Skyshaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 3)

by Dean F. Wilson

  And that he was.

  Rommond and El Abra looked about to go to blows again, when Jacob interrupted.

  “Samuel,” Jacob said, visibly startling El Abra. If Rommond had not been so tired from the previous fight, he might have taken advantage of the pirate's lapse.

  “Do I know you?” the Snake asked.

  “I guess I'm not as memorable as you are,” Jacob said.

  El Abra beamed at this comment, and gave a slight curtsy, all the while casting his eyes at each and every woman in sight.

  “Do you remember Olbaron's seven rules?” Jacob enquired. Few could forget those workhouse rules, or Olbaron's cruel punishments if they were broken. For many, the memories were branded into their skin.

  “Jacob?” El Abra asked, holding his sword up to keep Rommond at bay. He blinked a few times to take in the sight of his old friend.

  “Yes. It's been some time.”

  “So it has. And not a time I like to be reminded of. I'm surprised you do.”

  “We had a difficult life back then. Maybe we can make it less difficult now.”

  “I intend to,” El Abra said. “I've been making up for those days for quite some time.”

  “Rob from the Treasury then.”

  “Oh, I have, when they take to the air. Land just doesn't cut it for me.”

  “Not a land thief?”

  “Not a land anything. I haven't set foot on that scorched earth in years. Why walk when you can swim or fly?”

  “A snake afraid of sand,” Rommond mused.

  “A hawk who has only recently learned how to fly,” El Abra countered.

  “With demons taking over,” Jacob said, “you'd imagine we'd be more keen to be human.”

  “There's something powerful about animals,” El Abra said. “Something primal. It's no wonder the tribes go mad for them. You should pick one.”

  “I already have one,” Jacob replied. “Well, kind of. A spider.”

  El Abra laughed heartily. “Maybe you should try again.”

  Jacob forced a chuckle. “So, given everything we suffered together, maybe you can let us go?”

  El Abra did not need to force his own. “I wouldn't make a very good pirate then, would I?”

  “You'd make a good friend.”

  Something changed in El Abra's eyes, like a shadow of a memory, but it passed just as quickly. “That was a friendship of convenience, Jacob.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Then how come when you got out, I never saw you again?”

  “I don't know,” Jacob said. “Life happened.”

  “Life happened to me as well, Jacob. It brought me to where I am right now.”

  “So, you won't let us go?”

  “Jacob, I will do this one favour for you: you can take a raft, or a balloon, or whatever it is that Rommond has tucked away up the Skyshaker's sleeves, and you can escape here alive. Or better yet, why not come and work for me?”

  “I worked with you long enough in my childhood.”

  “Working for me is a lot more fun,” the pirate said. “You get to play with the toys.”

  The memories were barbed; the wire connected from Jacob's brain to his heart. It could not be cut—the barbs dug in too deep. He tried to suppress them, tried to bury them below deck, out of view, out of reach. But even there he could see his little hands at work, carving little wooden horses for other children's games.

  “I've already got a job,” Jacob said, gulping down the words, choking on the memories.

  “Fighting for the Resistance? It doesn't seem your style.”

  Jacob could not say the same about El Abra. Piracy was just his style.

  “Fighting the good fight,” Jacob said.

  “I'm living the good life,” El Abra said, “for once.”

  “That's the life I thought I wanted too. It doesn't look so glamorous any more.”

  Rommond coughed loudly. “If this childhood friendship means nothing today, then perhaps we can get back to our adult rivalries. If you try to take this ship, Snake, then I'll make sure we all go up in flames. Then we can share reminiscences forever in the depths of Hell.”

  El Abra laughed. “Always one to bluff.”

  “Try me,” the general said, and it seemed that he might ignite a bomb at any moment. The battle looked as though it was about to begin anew, and more fiercely than ever, with pirate and Vixen reaching for their swords and guns.

