Scorched Earth

by Tommy Wallach

  Paz thought back on her few encounters with the old woman, one of those cantankerous crones who hobbled through the world like proud turtles, angrily impenetrable, cold-blooded. Still, she could think of worse guardians; after all, it was the Widow Moses who’d kept Arthur Edwards alive all those years.

  “I guess that’s good, then,” Paz said.

  “Yep. It sure is.” He coughed unnaturally. “Terrance joined the army.”

  Paz felt her heart drop. “What? But he’s only fifteen.”

  “He volunteered, and Zeno wasn’t exactly checking birth papers.”

  Paz turned to look over her shoulder, as if she might see through the Anchor wall to Zeno’s camp. “That means he’s probably out there right now,” she said. “He must be so scared.”

  “Listen, Paz,” Evan said, “it’s getting pretty late. If you don’t mind—”

  “Sure. Sorry. Thanks for tellin’ me about Terry. I’m glad to know the truth of it.”

  “Of course.” They embraced again. “It’s been real good to see you, Paz.”

  “You too.” She held him a moment longer, whispering her last question in his ear. “And Carlos and Frankie? They’re okay?”

  Evan forcibly pulled away. “Right as rain,” he said. Then again, more quietly, with that smile like a skull’s, as he shut the door for good: “Right as rain.”

  * * *

  She made it back to the apartment in record time, expecting everyone to still be asleep. But when she turned onto Aurora Lane, she made out the gleam of lamplight behind the living room curtains, shadows stretched to monstrous proportions moving frantically to and fro.

  “Where have you been?” Clive said as soon as she reached the top of the stairs. Over his shoulder, she saw that both Clover and Kita were also awake—and folding clothes for some reason.

  “Ratheman. I wanted to ask after my brothers.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone there alone. It’s not safe.”

  She smiled at his solicitude. “Fair enough. But you shouldn’t have woken everybody up on my account.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “We just got word from Roddy,” Kita explained. “We’re meeting him in half an hour.”

  It had been three days since they’d gone to the Silver Balls; Paz had begun to doubt they’d ever hear from Roddy again. “You mean we’re leaving tonight?” she said.

  Clive shoved an empty satchel into her hands. “That’s right. Get packed.”

  Paz wasn’t entirely sure what she should put in the satchel—all her worldly possessions were either on her back or in Sophia—but Kita helpfully donated a few shirts and underthings, as well as what little canned food they had left in the apartment; the bag ended up being surprisingly heavy.

  “I think we’ve got a problem,” Clover said. He was peeking out through a crack in the curtains. The rest of them ran over to look for themselves; two Protectorate soldiers stood just below the apartment, staring straight up at the window. “Your friend sold us out.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Kita said.

  “Of course he would. He’s a criminal.”

  “Wait,” Paz said. “Something’s happening.” Another two figures had just appeared, though it was a moment before she recognized them. “It’s Roddy and that girl who works for him.”

  “Tara,” Kita said. “And I told you he wouldn’t sell us out.”

  They shouldered their bags and went downstairs. Roddy greeted them with a matched set of firm handshakes. He wore a dapper black suit and carried a cane, while Tara had on an incongruously fancy dress, wispy with taffeta. The two of them looked better prepared for a fancy dinner than a midnight escape.

  “You nearly gave us a heart attack,” Kita said. “We thought you’d sicced the Protectorate on us.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Roddy replied. He gestured to the “soldiers” behind him. “These are just some associates of mine who like playing dress-up. We can’t exactly be seen walking around the streets without an escort, now can we?”

  Far away, one of Zeno’s massive guns began to fire—not an uncommon occurrence, except usually the fusillade lasted for only a few seconds. This one went on and on.

  “What’s going on out there?” Paz said.

  “I can’t say that I know,” Roddy mused. “What interesting times we live in.” He offered his arm to Tara, then tapped his cane on the cobbles. “Off we go!”

  Paz threw an amused glance at Clive, who could only shrug. Off they went.

