Ironshield Page 7

  “Every week,” the senator said. “I send a message to the Xangese royal family, telling them the Arkenian South stands for peace, telling them not to tar us with the same brush as the Industrialists. I’ve yet to get a reply, except in the form of edicts sent to the president warning of the end of the disarmament deadline. If Arkenia hasn’t destroyed its heavy weaponry by winter, Xang recommences hostilities in the spring. And when that happens, we’re on our own. Lytan won’t intervene on our behalf again.”

  “Not that they haven’t done enough already,” James said. “You fought in the Revolution, Mutton. How could you allow Imperial ships on our shores?”

  Mutton’s mouth drew to a thin line. “Mine was the loudest voice of opposition to that. But in the end, we needed the supplies. The situation was out of my hands. I could not steer my people in the right direction, but I think you can do so for yours.”

  “I’ve told you already, the answer is no.”

  “One speech. One admission of personal surrender, and you can lead thousands, maybe tens of thousands of your men from the brink of demise. No matter what Orvid has to say, you are a symbol to your people. There are Northern soldiers fighting and dying for a lost cause right now, because they follow your example.” Mutton stepped forward. “Save them, James.”

  James met the senator’s intense gaze for several silent moments.

  Then, he laughed.

  “You, of all people, speak of leading by example? Your armies move on mine with Warsuits, the very same machines you want to rob us of. And you don’t even have the stones to stand behind your own hypocrisy and fight yourself, letting a masked goon go to battle in your place. Samuel Mutton, the original Striker Crimson, turned soft-handed politician, signing letters while your foot soldiers take the risks. You’re an example alright, of everything I hope to never be.

  “Don’t for a second think that I, or my people, don’t know what comes next if we submit. After you gut Northern industry, you’d seize control of our diesel and ironworks, take away any autonomy the Northern provinces have.”

  Mutton’s eyes were stern, his jaw working as though chewing something unpleasant. “You’re wrong,” he said at last, his voice soft.

  “Am I? And how high on Nathaniel Davids’ priority list is the independence of the provinces? Do you actually expect me to believe his government will give the North control of its own fuel production once it’s taken us by force?” James shook his head. “We’re not as stupid as you hope. That’s why you lost at Graytop. That is why you’ll lose the war.”

  The senator opened his mouth to reply.

  A boom sounded outside, accompanied by a palpable tremble in the concrete cell. The chants outside dissolved into cries of shock and dismay.

  The cell door opened. “Sir?” said the young guard.

  Mutton shot James a glare. “We will continue this later.”

  “Can’t wait,” James replied to Mutton’s back.

  The door slammed shut, leaving James alone with the tray of food, and the muffled cries outside.

  He caught a whiff of Xangese spice from the bowl and couldn’t help a rueful chuckle. “Cheeky bastard.”

  James kicked the tray over.

  Chapter 5

  Samuel walked out into the Senate House front grounds and looked northwest to the Edinville skyline. Paulson, red faced and flustered, ran down the steps to meet him.

  “Bring me my blade,” Samuel said.

  “Will that be all, Senator, or would you like me to fetch, um…” Paulson looked about, taking in the soldiers, clerks, and other staff all around.

  “There is something, something I want you, personally, to bring me.” Samuel leaned and whispered in Paulson’s ear.

  As he listened, Samuel’s secretary turned pale.

  Where a horde of protesters had congregated in the Edinville Square, now a greatly reduced number of rapt spectators stood in the shadowed alcoves of stores and cafes, watching, to their disbelief, as a Kaizer Warsuit stomped its way through the city.

  Soldiers filed out into the square, creating a wall along each side of the wide dirt road.

  Samuel strode down the middle of the road, waving off those men who attempted to fall in rank with him. People looked scared, and not just the civilians. Regardless of what Orvid said about upholding the War Codes, no one was likely to forget the tragedies at Flemmingwood and Graytop Hills. And for those whom already held the North’s commitment to balanced warfare in suspicion, seeing this massive invader confirmed their fears.

  Though he displayed confidence as he took position in the middle of the road, Samuel was as on edge as everyone else. Probably more so. His conversations with James Edstein seemed to confirm that Northern command had acted separate from Orvid’s orders, but even if true, that revelation came as little comfort. It was, after all, the Industrialist military Arkenia was concerned with, not the ink and paper of its bureaucracy.

  A group of panicked civilians ran down the road and were waved through by Mutton’s soldiers. A constable rode in on horseback soon after and saluted Samuel.

  “How much damage is it doing?” Samuel asked.

  “Surprisingly little, Senator,” the constable said with a look over his shoulder as the Warsuit made another booming step. “Doesn’t seem to be interested in the town. He’s been talking over a loudspeaker, warning people out of buildings he can’t step around. Says he’s heading—"

  “Here, I know.” Samuel waved for the rider to continue on his way with a word of thanks.

  A local justice minister shoved out from between a pair of soldiers. “Get inside, Senator, before the bastard sees you!”

  “Justice Kane, it’s good you’re here,” Samuel said with a grin. “I may have need of your services, if you don’t mind sticking around a while.”

