Ironshield Page 15

  James cocked an eyebrow. "You seem happy. Think the full Southern army on our doorstep is a good thing?"

  "Don't you see, Commander Gloom and Doom?" Matthew punched him in the shoulder. "They're desperate. Mutton just spent months trying to convince you to denounce the war to demoralize us, and once you escape, they pull this?" Matthew's grin widened. "They'll break themselves against our entrenchments, and once our Warsuits take out Radiance, their army will have no choice but to surrender. We'll make them surrender."

  "Even if it means rolling Warsuits against ground troops?" James asked.

  “I still don’t like it but… damn, Jim, I never thought it would work out this well. You were right. We can end this all, today!” Matthew kicked his horse into motion, heading toward the large storehouses where Warsuits were kept during repairs.

  James hesitated for a moment, collecting his scattered thoughts. He’d spent three months in a cell, reassuring himself he’d done the right thing. During that time, James had envisioned the South getting sloppy, overextending their forces in bold retaliation to his breach of their precious Codes. He’d pictured this exact scenario hundreds of times.

  Now, when it was all unfolding before his eyes, it felt wrong. False, even. After all those hours spent telling himself he’d done right, despite the disapproval of his own president, his own friends, now that those same people saw the wisdom in what James had accomplished, it was the Ironshield himself who was in doubt.

  Beside him, Na’Tet sat in the saddle, muttering a prayer in his own language while following the passing Warsuits with his eyes. Hungry, that was the only word James could conjure to describe the tribesman’s stare. A heretic? “Before, you said something, about your tribe. That they cast you out because you reached too high.”

  Na’Tet nodded without meeting his gaze. James figured he wouldn’t get anything further out of him and was about to ride after Matthew when ‘Tet spoke.

  “K’Tani is not so different from your beliefs, your Savior and his God.”

  “How so?” Was there a mechanical messiah James had never heard about?

  Na’Tet looked at him, then. “Trying to become a god is a sin among my people, too.”

  Na’Tet’s words echoed in James’ mind as they rode deeper into Quarrystone. Is that what I’ve been doing? He wondered. Playing God?

  He splashed through the mud alongside wooden planks, not bothering to respond to the hollers and waves of soldiers sitting astride cannons dragged by trucks or sitting just above the treads of Krieger Warsuits. All his focus was on the cluster of large buildings to the northeast. Ironshield would be waiting in one of those structures. Something told him he needed to reach his machine sooner rather than later. Something told him his comrades were being too optimistic about their odds, too dismissive of the Appeasers. James had spoken long hours with Samuel Mutton. If the senator was an example of Southern tenacity, things wouldn’t go as smoothly as Matthew hoped.

  James swerved his neighing mount around a surprised group of infantrymen and made a right turn, Na’Tet trailing behind him. Matthew was nowhere to be seen.

  The guns continued to boom beyond Graytop Hills. Was James imagining those blasts growing louder, coming closer?

  They were crossing an intersection when Na’Tet stopped. James was about to keep going, but halted as well when he saw others pause what they were doing to point up, crying out in shock. Shock, and fear. This far north, the camp was dominated by civilians, and James saw more than a few children clinging to their mothers’ skirts. He spun around and followed their frightened gazes.

  James did so in time to see Retribution’s cannon flash, the sound of its shot echoing against the northern mountains. A structure somewhere ahead was hit, sending up a thick, rolling cloud of black dust.

  The re-captured Southern Warsuit stood just outside the northern edge of the camp.

  And it wasn’t alone.

  God, Matt, James thought. You were right. James had pressed his enemies too far. Still, he never thought they’d pull something like this…

  Rearing into the air, massive and angular, Redstripe stomped into Quarrystone, crushing homes and storehouses in the process.

  “Gods of Iron, accept me.” Na’Tet galloped off, taking the most direct road toward the enemy Warsuits.

  “You idiot!” James almost followed, but stopped short with a curse and spun around. He couldn’t help the tribesman, not like this.

  Instead, James kicked his horse and rode hard for the massive storehouses to the east. I’ve wasted too much time already. And people are going to die because of it.

  ***

  “I said wait, you blood-thirsty lunatic!” Samuel growled into the radio.

  “For what? For them to muster their guns? We came here to do a job, Senator. This is it.”

  Samuel adjusted the dial on his scope, focusing in on the rubble pile Gaul had just created. A woman’s corpse lay twisted among the wreckage. A civilian. He bit down the cry he felt welling inside him, and pressed the transmit button again. “You’ve given your warning shot, now give them a chance to surrender.”

  “Sure thing. Once I see them lay down their arms.”

  “Lay down – there are children down there!” Samuel walked Redstripe forward. A group of workers scurried out of a low building in his path, and Samuel walked through it once he was certain it had been cleared. Gaul was a bastard, but he had one thing right. The Northerners had to at least believe there was a tangible threat. He flipped the switch for Redstripe’s loudspeakers.

