Souls in the Great Machine

by Sean McMullen

  "But that's unlikely to be before dawn tomorrow?"

  "Regrettably." Early the next morning they marched to a point where the highway a wide river. Rochester's small, shallow-draft battle galleys had penetrated all way to the customs chain at Haytown, and the only bridge between and the Confederation had been demolished. Ghans lancers had appeared on northern banks and fired at the galleys, but the boats were armored against arms fire and their grapeshot bombards scattered the lancers. Soon the access the border was secure, but heliostat messages told them that an attack was at Ravensworth Junction. Southmoor mounted musketeers had ridden forty through the night, along the back roads from Wanganella. They were now beginning to dig in.

  Overhand Gratian of the Alliance forces called a hurried conference of his captains. The officers were grimy and haggard, but still well disciplined as they gathered around him in the drizzle that had ended a brief period of sunlight,

  "The only viable bridge between Balranald and Haytown is here at Ravens pour across to join the Southmoors. They have two dozen medium bombards on the banks and those could sink our battle galleys. We have to take the bridgehead and defend it. Captains Fitzen, Alluwanna, Kearley, Glasken, Ling-zo, and Richards will lead their companies in the attack on specific points in Ravensworth, then strike north to the bridge. Intelligence reports that their trenches are about five hundred yards from the river, so that's to our advantage. If we dig in there we can use bombards against their bridge repair crews." "A question, sir." "Glasken?"

  "Won't we be in range of their bombards?" "As a matter of fact, yes, and our battle calculor at Balranald estimates that no aid will be available to us. Everything the Alliance has in this sector will be thrown into an offensive north from Deniliquin against the Southmoor reinforcements We here are facing very bad times."

  "But if the floodwaters subside the Ghans can rig up a pontoon bridge out of range of our bombards and there's a hundred and fifty thousand of them."

  "Correct, Captain Glasken, but nothing's certain in war." The Alliance attack began about an hour past noon, with bombards pounding the higher buildings of the town to deny the Southmoors an overview. The infantry advanced in open order across scrubby pasture and at Glasken's whistle Jay Company started forward with Dunoonan holding the regimental colors and Ettenbar playing the regimental march on his zuma. Heavy, sustained fire burst from the distant buildings of the town and men began to cry out and drop before they had gone a dozen paces. To the right a line of two dozen knelt, aimed, and fired a ragged volley at the houses before rejoining the march. Another line knelt, fired, and stood, but the respite was transitory. Dunoonan staggered for a moment with the standard, then limped on, and the butt of Glasken's musket shattered along one edge as a ball caught it. Something tugged at Glasken's sleeve and stung his arm. Even as he was wincing, the back of Sergeant Condolonas' head burst with a sharp wet thud from a ball that had entered by his left eye. Glasken was splattered with warm, wet flesh, and his mesmerized determination to continue the lumbering charge was suddenly broken.

  "South-Twenty, all to cover, charge!" he shouted, then broke into a run. Moments later they were pinned down behind an earth wall by sporadic but accurate fire from the outlying houses of the town. Glasken lay panting on his back with his eyes tightly shut, aware that blood was trickling down his sleeve, and that it was probably his. He opened his eyes to see Ettenbar beside him, trying to tighten the reed of his battle zurna.

  "Damn hell, Ettenbar, couldn't you play something they liked?" panted Glasken, at last looking down at his own blood-soaked sleeve. "That's "Campbell's Retreat from the Red Castle'! What the hell do you mean playing a retreat during a charge?"

  "With all deference to your rank, Fras Captain, it is "Campbell's Fare well'--"

  "It's "Campbell's Retreat," you stupid little Southmoor bastard! It's an old Scottish trine. I was born in Sundew, I grew up in Sundew, and my people moved there from wherever Scotland was two thousand years ago. I spent the first eighteen years of my life wearing kilts, eating porridge, playing the bagpipes, and.

  learning bloody Highland dancing even though two hundred miles of the place. I say it's "Campbell's Retreat' I"

  "Is regiment's tune," insisted Ettenbar sullenly. Glasken noticed that sixteen dozen pairs of eyes and ears were following the argument with interest. He stared back, his mind full of jagged, jangling sion. I know what they're thinking, he told himself. Every one of them

  "If these two loons keep arguing about musicology I might live an extra few minutes."