  “Senator? Why ever for?”

  The squeak of wheels from behind drew the justice minister’s attention. Civilians chattered among themselves, pointing, looking confused.

  The wheels made their slow, steady approach, until the sound was directly to Samuel’s rear. He didn’t turn to acknowledge it until Paulson spoke behind him.

  “I think I’m due for a raise. Any chance I can get it in writing, before you get yourself killed?”

  “No time for that, Edmund.” Samuel turned and took the saber from the man, sliding it into his belt as he studied the other thing his friend had brought him. “You’ll just have to hope I live.”

  Paulson, with the help of a group of nervous servants from the Senate House, had brought over a seventy-five-millimeter field gun on wheels. Several boxes of ammunition were brought alongside it in a wooden hand cart.

  Justice Kane spluttered. “Against a Warsuit? Senator Mutton, have you gone mad?”

  “That would imply he was sane to begin with,” Paulson quipped, raising his flask to his lips.

  “I won’t have a battle between two Warsuits in the middle of my city, even if we could get one of our machines here in time. Besides, if we’re to make disarmament our aim, I must lead by example.” Edstein’s words echoed in Samuel’s mind, but he refused to dwell on that discussion, not now. Boy’s more like his father than he knows.

  “Senator, be reasonable—"

  “Paulson, tell the men to see the buildings in this block are cleared, then come back here,” Samuel said, riding over Kane’s pleading.

  “I’d rather leave. This is hardly my purview as a secretary.”

  “Consider yourself promoted. Now, do as I say. Justice Kane, if you want to help, you may bear witness. If not, stay out of my way.”

  A cloud of dust billowed about the Warsuit’s massive feet as it stomped down the wide dirt road, its blocky form blotting out the sun, casting a long shadow that seemed to reach for Samuel.

  Next to him, Paulson dabbed sweat from his brow. The portly secretary had stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His hands on the field gun were steady, despite his obvious nerves. Edmund Paulson may have become a
drunk in recent years, but Samuel would still trust him with his life. Which was exactly what the secretary held in his hands today.

  Samuel looked up at the oil drum-shaped, bolted iron monstrosity booming his way. He recognized the Warsuit’s make.

  It was Retribution, formerly the Southern Virtue, taken when General Renalds was first captured in the battle for Gorrad by Theodore Kolms.

  The re-christened Warsuit had seen repair since the battle of Flemmingwood. The outer carapace of a Warsuit, even a Kaizer such as this one, rarely made it out of a direct conflict with a machine of its equal unmarred, and by all reports from the fleeing infantry at Flemmingwood, Retribution had been no exception.

  Now, months after its victory, the Northern Warsuit sported matted gray armor plating which gleamed dully in the afternoon sunlight. The brighter shine of periscope lenses sparkled against otherwise dull metal. Smoke puffed up from its multiple exhaust pipes, spurted from its rumbling engine works as the giant machine clanked, whirred, and stomped ever closer.

  Retribution was missing its flag, Samuel noticed. He doubted this was by accident. Just as with the smaller Krieger Warsuits used during the coups at Flemmingwood and Graytop, the perpetrator of this affront was no doubt trying to claim independence for the sake of his government’s reputation.

  The ground beneath Samuel’s feet trembled more and more. Chimes in the doorways of nearby storefronts rang and swinging signs creaked. Finally, with a shuddering, decisive step, Retribution came to a stop. Its shadow touched Samuel’s feet.

  Samuel Mutton had operated Warsuits before. He knew how it felt to face another machine from the cockpit. This sensation was worlds apart from that. To stand on his own two feet in the open air, exposed as a naked babe in the face of hot lead and crushing steel, sent an invigorating thrill of fear shooting down his spine to tingle through his extremities.

  Samuel was terrified. And he loved it.

  "Well at least you're happy," Paulson grumbled, seeing Samuel's grin.

  "Samuel Mutton!" A voice bellowed from a loudspeaker built into Retribution's shoulder. "Brave, for an Appeaser cur like you to stand before me unarmored. Are you waiting for your masked assassin to arrive with your old machine? Or are you out here to bargain with me instead?"

  Samuel took a square microphone from Paulson, attached by a wire to a radio and a loudspeaker of his own, sitting beside the field gun. The radio was so the Warsuit pilot could hear him in his metal encasement. The speaker was so all present could listen as well. Samuel would not be accused of goading a Northern Warsuit into attack in the middle of his own town.

  "For a bargain to be struck, General Kolms," he said. "I would have to know just what it is you want." He cringed as his loudspeaker emitted high-pitched feedback. Paulson moved to adjust dials while Samuel continued. "If that is Theodore Kolms in there."

  "Yes, Mutton. Unlike you and your ilk, I don't defer my dirty work to some hired gun so I can play politician."

  Samuel made a gesture to encompass his surroundings. "No politics here, General. Just two veterans talking. So I'll ask again, what do you want?"

  "The Ironshield," Kolms' growl crackled through his speaker. "I demand the release of Commander James Edstein."

