Ironshield

by Edward Nile

From the other direction a uniformed block of soldiers marched toward the protesters. Both groups stopped short of colliding and faced one another across a few meters of empty space. Those celebrators caught in the middle ducked and rushed to get out of the way.

  Chanting louder, the protesters raised their signs over their heads.

  The leader of the military group barked a set of orders and started to count down, raising a finger with each shouted Xangese number.

  Aldren's own fingers gripped the railing as he leaned over to watch.

  "Fan, ga, SHU!"

  The leader bellowed the last word at the top of his lungs.

  As one, the soldiers raised their rifles and fired into the unarmed mass across from them.

  Aldren fell back, shaking. Each consecutive crack of rifle fire made him start as he lowered himself to a curled position on the floor, clutching the rug with quivering hands.

  Suddenly the party didn't look like so much fun.

  Chapter 23

  "Ey, Roy, grab 'Tet the A-nine so he can tighten those supports."

  Roy ran past James with the requested wrench.

  James kept up his mopping, slowly clearing away the puddle of oil marring the concrete. Sparks and banter flew in equal measure all around him, while hammering metal and rumbling engines made a constant melody that echoed through the concrete space.

  The garage door was left half open to vent fumes, guarded on either side by armed men. Even with the cool air blowing in from outside, the workshop was hot enough to make James sweat.

  Despite her coveralls, Tessa hardly seemed fazed as she worked a welding torch atop one of the crawlers, what the rebels here had named the four-legged machines. She was affixing support rods to the pilot's chassis, by the looks of it.

  Tessa turned James' way, and he looked back to his work. He was careful never to stare at her, at least not for too long. Still, when he did glance her way, she always seemed to know.

  And why shouldn't she? James had always sensed when she was studying him, in that other life before Quarrystone's fall.

  James kept his head down and mopped. Tessa's weren't the only eyes he felt on him. He was an Edstein, the son of Heinrich, inheritor of the Ironshield legacy. And he was here, among those he'd once commanded, cleaning up oil stains. Because he couldn't make up his mind about who he was, or what he should be doing.

  His saber, which had already caused him so much grief but had also led him here, sat leaning against a wall within clear sight. Further reminder of who everyone here thought he was supposed to be.

  Something touched James’ leg. He moved aside to find a small dog sniffing around his feet. It looked up at him, its eyes big and brown. It was a scruffy mongrel, with mottled, coarse fur of black and dirty white. One ear was partially missing, the other sticking up straight as it wagged its tail.

  "Hey there," James said.

  The dog yapped, then lowered its head and licked at the oil stain.

  "Ooh no," James reached for its collar. "Bad dog, stop that!"

  The mongrel licked James' hand, which couldn't have been much better.

  "Over here, Scraps," called a little girl who sat against a wall off to the side, her knees drawn up to her chin.

  Scraps barked once at James and scampered over to her.

  "Nice dog," James said. "You're Stella, right?"

  She rustled Scrap's fur and drew the dog into an embrace, nodding absently.

  That's right, James thought. She's Derrick's friend. Ivan had filled him in on the story earlier, how Derrick, who'd died on the last thieving trip to the graveyard, had taken the girl under his wing after rescuing her from the fires of Quarrystone. Her, and the dog. "Look," he said. "I'm sorry to hear about Derrick. I wish I'd met him."

  "He's dead." She stated the fact without emotion in her voice. "And now you're here." She looked James up and down. "Don't know what the big deal is. Derrick could mop floors, too. Come on, Scraps." Stella walked off with her dog.

  Damn, that's cold. James shook his head and went back to his work. He pushed the mop a couple of times before he stopped again. Wait, what is that? Among all the sounds permeating the workshop, the grinding and screeching, the roars and rumbles and clatters, he thought he heard something else.

  Not imagining it, he realized, closing his eyes to home in on the subtle noise. Having spent as long as he had inside a Warsuit, with his life dependent on the machine around him functioning properly, he was sensitive to anything that sounded off.

  "That's right, rusty, get that nice and tight," a mechanic named Arnold called from the open cockpit of a bipedal Krieger.

  "It is done," Na’Tet said, stepping back from the Warsuit with the wrench in hand.

  James scowled. He didn't like the way Arnold spoke to the tribesman.

  "Alright, testing the left arm."

  The hissing James had noticed continued, easier for him to pinpoint now that he was concentrating. The Krieger's engine went from a low rumble to a roar as it revved into action, powering the Warsuit. Its arm jerked forward.

  But the arm wasn't what James was worried about.

  The Krieger's right leg was propped on a pile of pallets, the steel framework of its foot yet to be encased in outer plating. The hissing grew louder as the lower limb shuddered.

  "Shut it down!" James threw his mop aside and ran for the Warsuit. He slipped and fell, crashing elbow first on the hard floor. James scrambled up, ignoring the pain. He shoved off the mechanics who moved to help him and kept running, waving his arms above his head. "Shut the fucking thing down!"

