Ironshield

by Edward Nile

  "I refuse your resignation." Samuel proffered the letter back to Paulson.

  "It's a free country, Senator, so to be frank you can shove that letter up your ass for all I care. I'm not asking permission."

  Samuel squared off with his secretary, trying to grasp at just what felt off about this. Was Paulson really going to leave on some off chance for Samuel to save face?

  "You're going to do something, aren't you?” Samuel voiced his suspicion out loud. "Something to expose Salkirk. Something illegal."

  "Course not." Paulson grabbed his coat off a chair and moved for the door. "After all, if I did, and a ranking politician knew about it, he'd be implicated. All the better that you've fired me, though, just in case."

  "Paulson, wait." Samuel strode over to his friend before he could leave. "You can't really mean to do this."

  Paulson gave Samuel a sad smile. The light from the hearth in an otherwise dark room cast half his face in shadow. He looked thinner, older. Tired. "I have to, Sam. When I see Ellen next, I want her to be proud, to know I've done my best by you."

  "He can't do this," Leanne said after the door closed. "Savior knows I've had my differences with the man, but he'll ruin himself. His reputation, what little there is, his wife's—"

  "I can't stop him," Samuel interrupted, turning the letter over in his hands. "Not without having him thrown in a cell. Then, he'd certainly be ruined." 'If you trust me at all, Sam...' His trust. That was all Edmund Paulson had ever asked of Samuel. To trust in his mad ways. And the blasted drunk had always come through and earned it.

  "What are you doing?!"

  Samuel threw the letter into the hearth and watched it burn. "Fetch me a pen and paper if you will, Dear. I have a letter to write."

  *

  Really hope no one hits me again, James thought as he trudged up the path to Ivan's hideout. Or that they at least avoid the face this time. The black eye he'd earned at the Warsuit graveyard had turned all sorts of interesting shades over the days, and the opposite side of his jaw was still tender where Matthew had clocked him. That, along with the aches and sores all over his body from the recent fight with Tessa, as well as residual bruises from Goethegar, had James feeling like a piece of tenderized meat.

  But here he was, exposing himself to another potential beating. And James wasn't even sure why.

  He'd woken up today determined he'd do something, take part in something. At first he figured on volunteering at Matthew's factory, but his pride won out. James wasn't ready to prostrate himself and apologize, not when he'd done nothing wrong. Alone in a strange town, that left James with one place to go.

  But was it really pride? Much as James wanted to deny it, he felt like some part of him didn't want to make peace with Matthew, if for no other reason than to create an excuse.

  An excuse to see Tessa.

  She hates you. So, what are you doing, walking up on a secret operation unannounced? Be a lucky break if you don't get shot and for what? For Theodore Kolms' daughter to give you the cold shoulder? It was nothing he hadn't told himself half a dozen times on the long, chilly walk, but James didn't stop. He wasn't going to be a soldier again, wasn't going to fight. That didn't mean he'd lay about, a useless transient in a cheap hotel.

  He heard the crunch of boots on frosted leaves before a man's voice spoke from somewhere to his left.

  "Hands up.”

  The sentries blindfolded him. James didn't see the point, as he clearly knew where he was, but he let them carry out their procedure. One of the men even apologized as they bound his hands in front of him, calling him 'Mr. Ironshield, Sir.'

  He was marched blind through the woods. Ten minutes or so later came the clang of a metal door, and solid steps beneath his feet.

  James' escorts sat him down in a chair somewhere. He waited, shoulders slumped as he relaxed into his seat. I wonder if Ivan changed his mind on that open invitation, after all.

  Someone smacked James on the back of the head.

  "Ow!" He pulled his blindfold off and spun in his chair. Tessa's open hand came rushing at his face. Ivan caught her by the wrist before she could land the second blow.

  "Quit it."

  "He could have been followed!" She snarled. "Worse, he could have led the enemy here on purpose."

  "I'm no moron, and I'm no rat," James said, losing his temper. "And I'm more wanted than any of you, so watch who you call a traitor."

  "Exactly why you being seen coming our way puts everyone here in danger. Let me go, Uncle!" Tessa wrenched her arm free of Ivan's grip and rubbed her wrist, her angry stare fixed on James. "You haven't exactly been a shining example of stealth so far, Edstein."

  James grinned. Even that expression was painful to his bruised face. "I'm getting in lots of practice these days."

  "Tessa, out." Ivan pointed to the door of the bare little room.

  "But, Uncle, I—"

  He snapped his fingers. "Out!"

  Tessa let out a huff. She slammed the door closed behind her as she left.

  "Her temper's been getting bad, even for a Kolms." Ivan scraped a chair from the corner of the room and sat across from James. That was when James saw his saber, which the sentries had taken off him, leaning against the wall. In his sight, where it belonged.

  "My showing up didn't seem to help."

  Ivan chortled. "Nothing worse for a young woman's mood than to have a boy get her confused. She had no idea where you were all this time, Jim. None of us did."

