“Goodbye, dad,” Markus said, faint and afraid. “Tell mom I love her. T-tell Jaycie I'll miss her.”
Maybe Trokus said something in response, but they did not hear it. Maybe he roared again, or cried, or thumped the dashboard, or pleaded with gods, or prayed to devils.
“There's nothing we can do,” Rommond said coolly. It was a rehearsed line, the kind a general was trained to give. And for Rommond, it was a tired line, one he had given too many times before. “We have to stick to the mission.” Another line from the book. The greater good. None of it mattered to those suffering what was to them the greatest evil.
Jacob shook his head. He had no words to give. The little gesture he gave was its own kind of prayer, its own kind of eulogy. It said all it needed to. Markus was just sixteen. Hell, still a boy, Jacob thought. Barely older than Whistler. The loss was greater for the young. But war had no sympathy for them. Death did not discriminate. It sought them all.
Then something caught his eye, and he watched in shock and awe as another plane began to dive. He thought it was another hit, another crumbling frame, but as he looked down he saw that the plane was intact. He could not see the pilot inside, but he could see the numbers painted on the tail fin. Fourteen.
No, Jacob thought. What are you doing? He hoped the number was not an omen, that the tail fin would not become a gravestone. Here lies Whistler. Only fourteen years old.
“Where's he going?” Armax asked.
“Stick to the plan,” Rommond urged them. “We all die if that bomb goes off.”
Jacob shook his head again, hoping it was not another eulogy. He kept his eyes level, watching the path through the clouds ahead. His heart thumped, and his mind nagged at him. He felt he had a promise to keep.
He could no longer avert his eyes. He glanced down, struggling with his belt to get a better view. Much of his sight was blocked by his own vessel, but he saw Whistler diving straight down towards the spiralling descent of Markus' plane.
What is he doing? Jacob wondered. It did not look like a rescue mission. It looked like suicide. Whistler's plane dived so fast that it was quickly out of view, but it resurfaced soon after, below the falling, burning wreck. It then became clear what he was trying to do: he was trying to catch him as he fell.
Hell, Jacob thought. He dived straight down, hoping he would make it in time, and hoping he would not just add to the mess. It was one man down, but now it might be three. If people kept trying to save them, there would be no one left to stop the Worldwaker. He was thankful then that Rommond's grim determination was as strong as ever.
Jacob's plane hurtled down, faster than he expected, and yet not fast enough to avoid seeing Whistler try to pass beneath Markus and slow his descent. The boy struggled with the catch. The other plane fell too quickly, and the smoke obscured his vision.
At last Jacob came beneath both of the other planes, but he knew it was impossible to slow or save Markus from there. With just one wing, the youth's plane spun madly as it fell. They needed it to fall straight, or glide, or do anything a little bit more predictable if they had any hope of saving him.
“We need to break the other wing,” Jacob said, well aware that the boy's father was also listening, and also praying. “We need to stop it spinning.”
“It's too risky,” Rommond replied. “You're trying to catch a fireball and hoping you won't get burnt. Get back up here. It's over.”
Trokus must have realised it too. He had overseen many test flights, and many failures. Aircraft of this kind were still very new to the world of Altadas, and pioneers risked their lives at every turn. Whistler and Jacob were not pioneers, but were risking their lives all the same.
“No!” Whistler said. “We have to try!”
He fired at Markus' spinning craft, destroying the second wing, and stabilising its descent. The smoke still obscured their view, but they could see Markus unconscious inside, drooping in his seat.
That's going to make this harder, Jacob thought.
The smuggler dived further, matching the speed of Markus' vessel, coming beneath the body, and pushing the reinforced wings of his own craft against the wheels of the other. The sound of screeching blasted his eardrums, and his plane rocked violently as he tried to stop the steep descent. For a moment it seemed like it was working, and Jacob was able to pull up a little, enough to wonder what in God's name he would need to do next.
Keep it steady, he urged himself. You can do this, Jacob. He had never lied so convincingly to himself before.
Then gravity intervened, and the wheels of Markus' monoplane skidded off the wings, and the vessel plummeted like a bullet. Whistler turned sharply and tried one last-ditch effort to save Markus, but he could not get there in time. The other vessel made its final fall, exploding as it hit the earth.
Jacob sighed and shook his head. It was almost worse to nearly make it, and have victory snatched away at the last moment. The fates were cruel. He could almost hear their laughter from the clouds.
There was a moment where Whistler circled the crash site, clearly not knowing what to do. When Jacob pulled up to rejoin the others, Whistler followed.
“I tried,” the boy sobbed.
“You did good, kid,” Jacob said.
“But I didn't save him.”
“We can't save them all,” Rommond replied. Jacob thought it likely the general had spoken that into a mirror many times before.
Trokus was silent. Maybe he was thankful that they had tried, but he could not be thankful that they had failed. He would find it difficult to explain the loss to his wife, and to explain to his daughter why she no longer had a big brother. Jacob thought it was probably easier not to explain, to just not go back at all.
“I know this is a great loss,” Rommond said, “but think of the rest of your family, Commander. The mission is bigger than all of us. The bomb is bigger than all of us.”
