Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6)

by Dean F. Wilson

   He paused and glared at Lorelai, and she was noticeably stricken by the gaze.

   “Who. Am. I?” he asked, spacing out the words.

   “You are our saviour.”

   He nodded with great satisfaction. “Do you love me?”

   “Yes,” she told them. It must have been a lie. It had to be.

   “Do you trust me?”

   “Yes.” There was no way she could mean it, and yet she sounded so sincere.

   “Put the gun to your head.”

   She put it to her head. Jacob flinched. He hoped it was a ruse. He looked at Whistler, who stared back at him with worried eyes.

   “Do you feel the barrel?” the Iron Emperor continued.

   “Yes,” she said.

   “Do you feel the cold of the steel?”

   “Yes,” she breathed.

   “Do you want to live?”

   “Yes,” she pleaded.

   “But if I ask you, will you die for me?”

   There was a moment of hesitation, but the answer was the same: “Yes.”

   The Iron Emperor smiled broadly. “Pull the trigger.”

   Jacob ran towards her, but it was too late. She fired, and she fell. The red looked starker on the snow. The sands in Altadas used to hide it a little. Not here. Here, in the maran homeworld, everything seemed to stand out.

   Jacob caught Lorelai's body, and the blood splashed upon him.

   “You monster!” he shouted at the Iron Emperor, and in the moment they locked eyes, Jacob felt suddenly exposed.

   “No,” the Iron Emperor replied. “Say it after me: I'm the monster.”

   Jacob was surprised to find himself repeating the words. “I'm the monster.”

   “Good. Now get up. Leave her.”

   Jacob stood up, letting Lorelai drop from his arms. She was just another body now. The question was: how high would the next mound be? It could start with the three of them.

  40 – RADIO SILENCE

  Brooklyn stirred. The ringing in his ears seemed to grow, like an alarm clock. It forced him to move, and the movement made him feel the sharp pain in the nape of his neck. He opened his eyes, slowly, blinking several times, to find himself in darkness. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw that he was lying on the floor of the Hometaker. He sat up and grimaced as a blinding ray of white light burned through one of the open viewports.

   He heard voices outside, and glanced out to see, first, the immense bed of snow, and then the handful of figures boring bootprints into it. One of them was the Iron Emperor. There was no mistaking him and his powerful gaze, nor his commanding and hypnotising voice. Brooklyn tried not to listen too closely. He had already been controlled enough.

   It took him longer than he liked to get his wits about him to realise he still had work to do. He only hoped that Lorelai's betrayal had not sabotaged that as well. He was quite surprised to find himself in Mes Marana, and quite bewildered by all the strange voices he heard, like spirit voices, machine voices, many thousands of them, all shouting and screaming. He must have spent too long with Rommond, because part of him doubted the reality of the voices, wondering if maybe his head wound was more serious than he thought.

   When he gathered his senses, he searched through the vehicle as quietly as he could, aware that at any moment Lorelai could return—or worse, the Iron Emperor himself. He was not a fighter. He had to contribute to the war effort in more subtle ways. What he tried to do would be very subtle, and one of the greatest contributions of all.

   If he could find what he was looking for.

   The previous flight and battle and tumble had knocked everything out of place. It was the kind of disarray that would make Rommond grumble beneath his breath, and make Brooklyn grumble a little more quietly in his soul.

   He was distracted again by the spectral voices. They seemed to gather, and all of them had accusing fingers to point at the Iron Emperor. Their pleas were overwhelming, and it took a great effort for Brooklyn to block them out to focus on his mission.

   Every moment of searching was valuable seconds gone, and he began to fear he might have lost his opportunity. Finally, he rummaged beneath the seats in the cockpit, feeling the handle of a large bag, and pulled it out. Inside it was radio equipment, which he connected up as quickly as he could. The antenna was already on the roof, a little buckled and bent, but still working.

   He turned everything on, and listened closely. There was a lot of interference, despite how close he was. The wind worked havoc on the sound, whispering over everyone, even the spirits. But with a few adjustments and shifts in position, Brooklyn picked up the Iron Emperor's voice through the hiss.

   Then he started broadcasting it. There was no one in Mes Marana to hear, bar the dead, but there were many ears in Altadas, and some were listening closely in the clock tower of Blackout.

   While he let the equipment work, he began to meditate as well, and heard the spirit voices much more clearly now, and heard their attempts to force the Iron Emperor to admit what he had done to them. It was distressing when it came.

   “I slaughtered them all,” the Iron Emperor's voice came over the radio. “A hundred thousand, swatted like flies, for that is all they were, and ever will be. They were less than maran, less than human. I did all worlds a favour then. I got rid of the weak. And I'll get rid of more.”

  * * *

  In Blackout, the signals came through clear and crisp.

   “We've got it!” Tardo cried. He almost pulled some of the wires from the radio equipment in his excitement.

   They listened, and it was unmistakable. It was the Iron Emperor, and he was incriminating himself. If his people heard what he said, there would be a rebellion like no other—unless he could get back to Altadas to hypnotise them all again.

