Ironshield Page 16

  James didn't remember exactly what happened after that. Vague, blurry images flitted through his mind of running, ducking around corners, taking cover as Southern troops flooded into the camp. Once, he thought he recalled Matthew gunning down part of an Appeaser squadron as he led James stumbling behind him by the arm.

  Fire, gunshots, screams and death blended together, but more than anything, James saw Tessa, briefly outlined by her flowing hair, a fragile speck of humanity dwarfed within the iron coffin of a broken Warsuit.

  Tessa Kolms, who'd thought she was in love with him. Tessa, whom James had spurned, whose father had given himself up to imprisonment and possible death because he believed in James. And James had been too late to live up to the man's faith.

  Eventually, after God knew how long, the world rushed back to James, the here and now reasserting itself.

  Matthew had led him back up into the forested hills they'd come through earlier. Other bedraggled soldiers and camp followers shambled up, fleeing the burning ruin of their wartime homes.

  All the while, Redstripe and Retribution continued to rain ordnance down on Northern Kriegers who rolled into camp in a vain effort to turn the tide. It was too late. They were all too late.

  Red firelight illuminated the Southern Warsuits, painting them as crimson as the diagonal slash that gave Redstripe its name.

  And past them, distorted by heat-rippled air, stood Ironshield, a motionless statue.

  A monument to its master's failure.

  Chapter 11

  One year later…

  "Here you are."

  Aldren Mal accepted the grease-spotted package and thanked the street vendor. The man was Xangese - Or Quarish, Aldren could rarely tell - and the meat and noodles sizzling on his gas-powered grill gave off the sharp smell of eastern spices. Aldren looked at the pair of sticks the man passed him. "Don't suppose you got any forks in, since last time."

  From beneath his wool cap, the easterner flashed a gap-toothed smile and shrugged. "Sorry."

  "No worries," Aldren murmured as he turned away. Down the frost-hardened dirt road, a man and woman in their fifties argued with a cloth salesman over bolts of linen. To the right, passing the mouth of a nearby alley, a man in a bowler hat spilled his coffee with a shouted curse. Meanwhile, a bearded miscreant sitting against a pile of refuse blew through a broken harmonica.

  Like Aldren, they all wore civilian garb.

  And like him, they were all soldiers.

  Dalbrook was a small northern town best known for its warehouses and freight yards. It sported one or two factories that produced farm equipment. Since the end of the Civil War the previous summer, former Industrialist mechanics were forced to ply their skills in other sectors. Automobiles were no longer a rare commodity, as demonstrated by the vehicles that honked their way between clusters of pedestrians, the hubs of spare wheels gleaming atop their hoods.

  Xangese and Quarish spices were far from the only change Arkenia had undergone since what some called the Quarrystone Massacre, the final battle of the war that had finally brought the Northern Industrialists to heel.

  Aldren peeled back the paper wrapping of his food. Steam billowed from the contents, carrying a sharp pepperiness to his nostrils. He'd asked for something only mildly seasoned, but mild didn't mean the same to easterners as it did to locals.

  He took the two sticks and tried to grab some noodles and beef. The sticks crossed, and the food slid back into the package.

  What do these people have against forks? Aldren gave up, as usual, and lifted the food toward his face, shoveling it over the edge of the package and into his mouth with the sticks.

  He nearly choked on the note.

  Aldren spat the folded bit of paper out as discreetly as he could. "Ack, too much onion," he said out loud before walking away.

  This was it, what they'd been waiting on for three weeks. The noodle vendor had a contact in a receiving warehouse by the train yards. Aldren's team had used a nebulous citizenship claim by the man's wife as leverage to extort information about certain shipments. Then, they'd waited, showing up in town every day. Every day, Aldren had come here, ordered food, and looked inside for a note. It had yielded nothing but an upset stomach so far, and he'd been ready to write off the source. Until now.

  Aldren ducked into an alley and passed through to a construction site on the other side, where exposed planks formed what would one day be an apartment complex or storefront. It was Sunday, meaning workers had the day off.

  He waited, leaning against a wall and continuing to eat his noodles. If there was one thing he could say in the food’s favor, it was that it warmed the belly.

  Erin and her husband Leon showed up first, answering Aldren's code phrase about onions. They each carried a roll of colorful linen under their arms.

  Aldren had never heard of a husband and wife working together within the military, let alone as spies. I wonder what Mutton has on them, he thought, not for the first time. That was assuming the senator even knew who they were. Mutton’s secretary seemed to dig up most of the dirt. For all his drunkenness, the man frightened Aldren.

  He nodded to the couple, tossing the empty food wrapper aside and unfolding the grease-stained note. On it, in minute handwriting, was a copy of a shipping manifest, including the number of crates and, most importantly, the address they were to be sent to.

  “'Bout time," Erin said. "Not sure I could play the bickering old hag another day."

  "That was an act?" Leon raised his eyebrows.

  Erin punched her husband in the arm so hard he nearly dropped the linen.

  Aldren showed the note to them, letting Leon copy it down on the newly purchased cloth.

