“I think I’ve found something,” Whistler called out.
Jacob barely made it over before he saw Whistler plummet through a hole in the floor. He tried to grab him, but the boy was already deep below. He heard the painful thud of the body, and Whistler’s groans.
“Are you okay?” Jacob shouted down. He realised that perhaps shouting was not the best idea.
“Ow,” Whistler replied.
“Are you all right?” Jacob asked.
“Kind of,” Whistler said. “Yes. I just … there’s something down here.”
An image of a monstrous creature or the rumoured saboteur flashed in Jacob’s mind. He leapt down the opening to fight it, giving his own groans as he struck the floor several metres below. But there was no creature or person there besides him and Whistler.
“Thought you’d have a better look?” Whistler asked.
“Of course,” Jacob said, lowering his fighting stance.
“Well, look at this.” Whistler rubbed his hand across a dust-covered door, removing some of the grime that obscured a strange symbol.
“What is that, a flower?” Jacob asked.
“I think it’s supposed to be a fire.”
Jacob saw it now. It was eight interlocking flames, spaced around a circle, with the points outwards.
“I’m not sure we should be here,” Whistler said.
Jacob tapped his knuckles on the iron door. “I’ve got to know what’s in there now.”
18 – THE IRON DOOR
The most interesting part of the forbidden floor was no longer the marvellous machinery, but rather the mysterious black door with its many rivets and its arcane symbol. It was a barrier which would not budge, and which stood like a sentinel, guarding some secret treasure inside.
Whistler nicknamed it the Iron Door, after the Iron Wall that skirted the Regime’s primary domain. The latter was a train track that ran from north to south, and on it was the largest and fastest rail gun the world of Altadas had ever known. The Resistance had lost many men and machines against that monster, and so the legend grew that the Iron Wall could not be penetrated. Though Whistler’s appellation for this latest boundary might have been apt, it did not stop them from trying.
Jacob procured a crowbar, which proved useless against the door, which had been sealed so tightly it might as well have been welded shut. Eventually Jacob proposed that it was a false door, part of the wall crafted purely for design. This greatly disappointed Whistler, who was not entirely convinced. Jacob was certain the door was real, and though his curiosity was great, he could not help but think: What terrible thing could be behind that door, for them to lock it so tight?
* * *
They abandoned this fruitless quest, and climbed back up into the ironworks, and crept out of the forbidden deck without Alakovi or the guards noticing them. Work went on, more repairs were made, and the mischievous duo looked to other things to pass the time.
Two days passed since the discovery of the Iron Door, when Jacob bumped into Soasa in the corridor. She seemed to be more explosive than ever, and instead of trying to avoid the smuggler, she was actively seeking him out.
“You!” she cried, grabbing him by the collar and smacking him on the head.
“What the hell?” Jacob asked as he recoiled from her.
“If you take another stick of dynamite from my store, I’ll make sure the next one is in your bed.”
“I didn’t take anything.”
“Sure you didn’t,” Soasa said. “And I didn’t take some of your coils as reparation.”
“Soasa, I swear to you,” Jacob said, holding his hands up, palms outward, “that I didn’t steal any of your supplies.”
“That just makes you a liar as well as a thief.”
“What would I have used them for anyway?” Jacob asked.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
“Honest to God, Soasa, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“The door,” she said. “The one you blew open.”
“What?”
“Here!” she cried, dragging him by the arm as she marched off. Whistler saw them as she neared the hatch to the forbidden floor, and he began to follow.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Someone blew open the Iron Door,” Jacob told him.
Soasa growled. “See, I knew you knew all about it!”
“I knew about the door, not the dynamite. Anyway, how did you know I knew?”
Whistler gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he said. “I had to tell someone about it. I thought maybe she knew a way in.” He looked back and forth between Jacob and the ground, barely able to mask the look of guilt.
“You didn’t blow it up, did you?” Jacob asked.
“No!” Whistler protested. “No, of course not.”
“Good,” the smuggler said. Though that just raised another, more worrying question: Who did?
* * *
They arrived at the Iron Door, which was blown fully open. Inside, Jacob and Whistler found a toy they hoped no one would ever play with: a colossal bomb, so big that they knew instantly that if it was ever dropped, if any city should ever be its unfortunate target, it would change the world forever.
When Rommond arrived at the site of this discovery, he had his gun in hand, while his other was a clenched fist.
“Out!” he bellowed, and he ushered all of them out of the room with the butt of the gun.
“What’s this all about?” Jacob asked.
“Never you mind,” the general said through gritted teeth. He looked like he could blow up at any moment, and cause just as much devastation.
“Rommond,” Taberah said, “what is that thing?” Really she was asking: Why? The fact that she did not know was disconcerting to Jacob, as it likely was to many others. It seemed that very few among them knew about the bomb, and none of those were willing to speak.
“An experiment,” the general said in time, “and we might as well be the guinea pigs, what with someone rigging dynamite so close to it. I want to know who did this, and I’ll have the heads of anyone who hides the culprit.” He glared at Jacob.
Great, Jacob thought. Just like me to be the likely suspect.
