“So did you,” Jacob replied.
“I need to get back to the command centre to guide us through the remaining mines. But maybe,” and she paused, “maybe we can meet for dinner. Just the two of us. Not today, of course, but maybe in a few days?”
“I’d like that,” Jacob said.
Taberah smiled and left the room.
Whistler loitered a little longer, standing awkwardly by the door, as if he expected to be told to leave at any moment. “I guess I’m not the only one who’s unlucky,” he said.
“I’m still alive,” Jacob retorted with a smile. “We both are.”
“I guess.”
Jacob laughed. “Don’t tell me you missed me for those fifteen minutes.”
Whistler did not respond.
“I was always coming back, you know,” Jacob said. He knew that was not true.
“For your money?” Whistler asked, and he bit his lip tightly, as if to punish his mouth.
Cheeky, Jacob thought. He had actually forgotten about the chest of coils, tucked away safely beneath his metal bed. He had not thought of it when death was near. Perhaps that was because Heaven was too expensive, and Hell was free.
“I couldn’t leave you to do all the mischief on your own, now could I?” Jacob said.
Whistler forced a smile.
“Besides,” Jacob continued, “I’m sure there are more fishes down here to spot. First one to spot them all wins a prize.”
Whistler glanced at the window. “In the dark?”
“We can’t make it too easy now, can we?”
Whistler rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway. “Well, um, I guess I’ll let you get some rest.”
“I’ve probably had enough shut-eye for now.”
“Jacob,” Whistler said, stalling at the door.
“Yes?”
“Will you promise me you’ll always come back?”
Jacob paused longer than he thought he should. This did not feel like just another idle question; it was a solemn oath. “I promise,” he said eventually. But he did not know if he could keep it.
10 – TREASURE HUNT
Under Taberah’s guidance, and Alson’s careful steering, the Lifemaker cleared the mine field two days later. By this time Jacob was feeling much better, far too well to not be causing trouble somewhere on the ship. He remembered Taberah’s dinner offer, so he thought he would surprise her by organising something a little special.
He recruited Whistler, who was more than willing, to help him find some items for the romantic meal, which Jacob thought that even Rommond might have described as “perfect.” Jacob could see it in his mind: an ornate tablecloth, half a dozen candles, half a crate of roses, the finest cutlery, the choicest china, the tastiest meal, the tastier dessert, and Taberah and himself decked out in their finery, sipping wine and toasting to the success of a month beneath the sea, and a month closer to the birth of a new child, for them and for the other Pure on board.
But there was a problem.
The submarine did not exactly have all of those items available, and for those that were, they were not exactly easy to acquire. There was no flower shop, no butcher’s, and no baker’s. The few flowers that were on board were made of wax, and, while Jacob thought that they could double up as candles, killing two birds with one stone was not exactly a romantic gesture. Those flowers were also closely hoarded, and the candles were adored and worshipped like idols, for, after all, they invoked the gods of light. The chef’s assistant, who had more beard than belly, but had plenty of the latter too, demonstrated his skills by throwing cleavers in the direction of any who dared ask for more than they were rationed, and he also cast condemnations and allegations at anyone he thought might be the illusive pantry thief. As for the best china, that was in Rommond’s possession, and Jacob had a feeling that the general might wage a war to keep it there.
The list Jacob had compiled was long, and so far he had ticked off nothing bar his shipmates. It was a disappointing and disheartening start, and Jacob hoped it was not an omen for his relationship with Taberah. He found himself questioning exactly what he was doing. He was never into romance. He never made big displays of affection. He felt the Resistance was having a greater effect on him than he previously thought.
Whistler made the finest gesture by gifting Jacob a small collection of spoons, the very same ones with which he had tried, rather unsuccessfully, to teach Jacob all about etiquette. Jacob offered him ten coils for these, but Whistler refused, insisting that he wanted them to be a gift. Jacob wondered if the boy also thought the coils were, in some way, cursed, and that he did not want to be as afflicted by them as Jacob was. There are worse afflictions, Jacob mused.
Spoons alone would not make much of a dinner, however, so the duo set about trying to buy what they could from the willing, and sneak and swindle away what they could not. Jacob gave Whistler twenty coils as bargaining chips, and told him only to spend ten, which the boy immediately copped on to, refusing, once again, to be paid for his gift.
Jacob’s first port of call was Soasa’s door, which he banged on like a dynamite explosion. She opened it slowly with a sigh, and rolled her eyes when she saw Jacob standing there. She looked like she had been napping, but the black rings around her eyes were not just from sleep.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Jacob said. “Hell, what happened to you?”
“I got in a fight.”
“Did you win?”
Soasa pouted. “Does it look like I won?”
“Well, I don’t know, you could have given the other one more than two black eyes.”
“No.”
“Who was it with?”
“The Copper Matron.”
“Ah,” Jacob said. “I think I’d be lucky to come out with any eyes at all in a fight with her.”
“I think so too.”
“Cheeky,” Jacob said. “So, what prompted this brawl?”
“We bumped into each other.”
“That’s it?”
