Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6) Read online

  Contents

  1 – SUB ROSA

  2 – BEING BRAVE

  3 – THE NIGHT OF NOTHING

  4 – IRON BARS

  5 – THE LOSS-MAKERS

  6 – FUNERAL

  7 – CROWN

  8 – THE KNIFE

  9 – SCRAMBLE

  10 – PROJECT THIMBLERIG

  11 – THE MINEFIELD MARCH

  12 – PUSH ON

  13 – THE MEDICAL CONVOY

  14 – SANDSTONE BRIDGE

  15 – THE EDGE

  16 – HAMMERFALL ON THE HOME FRONT

  17 – DISMOUNTED

  18 – FLYCATCHER

  19 – THE BATTLE OF FIRE AND GAS

  20 – BLACKOUT IN BLACKOUT

  21 – THE FOG OF WAR

  22 – BENEATH

  23 – THE CLEANSING

  24 – A GIFT

  25 – CONVERGENCE

  26 – BEHEMOTHS AND BASTIONS

  27 – GOLD AND GLAMOUR

  28 – CANYON CHASE

  29 – THE BATTLE OF IRON AND OIL

  30 – HUNTING PORTALS

  31 – PRISON BREAK

  32 – THRESHOLD

  33 – A GAME OF GENERALS

  34 – GO BIG ...

  35 – SPRINT

  36 – THE COLD BLANKET

  37 – THE BATTLE OF FLESH AND BLOOD

  38 – IRON INIQUITY

  39 – THE ALTAR OF WAR

  40 – RADIO SILENCE

  41 – GRANTING WISHES

  42 – REGIME RESISTANCE

  43 – … OR GO HOME

  44 – RETIREMENT

  45 – EVER AFTER

  HOMETAKER

  The Great Iron War – Book Six

  Dean F. Wilson

  Copyright © 2016 Dean F. Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Any person who makes any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The Moral Rights of the Author have been asserted.

  Cover illustration by Duy Phan

  First Edition 2016

  Published by Dioscuri Press

  Dublin, Ireland

  www.dioscuripress.com

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  THE GREAT IRON WAR

  In the world of Altadas, in the year 1888 of the Second Era, women everywhere dreamed of a coming desert. Those who were already pregnant miscarried, and those who became pregnant did not give birth to human children. An invasion had begun.

  The newborns had no horns or marks, and so they were loved and reared like all the others. It would take time before anyone realised what they really were, before anyone would call them demons.

  These events were marked by the arrival of strangers claiming to be from a distant land. The people of Altadas called them Pilgrims, but they did not know just how far they had come, nor by what strange doors they had entered, nor exactly what they had come for.

  The first Pilgrims were scouts, but subsequent waves were soldiers, sent by a man who would later call himself the Iron Emperor. He promised his people iron. He gave them war instead.

  They called that year the Harvest, and it became the first year of a new, darker calendar. Sand swept through the great chasms in the sky from where the demons came, the dust of a world that they had dried up. Ahead of the landships went great sandstorms, until the green grasses became an endless red desert.

  In Altadas, steam powers industry, but iron powers war. The abundant metal, idolised by the invaders, and depleted in their home world, became a beacon to the demons, and was the foundation upon which they would build their new civilisation. They called themselves the Iron Empire. Their enemies simply called them the Regime.

  As war began in the east, few among the Resistance knew that their own children were not really theirs. The invaders had mastered a magical technique to control the birth channels of a people they desired to conquer. Thus with one hand they would wield might, and with the other they would use guile, infiltrating and eradicating their enemies, anyone who would dare defy the Iron Emperor, who had brought his people to this promised land.

  Yet iron is more to the demons than just a metal. It provides the key ingredient for the sustenance of the invaders. To some it is a drug. To them, symbolising everything they were promised, and everything they were leaving behind, it is Hope.

  As one civilisation crumbled, and a new empire was founded on its remains, there were some who refused to live out their last days under the iron grip of their new ruler. They made a promise of their own: to fight, with everything they had, for the fate of humanity.

  Thus began the Great Iron War.

  1 – SUB ROSA

  Rommond planned to keep it quiet, but like with many of his plans—and plans in general—things did not work out that way. The Hometaker was such a big project, with so many parts, it required a lot of people to be involved, hauling Glass crystals and iron ingots from Fort Landlock, musing over Brooklyn's arcane instructions, and plotting what might happen if they pulled it off. A lot of people. A lot of voices. Someone was bound to talk.

   “I want to know who,” the general growled. “We need at least a month on this. We're barely a week in and tongues are already wagging.”

   The newly-promoted Lieutenant Myre stammered his response. “It's hard to t-tell who might—”

   “Find them,” Rommond barked. “Find them and silence them.”

   “Okay.” The lieutenant straightened his uniform. At least that he could control. Yet adjusting it was a mistake, because it drew the general's attention to an unorthodox adornment hanging from his coat pocket.

