Suicide Run (Engines of Liberty Book 2)

by Graham Bradley

  STOP! YOU BASTARD, STOP!

  “Wow, first try, all the way in! Guess I’m good at this. Don’t worry, only one more of those.” Hamilton poked around farther to the left of Calvin’s chest, halfway down his side. Calvin heaved and thrashed but still couldn’t budge. The strips bit into his skin, and his joints popped with the effort. Was he bleeding? Maybe. All feeling was gone from his extremities. Again he tried to dislodge the stick in his mouth, and failed. Hamilton rammed the second spike between Calvin’s ribs with all his strength. Tears gushed out Calvin’s eyes and a sharp stink filled the room as he soiled himself.

  “Whoa!” Hamilton pinched his nose. “Maybe you’re not that tough. Let’s see, I swear I’m forgetting something. Oops! Here it is.”

  Razor-sharp teeth slashed against Calvin’s left pectoral, and Hamilton leaning into the device with his full weight until the whole thing sat flush on Calvin’s skin. He cranked the dial to the right, causing the teeth to flair out and spike upward, hooking his

  flesh tightly from the underside.

  Calvin shrieked. He bit the wood so hard that it snapped. Whether he bit his tongue or his cheek or his lip, he couldn’t tell, only that blood gushed from his mouth. The world appeared to drown in a haze of red, threatening his consciousness. He felt Hamilton’s foul breath blowing warmly onto his ear.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, kid: you’re not going to survive this device, and I actually regret that. I almost wish you could be present on my wedding day. Alas, I’ll just have to settle for a quiet life with my Amelia after the war. Take that thought with you into the wild?” He opened a cap on the face of the dial and pressed a hidden button beneath. Cold fire punched into Calvin’s heart, expelling sweat from every pore on his body as the device powered on.

  In that moment, Calvin knew what death felt like.

  CHAPTER 9

  “What’s this called? It’s just wires hooked up to a dial. Some gears . . . what’s it for?”

  Rusty took the dial from Stitch’s outstretched hand and turned it over.

  “It’s a speedometer,” she said.

  “Thought those had needles and numbers on the face and stuff.”

  “This is what they look like on the inside.” She handed it back to him.

  “You remember things better than me.” Stitch wrapped the wires around the dial and tied it with a string.

  “Nah, I pulled one out of this thing yesterday,” Rusty muttered. She kicked the broken dragonling that she’d been dismantling. Two months ago a mage had killed the pilot mid-flight, and the salvage crews had recovered the mimic. The body and wings were ruined beyond repair, but the innards were useful.

  Stitch sighed and dropped the speedometer into a bucket with the other dashboard components off an outdated warg mimic. Then he went back to attacking the wreck with his wrench, removing whatever would come off without too much hassle. Rusty worked opposite him in the junk shop. Theirs was an easy task, remedial even, which was why the young recruits had to do it. All of the older, “more capable” technomancers were in real brigades right now.

  “Stuff this,” Rusty said as she sorted copper wiring from steel throttle cables. “This is the most pointless thing we could be doing.”

  Stitch had nothing comforting to say to that; it was a complaint he’d heard a dozen times since they’d been sent to Trenton, New Jersey. Taking a break to wipe his brow and get a drink of water, Stitch watched the other salvagers working at stuck bolts, armor plating, and engine parts. The foreman went from bench to bench, answering questions and making sure that the untested cadets weren’t damaging good bits in the process.

  “Something’s gotta give soon, Rusty,” he said by way of encouragement. “Didn’t McCracken say that when we started? It’s the twenty-sixth of October. There’s supposed to be a big battle in

  November, that’s why we were training so fast.”

  “Pah. Like they’ll include us? They need this junk so they can

  fix more mimics.” Rusty dropped her wrench and slammed a fist on the worktable. “We went through all that training for combat, not housekeeping!”

  Nervous, Stitch shushed her. Over the noise of work and chatter, nobody seemed to have heard her. “Keep it down! What if we get in trouble?”

  Rusty sighed and sorted the wires again. “Calvin wasn’t afraid to get in trouble. They put him on a mimic in the middle of the night and sent him off alone. Lucky.”