“Jacob, I went with Taberah when the Resistance split. The Matron doesn’t forgive people like us as easily as Rommond does.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway, what do you want?”
“Not a fight, at least,” Jacob said. She looked like she was more than ready for one. “I need a favour.”
“Go to a different door then,” Soasa replied, slamming hers on Jacob’s foot.
“Yeah, you see, I have an offer.”
“Make it elsewhere.”
“It’s worth a coil or too.”
Soasa shrugged. “And where’ll I spend it?”
“I don’t know. The corner shop?
Soasa cocked her head.
“Maybe you can buy some mines from the Regime,” Jacob said. “You like explosives, right?”
“Get to the point, Jacob.”
“I need candles.”
“Have you not tried the corner shop?” Soasa retorted.
“They’re out. See, I thought that you might have access to the storage, what with you being Dynamite Lady and all.”
“I can get candles,” Soasa said. “But I only have access to the Order’s supply. Rommond won’t let me go near the Resistance stash. I guess there’s still bad blood for us jumping ship.”
“I just need two or three,” Jacob said. “Maybe four. Hell, five will be plenty.”
“I can get you three,” Soasa said. “But it will cost you more than you’re willing to pay, I bet.”
“See, betting is my kind of game,” Jacob said. “How much do you bet I won’t pay?”
Soasa smirked. “I bet you ten coils you won’t pay my asking price.”
“Challenge accepted. Now, how much for the candles?”
“An even hundred.”
“Sheesh,” Jacob said. “You know they’re just wax, not iron, right?”
“Yes, and I know you want them bad,” she replied. “And I also know you can afford it.”
“All right then,” Jacob sai
d. “One hundred coils, minus the ten you lost on the bet.”
“Happy to lose,” she said. “I’ll have the candles for you tonight.”
Jacob thanked her and blew her a kiss, before running off.
“Jacob,” Soasa called after him. “If this is for Taberah ... don’t bother.”
“What do you mean?” he asked as he came back.
“She’s using you.”
Jacob stopped; his heart followed. “How?”
“She doesn’t love you, Jacob.”
“Maybe I don’t love her.”
“Candles?” Soasa said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re smuggling love poems as well.”
“More like dirty limericks.”
“Do you know how many men she’s been through trying to get pregnant for the cause? She hasn’t exactly been ‘pure’ since Whistler’s birth. You’re just warm blood, Jacob. To her you’re just a means to an end, a necessity of the time being. A soldier who can easily be disposed of.”
“And what are you?” Jacob asked.
“A soldier with bombs.”
“Well, I still have plenty of uses.”
“And when you don’t?”
“We’ll see when the time comes.”
Soasa looked him up and down, and there was pity in her eyes. “That time, Jacob, might come sooner than you think.”
* * *
Whistler was very productive with his time, and many people were most obliging with his requests, especially when he did not mention the items were for Jacob. The boy procured a few fake flowers, much to his embarrassment as he was frequently asked if he had a girlfriend on board, and he also acquired one of the finer tablecloths from the officers’ dining room.
* * *
Jacob was not having much luck on the higher decks, so he tried his chances on the floor of the Copper Vixens. As he skulked about, disguising his footsteps in the sound of hammers and drills from the female mechanics, he stumbled across a hatch leading down into the ironworks, where Rommond’s prized vehicles were kept. As he placed his hand upon the handle of the hatch, he was stopped by the general, who pointed to a nearby sign.
“That floor is off limits,” Rommond said. “It’s lucky I was passing by.”
Jacob grinned. Sure, he thought. Just passing by.
“The signage is there for a reason,” the general stated.
Jacob looked at the large yellow letters on the sign: Forbidden.
“You know, that’s kind of like: Welcome,” he said.
“In the language of the underworld, perhaps,” Rommond replied. “But he who knows not when to obey shall find that he is really obeying his rebellious lower aspects. So then, is he really a rebel at all?”
Jacob took some pride in that description, and showed it with a grin. “Are we not part of a rebellion then? Or would you rather we obey you instead of the Iron Emperor?”
Rommond stared at him, but did not reply.
Jacob rapped his knuckles on the hatch; the sound echoed through the submarine.
“So, what are you cooking up down there? Are you building me a bigger room?”
“A smaller cell,” Rommond said, “or your own private submarine.”
“As long as I don’t have to pedal.”
* * *
The nervous chef, who made everyone else nervous, especially while wielding meat cleavers, was surprisingly obliging to Jacob’s requests. He told him how he planned a romantic meal, and the chef got very excited about the prospects, digging out old recipe books and sharing how he was delighted to have the opportunity to craft something a little more exotic than the usual fare.
* * *
The final challenge was a raid of Rommond’s china supply, tucked away in a locked cupboard in the farthest corner of his quarters. Jacob called this the Curious Case of the Robbery of Rommond, while Whistler dubbed it the Likely Case Where We Get Caught.
“I don’t think we should be doing this,” Whistler protested. “Rommond will be furious.”
“Only if he finds out.”
“That’s the bit I’m worried about.”
“It’s not like he’s going to send us to the firing squad.”
“I don’t know,” Whistler said. “He might send you.”
