Lifemaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Fantasy (The Great Iron War, Book 2)

by Dean F. Wilson

  He began to rehearse in his mind what he would say to her, how he would tell her that he felt he was somehow changing, and that she was the instrument of that change. He went through so many versions of his speech, thinking some too soppy, and others too cold, until he realised that he still did not really know what it was about her that made him go through so much trouble for a little candlelit dinner in his room.

  He sent another note, and then waited fifteen minutes, until the food was cold; and then thirty minutes, until the wine was warm; and then for an hour, until the candles burned low. He waited long enough for him to forget his rehearsed speeches, and he continued to wait some more, even though by now he knew she was not coming.

  He caught the fading glimmer of the candle flame in the mirror, and he caught the broken expression on his face. He always was alone—he liked to be alone—but this time the solitude stung him deep. The emptiness filled his heart, just like the growing darkness filled the room.

  11 – DELUGE

  Wine was not Jacob’s poison, but he drank it all, and then decided to while away the evening with a stroll through the submarine. He was not exactly looking for trouble, but he had a feeling that trouble liked to take a stroll of its own. He was glad he was not on a rocking boat, because he brought a glass of whiskey with him. There was something about being beneath the ocean that was thirsty work, even if he was not exactly helpful to the crew.

  During his wanderings, he found Whistler peeping through a slightly ajar door on the top deck. It was not until Jacob sneaked up behind him that he could see that the boy was eavesdropping on Taberah and Rommond.

  “I was wondering where you were,” Jacob said.

  Whistler jumped and turned to Jacob with a panicked expression. He glanced up and down, and left and right, as if to suggest that he was looking everywhere bar the room he had been spying on.

  “Didn’t your mother tell you that it’s rude to spy on people?” Jacob asked, which did not help Whistler’s nervous reaction. “Without the appropriate apparatus, that is,” Jacob added, gulping down the last of his whiskey and pressing the glass to the wall, and his ear to the glass.

  Whistler simpered, but he still looked like he had been caught red-handed.

  “Sounds like … mumble mumble,” Jacob said.

  “I wasn’t spying,” Whistler blurted.

  “Relax, kid. I wouldn’t care if you were.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “Well, I’m not spying either,” Jacob said, before taking a glance through the door. Maybe it was the whiskey, but he could have sworn that he saw Taberah consoling Rommond. “Strange,” he said, almost involuntarily.

  “It’s not strange,” Whistler said, and he sounded hurt.

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  “She’s always nice to him,” Whistler whispered.

  “That’s not what I heard,” Jacob said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the attempted coup.”

  “It wasn’t a coup.”

  “Right. Not if it didn’t work.”

  Whistler’s eyes started to water.

  “Are you okay?” Jacob asked.

  Whistler looked like he was going to say something, but his lip trembled instead. He turned and ran off, leaving a trail of tears behind him.

  What did I say? Jacob thought. He glanced back into the room, where Taberah had her arm around Rommond’s shoulders. Or what did he see?

  It did not take much detective work to surmise that Whistler had retreated to his quarters. Jacob would have normally left people to their own devices, especially if they wanted to water those devices with their tears, but he could not help but feel sorry for the lad, and feel that maybe he really needed a friend. On board the Lifemaker, that did not exactly leave many options. So, Jacob sauntered down to the next deck where their quarters were.

  “Can I come in?” he asked. He did not get an answer, but the door was also slightly ajar, as if Whistler was hoping he would do some eavesdropping of his own. Jacob entered the room to find Whistler face down on his bed, smothering his sorrows. Jacob preferred whiskey for that.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Jacob offered, feeling more than a little awkward as he did. It was not his usual line. He preferred: Do you want to pay for that?

  Whistler did not respond, or if he did, his words were muffled by the bed sheets.

  Jacob stood by the door, pursing his lips. It was easier than actually saying anything. Hell, smuggling amulets was easier than finding out what was bothering the boy. Jacob found himself staring out the window into the blackness of the sea, silently hoping he would see some unusual fish that he could distract Whistler with.

  But nothing happened, and Whistler was not forthcoming on his own. He did glance up from time to time, as if to check that Jacob was still there, but all Jacob could hear was the odd sob or sigh, the vocabulary of sorrow.

  When the silence became too much, Jacob broke it by dragging his heels across the room. He would have dragged a chair out to sit on, but the rooms were barely big enough for a bed. He slumped down on the end of the bed, making sure to stretch his arms and make it clear that he was going to sit on anyone below if they did not move out of the way. Whistler rolled away just in time, revealing his tear-covered face.

  “You’re not supposed to get your bandages wet,” Jacob said.

  Whistler pouted.

  “Come on, kid, tell me what’s up.”

  There was no longer enough space for Whistler to roll around and bury his face again, but he was still struggling with his lips to form the words of whatever was bothering him.

  Jacob decided to try to make it easier for the boy. “Okay, let’s make a deal—a smuggler’s trade, as it were. I’ll tell you something that bothers me, and then it’s your turn. Deal?” He held out his hand, and Whistler reluctantly shook it. It was much easier than speaking.

