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

by Dean F. Wilson

   “For God's sake, don't shoot!” Rommond cried. “The last thing we need right now is a spray of bullets flying towards that bomb.”

   “But you just—”

   “I know what I did, and I know what I'm doing,” Rommond barked. “If you can fire a perfect shot with a pistol, then fire away. Otherwise, keep your gun muzzled, and your mouth too.”

   The moment came, and the first of the wingwalkers leapt off. Some dove, opening their wings as they fell, while others let the wind catch their already unfurled feathers, drifting and floating with the aerial tide.

   “Here they come,” Jacob said.

   One of the wingwalkers raced towards him, but he turned sharply to get out of the way. He could see others heading for the other planes, but his mirror showed that his own attacker was also turning to catch him.

   Jacob veered right, then left, but the wingwalker was more agile than his aircraft, following it with ease. While he turned sharply, his assailant turned agilely, and it was clear from the controlled folding and unfurling of the wooden feathers that the Armageddon Brigade had tested them thoroughly.

   The wingwalker closed on him, so much so that he could see the man's grin in the mirror. Then he heard the cheer of Armax on the radio, and saw his comrade fly his plane straight into the wingwalker, crushing it like a fly against a windscreen.

   “Too easy!” Armax boasted. “You should've made windshield wipers on these!”

   As Jacob dove, he saw another wingwalker diving towards Whistler's plane, but the boy performed a swift barrel roll to avoid it, and it flew onwards to seek out an easier target. Then another came, this time from the side, but Whistler performed another roll, striking the aerial acrobat with the wing of his plane. The man fell, dazed, and his feathers fluttered and broke apart in his descent. Yet Whistler had little time to celebrate, for another wingwalker managed to land upon the edge of his wing. He tumbled again, but the wingwalker held on, and the boy was getting dizzy.

   “Hold on, kid,” Jacob said over the radio as he flew down to slightly above the same height. He could see Whistler looking back at him, and looking anxiously at the wingwalker clambering up the wing. He turned sharply on his side, sending the attacker sliding down, but he never tumbled off, always seizing the edge just in time. Yet this constant throwing helped bide the boy some time as Jacob's aeroplane approached.

   “He won't fall off,” Whistler said.

   “I'll need you to keep it steady,” Jacob replied.

   “I'm trying to shake him!”

   “Don't.”

   Whistler must have had a lot of trust in Jacob, because he immediately steadied his aircraft, giving the wingwalker a level footing towards the cockpit. The man closed up his wings and ran, but even as he neared the glass canopy, Jacob's plane flew in, and the wing narrowly passed over the airfoil of Whistler's vessel, knocking the wingwalker off. They watched as he tried to open his feathers in the drop, but plummeted instead.

  * * *

  Armax loved the chase, and loved this one more than the last, because he got to see the terror in the enemy's face as he dived right into them. He used the radio as his own personal kill list, applauding his every victory, and cheering those of companions.

   Then one of the wingwalkers landed on Armax's plane, but before the attacker could do anything, the pilot opened the canopy and grabbed the wingwalker by the leg, knocking him from his feet. With one hand still firmly on the controls, he pulled the man closer and wrapped his arm around his neck. It was difficult to kick and fight, and Armax had a powerful grip. He squeezed until the man fell unconscious, then tore the backpack from him, before letting him tumble off the edge.

   “This'll come in handy,” he said, closing the canopy.

   Great, Jacob thought. Why didn't Brooklyn have designs for these too? Yet he did not quite think he had the guts to learn how to fly with his own wings. He knew he was much more of an expert at falling.

  * * *

  Even as it looked like the battle against the wingwalkers was succeeding, another set climbed out of the Dreamdevil, and these wore larger backpacks, and seemed to wear armour as well as wings.

   “Looks like we have some heavies,” Armax said with glee.

