Leighmond was a gray,
putrid place. The government knew this
and they were to blame, even. No laws on the smog that clouded the skies nor
regulations on waste that littered the stone streets. On the minds of all the government officials
was the cup of blood called war. It hadn’t started in the black, mechanical
capital but it developed there, like a feasting gorging monster. The fat
officials kept it that way, knowing it was more money in their pockets. The
citizens had grown poorer as the buildings grew taller and grayer and while
light had all but vanished, steel still shone in the musty, oily aura.
Murdock was the city of grinding
gears and rusty metal. Its founders had brought up the roots of forests miles
long to carve into the earth a pit of human grim that stretched dark far into
the backs of mountains to the east. Proven lethal to nature, the condition only
strengthened the human soul’s need to overtake. From the capital sprouted and
lunged the idea of the Machines – brilliant tools of war.
It was well known among the
Superiors that few people knew the secrets of waking the Machines. The
knowledge was kept with the inventors who had created them. Yet the president
and his advisors did not worry, for the Machines were only back-up. So far, few
things had come to make the lard-ridden president fret. He set out his days
more attune to golf and occasional novels.
When the Superiors called him to a
meeting, it was to discuss the progress of the scientists and to prove to him
that their army had not backed down to anything and had only gained more ground
to their neighbors. He could never catch the end of truth and the beginning of
fabrication, so with the comforting thought that at least the Superiors were
good liars, he had never questioned the army, nor the young commander in
charge.
The young commander in question
never said much during the meetings, so he assumed all was well.
The president’s name was Malvich
Gortuvé and he loved his cigars. He hated putting them out, too. With that in
mind, he always wanted meetings to be quick, since Sinclair’s Jungle would not read itself and he
found the Superiors’ words boring. The commander never spoke, only his
advisors.
Krieg was one such advisor, and when
it came his turn to speak of the army’s defensive maneuvers, not much came to
his words. The country, after all, had been on the offensive for over 5 years.
The thin and drawn man in a black suit took to making a bunch of big words take
his report beyond anything comprehendible. That said, Malvich had only nodded
on during the course of it. Krieg backed away after wards, convinced it was a
good sign, and eager to sit down and shut up. With that he plucked his wiry
form down into a chair and scratched at his scalp.
Next from military intelligence
stood Mariel, a black haired and voluptuous woman. She was to give the lengthy
report on offensive skills of the army at hand, which she did in a heavy,
slightly seductive voice. All the men could nod with her, watch her warily and
trust her every word. Malvich liked the shape of Mariel’s body and he believed
what she said as well. It was time for the scientists to talk so with a twist
of her black-laced hip, Mariel turned to sit.
There was something else on Malvich’s
mind that afternoon and in the dim room he fumbled with some papers. “Ah, yes.
Yes. Good sayings, as you always have, Military.” His mind was still thinking
of Mariel and of cigars the taste of different meats, yet his eyes drew up
beneath his round glasses and heavy bulk and landed on the commander’s silent
form. “I would like to inquire you
now, Superiors.”
Krieg seemed worried and
fidgeted but Mariel leaned over and nudged the shadow of the figure to her
left.
Malvich’s white brow furrowed. Sleeping?
he wondered. He didn’t blame the young man, really, but then again he couldn’t
tell. His eyes weren’t at their best.
“Question away,” was a light request
from the Military Superior, obviously not asleep now if he had been.
Dark-haired, he sat now, knuckles to chin, awaiting the president’s question.
“Ah, yes. Wolfgang.” Malvich’s eyes
winced slightly. “That is your name, correct?”
All the other Superiors and
scientists were like shadows, just as he. “Surname. Yes, yes… go on then.”
“Tell me, Commander. Tell me about
Ruslavia’s uprising in Balisk. The ghost town in the desert we were sure
contained good metal deposits. So yes, share with us, clear the rumors.”
The president’s request was met with
a ruffle of discomfort from the Military, but the commander spoke up, just as
calm as before, a warm tone in his voice still. “Hmm… Well, you’re speaking of
Ruslavia’s 36th Battalion, aren’t you?”
“Err, yes.”
Mariel’s eyes were drifting solidly
to the left now. “Just answer the president’s question, Ashton.”