There was no time to grieve, for up ahead, as if summoned by the general's words, they saw the large frame of the Dreamdevil, and beneath its belly, attached with bolts and wires, the bulbous hulk of the Worldwaker.
20 – THE IRON RALLY
Brooklyn and Alex hiked the hill overlooking Dunedale, and were amazed at the sight. The many tightly-packed old buildings were draped with humongous banners and flags, many with the emblem of the Regime, and many more with the icon of the Iron Emperor. There were statues of him everywhere, finely carved from iron, unlike the crude representations in the Dune Burrows, and they towered over everyone present, reminding them of who their ruler was, and what they sought in Altadas.
A giant platform extended over the crowd, bobbing up and down as a mix of downward-facing propellers and upwards-pulling dirigibles kept it just above the tallest person's reach. Just above. Close enough to almost touch, but far enough to never achieve.
The crowd was huge, filling every square inch of the many winding streets, and every doorway, and every window, and every balcony. It seemed that the entire city's inhabitants were out there, and maybe those of other cities too. It was a dangerous thing not to be out there, for it suggested that they had something to hide.
There was tension among the people, and the chatter was low. Even from their height, Brooklyn and Alex could tell that the people spoke only of the Iron Emperor. Will he show? What will he say?
Brooklyn had different questions in mind: Should we be here? Is it safe?
The wait was agonising, fuelled by the common cloud of apprehension that hung above the city mob. They came not with pitchforks, but with salutes. They did not come to bash and burn, but to cheer and caw. It was a riot of enthusiasm, and yet the longer it took for the inciter to arrive, the more it seemed like it might be a riot of a different kind. He was their drug as much as their drug-pusher. To them, he was Hope, and the giver of Hope.
A step. A general came out. Then another. The crowd grew silent. Even t
he wind seemed to stop to listen. A stream of high-ranking soldiers came out one-by-one, as orderly as their uniforms, and Brooklyn could not help but think that Rommond would have approved. Yet this was not just a display of order; it was a display of might and power.
Then he entered. The Iron Emperor.
Brooklyn could almost hear the catching of breaths. Several people fainted in the crowd, and were left to lay where they dropped. Those who might have caught them were enraptured by the sight of their leader, so rarely seen by them, and so often dreamed of. Yet if this was a dream, it was one they did not want to wake from.
He was tall and of average build, with black hair combed neatly to the side. He was not as attractive as the statues made out, but he exuded charisma in a difficult to describe way. His very stance and posture had presence, as if he was more than just a man, more than just a maran. He wore a black trench coat over a black uniform, and the black was like the perfect pitch of the starry night. He wore the universe as a garment, and it fit him well, and not even the breeze seemed to dare move it.
His cleanly-shaven face was like granite, like a statue of its own. He stood silent and still, and basked in the moment, and made the people bask in it too. If he breathed, no one heard the breath. If he blinked, no one saw his eyes shut. He watched them, and though he looked at none of them, he saw them all. His eyes were like galaxies, and everyone could get lost in them. How many stars flickered there, no one knew, but every time he glanced upon someone, a new star ignited, a new star was caught in the gravity of his stare.
The soldiers on stage with him stood far behind. None dared defy his height. From the perfect angle, which was the angle aimed at all, they looked minuscule compared to him. Yet though they were dwarfed by him, their very presence on the same stage as him elevated them, like mere men become gods, transfigured by the greatest god of all.
His shadow was immense, covering many at the front of the crowd. Though they stood in his darkness, they felt like they stood in his light.
He stirred but an inch, and the audience gasped. The performance was about to begin, and the people who had paid with their self-sufficiency and self-thinking pulled their eyelids open wide so that they could assimilate it all. They looked on as one, and felt as one, and waited as one. He raised the index finger of his right hand, and all eyes followed.
“We,” he said, his voice thick and deep, sonorous and soothing, “the greatest people of all nations, of all worlds, of all peoples, and all powers, came here to this nation, to this world, to these people, and these powers, and like we have always done, we came and conquered.”
The audience cheered, until he silenced them with his hand.
“Though the great stand before you, the great times are still ahead. Altadas has awoken. Our people have awoken. No longer will we be the victims of illness. We will conquer it. No longer will we be the victims of death. We will conquer that too.”
Another round of cheers from the harmonious choir, as perfectly in time when they stopped at his bidding as they did at their starting.
“I know your sorrow. I know your struggle. I feel it. I feel it for you. All that I do, I do for you. All that I am, I am for you. I take upon this burden of leadership, that I might lead us on to victory, victory against all odds, against all that assail us. It is a mighty burden, held only by the mighty, and yet I do not baulk at the task. I hold it willingly.”
They applauded his great self-sacrifice.
“So too must you become willing participants in this greater struggle, and though you cannot support what only the mighty can hold, you can support the mighty. You can hold up the mighty in your eyes, and in your minds, and in your hearts.”
They held him up, and it was no burden to them.
