Ironshield

by Edward Nile

  Of course. Matthew looked down at his suit. It was crumpled from being slept in and stained with food and drink Matthew hardly remembered consuming while he feverishly toiled over his father’s plans. More to the point, it wasn’t military issue.

  “I’m a ranking officer with the Arkenian military. My name is Matthew Kaizer.”

  “And I’m the president,” the pilot mocked. “No one’s getting in my plane but my gunner. Piss off.”

  “One second.” Now where had he put that thing? Matthew rummaged in his pockets, searching for the Silver Star Mutton had given him as a symbol of rank.

  Damn. He must have left it back in the truck.

  Another aviator shuffled past him and started climbing toward the gunner’s pit while the one Matthew had spoken with dumped his coffee and hopped into the pilot seat.

  Oh, well.

  Matthew grabbed the gunner by the back of the belt with one hand and took hold of his holstered pistol with the other. With one heave, he yanked the hapless soldier down and pulled his own considerable bulk up into what he now realized was just about the most cramped compartment ever contrived for a man. The ungainly pack Matthew had on didn’t help matters.

  “What the he—”

  Matthew shoved the stolen pistol against the back of the pilot’s head and cocked the hammer. “Like I said, my name is Matthew Kaizer,” he intoned. “And I need you to take me up. Now fly.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “All the more reason to do what I say.”

  The plane’s front rotors ripped into motion, becoming a screaming blur as the plane rolled forward.

  Matthew had never flown before. As far as he was concerned, if man was meant to contend with the forces of gravity, they’d have grown wings. So, when the plane finished its ground run and tilted up into the air, it took all Matthew’s effort just to keep hold of the gun in his hand.

  The ground fell away beneath the small aircraft. As they flew, the pilot tilted the plane to the side, curving away from the fiery flashes and gargantuan shapes along the battlefield.

  "No," Matthew shouted, pressing the gun hard against the back of the pilot's neck. "Toward the fight. Toward the monster on the water."

  "You're bluffing," the pilot shouted back. "I'm not going anywhere near that—" his words were cut off in an inarticulate shout when Matthew fired the weapon next to his ear.

  "The wings are canvas you lunatic!" the pilot exclaimed.

  “Better do as I say, then!" Matthew had to squint against the harsh wind that rippled his cheeks. Should have taken the other guy's goggles too. It didn't matter. One way or another, he wouldn't be up here long.

  They soared over the explosions and machinegun fire of the battle, over Warsuits in the midst of brutal hand to hand struggles, spitting sparks and fire with each heavy blow of massive blades. Ironshield and Iron Wrath fought side by side, Wrath's comparative speed and maneuverability allowing it to dispatch enemy suits weakened by the bulkier machine's guns, their style eerily similar to how Emilia and Heinrich Edstein had coordinated during the Revolution and Xang War.

  Redstripe was doing its fair amount of damage as well, slashing through one enemy Kaizer after the other while its feet crushed smaller enemy suits. Samuel Mutton had retained his reflexes, driving the smoking Warsuit to its maximum speed in controlled sweeps and jabs of its blades, all the while spitting bursts of machinegun rounds and artillery to their utmost effect. One enemy machine careened to the side after losing an arm to Mutton's blade, raising its remaining limb only for Redstripe to duck under, piercing its opponent's side and pushing the destroyed machine across the sand as an improvised shield while striking another enemy suit with artillery fired over its shoulder.

  Everything was shrouded with the smoke of straining engines, the all-consuming smog making many machines blurry, like ghosts passing through an ethereal realm, the fire of their guns suffused in hues of pink and blood red in the haze.

  Matthew's father had likened these mechanized battles to scenes out of hell's very depths when viewed from the ground. In some way, looking down on it from above was even more horrifying. Those were people dying down there, trapped in iron sarcophagi, terrified and in pain as they were crushed or burned. But all Matthew could see from up here was the inhuman metal, the sulfurous fumes. Whatever scraps of vulnerable flesh were unlucky enough to be caught in the hellish maelstrom of combat were invisible from this vantage, made part of the blackened, artillery-blasted sand and burning debris that carpeted this blood-soaked place.

