by Edward Nile
Whatever happened when he reached the capital at Arkenridge, it was in God’s hands.
*
Bright sunlight filtering in through wooden planks assaulted James’ eyes. He raised his hand to shield himself from the glare. The floor rumbled. Everything was a chaos of movement and sound as the train’s wheels clacked over and over on the track.
After three months not seeing the outside of a holding cell, it took James several moments to piece together that he was somewhere else. On a train. He had escaped.
And he wasn’t alone.
James was up on one knee with his saber half-drawn in an instant. Before he had a chance to challenge the shadowed figure standing across from him, the stranger fell to his hands and knees.
“Na’Tet is sent from Great Speaker to guide you, Holy Speaker for the Iron Gods.”
The way the man spoke gave him away every bit as much as his copper-toned skin. A tribesman, a descendant of the first peoples to inhabit Arkenia before Lytan colonized it.
James bared the rest of his blade. Most of the tribes were no friends of Arkenians, be they Northern or Southern. “Stand up,” he commanded, rising to his own feet. “Let me see you.”
Na’Tet hesitated before getting up. As he stood, James caught sight of something hanging from the tribesman’s neck by a leather cord. He lifted the object with the tip of his saber. At first glance it looked like a tarnished charm of the Savior on the Wheel, the embodiment of God who sacrificed himself for the sake of mankind. But on closer inspection, James found the disc-shaped object to be something else entirely, something simple. An iron sprocket.
James’ shoulders relaxed, but he kept his blade up. “Who sent you?”
Na’Tet reached into his frayed robes.
“Slowly,” James warned. The K’Tani tribe, derivatively known as Gearheads, were allies to the North. They worshipped Warsuits as their Gods and considered pilots as something akin to saints, though James was fuzzy on the reasoning. Still, this could still be a trap. There was no telling when someone’s loyalty could be bought.
Na’Tet drew his hand out, holding a cream envelope. James snatched it and broke the seal with his thumb. Paper crackled as he shook the letter out one-handed, keeping the point of his blade against Na’Tet’s chest.
Once the letter was out, he read it:
James
If you’re reading this, it means you got out. I’m needed at Quarrystone, or I would have been at the trainyard to meet you. So, I’ve sent Na’Tet to keep you company. He knows where you’re headed. Watch your back, and see you soon.
Your friend,
Matthew Kaizer.
James was grinning by the end of the letter. “Son of a bitch,” he said, slamming his weapon back in its scabbard.
“Are you pleased, Holy Speaker?”
James let out a long sigh. “Why are you calling me that?”
Na’Tet tilted his head. He took on a faraway look, like a schoolboy trying to recall his lessons. “When the first Speakers summoned the iron gods, they brought freedom to our people. Through you, I pass my message of thanks to the gods.”
“Alright, message heard. Now let’s nip this in the bud. I’m not a ‘Holy’ anything. Got it?”
“Of course, Master. Na’Tet means no offence to a Sacred Speaker such as yourself.”
“Not that either,” James looked around until he found an empty coffee can. He undid his fly. “I’m not a ‘master’ or a ‘speaker.’ I’m not a priest or a saint,” he said over the pattering of his piss. “Just a soldier.”
“What may Na’Tet call you, Great One?”
“James.” He buttoned his fly and searched about. “The lieutenant said something about a bag.”
“Yes!” Na’Tet turned and bent down, coming back up with a leather rucksack in hand. “A thousand apologies, Holy James. Na’Tet had forgotten.”
“Again with that ‘H’ word. That’s going to get old, fast.” James ripped the bag from Na’Tet’s hands. He tried not to think about how long the tribesman had been watching him from the shadows. When had he even boarded? Had Na’Tet been here the whole time, or did he climb in during one of the brief stops? James hoped it was the latter, and that he hadn’t just spent two days watched by an unseen presence, but he was fine with not knowing. More or less, James remembered Gelden saying when asked if they were alone.
Inside the rucksack, he found a fresh Industrialist officer’s uniform, a shaving kit, tinned rations, a water canteen, and a machine pistol complete with leather holster and strap. As James placed clothes to one side, something clattered to the rough floor. He picked it up. A silver Gearsword pin. James flicked the tiny gears, bringing the entire face of the symbol into brief motion.
Guess I gave up too soon, he thought. Let’s hope my men haven’t quit on me.
**
Samuel Mutton was not accustomed to waiting. Not even for the president. Least of all when he’d just travelled two days by train on the man’s request.
He sat in Nathaniel Davids’ reception room, a small, comfortably furnished parlor just outside the president’s office. A decanter of brandy sat on a coffee table in front of Samuel, and a cup of coffee which he’d been offered after waiting twenty minutes. Excellent as the coffee was, Samuel felt tempted to sample the decanter’s contents against his better judgment. But unlike his secretary, Samuel’s ire could not be quenched with drink.
Davids’ receptionist, a buxom blonde with curled hair and a blouse that strained around her full figure, hummed as she pored over paperwork. Rumors abounded about the president and certain members of his staff. Samuel elected to ignore them. Mrs. Davids was an invalid, rendered paralyzed from the waist down by a sickness contracted some decades back. If the old man wanted to have his indiscretions, so be it, as long as they didn’t interfere with his duties.