  “So,” Jacob began, “I never really fell in love before, and then I met your mother, and I don’t know what it is about her, but something just clicks. It’s like … it’s kind of like cogs fitting together. But the thing about cogs is that you can easily jam something in between them, and everything grinds to a halt. So here I see her with Rommond, and I think … is he the iron bar that’s jammed between our cogs?”

  He did not intend to say any of that. He expected to make something up, to tell some paltry invented trouble that he half-expected Whistler to see through, and fully hoped that it would not matter. It might have been hard for Whistler to talk, but it seemed that it was easier for Jacob than he anticipated. He blamed the whiskey.

  “It’s not like that,” Whistler said meekly. He seemed a little amused by Jacob’s tale.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … he’s not interested in her.”

  “Well, she seems plenty interested in him. Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Do you not like him?”

  “I do. I think he’s cool. But—”

  “But what?”

  “She’s never … never there like that for me.”

  Jacob did not know what to say to that.

  “Sometimes I feel like,” Whistler stuttered, “sometimes I feel like she doesn’t care, that … that I’m just like a tool, something useful for the Order. And sometimes I think that maybe she’ll get rid of me when I stop being useful, and I keep failing and causing trouble. It’s my fault we’re even down here! And … and I keep thinking that maybe the next mistake I make will be the last one, and she won’t want me any more, and I don’t want to feel like that.” By this point he was almost bawling, and the bandages on his face were soaked through. Jacob placed his hand upon the boy’s shoulder, and he felt the child tremble, as if he had never been comforted before.

  Hell, was all Jacob could think of, but he was glad he did not say it. “I think she does care, Whistler. Maybe she’s not the best at showing it, but I think she really does care
. And I don’t think you need to worry about being thrown aside. Hell, I’m still here, and I’m useless.”

  “But sometimes she won’t even look at me,” Whistler continued, as if the dam could no longer hold back the deluge. “It’s like she can’t stand the sight of me. It’s like … it’s like I make her feel bad, and I don’t want to make people feel bad.”

  If there was some place lower than Hell, Jacob would have said its name in his mind right now. Again he was glad his tongue was more comforting than his thoughts. “You don’t make people feel bad, kid. Honestly, you don’t. Look, Whistler, when we were in the Hold, you were the only thing that kept me from going mad. In the darkness of that cell, you were the only light. I’ve achieved all sorts in my life, but I’ve got nothing on you. Hell, it was worth getting caught just to have bumped into you.”

  He smiled, and Whistler smiled. But the floodgates were open, and Whistler had more to say.

  “I don’t blame her,” the boy said. “I think … I sometimes can’t even look at myself in the mirror.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about the scars—”

  “But this … this was before then.”

  “Well, you’re not ugly, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What is it then?”

  “It’s just … it’s like … the odd time I think I see something else.”

  “What do you mean?” Jacob asked. He felt suddenly on edge.

  “You know how I … how I got my name?”

  “The blowing the whistle thing?”

  “When I see one of them, the demons,” Whistler stammered, “I get this funny feeling. And sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, when I look at … at myself … I get that same feeling too.”

  12 – DESTITUTE

  Jacob did not know how to truly comfort Whistler. He was not really the listening type, and he found that he had to give some kind of response, just to break those tense moments of silence. He assured the boy that he must have been imaging things, and suggested that if Whistler’s natural ability to identify the demons could be wrong, as it had proven to be several times before, then it was likely wrong again. This appeared to help, and the flood of tears that came from Whistler ceased to flow.

  Jacob stayed with him for a while, until he fell asleep, and then headed back to his own quarters, where he unearthed one of the bottles of wine from his planned dinner. After listening to Whistler’s sorrows, he really thought he needed another drink. It was not long before he was several glasses in, and feeling like he still could not quench his thirst.

  By the sixth glass, his room began to feel too small, as if he was trapped in a glass of his own. He staggered outside and found his way to Taberah’s quarters, where he set up patrol outside. He stumbled back and forth, glass and bottle in hand, warding off any passers-by, some of whom walked by all the quicker. Jacob mumbled something as they passed, which might have been an insult, or a threat, or his best attempt at poetry. When he could no longer patrol, he camped outside the room, clinging to the wine bottle as if it could pour out coils.

  After several hours, Taberah finally returned to her quarters, finding Jacob asleep against the door. She pushed it open, and Jacob collapsed onto the ground, waking with a snort. He yawned and stretched, and raised his glass to Taberah from his vantage point on the ground.

  “G’morning,” he slurred.

  “It’s midnight,” Taberah said.

  “G’night!” Jacob cheered. “To each and every one!”

  “Dear lord,” Taberah said, stepping over him to get into her room.

  “Oo aar! Good job you’re wearing trousers,” Jacob said with a laugh. He rolled over and dragged himself into the room with his arms. “More women should wear trousers. I’ve always said it. Didn’t I always say it?”

