“That's … also what I'm afraid of.”
“We need the aid of gravity on this one. We'll fly overhead, and jump onto the hull. From there we'll make our way on board.”
“Easy peasy,” Armax said, rocking the wings of his monoplane from side to side. “Just don't look down!” he added with a manic laugh.
13 – THE DUNE BURROWS
Alex led Brooklyn to and through the great mountainous range of sand known as the Dune Burrows, colossal bodies of dust that rose and fell, and rose again, forming towering heights and tremendous drops. Yet these were not merely the work of nature, which nursed them in their youth, for man and maran came and dug deep into the dunes, hollowing them out for homes, raiding them for the treasures of the earth. They were now abandoned, the temporary refuge of only archaeologists.
“Aren't they b-b-beautiful?” Alex said, basking in the monstrous sight.
Brooklyn could see an element of beauty, but also an element of ugliness. They were misshapen. The natural formations had been scarred and abused by people, and left only when there was nothing left to extract. So much of Altadas was like that now. As the days passed, it resembled more and more the husk of the demon home world.
“These were the worship places of the old g-gods,” Alex revealed. “There are burial chambers in many of them, and temples with sand altars that still stand today. Of course, t-t-tomb robbers have been through these thoroughly, so there is little of 'value' left—and yet, to the archaeologist and the historian, a lot can still be found.”
It was not long before they found what might at first have seemed like relics of the past, but were newly-carved statues of the Iron Emperor, deliberately aged to make it seem like he had always been there, that the ancients did not worship some other pantheon. They worshipped him.
“Aren't they fascinating?” Alex asked.
If anything, Brooklyn found them revolting. Though they were etched to show off the Iron Emperor's supposed beauty—just as his visage on the coils were—time sculpted them anew, as it did to all living, and all lifeless. The face was hideous now, like maybe it really was to those not under his spell.
Further afield there were the stunted ruins of other Regime statues, with only the feet and ankles remaining. Time was not to blame for those. The broken remains lay nearby from the blast of a bomb.
They travelled through the canyons, between the steepest of dunes, and up the less precipitous ones, until they came to a wall of sand, through which was a mighty gate of iron, up to which was a colossal set of stairs.
“They built big,” Brooklyn noted.
“Well, the gods were big then.”
“And now?”
“Now there's only one god worth noting, and he's the size of a maran.”
“The Iron Emperor.”
They began their climb, already weary, and the sun tried to steal whatever strength they had left. It was another god, a forgotten god, who gave a daily reminder, and was forgotten again each night. The new religious sect that started in Blackout tried to revive those ancient mysteries, but the people of Altadas had grown weary as well, and now only trusted in iron.
They hiked across the dunes, barely stopping to rest. Alex went into great detail about the types of rock and sand, and periodically halted to inspect something, and sometimes sprinted forward, brush in hand, to unearth the world's next greatest treasure. Most of these moments were fruitless, while the others resulted in shards of pottery and scraps of parchment, the kind of things that made an archaeologist giddy, but meant little to everybody else.
The journey was not uneventful for Brooklyn, however. When halfway through the Burrows, the ground rocked, and the sky darkened suddenly. Lightning extended from a central point in the heavens, which grew suddenly like a window into another world. It was very far up, so it was difficult to see what that world was like, but it coughed out noxious fumes, and a thick red dust blew through, adding to the dunes.
“What's that?” Brooklyn shouted as the earth continued to quake.
“That's the Rift.”
“Here?” Brooklyn asked. “I thought it opened further east.”
“It travels,” Alex explained. “Almost g-got a life of its own.” He shuddered at the notion.
“It is pity we cannot close it for good.”
“Or k-k-keep it open, and send the demons back.” He paused for a moment, shielding his eyes as he stared up at the portal. “You know, I wouldn't mind an expedition through there some time. I'm sure it's a f-fascinating place. Just imagine the digs!”
“I'd rather not think about world of monsters,” Brooklyn said.
Alex laughed. “This is the world of monsters now.”
14 – COMMSPIRE OASIS
The task of finding and freeing Doctor Mudro was significant, and the Resistance's resources were slim. Brute force would not work in this scenario. Taberah was sure of that. They needed a different kind of approach.
“A distraction,” Taberah suggested. “Just what Mudro would have done.”
“Why doesn't he do it then?” Gregan sneered.
Taberah rolled her eyes at him. “He's a little preoccupied.”
“What do you propose?” Leadman asked.
“We wave one hand, then free him with the other.”
“Sounds nice on paper, but what's the hand we wave?”
“I don't know that yet,” Taberah admitted.
“If only I had my equipment,” Tardo said with a sigh.
“Your equipment?”
“My comms gear. Anything I had was destroyed by Jacob. I could have used it to distract them. They don't yet know I've defected.”
“Maybe we can salvage some equipment from the Landquaker.”