  "Well?" he asked them. " "Campbell's Farewell to the Red Castle," " chorused the men. Glasken flopped on his back again, unable to face them. They had all just faced many more would be dead within seconds of his next order.

  "Is not retreat!" muttered Ettenbar, still fiddling with the reed.

  "Gah, shaddup! Poll the men."

  Of the 250 men who had started across the field, 195 had reached of the earth wall.

  "And nine men can go no further due to injured legs, Captain,"

  reported.

  Glasken thought for a moment, then unfolded his tower scope and the houses. "Maybe two hundred Southmoors," he muttered.

  "But Fras, the rate of fire was far above that."

  "They probably have three guns each, and doubtless they're elite There's a whole swag of tricks like that for overextended forces: have to hand, shoot straight, load fast, but.." yes, but I know tricks too. Get nine wounded together, over there, to the left. Give them a dozen spare each from the others. The rest are to drop their muskets and forage packs carry only sabers. They're to scrape the mud from their boots, too." i

  "But, Captain, this is unheard of. The men need their packs." "There's fifty behind us who still have their packs but don't need

  Do it."

  Glasken gave his officers and sergeants a short and unconventional "... and when the command to really charge comes, it will be this white i kerchief pulled from my jacket, waved twice and flung down. Everyone's for that, then it's straight over the top without a yell. Run like the whirley-clappers for the Southmoor cover. Total silence, understand? The bastards won't expect that, they'll think their eyes are playing them false because their ears hear nothing. We'll be over that ground before they get more than two volleys into us, then it's sabers as has the advantage. Lieutenant Jendrik, if I'm dropped, they're yours."

  The group started to break up, and Glasken pretended not to notice for a moment. "Oi, I've not finished," he called so that all of the musketeers could hear. "Any of you caught fighting over prisoners or loot and it's fifty lashes each. Mark your gear so you can find it without arguing when you come back. There'll be too much to do what with digging in."

  Bloody pathetic bravado, Glasken thought to himself. Anyone who's not stupid will see right through it. On the other hand, we must all be pretty damn stupid to be out here in the mud getting shot to pieces, so who knows?

  Some minutes later the Southmoors heard Glasken's whistle, and a scatter of shots flashed atop the earth wall to their left. The heads appeared all along the wall and the Southmoors opened fire at once. The heads withdrew, then there was more whistling and cursing. The battle zurna brayed "Campbell's Farewell to the Red Castle" again, but the tune was cut short. "Rebellion," several Southmoors muttered. Again a few Alliance musketeer heads appeared. Another volley, the heads fell back---then more figures silently swarmed over the bank and came running across the field unnaturally fast.

  Glasken had guessed well. There were three muskets to each Southmoor. One more hasty volley tore into the Alliance men; then the Southmoor fire became irregular as some tried to reload and others drew their flintlock pistols and delivered a less coordinated volley. There had been no time to dig stake trenches, and Glasken's unencumbered company flashed through the vegetable gardens with unexpected speed and agility, ducking, dodging, and scattering the cowering poultry.

  Glasken's reflexes took over as he burst in among the Southmoors with his saber and demi
blade whirling, slicing and punch-chopping with a half-decade of Baelsha training behind every movement. Now that the fighting was hand-to-hand, the versatile and battle-hardened men of the 105th had a distinct advantage, even though two dozen more had been sliced from their ranks by Southmoor fire. Jay Company of the 105th took their sector of the town after forty minutes more of bloody, desperate fighting, then went to the assistance of the others. Overhand Gratian was impressed. He assigned hundreds more men to Glasken, then left him to dig in and make sure that the bridge stayed down. Balranald was in need of as many musketeers and officers as Gratian could take there.

  Glasken's mind had begun to move in slightly more strategic channels during the course of the war, and he treated his Southmoor prisoners accordingly. While his officers called for all prisoners to be shot, Glasken ordered them stripped to their trews, then had their right hands struck one hard blow each with an axe handle before turning them loose to return to the Southmoor lines.

  "A merciful gift, that of life," said Ettenbar. "Nothing of the kind. They're weaponless and with broken fingers to boot. They'll tax their own army's support but help them not at all. A pity if any were lutanists or pipers, though."

