CHAPTER 46
Lizanne
She jumped from the Typhoon’s gondola before it came to earth, landing hard and sprinting towards the smoking ruin of the manufactory. Some of the townsfolk called out to her but she tore past them, only vaguely registering the corpses, drake and human, that marked her path. Several long rows of covered bodies had been placed on the flat ground before the manufactory and teams of workers were busy carrying more from the blackened structure. Lizanne’s gaze swung wildly from face to face, finally alighting on one she knew.
“My father?” she said, rushing to grab Madame Hakugen’s arm. The woman stared at her for a moment, eyes uncomprehending in her soot-stained face, then gave a helpless shake of her head.
“I don’t know,” she said in a thin whisper. “I haven’t seen him.”
Lizanne left her, running to the ruin to be greeted by the dreadful carnage that lay within. Her strength seeped away and she slowed to a stumble, moving in a daze as she took in one horror after another. A group of workers, melted together by drake fire into an obscene parody of a sculpture, clawed, stump-fingered hands reaching up to her, teeth gleaming in the charred remnants of their faces. A young assembly worker, remarkably untouched by the flames and lacking any obvious injury, lying dead beneath her work-bench, face frozen in a wide-eyed mask of terror. She found the worst of it at the rear of the building. Hundreds had died here, crammed together amongst the heavy machinery as they tried to flee only to be roasted alive. The stench of death seemed to claw its way into her being, choking nose and throat before sinking an acidic claw into her guts.
The world went away for a time, everything becoming hazy and distant, when she came back to herself she was retching air past a dry throat, staring at a pool of her own vomit. A sound came to her then, soft but easily heard in the eerie quiet. Someone was sobbing. Lizanne got unsteadily to her feet and followed the sound to the walkway above the manufactory floor, climbing up to find Tekela weeping over the body of Jermayah Tollermine.
“It was him,” she said, raising a tear-streaked face to stare at Lizanne. “A Spoiled in a general’s uniform, they said. Sirus did this. He did this because I failed to kill him.”
Lizanne found she had no words for her, finding that all sensation seemed to have fled her body. She could only stand and stare in dumb fascination at the knife handle jutting from Jermayah’s neck. It was a curious design, one she hadn’t seen before. An intricately carved piece of bone, its elegant curve oddly pleasing to the eye.
“Lizanne.”
Professor Graysen Lethridge stepped cautiously onto the walkway, tattered lab coat besmirched with soot and blood, though not his own as far as she could tell. He looked at Jermayah’s body, face sagging in grim resignation. Lizanne’s first thought was that he must be a product of her imagination, something conjured to prevent her slipping into madness. But then her father’s arms enfolded her and the freezing numbness transformed into an instant blaze of relief that had her convulsing in hard, wracking sobs as she clung to him.
“Over eight hundred killed,” Madame Hakugen reported. “Three times that number wounded. About sixty percent of the machinery is damaged beyond repair. Fully half the stocks of recently completed munitions destroyed.”
“The new explosives?” Lizanne asked, turning to her father.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “We just completed the casing, it’s mostly still intact, even salvageable. But the chemicals needed to achieve the correct explosive mix were consumed in the fire.”
“And,” Tinkerer added, “the precision instruments required to manufacture the detonator.”
Lizanne had found him wandering the ashen remains of what had been his workshop, expressionlessly rummaging through the detritus as he gathered various components and scraps of charred paper. Apart from a faint grimace when Lizanne enquired as to his well-being, he hadn’t betrayed any particular reaction to the disaster, although she noticed he was blinking more than usual. Looking at him, she found she had to suppress a guilt-riven and unpleasant inner question: Why couldn’t it have been him instead of Jermayah?
She went to the window of Madame Hakugen’s office, looking out at the ships in the Sound. Five freighters had arrived that morning to collect the latest shipment of weapons and were now destined to leave half-empty. “Madame,” she said, “I require an honest and unvarnished opinion; how long will it take before this facility can resume production?”
“There are many variables involved . . .” Madame began then fell silent as Lizanne glanced over her shoulder, gaze steady and demanding. “At this juncture,” Madame continued in a subdued tone, “too long to make any difference to the outcome of this war.”
