Ironshield Page 26

  An old bird's nest sat nestled between the gas pedals, and the leather upholstering the seat was cracked and peeling.

  James touched a jagged outcropping of steel where the left control stick had been sheared away. To do so, he had to sidestep an extra lever. Matthew's last-minute modification, when James' army didn't know if he'd return to pilot the Warsuit.

  "Not really the same," James remarked. His father had had a saying about Warsuits. That the machines themselves were inconsequential. After all, could a contraption which had most if not all its parts replaced at one time or another really be the same machine? Was the Ironshield James now stood in really the same Warsuit Heinrich Edstein died operating, all because of the one or two components salvaged for its restoration?

  "A pile of bolts and scraps, held together by an ideal," Heinrich had said. "It's the ideal that matters, Jim. Not the machine, not the blade that ignites it, not even the flag it flies. Ironshield is an ideal, and so long as you believe in it, it fights with you, even if the scraps have rusted away. It fights with you even if you never step foot inside, so long as you hold the ideal in your soul."

  James' father had told him that, hoping he'd never have to fight, hoping the Ironshield legacy of warfare could end with his only son. But Heinrich Edstein must have known there was a chance James would have to climb into the cockpit.

  He must have known. James pictured his father in the cold seat. The image became one of Tessa, sweat plastering long, dark hair to her face as she grimaced in pain and fear.

  When it came to her, this was the same machine. She'd died right here, in this very seat, while James watched, useless, from the ground.

  He unslung his saber and lowered himself into the chair.

  Through the jagged opening in the bulkhead, James gazed out at the moonlit scrapyard, at the ghostly remains of long-dead Warsuits, their engines either gutted or left to rust for the sake of this newfound peace.

  Officially, the mutual disarmament deal with Xang had been fulfilled. James read enough newspapers to know President Davids was insisting on the completion of an audit in Xang before declaring the agreement honored in full. But looking at the scene here, it seemed as though it was already over and done with.

  James didn't have to use much imagination to picture Redstripe looming outside. He'd had that view already at Graytop, when the Appeaser Warsuit tore Ironshield open. But he had to remind himself that Tessa Kolms hadn't been an experienced Warsuit pilot. As far as James knew, the poor girl hadn't seen the inside of a cockpit except as a mechanic.

  You were brave, he thought. But this must have been terrifying. Especially when she'd aimed Ironshield's gun, only to find it empty.

  Should have got there sooner. He felt along the key slot of the ignition cradle. His saber hissed as he drew it from its scabbard. James slid the blade home and turned it, creating a rattling click from the tumblers within. The saber's controls popped open.

  Twigs and leaves cracked and crunched under James' boots as he pumped the creaking pedals. He worked the controls of his ignition saber, memory guiding his actions.

  Of course, nothing happened. The Kaizer Engine, or whatever was left of it, remained lifeless. Ironshield didn't move. It didn't rumble or vibrate with the mechanical liveliness it once had.

  With a shuddering sigh, James sagged, easing his hand from the useless controls. Stupid, he admonished himself.

  Something clanged nearby, causing James to jolt in his seat. Not possible, he told himself, as some naive part of him wondered if his machine might actually work.

  Another clang. It was coming from somewhere below. An animal, perhaps, living inside Ironshield's corpse?

  Or the damned thing's getting ready to fall apart, dumbass. He could smell the blood-like iron tang of rust, tasted it on his tongue. Even by the scant light of the moon maroon streaks of moisture-eaten metal were clear to see. Things had felt stable enough on the climb, but that wasn't to say the floor under him wasn't held together with rivets that were more rot than steel. How long do you figure it'll take anyone to find you if you croak inside a scrapped Warsuit in the middle of the night? he asked himself. Chances are nobody'll know until a guard smells your corpse thawing in the spring.

  James was tempted to leave the saber in its place as a monument to his father's legacy. But he could no more let go of it now than he could have in Goethegar, and pulled the blade free instead. He was sliding the weapon into its scabbard and picking careful steps toward the cockpit's opening when a shadow blocked his view.

