“We're not gonna get far.”
The sandy cliff to the left shuddered, and they knew there was a Behemoth beneath it too.
Mudro sighed. “We're not going to get far with fighting either.”
Then something else caught their eyes to the north, emerging over one of the smaller surrounding dunes. For a moment it seemed like a wall of black, until Mudro strained his sight through a spyglass to see the details. On the left were dozens of diesel-powered bikes, upon which sat the remaining members of the Oxen clan and the Copper Vixens, led by their new Copper Matron, a purple-haired woman with more tattoos than clothes, but less muscle and mass than their previous leader. On the right were dozens of tribesmen on horseback, the Dust Riders, some just now emerging from a dying dust devil that gave this fast-moving force some cover. It was only then, as the sand began to settle, that Mudro saw another welcome sight: General Rommond in the centre, wearing a borrowed cap and coat, and standing half-submerged from the hatch of a Mark III landship. Behind him, and behind them all, were dozens more vehicles of all shapes and sizes, one of the largest reserve forces sent out into the desert, now reunited for a final fight.
“I'm hopin' that's backup,” Nox said.
“It is,” Mudro said, amazed. “Some luck at last.”
Nox grumbled noisily. “Don't trust in fate or hope yet,” he said, pointing his rifle south, where there was another black wall forming. “Those your boys too?”
Mudro turned his eyeglass in that direction, but it was clear in an instant that they were not another Resistance platoon coming to join the battle. There, lined up as neatly as Rommond would have had his finest soldiers, were at least a hundred members of the Iron Guard, half-man, half-machine, and altogether deadly. It was backup all right, but backup for the Regime.
And in the middle of these three huge armies sat Mudro and Nox, spotlighted by the sun, and the valuable carrier they were trying to defend, parked on the doorstep of victory, but not yet close enough.
27 – GOLD AND GLAMOUR
In Blackout, many were scared to look outside. A curious few felt the same fear, but looked out anyway.
Porridge opened the door of his room in the Olive Inn and peeked outside.
“Hello?”
There was no response.
He crept down the stairs, hearing the sound of his heels striking the wood like a gavel, so he scampered down the last few steps in a hurry, as if doing it faster would somehow mask the sound.
He saw a shadow in the main room moving back and forth, so he grabbed the nearby potted plant and waited by the door to strike. The shadow approached, and its owner came through.
“Crikey!” Gus called out when he saw him, shotgun in hand.
Porridge's shriek almost broke the glass.
“What're you doing down here?” the landlord inquired. “And what're you doing with me plant?”
Porridge placed it back on the table delicately. “Just making sure it's watered.”
“Fine time for gardening,” Gus said. “There's a war out there.”
“Oh, I know!” Porridge said. “Isn't it dreadful?”
“I mean here, in the city.”
Porridge grabbed the wall for support. “Tell me you're not serious, silly.”
“Wish I weren't,” Gus said, cocking the shotgun. “Them demons've gone and taken over.”
“Does this mean Rommond failed?”
“Doubt it. More likely they're taking advantage of him not being here.”
“Well, what do we go?” Porridge asked, biting his index finger.
“We bloody well fight is what we do,” the landlord said. He started off again, but Porridge grabbed his shoulder.
“Wait!” the trader cried. “These shoes aren't designed for battle.” He raced upstairs in his six-inch heels with a clamour of gods fighting, then returned with a slightly diminished discord in three-inch boots, and, of course, a matching scarf.
“Now I know why women don't go to war,” Gus said.
Porridge was taken aback. “Whatever do you mean?”
They headed out the back, and as they did they heard the radio come on. Gus turned and fired, blasting a hole in the wall. Out rolled the clockwork construct Bitnickle, with her constantly-switching radio frequencies for a voice.
“Don't … shoot,” she said, the first word from a broadcast on what Regime citizens were obligated not to do, and the second from supposedly live coverage of the slaughter of Resistance forces at the hands of the valiant Regime superiors.
“Come along, Bitnickle!” Porridge said.
Gus grumbled at the wasted bullet. “You should've made her with a gun.”
* * *
The Baroness continued her scurry through the tunnels, careful and quiet, but as fast as she could possibly go on her aching limbs. She feared it was only a matter of time before the Regime forces discovered the secret passages, and any hope of overcoming them would be lost.
She took up an oil lantern as she passed, chasing away the shadows as she went, until finally she arrived at a locked cellar with a golden keyhole. She produced the matching key from her bosom, and the ancient door creaked open far louder than she liked.
She entered.
The room was dank and musty, and her high-worn grey-white hair caught in the cobwebs. This was an old room for old things. She could not help but think: and for old people. It was where some of the vestiges of the bygone royalty were kept, the relics of rulership. They were now mostly symbolic, but they were kept out of sight from the crown's successor, the Treasury, because there was nothing more symbolic than money.
She held the lantern up, until its faint light bounced off the many golden items within. It was a huge cellar, with Regime-outlawed paintings on the walls, and dusty books, and many ornate chests and tables, and display cabinets full of precious things.
