The hatch opened suddenly and Rommond fell backwards into the sand. From there he could see inside the carrier, filled only with the battered remnants of one of Brooklyn's earlier prototypes. It might as well have been empty.
He had little time for despondency, however, as he heard the now-familiar thrumming of engines and saw the always-familiar cloud of unsettled dust coming from the north. It seemed the battle was never over. There were just small interludes.
24 – A GIFT
General Ertalak rapped a knuckle off the carrier. “You've brought us a gift.”
Leadman smiled. “Consider it a … friendly gesture.”
“It'd want to be, what with your constant flip-flopping.”
“I go where the tide goes.”
“Well, it's good you think the tide goes this way.” He paused. “Do you know what's in it?”
“One of Rommond's prized weapons, of course.”
“Not a bomb?”
Leadman furrowed his brow. “No.”
“Rommond's carrier had a bomb, last we heard. Quite a big bomb, actually.”
“That wasn't the weapon I heard about.”
“Seems you might be out of the loop.”
“One more reason not to fight for Rommond, huh?”
“Certainly.”
“So then, I expect you'll keep your end of the bargain.”
“You can have Blackout for all we care. The real bastions are in the east, and those will stay in maran hands.”
“That's fine with me.”
“Probably more than you'd get with Rommond.”
“Yes. That's why I'm here.”
“So, shall we open it up?” Ertalak asked.
“Sure.”
“Why don't you do the honours?”
“Why?”
“Well, let's just say we've had enough booby-trapped carriers pass into our hands over the years. The so-called Order used to leave them lying around and issue fake reports of amulet finds.”
“Well, the Scorpion won't sting any more,” Leadman said with glee.
“Maybe not,” Ertalak said, “but the venom stays for quite a while.”
Leadman forced open the large back door of the carrier, and the panel fell down with a clang. They peered into the dark inside, illuminated only by a faint oil lamp. They saw a huge vehicle on gigantic landship treads, with several crystal missiles on its hull, and several more piled on the floor nearby. Half-buried in the cockpit hatch was Brooklyn, pausing mid turn of a bolt with spanner in hand.
Ertalak could not contain his laugh. “Oh, Leadman,” he said. “You can have every city in the west for this. You said one of Rommond's weapons. You didn't say the maker of them.”
25 – CONVERGENCE
Whistler collapsed into the sand with a sigh. He could drag Jacob no more. The smuggler's arm fell limp when he let it go. It was a horrible struggle, but at least Jacob's body stayed in place, unlike the last few attempts, when it slid back down a metre or two, adding more work to the next terrible haul.
Whistler sat up, resting his arms on his knees, and his chin on his arms. He felt the scorching sun on his back, burrowing through the fibres of his already ragged shirt. The setting rays fell also on Jacob's face. At first, Whistler moved until his shadow gave the smuggler some shade, but then he thought maybe the sunlight would wake him up. It always did for him, when they were not fighting this ugly, evil war.
“I'm not strong enough,” he said aloud, glancing at the paltry muscles on his arms. He had tried copying the military exercises Rommond ordered for his troops in the morning, but he could never keep up. He barely managed a few hours before giving up from exhaustion, and he had to rest for a week to recover from it all. He berated himself now for not keeping it up, for giving up so easily, for not better preparing for something like this, for a time when he would be tested.
He gave a tiny shrug. “I guess I failed,” he told himself. “No wonder they never wanted me to come on missions.” His memory was barbed, and one of the thorns was a word his mother had used for him: liability.
Yet, as he sat there staring at Jacob, his memory returned something a lot less stinging: some of Jacob's words, those comforting, encouraging words that lifted him up when he felt he was falling down. It made him think again about what Jacob would do. He would not give up.
“I have to get stronger,” he said, standing up, grimacing from the pain in his ankle.
He grabbed Jacob by the wrist and dug his heels back into the sand, then leant back with his entire body weight until he could pull the smuggler up the dune just a little. It was agonising work. He had heard people say they would “feel it in the morning,” but he could feel it now. He did not want to think of what it would be like tomorrow. He was not so sure the two of them would survive the night.
It was another hour of this, with barely much progress, before Whistler noticed a figure approaching. He knew it was not Mudro or Nox. He had already hobbled up the dune and around to the top of the bridge to look for them, screaming for the doctor to help. They had already left long ago. This other figure was different. In Regime territory, that could not be good.
In any other circumstances, it would have been Jacob who took the lead, ushering Whistler behind some cover, preparing to fight and win. Now it was just him, alone and defenceless. The panic of it all almost overcame him. He scampered back and forth a bit, unsure what to do, before spotting the pistol strapped to Jacob's belt. He grabbed it and hid behind an outcropping, crouching down, holding the pistol with both hands, thinking it felt rather heavy, thinking it looked huge and clumsy, thinking maybe he was not strong enough to shoot. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. He let the metal on the top tip his forehead and recoiled from the blistering heat of it.
The figure approached, spotting Jacob in the sand. When he reached the smuggler, Whistler could better make him out. His head and face were covered in some kind of tan-coloured head scarf, which extended down to cover his shoulders and upper arms as well. He carried an overflowing backpack, and he leant on a walking stick. Whistler did not know what to make of him, but he was prodding Jacob with the stick, and that was enough for him to act.
