Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6)

by Dean F. Wilson

   “Consider it done,” the Baroness said as the tour concluded.

   “I'm not pulling your arm, am I?” Rommond asked.

   “You are,” she replied sharply, “but I'm happy to donate.”

   “We can do a lot with that much money. As much rests on this as what we'll be doing out there in the desert. This'll be the home front. I hope you're up for it.”

   She seemed offended, looking down her pointed nose at him. “Don't you worry about me, Rommond. It's you that we should be worried about. You be careful out there.”

   “I'm not sure I can be,” Rommond replied. “We'll be moving deep into Regime territory. Deeper than we ever planned to go. To their home world. To what we often called in our propaganda 'Hell'. None of this is careful now. It's all about risk. Every step. Every inch we take. It either ends for them, or it ends for us. There's no longer any room for stalemate.”

   “I trust you, Rommond. I trust you can do this. You've got that fighting spirit. I saw it in you when you were young.”

   “Well, I'm not that young any more. In fact, I'm feeling rather rusty. If I were a landship, the engineers would have retired me by now. We're most in need of a younger model.”

   Ebronah scoffed. “Hardly. Experience is what matters here.”

   “You were a bit of a fighter in your own youth, if I recall. Are you sure you wouldn't fancy taking up a rifle one last time?”

   She gave a regal chuckle, and her voluminous skirts shuddered with her mirth. “I'm afraid my wrists might crack were I to do that. No, I'm better suited as an ornament of sorts here in Blackout, a little trinket of the Treasury, an example to people of how to act, of what to aspire to. It'd be quite something for one of my line to be seen getting out the dungarees, as it were.”

   “That'd be a sight and a half.”

   “Rommond,” she said, taking his hand. “If I have any power here, then let me exert it upon you with this final command: come back, and come back whole. Whether or not we win this, come back. And most especially if the Iron Emperor falls, come back and lead us, for we will be most in want of a leader then.”

   Leadman coughed. He had been rather silent throughout, and Ebronah barely looked at him. Rommond suspected that the other general was not aware of how little regard the Baroness had for the leader of Copperfort.

   Rommond gestured to him. “I'm sure that mantle can fall to General Leadman.”

   Ebronah let out a rapturous cackle, which made Leadman's enormous frown almost a permanent feature on his face. “Oh, I needed that,” she said. “I'm sure Mr. Leadman will find a place, without question, but the people know who's been leading us through this war, and who should lead us after. It can only be you, Rommond.”

   Rommond blushed. “Let us win the war first, before we worry about the aftermath.”

   “Really, Rommond? From the Master Planner himself? Dearest me, I expect you'll have given some thought to the aftermath. The world will be very different then.”

  * * *

  The tour ended, and Ebronah returned to her ministerial duties, and the war of words that often played out in the battleground of the Treasury headquarters. The two generals remained, standing by the door of the clock tower.

   “Rommond.”

   “Leadman.”

   “I didn't see you speaking up much about my leadership bid in there.”

   “I spoke.”

   “You whispered.”

   Rommond sighed. “You must be a little deaf from the trenches. Oh wait, you didn't really spend much time in them, did you?”

   “What if you die in this?” Leadman probed.

   “I expect I shall sleep a little sounder then.”

   Leadman rolled his eyes. “And what about me?”

   “I expect you'll sleep sounder too.”

   “I mean, who vouches for me then?”

   “Leadman, I can't make the people follow you. I can suggest that you would be a good politician, but it's up to them to vote for you.”

   “You know there won't be a vote at first. It's martial rule. They're going to look to you for that interim government.”

   “And I'll keep my promise,” Rommond said. “But Leadman, you already had your chance at the crown. When General Camderhill died, the leadership of the Resistance would have passed to you. You abdicated by opting for appeasement. If the leadership went to me, it's not because I sought it. It's because I kept leading. If you want to re-earn the people's trust, then shine on the battlefield.”

   It did not help, of course, that Rommond would be fighting there too. Leadman would not only have to shine. He'd have to outshine Rommond as well.

  8 – THE KNIFE

  Lorelai sat in the darkness of the Olive Inn, her hand cradling an empty glass. Gus had offered her a lantern, and another drink, but she refused. She needed to think, and it was easier to do it in the darkness, when she could focus on her thoughts.

   There was no one else in the tavern. Even Jacob was not there. Everyone knew this was now part of Rommond's headquarters. It made them nervous, so they drank elsewhere. She supposed it should have made her nervous too. She wondered if that was why she wanted to be in the dark, away from those human eyes, those eyes that would look into her maran ones, and see a demon.

   She took out a small round mirror from her pocket and instinctively inspected her make-up. She did not wear a lot, but her eyes were rimmed, and her lips were bright. There was a certain expectation of women in the Regime. If you did not abide by it, if you did not don the right colours, you stood out as a rebel. Those women who wore no make-up at all stood out the most, and usually paid for it with their lives. It did not matter what the job was, that she was a field nurse, just behind the soldiers on the front line. She was expected to follow orders, to abide by customs, to keep her head down.

