Skyshaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 3) Page 2

  “You should've seen 'im, Jacob,” Boulder said with a sigh. “When he got workin' on a new vehicle, he was a wonder to behold. You'd be talkin' to him, and he'd pause, as if he heard another voice, and he'd be compelled to begin work, no matter if he was tired or hungry. No one gave him orders. The machines did that. Iron was his master.”

  “I wish I'd met him,” Jacob said.

  “Rommond used to watch him at work until all hours,” Boulder continued, lost in his soliloquy. “I'd come in late to tidy up, or come in early to get things ready, and Rommond would be there, watchin' with the admiration that we all felt. They had a special kind of love. It was like a nut and bolt. Made for each other, so they were. Together they made things happen. We're only alive this long because of them. I owe my freedom and my life to them. In many ways, we all do.”

  Jacob wondered if that was true. In a way, he had always been a soldier for the Resistance, doing his bit for the good fight, fighting the Regime on a front that he could win. He had smuggled hundreds of amulets, and risked his life many times to do so, and while he had done it for the money, he liked to think now that he did it for a better cause. He had not realised before that everything the Resistance did, every battle they fought, had given him a longer lease of life, an extra day to smuggle something in. He had often thought that he deserved thanks for all the risks he took, but he never considered that he should be giving thanks, and be giving it in good measure.

  When Jacob left the engine room behind, he passed by several rooms filled to the brim with fuel. There was more room for coal than there was for crew. He wondered if, like the Lifemaker, it would eventually run out. Given Rommond's plan, however, it seemed more likely that their blood would run out first.

  * * *

  Jacob's next stop on his tour of the vessel was Taberah's room. He had not seen it yet, but was certain she was not bunking up with others, especially not the Copper Vixens, who accounted for the majority of the airship's female population. Soasa had been forced to bunk with the men, to avoid conflict with her old sorority. Jacob almost wished there was a fraternity for him to fall out with.

  Taberah's quarters were smaller than they were on the Lifemaker, but so were everyone else's. The door was open, and he found her sitting in front of a mirror, slowly and methodically painting her nails, like a daily ritual, a little distraction from the troubles of the world. If only those troubles could so easily be painted over.

  “Why do you even bother with that?” Jacob asked, barely startling her from her cosmetic duty. “They're just going to get painted with dirt.”

  She did not look up. “Rommond has a saying—”

  “Only one?”

  “—Never go to battle without loading every gun.” She looked at him with her seductive eyes, accented with a thin smudge of eyeliner. Though her face was pale, it glistened like pearls. “My beauty, my femininity, is just another weapon.”

  “So when we met in your bedroom that time, I guess I didn't know I was being assaulted.”

  “You knew.”

  “Maybe,” Jacob said with a smile, “and maybe I liked it.”

  Taberah closed her makeup box with a clang, and placed it neatly on the dresser before her, another ritual, another careful, controlled gesture. “They always do.”

  Jacob bit his lip. He wished she would not highlight the fact that she had been with so many other men. Hell, he thought. I've had my fair share of women, but I'd rather forget them. He thought especially of Cala, the most memorable one of them all, and the one he most wanted to forget.

  “So are you going to lure out Rommond with your looks?” he asked.

  She feigned a smile. “You'd probably have more luck with that.”

  “I can never get a dress that fits just right.”

  “Neither can I,” Taberah replied, rubbing her hand across her stomach. She had recently been forced to wear maternity clothes that Doctor Mudro supplied. They were mostly dresses, and she wore them with great reluctance, fidgeting with them frequently. When she could, she wore red, which made her look like a moving flame, with just a pallid glimmer of a face within the fire.

  “Maybe you can do my makeup,” Jacob said. “I always thought I was a little pale.”

  “Too little time in the sun.”

  “Too much time in the shadows.”

  She moved on to her mouth, which she ignited with ruby lipstick. “It seems Rommond is following suit.”