  He noticed that Ettenbar had removed the reed from his battle zurna, and was corking it into a bamboo tube. Glasken broke a twig from the peach tree above him.

  "Oi there, Corporal Ettenbar, hold out your hand."

  "Yes, Fras Cap--Ach!" he cried as the blow landed and he snatched his hand back. Zarvora had begun to operate her transmitter even before the fifth and sixth orbital fortresses had been destroyed. She had watched the rapid changes and damage in the Mirrorsun band, then noted that one of the Wanderer satellites was surrounded. by a dispersing cloud of sparkles. She incorrectly concluded that all had been destroyed, but this was soon to be the case. The fortresses were by then too preoccupied with Mirrorsun to bother with her puny signals.

  She sat at a bench in a darkened room with an array of batteries powering the coils of her tuned circuit while she tapped at a modified beam flash key. Tarrin stared at a tiny air gap through a lens, frowning in the darkness.

  "I don't recognize the pattern that you are sending," he said as the hour chimed out from a distant clock tower "What is this thing meant to do?"

  "Flash to you." Tarrin sighed and squinted at the gap. "I see sparks now." His eyes "UNDERSTOOD AND ACKNOWLEDGED is the message, in standard calibration code."

  "Undamaged," sighed Zarvora with relief, standing up and wringing her hands together so hard that her knuckles crackled. "Requisition a galley engine. I must go to Oldenberg with all this machinery."

  "But it would fill two trucks or more, Frelle Overmayor."

  "I know, it filled three when I had it shipped from Kalgoodie, before invasion. Now move!" When he had gone Zarvora began to work the key again. As soon as she had noticed the rapid, ominously purposeful changes in the Mirrorsun band, she had sent a message to Denkar through her agents and carrier birds. He was to watch the skies, and if the Wanderers suddenly changed or vanished he was to connect. a spark flash transceiver to an unprotected external antenna and await her signal.

  INSTANTANEOUS COMMUNICATION WITHOUT BEAM FLASH she typed. REPLY. SPEAK TO ME. I LOVE YOU. TELL ME ABOUT KALGOORLIE. After only seconds the sparks began to crackle faintly beneath the eyepiece of the receiver.

  I LOVE YOU TOO. THE SUN IS SETTING AND THE SKY IS CLEAR. "It works!" shouted Zarvora, leaping to her feet and waving her fists above her head. "It works, it works, the war is won, the universe is changed." She caught herself, then glanced around, thankful that she had not had an audience, then sat down and tapped a reply.

  THE SUN IS HOURS DOWN IN ROCHESTER. SUMMON MAYOR

  BOUROS. WE MUST DISCUSS THE WAR. I WANT CONTACT NAMES

  FOR THE LOYAL COMPANY OF ELECTRO FORCE STUDIES OF OLDEN BERG It was midnight before Zarvora was interrupted by Tarrin, who had organized a galley engine and three trucks for her. Reluctantly she powered down the spark gap transceiver and supervised its packing. Down in the system console room of the Libris Calculor she found that Dolorian was visiting to discuss a problem with beam flash protocols.

  "Frelle Dolorian, just the Frelle I need. Rouse a lackey to find the six others on this list. In two hours you are all to be packed and ready to leave at the par aline terminus on the military platform."

  "I--Military, Frelle Overmayor?"

  "You have just joined my army, Lieutenant Dolorian. You rank ninth in

  Libris Gallery Lists, so you must know one end of a gun from the other." "Yes, but, but--" "You have the key beam flash codes and Calculor protocols memorized. Because of your former association with Lemorel Milderellen you have also been so thoroughly scrutinized by the Black Runners that your security rating is within a point or two of mine. I shall explain the rest on the train."

  Parsimar Wolen was dragged from his bed by the Oldenberg Constable's Runners, who had broken down the door. With his wife screaming that he was seventy three innocent, and suffering from arthritis he was bundled into a pony gig wearing only his nightshirt. At the assembly hall of Oldenberg University, Parsimar saw that the other eight members of the Oldenberg Loyal Company of Electroforce Studies were also there, huddling together in their nightshirts.

