Dieselpunk: An Anthology (19 page)

“No.”

“You’re here because you want to be here, I take it.”

“That’s right. We’re here to kill Germans.”

“And how many Germans have you killed, might I ask?”

“A lot.”

Blathers leaned back, inspecting him with a down-turned eye. “You’re a bunch of bloody dogs, aren’t you?”

Dex thought, puckered. Bloody dogs. Mercenaries. But never the less, he liked the sound of that. Bloody dogs. Then he nodded and quipped, “That’s right.”

Blathers presented the trenches to him with a wave of his hand and said, “There isn’t much room, Mr. Puncher, but you are welcome to hunt what spot you may.”

“I don’t think you understand, Colonel. We don’t hide from the Germans. We kill them. That’s why we’re here.”

“You insult, Mr. Puncher.”

“No, Colonel. You miss my meaning. Think of us as…expendable.” Dex leaned forward and said, “We’re a commodity.” He turned to leave but stopped. Over his shoulder he mentioned coolly, “And you can call me Dex.”

“Where will you stay if need be called upon, Mr. Dex?” the colonel asked.

Dex pointed up to the Holt. “We’ll camp there.”

“No, no, my good man. You should be in the trenches.”

When Dex locked eyes on him there was no need to say: “We don’t die in trenches.” But he said it anyway.

A hand in the night moving towards his shoulder brought him out of sleep. Before contact was made, Dex had his knife unsheathed and held at the colonel’s neck. Blathers blinked, then huffed, and whispered, “I intended to wake you gently, my good man.”

Dex pulled the knife away, his face falling apologetic. There was understanding in spite of the coil/recoil. He cleared his throat and asked, “How can I be of service, Colonel?”

Blathers sighed and admitted, “I have a few ideas on that. Would you care to come with me to Primary?”

Dex’s eyes went back and forth in thought, then he said, “Certainly.” He rolled over and reached for Hal’s shoulder, but before contact was made, Hal had his own blade unsheathed and held at Dex’s throat. Hal’s eyes bugged and he put the blade away quickly. Clearing his throat, he asked, “How can I be of service, brother?”

Dex said, “Be in charge. I’ll be back.”

“You got it.” Hal rolled over and was asleep immediately.

Dex met eyes with the colonel and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

“But…he’s asleep,” the colonel bewildered.

“What’s your point?” Dex asked.

Col. Blathers shrugged and said, “Righto. Um, let’s go, then.”

They navigated the terrain in a motorbicycle with a sidecar until they found the road that brought them back to Primary in the full rear. For several long moments the men didn’t speak, only bounced and swayed with the bob and roll of the motorbike. Finally, the colonel grumbled over the spit and spume of the vehicle, “
Geister des Krieges
.”

Dex recognized the words and turned slowly to look at him — as if some secret had just come out of its bag.

The colonel continued, “That means ‘Spirits of War.’”

Dex looked forward towards the night. “I know what it means.”

“I’ve heard rumblings from certain prisoners. Even heard this over intercepted radio communiqués. That’s what they’re calling you and your men, isn’t it? The Germans. They call you
Geister des Kriege
s. Spirits of War.”

“We’re only men, Colonel.”

The colonel huffed humorously and said, “That’s not what the Germans seem to think. I’m not entirely certain my own men believe that. You tend to leave quite an impression, Mr. Dex.”

“I told you why we’re here.”

“Hmm. That you have. But if you truly are what those about seem to think you are, then I might have something that interests you. And . . .” he sighed on the verge of an admittance, “if I were to be entirely honest with you, I could use your help.”

“Does it involve . . .”

“Killing Germans?” the colonel finished his sentence. “I believe so. However, I believe it more so involves a certain spirit. One you seem to possess.”

Dex grinned from the corner of his mouth and mumbled, “I’m piqued.”

