“I've got it,” Soasa barked back to him. “Don't worry.”
Jacob's apprehension, which was only a fraction of that evident on Whistler's panicked face, lowered just a little, until Soasa's next word struck his ears.
“Damn,” she said.
“What is it?” Jacob asked, jumping up several rungs of the ladder. He peered his head into the cockpit, spying Soasa's boots, as she frantically moved about the tiny room.
“It's jammed.”
“What is?”
“The parachute.”
“Hell,” Jacob blurted, before darting up the rest of the ladder and squeezing into the cockpit. “What deploys it?”
“This,” Soasa said, pointing to a lever behind him. He turned around on the spot, brushing against her. He was almost pushing buttons on the other side.
He grabbed the lever and tried to pull it down.
“No! Up!” Soasa cried.
He tried pushing it up, but it would not budge. He felt the vehicle plummet even more, and his heart went with it.
“It's jammed,” he said, pushing it once more.
“I know it's jammed. Use some force!”
He tried to move back a little so that he could put his shoulder into it, but he could not budge with Soasa there. “There's no room!” he shouted.
“Let me try,” Soasa said.
“Let's try together,” Jacob suggested, and they shimmied around a little more, until both of them stood face to face, almost cheek to cheek. At any other time, he would have smiled at her, and made some quip, but there was no time for that. They grabbed the lever together and pushed it up. It moved a little, but not enough. They tried again, but it slipped back down to where it was before.
“Guys!” Whistler cried from down below.
They all knew then that the ground was fast approaching.
Jacob and Soasa glanced once more at each other. It was a fleeting look, but they both knew that it might be their last. What a way to die, Jacob thought. In that glance, they communicated to each other the dire necessity of giving their all, or giving their life. The countdown was quick. One, two, three. Push. They shoved with all their might, all their strength, fuelled by their fear, fed by the frenzy of self-preservation. Their muscles bulged. Their veins popped. The superhuman strength they mustered, the demonic fortitude they summoned, was like only that a mother finds when lifting a landship to rescue her trapped child.
The lever snapped into place, and the parachute deployed, catching in the wind and tugging them up, before letting them down slowly.
All three of them breathed a collective, and very audible, sigh of relief. Jacob and Soasa breathed theirs into each others faces. Then they were aware of just how close they stood, body to body, face to face.
“Cosy,” Jacob remarked.
“Too cosy,” Soasa replied. “I think you should get back down.”
Jacob smiled as they shimmied around once more until he could feel his foot near the ladder. He climbed down to find Whistler standing there with his arms crossed.
“You left me here,” he said.
“Eh, there's wasn't exactly room for three up there.”
“I could have helped.”
Jacob looked at the boy's scrawny arms. “This next job, kid, is where you really shine.”
12 – LIVING CONTRABAND
The trio left the Silver Ghost on the outskirts of Blackout, hiding in the night shadows, and they began the careful trek towards the city walls. They kept low, like serpents in the sand, winding their way closer, flitting from rock to rock, from cactus to spindly bush, like scurrying desert spiders. In time they fell under the shadow of the immense walls, where Jacob began to search for the many cracks and crevices the city's smugglers used.
“Quick,” he whispered when he found one.
They lined up outside the thin passage.
“You've got perhaps the most important job here,” Jacob said, looking at Whistler. “Are you ready for this?”
Whistler bit his lip. “No.”
Jacob chuckled. “Me neither. I've never been ready for anything in my life.”
“I am,” Soasa said, opening her coat to show the many sticks of dynamite attached to her belt. All they needed was a fuse. In many ways, she was it.
“We have to do this quietly,” Jacob said. He could not help but expect her to go in all guns blazing, or all bombs exploding. She would have made a terrible smuggler.
“That's your job,” Soasa said. “I'll let you do quiet and get us in. I'll do loud when we're inside.”
“Just … try not to light any fuses as we squeeze inside. It's a tight fit.”
“Hey, blowing up the wall is one way to get into the city.”
