Ironshield

by Edward Nile

  Samuel had dropped his own weapon when he fell. His world slowed as he inched his hand toward it, knowing he’d be too late.

  The black hat man leveled his gun on him. Tires squealed somewhere nearby, the sound muffled beneath the ring in Samuel’s ears.

  It caught his attacker’s attention, though, and the black hat man spun about.

  The side of a black automobile slammed into him, knocking the assassin through the air to sprawl in a heap onto the dirt.

  “Shit!” Paulson, red faced and with a torn sleeve from his struggle through the mob, climbed out of the driver’s seat. “Sam, I swear I tried to hit the brakes. God, is he alright- Sam, what on earth are you doing?!”

  Samuel ignored his secretary. He dragged the groaning assassin by his collar and slammed him against the hood of the car. The black hat man’s eyes rolled back in his skull.

  Samuel slapped him. “Oh, no,” he growled. “Not this time. You’re going to tell me who hired you before you di—" Something whistled by Samuel’s ear. The assassin’s head smacked against the car, spraying blood across the hood. A bullet hole had sprouted in his forehead.

  “Get down!” Samuel ducked and raised his gun, looking from rooftop to rooftop before realizing how foolish it was to try facing off a sniper with a derringer.

  “Sam!” Paulson shouted as he climbed back behind the wheel. “Just get in the cunting car!”

  He dove into the passenger seat and Paulson put the car in gear, nearly colliding with a frantic herd of pedestrians as he screeched off, letting the assassin’s corpse slide off the hood and onto the ground.

  Samuel kept his head down, sure he’d just been lucky, that at any instant the sniper would reload and put rounds through the windshield. When they were more than a block away, Samuel dared believe they were in the clear. Everything rushed in on him, the thoughts and fears he hadn’t let surface in the heat of the moment.

  He’d nearly been killed, and there was nothing he could have done about it. Combat was one thing – that, he knew- but this? Being struck at in civilian territory, never knowing when he could breathe easy? It was something entirely new to him. And it was getting other people, civilian people, hurt.

  “Pass me that,” Samuel demanded.

  Paulson didn’t need to ask what he meant. Samuel’s hand shook as he took his secretary’s flask. He stopped himself at three gulps and wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he handed it back.

  Paulson took a pull himself, all the while weaving the automobile from side to side.

  “Easy, Edmund,” Samuel warned. That was when he saw Paulson’s revolver sitting in the back seat, its barrel trailing a faint smoke. Of course, the shots he’d heard earlier…

  “Had to get the car to you and people weren’t getting out of the way, so I fired into the air a couple times.”

  Samuel grunted. “I don’t know why I let you carry a gun.”

  “My God given right as an Arkenian?”

  “Maybe that’s what I’ll change, if I live long enough to be elected.” Samuel leaned back and closed his eyes. Paulson had just saved his life. The black hat man had the drop on him until his secretary showed up.

  Was that the plan, though? He replayed the attacker’s death in his mind. With even the most ungainly rifle, the sniper would have been able to chamber another cartridge and fire in time to finish the job. Which begged the question, was Samuel supposed to die? Or did someone just want him scared?

  If it was the latter, they were doing a fine job of things so far.

  Chapter 16

  For the past several hours, all James had heard was the crunch of gravel beneath his boots, and the rustle of dry branches in the cold wind.

  His breath smoked in the chill air, but beneath the layers of his coat and knitted shirt, the heat was stifling, the long hours of walking working him into a sweat. This, added to the grime of an already long, uncomfortable trip, made for a ripe stench. His sore feet no doubt smelled worse.

  Days of walking, interrupted by brief rides from strangers between towns, had brought James to the factory and farming town of Helmsburg. He’d taken the last leg of his journey stuffed between hay bales in the open bed of a small truck. Luckily, neither the farmer behind the wheel, nor any of James' other rides, had shown too much curiosity about who he was or why he was on the road. They'd either been too absorbed in telling their own stories to care, or hadn't cared to speak at all. Still, each time he was dropped off James watched the road ahead, wondering if that driver would be the one to tip off constables or military. He'd gone as far as to dive into ditches or underbrush at the sight of a military truck in the distance.

