Ironshield

by Edward Nile

  The Storm turned with the blow and nearly careened over before Renalds got one of his Warsuit's feet behind it, churning up earth and broken pieces of trench wall in the process. The one-armed Warsuit's artillery kept shooting as it righted itself, its line of fire veering off-course.

  Into Renalds' own army.

  Pillars of earth shot up as screaming soldiers fell to the ground, punctured by machinegun rounds where they weren't torn apart by the Storm's heavy guns.

  Aldren's knees buckled beneath him, and the next thing he knew he was in the dirt, arms over his head.

  The ground shook. Someone nearby shrieked. A more violent tremble made Aldren feel as if the earth would break open and swallow him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for the end.

  A noise pierced Aldren to the bone, like a sawblade grinding inside his skull. Some kind of horrible screech cut through the gunfire, leaving an unnatural quiet in its wake.

  Not trusting the sudden stillness, Aldren didn't look up right away. He kept thinking of the men he'd seen blown to pieces.

  Not me. Aldren wasn’t a religious man, but he repeated the silent prayer all the same. Let it be a bullet, anything. So long as I'm in one piece. At least that way, his mother would have something to bury.

  Moments stretched like hours. Men coughed and cried out in pain while others shouted after lost comrades. Not hearing any more shots, nor feeling the tremble of exploding ordnance, Aldren finally dared to look up.

  As the Storm careened out of control, Retribution had closed the distance and stuck the forty-foot bayonet affixed beneath its arm-mounted gun into the Southern Warsuit's side. Both machines stood motionless but for a visible shudder as the blade ground against the Storm’s gearworks.

  "Those are your men down there, cur," crackled Theodore Kolms’ voice from an overturned radio still functioning in the dirt near Aldren. "Never hold your triggers down without your target in sight." Retribution dragged its blade to the side, tearing the Storm's steel with a vicious screech, raining sparks below. The massive bayonet burst free, dragging engine components with it amid bursts of fire and spurting black oil.

  Renalds shouted over the radio waves as he fired once more with what was left of his artillery.

  Retribution's blade rose and crashed into the Storm, destroying its head and cleaving through its shoulder to obliterate one of its remaining guns.

  With its other arm, Retribution fired a shell into the Storm's leg.

  Renalds’ machine crashed to the earth. The tremor nearly knocked Aldren back off his feet.

  The Northern Warsuit stood over its fallen opponent, wreathed in the black and gray smoke of diesel and gunpowder.

  General Renalds had lost the duel. The Storm was now the second Southern Kaizer to be taken by the Industrialists.

  Aldren didn't much care about that. Good riddance to the bastard, he thought. But now the battle was over, he wished it had lasted longer.

  Because now, with the Warsuits out of play, it was their turn.

  "Charge!" Renalds' second in command, Major Zolar, motioned forward with his saber. Aldren was soon caught in the press of bodies as the Southern army swept across the field.

  This will be it, he knew. Out in the open, rushing at the fortified Northern treeline, it was only a matter of moments before the enemy guns mowed them down. He unslung his rifle as he stumbled along. He'd pop off a shot or two before they brought him down. If he was dead anyway, at least they could say Aldren Mal had done more than deliver coffee.

  No shots came by the time they were halfway across the field. Aldren couldn't help but eye Retribution nervously.

  The War Codes dictated that the Northern Warsuit's part in this battle was over. Theodore Kolms was bound by laws agreed upon by both the North and South, to stand down and let his troops do the rest.

  So why had Kolms stopped Renalds when he was doing what Retribution couldn't? And moreover, where was the Northern army now? Where were their cannons, where were their rifles?

  Aldren kept wondering this, expecting the attack to come, even as the Southern infantry entered the shadow of the trees.

  "High Command was right!" Zolar hollered. "They used their Warsuit to cover their retreat. The North doesn't have enough men to beat us. Come, boys, to victory!"