  "Jarel, what's happened?" he asked as they stood shivering together. "Don't rightly know, Fras Parsimar. Boteken thinks that electro force studies has been declared a heresy, an' that we're to be burned at the stake."

  "Heresy's only punishable by exile, and besides, burnin' at the stake was struck off the books in 1640."

  "We'll all be shot, then. I told you we should have stayed a secret society." It was very cold in the hall, and Parsimar was shivering. "Ah, Sergeant?" he quavered.

  "Yes, Fras?"

  "Might--might I have a blanket, please?" "Certainly, Fras, and slippers too?" "What? Ah, yes, thank you."

  "The coffee and bread rolls will not be long. Seems we cau refectory by surprise."

  The runner marched off smartly, leaving the two elderly guilds men after him.

  "He were civil to us," said Jarel incredulously.

  "Doesn't sound like we're felons," Parsimar concluded. "Looky there! the Overmayor herself."

  Zarvora had the hall cleared of the runners. Soon only the nine remained, and she gathered them around her. : "These are the plans for a spark flash radio transceiver, and out in the marshaling yards three par aline wagons are standing by with a model. I want you to build seven more transceivers, each small enough to fit into four horse-drawn military wagons. I want them working, and their trained, within a fortnight."

  The guilds men gave a collective gasp.

  "But, Frelle Overmayor, the blight of the Wanderers--" began Parsimar. "I have destroyed the Wanderers." For a moment they were speechless. "Three cheers for the Overmayor," shouted Parsimar in a thin, reedy voice. When the last of the wheezing cheers had died away, Jarel raised his "The cost will be great, Frelle Overmayor. No less than five hundred royals."

  "You can have five hundred thousand gold royals, you have unlimited sources, Fras, understand? Unlimited. The Rochester Home Guard has city, the artisans of the par aline workshops, the Guild of Watchmakers and Timers, and the University workshops and laboratories are being roused at very minute. Two hundred artisans, mechanics, engineers, and lackeys their way from Libris in Rochester to assist you. Who is Fras Parsimar your Guildmaster?"

  "Delighted to meet you," she said, shaking his hand. "You are reporting directly to me. If anyone deliberately obstructs you, have them shot; Anyone! The City Constable, the City Librarian, the City

  Parsimar was dizzy with what was flooding past him. Listening to the Overmayor was like trying to drink from a waterfall.

  "But, Frelle Overmayor, I'm seventy-three--" "Happy birthday. These drawings are an overview of the spark flash and I want to spend the morning reassembling the unit from Libris here, in this hall, to familiarize you with the design."

  "I need my pills and ton
ics," Boteken interjected. "The University's Faculty of Medicians will suspend all teaching and re search work to tend your health. Nothing is as important as having those seven transceivers completed in two weeks. Ah, here is Lieutenant Dolorian. She is in charge of training."

  Dolorian was carrying a sheaf of files under each arm. She was wearing a borrowed jacket, which she had unsuccessfully tried to button over her breasts. The effect was quite arresting. Parsimar goggled, then hastily tilted the lenses of his bifocals.

  Zarvora left to finish the mobilization of Oldenberg behind the project. Dolorian continued the briefing from notes that Zarvora had dictated on the train.

  "The six Wanderers were ancient military machines," Dolorian began, her hips swaying slightly as if to the beat of an inaudible tune. It had begun as a nervous mannerism when she had delivered her first public speech, but she soon realized that it was guaranteed to secure the undivided attention of every man in the audience. "Their purpose was to detect and destroy electro force devices of the enemy." '

  "So the Wanderers were weapons that operated for two thousand years, Frelle?" "Amazingly, yes. Just before the Ghan invasion, the Overmayor brought the Wanderers into conflict with whatever controls the Mirrorsun band. Less than a day ago there was a second battle in the sky and Mirrorsun was the victor. We can now use electro force machines in war, and the present war is going badly for us. Sparkflash radio wagons will give us instant communications, and they can move with our armies."

  On the other side of the world, Brother Alex of the Monastery of the Holy Wisdom near Denver was listening to the thunderstorms in the mountains to the west. More precisely, he was listening to radio emissions from lightning far be yond the horizon. Using a rectifier made from a crystal of galena he had built an unpowered tuned circuit a decade earlier and was developing a system to predict storms' movement without the need for sail wing patrols by wardens.