The Iron jackal totkj-3

by Chris Wooding

  No, he told himself sternly. Behave.

  The crew were waiting with the Rattletraps at the bottom of the slope. Even in the shade it was swelteringly hot, and they were guzzling water when he arrived.="2ived.

  ‘Train’s coming,’ he said.

  ‘About time,’ Malvery said. ‘Reckon Pinn’s about to melt.’

  Pinn was sitting with his back to one of the buggies, his skin glistening. His little thatch of hair was plastered to the top of his chubby head. ‘How does anyone live in this bloody country?’ he gasped. ‘I feel like I’m a pie.’

  Frey prodded him with his boot. ‘Come on. Little exercise’ll do you good,’ he said.

  Pinn grumbled sourly as they clambered onto the Rattletraps. Frey had divided up the crew according to who could drive, who could shoot and who was just plain useless. Mentally claiming captain’s privilege, he’d chosen the best personnel for his own buggy. Silo was driving and Malvery would operate the gatling gun mounted atop the roll cage. Silo seemed confident in his ability and Malvery, while not the world’s best shot, at least had experience manning the Ketty Jay ’s autocannon.

  Ashua would get Pinn on the gatling and Harkins riding shotgun. Usually he’d have left the jittery pilot behind, as he was hopeless with a weapon, but Harkins had insisted on coming, throwing glances at Jez all the while. No one had any doubt who he was trying to impress.

  Jez, for her part, was riding with Crake. He was almost as bad as Harkins with a gun, but they needed him to handle Bess. She would go in the back, ready to be unleashed once they’d brought the train to a stop.

  ‘Alright!’ he called, when everyone was aboard. ‘I didn’t see any defences beyond the armour plate, but let’s not get sloppy. There’ll be men aboard with weapons, at least. I don’t want any of my crew getting shot. Doctors are expensive, and Malvery’s likely to saw the wrong arm off.’

  ‘Hey!’ said Malvery. ‘Don’t forget I’m gonna be standing right behind you with a gatling gun, smart-arse.’

  The crew laughed good-humouredly. They were surprisingly relaxed, considering what was coming. Only Harkins looked in danger of panicking.

  ‘Everyone remember the plan?’ Frey cried. He could hear the train approaching now, a distant rumbling, getting louder.

  ‘Yes, Cap’n!’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you won’t mind reminding me then.’

  Malvery rolled his eyes. ‘We’ll be heading for the engine carriage at the front, to try and stop the train,’ he said, in a dreary sing-song. ‘Ashua, Pinn and Harkins are gonna keep the bad guys busy while we do, and-’ eight="0" width="20" align="justify"›‘Aren’t we the bad guys?’ Pinn asked suddenly.

  They all stared at him. He shrugged. ‘Well, I mean, we’re robbing them, right?’

  ‘We’re never the bad guys!’ said Frey, horrified at the suggestion. He was surprised the moral objection had come from Pinn rather than Crake. Pinn didn’t have any morals, so he probably just wanted the attention.

  He needed to nip this in the bud before they all started arguing, so he gestured towards Silo, the shaven-headed, umber-skinned Murthian, who was sitting next to him.

  ‘Look at this man. Proud example of his race.’ Silo gazed at him inscrutably. ‘A race that the Sammies have been keeping brutally enslaved for the last five hundred years. And the Daks are no better: they’re willing conspirators. Ashua tells me that train will be full of Daks, with maybe a few Sammies in there to keep an eye on things. Does that sound like slavery to you? No. The Daks run this country while the Sammies sit back and lick the cream. So don’t feel bad about popping one or two of ’em, ’cause frankly, they’re all bastards in my book.’

  He surveyed his crew to gauge the effect of his words. Nobody seemed much bothered. Pinn just looked confused.

  ‘Plus,’ he raised a finger, ‘those on that train are gonna be armed guards. They’re paid to get shot. If people like us didn’t try to rob trains, they’d be out of a job.’

  ‘We’re providing employment opportunities now?’ Crake asked, deadpan.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Frey. ‘Greasing the wheels of foreign capital, and that.’

  ‘Cap’n,’ said Crake. ‘I do believe you know as much about economics as Pinn does about hygiene.’