  Na’Tet looked at him, confused. Unbeknownst to the tribesman, the leg rattled, its shaking even more pronounced.

  "Holy James, I—" he was cut off when James grabbed him by the robes and threw him down.

  There was a squeaking groan, then a shriek of tearing metal behind him. James dove after Na’Tet.

  A loud pop filled the air, and Arnold shouted from the exposed cockpit as the squealing multi-ton metal beast toppled forward.

  Its shadow passed over James and Na’Tet, and James knew they were dead men. He looked up toward the bolted surface of his demise.

  Something crashed into the floor beside them, followed by the scrape of steel on concrete. The floor shuddered. James was still looking at the half-plate of the Krieger's chest armor, suspended a little less than three feet above him and Na’Tet.

  Letting out a breath, James glanced to his right. The Warsuit's arm, the one Arnold had been testing, was ground against the floor, leaving the machine propped at an angle above them.

  "Fuck!" Arnold cursed, fidgeting where he hung strapped into the cockpit. "'Tet, I told you to tighten the supports—"

  "It was done!" Na’Tet called back.

  "Not important right now," James interjected. The machine groaned and creaked.

  "I feel the arm slipping," Arnold said. "Get out of the damn way!"

  James hesitated. The Warsuit's cockpit was little more than an exposed chassis. The weight of the machine, if it was allowed to fall with Arnold inside, would crush him.

  "Mr. Edstein Sir! What the hell are you doing?!" Arnold squirmed some more as James reached up for him. The Warsuit shifted by another scraping inch. "Sir, get movi—"

  "My name's James," he interrupted. "Now, get ready." He tugged on the buckle of Arnold's harness and released the crossed straps. Arnold wasn't a light man, but James did his best to catch him all the same, lowering him to the floor.

  Arnold's left leg didn't follow.

  "Agh!" The mechanic cried when James tried to tug him free. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he ground his teeth.

  James looked at the leg. The bottom of the cockpit had made contact with the floor when the Warsuit fell, crushing the vulnerable section of steel and pinching Arnold's leg between the edge of the machine's plating and the pilot's chair.

  The Warsuit shifted again, its bulk groaning at an alarming volume.

  Booted feet scrambled to and fro from the little
gap James could see from under the machine. People rattled off suggestions to both the trapped men and one another.

  "He's stuck! Left leg," James responded when Roy asked what was keeping them. "'Tet, crawl out."

  "Na’Tet is responsible, he will stay and tie his fate to the Sacred—"

  "God damn it 'Tet, you can help me more from out there," James lied. "Now fucking MOVE. Consider it a bloody order if that makes it easier."

  He could feel the cogs turning inside the tribesman's mind as he struggled with the instructions. "Is Holy James sure—"

  "I said it, didn't I? Go."

  Na’Tet bowed as best he could from all fours and crawled out, allowing Roy to take his arm and pull him the rest of the way free. The red-haired man peered back in after James. "Commander?"

  "Get something to prop up the other side, relieve some of this weight so I can pull him out."

  Another ear-grating screech. With an audible clang, something broke within the mechanical arm.

  "Ah, shit!" Roy scrambled back.

  The limb collapsed, bringing the rest of the Warsuit with it.

  James flung up an arm. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the Warsuit’s metal chest plate rushing down on him.

  A deafening sound of crashing, crunching steel. Then, silence.

  It took James several seconds to realize he wasn't a corpse. He opened his eyes. The Warsuit creaked and groaned above him, rising inch by inch.

  A metal claw had been jammed under the Krieger's left side. Hydraulics hissed, an engine rumbled, and the claw lifted the machine, evoking another loud snap as the Warsuit's weight pressed on its downward right arm.

  "It's going to fall again!" Tessa called. "James, get Arnold and get out from under there!"

  Another inch lifted on the one side. another clang of breaking machinery on the other, and Arnold's leg came free. The man's pant leg was torn, and there was a lot of blood, but the limb looked intact.

  "Savior above, it hurts like a bitch," Arnold hissed.

  "Complain later." James took Arnold by the overalls and hauled him backwards. Above, the Krieger's carapace scraped, beginning to slide off the claw that held it up.

  Not yet, James prayed. Not now.

  Arnold did his best to crawl backward with him, but the man's injured leg proved useless, and his weight threatened to overwhelm James.

  Another screech of steel on steel. From his peripheral vision James saw the Warsuit slide several inches off the claw. What remained of the right arm crumpled like paper beneath the added weight.

  "Come on!" Tessa urged. The engine that powered the claw whined, straining to push its appendage further beneath the falling Krieger.

  With a groaning heave, James hurled Arnold the rest of the way, pushing him further out for good measure despite the injured man's agonized protest.

  Metal hissed, and the Warsuit slid off the claw and fell.

  James dove out of the way and hit the concrete face-first. In the same moment, he brought his legs up to his chest, feeling the rush of air as the giant machine smashed to the floor where his feet had just been.

