Suicide Run (Engines of Liberty Book 2)

by Graham Bradley

  Adam had not adopted this same fear, and he demonstrated as much when his older sister married a well-to-do gentleman from Long Island. On the night of the wedding, a trio of mages kidnapped and ransomed her. Adam’s brother-in-law paid them without a second thought.

  That had infuriated Adam like nothing else—were they not

  free people? And yet his brother-in-law seemed content to recover his bride this way, like she was just some commodity that fetched a certain price.

  So Adam had spied on his brother-in-law during the exchange. Once his sister was safe, Adam followed the mages back to where boarding house and set a barrel of black powder near their front door. He’d fitted the barrel with a long fuse, which he lit, and then fled across the street. From a place of concealment, he began throwing rocks at the house.

  “If ever I could have had a photo camera, it should have been that night,” Adam had said. “I’d pay a year’s earnings to have the look on the mage’s face when he saw the fuse at its end. You’ll always remember the look of shock they get when they realize that their magic has been completely negated, and cannot, will not, save them.”

  Adam’s words took Calvin back to his first raid on a British farm, and the angry mage that he’d blown away with the blunderbuss. The muzzle flash had lit up the wizard’s face for the barest fraction of a second, burning his expression into Calvin’s memory forever. He hated how it made him a little sick inside, though he remembered why it had had to be done.

  The story ended when a TechMan recruiter showed up,

  returning the money that had been paid for Adam’s sister. Adam would later learn that it hadn’t been the actual ransom, but a standard recruiting sum paid to newcomers. Calvin bristled at this revelation; it meant that John Penn and his crew hadn’t gotten the

  Adlers’ money back from Fitz and Birty. Another lie!

  If Adam’s story hadn’t been impressive enough, the next one had him glued to his seat. The third Rebel Heart was also the largest, a Danish mariner named Ingvar Prebensen. Endowed with almost inhuman quantities of muscle and long blond hair, Ingvar was the specter of an old world Viking, right down to the battle axe in his arsenal.

  Ingvar’s family had crossed the Atlantic less than a year ago. While on approach to Meryka, they ran afoul of an unmarked British blockade, demanding documentation for their ship. The captain hadn’t acquired any documentation and offered to turn back, but the mages just seized the vessel and all of its cargo. The Danes were to be clapped in irons and placed in labor camps on the shores until such time as they could produce the documents.

  “This was all an excuse, of course,” Ingvar said. “The mages, they only wanted slaves.”

  Calvin had figured out that part.

  The details of what happened next were unclear—Ingvar sometimes slipped from English to Danish and back—but Calvin had gotten the general idea: the Danes fought their way through the blockade. Their ship, called Ommerike, sailed into Staten Island with three dead mages dangling from the bowsprit. The sails had burned, the hull was punctured, and the Royal Navy had to intervene to keep it from sinking in the middle of the port. In the meantime, it took forty-eight mages to quell the uppity (and well-armed) Danish immigrants.

  Making do with what they had, the mages had turned the hulk of the Ommerike into an offshore jail. Ingvar’s family went from sailors to inmates. Word of what they’d done—some true, some not—spread through town, where it reached the ears of John Penn and company. He and his men staged a daring rescue for Ingvar and the others, blasting open the hulk and spiriting them away in a shark mimic.

  Heartbroken as they were about the loss of their ship and their property, the Danes were grateful to the recruiters for getting them out. John Penn told them rather frankly that freeing them had compromised their cover in the area, and in return he would need no less than six of them to join the TechMan Army on the spot. Six men were of age and were willing to go, but one of them—Ingvar’s father—couldn’t perform due to combat injuries. Ingvar went in his place, swearing fealty so long as the army healed his father.

  Since then he’d served in the Rebel Hearts as a gryphon gunner. The stock of his blunderbuss looked smooth and well-worn compared to the one Calvin had carried. On one side of the stock, Ingvar had carved a self-designated title, “Techno Viking,” and on the other side he had carved the word Ommerike.