  With dirty, mud-stained clothes, stinking of sweat and carrying luggage suitable for a drifter, James was sure he'd come across as a tramp when he got to where he was headed. The wild beard, which he'd allowed to grow thick over the past year as part of his false identity in Goethegar, certainly didn’t add any respectability to his appearance.

  James trudged the gravel path winding uphill beneath a canopy of skeletal trees. Unless something had changed, and the signs he'd seen along the highway were out of date, James was on his way to the correct place. By necessity, he couldn't have kept mailing them back and forth to stay posted on matters in Helmsburg. Any number of things could have happened over the past several months.

  James passed a few motorcars parked in a small lot. A good sign, maybe. A year ago, only a select few could afford to own personal vehicles, and most of those in government. The end of the war changed that. One arguably positive trade-off to the end of the Industrialist secession was that it had left a lot of talented engineers and manufacturers with nothing to build. It didn't take long for men and women whose livelihoods had been the construction of war engines to turn to civilian needs to fill the gap. A year ago, James would have had to assume these cars belonged to state functionaries. Now? They could be just about anyone’s.

  James hurried past the lot. He didn’t get far before seeing trucks, many already laden full of large crates. Piles of pallets sat on a gravel-strewn yard, supported on concrete blocks to elevate them from the ground. Also a good sign.

  Hearing machinery ahead, James followed the sound, rounding a bend in the trees to find himself in the shadow of a large aluminum-sided warehouse. With a gun to his face.

  "Ah shit, another goddamn vagrant," one of two men facing James spat. "This here's private property, pal."

  They wore dusty, oil-stained overalls and wiry beards. Both had their sleeves rolled up despite the cold, revealing burly, vascular arms.

  "I'm here to see a friend." James raised his hands above his head.

  "Ain't no friends here, drifter. Just working men."

  "This still the King tractor factory? Richard King is my friend."

  "He ain't in. Now turn back the way you came.”

  “Easy now!" the one pointing the rifle said when James dropped his arms.

  James ignored him. "Were you always this bad a liar, Ven Bower, or did you just get rusty since your gambling days at Quarrystone? Tell your man to put down the goddamn rifle and take me to Matt."

  Both men's jaws went slack. Ven squinted, as though peering past the beard and grime.

  "By the Savior," he breathed. "Chester, put the gun down."

  "Who the hell is he, then?" Chester demanded.

  "It's Edstein, you dolt," Ven snapped. "Now, stand down!"

  Face going pale, Chester lowered his rifle, bobbing his head like a nervous schoolboy. "I'm sorry Commander Edstein! I didn't recognize—"

  "Can't be a commander without an army," James said. "Now, I've had a long trip. Matt?"

  "Of course, Sir, we'll take you to his office."

  James didn't know what he expected. A factory floor filled with Industrialist fugitives, people who refused to sign the Surrender Pacts, refused to renounce their actions and throw themselves at the whim of Southern mercy. He'd worried he'd find a den of warmongers, everyone itching to re-open the conflict, eag
er to drag him back into a lost cause. It was one reason he'd stayed away, carved his own path apart from his former comrades. True, he and Matthew had had to split up after Quarrystone regardless - it had been their best bet at evading capture - but James could have joined his friend any time after. He told himself time and again it was for Annabelle's sake that he hadn't, to give her as close to a normal life as he could. But James knew in the depths of his soul that he'd stayed away because he was afraid.

  He couldn't handle another Quarrystone, couldn't watch his people be slaughtered, defenseless, ever again.

  As it turned out, James needn't have worried.

  Men looked up from their welding torches and assembly lines. All around were the parts for farming vehicles like the ones James had spotted outside. Short of the rifle Chester carried, no one seemed armed. They were, however, curious.