He leapt out, waving the gun before him. “Get back!” he cried, his voice breaking mid-shriek. He felt he could barely hold the gun. He could barely hold himself up either.
The man backed away, holding up his hands. “W-w-woah now!” he said.
“I mean it,” Whistler said, but he did not really. “I'll shoot.”
“N-n-now, boy, d-d-don't be a—” The man cut himself off mid-sentence. “Brogan? Is that you?”
Whistler's mouth dropped. It was about as much as he could manage for a response.
The man unwrapped his head scarf, revealing a familiar face: that friendly, wizened, harmless face of Uncle Alex Cotten, with his unkempt brownish-blonde hair and round, brass spectacles.
“Uncle Alex?” Whistler asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Brogan!” Alex cried. “What in the D-d-devil's name are you doing out here?”
Whistler looked down at Jacob. “Trying to save him.”
“Well now,” Alex said. “We can d-do something about that, can't w-w-we?”
Whistler nodded.
“M-m-maybe put down the gun?” Alex suggested.
Whistler had half-forgotten he was still holding it. He was just glad his finger was far from the trigger. He let it droop in his hands and tried to hand it to Alex, but his uncle backed away, holding his hands out in protest.
“N-n-no, not me!” he said. “I can't t-touch one of those. I'm a p-p-pacifist through and through.”
Whistler knew that already, and had asked him about it before on one of their few archaeological digs together so many years ago, before Alex went off into the east to make greater discoveries in Regime land, and wa
s presumed dead by the Resistance. He remembered the arguments Taberah and Alex had, and how they did not get along because of how staunchly they disagreed about the war. He even remembered helping his uncle fake a doctor's report to avoid conscription, and he certainly remembered the anxious dreams he had for months after that of the Resistance taking him away in the middle of the night to punish him for his heinous forgery.
“Oh,” was about as good as Whistler could manage now, before putting the gun down on the sand beside Jacob. “Can you help him?”
“I can t-t-try,” Alex said, unloading his backpack. He pulled a water canister out and dribbled some over Jacob's face, before taking a swig and offering it to Whistler. The boy gulped it down and poured some over his hair, letting it drip refreshingly down his face. He suddenly felt the sun more now, as if it had been hiding in his skin. The light was fading, but the air was till hot and humid.
“You should p-probably wear this,” Alex said, handing him a straw hat that was strapped to his backpack. Whistler put it on, feeling a sudden immense relief in the shade it offered. He knelt beside Jacob's head, letting the hat shield his face too.
Alex took out a variety of things, including an aloe vera ointment, which he rubbed gingerly on the cut across Jacob's forehead, and a flask of smelling salts, which he waved frantically before Jacob's nose. The smuggler did not stir.
“That usually does it,” Alex said, scratching his head.
“Can you not do more?” Whistler pleaded.
Alex bit his lip. “I'm not a d-d-doctor.”
“We have to do—” But Whistler froze. He saw several half-tread trucks speeding through the desert straight towards them.
Alex heard the thrum of the engines. “Oh God.”
“We have to hide him,” Whistler said.
“Where?” Alex cried. “He needs m-medical attention!”
It was then, just as Whistler grabbed the gun again, that the boy noticed the white flags billowing from the roofs of the trucks, and the white crosses emblazoned on their hulls. He saw the sun setting behind them, and realised they must be coming from the west, from Resistance lands. At least, he hoped they were.
“I think they're ours,” he said.
“Ours?” Alex asked. As far as he was concerned, his side only had one person on it.
The trucks pulled up close, halting nearby. They could see several nurses inside. Two of them leapt out with their medical supplies as soon as they saw Jacob on the ground. One of them, to Whistler's surprise, was Lorelai.
“What happened?” she asked, rubbing her hand across his face quickly before she tended to Jacob.
“We fell.”
“We need to get him out of this heat.”
She inspected his head and neck for any signs of serious injury before they hauled him into the nearest truck. The nurses crowded around him, stripping his shirt off.
Alex tutted at Whistler. “Women.”
They bathed the smuggler down, cleaned out his wounds, braced his broken arm, and applied much stronger smelling salts than the ones Alex had. The archaeologist leant cross-armed against the truck with the air of “I could have done that.”
When Jacob eventually stirred, he was in a daze for quite a while. They gave him water, and eventually he was able to speak.
“What's your name?” Lorelai asked him.
“I don't remember.”
“Who is the head of the Resistance?”
“I don't know. You?”
Lorelai shook her head. “What day is it?”
“Hell,” Jacob said. “I don't think I ever know what day it is.”
“Do you remember anything?” she asked him.
He grinned. “Everything. But it was fun to play.”
She rolled her eyes. “This is serious, you know. You could have died or had a brain injury.”
“Just an average day then.”
She rolled her eyes and hopped outside, where she found Alex and Whistler chatting. Alex hushed himself when she approached.
“It's okay,” Whistler said. “She's one of us. You can trust her.”
She eyed the explorer up and down. “You don't look like the fighting type.”
