The Half-Made World

by Felix Gilman

  Liv watched two men go by, dragging a third, whose body was unwounded, but whose legs spasmed, and whose head twisted back and howled senselessly like a motor breaking down. She watched a fourth man, alone, stagger out from behind a barn and stumble for twenty paces before falling twitching in the dirt. She went over to him. His eyes rolled back in his head. He appeared to have bitten his tongue; blood frothed on his smiling lips. She could not bring herself to touch him. She heard men running up near and backed away out of their path. Thirty men and boys with a pawnbroker’s assortment of weapons ran past, not stopping.

  The sound of shooting echoed from the east, and she was glad of it; shooting was a cleaner death.

  “Enough,” Lowry said. “Enough!”

  He ran toward the nearest cannon, choking in its smoke, screaming over its noise, over the noise of his men running, shouting, loading noisemakers and poison gas. . . .

  “Enough! You’ll kill the General, you idiots, you slagging idiots, we have our duty, this is meaningless if we don’t do our duty.”

  Silence fell. The men attempted to pull themselves together.

  “We go in,” he said. “Motor guns at the bridges, we go behind them, street by street.”

  But that was only one of his cannon; and the other, some two hundred feet away, on the other side of the ranks, continued to fire.

  As soon as Dr. Bradley was dead, and his stolen device disarmed, Creedmoor lifted the General up from his bed. The old man seemed disinclined to move of his own will—or such as was left of it—preferring to remain stiffly curled on that hard bed like it was his mother’s lap. He’d been groomed quite finely, Creedmoor noticed, and dressed in a white shirt and black pleated uniform trousers that, though somewhat stained and worn at the knees, were perhaps the smartest clothes in the whole sad town. There was a red jacket, gold braided, many medaled, hanging from a rusty hook by the bed. Creedmoor wrestled it over the General’s shoulders. The effect was quite striking. “You must have been something to see in your prime, sir. Ah, now, ah now, steady.” The General struggled away, eyes rolling, mouth working. “You’re in fine strong spirits, sir, but we must be going.”

  In the end, Creedmoor had to carry the General outside in both arms like he was carrying an unsatisfactory bride back out over the threshold. This quickly posed problems, for two local fellows tried to rush him with clubs and throwing-axes and it was a damn difficult trick to shoot them while shielding the General—and without dropping him, for though the earth was rain softened—and quivering now, puddles shimmering and rippling at the sound of the oncoming machines—the General was so fragile, so thin that he might break himself falling on a featherbed.

  —This is going to get tiresome.

  —Stop whining, Creedmoor. Flee to the west.

  Liv ran past the Mortons’ house, and saw through the window that inside the house was no longer silent or dark. Sally Morton was awake, and working. She and three other women, two of them as young as she, one old enough to be her grandmother, stood around the dining table preparing poultices of herbs and leaves.

  They glanced up for a moment as Liv came in the door, then returned to their work. There was a stiffness about them that was not calm, but something like it: discipline.

  The old woman beckoned Liv over. “Come on then, Doctor. Make yourself useful.”

  Liv ignored her.

  She wanted to tell them: Run. It was hopeless to fight the Line. But they wouldn’t have listened.

  Sally lifted her eyes from the table. “Doctor—”

  She turned and left.

  Outside it was lighter now; it was getting lighter all the time. The sounds of battle were cold and clear. She breathed deeply, and smelled smoke.

  She headed south, toward the hospital and perhaps, if they were still there, Creedmoor and the General. She had no idea what she could do, but she had to do something.

  Creedmoor went loping through the town, the General cradled in his arms. The town was emptying out like an hourglass as its men went east to the fight. Two more men confronted him and, juggling his burden, he cut them down. Once one of the mind-bombs went whistling right overhead and he let the General’s legs drop in the mud and shot it left-handed from the sky. The General flailed and stretched and appeared to be trying to speak.

  —This old man’s no light burden, not anymore. He struggles. He’s full of animal spirits. His time here’s done him good. This is hard work for one man.

