.

   Brooklyn stifled a grumble. He was not one to complain.

   “Can I look?”

   “You can look, but can you see?” Brooklyn asked in turn, the frustration etched into the dark circles around his eyes, the soot of sleep.

   Rommond peered into the spyglass, and bit his lip. It was all a blur.

   “It's … a little foggy.”

   Brooklyn took a deep breath, letting it out very slowly so that it would not sound like a sigh.

   “Maybe it just needs a quick adjustment,” Rommond suggested. It shouldn't, he thought. Nothing of Brooklyn's ever did before.

   Brooklyn tinkered with the knobs and nozzles, punctuating the clicks and clangs with a bang from his spanner. Rommond was not a mechanic, but he thought that was less a technique of repair and more an expression of frustration. It was awkward to stand there, and difficult to watch Brooklyn struggle with what at one time came with ease. The general wondered if he should perhaps walk away, give his partner some room to breathe, and time to calm down, but he stayed through the anguish and the toil, periodically glancing into the glass, until Brooklyn turned the nozzle again, and the sight sharpened.

   “Wait,” Rommond said. “I see something now.”

   Then he saw it: the Landquaker in all its might and beauty, that intimidating barrel on that intimidating frame. It had a giant red hull, beneath which were two long carriages, each on a set of eight wheels, four per side, connected together with rods. The train could bend ever so slightly in the centre, just enough to get it around the corners of the tracks, but otherwise it was designed to chug along in a single, devastating line. On either end, its ornate panels and designs were still visible, though these were somewhat faded from the time when the Resistance owned that vehicle. On the chassis were the emblems of the Regime, which were not faded at all. From the roof protruded the colossal barrel of the gun, which could fire 400mm shells. When fired, the main body of the train slid back, and the space between the two carriages was specifically designed for this recoil. Its shots were best fired from a stable position, but the design also allowed for it to fire when moving. The sliding recoil would slow its advance, but it would not stop it entirely. Nothing could stop the Landquaker. That is why it became the Gate in the Iron Wall.

   Rommond withdrew from the spyglass, happy to be able to see, but unhappy at the sight of someone else in the distance playing with one of his favourite toys. He wanted it back, and back in one piece, but just like the jealousy of a child, if he could not get it back intact, then he would destroy it.

   “Well,” the general said. “I can see it perfectly. Almost too perfectly.” He gently patted the barrel of the scope. “Now that you've worked your wonders on this beauty, it'll need a name. How about the Long Spyglass?”

   Brooklyn's eyes welled up, and Rommond grabbed his hand.

   “What's wrong?” he asked. “You got it working.”

   “It is not that,” Brooklyn said, turning away.

   “What is it then?” Rommond asked. “Do you not forgive me?”

   Brooklyn turned back, surprised. “There is nothing to forgive.”

   “Then why are you turning away from me?”

   The glisten in Brooklyn's eyes was his only answer.

   “What are you afraid of?” Rommond asked, gripping Brooklyn's hand tighter, trying to tell him in that grip that there was no need to be afraid.

   “They did something to me,” Brooklyn revealed. “The Regime. They changed me.”

   “But that's over now. You're free.”

   Brooklyn shook his head. “But I'm not. They're still there somewhere. I can feel them. I can feel them like I used to feel the spirits.”

   “You mean you don't feel the spirits any more?”

   Brooklyn raised his mechanical arm. “Not since this. I can still hear them, from a distance, but only their anger, their frustration, their fear. I hear them speaking, but they no longer speak to me. But the Regime. They have taken their place.”

   “But we removed most of the implants,” Rommond said.

   Brooklyn sighed. “Most.”

   “Then what are you afraid of?”

   Brooklyn trembled. “I am afraid I am going to betray you.”

  3 – THE BATTLE MAP

  Beneath the central plaza of Blackout, where Lorelai continued her endless labour on the people's many wounds, there was a converted cellar, a bunker even, with reinforced walls to withstand a bomb or earthquake—though maybe not the shells of the Landquaker. The sewers there were converted into passages, leading to all manner of locations across the city, including a small hatch in The Olive Inn. The general revealed that this was an addition made by the ever-resourceful Treasury. Jacob was amused to discover this, considering how handy it would have been as a smuggling route.

   That bunker became the War Room, and many of the leading faces of the Resistance gathered there to discuss the next push. The plans for attacking the Landquaker were well under way, but the more tiny markers that were placed on the map, the larger the model of the Landquaker looked in comparison. It was a crude model, devoid of the elaborate markings that Brooklyn liked to finish his machines with, like swirling tattoos for a tribe made of metal—but the crudeness highlighted just how devastating that railway gun really was.