  Before James could comprehend what he was seeing, a boot hit him full in the face.

  He went sprawling back and hit the seat hard, sending him careening to the side to land on the chilled steel floor. He spat, tasting blood in earnest now, and looked toward his attacker.

  The masked intruders climbed into the cockpit, one of them leveling a pistol at James while the boy who'd gone through the fence last scooped up his dropped saber.

  James thought to reach for his machine pistol before remembering for a second time that it wasn't with him.

  "Hands where we can see them," the man with the gun commanded, jerking his weapon upward. "I won't ask twice."

  James took him at his word and raised his hands above his head, all the while never taking his eyes off his saber, which the boy turned over in his hands, inspecting it. He pulled the blade partially free. "Where did you get this?" The voice was muffled by his mask, but James could hear the sharp, accusatory tone.

  "It belongs to me—" James began.

  "Not anymore, you filthy bum," the gunman said. "She asked where you got it. So, where'd you steal it from?"

  She? Not a boy, then. "I didn't steal anyth—"

  Another kick to the opposite side cut him off, splitting his lip open. Whoever the woman was, she hit hard.

  "What do we do with him?" the man with the gun asked, turning to the woman. "He looks filthy."

  "Stinks, too," the third masked figure remarked.

  Recovering from the kick, James shifted to sniff himself. Well, he had only rinsed off a bit in front of his sink, and his clothes had endured a lot on the road.

  "We take him with us," the woman replied. "Need to find out where he came across this." She slung the saber over her shoulder by its baldric. "Tie him up and let's—"

  A dog barked outside.

  "Shit," she hissed. "No time, we're getting out of here."

  "So, should I shoot him?"

  James couldn't tell if the man was excited or apprehensive of the notion.

  "Too loud, too messy. Leave him for the guard to find. We'll deal with him some other day."

  "Give it back," James said.

  But she'd already swung out of the cockpit and begun the climb down, soon followed by her partners.

  James scrambled to the opening. When he looked down, the trio was nowhere to be seen.

  A flashlight beamed up into his face, and for the second time that night, James saw a gun pointed his way.

  "Alright fella," the guard called. "Climb down, slowly."

  Chapter 18

  Damn it, Yanny, Aldren thought. Dead almost two years, and you've still got Ma cleaning up after you.

  Their mother had never been the most diligent homemaker, but she certainly knew how to keep a grave looking tidy.

  Ignoring the cold, Aldren sat cross-legged in the snow beside the patch of well-tended earth and laid a cigarette on top of Yannick's immaculate headstone. He lit one of his own, and took a long drag as he read and re-read the inscription.

  Here lies Yannick Mal. Beloved Brother and Son.

  That was it. No mention of his military service, not one word about his deeds in life.

  It didn't surprise Aldren. If anything, he was glad no one had vandalized the stone the way they'd reportedly done to Yanny's wooden leg on the day of his hanging. Still, the brief epitaph rang hollow.

  "Here lies Yanny, always up for a fight he couldn't win." Yeah, that's better. Aldren figured ma
ybe he'd get that added, once he came back. If he came back. "Sorry little brother," he said between puffs. "Haven't been here since... damn, since they planted you. They've been keeping me busy. Don't worry, not too busy to get into a bit of mischief on my own every now and then. I'm still me, after all."

  He pulled Yannick's cigarette down, lit it, and stuck the butt end into the soil. "Just the one," he said. "These things'll kill ya." Aldren chuckled at his own joke. Not because he found it funny, but because Yannick would have. "Running around stealin' and flirtin' ain't the same without you," he said. "I don't know what to do with myself sometimes. Hell, you'd probably say a soldier's life is the best thing for me, if you could see me now." Aldren took another drag, while a steady ribbon of smoke rose beside him from Yannick's cigarette.

  "But that was never my thing," he continued. "No, that was all you. I still don't understand why you did what you did. Maybe you felt betrayed, felt like there was nothing left for you to lose. Fuck, maybe you were just bored. Either way, I think it's my fault. Was my job to show you the world for what it was, but all I showed you was how to get in trouble. I'm..." Sorry? The word died in Aldren's throat. He spat a wad of phlegm to the side and stood, dusting off his pants.

