The Collector

Smoke hung over the sludge covered marshes. A dense black blanket of soot concealing death and disease. In that fog, hidden in darkened clouds, a carriage lurched forward. Mechanical cranes hanged over each side of the carriage; hawk-like talons mounted on each tip.  Gears ground against each other as one claw craned down to collect its prize.  The iron beast was oiled and dented by bullets and falling debris, but it did not falter.  Fantastically sturdy machines they were; capable of withstanding the full force of an enemy barrage and still keeping on task.  The Collector's ventilators glowed gentle and golden and an it released an outward breath of smoke as it kept it's pace.  Rifleman and ballistics ran forward on either side of the machine. It continued onwards, ignorant.  The machine found its next collectable and, mechanically, lifted the body, rotated the crane and then lowered the body, placing it in a perfect line to the others. The Collector sighed in satisfaction.

The hollow crack of a cannon.

The Collector, kept on it's steady march.  It didn’t notice the darkness, the quilt of grey that swept over the skies or the fog so thick a human couldn’t see more than 10 feet ahead.  The Collector hadn’t noticed that, although it had been working for over 8 days without a pause, the sun had not once broken through those clouds.  The Collector didn’t realise when day turned to night, and when the temperature dropped, did not feel the frost building in it's joints.  The Collector was content in its duty.

The Collector came to a stop.  The ground ahead was slick from warfare.   Where crops and fertile land once lay, instead a monument to the dead blanketed these fields. The rain pounded down and the Collector ached in its joints.  The Collector’s back wheel spun.  The muddy field had caught the collector.  The weather had softened the ground and, with the lack of an engineer, the Collector would likely rust and burn out here.  Machines can be stubborn though.  The engine glowed through the ventilator; at first red, then white with the heat.  The pistons inside pounded and the Collector pushed as hard it could.  The wheel spun deeper.  The machine pushed a crane arm down to one side and tried to steer its way forward, it pressed the claw down as far as it could reach, but it was only consumed in the marshland.  The machine sat still.

The battle roared all around the iron giant.  The battle carriages, carrying the heavy ballistics marched forward in line.  Stop, volley, reload, march, stop, volley, reload, march . . . the routine was endless.  Each of them were accompanied by a whole regiment of engineers, yet none of the prized soldiers could be spared for the cadaver collectors.  The collectors were unimportant. They were made to clear a battle field and rid it of disease.  Each of the collectors doubled as incinerators, suicide engines.  Many were just sent in to enemy lines and allowed to burn as hot as they could.  Only if they began to rust though.  The few who made it back from battle were broken up for parts and the parts that held cargo were just melted down.  They were insignificant.

The Collector fired up once more as though it might have been contemplating its own fate.  As it pushed and jutted and bodies fell around him a young infantryman running behind took cover.  The young man couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age but his eyes looked wearied.  Twenty meant he had at least three years of experience by now, and he wasn’t dead, not yet.  His hands quaked around his clock-load rifle.  The rain poured down his helmet, he wiped his brow clean and the sight of the Collector came in to full view.  He nodded his head a moment.  In three years, the infantryman had never come this close to a collector in the field.  The bodies were not visible within the machine. ‘Out of sight out of mind,’ he thought.  But still it was an undeniable piece of equipment built for one specific purpose; the rancid odour surrounding the machine gave that purpose away, it went so far as to even penetrate his gas mask.  The putrid smell of a dead mans flesh.  The machine was three times the size of a war horse and at least four times the length.  The great cranes mounted on the side were powerful weapons in their own right and the private wondered why on earth they were only used for collecting corpses.  He removed his helmet for a moment and attempted to dry himself off while the machine tried to gain its footing once more.

"That’s it keep pushing, Comrade." said the private, half to the machine, half to himself.  The machine lunged forward again, but to no avail.

The private looked up and chuckled.  The machine pushed hard.  The Private composed himself and turned to the machine, “Good luck.”  He turned and ran out in to the enemy fire, keeping his head down and rifle forward.  He only made it twenty yards. 

A blast.  

The world went silent.  A gust of wind took the private from his feet and back towards the Collector.  The Collector's crane reached around and the Private, nudged it away, “Not yet, Comrade.”  The Claw hovered mid-air.  The private thought it might still chuck him in with the rest, so pushing himself to his knees, he turned towards the enemy.  A volley of fire flew straight at the young infantryman, he’d given himself away.  Shot after shot after shot, then, almost simultaneously, the tin clank of bullets ricocheting off a sheet of iron.  The Collector had saved him.

