Landquaker

by Dean F. Wilson

   “I used to be a betting man,” Jacob mused.

   “Out here, boy, every night under the stars is a bet of life or death. If it isn't the tribes, it's the biker gangs. If it isn't the biker gangs, it's the Clockwork Commune. You got no metal to rob, they'll rob your bones instead. But if it isn't them that get ya, it'll be the sand or the sun or the scorpions.” He looked at Taberah with that last comment. “Or it'll be the stars themselves.”

   “At least it won't be the rattlesnake,” Jacob quipped.

   “This one's a bit of a joker, eh?” Nox said coolly.

   “Yes,” Taberah said, “but I wasn't joking when I said you're the best I've seen. And I've seen a lot come and go.” Jacob could see where she was going with this. He vaguely recalled her praising him before he was inadvertently recruited.

   “Mostly go,” the Coilhunter said. “But I ain't here to hunt praise.”

   “What are you doing this far south?” Taberah asked.

   “What I'm always doin',” he said. “Puttin' the 'wild' back in the Wild North.”

   “Better than where we first met,” Taberah said. She seemed suddenly unsettled.

   “This is nature's graveyard, Taberah, and I'm the gravedigger.”

   Jacob humphed. “Seems like you're a lot of things.”

   “Careful, boy,” Nox said, adjusting his badge. “Don't wanna have to make this up six.”

   “Pity black's taken,” Jacob replied. “That's just my colour.”

  When Rommond returned to the Silver Ghost, he paused, as if something was amiss. He tapped his foot and looked at Brooklyn, who seemed a little nervous. Then he stared straight at one of the closed doors on the vehicle, and continued to rap the floor with his boot.

   “Your mother will be very angry with you,” he said.

   There was no response.

   “I will be too if you don't come out right now.”

   The door creaked open slowly, and Whistler stepped out, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, his hands in his pockets, to disguise whatever mischief they were up to but moments before. He was not wearing his cap, so his reddish-brown curls covered his apologetic eyes.

   Rommond folded his arms, careful not to crease his uniform. He shook his head, and sighed as he spoke. “What are we to do with you?”

   Whistler bit his lip, and looked up while still keeping his head bowed, so that he stared through the prison bars of his hair. “Let me off with a warning?” he suggested.

   The general guffawed in response. “You'd think we'd given enough of those.” He paused as the laughter faded and the tension returned. “You'd think the Wild North was warning enough.”

   Whistler shrugged. For someone who wanted adventure, the Wild North was more of an invitation. The dangerous places, with the perilous names, always looked the most exciting on the maps.

   “Tabs isn't going to like this one bit, you know.”

   Whistler grew defiant. “I don't care.”

   “You don't care how she feels?”

   Whistler pursed his lips, refusing to answer.

   “Brogan, it's not polite to ignore a question.”

   “I'm not ignoring it,” he said. “Why should I care if she doesn't?”

   “She cares, Brogan. You have to care to be angry.”

   Whistler shrugged again, feigning indifference, but his curls could not disguise the frustration in his face. He could not claim he did not care, because he was clearly angry himself.

   “We're not far enough into the Wild North,” the general said, “that we can't turn back and drop you off.” He heard a disapproving hmm from Brooklyn. He was not the type to criticise openly, but Rommond knew his little signs and tells.

   “I guess,” Whistler pouted.

   “We would lose time,” Brooklyn said. “Time very valuable now.”

   Rommond screwed up his eyes. “Did you know about this?” he asked.

   Brooklyn was never a very good liar. It was not a skill the spirits taught him. He needed some training with a certain smuggler.

   “You lot have been around Jacob too long,” the general said, shaking his head in disbelief. Had they been soldiers, he might have court-martialled them for insubordination. “We've got a bunch of smugglers and liars aboard now, a lot more than we need.”

   “We have ambassadors,” Brooklyn corrected. “Ambassadors we need.”

   Rommond turned back to Whistler, wagging his index finger. “You better make a fine ambassador then, Brogan. I don't want you to make a fine corpse. Trust me, chap, Tabs doesn't either.”

