Ironshield

by Edward Nile

  “Oh, damn,” Mayla moaned. “How long have I been—”

  “A couple weeks,” answered Aldren. “Don’t worry though. I’ve been checking in on you now and again. You actually woke up just in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  Aldren lifted the leather tube, the one Clint Kaizer had shoved on him before being recaptured by the Lytan and Xangese soldiers. “I can’t keep sitting on this forever.”

  Mayla did sit up then, carefully. “You never told me where we are.”

  “Home,” said Aldren. “At least it is for me. We’re in Talenport.”

  “Your report to Mutton…”

  “Mailed a copy to Arkenridge. I’m headed to see Sam Mutton right away. We’re in luck, someone got the goods on the Xang plan while we were over there. The military’s getting some sort of army together up at Gorrad for the assault. And guess who popped up just in time to get his dad’s message?”

  “Matthew Kaizer.” Mayla let herself drop back onto her pillow. “Wouldn’t have believed things could go our way, after all that.” She felt along her thickly-bandaged leg.

  “They gave you some meds to keep infection out, stitched you up. You’ll be fine.” Aldren brushed a strand of hair from Mayla’s face.

  That gesture from anyone else would have evoked a swift and violent response. From him, it felt natural.

  “Stay here and get rested up,” he said. “I’ll come find you when I’m back.”

  “No.” Mayla shook her head. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Not unless you can get this gurney onto a train.” Aldren stood. “Stay. We can grab a drink or something after.”

  “Aldren, are you seriously telling me, after everything we saw, that you’re going to drop off your report, hand that case to Matthew Kaizer, and walk away from everything? Just go back to civilian life and pretend your country isn’t under attack?”

  “Yeah,” said Aldren. “I guess I am.” He turned away and pulled back the privacy curtain around Mayla’s bed.

  “What would your brother think of you?” Mayla had never intended to bring Yannick Mal into things. It had been a topic she’d avoided drawing her traveling companion into. But now, blinded by anger fueled by the discomfort of her wounded state, she couldn’t help but make the low blow.

  “Yanny’s dead. Don’t suppose he’s thinking much.” The curtain fell behind Aldren Mal as he left her.

  Mayla beat her fist on the hard mattress, eyes welling up in frustration and rage. Her chance was here, her chance to take part in something that would finally stick a thorn in Xang’s side, her chance for a measure of the vengeance she was owed. And she was trapped in a hospital bed, abandoned. Useless.

  ***

  Samuel wanted to be overseeing firing drills and defense plans. He wanted to be examining the battlefield to come, looking at that ever-approaching day from every possible angle.

  Instead, he was writing letters.

  Requisition orders for hardtack and grain, for canned beef and vegetables, for water canteens and boots. Half the men he had at Gorrad were fresh volunteers, and most of them were still in civilian footwear. Many had no uniforms at all. A quibbling detail on the surface, but discipline was important, now more than ever. An army had to think of itself as an army, as a single unit, if it were to hold together under the strain of combat. Uniforms were a symbol.

  Unfortunately, others saw that, too. Samuel had tried to argue against the Northerners wearing their Industrialist garb. In the end, he would have lost a huge chunk of his most capable mechanics and Warsuit pilots over the issue and was forced to back down.

  Should consider myself lucky none of them tried to stab me between the ribs, he thought. Many wanted to, that was for certain. The encroaching attack hadn’t dulled their memories. Forgiveness for the Quarrystone Massacre, for his part in the ill-advised Civil War as a whole, would not come swift or easily.

  No, the details of lasting repair to the damage of Arkenia's conflict would have to wait. Right now, the nation had to focus on repelling the coming attack. And in that, Samuel's task was nothing compared to the navy's workload. After all, the hope was that their ships could push back whatever the Xangese fleet had before they ever touched the shore, which would make all the preparations here at Gorrad moot.

  Rarely did things work out so well.

  The Bay of Rust. Samuel’s strategists all agreed it was the most likely spot for Xang to come from. The eastern ocean gave the clearest path to that stretch of beach, far clearer waters to navigate through than the more circuitous way that would bring them past Quar and toward Talenport. That, combined with the documents Paulson had procured from Darian Gaul and the Xangese penchant for vengeance, made the Bay of Rust most likely. And so that was where he’d stage the defense.

  Wish the bastard were here. Paulson had refused Samuel's summons. A lingering wish to defend his campaign from future smearing, no doubt. Paulson hadn't been specific.

  Samuel didn't even want to know what chaos his friend might now be weaving, let loose and vindicated in a city rife with enemy trade ships and soldiers. He had already read the reports of riots in the streets of Talenport, of vandalisms and killings as the people turned on their Lytan and Xangese neighbors. The violence among civilians was distasteful but could not be helped, not without diverting resources away from the task at hand.