  “Well, Calvin was a good flier. And . . . are you saying you’d rather be alone?” The thought made Stitch’s heart twinge in a way he hadn’t expected; he’d had siblings back when his family worked for Rusty’s, and they’d all perished in the raid. Hers too. For survival’s sake he’d become her big brother; now the thought of Rusty out on her own troubled him. He didn’t doubt her abilities, but that didn’t mean he wanted her too far for him to watch her back.

  “I’m saying I’d rather fight mages. We could make a gryphon out of all this junk and go together,” Rusty thought aloud.

  Stitch couldn’t be sure whether or not she was joking. “Where would we go?”

  Rusty didn’t answer.

  Sighing, Stitch took up his wrench and got back to work.

  *

  “Where’d you learn Spanish?” Cohen asked.

  Avery shrugged one shoulder, eyes fixed ahead. “Lived down south for a while, picked it up in Florida. Family traded with Spaniards for years before they died.” He tended not to say much on that subject.

  The two of them moved stealthily through the smothering brush, careful to remain in sight of their traveling party. When Cohen and Avery had gotten their dispatch from Commodore McCracken, they’d been surprised at how close it was, especially considering where everyone else had gone. They’d learned from their new commanding officer, Major Yahola, that their familiarity with the Spanish language had been the deciding factor.

  “Welcome to Camp Winchester,” Yahola had said. “Practice

  your interpersonal skills. The two of you are our newest diplomats.”

  Cohen and Avery had been equally confused, even after the

  briefing. It hadn’t made sense until that very morning when they were assigned to go on a long-range mission with some more-experienced diplomats to talk to a settlement of Spanish technomancers in the Georgia province. The TechMan army didn’t have any bases that far south, but they did have a loose alliance with Spanish colonials who had fled Florida to get away from their own evil magical monarch. They were excellent craftsmen and had taken to tinkering once they were far enough from los magos del rey.

  Now the técnomagos made weapons and launched stealth attacks against magicians of all nations. Camp Winchester had refurbished some engines for their coches de guerra in exchange for the Spaniards making an appearance at a future military strike.

  Cohen and Avery kept walking, ever careful to minimize the evidence of their presence in the woods. Avery was good at that; he’d been a forest hermit for a long time before John Penn had found him. Cohen wasn’t so careful, though. He tried too hard. Avery thought he was actually quieter when he was distracted.

  “What about you? Where’d you learn la lengua?” Avery said in a low tone.

  Cohen didn’t answer. Avery wondered whether he’d heard him. He started to repeat the question, but Cohen spoke up.

  “My family is all Spanish Jews. Parents used to live there, little town on the coast, called Gandia. They came here before I was born, but they still taught me the language,” he said.

  Avery paused and craned his neck to see Cohen’s face. “I hear it’s not popular to be Jewish in Spain.”

  “Ain’t popular in most of Europe. Or a lot of places here, either.”

  The way he said it made it clear that there was a story. The fact that he was an orphan meant Avery didn’t need to ask about it.

  “Sorry to hear that,” he said, picking up the trail again. The others had gotten ahead; they needed to close the gap.

  “We’ve all los
t people. Ain’t any harder for me than it is for everyone else,” Cohen said.

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “I should, for now. Win the war for everybody, then I can make it personal.”

  Avery nodded. “I like that. You’re all right, Cohen.”

  The two of them caught up to the rest of their party and waited for the Spaniards to come.

  *

  “We can’t stay here,” Major Tyler said. “We’re a drain on your resources and we’re too numerous. They’ll find us if we don’t keep moving.”

  Major Fox Glenshaw studied a map on his desk, frowning at Major Tyler’s proposed course, as well as her limited roster of soldiers.

  “It won’t make any sense for you to go with just the Liberty outfit. You’ve taken too many losses, Sam. We can patch the gaps in your ranks, but then we’ll be shorthanded. And if we try to take both camps, it’ll be easier to spot us,” Glenshaw said.

  “All we need is make it to H-burg.” Tyler tapped the map, marking Harrisburg. “We’ll send scout parties ahead, travel at night, and we won’t cut any timber.”

  “You want to go through Bedford?”