  "Nah, you know what I am, little brother? I'm pissed off." He paced back and forth in front of Yannick's grave. "You were out, Yanny," he cried. "And you didn't get out cheap neither. Gave them a leg. A fucking leg! And in exchange you got to go back to the city and have everything I dreamed of, crippled or not. Shit, I could've got even more tail playing the wounded vet card. And the scams." Aldren closed his eyes and sighed. "Oh, the fucking scams we could have pulled off together. Could have brought Ma back into the city. We'd all have a nice flat, getting drunk as lords, seeing plays and gambling 'till it went out of fashion.

  "But no.” He shook his head. “No city flat for Ma, just a dead boy. Because you had to go and break her heart by dying instead of leaving well enough alone. Of all the swindles you could have pulled, why'd you pick the one that paid the least and risked the most?" Aldren kicked a bit of snow onto the rectangle of dirt. "Thought I taught you better than that."

  "And I thought I taught you better than to mess up other people's hard work, Aldren Mal."

  Beatrice Mal stormed down the sloped cemetary, a wreath of flowers clutched in her hands, petals bobbing with each step.

  "Hey, Ma,” said Aldren, feeling cowed. Fashionable as ever, Beatrice wore a black fur coat, purposefully left open at the top to expose ample bosom, as well as the string of pearls around her pale, fleshy neck. A gift Aldren had sent over the previous winter. He'd almost been caught, stealing that one.

  The thick coat was overkill, considering the relatively mild southern winter to which only a thin crust of eroding snow could cling. It did serve to conceal her figure, although Aldren could see in his mother's face she'd put on a few. He'd seen enough pictures of the retired burlesque dancer to know Beatrice's glory days were long behind her.

  "Did you forget how to write in the army?" She threw one arm around Aldren's shoulders and kissed his cheeks. "Haven't had a letter from you in months and here you turn up, like a lost pup retracing his steps." Beatrice knelt, and Aldren had a decidedly uncomfortable view of her garter belt as she dusted snow off Yannick's plot. The wreath already leaning on Yanny's headstone looked fresh enough to Aldren, but his mother replaced it all the same, kissing the tips of her silk-gloved fingers and pressing them against the inscription of her lost son's name.

  Aldren caught a whiff of her perfume on a chill breeze. Ma still wore the same stuff as always. The sharp floral scent, pungent with chemicals, brought Aldren back to his childhood with Yannick. Back then, Aldren had had to be the man of the house when Ma worked the stage at the club. Even then, she'd been approaching the end of her prime, but kept going until her back finally gave out.

  Every night she'd come home, covered in glitter and smelling of that damned perfume, her red-painted lips parted in a wide smile as her boys ran up to her in the narrow hallway of their cramped apartment. She'd always have sweets or toys behind her back, a new surprise for her "brave little men."

  Beatrice stood, brushing some unseen dirt off her long coat. "Well, come on," she took Aldren by the arm. "Let's get you fed."

  Beatrice's small farmstead home was everything a retiree in the country could want. A quaint two-story building with a sloped roof and stone chimney, it sported a wide porch of old wood overlooking the fields.

  It was about as far from Beatrice Mal's style as a place could get.

  A brass bell hung in the doorway, cast in the shape of a scantily clad dancing woman. It chimed when Aldren's mother opened the door.

  "Don't lock it?" Aldren inquired as he followed her inside.

  "Pft. Getting robbed would be the most fun a gal could hope for, out here."

  If the exterior looked like a stereotypical farmhouse, the inside was all Beatrice. Colorful woven rugs, beaded drapes in doorways, black and white photographs of pin-up models. A mannequin sporting a blue sequin dress and peacock feather headpiece stood in a corner of the hall.

  "Shoes off," Beatrice commanded, slipping out of her own lacquered heels. She shrugged off her coat, revealing a black lace dress.