  Suddenly Taberah cried out and keeled over, clutching her stomach. Jacob tried to support her, and all eyes, even those of Rommond and El Abra, looked towards her.

  “A temporary truce,” El Abra declared, putting his swords away.

  Rommond nodded and ran over to Taberah. “What's wrong?” he asked.

  “I don't know,” she said. “The baby.”

  “You can't be giving birth now!” Jacob cried. “It's too soon.”

  5 – FALSE FLAG

  Taberah groaned, and Mudro urged her to breathe deeply, which only resulted in louder moans. She struck out at anyone around, especially El Abra, who crouched down with many of the others, offering his aid, putting aside his prior differences, which she most certainly could not put aside.

  “It's coming now,” she screamed, and the worry leapt from face to face, until the entire crowd was concerned about the fate of the baby. “She's a Pure,” they whispered to one another, knowing how important that little life in her was. They were the pirates of today, but it might be the pirate of tomorrow.

  “Listen to me,” Mudro told her, clutching her hand, while she squeezed his tight. “You've got to calm down and slow your breath. We want this to pass.”

  “How far is she?” El Abra asked.

  “Three and a half months,” Rommond said reluctantly.

  El Abra said nothing, but his face said enough: it was much too soon, much too early. That little pirate might only get to pilfer enough breath for today.

  Whistler paced up and down the deck behind the Copper Vixens, despite being told to go to the lower levels. His bandages had been removed, and Mudro had worked his magic on the boy's scars, but to witness the early birth—and early death—of his little brother or sister might leave new ones that magic could not remove.

  Taberah grabbed Jacob's hand. “I left a charm below deck,” she said with a shudder. “A birth charm that Brooklyn gave me. Bring me it, please.” She looked deep into his eyes, communicating something, but he was not entirely sure what she meant.

  “I'll get it,” El Abra volunteered.

  “No,” she said. “He's the father.”

  El Abra nodded to his crew, who blocked the way into or out of the lower levels, where the Resistance might find more weaponry, or more reinforcements. They, rather reluctantly, let Jacob slip through, but disarmed him in the process, as if he might somehow work some mischief with his sword. He only needed his bare hands for that.

  Jacob hurried down to Taberah's quarters, but he could not find the charm. There was little furniture or possessions to root through, but in his search his eyes found the words on an opened page of her diary, and he could not help but read them: The pains are worse today. I'm hoping they will pass. I dare not tell anyone my fear. He was tempted to read more, but he thought it best not to, and he could not delay, lest indeed her fear did come to pass.

  At first he did not realise, but he found that he was also looking for something else. Part of him would have even traded the birth charm for it, if there was anyone there to trade with. Taberah had her own cravings, which found her in Karlsif's kitchen late at night, but the one Jacob felt right then was stronger than anything, almost stronger than him. He was looking for Hope.

  It was a great struggle just to suppress that desire, that want, that need. It almost felt like a different person, a hungry person, a starving demon. As he tried to bury it, it tried to bury him. His muscles ached, as if he were fighting an invisible enemy. It was strong, but his feelings for Taberah and their child was stronger. He locked away that lust for
Hope, and focused on his mission, his duty, that little thing that Taberah wanted for the little thing inside her.

  He began to frantically run about below deck, asking the few crew he found there where he could find Taberah's birth charm, which was answered only by confused glances. He did not know what to do. He ran his fingers through his hair, as if he could find the answer there. Then it dawned on him: the one thing that would definitely help the birth was to get El Abra off the ship, by any means necessary. He needed a gun, a big gun, and he thought it would work like a charm.

  * * *

  Above deck, the two factions continued their uneasy truce, focusing their attention on Taberah, who periodically moaned and shouted, and frequently cursed at the pirates, as if all of them had done this to her. Rommond joined Whistler in his restless pacing, while Mudro continued his attempts to slow or stop the birth process.

  “I don't understand,” the doctor said after his latest investigation. “If the contractions are that bad, you should be having it now. I don't see the baby. It's not ready yet.”