   The team at the clock tower worked swiftly to both record the conversation and start the process of taking over Regime channels to begin broadcasting on those as well. It had taken a lot of planning and effort to get to this stage. Tardo's knowledge of Regime communications was essential. Some historians might say later: in losing him, they had lost the war.

  * * *

  When the night was over, and the soldiers-turned-broadcasters started to fall asleep at their posts, the broadcast was put on loop, and a skeleton crew was put in place, with rotating shifts for the next forty-eight hours. The rest of them retired to their own beds, or went outside to help secure the city, or were drafted into secret meetings to discuss how things would proceed from here.

   “We did it,” Tardo said, relieved.

   He left the clock tower building with Gregan when the first glimmers of light were emerging. Tardo was tired, but elated.

   “Yeah,” Gregan replied, as grumpy as ever.

   Tardo could tell that he was happy too, underneath it all. He just had too much pride to show it. They had fought side-by-side on the Home Front, and won, and brought the fight to the enemy in a way they did not expect—right into the radios of their living rooms.

   “And we did it together.” Tardo smiled at Gregan. “Guess we can work together after all.”

   “Yeah, I guess we can.”

   They strolled down the streets of Blackout, two unlikely compatriots, united by necessity. Tardo's smile was infectious, but there was no one around but Gregan to infect. It made it easier for Gregan to slip his hand into his pocket while Tardo was not looking, and pull out a shoelace, which he swiftly lashed around the technician's neck. Tardo's cry was cut short by his choking. He struggled, trying to grasp the lace, but all he managed to do was dig his nails into his neck. The more he fought, the tighter Gregan pulled, until finally he slumped to the ground.

   Gregan knelt down to where Tardo's wide-eyed face kissed the pavement, and promptly ran the shoelace through his shoe, until he tied it up tight, but not as tight as Tardo's neck. It was a snug fit, just nice. He stood up and dusted off his hands. And th
en he smiled, a broad and satisfied smile. Tardo's smile was definitely infectious. Gregan would be the last person he gave it to.

  41 – GRANTING WISHES

  Jacob tried to struggle, but the Iron Emperor's voice was overpowering.

   “You don't want to fight,” he said.

   Much of the fight in Jacob faded. It was not replaced by serenity, but by a sense of dullness.

   “You don't want to resist.”

   The part of him that struggled seemed to pass.

   “Tell me what you really want. I can grant it. I can give you anything in the world, or in the next, or in any world. I can go there. I can take you. Why fight it? Why resist? Tell me what you want.”

   “I want,” Jacob began, and then he paused. He was not sure what he wanted. Nothing came to mind. He felt no urges, no desires, no inclinations towards anything.

   “You want riches, don't you, Jacob?” the Iron Emperor taunted.

   “I want riches,” Jacob said, nodding.

   The Iron Emperor held out his right hand, and it seemed as if there were many crates of coils there, lids open, revealing the glint of iron inside. The Iron Emperor reached inside one, lifting up a fistful of the currency, letting the coils waterfall down. There was that reassuring clink, a beat which Jacob's heart suddenly matched with a flutter.

   “Good,” the Iron Emperor whispered. “It's what you've always wanted.” He spoke low, out of pleasure, but also to let the clink of the coils be heard.

   Jacob felt compelled to move, to walk towards the treasure, to kneel down beside the chests, to reach inside, to feel that cool metal, to make again that reassuring sound. He smiled a drunken smile, and all else seemed to fade.

   “Stop it!” Whistler cried.

   “Why?”

   “You're just playing with people's minds.”

   “I'm just giving him what he wants.”

   “No,” the boy said, shaking his head frantically. “That's not who he is any more. I know. I saw it. He changed.”

   “People don't change, Brogan,” the Iron Emperor stated.

   “They do,” Whistler whimpered. “They have to.”

   “No, they don't. They only have to obey.”

   “I won't obey you.”

   “But why?” The Iron Emperor stared at him. “Wouldn't you want a family?”

   Whistler halted mid-stride and mid-pout, as if the Iron Emperor had told him to stop.

   “Wouldn't you want your mother back? Wouldn't you want her to love you?”

   Whistler's brow furrowed. His eyes watered. His heart panged.

   “I can bring her back,” the Iron Emperor promised him, like he had promised a cure.

   Whistler shook his head. “Maybe you can, but you can't make her love me.”

   “Why not? I can do all things.”

   Whistler took a deep breath. “Because she already did.”

   This seemed to anger the Iron Emperor, as if he did not expect it, as if he did not will it.

   “She despised you,” he said.

   Whistler shook his head again. The red curls—her red—caressed his face. He pointed at the Iron Emperor. “She despised you. Everyone does.”

   “The people love me.”

   “Only because you make them. No one feels it truly.”

   The Iron Emperor's chest heaved. “You know not your peril, child, to talk to me like that.”

   “No, but I know what I say is true.”

   The glare was piercing. “I will enjoy crushing you.”

   Whistler wanted to be defiant, to give another snappy response like Jacob would. But he was frightened. He never felt before a fear so penetrating. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had now met a real monster. The shadows continued to convulse.

   “Now,” the Iron Emperor said, and his smile was deathly.

