Worldwaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 5)

by Dean F. Wilson

   “Pity we wasted the Landquaker,” Leadman jeered.

   With Rommond, you did not ruffle his feathers—you ruffled his moustache. Right then, his moustache shuddered. “Well, the spyglass to the past is a lot clearer than the one to the future.”

   “You're telling me,” Jacob said.

   “So, how do you propose we take Rustport?” Leadman wondered.

   Rommond sighed. “I don't know how we're going to do it. We've lost too many people, and too many vehicles. There's little hope of us storming Rustport. And yet … we have to try.”

   “Well, assaulting the Iron Wall didn't look too likely to succeed,” Jacob reminded them, “and here we are.”

   “But why do we have to try?” Whistler asked.

   Everyone turned to him, bemused. Though there were people his age fighting on the Regime side, most of those present still saw him as a child, despite the growing crackle in his voice. The wind played with his curls, which were so at odds with all the skin-tight haircuts of the soldiers present.

   “I mean … why do we have to fight?” he explained, though that did little to help their confusion.

   “I don't follow,” the general said. War was not so much a career for him as it was his entire life. Jacob wondered if he was born in uniform. The smuggler knew what Whistler was getting at, but he also understood why Rommond did not.

   Some were already turning back to the battle map.

   “Let's hear him out,” Jacob said. “He's been helpful before.” He gave the boy a reassuring nudge of his elbow.

   “Go on then,” Rommond said.

   “Well, uh … why can't we just, you know, team up?”

   The expression on Rommond's face showed that he still did not quite follow. The idea was so foreign to him that it might as well have been in another language—maybe even a demonic one.

   “Team up?” the general asked, stressing the words, as if he was desperately trying to comprehend. It was a simple idea, too simple for the plotters and schemers of war.

   Whistler folded his arms, revealing the coloured patches on his elbows. “Why not? They don't want to get killed by the bomb. And, uh, we don't either. So, instead of us fighting them, and them fighting us … why not fight on the same side?”

   There was a round of laughter from many of the tacticians standing there. More turned back to the map, assuming Whistler was drafted in as a bit of entertainment. Gregan, Leadman's right-hand man, was particularly vocal in his snickers.

   Jacob could tell that Whistler was growing frustrated that people were treating his idea like a joke, so he thought it best he intervened. He felt like he was intervening a lot lately. So much for this not being my war.

   “Is it that strange an idea?” he asked them. Because he was an adult, they paid him more heed. “I mean, stranger things have happened before. So we've been enemies all this time, but now there's a bigger threat. It's bigger than all of us. It's bigger than sides, bigger than war.”

   “Ridiculous!” Gregan cried. “They're our enemy!”

   “Even if we agreed to it,” Cantro said, “there's no chance they'd do the same.”

   “Why isn't there?” Whistler asked. “Have you tried?”

   “He make good point,” Brooklyn said. “Did we not think tribes would not join us? How can we win if we defeat ourselves in mind before battle?”

   “Watch Rommond break,” Gregan whispered to Leadman, though not quiet enough that others could not hear. “One word from Oobi-ooba-luga, or whatever he's called, and Rommond's will crumbles.” Leadman gave the slightest of smiles, accentuated by his massive jaw.

   Whistler looked up at Jacob with worried eyes. They were both glad that Rommond was too preoccupied to overhear.

   “This is against my better judgement,” the general said, “but I've been wrong in the past, and my better judgement hasn't yet ended this war. I've been fighting for so long now that I've almost forgotten what it's like to make peace.” He paused and bit his lip, before shaking his head. “Nothing makes this feel right to me, but at this moment there is a bigger threat out there, a mutual enemy. Maybe the war will begin anew when we defeat it, but if we can secure a momentary truce, then that is all we need ... for now.”

   “Madness!” Gregan roared. “I can't believe you're all just standing there, letting this idiocy happen. If we lay down our guns to these … these monsters … then you can bet they'll pick them up and use them against us. You're proposing we surrender!”

   “We're not doing anything of the sort,” Rommond responded.

   “You're all cowards,” Gregan said, aiming his index finger at the crowd. “A moment ago you're rooting for war, and with one word from Rommond you're braying for peace. And I know how you feel about those demons. Why won't you say anything?”

   “That's enough now,” Leadman said, grabbing him by the arm.

   Gregan humphed, ripping his arm from Leadman's grasp. “I'd have thought you, of all people, would have had more of a bite!”

   Leadman grabbed Gregan by the collar and dragged him away from the crowd, out of earshot, but not out of sight. They watched awkwardly as the ageing general showed the younger lieutenant that he still had plenty of bite.

   Rommond looked at Brooklyn, who shrugged his eyebrows, but kept his mouth firmly shut.

   “Well,” Jacob said, “nothing like us turning on ourselves to start off the truce.”

  3 – VOLUNTEERS

  A series of makeshift tents were erected halfway between Blackout and the Iron Wall. Word got back to the Baroness Ebronah about the bomb, and she swiftly sent supplies to bolster the ragtag band of people plotting a solution in the desert.

