Suicide Run (Engines of Liberty Book 2)

by Graham Bradley

  But it hadn’t.

  Because of him.

  CHAPTER 8

  Never in his life had Godfrey fled anything with such haste.

  When the duffers’ dragon had first joined the fight, he felt the initial disgust that came with seeing the “technomancers” trying to pass off their tinkering as actual magic. But that disgust evolved into sheer terror when the machine put its awesome firepower on display, and Godfrey’s contempt would not make him bulletproof. Cut off from his target, unarmed, and covered in poisonous dust, Godfrey did what was prudent: he scampered.

  His wyvern was dead and Sophronia was gone. He’d picked up a discarded broom and raced back to the teleportal, uttering a quick incantation to make sure he didn’t come out with the rest of the toughs. The magical teleportation corridors were under steady surveillance so that the French and Spanish mages wouldn’t try to use them to invade, but Godfrey knew his way around the network. After all it was his father, Sir Waldo, who monitored the grid in England. Godfrey had been hesitant to tap into it here in Meryka, but the situation demanded it. He’d just have to trust his magic to keep him clandestine.

  Without his wand, Godfrey had trouble focusing his magic with pinpoint accuracy; as such, he exited the teleportal miles away from Kalfu’s shack in Louisiana. The broom, which had already been damaged when he’d picked it up, fell to pieces after enduring such abuse in combat. The distance from the lodestone wasn’t helping much either. Suddenly, Godfrey was on his feet again, robes torn and soiled, forced to walk like some stupid duffer.

  Despite it all, there was a positive: Kalfu had been right about Adler’s whereabouts, and right now he was the only asset Godfrey had left.

  So Godfrey walked. And he went south.

  *

  Triumph and failure rolled into one: that was the mood of the Camp Liberty technomancers as they plowed through the wilderness toward Pittsburgh. Triumph, for their creation had repelled a magical attack at nearly full strength, yet failure because they had surrendered the element of surprise. The Saint George was not meant to have made its debut for two more weeks, during the primary offensive.

  Now the mages at least knew what they were in for, and they could prepare. Most of them had made a run for it, leaving very few of their comrades behind after the teleportal had closed. Survivor stories would reach Port Atlantis. Years of preparation, of blood and sweat and tears, were all wasted.

  Calvin was almost grateful for the anxious haste with which thousands of men and women moved across the countryside, sticking to dangerous routes through Indian territories to make their road. As long as Major Tyler was focused on getting her army safe (though no place could conceal the Saint George now), she couldn’t focus her anger on Calvin.

  That wasn’t to say that word hadn’t reached his ears that Captain Hamilton was looking for him; it just wasn’t as high a priority.

  The other Rebel Hearts were decent enough not to say anything about it, and he kept to himself as he worked with them, tending to Ingvar and Adam’s gryphon mimic. Emma had commissioned another one from the motor pool—Camp Liberty had an excess of machines—and Calvin did his part to move it along on a four-wheeled cart through the woods. He said nothing, ate half rations, and slept under the cart at night at Adam’s suggestion.

  He didn’t get much sleep. On top of everything else that had gone wrong, he couldn’t stamp out the burning guilt in his heart over what had happened to Hank’s hand. Mimic throttles were universally right-handed; even if they switched him to the gunner’s spot, firing with his off-hand would be cumbersome. Calvin had no idea how Hank would break the news to Major Tyler, that he was no longer fit to operate mimics. Like Calvin, Hank kept to himself, curled up on the gunner’s perch most nights, his stump of a hand tucked under his other arm inside a long jacket. For now, nobody else had noticed what happened to him.

  They trekked for thirty-eight hours straight on an unforgiving course, stopping only for brief repairs and water breaks. Twice they fitted the Saint George with a makeshift ballast and floated it downriver when the water was too deep. One on occasion they had to activate its lifter fans and fly it a short distance. Finally, they reached Camp Monroe, west of Pittsburgh. As hard as the trek had been, most of the technomancers were glad to have escaped detection and further harassment by the mages.

  “That’s good,” Ingvar said when the chatter reached their brigade.