“Thank you.” Lizanne returned her gaze to the window and was surprised to find children at play in the park, running and laughing, seemingly oblivious to the pall of smoke that still hung in the air over the Mount. Just another horror witnessed in their short lives, she thought. One of many. Perhaps all this has rendered them immune to fear. It occurred to her that, win or lose, the children who would grow up in the aftermath of this war were already spoiled, in mind if not body. What kind of world will they build? But then, they could hardly do worse than we have.
“Please call a general meeting of the work-force,” she said, turning to face them. “The Mount Works Militia will sail to Gadara’s Redoubt together with any adult who wishes to volunteer for military service. Lone parents with children are excluded.”
“And those left behind?” Madame asked.
“Sufficient shipping will remain to carry them away should the need arise, though in the event of our defeat, I can’t imagine a safe place where they might go.”
“You intend to just abandon this place?” her father asked. “A place so many have laboured to exhaustion to build?”
“There is no purpose to it now. No further contribution it can make.”
“There are the new rockets,” Tinkerer said.
Lizanne frowned at him in bemusement. “What new rockets?”
They were lined up in a narrow brick shelter which had been constructed well away from the other buildings. Exactly three hundred in all, looking to Lizanne’s eyes like a miniature version of the rockets that had served them so well at the Grand Cut. Each was about a yard long and ten inches in diameter. They had a smooth bullet-shaped steel warhead and a pair of aerofoils positioned halfway along their length with another larger pair at the base.
“It occurred to me that one of the Red drakes’ advantages is their ability to attack in a massed formation,” Tinkerer explained. “Rather like a swarm of bees overwhelming a larger threat. It seemed reasonable to combat one swarm with another.”
“‘Swarmers,’” Tekela said, sinking to her haunches and running a hand along the smooth casing of the nearest rocket. “That’s what we’ll call them.” Lizanne detected an unfamiliar tone to Tekela’s voice. It had a low, hungry note to it Lizanne didn’t like. Nor did she like the sight of the bone-handle knife Tekela now wore strapped to her calf.
“Appropriate,” Tinkerer said with a small shrug. “Each rocket contains a mechanism that compels it to follow a random course towards its target. When fired in a group they can be set to explode at slightly different intervals.”
“So,” Tekela said, smiling a little, “they might dodge one but the next one gets them.”
“Quite so,” Tinkerer confirmed. “The materials and components required to construct another five hundred have been set aside. It’s just a matter of assembly.”
“How long?” Lizanne asked.
“Two days with sufficient hands.”
“I’ll see to it. Have them loaded when ready. These”—she gestured at the completed Swarmers—“will be fitted to the aerostats and made ready to fire immediately.”
Viewed from the air the plain below Gadara’s Redoubt resembled one-half of a huge dartboard. Three continuous lines of trenches curved around the northern flank of the ridge from one end of the isthmus to the other. Dust rose in thick clouds from the people at labour on the plain, Lizanne seeing the rise and fall of many shovels as she landed the Firefly within the arc of the third trench line, the other larger aerostats coming to earth a short distance away.
“It worked at Carvenport,” Arberus explained after Lizanne had climbed down from the gondola.
“Against the Corvantines,” she said. “Not the drakes and the Spoiled.”
“It might have if we’d had the numbers. This is an excellent defensive position. We can place the bulk of our muzzle-loading cannon along the walls of the Redoubt itself. From there they can reach any part of the battlefield. Plus, the whole trench network is within range of the fleet’s guns. I wouldn’t even consider an attack here given the likely butcher’s bill.”
“Morradin would,” Lizanne pointed out. “And I doubt the White cares about casualties amongst its troops.”
Arberus gave a short nod of agreement. “True, but in any case I thought our object was to hold them, not defeat them.”
“At this juncture, I’d be happy with any outcome that didn’t involve our utter destruction.” She went on to relate the full scale of the calamity at the Mount, noting how he managed to keep any reaction from his features as he took in the news. It wouldn’t do for an onlooking soldier to see their general succumb to despair.
“No more munitions,” he said, speaking softly and pasting a bland smile on his face.
“The final consignment is on its way. Another thirty Thumpers and fifty Growlers, plus a hundred of the new carbines. The Mount Works Militia and a volunteer contingent will accompany the consignment, five thousand strong.”
“All very welcome. But it’s not enough.”
“I know.”
