* * *
Rommond was already out in force, clearing the top deck and sealing Alson in the control room. He gave her one command: if it all came to the worst, sink the ship.
Boulder and Alakovi were given similar commands through the onboard telegraph system. They were told to seal off the lower levels, and, if necessary, to scuttle the submarine and sink all of the Resistance vehicles and weapons, rather than let the Regime acquire them.
For his part, it was typical Rommond. He announced over the intercom the parts of the ship he was heading to, to “liberate,” only to appear elsewhere, guns blazing. Then he would show up correctly at places he announced, but the Regime troops there expected it to be another bluff. The result was chaos in the Regime ranks, for no one truly knew where Rommond and his men would appear, if they even showed up at all.
Not only did Rommond use these feints and bluffs; he made full use of the ventilation shafts, and other obscure routes and passages, to come out on top of troops aiming their weapons down the main corridors.
These tactics worked wonders against all of the Regime soldiers, bar one: Domas. The enemy general stepped onto the submarine from his own, and the ranks immediately fell into place, and they had a second general to fear.
* * *
Taberah led the way to the armoury, half-running, half-crouching, and stopping here and there to catch her breath or nurse a cramp. Jacob tried on several occasions to get ahead of her, but she bit through her pain and pushed forward, passing him by, insistent that she knew the way better than he. She did, but he was not concerned about the route; he was concerned about her.
They met no resistance for the first fifteen minutes, turning corners without the aid of mirrors, storming passages without the help of grenades. How Jacob wished to have Soasa there; he did not mind if she barred his way, so long as she barred the way of the enemy too.
Then they heard harsh footsteps ahead, and by the sound of it, there were many soldiers passing through. They turned back, Taberah somewhat reluctantly, and crept along the way they had come, until they met a stairwell up to a higher deck.
“Let’s go up,” Jacob whispered.
“There’s no armoury on that deck,” Taberah said. “We need weapons.”
“We need to get out of the way,” Jacob insisted. He took a few steps up, pulling Whistler with him. Taberah glanced back at the corridor and listened to the fading footsteps.
“Come on,” Jacob said.
“Wait,” she replied. “I think I can make it now.”
He tried to stop her, but she ran back to where they had just been, and the footsteps grew louder again.
* * *
Rommond had cleared the entire top deck of Regime soldiers, and was picking off groups of enemy combatants on the other floors. He sent his lieutenants on similar missions, while the other troops were ordered to shore up and defend the newly-secured decks.
Rommond was concerned, however, that the Regime would opt to bypass the control room altogether and aim for the ironworks below, where his valuable cache of vehicles was stored. That Boulder and Alakovi, his best engineers, might fall with them also played on his mind. He knew that the Resistance could not win if it lost its technological edge.
He made for the lower deck, creeping through the ventilation shafts, careful not to cause too much noise. His knees were already aching. He was not a young man any more. But his hands were still strong, and his gun was still loaded.
He came out on the deck above the forbidden floor, the entrance to which he noticed had been nailed shut. He went into a nearby quarters and pulled out a small rug, which was barely big enough to cover the hatch. It was probably a foolish ploy, but it was better than nothing.
“Well, well, well,” a voice said from the corridor behind Rommond. He knew immediately who it was, and turned slowly to find Domas standing there.
Rommond did not dally. He fired a shot as soon as he caught a glimpse of the general. Had it been any other soldier, they would have fallen to his gunfire, but Domas was fast, and he slipped around the corner with a demonic speed.
“Not quite the welcome I was looking for,” Domas shouted.
“My gun is even more welcoming than that,” Rommond said. “Come out to greet it.”
“I would have preferred to have a look at you again,” Domas said, “without that long-haired brat you hauled along with you. And I don’t mean Taberah, though she fits the bill as well.”
“I’m not one of your machine men, Domas,” Rommond replied. “You can’t push my buttons so easily.”
