Landquaker

by Dean F. Wilson

   Rommond smiled slightly. “Maybe I could do with a little more belief,” he said. But Jacob? he thought. If he cracks jokes with the Udanudaga, they might crack his skull open. He almost heard the smuggler's retort in his head: It'd be one hell of a negotiation.

  Jacob was surprised to receive a summons from the general, delivered by two of Rommond's smartly-dress lieutenants. When he arrived, he surveyed the general's selection for the mission. There really was not many of them: Rommond, Brooklyn, Taberah, and Jacob. While he had plenty of experience working on his own, he had learned quickly with the Resistance that having a few extra bodies helped when the bodies started piling up. With such small numbers, he felt increasingly like he might be one of them.

   “This is a skeleton crew,” Rommond declared, rapping his knuckles on the hull of the Silver Ghost, whose exterior lanterns were the only light illuminating the negotiation team.

   “Is that your way of saying we're already dead?” Jacob asked with a smirk.

   The general grumbled. “We're not going to have much in the way of firepower, so we need to keep a low profile, and stay out of any of the conflicts between the various tribes. We're there to get them involved in our war, not to get involved in theirs.”

   Jacob raised his hand. “Wouldn't it make more sense to solve their differences so they can all side with us?”

   Rommond forced a smile. “Good luck with that.”

   “I want to come,” Whistler said, emerging from the shadows. Jacob had taught him well—perhaps too well.

   Rommond shook his head. “You again,” he said. “It's just as well you're on our side with all this sneaking around.”

   “What other side would I be on?” the boy asked. Jacob knew that he wondered if this was a slight against the demon side of him.

   “I didn't mean it like that,” the general said, rolling his eyes.

   “So, can I come?”

   “It's too dangerous for you.”

   Whistler looked to the ground. “You said you'd find something for me.”

   “Something else. There's lots that needs doing in the city.”

   “It's not safe,” Taberah said, reaching her hand towards Whistler's shoulder, but he recoiled. He bumped into Jacob, and the smuggler instinctively put his hand on the boy's other shoulder, and he did not retreat from that.

   “It's not safe here either,” Jacob replied. “It's not safe anywhere. Let him come if he wants to. He's old enough to make these choices. Hell, if there's one thing I've learned here in Altadas, it's that the sand and the sun doesn't discriminate.”

   “I'm trying to protect the boy from danger,” Rommond said. “You're just trying to protect him from disappointment.”

   Jacob scoffed. “Just because we don't have many children left, doesn't mean we have to lock them all up for safekeeping.” He could not help but think of his days in the workhouse, and could not help but hear the sound of the lock.

   Brooklyn whispered something to Rommond, and the general sighed. Whistler's eyes brightened. “He can come,” Rommond said, “but on one—”

   “He's not coming,” Taberah interjected, placing her hands on her hips.

   Whistler's head sunk again.

   “This is my sortie,” the general said.

   The fire was back in her, even though the wax was low. “This is my son.”

   Jacob was tempted to say: So now you choose to be a mother, but he knew it was unfair of him. She did not get to choose when Domas held her down. And she did not get to choose when she lost Elizah, the first or the second time.

   Rommond looked at Brooklyn, who gave the slightest of shrugs. They might have been ambassadors, but it did not seem like either of them could negotiate with Taberah on this issue.

   “I'm not a kid any more,” Whistler protested. “I should be able to do what I want.”

   “Those are the words of every child,” Taberah replied.

  Later that day, Rommond summoned Brooklyn to his quarters in The Olive Inn. Despite all the work he had to do to prepare for the coming battles, everything in his room was neatly arranged. There were a lot of things there, salvaged from the Lifemaker and Skyshaker, including a small mechanical bird in a cage.

   “I remember making this,” Brooklyn said. “Does it still fly?”

   “Wind it up and find out.”

   Brooklyn took it out of the cage gently, as if it were a real bird. He wound the spring, and it fluttered around the room, before returning to his finger. “I can send this out with message to my people, to call Land Council.”