  "Hey, I'm in the same boat." James shifted in his seat. "Matt didn't tell me about any of you, either. Not even Tess." He bit back the rage that roiled inside him on that particular point. "I thought she was dead, Ivan. I thought she'd been killed in... in Ironshield. Savior, I watched it happen. I watched Redstripe's gun stick into the cockpit and fire. To see her now, alive and, well, kicking? It’s like seeing a ghost. How'd she do it?"

  Ivan heaved a sigh and reached into the front pocket of his boiler suit. "Don't suppose you took up smoking, since I saw you last?"

  James shook his head. "But you go ahead."

  "Much obliged." Ivan pulled a thin cigar free, bit the end off, and spat it onto the floor.

  James waited as his old comrade lit up and took a long pull, blowing out a stream of blue-gray smoke that filled the air with a semi-sweet aroma.

  "Now, what I'm going to tell you stays between us. I mean that, Jim. Tess finds out I've been blabbing her business to you, she'll be whooping me next."

  "Deal." James' wrists chaffed from the straps binding him, but that could wait. He leaned forward, listening. "I need to know."

  "Suppose you do." Ivan let out another pungent cloud and regarded James for several wordless moments. He leaned back a bit and stroked his beard, which was significantly better groomed than James' own. "She crawled down through the engine works, right before Mutton shot out the cockpit. Used a hatch at the bottom end and climbed her way down the service rungs along Ironshield's leg."

  "You're joking." James leaned back in his own chair, dumbfounded. "But that's... Ivan, you've seen what Ironshield's insides look like. Warsuits haven't been built to accommodate engineering crews during combat since the first Kaizers. You're trying to tell me she navigated through that with seconds to spare, without getting crushed or burned? Did Matt and his dad teach her something I don't know about my Warsuit?"

  Ivan put a palm out. "Don't ask me how she managed it, Jim. The girl barely talks to me about that day, and I'm family. She's always been a quick one, though, I'll give her that."

  "Yeah..." James agreed. "Quick." He'd seen the inside of Ironshield and other Warsuits like it. A hellish meat grinder of gears and pistons, glowing dull red from the intense heat of burning diesel in an enclosed metal kiln. James had trouble imagining a field mouse getting through that maw unscathed, let alone a grown woman, no matter how slender. Escaping a Warsuit that way had been theorized, talked about. The conclusion every time was that it was preferable to be captured by the enemy or face a q
uick death in the cockpit, rather than be ground between the hellish cogs of a Kaizer Engine.

  And Tessa, little Tessa, had traveled through that?

  "I never wanted this for her," James said. "Any of it. You know that's why I pushed her away, right?"

  "It's not what any of us had in mind for the girl, Jim, but it's what she wanted. And, one way or another, Tess gets what she wants." Ivan plucked the diminishing cigar from his mouth and blew smoke through his nostrils with a shrug. "Most of the time, that is."

  "I'm still trying to process all of this. Your operation, Tess's survival. Everything."

  "I hear you, boy. Maybe she'll help unpack some of it, if you get her on her good side." Ivan tilted his head. "That could take a while. Especially if you've thrown your lot in with Matthew's pacifists." There was an obvious question behind the statement.

  "Don't know about that." James rubbed his jaw. "Matt and me aren't speaking right now. I've got a few more days at the hotel, then I'm on my own."

  Ivan grinned, flashing a pair of gold teeth that shone in contrast to his tobacco- stained real ones. "So you came by to join the fold, eh? Damn, that's the best news we've had in a while."

  "Hold on there, didn't say I was joining up."

  "Then why are you here? Not gonna mend any bridges with Matt by paying me a visit."

  "This isn't about him or the cause or whatever you call it. I just... I guess I want to spend some time among my own, whatever that means now. I need something to do, something to keep my hands busy. Something that doesn't involve killing."

  Ivan crushed his cigar into an overflowing ash tray. "Those Warsuits on our floor aren't ornamental, Jim. This here's a killing operation."

  "Of course, and I'm not looking to convince you otherwise. Whatever it is I can do as a non-combatant while I figure things out, I'll do it. Shit, I'll mop floors if that's what it takes, just make me part of something again."

  Ivan's grin returned. He stood and grabbed James by his bound wrists. "Welcome home." Ivan pulled James to his feet and cut him free with a deft motion. "We'll set up a cot for you."

  "Thanks, but no," James replied. "At least not yet. I'll finish my stay at Matt's hotel, figure out what I want from there. But I'm available to work, if you'll have me."

  Ivan clapped him on the shoulder. Cringing from one of his innumerable bruises, James wished he hadn't.

  "Hell, kid, you can start today! Let's get you a broom."

  **

  When the first explosion sounded outside, Aldren ducked.

  More projectiles whistled and burst, their incendiary lights shining multicolored flashes through his room's thin curtains.

  In Aldren's mind, he saw dirt cascading off sundered trench walls, men sent flying like ragdolls by heavy ordnance that shook the earth.

  But those explosives hadn't given off such bright, colorful light.

