He checked his equipment, especially his backpack, hoping the parachute was in working order. There was no way to test it. Hell, he thought, no one wants to test if it works. If it failed, it was already too late.
He unbuckled his seat belt. Now that it came to it, his heart banged a vicious beat, as if it had to live out all its last moments right then and there, and could not beat fast enough to live them all. He gripped the side of the cockpit, and felt the shudder in his hand. With his other hand, he tried to keep his plane steady as he stood up, but it rocked in sympathy with him.
He was a decent shot, but he never fired himself at a target—and decent did not seem quite good enough. Yet the moment of his calculations was approaching, and he knew that the Dreamdevil would pass beneath him any second now. If he missed his opportunity, it would only get harder to conquer his fleeting nerves.
Jacob leapt, and had to fight against the impulse to close his eyes. The wind stole his breath, and while the ground was still very far away, it threatened to steal his life. He saw his plane veering away of its own accord, and dipping, and then diving. There was only one way for it to go without a pilot, and that was down. He just hoped he would not follow suit.
He saw someone else leaping, but in the flurry of the fall he could not see who it was. They struck the edge, and slipped, and cascaded off like rain. Their scream was not familiar, so he presumed it was one of Trokus' men. His voice followed his body to the depths below. If he pulled his parachute, Jacob could not tell, for he had his own fall to worry about, and had to fight the urge to pull the strings of his own.
It all passed in a moment, and suddenly the stark yellow wing was beneath him, and he grunted as he struck the metal. Then it seemed that his landing pad was moving away from him, and he felt himself sliding across the wing. He reached out with sweaty palms, and kicked his leather boots against the hull, but he only added extra noises to his slide.
He slipped off the edge of the wing, but reached for his back and fired one of the grappling hooks ahead. It must have been a lucky shot—or a desperate one—because it wrapped around one of the metal poles attaching the upper wings to the lower ones. He swung for a moment left and right, until gravity tugged him towards the hull. He clung with all his might, well aware that his strength would fade over time, and that the sweat on his hands would build, and that he had no idea how he would get from that precarious position to the safety of inside.
* * *
Armax threw open the canopy of his craft and leapt out without looking. He immediately opened the wings on his backpack, and the wind caught him and tugged him upwards.
“Whoa!” he cried, trying to steady himself. The wind robbed the word on its way from his mouth to his ears, and its thieving fingers tried to take him too.
He drifted down before he realised there were handles made into some of the wooden feathers, catering for different arm lengths, allowing him to grab hold and make the wings an extension of him. He used these to turn, gliding more effortlessly, then flapped his arms to help him gain height. It was remarkably easier than he expected it to be, an intuitive system, though from the vantage point of others, he looked like a rather clumsy bird.
He made for the giant wings of the Dreamdevil, and tried to pull his own wings closed as his feet skirted the surface, but he found this a lot more difficult, for he had to fight against the brawn of the breeze, which tugged him off the edge. He dropped a little, and felt the hot steam of the smoke shaft as the biplane passed beneath him, and the steam pushed him up again, and pulled him back towards the rear of the aircraft. The Dreamdevil moved so quickly that the tail fin swiftly came towards him, like the fin of the shark-emblazoned bomb, and struck his left leg, breaking the bone and sending him spinning away.
* * *
Jacob struggled to hold on to the hull of the aeroplane, the wind lashing him, the breeze bashing him. The aerodynamic curves of the vessel made it difficult to get a firm grip anywhere—and easy to slip off. Though his boots had grips, there was nothing to grip too, so he was forced to haul his entire weight with his hands.
For a moment he thought he might be able to reach back to grab the other grappling gun, but that meant letting go with one hand. It was not just fear that stopped him. He knew he could not hold his weight with a single, slippery grip.
He saw Armax flying around the Dreamdevil, struggling to land, and what envy he had of his companion's wings quickly faded when he saw him sucked away by the cyclone of steam.
* * *
Nissi jumped down, making a roll as she struck the wing, before firing her grappling hook and leaping off the edge, swinging down onto the hull. Everything appeared so effortless that it seemed like she might single-handedly hijack the Dreamdevil and disarm the Worldwaker.
She was so focused on the mission—without doubt one of Rommond's own—that she paid no heed to Jacob's struggle on the other side, but leapt and jumped and danced her way across the vessel until she arrived near the main doorway inside. She fired another grappling hook to a beam jutting out above the door, and tied the other end to her belt. Then she pulled the door open, dangled in front of it, and cast a smoke cylinder inside, before throwing herself in after.
At that moment, Trokus' plane pulled as close to the Dreamdevil as possible, and the commander handed over the steering to the gunner, who had so much experience flying that he could keep the wings almost perfectly level, steady enough for Trokus to walk across like a ramp to the door. He jumped the final gap, and almost missed his mark. Nissi pulled his dangling legs into the haze.
* * *
Jacob clambered up the rope, wrapping it around his arm as he went, and pushing his feet against the oily hull to give him some extra support. As he got closer to the grappling hook, he could see its clutch around the pole was precarious. The more he pulled on it, the more its metal fingers opened.