   “What's that?” Rommond asked, gesturing to the charm.

   “My lucky gold coin.”

   “It isn't really standard attire, is it?”

   “Well, no, but—”

   “It sets you apart.”

   “Isn't that a good thing?” the youthful lieutenant said.

   “Not in battle. If you stand out enough, then every gun will point your way.”

   “But with this, they'll miss.”

   Rommond grumbled to himself.

   Newly-promoted, Jacob thought. That's more like a demotion. Hell, a death sentence.

   Rommond laid his pistol down on the table, that now familiar gesture, and the lieutenant turned and left. It was a tidy retreat, the kind of neat stride that likely earned Rommond's eye when he was looking over who was up for a rise in rank. Not that the list was big. It was a sad state of affairs that one of the biggest selling points any soldiers had was: they were still alive.

   “So,” Jacob said, noting with a sense of irony that he was the last remaining in the room. He had earned the general's trust. How things had changed. You know, he thought, he's earned mine as well.

   “Don't you have work to do?” Rommond replied. He certainly did. The bunker beneath Blackout was lined with maps and battle plans, and toy soldiers that made Jacob's heart pang a little. He remembered making ones just like it, back in the workhouses of his youth.

   Jacob shrugged. “Can't say I'm much of an engineer or a battle planner.” />
   “Well, you've got two good arms there, so you can help with the deliveries at least.”

   “I've already helped with that. They didn't quite want my help.” The echo of the delivery overseer's reprimand still rung out in Jacob's ears: go back to your war, soldier! He was a “Blackout boy” through and through, but Blackout was changing swiftly all the time—changing hands and changing ways. It did not really dawn on the smuggler that maybe the real reason he did not feel he fit in there any longer was because he himself had changed much more.

   “They didn't want your help?” Rommond asked, raising an eyebrow. He gave a wry smile, before returning his gaze to one of the maps, an outline of Regime territory. “I wonder why.” He looked up again when he saw that Jacob had not left. “Maybe you can help Tardo with his communications gear. We'll need to be able to broadcast far and wide. I want to give the Baroness a tour of the new setup in the clock tower as soon as Tardo is finished with it. Should be quite a treat.”

   Jacob gave a small nod, then made for the door. He halted and turned around.

   “Rommond,” Jacob said.

   The general sighed. “Yes?”

   “Why isn't Taberah back yet?”

   Rommond took a moment to respond. His moustache shuddered as his mouth worked silently beneath. “She's … busy.”

   “Too busy for this?”

   Another uncustomary pause from one so invested in customs. “Too busy for much of anything,” the general said.

   Jacob looked to the floor, where he did not have to exchange eye contact as well as words. The general's eyes were very grim. Jacob wondered if his were too. He tried to remember Taberah's, and only saw that final look, that glance of goodbye. “I kind of got the feeling that maybe she mightn't come back.”

   Rommond pursed his lips and tapped his finger on the map before him. “We've got to focus on the work at hand.”

   “What's the end game here?” Jacob asked. It was hard to tell from the jumbled plans. Everything was in code and shorthand. He suspected there were some fake papers thrown in too—just in case. Rommond always kept his cards close to his chest. Sometimes you just never knew what he was planning. Sometimes Jacob wondered if even Rommond knew.

   “The end game is ending this war,” the general responded.

   “Yeah, but how? What happens when the Hometaker is ready?”

   There was no longer any hesitation in Rommond's voice. If the war had aged him, the war effort had made him young again, filled with the virility of necessity. He looked at Jacob with those same grim eyes, but now they were the eyes of grim determination.

   “We take that pinprick portal out there and make it big enough for an army to march through. We're going to take back our world by taking theirs—and showing them just how bad the Iron Emperor really is.”

  * * *

  When Jacob left, he bumped into Porridge, as gaudily dressed as ever in a sequinned red blouse with a floral scarf and hat, hauling a cart of scraps through the city. As soon as the trader saw the smuggler, he half-fainted onto his shoulder.

   “Oh!” he cried. “I've been pulling on this for ages!”

   Mustn't comment, Jacob thought.

   “Thank God there's a strong man like you!”

   “Ah,” Jacob said. “You want me to do it?”

   “Would you, dearie? Oh, thank you!” He pawed at Jacob's chest affectionately.

   Doesn't look like I'm getting a choice.

   He looked at the cart of belongings, while Porridge linked his arm. Most of the items were bits of metal, the kind of “doodads and doohickeys” the trader was known for.

   “It's poor little Bitnickle,” Porridge explained. “She didn't survive the crash.”

   “Sorry to hear that,” Jacob said. “Eh, who's Bitnickle?”

   “Oh, you've never seen a clockwork construct, have you, plum?”

   “Oh,” Jacob said. “One of those.” His trip along the Rust Road was experience enough.

   Porridge placed the back of his hand on his forehead. “Oh! It's just dreadful seeing her like this. I could just faint!”