   “Wonderful!” Rommond declared.

   Brooklyn put the bird back and wandered around the room.

   “You kept this?” he asked, running his fingers over the nameplate from which he drew his name. It had a prominent position behind Rommond's desk.

   The general smiled. “Of course.”

   “I thought maybe, when you thought ...”

   “No. That only made me want to keep it even more.”

   “I remember working on that landship,” Brooklyn said. “That seems so long ago now … when I chose who I am. No more Kia-ooba-lukassa then. But … am I still Brooklyn now?”

   “Maybe this will make you feel more yourself,” Rommond said, holding up a multi-coloured blanket, upon which were many buttons of all shapes and sizes, and here and there a cog or two.

   Brooklyn was visibly surprised. It was a relic of his past, a talisman of his people. He held the blanket up. Every string and thread had a purpose, a different colour, a different path. They represented the many tribes that lived in what his people called the Uga Ludomu, the Forgotten Lands. For generations they were ignored by the “civilised” people who lived to the east, south, and west. Even the demons struggled to take territory there, but what they could not take, they destroyed, and so they scoured the land—and while the demons might have forgotten about those days, the land remembered.

   “So much history,” Brooklyn whispered.

   “Your history,” Rommond said. “Now you can sew on some more buttons.”

   “What about gap of last five year?”

   Rommond looked deeply into Brooklyn's eyes. “Don't waste the next five trying to bridge that gap.”

   Brooklyn bowed his head. “Thank you for this gift. You would make good Ootan.”

   “It was always yours,” Rommond said. “I just had it for safekeeping.”

   “Then … thank you for keeping it safe.”

   Rommond smiled. He hoped this small gesture would help Brooklyn reconnect with that lost part of himself, and show that the general really could trust him, that he had no reason to be afraid. Yet, for whatever peace that night gave, they knew that they would be setting out for the Wild North in the morning, a place where war was as common as sand, and where there were many things, and many people, to fear.

  5 – THE WILD NORTH

  The Wild North began eighteen miles north of Blackout. The land changed dramatically there, the flat sand plains exchanged for towering ridges and endless wastes. Some parts were so barren that even the sand did not stay there. All that was left was the dry, cracked earth. In other parts, the cacti reigned supreme, growing to immense sizes, standing like sentinels over the land. In others yet, the land was fertile, and many of the tribes fought for that sacred ground.

   Between the Wild North and the Devil's March to the west of Blackout, they were the only things keeping the Regime from taking the Resistance strongholds in the west. The Iron Emperor had his Iron Wall, but the Resistance had a wall created by Nature—the only problem was that it stood against them as much as it stood against their enemies. Nature was neutral—she hated all of them equally.

   The Silver Ghost rolled up slowly to the border. It was an unmanned border, with no one from either side of the war policing who came and who went. However, that did not mean it was unwatched. It was watched by the weat
her, and by other unseen eyes. Few travelled there. There was barely any “there” to go to. Sometimes the lawless hid in that land, knowing the law would not follow, but the Wild North had its own kind of rules. The number one rule was: anything goes.

   “This is it,” Taberah said. “Beyond this point, you can forget our war.”

   “Easier said than done,” Jacob responded.

   “Oh, you'll forget it quick enough,” Rommond said. “We could be fighting a different one here. Why did you think I wasn't keen to come here? I'd rather we focused on our own.”

   “Hell,” Jacob said. “Next you'll be telling me ghost stories.”

   “Oh, we won't have to do much telling,” Rommond replied. “The land here will show you. I used to be a doubter too. The land will make a believer out of you.”

   Jacob shuddered. “So, is this where people like me get out and walk back to Blackout?”

   “This is where we say there's no going back.”

   The day waned, and the Silver Ghost roamed on, rocking and shaking as the land grew more rugged, like a mattress with many broken springs. Night drew its curtains, but the inhabitants of the warwagon had a difficult time falling asleep. They did not have to toss and turn; the vehicle did that for them. What dreams were had were disturbing ones, but those who could dream were fortunate, for many were forbidden slumber by the land.