On the wall facing the door, up a series of steps like those of a throne, was a large wooden plaque. Displayed upon it was a large golden musket, which was to the Baroness the most precious thing of all. It was the only thing in the room that was not dusty, the only thing she came down to this room of memories to clean. It belonged to her husband.
She placed the lamp on a nearby table and took the gun down slowly. It was heavy, thanks to its gold plating. It was not really designed to be used, but it worked all the same—not that it had been tested since her husband's death. He had been a gentle soul, who saw Blackout through many troubles, caring for its people as if they were kin. It was fitting, she thought, that he would play some part in the defence of the city.
She took down the other items hooked to the plaque: a gold bayonet attachment and a box of paper cartridges, with pre-measured amounts of gunpowder, and, of course, a golden ball as a bullet. In this war, so many people had died from iron. She would use gold instead.
28 – CANYON CHASE
At Outpost Flycatcher, Brooklyn barely had time to duck back inside the missile launcher's cockpit before the bullets came. He heard people clambering on the bonnet, and just managed to shut the hatch door before they reached inside. More bullets came, but this was meant for bullets. It was just a shame he had left so many of his own crystal ones behind.
Brooklyn fired up the engine and hammered his foot on the accelerator until it hurt. The Hometaker bolted out of the carrier and rammed through the two landships ahead. He could barely see through the viewport, letting the shutter close periodically as the bullets pelted his way. Then he cleared the Regime base, blasting through a wooden palisade and flattening a wall of wire with barely a scratch upon the giant tracks.
He used every trick and technique Rommond taught him, and every whispered word from the machine spirits, to give the missile launcher as much speed as he could muster. The sand erupted in his wake, barely settling before it was thrown sky high again when the Regime vessels came in pursuit.
&
nbsp; No matter what he tried, they gained on him. They were smaller and lighter vehicles, and they did not have to support giant Glass missiles on their hull. He needed more speed, but no amount of shovelling coal would give it to him. He had already overfed it. The vessel already belched black smoke.
The landships behind began to fire. He heard and felt the patter of gunfire on the hull, and the sharp clang as a bullet caught between the tracks and was crushed between them. He tried swerving left and right, but the bullets followed, and then the landships split into a line of three, splitting their fire to cover his constant movement.
He turned sharply to the left when he saw a dip into a canyon below, letting the steep slope hasten his flight. This crevice was only wide enough for one landship, so it forced the enemy to go single file again. As he glanced in the mirror, he could have sworn he saw the bulldozer landship of General Leadman leaving the convoy and heading out into the open desert.
The bullets came anew, but now he had the natural twists and turns of the canyon to aid him. He followed the finding path, barely slowing for a turn, letting the vehicle crash through overhanging rocks and scrape off jutting formations. The bullets still struck the hull now and then, but many more were wasted on the stone walls.
Then he heard a sharp whistle and saw the larger shells of turret fire in the one side mirror that was not already shattered with gunfire. One of the shells hurtled past, striking the rock face ahead, sending the splintered stones down on top of the missile launcher and into its path. With his vision blurred by the debris, Brooklyn had to rely on instinct, and with his advancement blocked by that same debris, he had to rely on brute force. He had already been giving it his all, so he had little left to give. The vehicle crunched and crushed the smaller rocks, knocking aside the larger, and all of this slowed it down considerably.
And then more shells came, and these struck one of the Glass missiles, shattering it into a thousand tiny shards, which rained down on the vehicle and the ground around it. Brooklyn continued on, aware that he had only four missiles left. If he had not been forced to flee so soon, he might have had more.
There was some brief reprise, however, when the Glass shards caught in the tracks of the landships and wheels of the trucks pursuing him, slowing them down as well. Even destroyed, the missiles were a weapon to be reckoned with.
The snaking path continued, but it grew slimmer and tighter the further they delved into the canyon. Brooklyn glanced out of the viewports on either side, looking for a break in the cliff walls, but there was nothing to be seen. Then suddenly he thought he saw a turn, but he drove so fast that he missed it. The next one he saw was but a mere crack in the surface of the wall.
So he continued on, but the crevice became even smaller than before, until he could hear and feel the vehicle bashing off one wall and then the other, and only hoped those few millimetres of space would remain or he would scrape off both.
He spent so much time looking for an escape on either side that he barely noticed the sudden squeezing of the cliff walls ahead, which tapered off into a point. There was no way the missile launcher would fit through. Even a person would have found it tough. It was only the blinding sunlight outside that showed there was even a break in the walls at all.
Brooklyn knew what Rommond would do, and he did it. He fired one of the Glass missiles straight ahead, which exploded through the rock, raining grains of sand and particles of dust. The hole it formed was big enough for him to get through, but it was also big enough for his pursuers, who came hot on his tail, tracks still spinning, guns still blazing.
The Hometaker leapt back out into the open, where the sun came suddenly through the viewports like a flood. Brooklyn grabbed his goggles, but even as he did, he caught the sight of something approaching from the right. By the time he saw that it was Leadman's bulldozer landship, it already struck. The force of it sent him flying, and sent the missile launcher rolling onto its side, then its roof, where another missile shattered, onto its other side, and then back onto its heavy tracks again, where it rocked for a moment as the dust settled.