  “Name of this land,” Ingvar explained when Calvin asked its

  meaning. With his accent, Calvin thought he’d misheard.

  “You mean ‘Meryka’?”

  Ingvar frowned, mulling over what English words he should use. “No, the words, omme and rike, like, a land far away.” He made

  a throwing motion with his hand.

  “Huh. I like it.”

  When it came time for Hank Duncan to tell his story, Calvin expected an equally impressive battlefield tale, given his leadership position.

  “Oh, I’m only in charge by way of seniority,” Hank said with a shrug. “Been here five years. My family are all sheepherders down in Georgia, and the Brits figured that meant we wanted to feed their gryphons for free. Damn mages kept letting ‘em loose on our flocks. Everyone else liked to run for cover when they came by, but I took to watching as it happened, out in the open. Figured that maybe they wouldn’t attack if there was an innocent bystander in the area.” He shook his head at his past naiveté.

  “What’d they do?” Calvin pressed.

  “One of ‘em came in low and got its talons in me.” Hank tugged down on the collar of his shirt to show a long, jagged scar that started at the top of his chest, ran up over his collarbone, and disappeared over his shoulder. Calvin grimaced, imagining the pain it must have caused. Hank went on.

  “Worst part of it was that it had a bad grip—picked me up, flew a ways, dropped me. I don’t remember much after that, only that some mimics flew in and lit up those gryphons real bad, chased ‘em off. I guess one of our neighbors had a connection to the army and called in a favor. Anyhow, they found me and brought me to the surgeons, who patched me up and saved my life. Told me I couldn’t leave, neither. Gotta keep secrets and all.” He

  shrugged again. “So I joined the ranks, and here we are.”

  “Your family knows though, right?”

  Ingvar nudged Calvin with an elbow and shook his head once. “Sore subject,” he whispered.

  “No, it’s fine,” Hank said as he took another bite. “No, my parents don’t know, Calvin. They probably think I’m dead. Guess I’ll just surprise them after we win.”

  A question itched in Calvin’s mind, tied to thoughts of his own parents. “How do you do that, though? Doesn’t it bug you?”

  Ingvar elbowed him again with greater fervor.

  “Yes, kid. It bugs me. And there’s only one thing I can do about it, so I’m doing it the best I can,” Hank said, locking eyes with Calvin. “You miss your own folks too, I can see that. We’re in the same boat.”

  “Well, sort of.” Calvin pushed at the food on his plate with his fork, and told them his recruitment story. “My last words with my folks were heated, and then I left and there was a sack of gold in my place. I was happy at first. Now I . . .” he trailed off.

  “We know,” Emma said, finishing the unspoken thought.

  “Like I said: only one thing we can do about it. Win the fight,

  then you can go shear all the sheep you want,” Hank said.

  At that, Calvin had to chuckle. “There’s a lot about this that

  grates on me, but it beats scrubbing wool any day.”

  “Focus on something else, then. It helps if you have some reason to be here, to fight.” Hank dug a fork into his eggs.

  “I do have a reason, but she’s at Mount Vernon.”

  “Oh?”

  “I . . . it’s tricky to explain. I’m involved with Amelia McCracken.”

  Hank spat eggs across the table, thumping himself on the chest with a closed fist to clear his windpipe. Several hea
ds turned their way but Hank waved them off, catching his breath. Calvin brushed egg yolk off of his tunic.

  “Hey! What gives?” he demanded.

  Hank covered his mouth, still coughing. “You’re involved with

  who?”

  “McCracken’s daughter. We, well, it’s personal, but we . . .”

  Hank cut him off with a raised hand, eyes wide. “Not another word. You’re gonna cause trouble, talkin’ like that.”

  “What’s wrong?” Heart thudding against his ribs, Calvin looked around for some unknown threat.

  Hank leaned in and whispered, “It’s common knowledge in these parts that Amelia McCracken is betrothed to Captain Hamilton.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Amelia’s eyes burned in the dim pantry. She didn’t need much light, as she had the place memorized. Nothing ever changed. She kept it all in order, because that was her duty. Her brothers trained the recruits, they went on raids, they brought back supplies, and she put it all in the stupid pantry. Every. Time.