  James tried his best not to lock eyes with the men and women who scrutinized him, while at the same time getting a look at every face he could, trying to piece together who he did and didn't recognize. An army was a big, expansive beast. James could very well have fought alongside many of these people without ever having shared a word. Especially when he'd been in Ironshield's cockpit.

  "Commander Edstein?" A man close to his own age said. James thought he might have seen him among the dust-caked figures fleeing Quarrystone.

  This set the entire factory buzzing, everyone halting their work, peeking around machinery to get a better look at James.

  "Alright, you nosy slackers, back to work!" Ven called.

  No one obeyed. They squinted at James, trying to peel away the dirt and hair with their eyes and ascertain if this really was their former commander.

  The door to a window-lined office against the far wall swung open. Matthew Kaizer's hulking form filled the doorway. "What's this I hear about... Jim? Is that you?"

  "Was about to ask you that," James replied. "I hoped you'd discovered vegetables by now."

  Matt crossed the factory floor and gave James one of his trademark hugs, lifting him off his feet in a squeeze so tight James thought the saber strapped to his rucksack would bend, followed by his spine.

  "Come on," Matthew said once he'd given James a moment to readjust his rib cage. "Let's talk in private."

  James didn't know how 'private' this felt, with people looking through the dusty office windows as they pretended to work. But he was relieved to sit in an honest to God chair again, and so were his feet.

  "Haven't heard from you in almost a year," Matthew said as he settled his weight into a creaking chair behind the cluttered desk. "Started to think I never would."

  "I've..." James was thinking of Annabelle. Was her letter en route? Was she okay? James had taken a gamble with more than his own life. If the military hurt her to try getting to him, he'd never forgive himself. "Things got complicated," he said.

  "And you're here now because they're what, simple?"

  James scoffed. "What a world that would be. Soldiers, Matt. Military investigators. They came for me in Goethegar. I barely made it out alive. Another man, a rebel like us, didn't make it at all. I... I never got his name."

  "Goethegar...” Matthew mused, leaning back in his chair. "Must be even smaller than this place, I've never heard of it. North?"

  "As far as I could get. Already snow up that way. It was… quiet, nice."

  "I won't say that sounds boring, but it doesn't really seem your style."

  "You're one to talk." James looked around at the cramped office. “Tractors? Mowers? It's a far cry from Kaizer Engines and Warsuits."

  "And they kill far fewer, too. I can tell what you're thinking Jim, and no, this isn't a front. We're not plotting some second resistance or trying to rebuild the Industrialist arsenal. We were beat, end of story. The men here just wanted to lose with some dignity. Most of them would have signed the Surrender Pacts if it didn't mean condemning everything they'd fought for. Only now, it's too late. They'd have prison time just for waiting, and the military administration would make them give the rest of us up."

  "What if the prison time was worth it? Would you let someone leave your little club, even now?"

  Matthew sighed. "I'd rather not find out what I'd have to do. But you're right, it's bound to happen. What about you, James? You came here, so I guess you're not ready to turn yourself in -I don't blame you, either, seeing as they've already tried to give you the rope- but what is it you plan on doing?"

  Something in Matthew’s voice made the real question clear enough. If not, the way his eyes flickered to James' wrapped saber served as enough of a clue.

  James scratched his beard. "That's behind me," he said after a while. "The Ironshield name is dead, gone. I'm just James, now. That is, until I figure out a new alias. I won't turn myself in to die or spend my life in a cage, but I won't fight anymore either. There'd be no point. Besides..." He trailed off.

  "Besides what, Jim?"

  "I don't know if fighting would be the right thing to do. Maybe it never was. We've had a year of peace, Matt. An entire year without a battle, without watching the eastern shore waiting for one enemy or another to sail in. That's a first since the Revolution. Even after we won, everyone was afraid the Empire’s ships were just over the horizon. Then, there was the Xang War. Now all that’s stopped. How can I argue with those kinds of results?"