  Samuel raised an eyebrow. “Or you’ll do what? Attack my town, destroy homes, kill civilians? That’s hardly in line with the official Industrialist mandate, unless I’m out of the loop.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Mutton. You talk of mandates, when your government took in Lytan ships? I demand the release of the Ironshield by right of conquest. My Warsuit against Redstripe. If I win, I take Commander Edstein with me.”

  “Oh? I see.” Samuel pretended to ponder this over. “And if you are defeated?”

  “Then I will be your prisoner.”

  “A generous offer. Allow me to counter with one of my own. You power down your stolen machine and exit the cockpit, then we arrest you, unharmed, here and now.”

  Kolms laughed “You should be in a Warsuit, if you’re to talk to me like that. In any case, the duel’s not with you, old man. Call forth your dog and let him defend his own honor. Or he can refuse me, and prove himself nothing more than a spineless puppet.”

  “I must ask again, pardon my curiosity,” Samuel said, not bothering to hide his feral grin. “Or you will do what?”

  “Enough stalling! I know Redstripe was brought here, and I know its pilot can’t be far. Either bring your crony out to face me in fair combat, or admit your cowardice!”

  Is he bluffing? Samuel wondered. If Kolms knew Redstripe had been brought into Edinville, it meant someone was funneling information across Northern lines. The location of the Arkenian South’s main Kaizer Warsuit was a closely guarded secret between field engagements. Either there was a mole in their midst, or Kolms was lying.

  Retribution’s arm lifted with the rattle of gears as it brought one of its guns to bear on Samuel.

  “If he shoots us, let the record stand that I quit, Sir,” Paulson said.

  “I’m giving you one more chance, Senator,” Kolms barked the word as though it were a curse. “This can happen through a fair duel, or I can take what I came for by force. Your choice.”

  “I suppose it’s too late to get a written reference,” Paulson said with a gulp.

  “Forge one,” Samuel replied. He lifted the microphone back to his mouth to address Kolms. “Your own president condemns James Edstein for breaking the War Codes,” Samuel’s voice echoed through the street. Spectators watched in hushed, tense silence all around. “I can’t imagine he’d endorse you threatening an unarmored politician to free him.”

  “This isn’t about Orvid or your precious War Codes. Better a leader willing to make hard decisions than an incompetent wretch who doesn’t know to stop firing when his own men are in the crosshairs.”

  This earned some chatter among the civilian onlookers, and angry cries from the soldiers still forming a perimeter on either side of the road. Samuel knew full well Renalds’ misfire at Flemmingwood, which had killed half a dozen Southern men and injured many more. It was an embarrassing turn of events to say the least, and one reason why Davids was hesitant to offer yet a second prisoner exchange to secure the release of General Renalds.

  “I’m done repeating myself.” The words were accompanied by the kchunk sound of a shell loading into Retribution’s cannon barrel. “Hand over Edstein or produce a fighter fit to face me.”

  “You’re acting on your own, against the wishes of your own government. But even so, you dawdle when you could strike. Which means even you know better than to commit armored slaughter here. Even if the North wins the war, you’d never have Southern support, and neither would Edstein. You and your ilk would be pariahs until your dying days, murderers in every sense, likely even in the eyes of your own former comrades.”

  “So long as we win, Appeaser, I’ll take it.”

  Samuel ground his teeth as he stared up into the wide barrel of Kolms’ gun. No matter how thoroughly his men had cleared the rear, or how far to the sidelines those more stubborn spectators stood, firing that cannon in this urban environment would risk innocent lives. This son of a bitch had stormed into Edinville to play on Samuel’s concern for his people, no doubt to try to force him into capitulation. This showed a remarkable lack of honor. It meant the Industrialists, or at the very least their military leaders, were becoming increasingly desperate.

  “Sam,” Paulson hissed. “It’s not too late to call a Warsuit this way. Please, rethink this.”

  “I’ve made my decision, Edmund.”

  Desperate or not, Samuel had no respect for a soldier who would put civilian lives in jeopardy, who would bring a machine of war into the realm of day to day life. He wasn’t about to escalate this further than it had to go, but he also wasn’t going to give in to Theodore Kolms’ demands. Enough hiding.

  “Fine,” Samuel said into the microphone. He drew his saber with his other hand. “You want your duel with Striker Crimson, you
can have it. Right here, right now.”

  Gasps came from either side of the road as people took note of Samuel’s blade. Down the middle, in an unmistakable jagged shape, was a strip of ruby red enameled steel. It was Redstripe’s ignition saber.

  It was good while it lasted, Samuel thought. But by God I’ll end it with some flare.

  “Well, it’s been a fun ruse.” Paulson drained his flask and tossed it aside. There was none of his usual wit behind the words, and turning to look into his secretary’s bloodshot eyes, Samuel saw resignation. Resignation combined with a hint of something Samuel might have mistaken for eagerness.

  Laughter echoed from Retribution’s loudspeaker. “You conniving scoundrel. You masked yourself to circumvent the law, so you could hold a position of military authority and a seat on the Senate at the same time. Now you want me to fight you as you stand, a Warsuit against a man on foot, the exact action you condemn my people for. Is there no end to your hypocrisy, Appeaser?”