  “No, we’ll go through Altoona.”

  “That’s two hundred miles of wilderness. There’s no road.”

  “So there’s barely anyone to cross our path. We can make fifty miles per day, integrate new forces at H-burg, and wait for McCracken’s orders. I will need some of your pilots for my mimics,” Tyler said.

  Glenshaw ran a hand down his jaw. “Damn this whole mess. Right then, let’s hop to it.” He fished through some documents and handed her a register of unassigned cadets. “Fill your brigades with these. Some of them are fresh out of Mount Vernon, but it’s the best I can do.”

  “It’s good enough. Thank you, Fox.” Tyler took the list and left Glenshaw’s office. Captain Hamilton awaited her outside.

  “Orders, Major?” He fell into step beside her. Tyler handed him the list.

  “These are our available assets. Get them assigned and get us mobile, Captain. We’re legs up by this time tomorrow. And for the love of all that’s holy, put someone in 7MB who’s got a lick of sense!”

  “Aye, Major.”

  *

  Adam topped off the fuel in his gryphon, capped the tank, and thanked the technician for bringing the kerosene cart. The mimic needed some fine-tuning as well, but he was beyond tired. It could wait. Spreading his arms wide as he yawned, he put his tools away and looked for a spot to lie down; Ingvar had taken a prime spot under their gryphon’s wing, also exhausted from the long and sudden trek. Emma lay curled up a few feet away, though one arm was stretched toward the Techno Viking, her fingers probing for him in her sleep. Adam smirked; he’d long suspected they were sweet on each other. It just needed time.

  As he rolled out his sleeping mat, a wave of chatter bubbled

  through ranks of soldiers around them, growing louder as it drew near; Captain Hamilton was headed their way with a company of unfamiliar faces at his back, pointing and issuing orders as he went. Some of these fresh-faced technomancers broke off and introduced themselves to the different brigades, setting their rucksacks with those of their new comrades.

  Beefing up the ranks, Adam thought to himself. He’d been expecting this.

  When the procession reached 7MB, Hamilton raised his eyes to the Rebel Hearts’ flag, hanging from the spoiler on Adam’s mimic. He didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what Hamilton was thinking.

  “Where’s your commanding officer, TechMan Paige?”

  “Indisposed, sir,” Adam said. “I’ll accept the newcomers.”

  “Won’t be necessary,” said a voice behind Adam. Hank appeared, trudging in from the treeline, looking better than he had in days. “What’s the haps, Cap?”

  Hamilton ignored the lack of decorum, too tired to make an issue of it. “Changes to your roster. You’re getting two rookies and a third gryphon. Ready ’em quick, ’cause we leave tomorrow.” He signaled for the new recruits, a teen boy and a girl about the same age. They dropped their rucks behind Hank’s mimic.

  “Aye, Captain,” Hank said, bored.

  Hamilton left. The boy walked right up to Hank, all manners and class, looking more chipper than he had a right to. He’d probably come from money.

  “Edsel Winford, sir. Pilot in training!”

  “You don’t have to ‘sir’ me, Edsel, I’m just a brigade leader. Call me Hank. This is Adam, that’s Ingvar, that’s Emma. And you

  are?” Hank looked to the girl, who was nothing if not easy on the eyes.

  “Lyla Ecclestone. I’m mostly a gunner .” She stepped past

  Edsel and stuck out her hand.

  Her right hand.

  Hank smiled and shook it. Adam tensed, unable to peel his

  eyes from Hank’s wrist. It’s all right, it’s all right . . . he was careful. Nobody knows.

  There weren’t many technomancers outside of the Rebel Hearts who would accept a fellow soldier that could do magic.

  Lyla arched an eyebrow and pulled her hand back, studying her palm, which had a fine layer of damp soil on it.

  “Oh, sorry about that,” Hank said, brushing his hand against his pants. Adam couldn’t help noticing that it looked a little too . . . unmarred, compared to the other. He’d have to disguise it better. “We haven’t had time to clean up since we got here.”

  “All good,” Lyla said. Edsel gave her a handkerchief to use.

  Yup. Money kid, Adam noted.

  “So! When do we get to fly?” Edsel asked, bobbing on the balls of his feet.