  Something flashed directly below, and Matthew saw a small shape flit briefly through the air before bursting in a messy star-shaped cloud of black smoke directly ahead. One of the enemy Warsuits had spotted their plane.

  "We have to turn back!"

  Matthew grabbed the pilot by the back of his collar. "If you do, we're all done for!" he growled. "You get us over the water, over the Taisen. Until then, keep dodging."

  More explosives burst in the air around them, shrapnel whizzing by, puncturing holes in the canvas wings.

  Matthew stuffed the pistol in his jacket and took hold of the plane's machine gun, sliding the bolt handle back as the pilot tilted them to the right.

  Getting the rear sight lined up with the enemy Kaizer that raised its gun toward them, Matthew opened fire. The machinegun blared loud with each rapid shot, audible even over the constant roar of rotors and rushing air, hurting Matthew's ears even as recoil made his teeth rattle. Aiming his flashing stream of bullets, he brought his line of fire across the field until his projectiles sparked around the Warsuit's head. Matthew hoped to hit the enemy's scope, or at the very least force the Xangese pilot to turn his line of sight away from their aircraft.

  Three more shots exploded nearby, one bursting so close Matthew could taste the gunpowder. A bit of shrapnel pierced the side of the plane next to him and slashed his upper arm as it shot by.

  Matthew shouted, jerking back. Hot blood soaked into his sleeve, ran in rivulets down his arm.

  The plane crossed the last stretch of shore and glided over the water, passing the nearest of the landed Xangese battle cruisers and the wreckage of decimated Arkenian vessels.

  Ahead, Matthew got his first look at the Taisen, a dark block of irregular metal belching smoke from a hundred orifices as spinning parts churned the water beneath, working incessantly just to keep the behemoth afloat.

  “Get us over it,” Matthew groaned. “Before I change my mind.” The last words he muttered to himself, seeing with his own two eyes a sight that had been nightmare enough on paper. The Warsuits and ships may have had a Xangese flavor to their designs, a sort of unavoidable cultural twist that could be seen despite Clint Kaizer’s designs as the easterners in control made a tweak here or there to the machines’ armor plating. But the Taisen, despite its name, had Empire written all over it. This was the type of magnitude and power Lytan strove for, a larger-than-life hammer with which they could strike down the upstart colony that had escaped them.

  I don’t know how you did it, Dad. “Higher.” Matthew undid the buckle on his seat’s harness. The expanse of iron below was his father’s greatest creation. Matthew was almost sorry he had to destroy it.

  “What are you doing?!”

  “Get yourself back behind our lines before you get shot out of the sky,” Matthew called, slapping the pilot on the shoulder. His legs cried out in relief as he heaved himself up, freeing them from the cramped gunner’s compartment.

  Turning and saluting the still shouting aviator, Matthew dropped backward into open sky.

  Wind rushed in his ears as Matthew fell, feeling the air rustle through his clothes. It was at once the most terrifying and the most freeing experience of his life. Which seemed appropriate for something that could get him killed.

  Matthew turned in the air and saw the Taisen looming larger and larger below.

  Having no idea if he was timing things correctly, Matthew grabbed hold of the rip cord on his pack and y
anked.

  He was tugged upward several feet as the parachute took on air. Feet dangling over nothing, Matthew grabbed hold of the chute’s handles and did his best to guide his slow descent toward the deck of the Taisen.

  When he was a few dozen yards or so above the massive metal beast, a Xangese soldier took notice and raised his mounted machine gun.

  Matthew fired with his pistol, forcing the Xangese soldier back. Another shot took the man in the side, and he scrambled away, shouting for his comrades.

