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

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

by Dean F. Wilson


   Carol laughed. “Sure yours are as good as twins.”

   “I had twins afore that time, and they're more different than the two I had after, barely a year apart. That boy and girl are the image of each other.”

   “And the image of you!” Carol said. “But here, Lorelai, is it? Why don't you go out then if you feel it's what you should be doing?”

   “I don't know,” Lorelai said. “Duty, I guess.”

   “Duty to who?”

   Of course, Lorelai could not say she was following orders, that she had been assigned to Blackout by the Pilgrimage, the scouting wing of the Iron Empire. That was her duty, and yet she thought maybe she could fulfil it better in a different way, by getting out there, by joining the fight.

   “The city,” Lorelai said eventually.

   Carol scoffed. “What has this city ever done for you, eh? Since this war started, it's been in everyone's hands, like a black marble lost and won by every kid around. It's no one's home now, love. The only reason no one's really noticed is because of that cloud of smog that's gotten worse since the war started, and that smog in people's heads that makes them look the other way. You don't owe this city any more than you owe the Treasury, and, by God, I think they owe us, the thieving sods.”

   Lorelai dwelt on this for a moment, like she dwelt on so much else. “I guess you're right.”

  * * *

  The night deepened before Lorelai could escape her captors and return to the infirmary, where she had helped Whistler forget his troubles by focusing on the troubles of others. He patched some people up, and seemed to enjoy the work. She remembered Jacob standing in the doorway watching them and smiling. She hated what he might think of her now. You wouldn't understand, she thought.

   Urla went with her. She had not realised that she was a nurse too. She spent so much time focusing on the wounds that her fellow nurses went unnoticed. It was a failing as a scout too. She knew she cared too much. It was hard to work in a job of healing and not start to care about the people you healed.

   She managed to convince some of the other nurses to join her. Urla took no convincing at all. She knew she was using them as cover. It looked less suspicious if she was part of a convoy. So they loaded up their supplies into three half-track trucks, brightly emblazoned with a white cross. They were old vehicles, scratched and weathered, with engines that groaned noisily, and parts that creaked and squeaked as it moved. And they rolled out, like the landships before, only there was no one in the streets to wish them farewell, and no white roses to pray for peace.

   Some of the other nurses were optimistic. They were city nurses. They saw horror, but did not see the horrors of the battlefield. While many bodies went back, battered and broken, the worst never went back at all. They had to deal with the aftermath. They did not see the battle, the bloodshed, the hatred. They did not see those caught by the flamethrowers, or those who burned inside from the mustard gas. Some called her home world Hell, but she saw Hell here too. She walked those red sands.

   “Can't wait to do my part,” Urla said. She clutched her box of supplies close to her chest, like a newborn. She had mentioned she wanted a child. Now she could have a human one, if both her and her husband survived. It was unlikely.

   “Here's to saving people,” one of the other nurses said cheerfully.

   Lorelai forced a smile, and joined in their toast. She never said what she thought. Here's to saving mine.

  14 – SANDSTONE BRIDGE

  “Hell,” Jacob said as he tried to sort through the various maps. “Rommond doesn't make this easy.”

   “Good,” Nox said. “We don't want it easy.”

   Jacob shrugged. “I wouldn't mind.”

   He rummaged through several more maps, before passing them to Whistler. “Find me 5A. That's where the codes suggest we go next.”

   They were not given much time to pack. No one was. Supplies were haphazardly thrown into the trucks and landships, and the troops were thrown in too.

   Whistler found the right map and proudly handed it to Jacob. The Coilhunter grabbed the edge of it and stared at the features with his dark, cold eyes.

   “Sandstone Bridge,” he mused ominously.

   Mudro sighed.

   “Is that a bad thing?” Jacob asked.

   “I don't know,” Nox said. “We ain't got there yet. But it's the perfect place to lay a trap.”

   “Well, maybe we do want it easy then, eh?”

