Vikings battle Zeppelins while forbidden desires spark! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 2) (2 page)

Ibis-Bear went purple with rage. Hamilton's gaze became very fixed.

Now Field Marshal Williams did smirk. He'd shown them who was boss. He cleared his throat. "It also lies within my remit to recommend Lowenstein to the role of Colonel of the new Long Range Air Reconnaissance Command." Just to rub it in, Williams added, "Assuming you are elected, you will report directly to me."
Say goodbye to your pocket scientist
,
Hamilton!
The only problem was that the former Elitist was hardly trustworthy.

Postmaster General Hamilton’s face contorted into what might have been a smile. "Good news for the Glorious Army of the Egality, I’m sure," he said brusquely. He clapped his hands. "Now. What about that trial?"

Field Marshal Williams returned the smile. He had the solution to Lowenstein’s untrustworthiness. "Let us not be hasty to condemn a soldier of the people," he said. "If the Egality is about anything, it is about fairness."

The crowd made encouraging sounds. This was something they could all agree on.

"The complex events of the liberation of Objective Two require careful investigation by a specially constituted committee. In the meantime, Jasmine Klimt is assigned to Artillery-"

Klimt’s head jerked around.

"-but I ask that General Ibis-Bear approve her immediate secondment as Colonel Lowenstein’s military adviser, since she has served as an Air Marine."

Williams sat back in his chair, satisfied. Postmaster General Hamilton was punished for his Elitist power-hunger. As was fair, General Ibis-Bear had an Artillery representative on Lowenstein’s expedition. And the grateful Klimt would surely keep an eye on the former Elitist war criminal.

What could possibly go wrong?
thought Williams as he popped another pill.

CHAPTER TWO

Integration Worker Tom Fenland raised his goggles. High in the darkening sky, a pair of tiny airships soared out over the Ocean of Thule, their Flexiglass gun turrets bloodied by the sun as it impaled itself on the spires of Kinghaven Castle. Would Jasmine return in one piece so he could make things right again? Not that they’d ever be right again, now Marcel was dead.

Behind him, a truck revved and somebody shouted, "What the fuck you playing at, mate?"

Tom waved over his shoulder. He kicked his bike through the checkpoint then chugged out across the kill zone into the royal castle’s long shadows. No, things would never be right again.

The drawbridge rattled under his wheels. Tom opened the throttle. He roared past the startled guards, through another gatehouse and into the inner courtyard. He revved one last time to shatter the silence. Kinghaven Castle was too pretty and white to exist in a world where Marcel rotted in a field grave.

Ahead, bathed in the glare of electric lights, stood the glacier façade of the Royal Apartments, craggy with buttresses and dripping with crude statuary. The engine startled a pride of house gryphons from their lair at the stone feet of a long-dead king. The sight clawed at Tom’s heart.

He and Marcel had always imagined that when the fighting was done, when they’d settled in some cosy apartment in the ramshackle tenements of Kinghaven, that they’d buy their own house gryphon and call it “Little Beak”.

Talking about it had always made Tom homesick for a future they would share together. Now there was no home to look forward to. And he had even lost Jasmine’s friendship.

I love you, but I need space.

Jasmine was right, that
was
a crappy thing to say to anybody in the middle of a war. But, how was he supposed to react when his boyfriend had turned him into an accessory to murder? Sure enough, Brown deserved to be punished, but after a trial. If the medievals had had the grace to admit defeat, Tom would have had a chance to explain to Marcel. And more.

He swung out of his saddle and stomped the cobblestones. "Integrate the king!" he growled. "They should just shoot the fucker."

Mustn’t think like that.
If grief messed up his professionalism, he’d have nothing left.

Tom counted the paces to the outside stair, then the steps up to the main entrance. While the bored Post Office Security Worker checked his papers, he counted the heraldic nails that studded the planks of the great doors. He could have cheated by counting down the sides and multiplying, but instead, he enumerated each nail head. It was like a crash-course in heraldry – no two bore the same beast. He caught himself smiling.
I must get a picture of this for Rosetta.

By the time the Security Workers swung one door open just enough for him to squeeze through, Tom was calm and ready to work.