   She folded up the mirror and placed it back in her pocket, where she felt the small pouch of Hope. She got a refill recently. Deliveries were still coming into Blackout from the abandoned facility down south. The Resistance might have regained control, but now it was their responsibility to deal with that drug, that food, that fuel. She was now as dependent on them as she was on her old masters. At any moment they could withhold it, and she would wither away. She had no reason not to expect them to do it. They had done many of the things the Regime had done. Both sides were guilty of numerous crimes.

   You're dwelling on this, she told herself.

   Then, as if the fates wanted to distract her, she heard the creaking of the front door. She meant to step up, or cough, or bang her glass on the table, or otherwise make her presence known, but something stopped her. She heard the harsh footfalls of leather boots, the kind of militarised march of good soldiers, the kind that General Rommond would promote. They moved straight to the bar, accompanied by the chatter of their owners, who were oblivious to Lorelai in the shadows of the corner.

   “We'll have earned this drink,” one of the lieutenants said, banging on the counter.

   “Might be able to retire,” the other replied with a laugh, as if that notion was inconceivable.

   “Well, why not? The war'll be over.”

   “Do you really think he'll do it? Break into their world?”

   Lorelai perked up, but kept herself inside the shadows.

   “No reason to doubt it,” the first lieutenant said, slapping the counter again. “Brooklyn's hard at work. Some sort of missile launcher. More Glass than iron is what I heard.”

   “He's more Glass than iron himself,” the second said with a grin. “At least in the head.” He paused. “I heard tell they expect to find proof Old Iron isn't who he says he is.”

   “Who knows? They might just find dust. But maybe we can send those demons back.”

   “Send 'em to Hell,” the other quipped.

   “Wouldn't mind sending a few others while we're at it.”

   They laughed.
On realising that Gus was not coming, the first lieutenant reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle of gin and two glasses. They left, laughing, and the silence of the tavern returned, but it brought many different thoughts to Lorelai's mind.

   She sat there for a long time, dwelling on everything. They're going to go to Mes Marana, she thought. But there's nothing for them there. Yet she wondered what they might find, and worried about what it might expose. If they could find some dirt on the Iron Emperor, perhaps the war would end. She yearned for it to end, for the killing and the hurt to stop. But she feared what might happen if they failed, if they riled up the man without a name, who had risen to power after the Iron Plague took hold, and who had promised them a cure.

   She stood up, clasping the glass still. She held it up to the light, where it glinted. It was a different type of glass, the kind that did not trap light. She placed it down on the table gently.

   She left through one of the side entrances, where a Resistance guard gave her a habitual nod. She kept going, through the dim, quiet street, following the mental map of the city she had made, past the infirmary where she stored her supplies, where she had treated so many, human and maran, fighting on either side of the war, or no side at all. She passed by an alley where Jacob and Whistler were helping to load up a wheelbarrow full of iron scraps, and she hurried more quickly so that they would not see her. She saw many labourers as she walked, and wondered where Brooklyn was, working on his new machine. She continued on until she saw the clock tower peering over the rooftops, and kept walking and turning corners until she approached that building's front entrance.

   It was not as well-guarded as it perhaps should have been. Of course, not many knew what it was being used for now. This was one of Rommond's unplayed cards. As she entered, she wondered what other ones he had that she did not know about.

   She headed up the stairs, spotting Tardo kneeling over an array of wires, his mop of sweat-laden blonde hair almost tangled amongst them. He looked up, startled.

   “I need your help,” she told him. “Do the radios work?”

   “Yeah. I can get pretty much any channel you want.”

   “Can you show me?”

   “Eh … sure.”

   Tardo abandoned his project and headed over to the many desks piled up with equipment. He got that same glazed look in his eyes as he faded off into a dreamy state as he worked. It made it easier for Lorelai, because he did not see her grabbing one of the heavy pieces of equipment and slamming it down on his head. He collapsed with a grunt, leaving a little pool of blood on the floor. She instinctively felt like helping, like stitching him up. But she had more important duties.

   She adjusted the radios. She did not need him for that. She knew the right channel, a secret channel, known only by the Pilgrims, the first marans to visit a world—the scouts.

   “Pilgrimage,” she spoke into the microphone. “K-194 reporting.”

   “Your report?” a voice crackled back.

   “They're making a new weapon.”

   “Details?”

   “A missile launcher, using Glass.”

   “For what purpose?”

   “To open a Rift.”

   “They can't.”

   “Trust me. I've lived with them. They're determined. They can.”

   “Why are you breaking cover now? Were you not instructed to wait?”

   “They say they will find incriminating evidence on the Iron Emperor.”

   There was silence on the other end. The static played out for a long time.

   “Can you get us more intel?” the voice came eventually.

   “I'll try.”

   “You need to do more than try. The stakes are too high.”

   “I'll find out where they plan to launch their attack, but it might be difficult to report back. Suspicions will be high here.”