He only grinned, a child-like
attitude peeking from the depths of his shadowed face. “I am, Mariel. I’m just
getting the facts straight. I know what President Gortuvé’s going to ask, but
I’m only making sure.”
The president’s eyes narrowed. He
had heard the commander to be a sure-fired youth, a bloody brilliant soldier,
so he doubted him not. Yet, with every mention of their enemy’s seemingly
terrifying regiment, Malvich’s veins ran cold. He continued on his little
confrontation with the commander anyway.
“Hm, well tell me the end result. Is
Balisk ours or were we outsmarted by the desert rats?”
The commander was silent for a
moment, his head still pressuring his arm as he stared to the president. “Well,
it certainly isn’t there’s,” he mumbled.
“Ah, good. I never doubted you for a
second, Wolfgang. You are the Dues Ex
Machina after all. It will be our
Machines that finally show those drunken fools who is the better of us, eh?”
He had shifted uneasily when his
informal title had been named. The leader of the deadly force… the willing god
set forth to rule the Machines. Teeth ground down, he couldn’t help but answer
smartly. “Well Balisk isn’t ours
either.”
Mariel looked to the commander and
couldn’t help but frown. “Don’t speak to him as such.”
“Well then, whose is it?!” Malvich
nearly roared, making the forms of the Superiors follow his cry back to the
commander.
All eyes on him, he only said
simply, “The Whirlwind burned it to the ground.”
They were silent after that and
Mariel sighed, the sound of the chair creaking breaking the silence. The
commander blinked and sat up finally, tired of being slouched. The president
had calmed back down and the rotating fan blades made his thinning hair pace
back and forth over his brow. Outside, giant haunting cries of metal on metal
made their way from below.
“The Whirlwind,” the president
stated, his voice slightly off key. “You mean the sergeant controlling
Ruslavia’s 36th Battalion?”
“But of course,” the commander
proclaimed, sarcastically. “You can’t expect any regular form of wind to set a
town ablaze.” He paused momentarily to comb his neglected hair with his
fingers. “The stubborn fools wouldn’t let us have it, so they burned it to keep
it from us.”
“Can’t blame the drunken bastards.
They do have their pride.” With that, the president leaned back and satisfied
with the commander, he turned to the scientists and engineers hard at work on
the Machines below the city.
“Hmm.” The commander had leaned
forward and then back again. Restless as a boy, yet still calm. “Don’t you want
to hear the end of the story, President Gortuvé?”
The president gave attention to the
young man once again. “Well I was not aware that there was an end to such a
simple tale. Go ahead, Wolfgang.”
“We neglected in capturing the city,
but the Battalion is currently being stood off during siege and in defeat as we
speak. They weren’t able to escape fast enough, I suppose. Insanely genius
Whirlwind sergeant or not.”
Again, an air of uneasiness had
captured the audience. The president bit his thick lip. “Impressive, Mr.
Wolfgang. I encourage you that once they’re ours, to visit this legendary
sergeant face to face and kill him personally. That is the best way to be rid
of him, you know.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.”
For the rest of the meeting, Malvich
felt heavy. He had taken no drugs but felt like resting. The commander in fact
appeared to be asleep yet again. The president scowled at the young man who let
sleep pass so easily, even during what approached all as so utterly important.
Him, the entire army’s leader and the one who was set to control the great
Machines when they finally did rear their ugly heads.
It had been over 10 years since
Leighmond had first attacked Ruslavia and the only things that they had out of
it were their great monsters. Augustian
* *
*
“He is getting old,” Krieg managed
between bites of bread. “I smell a coo, eh, Mariel?”
“Don’t be brash.” She sat next to
him in the circle of chairs, awaiting their commander. Reaching over, she
flicked a crumb from his nose. “Who would throw him over? This is totalitarian
after all.”
He continued to chew before thumbing
his pack of cigarettes. “I suppose you’re right. So, what Ashton said was true?
We have the Whirlwind in our clutches?” He grinned maliciously. “Mariel, do you
know how much the central Superiors will pay for that sergeant’s head? He’s
been toiling with us for months…”
She had no chance to answer.
“The Rag Tag Battalion,” was
Ashton’s first words as he entered, slipping a flask into the innards of his
long coat. He closed the heavy door behind him and paced to their location,
taking seat in his fine velvet chair. “I’ve heard them called that, for they’re
too busy fighting us day and night to wash themselves or hem their uniforms.”