   “We want a straight fight. No tricks.”

   “Coming from you.”

   Nox eyed him coldly. “What's that supposed to mean?”

   “Eh, well … all your gadgets.”

   “You mean the unfettered fingers of the law?”

   Jacob raised an eyebrow. “I mean the butterflies and ducks.”

   Nox grumbled.

   “So, what do we do when we get to the bridge?” Whistler intervened.

   “We cross it,” Nox said. “Hopefully.”

  * * *

  They arrived at Sandstone Bridge around an hour later, spotting its vast arch and many pillars from a distance. It looked like an ancient construct, something that belonged in the Dune Burrows, and whatever river it might have crossed in its prime had long dried up.

   “We shouldn't overload the bridge, just in case,” Jacob suggested. He strolled with Whistler alongside the carrier. The cockpit was too hot and too cramped. Even Mudro sat on top, leaving the driver inside alone.

   “This stone would hold a Behemoth,” Mudro replied. “I don't think we have to worry about that.”

   The carrier rolled out slowly onto the bridge. The columns supporting the immense stone structure creaked beneath its weight, and its own hull creaked to match. It was a dreadfully slow advance, thanks to all that it carried, and its plodding pace filled everyone there with dread.

   “It's a long stretch to go,” Nox said, rolling along beside it in his monowheel. He peered across the bridge at the many columns on either side, behind which he could not see.

   “This is apparently the safest road,” Mudro commented. “Rommond gave himself the hardest path. But his is the quickest route, less winding. Ours will have us late to the party.”

   “I don't mind late,” Jacob said. “Just as long as we arrive.”

   There was the sound of tumbling scree. A tiny plume of dust rose on the other side of the bridge, near one of the gigantic pillars. All eyes fixed on it, but it seemed like nothing more than the shifting of the earth.

   “Can't we get this moving any faster?” Jacob urged. “I feel exposed out here.”

   “Not unless we empty the carrier,” Mudro replied, “and we're not doing that.”

   Nox stopped suddenly, and ushered the others to halt as well. It took a moment for the carrier to grind to a halt. Mudro swayed on top.

   Nox placed his boot down on the ground beside his monowheel, leaning the vehicle that way. He rubbed the heel, until it exposed a black wire beneath the dust.

   “It's a trap!” he cried.

   Before any of them could turn, a series of explosions rocked the bridge. The wires connected to sticks of dynamite strapped to a number of the columns supporting the arch. Many of them ignited, sending rock and sand sky high, and the support structure tumbling down.

   In the panic and the rocking and the storm of sand that followed, no one knew what to do, or where to go. It was not clear if the front or the back of the bridge was collapsing, and so whether to press ahead or make a quick retreat. They were not even sure which way was which, but for the carrier planted in the middle of them all, steady and unmoving.

   When the haze settled just a little, it was clear that the way behind them no longer existed. There was a giant, jagged precipice only metres away from their feet, and not far from the carrier's treads. The middle and front of the bridge were still intact—for now.

   Yet, even as the company let o
ut their first sighs of relief, the stone beneath them shifted slightly.

   “Eh,” Jacob blurted. “This isn't looking good.”

   “We have to get off this bridge,” Mudro said, slapping his hand down on the carrier's hull. The driver started it up again, adding its own smoke to the haze. It pushed forward just a little, and the ground moaned audibly beneath. Then another tremor came, bigger than the last. Larger rocks catapulted down from the pillars overhead and the columns beneath, crashing apart where they fell, each adding its own small part to the upheaval.

   The carrier halted, chugging to a stop.

   “If we move,” Mudro said, glancing down, “we might set off a chain reaction.”

   “If we don't move,” Jacob replied, glancing up, “it might go off anyway.”

   The answer to the question came from somewhere else. Further ahead, behind the few solid pillars left standing, came the rattle of well-aimed gunfire. Mudro yelped as one struck his arm, and many of the company dived behind the carrier, which took the brunt of the bullets.