Despite Whistler’s concerns, it did not take much for Jacob to convince him. Every kid needs a bit of adventure, Jacob thought. Hell, every adult needs some too.
The plot was simple: Whistler would sneak inside and grab the prized china, and Jacob would stand watch, distracting any passers-by with his guile and charm.
“Why I am the smuggler?” Whistler asked. “I’d be a better lookout.”
“I’ve got better eyesight.”
“No you don’t.”
“I can whistle the warning signal better.”
Whistler smirked and shook his head.
They timed the burglary for when Rommond was on duty, but the problem with that plan, which Whistler pointed out at the onset, was that the general was always on duty, and he considered the entire submarine as the location of his shift. While he was often in the control room, he wandered the decks almost as often as Jacob did—possibly in pursuit.
On this occasion, however, Rommond was not in his quarters, and the door was unlocked. Jacob had observed previously that the general never locked his room, and no one dared enter it without his permission.
“I feel guilty already,” Whistler whispered as he took a single foot inside the room. The door creaked, like a burglar alarm. The boy froze, and Jacob could see that he was staring at the Brooklyn plaque across the room. There was something sacred about the place, like a monastery—or a mausoleum.
“This isn’t right,” Whistler said, coming back to the door. “I can’t do it.”
“We’re just borrowing a few cups and bowls,” Jacob said. “Rommond did say: Make yourself at home.”
“Not in his room!”
“Okay, okay! You be the lookout and I’ll sneak inside.”
Whistler agreed to this, but was as nervous outside the room as inside. He continuously urged Jacob to hurry up, and awkwardly tried to look like he was doing something other than loitering outside the general’s abode.
Then Rommond appeared at the end of the corridor, pausing to chat briefly with Lieutenant Tradam. Whistler panicked and waved at Jacob, who was poised precariously on a chair and reaching up to one of the top shelves of the cupboard, where the china was sealed in a box that was clipped into place to stop it from moving. Jacob was giving all his attention to unclipping it, and none to Whistler’s frantic gestures.
The boy then tried to whistle, but, despite his name, was miserable at it. He made vague airy noises, more like a gentle breeze, which did nothing to steal Jacob’s gaze. He then tried whispering, and then murmuring a little louder, until finally it seemed like he would have to shout, when Rommond began walking towards him.
Whistler did not know what to do. He contemplated running, and screaming while he ran, or charging into Rommond’s room and barricading himself inside, where he could then await his punishment with his fellow prisoner. He thought of leaning against the wall and playing it cool, and feigning complete surprise and shock when Jacob was found inside, but he did not think he could pull that off. He even considered telling Rommond everything, or of blaming Jacob on it all, but he knew for certain he could not live with the guilt.
“Whistler, young chap,” Rommond said as he approached. “What are you doing here?”
Whistler stumbled with his words. “I … uh … we … I … was just ...” He had to stop himself mid-breath. He thought he might be having a heart attack. He thought that if he was, it might be a good distraction.
“I presume you were just passing through,” Rommond suggested.
“Yes!” Whistler exclaimed. “Passing through. Just passing through.”
The general gave a hint of a smile. “On your way to visit Jacob, perhaps?”
“Yep. That’s where I was going.”
Whistler saw Jacob nearing the door, loot in hand. The boy, in alarm, pointed down the corridor to where Rommond had come from, and the general looked in that direction.
“I think Lieutenant Tradam is calling,” Whistler said.
“He’s not,” Rommond stated, “but maybe you have better ears than I.”
Jacob hurried out of the room and down the opposite corridor while the general was not looking, and Whistler felt a great relief, which he thought might feel greater if he could now escape the general’s company.
“Well, I better go then.”
“Very well,” Rommond said. “Brogan,” he added, as the boy skipped down the corridor in a frenzy. Whistler turned to him with nervous eyes. “Tell Jacob to have them back by tomorrow.”
* * *
Night fell, though the eternal darkness of the sea did not show it. Jacob and Whistler stood back to admire their handiwork. They had conjured up a romantic meal that even Mudro could not have made appear from nowhere. The coil crate turned into a table, disguised by a red tablecloth, laced around the edges. The candles burned brightly, reflected by a small mirror so as to give the illusion that there were more of them. The light illuminated Karlsif’s freshly-prepared meal, which steamed up the glass coverings. Wine was on hand, and roses were on display. The oil lamps were turned down low.
A note was sent to the control room, where Taberah was stationed. She was due to end her shift any minute now.
“We did it,” Jacob said.
Whistler smiled broadly.
“Now it’s time to see its effects,” Jacob said.
“Have fun!” Whistler cheered, before heading off, as proud as ever.
Jacob sat down and waited for Taberah. His quarters were tiny, and not ideal for a dinner, but with all of these embellishments, the room looked cosy instead. Some people would have paid good money to be that close to someone. Jacob found it somewhat amusing that his own money had not bought him most of these items, and that the crate of coils was better served as a table.
He took out his pocket watch. 7:01pm. She should be just finishing up. It would take a few minutes for her to make it down to his quarters. 7:10pm. Any minute now.
Lifemaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Fantasy (The Great Iron War, Book 2) Page 6