She noticed Tekela standing a short way off, eyes fixed on the plain beyond the trenches. They had given Jermayah as much of a funeral as they could before leaving the Mount. The headland east of the town had become an impromptu graveyard, marked with numerous freshly excavated graves. Tinkerer and Professor Lethridge came to help dig Jermayah’s resting-place. Together they laid his canvas-shrouded body in the earth and covered him over. A few of the artificers who had worked under Jermayah’s direction came to offer their respects but the crowd was not large, there being so many funerals that day. Tinkerer marked the grave with a wooden post onto which the words “Jermayah Tollermine—Technologist” had been etched in precise letters. Professor Lethridge then gave a halting, awkward eulogy, listing his colleague’s many technical achievements and thanking him for his many hours of tireless labour in service to humankind. Throughout it all Tekela had said nothing, staring fixedly at the mound of earth, eyes red in the pale mask of her face. She pulled her hand away when Lizanne tried to take it and had maintained much the same demeanour since.
“It was a long flight,” Lizanne said, moving to her side. “You should get some rest.”
Tekela ignored her, turning to Arberus. “How long until they get here?”
He paused a moment before replying, frowning as if not quite recognising the face of a girl he had known since infancy. “Two days, at most,” he replied. “The Spoiled march with an annoying swiftness.”
“We should attack now,” Tekela said, her gaze switching to Lizanne. “With the aerostats. We can test out the Swarmers. Might slow them down a bit.”
“We need to conserve our resources,” Arberus said.
“Sirus is their leader, isn’t he?” Tekela persisted. “If we can find him . . .”
“Your uncle’s right,” Lizanne said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The Swarmers will have more effect if they come as a surprise.”
There was a faint echo of the old pout in Tekela’s expression then, but what had once been the frustration of a spoilt child was now something far more disconcerting. “He needs to die,” she whispered, voice rich in both sincerity and certainty. “And I need to kill him.” She turned and stalked away, muttering, “And he’s not my fucking uncle,” at Arberus.
“She feels guilty,” Lizanne explained. “About Jermayah.”
“There’s plenty of guilt to go around,” he said. “If the history of this crisis is ever written I suspect it might well be called ‘The Guilty Age.’ The corporations, the Empire . . . the revolution. No one in this world has clean hands any more. Perhaps that’s why it falls to us to save it.”
True to Arberus’s prediction the White’s army appeared on the northern horizon by the evening of the following day. At first it was just a rising cloud of dust, the dark specks of patrolling Reds wheeling above, but the neat ranks of advancing Spoiled soon resolved into focus through the lens of Lizanne’s spy-glass. The army proceeded along a southerly route parallel to the trench works, stringing out in a line a mile long before coming to an abrupt simultaneous halt and turning to face the Redoubt.
“A good two hundred yards out of range,” Arberus muttered in frustration, tracking his binoculars along the enemy line.
They stood atop the tower, Lizanne’s Spider loaded with one of her few remaining vials of Blue. Whereas they had decent but not copious stocks of the other colours, especially Red thanks to the assault on the Mount, Blue was a fast-diminishing resource. Those Blood-blessed not allocated to one of the aerostats were seeded throughout the trench works and the fleet. They had been instructed to imbibe Blue the moment the enemy began to advance, enabling Lizanne to relay the orders which would co-ordinate the defence.
The battle plan consisted of a staged withdrawal, timed to commence when Arberus had judged each successive line of trenches to have inflicted the maximum casualties on the enemy. Upon receipt of the signal the defenders would withdraw to the next line under cover of the combined weight of gunnery from the cannon on the Redoubt and the ships waiting a few hundred yards off shore. He estimated they could hold out for three days, perhaps four with a modicum of luck. Lizanne’s last trance with Clay indicated he needed at least another four days to reach them, so it appeared they would have to make their own luck.
“They’ll wait for darkness,” Arberus concluded as the Spoiled army continued to stand immobile. “Take advantage of their freakish night-vision. Best spread the word for our lot to get what rest they can.”
Lizanne nodded and began to press the fourth button on her Spider, then stopped as Arberus raised a hand. “Wait. They’re moving.”
“An attack?” she asked, returning her eye to her own glass and blinking in surprise at what she saw. Instead of commencing a march towards the trenches the Spoiled were clustering into three large divisions, each one resembling a disturbingly well-co-ordinated group of ants in the way they reordered themselves into narrow columns. Lizanne suspected they intended to assault the defences in three places at once, hoping the narrowness of their formation would negate the effects of the fire-power they faced. But then she saw the first rank of Spoiled sink to their knees and begin to dig. Most had shovels, but others clawed at the ground with their inhuman hands, tearing up clods of earth and grass with a fierce, near-frantic energy.