“Really, Rommond?” Domas called out. “Then why have you been hiding away? Was Brooklyn so much to you that you couldn’t function without him?”
Rommond let out a slow sigh, trying not to let Domas hear it. “Last I checked, I just fired a bullet your way.”
“Last I checked,” Domas said with glee, “you missed.”
Rommond moved slightly to his left, where he could see part of the corridor that intersected with his own. He fired a bullet at the far wall, which ricocheted into the other corridor where Domas was hiding.
“Woah, now!” Domas said. “That was a close one. You’d swear I pushed a button for that.”
“I’ve got six bullets left, Domas,” Rommond said. “Keep pushing.”
He fired another shot, letting the wall help him. It was the wall of the Lifemaker. His ship, his submarine. He knew that it would help. He could not see Domas, but the walls could see everything. He heard Domas shuffling out of the way as the bullet bounced off the metal.
“You don’t believe in playing fair, now, do you, Rommond?” Domas asked.
Rommond did not reply. He was aiming another shot.
“Good,” Domas said, “because I don’t either.”
Suddenly a cannister rolled down the corridor, spewing smoke and gas as it went. Rommond quickly grabbed his gas mask from his belt and placed it over his mouth. He did not duck or dodge, but instead stopped the cannister with his boot and kicked it back.
“We can play games like this all night,” Rommond said. “Or you can face me like a man.”
Domas cackled, as if it were laughing gas. “According to you, I’m not a man.”
“Even if you were human, Domas, you would be far from a man. Come out, coward, and face me.”
“Not while you still have five bullets left.”
Rommond fired again. The ping was reassuring at first, but then it showed that it was just hitting more metal, not flesh. Had Rommond been facing one of Domas’ machine men, that would have been a good thing.
“There,” Rommond called. “There aren’t five left.”
Domas laughed. “I used to love this, Rommond, back when we moved trenches inches forward and backwards. The banter made it all worthwhile.”
“I preferred the bullets,” Rommond said, firing another. He heard Domas gasp as he flung himself out of the bullet’s rebound. Rommond cursed in his mind and pursed his lips, to avoid cursing out loud and giving Domas any satisfaction.
“Four more tries,” Domas said. “It’s a bit like blind man’s bluff, isn’t it?”
“Except I’m not bluffing.”
Another shot. Another miss.
“Are you sure?” Domas shouted out to him. The echo made it harder to pinpoint him. “It doesn’t look like you’re really trying.”
Rommond fired two rounds, aimed slightly apart, hoping Domas would dodge the first, only to enter the path of the second. He heard Domas shuffling back and forth, cackling as he went.
“Good old Ricochet Rommond! Good try, Rommond, good try! You know, in the Iron Empire we don’t award people who try. Is the Resistance different? Did you earn your pips from trying?”
One more try, Rommond thought. He took a deep breath, and could almost hear Domas taking one of his own. Sounds became magnified in that moment. He heard the click of the trigger, the rotation of the barrel, and the ping of the bullet. He heard the feet of Domas, the shuffle, the shimmy
. Then he heard Domas’ laugh, which betrayed no sign of injury.
“Another try, another pip,” Domas said. “Why, you should be in for a promotion.” He edged out into the corridor with a broad smile and a raised gun, with not a single bullet spent. Rommond kept his own pistol pointed at the demon.
“I can count, Rommond,” Domas said. “Your six bullets are used up.”
Rommond smiled, and fired his seventh.
* * *
Three soldiers descended on Taberah, and Jacob descended on the troops, knocking one out cold with a steel pipe, which another soldier knocked from his hand just as easily.
“Run!” he cried to Taberah, and she ran before he even finished the word.
One of the remaining soldiers began to make for her, but Jacob grabbed him and pulled him back. The soldier reached for his gun, but Jacob knocked it from his hand. The soldier struggled to reach down for it, and Jacob struggled to prevent him from doing so.