The private looked on in astonishment.  He rallied himself and, with determination in his voice, spoke. “Wait here!”

The collector did so as the young private ran off, behind it.

It sat in quiet.  The battle had left him behind.  It was somewhere ahead now.  The cries of men and women might have been heard, if the Collector had the ears to hear them.  The glowing embers of a city on fire might have been seen, but the Collector didn’t have the eyes to see it.  The machine simply sat for a while, fired up its engine to move, failed to do so, and sat for a while longer.  Hours passed.

Three soldiers approached the machine.  They weren’t wearing the Prussian colours, they were polish.  Two of the three held their rifles ready, the third reached in to his leather pouch and pulled out a wrench wired to his pack.  The engineer lowered his goggles, wandered over to the machine and lit a mechanism on the wrench.  A small white flame jumped in to life.  The infantry man kept their eyes open and their backs to the Collector.  The engineer brought the torch to the back ventilator, his thick hide cloves partially protecting him from the heat.  He removed the ventilator and reached inside.  He was there only a moment.  ‘Nie!’ shouted the engineer and pulled his hand sharply free as the engine fired up.  He jumped down from the rear, wheel vault, he had used as a step, and moved to the other side.  ‘Tu!’ He yelled and the infantry men followed.

From the other side, the ventilator was higher and not so easily reachable.  

The engineer removed his pack and found a claw and rope.  He attached it to a brace on his left arm and the engine mechanism in his pack glowed.  The claw shot from his arm, found its way just left of the ventilator and pierced a hole in the iron walls.  A thick red trickled from the hole in the carriage.  The engineer hauled himself up.  He relit his wrench and tinkered with the ventilator cover, then pried it loose with a small dagger.  Once again he reached inside.

As he did this a bullet whistled through the air.  A small burst from the helmet of one of the infantry.  A volley of fire.  Three Prussian infantryman and a mechanic charged forward, followed by the returning private.  Before the Polish infantryman could raise his rifle the men were upon him, the first bayonet was knocked aside but only as the second penetrated his chest.  The Collector roared in to life, knocking the engineer down to the soft earth.  His feat slipped from under him. The Private launched himself forward as the engineer rolled under the carriage.  The darkness took him out of sight.  The infantryman fanned out around the carriage looking for the Enemy.  The Prussian mechanic jumped at the rope and pulled himself up to the ventilator, he tinkered a moment inside, re-affixed the cover and patted the machine.  He jumped down and started to gather the bodies of the men by the side of the entrenched carriage.

The infantrymen had the under carriage surrounded.  They paced and waited for a trace of light.  “Comrade!” Shouted the private “There is no escape, throw out your arms and we’ll not harm you.”

He paused a moment.  Then, a sound.  From below the carriage, the Engineer stirred.  A jet of flames escaped the under belly.  One of the Infantrymen yelled in agony as the flames licked his skin and cartridges exploded from his belt.  He fled, flailing and fading in to the chaos of war. 

The remaining men rounded themselves together and unloaded their rifles in to the dark.  The clockwork cartridges reloading the rifle barrels automatically. An explosion from the engineers pack sent the men flying and the Collector jumped. The machine found its footing as the dead men fell under wheel.

The Collector's exhaust released a puff of black smoke and the carriage sighed back in to its mission.  The private and picked himself up with the other men.  He wandered over to the machine and rest his hand on the side.  “There you are, Comrade.”

The infantry men had already run off ahead with the mechanic.  The private turned to do the same, he lowered his head and left for battle.

The hollow crack of a cannon.

The Collector continued to lurch and groan forward.  It came across a private, face down in the dirt, only 20 years old and battle worn.  Blood soaked his shirt and coat.  The Collector stopped alongside him.  His arm hung over the body for a short while.  The machine rested it's enormous claw gently on the privates back and sighed. The Collector made it's collection.

The Reasons We Write

        The writer detached himself.  He let his mind wander somewhere above his head, looking down.  Fingers hovered over the type writer.  The immense gravity of inspiration would eventually pull each digit down to the keys.  He sat still, closed his eyes and listened to the silence.  The writer waited.  He looked down on himself and watched as the darkness began to crawl over him.  He felt it seeping through his eyes and wrapping tight around his arms.  It poured down his throat, he felt the smothering suffocation of darkness.  The inspiration consumed him.