“Oh G-g-god no!” Alex cried.
“So why are you out here?”
“Well, I'm usually looking for my next dig site,” the archaeologist said, “but this time I did a little surveillance work for Rommond, as a kind of way to … umm, p-p-pay my respects.” He avoided looking at Whistler, and avoided mentioning Taberah by name.
“Surveillance?” Lorelai inquired. “Surveillance of what?”
“That Rift the demons use. Sure I know its patterns of movement like I know the Great Caverns of Talgyroni. Rommond wanted me to help g-g-guide Brooklyn when he got out here in his new … vehicle. I thought these guys might've been him, actually.”
“So you're still on your mission,” Lorelai said.
It was then, and only then, that Whistler noticed the gun strapped to the nurse's belt. He had not seen her with a weapon before, but then he thought maybe he was not looking. Something about it struck him as odd, but he dismissed it.
“Yes,” Alex said. “The Rift has settled for now. I'll need to find Brooklyn quick if I'm to show him the way.”
“Maybe we can join you,” Lorelai suggested. “The more, the merrier, right?”
26 – BEHEMOTHS AND BASTIONS
On the southernmost path, Mudro continued on, weary. The Coilhunter looked like he was born weary, so it made little difference to him. They drove slowly, carrier and monowheel side by side, wondering how they would ever fight with such diminished forces.
“This must be some weapon,” Nox said, glancing up at Mudro from beneath the rim of his hat. “It's killing us off good.”
Mudro sat on the roof of the carrier, cross-legged, feeling the old injury that made him limp acting up again. He said nothing. There was little to say. He had seen Whistler grow up. He never thought he would see him die as well.
They crawled along, careful and watchful, far slower than they needed to be. Mudro did not want to admit it aloud, but that was because he was waiting for backup. It seemed that some of the landship platoons that went out into the desert never arrived. He wondered if they met a worse fate than his group.
Dawn was breaking once again. Mudro had gotten very little sleep, waking regularly to find they had barely made much progress, or that he had dozed for only minutes at a time. When he glanced at the Coilhunter, the weathered bounty hunter seemed wide awake, still puffing smoke through his mask, like Mudro wanted desperately to puff the mind-relaxing leaf. It did not seem like the Coilhunter ever slept at all.
The emerging sun revealed the path ahead: the Dune Burrows, those gargantuan mountains of sand, etched and carved by the fingers of man, the muscle of maran, and the ethereal touch of the weather. Giant slabs of limestone stood like the dragon's teeth the Regime built around Ironhold to ward off an advancing army of landships. Yet these must have been from a bigger dragon for a bigger army, for they towered over even the huge carrier Mudro perched upon.
“Nature,” the doctor mused aloud.
“It'll kill ya,” Nox replied. He never said it, but when so close to the Coilhunter, there was always the implication of: If I don't kill you first.
“Not an outdoors sort?” Mudro asked him.
Nox was silent.
“Well,” the doctor said. “It'll be some trek up here.” He pointed to a colossal set of granite steps far in the distance, which must have been even more colossal up close.
“Why not go around?
“Because of that,” Mudro said, pointing to the top of the stairs, where a swirling lightning cloud formed.
“More nature,” Nox grumbled.
“No,” Mudro said. “That's the Rift. That's the doorway into the demon world.
”
“Let's get knockin' then.”
* * *
They continued across the dappled landscape, chasing away the shadows as the sun rose slowly, but as they neared some of the gigantic dunes, falling under their own enormous shadows, they started to see what the night had been concealing: a series of hastily-made fortifications dotting the dunes, and the hulls of Regime machinery jutting out from behind pillars and blocks.
Mudro signalled a halt, and both the carrier and monowheel stopped fast in the open. From here they could more clearly see the Rift, growing and shrinking, spinning and casting out scorching blades of lightning. They were so close, but there were a lot of obstacles in the way.
“If we turn, they'll know we've seen then,” Mudro whispered. He was not entirely sure why he whispered. They were far from earshot, and far enough, he hoped, from gunshot too.
“Oh, they know,” Nox said. He did not whisper. The grit was still in his throat, as if a desert existed there too.
“I don't have magic for this.”
“We've got metal,” Nox said, pulling his rifle from his back.
“They've got metal too,” Mudro said.
He did not need to point. No one could miss what they had missed at first. The ground shuddered, and one of the immense dunes to their right seemed to crumble apart. As the sand and rock gave way, the iron beneath awoke. Dust was replaced with the smoke of many furnaces, and the gentle sound of the breeze was replaced by the clang and clash of metal. It was a Behemoth, a towering rectangular-shaped monstrosity of industry, supported on huge metal tracks and iron columns, which tore apart the land like it was an enemy.
“You don't have magic for that, do you?” Nox asked.
“We're going to have to run.”
Nox looked back at the huge distance they had come, and the lack of cover anywhere. All the cover was ahead, with the enemy. There were two-legged Moving Castles there too, hiding behind that cover, and those could move faster than any landship could. If it was just the monowheel, they would be fine. The carrier made everything difficult. It made everything deadly.
Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6) Page 11