  Samuel scribbled his signature on yet another request form and shoved the document atop the outgoing pile. He dropped his pen into its holder and leaned back in the simple wooden chair as a chill wind rustled his tent. Diversions. The one-time Samuel wanted to be a soldier again, and here he was being a politician. It didn't help that he had a bunch of former fugitives asserting themselves, making decisions Samuel then had to back up. Just two days ago, General Renalds had stormed in to rage at Samuel about the inclusion of a K’Tani tribesman into his mechanized division on James Edstein’s command. Samuel was, in all honesty, in no position to be turning down men for the job, let alone men whom an experienced Kaizer pilot like Edstein vouched for.

  Playing politics, soothing hurt egos. All the while Edstein, the Kolms girl, and seemingly hundreds of other Industrialists stared daggers his way whenever he walked through camp.

  Samuel rubbed his brow. I should take the opportunity and drop out of the race, when this is over. He knew he wouldn't. Quitting wasn't in Samuel's nature. But a man could dream.

  "Senator?"

  Samuel was used to the hesitancy by now. His position was a strange one, and no one seemed sure whether to call him by his military rank or political standing. Samuel sighed. "Yes?"

  The soldier poked his head into the tent. "A Mr. Mal to see you, Sir."

  Great, just what I need. "Send him in."

  "Alright, you're gonna be shocked, Sammy, but hear me out." Aldren Mal burst into the tent. "It turns out Xang wasn't being totally honest with us."

  "Just hand over your report and leave me be, Mal." Samuel continued to massage his brow, if nothing else than to keep himself from throwing something at the cocky young sargent.

  Only, Mal didn't look so cocky. He looked even thinner than he had before, and there were fresh lines around his eyes. However he'd made it out of Xang, it had left a mark on him.

  "Here." Mal tossed a ratty envelope onto the desk. "Take a look."

  Samuel pulled out the notebook first and leafed through it, not really reading anything. He knew what this was about. Aldren Mal knew what he was delivering was old news. But the boy wanted his discharge papers and the rest of his pay. Money the treasury could ill-afford to part with. "This will do, Sargent," Samuel said. "I suppose you'll want your discharge—"

  "Look at the pictures."

  Samuel shook the envelope, spilling several black and white photographs onto the desk. Flipping some over, he spread them out and looked.

  "What am I seeing?" he asked, trying to make sense of the grainy shape. Some huge shadow at the edge of a fenced-off town.

  "They call it
the Taisen," said Mal. "And that is what Xang is sailing toward us with. It's a machine. A machine designed by Clint Kaizer."

  Samuel sat up straight, his palms pressed against the table. "Kaizer? You’re sure?”

  Mal nodded. “Saw him with my own eyes. He helped Mayla and I escape. Hell of a woman you hired there, Mutton.”

  Samuel nodded. Mayla Yin was one connection he’d been sure to keep since the Quar missions during the Xang war. A truly formidable, even frightening character. “Did you two get Kaizer out? Is he here with you?”

  Mal traced a finger along Samuel’s simple field desk. “No,” the sargent said. “We tried, but we were overwhelmed. Barely made it out alive and last time I saw May, she was in a hospital. She’s fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

  “Is Kaizer dead?”

  Annoyance flashed across Aldren Mal’s face. The man shrugged it away as if it never were. “Not last I saw,” he said. “And I doubt they’d kill him. Not while he’s producing for them. I’ll take those discharge papers now.”

  Samuel looked back to the pictures. Knowing what he was looking at, seeing it in scale compared with the clustered buildings of the Xangese town, put the whole scenario into perspective. Just what did they intend to do with a monstrosity that size?

  What could Arkenia do to stop it?

  Aldren Mal coughed.

  Samuel glared up at him. “One moment.” He rummaged in a document box on his desk until he found the right piece of paper. “Here,” he said. “You’re officially discharged from the Arkenian military.”

  Mal took the sheet, scanned it over quickly, then folded it and put it in his back pocket. “Thanks. Now, can you point the way to Matty Kaizer?”

  “You’re discharged, Mal. What would a civilian need with my chief war mechanic?” Samuel’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in the case?”

  “Soldier or not, when an imprisoned old man wants something delivered to his son, who am I to say no? This thing’s awkward to carry and too nice to throw out. Just look at this stitching.” Mal made a show of looking over the cylindrical case.

  “Sargent M—”

  “Uh uh, not anymore. Gonna take some getting used to Sammy, I know. Good thing I won’t be around too much longer.”

  Samuel stood. “If you are in possession of something material to this war, you have an obligation to turn it over, soldier or not.”

  “And I am turning it over.” Mal locked eyes with Samuel, a new edge in his glare. “I’m turning it over to the man I was asked to give it to. Besides,” he continued in a lighter tone. “Little Kaizer works for you now, right? One big happy, gun-toting family? Just ask him about it over a beer or something.”

  Samuel could have had Aldren Mal arrested right there. Could have had the man strung up on treason charges, if what was in that case was vital enough to warrant it. But he remembered all too well what happened the last time Arkenia hanged one of the Mals. And, loathe as Samuel was to admit it, he felt a stab of guilt for what he’d put the older brother through. He’d forced Aldren Mal from one dangerous situation to another, and whether the young man admitted it or not, what he’d seen had clearly taken its toll.