  9. Clive

  A PALL OF MIST HUNG LOW over the city, inflamed by a bright crescent of waning moon. Chang’s curfew had emptied out the streets but for his own patrols. Thankfully the soldiers seemed to accept Roddy’s disguised mercenaries at face value.

  As far as Clive could tell, Roddy wasn’t taking them toward any of the city’s main gates. That made sense, considering Zeno’s guns, but it also raised the obvious question of just how they were meant to get past the Anchor wall. Just behind Roddy’s men, Clover and Kita walked side by side, whispering to each other. Clive glanced over at Paz, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet ever since she got back from Ratheman Chapel.

  “You okay?” Clive said.

  She looked through him for a moment, then seemed to come to her senses. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

  “Something happened, didn’t it? Back with the Mindful?”

  Paz nodded. “I saw an old friend. He told me my brother Terry volunteered for the Sophian army.”

  Clive remembered Paz telling him that Terry was only fifteen. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He’s still a child. He should be playing at soldiers and savages in the woods, not actually going to war.”

  “What about Frankie and Carlos? Did you get a chance to ask after them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That they were fine. But when he said it—I don’t know. Something felt off.”

  “Off how?”

  “I don’t know. Just off.”

  Roddy hissed over his shoulder. “Keep it down, you two. You can chat all you want once we’re out.”

  They turned off the Silver Road just before it would’ve delivered them to the Bastion, making use of byways so small they didn’t even have street signs, and finally arrived at a section of the Ring Road that had been cut off at either end with a makeshift barricade, such that the only way someone could access it would be by way of the exact route they’d just taken. Four men bustled around a strange contraption at the base of the Anchor wall. It looked a bit like a raft—logs lashed together to make a platform—with ropes running to a pulley that ran up along the stonework, disappearing into the mist.

  “What is that?” Kita said.

  “It’s an elevator,” Roddy said. “We’re gonna ride it all the way to the top of the wall.”

  “And how are we gonna get down the other side?”

  “One problem at a time, pet.”

  They stepped onto the platform, taking on the four men who’d been there when they arrived. Tara had gone white as a sheet. “You’re sure this is safe?”

  “Relatively,” Roddy said.

  The fake Protectorate soldiers began to operate the winch. With each turn, the platform rose a couple of feet and rocked from side to side. Clive held on to one of the ropes overhead for balance, and Paz held on to Clive. In hardly any time at all, they’d made it about a third of the way up the nearly hundred-foot wall, well above the rooflines of the nearest buildings. Bats fluttered between the chimneys and smokestacks. The mist thinned as they went, and soon Clive could see clear to Notre Fille, crouched like a mutilated gargoyle at the center of the city.

  “Look there,” Paz said. Not far below them was the husk of the warehouse that Clive’s father had set ablaze during the raid.

  “I think I’m gonna throw up,” Tara said.

  “Like hell you are,” Roddy replied. “My men are working down there.”

  Another ten feet up and Clive could make out t
he Southern Gate. Sparks of gunfire regularly lit up the darkness.

  “Something’s going on down there,” he said.

  Roddy squinted. “Probably nothing,” he said, but Clive could hear the note of disquiet in the man’s voice. No one spoke after that, all of them focused on the sounds of battle, on the little squeaks and sighs of the rope passing through the pulley, of their own private fears. They’d risen above the fog now; to look down was to gaze into a misty void, a bowl of ghost milk. The platform jolted; Clive winced as Paz squeezed his arm hard enough to leave a bruise.

  After what felt like an hour but was probably only a few minutes, they pulled up plumb with the top of the Anchor wall.

  “Thank the Daughter,” Tara said, hopping down onto the walkway that ran between the parapets. It was probably fifteen feet wide, curving infinitely away in either direction.

  “This part’s gonna be a little more difficult,” Roddy said, as his men began to draw metal pegs and thin coils of rope out of their satchels. “There’s no way we could ride an elevator down the other side. We’d be too visible. So we’ll be using individual ropes, like so.” He opened his jacket to reveal a leather harness studded with iron loops. “I brought enough for everyone,” he said, “but my men can only lower two of us at a time.”