Primary was a large canvas tent supported by wood beams and separated into war rooms, each housing command teams and strategy briefings with tired officers and their over-ridden cabinet members. So deep in the night, things seemed to be at their most peaceful. Col. Blathers ushered Dex through the main area, which was lit by hanging yellow light bulbs and kerosene lamps that attempted to ward off the dim of night. They entered a back room where Blathers swiped away a hanging canvas entrance and invited Dex to sit at a wooden chair. There was a Power’s Cameragraph. Blathers clicked it on and, as he did, the thing went into motion spinning a celluloid reel through a flickering projector. The image splashed in blinks and hiccups onto the forward viewscreen.

“You may have overheard: the images you are about to see were captured by a doomed dirigible on a mission to reconnoiter behind enemy lines. A warning, Mr. Dex. You do not expect what you are about to see.”

Dex watched the movie play out before him. It was taken at some two thousand feet, making the earth below look like a granulated swath of black lowlands and white uplands. The camera operator — whomever he might have been — panned the film camera slowly to the left, then the right, searching out possible enemy patrol locations. And then the entire image shuttered along with the man as he pulled focus on something that had obviously caught his attention below. A circular portion of the earth itself began to break apart as if the planet down there had begun opening its mouth. The surface shattered into rubble, mammoth steel blades spinning away like great jaws blowing up through the surface. A series of huge, steel land-grabbers unfolded like the fingers of some planetary core-giant and up emerged the head, torso, and body of this new, horrible thing from the world’s subterrane. Once it had completed its ascension it became clear what it was — or, at least, what it seemed to be. A factory full of steel gun turrets, catwalks, and soldier emplacements began lurching forward on a platform the size of a football pitch, a series of iron treads propelling the thing slowly forward. It was a hundred feet tall. No, two hundred at least. Levels upon levels of German engineers, soldiers, and warmongers operating it.

Through the silence of the imagery, Dex could hear the thing operate in his mind — a thousand steel gears and an entire factory floor of diesel-driven, piston-pounding, iron-worked engines grumbling and banging. It sounded like…

Machines. Thunder from the earth.

There was a nearby blast caught on film as one of the iron giant’s anti-air cannons spotted the unwelcome dirigible, and the film ended.

Dex leaned back slowly in the chair, familiarity swimming in his gaze. “I knew it,” he whispered more to himself than the colonel.

But the colonel took notice of this and asked, “You know this machine, lad?”

Dex blinked, erased those thoughts from his mind, and said, “I’ve seen what this thing can do. I’ve seen the dead it leaves. Fields of them.”

The colonel’s words were grim. “We’re going to attack it tomorrow, in the noon. Those are the orders given straight from the crown.”

Dex looked at him seriously. “Colonel, if you launch an assault on this thing with infantry, you will lose everything.” He dipped his head, maintaining eye contact, and repeated, “You will lose everything.”

“Then you see my predicament.”

“How many men?”

“The entire Third Army.”

Dex hesitated. He finally asked, “What are the orders exactly?”

“We believe the thing will emerge sometime in the morning and continue its march westward across the Somme River. We will assemble at dawn and march eastward until we meet it.”

“A suggestion?”

“Between you and me, Mr. Dex, I’m all ears, as they say.”

“March slowly, Colonel. And when you reach it, stay out of its shadow.”

“Why? What will you do, Mr. Dex?”

“I will go eastward, too. And I’m sure to get there ahead of you.”

It was a grey French morning under a grey French sky. A world of men was waking; half of them hadn’t slept. By the tension in the moist air it was obvious. Battle was near.

Dex and his brothers were already assembled around the Holt 75, eyes clear, weapons in hand. Dex stood before them staring spears into each one. He took a breath, spit, and began, “Brothers, today we fight, like so many other days. But know this: what we fight today, you ain’t never seen the likes of. There’s an iron mountain out there, bigger than anything you’ve ever known, responsible for killing untold numbers of men, destroying the world it leaves behind. It’s a true dreadnought of the German army, boys. But make no mistake. It ain’t no creature from Hell, and it ain’t no demon damned from Heaven. It’s a tool, boys, run by the Kaiser, built by Man’s hand. It ain’t nuthin’ more than that. We’re going to bring it down by the ankles and watch it fall to its knees. Because the bigger that sumbitch is . . .”

