“What do you mean?”
“I've heard rumours that the Regime have ways of telling who's human or demon,” the general explained. “It seems they couldn't tell in Blackout, but that was mostly under Treasury rule, and I'm not taking any chances with the Iron Wall. So we need a few more demons on the team. Lorelai is, as you might put it, useful.”
“So, is that why you want Brogan to come too?” she asked. “You know I don't approve.”
“I hate to say it, Tabs, but that demon blood in him could save our lives. But it's not just about that. The Regime implemented new rules a few years back that require Field Commanders to take cadets. If we don't have someone young enough to be a cadet on the team, it will look suspicious.”
“Given who we've got,” she replied, “I think we're already going to look suspicious.”
“Everything's a risk in this world, Tabs,” Rommond said. “Even just being born. But I want to mitigate as many of the risks as possible. That's why for you, Tabs, I have an extra task.”
He peeped his head outside, then closed the door slowly, making sure that no one could hear what it was.
The general's next stop was Brooklyn, and he had an extra task for him too.
“Brooklyn, before you go,” Rommond said, “can you do me a favour?”
“Anything.”
“How many trucks do we have left?”
“Two, not counting the one Mudro has. We salvaged all we could from Regime supply here.”
Rommond turned his attention to the Long Spyglass, perched on the walls of the city. “It's not going to do much good up there, now, is it?”
“You mean—”
“Will two trucks be enough?”
“I had not thought of it.”
“Well, think about it now,” Rommond said. “Will two trucks be enough?”
“It's heavy,” Brooklyn said, “so I'm concerned about the sand. I could maybe put some tracks on the back truck, where it will take the most weight. But we're out of tracks. I'd have to take them from one of the landships.”
“Take them then,” Rommond said. “The talons of the Hawk are nothing without his eyes.”
20 – THE CENTRAL PRONG
The gates of Blackout opened, and out of the city issued several dozen landships of all shapes and sizes, from some of Brooklyn's first designs to his latest. Leadman even had one that looked a little like the Hopebreaker, but it was not as fast, and Rommond was certain that it did not pack the same firepower.
“Whatever happened to yours?” Leadman asked him just before the signal was given.
Rommond responded with a cool glare. “The real Hopebreaker isn't made of metal. It's made of flesh,” he added, gesturing to himself.
The platoons formed into a convoy, rolling out in single file to help disguise their profile from enemy eyes. Rommond's platoon was noticeably tiny: just five landships, two of which were not in great shape. He heard them creaking along beside him, and it was not a reassuring sound.
The general sat in the back of one of the trucks, where the Long Spyglass was fitted. Brooklyn worked overtime to get it ready, and faced some frustration as the lens needed readjusting.
“Lutgard,” Rommond said.
“Yes, General?”
“Keep an eye on the formation, will you?”
“Of course, General. Is anything the matter?”
Rommond grumbled. “I don't trust Leadman.”
“None of the boys do either.”
“I can't help but wonder if this is all a ruse, if he's working with the Regime. At any moment the central prong of the trident could turn back upon us.”
“Not to give you more to worry about, General, but if he's working with the Regime, then they likely know our entire plan. It could reverse all three prongs.”
“Not our entire plan,” Rommond said.
Lutgard nodded, but eyed him curiously. Rommond thought it better if he kept his best cards close to his chest.
As they headed further into the desert, Rommond looked into the Long Spyglass, scouring the railway in the east. He could not see any sign of the Landquaker, which meant it was either far south or far north, further than the magnification reached. He turned the scope with a creak to either side. He saw Mudro's moving charade in the south, and it looked convincing. In the north, he just saw a haze of sand, and that was reassuring. He turned the spyglass back to the railway, and still could not see anything. He was growing nervous now. If it was in the south, that was great news, but if it was in the north, where Taberah's team was hastening, it was the worst news of all.
He stared into the spyglass for an hour, until sleep began to stare back at him. He had not slept well the night before. No one did on the eve of battle. Then, just as slumber almost had him, he saw something travelling swiftly from the corner of his right eye. He turned the spyglass to see it, and there it was: the Landquaker in all its might and majesty, thundering along those rails, its gun pointing forward, away from the landships. It would not point that way for long.
Rommond watched it grow in size, looking at all the little details, the little swirls and motifs that he and Brooklyn had painted on together, that were Brooklyn's tribal stamp, and his artistic affront to the Regime's minimalistic style. He also saw that the vessel was now overlayed with the emblem of the Regime, that black square upon a red cross, all angular, without a curve in sight. Its red frame was enhanced by rust. Rommond was certain that the rust would not impede its dreadful firepower, or its tremendous speed along those well-maintained tracks. There were regular inspections by smaller trains and carriages, one of which Rommond was counting on Jacob and company to commandeer.
Then the moment came when he no longer needed the spyglass to see the railway gun. There it was on the horizon, a minuscule figure with a monstrous payload. As soon as that moment came, he knew the battle was on. The platoons split apart, changing formation, abandoning the winding serpent for a wall of their own. They kept a reasonable distance from one another, but Rommond knew it would not be enough.