Brooklyn lay on the floor of the vehicle, battered and bruised, giving out a faint moan for the not so faint pain throughout his body. He was dazed, his vision blurred, his head spinning, his stomach churning. It took a moment for it all to settle, and even in this confused state, he knew he did not have a moment to spare.
He heard the revving of an engine, which made him more aware of the smell of coal and oil of his own vessel, and of the burning embers of the fuel that had spilt out from the furnace in the tumble. Then he heard the increasing chugging of turning tracks, and knew that Leadman's bulldozer was making another charge.
He tried to clamber up and brace himself, catching sight through one of the viewports of the approaching bulldozer blade, only to see another landship—driven by Trokus—crash straight into the side of it as if it was a bulldozer as well. Leadman's vehicle was caught suddenly and sent skidding off to the side, and Brooklyn's second tumble was averted.
As he heard the engines kicking off again outside, and what sounded like muffled shouts and spot gunfire, Brooklyn tried to focus on what he needed to get his own vehicle moving again. He found the shovel under his seat and lobbed a pile of coal from the floor into the furnace, where the flames were quickly waning. He turned the engine on, hearing it cough sickly in response.
“If ever I needed machine to work, it is now!” he said aloud in frustration. He did not have the time or patience, or the right frame of mind, to commune with the machine spirits, and hoped his little verbal plea was enough—and hoped it would not offend them either.
He pressed buttons, pulled levers, spun cogs, and tried everything he could to get the missile launcher moving, increasingly aware of the growing battle outside, and his own place in the middle of it all. The bullets did not seem to be aimed at him yet, but some of them still belted off the surface in the crossfire.
Then suddenly the Hometaker jolted forward and the engine kicked into action. He stomped on the accelerator and the tracks span anew. The vessel sped off into the rising and falling dunes, leaving behind many of the landships, though some of them started the pursuit again. He was not entirely sure where he was going, and looked to the sinking sun for guidance. He only knew he was leaving the battle, and hoped he was not heading into a new one.
29 – THE BATTLE OF IRON AND OIL
The Regime made the first move. From behind every pillar and wall came a Moving Castle, and from over the highest dunes emerged a fleet of landships. They stepped forth and rolled forward, engines purring, steam spewing, guns blazing.
Rommond's army swept in next. The bikers revved and the horsemen charged, working up the sand into a cyclone. The Oxen clan and the Copper Vixens zoomed down into the plain of battle, and the landships followed, with the general still visible from the hatch, issuing hand signals amidst periodic glances through his spyglass.
The Iron Guard came last, springing down the dunes on their machine legs, with their machine balance keeping them upright. Each of them was modified in a different way, some with limbs, others with eye implants, and others still were almost the complete iron package, with just a few human or maran organs left inside their metal shell. Their ligaments were pistons, powering the rapid movement of their legs, and their veins were wires, powering not only the circuitry that tied them together, but the variety of weapons that protruded from their arms and shoulders, or replaced them entirely.
Amidst all of this, these three tidal waves of iron and oil, Mudro and Nox sat in the middle, bracing themselves. There was no more time for flight, and plenty of bullets in their guns.
“Now I know why I stay outta this,” the Coilhunter said. “I ain't no warrior.”
“Well, you better become one,” Mudro said. “This is war.”
Nox attached the rifle from his back to the side of his monowheel, before reaching into the supp
ly box of the vehicle to pull out three more. He attached these in a similar manner, until he was left with two rifles stuck to either side, all locked and loaded, and all within reach when he climbed onto the seat and revved the engine.
“See ya out there,” he said, before flicking the black portion of his sheriff's badge. “There's a bounty on these demons tonight, and I feel like cashin' in.”
He sped off, straight towards the advancing Regime force, the monowheel gaining speed, cutting a path through the sand, and swerving and tilting as the bullets came flying his way. He leant down low, both to duck the barrage and help him accelerate even more. Before anyone knew it, he shot between two oncoming landships, evading their turret fire, and they barely had time to halt and turn before he was gone again, and before Rommond's force came in from the side.
The turrets boomed, and between their thunderous percussion was the faster rhythm of machine gun fire, and the patter and pelting of metal, and the rending and puncturing of steel. Some landships exploded on the spot, and others kept rolling as the fires blazed within them. Tracks were unthreaded, hulls were unhinged, and rivets fell to join the bullets and spent cases in the sand.
To his great surprise, the Iron Guard did not attack him, and did not attack his comrades either. They went straight for the Regime vehicles, climbing them, sawing holes in them, blasting through them. He had heard rumours of Brooklyn's experiences in the east, but he never quite believed them. He did now.
The Coilhunter continued his passage through the mayhem, taking pot shots at opportune targets, drawing fire away from Mudro's rolling fortress in the middle, distracting the enemy from Rommond's approach on their flank. He zoomed through, finding now that the bikers and Copper Vixens were doing the same, engines barking, exhausts fuming, and gun barrels bellowing. So too came the Dust Riders, galloping fast and working up a blinding wall of sand, making it difficult for the Regime snipers to find their targets.
Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6) Page 12