  Malvery mopped his pate, which had reddened and begun to peel. ‘Look, as long as we stop short of killing women and children, and we ain’t shooting adorable little puppy dogs in the face, I’m in. Now can we stop bullshitting and get this done? I want to get out of the sun.’

  ‘You’re not in the sun.’

  ‘Out of the shade, then. To somewhere shadier. Like the inside of a freezer.’

  ‘Or a bar!’ Pinn suggested brightly.

  Malvery clicked his fingers and pointed at Pinn. ‘Man’s got the right idea.’

  ‘Tonight you can get boozed up till your e

  The din of the train had grown to fill the air now. Ashua was shouting ‘Go! Go! Go!’ before she’d even reached her Rattletrap. She leaped into the driver’s seat, hit the ignition button and floored the accelerator. Her wheels spun against the ground for a few seconds, throwing up a cloud of red dust. When they bit, it threw the Rattletrap forward so suddenly that Pinn almost tipped off the back. Frey, Silo and Malvery raced off just behind her, with Jez, Crake and Bess trailing.

  They’d practised with the Rattletraps throughout the morning, to check that they worked properly and to get the drivers used to them, but Frey still found the sense of speed exhilarating. It wasn’t the same as being in a cockpit, where there was a brass-and-chrome dash and thick panes of windglass between him and the world outside. Rattletraps were built low to the ground, and their roll cages seemed pitifully inadequate as protection. Though they travelled much slower than an aircraft did, it felt like just the opposite. He was fragile and invincible all at once as he hurtled into the face of the elements.

  They sped out of the shadow of the slope and into sight of the tracks an instant before the train appeared. Ashua’s timing had been less than perfect: the train was almost past them by the time they’d matched its speed. But the Rattletraps were fast, and they began gaining ground immediately.

  The tracks passed through a wide corridor of land flanked by hilly ridges on either side. The land was flat near the tracks, but it became bumpy and rough further away. By hugging close to the train, the Rattletraps ate up the distance.

  It was only when they were close that Frey realised what a monstrous machine the train was. A great dirty ogre of iron and grime, filthy with desert dust, charging across the landscape. It was a mobile fortress, built for the rigours of travel across the hellish terrain of the Samarlan interior. Faced with its strength, he suddenly began to have his doubts about whether they could stop it at all.

  But it was too late for that now.

  There were slatted metal windows in the sides of the train. As they progressed up its length, they saw men running to and fro inside the carriages, alarmed shadows in the gloom.

  ‘Pinn! Malvery!’ he yelled. ‘Keep ’em busy!’

  Pinn whooped and opened up with the gatling gun, stitching bullet-holes along the side of the train. Malvery was a little more accurate, aiming for the windows. The bullets had little effect on the train’s armour plating, but it made the men inside duck and scurry, and it kept them from returning fire.

  Frey turned te Frey tuto Silo and grinned. ‘Some fun, huh? Bet you’re glad to be home, getting some of your own back,’ he said.

  But Silo just looked at him, and his eyes were dark and flat in his narrow face, and Frey was suddenly sorry he’d spoken at all. He opened his mouth to say something else when Silo suddenly shouted a warning.

  It was the carriage just ahead of them. One side had opened up, the top half flipping down on to the bottom half with a crash, like a stall at a fairground. Behind it were a row of barricades, with gun-toting Dakkadians hiding behind them. And in the centre of the row, its operator hiding behind a wall of metal shielding, was an autocannon.
Pointing right at them.

  Frey had time for a wordless yell of abject cowardice before Silo stood on the brakes. The ground in front of them exploded in a geyser of rock and dust. He was blinded for a moment, his face speckled with a thousand tiny impacts. He heard more explosions around him, as the autocannon fought to pin them down. Bullets flew. The Rattletrap jounced left and right, flinging him about in his seat. Malvery was bellowing a string of swear-words in his ear. He blinked furiously, wiping at teary eyes to clear them of grit.

  Silo dropped back, away from the autocannon. Frey was still pawing at his face when he heard the sound of gatling guns from behind them. Since Malvery wasn’t firing and they only had one other gun, that could only mean trouble. He craned around in his seat, looking down the length of the train, fighting to bring his blurred vision back into focus.

  Rattletraps. Enemy Rattletraps, coming up behind them.