  He looked up at the powered lift, expecting to see Tessa at the controls.

  Instead, Na’Tet swung down from the piece of equipment.

  Tessa ran to James, but skidded to a stop short of reaching him.

  He saw her lip quiver, saw a momentary expression of something. Concern? Relief?

  Whatever it was disappeared in a heartbeat. "You hurt?" she asked, as though inquiring about a paper cut.

  James checked himself and shook his head.

  "You ignorant fucking savage," Arnold growled at Na’Tet while Roy saw to his bloody leg. "I told you to tighten those supports. You see, Ivan? You see what happens when we let a fucking rusty work on our machinery."

  Na’Tet bowed low. "Forgiveness. Na’Tet thought he had done things correctly. He is shamed."

  "Don't blame yourself, 'Tet," said James. "Doubt it was you who decided to weld a blown hydraulics tube instead of replacing it. So, which genius did?" James rose and dusted himself off. "Which one of you figured it was a good idea to scrimp on materials for these little junkyard war machines?"

  Arnold's face lost some of its flush. "Parts are scarce. We can't afford to—"

  "Oh?" James rounded on Ivan. "Can you afford to lose more people? Is that what your man's saying?"

  Ivan looked chagrined. "Look, Jim, I had no idea. I only have two eyes and no one else here's got the experience it takes to—"

  "Then maybe you people shouldn't be messing around with these things at all," James snapped, looking to every face in turn. "Maybe it's time to just leave well enough alone." He caught sight of Stella, sitting on the catwalk above, clutching onto Scraps as she watched. "Too many people are dead already." He shoved past a bewildered group of rebels and picked up his saber. Time to take your own advice.

  He looked to Tessa, who regarded him with that unreadable expression she'd become so good at. James tossed the saber her way, letting it slide across the concrete to stop at her feet.

  "Keep it." James spun around and left without looking back.

  *

  Dear Mr. Adams,

  Let me start by thanking you for your correspondence and your concern. As you've no doubt read, circumstances of late have forced me to relieve my long-time secretary, Edmund Paulson. Much as I'd like to satisfy the public's curiosity and yours, I'm afraid I'm unable to divulge the details of any legal case against my former employee over the post. Be assured, however, that actions are being taken. The deeds of Mr. Paulson reflect neither my own values, nor those of the Senate...

  It was a variant of hundreds of letters Samuel had had to draft, responding to messages sent by everyone from journalists looking for exclusive details on the recent scandal, to lawyers wanting in on what they saw as a potentially career making case. Some of these claimed to represent Meskal Karov. A few of them could have even been telling the truth.

  Samuel rotated his wrist, creating a worrisome crackling sound.

  That does it. He put down his pen and leaned back in his upholstered leather chair, massaging his temples. Samuel glanced to the cart of correspondence still waiting for him. Letters from all over the nation. Civilians, soldiers, judges, senators, governors and mayors. Trash collectors, butchers, housewives, cobblers. Everyone had something to say, and too little of it was pleasant. Brown stains seeped through one increasingly soggy envelope on the cart, which gave off an unsavory smell. Samuel didn't know what was worse. This, or the box of rotting cow livers he'd received the day before.

  His head throbbed, a pulsing pain behind his eye that persisted and grew stronger every day. Try as he might to keep up, Samuel was getting too old for this kind of stress. But the world didn't give a shit about his aching joints or pounding head, so Samuel couldn't afford to either. There was too much that needed doing.

  Coffee. Right now, he needed coffee. "Paulson," he called out before remembering his secretary was gone, left to pursue whatever mysterious mission he'd concocted to try making this mess right again. Without Samuel's clout to protect him, the man was all but guaranteed to piss off the wrong person and land himself in shackles or a pine box. If it was the latter, Samuel would dig the bastard out just to tell him "I told you so."

  "Stupid drunk," he muttered aloud.

  "Talking to yourself isn't a good sign, dear." Leanne strode in from the adjoining sitting room, holding a steaming mug balanced on a saucer. She set it down on his desk after shoving aside a pile of opened letters and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. "You need a break."

  Samuel didn't know how to respond to his wife's changed attitude toward him. Just then, it felt as if the years had shed away, leaving their marriage in a happier time, before the circumstances of politics and war hammered a wedge between them. He looked up into her eyes and took her hand. They stared at each other, speaking volumes without a word. Worry, doubt, and old hurt still strained at the crinkled corners
of her eyes, but the smile she gave Samuel was all love.

  Then, her nose wrinkled. "What on earth is that smell?"

  Samuel gestured to the stained envelope on the mail cart. "A token from another one of my admirers." He picked up the mug and took a sip. It was his turn to grimace. "Tea?"

  "Green tea. It's good for you, might even help that headache you're trying to hide."

  Samuel sighed and forced another sip of the concoction down. "I'll get that taken care of, Darling," he said as Leanne went to the cart. "Don't worry about it."