Neil came to life; he felt the words leap from his fingers to the page.  The rafters around him dissolved, twisted and reformed, like fluid; then hardening in to something corporeal, a branch.  A leaf fell about the writer’s hand, forcing his eyes open, breaking his meditative state and he watched as yet more leaves sprouted from branches left and right.  The lamp on his desk began to levitate and flicker as the electricity became candle and flame, the lamp shade became a box of glass hanging itself on nearby branch by an ornate bronzed handle.  The writer felt the cold give way to a gentle warmth, a humid and hot wetness that clung between the trees around him.  The sound of rain accompanied the humidity.  The darkness was broken occasionally as the sun and rain attempted to sneak down between the leafy canopies.  He felt a spot of heat over his eyes and was forced to squint as the sun caught him off guard.  Sharply, he pulled back and heard the gentle cracks of foliage crumbling under foot.  A twitter from a distance and the writer spun around to catch a glimpse of a winged creature, only the size of his fist, flitting about him.  It came to rest upon his shoulder, now clothed in a white cotton shirt.

“Hello.”  The writer spoke softly.  The bird returned his gaze and Neil thought he could see curiosity in its eyes.  Wings, Neil thought would not be big enough to lift the creature, lay to its side.  A bird of paradise, with seemingly every colour in the rainbow steeling some part of the bird’s body; shadowed in black with a blue underbelly, a golden mask, wings tipped in fire.  It stared a moment longer.  The tiny thing took a step towards the writers face and pecked at his jaw. Neil Startled.  The bird took back to the air.

Neil reached to a branch and swung around as he tried to gain a better view of the fleeting bird.  The bird knew the trees too well and was far too quick for the old writer.  Wary of his step, Neil progressed. He was in a dangerous place.  A magical place.  A place man’s presence was not to be.  A smile lined his face as he thought about this. 

The hollow call of the gibbon turned the writer’s gaze and, in the distance, a fleet of birds escaped the canopy.  The writer quietly, still watching his feet, pushed through the jungle.  He searched for the gentle glow of his candle.  A rustle behind him.  Something was pushing between the trees.  The call of birds stopped and once again Neil saw the majesty of the multi-coloured creature, only momentarily, before it flew off, out of harm’s way.  Branches cracked.  Neil turned his head.  Whatever was stalking the rainforest that day, was not far behind.  He stalled.  He wasn’t sure whether it was curiosity or fear, but he could not move his feet.  He could not take his eyes away from that soft black leonine shape in the trees.  His chest heaved, his breathing unrelenting, his arms quivering.  Neil reached up to a branch.  The shadow pounced.

Neil pulled himself behind the tree.  his eyes caught sight of the panther’s muscular shoulders flying past, forelegs outstretched and claws revealed.  The creature slid as it landed and turned its head, hunger in its eyes.  He scrambled up the tree.  The creature's jaw closed and the unrelenting scowl turned in to something a kin to a smile.  It paced, backwards and forwards.

A few minutes passed in this way.  Neil hauling himself from branch to branch, never seeming to get any higher, the panther taking every move in to his stride.  The panther’s eyes, transfixed on his every move, never blinking.  The cat sat on its hind.  And watched.  And waited.  Neil was lost, he didn’t know what to do.  This high up the canopy the branches were getting wetter and he knew a panther could climb.  It was only a matter of time.  For the moment though it was a standstill.

“Dad!” Neil let out a sigh and climbed out the rafters.  The attic was dark apart from the writer’s lamp.

“I’ll be down in a minute!” but before he could get down a small head popped up through the hatch and James climbed up.

“You know you shouldn’t be up here!”

“I was looking for Cheshire!”  The black cat still had his eyes transfixed on Neil, and he still looked hungry.  Neil’s smile came back.

“Cheshire? Ohhhh,” Neil leant over by James and stared at the cat, “You mean Che Shah, the wild cat, king of the rainforest, the black panther.”

The boy chuckled and punched his Dad on the arm, Neil wondered how many more years he might have left, where James still laughed and didn’t just look at him with the typical disdain of a teenager.  “Che Shah hasn’t been fed!”