   Rommond laid out the Regime schematics of Brooklyn's aeroplane designs. There were several variations, and the stamped dates showed a progression of improvements to the aerodynamics and stability. There were older, more rugged biplanes, with the two sets of wings on the top and bottom attached together with poles. There were also the lighter, faster monoplanes, with just one set of wings, and these were the ones that the general was most interested in.

   “The Long Spyglass shows that the plane the Armageddon Brigade is using, rather appropriately dubbed the Dreamdevil, is an older, more cumbersome design,” he explained. “Maybe they have others, but the weight of the bomb required they use the most stable option, which is a much larger, and thankfully much slower, biplane. These monoplanes are considerably faster, and might just afford us enough time to catch up with it before they reach Ironhold.”

   “How do we know the Regime has even made these?” Jacob asked.

   Rommond prodded the documents. “The papers are marked with the inventory, and dated. They had eighteen planes in total at the time you stole these documents, eight of which were the faster model.”

   “And maybe they made more,” Whistler suggested.

   Or maybe they lost them, Jacob thought. He wondered where the Armageddon Brigade got their plane from in the first place. He did not want to dampen people's spirits, but he would not have been entirely surprised if they raided Rustport only to find it had already been raided before.

   “We need volunteers,” Rommond announced. “Ideally people who have flown before.”

   “Does being a passenger count?” Jacob quipped. The Skyshaker was enough experience of the air for him. Then again, the land was not all that much safer.

   Cantro stepped forward. It seemed he was itching to get back into the sky.

   “Well, Canto, you didn't exactly have a choice,” Rommond said. “You're the best pilot we have.”

   “I don't want a choice,” he said. “The sky's where I belong.” He cast a forlorn glance towards the clouds.

   “I want to fly,” Whistler volunteered, holding up his hand.

   “Well, he's a natural,” Cantro said.

   Rommond sighed. “Any other time, or any other mission, I'd say no. But
this bomb won't distinguish between old and young, and I can't afford that distinction now.” Jacob could tell that the general was not entirely comfortable with the fact that he had made that speech before with young lads he had sent to the front line, none of whom were now present.

   “Count me in,” Nissi said. She was Cantro's new trainee, daughter of one of the Treasury's wealthiest, and most eccentric, members, Count Alifred Willock. Everything about her was dark: her hair, her skin, and her clothes. She wore a tight corset, a short, frilled skirt over laced leggings, and a set of black pearls around her neck. She tied her hair up, as if she was about to set off right then and there. “I need the experience.”

   There was a remarkable silence after that, with no more raised hands.

   “Is that it?” Rommond asked. “That's just four, myself included. This affects us all. I'm going to have to force some of you if you don't volunteer willingly. I'd rather not have to do that.”

   Jacob felt a weak nudge in his abdomen, and looked down to see Whistler's eager eyes. The smuggler looked back up again, only to feel a sharper nudge, and then another. It was probably paranoia, but he suddenly felt like everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to make a move.

   “All right then,” he said, holding up his hands.

   “Eager as ever, I see,” Rommond replied.

   “Meh,” Jacob blurted. “Think you'll have to take what you get at this stage.”

   “Indeed.”

   “Woo!” Whistler cheered, grabbing Jacob's arm. “We can do flips and rolls and—”

   Jacob felt nauseous already.

   “That makes five,” the general said. “I want at least three more, so we can use all of the monoplanes.”

   One of Leadman's burlier men, dubbed Armax, gave a nod. “I'll do it,” he said, as if he was up for anything, “but I haven't flown one of those before. I'm more of a recon balloon kind of guy.” He did not look it. He seemed like someone itching to be on the front lines. It must have been hell for him to have been kept back in Copperfort all those years.

   “None of us have flown these before,” Rommond said. “The controls are easy enough, I hear.” He looked to Brooklyn, who stayed completely silent on the matter.

   “Right then, Rommond, You can lead the aerial assault,” Leadman said. “I'll organise the ground forces.”

   “There won't be any ground forces.”

   “What if you fail?”

   “We won't.”

   “But what if you do?”

   “Then it doesn't matter. There's only room for a Plan A here. We win, or we die.”

   Leadman scoffed.

   “I'm leading another mission,” Taberah unveiled. “We got word that Doctor Mudro was captured by the Regime, and we need him back for what I want to do.”

   “And what's that?” Leadman asked.

   “Kill the Birth-masters.”

   “Now you're talking.”

   “You can join me,” Taberah proposed. “It's a ground forces kind of mission.”

   “Great,” Gregan said. “We can finally kill some demons.”

   A look from Rommond was enough for Taberah to round up and lead away the people joining her command. Tardo joined her, apologising profusely to Rommond as he went. “I'm really not good with heights!” he explained.

   The remaining forces were very slim, and no one there was particularly eager to fly the experimental vehicles. It got so bad that Rommond's own lieutenants came up with a variety of excuses for why they could not fly. In the end, he could convince only one of them, Algan, to reluctantly volunteer, bringing their total number to seven.