The first shell came down with an ear-rending whistle, and an eye-roasting burst of light. By the time Rommond's eyes adjusted, he saw smoke billowing to his left, where the wrecks of two landships smouldered. He was just glad it was not from his platoon. He could not afford to lose a single one. Not yet.
The second shell hurtled down at the head of Leadman's forces, casting one of the landships into the air. The others swerved to avoid it, and they were glad they were in Brooklyn's newer models then, which did not take so long to turn.
A third and fourth shell landed in quick succession, showing that the Landquaker's barrel had rotated fully into place, allowing full use of the loading mechanism, with all the enhancements that Brooklyn had once made. The shells exploded at the front of the formation, missing the landships, but scouring the land and casting up thick clouds of smoke.
Another shell struck the landship just in front of the trucks bearing the Long Spyglass and Rommond, casting the landship up and spinning it back towards them. Rommond ducked, but the spyglass was struck, sending the barrel spinning off on its own. The back truck toppled over, and the general tumbled into the sand. The front truck stopped, and the driver turned to beckon to him.
“Drive!” Rommond shouted, gesturing forward. “Drive!”
But another shell came down upon the motionless truck, making sure that everyone inside was motionless too. The general sighed and shook his head. Some troops let their compassion overcome their training. They forgot his oft-used words: Forward is the only direction. For your feet. For your eyes. For your gun.
He kept close to the toppled truck at the back, where that driver was still alive. “I never thought I'd have to walk to the Iron Wall,” Rommond said.
“Maybe we should wait here,” the driver replied, reluctant to move from his seat. “Maybe help will come.”
>
Rommond rummaged through the back of the truck, pulling out a rifle. “You can stay here if you want, Ollie,” he said. “I'm still pushing forward.”
21 – THE MASQUERADE MARCH
The Silver Ghost had spent much of the day taking the Covered Trails to the north, a series of shallow canyons which might have at one time housed a river. These were old smuggling routes which Jacob knew well. Yet the team did not rely solely on the sandy walls to hide them, but used the cover of the Dust Riders too. The shutters of the windows were firmly sealed, but even then the sand crept in, and some of the crew kept their goggles on, and others wore their gas masks too.
In time, the warwagon halted on an outcropping overlooking the northernmost end of the Iron Wall, where the rails ended inside a colossal docking bay carved into the side of the mountain. It was digging that cavern which first led the Resistance to the discovery of Glass, and then the Glassfinder Project that resulted in the contraceptive amulets. Now the Glass mines were turned into iron ones, feeding the Regime's industry of war as much as it fed its people.
Taberah and Jacob poked spyglasses out of one of the windows. Though their shield of sand still somewhat obscured their view, they could see several small supply trains entering and leaving the docking bay, switching tracks and switching crews. Under the Regime's control, the Landquaker was in operation twenty-four hours of the day, never making use of the docking bay that the Resistance had made for it, and it needed constant resupplying, both of crew, food, and ammunition. There were different storage trains for each of these duties, colour-coded in blue, yellow and red respectively. Rommond's plan was to hijack one of the yellow ones, on the assumption that the food train would offer the least resistance, but Taberah thought that the red train was a better choice—even if it was a challenge to secure, it would give them extra ammunition to take over the railway gun.
“It doesn't look like we'll have to worry much about waiting,” Jacob said. He could see the constant rotation of colours, and several supply trains were lined up, some rearing to go, and others opening up for new supplies. A steady stream of soldiers marched to and fro, and even from this vantage point, Jacob could hear their methodical beat, almost as mechanical as the Iron Guard.
“I still think red is a better choice,” Taberah said.
“It suits you,” Jacob replied, nodding to her fiery hair, “but I'd rather fight some loaves of bread and leave the real battle till the Landquaker. Besides, I don't think we should be changing Rommond's plans now.”
“Funny that,” she said, “how you've become suddenly so good at taking orders.”
Jacob gave a mock salute. “Guess I'm a good soldier now.”
“Well, I hope you've kept some of those smuggling skills,” she replied. “Getting us on board is your job. Once we're in, you can leave the soldiering to me.”
The Silver Ghost withdrew from its vantage point and parked at a safe distance, away from prying eyes. Being that close to the enemy made everyone on edge, and made them think that there were many more eyes out there just waiting to pry.
Brooklyn drove a rickety Mark I landship behind, the kind the Regime adopted at the attack on the Hope factory, but he parked it even further back than the Silver Ghost, to avoid any potential mishaps of the two vehicles being seen together. It was also a noisy machine, and everything about this hijacking, this daylight robbery, needed to go quietly.
Inside the Silver Ghost, Jacob changed into his Regime uniform. He had received a promotion, with another pip upon the shoulder, and another medal, and after the success in Blackout, he felt he deserved it. He was also well aware that the Regime might be on to them by now, that the disguise might not be as convincing as he thought. Yet, as he stared in the mirror, adjusting his belt, he felt a shiver down his spine at the thought of how easy it might have been to switch sides. In the early days of the war there were a lot of mutineers, a lot of turncoats, switching allegiance as easily as the Treasury or Leadman did. It was an unsettling thought, but it also brought another: that there might be some among the enemy that did, or wanted to do, the same.