  Though Rommond was an adopted child of the land, thanks to his unintended marriage to Brooklyn, he did not sleep that night. It was neither the sand nor the soil that kept his eyes pinned open. He kept himself awake.

   “Stop the wagon,” Rommond called up to Taberah in the one-man cockpit. “There's someone out there.”

   The Silver Ghost ground to a halt, just metres before a figure. Though the night was dark, the silhouette of a man was clear. He stood still, very still, like another sentinel, blocking the path of the warwagon. All eyes were open now. Fear trumped fatigue.

   “I'll go out,” Taberah said, as she jumped down to the main deck.

   “Are you crazy?” Jacob asked. “You don't know who that is? I thought you said this place is dangerous.”

   “I did,” she said, “but I'm dangerous too.”

   “We're all going,” Rommond said, jumping down from the last few rungs of the ladder. “Or I'm driving this thing over whoever's outside, and to hell with the consequences.”

   Taberah and Jacob left the vehicle, but Rommond stopped Brooklyn near the door. “You better stay here. We need someone to look after the wagon.”

   If it had been Whistler, he would have no doubt protested, but Brooklyn was not one to complain, and was not eager for adventure. Besides, Rommond was not one to listen to protests. He left quickly, and even more swiftly closed the door. There were two other doors on the other side, but before they entered the Wild North, the general made sure both were firmly locked.

   The group walked slowly around the Silver Ghost, pistols in hand, until they could see the silent, steady figure, staring blankly towards the warwagon. It stood in the middle of the dirt road, if those worn tracks could even be called a road.

   “Who goes there?” Rommond shouted over.

   The figure did not respond. Its clothes shuddered in the gentle breeze, but otherwise it stood perfectly still. The darkness disguised it. Whoever it was, it had the night as an ally.

   “Sand got your tongue?” Jacob said.

   They approached closer, treading carefully, with pistols cocked, watching the silhouette take form, until even the night could no longer hide it.

   “That's no man,” Taberah pointed out.

   Rommond pulled the hat off the figure, revealing a straw head.

   “A bit dry for crows,” Jacob said.

   Taberah and Rommond glanced about, turning their backs to one another, gazing off into the blackness all around. Jacob felt his own back was markedly exposed.

   “The tribes don't put up things like this,” Rommond said. He reached for the revolver on his belt, and pointed it and his pistol at opposing points in the shadow. If he had more hands, he might have pointed guns in all four directions—and yet still felt like maybe that was not enough.

   “The bikers don't either,” Taberah replied, moving her rifle back and forth across a steady arc.

   “We're barely here five minutes and we've got creepy scarecrows,” Jacob said, keeping his own gun close. “You weren't wrong about this place.”

   Taberah glanced back and forth. “I'm more concerned about what it's trying to scare away.”

   “Or who's doing the scaring,” Rommond added. Jacob thought it must have been a very brave sort to try to scare the general.

   Then, as if to answer Rommond's question, they turned and saw another figure to their left, seated in the shadows on a large slab of granite, which looked like a fallen remnant of an ancient monument. This reclining figure wore a long, deep blue coat, and a matching cowboy hat, similar to the scarecrow, but he carried a guitar, and his head was bowed, hiding his face.

   “Howdy, soldiers,” he said, tipping the brim of his hat. When he raised his head, Jacob could see that he wore what looked like a permanent gas mask over his mouth and nose, with pipes leading around on the right side to his back. Steam periodically puffed out of a vent on the left side of the mask. What part of his face was visible was cracked, more, it seemed, from the weather than from age, and his eyes were dark and grim, with a thin line of black around them, accentuating their grimness.

   “Damn it, you startled me,” Taberah said.

   He strung his guitar a single time. “It's what I do.”

   “Well, I'm glad it's just your voice startling me,” she said. She turned to Rommond. “Give us a minute, would you?”