  If Kaizer doesn’t share, it means it’s either personal or that he’s a traitor. Given the circumstances, and what he’d seen of Clint Kaizer’s son, Samuel doubted the latter.

  “Ask around for him. Now, get out of my sight.” Samuel waved Mal off.

  “Much obliged.” Mal turned away. Before he left the tent, he turned. “One last thing.”

  “Yes?” Samuel didn’t bother to hide his exasperation.

  “You’ve got ink on your face.”

  Samuel waited until Aldren Mal had left the tent to pull a steel mirror from his shaving kit and examine himself. Cursing, he licked his thumb and wiped at the black smudge on his forehead. Son of a bitch could have told me earlier.

  “Sir?!”

  “God damn it what?!” Samuel snapped.

  The same soldier from earlier cringed back. “Trucks arriving, Sir. They’re not on the schedule.”

  Samuel was up in an instant. He threw on his coat -a red and brown officer’s garment rather than the Striker Crimson leather- and stormed out into the open air.

  The trucks were pulling in, descending on ramps built onto the bridge that spanned the Gorrad Maze decades past. Samuel waved dust away as the lead vehicle came to a stop, the large tarp covering its cargo flapping.

  A figure stepped down from the passenger seat, unfurling a violet parasol as she walked toward him through the dust, a matching handkerchief held over her mouth and nose.

  Leanne Mutton.

  “What are you doing here?” Samuel barely got the words out before she embraced him, holding him close and planting a kiss. The smell of her was as intoxicating as ever, worlds different from everything he’d been surrounded by these long weeks.

  “I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew my man was in there.” The silk of her glove was smooth against his cheek.

  Samuel’s shoulders sagged as he sank into the hug, placing his hand against the small of her back, feeling the curve of her even through her corset. “Found myself too late, Dear,” he said, clearing his throat. “Men died, and it was my fault.”

  “That’s our lot in life, lover.” Leanne kissed him again. “We just need to make sure those deaths aren’t for nothing.”

  Samuel didn’t care who was watching. Let the soldiers talk all they wanted. He kissed his wife and held her tight, lifting her to the tips of her toes. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, putting her down regretfully. “This is no pla—"

  “Before you feed me some chauvinist nonsense about a lady’s place, Samuel Mutton, give a good long thought to how we met to begin with.” Leanne’s eyes flashed. “Besides, I had to come. I couldn’t let just anyone deliver this.”

  “Deliver what?” Samuel turned to the trucks. He walked over to the foremost one and pulled back a bit of tarp.

  “It’ll have to be assembled here,” Leanne said behind him. “Keeping it in pieces was the only way to keep it safe. As far as I can tell, the other one is good to go.”

  “How did you do this?” Samuel said. “It was destroy—”

  “No, Sam.” Leanne shook her head. “I made sure it wasn’t.”

  Samuel looked under the tarp again. It was only part of the torso, and a limited view of it at that, but he’d recognize the Warsuit anywhere. It was Redstripe. His machine.

  “Other one?” he inquired.

  Leanne’s lip curled. “You can thank Paulson for that. Found it on Salkirk’s property. That duplicitous wretch kept his gaudy show piece. Imperial snake.”

  “Don’t suppose you have Paulson in one of those trucks?”

  She shook her head. “Busy, that’s all he told me. Edmund’s changed, dear. Gone back to his old self, only more so.”

  More so. That sent a shiver crawling up Samuel’s back. “I was afraid of that. But, Arkenia headed where it is, that might be for the best. Savior above, even Salkirk and his treachery will do some good.” Samuel caught sight of the Industrialists looking toward the trucks. Edstein and Tessa Kolms stood side by side, watching.

  “Yes,” Samuel continued. “We’ll make good use of Radiance as well.”

  Chapter 36

  Everyone here was too busy for Aldren’s taste.

  Men and women ran every which-way, bellowing and shouting, as vehicles rolled along hastily marked roads carrying troops and supplies. And all around were Warsuits of various sizes and builds.

  Walking through all the humdrum, Aldren couldn’t stop his gaze from straying, time and again, to the Kaizers being built up in the middle of camp, their height exceeding that of Gorrad’s city wall. There was Ironshield, and one or two others Aldren didn’t recognize. One frame he did know, the bulky, cylindrical torso bearing only one of its arms, its surface riddled with bits of scaffolding over which workers crawled like ants, their welders spitting sparks. Retribution had seen better days, it
s metal streaked with rust, its old wounds hideously patched with new steel.

  It still scared the shit out of Aldren. A figure that had haunted his worst dreams. He could still picture it standing alone on the field before Flemmingwood, a pillar of mechanical death that could crush fleeing infantry on a whim. Retribution’s pilot wasn’t here. From what Aldren knew, Theodore Kolms was still in prison. But it wasn’t the man he feared.

  “Can I get one off you, pal?” Aldren asked a soldier leaning against the wall of a shed, a lit cigarette held to his mouth. “Been a long trip.”

  “Sure thing,” the man pulled out his pack and let Aldren slide one free.