  “What are you doing here, Jacob?” Taberah asked, slamming her diary down on the table.

  “Waiting for you, m’darling!” Jacob said, with a hiccup. “I got you … I got you this.” He held up the empty bottle. “Dunno what happened, hic, to it. Thieves!” He sat up and pointed at random spots in the room. “They’re everywhere.”

  “I think we better get you sobered up.”

  Taberah helped Jacob up, which was a struggle, and plopped him in a chair, where it was a struggle to keep him. He kept getting up and wandering about, and reaching for the wine bottle, and raising a fist to the heavens when discovering, time and time again, that it was empty.

  She made a pot of tea, and assured Jacob that each cup had whiskey in it, and he swamped down half a dozen cups of it, while Taberah sipped at one. In time he fell asleep, waking several hours later to find that Taberah was still up. She was writing in her diary.

  “October 18th, 12:00am,” Jacob said. “I met a drunk today.”

  “Funny that,” Taberah replied. “I met one too.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

  “You’re not the first to hit the bottle too hard, Jacob.”

  “At least it didn’t break,” he said, holding up the culprit.

  “It might have been better if it had broken while there was still half the liquor inside.”

  “I probably would have found another one. Turns out Karlsif has quite a store. A crate of coils comes in handy then.”

  “I’m sure it does,” Taberah said, closing her diary.

  “So why aren’t you in bed?”

  “A drunk is keeping me awake.”

  “Again, sorry about that.”

  “What did you come here for, Jacob?”

  “Did you not get my note?”

  “What note?”

  “The invitation to dinner.”

  “Yes, I got that.”

  “And the second one?”

  “I got that too,” Taberah acknowledged.

  “And?”

  “I was busy.”

  “You could have said.”

  “Jacob,” she said sternly, “unlike you, I have duties on this ship.”

  “Is consoling Rommond one of them?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. You spend more time with him than anyone else.”

  “We’re old friends, Jacob, and we’re both leaders in this war. And anyway, I don’t need to justify who I spend my time with, least of all to you.”

  “What about Whistler?”

  “What about him?”

  “Exactly!” Jacob exclaimed. “That’s your attitude with him in general. And if you’re not ignoring him, it’s like you hate the kid.”

  Taberah shifted uneasily in her seat. “I don’t hate him.”

  “Well, you sure as hell aren’t making it clear that you love him either.”

  Taberah paused. “It’s complicated, Jacob.”

  “How is it? He’s your kid. You gotta love your kid.”

  “Will you love yours?” she asked.

  “You know, I mightn’t make much of a father, but hell, I’ll love the tyke, sure.”

  “You say that now.” She looked away, as if the thought of love stung deep.

  “Did you not say it when you were pregnant with Whistler?”

  “I said it, yes.”

  “And did you not mean it?”

  Taberah look away again, before returning her fiery gaze. “He isn’t your child, Jacob.”

  “The way you go on, he might as well not be yours either!”

  “You’ve gotten high and mighty all of a sudden, Jacob. What gives you the right to be throwing stones?”

  “I don’t pretend to be perfect,” Jacob said, “but I do try.”

  “And what do you think any of us are doing?”

  “Well, it seems like you’re ignoring the people who care about you.”

  “How?”

  “I went out of my way today,” Jacob said, “to make something special.”

  “I didn’t ask for anything special.”

  “You said you wanted d
inner.”

  “I was just being polite.”

  “And were you just being polite when you slept with me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Jacob, I barely knew you. I still don’t.”

  “Then get to know me.”

  “I am,” she said, “and I’m not liking this side of you.”

  “What, the side that cares? The side that loves?”

  Taberah paused, biting her lip. “I like you, Jacob … but I don’t love you.”

  “Well, that’s clear.”

  “I don’t think you really love me either.”

  Jacob sighed. “Maybe not.”

  “It’s hard for me to fall in love, Jacob. I’m not sure I really love anyone. Rommond’s probably the closest.”

  “What about Whistler? Hell, Taberah, that kid thinks you’ll cast him aside as soon as he stops being useful.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “And what about me? Are you just using me?”

  “Jacob, we’re fighting a war. There’s a bigger picture out there than you and me. I don’t have time to be worrying about your problems.”

  “But you have time for Rommond,” Jacob said. “How’s that?”

  “Jacob, he lost everything. He’s only ever loved one person, and he lost him. I’m amazed he’s holding it together so well. Do you know what would happen if he crumbled? The Resistance would fall apart. They rally to him. If he goes down, we all go down with him. I cannot let that happen.”

  “So it’s all about business then.”

  “It’s about life, Jacob. Our survival. That’s the bigger picture that you’re not seeing.”

  “The big picture is made up of lots of little pictures, Taberah. You can’t just think of the wider war and ignore all the people fighting in it. We matter.”

  “It wasn’t so long ago that you said you didn’t care about the war.”

  “I care about the people.”

  “Funny that,” Taberah said. “To everyone else it looks like you only care about the coils.”

  “You’re all about the low blows, aren’t you?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt if it wasn’t true.”