In the town hall, the mayor was assembled with many of the town officials, decked out in their Regime uniforms, proudly displaying their ranks and colours. They sat around a large oval table, working out the requirements for the next rally, set to be in held in two weeks time. There were already dozens of women and children sitting at tables nearby, sewing new tapestries and flags to make the pageantry even better than the last.
The radio was on, as it always was, and they half-listened to it as they talked and worked, until that moment when the familiar voices cut out, and all they heard was the unmistakable voice of the Iron Emperor and his self-incriminating evidence.
The women stopped mid-sew, and some of the children started to cry, wondering if their missing mother or father, or older sister or brother, was among the mountains of bodies found in Mes Marana.
The mayor was flustered, standing up awkwardly. “Well,” he said. “I don't know what to say.”
“I do,” one of the other officials said. “Some of us have had doubts before. This only confirms it all, and it's even worse than we thought. It's time we put an end to this.”
* * *
Throughout all Regime territory, in the poor areas and the rich, this same pattern repeated. Cities fell and towns rose up in rebellion. The guards became the slaves, and the slaves took up their guns. The silent were given a voice, and the frightened were given courage. And those who had lived under the spell of the Iron Emperor found it suddenly broken. They stomped on his image on the coils and tore down the posters of him and blew up the effigies.
The pace of the rebellion would only grow in the following days and weeks as Rommond ordered dark chambers to be used to take pictures of the horrific scenes in Mes Marana, and of the Iron Emperor's dead body. Treasury balloons were used to drop leaflet bombs on Regime cities containing these further proofs, and then the newspaper offices were overrun by rebels, and they started producing broadsheets with those same images.
The headlines said it all:
THE WAR IS OVER.
THE IRON EMPIRE IS NO MORE.
THE IRON EMPEROR IS DEAD.
43 – … OR GO HOME
The battle was over, and so, it seemed, was the war. Some pockets of fighting would still continue throughout Altadas for some time, but as news of the Iron Emperor's death spread, Regime forces surrendered, and some commanders came to the negotiating table to discuss a truce.
Rommond negotiated the formal terms by which the Regime surrendered, and he was generous to those who genuinely wanted an end to the bloodshed. He recognised that past treaties had incited indignation and resentment, and he wondered what he might have accepted if he had lost the war.
Yet there were some in the Regime who would not accept this turn of events, and these were often of the highest ranks, people who still remained in the Iron Emperor's iron grip, even from beyond the grave. Some of these had ordered atrocities, and others had committed them. Many of them were attacked by their own people in the uprising that followed, dragged out into the streets and beaten, or hung in public executions, or incarcerated, or handed over to Rommond to do as he saw fit.
The general recognised the demon in some of them, and wondered if they could ever be redeemed, and then thought of the demons among his own, and knew that they could not. Little was discussed about what happened to these, for even a grave would be a problem, when there were still some—now silent, and waiting—who supported them, and who might worship their remains, and use their burial sites as a means to inspire others to find the demon in them too.
The dead were buried, and there were many of them. Some were just a name and number, with no family left to grieve for them. Others were well-known, like Mudro, that stranger from another land who fought for Altadas. The battlefields were combed for all of them, though some bodies would never be found. There was a new funeral every day for a long time, and the mourning continued for even longer.
Those who survived helped the other survivors, or returned to where they came from. The Coilhunter headed back to the Wild North, and grumbled when he saw that the Oxen clan biker gang was going back there too. The Copper Vixens offered their support for repairs in Blackout, and some of them settled there, while others eventually returned to the Wild North too. Gregan disappeared from Blackout, and some thought he went to that lawless land as well, and so they made sure to set a bounty for Nox to cash in on. Alex set off on an expedition into maran lands alone, excited with the prospects and the possible discoveries, hoping for something a lot less grim than Jacob and Whistler had discovered. Porridge left the city once his wound had healed and he found an outfit fitting for a grand departure. There was always much scavenging to be done, and doodads and doohickeys to find.
It would take years for the world—or worlds—to fully recover. Rationing continued for some time, and there was periodic rioting, and often hold hatred sprang up anew. There would be no reparations or segregation of the population. After all, everyone looked largely the same, and Whistler could not blow the whistle on them all, and had no desire to. Integration continued, until both peoples were one, and the threat of war became a memory, albeit an important one.