  As Roddy’s men began to fit Tara into her own harness, Clive wandered to the other side of the walkway and looked out over the fields to the southeast of the Anchor. The fog was so thick that he couldn’t immediately understand what he was seeing: lights garlanded the city like an annulus, all of them moving so slowly you could almost fool yourself into thinking they were standing still. But no—they were closing in, a noose drawing tight around the Anchor’s neck. From this vantage, Clive could see that Zeno’s guns at the Southern and Eastern Gates were both laying down cover fire for the thousands of individual Sophian soldiers who made up the ring. He could only assume the same thing was happening at the Northern and Western Gates.

  “I think you all need to see this,” he said, summoning the rest of the group to the edge of the parapet.

  “What’s going on?” Kita said.

  “Zeno’s marching on the city,” Clover replied.

  “I don’t understand,” Paz said. “The siege was working. Why break it now?”

  None of them had an answer. Clive jumped at a loud clank; Roddy’s men had begun hammering metal spikes into the parapet.

  “You have to tell them to stop,” he said to Roddy.

  “Why?”

  “There are too many soldiers out there. They’ll see us on the wall.”

  “So they see us. They’re here to take the Anchor, not kill the people trying to leave.” Tara had finished putting on her harness, and now one of Roddy’s men threaded a length of rope through the rings in her and Roddy’s vests and then tied it off to one of the metal spikes.

  “Clive’s right,” Kita said. “We’ll have to find some other way.”

  “There is no other way,” Roddy said. He looked to his men. “We good to go?” He gave his rope a few tugs to test the fit; satisfied, he immediately climbed up onto the parapet and sat down with his legs dangling over the side. “Stay if you want. It’s your funeral.” With that, he pushed off, falling only a couple of feet before the rope caught him and his men began to slowly lower him down the wall. “Come on, baby,” he said to Tara. She stepped up onto the parapet and reeled at the height.

  “I’m just supposed to walk off?” she said.

  “That’s right,” Roddy said soothingly. “It’s like hanging on a rope swing. Easy peasy.”

  Clive looked to Clover—but neither of them so much as cracked a smile.

  “I hate rope swings,” Tara said. “I hate this.”

  “Don’t look where you’re going. Face the other way.”

  “Okay.”

  She turned around to face the rest of them. Clive wanted to tell her not to go, but he knew it wouldn’t make any difference. After thirty seconds of deep breathing bordering on hyperventilation, Tara squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her weight back into the rope. She stepped into clear air and began the descent alongside Roddy. They dropped quickly, and even though the ring of Zeno’s soldiers was getting a little bit closer every second, Clive began to wonder if maybe he’d been wrong; maybe this really was their best chance at escape.

  One of Roddy’s men cursed as the rope slipped off its peg, audibly abrading his palms before he managed to get a grip on it again. Tara screamed as she plummeted ten feet in an instant. Maybe it was the scream that did it, or the sudden movement—or maybe the Sophians had noticed as soon as Roddy first clambered over the parapet. Tara screamed again as the first few desultory shots ricocheted off the Anchor wall.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Roddy shouted, his voice distant, his face already obscured by the fog. His men tried to play out the rope more quickly, but they could only do so much. Roddy wasn’t even halfway to the ground when the first bullet found its mark. He looked up at them with the astonishment of a gambler who’d just lost everything on a single bet. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp. Tara had started gibbering in anticipation of what was coming, so it almost seemed a mercy when the next volley arrived to silence her. For a few moments, they all watched the two bodies swinging there, as if awaiting some miraculous resurrection. But then the Sophians began to target the silhouettes at the top of the wall. Roddy’s men let go of the ropes and dove for cover. Clive stayed just long enough to see the two bodies tunnel down through the mist and land in an illegible heap of blood and bent limbs.