  "Hey, that's good sheet there," Erin protested.

  "Honey, we've had to buy more than enough junk we're never going to use. I swear you're playing into this domestic role a little too well." Ignoring her glare, Leon tore the scrap of cloth free and pocketed it.

  The two took their leave just as Shany emerged from the alley.

  Aldren wrinkled his nose. “The rags are one thing, Shan, but do you have to smell like a vagrant, too?”

  “Fragrance is the most important part of the disguise, Sarge,” Shany said with a wink and a tug of his filthy beard. “So, the squinty finally pulled through?”

  Aldren passed Shany the note. The grimy man was an old hand at this sort of work, and memorized the contents without the need to copy them down. Aldren gingerly took the note back, pinched between thumb and forefinger.

  “Alright, boss, see you there.” Shany slipped off between a pair of support pillars, as silent as a ghost. Aldren peered after him out of sheer curiosity, but the spy had already vanished.

  Tanner showed up last, dusting off his bowler cap, his dueling cane tucked under his arm. “We have a heading, Mal?”

  Aldren outranked the man, but he didn’t make a fuss over the lack of ‘sir’ prefixes. Mostly because he knew that Tanner knew what his rank was really worth. Aldren had been given command of this cell so he’d have more opportunities to either fail, or be shown as an Industrialist rebel. Likely, Senator Mutton or his secretary had enlisted Tanner in order to spy on, rather than assist Aldren.

  He recited the location and time to Tanner. “You’ll all meet me there once I get the truck to the facility. I’ll need you to hang back until I get them to open the gate.”

  “So, you’re intercepting the materials by yourself?” Tanner said with a tsk. “Risky.”

  “I’m the contact,” Aldren explained. “The man he recognizes. Another face will arouse suspicion in the other workers, maybe even tip our hand and lose us our window. Who knows who’s in bed with who?”

  Tanner’s eyes glinted at that. “Indeed,” his hissed, tipping his hat onto his head with a little bow before walking away, his brisk steps accompanied by the tap of his cane.

  Aldren pinched the bridge of his nose. You had an out, Yanny, he thought. Why didn’t you just take it? He tried not to blame h
is dead brother too much for his own situation. Yannick hadn’t done what he did to put his older brother in hot water. The suspicion his treachery would cast on Aldren and their mother probably hadn’t even occurred to him.

  No, Aldren blamed Yannick for getting caught, for getting himself killed. He blamed his brother for the heartbreak in their mother’s eyes and the dull, throbbing pain in Aldren’s own soul.

  Aldren sighed and checked his pocket watch, a golden thing with an inscription from a loved one inside. He didn’t know who from or who for, but the man he’d pickpocketed it from seemed well-off enough not to miss it too much.

  Less than an hour before the truck was scheduled to leave. I’d better get moving. Looking both ways to make sure he hadn’t caught a tail, Aldren took off for the railyards.

  The railway yard was alive with the sounds of chugging locomotives, revving engines, and shouting men.

  Aldren wove his way between stacks of crates, keeping the brim of his cap low over his face as he searched for his contact. Dazu was a nervous man, so it was best if Aldren saw him before he saw Aldren.

  He stopped short of crossing paths with a cluster of Xangese workers smoking pipes. His wouldn’t be the only white face around, but easterners made up enough of a majority among the workers here for him to stand out. Sure, someone from Xang wasn’t likely to be a mole for Industrialist rebels, but Quarish were a different story. Either way, better to be cautious.

  Once the chattering workmen were out of sight, Aldren continued deeper into the railway yard, looking both ways any time he was about to venture through an opening in the rows of crates.

  “Ey, Dazu!” called a thick-accented voice to Aldren’s left. He leaned back, peering around the corner of a crate.

  The crate rose into the air.

  A mechanized lift held the load aloft in hydraulic-powered metal claws. In an open cockpit, the operator controlled the machine with assorted levers.

  For an instant, Aldren was frozen, watching the piece of industrial equipment roll off on its twin treads. Flemmingwood Forest flashed in his mind's eye, so vivid Aldren thought he could actually see it flicker across his vision. The forest, the Krieger Warsuits waiting in its shadows.

  Just a lifter, he told himself. It's just a tool.

  As the machine passed him by, bearing its cargo, Aldren locked eyes with Dazu across the lane.

  Dazu looked back at him, mouth agape, for a silent moment.

  Then, the easterner dropped his clipboard and ran.

  Fuck. Aldren leapt over the remaining crates and took off after him.

  He dodged and spun around surprised workers, vaulting over moving hand dollies and piles of pallets, all while struggling to keep the fleeing Xangese in his sights.

  Dazu turned a hard right between stacked crates, cutting himself off from Aldren's view.

  Cursing, Aldren threw himself around the corner after him. He looked this way and that, searching for his quarry.

  Beside him, a stack of crates shifted with a creak and fell forward.

  Aldren dove for the ground, scraping his hands against gravel. Heavy wooden boxes crashed behind him, sending splinters and dust flying.