Rommond headed the caretaker government for some time, aided by the Baroness, with some top representatives of the maran people in their cabinet. Then, two years later, the first elections were held, and the now retired general reluctantly agreed to stand for office, and won by a landslide, even in Copperfort, where one of Leadman's former associates ran.
The maran people continued to search for a cure, looking not now to a single charismatic leader dangling promises, but the growing field of science. Those who had once worked on weapons now toiled on means for preserving and prolonging life. The drug Hope was kept for those already infected with the Iron Plague, but newborns were not given their first dose, and so never developed the disease. In time, even if a cure was never found, the Iron Plague would fade out of existence, just like the Iron Emperor himself.
* * *
Jacob, Whistler and Brooklyn came back through the Rift, the tribesman using the last of the Glass missiles to widen the opening again. He promised to make more, so that marans in Altadas could go and find their loved ones, and give them a proper burial.
“Spirits are calm now,” he said. “It seems machine spirits were maran spirits. They sent Pilgrims too, and those of us who listen, heard. Great anger and great pain. No one there in Mes Marana to listen. It was Iron Emperor's dark secret, and might have remained so if spirits had not summoned us. His evil deed was his undoing. Hundred thousand silenced voices spoke up. Hundred thousand he thought would not stand against him … they became an army.”
“Hopefully they can rest now,” Jacob replied.
“Rest? No. No rest yet until everybody knows. Still many who do not want to listen. People need to learn, and remember, so that this never happens again.”
In time, a memorial was built in the Dune Burrows, and it extended through the now permanently open Rift (thanks to a constant supply of missiles from Brooklyn, and then by others whom he trained to make them), up to the very Altar the Iron Emperor had died before. Lost names were found, and they were added to the marble sculptures. There was nothing more symbolic of the end of the war than the human figure in Altadas grasping the hand of the maran one in Mes Marana, an effigy that united worlds.
44 – RETIREMENT
For General Rommond, the end of the war was a huge change of pace, and took a lot of adjusting to. Even before the invasion, he was a military man, and he had been in uniform since he was just fifteen years old. He could barely remember a time when he was not fighting, but though it was a major change, to him, at this stage of his life, it was a welcome one.
In his quarters in Blackout, he took a moment to look at himself in the polished mirror. His uniform was as impeccable as ever, but he could not say the same for himself. He had aged quite a bit. He could see the firs
t tints of grey in his thick moustache, and the lines of worry and stress in his skin. War had not been kind to him, but then it had not been too cruel—after all, he was still alive.
He could feel the pistol strapped to his belt on the right side, and his revolver on the left. Normally he did not feel them. They became second nature, just another part of him, like that metal hand was to Brooklyn. Now, however, for the first time in a long time, they felt foreign to him.
He took them out, one by one, and held them up to the mirror, inspecting them, before placing them down on the dresser nearby. They made the familiar leaden sound, which normally signalled to anyone he was with at the time that the argument was over. They ended conversations like they ended lives.
He took off his cap next, revealing his well-groomed chestnut hair, also tinged with grey. Then he removed his uniform and put on civilian clothes. He could not call them “his” civilian clothes, because he had not had any for many years—indeed, many decades. He would have been forced to ask for them now from some donor, had Brooklyn not already acquired them and laid them out for him on the bed. He looked at himself in the mirror, in his shirt and trousers, tan in colour, a kind of transition from the military to the mundane. He thought he looked rather odd, but it was good to feel odd. It almost felt like being happy.
He felt lighter than he had felt in many years, free of the burden of command, free of the weight of war. He would have new worries with the task of governing, and he had to try to find a way to solve those problems without using bullets. Brooklyn's counsel would often be needed then, and always given, and always reassuring.
Rommond packed his uniform away, and wrapped his guns inside. He placed them firmly, and quite neatly, in a suitcase, and sealed it tight. He placed it aside and hoped he would never have to open it again. Brooklyn probably would have wanted him to throw it away, but a part of him felt he had to have it on hand, just in case. It would be strange, and difficult, to get up in the morning and not feel like he had to fight. He was not entirely sure what he would do.
After he had settled into his new clothes, he pulled out another case, this one filled with different supplies. This was the only case he owned that was covered in dust, and he did not like the sight of it. He wiped most of it off, and blew a cloud of it into the air, a little mushroom cloud, an explosion of time. The supplies nestled safely inside that box, like a bunker, were still pristine: small tubes of oil paint, brushes of many sizes, and a palette for mixing.