“Well in that case he’s hungry! Quickly up that tree.”  Neil lifted James up on to a rafter and grabbed a barmah hat to stick on the boys head.  That’s why he loved the attic, so many memories.  "You'll need that!  It's always raining in the amazon."

“Quiet son,” both of them had their eyes locked in gaze with the Panther, some 20 feet below.  “I should have brought the rifle.”

“Dad! You can’t kill Cheshire.”

“Che Shah, son.”  They both laughed.

The cat stood.  Everything was quiet.  All that could be heard was the gentle patter of rain.  Che Shah took a half step forward; its lean physique poised like a statue.  The majestic creature lowered himself head down, eyes up.  Power built in his hind and he leapt in to the air.  The two adventurers twisted around the tree as the Panther landed on a near-by branch.  It was feet away from James.

“Dad!”

“Hush! Climb over this way.” The boy didn’t take much persuading, fear lit his face.  James reached to his father and the older adventurer, caught him and lowered him down the tree. He whispered, “Get to safety.”

Che Shah pounced forward, catching Neil on the arm and knocking him back.  He clung to the branch.  Hanging backwards, with the world upside down, Neil watched the predator turn tail towards his son.

He cried out “James.”

The Panther found his target and pinned the young boy to the ground.  Che shah snarled, ready to devour his prey.  Neil leapt in to action.  He swung down from his branch, took up the closest thing he could find to hand and swung it.  A log caught the panthers main and startled it away.  It turned to face the adventurers and its cold gaze met Neil’s fierce stare.

The Panther new it was out matched, and slowly with only his pride bruised, he stalked off.

“Dad, we need to feed Cheshire!” The boy looked at his father and Neil suspected he was having much more fun than the 8 year old.

“Alright, but remember” Neil had found in his hands not the branch of a tree but one of his old light-sabres, “I am your father, James.”

Neil swung it around a couple of times and James reached for his own.  The two battled.

High above the core of the death star, balancing from beam to beam.  Jedi versus Sith, good versus evil, Father versus Son.  Neil stepped this way and James stepped that.  Both of them watching their footwork, leaping across great distances.  Each trying to gain the advantage, James was strong with the force, even for one his age.  He was training with the Jedi academy and had escaped Anakin’s evil slaughter.  Darth Neil was none other than Sidious’s own secret apprentice, training for years in the shadow of failures such as, Darth Maul he had waited for his chance and now, with Anakin’s rise he knew he must act quickly to take his rightful place at the side of Lord Sidious.  The only thing between the Darth Neil and his success was this child, although he could sense the greatness the young Jedi was destined for.

"Young James, Join me!" Darth Neil lowered his light-sabre and offered his hand.

"Never!" The young Jedi darted forward.

Darth Neil swung low and the Jedi leapt over it, onto another rafter.  Neil used the force and pushed, James almost lost his footing.  The Jedi stepped to another beam to balance himself and swung at the Evil Sith lord, The swing was strong and true, but Darth Neil was expecting such a blow and brought his light-sabre up to meet.  A clash of light-sabres exploded and the crackling of the combining energy lit up the room.  

"Jedi!"  He paused for breath, trying not to let the young boy see.  "Don't you know you cannot win."

"Old man! Good always wins."

The two danced like this for seemingly hours; each swing successfully blocked, parried or dodged.  The pair were almost perfectly matched.  Then, James swung low, catching his Father’s ankle.  The Dark Lord fell to one knee and the young Jedi raised his light-sabre high above his head.

"Any last words?" The young Jedi readied himself.

"Not today."  The Dark Lord, with what little strength he had left, raised his light-sabre and pushed.  The Jedi swayed on his beam, the force too much for him.  The Jedi fell.

James fell.  Off the beam, through the ceiling.  Neil scrambled forward arm out stretched to catch his boy.  Too little, too late.  He peered through the hole in the insulation.  He couldn’t make out the shape.  The coffee table below was shattered, James wasn’t making any noise.  Neil felt as though somebody had punched him in the chest, all the oxygen had left his lungs.  The pressure behind his eyes built and his vision blurred.  His hands shook as his knuckles whitened.  He gripped the rafter over his head. 

He was downstairs, he wasn’t sure how.  The body twisted.  This wasn’t his son.  It didn’t look like his son. It didn't feel like his son.  Still Neil couldn't find the air to speak, to say his name.  He only mouthed ‘James’.