  “Attention, men and women of Quarrystone. This is…” he almost said ‘Striker Crimson,’ defaulting to the alias he’d gone under for the duration of the Civil War. But he wouldn’t hide behind that mask, not now. It was too late for that. No, he thought. I’ll own up to my actions, and my shame. “My name is Samuel Mutton, piloting Redstripe, and this is an appeal for your peaceful surrender. You’re boxed in. Lay down your arms and I promise no one will be hurt.”

  A pair of Kriegers rolled out from around the corner of a building to Redstripe’s right side.

  No, don’t. “You fools, power down your—"

  The smaller machines raised their guns and fired. Thuds of impacting ordnance drummed outside Samuel’s cockpit.

  Beside his Warsuit, Retribution opened fire. Projectiles punched through the chest plate of first one, then the other Krieger, leaving fiery orange entry holes that leaked gray smoke. The two machines rolled on a few feet before stopping dead, their pilots incinerated within their metal tombs.

  Gaul didn’t stop there. Retribution raked the ground from side to side with machineguns. People sprawled to the mud as they ran for cover. Soldiers who threw their rifles down and raised their hands were cut in half by heavy rapid fire.

  “God damn you Gaul,” Samuel radioed the other pilot. “Watch where you’re shooting!”

  Gaul’s only response was a deep laugh.

  A truck bearing a two-hundred-millimeter cannon skidded to a halt in the next avenue. The men milling about the gun brought its barrel to bear, aiming past the tops of squat buildings to line up with Redstripe.

  “All yours, Senator,” Gaul said. “This is what we’re here to do. This is what you signed up for.”

  A shell struck Redstripe’s midriff, sending a rattling shudder through the machine. Samuel wiped sweat from his neck, blinking it out of his eyes. The men below were loading in another round.

  With a wordless scream, Samuel fired on them.

  ****

  James didn’t believe what he’d just heard, not at first.

  Samuel Mutton, Redstripe’s pilot had announced. Not Striker Crimson, a masked grunt working on his behalf, but the senator himself. The self-righteous prick who’d preached down to James about the War Codes for three months was gunning down civilians from the control seat of a Kaizer.

  James’ mount reared and screamed. Even for a weathered warhorse, the presence of Kaizers could be too much. James clenched his knees and
patted the beast’s neck, attempting to instill calm in the creature that he didn’t feel himself. Samuel Mutton. A liar, hiding behind a mask to remain in political power while playing at war. Now, he was attacking the civilian occupied rear of Quarrystone.

  If it’s the last thing I do, James thought, grinding his teeth as he gained shaky control of his mount. I’ll kill that man.

  A Northern gun struck Redstripe’s middle. The Warsuit shot back, sending up a blaze of fire and sparks where the gun and its munitions ignited. Two nearby buildings fell in the resulting blast.

  James spurred his horse into a faster run, though he knew he was pushing the poor beast. People stumbled away from smoldering wreckage, covered in dust and blood, screaming. A little girl shook the unmoving forms of her parents who lay pinned under a fallen section of wall.

  James couldn’t help her. He couldn’t help any of them. Not down here, not like this. “You!” He called to a limping soldier. “Where’s the—"

  A blast took out what remained of the broken structure to James’ left. His horse had had enough, and James was hurled out of the saddle to land on his back as the rearing animal fled.

  He rolled over, groaning. His gaze fell on the little girl. She lay still, her hand clutching her father’s. Another piece of debris crushed most of her tiny body. Her eyes were closed as though in sleep.

  James squelched his way out of the mud and grabbed the limping soldier by the arm. The man tried to pull free, but James dug his fingers in hard.

  “Ironshield,” he growled. “Where is it?”

  “The-the-there,” the man jerked his head toward a storehouse a block or so to the east. “Warehouse number t-three. Can I go?”

  James shoved the enlisted man away. “Help as many as you can,” he ordered. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll find you later. Go.”

  Not waiting to see the man scramble off, James ran with everything he had, fueled by a rage he'd never thought possible.

  Buildings shattered. Fires spread across newly created ruins, their heat wafting over James in a hellish wind. Smoke and dust choked the rippling air. He turned a corner and ducked when a burst of machinegun fire struck down a cluster of fleeing civilians, each high-velocity perforation sending up a puff of red mist before the limp figures hit the mud. Once the spray of lead had passed, James leapt over the bodies and around the next bend. Warehouse three sat across an especially wide avenue, a space left empty to make room for Kaizers to walk.

  Redstripe and Retribution were taking full advantage of the space, their booming treads bringing them closer and closer to the warehouses, as all the while they pummeled the camp at their feet with projectiles.

  Return munitions were fired up to little effect. A Kaizer's hull was thick. Only a machine of equal size was likely to carry a gun large enough to penetrate the thick armor, and the North's remaining Kaizers were occupied defending Graytop. For all their power, the machines were slow. These two Warsuits could destroy Quarrystone entirely before the necessary support arrived.

  By the looks of things, that was exactly what these two pilots were set on doing.

  Retribution's massive feet descended on a pair of fleeing men one after the other, squashing them. When the Warsuit did the same to a third figure, James knew it was on purpose. Retribution let out a plume of exhaust smoke as a sound erupted from its loudspeakers.