With its shutters closed against the autumn cold, and a huge fire burning in the monumental fireplace, the entrance hall of the Royal Apartments was as hot and dark as the inside of the tank that time he and Marcel had… ah well. At least he had some good memories.

"Tom Fenland!" A one-armed man with an eye-patch broke away from the group of Post Office Workers — mostly Integration and Security — lounging by the fire.

Tom halted. No. It couldn’t be.

"Such a privilege! Marcel told me so much about you." Smith offered his left hand. "And now I’ve joined Integration, I find that it
is
all true."

As they shook hands, Tom checked the man’s name badge. "
Integration Worker
Smith," he said, savouring the name and new role.
This
was the man who’d tried to have Jasmine shot. Was he insane to think a smile and a handshake would make everything OK? "Marcel had a lot to say about you too."

Smith smiled. His remaining eye flickered nervously. "All good I hope?"

"Oh, you know Marcel!" said Tom with false heartiness. He didn’t lie anymore, not since leaving the streets. But that didn’t mean he went about making enemies either. "Pardon me, but weren’t you Colonel of the Experimental Tank Brigade?"

"My work is done in that role-" said Smith offhandedly.

Voted out by the survivors of the attack on Kinghaven, more like, thought Tom.

"You see," said Smith. "The Experimental Tank Brigade has now been cleansed of Crypto-Elitist hegemons." He shrugged. "What's left for me to do?"

Tom felt his limbs quiver and realised it was rage. It would be horribly easy to just draw his Regulation Sidearm and shoot the little man. He asked sweetly, "You mean former members of the Veterans Alliance like Marcel?"

"Let’s not get into naming names. After all…" said Smith, hurriedly. He gave him his best open smile. "…there’s a war on, isn’t there?"

"So," asked Tom. "What brings you to Integration?

"His new career." Postmaster General Hamilton rose from a high-backed chair and the room filled with his presence.

Tom took an involuntary step back. "Esteemed Colleague," he stammered, glad that he’d not said anything stupid in the hearing of such a great man.

Hamilton proffered a hip flask. "Drink with us!"

Tom took the container in shaking hands and swigged. He had to fight not to gag. Then the alcohol hammered through his brain. "Interesting," he managed and handed it on to Smith.

Hamilton smiled warmly. "Good Workers’ moonshine." His expression saddened. "I was sorry to hear about your partner." He ushered Tom to a fireside bench.

Tom struggled for words. Had Hamilton taken an interest in him? Or did the Postmaster General really follow the lives of all those he oversaw? Had Hamilton also known about the violent tendencies of Brown’s team? A queasy thought, that: if Tom had got word to him, there would have been no need for… the incident with the tank and the mass grave.

"Smith says Marcel was a hero," continued Hamilton.

Well he would, wouldn’t he?
thought Tom.

The other Post Office Workers made their excuses and staggered off to their billets. Smith sat next to Tom, close enough to make the skin crawl despite the heat from the fire.

Hamilton returned to his chair and took a swig from the flask. He sighed. "So nice to be able to get together like this, just three workers setting this new world aright."

"Yes," said Tom, aware of how breathy his voice sounded. How could he relax with
the
David Hamilton, Hero of the Revolution?

They watched the flames, and Tom thought,
I’ll remember this, always
.

"You know," said Hamilton, breaking the silence. "I sometimes wonder whether I have time to properly lead Integration, given I have the whole Post Office to manage…"

"It’s not been a problem so far," blurted Tom, then blushed.

Hamilton nodded. "Nice of you to say that. But, going forward, you heroic Integration Workers deserve a more hands-on leadership. More proactive. Soon it will be time to vote for an Integration Colonel." He handed the flask to Smith.

Tom’s collar seemed to tighten.
Not me.

But Hamilton was still speaking: "…so Smith has advanced leadership skills…"

Tom did his best not to laugh. Smith? Didn’t Hamilton understand what was needed to become an Integration Worker?

"…but requires more domain knowledge," completed Hamilton.

Being a former tank gunner, and all
. Tom took a gulp from the flask, which had somehow ended up in his hands. He was probably being unfair. Hamilton couldn’t know everything. After all, Hamilton had once been a Post Office clerk before rising to the role of Postmaster General and expanding his remit to include the logistics and technology of the Army of the Egality.