  Stupid to think anything would have changed because she’d fallen for a boy. A quiet sense in the back of her head had warned her about that, even from the first moment she’d let him linger too long in her thoughts. Sneaking him food in the brig, leaning in for a kiss under the tarp, treating his wounds after the painter attack . . .

  It could only have ended this way. Of course Calvin would have

  left eventually. So stupid of her to get attached to a recruit! They always left, didn’t they? And yet she’d hoped that, somehow, he wouldn’t. He’d been so different, so real. He’d stood up to Peter and he’d beaten Brian in a fight! He’d been different, and still, he’d saddled up and gone to war.

  She’d hoped for at least a good-bye.

  Even with the pantry lights dimmed, a shadow filled the doorway. She knew who it was.

  “What, Peter?” she asked as she emptied a basket of apples, poured a sack of new ones into the bottom and replaced the old ones on top.

  “I heard you crying,” her brother said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on Ames, it’s not nothing. How can you work in the dark like this?” The overhead lights brightened.

  “I prefer it,” she said.

  “No, you don’t. You can talk to me. It was that recruit, wasn’t it?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to talk about it, Pete.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear it, but this is how it goes. He was more than eager to get gone. And he wasn’t the first to ask after you, you know. There’s always one in every batch that acts the hot shot when they lay eyes on you. That’s kind of why Dad keeps you out of sight—soldiers are a little bit barbarian. They have to be,” Peter said.

  But he wasn’t, Amelia thought to herself.

  “I’m sorry you’re sad, I really am. He’s not the only technomancer in the world though.”

  Oh, there it was: the go-to line that they all used when the topic of betrothals came up. The McCracken men could handle all the secrecy and nuance that war demanded of them, but they were as subtle as a brick to the face when it came to her romantic prospects. There was another technomancer out there, all right. Captain Eustice Hamilton was his name, and Dad thought he walked on water.

  Amelia would just as soon let him try to, preferably whilst heavy laden with ammunition, just so her family would have to entertain the prospect of her possibly ending up with someone else down the road.

  She didn’t contest the point aloud anymore. Hamilton seemed a perfectly average fellow, if a little violent on the subject of warfare, but he was a captain and that was his job. Whatever it was that her family saw in him, Amelia didn’t know, and couldn’t care less. Let them suggest and imply all they liked; she would marry only for love, as Mom had.

  “Maybe you’re right. Just give me space, please? I’m going to bed early, tell Dad not to wait for me at dinner.” She replaced the apple basket and pushed past him without another word, retiring to her bedroom.

  A short while later, she heard Peter leave the house through the side door, headed for the barracks down the hill. Dad was gone and Brian was out with the recruits, so she was alone. Hurrying, Amelia shimmied her feet into her boots and exited the house at the opposite end, going into the woods.

  Dad parked his mimic in the trees half a kilometer away, under a protective canopy that kept it hidden from airborne eyes. It was a large model with an enclosed interior, and Amelia appreciated the quiet nature of the cabin, the way its silence fostered a sense of safety. She wished that the army had used such machines back when Mom rode with Jack Badgett. She’d probably still be alive . . .

  Curses. She was crying again.

  Dad wanted her to stay in the house. Peter wanted her to forget about Calvin. Mom would have wanted her to trust her own heart. That was what she had done, and it led her to join the TechMan army, despite Dad’s protests. The fact that it had gotten her killed wasn’t her fault; she’d been a formidable warrior.

  Amelia would never be a soldier, or even a pilot in the safest mimic. Dad would never believe she was capable of handling one, and she wasn’t about to tell him about her expeditions out here. She knew how to start up this mimic. She knew the controls. She’d studied its schematics and had written up her own basic operator’s manual for it. She couldn’t defy Dad openly the way that Mom had, but she did have that strain. Amelia rebelled in her own way.

  Like Calvin. He was out there. Did he think of her? Was something keeping him away?

  What does your heart say? Mom would have asked.