  "Glad to see you adjusting to the country life, Ma," Aldren remarked as he let his rucksack drop and began tugging off his boots.

  "The windows are drafty, and the cow stinks," she replied, studying her hand with a sigh. "I've got callouses from trying to churn butter."

  "Could always go back to the city," he said. "I can get you a flat."

  She waved the notion off. "A girl's got to face the music someday. Let the young and beautiful take the stage. This isn't all that bad, after all." Beatrice touched the polished banister. "It's quiet, out here. Peaceful. Makes me wonder how life might have been for you boys if I'd given you a home like this to begin with, away from everything. Away from…" She trailed off.

  Aldren didn't need to press her for the rest. When the draft came for the Civil War, it had been enforced first and foremost in cities. Farms were left mostly intact to keep the people and soldiers fed. This plot had already belonged to Beatrice's family, an old property she'd always talked about selling but never did.

  "Maybe we were better off," Aldren said. "Cows were never my cup of tea, either."

  "Well, you'd better get used to corn, then, 'cause you'll pull your weight here one way or another. Now, to the kitchen with you."

  He'd only been here one other time, on a brief leave Sam Mutton granted before Aldren started his manhunt operation. Now, as then, this place gave him a sense of alienated nostalgia. The little knick-knacks, pictures, postcards placed all around, they were the same memories Beatrice had always horded. Proof that she'd been somebody, once. But this wasn't home for Aldren. Home was a string of apartments in easy walking distance to the brothels and gambling houses. Home was weaving his way between the whores and junkies of Talenport with Yannick in search of something to steal. Sure, Ma would slap them for it. But she'd still take the money and use it to put food on the table and clothes on their backs.

  Home was the city life, and it was nothing but trouble.

  "I like this, Ma," he said as she rummaged through the cupboards. "This whole country thing. It could work."

  "Not without a man around." Beatrice turned to him. "So, am I in luck?"

  Aldren started to smile, but couldn't force the ruse. "I've got to go to Xang," he said.

  His mother slammed the stack of plates she'd retrieved onto the countertop. She clutched the edge with both hands and leaned over with a shuddering breath. Then, she turned on the tap and reached for the kettle, as if nothing were amiss.

  Other than the sound of running water and the faint tinkle of a breeze through wind chimes outside, the kitchen was quiet. Aldren's mother filled a pot and laid it on the stove. She turned a dial and ignited the gas burner with a match. Turning, she used the same match to light a cigarette. Beatrice puffed a mo
uthful of smoke and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her ample bosom.

  "Xang," she said, as though it were a word she'd never heard before. "Am I wrong, or is that war over? Because I could have sworn that was the whole point of us fighting amongst ourselves the way we did."

  "Mutton's not sending me to fight, Ma," Aldren explained. "In fact, he picked me to do the opposite."

  "Sure," Beatrice replied with a snort. "As if I'd believe anything that bastard says. Wish that bomb had killed him."

  "I don't." Aldren had heard the commotion following the attack from a distance. It was only the next day, on a train, that he overheard the full story. He decided it was best not to let his mother know how close he'd been to the blast zone. Pulling out a cigarette of his own, Aldren lit it and took a drag. "Chances are Elliot Salkirk would be put in charge of my contract."

  Beatrice scowled. She stabbed her cigarette into a crystal ash tray with more force than necessary. "I'd call that monster a son of a whore if it wasn't an insult to the whores I've known. He belongs in a cell."

  "I know, Ma," Aldren said. No matter how much she loathed Samuel Mutton for forcing him to remain in the service, Beatrice's hatred of Elliot Salkirk would always run deeper, for the man who'd had her youngest son publicly humiliated before he hanged. For the man who'd carved a traitor's 'T' into his naked chest. Just thinking about it made something squirm inside Aldren, made him wish he were the type of man to take a life. "I know."

  "So, why send you to Xang if there's no war?" Beatrice pulled vegetables and meat from the ice box as she spoke. "You going to tell me there's no danger?" She laid out a cutting board and went to work.