But if Samuel found out he was being kept waiting so Nathaniel Davids could romp around with another young madam, by God he’d give the man a tongue-lashing, president or not.
He was anxious to hear word from Edinville. Paulson was to telegraph the Presidential House if any trace of the Ironshield was discovered. Samuel waited on word, but he didn’t believe Edstein would be found. In the confusion left in the wake of Theodore Kolms’ attack, with frightened civilians demanding to know if their town was under siege, a few of them having already lost homes and businesses to Retribution’s stomping feet, there had been no chance to block off roads of egress by land until it was too late to make a difference. Clearly, the boats which had been captured were either there by coincidence, or as decoys.
Still, perhaps there would be a touch of good luck in all this mess. Samuel could only pray it was so.
Another update he was more hopeful to receive was the discovery of Leanne’s co-conspirators. Finding and rooting out these rebel elements in the heart of Southern Arkenia was essential in ending the war. Yannick Mal had been a sobering example of the damage even one spy could do.
Samuel realized he was tapping his foot and made himself stop. Maintain composure, he admonished himself. Had he brought Paulson, the man would have spent half the time flirting with the blonde behind the desk, and the other half cursing the President’s name. The thought brought a faint smile to Samuel’s lips. Yes, he thought. I should have brought him along.
A bell rang beside the receptionist’s desk.
“He’ll see you now,” she said, flashing a bright smile.
“Thank you, young miss.” Samuel stood and approached the mahogany door. He smoothed out his coat, tugged his sleeves, and turned the brass handle.
Inside, Nathaniel Davids sat behind the massive presidential desk, veritably hemmed in by stacks of paperwork. The president wasn’t alone in the room, as Samuel had guessed. However, it wasn’t a strollop standing beside Davids’ desk. Samuel would have preferred that.
Next to the president, hands clasped behind his back, flashing an all-too-wide grin, was Elliot Salkirk.
So much for good
luck.
“Hello, Sam,” Davids said. “Thank you for coming.”
Samuel and Davids were on close terms, or at least as close as one could be with the commander in chief. Still, he’d rarely addressed Samuel as anything but “Senator,” or “Mr. Mutton,” since his appointment to office, not even when sharing dinner together with their wives.
That, more than anything else, cemented the scenario in Samuel’s mind. This was not going to be good.
"Nathaniel," Samuel replied.
The president was a man in his early sixties. His gray, wiry hair was combed neatly about a stern face only slightly softened by wrinkles. Despite his advancing years, Nathaniel Davids was in every way the grizzled veteran, a man who'd helped spearhead the Revolution. It had been decades since Samuel fought under Davids' direct command on a battlefield, but the sight of him still evoked the knee-jerk impulse to snap a sharp salute. Davids had gained the presidency during the Xang war, when the people had the most need for a warhawk in office. Talk of him being merely an interim leader until peacetime had gone by the wayside when one conflict bled immediately into another.
"Please, old friend," Davids gestured. "Have a seat."
Samuel took the offered chair, though he didn't like it, not the least because it put him below Salkirk, who was able to half-smirk down on him like a bemused parent over his unruly child.
"I came as soon as I could," Samuel said.
"No doubt. Thank you for your haste. I know Edinville must be in a state of turmoil right now."
"It was a shock, to be sure, but other than a few apartments and my fence, there was only one casualty. One of my soldiers." Samuel cleared his throat. The self-reminder hurt, his grief and guilt still raw.
"Ah, yes, young Nicholas." Davids nodded. "I was sorry to hear about it, Sam. I'm sure he was a good lad."
Samuel took in a gulp of air. "They all were," he said, thinking of his Red Guard, now dead to a man. "I guess word's reached here, about Striker Crimson?"
Salkirk snorted. "That's an understatement."
"We knew the secret couldn't last, Sam," Nathaniel said.
“I suppose not. But it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Nathaniel, I never imagined they’d go to such lengths. Had I not been so blind…” He ground his teeth. This was a conversation he’d rather have had with the president alone. “Edstein’s escape is on me, Mr. President. I take full responsibility.”
“You made a mistake, clearly, in giving the Northerners the benefit of the doubt,” said Salkirk. “There are no depths to which the Industrialist bastards won’t stoop.”
“Maybe they have the right idea,” said Nathaniel.
Samuel looked to the president. “What are you saying?”
“The war is at a standstill, Sam. We don’t have enough men or Warsuits to subdue them, not the way we’re going about it. Our only saving grace was Orvid’s agreement to the War Codes, which the North has now chosen to subvert, twice.”
“Once,” Samuel argued. “Kolms’ attack was brazen, but he killed no one from his Warsuit. I agreed to our duel.”
“He fought you out of your armor and broke several laws to do it,” Salkirk pointed out.
“I fought Retribution on my own terms,” Samuel argued. “I won’t have that duel spun for propaganda.”