  “And bad,” Adam countered. “If they had the resources to follow us, they would have. That means we only repelled most of what they had here in Meryka.”

  “How’s that bad?” asked Calvin, daring to speak up.

  “Now they’ll call for reinforcements, kid. And they’ll ask for even more than what they lost,” Emma said. “We won’t be able to stay here for long. We’ll have to keep moving the Saint George until we’re ready to attack.”

  “Whole damn thing just got a lot harder,” Adam grumbled. He

  didn’t stare at Calvin, but Calvin knew what he was thinking.

  They set up camp without getting too comfortable. The area

  was lush with foliage and laced with rivers; unlike Youngstown, the Pittsburg base was dug shallow due to the high water shelf. Most buildings were on the surface, disguised as storehouses. Supposedly Major Fox Glenshaw of Camp Monroe served double duty as a pro-mage duffer on the city council, and the buildings were under his jurisdiction. He kept the mages from investigating too closely, and with good reason: they’d interrogate and execute him if they knew he was a technomancer.

  Camp Monroe’s soldiers relieved the honor guard around the Saint George, and immediately set about shielding the monstrous mimic with downed timbers and artificial greenery; a group of seamstresses also sewed camouflaged textiles, and they employed these to great effect. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than leaving their greatest weapon out in the open where it could be seen from the air. Everyone breathed a little easier once the George was safe.

  As Camp Liberty meshed with Camp Monroe, assignments made their way down the ranks. Calvin dutifully obeyed Hank’s order to set up the Rebel Hearts’ mimics in the motor pool for inventory purposes, and then he made himself scarce. The prospect of facing Tyler and Hamilton caused him no shortage of fear, even though they still hadn’t sent for him.

  Survivors poured into the new camp all day, each one inspected and, if necessary, interrogated to confirm their identities. Nobody was allowed within two miles of Camp Monroe without first consuming a spoonful of frosted iron grit, meant to break any concealment charms or potions that would otherwise disguise a wizard spy. When a proper census had been taken and the most pressing matters were under control, the dreaded moment arrived. A pair of guards came to Hank with an arrest order for TechMan Calvin Adler.

  Ingvar, Adam, and Emma had all looked to Hank. The brigade leader gave Calvin an almost accusing look, as if to say, What do you expect? And Calvin knew the answer. He stepped forward, hands out, before anyone could say anything.

  The guards clapped his wrists and ankles in irons, searched him for weapons, and prodded him to get moving. He guessed that they hadn’t been told what he’d done, or else they’d have handled him much worse.

  “I’m sorry,” Calvin said, watching Hank. The guards took Calvin away. “To all of you.”

  His fellow brigadiers had no reply.

  The guards marched him to the disguised Saint George, accompanied him up an elevator, and pushed him along a corridor that led to the bridge. Calvin guessed they might be in the dragon’s neck, somewhere near the top, but it was hard to keep his bearings while inside. Adjacent to the bridge was a small enclosure with a sliding door, marked as an officer’s ready room. Calvin held his face still, though his hands trembled.

  One of the guards knocked. Major Tyler bade them enter. The all pushed inside and closed the door behind them, making Calvin all too aware of how small a space it was. The palpable silence fed Calvin’s hammering heart; he didn’t like being locked in a small room
with this woman, bound in shackles, knowing what she must be feeling.

  There was a desk between them. On it were a few things he’d seen in her office at Camp Liberty—what little could be salvaged before the dragon machine surfaced and made a royal mess of the base. Her dress uniform’s coat hung on the back of her chair. She leaned against the desk in a simple white tank top, her face streaked with soot, wisps of hair having pulled free from her pony tail. A spread of documents and maps held her attention.

  “Major? We found TechMan Adler,” said one of the guards.

  Major Tyler looked up. Her face was impassive, but Calvin knew deep anger when he saw it. Unblinking, unwavering, she said, “Leave him. And fetch Hamilton.”

  The guards kicked the backs of Calvin’s knees. He landed hard on his shins and bit back a grimace as the guards made him cross his ankles and sit atop them. Then they re-cuffed his hands behind his back; he wasn’t going anywhere. They guards shuffled out, leaving him with Major Tyler, who emitted the aura of a volcano about to explode.