He set them aside and pulled out a blank canvas board from under the bed. He set it up by the window, where the light shone fiercely, and got to work. It felt very strange, like a memory. He was not even sure what he was painting at first, until he started to see it come together: him and Brooklyn, arm in arm, hand in hand, smiling together.
45 – EVER AFTER
Jacob and Whistler spent their own retirement from duty back in Blackout, helping clean up the city, or getting in everybody's way. With no amulets left to smuggle, and no war left to fight, Jacob was out of a job, and he certainly did not see himself becoming a politician.
“So,” Jacob said, kicking back on a bench in the central plaza, watching the sun go down. “They say war changes you, and they're not wrong.”
“Not all for the worse though, right?” Whistler replied.
Jacob smirked. “No, not all for the worse.”
“It feels weird,” the boy said, “getting up in the morning and remembering the war is over.”
“We've earned a rest, eh?”
“Yeah,” Whistler chirped.
They stared out at the setting sun for a moment.
“Yeah, I'm bored already,” Jacob said. “Not much of the sunbathing kind of guy.”
“So, what then?”
Jacob shrugged. “Don't think I ever really thought this far.”
“I have.”
“I know you have. You mentioned it enough.”
“Well, I guess we'll find something to do.”
Jacob raised his hand dramatically as if he just had a brilliant idea. “We could start another war.”
Whistler rolled his eyes at him.
“What? Kept us busy.”
“I heard there's farming work north of Copperfort,” Whistler suggested. “They're starting to see good rain now. Seems the weather's changing a bit now that the Rift is open for good.”
“Yeah, I don't see myself milking cows, to be honest.”
“You could try.”
“Hey, I'll try anything, but trust me, kid … I'm not getting up that early.”
“So, what do we do then?”
“I guess we help rebuild.”
“That sounds boring.”
“It does, doesn't it?”
Whistler worked his hat around in his hands. “What about … adventure?”
“Not had enough of that for now?”
“I think I was born in one.”
“I think you're right there.”
“Just … maybe something a little less dangerous.”
“Hell,” Jacob said, “I could go for that.”
It was then that he noticed a man standing across the way, staring at them. It was a little unsettling, but then tensions were still high, and there was a large influx of people coming into the city, all of them looking for work.
The man approached, and Jacob sat up. He still had a pistol, but he did not grab it just yet.
“You,” the man said, pointing. “You're a smuggler, right?”
“Semi-retired, actually.”
“As long as it's not fully retired, I don't care.”
“What do you need?”
“I collect merchandise, and there's an old treasure trove up in Canyon Crescent.”
Jacob furrowed his brow. “That's in the Wild North, right?”
“That's right. One of them bygone relics that ain't been touched.”
“And what, you want me to touch it?”
“Two time's the charm. I want it out. Out in one piece too.”
“Is it fragile?”
“Not more than you are.”
Jacob expected Whistler to make some cheeky comment. He glanced at him, and the boy said nothing. The merchant must have noticed the glance, because he stared at Whistler too.
“Who's the boy?” he asked, gesturing to him.
“My apprentice.”
Whistler tried hard to hide his smile.
“Good,” the merchant said. “You'll probably need a team for this job.”
“Well, I hope you're paying for a team.”
“Two thousand dollars, half up front.”
Jacob smiled at the sound of the new currency that had been introduced to replace the Regime-controlled coils. “Dollars, huh? Can't get used to that.”
“You'll get used to it plenty. There'll be a gold bar too, if you do it quiet.”
“This isn't … illegal, is it?”
“It ain't legal or illegal. Ain't no one got jurisdiction there.”
Jacob bit his lip. “Sounds like a grey area.”
“I thought that's where smugglers liked to play.”
“In the shadows, sure. How dangerous will it be?”
“Well, you get hazard pay.”
“Sounding better, but that's the kind of pay you don't want to be too high a number.”
“You're right there, lad. Well, the offer's on the table. Take it or leave it. I'll be in Blackout for a few days more.”
“I'll consider it.”
“Well, consider fast. What with all these shifting sands, everyone'll be looking to grab what they can. They'll be comin' out of the dunes! Scoundrels, the lot of them!”
What, a bit like you? Jacob thought. He had grown a little better at thinking his retorts instead of saying them.
The merchant walked
off, and the sun continued to set before them. Those who watched it often had the same realisation: that it would be back again for a new day.
“So,” Whistler said in expectation.
Jacob smiled. “Guess it's time for another adventure.”
THE GREAT IRON WAR IS OVER.
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Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6) Page 18