  —We are here with you, Creedmoor.

  —I need help. A companion to share my burden. And do you know, I do believe I’ve had a crisis of conscience.

  —No you have not, Creedmoor. Go west, at once.

  —Or what will you do to me? We’ve discussed this matter, my friend. I will go on westward, but not alone.

  He sniffed the air and caught her scent.

  —She’s on her way here, look. She knows only we can save her from the enemy.

  As Liv passed Woodbury’s house, she heard that cheerful whistling overhead again and started running, blindly, skirts hiked up, staggering through the muddy streets, looking back over her shoulder for bombs, Linesmen, who-knew-what. She didn’t see Creedmoor step out of the shadows, pulling the General behind him. She didn’t see him standing in her path, grinning cheerfully, arms outstretched, until she ran right into him.

  She caught her breath, looked up at his face, and recoiled.

  He grinned. “Still alive! My luck rubs off on you, Liv. I worried you were dead! My conscience is eased. I have a favor to ask. Your patient needs you, madam. I need you. I’m sure you’d rather not die here with these idiots.”

  Creedmoor let go of the General’s arm, and the old man started to fall over. Liv rushed to hold him up. She didn’t speak; she didn’t meet Creedmoor’s eye.

  But the General would not stand, and Liv was not strong enough to carry him against his will. And it did appear that he had a will now. He twitched and shook. He twisted feebly but with determination. Liv pulled him up like she was yanking up a skinny weed by its roots, and he would instantly snap back down again, curling on the ground, face pressed against the earth.

  —Is he fighting us, Creedmoor? Why won’t he come?

  “Is he fighting us, Liv? Why won’t he come?”

  She knelt down. She leaned in close. The General was silent.

  “You’re his doctor, Liv. Will he speak to you? Will he at least give you one of his fairy tales to puzzle over?”

  “Mr. Creedmoor, why would he speak? Why would he need to? Isn’t it obvious? He won’t leave. None of these people will leave. This is the last of the world they built. The General won’t abandon his men.”

  “Well, shit. These people are mad.”

  “Mad? What do you call yourself, Mr. Creedmoor?”

  “Fair enough. Fair enough. Well, then, I think what you’re saying is that to take the General out of here, we must save the town? Is that right?”

  —No, Creedmoor. We do not care what becomes of these people. Take the General and leave them to die.

  She looked closely at him, trying to figure his motives. That only made him smile.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Creedmoor. You must save the town.”

  —Hear that? Doctor’s orders, my friend.

  —No, Creedmoor. Pick him up and carry him.

  —Oh, come now. The Enemy is at hand. Don’t you feel a little of the old bloodlust?

  —No, Creedmoor.

  —Too bad. I feel like playing hero.

  “What are you going to do, Creedmoor?”

  “Go to work. You should find a hiding place, Liv. Keep an eye on our charge. I’ll be back for you both.”

  Lowry had what part of his forces he could still control move up to assault New Design’s eastern and southeastern bridges. The first thing was to get the motor guns placed. That meant sending small five-man squads ahead, slowly covering ground while the guns were wheeled up behind. Lowry went behind the guns, crouching, running.

&n
bsp; Behind him there were screams, and the whistle of arrows and the rattle of gunfire, and he understood that the soldiers of New Design had ambushed his forces from the rear, from the forests. There was nothing he could do about it now—because in front of him, with a great roar, the young men of New Design came charging out of the town and across the bridge. They waved their swords and their banners and cheered some nonsense that Lowry couldn’t hear, because the Linesmen’s motor guns immediately whirred into action.

  Creedmoor perched crowlike on top of the town’s wall and watched the fighting.

  —Senseless.

  —Yes. All these people are mad, Creedmoor.

  The fighting was concentrated at the east of the town. The town’s soldiers fought to defend the east bridge over the moat from the massed Linesmen. But the moat was shallow, empty, more symbolic than real—a line in the sand—and should have posed no barrier to the Linesmen, who could have attacked equally well at any point, could’ve torn through the wall with their motor guns, could have swarmed the town from all sides if they’d chosen, like ants dismantling a corpse. But of course, they respected barriers and lines. . . .