   “Aren't we supposed to be defending this thing?” Jacob shouted over the metal pings.

   They heard the revving of an engine, and saw the thick black smoke that bellowed from the Coilhunter's monowheel like a veil. That was answer enough.

  * * *

  Nox sped across the stone platform, ignoring the shaking, ducking from gunfire, and dodging falling stones. He saw snipers peeping out from behind the pillars. He advanced on them, whipping out his pistol as he drove, launching a few perfect shots at the heads of his attackers.

   Yet they were many, and just as he was aiming for another sniper at the right, several more fired at him from the left. One struck his gun, knocking it from his hand. Before he had time to unearth another, he felt the monowheel go over a now familiar bump: black wire.

   This explosion was more deafening than the first, because it was closer than before. He kept driving, feeling a hail of stone from the snipers of the gods, seeing little in the miasma of smoke and dust.

   Then he felt a sudden drop, the kind that took the core of him and sent it into his throat. He could barely see anything, but he knew he was falling, that the monowheel was falling. It was heavy, so it fell quick, and it dragged him down with it.

   He plummeted so fast that for a brief moment he came out of the explosive haze, able to briefly see the crumbling hole in the bridge above him, and the still-falling blocks from the pillar around him.

   He seized a handle on the right side of the control panel, which released a giant grappling hook from the front right of the monowheel. It wrapped around one of the still-standing columns that the Regime shooters hid behind, tugging tight, almost reefing the metal from the monowheel as it stopped its descent.

   Then it swung, like a giant pendulum, towards the pillar that saved it. Yet it also struck the cliff-face ahead, its metal tracks dragging across the granite, until the drag sent the wheel spinning as it swung, making it impossible for Nox to find the perfect aim to fire the other grappling hook on the other side.

   He lurched back into the falling cloud of dust and debris, came out briefly on the other side, then careened back down again, through the thick blackness, before his pendulum vessel arrived almost back where it started. From there, still spinning, and slowing just a moment before beginning its downward pivot, Nox took the best aim he could, and said a silent prayer. He fired the left grappling hook, and it took hold around one of the other pillars on the other side.

   The monowheel stabilised, but the force of the sudden grasp sent Nox flailing from his seat. He grabbed at anything, only to pull hard on the lever that put the vehicle into automatic acceleration, before he fell a foot or two and grabbed a hold of the metal basket at the back, his two feet dangling overboard. The treads around the wheel span like crazy, eroding the rock. Nox felt himself falling further. His feet swung into the path of the spinning tracks, grinding through the leather. He cried out and tried to pull away, then jolted as a piece of the metal he gripped came apart in his hand.

   This isn't it, he thought to himself. This isn't how you die. He always thought that it would be the Wild North that would kill him. Not out here. Not while there's still bounties to cash.

   He gave it his all, hauling himself back up into the driver's seat, which now faced up towards the sky. He plopped his back against the leather, turned off the automatic, and pressed his bruised boot against the accelerator.

   The monowheel's tracks gripped the uneven outcroppings of the cliff-face, grinding them into dust, but it propelled it upwards, even as Nox tightened the wire on the grappling hooks. Together, with the pushing of the wheel and the pulling of the ropes, the monowheel ascended the wall beneath the bridge, and clambered over the ravine to the other side.

   Nox let loose the grappling wire and dived from his seat, even as the snipers turned in shock to him. He tumbled in the sand, casting three tiny canisters behind him, and casting two bullets from his second pistol ahead. The canisters exploded after a few seconds, sending out a hail of smaller canisters attached to magnets. Many of these flew straight for the guns of the bewildered snipers at the rear, only to release a blinding flash of light as they struck home. The snipers ahead were not used to close-quarters fighting. They were already dead. It was not long before the rest of them joined them, and Nox “acquired” one of their pistols to replace his own.