  “You're really worried about him, aren't you?”

  “Is it that obvious?” she asked.

  “It's as if I read your diary.”

  Taberah looked away. “You wouldn't want to know what I write in there.”

  Jacob paused. “What do you think he'd do?” He got the image of the general hanging from a rope in his quarters, the depression finally overcoming him. Yet if he had not cracked before, if he still struggled on after Brooklyn's death, Jacob could not see him giving up now.

  “I don't know any more,” Taberah replied, placing the lipstick down on the dresser. Maybe Jacob had spent too long with the Resistance, but he thought it looked like a bullet.

  “We're no longer on the same page,” she continued. “He's got his own diary, and he keeps me out.”

  “Maybe that's a good thing,” Jacob said. “Different perspectives.”

  “He doesn't want to share his with me any more. It's not like the old days. Even on the Lifemaker when I comforted him, he was reluctant. He would only share so much. There's so much I didn't know, and still don't. I feel out of the loop. God, Jacob, I didn't even know about the bomb.”

  Jacob glanced around instinctively, expecting others to overhear. “Maybe that's best forgotten.”

  “Who knows what other secrets he's keeping?” she asked. Jacob was not entirely sure if her sentiment was genuine, or if she was just trying to plant a seed of doubt in his mind, another little manipulation. If Rommond fell, would she rise to take his place?

  The flicker in her eyes betrayed her. The fire that consumed her outwardly, consumed her inside as well. Jacob could not help but think: Who knows what other secrets you're keeping too?

  * * *

  Few dared knock upon the door of Rommond's quarters, and yet almost everyone aboard the airship desired to do so. Even Taberah kept her knuckles clean, and it was likely not a lack of confidence, but a certainty that she was not welcome. Rommond gave directions by periodically shoving a piece of paper under his door, guiding them towards land, and towards Blackout.

  Jacob grew restless. The sense of uncertainty on the ship was growing. Nerves were frayed. It was too much for Jacob to just sit and wait, to not have answers to his many questions. He thought if he could not smuggle them out of Rommond's room, he could smuggle himself inside.

  He sent Whistler on a mission, which the boy was all too eager to fulfil, to steal the plans for the airship from the Copper Vixens. Many aboard the vessel said the Matron was as good as blind, but she always seemed to spot Jacob whenever he was skulking about. Whistler seemed to have better luck.

  A natural, Jacob thought. If only I was that good when I was his age. He almost did not want to think the next thought, but it pushed itself to the surface. Maybe I wouldn't have had to live in a workhouse. Maybe I would've had a proper childhood.

  In time Whistler procured a schematic of the Skyshaker, which showed how to get from one part to another, through the complex system of ventilation shafts, necessary for when the vessel switched to crusader mode. The maps were bewildering, but it was less confusing than wandering those routes without them.

  “You did good, kid,” Jacob said. “Becoming a right little smuggler.”

  Whistler beamed. He had filled out his patchwork clothes a little more since his days in the Hold, but he was still thin and lanky, and stood with an awkward droop. Jacob thought that it was good to see him with his chin held high for a change.

  “You're becoming a bad influence,” Mudro said, appearing as if from nowhere. The smoke shoul
d have been a giveaway, but sometimes it was the shroud in which he hid.

  Jacob and Whistler shrugged in unison, as if to prove the point.

  “See?” the doctor said. “You should look for a different job.”

  “Like medicine?” Whistler asked.

  “Like magic,” Mudro said, before producing his own copy of the Skyshaker's schematics with a twist of his wrist.

  “Impressive,” Jacob said, “but I think I'll stick with smuggling.”

  “Rommond won't like you barging in on him,” the doctor warned.

  “Looks like you were thinking the same thing.”

  “I was, but I'm not really one for crawling about … like a spider … bad leg and all.” He tapped his pipe on his left leg, which he avoided leaning on. He might have had a limp, but it did little to slow him, and nothing, it seemed, to stop him from sneaking up on people.

