by Edward Nile
"I'm honestly not sure. The last guy they sent got sick. All I know is I'm being sent to tour the place, make sure they've really shut down their weapons manufacturing before the president signs whatever needs to be signed." He tapped some ash from the tip of his smoke before returning it to his mouth. "It all seems pretty symbolic for the most part. After all, if Xang really wanted to hide things, I'm sure they could easily enough. Especially from one man.”
"Doesn't sound like a soldier's job," Beatrice replied, her back turned to him as she chopped. "Why send you?"
"I guess I was never that great a soldier." Not like Yanny.
Beatrice cooked a stew of beef and vegetables. Aldren was apprehensive. The food smelled alright, but he remembered his mother's cooking too well not to be skeptical. Beatrice Mal had many talents, but preparing a meal had never numbered among them.
She laid out three bowls and sat across from Aldren. He glanced from the extra bowl up to a single black and white photograph adorning an otherwise bare section of wall across from it. Yannick, dressed in his uniform, smiling like the fool he was.
"Dig in," Beatrice said.
Aldren blew on his spoon before his first bite. The stew was saltier than he would have liked, but… It's not bad! "Ma, maybe life in the sticks really is a good fit for you!"
"Savior above, I don't know if I like the sound of that." She said it with a smile and took a dainty bite herself. "I've been practicing, though. Gone are the days I could traipse down to a restaurant or food stand every time I felt peckish."
"Mhm," Aldren intoned around his food. He tore some bread free from the loaf his mother had placed in the middle of the table. This was the closest he'd had to real food in longer than he cared to remember.
They ate in relative silence under the watchful gaze of Yannick's photo. Aldren's eyes flickered again and again to the third bowl, its steam dissipating as it cooled.
"Should have been me who lost a leg," Aldren voiced his thoughts aloud. "I'd have taken my discharge and stayed out of the war, and Yanny would have still been in the army. Whatever craziness made him defect, he wouldn't have been able to pull it off in the ranks."
Beatrice sniffed. "Soldiers in active duty defect too, Aldren. If that's what your brother wanted, he'd have done it, and probably would have got himself killed sooner in the process."
"I know. Still, I can't help but wonder…" Aldren didn't know how to say it without sounding like an asshole. But the truth was, he was an asshole. A selfish little bastard. Because all Aldren could think of was how he'd be spared the military's shackles had Yannick not sullied their family name. Ma was right, Yannick might have got himself killed either way. But if he'd been shot trying to hop over the Industrialist lines, they could hardly drag a one-legged Aldren back into the service over it.
Brother's dead, and all I care about is how it inconveniences me. Aldren was disgusted with himself.
Then again, judging by the water gathering in his mother's eyes, it wasn't just Aldren suffering because of what Yannick did.
"Ma, Ma!" Aldren came around the table. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."
"No, it's my fault." Beatrice buried her face in Aldren's shirt and let out a muffled sob. "I'm a horrible mother."
"No, Ma—"
"Yes I am!" She gripped him tight as her mascara ran in black streaks. "I was never ready to have children, so I clung to my stupid little dreams instead of taking responsibility. You both should have had the chance to grow up in a place like this, a place where people are good and the streets aren't filled with trash. I should have realized it wasn't about me anymore, that my boys were what mattered. Now… my boys." She collapsed into another sobbing fit, hot tears soaking through Aldren's shirt.
"They killed one of my boys, and now they won't let you go. They won't stop until both my babies are gone. I feel like I'm being punished."
"Ma," Aldren took her chin in his hand and looked her in the eye. "I promise you, no matter what, I'm coming back."
Her lips quivered. Tears continued to fall as she blinked, further blotching her makeup.
Aldren sighed. A distraction, he needed something to take her mind off all this talk of death. Hell, he needed a change of subject. "Brought you something." He made the silver chain appear out of his sleeve, an old trick he'd learned from a Talenport card shark as a boy. Tiny diamonds glittered throughout the necklace.