“However honorable you think your bout against General Kolms was, his infiltration of our territory, with a Warsuit, is yet more evidence that the Industrialists are holding nothing back. Add that to the inevitable networks of spies and double agents necessary to make what he did possible, and we’re left with an unprecedentedly volatile enemy on our doorstep.”
Samuel’s gut tightened at the mention of double agents. He’d ordered strict secrecy on the subject of Leanne’s house arrest. That secret had lasted through the trip, as far as he could tell, but Samuel knew it wouldn’t take much to reveal her.
Salkirk’s eyes gleamed as though he were enjoying a private joke at Samuel’s expense. Sam knew the man well enough not to take the bait. Salkirk was one to pretend he knew what his opponent wanted hidden, whether he had any information or not. Which wasn’t to say the man couldn’t have informants in Edinville. If Leanne could be a Northern agent without Samuel knowing, anything was possible.
“So, what?” Samuel said. “Are we afraid of an invasion? They don’t have the manpower, Warsuits or no Warsuits.”
“No,” said Salkirk. “They don’t. But our strategists all agree that if the Industrialists want to, they can dig in for a prolonged siege. In which case, we’d shatter our armies and leave ourselves vulnerable trying to root them out. We need to do something different, Mutton, something they won’t expect. And we need to do it soon.”
Samuel didn’t like the sound of rehearsed earnestness in Salkirk’s tone. “What’s the idea, Mr. President?” he asked, turning to Davids. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
“I propose we beat the Northerners at the game they started at Graytop and Flemmingwood. Rather than break our forces against them in a frontal assault, I suggest we get Redstripe behind enemy lines and attack Quarrystone from the rear, crippling their main base while Salkirk leads an army up the valley to drive the Northern fighters into your guns. A pincer move, Samuel, designed to crush their military strength and fighting spirit in one blow.”
A heavy silence dragged on as Samuel digested what he’d just heard. When neither Davids nor Salkirk elaborated further, he responded. “Just so we’re clear,” he said. “You are asking that I take my Warsuit north and walk it into Quarrystone from the camp’s rear, where bivouacked soldiers, camp followers, mechanics, medics, women, and children all make their homes. What you’re asking me to engage in would be a massacre.”
“Our hope is that the Industrialists will surrender with minimal bloodshed once the integrity of the camp is compromised,” said Salkirk.
“Elliot, your pardon, but you have no fucking clue what you’re talking about if you honestly believe the Northerners will surrender.” Samuel thought about Kolms’ furious last stand, and Edstein’s before that. “They’ll die to a man before laying down arms.”
“Oh, give them more credit than that, Samuel,” Salkirk argued. “Even pro-Industrialist pundits are admitting a waning spirit in the North. They’re starting to understand that the only way to preserve their way of life is to be under constant attack, either by us or by Xang. When pressed with the choice, they’ll pick life.”
“And I suppose I have you to thank for this ploy?” Samuel spat, his anger getting the better of him. “Did you learn nothing from your handling of Yannick Mal?”
“Salkirk had the idea, Sam, but I’m the one signing off on it,” the president interjected. “We don’t want to do this, we have to. They snuck a Warsuit into a civilian town and nearly killed you, for God’s sake.”
“And what does the North have to say about it? Does Orvid stand behind General Kolms’ attack?”
“We can no longer be naïve enough to trust the words of our enemy,” said Salkirk. “Look at their actions, Samuel.”
“I am, Senator. And I’m looking at ours. If Kolms had ended my life in Edinville, it would be no greater death than that of my good name and standing in the eyes of Arkenians -both Southern and Northern- if I do this. I’ll be reviled, and for good reason.”
“It is…unfortunate timing, your revealing your identity as Striker Crimson,” Salkirk said. “But this is the hand fate has dealt our nation.”
Yes, Elliot, I’m sure you’re choked up about it. Samuel shook his head. “There has to be another way. Let me take Redstripe and make another attempt at Graytop. This time, I’ll know better than to stop for a duel. We’ll roll as many field guns and Warsuits as we can muster and pummel their redoubts until they break—"
“It’s too late, Sam.” Davids sighed. “Your Warsuit has already been taken north.”
Samuel blanched. “How?” he demanded after several silent moments. “To transport something that large beyond enemy li
nes undetected… it’s not possible.”
“It took some creativity, that’s for certain.” Salkirk tapped the desk. “Two Quarish ships were intercepted north of the Bay of Rust, delivering supplies to the enemy via the east estuary. We had them commandeered in order to transport Redstripe and the re-acquired Southern Virtue north.”
The Virtue? He means Retribution. The damned machine had to still be damaged from the Edinville fight. No sooner had Samuel begun to ponder over that than the other part of what Salkirk said registered. “Quarish ships- the crew, are they alright?” Samuel demanded, leaning forward in his seat. The small island nation had been the cause of the Xang conflict to begin with. Arkenia had interfered with Xang’s hostile takeover of their neighboring island. Samuel and thousands of other had fought for Quarish independence, seeing their struggle as analogous to Arkenia’s own during their revolution against Lytan. Even if his nation was forced to abandon the conflict, and even if Quar supported the North, Samuel could never condone harm against them.