  “What happened to it?” Jacob asked.

  Whistler gave him a look, as if it was a sore topic.

  “A magic trick gone wrong.”

  “Really?”

  “No. One of Taberah's crusades. I'm lucky I have any legs at all.”

  “Aren't we all?”

  “You think she's reckless now. You should have seen her in her younger days.”

  “So why did you follow?”

  “I don't know,” the doctor said. “She has a certain magnetism.”

  “You've got that right.”

  “Well, you should have seen her in her younger days.”

  “Thirty-eight's not all that old.”

  “In this line of work, Jacob, the life expectancy is about half that.”

  “I guess you've got a few years left then, Whistler,” Jacob jested.

  Whistler gave a reluctant smile.

  “Speaking of which,” the doctor said, “it's high time we got rid of those bandages. Your scars should be largely cleared up by now.”

  This brought a much less reluctant grin from the boy.

  “I'll leave you guys to it then,” Jacob said. “I'll see what scars the general has.”

  Mudro suddenly seized Jacob by the arm. “You might be better off letting those scab over.”

  * * *

  Jacob clambered through the ventilation shafts, winding his way through the route Whistler had marked on the map. When he reached the end, he kicked his way through the grating into Rommond's room. He hoped the general would not think he was an intruder and greet him with a gun. Hell, he thought, I hope he doesn't think it's me and use the gun anyway.

  Jacob landed on the floor with a thud, sending up a haze of dust. He coughed, partly from the debris, and partly to announce himself, though he did not really need to do the latter.

  Rommond was sitting at his desk, staring over a pair of spectacles. He had a series of magnifying glasses on stands in front of him, and an assortment of springs, cogs, and other bits and bobs, most of which meant nothing to Jacob. Though the general had been locked away for days, his hair and moustache were neatly trimmed, and his uniform was as pristine as ever.

  “So they sent the smuggler,” Rommond said. “Just like you to avoid using the front door.”

  Jacob strolled towards the door and ran his hand down a number of locks and chains. “I actually tried the front door,” he said. “Sometimes that's the easiest way to smuggle something out.”

  “And what are you looking to smuggle out?”

  “You, I think,” Jacob said.

  “This cargo is a little busy right now.”

  “I'll wait.”

  “You could wait outside.”

  Jacob saw the plaque with Brooklyn's name on it resting on Rommond's table. He tapped the metal gently, and Rommond grumbled.

  “Why didn't you put it back up?”

  “Every time I do, I have to take it back down again.”

  “Pre-empting the same eventuality?”

  “It helps me to look at it.”

  “Inspiration?” Jacob wondered.

  Rommond glanced up, with fire in his eyes. “Anger.”

  Jacob was silent for a time, but he roamed the room, ogling everything in sight. He heard periodic grumbles and muted coughs from Rommond.

  “Am I disturbing you?” Jacob asked.

  Rommond glanced up. “Always.”

  “Can't break the habit now.”

  “Is this your new addiction?” Rommond replied.

  “Maybe,” Jacob said with a shrug. “So, what are you making?”

  “A weapon.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  “A gun that fires faster than normal.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what the bullet strikes won't be normal.”

  “Oh?” Jacob raised an eyebrow. “I'm intrigued.”

  “You shouldn't be.”

  “What should I be then?”

  “Scared.”

  “I thought you wanted bravery in your men.”

  “Bravery, yes, not naivety.”

  “Cure me of my naivety then. What do you plan to kill?”

  Rommond raised his shoulders and lowered them slowly with a sigh.

  “When we attack Blackout, they'll likely call on the Iron Guard. I want to be certain we can kill those machine men with as little as a single bullet. An armour-piercing bullet.” He held up a diamond pebble, which glinted in the gaslight.

  “The Iron Guard?” Jacob quizzed. “They're real? I thought they were just another fairy tale.”