The second soldier punched Jacob, knocking him down, and he would have kept punching were it not for Whistler pelting him with nuts and bolts from the nearby debris. The soldier turned to the boy, seething anger, and dripping blood from the small cuts on his forehead. He charged after Whistler as the boy ran back up the stairs.
Jacob continued his battle. They pushed each other back and forth against the metal walls, sending steel echoes down the corridor, chased by the echoes of their heaves and pants, and shouts and grunts. The soldier hauled Jacob away from the wall and tripped him, but Jacob clung to the man’s uniform, pulling him down with him. They rolled along the ground, punching and kicking, bashing and clawing, and reaching out for anything that might stop the flaying of the other.
Jacob seized the iron bar and swung it down. The soldier stopped fighting, and stopped breathing. Jacob grabbed the gun from the ground and stood up, panting harshly.
He paused for a moment and looked to his right, to the path Taberah had taken. Then he looked to his left, where Whistler had fled, and where the other soldier had chased him. If only he could take them both, using the iron bar in one and the gun in the other. But he had to make a choice.
He turned left and ran up the stairs to the higher level, and prayed to all gods that Whistler was still fleeing. Jacob hoped he had not taken too long to make his choice.
* * *
Taberah continued, unhindered, towards the armoury. At any other time, she would have praised the length of the submarine, a testament to Brooklyn’s epic designs. Now she cursed it, but she did not curse his memory.
She was much closer now, and she fought the urge to race ahead, which was a powerful urge inside her. Something seemed to slow her down. She did not know why she hesitated. Then she stopped when she thought she heard voices. She strained her hearing, but could not make them out, or what they said. She wondered if it was Jacob or Whistler, calling her back—or doom calling her forward.
She crept closer to the origin of those sounds, and listened closely. She heard a familiar voice.
“Good old Ricochet Rommond!” it said. Domas.
Stronger than the urge to race ahead, and the compulsion to find the owners of the voices, was the desire to kill. She made for the passages from where the sounds emanated, down those long hallways, and though she had condemned those very walkways, when she thought of Domas, she used every curse.
* * *
The bullet struck Domas in the stomach, and he cried out and grasped at the wound, where the blood leaked out like any human. He dropped his pistol, stumbled to the side and reached out for the wall to support himself.
“You!” he shouted, wagging a bloody finger at Rommond. “Always with your ploys.”
“I thought that’s what you liked about me,” Rommond replied, wishing the ploy involved another bullet.
“It’s fun to play the games,” Domas coughed, “not to lose.”
“Don’t play then if you cannot bear to lose.”
“Did you tell that to Brooklyn, Rommond? Or did you gamble him as well?”
Rommond grasped the handle of his gun tightly, digging his fingers into the reassuring leather grip. He tried not to let Domas’ words dig into his heart.
“It seems I only need to keep pressing that same button,” Domas said, spitting out some blood, as if spitting on Brooklyn’s grave.
“Go ahead,” Rommond said, taking a step forward. He had counted the number of steps he would need to reach Domas, who was still very close to the intersection, and very close to his fallen gun. Eight steps. If Rommond was quick, he could end this. If he was not, he could end himself.
“Can you reach me,” Domas mused, “before I reach my gun? I see you working it out, Rommond. I wonder if you used to mouth words when reading as a child. Me? I read people like you.”
Rommond took another step forward. Slow and steady. Domas was a bigger and stronger man, who cast a big and daunting shadow. Rommond knew that he could not win a wrestle, even if Domas was badly wounded. They had played that game before, and Rommond lost. Brute force was not his way.
“So, what will it be, Rommond?” Domas asked. “A knife to the gut? You’ll have to reach for your boot to get that. By then I can reach for mine. Or my gun. You’re not a spring chicken any more. Can you make it?”
Rommond took another step, just as Domas leaned a little closer to the ground, arm outstretched.
“I’m not a prophet,” Rommond said, “but someone dies tonight.”
Domas showed his teeth; it might have been a smile, were it not for his obvious pain. “Did you read that in my blood, soothsayer?”