“Our fight goes beyond mere man and woman. Our fight goes beyond mere mortal. We fight so that there may be no more fighting. We battle so that there may be no more war. It is a fight that brought us through many worlds, and may bring us to many more, for there is nothing, no barrier, no wall, that will stand in our way. We do this not just for ourselves, but for all peoples, for it is only when the natural order of things is restored, when we once again have our rightful place in the hierarchy of all things, that everyone will have peace. For, my people, my comrades, the universe has the same sickness our people do, and we must not just find the cure for ourselves, but be the cure for everyone else.”
They sought earnestly to find and be the cure.
“You must obey,” he told them, and his eyes fixed on them seemingly one by one, like a spotlight. “You must submit. You must follow. It is a necessary thing. It is an overwhelming thing. For, to restore the natural order of things above, we must restore it here below. The leaders will lead, and the followers will follow. Then there is no chaos, and when there is no chaos, there is no room for illness to breed. For, you see, disobedience is an illness of the mind. Disloyalty is an illness of the heart. Defiance is an illness of the soul.”
They reflected on their ailments, and sought to rid themselves of them.
“Look about you,” he told them, and for the first time since he stepped on stage, they took their eyes off him. “Look at our numbers. Look at the pageantry. Look at the landships lined up. Look at this mere example of our might and our majesty.”
As he spoke, Brooklyn spotted several aeroplanes in the sky, speeding swiftly towards the city. Even at this vantage point, he could tell they were his designs. He could feel the stirring of the machine spirits. He could almost feel Rommond up there too.
“Even now, look above you,” the Iron Emperor commanded, “and you will see our latest arsenal.” His voice boomed over the microphone, a weapon of its own. “We conquered land and water before, and now we have conquered the skies.”
The cheers were ear-rending, and they were uniform. Not the maddened frenzy of a worked-up crowd, but the zealous cries of followers, all speaking with one voice, chanting the same slogan, the same words, carefully selected by the Iron Emperor himself.
Conquer, they cried. Cure, they hollered.
He thumped his chest and raised his fist, and without any order, or any direction, the entire crowd gave the Regime salute. He did it again, more forcefully, and they repeated the gesture with more enthusiasm. Again he drove his fist into the sky, with anger and passion, and they became angry and passionate in their salutes.
He was not a puppet-master, pulling the strings of the unwilling. They made the strings themselves, and gave them to him. They gave them to him for safe-keeping. They trusted him with their lives, with their thoughts, with everything. They would live through him, and only him, and so get to experience a sliver of his godliness, which they could only ever aspire to reaching out to. He was more than them, more than all of them, and they had to give up their identity and individuality to become a part of him. He was the greater good. Nothing else mattered, and when they looked upon him, and baulked beneath his mighty shadow, they did not want anything else.
The Iron Emperor left the stage, and the army cleared the crowd, making way for a modified black warwagon with an open roof. The great leader with no name sat inside it, waving to the cheering crowd. It drove on through the streets, and people followed, and musicians played, and dancers danced, and soldiers marched. The parade proceeded down the street, and though at a glance it seemed like everyone there was full of elation, to Brooklyn it almost looked like it was staged. The music dropped just in time for a wild applause. The cart halted just where a child was ready to give her leader a white flower. Everything went like clockwork. What the Iron Emperor willed, happened.
The warwagon passed them by, and for the briefest of moments, Brooklyn thought that the Iron Emperor looked up at him. He felt a sudden panic, as if all his fears had been laid bare. Every barrier he erected was broken in that short glance, every supporting cliff ripped away from his straining fingers. He was naked, and he was falling, and th
ere was nowhere to hide, and no one to catch him.
“Are you okay?” Alex asked. “You look a little … pale.”
Brooklyn regained his senses, but he still felt as though he was being watched.
“I think it's time to go,” he said.
“Right you are!”
“And I think this last part of my journey, I must make alone.”
“Are you sure? Do you know the w-w-way?”
“Too well,” Brooklyn said, holding up his metal hand. “It is not far from here where I was made.”
21 – THE WINGWALKERS
As the Regime and Resistance planes approached the Dreamdevil, it became clear that there would be another problem. On the giant wings of the aeroplane, men and women walked to and fro, as if they were unaware that they were thousands of feet up in the air. More of them clambered out of a hatch on top of the plane, racing up a small ladder placed precariously at the front of the wings. They all had backpacks on, but they did not contain parachutes. They contained wings.
“Hell,” Jacob said. “And I thought flying inside this thing was bad enough.”
One of the wingwalkers pulled down sharply on the strings attached to his backpack, and the wooden wings unfurled. They opened out like one of the fans used by the royalty of old, thin wooden slats held together with paper. The wings did not look any more durable.
It seemed as though the aerial daredevils were preparing to leap off, but Rommond pushed open the glass canopy of his plane, stood up, and pointed his pistol at one of the wingwalkers. He fired, and the man stumbled backwards off the wing, plummeting to the ground.
Rommond ducked back inside to stabilise his aircraft, pulling the canopy door shut. As he did so, Armax opened fire on the wingwalkers on the other wing, using the monoplane's built-in machine guns. The bullets struck several wingwalkers, but they also struck the wing and hull of the plane itself.
Worldwaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 5) Page 9