  ‘Where did they come from?’ Malvery cried.

  Before anyone could venture an opinion, another train carriage opened up in the same way as the first one. This one was close to the rear, but its contents were identical. A bunch of armed men and an autocannon.

  An autocannon in front of them, loaded with explosive shells. Another behind. And he counted three Rattletraps with gatlings. No way they could fight those odds.

  ‘Pull away from the train!’ he told Silo. He raised himself in his seat and waved at the others. ‘Pull away now!’

  The others didn’t need telling. They swerved off to the right, putting distance between themselves and the train, heading for the uneven scrubland at the base of the red hills. It wouldn’t get rid of their pursuers, but it would get them out of range of the autocannons.

  He fell back into his seat as Silo led the retreat, the Rattletrap skidding and jolting as shells erupted all around them. The confidence his crew had shown earlier seemed desperately misplaced now. What should have been a nice straightforward ambush had just gone horribly, horribly wrong.

  Harkins, as usual, was terrified. ntu height

  Harkins didn’t get scared in the way ordinary people got scared. What they called fear was his standard operating level, the state in which he existed day to day. Most people didn’t get really, properly terrified too often. Harkins managed it at least a dozen times a week.

  Being so familiar with the sensation, he’d come to experience it in a different way. He still felt the same physical reactions: shortness of breath, sweating, the overwhelming desire to scream, occasional paralysis. But terror had kept him alive many times in the past. It came to him like an old friend. A friend that he loathed and hated unreservedly, but a friend nonetheless.

  Amid the explosions, the gunfire and the overwhelming awfulness of the whole situation, Harkins could only think of one thing.

  Why didn’t I just stay on the Ketty Jay?

  Hadn’t he proved himself useless in a firefight time and time again? Wasn’t it well known that his only skill lay in piloting the Firecrow they’d left behind in Shasiith? Nobody thought less of him for opting out of ground missions. In fact, it was assumed that he would. Without his fighter craft, he was like a snail out of his shell.

  Jez was the reason, of course. Kind, sweet Jez, the only one who didn’t mock or pity him. He was thankful that she couldn’t see him now, unmanned by fear yet again. She was too busy fleeing across the scrubland, pursued by one of the enemy. Just as they were.

  He looked over his shoulder. The Dakkadians were on their tail, red dust in their blond hair, their faces covered with dirty goggles and leather masks. Their Rattletraps were of similar design to the one Harkins rode, with a driver, a passenger and a gun operator standing at the rear. Bullets cut through the air and pocked the ground to either side of them, but Ashua’s driving and the uneven terrain kept them from finding a mark.

  ‘Will somebody shoot at them?’ Ashua shouted.

  ‘These damn things don’t turn backwards!’ said Pinn, struggling to pivot the gatling gun.

  ‘Then use your shotgun, you moron!’ she cried.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Pinn. He abandoned the gatling and dropped into a sitting position, facing backwards with his legs braced against the roll cage. Now secured, he pulled out his shotgun and opened up on their pursuers.

  ‘And you!’ said Ashua, glaring at Harkins. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Harkins jumped at the harsh tone of her voice. He fumbled his revolver out, opened it to check that it was loaded, snapped it shut again. It felt unnatural in his hand, heavy with danger.

  He took a steandi took adying breath and then leaned out sideways, pointing his weapon in the general direction of the enemy, bending his wrist backwards to do so. The leather ears of his pilot cap slapped wildly against his unshaven cheeks. He closed his eyes and fired. The noise stunned him; the recoil crashed against his wrist and elbow. The gun shuddered and dropped from his hand to the ground. He drew himself back against his seat, holding his arm against his chest, burning with shame and shock.

  ‘Rot and pus!’ Ashua barked in exasperation. ‘I thought you were meant to be a freebooter? What kind of jelly-arsed milk-bubble did I get landed with?’

  Harkins supposed that was a rhetorical question, so he kept quiet. Ashua didn’t say anything further, because at that moment they hit a rise in the ground and took off. They sailed through the air for a few horrible seconds before smashing back to earth with a jolt that made Harkins’ teeth clack together.

  ‘I can’t hit a damn thing like this!’ Pinn complained.