   The wingwalkers dove, but they did not spread out. They travelled together, forming a ring as they went, and aimed straight for Rommond's monoplane, like a bullet from his own gun. He dodged and dove, but he could not avoid them all, nor could he perform Whistler's tricks, for fear that striking the heavy suits of his assailants might damage his own wings.

   “I can't lose them,” the general said.

   “Now can we shoot?” Armax asked.

   “No,” Rommond replied, a little more resigned than usual. The heavies landed, attaching ropes and wires. “Stay on target. Find a way onboard.”

   Jacob pushed on, but even as he did, he saw the new wingwalkers taking out what looked like small bombs from their backpacks. Rommond opened the canopy and fired at two of the wingwalkers, but the glass bubble acted as a shield for those behind. No amount of trick shots were going to work. Nothing would bounce off the clouds.

   The bombs were set in place, and the wingwalkers dived off. They did not seek out new targets, as most of the other planes were now out of reach. Yet, soon after they pulled their parachutes, Armax came by at great speed, slicing through the parachute wires with the wings of his plane. The wingwalkers fell, but their fall came too late.

   Rommond opened the canopy again and tried to dislodge one of the bombs with his hand, ever mindful that at any moment it could rip off his entire arm. He managed to loosen one, which then slipped away as he shook the plane, igniting in the empty air. But there were many of them, and some were stuck on tight. He could hear them ticking away.

    He closed the canopy, like the lid of a coffin. “Stay on target,” he repeated with a stifled sigh. Everyone stayed on target, but all eyes were on his plane.

   The explosions were blinding. In the flash of fire and light, there were many metal and wooden splinters. As it subsided, Jacob watched in horror as the wingless husk of Rommond's plane plummeted down, still burning, like a comet, to the ground.

  22 – HELD

  The Hold was a prison network of five separate buildings, stretched across the desert of Altadas like a giant hand. Prisoners were kept in different parts depending on how valuable they were, and moved around periodically to prevent breakout or capture by the enemy. Rescuing Mudro from the Hold was one thing—they had to find out which part he was in first.

   “It's doubtful they brought him to the Thumb,” Taberah said. By the time she returned with Gouet, Tardo was ready to broadcast. “We raided that before to free Brogan and Jacob. It's the closest to Resistance territory, so it's an easy target.”

   “Well, that still leaves four options,” Leadman replied.

   “That's where this guy comes in.” Taberah held a gun to the head of one of the communications agents kept alive at Commspire Oasis.

   “We're good to go,” Tardo said, hovering a finger over the broadcast button.

   “Stick to the script,” Taberah warned the agent.

   The radio croaked on.

   “Oasis h-here,” the agent stammered.

   “Command receiving.”

   The agent's nervousness was palpable, and—worse—audible. “We, eh … intercepted a … a call.”

   Taberah nodded at Tardo and ran her finger swiftly across her throat. He muted the microphone.

   “Keep it natural,” Taberah urged the agent, lowering her gun a little. “Pretend.”

   “Come in, Oasis,” the radio crackled.

   “Sorry about that,” the agent continued. The hesitation was still there, but he covered it better. “Bit of a sandstorm here. Lots of interference. We intercepted a communication from the Resistance. Turns out they're trying to free the Magus.”

   “Copy that. Have yo
u got details?”

   “Nothing concrete, but it seems like they're bringing an army. You better move him to a more secure location.”

   “He's already in the Little Finger.”

   Taberah scribbled a note for the agent and pointed to it.

   “It's likely they have some intel that he's there. We need to move him quick.”

   “Copy that. We'll wheel him out.”

   The conversation ended, and Tardo gave a nod and a hearty smile. He was real Resistance material now.

   “You did good,” Taberah told the agent. “And I'm feeling generous. When we have our man, you can walk free.”

   The agent breathed again.

   “Getting soft?” Leadman said, before unloading a bullet in the agent's head.

   Taberah glared at him. “Just saving my bullets for the real battle.”