  The Linesmen fought contemptuously, joylessly. In fact, they hardly fought at all. The young men and boys of New Design—and some of the women, too—went charging over the bridge waving old swords, or their clubs or sharpened spears, and the Linesmen lazily activated their hideous grinding machine guns and reduced them to nothing. The process repeated itself. The Linesmen seemed content to let New Design’s forces exhaust themselves in futile gestures.

  —Why are we wasting our time, Creedmoor? These people are hopeless.

  —Not all of them. Look.

  There were riflemen and bowmen in the far forest attempting to pick off the Linesmen’s flanks—but the Linesmen simply released their poisons, their roiling black clouds of smoke and grit and cold choking death, and the forests went silent again. The town’s soldiers had more mortars and explosives still to launch, but they were twenty-year-old junk and they fizzled and misfired. On the town’s side of the bridge lay the wreckage of three tripod-mounted motor guns, old models, no doubt stolen from the Line decades ago—the Linesmen had destroyed those first, long before Creedmoor started watching.

  —It’s a brave effort.

  —That makes no difference, Creedmoor.

  —It’s magnificent, in its way. I never saw the point of the Republic while they were winning, but now they’re dying, they’re magnificent.

  New Design’s defenders faltered. The Linesmen pushed forward and began to penetrate their ranks, fanning out through the town.

  —Shall we join in, then?

  —We will not forgive you for this, Creedmoor.

  — Oh, well.

  Creedmoor stood, drew, shot down the black-suited black-capped operator of the nearest motor gun on the far side of the bridge. He turned and shot the operators of the second motor gun, and one of the cannon—he couldn’t get a clear shot at the other cannon operator. He shot the men who came running up to take their place. He put three bullets into the overheated motor of one of the motor guns and it exploded, spraying bits of hot twisted metal. The Linesmen shouted and pointed and turned their rifles in his direction, so Creedmoor, laughing, turned away and dropped down from the wall into the town, which was now lousy with Linesmen and their ugly weapons.

  Lowry led a force of fifteen men along the bridge and into the town. (Just fifteen men! That was what they’d been reduced to.) They cleared a path for themselves with noisemakers and poison-gas grenades, then followed implacably behind, stepping over writhing mindless bodies, doing some quick work with their bayonets.

  They encountered local resistance. Several young women appeared in the windows as they walked past and let fly with bows and slings, which once again proved surprisingly effective weapons. Private Carr got an arrow right through the glass plate of his gas mask and fell down dead. Private Stack got one in his leg. The women went down to a gas grenade tossed by Subaltern Mills.

  Lowry kept moving, expecting at any second that an arrow would enter his shoulder blades, or the idiot locals would get their cannon working and drop a rocket on his head, or . . .

  He found himself approaching an unusually large and important-looking building, low and flat like all of New Design, but wide and sprawling. There were half a dozen guards outside it who Lowry’s men shot down even before Lowry could give the order. Inside the building there was a maze of corridors, and an office containing a local in a brown suit who rose stiffly from a desk and said “We will never surrender, Linesmen, we will fight you—” before Subaltern Mills shot him, and no sign of the General. There was, however, a large heavily barred door, and behind that a room containing an impressive collection of machinery scavenged from the Line—rockets, amplifiers, motors, generators, drills, telegraphs, projectors, arclights, signal devices—ancient, rusty, battered, but some of it serviceable.

  New Design fell apart. There was no fire, not at first. The Line didn’t make much use of fire. Fire raged out of control; it burned too bright. The Line favored fear, and madness, and despair, and noise, and choking gas. Creedmoor, on the other hand, was as happy in fire as a pig in shit, so he started a fire or two in the thatch or curtains of the houses. It gave the Linesmen something to worry about, and it set Creedmoor’s own mind at ease. With the fire at his back, he fought through the streets. It was joyful to fight precisely because it was not his duty and Marmion forbade it, and gave him strength with an ill grace. . . .