  Soldiers shouted as they followed the major, alive with the thrill of success, and the relief of having reached this far unscathed.

  Aldren didn't share the celebratory attitude. As men around him shoved each other on their mad dash to chase the unseen Industrialists' tails, he looked back at Retribution, standing as still and silent as a tombstone, its hulking form just visible over the treetops.

  *

  The cockpit shook around Striker Crimson, hammered with the constant deafening blows of Ironshield's artillery.

  With everything rattling around him, Striker had to pay attention to his hands on the control sticks, lest he push the wrong lever or button. Sweat dripping down his face, he strained his eyes against his scope, barely blinking as the muzzle flashes of Ironshield's guns burned afterimages onto his retinas. All the while he watched his own fuel meter. Striker bit down on a piece of leather to stop his teeth from chattering with the constant rumble.

  A heavy shell blast caused his seat to buck back and forth on creaking gimbals. Striker kept his feet on the pedals -barely- and lined up one of his arm-mounted guns, using the thin crosshair across his scope to gauge the weapon's trajectory.

  Just as he pressed down his firing triggers, the periscope went black, its outer lens shattered by Ironshield's barrage. In an involuntary motion, Striker brought the control stick too far to the right just as his shot left the barrel.

  "God DAMN!" he shouted, reaching for the periscope's dial to find another line of sight. He couldn't win this by strength of guns. If this was a war of endurance, Ironshield had Redstripe outmatched by far.

  No, if Striker Crimson was to have any chance, he needed to get his Kaizer in close.

  He found another line of sight, a scope on the left side of Redstripe’s chest, partially obscured by a gun-twisted section of plating. Ironshield kept up its attack.

  Striker wasn’t about to bother wasting more ammunition trying to match the other Warsuit’s rate of fire. Blindly, without pulling away from his scope, he felt around for the lever mounted in front of his seat. Finding it, he pressed down and yanked it back. Redstripe’s engines revved to a deafening volume as it burned diesel at three times its usual rate. Its exhaust pipes vented a tremendous cloud of black smoke, completely obscuring Striker’s scopes. And, hopefully, James Edstein’s as well.

  Striker pulled back on Redstripe’s right control stick, the handle of his embedded ignition saber. His Warsuit shifted around him as its right foot slid to the side.

  Next, Striker pulled the left foot back and to the right, bringing his Kaizer to a full creaking sidestep. One thing Redstripe had over Ironshield was maneuverability.

  Striker didn’t let up, continuing to press his pedals, twitching his controls with barely perceptible movements as he followed up the sidestep with a forward lunge, closing the smoke-clogged distance between the two Warsuits while bringing Redstripe’s bladed right arm up to strike.

  A gust of wind dissipated the fumes enough for Striker to see his opponent. Ironshield was still facing Redstripe head-on.

  James Edstein had predicted Striker’s move and turned his Warsuit to match.

  Clever. Striker brought his Warsuit’s blade down at full speed, aiming for a rent in Ironshield’s thick chest plate. He already knew he’d been caught in a bad way. With an arm raised like this, Redstripe’s lightly armored side was exposed.

  Edstein didn’t pass up the opportunity.

  Even strapped in, Striker felt like he was being torn free of his seat. The bands of leather cut into him with bruising force as his face was wrenched away from his periscope. Striker’s head struck against the cockpit’s left bulkhead as his entire seat bucked one way, shakily settling back in
to its natural position amid the squealing protest of overstressed bearings.

  The hot, confined air, coupled with being wrung about like a ragdoll and the blow to his head, proved to be too much. Striker blacked out.

  His eyes fluttered open what could only have been a moment or two later. Any longer and Ironshield's guns would have stopped firing. Striker would be dead.

  The display bulbs on his terminal blinked red alerts, bathing the dark cockpit in crimson. The ruby lights filtered through gray smoke, the eyes of demonic rats waiting to gnaw on a fresh cadaver.