Tardo shook his head. “I already looked. There's little there that isn't damaged. The good radios were taken by the fleeing troops.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Leadman barked. “Let's go chase them.”
“They're long gone by now,” Tardo said. “And the Iron Emperor probably had them killed for deserting the field of battle. You fight and die, or you die. Dying is the common element.”
“Where's the nearest Commspire?” Taberah asked.
Tardo mouthed silently as he thought to himself. “I think that's Commspire Oasis.”
“Oasis,” Leadman mused. “That's not that far at all.”
“They're pretty heavily armed,” Tardo said.
“So are we,” Taberah replied. “We can storm them.”
Leadman shook his head. “I have a better plan.”
* * *
They travelled without pause, and it was not long before the Commspire came into view. It was a thin iron tower, from which a gigantic aerial extended, part of the Regime's vast communications network, and one of the toys Rommond greatly coveted, yet found difficult to implement successfully. At the base of the tower was a large hexagonal bunker, with big anti-tank guns pointing out from watch posts at all six corners, and similar anti-aircraft guns pointing up to the sky, giving it significant protection from all angles.
“Are you sure this will work?” Taberah asked Leadman.
“No,” he replied, “but it's better than your plan of all guns blazing.”
Gregan nodded. “Especially when they've got bigger guns.”
* * *
The guards patrolled around the top of the Commspire tower, strolling and chatting, their rifles ready. Inside the hexagonal base of the tower, the gunner guards kept their own watch, adjusting their guns every so often, targeting tumbleweed and desert scorpions.
“Did you hear he's going to be there?” one of the guards said to his comrade, who lounged back, arms behind his head.
“Yeah, I've got family going,” the other guard replied.
“Should be quite a speech. Too bad I'm on duty.”
The guard look
ed out again, and for a moment he thought he saw something. He strained his eyes, but all he saw was a wall of sand in that direction. He had grown so used to the dunes that he almost yearned to see something else.
“I'd bet you a whole coil that he's going to announce something big,” the second guard said. “He did at the last rally. I bet we caught the Scorpion or something.”
The first guard kept his eye fixed on the terrain ahead. The sand shifted a little. He thought they were probably in for a sandstorm.
“Wasn't Rommond captured recently too?” he asked, turning back to his comrade.
“I heard that as well.”
The first guard looked out again. The sand seemed closer now than ever. The dunes were always shifting. It was likely a cartographer's nightmare. The way the sands were moving now, it seemed like the storm was coming fast.
* * *
The dust-covered bulldozer landship kept its steady advance, pushing the sand ahead of it, disguising its snail-like movement towards the Commspire. Leadman worked out the perfect angle of attack, where they were in the blind spot of two guns, and could only be seen head-on from the third. Yet, any slight divergence could give them up, and they did not have the benefit of being able to see where they were going. They had to take their time, yet every second sought to oust them.
“You won't have long to get inside,” Leadman told Taberah. “We need those anti-landship guns disabled quick.”
“I'll be quick,” she said.
“And you,” Leadman said, turning to Tardo, “you better get control of the aerial ASAP, or we'll have half the Regime looking for us, and the Hold will be on high alert.”
Tardo gulped at the notion. “I'll try.”
“You better do more than try,” the general berated, “or we all die.”
* * *
Inside the guard post, the first guard felt increasingly like there was something wrong with his vision, or something off about the terrain. The dune crept closer towards his position, but it did not look that windy out, and the other hills stayed still.
“Does something about that look funny to you?” he asked his comrade.
The second guard groaned and came over. “It's always the same with you,” he complained. “I told you this was a cushy number. Communications aren't on the front line. We're more likely to die of thirst out here than anything else.” He glanced inside the eyeglass. “So? What am I looking for?”
“There,” the first guard said, pointing down, almost to the wall of the tower itself.
“What? It's sand.”
“I know it's sand, but that was back there a minute ago.”
“Sand moves, you know.”
“Ugh, you never take me seriously!”
“Wait,” the second guard said. “What's that?”
They both looked, and had to check again. Something was coming out of the sand dune. At first they thought it was a snake or scorpion, but they were wrong. It was a turret.
The guard post exploded in a ball of flame, and neither guard had to worry about looking outside again.
* * *
Taberah and Gregan raced through the chasm blown by the landship, splitting up immediately as they made for the remaining two guard posts on that side of the Commspire. There were few guards inside, as no one expected the enemy to get that close, and they were no match for the experience and firepower of the Resistance.
Taberah reached her target and immediately set about placing explosives around the sealed door. While she worked, a solitary soldier turned the corner, halted in surprise, then fell dead to her pistol.
The door exploded, and Taberah killed both guards inside. They were ready at their anti-landship gun, but it pointed in the wrong direction. They did not expect the Scorpion's sting from behind.
She rejoined Gregan just as Tardo rushed inside with his toolbox. “Up the Revolution!” he cheered, raising a spanner.