   “Yeah, well don't.” Jacob pointed to a huge suitcase at the back of the cart, taking up half the space, and much of the weight. “What's that? Tools?”

   “No, much more important!” Porridge shrieked. “That's my travel clothes.”

   “Pack light, huh?”

   “I know,” Porridge said solemnly, nodding. “I had to cut back.”

   “So,” Jacob said, as he steered the cart over the cobblestones. “Why aren't you helping Brooklyn with … you know.” He was not sure he should say it. Maybe Porridge did not know. It kind of seemed unlikely though, given they got some of the parts from him.

   “Oh, that's much too arcane for me,” Porridge said. “I'm more of an … experimenter. Just slap this on there, stick this in here, and … oh, who knows?” He fanned himself rapidly. “My approach is a little too haphazard for my dearest dandy, Rommond. I'm under strict orders not to touch a thing!”

   “Funny that,” Jacob said. “So am I.”

  2 – BEING BRAVE

  Whistler spent the first few days of his recovery in his room, but boredom quickly overcame him, not to mention the feeling that he was not really safe. There were lots of guards there, but that was the room where he almost died. As much as the rope nearly suffocated him, he felt suffocated by being confined inside.

   “Where are you going?” one of the guards asked for the umpteenth time when he tried to leave.

   “Out.”

   “You can't go out.”

   “Why not?”

   “The General's orders.”

   Not doctor's orders. The General's orders. He felt increasingly like Rommond's prisoner. The price of protection was getting to him. It seemed too high to pay.

   He closed the door again, and heard the guard make sure it was firmly shut. He thought maybe he could make a dash for it, but there were guards all the way down the corridor, and on the stairs, and at the exit downstairs too.

   He turned back to the room. They had removed the rope, but he still felt its phantom grip around his neck. They removed the mirror in the room too, but he knew what he would see in it. He could see it faintly in the reflection of the window: the red marks fading into pink, but not fading altogether. They just added to the faint scars he already had. They say a zebra earns his stripes. A monster earns his scars.

   He was not sure he had quite come to terms with what he was, but he was getting there. Meeting other “demons” helped, when they were good. Knowing he was not doomed to become evil, no matter what he wanted. Knowing they had a choice, that he had a choice. He only hoped the blood in him that came from Taberah was stronger than the blood that came from Domas.

   The loneliness gave him lots of time to dwell and think on this. He had frequent visitors at first, but that died down quickly. They were all working on something—something big—but they would not tell him what it was. He heard one of them quip that he was too loose-lipped to know. He was offended, but he knew he should not be, because it was true. And yet, he felt like having someone to listen, like Jacob, meant he did not need to talk so much, hoping someone—anyone—would hear.

   Jacob visited often, and argued with the guards outside, and joked with Whistler about them once he got past. He came up with names for all of them, and embarrassing stories about them that the boy knew were not really true, but they cheered him up all the same.

   Then the smuggler left, and the boredom and loneliness set in again. Whistler heard the city at work. He could feel it too. He wanted to look out of the window, but every time he approached, he felt a sudden panic, and had to back away. He wondered if he would ever be brave, like Jacob, like Rommond, if he would ever really become a man.

   He wondered, too, why his mother had not visited yet.

   Maybe she's busy, he thought. Of cour
se, she always was. Everyone was.

   Another day would pass, and another thought would be discarded upon the pile of thoughts he had gathered the days before, like his own mental scrapyard.

   Maybe she's coming now.

   He waited by the door for her, listening to the chatter of the guards outside.

   Maybe tomorrow.

   He knew he was lying to himself, but then he had lied to himself in the cell of the Hold when he met Jacob and told the smuggler: “They’re coming. They’re supposed to come. They’ll be here.” He did not really believe it then, but it was true. There was still a kind of hope that was not poison.

   She's coming, he told himself. She's supposed to come. She'll be here.

   Another day passed, and the city's chatter changed. He could never quite make out what the people said, because so many people said it, but all those different voices, and different comments, united into one great voice, the voice of the city itself—and it sounded disturbed.

   Curiosity must have been the bedfellow of courage, for he felt it well up inside him and propel him towards the window, where his focus on the crowd outside overcame any sense of fear he had before. He did not remember the evil night of a week ago. His attention was stolen by the mob that brayed after a man being hauled by soldiers through the streets, a man who looked very much like Gregan, yet a lesser man from this distance, perhaps made lesser by his actions.

   Whatever terror Whistler had felt that night, when he thought and felt that it all would end, and struggled desperately against it, melted away at the sorry sight of the bedraggled and beaten man they dragged along the cobblestones, tripping and falling and stumbling, his clothes covered in stains from the rotten fruit that the crowd catapulted at him. He had grown an ugly, unkempt beard, and his hair was a mess. From such a vantage point, whatever strength he had a week before seemed vanished. From that distance, those great big arms and hands looked small.