   “We'll need decoys,” Rommond said, looking to Doctor Mudro, whose intensely furrowed brow was visible through the smoke.

   “We'll need a lot of them,” Mudro replied.

   “I think we might need more than decoys,” Jacob said. “Hell, we could do with a whole magic show.” He turned to the doctor, who was absent-mindedly poking around in the pocket of his waistcoat, as if the decoys were in ther
e. “I hope you've got more than rabbits up your sleeve.”

   “I think we'll leave magic out of this,” Rommond said.

   Taberah glanced at Mudro, and he looked back. It was a fleeting look, but Jacob felt like maybe it was something more.

   “If you give me enough hands, I can build several platoons of fake landships here,” Mudro said, pointing his pipe to a strip of land south of the nearest Hope factory. “This should make it look like we're amassing our forces for an attack at the southern end of the Iron Wall. The Regime will likely amass its own landships there in response.”

   “What about the Hope factory?” Jacob asked. “Is that still under Regime control?”

   “No,” Rommond said. “We sent a scouting party there yesterday, and it's been deserted. We have them in retreat for now, which is why we cannot delay too long if we want to press our advantage.”

   “And you think they'll really fall for those decoys?” Jacob wondered.

   “They'll be made of wood,” Mudro said, “but they'll look very real, especially from afar. We'll have a tough time disguising our real forces, and a tougher time again getting them anywhere near the Landquaker.”

   “Don't you worry about that,” Rommond said. “If you draw their eye one way, I'll poke out the other.”

   “I'll do my sleight of hand,” Mudro said, with a wave of his own, “but I need more hands to get those decoys made in time.”

   “You'll get them,” the general replied, nodding to Alakovi. “I think we'll need all your Vixens working on this, Ana. We really need these decoys done and dusted within the next few days. A week tops.”

   “What can I do?” Whistler asked. Though this was supposed to have been a meeting of a select few, he had begged Jacob to sneak him in. Jacob could not resist using the new smuggling route for something. Taberah rolled her eyes at the pair of them.

   Rommond frowned. “Perhaps you'll attend meetings to which you were not invited.”

   Whistler pouted. “But I can help.”

   “We'll find something for you,” the general said, before turning back to the battle map.

   “So we'll have decoys,” Jacob said, “but what about the real thing?”

   Rommond sighed. “We're working on some new landships, but we'll be lucky to have a single platoon ready in time.”

   “Do we have no allies?”

   “No.”

   “Maybe we find some,” Brooklyn suggested.

   Everyone turned to him, Rommond most of all. Brooklyn looked awkward and very self-conscious in the spotlight. He was soft-spoken and had to avail of a lull in the conversation before he would interject.

   “My people will not fight war,” he said, “but there are many tribes who fight Regime for years in disputed lands. They fight even Landquaker, though alone they do not win. But together, with us … maybe.”

   “I tried to get the tribes' support before,” Rommond said. “Several times. It didn't do any good.”

   “We got Brooklyn out of it,” Taberah said. She did not seem as broken now. For the good of the Resistance, she put on a show of strength. “If we got one more like him, that'd probably be enough.”

   “Things have changed,” Brooklyn said. “Their views may have changed too.”

   “It's worth a shot,” Jacob added. “Otherwise we don't really have an army at all.”

  When the meeting ended, they all turned to leave, but Rommond gestured to Alakovi. “Stay back a moment.” There was nothing in his voice that betrayed his intent, but his eyes were severe. Jacob was tempted to smile at the Copper Matron as he passed, but he thought better of it. It did not seem like she would be smiling when she eventually got to leave the bunker.

   “What is it, sir?” she asked when the room had cleared. Mudro's smoke lingered.

   “You're awfully polite today,” Rommond replied. “Pity you weren't so polite when I wasn't around.”

   Alakovi did not respond, but she scrunched her mouth, as if she was crushing someone between her teeth. Rommond knew well who that someone was.

   “Sit down,” the general said.

   “I'm more a standin' type o' woman.”

   Rommond glared at her. “No 'sir', this time?” he asked. “Sit down,” he added, sterner than before. While everyone who knew him was aware that he had a habit of laying down his gun to finish a conversation, he had a way of doing the same with his voice.

   She sat. Anyone who knew her would have been surprised to see it. She towered over Rommond, in height and width, and her multi-coloured mohawk rose further still, but now that she was seated, he towered over her, and he cast a tall and intimidating shadow, perfectly exemplifying the contours of his uniform.