  Come on, keep it together. Most days, Aldren managed to hold back the worst of the memories from his time on the battlefield. Here in Xang, he needed to be especially clear headed, not a frightened jack rabbit.

  Crouched, he inched his way to the balcony door and peeled a curtain back. Embroidered silk, only the best for a foreign diplomat.

  Another screeching whistle as something bright wriggled its way into the smoky night air. When it exploded in a huge flower of bright gold, red, and purple sparks, Alden forced himself not to drop to the floor.

  They're not aimed at you. The building would have been hit by now. You'd have felt it. Aldren stood and yanked the curtains open completely.

  Another explosion filled the sky with light, bursting orbs of varying color overlapping even as more shooting stars ascended from the earth to join them.

  Dumbfounded, Aldren opened the balcony doors and stepped out into the warm night breeze. Below, the city streets swarmed with people waving banners and kites in the shapes of tigers, legged serpents, and other fantastical creatures Aldren couldn't name. Some shot off small, sparkling incendiaries that cracked like gunfire and were met with a cacophony of cheers that challenged the music of several performers plying their craft throughout the mob.

  It was, as best as Aldren could tell, the biggest party he'd ever seen. He smiled. Guess it's not so bad here after all. Mayla had certainly done her part to fill him with dread, but her country was under threat of Xangese occupation. He could hardly expect her to be an unbiased source.

  Before he retired to his room for the night, Aldren had been given a care package by Genlu. Along with some Xangese coin and a book of common phrases, it included a map of their planned route through the countryside.

  Aldren was heading to his bedside table to get the coins before he thought about what he was doing.

  I manage to get myself in enough hot water in places where I do know the language and the law. Do I really want to test my luck here?

  He flicked on the paper lamp on the table and opened the package. I'll keep my mouth shut, he decided. And I'll keep my hands to myself. Just an observer. This is a diplomatic thing, after all.

  The small canvas bag was empty.

  Aldren tried to spin about, but was knocked off balance by a blow to the back of his knees and fell forward onto his bed. He scrambled to turn and face his attacker, flicking a punch dagger from his sleeve into his palm.

  A wiry hand caught his wrist, giving it a savage twist and digging into the skin with sharp nails. His attacker pinned his knife hand behind his back as he cried out, keeping the other trapped under their knee. A cold blade pressed against the side of his neck.

  "You're dead," Mayla hissed in his ear. "The safest place in Xang you could hope for, and you're dead. Because you're not as good at this as you think, Sargent Mal." She put her curved knife away with a deft motion and slipped off Aldren. "So, how long do you think you'll last out there on your own?"

  Must have left my door unlocked, Aldren rationalized, feeling along his neck. He knew that wasn't true, though. "Seems the only person out to hurt me is you, so I'd probably be pretty well off." He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

  Mayla smirked. "You're not as funny as you think you are, either."

  "Good thing I still have my good looks." Aldren sat on the edge of the bed. "If you're here for a good time, I'll need a drink or two first. Knives to the neck turn little Aldy soft as a rotten banana." He was mostly joking. Somehow, Mayla’s tight-fitting men's garb managed to accentuate her form more than some burlesque outfits Aldren had seen.

  Mayla sniffed. "Your things are under there." She jerked her chin toward Aldren's pillow.

  "What's going on outside, anyway?" Aldren asked as he retrieved his belongings.

  "The Great Dao's birthday," Mayla answered.

  "Lots of celebrating, for a guy the people are supposed to hate."

  "You're welcome to go join them and find out for yourself. If the guards let you." She stalked off into the shadows.

  Aldren turned to his door in time to see it close behind her without a sound. Where does Mutton find these people? From a fat drunkard secretary who managed to make Aldren’s shorthairs stand on end to an eastern pixie who could beat him in a knife fight, the senator certainly kept strange and frightening company.

  Once Aldren had his Xangese coins stuffed in his jacket, and the phrase book snugly in his back pocket, he made his way out into the warmly lit hallway. He half expected Mayla to be there waiting to ambush him again, but Aldren was alone.

  He made his way to the ground floor before a pair of guards harried him in fast-talking Xangese, gesturing for him to go back to his room.

  Aldren knew he was probably being ridiculous, but something inside told him these men, both armed with pistols at their hips, might not be privy enough to the politically sensitive nature of his visit to treat him with care if he didn't comply. Or, worse, they did know his purpose here, and were unaffected by it. But Aldren quashed that bit of apprehension. He was letting the woman get inside his head.

  Just a couple of underpaid g
oons, Al, he told himself, ascending the stairs once more. They don't know anything. He thought about having Genlu reprimand them in the morning, but decided against it. There would be other shindigs.

  Aldren returned to his balcony. The explosive lights in the sky had trickled down, though the streets were still a ruckus of celebration.

  Except not all cries were cheers. Aldren honed in on one group, marching in a column, holding up hand painted signs. Regardless of language barriers, Aldren had lived in a city long enough to recognize a protest.

  The group chanted something as they weathered the rocks and spit thrown their way by angry revelers they passed by.