Whistler took his hand and smiled. From the corner of his eye, he saw the ground reach up to grab them. He held his breath, and felt the welling up of every buried fear. The plane did not so much as land as crash, breaking apart as it bounced off the ground.
37 – WAKE-UP CALL
Jacob and Whistler were thrown from the wreckage of the monoplane. They tumbled across the desert, covered by the tossing sands and splintering wood. Jacob landed on his back, facing the angry gaze of the sun.
He groaned, and heard Whistler moan beside him. He was so preoccupied with his own aching body that for a moment he forgot about the bomb. Then the thought exploded in his mind and he sat up suddenly, forcing his muscles to spasm.
The stabbing sunshine and the sandy haze made it difficult to see, but soon he found a broken wing, and then the rest of the plane, and further up the copter, with some propellers still spinning, and further still: the bomb, half-submerged in sand.
He shook his head in disbelief. We did it.
Whistler sat up, sobbing as he clutched his skint and bruised arm.
“You okay?” Jacob asked him.
“Yeah,” the boy said, shaking sand from his hair. “You?”
Jacob nodded emphatically. “You know what … I am. We all are. It … it didn't go off.” He let out the greatest sigh he had ever made in his life, and he felt like he exhaled sand as well as air. Indeed, he felt like he let out a lot of his troubles. They did not seem so great in comparison to that bulbous weapon.
“We did it,” Whistler said. His smile was like a fairer kind of sunshine.
A hatch on the copter opened suddenly, and out stumbled Rommond, beating away the smoke and sand with his cap. He stopped, scanned the area, spotted the bomb, and then saw them.
“Not bad for a day's work, eh?” Jacob shouted over to him.
“Not bad at all,” the general replied, placing his cap back on and straightening it up.
He stopped beside them and stood with his hands behind his back, surveying the site.
“I guess we can make a difference,” Whistler said.
“Was that ever in doubt?” Rommond asked.
“I think everything was in doubt,” Jacob replied.
“We did a remarkable deed here. One that will go down in history. Or, if I had my way, one that we could erase from history. That weapon needs to be dismantled. This was a wake-up call for me. I hope it was for everyone else. We cannot allow this kind of weapon to be used in this war, or any other. We'll have to kill each other a different way.”
Jacob got up and helped Whistler to his feet. The trio approached the bomb slowly, afraid that, after everything, somehow even a whisper might set it off.
“Our greatest success,” Jacob said.
“My greatest failure,” the general replied. “I should have never dreamed of this.”
“Someone else would have, surely.”
“Would have, might have, maybe … who knows? All I know is that I gave the order. I approved the project. I funded the science. I betrayed us all with those decisions, so I guess they weren't really wrong when they drew me as a demon. I almost sent us all to Hell.”
“But you didn't,” Jacob said. “And you helped stop this thing.”
Rommond turned to Whistler. “I think our little lord of the sky had a lot to do with that.”
Whistler blushed and simpered.
Then they heard a sudden cry from far afield, and Rommond immediately unearthed his pistol. The haze of sand was still thick, and though it offered good cover from watchful eyes, it offered none from darting bullets.
A man came through the haze, half-prancing and half-floundering, his arms waving madly about, and his long coat waving with them. It was Porridge.
“Oh!” he cried, running over to the broken copter. “My baby!” He collapsed dramatically to his knees, as if it really was his fallen child.
“You can make another one,” Rommond said, strolling over to him and placing a hand upon his shoulder. Porridge gripped the general's hand with his, as if Rommond had been the father.
“Oh, it's dreadful! But at least it's over, darling. We're all lucky lemons indeed!” Porridge pulled out of Rommond's arm until he was standing again, and then continued to hang out of the general's uniform, stumbling in his heels as Rommond brought him away from the fire and smoke of the copter. Jacob went to help, and Porridge grabbed a hold of the smuggler's arm. “Oh, my ripened raspberries, you're a muscly one!”
Jacob raised an eyebrow, and Whistler grinned at him.
* * *
All four of them sat together away from the wreckage, wondering what they were going to do next. They were not entirely sure where they were, but they knew they had landed in Regime territory. None of the flying vessels were in good enough condition to fly again, and the sand was not a good choice for a runway.
“We might have to walk it,” Jacob said.
“In these!” Porridge protested, emptying sand from one of his shoes.
“We can't leave the bomb unattended,” Rommond replied.
Jacob shielded his eyes from the sun. It was getting low now, which was probably worse, because then the bitter cold of night would follow. “We can't survive long out here either.”
“Maybe we won't have to,” Whistler said, pointing to the horizon.
There, attracted by the many plumes of smoke, were the silhouettes of half a dozen vehicles, racing swiftly towards them, bearing the unmistakable emblem of the Regime.
38 – UNDOING PROGRESS
“Get ready for a fight,” Rommond said, taking his pistol out again.
The trucks and landships approached, halting within firing range. They paused there for a moment, their barrels aimed, facing off against the general's handgun. It seemed like at any moment either of them would shoot.