  No one spoke on the way back down the elevator, and Roddy’s men dispersed as soon as they’d all reached the ground. Clover was comforting a tearful Kita, stroking her hair and shushing. Clive was surprised to find Paz crying as well. Could she really have come to care that much about Roddy and Tara in so short a time?

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I know why Zeno is breaking the siege,” she whispered. There was something fanatical in her eyes—epiphany and grief and rage all mixed up. “They’re dead, Clive. Frankie and Carlos are dead.”

  10. Athène

  CHANG DIDN’T SHOW UP TO see her off—which really shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Athène hadn’t spoken to him since that first day, when they’d talked and drank late into the night, cementing their arrangement. He’d apologized, but she’d have to remain in the Bastion until he determined that his “scorched earth” approach to morale in the Anchor had reached its apotheosis. Then he would release her on the Sophians “like Zeno unleashed her plague in Edgewise.”

  That was what she’d become: a weapon, a vector of death.

  All told, Athène spent three days as an “honored guest” of the Protectorate. Three days wandering the halls of the Bastion, eating sinfully decadent meals in her room, and going on brief sorties into the city—though never without an escort. She’d seen the towering bricolage monstrosity they called the Library, the manufactured serenity of Portland Park, the twisting alleys of the Second Quarter where the craftspeople and artisans of the Anchor still plied their trade. Her initial wonderment at the sheer scale of the city had been tempered by her gradual discernment of its flaws; it was as if the streets, starved of light by all those tall buildings, had been starved of something else—empathy, maybe, or love. So many beggars offering up their hands in the shape of a bowl; so many desperate women offering up their bodies in exchange for a few coins.

  She’d only been Andromède for a matter of weeks, but Athène had already begun to interpret the world primarily through the lens of leadership. Though she could see many of the Descendancy’s shortcomings, she wondered if she could’ve done any better, had she been in charge. Convincing a few thousand like-minded sisters to follow you into battle was one thing; convincing a hundred times that many people—spread out over innumerable villages, towns, and cities—to share a single overarching government and social covenant was quite another.

  Just before sunset on that
third day, a group of soldiers showed up at her quarters and escorted her back to the secret passage through the aqueduct. There was no going-away party, no last meal, just a scribbled note from Chang: Deliver my message.

  Twenty minutes later she found herself back on the other side of the Anchor wall. In the failing light, her sisters’ tents looked like triangles cut out of the hills to the south. She imagined she could feel the heat radiating off their fires from here. But she would discharge her duty before she returned to them—not for the Grand Marshal, of course, to whom she owed nothing, but for herself.

  Since Athène had last seen Zeno, the Sophian leader had set up hundreds of electric lights all around her camp, including a few searing spotlights pointing at the massive central tent. The engines that powered all this artificial illumination could be heard from over a mile away, and the combination of noise and light created an admirable ambiance of threat. The Protectorate soldiers stationed along the Anchor wall had to spend all day gazing out at this intimidating spread of technology and manpower, to say nothing of the guns themselves, which stuttered out an explosive reminder of their existence every hour or so. Until a few days ago, Athène had felt certain Chang couldn’t hope to win the war without the help of the Wesah. Now she wasn’t so sure. Circumstances were shifting every second. All one could do was stay as flexible and treacherous as possible.

  Athène’s arrival at the Sophian camp inspired the expected soldierly posturing, but as soon as she made her identity known, the guards escorted her into Zeno’s tent.

  The director was alone this time. Her giant war table had been covered with a sheet, but Athène could still make out the models and figurines beneath the fabric. Zeno sat cross-legged on a thin mat before a plant in a nondescript ceramic container. It resembled a miniature tree, and Zeno was pruning it with a tiny pair of scissors.

  “I am thinking this is how the gods work,” Athène said.

  “How so?” Zeno replied, clipping off a section of branch no larger than a fingernail.

  “To make every tree, it must be like this. A little bit at a time: snip, snip. Very hard work.”