“You do know that Soasa’s the dynamite gal, right?” Jacob said.
Soasa lunged at him, but was hauled back by several others, including Taberah. “The nerve of you!” Soasa shouted. “Those sticks were stolen, Rommond. I’m not the one skulking around the ship, searching for every shadow to hide in.”
“It doesn’t exactly make sense for someone who likes sneaking around to start blowing things up,” Jacob said.
“Enough!” Rommond roared. It was the first time Jacob had seen him this angry. He usually managed to keep his cool. Jacob thought it was not just about the damage, but the fact that the general’s dark secret, of the existence of that terrible weapon, was exposed.
“I want all of you out of here,” the general continued. “And I want this sealed up tight. And by God, I want all your mouths sealed up about it too.” He looked at Whistler in particular.
“Rommond,” Taberah said. “What about the bomb? Are we in danger?”
“It isn’t live,” he replied. “And it isn’t quite finished yet anyway.”
“But when it is?”
“When it is,” Rommond said, sighing deeply, “God help us all.”
19 – UNDERWATER TRADE
The Iron Door was resealed, albeit in a somewhat makeshift fashion, and everyone who had seen what was stored inside was sworn to secrecy. The Copper Vixens had their own oaths, but Rommond made it clear that anyone who spoke about the “weapon” would be sent back down to the bottom of the ocean, with leaden weights around their boots.
The mood on the Lifemaker was grim after the discovery, even though few knew about it. The knowledge was toxic, a weapon of its own, and though no one said a word, it created a deep malaise in every mind. Some begged to have their quarters moved from the ste
rn to the bow, feeling unsafe being so close to the bomb, but all such requests were denied. If it went off, no one on the Lifemaker would be safe.
Rommond’s commanders conducted interrogations of likely suspects for the explosion, attempting as best they could to keep everything “hush-hush.” Jacob was asked many questions, but he also found that he was often followed, as if they believed his actions much more than they believed his words. Yet nothing came of the investigation, and Rommond was keener to keep things quiet than pursue things further. He tripled the guard for the ironworks, and he was often found patrolling the area himself. If there really was a saboteur on board, the general was intent on catching him with his own hands.
The Lifemaker rose to higher waters, partly from fear of the abyss below, but also because Rommond wanted to conduct an underwater trade. Jacob presumed that this was intended as a distraction from recent events, but Rommond insisted that the Resistance needed to acquire some final items before it started to resist a little more forcefully. Jacob hoped that those items were not parts for the bomb.
“This is how we gained supply for years,” Rommond explained to Jacob, after Jacob was not content to just witness what was transpiring.
“Slipping bits and bobs right under the Regime’s nose,” Jacob mused. “Seems safe.”
“You might even call it smuggling,” Rommond replied.
They waited in the cargo bay, where a large round window showed the reassuring dark blue of those waters, about halfway between the abyss and the surface, still too deep to track, but not deep enough to be totally blind. A single light shone from the Lifemaker, illuminating a bizarre underwater vessel, which creaked slowly towards them.
It was the oddest looking contraption any of them, bar perhaps Rommond and Taberah, had seen. There were eighteen propellers, three on every side, and three on the top and bottom, and though only some of these were working at any given time, it made the submersible look bizarre. There were also visible pistons and pipes, curling around one another, tacked together and riveted to the hull in a rather slipshod manner. Fins protruded out at seemingly random intervals, and the top of the vessel was marked by a series of glass domes, some on top of the other. The hull was of many different metals, as patchwork as Whistler’s clothes, and the interior was even worse, a ransack of cogs, levers and pulleys, and bits and pieces of pretty much everything that could be salvaged, taped and tacked together, and holding on and up by who knows what, bar perhaps sheer will alone.
It docked with the Lifemaker, latching into place at the primary cargo airlock. Alakovi made sure everything was in place, and her Vixens prepared a crate of coils nearby. Jacob heard the suction of rubber, the click of clamps, the release of the water, and the hiss of the air. Then the inner dock of the airlock opened, and in stepped a thin, tall man, with the strangest sense of dress, as colourful as it was crude, as mismatching as it was gaudy.
“How d’you do,” the man said, his voice as clashing as his clothes; he alternated between deep rumbles and shrill cries. He seemed at once bored and thrilled to be there, depending on who he looked upon. Jacob scoffed when the man gave a spiritless wave towards him.
“Porridge, my dear chap,” Rommond said, grasping both his hands, and holding them as if he were a lady.
“Porridge?” Jacob said to Taberah beneath his breath. I hope that’s a nickname.
Porridge blushed and giggled as Rommond greeted him. “Oh!” he cried. “Rommond, it’s been too long, my charming boy. Oh! I’ve got all these doodads and doohickeys, and I don’t know where to put them!” He put his delicate hand over his mouth, as if he had said too much.
“I’ve been busy, of course,” Rommond explained, as Porridge linked his arm and began walking with him around the cargo bay. Where they were going was anyone’s guess. Jacob guessed in circles.
“You’re a wanted man, Rommond,” the merchant said, biting the knuckles of his left hand as if he could not bear to say it, “by more than just the Regime.”