"Oh, it's pretty," Beatrice murmured, taking the necklace in her hand.
She threw it across the room and slapped Aldren full in the face.
"What. Did. I. Tell. You. About. Stealing?" She punctuated each word with another strike, her hands surprisingly swift.
"Ma, I swear, I bought it!" He might as well have, for how much trouble it'd been to grab.
"Don’t lie to me! The last thing I need is for you to wind up in prison once the damn government's done with you." Beatrice's barrage of slaps tapered off, but she continued to glare at him as she cleared the table. She heaved a breath. "Do I at least have a few days with you before you ship off, this time?"
Aldren shook his stinging, aching head. The woman knew how to dole out a beating, when she had a mind to. "Sorry Ma, I get a ride to the train station in the morning. Mutton didn't even want me delaying this long."
"That pickle-dick butcher. Maybe I'll blow him up and get it done right."
"Sshh, Ma," Aldren hissed. "Don't even joke about that. We're in enough shit as it is."
"Right, because he's still blaming you for what your brother did. Shit, even if you had been in on it, what's the point of punishing people for what they believed in? Isn't the war over?"
Is it? The Dalbrook job flashed through Aldren's mind. The sudden, lurching fear as the partially constructed Warsuit shoved aside the canvas and opened fire.
"Aldy?" Beatrice said, using a nickname he'd outgrown two decades ago. "You're shaking."
"Of course the war's done, Ma," he said softly. "And this, this is the last job. I get my discharge as soon as I'm back. Then, I'm home for good. One more trip. No shooting, no mess."
"I hope you're right, my brave boy." She nestled her head in his chest and hugged him tight.
Me too. He patted her back. Me too.
They drank and played card games late into the night, exchanging stories all the while. Aldren tried to omit the more dangerous things he'd been involved in, sticking to relatively safe accounts of bar brawls and skirt chasing.
Later, once he was sure Beatrice had gone to sleep in her room upstairs, Aldren crept into the kitchen, carrying an envelope stuffed with his advance pay. He stuck it in a cupboard for his mother to find later. He kept a couple hundred marks for his travel expenses. It still felt like more than he needed.
The cloudy morning sprinkled the countryside with lazy flakes of snow which landed, nearly invisible, on Beatrice's white fur coat. About her neck she wore the silver and diamond necklace Aldren had stolen for her.
The car manifested out of the alabaster horizon, spurting puffs of black smoke which stained the snow to either side. It rolled through the perfect carpet of white and came to a stop in front of the farmhouse.
Aldren picked up his rucksack. "Alright, Ma, see you in a month or two."
She pulled him into the tightest hug he'd ever endured.
"Remember," his mother murmured into his coat. "Remember what you promised. Come home safe."
Aldren hugged her back and kissed the top of her head. "Ma, you keep crying like this, you might as well tattoo that makeup on. I know a guy."
She laughed at that, breaking the embrace and wiping the corners of her eyes. "Alright, go. Before I change my mind and make you clean up cow shit, Mutton be damned."
Aldren winked. "Xang doesn't sound so bad after all. I'll write you."
"You'd better. And stay safe."
Aldren waved back at his mother as she shrank behind the moving automobile. Why'd you go and do that, Al? he wondered. Same as always, making promises you don't know you c
an keep.
*
"Right here, Mr. King."
The door to the constabulary holding cell creaked open.
"Wouldn't tell us who he was," the constable said, stepping aside to let James' visitor in.
"Worried I'd fire you, Peckle?" Matthew Kaizer said. Or, at least James thought it was Matthew. He wore a sharp suit, perfectly tailored for his gut and broad shoulders, and his hair was neatly combed back.
"Uh..." James began.
"And right you should be, you damned drunk!" Matthew snapped. "I just had to post your bail, and you better believe it's coming out of your payroll."