  Striker coughed. The slow-rolling smog stung his eyes and throat. He reached for his air tank and mask. Ironshield's cannons had destroyed Redstripe's right-side ventilation, and God knew what else. At least two auxiliary engines had been taken out, according to the blinking alerts, forcing the Kaizer Engine itself to its limits. If Striker kept pushing his Warsuit, the engines would fail entirely, and he’d be trapped in a motionless, smoke-filled can to suffocate and die.

  There wasn’t enough ventilation to keep the air clear, let alone alleviate the extreme heat. Striker’s air tank hissed when he turned the nozzle. He brought the breathing mask to his face and dropped it when another shell shook Redstripe. Coughing in the fumes, Striker shoved his face back against the periscope and took hold of his controls once more. To hell with it. He gritted his teeth. I’ll breathe again once this damned thing is over.

  Redstripe’s right arm was wedged into Ironshield’s chest plate. Striker’s downward swing had hit home. Baring teeth in a grin, he attempted to pull the blade free. The limb was unresponsive. Ironshield’s cannon burst must have destroyed the cogs connecting Redstripe’s arm to its controls.

  But there was an advantage to this failure. Because, try as Ironshield might -and Edstein did try, pulling his Warsuit backward, producing showers of sparks where the two machines ground against one another- he couldn’t detach himself from Redstripe either.

  Smoke stung Striker’s eyes, seeping into the space between his face and the periscope visor. Letting out a choking cough, Striker growled and gripped his left stick. He heard Redstripe’s other arm, the one not stuck in his opponent’s armor, rattle and grind, felt the tell-tale rumble of its movement as he wrenched it up and brought it out to the side. Redstripe was still in this fight.

  Another shell blast shook the cockpit, followed by the patter of rapid fire against steel.

  Now here was a question worth a few marks. Would Edstein play it safe and avoid heavy ordnance at such close range, or go for broke and try to blast Striker out of his cockpit?

  The Northern pilot assuaged his curiosity soon enough.

  A blow sent Striker’s seat creaking back, hitting the cockpit’s rear bulkhead. He came forward just as fast, and just barely saved himself a broken nose by grabbing hold of the periscope.

  Something cracked beneath his chest harness, and Striker’s next breath came with a stabbing pain to accompany the acerbic sting of thickening smoke.

  The blasts came again and again, tearing screeching metal from Redstripe’s frame until the bulkhead of its cockpit dented inward. The blinking terminal exploded in a burst of sparks.

  Striker grabbed hold of his air mask and pulled it over his face before unconsciousness could retake him. He drew in rasping, greedy breaths, clearing his head.

  Beyond the cockpit, something creaked.

  Then, one of Ironshield’s blades crashed through the top bulkhead, destroying Striker’s scopes. The weapon’s dull gray edge was wedged less than a foot above Striker. With a grinding squeal, the blade was yanked free, allowing brilliant sunlight to pierce the dark cockpit.

  Smoke vented out through the newly created tear. Striker had seconds to live. Better make them count, he told himself, pushing his left stick to the side. The mechanism resisted like a stubborn arm wrestler, the rubber at the handle’s base creaking in protest. Then, with the press of a lever and the stomp of a gas pedal, Striker managed to swing Redstripe’s remaining arm. Vibrations travelled up his own limbs as he forced his Warsuit to strike, again and again, not daring let up for an instant. He needed to keep Edstein on the defensive, needed to prevent Ironshield from committing the killing blow.

  Sparks cascaded across the Northern Warsuit. Striker saw the thing with his naked eyes now, its form blurring and doubling as his vision drifted in and out of focus. Striker spat out his leather strap and bit his tongue to bring himself back to the here and now while he kept hitting Ironshield’s side. Metal screamed against metal, each jarring blow evoking further pain from Striker’s cracked ribs.