  That was the hardest part to figure out: at the moment, Amelia wasn’t sure.

  CHAPTER 4

  When Calvin would look back on that moment, he’d remember it as the breaking point. He squeezed his tin fork so hard that it folded in half.

  “Calm down now, Cal,” Hank warned.

  “Tell me you’re wrong. Tell me that’s a sick joke.” Calvin’s voice trembled. He thought his guts might boil up into his throat.

  “Afraid not. Hamilton goes on about it often. He says Admiral McCracken has already given his blessing, and they’ll have the ceremony after the war.” Hank mopped up his expectorated food with a wrinkled napkin.

  A hot rage churned in Calvin’s chest, threatening to blow steam out his ears. His parents—like most duffer colonists who’d been relocated—had an arranged marriage, but they were among the lucky few who happened to love each other beforehand. Calvin had just assumed that the technomancers would eradicate assigned betrothals after the war.

  Hank went on. “You know most marriages are contracted. That’s not going to change anytime soon,” he said, as if this would calm him.

  “Then what the hell is the point of all this?” Calvin banged a fist on the table. Several heads turned his way.

  “We stop ’em snatching newlyweds for ransom,” Adam grunted as he drained his glass.

  “Better get that in writing,” Calvin muttered. A technomancer at the adjacent table still eyed him, prompting Calvin to throw the bent fork. “What are you looking at!”

  Hank intercepted the fork with reflexes to shame a cat. “Adler! That’s enough. Go back to the barracks.”

  His tone alarmed Calvin more than his words; Hank was normally calm and quiet. Calvin couldn’t help obeying, knowing he’d acted wrongly, and yet he was right to be angry. He got up and stormed off to the tent, hands trembling.

  Amelia would have nothing to do with Hamilton, of that he was sure. He was equally sure that he had to leave Camp Liberty yesterday.

  He withdrew into himself, growing quieter and more reserved with every hour. The others didn’t bother him as they went about their duties, save for Hank, who probably suspected something. Let him. A plan formed in Calvin’s mind, and not even Hank—who could read him well—would know what was coming.

  Night came and went. In the morning they practiced repairing mimics at high-speed, simulating a combat drill. Afterward they logged
time at the flight simulator, working in pairs on a gryphon mimic. Emma rode with Hank, and Ingvar with Adam; another brigade had an odd man out, Jeb Herbst, so Calvin teamed with him, playing the role of pilot. A few turns on the simulator taught him that gryphons were a little slower than the dragonlings, and not as agile.

  Good to know.

  Between turns on the simulator, Calvin noticed an office by the motor pool that was always under guard. Worried that he might make Hank suspicious if he asked about it, Calvin brought the question to Jeb.

  “HAM radio office. It’s how they keep in touch with other bases.” Jeb explained how the technology worked, how a user could talk into a “microphone” in one room and another user could hear his words thousands of miles away out of a “speaker.”

  “Fascinating. Seems like a lot of guards though. ’Round the clock, I mean,” Calvin said.

  “Radio signals are invisible, but I guess they interfere with magic or something. Like, a mage can trace a signal to the source. The guards make sure that only the operators go inside,” Jeb said. “I hear there was a close call once. Someone tried to call out.”

  “Yeah, can’t have that.” Calvin hid the excitement that threatened to make his heart explode. Mount Vernon would definitely have a HAM radio, and Amelia probably knew about it. She snuck into McCracken’s mimic, didn’t she? He would bet his left arm that she knew about the radio. She was cleverer than her father realized.

  Adding the HAM radio office to his mental map, Calvin considered this new information. It impressed him that a space so large—bigger even than the grounds at Mount Vernon—could thrive out of the sun. When he’d gotten here, the underground base had seemed endless, but he knew its boundaries now: the primary entry ramp was under City Hall, and it led to the forward motor pool, where techs and engineers serviced them. Beyond the pool, the officers’ quarters were to the west, the soldiers’ barracks were to the east, and everything in between was either the mess hall, classrooms, training grounds, or life support systems.