  —Kill them, Creedmoor. Quickly.

  —See? I knew you’d enjoy it.

  The boys of New Design watched him work. Huddled in the ruins of someone’s house—burned over, then extinguished by the Line’s chill black gas—a group of boys watched him go by. They’d let go of their weapons. One of their number was bleeding from his head. Creedmoor winked and tipped his hat to them as he walked past. “Good day! Tell ’em Creedmoor was here! Tell ’em, should the Republic survive into future generations, that John Creedmoor saved it! And make sure to note that he did it of his own free will!”

  Some of them looked at him with desperate pleading hope. Some of them looked at him with hate, willing him to fail, to spare them the shame of being saved by his kind. . . .

  —They will never forgive you, Creedmoor. Only we will—

  —I know. I know.

  He erased the Linesmen one by one. Linesmen shambled through the town in units of five or ten. Creedmoor picked away at what looked like leaders, or at whatever was easiest. Their ranks were breaking down. Their motions were becoming without purpose. The shock of Creedmoor’s assault had knocked the machine off its proper functioning, and parts were spinning loose. The town was full of smoke and the black gas, so the Linesmen wore masks, which made them identical; they were things, not men. Of course, Creedmoor wouldn’t have cared if they had had faces, except insofar as it might have made it easier to identify leaders, to identify that Lowry fellow, to pick him out from the mass. Creedmoor himself passed through the gas simply by holding his breath. When he found a clear spot, he paused and breathed in great deep joyful breaths of clean air and thought,

  —This is what we were made for, my friend. Why deny it?

  —More of them behind you, Creedmoor. Quick now.

  “Who here knows signals?” Lowry looked over his thirteen men. Gas masks hid their faces, but he scanned their uniforms’ insignia. One of them was a Signalman, Second Class.

  “You—Signalman What’s-your-name.” He wiped dust off the dented casing of an obsolete model signal device. “Is this salvageable?”

  The Signalman wordlessly got to work. He unscrewed the casing with the point of his knife and examined the rusting innards. His mask hid his expression. Meanwhile gunshots echoed in the streets outside, random and meaningless, fraying Lowry’s last nerve.

  “Well?”

  The Signalman started working levers and valves, and studying fluttering needles and dials.

&nb
sp; “Well?”

  “Yes, sir. Weakly, sir. But we have the signal again. The signaling device is likely still with the woman; at least, it’s here in town, sir.”

  “Take it,” Lowry said. “You and you, carry the machine. You and you and you, guard them. Follow the signal.”

  He turned, drew his pistol, and strode out through the corridors, and out into the street, where he saw a man who could only have been John Creedmoor himself walking by, bloodstained and laughing and gesturing as if he was talking to himself and apparently having a wonderful time, without a fear or a care in the world, and Lowry was so suddenly so sick with envy, he had to lean against the doorframe a moment for support.

  —There, Creedmoor.

  Creedmoor glanced over his shoulder and saw a short gas-masked Linesman leaning oddly in a doorframe with what seemed, insofar as one could say it of a man in a gas mask, an expression of peculiar intensity. Creedmoor shot him dead, and then he shot the Linesman who stood behind him dead, too; and then it looked like there were more of them packed into that dark corridor, each of them ready to take the others’ places, a never-ending factory-line. . . .

  —Too many. And men of the Republic coming. Move on.

  —Yes.

  He turned and ran.

  Liv hid at the back of a barn, surrounded by hay bales. With the hunting knife Creedmoor had left her, she tore a shirt from the back of a dead townsman and used it to bind her ears and the General’s. She used the rags of it to dab ash and rose-pink bloody tears from her cheeks. She cradled the General’s head and whispered, “Calm, calm, calm.”

  He was clean-shaven, for the first time in weeks. But he was also terribly thin, and terribly hot, as if fevered. There was a strength to his movements that seemed unhealthy, unsustainable. She was afraid he might be dying. She held him and whispered to him.