  Taberah looked at Mudro with fire in her eyes, as if he had let out the game.

  “If this baby isn't coming,” El Abra said, “then I think we better finish what we started.”

  “Go back to your own vessel then,” Rommond replied.

  “Sorry Rommond,” El Abra said. “It's business. Pure business.” He unsheathed his sword again, and the glint of the blade made it look like it was personal.

  Then the cabin exploded in splinters, and out rolled the Hopebreaker like a pet summoned to its master's plea. Rommond's subtle smile was masked behind his not so subtle moustache.

  The gun barrel turned and lowered to where El Abra stood in shock.

  “You and your toys,” the pirate said. “I kind of wanted a go of that.”

  “I'll let you try the gun,” Rommond replied, just a split second before the turret fired, knocking El Abra back and off the side of the ship. The turret turned to the other pirates, who did not take long diving over the edge of their own accord, landing on the deck of one of the galleons below, where, if El Abra was lucky, his remains had fallen. The fangs of the Red Serpent withdrew, and the ship headed back down to the sea below, out of range of the Hopebreaker's missiles.

  Rommond breathed a sigh of relief, and looked with bemusement at his favourite landship, which was an imposing sight on the open deck. For a moment he almost thought that Brooklyn had designed it too well, that it had suddenly come to life, and would fire at the enemies of its master without a driver. He patted the chassis, as he might pet a dog. Though he did not know how it came to his call, he knew one thing for sure: the Hopebreaker had bark, and it had bite.

  Then the hatch opened and out popped Jacob, who grinned at the general, like anyone might have grinned if they had the opportunity to drive and fire that imperial vehicle.

  “Thank you,” Rommond said, tipping his cap.

  Jacob gave a mock salute.

  “Just don't touch the Hopebreaker again,” the general said.

  “I'll save you next time with your own pistol,” Jacob jeered.

  “I don't think there will be a next time with him.” Rommond glanced overboard to where the pirates were swiftly retreating.

  Jacob jumped down and ran to Taberah, who was standing and dusting herself off. “I couldn't find the charm,” he called to her. “Are you all right? Did Mudro manage to stop it?”

  “I wasn't really giving birth,” she replied.

  Jacob shook his head, confused. “You were faking it?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I know El Abra's weaknesses. So-called honour is one of them. It was a good distraction.”

  “But you seemed like you were really in pain.”

  “It's only been three and a half months. I'm not ready to have this baby yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don't look so disappointed.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it's better that it stays in the oven. Don't want it undercooked.”

  “I don't want it overcooked either,” Taberah replied.

  She grabbed his shoulder suddenly and closed her eyes tight, as if a sharp pain had seized her. Her breathing was heavy, and her face was flushed.

  “Are you all right?” Jacob asked.

  “Yes, just a little tense. Can you walk me to my quarters?”

  As Jacob did so, supporting her as she walked slowly, watching her as she cringed with each and every step, something told him that the pains she felt, the pains she said she feigned, were very real.

  6 – COLD TURKEY

  “Well, that was exciting,” Whistler said, when Jacob emerged above deck again. The boy chewed his nails, only stopping to bite his lip.

  Jacob widened his eyes. “Nerve-wrecking, more like.”

  “Yeah.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “So, that guy, that pirate,” Whistler said, “was he your friend?”

  “Yeah, a long time ago. Seems like a different age.”

  “You don't shoot all your friends, do you?”

  Jacob chuckled. “Only the good ones.”

  He might have laughed outwardly, but he was not amused inside. What guilt he felt that he had left El Abra in the workhouse when they were young, that he had abandoned him when he got out, and never tried to find him later, was only magnified by the barrel of the Hopebreaker's gun. He might have killed the pirate, but he could not kill his shame.

  “Why didn't he help?” Whistler asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn't that what friends are supposed to do? He could have helped us take back Blackout.”