  ‘Then they can’t hit us, either,’ Ashua snapped, swerving to avoid another volley of gatling fire. She dug into her belt, pulled out a stick of dynamite, and thrust it towards Harkins. ‘Light me.’

  Harkins stared at the dynamite in horror. She shook it at him impatiently. ‘Come on, you quivering gimp! I don’t have a hand free!’

  He snatched it from her, eager to get this whole business done with so she would stop abusing him. His fingers trembled as he found a matchbook in his pocket. Then he stopped what he was doing and dithered, trying to work out how to strike a match with one hand while holding the dynamite with the other.

  ‘Put the dynamite. Between your knees. And light it,’ said Ashua, her jaw tense with barely contained frustration.

  Harkins made sure she wasn’t looking at him, then gave her what he hoped was a nasty glare. He didn’t like her one bit. She wasn’t at all like Jez, who was the soul of patience where Harkins was concerned. This one was snappy and mean, and she wasn’t even part of the crew.

  Resentfully, he stuck the dynamite between his bony knees, struck a match, and touched it to the fuse. The fuse burst into life in a fizz of sparks. Harkins jumped – he couldn’t help himself – and the dynamite slipped from between his knees and rolled into the footwell.

  ‘Can’t you do anything?’ Ashua screamed, as he scrabbled around between his feet. Gunfire glanced off the frame of the buggy. Harkins reached for the dynamite, but just then Ashua swerved, and it rolled away from his grasp and under her feet. She began to yelp, pawing around between the pedals, driving with one hand while their pursuers shredded the air with bullets. The Rattletrap swerved crazily left and right.

  ‘What in the name of hammered horseshit are you doing?’ an"/i›? amp;rsPinn demanded, hanging on to the roll cage for dear life.

  Then the Rattletrap swerved again, and the dynamite bounced back to Harkins’ side of the footwell. He grabbed it and brandished it triumphantly.

  ‘Ha! Got it!’ he grinned.

  ‘ Get rid of it! ’ Ashua howled, fighting with the wheel to gain control of the buggy.

  Harkins’ grin faded as he saw that the fuse had almost entirely burned down. With a jerk of his arm he flung the dynamite over his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears, but even so, he couldn’t suppress a shudder at the enormous explosion that followed.

  Ashua stepped on the brakes, unable to master the careering Rattletrap, and they skidded to a halt in a c
loud of rising dust. Harkins waited a few seconds and then opened his eyes.

  Something round and heavy dropped out of the sky and caromed off the Rattletrap’s hood, causing Harkins to shriek in fright. It bounced in the dust, rolled for a few metres and stopped.

  It was a goggled and masked head. It stood on its severed neck, facing Harkins. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought its owner was merely buried in the sand.

  He slowly turned to look over his shoulder. Behind them, at the centre of a small black crater, were the remains of the Dakkadian Rattletrap. There wasn’t much to see.

  ‘Reckon they must’ve been carrying dynamite, too,’ Ashua opined.

  Pinn slapped Harkins on the shoulder, making him flinch. ‘Nice throw, you gibbering freak,’ he said affectionately.

  Harkins gave him a weak smile and tried not to be sick.

  Five

  Pinn’s Joke – Bess, Angry – The Belly of the Beast – Frey on Top – Jez Hears a Voice

  Crake was having an equally hard time keeping his lunch, but for him the threat came from the other end. His stomach had been grumbling and roiling ever since he’d arrived in Samarla – the food didn’t agree with him at all – and it had been making things pretty unpleasant when it came time to visit the bathroom. With all this jolting about, it took all of his concentration to avoid embarrassment. The fact that he might be shot at any moment was a distant second in importance to that fact. He was an aristocrat, even if he didn’t look much like one these days. Dishonouring himself in such a manner would be a fate worse than death.

  Bes; Aides, he wouldn’t give Pinn the satisfaction. A few days ago, after one particularly cruel bout of diarrhoea, Crake had found Slag, the Ketty Jay ’s cat, lying by the door, apparently overcome by the fumes. He’d rushed Slag to the infirmary, where Malvery, between bouts of hysterical laughter, pronounced the cat clear of any kind of toxic poisoning. It turned out to be Pinn’s idea of a joke. The pilot had spiked Slag’s milk with rum and laid the unconscious animal where Crake would find it.