Mariel noticed the commander looked
tired in the firelight, like he often did, like his mind was always in an
upset. She didn’t speak up on the matter, never had. Instead she moved to him
and sat right of his pant leg, smiling a bit. “Ah, here you go again,
commander. The way you talk, I’d think they’d visit you in your dreams. Now
hush and let’s drink to a new night.”
“And very possible victory.” Krieg
finished eating and now lit up to calm his jittery nerves, leaning back and
taking in his utmost form of comfort. For the most part, the slender, blonde
haired man ignored what Ashton and Mariel passed between each other and let his
mind go blank.
Ashton had removed his glasses, thin
ones that he let the fire light reflect off of. He was pondering as Mariel
touched his leg, his mind brewing and ticking away about their prospects.
“Suppose we really did capture the 36th. They would be taken in to
Nulstrum.”
“The prison camp, yes,” Mariel
answered.
“Before they’re executed, I would
love to see them. To meet him.”
Mariel chuckled, drawing her hand up
to his face. “Now commander… Has that stupid sergeant gotten to you that much?”
“Of course,” he answered simply.
“He’s tapped right into my head. I’m crazy to know that they’re some stupid boy
out there who thinks he’s surpassed all of my army. They call him a ghost of a
soldier… fierce.” His eyes darkened. “I would love to be the first to spill his
blood on my boots.”
“Well, that’s a very vivid fantasy,”
she mumbled. The woman continued on with her hand going into the front of his
jacket. It all bothered Ashton to an extent but he didn’t care to call her on
it. She withdrew her fist with his flask in it.
“I bet he’s more than merely human.”
“A monster, then?”
“No, an act of nature. That’s why
they call him the Whirlwind. And I have no pity for nature.”
Mariel smiled to herself after
taking a drink and swished the contents of the bottle around. “I see, Mr.
Wolfgang… hmm, this is brutally strong whiskey.”
“I like it like that,” he answered,
taking it back. He took a drink of his own.
Mariel reached into the front
pockets of his coat now and pulled out within her fingers a knitted piece of
fabric, worn from being wrung between the commander’s hands. As Ashton finished
she dapped it lightly on his lips, like he so often did.
“Of course you like it that way, my dear
little mountain man.”
Ashton snuffed and took the fabric
from his face. It was an old hat that he held and so deftly slipped back into
his front pocket. “That’s enough, Mariel. Let’s not bring up the past.”
She smiled and slid off the chair,
to stand by the window. She stared down for some time, past the ashen black
snow falling and to the factories. “So what are they doing down their? You
know, don’t you?”
“No.”
“You? The god of the Machines? They must have told you something,” she half
teased.
“No,” was Ashton’s answer once
again, this time more than hinting at his irritated state. He took up a piece
of bread and tore into it, turning back to the fire place. “I don’t want to
know, either.”
Krieg finally spoke up. “You don’t
like the fact that the mechanical beasts they’re creating are going to win the
war for us?”
“Of course he doesn’t. He just wants
to worry about The Whirlwind and dream of brilliantly ripping his head off.
That’s men for you. Heh, good night, boys.”
With Mariel leaving the room, Krieg
could relax much more. “I just wonder what could power such huge things. They
are huge, aren’t they, Ashton?”
He gave a deep sigh and stood. “I
don’t know, Krieg. I don’t care, either. Stop asking.”
Krieg puffed rings out as he removed
the cigarette from his mouth. “I don’t understand why you’re always displeased.
You have the greatest job known to man in this polluted stink hole. Stop
complaining and worrying about one Battalion. Ruslavia has over 30, you know.”
“Just… Just, don’t talk about
the Machines anymore. I don’t care to know more about them.” Ashton had his arm
raised a bit to excite his point. He then dropped it and shoved his hand in his
pocket to secure the old hat better. “When you get word from Nulstrum please
inform me. We’ll be taking a little field trip, if so.”
His tall, dark form moved out of the
warm room and disappeared after that.
“The bloke’s starting to think for
himself again…” Krieg blinked, letting his eyes stay closed a second longer.
“Mariel’s got him riled up… Soon enough he’ll want to be out on the battlefield
again. Damn him, I would live his life a million times over. Lucky scum.”