  “Too soon, kid. Let’s check out your mimic.” Hank flexed the fingers of his right hand as he walked away, leading the cadets to a new machine.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Adler. Adler!”

  Hamilton’s words pushed through thick fog in Calvin’s ears, but he didn’t move until the captain smacked him hard on the cheek. The sting brought him back to consciousness and he swatted back at Hamilton, then cried out at the biting pain in his chest. He curled up on the hard, cold ground, holding his breath until the sensation faded.

  So it hadn’t been a nightmare.

  “We’re here, you clod.” Hamilton grabbed Calvin’s torn, bloody shirt, and dragged him to his feet. He may have been a sorry excuse for a man, but Hamilton was undeniably strong. Calvin found his legs and held himself up, saying nothing; the sting in his chest occupied his full attention. Unable to raise his throbbing head, he stared in disbelief at deep purple and green bruises surrounding the device. His wrists were severely chafed where the handcuffs had bitten into them, and then there was the time that he’d introduced his face to the ground behind a bench. Everything hurt.

  Forcing his eyes open, Calvin blinked away the bright morning sunlight and saw that they were outside. The humming sensation against his bare feet told him two things: he was aboard a mimic, and they’d taken his shoes.

  It was a gryphon mimic, hovering off the ground in an unfamiliar wood. A second gryphon hovered nearby, and both the gunner and the pilot had weapons trained on him. So did Hamilton and the pilot of their gryphon.

  “What . . .” Calvin croaked. His throat, dry as paper, produced no other sound.

  “Brace yourself.” Hamilton shoved him. Calvin grunted and tumbled off the back of the gryphon, windmilling his arms all the way down. He landed hard on the damp ground. Clenching his teeth and sucking in breaths against a new wave of pain, he looked up and saw that the four guns were still on him.

  “Wait!” He managed to say, holding up a hand to stop them.

  “We’re not gonna execute you, you twit. Jeez, they must grow ’em real stupid in Baltimore.” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a mission.”

  “Where am I?” Calvin demanded, wanting to ask a hundred other questions, all of which would’ve made him sound weak, pathetic, scared, and he wouldn’t give Hamilton the satisfaction. The guy was all smiles, like he’d just won the war.

 
“Ten miles east of Pittsburgh. You’re welcome! We just gave you a head start. You get to carry a message the rest of the way,” Hamilton said.

  “Message?”

  A frosted iron canister struck him in the side of the head, thrown by one of the other technomancers. It was thin and light, but it still stung. Calvin let out an involuntary whimper and rubbed his skull.

  “It’s all in there. Captain Epps will know what to do with it—he’s at Trenton. Oh, and I’d hustle, Adler. The clock’s ticking, and you’re three hundred miles off target.” Hamilton tapped his own chest with a wry smile.

  “Trenton? Where is Trenton?” Calvin shouted, but the pilots revved their engines and sped off. Hamilton waved good-bye, cackling as they disappeared into the high brush. The engines faded, and Calvin found himself alone in a wilderness he didn’t know, pressed in on all sides by trees and bugs and beasts and unfriendly tribes, and he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He fell to his knees and sobbed like he hadn’t since he was a child.

  Damn that Eustice Hamilton and the evil that birthed him. Damn Major Tyler for propping him up, damn John Penn for recruiting in Baltimore, and damn Godfrey Norrington for surviving his grenade in the woods that night. Furious, Calvin snatched up the iron canister and broke it open against a rock. It

  contained a single sheet with tight, handwritten text so fine he had to squint to read it.

  CALVIN ADLER, NO RANK, REPORTING FOR SALVAGE DUTY.

  As if he’d ever deliver another message like that.

  Disgusted, Calvin threw it aside. Damn the technomancers. Hadn’t Adam or Hank been talking about “fair trials” after the war? Something called habeas corpus and “due process” and the like, saying anyone charged of a crime would have a fair chance to defend himself before being sentenced. It was a luxury they didn’t enjoy under King Charles.

  Well, they were fooling themselves if they thought that the leadership would just give that kind of power to the people. Damn Tyler and Hamilton and all the rest of them! Even if they won, nothing would change.