James' head throbbed. He felt around until his fingers brushed against a tender bump where he'd hit the side of Ironshield's cockpit, when the thieves attacked him. Everything after that was a bit hazy. His saber…
"My s—"
"Yes, your salary. Well you can kiss that promotion goodbye. You're on hourly wages, no overtime. Don't think I'll pay the doctor to look after you either. I swear if we weren't short staffed, I'd let you rot here. Constable, am I good to take this worthless lout back to work?"
"You signed all the paperwork." The man sounded bemused. "Think you might wish we'd kept you here after all, scruffy. You go ahead and stay away from the scrapyard, y'hear?"
James replied with a dumb nod while Matthew led him out by the arm. Soon enough, they were out of the constabulary and in Matthew's motorcar.
Matthew cast him a sideways glare as he drove. "What had I just warned you not to do?"
"I know," James said. "I know, I'm sorry. Matt, they stole my sa—"
"You're lucky I thought to look for you," Matthew rode over him. "I almost decided to give you a few days to yourself to settle at the hotel. But I had an itch, a worry that reckless Jim Edstein wouldn't be able to go one night without risking his neck. And lo and behold! You break into the Warsuit graveyard. Only thing is it's not just your neck on the chopping block, Jim. If the military finds out the Ironshield is here, it won't take them long to piece together who my employees and I are."
"Matt—"
"Thank fuck you didn't give up completely and tell them who you are. But they'd have found out eventually, mark my words on that. And next time I could be too busy to scour the town looking for y—"
"Matt, they took my saber!"
Matthew hit the brakes, sending James lurching forward in his seat as the motorcar skidded to a halt. Once they were stopped, Matthew peered into the rearview mirror, then turned completely to study the road behind them. "You actually brought it with you?" he hissed. "Are you out of your Goddamned MIND, James?!"
"I wasn't going to leave it unattended—"
"That thing should be at the bottom of a damned river! Savior above, if the constables have that sword, they'll be reporting it to the military within the hour. The only reason they'd let us go is so we'd think we're in the clear." Matthew hit the steering wheel with his forehead. "Fuck, fuck fuck fuck!"
"It wasn't the constables who took it, Matt—"
"Fuck - what?" He lifted his head. "Who, then, the guard at the scrap heap?"
James shook his head, then told Matthew about the masked thieves he'd followed into the graveyard. "They wanted to take me, too, but the guard and his dog showed up."
Matthew closed his eyes with a shuddering sigh. "Well, that's one disaster averted." He put the car back in gear and started driving once more.
"What do you mean? Matt, they took the Ironshield saber! And they were poking around the graveyard, desecrating our Warsuits, the Warsuits you and your father built. How is that good news?"
"Nothing those idiots do is good news, but one thing they won't do is rat you out to the state."
James wrung his hands. "You're missing the point. I need to get that blade back."
"No, you don't. Maybe this whole thing is a blessing in disguise. They can keep the saber and you can really start anew."
"It was my father's sword—"
"Don't talk to me about fathers!" Matthew snapped. "You think you're the only one who's had to watch your old man's legacy die? At least you know what happened to Heinrich. Those Southern bastards won't even admit they took my dad, let alone what they did to him. All I have to remember him by is a bunch of useless knowledge about how to build illegal engines. Not a sword, not a journal, not even a pocket watch. I lost everything there was to remind me of him at Quarrystone. And you know what I did, Jim? I accepted it, put my head down, and tried to do some good. To help people like us rebuild our lives as best we could. I am not going to jeopardize that so you can steal back your dad's favorite piece of cutlery. Let it go."
"Tell me who they are." James wanted to grab his friend, to shake and hit him until he understood how much this mattered.
"No."
"Where do I find them?"
"I said no."
"What would they even want with it? Why were they there?"
Matthew turned a sharp corner and brought the car to an abrupt halt in front of the hotel.
"Ride's over," he said. "When you decide to un-stick your cranium from your ass and face reality, come find me at the factory and I'll give you a job. But if you pursue this, best forget you ever knew me." He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. "You got mail, by the way. Should have mentioned you gave out my address."