  Nope, Matthew thought. Definitely not going to go smoothly. He was less of a warrior than his father was. Clint Kaizer had designed the first Warsuit in part because he wasn’t a fighter. A sort of realization of a childhood dream, to turn his engineering skill into an effective edge in combat.

  The Kaizer men weren’t soldiers. But that didn’t make them cowards.

  Matthew’s feet touched the deck, and he jogged the last few meters to keep himself from being engulfed by the falling parachute.

  A Xangese man with a rifle emerged from a crew hatch to Matthew’s right.

  He shot the soldier, hitting him between the eyes.

  Over the better part of two years, he believed he’d put war and killing behind him for good. Matthew had led a hidden life for certain, a dangerous existence as a fugitive. But it had been a life free of bloodshed.

  Now, that life was over.

  Matthew pushed down his revulsion and scooped up the fallen man’s rifle, forced to pry stiff, lifeless fingers from its grip. Another soldier poked his head from a hatch further up, only to be shot down by Matthew’s looted weapon.

  Think, Matt, he told himself, going through the blueprints in his mind. There was a door ahead, an access point to the Taisen’s inner corridors. It would be the most direct way, from what he could tell.

  Rifles cracked through the air, their bullets whizzing by Matthew from the left. He ducked, aimed, and fired at a familiar looking valve. They’d been marked in his father’s plans.

  Hot steam burst forth, a roiling cloud swallowing Matthew’s assailants. As they screamed, Matthew ran for the door. The longer he stayed in the open, the less chance he had at staying alive.

  A hand grabbed him before he could turn the round handle, and Matthew spun about with the rifle held ready.

  The man who’d grabbed him slumped to the floor before Matthew could fire a shot, looking up at him from the one eye not hidden behind a layer of melted skin.

  Struggling to hold his stomach contents in, Matthew yanked the door open and entered the Taisen.

  *

  Alerts blinked across Redstripe’s terminal, small lights going from green to yellow or red, warning of auxiliary engine damage and lost fuel pressure. It was nothing Samuel hadn’t fought through before.

  That being said, he’d never had to contend with this many enemy Kaizers.

  Redstripe’s cockpit shuddered around him as he locked blades with a Xangese Warsuit, both his machine and his opponent’s wreathed in diesel smoke as their engines contended with one another, blades sparking with the pressure of all that weight struggling for dominance. Steel creaked and gears cranked, those ominous noises a rookie Kaizer pilot would take as sure portents of his machine’s imminent collapse. Samuel knew better, knew the subtle difference between the myriad components of a Warsuit settling against each other and their being stressed past the point of endurance.

  Or he had known, once upon a time. He hoped those instincts remained true during his time as a politician, prayed that Redstripe had been as well-preserved as his wife claimed.

  The other Warsuit let loose a large caliber shot that shook Redstripe as it exploded against its front plate.

  Samuel’s chair creaked. Were he not biting down on a leather mouthguard, the force of a blow like that would crack teeth.

  With Redstripe’s free arm, Samuel fired a return shot at the enemy’s torso, following up the flash of his gun with a bayonet thrust, hoping he’d created a weak spot in the enemy armor.

  The impact sent another tremor up Redstripe’s limb, and when the smoke cleared enough, Samuel saw he’d punctured the other Warsuit’s plating.

  His opponent fired from all guns, letting loose rapid fire and booming artillery in hopes of dislodging him.

  Taking advantage of the enemy’s panic, Samuel pressed harder on his other blade, forcing the Warsuit’s arm against itself. The limb snapped at the elbow, metal crumpling under the weight.

  Now! Samuel pulled the right-hand blade back and dragged the left one further to the side, shredding metal as he forced the enemy’s busted limb aside. Then, in two quick motions, Samuel fired into the hole he’d created, pulled his other blade free, and thrust with everything Redstripe had.