“Don’t remind me,” the general grumbled.
“I’ve got to remind you, my dear dandy of a friend, or I could lose one of my best customers!”
“You won’t be losing me,” Rommond said.
Porridge took off his purple polka-dot hat, as if he had already lost him. The merchant’s golden-brown curls danced upon his crown as he shook his head at the notion.
“Oh, Rommond, dear boy,” Porridge said, seeming quite concerned. “The Treasury offered money for any information on your whereabouts.”
“I hope you said nothing.”
“You know me, pickle. I’m a loyal merchant to a loyal customer, and you’re as loyal as they get. That said, I suppose it was really the Treasury that was paying me most of those times.” He giggled uncontrollably.
“Without me,” Rommond said grimly, “without the Resistance, they wouldn’t be paying you at all.”
“And without the Regime, there’d be no Resistance. Shall we thank the Iron Emperor then?”
Rommond grumbled.
“You seem a little more vengeful than usual,” the merchant noted.
“I don’t sleep well these days,” Rommond said.
“I haven’t seen you like this since … well, you know.”
Rommond paused to take a deep breath. “I had to leave Dustdelving behind.”
“So I heard.”
“Then you already know why I’m more vengeful than usual. If your home had been taken, you would be too.”
“Haven’t got a home, plum,” the merchant said. “Saves me the trouble of losing it.”
“Let’s be thankful, then, that the Regime’s submersibles don’t reach too deep.”
“Let’s be hopeful,” Porridge said, as if he was not quite as confident on the matter. “Tell me, General, when are you going to launch this ‘perfect assault’ of yours?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve been saving up all the gizmos and gadgets. When’s, what is it you call it, H-Hour?”
“Someone forced my hand,” Rommond said, glancing at Taberah. “Everything’s in motion now.”
“Ah then,” the merchant said, “that explains the urgent trade. Let me guess … the final piece in the puzzle?”
“Not the final piece, but it’s an important one.”
Jacob expected to see something sinister. A detonator. A reactor. Something that could go boom. The crew hauled a pile of wooden panes into the room.
“What is it?” Jacob asked.
“Can’t you guess?” the merchant replied, as if offended.
“Guessing’s never been my game.”
They unfolded the pieces. “It’s a sail, peach,” the merchant said.
Jacob looked at Rommond. “So your next toy is a ship?” He had enough water for a lifetime by now. At least it would no longer be above him.
Rommond smiled like a child. “A ship of the skies,” he said.
Jacob sighed. So the water would be far below him then.
* * *
Porridge stayed only long enough to collect his fee, which was extortionate, and share a glass of sherry with Rommond, from a bottle the general had paid extortionate prices on before. Everyone else was ushered out of the cargo bay, and the folded-up sail was carried down to the ironworks, where the mechanics immediately began work on connecting it to the airship.
“Must dash,” Porridge said. “A merchant never rests.”
“That must make me a merchant then,” the general replied.
Porridge placed his hand on Rommond’s cheek and shook his head. “You used to be so happy.”
Rommond sighed.
“You have to let him go,” Porridge said. “Keeping that plaque isn’t helping.”
Rommond removed Porridge’s hand from his face. “You could offer me any trade for it, and I would refuse. I would not trade away my time with him, nor even trade away the pain.”
“Fair enough, sweetie,” the merchant said. “Well, you know how to reach m
e. Down here I’m all ears. Oh! Aren’t I clever?”
“Goodbye,” Rommond said, tilting his cap slightly.
The trader left, and Rommond returned to his room, where he poured himself a second sherry. He stood before the plaque with Brooklyn’s name on it. He could still see the markings where he had pulled it from the landship, when he tried to save it like he should have saved the man he loved. Sometimes I think it’s easier to keep this, than to keep my memories of you.
The general was deep in brooding, his own kind of meditation, when he felt the submarine lurch. He knew that feeling. They were rising quickly.
“Alson,” he called over the intercom. “Did you just blow a ballast tank?”
There was no answer.
Then he saw a small light flicker on the wall. He stood up suddenly, glad to have some distraction, though not glad to see what kind of distraction it was.
Enemy submarines had just been spotted.
20 – THE ART OF SILENCE
A light in every room flashed five times, followed by a pause before they blinked the same number again. There was a chart beneath the light, which told the crew what each series of flickers meant. One was dive. Two was surface. Three was battle. Four was fire. Five was silence.
Jacob had half-heartedly read the signs before, but he still had to consult one now to see exactly what it meant. He hardly needed to, however, for the submarine’s systems began to shut down, one by one, leaving only the bare essentials running. First to cease was the propeller, which produced the most noise via cavitation, and the submarine glided to a halt in the darkness, with most of its interior lights put out or dimmed to a bare minimum.
“Silent run,” Rommond whispered over the intercom, like a phantom voice.
Whistler tapped gently at Jacob’s door. It was such a weak knock that it would never have been heard under any under circumstances, but now it sounded loud, too loud.
Lifemaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Fantasy (The Great Iron War, Book 2) Page 11