“Not really the time,” Taberah said. That youthful enthusiasm for the Resistance was killed off quick in new recruits, if they were not killed off first.
They headed up to the next level, killing as they went, until they breached the control room for the aerial itself. The mechanics inside were kept alive, at gunpoint, while Tardo got to work taking over the broadcast.
“Right,” he said. “I'm all set here. I can create a private channel just for us. Or I can send targeted broadcasts. Or pretty much anything you want.”
“Can you end the war?” Gregan replied.
Tardo shrugged.
“Prepare a broadcast for the Hold,” Taberah ordered.
“Security's tight there. It'll take a while.”
“Then you better get started.”
As Taberah moved to leave the room, Gregan pulled her aside.
“Do you trust him?” he asked. “He is one of them, after all.”
“More than I trust you,” she replied. “You're one of Leadman's men, after all.”
He bared his teeth at her, as if it was mandatory for the Crocodile's men to show their bite.
“Where are you off to, anyway?” he asked.
“To free another Magus from his cell.”
15 – CACTUS X
Taberah took the Silver Ghost alone out into the wild, watching carefully to see if she was being followed, by either Regime or Resistance forces. This was a mission for the Order, and there were few members left. She was not entirely sure if any would be left standing when the war was over.
She left the sands behind and passed the unmarked barrier into the unwatched lands of the Wild North, keeping as close to the edge as possible, away from the heartland where the criminals congregated. The earth was cracked and broken, and the only flora around were a variety of widely-spaced cacti, and the only fauna around was a certain ruby-haired Scorpion.
She halted the Silver Ghost and stepped outside, again looking to and fro to see if anyone had spotted her. This had become routine for her in this part of the Wild North, a kind like any other to most people, but as distinctive as a landmark to her.
She circled one of the larger, solitary cacti. It was twice her height, and several times her width, with many prickly spines pointing out in all directions from its bulbous hide. There were plenty like it in the area, big and small, and varying in shape, but this was the only one with faint footsteps nearby.
Taberah gave another routine glance. Only the desert's eyes looked back.
“Gouet,” she said. There was a tiny tremor in the cactus.
Taberah waited for a moment, but nothing else happened. “Gouet!” she said again, this time much louder.
Suddenly, small metal legs emerged from the base of the cactus, and it hauled up and crept several feet away.
Taberah followed it, then kicked at part of it that was not shielded with thorns. Part of the flesh of the cactus shifted, and from the square opening that formed there emerged an eyeglass.
“It's me,” Taberah said, as the eyeglass looked her up and down.
Even more suddenly, the cactus cracked in half like an egg, opening out to reveal an inner metal sphere, lined on either side with laboratory equipment. Sitting on a rotating stool in the centre was a man of great years, hunched over, with long, thin strands of white hair, and a mangy beard to match.
“I haven't heard from you in a long time,” the man said weakly, holding out a shaking hand.
“I know,” Taberah said. “I've been busy.”
“Too busy for this?” he asked, gesturing to hundreds of amulets lining the walls of his oddball dwelling. “I've been waiting for a collection. What happened to your smugglers?”
“They got busy too,” she replied. “Most with the afterlife.”
“I can't help them with that. Only the start of life.”
“I need your help with something else, Gouet.”
“I'm not goo
d for much here,” Gouet said. “I'm not good for long either.” He ran the bony fingers of his left hand across the many wrinkles on his face.
“Then we have to hurry.”
“What about these?” he asked, pointing to the amulets once again.
“They're just treating the symptoms,” Taberah said. “We're going to find the cure.”
16 – WAR OF THE WEATHER
Most of the fifteen working aircraft took flight without a hitch, with only one forced to land due to a faulty engine. Several others remained grounded for repairs, or because they were deemed too unsafe to fly. Jacob thought that should probably have applied to all of them, and his creaking craft most of all.
As they gained height, they spotted the balloon bombers floating away in all directions, and realised that they had been unmanned. They were unlike the vibrant vessels of the Treasury, trading bright colours for sombre greys. It seemed that they had saved their pigments for the flashy cartoons in their leaflets, and for the gaudy yellow of the Dreamdevil itself.
Armax shot down one the wandering balloons, cheering loudly over the radio at his success.
“Save those bullets,” Rommond cautioned. “We may yet meet some who shoot back.”
The weather had been kind for take-off, for which the novice pilots were more than grateful, but the skies further north were not as pleasant as those over Rustport. Black clouds loomed ahead, the Iron Wall of the sky. Darkness gathered there, smothering out the sunlight. As the fleet headed towards it, it threatened to smother them too.
“Maybe we should go around,” Whistler suggested.
“We don't have time for that,” Rommond said. “We're already way behind.”
“What about under?” the boy proposed.
Jacob glanced down. It was hard to see much below from that vantage point, but it was clear that the dark clouds were there too. It almost seemed like they reached straight down to the ground itself, like the wafting smog of a monumental bomb.
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