"Integration Workers," began Tom, and realised he was sounding a little slurred. "Integration Workers usually undergo a heavily supervised apprenticeship, with placements in the field."

"Of course, of course." Hamilton nodded. He glanced from side to side, as if checking that nobody was listening. "But
we
both know that all that really matters is being a people person with good common sense."

"You can’t just…" began Tom half rising from his bench.

"Of course not," said Hamilton. He grinned. "I may be getting on a bit, but I still have my faculties!"

Tom settled back onto the bench. "Sorry."

"No, no." Hamilton held out his hands towards the fire and rubbed them together. "Obviously, Smith needs some credentials – my influence over the vote only goes so far!" He laughed as if he'd made a joke. "So, that’s why he’s going to help you integrate Citizen Edward Lowther, the former feudal despot. Mentoring Smith will be your chance to put something back."

Smith put an arm around Tom’s shoulder. "We’ll be a great team."

Tom looked from Hamilton to Smith and back. "I can see the synergies," he said.

"You don’t
have
to do this," said Hamilton. His eyes bored into Tom. "But I’m asking you because you are…" he lowered his voice "…the most effective of all the Integration Workers… and we really need Smith’s leadership skills."

Hamilton leaned back in his chair, expectant, but respecting Tom’s right to think things through.

Tom sat in silence, ordering his thoughts while the fire spat embers.

It wasn’t entirely unreasonable for the Integration Colonel not to have in-depth knowledge of the field, as long as he had organisational skills. At least Smith was keen to learn. Perhaps he just wasn’t fitted to be a soldier. How would the seasoned Marcel have judged Tom in similar circumstances?

And, the feud between Smith and Jasmine?
Political
, when you came down to it. The Egality only worked if people didn’t let politics interfere with their jobs.

So really, Tom had no choice. None at all, if he still wanted his professionalism as a refuge from his grief.

"OK. I’ll do it."

"Well," said Hamilton, rising. "I’ll leave you sturdy Workers to get on with it. No point in hanging around. I’ll expect your first report on my desk by midnight."

Tom watched the great man leave. "Let’s find some coffee," he said. "We don’t want our alcoholic breath to knock out our client!"

Smith swigged the moonshine. "Actually, I think I’ll stay here."

"Really, there’s no need to be nervous."

Smith laughed. "There fucking-well is. The little bastard said he’d kill me if he saw me again."

Tom felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. "You’ve already spoken to him?"

"Oh, yeah. Me and king-brat had a really nice chat. But I don’t have your experience." Another swig. "So, what we’re going to do is: you go sort him out, and we’ll share the credit." Smith stooped to place the flask on the flagstones, then carefully put his hand on Tom’s thigh. "You could do with a friend at the top, couldn’t you?" He closed and opened his solitary eye in Cyclops wink – and gave a gap-toothed smile. "And you wouldn’t have to share
me
with Bayonet Bitch."

Tom’s bile rose. That cajoling, self-justifying tone was all too familiar. Now he looked at Smith through the eyes of a young rent boy and
knew
him; how he would climax – impassive face slowly giving way to spasms of pleasure as the bravado ebbed; and how he would pay – reluctantly and stingily, with promises of more later.

Smith flinched. "I mean, let’s be friends."

"Of course. Excuse me." Tom rose. "I have a job to do."

#

Tom’s anger simmered as he negotiated the chain of increasingly ornate chambers, each with Security Workers to demand his credentials. Finally, a dour woman showed him into a smaller bedchamber with diamond-paned windows overlooking the moonlit Ocean of Thule.

A young native sat in the window seat. His file said he was eighteen years old, but with his long blond hair lank, his clothing grease-stained, he looked older.

"A visitor for you, Citizen Lowther!" said the guard and left Tom alone with the deposed monarch.

The youth did not react. He had a fine profile, except that his nose was bruised, and his eyes puffy. Smith's work, no doubt. Tom pursed his lips. All thought of hate and revenge vanished.
Of course,
thought Tom.
I lost my lover, but this boy’s lost his kingdom and his way of life.
He edged forward, as if stalking an undomesticated gryphon.