  Matthew grinned. "The James Edstein I knew would have found a way. But I can live with this version. Okay, Jim. I've got a place, a hotel in town, sort of a safe house for people like us. I'll give you a room there until we can get a more permanent place squared away."

  "I don't want to be a freeloader," James said quickly. "I'll work, do whatever I can."

  Matthew raised a hand. "I know you will. No rush, though. Factory's overstaffed as it is. Right now, just knowing you're alive and well is payment enough."

  "Thanks, but... I still don't know how I feel about that. Seems the longer I'm alive, the longer I'm free, the more people are put in danger. I have a wife now, Matt, and I can only hope she did what I said and got to safety. If I wasn't sure I'd be shot on the road over here, I would have let her come with me. But I can't lose anyone else. Not since Tessa. I keep thinking I should have been there sooner, that I should have beat her to Ironshield. Then I'd be dead and everyone else would be safer for it."

  Matthew twined his fingers together, his eyes on his desk. "There was nothing you could have done, James. I promise you that."

  "I want to believe you."

  "Then do." Matthew stood and shook James' hand. "I've got work to do here, Jim, and those layabouts won't get anything done while they're busy gawking at you. Someone'll drive you into town and show you the hotel."

  James was just climbing into the car when Matthew touched his arm.

  "I know it's tempting," he said. "But don't go near the graveyard, Jim. It's well-guarded."

  James had almost forgotten that little detail about Helmsburg. "I won't," he assured his friend. "Nothing there but old ghosts, anyway."

  *

  Nathaniel Davids' waiting room had left a bitter taste in Samuel's mouth ever since he was shown the plans for the Quarrystone attack. Today, arriving to find Salkirk already there, was no different.

  The receptionist nodded to Samuel. A different young woman this time, red-haired. She looked nervous, as though she could feel the tension when both senators locked gazes. After the debate, and the second assassination attempt, Samuel hadn't even bothered to look at the newspapers. He was certain he could guess what headlines would be splashed across the front pages. Journalists, he believed, were worse than vultures. At least carrion birds waited until their meal was dead before swooping on the carcass.

  He took his seat opposite Salkirk. Paulson poured himself a drink from the decanter on the coffee table and leaned against the far wall, giving Darian Gaul, who stood beside Salkirk's chair, a wink as he took a sip. "A relief to see you well, Senator Salkirk," Paulson said. "Folk were wondering where you'd gone after t
he explosion. I told them to look under the podium."

  Samuel caught his secretary's eye and shook his head. Not now, Edmund.

  Salkirk flashed his teeth in something a less experienced observer might call a smile. "Your concern is touching, secretary. I trust you've had that pistol of yours looked at? Wouldn't want there to be another accident."

  "You can tell your laundress she has nothing to fear from me, though I recommend avoiding white, in the future."

  "Enough, both of you," Samuel snapped. He had no patience for pointless bickering. His reputation was being dragged through a river of shit and someone was trying to have him killed. There was nothing to say to Elliot Salkirk, not without the president as witness. The blasted man had taken his political maneuvering too far, this time. Davids would have to put Salkirk in his place, loathe as Samuel was to have the existing Commander in Chief interfere in matters between two men vying for his position. He could only justify it by reminding himself that Davids, along with Salkirk, had put him into his current predicament to begin with.

  The bell rang.

  "The president will s-"

  "We know what the bell means, little lady," Salkirk said as he stood. Even interrupting someone, the bastard managed to sound smooth.

  Paulson began to follow Samuel, but the receptionist cleared her throat. "The appointment is with the senators, unless President Davids says otherwise."

  "It's fine, Edmund," Samuel said. "Just take a seat.”

  Salkirk pulled the door open and held it for Samuel with a mock bow.

  Samuel couldn't tell if his opponent was truly unconcerned about the repercussions of his actions or if he merely masked his anxiety. Either way, Samuel wasn't about to be petty. He took a step inside, then turned around, thinking to warn his secretary off overdoing the liquor. He found the man already refilling his glass and decided there was no point in trying.