  The pilot inside was laughing.

  Oh, Ted, James thought. Thank the Savior you're not here to see what they're making your machine do.

  Another figure ran out of an alley. A copper-skinned, robed man with dark braids. Na’Tet had lost his horse as well.

  "'Tet!" James screamed. "Turn back!"

  The tribesman didn't seem to hear him. Na’Tet ran, holding his bent-metal effigy aloft to his iron gods.

  "'Tet, NO!"

  Retribution put a cannon blast through the buildings to Na’Tet's rear. Rolling dust and rubble engulfed him.

  Another life lost, another sacrifice, all to get James here.

  He ran for the warehouse, not stopping even when a projectile blew through a corner of the structure.

  Ironshield. Ironshield. Ironshield. James was almost there. Almost...

  The sheet metal roof tore with an ear-splitting screech as something forced its way through it. One of Ironshield's arms stuck out in the air, its bayonet catching the sunlight.

  James skidded to a stop as, bit by bit, Ironshield broke free of its fragile enclosure. Wooden scaffolding snapped apart around the Kaizer as it thrashed its arm to the side, bringing the south wall crashing down into a twisted heap. Like a man pushing himself up from the ground, Ironshield stood to its full height, alive with the sound of clanking gears over the rumble of engines working to move each limb, all driven by the roaring Kaizer Engine on its back. Smoke shot up in tall plumes, wreathing around the Warsuit's head.

  But who was piloting? Ivan Kolms was on the front lines by now, or at the very least nearly there. Who else in camp would even have the technical knowledge to attempt operating something as complex as Ironshield?

  James felt a sinking dread in his gut. He had a terrible suspicion that he knew exactly who was in that cockpit.

  No. He waved his arms, hoping against hope that he could catch the pilot's attention. But Ironshield took a booming, earth-shuddering step forward, collapsing what remained of the warehouse around it in its stride toward the enemy Warsuits. As sunlight gleamed on Ironshield's side, James saw, to his horror, that the repairs hadn't been finished.

  The cockpit was still exposed.

  "Are you insane?!" James shouted.

  Ironshield's pilot didn't let their vulnerable state hold them back. Even as James voiced his futile protest, Ironshield raised its arm-mounted cannon. The limb was still marred by hundreds of bullet marks. The only piece of new armor the Warsuit seemed to have was a section of chest plating on the left side. The right side, where the cockpit sat, had been damaged far too deep, and as a result had clearly been in the midst of a complete rebuild before the mechanics could even think of applying new surface armor to the chassis.

  The arm clanked as its geared joints brought it up, hydraulics hissing. But even when it was lined up with Redstripe's torso at point blank range, Ironshield didn't fire. Only after a few still moments as the Warsuits faced each other like this did James hear Ironshield's weapon clack emptily. The pilot didn’t shoot, but not for lack of trying.

  Ironshield’s guns hadn't been loaded.

  "GET OUT OF THERE!" James screamed. He peered through the smoky haze, trying to get a look at the hapless pilot.

  Redstripe brought the blade of its left arm down on Ironshield's right shoulder. With the chassis weakened and structural integrity compromised by the gap in the Warsuit's chest armor, Ironshield's shoulder crumpled. Ironshield bent with a mighty creak under the force of the blow, giving James a brief look into the cockpit. A dark gray cap flew off the slight figure's head, letting loose a flurry of long black hair framing a delicate, pale face.

  "TESSA! NO!"

  Redstripe yanked its blade free and brought it up for another blow. Severed bolts and scraps of sheared metal rained down around James.

  The next strike of the Southern Warsuit's blade brought a section of the chassis down over the open face of the damaged cockpit, obscuring the young woman from James' sight.

  "Stop it, Mutton! That's not me in there, you bastard!" James cried, his voice hoarse. "You've won already!"

  "Jim!"

  Matthew came sprinting down the debris-strewn avenue. He was bleeding down one arm, and covered head to toe in dirt and caked blood. The engineer's eyes were wild as he grabbed hold of James.

  "Jim, we have to run!"

  The plea was punctuated by another explosion, along with crashing brick and wood as the laughing Retribution stomped its way further into the camp. The fires rose above even the tallest structures, painting the sky red.

  "Jim?"

  "Tessa," was all he could manage to say, ges
turing up at Ironshield.

  Redstripe was just then raising its arm-mounted gun. It planted the muzzle against the hooded maw that remained of Ironshield's cockpit.

  "By God, what is that girl thinking?!" Matthew looked around. "A radio, we need a radio. Maybe we can talk that son of a whore out of—"

  Redstripe's gun blasted with a fiery flash before Matthew could finish what he was saying, the sound muffled inside the enclosed space but for the decisive ping as the round struck metal inside. Mutton followed up this with a spurt from his machinegun.

  Ironshield, the Warsuit passed to James from his dead father, sagged with a metallic squeal, arms hanging limp to its sides. A sarcophagus for yet another person he held dear.