  Nox barely budged from his stone seat, and Taberah and Jacob stood still as well. It was almost like a stand-off, except they were firing words instead of bullets. They might even have seemed like friendly words, but Jacob suspected that the Masked Menace was not in the business of making friends. It got in the way of his real line of work collecting bounties, for which he likely amassed a lot of enemies as well.

   “There's a lot of fine bounties on Rommond's head,” the Coilhunter said, nodding towards the warwagon, as if he was considering cashing in on one.

   Taberah sighed. “Yes, he's lucky to be still alive.”

   “Oh, it ain't luck. I've combed this here waste from north to south, and east to west, and I ain't found no luck amongst the grains.”

   “Maybe you can help us,” Taberah suggested.

   There we go, Jacob thought. So much for the foreplay.

   “You never really needed my help,” the Coilhunter said. “And I ain't in the business of helpin' win a war. But maybe you can help me. Ya see, I'm here searchin' for someone else. Maybe you seen 'im. Maybe you saw 'im wormin' through the sands like a snake.” He span his pistol, which still smoked from the previous shot.

   “We haven't seen anyone out here,” Taberah said. “We've just arrived.”

   “Keep your eyes peeled,” Nox said, “or someone else'll peel 'em for ya.”

   “We better get back to the road,” Taberah said.

   Jacob was amused at how quickly she gave up. It did not seem like the Coilhunter was biting the bait. For her part, she was all about business, and it did not seem like there was a pay-off here.

   “It's a long journey,” Taberah added.

   “Ain't that life.” Nox paused, then patted what looked like several scrolls in his pocket. It did not take much to guess that they were Wanted posters. “Though I guess for some, it ain't that long.”

   “Before we go,” Jacob said, as Taberah started to stroll back to the warwagon, “mind if I ask what happened?” He made a gesture like placing a gas mask on.

   Nox let out a puff of smoke from the filter on his mask, which might have been the equivalent of a sigh. “No can do, boy,” he rasped. “It'd give ya nightmares.”

   Part of Jacob shivered, but he tried to hide it. He had some doubts about Nox, but he did not doubt those words. “Fair enough. Well, see you around.” He offered a mock salute.

   “Consider this your sheriff’s welcome,” Nox replied. “People come here when they're tired of bein' hunted. Criminals. Murderers. Smugglers. People choose this place 'cause they think it ain't watched. But I've got two good eyes, see, and I'll be watchin'.”

   He pointed at Jacob, and gave a final strung of his guitar. A compartment opened up in it, and Jacob flinched, but instead of bullets it let out a thick smoke, which wafted up around the Coilhunter, until all that could be seen were his watchful eyes, and then nothing at all. When the fog faded, he was gone. Yet somehow it still felt like they were being watched.

  6 – SILVER IN THE SAND

  “You know a lot of strange folk,” Jacob said to Taberah as they returned to the Silver Ghost.

   “And you don't?” she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder.

   Jacob nodded. “I guess you're right.” Cala was enough strange for a lifetime.

   “Let's get this s
how on the road,” Taberah called to Rommond.

   “We're already up and running,” Rommond called from the engine room, where they could hear him shovelling coal. “Just give it a minute to heat up.”

   As they waited, Brooklyn surveyed the interior. He held up a fallen red tapestry with finely woven threads. Many of them were on the ground or piled in a corner of the corridor. It did not seem like Taberah cared any more. It used to be a vessel fitting for a queen, but it seemed like she had abdicated the throne.

   “This vehicle is very messy,” Brooklyn said.

   Taberah scoffed. “Don't tell me you've caught the same bug Rommond has.”

   “I heard that,” Rommond called from the other room, and they heard him bang the shovel down in response, though he likely only placed it in its perfect place. “There's nothing wrong with a little order.” They heard him sweeping up to prove the point. “This old boy could do with a right scrubbing. All these handles are so greasy I wish I was wearing gloves.”

   “This old girl is fine as she is,” Taberah replied. “Sometimes you need a little dirt.” She looked at Jacob, and he humphed in response.