“The harder that sumbitch falls, sir!” Hal grumbled.

“That’s right, by God. Now I ain’t afraid of death. So, today — hell, it don’t scare me none. What brings me to my end, I do not fear. I welcome it.” He took a pause pacing once back, then forth, and said lowly, sincerely, “It’s the honor of man, beast, and God alike to fight with you, brothers. I will kill for every one of you. God-willing, I’ll get the chance to die for everyone of you, too.” He took a breath and yelled out, “Brothers to the flesh!”

They followed in unison, “Brothers to the bone!”

Dex growled, “Alright, you Bloody Dogs . . .”

They looked at him grinning.

“Let’s hunt us a meal!”

The speech had gained the attention of nearby Brits who gawked up at their unorthodox visitors through curious, searching eyes.

Dex and his boys went to the series of lockers laid in rows on the flat wagon of the Holt 75, each man attending his own locker. Once opened, they unveiled backpacks of the oddest design that earned mystified gazes from their impromptu audience. The men strapped them on, tightened the adjustment strap through a forward buckle, and began cranking knobs, thumbing toggle switches. Dual glass tanks began burbling as the clear liquid in each began feeding through a series of hoses into some odd combustion apparatus. One by one, the backpacks began to spew flame and sparks through twin nozzles. A dozen ”thumbs-up” went around and Dex nodded with affirmation. In perfect simulacrum they lifted off their feet like birds of flight and took to the air, contrails of smoke and steam betraying their arc of ascension. In seconds they were three hundred feet off the ground assembling in a V-pattern like a flight of seagulls, and then they were off, streaking into the far distance…to the east.

One Brit, mouth hanging open, muttered, “What the bloody hell are those?”

Another, less-impressed, grunted, “Americans.”

Somewhere east of the Somme River, something was stirring underground. Deep down in a freshly cut subterranean cavern, the world’s throat cranked to life, a thousand bits of tonnage beginning to churn and grumble. Vibrations rattled and cracked against the soil mantle slowly as the giant iron beast began surging upward, its bladed arms spinning mid-soil into sieved chunks of rock. The earth exploded upward creating a sudden dome in the surface that broke open into volcanic geysers, and like the hands of Hell itself, the thing emerged from its entombment pulling towards the sky. In seconds, it towered over the planet as its treads bit into the land, gaining traction and pulling it forward. Now, it was free from its shelter and swiveling westward like some undaunted goliath moving towards war.

The earth passed below, and up ahead the horizon seemed to move with an artificial articulation. That was it — the Dreadnought. Dex pointed a finger, catching the others’ gazes. He gave them hand signals to increase their flight velocity and follow. Folding his arms back, he screamed across the sky, each of his Bloody Dogs taking up their positions in flight formation.

The thing grew as they neared until they could easily identify it as the iron mountain Dex had mentioned earlier. Anticipation grew. Dex could sense it. He slowed his thrust and came to a hover, feet pointed towards the earth. The others followed, creating a circle of men bouncing lightly on the wind.

Dex looked at Hal and yelled out, “I want you to enter at the lower level, that’s the foundry floor. The thing runs by extrusion drive. You’ll find the casing down there. You can’t miss it. It’s seventy feet long. At the aft end there’s a fuel-hopper. You’ll have to open up its flow-regulator, then cut off the release valves to the extruder-drive. Enough pressure will grow inside the crank casing to shoot the camshaft straight through the block. It’s the only way to take out the thing’s forward support structures. Once you do that, it’s all over, so I want you airborne again before that happens. Got it?”

Hal cried, “How do you know this?”