  * * *

  The real battle came swiftly enough. Now that they knew Mudro had been kept in the Little Finger, they raced along the dirt tracks to intercept the transport leaving that location. They had to be quick or Mudro would be moved off the main road and down one of the paths to the Index, Middle, or Ring. At that stage, they would have lost their opportunity.

   They parked out of sight at the top of a dune overlooking the road, and waited. In time, Leadman's spyglass showed a warwagon, accompanied by two Moving Castles, coming down the road.

   “It's time,” he said.

   The vehicles neared, and the Resistance forces began their assault. The Silver Ghost charged forward, and the bulldozer landship opened fire. One of the Moving Castles collapsed in flames, while the Silver Ghost drove straight into the other, knocking it to the ground and scattering the gunners from the crenellations.

   As Taberah and Gouet opened fire from the windows of the Silver Ghost, changing position to get a better shot, Leadman's landship drove straight into the fleeing warwagon, knocking it to its side, before blasting a hole in the bottom.

   Guards fled, but did not flee faster than bullets. Then out of the haze of dust and rubble stepped Doctor Mudro, dusting off his cobalt waistcoat.

   “Finally,” he said. “I was beginning to wish I'd studied escapology.”

   “You should have studied it anyway while you were behind bars,” Gouet said, stepping out of the Silver Ghost with Taberah.

   “Gouet!” Mudro exclaimed. “I thought you were dead.”

   “Sure, I'm close enough, amn't I? Got both feet in the grave at this stage.”

   “In this war,” Mudro said, with a wave of his hand, “don't we all?” He paused. “Now, before we continue … neither of you would happen to have a pipe and some leaf? The guards disposed of mine.”

   Gouet gave a cackle, and looked at Taberah. “I told you he'd be desperate for a puff.” He took a little box out of his robes and handed it to Mudro.

   “Much obliged, good sir,” the doctor said, taking the pipe out of the box and quickly stuffing it. “Hmm, a light?”

   Gouet scoffed. “Come now, you're not that weakened by the air of this world.”

   Mudro sighed. He held his right hand over the open end of the pipe, whispered something while it was still in his mouth, and clicked his fingers over the weed. It did not sound like a normal click. They heard it with something other than their ears.

   A sizzle of smoke rose like a pillar from the pipe.

   “Or maybe you are,” Gouet said. “You used to be good with fire.”

   “You used to be good with water,” Mudro replied. “Where's the rain?”

   Gouet waved his hand dismissively at the doctor, and grumbled as he headed back to the Silver Ghost.

   “Good to see you repairing that friendship,” Taberah said.

   “Some things aren't so easily forgotten.”

   “What about the Memory Magus?”

   “Ha! It's easy to forget the old world when you bring in the new. Or, as Gouet might say, it's easy to forget, full stop. Now, before I do, where's Haladon? I presume you mean to get us all together?”

   “He's dead,” Taberah said. “The Regime found him. We lost a huge supply of amulets.”

   “And a life,” Mudro pointed out.

   “We lose those all the time.”

   “If there's only two of us left, that doesn't bode well for the amulet business. You know I've never been much good with them. And Gouet's not exactly going to be in business much longer himself. What then?”

   Taberah shrugged. “We better hope more of your kind are exiled here.”

   “Seems like it's been a while since we heard of a new landing.”

   “Some say the Regime released creatures into the water to stop the ships from reaching the shore.”

   “Some say a lot of things. Is it true?”

   “It doesn't matter,” Taberah said. “We're ending this once and for all now. No more blocking the birth channels. It's time we reclaim that territory.”

   “With Gouet here, I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

   “A premonition?”

   “More like a memory, repeating itself.”

   “It won't be like last time.”

   “Yes, because there are less of us now.”

   “I mean, we'll find them.”

   “And if we do?”

   “We fight them.”