Then the door of one of the trucks opened, and out stepped Trokus.
“You!” Rommond barked. “Seems you got here a lot more comfortably than we did.”
The commander strolled over, with two guards at his sides. Jacob wondered why he bothered with them. The general would take out all three of them before the first turret fired.
“The scientists,” Rommond said. “Where are they?”
“We have them in safe-keeping.”
“There's a safer place. It's about six feet below.”
“The bunker we all go to eventually, eh?”
“Amusing,” Rommond said. “Perhaps you'll forgive my lack of humour at the moment. You see, I'm rather under the impression that you betrayed us. And that makes my finger itchy.”
“I had to,” Trokus explained. “I was under orders.”
“My finger's under orders. At the moment, those are: let him speak. But orders change.”
“They had my wife and daughter.”
“This bomb had the world.”
“Family's everything to me,” Trokus said, and his lip trembled. “I tried to tell you that. I lost my boy up there. I couldn't lose the others. I had to do what the Iron Emperor wanted. He wanted the scientists. He knew you'd stop the bomb.”
“So, what is this, your apology?”
“In a way, yes. I just wanted you to know that I didn't do it. I didn't hand them over. I sent decoys instead. I hope he doesn't notice, because I dread to think of what he'll do. I got my wife and child back, but I know that he can take them again. His reach … it's the distance of the world.”
Rommond lowered his gun. “Where are the real scientists?”
Trokus gestured towards one of the trucks, and before he was finished gesturing, Rommond opened fire on it, until there were no more bullets in his gun.
“Are you mad?” Trokus shouted. “I'm trying to do the decent thing here! I'm giving you them! I only took them to get my family back.”
Rommond breathed heavy. Jacob could tell t
hat if he had another weapon, he would have unloaded that one too. He saw him eyeing the guns of the guards. It must have taken a lot of restraint not to make a move.
“Why are you helping us?” Jacob asked.
“Because up there you showed me who you really are. When my son's plane went down, your Whistler went down to save him, and you went down to save them both. That's the kind of thing families do, no matter what the cost. I guess you're a kind of family after all.”
“Touching,” Rommond said, “but how do we know this is not another ruse? How do we know the Iron Emperor isn't controlling your tongue once again?”
“Maybe a gesture will help.” Trokus turned and nodded to one of the men standing by his truck. He opened the door, and out stepped Brooklyn.
“We found him wandering in Regime territory.”
The pistol fell from Rommond's grip, and he almost fell with it. It was Porridge's turn to hold him up, and he could barely do that for himself. Brooklyn started to run towards the general, and Rommond followed suit, until they embraced each other in the middle.
Yet, Rommond being Rommond, he spared little time for that embrace, and none for pleasantries. He pointed to the bomb. “Can you dismantle it?”
“I am not sure,” Brooklyn said. “These spirits are different kind. I need time to learn dialect.”
“Okay, but make it quick. The sooner this thing is destroyed, the better.”
“It is odd for me to be unmaking instead of making.”
“Consider it making parts.”
Brooklyn walked towards the bomb and sat down beside it, beginning his long process of meditation. Rommond did not like it, because it took too long. Every second could have been the finger on the button, but the seconds passed, and they were still there.
Rommond returned to Trokus. “You surprised me yet.”
“So did you. I never thought you'd propose a truce.”
“So, is this a truce?”
“Not between you and the Iron Empire. But between us, yes. We don't answer to the Iron Emperor any more.”
“A wise decision.”
“I'm not sure it's wise, but … here we are.” He held his hand out to the general.
Rommond eyed him up and down, then took Trokus' hand and pulled him close. “I hope I don't regret this.”
“I hope I don't regret it either.”
Rommond paused mid-shake. “The scientists.”
Trokus nodded. “They're yours.”
“No,” the general said. “They belong to Death.”
* * *
When Brooklyn finished his meditation, he had learned the dialect of the spirits of the bomb.
“I need uniform,” he told the Regime soldiers. “Heavy uniform.” He circulated several designs, which were passed to outfitters, who were more accustomed to protecting people from bullets, not radiation. Yet they had faced these troubles before in smaller form, when the trenches were bombarded with nerve gas and other toxins, and it did not take long before a combined human and maran team developed protective clothing to encase the tribesman.
It took several days for Brooklyn to understand the bomb, and several more to take it apart. It was a nerve-racking process, more like a surgical operation than anything else. There were several helpers, bringing tools in, and taking away delicate parts, and it was clear from the constant expression of apprehension on their faces that none of them wanted to be there.
When the dismantling was over, there were thousands of tiny little pieces, arranged carefully in boxes for hazardous and non-hazardous material, which were hauled out in trucks, carts, wheelbarrows, and in jittering hands. A panic almost started when one box was inadvertently dropped. The battle in the sky was over, but everyone still felt hounded by the bomb.
“We need to bury the pieces,” Rommond said. “We can't afford anyone assembling this jigsaw again.”