   Brooklyn ran his finger across one of the empty shelves running along the top of the corridor, which might have at one time housed books, were literature that did not praise the Iron Emperor not outlawed. The dust was thick there.

   “Hard not to gather dust in a desert,” Jacob said.

   “I remember you were a little messy when I first met you,” Taberah pointed out to Brooklyn. “Before Rommond programmed you.”

   Brooklyn looked to the ground, to where the dust had gathered. Then Jacob realised he was looking at his mechanical hand instead. Maybe 'programmed' wasn't the right word, he thought.

   “I needed order in my life,” Brooklyn said. “I needed meaning.”

   Jacob nodded. “I guess we all do.”

   “Okay,” Rommond said with an exhausted sigh as he stepped out into the corridor. He brushed a dot of soot from his sleeve, and grumbled when it left a stain. “I've got this thing set up with enough fuel that we should be able to stay on auto-pilot for a while. Hopefully we'll get some sleep before we arrive in tribal territory, though I still think one of us should sleep in the cockpit just in case.”

   Rommond popped into the cockpit to push forward the gear-stick, then hopped back down as the warwagon chugged along slowly of its own accord. They retreated to the lounge area at the back of the warwagon, collapsing onto the cushioned benches that lined the walls. Even those were a little dusty, as if no one had relaxed on board the Silver Ghost for quite a while. Jacob did not mind the dust. He laid back, placing his hands behind his head, and yawned.

   “Comfy,” he said. “Maybe I'll sleep out here.”

   “What are these?” Brooklyn asked, holding up a pile of papers that were peeping out of a drawer beneath the bench. Jacob thought they made a familiar rustle.

   Rommond glanced over. “Oh, they're nothing.”

   “Some of these are my designs,” Brooklyn replied.

   “I didn't mean nothing in that sense,” the general said, twitching his moustache. “I meant they're not of much concern to us right now.”

   “They are for mechanical birds,” the tribesman said.

   “What, like that messenger one you sent out?” Jacob asked. “I wouldn't mind having one of those for a pet. At least you don't have to clean up after it.”

   “Only oil,” Taberah said.

   “No,” Brooklyn replied. “Ones to sit in, ones to fly in.”

   “Remind me never to try that,” Jacob commented, feeling nauseous from the thought of it alone. “The airship was bad enough. I'm not a religious man, by any stretch of the imagination, but I say if God wanted us to fly, he'd have given us wings.”

   “God may not have, but the spirits gave me these wings,” Brooklyn said, holding up one of the diagrams displaying a wooden frame on wheels, something that looked like it would barely float, let alone fly.

   “We never did get them to work,” Rommond explained, taking out some shoe polish for his boots. “They could only stay in the air so long.”

   “I wasn't finished on them,” Brooklyn said.

   “Well, you'll have to leave that for another time. We've got problems on the ground to worry about. I think the war of the air is over. It's not the rustle of the wind that worries me. It's the rumble of the earthquake.” He set one boot down with a thud, before moving on to the other.

   Brooklyn was silent for a time, with the only the rumpling of pages to kill the quiet. “Why do these have Regime labels on them?”

   The general sat up, and closed the little tin of shoe polish, before depositing it back in his coat pocket. “We found them in the Hope factory south of Blackout.”

   “You mean these are the papers I smuggled out?” Jacob asked. “I thought you said they were worthless.”

   “Worthless to our current efforts,” Rommond said. “But it's better that they're in our hands instead of the Regime's. Though, to be honest, I think they probably have their hands full with us.”

   Rommond paused and stared at his boots, which sparkled in the low lamplight. He took off his cap, revealing his neatly trimmed chestnut hair, and ran the brim between his fingers; for a moment Jacob thought he was going to try polishing that as well. Then the general let out a very audible sigh, and everyone perked up from their study or dozing. “Now,” he said, with that same timbre he used to end a meeting, “before we continue any further, I think we need to sort out something. It's better we sort it here than when we visit the tribes.”