Another step on one side, another reach on the other. Somewhere they would meet in the middle—in the no-man’s land, where no demon could stay either.
Then Rommond thought he heard someone approaching. He looked over Domas’ shoulder and saw Taberah there, panting and clenching her fists. How many steps she needed to reach Domas, he could not tell.
“So,” Domas said, dwelling on the word, elongating it as if it were the measure of his life. He caught a glimpse of Taberah from the corner of his eye, and he reached a little closer to the gun. “It seems we have a late entry to the game.”
Taberah made the first move. She raced forward, and Rommond ran, and Domas reached. The three of them met in the middle, where already blood was spilt.
Domas seized his gun, and pointed quick, and fired quicker, stopping Rommond in his tracks. Taberah leapt at Domas, but he turned to her and grabbed her tight. In a moment, he pulled her back around the corner of the intersection and kicked open a door that led to the other half of the ship. Rommond was winded and wounded, yet he followed quickly—but not quickly enough. As he reached the door Domas had hauled Taberah through, it slammed in his face. He heard the rotation of the wheel that sealed it shut, and saw through the small window that Domas was pulling Taberah away into the darkness.
23 – THE FINAL WHISTLE
What Whistler lacked in strength, he made up for in speed. It was one of the few things he was certain of about himself, but as he ran from the Regime soldier, and prepared to run from the soldier’s bullets, he felt that certainty crumble away.
He managed to get up to the next level and through one of the long corridors before the soldier made it up, but he was jarred by the heavy footfalls, and he thought that speed might not be enough if his pursuer had longer strides.
Whistler ducked into a metal tube before the soldier could see him, and he crawled quickly through it, cringing as his hands and knees clattered off the metal casing. He heard the footsteps drawing closer, so he halted and held his breath.
The soldier passed by, stamping upon the ground as he went. His shadow seemed to linger behind, as if it had spotted Whistler’s hideout. From the corner of his eye, the boy thought it was reaching out to grab him.
Please find me, Rommond, he pleaded. He knew that if anyone could defeat this soldier, it was him. As the seconds ticked by, and seemed like minutes, and felt like hours, he started to pray for an
yone to come by, anyone with a weapon, anyone with a gun.
In time it seemed that his prayers were answered. He heard shouts and gunfire, and he could tell that Resistance soldiers had happened upon the scene, but when he glanced out he saw them dead upon the ground, and the Regime soldier was still standing, his gun smoking.
“You need to learn respect, boy!” the soldier shouted. He lashed a metal ball-bearing across the chamber, just as Whistler had struck him with a bolt. It rattled off the metal pylons, but it rattled Whistler more.
“Learn it from my gun,” the soldier boomed, before unloading a round throughout the chamber. The Iron Emperor himself could have been marching through those halls and it would not have mattered, so long as the soldier struck down the boy who dared draw blood from him.
The gunfire was mimicked by Whistler’s chattering teeth. He hugged his arms and tried to hold his breath, but it escaped from him every now and then as a bullet flew by dangerously close.
He hid in the darkness, but it seemed from the corner of his eye that his own shadow stood out, as if betraying him. He felt a sudden urge to flee, to find a better hiding spot, but the problem with fleeing on the Lifemaker was that there was nowhere really to run to, and the problem with hiding was that the Regime was searching every hiding place.
“I know you’re hiding,” the soldier said. “Not so brave now, huh?” He tapped his gun on every tube, on every box, on every pillar and piston, on anything in sight. The sound was even more frightening than the bullets, because it sounded like he was drawing closer again.
Whistler peeped out from the tube and saw that the soldier was looking in every crevice as he passed. It was only a matter of moments before he would look where the boy now hid. Whistler knew he had to get out of there, had to run. He was fast, but he knew he could not outrun bullets. He had to find a way off that floor, find a way back to where the Resistance was still fighting—if anyone else was still alive.
Lifemaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Fantasy (The Great Iron War, Book 2) Page 13