James studied the handwriting on the envelope. "My wife," he said. "Sorry, I forgot to mention she'd be writing."
"Savior's name, Jim, I was happy for you when you said you’d married. But that was when I thought you’d grown some sense. Why on earth would you want to drag a wife into this mess of yours?"
"You opened it?" James asked, noting the broken seal.
Matthew drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Was the only way to know who it was for. Want my advice? Forget the past and live a normal life. For your sake, and hers. Now get out. I've got a business to run."
The hotel's ground floor had a dark, smoky atmosphere. The baggy-eyed innkeeper, Gus, watched James as he headed for the staircase. The man had spoken maybe five words in James' presence since he'd arrived.
Entering his room, James closed the door behind him, sat in his only chair, and yanked the letter free of its envelope, already wondering what he'd do, if Annabelle was on her way.
He need not have worried.
James.
I can't express enough what meeting you meant to me. The excitement, the danger, it was all so sudden and wild and freeing that I got drunk on it, drunk on you. But it's also opened my eyes to how dark and uncertain a place the world is, and how lonely a life on the road with you will be. I can't spend the rest of my days going from place to place, always looking over my shoulder, always wondering if you're coming home to me or if you've been captured or killed.
So, I took your advice. I've returned to my parents' estate. And I'm staying here. I would enclose divorce papers, but seeing as our marriage was never legal to begin with, I think this letter should suffice.
James, my man of iron, I am so very sorry I couldn't be what you wanted me to be. I wish you only the best.
With all my love, Annabelle.
P.S. I told them nothing of where you went. They asked their questions and let me be. Stay safe.
James read and re-read the letter, trying to figure out just how he felt. There was a cavernous hole inside him, a hollow, echoing place. But that wasn't new. Annabelle had never managed to fill that gap, never managed to make James feel complete in the way he had during the height of the war. Back then, actions had a purpose. With Annabelle, James had never known why he was there, where they'd go or when. Then, as now, he was aimless, trying to envision any future that mattered.
Was this a surprise? James searched inside, probing his emotions like tender wounds. No, he realized. I'd have been shocked if she showed up. This was where things had been headed from the start, from the moment he lured her from the safety and security of her luxurious home to the backwater slums of the far north. Their marria
ge had been a dream, a fantasy.
And it was over.
Start anew, that was what Matthew told him. Start a new life. But what could James do, if that life didn't seem worth living? How long could he drag his own empty shell through the motions before he succumbed to the terrible nothingness in his soul?
James propped the letter up against his lamp and leaned back.
Matthew was right, again. The war was over, and James didn't want it back. But he needed something. Some project, some purpose or goal. And building tractors wouldn't cut it.
First and foremost, he needed his father's saber back.
Chapter 19
Samuel sipped his coffee and tried not to let his wife's glare get to him. Leanne had been furious enough at having to learn about the first attempt on her husband's life from the morning newspaper. But now, a second attack had been carried out, and Samuel's response was to do...
Well, nothing.
"Have a scone, dear," Samuel said with a nod to the basket of pastries. "You look hungry."
"I look angry. Or scared. I don't know which is worse, right now," Leanne snapped. "Maybe I'd enjoy our afternoon tea better if I didn't have to wonder if it's been poisoned."
Samuel picked up a scone and took a bite. "Satisfied?" he said around a mouthful of food.
Leanne scoffed. “I see Paulson’s manners are rubbing off on you.”
"You hired most of our staff," Samuel pointed out once he'd washed down the scone with a sip of coffee. "Do you honestly think Erica or her girls are assassins?"
"How should I know?" Leanne cried. "We have no idea who's trying to kill you or why."
"There's been at least one piece of evidence," Samuel noted.
"A pin," Leanne said. "And a forgery, by your own admission. It proves nothing."
"So you don't think there's any chance Industrialists are the ones wanting me dead?" Samuel asked. "Even after what Salkirk put out there about me, and about Quarrystone?"
"Don't remind me of that," Leanne almost snarled.