  Finally, when he could see the edge of the tear he’d managed to create in Ironshield’s carapace through his limited field of vision, Striker engaged the left arm’s claw grip, splitting its blade down the middle into a giant pincer with a loud crack. As he brought that to bear on Ironshield’s damaged side, the enemy Warsuit’s blade came down again, casting its shadow across the jagged opening in Redstripe’s cockpit.

  His fingers working lightning-fast over the buttons and levers of his control stick, Striker clamped the claw onto Ironshield’s chest plate, slammed his pedals, and used Redstripe’s full weight to yank sideways on his enemy’s armor.

  Partially severed on both sides and churned by artillery fire, even the mighty Ironshield’s armor plating had a breaking point. A huge section ripped free with an ear-grating peal, taking engine parts and other mechanical innards out with it to fall to the ground far below.

  The blade that had been coming down upon Striker Crimson ground to a halt.

  Striker unstrapped himself and leaned forward to get a better look through the thinning smoke.

  Ironshield’s cockpit stood bared to the world. Sitting slumped in the midst of its ruin, was James Edstein.

  Striker watched the prone form of the twenty-six-year-old heir to the Ironshield legacy for several moments, thinking the Northern commander had to be feigning unconsciousness. Once he was satisfied his opponent wasn’t going anywhere, Striker leaned over his seat and turned his saber, shutting off Redstripe’s ignition. His Warsuit shuddered into stillness as Striker pulled his blade free of the ignition cradle. The rumbling engine, the clank of gears and rattle of bearings, the constant tremble of living machinery had all been so pervasive as to make their absence feel unnatural.

  Outside, people from both armies were doubtless watching the battle through binoculars, trying to discern which of the two stilled Warsuits had won the day. One of the machines would have to fall over or raise its white flag before the opposing infantries could engage.

  Everything hurt as Striker Crimson made his way toward the cockpit hatch, his mask back in place. If Edstein was alive, best he didn’t see who his opponent actually was.

  The fighting had left the hatch dented, and it didn’t open when Striker pulled the lever. He tried again, ramming into the steel with his bruised shoulder. It gave on the third shove, falling open with Striker landing atop it in the open air. The ground had looked so close from the Warsuit’s magnifying sights. Now the natural dread of plummeting death returned. But Striker was a Warsuit pilot, and an experienced one at that. Not hesitating, he grabbed hold of handrails and walked along footholds built onto Redstripe without bothering to look down at the rocky field so far below. He climbed up Redstripe’s bullet-scoured chest and took quick stock of the damage Ironshield had inflicted.

  The carapace of Striker’s Warsuit was unrecognizable, its signature crimson slash obliterated along with any semblance of orderly design across the surface of its mangled armor. Several handholds had been blown away, leaving nothing more than sharp edges to cut oneself on. Striker was forced to improvise, sticking his gloved hands into artillery and bullet holes to pull himself up. Spotting a handlebar on Redstripe's left arm, Striker gripped a foothold on the machine's chest with his knees and stretched out to grab hold of the limb.

  A burst of automatic fire rattled, sending bullets sparking around Striker's legs. He let go with his knees
and found himself swinging over open air by his arms.

  James Edstein stood in his ruined cockpit, a machine pistol in his shaking grip. He lined up his front sight to shoot again.

  Striker let go with one arm long enough to pull a revolver from his belt and empty it in the enemy pilot's direction.

  Edstein fell back, clutching his side, and ducked behind his seat, firing his weapon blindly around the corner of it.

  Striker ignored sparks that flashed about him as he propelled himself from handhold to handhold, shimmying his way down Redstripe's arm before climbing atop it. His arms burned with the effort. As a younger man, he’d have balked at the feat. But he wasn’t a young man anymore, and he was in pain. Once on his feet again, on top of his Warsuit’s arm, Striker leapt into Ironshield's cockpit. Just as he landed, Edstein emerged with an enraged shout, his saber removed from the ignition cradle and swinging.