   “If we were back in Iraldas, I would be up for anything,” Mudro said, waving his hand towards the west, as if that land was just out of view, “but here, the rules are different. Magic doesn't work the same here. The more stark the machinery, the more subtle the magic.” He paused for a moment. “Speaking of which … have you got my gear?”

   “It's in the Ghostch—the Silver Ghost.”

   The smoke from Mudro's pipe lingered a little longer than usual. “I guess it's the Ghostchaser again.”

   “But we're not chasing ghosts this time.”

   “Aren't we?”

   She looked at him, and he looked right through her.

   “Who's your guide?” he asked.

   She did not hold his gaze. “I don't know what you mean.”

   “You didn't just stumble upon the location of the Birth-masters. We gave up that search a long time ago. What changed?”

   “The war changed.”

   “The war is always changing. Something changed with you.”

   “I realised where my battle lies.”

   “You didn't realise that on your own,” he pointed out. “Who's your guide?”

   “Don't tell him,” Elizah said, just to her. “He'll think you're crazy.”

   “It's just a hunch,” Taberah said at last.

   “Well, I have a hunch that it's something more.”

   “You're wrong, Mudro.”

   Mudro raised an eyebrow. “I hope I am, Taberah. I hope I am.”

  23 – BOARDING THE BOMB

  Jacob flew his plane over the Dreamdevil, struggling to get a good view of where he could possibly land when he eventually leapt out. The idea sounded more insane now than it had before—and it was madness then. Rommond seemed so confident about it, but he was gone now, and the confidence of all went with him. Yet the mission lived on, and the general's passing might not have been in vain if the survivors found a way to succeed, to make survivors out of everyone else.

   “I can't get a clear view,” Jacob spoke into the radio. “I can see up and to the sides, but not down.” People used to say when up at great heights, never look down. Maybe there was a good reason for that design.

   “Try this,” Whistler replied, and Jacob saw the boy's plane fly over him—upside down. He looked up, and clearly saw Whistler's smiling face and waving hand. He waved back, but doubted he would be smiling if he could dare find the courage for such a move. Yet he had to find it somewhere. Hopefully not the afterlife.

   He flew on, and turned around for another pass, this time a little higher t
han before. He felt he needed the extra height, in case he accidentally drooped down when the world was spinning. He took a deep breath, and let it out swiftly with a sigh.

   “Here goes then,” he said to himself, before turning the steering stick sharply to the right. The plane turned, and kept turning, but then it seemed like the world turned instead, and he saw the land tumbling away, as if it was falling into the sky. He felt a sudden nausea, and his head hurt, and his eyes blurred a little as they tried to adjust to a scene that did not make any sense.

   He felt the tug of gravity, pulling him towards the new sand-covered sky. His seat belt dug into his abdomen, and the straps around his shoulders clung to him tightly like a frightful friend. The glass of the canopy was so clear, and offered such a great peripheral view, that it almost felt like there was nothing there at all.

   He passed over the Dreamdevil, slowing the engine, hoping to get as best a view as he could. He saw the giant wingspan, the smoke stack, the tail fin, the ropes that held things together, and all the polished curves, which would not hold a footfall.

   He flinched as another plane passed between him and the Dreamdevil, upright, and yet looking like it was upside down. He could see Armax inside, strapping his wingwalker backpack on, and Jacob could not help but wish that he had one of his own.

   He turned his plane upright, taking one final look at his target. The best place to land seemed like the wings themselves, where the wingwalkers had previously perched, making it look like solid ground. But it was one thing to leap from the wings compared to leaping to them.

   He reached towards the backpack at his feet. It had a parachute inside, and two grappling guns attached to the outside. Everything you need to commit suicide, Jacob thought. He had to remind himself of the bomb, and Rommond's last words, to find the courage deep inside himself. He never really found it, but he found purpose. He had a mission. He had to see it through.

   He passed around again, and pushed open the canopy. The wind was fierce now. It grabbed his hair and pulled at his goggles. The sound of it clattered off his ears, until he could barely hear himself think.