  “I’m keen to stand you in front of this machine and fire everything we’ve got at you until you’re nothing but a pink cloud,” the Major seethed. “And the only reason I don’t is because we used too much ammo securing our escape.”

  “Then it’s a little late to say that I want out,” Calvin said. He

  didn’t blink, but his lip quivered.

  Major Tyler stepped around the desk and lashed out with her

  foot. The kick landed with stunning accuracy, her heel driving straight against his throat. Calvin thought for sure that his windpipe had cracked; talking became impossible, and breathing was not to be taken for granted. He collapsed onto his side, and Major Tyler grabbed his shirt with both hands. Despite their near equal height, and his weight advantage, she yanked him to his feet and shoved him into the door with alarming strength.

  “Do you see this?” Tyler snarled, yanking the hem of her tank top out of her trousers. A hideous scar spanned the width of her belly beneath her navel. “I got this from a crude medical practice called surgery. Usually it’s reserved for sick cattle when they are in labor and the calf is in full breech. They cut you open and pull out damaged parts because your body has no other recourse for survival. Do you know what they cut out of me, Adler? My daughter.

  “Twelve years ago this spring, my husband and I were expecting our first child. We lived and worked at a bestiary, mucking stalls for the mages. I was eight months pregnant. One day a mage came in, fully inebriated, and began fooling around with an ornery boggart. The boggart gutted him before we could restrain it, and the mage needed serious blood magic to save himself. So he pointed his wand at my husband, who stood at my side, and uttered a foul curse meant to steal the life force from us.

  “Only my husband died, and I didn’t. In his drunken stupor, the mage stole from my child and left her dead inside my womb. Amateur surgeons removed her from me to save my own life. That is why I joined this army, and that is why I would sell my own soul to wipe the wizard scourge off the face of the land. I tell you that there is nothing in any realm of existence that is more disgusting to me than the mage class.

  “Until you came along.”

  Calvin couldn’t rub at his aching throat. He tried to swallow but it made his vision swim. He pushed back against the door, hacking and drooling, wishing against all reason that the pain would stop.

  “Years of preparation, wasted! Our entire battle schedule, foiled! Our greatest weapon revealed far too soon! The revolution might be beyond saving. I . . . I don’t even know what else to say. You are worth less to me than the ashes of Camp Liberty. I should bury you face down in a latrine but we haven’t been here long enough for one to be sufficiently full,” Tyler spat.

  Calvin choked down a precious gasp of air. “You loved your husband,” he rasped.

  “Don’t you dare talk about him!”

  “My parents love each other. They were lucky that way, when the Crown shipped them here to be cheap labor because they didn’t have magic.” Calvin’s throat thickened and he took a few breaths to ease the pain. “I thought we were fighting to change that system, until McCracken sent me here to die because his daughter likes me.” Steeling himself, he went all in: “You’re fighting McCracken’s war and nothing will change even if we win. Tell me

  who’s no better than the mages?”

  Tyler’s gaze could’ve melted steel. She seized his neck in one

  hand and squeezed hard enough to turn his vision red. His throat hurt so severely that his legs gave out. Tyler stiff-armed him back to the ground, where he lay in a heap as he tried to breathe.

  The door opened and Captain Hamilton announced his arrival. His coat was stained with blood on the back, and through a gash in the fabric Calvin saw bloodied bandages. Hamilton leered down at Calvin with wicked intent in his eyes; payback was coming.

  “Major?”

  Tyler didn’t take her eyes off Calvin. “What, Captain?”

  “I found this in the wreckage. It must have come out of the contraband lockers. I know it’s a banned item, but given the circumstances, I thought . . .”

  The paralyzing ache in his throat kept Calvin from craning his neck to see what Hamilton had. Whatever it was, Tyler was interested. She reached into Hamilton’s box and withdrew a circular object, about as wide as the mouth of a teacup, with a dial in the center. Two long metal spikes dangled from steel wires on the bottom, and jagged saw-like teeth ran around the edge of the circular dial. Though Calvin couldn’t tell what it was, it looked evil. Something told him that Hamilton hadn’t “salvaged” this thing at all—this was deliberate.