  Jacob sighed. “In an ideal world, sure, but it's not as simple as that, kid. We kind of parted ways, took different paths. I guess I wasn't a good enough friend to him.”

  “You are to me,” Whistler said.

  Jacob smiled. He might have ruffled the boy's hair, were it not already well ruffled beneath his faded hat. “So, were you ready for a little brother or sister?”

  Whistler scrunched his mouth. “I'm not sure. I suppose so.” He paused and took off his peaked beret, which he gripped tightly with both hands, letting his red-brown curls tumble freely. “Were you ready for a little son or daughter?”

  Jacob shrugged. He had no hat to take off, and nothing to hold. “You know, I'm not sure either. It would have been funny if it was born today though.”

  “Why's that?”

  “It's my birthday.”

  “Oh,” Whistler said. “Well ... happy birthday.”

  “Thanks, though I've had happier.”

  “How old are you now? A hundred?”

  “Cheeky. Thirty-six. What a hell of a birthday.”

  “Better than mine,” Whistler said, looking to his well-worn shoes, as if they had been a birthday gift.

  Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Why? What happened then?”

  “I spent it in the Hold.”

  “Hell,” Jacob said. “I'm sorry. So you turned fourteen in that cell?”

  “Yes. Well, I think so. I lost track of the days. I suppose with the constant darkness, it all seemed like one long night. All I know is I went in when I was thirteen, and I came out fourteen. Or so Doctor Mudro says. He's good with calendars.”

  “And here I am complaining about a little sweat and stress.”

  “You can complain. I don't mind.”

  Jacob laughed. “You're a cool kid, Whistler, you know that?”

  Whistler smiled and shrugged.

  “I'm serious. You've been through more than most, and still you're as strong as ever.”

  The boy looked up. “I never really thought of myself as strong.”

  “Well, you are,” Jacob stated, “in the ways that count the most. Anyone can build muscle. You can't build what you've got. You're born with it.”

  Whistler sunk his head again. “Maybe it's the demon in me.”

  “No, kid, it's not. It's the human in you. Hell, you're more human than the rest of us.”


  * * *

  As night fell, Jacob sought out Mudro and told him of his Hope hunger, which had steadily increased throughout the day. The shakes returned with a frenzy, and his body felt on fire. He had been able to momentarily bury that deep yearning, but it was still there, and still alive.

  “That's good,” the doctor said, when Jacob described his symptoms. “It means the Greenshield is wearing off, and you're relying on your own body now to fight the Hope.”

  Jacob wiped his brow on his sleeve. “How's that good?”

  “It's the end of the process, Jacob. If you can ride this out, you'll have essentially conquered the drug.”

  “And if I can't?”

  “It conquers you.”

  “Hell, I wish she'd never forced that stuff down my throat.”

  Mudro handed him a handkerchief. “She's not forcing you now.”

  “But I've had the taste. It's better not to have the taste.”

  Mudro exhaled smoke from his pipe slowly. “You're right there.”

  “So there's nothing you can do?”

  “I can give you my quarters for the night.”

  “I'm not really that way inclined,” Jacob said.

  Mudro laughed. “A private room to let the poison out. Trust me … you won't want the entire crew witnessing you falling apart. And the crew won't want to be picking up the pieces.”

  Jacob sighed. “I bet. How did you get your own quarters anyway? I'm stuck bunking it with Rommond's finest.”

  “Magic,” the doctor said. “Anyway, I needed space for my medical supplies.”

  “There better not be any Hope there.”

  “I'll remove anything dangerous.”

  With the remnants of Hope still coursing through Jacob's veins, changing him, making it difficult for him to retain control, he could not help but think: Maybe you'll need to remove me.

  * * *

  Jacob set up for the night in Mudro's quarters, and the doctor cleared out many chests of medicines, most especially his remaining supply of Greenshield, which would only delay the process, and lead to all kinds of complications and new addictions. Mudro laid out several damp towels for Jacob, and several empty buckets, and Jacob prepared for a difficult night.