“What are they doing?” she wondered.
“Sapping,” Arberus replied, a faint note of admiration in his otherwise grim tone. “Sirus always did know his history.”
Apparently it was a tactic from the early days of the gunpowder age, favoured by armies besieging fortifications in an effort to spare their soldiers the fire of defending cannon. It had fallen out of favour with the advent of faster-firing modern artillery and repeating small-arms, but Sirus had evidently found a use for it now. The three trenches progressed across the plain with remarkable swiftness. The Spoiled worked in a ceaseless relay, clawing or digging at the earth until exhaustion set in, whereupon they staggered to the rear and were immediately replaced by fresh labour. Consequently, the trenches were each close to fifty yards in length before nightfall and the Spoiled didn’t show any signs of resting for the night.
“They’ll be in range of our cannon come morning,” Lizanne pointed out. “A sustained barrage should impede their progress.”
“It should,” Arberus admitted. “But every shell we fire can no longer be replaced. And something tells me Sirus is too clever to simply dig his way into our sights.”
He was proven correct come first light, the rising sun revealing that the forward progress of the enemy trenches had halted. Instead they were now digging laterally, new trenches branching out from the terminus of the three already dug. By late afternoon the White’s army had a trench network of its own, whereupon all activity apparently ceased.
“I’d wager a sack of gold that Morradin no longer has a say over this campaign,” Arberus noted with grudging respect. “Sirus has spared his troops a good two hundred yards of open ground. Even at extreme range our cannon would have taken a fearful toll when they advanced. Plus we would have had ample warning of the moment they decided to attack.”
Arberus ordered a few of the more powerful cannon in the Redoubt to try their luck at the enemy trenches, scoring a few hits. However, most of the shells went wide and the damage inflicted was minimal. There was no answering fire from the Spoiled; in fact most sat in their trenches in placid quietude. Tekela made several offers to attack in the Typhoon, arguing that it would be a simple matter to rake the trenches from end to end with Growler fire. Lizanne forbade it, unwilling to risk an aerostat in the massed Red assault that would inevitably follow.
Arberus had the army stand on full alert throughout the night. Rocket flares supplied by the fleet were prepared all along the Redoubt, ready to bathe the battlefield in artificial light when the attack came, except it didn’t.
“What are they waiting for?” Arberus wondered aloud come the morning as he and Lizanne looked out at the Spoiled still sitting quietly in the trenches.
“As long as they keep waiting,” Lizanne said, “I shall consider myself satisfied.”
“We can’t become complacent. There must be a strategy at work here. Something we’re missing. Just like the Jet Sands.”
Noting the tension in his unshaven jaws, Lizanne saw for the first time how deep the sting of defeat had wounded him. Pride, she thought, reaching out to grasp his forearm, the disease of generals and revolutionaries alike. “Get some rest,” she told him. “I’ll be sure to wake you should anything happen.”
Got hit by a storm last night, Clay told her. Lost sight of the Endeavour till morning. The captain had to take the blood-burner off-line. He reckons it’ll be another two days sailing.
Lizanne replied with a pulse of acknowledgment, momentarily distracted by the clarity of the shared trance. Before his new-found ability Clay’s mindscape had been somewhat basic in construction, Nelphia’s surface a uniform grey and the black sky above lacking a rendition of the planet they called home. Now it hung above them in majestic, blue-and-green glory against an endless spectacle of stars.
Kriz helped me with it, he explained, sensing her curiosity. Ain’t had much else to do during the voyage.
Somehow I doubt that, she replied, enjoying the momentary thrum of embarrassment that ran through the dust.
Is there a secret in my head you don’t know? he asked.
Thousands, I’m sure. It’s not your thoughts that betray you, but your feelings. Something they used to drill into us in the Academy.
She gave a final glance at the planet filling the sky above, resisting the urge to lose herself in the beauty of it, even for a short time. I have to go, she told him. Our Blue stocks are low. Please reiterate the need for urgency to Captain Hilemore.
I do that one more time he’s like to shoot me . . . Clay trailed off, his gaze drawn to something beyond her. Who’s she?
Lizanne turned, seeing a sailing-ship approaching across the mindscape, the moon-dust parting like a wave before the bows. Morva was perched on the figure-head below the prow, hands cupped around her mouth as she called to Lizanne: You have to come! It’s started!