   “I know what happened up there,” he said, pointing to the ceiling. “In the skies, when I handed the airship over to Taberah.”

   “You don't know the whole of it,” Alakovi responded.

   “I know enough.”

   “I was tryin' to protect you, Rommond.”

   “I don't need protecting,” he stated. “I need people I can trust.”

   “And you can trust me,” Alakovi replied. “You can't trust her!”

   “Taberah might skirt the edges, but she is one of us.” He paced around the room, his shadow pacing with him. “But you,” he said, drawing out the word. “What you did is not our way. What you did was … it was demonic.”

   “I'm no demon!” she cried.

   “And yet you acted like one.”

   She bashed her fist on her thigh. “I didn't come here to be interrogated.”

   “I didn't come to Blackout to have my best betray me.”

   “I didn't betray you,” she pleaded. “Don't you see?” She pointed her pudgy finger to an empty space to her left, where Taberah previously stood. “She's the betrayer. Don't think she's let up wantin' your position. Soon as you go down, she'll be clamberin' over your body to get in your chair. Mark my words, Rommond. And I'll bet she's the one who guns you down too.”

   “Enough!” Rommond shouted, banging his own fists on the table. It was rare to see him angry, and rarer to seem him violent outside battle. He shook his head and sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

   She looked away. “I care about you, Rommond. I care like a mother cares. I'm not just the Matron of the Copper Vixens, you know. Who else is going to look out for you?”

   “You have a funny way of showing it, Ana.”

   “I never said I was perfect.”

   “I never thought you'd be a problem.”

   She folded her arms, and her muscles bulged. “She's the problem, Rommond. You're too close to her to see.”

   “And you can see how close we are,” Rommond said. “And you still tried to hurt her. And so you hurt me.”

   “I meant to protect you.”

   “Well, we all know the saying about good intentions. What I need is good actions.”

   “What do you want me to do?”

   “I want you to do your job, and no more. You can be the Copper Matron, but don't be a matron to me. I'm not your son, Ana, and the way you acted up there on the Skyshaker, I wouldn't have you as a mother.”

   Her heavy breathing continued, but she looked less intense than before.

   “If you lay a finger on Taberah again,” the general continued, “there will be no place for you here, no seat for you to refuse to sit on. You go do your job, and earn back the respect you squandered in the skies.”

   She opened her mouth to speak, but he placed his pistol on the table and turned away. He heard the creaking of the chair as she struggled up, and her downtrodden steps as she sauntered away. He also thought he heard her whimper, and hoped the copper would not corrode from the tears.

  4 – THE NEGOTIATION TEAM

  The Skyshaker loomed over the city, with long ropes hauling the shell of the Hopebreaker to Blackout's worker district. Rommon
d followed on the ground, and others trailed behind him. To any onlookers it almost seemed like a funeral procession. When they arrived, the carcass of the Hopebreaker was set down, and Rommond placed the nameplate beside it.

   Brooklyn drew up close, and the general linked his arm.

   “Can you fix it?” Rommond asked.

   Brooklyn did not stir. “The spirits can fix anything,” he said. “But me?”

   “Can they fix a broken heart?” Rommond kept his eyes set on the ruin of the landship before him, as if it were the burned metal shell that had for so long encased his heart. “Only you can fix that for me.”

   Brooklyn was silent for a time. “What will you take north? Are any landships ready?”

   “They're all in pretty bad shape,” Rommond said. “We could take the Skyshaker.”

   “If we wanted to be shot down.”

   “It's a fast ship.”

   “My people have fast dart and fast arrow,” Brooklyn said, looking up at the airship hovering gloriously above the city, its many wounds patched up, as if it were the general's heart now. “And fast desire to shoot down what should not fly.”

   “It's a great pity they're not all like you,” Rommond replied.

   Brooklyn raised his mechanical hand. He did not respond, but the gesture said enough.

   “I'd rather not bring an army into tribal land,” the general said, directing Brooklyn's attention elsewhere. “Maybe we should use a transport vehicle like the Silver Ghost.”

   “That is wise. Better to be ambassador.”

   “Perhaps, but I tend to negotiate with my gun.”

   “Better to bring other ambassador then.”

   “I'm not sure who can convince the tribes to join our cause. We weren't that successful on that front before. I have my doubts.”

   “Many things have changed,” Brooklyn said softly. “Who convinced city's people to fight?”

   Rommond paused for a moment. “I think it was Jacob.”

   “Then maybe your doubts have you.”