  “What are you suggesting, Captain?” Tyler asked.

  “Right now we need to communicate with our other outposts, Major. Since radios are a hazard, we can send messengers.”

  “We can’t spare anyone.”

  “Ah, but I believe TechMan Adler is willing to atone for his

  atrocious indiscretion.” Hamilton grinned again.

  “I’m done helping you,” Calvin seethed.

  Tyler ignored him. She nodded her consent to Hamilton, replacing the device in his box.

  “Oh, you’re not done yet,” Hamilton said, leering at Calvin.

  “Be quick and keep it quiet,” Major Tyler told him.

  “Aye, Major.” Hamilton tugged a black cloth hood out of his back pocket, and with one deft hand he wrapped it tight around Calvin’s head. Calvin squirmed and shouted, earning him a sharp

  jab to the skull from someone’s knee.

  “Weech, Irwin, fetch this scum and take him to sick bay.”

  Two pairs of hands lifted him off the floor. How far they dragged him, Calvin couldn’t tell, though they remained on the Saint George. Wherever it was that they ended up, they unshackled his hands and slammed him down onto a table. Again he tried to pull free and remove the hood, and again they beat him for it. The guards strapped his arms to the table with thick leather belts, then secured his legs, hips, and torso; the table had no shortage of restraints. When they finished, he couldn’t move in the slightest, save to draw very short breaths.

  Bright light stung his eyes when Hamilton yanked the hood from his head, running a final strap over Calvin’s forehead and cinching it tight. “It goes without saying that I’ll enjoy this. Normally I’d drag it out, but we’re short on time so this will have to do. And . . . understand that you deserve this, after what you did.”

  Calvin spat in Hamilton’s face. The Captain jammed a wooden rod into Calvin’s mouth none too gently, splitting his lips at the corners.

  “Bite down on this. You’re gonna feel a little pressure.” Hamilton held up the device that he’d shown to Tyler. “See this? I designed it myself. The Major thought it was a little, well, too much, but fortunately your bungle made her a little more liberal in the ethics department. This is a timer, you see? But it has no power source, no batteries or clockwork. Instead it draws electricity from the human heart, which provides just e
nough to keep it ticking. That’s where these come in.”

  He held up the two metal spikes—long nails, really—and used them to trace tiny lines down Calvin’s chest. The metal felt hot against his skin, which had gone cold and clammy and bright white.

  Was that from the tight straps? Or was it fear?

  He knew the answer.

  “Aim is everything. I had to practice on half a dozen wizard captives before I got this right.” Hamilton’s breath stank of tobacco juice and bad hygiene. He slowly twisted one of the nails until it broke the skin; he made a show of frowning at the location, and moved the nail somewhere else. Calvin’s guts burned even as his skin grew colder. His head swam, dizzy with anticipation. He tried to spit the rod out and say something, anything, to plead for mercy, but the strap high on his chest kept the necessary muscles from being able to move. Even so, an involuntary whimper escaped his throat.

  “There we go! That’s the spirit,” Hamilton said. He pressed two fingers against the left side of Calvin’s sternum. “I’ve found it’s easier to hit a moving target. There’s just so much soft tissue in the way, the movement actually makes it visible to me, you know?” He lined up the nail again and hesitated, holding it there for several seconds.

  Stop! Calvin wanted to scream. He tried to break free, really tried, but the table had been designed for this.

  “You know what? We have some anesthetics. Painkillers—they’d numb you up good and proper. Eh, you’re tough. I think we

  can just . . .”

  Mid-sentence, Hamilton abruptly thrust his palm against the head of the nail and drove it deep into Calvin’s chest, a hair to the left of his breastbone. Calvin felt every microscopic fraction of the steel stabbing through skin and muscle until it reached his heart, resting against the soft organ where it would somehow draw power. Thrashing against the pain, his spine contorted and tightened, every muscle in his body resisting the assault, helpless to save him.