Iron Seas 03 - Riveted

Maghreb.
    “He found nothing,” Di Fiore confirmed. “And this was twenty years before the tower fell in London. The Horde had no navy—only merchant ships and barges. All these years, we’d been terrifiedthat they’d arrive on our shores, and the Horde had never been interested in coming. They weren’t breeding animals to women.” He frowned and tilted his head, as if in concession to a point David hadn’t made. “The frenzies were real enough, it’s true. The infected were forced to breed when the tower sent out the right signal. The zombies are real. The laborers’ augmentations were real—though you, of all people, can see the good of that, too.”
    No, David couldn’t. There was nothing decent about forcibly amputating a person’s limbs and replacing them with tools, simply to create a more efficient work force. David couldn’t argue that he hadn’t benefited from the technology, but he’d never call the original application good.
    “I don’t think my situation is comparable.”
    “Perhaps not. My point is, my father realized that everyone’s fear of the Horde was all a fear of nothing. No one bothered to look beneath the stories—but at the same time, that fear united all those kingdoms and countries for centuries, gave everyone a common purpose.” His voice rose with the fervor of a man at a pulpit. “My father wanted to give everyone something to hope for instead. You saw the mountain builder region before he arrived at Inoka. The hills stripped, the plains lying fallow, all of it barren as a result of their endless disputes. What did your people call it? A locust war?”
    They hadn’t been his father’s people, but David didn’t think pointing that out would make any difference. Many people lumped all natives into a single group. “A grasshopper war.”
    “Over a small bit of land that they ruined while they fought over it. Coal smoke choking everything, the rivers black. But my father gave them something else to fight for: He brought to them a mountain that reached up to the heavens, and at its heart a machine to clear the air, clean the water.” He paused and drew on his pipe before adding, “And he did stop the disputes. Not the way he planned, of course.”
    Not the way he planned? The disputes ceased because thousands of people were dead, and no one wanted to continue a war while they picked up pieces of their children and wives.
    A deafening screech from the fallen automaton prevented immediate reply—perhaps for the best. The metallic groan continued as men hoisted the machine. With a mix of fascination and revulsion, David watched di Fiore observe the proceedings.
    Was this what it meant to be Paolo di Fiore’s son? To admire his father, he had to reinterpret and justify his failings, his mistakes?
    He turned to David again. “What do you believe is stronger—fear or hope?”
    Where the hell would a question like that lead? Almost afraid of the answer, but curious despite himself, David responded honestly. “I want it to be hope. I don’t know if it is.”
    “Neither do I. But I want to find out.” He looked over the rail as a new fight began—not watching the automatons, but the men shouting below. “I’m not a naturalist like you, or an inventor like my father. I’m an observationist. I put things together to see what will happen.”
    “Things?” That wasn’t what di Fiore was looking at now. “Or people?”
    “People, this time. Those crushed beneath the boot of the Castilian court. Those ruled by fear of torture, of hunger, of death.” He glanced over as Komlan joined them, a drink in hand. “We’ll feed them, let them grow strong, tell them they can win—teach them to fight. And we’ll see what happens when the work is done.”
    The meaning of that sank in. “You’re sending back an army?”
    “We’re sending back men ,” Komlan said, obviously familiar with di Fiore’s plan. “Men who’ve been taught to get back up when they’re knocked down, to try again.”
    David had no love for Castilian royalty, but it seemed a cold-blooded way to send men to their death—especially as di Fiorehad no investment in their victory or loss, except to observe an outcome.
    “We also need men on that floor, instead of machines.” Komlan gestured toward the fighters. “It would be more of a victory when they see one of their own struck down, then get back up.”
    “No,” di Fiore said. “Someone has to be defeated. We don’t want anyone to see