“Yeah, just ... not when we're inside the wall.”
They sidled through, glad that they lived on rations, for the passage was so thin at points that they virtually had to dig their way through. Soasa was left in the rear, so that Jacob could clear a larger passage for her explosive cargo.
When they emerged inside the city, they found no one around, not even the usual seedy types that skulked about in Blackout's darkest corners. This was worrying. If even the crooks were in hiding, news of Rommond's arrival must have been spreading fast. Everyone in Blackout had seen the posters of the general. Monster, they called him. Madman, they said. Now they knew the mad monster had grown his demonic wings.
“Okay, kid,” Jacob whispered, “keep your eyes peeled.”
Whistler looked about frantically, eyes darting to every shadow and every glimmer of gaslight. The fog was low in the city, masking even the pavement up ahead. Who knew what armies, what soldiers, what machines of war, lurked within.
Jacob took out his map. Rommond had marked it in several locations. Some were safe houses. Some were dummy markings, in case Jacob was captured, or the map was lost. Though this was his city, Jacob felt like a stranger, like an invader. This was not just simple smuggling; it was sabotage. The stakes were higher, and the Regime was playing with the Treasury on its side.
“Okay, we'll rendezvous with the Guild of Brick and Mortar,” Jacob suggested. “Rommond said they're virtually all part of the Resistance. We can count on them for support.”
“I'm counting only on what I've got stuffed inside my coat,” Soasa said, “and a good match.”
They made for the winding streets. Ducking and dodging was one thing; it was quite another to march up those pathways in the enemy's attire, heads held high, limbs not quivering. Jacob was used to walking straight into the nest of vipers, but with him was a nervous boy, and a walking bomb.
They did their best to blend in, emerging from the smog into the city's crowds, many of whom made for their lodgings, with the frequent cry of “invaders!” and a less frequent pointing to the sky. The trio received a few salutes from Regime soldiers, who urged the citizens to go indoors, and began their new patrols of the city's winding streets. This put Jacob on edge. He could have smuggled better if they did not know they were coming. He was thankful, at least, that most eyes looked to the sky instead.
They followed the route to the headquarters of the Guild of Brick and Mortar, appropriately disguised as a masonry shop. The lights were dim inside, but from the window Jacob could see figures moving back and forth inside.
At last, he thought. Someone on our side.
He pushed the door open, which rang a bell. The people inside, three men and two women, stopped suddenly what they were doing. The smugglers entered the shop, and silence entered with them. It was almost like a stand-off. Jacob was not surprised. The last thing allies of the Resistance wanted to see was Regime soldiers barging inside.
“Evening,” one of the guildsmen said while tilting his cap.
A fine night for cake and wine, Jacob thought. That was the catchphrase, the codewords, the password to let them know who they were. Yet Jacob did not say it. Something told him to wait.
“Close enough to night at this stage,” he said instead. “Still
open?”
“Just about to close,” the guildman said while loosening his collar. His face was beaded with sweat, as if he had just come in from a hard day's work, but his apron was pristine clean.
Whistler tugged gently on Jacob's arm. “Demons,” he whispered.
Hell, Jacob thought. What do we do now? He wondered if Rommond knew, if these were sympathisers with the Resistance's cause, but he thought it unlikely that the general would trust them. If nothing else, it would defeat the purpose of sending Whistler.
“We're doing a sweep of the area,” Jacob said, feeling the sweat forming on his own brow, feeling the urge to adjust his own collar. “We're urging everyone to stay indoors.”
“No worries there, officer.”
Jacob was amused; he did not even know his rank. He gave a salute, and turned sharply for the door. Soasa and Whistler followed clumsily. Jacob hoped they would be mistaken for new recruits, and hoped their uniforms did not say otherwise.
As soon as they got outside, and out of earshot of anyone around, Jacob cast off his hat and stamped his foot in frustration.
“Damn it,” he said. “So the Regime infiltrated them too. Hell, they're everywhere.” He sighed. “Looks like we're on our own down here.”