   Brooklyn stood up sharp, like one of Rommond's soldiers. “I think I will be in cockpit.” The general nodded slightly to him, and Brooklyn quickly left the room.

   Jacob wondered if maybe he should have used that excuse, but his curiosity would have kept him there. “What's wrong?” he asked.

   “Nothing's wrong … per se.”

   “Just come out with it, Rommond,” Taberah said.

   “Tabs, I want you to be calm about this. We're a little too cramped for fire.”

   “It depends what this is.”

   Rommond sighed again. “Come out,” he called. He placed his cap back on, as if readying himself for a battle.

   It took a moment before there was any sign of stirring. Then the door of the nearby room on the left opened slightly.

   “Fully out.”

   Whistler slunk into the room, looking as guilty as he did when he was almost caught stealing from Rommond's room aboard the Lifemaker. Jacob held back a chuckle. The others looked a little too sombre for his snickering.

   “You idiot!” Taberah cried, jumping up from her seat.

   “I'm not an idiot!” Whistler shouted back.

   “Hell, Taberah,” Jacob said, “lay off the kid.”

   “What do you know?” she barked, turning an accusatory finger upon him. “You think you're a father now? It takes more than giving in all the time to make a parent.”

   Jacob was about to give a smart-aleck response, but held his tongue. Riling her up was one thing. He could take it. But he knew who was getting the tongue-lashing tonight.

   Taberah turned her fiery glare on Whistler. “You don't know how dangerous these lands are. You think it's bad under the Regime's rule, where the law comes heavy? You have no idea what it's like in this wasteland, where the law doesn't come at all.”

   “What about that coilhunter?” Jacob asked. “He said he was a kind of sheriff.”

   Her attention was stolen by Jacob once more, and with it went her rage. “Oh, he'll come looking for your killer all right, but only after he finds your corpse.” She spat the words with all the venom in her, as if she was spitting on the killer, as if she could see the murder in her mind.

   “Why do you even care what I do?” Whistler asked. The cage of his hair did little to hide the glisten in his ey
es.

   She turned back to the boy again, and her own eyes welled up. “Why do I care?” she asked, running her fingers through her hair. “Do you not think I've always cared? Do you not think that when I held you in the Order headquarters, that I didn't feel as though I too had been burned? I don't want to lose you, Brogan! I don't want to lose you like I lost … like I lost the others.”

   Whistler was shaking now, and very close to tears. It was only a quickly-fading sense of defiance that stopped the deluge now. “I'm sorry,” he whimpered.

   “Don't be sorry,” Taberah said. She grabbed his shoulders suddenly and knelt down before him, pleading with him, and shaking him with every word that followed. “I want you to be safe.”

   They did not hug, as Jacob might have done. She held him, at a distance, like she held everyone, and he kept his arms pressed firmly to his torso, clenching his fists, even as she clutched his shoulders. She shook him, as if to wake him up, to make him see the dangers of the world, or make her own eyes see that he had not joined Elizah in eternal sleep. When she was not shaking him, he shook on his own. Though it was difficult to watch, and Rommond looked away awkwardly, Jacob could only imagine what it was like for either of them.

   “I'll be safe,” the boy said in time, as if those words were the only thing that could stop her shaking him. Maybe it was an empty promise, the kind of promise a boy could not keep, and one a mother could never fully believe. “I'll be safe.”

   But before he had fully finished the words, something struck the warwagon with a bang, dinting the metal just inches from Whistler's head. He jumped away, just as many more dints formed in the metal.

   Rommond leapt up, pistol in hand, and Jacob glanced out the window on one side, then the other, but he could not see anything.

   The general did not look outside. It seemed he knew what this phantom attacker was. “We need to get out of here,” he said. “Help me ramp up the speed.”

   Jacob and Taberah joined him in the engine room, while Whistler loitered at the door, clearly eager to stay close, and just as eager to keep a distance from his mother. From the door he could keep one hand and foot on the ladder up to the cockpit, where he could hear Brooklyn pulling feverishly on the levers, and mumbling something to himself in his native tongue.