   “It's too late for that, K-194. If your cover is blown, you know what to do.”

   The radio went silent. She dwelt on the silence for a moment. Then, as she looked at Tardo unconscious on the floor, she dwelt on something else: her code number: K-194. She had a codename to go with it: The Knife. She dug it in when you were not looking, and then twisted it too.

  9 – SCRAMBLE

  They found Tardo the next morning, bruised and bloodied. He could not remember anything that happened the night before, and a test of his blood showed the presence of a memory-dulling drug known to be used by Regime spies, sometimes on themselves.

   “The message,” Rommond said, dragging a chair across the floor. “Who was it to?”

   Tardo sat under a spotlight, but it was the glare of the general's eyes that made him sweat. The room was sealed off. It was just him and Rommond in there. That was enough. That was too much.

   “I don't know,” Tardo replied. “I don't remember anything.”

   “Convenient, that.”

   “Not really. Not for me.”

   “You know what, Tardo. You're right. You see, I like answers. Clear, honest answers. Even if they're answers I'll hate. I like that I'll know them. What I don't like is being in the dark. What I don't like is having people around me I can't trust.”

   It was hard to see the demon in Tardo. He was quite young, and had that youthful vigour that Rommond had seen in so many new recruits. It was usually the older ones he had to worry about. The young often died before they could learn to betray.

   “You can trust me, General. I … I really just—”

   “It was set to a new channel,” Rommond interrupted, pointing his gloved finger to the radio equipment. “One we don't recognise. It doesn't even seem like that channel was ever used before. But we know a message was transmitted. We just don't know what it was. It seems there was some form of encryption used. That's your area, isn't it?”

   Tardo looked dumbfounded. “Well, I don't know—”

   “Because you took the drug.”

   “What drug?”

   “The drug in your system, the one designed to stop you spilling the beans in the event we torture you.”

   “T-t-torture me?”

   “Torture a spy.”

   Tardo shook his head frantically. “I'm not a spy, Rommond. I swear! I always wanted to be part of the Resistance. I never would—”

   “Take him away,” Rommond said to the nearby guards.

   Tardo was dragged outside and hauled through the streets. It was night, so the streets were quiet, and no one knew yet of Tardo's alleged treachery. There might have been a mob for that too. It was easy to work up the crowd.

   Tardo was given his own cell. As the metal door slammed shut, the sound woke up the man in the cell beside him. Gregan. He wiped the sleep and shock from his eyes, then smiled.

   “Well, what do you know?” he said.

   Tardo did not answer.

   Gregan's grin widened. “Seems you're not all sweetness and nice after all.”

   “I was framed,” Tardo protested.

   Gregan laughed. “Weren't we all?”

  * * *

  In Rommond's bunker, the general sat alone, his chest still heaving, his fists still clenched. This was why he played his cards close to his chest. It seemed he could not trust anyone. So much rested on secrecy, on giving them the time necessary for Brooklyn to finish his work. He was still a ways off yet. He could not even say how many more days it would take. Maybe it would be weeks.

   There was a sudden loud banging on the door.

   “General, we have a visitor,” a muffled voice said.

   “Tell them to wait,” Rommond replied. “I'm busy.”

   “You'll want to see them, General.”

   Rommond did not hide his angry sigh. He covered up his new maps and plans and left the bunker, which he locked behind him. At one time he wondered if he was being paranoid. Now he knew he was not being paranoid enough.

   Outside, he found
one of his own spies, one who orchestrated a constant cat and mouse chase of hacks against the Commspire network, gleaning momentary bits of intel before the security holes were swiftly patched up. They called him Codex Carter, and even with Rommond he wore a headscarf to hide his exact identity.

   “General,” he said, with a salute.

   “Codex.”

   “We intercepted something.”

   “Hopefully our missing message.”

   “Not quite, but it won't take a genius to figure out what it was.”

   “Oh?”

   “They know about the missile launcher. Someone had to tell them.”

   Rommond tried to hold back his angry sigh. Tardo. He should not have even known about it, but tongues were wagging everywhere. There were too many fresh-faced soldiers, lacking discipline.

   “It's worse than that, Rommond.”

   “What do you mean?”

   Codex handed him a stack of papers, all containing documented messages. “They're mobilising everything, General. It's really the only reason we intercepted anything in the first place. Their radios are in overdrive. There are orders going back and forth all day. They're barely even trying to hide it.”

   “And it's not a ruse? A bit of Mudro in them?”

   “No,” Codex replied. “We thought that too, but the scouts report that the mobilisation is real. This is larger than anything we've seen. It seems they're emptying the barracks for this.”

   “What's their plan? Where are they mobilising to?”

   “To the Rift, Rommond, the doorway to their world. And they're going to get there before you. When you arrive, it seems the door will have a lot of guards.”

  10 – PROJECT THIMBLERIG

  With the Regime mobilising, and Brooklyn's design far from complete, the Resistance had to get mobile too. The problem, as many saw it, was that they were just becoming a moving target. They were still a target all the same.