“Good,” Soasa replied. “Then we won't have anyone else breathing down our necks.”
Jacob shook his head. “We'll have the whole city doing that.”
13 – THE BLACKEST STREETS
They continued towards their objectives, abandoning the city's many safe houses, which were no longer safe. The shadows were a sanctuary now, as were the steam and smog. No matter how much they tried to blend in, it was always better not to be seen at all.
“You were born here?” Soasa asked as she looked about the streets in disgust.
“Yes,” Jacob said. “Born and raised. Well, born anyway.”
“It's a Hell-hole,” she replied, spitting on the ground.
“Perhaps, but it's my kind of Hell-hole.”
“The smog,” she said with a cough. “It's so thick it's almost solid. It's bad enough putting up with Mudro's leaf. How did you stick this?”
“It isn't so bad,” Jacob said. “You get used to it.”
“Sure,” Soasa replied. “You get used to it when you're dead.”
They passed by a series of Wanted posters pasted to the walls of the narrow streets. Several of them were of Rommond, labelled War-monger and The Savage Hawk, and several more were of Taberah, dubbed Cult-leader and The Stinging Scorpion; one was of the now deceased Lieutenant Tradam, labelled The Hawk's Right Talon, and another was of Mudro, dubbed The Sorcerer. Other posters showed figures that Jacob could not recognise. At one time, when he walked or skulked through those streets, he did not even recognise Rommond or Taberah, and did not care. Those days were simpler, but they were still evil days.
“Thankfully we're not up there,” Jacob said.
“We're not big enough fish,” Soasa replied.
“Hard to be a smuggler otherwise.”
Soasa began to rip down the posters of Taberah, scrunching them up and casting them aside. Whistler joined in quickly, tearing down the posters of Rommond and Mudro. He seemed to enjoy this little act of rebellion. At another time, Jacob might have too.
“Come on,” he urged them. “Let's leave these. We can deal with them another time, when Blackout is liberated.”
“It's a matter of principle,” Soasa said.
“And nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
A torch flashed in their direction, and they looked to find a guard standing further down the alley. “You!” he shouted. “Stop that now!”
Soasa threw a smoke bomb in the guard's direction, before charging off. Jacob and Whistler ran after her, turning corner after corner, despite Jacob urging her to slow down and take a different turn. In time they ended up in a dead end, barely illuminated by one of the dim gaslamps.
“Damn it,” Jacob said. “This isn't your city, Soasa. You should be following me.”
She looked at him defiantly, as if that would never happen.
“Should we head back?” Whistler asked.
But it was too late for that, for they heard the hurried footsteps of the guard in pursuit. He turned that final corner, knowing well that it was a dead end, that he would find the culprits of the vandalism there, but he did not expect to find them armed with guns. His torch flashed in their direction, just enough to see the grim face of Soasa, and the barrel of her pistol, and the brief flash as the gunpowder ignited, followed by a thicker darkness.
The body slumped to the ground before them, and the torch rolled away, stretching and compressing their shadows, as if they were puppets to a god of light. The guard's own shadow hid the growing pool of blood.
“Hell,” Jacob said. “That's one way to end up on a poster.”
“I'll pose for mine myself,” Soasa said while cocking her chin.
“You wouldn't make a good smuggler. Bodies tend to attract attention.”
“Can we go?” Whistler pleaded. This clearly was not the kind of adventure he was looking for. Hell, Jacob thought, it's not the kind I wanted either.
The echo of the gunshot had not fully faded, and it was already punctuated by the sound of approaching footsteps. An army, Jacob wondered, but the patter was not enough for that. They braced themselves, and Jacob urged Soasa to wait before firing her gun again, and drawing even more attention to them.
Then a figure charged around the corner, a figure in heels. When she stepped out of the shadows, panting from the pursuit, Jacob was stunned by her beauty. She had immaculate blonde hair, which fell upon her shoulders in perfect waves. She wore a slim white nurse's uniform, with a white hat to match. On it was the emblem of the Regime: a black square on a red cross. She carried a first aid kit, larger than any Jacob had ever seen, and yet she did not struggle.