  A fiery flash engulfed the Warsuit from within. Its guns stopped firing as it slumped around Samuel’s bayonet. He dislodged himself from the defeated machine and shoved it over, letting it scrape off his steel.

  Sweat caused his face to itch, threatened to blur his vision as it trickled from between his brow and the edge of the periscope pressed against it. Samuel blinked the wet drops away as he glanced sideways at the miniature gauge displaying fuel levels next to his scope. Nearly half empty already. This fight was taking a lot out of his machine.

  Kaizer planned for that, though. The secondary fuel tank would take over once Samuel exhausted the main one. When that happened, he’d been warned to back out of the fight and head back for refueling, getting his comrades to cover his retreat.

  Samuel had seen what could happen when a Warsuit turned its back on the enemy. He didn’t relish the thought.

  Iron Wrath was doing more than its fair share, lumbering from one fight to the next without pause, its swinging blades lit by brief flashes of gunfire as its exhaust pipes spouted a constant stream of fumes. From behind the gilded armor, Samuel could see the ruddy glow of heated engine works peeking from between bits of steel plating. His machine no doubt looked the same, a volatile tin can filled with gas, ready to burst into hellish fire at the slightest misstep.

  God, it felt like he was already burning, the muggy air too hot for ventilation to relieve. Samuel had long since removed his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves against conventional safety, risking searing his skin were a well-placed strike to hurl him against the bulkheads. Scars would be the least of his concerns if he passed out from heat stroke and was left stranded in a huge, stationary target.

  Turning his scope, Samuel looked to Ironshield. Edstein wasn’t faring so well, beset on either side by an enemy Kaizer. He held one at bay, one of Ironshield’s blades jabbed into its shoulder, and was blasting the other with everything he had to little effect as it stomped its way toward him. One of the enemy Kaizer’s arms was held in front of it, the remains of a fallen comrade skewered on its bayonet and held up as a shield while it approached.

  Tessa Kolms was bringing Wrath to face another enemy suit to the left of her lover.

  Samuel spat the leather out of his mouth and spoke into his radio. “Kolms,” he barked. “Help Edstein. I’ve got that one.”

  Even inside her machine, Samuel could see her hesitate, as though her body language were being translated by her Warsuit. Without a word of acknowledgement, Wrath stormed toward the fight between Ironshield and the two enemy machines.

  Samuel fired an artillery round at the Kaizer that had been headed toward Kolms, getting its attention with a well-placed blow to the chest.

  The Xangese Warsuit obliged Samuel and changed course, coming straight for Redstripe.

  Samuel replaced the leather between his teeth and adjusted himself in his chair for the next bout. While he did so, he couldn’t help but look at the fuel and ammunition gauges again. Neither were full enough for his liking. And still, the monstrous shadow of the Taisen made its way toward them out on the water.

  **

  James thought he was done for, watching the Xangese machine plow through his bullets, the torso of a destroyed Warsuit being used as a literal shiel
d as the enemy stormed toward him, all while Ironshield took fire from the other suit James had caught in the shoulder with his bayonet.

  Ironshield’s armor was tough, nearly twice as thick as most other Warsuits. But that same quality hindered its maneuverability and slowed its motions. Ironshield was, more than anything, a mobile gun tower, meant to deal heavy artillery damage while withstanding the enemy’s barrage. A powerhouse made to take point in any given battle, for sure, but not designed to carry out prolonged melee combat.

  The bulkhead clanged as shot after shot dented Ironshield’s hull. Thick armor or not, given enough prolonged close-range artillery, it would be worn away enough for one of those shells to break through. When that happened, it would turn James into a red smear along the walls of his cockpit.

  He let loose again with the right arm cannon, striking the machine his blade pierced. Using the ring finger of his right hand, he pumped a trigger to fire one of the shoulder-mounted guns in quick bursts, hoping to blind or otherwise incapacitate the enemy machine. All this while his attention was on the Warsuit barreling its way toward him.