Hang in there, he urged, as much an injunction for himself as that weakening iron grip.
He reached the top, just as it looked like the hook was about to give way, and threw his arms around the metal pole. He paused there for a moment, catching his breath, though the wind made it difficult to catch.
When he calmed himself just a little, for there were many more reasons to not be calm, he reached out for the next support pole, and found it several feet outside his grasp. He could not hold onto one and grab the other. He had to let go first.
He waited for the plane to steady just a little, then raced towards the pole ahead, hugging it like he hugged the last. He repeated this several more times, until he neared the front of the lower wings, and the ladder that led up to the top, where there was a hatch leading into the cockpit. He could have made his way around to the back, where Nissi and Trokus had entered, but that was a longer journey, and he would need the second grappling gun for that. He had not enjoyed the use of the first. He thought small steps suited him better this far up. It was better than giant leaps.
He climbed up the ladder, and felt it rock beneath his weight. He wished it was anchored better, but the wind made the most stable structures shudder. He reached the top, and grabbed hold of the handle on the hatch. He tugged, but it would not budge. His plan did not seem so good any more. He clung to the handle now for support, kneeling on the roof of the Dreamdevil, feeling as helpless as ever. He felt like he might have to wait there until Nissi and Trokus cleared out the plane, and broke into the cockpit—if they even made it that far.
Suddenly the hatch door opened and pushed forward, and the force of the push sent Jacob flying. He tumbled down onto the windscreen, and flayed madly to get a grip. He glanced behind him and saw the spinning propeller slicing through the air. The nose sloped down into this rotating death trap, and Jacob would have already been sliding were it not for the momentum of the craft keeping him pinned to the window. If it slowed even a little, momentum might lose its brief war with gravity and let him slip down to his doom. He hugged the g
lass and closed his eyes, trying not to think about it, yet thinking of nothing else. When he dared to open them again, he saw the pilots inside the Dreamdevil staring at him, and was shocked to see that Cala was in there too.
24 – LANDLOCKED
“Thanks for your help,” Taberah said.
“Dumping me so soon?” Leadman asked. “Now I know how Jacob feels.”
She struggled to hide her irritation. “You might have seen a lot of war, but you won't have seen anything like what we'll be facing. Landships won't be any use. Soldiers won't be either. That's why I need the Magi.”
“And I was looking forward to killing some Birth-masters,” Leadman said, feigning disappointment.
“Maybe look forward to leading the victors instead.”
He smiled broadly, which, with his great jaw, was very broad indeed. “So Rommond told you, eh? Well, I suppose it's best that more people know. Just in case, you know, the old Hawk dies. I expect the Resistance to keep his promise. I will be leader.”
She tried not to show her disgust at the notion.
Leadman took Gregan and Tardo with him, heading back to Commspire Oasis to raid its communications gear. Tardo was reluctant to go with Gregan, and Gregan was reluctant to have him. It was only the general's pragmatism, which told him that Tardo was still useful, that stopped Gregan from sending another demon back to Hell.
* * *
Taberah made the long trek to Fort Landlock with Mudro and Gouet. There they found the tribes in charge, having routed the Regime forces during Project Trident. The mines were abandoned, and none of the tribespeople had encountered anything remotely like the Birth-masters.
Yet there was one particular passage, in the deepest, darkest parts of the mines, that troubled the tribes to no end. Some disappeared there, and others heard strange noises, and all felt a terrible, evil presence.
“We sealed it up,” Sitting Stone told them. “It had bad energy.”
“We need to unseal it,” Taberah said.
Sitting Stone's eyes widened. “Bad idea.”
“Maybe, but we need to walk that tunnel. We need to fight whatever's down there.”
Sitting Stone looked at the two Magi. “These are strangers too.”
“Welcome strangers,” Taberah said.
“They live on many levels.”
“I'm happy enough to live on this one,” Mudro said, taking a puff of leaf.
“If you open that tunnel, great evil could be released.”
Taberah was getting frustrated. “If we don't, great evil can persist.”
“We did much work to seal. Many ancient traditions. We came together again, us tribes who so rarely come together, because we all felt evil there. This is evil you do not fight. It is evil you trap.”
“For me,” Taberah said, “it is evil we kill.”
“I will show you way, but will not help you.”
“Showing us the way is help enough.”
They reached the tunnel, which was sealed up with a giant boulder, into which was carved many symbols, the most prominent of which was a frightening face inside three squares, which Taberah took to mean a prison. Sitting Stone left in a hurry, just as Taberah was taking out some dynamite, and wishing Soasa was there, and having her first doubts about what she was doing—if instead of destroying evil, she was simply freeing it.
25 – THE SINS OF SCIENCE
Nissi rushed into the smoke, reaching out for anyone. It was a blind battle and a bare one, a fight of hand and elbow, foot and knee. No one dared fire a bullet on that vessel. Were Rommond alive, even he would not have tried his fabled ricochets, for fear that they might bounce off the bomb.
Nissi grabbed someone in the flurry and the haze, and pulled them to the ground, wrapping her arms around them, and then her legs, adjusting in the struggle until it felt like she had their neck between her knees. It was not a struggle for long then, and her victim's limbs fell limp. The smoke was still thick, so she was not certain of who she had just disarmed, only that it was the enemy.