   Rommond tipped his cap to the masked figure, before turning back to Taberah. “Take as long as you need.” He hopped back into the warwagon, where it seemed like someone was peeping through a crack in one of the window shutters.

   “I'm staying,” Jacob said.

   “You her body guard?” the man rasped.

   “More like she's mine.”

   The mask did not show it, but Jacob was sure that the figure smiled. “Ain't that the truth.”

   Jacob could clearly see several pistols on show around the man's belt. It was what he could not see that worried him. He looked at Taberah. “So … are you going to introduce us?”

   “Now, where are my manners?” the masked man asked, taking the words slowly, letting his breath accentuate and deepen them, and the mask muffle them. He glanced about, as if he could find his manners in the barrels of his guns. “Some call me the Sandsweeper. Some call me the Coilhunter. Some call me the Masked Menace. But you, boy, you can call me friend.” His eyes lit up with the word, and the grit in the man's throat made it sound anything but friendly.

   All those titles were familiar to Jacob. He thought it was three different people. The Wanted posters made it seem like he was an army. He certainly had the munitions for one.

   “Don't let him rattle you,” Taberah said, slapping Jacob on the chest. “He's a big old softie, he is.”

   The man leaned back, letting go of the guitar. “What can I say? Big Old Softie it is.”

   “What are you doing here, Nox?” she asked.

   “What am I doing here?” Nox replied. He let his breath sound audibly at the end of every sentence, and it always seemed a little angry, enhanced by the vibration of the mask. “Some say this here land ain't got no sheriff … but I'm the sheriff here. I've even got the badge.” He flicked his finger against a buckled five-pointed star upon his breast, each prong a different colour.

   “What's with the colours?” Jacob asked. Nox did not look like the kind of guy to wear a badge if it did not mean something. He also looked like the kind whose meaning would be grim.

   “This used to be just four points, one for each type o' foe: the red for the tribesmen, when the
y ain't complyin'; blue for the bikers, when they ain't buyin'; green for the criminals, when they ain't tryin'; yellow for the Clockwork Commune, when they ain't dyin'; and black … well, the black one's new, and it's for the demons … pretty much all the time. I'd have painted it with blood, but everyone bleeds the same shade, and red ain't my favourite colour.”

   Given the many guns, Jacob was not so sure about that.

   “Do you still have all your gadgets?” Taberah asked.

   “Oh, I have 'em all right. Question is: is there a big enough prize for me to catch 'em with?”

   “Ever heard of the Iron Emperor?” Jacob said.

   It was muffled, but he heard the man humph. “I heard of 'im all right, but that's a war you're talkin' 'bout there, and I ain't no warrior.”

   “Neither am I,” Jacob said, “and I'm still fighting in one. But if you're not a warrior, what are you then, if you don't mind me asking?”

   “With this here pretty lady on your arm, I don't mind at all. Some say I'm a bounty hunter—”

   “And quite a good one at that,” Taberah interjected.

   He puffed out a cloud of smoke, and through the haze Jacob could see a ghost of a smile in his eyes, like the ghost of those he hunted.

   “But some might take offence to that there remark,” he said. “I hunt the wanted and the unwanted, whether that be criminals or bounty hunters. If I were just the latter, I'd be huntin' myself.”

   “Well, everyone needs a hobby,” Jacob said.

   “That's a quick tongue you got there, boy.”

   Jacob smirked. Nox might have had grizzled features, but Jacob suspected he was born that way. He did not so much as age as erode.

   “Pity you ain't got the pistol draw to match.”

   “What makes you think I don't?” Jacob asked, and Taberah smiled. Beneath his hurt feelings, he was happy to see her smile, but he did not show it.

   “Oh, I know,” the hunter said. He suddenly drew his pistol and fired into the scrub. They heard the death cry of a rattlesnake. “Besides, you just told me you weren't no warrior, and if I were a bettin' man, I'd say you weren't no gunslinger either.”