   “We'll have our work cut out for us,” the general said.

   “I hope they're not hard to master,” Armax replied.

   “For what we'll need to do, flying will be the easy part.”

  4 – PARTING PATHS

  Taberah made her plans with the remaining ground forces, and set out to leave in the unwatched hours of the night. It was easier to slip out under the cover of darkness, not just because it was harder for the enemy to spot her, but because that way she did not have to cope with any painful farewells.

   “No goodbye kiss?” Jacob asked, strolling up beside her as she packed the last of her things into a chest remarkably like the one that used to store his fortune. The lid was slightly ajar, so he could see there were no coils inside, nor clothes or keepsakes. Only weapons.

   “How about a sting instead?” she said.

   “If it's the sting of unending love and devotion, sure.”

   “Hardly.”

   Jacob kicked the box with his boot. “So, you were just going to take off?”

   “I think it's better that way.”

   “I don't know. Us scorpions and spiders need to stick together.”

   “But scorpions and spiders are not really family.”

   He ran his hand through his shaggy hair. “Distant cousins.”

   “Very distant.”

   “Doesn't have to be.”

   “It kind of does.”

   Jacob frowned. “Why do I get the feeling this is more than just a mission for you?”

   “Because it is. It's my own little war within the war.”

   “I thought you only cared about the bigger picture.”

   She cocked her head. “This war is big enough.”

   Jacob kicked some sand away; there was always more to replace it. “You know … did we ever really have a chance?”

   She sighed. “Maybe in some other world.”

   “A demon world?”

   She forced a smile. “Maybe there.”

   “Well, I guess this is goodbye then.”

   “I guess it is.”

   “What about Whistler?”

   “What about him?”

   “This doesn't just feel like a normal day or a normal week. Something's changed. The stakes are higher, and they were high before. What if some of us don't come back?”

   “Then it is just a normal day and a normal week,” she replied. “I've kind of gotten used to that. Most of us have. Maybe that's strange for a smuggler like you, but it's what we signed up to. Few of us expected to make it this far. None of us expect to make it all the way.”

   “Well, that's kind of grim.”

   “Well, that's the world we live in.”

   “So, what about Whistler then? Are you not going to say goodbye?”

   She pursed her lips. “He's sleeping.”

   “Then wake him up, Taberah. Besides, no one's really sleeping well tonight.”

   “I can see that,” she said, bowing her head.

   “So?”

   “I'll talk with him.”

   “Doesn't hurt to talk.”

   “Says the man who's all talk,” she replied. “Sometimes it does.”

   “Hey, I walk the walk as well. Give me some credit.”

   She let out a sigh. “I guess you surprised me.”

   “I surprised myself.”

   “Speaking of surprises, I see you've gotten close with the nurse.”

   Jacob smirked. “What, are you jealous?”

   “No,” Taberah said coolly. “I'm concerned.”

   “Why? I'm a big boy.”

   “And you don't know what she is.”

   “I do,” he replied. “Maran.”

   “So she taught you demon speech, did she?”

   “It's easier to learn if you listen.”

   “I learned enough from them, Jacob. I still have the scars from those lessons.”

   “Well, I'm not really that interested in her,” Jacob said. “You know who I'm interested in, who I've been interested in since this whole thing began. Pity it's all one way.”

   “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Pity.”

   “So, what have you got against Lorelai?” Jacob asked. “Apart
from her being a big bad demon and all.”

   “Just watch your back with her,” she said, before walking away.

   Jacob thought about her words for a moment. As someone who had made a career out of watching people's backs, and stabbing them, he thought maybe she was on to something. Or maybe her words were just another blade.

  * * *

  Taberah stood outside the tent that Whistler slept in, feeling like she had no right to enter, no right to talk to him, or wake him, no right to even say goodbye. She knew she had not been a mother to him. She gave birth, but that was it. The mother in her died when Elizah died. There was no more love to give.

   The curtain at the door shuddered in the wind, and through the periodic gap in it, she could see Whistler fast asleep, his hair a tangled mess, with the red of her own, and the brown of his father's. It was hard not to see Domas in him, even though he was completely unlike that man, unlike that demon.

   The boy looked so peaceful in sleep. He gave a gentle purr, the prelude of the snoring he might give when he got older, when the boy in him would fade into the man, and it would be even more difficult to look upon him and not see Domas.

   She had tried in her journal to write out the pain, to drown the memory of Domas in little splotches of ink. She had tried to write who she was, but found she could only write who she wanted to be. She had to focus on the bigger picture, because the smaller ones, the ones with Whistler in them, had his demon father in the background.

   Domas gave her a child, but he took away her ability to love it.

  * * *

  Whistler woke up suddenly and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He had been having a pleasant dream, which was rare for him. He could not fully remember it, but he thought it had something to do with family.

   He sat up and looked around the tent. He was used to sleeping rough, and sleeping on the move, and sleeping in so many different places. Everywhere was just a temporary refuge. He did not have a home.

   He thought he heard someone outside.