“What do you think?” Whistler asked, stepping into the room. His uniform was a much better fit this time. Lorelai spent some of the drive putting her sewing skills to use, taking up the trouser legs and arms. She did not see it as a chore. It beat sewing on severed limbs.
“Looking snazzy,” Jacob said.
Whistler smiled, but he buried it just as quickly. “Only, I wish it was a Resistance one.”
“Trust me,” Lorelai said as she entered the room, “you don't want to march in there in one of those.”
“Besides,” Jacob added, “I haven't got a Resistance uniform either. Maybe no uniforms can do us guys justice. If you're smuggling something into a city, you wear their style of garb, not your own.”
“You look good,” Lorelai said.
“Thanks. Can't say I'm not partial to the nurse's uniform either.”
She smiled, and self-consciously adjusted her long white skirt. “If we had more time, I could have made you one.”
Jacob smirked. “Maybe later.”
“Okay, I'll see you guys in a minute. I just want to check Brooklyn's wounds. I think he'll need a little bit more make-up to hide the scars.”
She left the room, and Whistler looked out the door, watching her leave. He dangled his foot for a moment, and opened his mouth several times to say something, before exhaling noisily when he could not find the words.
Jacob raised an eyebrow. “What is it, kid?”
“Do you like her?” Whistler asked.
“What, Lorelai? Yeah, she's okay.”
“More than … more than my mom?”
“Taberah's never just okay. She's hot or cold, fire or ice.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, kid, don't worry. I think I like extremes.”
They met with Brooklyn outside his landship, where he was dressed in another Regime uniform, labelled as a mechanic. He wore gloves to disguise his mechanical hand.
“We must move quickly,” Brooklyn said, looking to his chronometer. “We are already late.”
They parted with the Dust Riders, who waited in the canyon for the rest of the tribal troops. Their slow march helped give the Resistance team a chance to infiltrate the base, right before the tribespeople would assault it. Jacob did not want to get caught up in that battle, because then they would be forced to attack the tribes or blow their cover. Either way, they would lose.
The team squashed aboard the Mark I landship, which chugged along, spitting soot and spewing steam. Brooklyn had an odd way of driving, which seemed a lot more intuitive than most. He never looked through the viewports. He seemed to be able to feel the ground beneath, feel it through the metal, through the tracks, as if the vehicle were an extension of him. In some way, as he grasped the steering sticks with one fleshy hand and one made of metal, it really was. Yet, even as he drove like this, Jacob could see that it was a struggle, and he could also see the worry on Whistler's face. The boy knew Brooklyn much better than the smuggler did, and it was clear that the tribesman was not as intuitive as he had once been.
They heard a bang on the side of the landship as they rolled up to the first checkpoint. Jacob popped his head through the hatch and gave the Regime's salute. He rather enjoyed saluting, but only when he did not mean it. It was a brazen two fingers up to authority without them ever actually seeing the fingers.
“Name,” the checkpoint guard droned. He did not even look at Jacob, but stared at his notepad, where he had been ticking boxes all day.
“Albert Gainsley,” Jacob said.
“Rank.”
“Field Commander.”
The guard suddenly perked up, standing straight and issuing a sloppy salute. He let his pencil drop in the process, and squinted his eyes as if it were a live grenade.
“Commander, sir.
”
“Pay a little more attention, lieutenant,” Jacob said, doing his best impression of Rommond. “Keep dropping things and we'll drop you.”
The guard gulped, and looked to his fellow guards, urging them with his eyes to let the commander through. They hauled open the gates, and Jacob dived back inside.
“I rather enjoyed that,” he said.
They were waved through the next two checkpoints without issue, but at the final one they were redirected to a landing bay where other vehicles were parked. When they climbed out, they became very unsettled by the number of landships there were, and the even larger number of troops. Yet this threat had its own positive side, for, in the words of Rommond, “the larger the pile of pins, the harder it is to spot the bullet.”
There was a distinct marching pattern to the troops roaming the landing bay, leading from the centre in all four directions, and rotating around the bay in a square. Jacob could not help but think that the pattern, if looked at from on high, resembled the Regime's emblem. They studied this for a moment from the viewports of the landship before hopping out and joining in. They could not afford to make a mistake. If they turned left instead of right, or kept going straight when they should have turned, it would be very obvious that they were not the battle-hardened soldiers they pretended to be.
Whistler was very worried, and he complained in the landship that he could not get the marching right. No matter how much Jacob reassured him, he was visibly nervous. Brooklyn settled into the march with ease, again relying on intuition, though having Rommond as a partner probably helped. Jacob could not help but wonder if their relationship was as disciplined as everything else. Taberah also had no problems, though Lorelai struggled with the steps. Hers could probably be forgiven, Jacob thought, given that she was wearing a medical uniform.
The troops crowded around on either side, and they moved as if they were on a conveyor belt, just another part of the factory of war. Their perfectly timed steps made the imposters all the more self-conscious, noticing every tiny error, every slight misalignment. Thankfully the troops on either side kept their faces straight ahead, and the Resistance team did likewise, though their eyes could not help but dart to the right or left to see which way they should be turning.
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