  “The fairy tales are real, Jacob. It's humanity that is quickly becoming a myth.”

  “So the Regime really melded man with machine?”

  “Yes,” Rommond stated. “To make a monster.”

  “Why didn't your guys think of that?”

  “We did,” the general replied, “and we thought better of it. Brooklyn would never have allowed it. Some of the engineers and scientists thought we were ignoring a major opportunity to turn the tide, but Brooklyn was adamant that it was a sin to bond metal and flesh, that in doing so we would turn the spirits of the machines against us.”

  “And you trusted his judgement?”

  “Yes, I did, and I still do. But some didn't, and they became the root of the Armageddon Brigade, that bed of thorns that even you—inadvertently, perhaps—laid in.”

  “If you're talking about Cala, I didn't expect her to follow me on board.”

  “You have no idea what the people in the Brigade will do.”

  “Well, she's gone now.”

  “Yes, but the Brigade is not.”

  The general tried to delicately lodge the spring in place, but it leapt from his hands, and many of the other components sprang out with it, as if it were their rescuer.

  “Blast it!” Rommond shouted. He threw the gun down on the table, where several other parts fell out. He rolled his eyes and sighed long and hard, and directly his sigh at Jacob, like a weapon of its own.

  “Tricky stuff, that,” Jacob said.

  “I don't have what Brooklyn had.”

  Jacob was tempted to respond with A gravestone? but he thought better of it.

  “He could commune with machinery like no other,” Rommond continued, and he looked away wistfully. “He just knew exactly where to put everything, all those little springs and cogs. He said the spirits directed him, and if you had seen him work, you would have believed him. But me? No, I hear no spirit voices, and while I can fire a gun, I cannot make one. Yet I guess it is a skill that I must learn.”

  “Well, everyone needs a hobby.”

  “Did you know that I used to paint?” Rommond said.

  “No.”

  “I used to paint a lot, before Brooklyn died.” He paused, and his breathing became noticeably more shallow, as if there was not enough room inside him both for anger and breath. “Now when I see a paintbrush, all I think of is torpedoes and missiles.”

  “War changes us,” Jacob said.

  Rommond
looked up. “War ruins us.”

  “You seem a little frustrated.”

  “Well, things aren't exactly going according to plan.”

  “Maybe you can't plan for everything.”

  “I used to be able to,” Rommond said. “I could pre-empt the enemy. Now, it's not so easy.”

  “What has changed?”

  “I don't believe in ghosts,” Rommond said, “but Brooklyn's has been haunting me ever since he died.”

  “Maybe you need to let him go.”

  “Easier said than done, Jacob. I'm not sure how much of me would be left if I let him go.”

  “How much of you will be left if you keep clinging to the memory of him?”

  Rommond sighed. “Maybe the only release is if I join him.”

  “I hope you're not making that gun for yourself.”

  Rommond smirked. “No,” he said. “If I go out, I will go out fighting. If nothing else, it is what Brooklyn would have wanted. If I go down, I'll take the entire Iron Guard with me. That is, of course, if I can ever get these guns made.”

  “I better let you get back to work then,” Jacob said. He gave a half salute, a real one this time, and turned to walk away.

  “Jacob,” Rommond called back.

  Jacob stopped and turned.

  “You didn't see anything,” Rommond insisted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “As far as the crew know, I am unshakeable.”

  “But you're not,” Jacob said. “None of us are.”

  “They don't need to know that.”

  “You're only human.”

  “To them I need to be more than that. I need to be a pillar of strength, a rock amidst the chaotic ocean, a mighty angel aloft in the sky, whose wings can never be clipped.”

  “That's a lot to ask of yourself.”

  “If no one else will take up the mantle, then it is the burden I will have to bear.”

  “Well, you have my support, for what it's worth.”

  “Maybe it is more valuable than you think,” Rommond said, “more valuable than that chest of coils.”