  Dazu took in the damage he'd cause, swearing in Xangese. He turned on his heel to run.

  Aldren scrambled on hands and knees and made a desperate lunge, grabbing Dazu around the legs. The smaller man lost his balance and toppled over.

  Aldren wasted no time dragging Dazu toward him and grabbing the man by the collar with both fists. "You trying to kill me, you crazy shit?" he growled, lifting Dazu until they were nose to nose.

  "Sorry, Ardren," Dazu stammered. In his thick Xangese accent, he never did pronounce Aldren’s name right. "I didn't know what you'd do!"

  "Well now I'm tempted to stick my boot so far up your—"

  "Dazu!" A worker appeared ahead and ran toward them.

  "It okay, Ima!" Dazu called. He locked gazes with Aldren.

  Aldren nodded, then forced a grin. "Ah, Daz, you clumsy bastard." He pulled Dazu to his feet and yanked him into a hug. In doing so, he produced a push dagger from his sleeve and pressed it against Dazu's kidney.

  Dazu laughed. "Thanks for knocking me out of the way, old friend."

  Ima shook his head to himself and wandered off with a rueful mutter. Aldren caught the word gaji, a Xangese slur for westerner.

  "What you doing here?" Dazu demanded. "If anyone find out I copy manifests for you, I lose my job, Ardren."

  "Don't play dumb," Aldren snapped, pressing his dagger for emphasis. "I'm here for the other half of our deal, Daz. Where's my truck?"

  "You have address, go there yourself!" Dazu protested.

  "And get shot down outside the gate? No, Daz. I'm taking the truck. Now, point me to it."

  Dazu hissed as Aldren pushed the knife harder. "Okay, okay!" he gasped. "I show you."

  They walked at a calm, yet brisk pace. Aldren had put his knife away, but kept a firm grip on Dazu's arm, digging his fingers in whenever it seemed the man might try to pull free.

  People nodded and called to Dazu. He responded in a too-high pitch, sweating visibly.

  And I was worried about drawing the wrong attention, Aldren thought.

  They passed around the corner of a warehouse, now within sight of the inbound freight trains, and strode up the loading area, where a long row of red trucks sat backed up against open garage doors, boxes being removed from or piled into their trailers by fast-moving men in overalls.

  "T-truck six," Dazu sad. "Fourth one down."

  "Okay, Daz. I guess you're free to go." Aldren released him.

  Instead of running off as Aldren expected, Dazu stayed where he was, looking anxious. "I... have to go with you."

  "No, you don't," Aldren replied. "My friends and I have a mission, and I'm not about to drag dead weight along."

  "What you gon’ say to the driver? If he not know you, he won't give up truck."

  "Then I'll yank him out and take it."

  "Then I get fired!" Dazu argued. "We be seen together already."

  "Tough shit," Aldren moved past the man.

  It was Dazu's turn to grab Aldren.

  He had his punch dagger out and pressed into Dazu's armpit in an instant, but the easterner barely flinched.

  "I have to feed my family," Dazu said, his dark eyes boring into Aldren's, pleading and defiant all at once.

  Aldren pressed the knife further, but Dazu held his ground, even as his eyes watered.

  “Fuck.” Aldren eased back with a sigh that produced a cloud of mist in the chilly air. “Okay, get us to that truck. Don’t try anything cute. I’ve got people to take care of, too.”

  He hung back while Dazu bickered with the driver of truck six in fast-paced Xangese. Finally, throwing the door open with an angry shout, the driver picked up his thermos and stormed off.

  “That gonna be a problem for you later?” Aldren asked as he climbed into the passenger side. He actually found himself a little concerned for Dazu’s position, now. Concerned, and guilty for the way he and his team had manipulated the man and his friends.

  “I deal with him after,” Dazu replied. “No problem.” He turned the ignition and they drove off.

  Aldren gazed out the passenger side window as central Dalbrook receded, giving way to fields, their crops dormant in the winter cold, spotted with patches of dirty snow. The shipment was intended for a factory at the edge of town, far from prying eyes. Just the kind of place a rebel cell would pick.

  He was uncomfortably aware that, had he lived, Yannick might have joined these pockets of Industrialist resistance. What was more unsavory to consider was how similar what Aldren did now was to what had gotten his brother executed. The sneaking around, the secret notes, the lying. One of the few differences, and the only one that seemed to matter, was that Aldren worked for the winning side.

  Maybe he’d have come to his senses, Aldren thought. Only so long a one-legged man could keep playing spy. He didn’t know if he wa
nted to believe that, though. Perhaps it was better if he wrote his brother off as Northern to the core. That way, Aldren could stop torturing himself with what could have been.

  They were just shy of a half-mile from their destination when a figure emerged from a muddy ditch by the dirt road and waved. It was Tanner. Gone were his bowler hat and suit vest, replaced with a black cap, dark brown military fatigues, and a grease gun hanging from a black shoulder strap.

  Shit. What the hell is he doing? “Pull over,” Aldren said.

  Dazu looked from him, to Tanner, and back. “Know him?”