While Nissi somersaulted around, seizing members of the Armageddon Brigade in choke holds and arm locks, Trokus used brute force, casting fists around in the smog, like he had done for many years in the smog-choked lanes of Rustport, where bare-knuckle boxing was a thing of honour that even the demons abided by. Now he had a reason to punch harder, and endless anger and pain to fuel those strikes.
When the smoke eventually cleared enough to see, there were few people standing, and many lying still, or twitching, on the floor. Nissi and Trokus panted, and turned to face two almost identical men in laboratory coats, both with shoulder-length blonde hair, thick-brimmed glasses, and white gloves holding up flasks of brightly coloured chemicals. Nissi knew them from the early years of the Resistance, when they answered to Rommond. Trokus knew them only from the wanted posters. The Twisted Twins. Rommond was blamed for everything they did, whether they answered to him now or not.
“Stay back,” the one known as Doctor Elbern said, holding up a green flask. He was the slightly older twin, with the significantly more dour expression, the bully of the brothers.
“Don't come any closer,” the one known as Doctor Ekar added with hesitation, after Elbern gave him a vicious elbow. Another stab made him hold up his own vial, containing a bright yellow liquid.
“Don't be fools,” Trokus urged. “You'll kill us all.”
“No,” Elbern said, shaking his head violently, his eyes almost popping from his head. “This isn't real. All of this … is a dream. We'll wake us all up!”
“Then what's stopping you from doing it now?” Nissi asked.
Ekar looked to his brother for the answer.
“It isn't time. It needs to be big. A big bang to wake all the slumbering minds. It's a shared dream, a shared delusion. It's our duty to wake as many as we can.”
“You're nuts,” Trokus barked.
“No!” Elbern said, holding up a shaking finger. “You're the crazy ones, living in a dream. Rommond almost had us fooled. He's the one pulling the strings, trying to keep us all sleeping.”
“Think this through,” Nissi urged.
“I already have,” the scientist replied. “I've spent most of my life thinking about it. It's time we finally do something! This liquid will burn through the floor and burn through the casing of the bomb. Then it will all end.”
“Then why are you hesitating?” Nissi asked.
Trokus turned to her, surprised. He did not say it, but his face did: Stop egging him on.
Elbern looked to his brother. Ekar looked even less confident than him.
“Are you ready, brother?” Elbern asked.
Ekar made a noticeable gulp. “I'm r—”
At that moment, Armax tumbled through the still open door of the plane, his wings smashing apart on the sides. He stumbled into Elbern, knocking him to the ground, and sending the vial of liquid somersaulting into the air. Nissi snatched it just before it hit the ground. In the confusion, Trokus charged at Ekar, seizing his own corrosive cargo, and pinning him easily against the wall.
“Sorry I'm late,” Armax said, kneeling on Elbern's chest. “It's some wind out there.”
Nissi smiled. “Perfect timing.”
“Where's Jacob?”
“I don't know. Not in here anyway.”
“Right then. That must've been him hanging on to the front of the plane all right.”
Nissi's eyes widened. “What?”
“I saw someone as I flew past. He's probably mincemeat by now.”
Nissi shook her head and grabbed her grappling gun. “Are you two good here?” she asked, before handing Armax the vial.
“We'll be fine,” Trokus said. “Go get Jacob.”
Nissi nodded, then leapt outside again, firing grappling hooks and swinging to and fro as if it was nothing to her.
�
�Let us go!” Elbern shouted as Armax continued to press into his ribs. “Why are you helping Rommond? Can't you see that he's the enemy? Can't you see?”
Trokus handed Armax the second vial while he tied Ekar up. The man did not resist, just as he did not resist his brother. Armax waved both vials over Elbern's face, pretending to drop one, forcing the scientist to clench his eyes shut. It was not long before Trokus tied that one up as well.
The hum of the plane was still very loud, and the wind tried to compete with it through the open door. Every so often the vessel shook, and the liquid in the vials shook with it.
“Let's get these out of here,” Trokus said.
“Shouldn't we try to disarm the bomb?” Armax asked. He looked towards the sealed door of the cockpit. It would need a bomb of its own to get through.
“The others can do that,” Trokus replied. “We need to get the scientists off.”
Armax shook his head. “But why?” This was not Rommond's mission. That was not the instruction the general gave. The scientists did not matter. Their lives did not matter. Only the bomb did.
“If they fail, we need a backup plan,” the Regime commander said. “These are the only living people who know how to disarm it.”
“Fair enough,” Armax said. He limped towards the door, still clutching the two destructive vials, as Trokus brought the prisoners over.
“I don't see your plane,” Armax shouted, peering down into the clouds.
“Look closer,” Trokus replied, before kicking him out.
26 – THE FACILITY
After parting ways with Alex, who decided to go back to the Dune Burrows to see if he could unearth additional antiquities, Brooklyn took the path from Dunedale that was well-known to him, that was programmed into him.
Worldwaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 5) Page 11