   Whistler tried to look away, but the voice lured him like a fish to the hook, until he found he barely noticed his head was turning. He was caught in the eyes of the Iron Emperor, those great, vast galaxies, those swirling, ever-shifting masses, the vessels of everything and nothing. They were demon eyes. Real demon eyes. He was no maran. He had hidden himself amongst them even as they had done amongst the people of Altadas. All of this was revealed in the stare. Whistler had gotten his name by spotting demons. He felt it now, that undeniable knowledge that made his belly churn.

   “Pick up the gun,” the Iron Emperor told him.

   Whistler felt a sudden panic, as if he were drowning. The part of him in control, the real part, was being pushed down, pushed under.

   He barely noticed the irritation in the Iron Emperor at having to repeat the command. “Pick up the gun.”

   Whistler felt the gargle, the struggle, the blackness and the helplessness. He suddenly found himself a mere occupant of his own body, watching from within, unable to stop himself from walking over to where Lorelai's corpse was, and taking up the gun.

   “Good,” the Iron Emperor said. “Put the barrel to your head.”

   Whistler complied, despite every attempt not to. He heard the whispers of the spirits a lot more clearly now, and feared it was because he would be joining them soon.

   The Iron Emperor turned to Jacob. “I want you to watch.”

   So Jacob turned to watch, letting the snow fall from his hands. Whistler looked at him, and their eyes met, and inside each of them their trapped personas shed dry tears.

   The Iron Emperor turned back to Whistler, and his smile was more menacing than ever.

   “Do you feel the barrel?” he asked.

   “Yes,” Jacob said, and fired.

   The bullet pierced through the back of the Iron Emperor's head and out of his left eye, which exploded in blood and gore. His scream was unnatural, and his shadow writhed more than ever, twisting over itself, growing a little smaller in size. He fell to his knees, and Jacob rose to his feet, his pistol in hand, with many more bullets in the barrel.

   The Iron Emperor's gaze was weakened, and Jacob strolled in front of that fabled leader, that god, and blasted away his second eye. The shadow faded more, and now his voice was weak, though his wail was still otherworldly. It sounded as if now the spirits assailed him, as if his very essence was being ripped to shreds. He collapsed into a convulsing heap, his face suddenly gaunt and ghastly, his eye sockets empty and bloodied. He twisted and thrashed in place, and wriggled like a worm being devoured. And then he was still, and he cast a shadow no more.

  42 – REGIME RESISTANCE

  In the fortress city of Ironhold in the north-east of Altadas, a place of a thousand obsidian towers, the citizens of the Regime listened attentively to their radios as they had always done, ready for the latest biased news, the next propaganda, the newest instructions on how to live their lives, how to act, how to exist, how to think. They had been trained to give those static-laced voices their fullest attention, and today was only different in the content they heard.

   “I made them sick,” the Iron Emperor announced, as the Resistance took over every radio channel, broadcasting straight from Mes Marana, where the evils of the Regime leader were being revealed. He knew many things, and said he knew all, but he did not know that his own people were listening.

  * * *

  In the Iron Palace, an obsidian pyramid topped by a giant tower, and where the Iron Emperor made his dwelling, there were but a handful of guards left to patrol its long, dark halls. A woman stood in one of the corridors with a mop, polishing the same place over and over as she listened to the nearby radio.

   “A hundred thousand defiers here,” the Iron Emperor said. “Who can count the thousands more on the other worlds we conquered?”

   For years she had made those floors shine, in honour of the Iron Emperor, even after her husband disappeared. He had expressed disquiet over some of the Regime's policies. She had urged him to say nothing, to keep his head down, to
just carry on his duties. She did not know what happened to him, and did not ask.

   For years she scrubbed and polished, but now she stopped and dropped the mop with a clatter to the marble floor. A guard on the further end of the hall glanced over, and any other day he might have chased her and beat her, and made her do her duty. But he was also listening to the radio, and he also had a loved one who spoke out, then spoke no more.

  * * *

  In one of the Hope factories in the far east, bordering the mining town of Hopehaven, a mix of maran and human workers and slaves toiled to produce the drug that sustained them.

   They too listened to the radios, which were set to channels spewing triumphant declarations of the power and majesty of the Regime. It either inspired them to become good citizens or deflated them enough to abandon any notion of resistance. Until now.

   The conveyor belts continued, but the workers became slower, until eventually they stopped entirely. The guards came around, bashing some of them, shouting at others, firing warning shots into the air.

   A young man looked at his arm, where the rot of the Iron Plague had started. He had not worked fast enough and had been denied his weekly portion of Hope as punishment. A guard approached, but before he could whack the worker in the head, the man turned on him, leaping at him, knocking him to the ground.

   Others followed, and more still, until the entire factory rebelled against the guards, dragging them to the ground, tearing at them, giving them all the beatings they had given out before. They seized their guns, and the worst of the guards were shot. Then the workers left the factory, guns at the ready, and poured into the mining town to take down the guards there too.

  * * *

  In the eastern town of Dunedale, where the most recent Iron Rally had been held, the streets were eerily quiet. The banners and streamers were still there, but there was no celebration, no festivities in the name of the Iron Emperor, the leader without a name.