“Surely it'll be hard to find all the pieces,” Jacob said.
“Perhaps, but we don't want them even finding half of them. If you see enough of the picture, the puzzle becomes a lot easier to solve.”
“Where do we bury them?” Brooklyn asked.
“Everywhere,” the general said. “Bring some to your people to distribute in the land. I'll get a lot of it out to sea, and hopefully the fishes will eat it up in these nice bite-sized chunks. We'll have to dig deep in the dunes to hide the rest. Only a select few can know where we're hiding it. I don't ever want to see or hear about this weapon ever again.”
* * *
A giant bonfire was arranged in the desert, which Doctor Elbern and Doctor Ekar were forced to contribute to. Both humans and marans heaved stacks of papers by the wheelbarrow, parking them beside the burgeoning flames.
“You can't,” Elbern said. “I spent my entire life on this.”
“Funny how easily it all burns,” Rommond said. “Just like the many people you would have condemned to the flames.”
“This was your idea.”
“Which I ordered you to abandon.”
The doctor looked Rommond up and down. “You didn't have the courage.”
“I didn't have the madness.”
“We could have ended this war,” Elbern said. “In one big puff of smoke.”
Rommond frowned. “But this is just a dream … remember?”
“We could have ended this dream.” He nudged his brother, but Ekar said nothing.
“The end is coming … for some.”
“You need me,” Elbern told him. There was a time when Rommond believed it, when he thought that maybe there really was no other option to defeat the demons.
“Oh, really?” the general replied.
“What if the demons find a way to make it again?”
“But Doctor … I'm the demon, don't you recall?”
Elbern shook his head violently, his dishevelled hair flaying from side to side. “I'm the only person left who knows how to make this.” His brother did not protest, but Rommond knew that he had as much knowledge of the bomb as Elbern did.
“Good,” Rommond replied, unloading a single bullet between the doctor's eyes. Ekar watched his brother stumble forward, and then he tried to run, but the bullet ran faster. As the bodies fell to the ground, their glasses cracking in the fall, Rommond thought that maybe now they could all sleep a little sounder.
39 – HATE
Everyone returned to the safety of Blackout, though it was strange that “everyone” included so many people they had at one time called demons. Rommond was keen to keep that under wraps. He knew that distrust was still high. It was high in him as well.
Leadman made his last delivery to the city, having had to trek back and forth to Commspire Oasis to secure as much of its communications equipment as possible. Rommond authorised Tardo to set up a new listening post in the old clock tower, and Tardo gleefully complied. He hurried back and forward to collect new toys from the overflowing toybox Leadman kept topping up.
After the final shipment, when Tardo could clearly visualise the new array, his excitement became so much that he got clumsy. He stepped back to view the full collection, only to stumble into Gregan.
“Watch where you're going,” Gregan barked.
“Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't see you th—”
“Well, you've got eyes, don't you? Or do demons have something else?”
“Eh—”
“You think you can just march around like you own the place.”
“No, I—”
“You think you don't need to mind where you look, 'cause sure it's only humans in the way, right?”
Tardo shook his head.
“What, you not going to answer me now?”
“I'm sorry, I really don't—”
“We oughta teach you a lesson!”
“But I'm on your side!” Tardo exclaimed.
&
nbsp; “You ain't on our side,” Gregan spat. “This side's for our kind. You ain't our kind. You ain't even close.”
“But I'm fighting for you … with you.”
“Stop it!” Whistler cried, forcing himself between the two men. He looked up at Gregan, who towered over him, and he almost regretted doing anything at all.
“Get out of the way, boy.”
“No!”
“This isn't your fight, boy. Get out of the way.”
“If you're going to pick a fight with a demon, then pick one with me!”
Gregan's face contorted. “So you're the half-blood.” He prodded Whistler in the shoulder with a stabbing finger. “I don't know what sickens me more. The scum, or the spawn of the scum. Everything about you, boy, is wrong.”
Whistler tried to hold back his tears, to stop the tremble of his mouth. He wanted to be brave for Tardo, who was being brave for the Resistance, fighting against his own people. Whistler never thought he would have to do the same.
“You come here,” Gregan bellowed at Tardo. Whistler closed his eyes as the spit covered his face. “You kill our men. You rape our women. And you mix your own with ours and try and pass 'em off as human?”
By now Whistler was shaking, clenching his fists to try and stop the shudders.
Leadman walked by, casting the word “Lieutenant” over his shoulder, like a hook to catch a fish. Gregan grumbled and began to back away, but as he did so he pointed the blade of his finger at Gregan and Whistler, and equally the blade of his tongue.
“You just wait,” he hissed, and never was waiting more of a threat. They had been waiting for the bomb, but as Whistler looked up to Gregan's pale face, he felt that maybe there was something just as destructive in the hearts of men.
* * *
The final delivery did not come from Commspire Oasis, but from Fort Landlock.
“Where's Tabs?” Rommond asked.
Leadman took off his cap and bowed his head.
Worldwaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 5) Page 16