Behind him came a voice, female.  She had words.  James was in Neil’s arms; the light-sabre fell from his hands.  The coffee table left its mark.  Neil’s face was wet.  That voice was still next to him, he wasn’t sure what it was saying.  Hands pulled on his shoulders.  He couldn’t blink away the tears.  He stared at James’ face unable to make out his features through the torrent in his eyes.

Sirens.

“Sir,” the voice was strong but sympathetic, it was distant.  Neil had to let go he wasn't sure how to.  He felt as cold as the doll in his arms.  He released it and fell backwards, away from his son.  He stumbled as he tried to stand up.  A woman tried to catch him.  She needed to hold him as much as he needed to be held.  He pushed her off.

The writer watched, incapable of feeling.  His eyes had dried and he could see again.  Neil could only watch as they pulled a sheet over the young Jedi’s face.  

The Avious

Jacob could hardly believe his eyes.  His smile spread from ear to ear and his chest heaved as he caught his breath.  As he came down the parade the things Jacob saw changed his life.  Never had he seen so many people; men wearing long coats of all colours; ruby, sapphire, emerald, silver, gold; each, their tailcoats trailing behind them in the wind and tipping their matching top hats to one another.  Women in their petticoats were much the same, turquoise was the colour of the season and it was sported in their every garment, even down to the aviator goggles worn upon their heads: that was the latest trend.  Aviator goggles were worn by anyone and everyone since The Avious grand launch was announced.

This was Jacob’s first time in Town.  From the moment he arrived he never wanted to leave.  The cobblestone was littered with the most fantastic shining gems set in to the facade, the smell of freshly cut roses, of lavender and the beginning of spring, captivated him.  The sun shone down and through a great glass magnifier projected the British flag over a flagstone courtyard.  Jacob could hardly imagine there was ever any weather here, just sun shine; and yet, the women still held their brollies aloft, “One must protect her skin,” Jacob over heard.  He held his mother’s hand and, although there were more people here than he could count, nobody pushed passed or bustled through.  Ladies walked arm in arm and gentleman sat by the side of the road, drinking in tea shops and discussing very important gentlemanly things, like the economy.  Jacob was not really sure what the economy was but he knew it was a very gentlemanly thing to talk about, sometimes his father might talk about it in to his paper and mother would just nod and smile, inserting the occasional, “Yes Dear.”  The girls giggled and the guys chuckled and not a person in sight could have been seen without a smile.

Finally, after crossing the courtyard and walking quite some distance; Jacob’s feet had started to ache, but he was having such a fantastic time and was in such awe that he wouldn’t have dared say anything to Mother, she might have wanted to take him home.  If he went home, he’d never get to see it, and he had been waiting so long to see it.  Finally, Jacob saw his Father; dressed in the bright red uniform of the RAC, leading his troupe up to the gangway of The Avious.  Jacob started to run forward, pulling his mother along-side.  He waved at the troupe and cheered with the crowd. 

Jacobs Father, Captain Aldous, was the first Captain of Her Majesty’s Royal Aviation Corps. The RAC, had been set up and tasked with the single mission to police the Air in which the new trade would be taking place.  The RAC looked after everything in the sky, and Jacob’s Father looked after the RAC, at least a bit of it.  The Captain’s arm fell upon his rapier as he marched.  Just before he turned to enter the deck, he raised his hand, twisted his head towards his son and tilted his goggles.  Jacob caught the wink and laughed.

The Avious was a sight to behold.  Thanks to Her Majesty’s Royal Engineers, we could cross oceans in days, England could get to France and back home in time for tea.  Young Jacob never truly believed it until now. Like three elephants stood on each other’s back and two whales tip to tail, at least that’s what Father said.  Jacob had never seen an elephant or a whale, but he knew how big they were!  It was once a 50 gun frigate built for the sea.  But the insides had been stripped and furnished so there were no more cannons and the helm was now at the front of the ship, the bow.  Instead of three masts, there were huge columns that connected the ship to the flight chamber, in there was Her Majesty’s greatest secret, the secret of flight.  Huge steam powered propellers sat at the back, they looked like they could chew up even the toughest of The Captain’s men.  Either side held two powerful booms, when the ship was in the air, Jacob’s Father had told him, the booms came out and held sails that let him steer the ship.   Jacob looked on in amazement. “one day!”  Jacob promised to himself.  The propellers puffed in to action.