   The Coilhunter caught his breath, and let out another plume of smoke from his mask. He barely had time for a second gasp, however, when he saw a large crack worming through the bridge towards the carrier.

  15 – THE EDGE

  At Sandstone Bridge, the ground shifted again, this time more violently than before. The team upon the bridge wavered in place as large cracks crept through the rock towards them.

   “We've got to make a run for it,” Jacob urged, pulling Whistler by the sleeve.

   “What about the carrier?” Whistler asked, resting his hand on it for support.

   “There's no time.”

   “Go,” Mudro told them. “There's nothing you can do here.”

   “What about you?” Whistler asked.

   Another tremor, and the cracks became crevices.

   “Go!” Mudro shouted.

   Jacob pulled Whistler on, until both were running. Their speed was slowed by the uneven earth and the many obstacles that appeared out of nowhere just ahead of them. They leapt over ever-growing chasms, rolled out of the way of falling boulders, clambered over broken pillars, and covered their faces with their arms as clouds of dust exploded in front of them.

   They saw Nox far ahead on the other side, dealing his last blows, then turning to them, eyes wide with horror, and then dashing towards them, feet whipped by haste.

   Yet, even as they raced, the ground gave way more and more beneath and around them. Just as they reached halfway, the giant slab of rock they ran across dropped suddenly. One of the supporting pillars on the left gave way, and the slab tilted down in that direction, till it caught the crumbling column and clung precariously to its tip.

   The slope was so great now that neither Jacob nor Whistler could race across. They fell, and skidded down the stone slide, Whistler on his back, Jacob spinning on his chest, the gravel tearing through his shirt and grazing his ribs. Whistler was closest to the edge, and so he would have been the first to plummet off, were it not for Jacob's extra weight, and his headlong dive towards the boy, arms outstretched, as if somehow he could save him, and not just dive off to their death together.

   He reached one skint hand towards the boy, and Whistler tried to reach back, stretching his head back to see. His vision was taken by the vast sky above, and the clear, sharp edge of the slope below, growing closer to his feet by the second.

   Then finally Jacob grabbed the boy's hand, and even in the tumult and the tumble he could see the brief relief in Whistler's face. He wished he could have shown his own, but n
ow he had to stop them from falling over the edge. He stretched out his other hand, everywhere and anywhere, his fingers desperately feeling for some nook or ledge, some small outcropping or indentation that he could grab a hold of. All he could feel was sand and scree. Whenever he thought he caught hold of something solid, it came away from the slab and fell down with him. The rocks fell and the dust fell, and if you listened really closely, you could hear their tiny, stony screams.

   The edge came.

   Jacob felt Whistler's grip tightening, and his own instinctively tightened too. They were holding onto nothing, just each other. They could not even hold onto hope. The edge consumed that too.

   Then the slab shook violently once more, and they felt a sudden drop. For a moment, Jacob thought they had slipped over the ravine. Then he found the slab tilting up, and he realised that a column on the far side had given way. The slide shifted. It was now more of a see-saw, and while Jacob started to skid down the other way, Whistler fell, feet over head, until Jacob's firm grip brought him upright.

   And they slid again, back from where they had come, back with their comrades the dust and debris, back past the sparsity of grips and hooks and footfalls, back towards the drop on the other side. No matter where they fell, the edge was always there to greet them.

   And it came all the faster, for the slope was steeper than before. This time even Whistler flailed his other arm about for something else to grip, even though there was no chance he could support both his and Jacob's weight.

   Fair play for trying, Jacob thought, when he had a moment from his own flailing to think.

   And suddenly the smuggler caught something with his reaching fingers. A little shard of stone from one of the fallen pillars was still embedded into its base, firm as any foundation, unless the bridge decided to quake again. He gripped it tight and felt his muscles tear and spasm as he caught the whole of his weight as well as Whistler's. As his fingers strained, he was glad his grip was strong, and glad the boy was light.

 

‹ Prev