Whistler tugged on his arm. “She's one of them,” he whispered.
A demon.
The nurse saw the guard bleeding and moaning on the ground, and she ran to him, but Jacob seized her arm.
“So,” he said, blocking her way. “Off to rat on us?”
She looked him up and down in disgust. “If anyone's a rat here, it's you.”
He shrugged. “All of Blackout's kind of like the sewers.”
“Let me tend to the wounded.”
“Or what?”
“Or he dies, you fool! Do you not care?”
“He's a demon,” Soasa said. “Like you.”
The woman turned to her. “You're all the same.”
Soasa scoffed. “And you're not?”
“So, you're a nurse,” Jacob noted. “Can't say we're all that keen on seeing Regime soldiers nursed back to health.”
“I don't care who they work or fight for,” the nurse replied. “I care that they're wounded.”
“Well, that emblem on your uniform kind of tells a different story.”
“I have to wear that here. Besides, what's that on yours?”
Jacob covered up the badge sewn into his shirt, suddenly ashamed. “It's a disguise.”
“Well,” the nurse replied. “You could say mine is too.”
“You're skin is,” Soasa hissed. “You wear it almost like a real human too.”
The nurse sighed. “Nothing I say is going to make you listen. But please, let me help that man.”
“He's not a man!” Soasa shouted. Jacob urged her to lower her voice.
“I don't see all these distinctions you make,” the nurse replied. “I've tended people on both sides. To me, the only distinction is: alive or dead. I only want there to be one of those.”
“Okay then,” Jacob said. “Sew 'im up.”
“Are you mad?” Soasa objected. “Sew his mouth up.”
And yours, Jacob thought. Who would have thought her voice would be like dynamite as well?
“It can't hurt,” Jacob said.
Soasa shook her head violently.
&nbs
p; “What if it was me?” Whistler asked her. “Would you let me die?”
“You're not the same as them,” she protested.
“I'm close enough.”
“Fine then,” Soasa said, folding her arms.
The nurse gave a forced, polite smile. “Thank you.”
Soasa ran over to the guard before the nurse got there, and began rummaging through his pockets and belongings. “No radio,” she said. “Just checking.”
“You'll be looting the dead next,” the nurse said.
Soasa cocked her head. “Maybe I'll be looting you.”
* * *
While the nurse tended the man, removing the bullet and sealing up the wound, Soasa urged Jacob not to trust the woman in white. She might have been a demon, but in that bleached uniform, and with those golden locks, which glistened more than Jacob's dirty blonde, she looked more like an angel.
“We can't kill someone who's trying to save lives,” he whispered.
Soasa did not seem as disturbed by the notion, but the presence of Whistler seemed to tame her a little. She put away her gun, but she took out rope instead. As soon as the nurse had cleaned up the guard's wound, she bound and gagged them both, and left them back to back.
“Hell, Soasa,” Jacob said, “you can't leave a woman tied up in a shady corner like this. God knows what someone will do to her.”
“God knows what I'd do otherwise,” Soasa said through gritted teeth. “She's not a woman anyway. In the world they came from, they probably didn't even distinguish between the sexes. It was probably all a blur of tentacle and tail.”
The nurse rolled her eyes. She would have said something if her mouth had not been muffled. She did not fight her bonds. Now that the guard had been treated, she seemed content to simply sit and wait.
“Besides,” Soasa continued, tapping the guard with her foot, “she's got company.”
* * *
There was little time for arguments, and they had already lost much time on their important mission, so they headed back the way they came, Soasa reluctantly following Jacob as he led them around a different street, one he knew would not have tempting posters to tear from the ever-crowding walls. They were entering a richer part of the city, where the lights were that much brighter, the windows cleaner, and the doors locked firmly shut.
Skyshaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 3) Page 7