War Master's Gate sota-9

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  She had asked Maure what might be left of this ancient Moth hero-sorcerer by now. The halfbreed necromancer had just shaken her head. ‘This whole place is just built of ghosts,’ had been her response. ‘I’d say “all of him” but I’ve a feeling that there might be more of him, now, than there ever was when he was alive. Just because we get to him first doesn’t mean that we’ll enjoy it a moment later. Maybe better to let the Wasp woman have that honour?’

  But Che knew Seda’s strength and indomitable will. I cannot let her have Argastos — or whatever he left behind him. If that means I must take the risk myself, then so be it. And, in the wake of that, she reflected: I am thinking like a magician now. Where did all this ambition come from?

  They were moving again, heading off at an angle, very slowly, and she tried to work out what was going on. At first she used her mere eyes, as any slave of Aptitude might, and there was nothing. Then the Ants had frozen again, and she saw them readying their weapons, crossbows mostly because those were quieter than snapbows. What is it? Tell me. .

  Tynisa was moving forwards ahead of her, and already identifying the problem, but Che caught up effortlessly. Now I see. A strange, reckless feeling had overcome her, a need to discover what she could do in this new place. There is magic concentrated here, layer on layer of old ritual and belief encrusted about the roots of every tree, far more than ever there was in the Commonweal.

  Zerro was right ahead, but he was not looking back at her. Instead, he had one hand out to the Ants, fingers moving in a slow, deliberate code. His eyes were fixed on the beast.

  It stood one and a half times the height of a tall man. The tree cover here was dense, and yet a lush, strangely pallid undergrowth extended all about them, as though living on something other than sun and air. The mantis itself had an ivory sheen to it, and was near invisible in its perfect poise. Tynisa was already limping forwards, and Che recalled she had faced down just such a creature in the Commonweal, but she put a hand on her foster-sister’s arm, stilling her.

  ‘Che, don’t play around,’ Tynisa murmured from the corner of her mouth, eyes fixed firmly on the insect. Its killing arms were still drawn in tight, and its vast, pale eyes saw everything.

  Che was acutely aware of all of them in that moment. The scout, Zerro, was signalling her, but she did not know his sign language, and she was not under his command. She could sense the sharp scrutiny of the Moth Terastos, his fear and uncertainty, and something like a bitter envy from Helma Bartrer, frustrated Apt scholar. Here was Maure, calm amidst the darkness because she understood what Che was about, and here she felt Thalric’s concern, his slowly escalating tension that might lead him to do something rash. .

  She stepped forwards, one slow deliberate pace, and then another that put her closer to the mantis than either Tynisa or Zerro. She knew that the Ants all had their weapons levelled towards it, but the status of such creatures was uncertain. The locals held them in high esteem, so killing one might have repercussions. Or not: the Mantids never seemed to have the same attitudes towards death and killing as did civilized peoples.

  From every facet of the creature’s vast eyes, the forest watched her.

  Go, she told it. We are not your prey. You are not ours. We pass through like the wind. We leave not even footprints in our wake. The forest wanted blood, she knew. Like a crowd at a Wasp arena, it wanted them to fight for its amusement, but she was Cheerwell Maker of Collegium, and nobody’s pit-slave.

  Its arms shifted, unclasping a little, reaching towards her in readiness for a strike, but she read the animal, and the immense semi-consciousness around her, as though they were a human face. My time is not now, and this is not the agent of my death. She stared into that compound gaze. Enough hollow threats. For a moment she actually felt a connection with the insect itself, a sharp and calculating mind with more understanding and contemplation than any simple animal should be able to own to.

  ‘Pass on,’ she told Zerro, just quiet words, but she could feel a faint shiver in the air and in the trees as she spoke, reacting to the authority she had taken on. Even the Fly and his Ants, the blind and deaf Apt, must have felt some change. From that moment on, she knew that they would look to her. She had taken command in a bloodless coup.

  That distant presence, the eye of Argastos, had seen it all, she knew, and was evaluating her even now. What is he like? Is there enough left to even be thought of as ‘he’? Do we go to the man himself, or the ghost, or just his tomb?

  They were moving off again, and Che found herself keeping pace some half-dozen yards behind Zerro, Tynisa by her side. Her sister was eyeing her as though she had gone mad or turned into a stranger. Che smiled at her, but she had the feeling that her smiles were no longer the amiable and reassuring ones she had once worn.

  Thirteen

  There was a drug they called Chneuma, which had become a standard part of the Air Corps kit. It kept a pilot awake and alert for days, strung tight like a wire and ready for action. Too ready, perhaps. Bergild was pacing constantly, twitchy and unable to sit, making circuits of the crate-table where Major Oski and his Bee second, Ernain, were trying to play cards. They had hollowed out a nook amongst the disassembled artillery in the back of one of the transport automotives and, at every jolt and lurch, Bergild’s wings would flower for a moment, ready to take to the air.

  The Fly engineer cast her a baleful look. ‘I am blaming you for losing the last three hands, you realize?’

  For a moment she stopped, clenching and unclenching her fists, blinking at him as though she had never seen him before.

  ‘Can’t keep your mind in your head, these days?’ was Oski’s verdict, and when she opened her mouth he added, ‘I know, I know, you’ve got worries. We’ve all got worries.’

  Bergild’s worries were her fellow pilots operating in shifts over the Second’s advance, their minds touching hers moment to moment. They were overdue another visit from the Collegiate orthopters, so every Imperial pilot was on standby and plugged full of Chneuma. She did not want to think about coming down from the drug afterwards. Nightmares and shakes and dreadful cravings, they said, and none of the chemists really knew how long it was safe to keep using the cursed stuff. But necessary. We are so few that we need all of us, every time.

  Then one of her pilots really did have something to report and, wings springing into being, she was at the back of the covered automotive immediately with Oski and Ernain leaping up behind her, for all the good they could do.

  ‘It’s. . it’s. .’ began her faltering response to their questions, and then, ‘one orthopter. Farsphex. Ours.’ But she was frowning because there was no mindlinked contact with the pilot. Not proper Air Corps, then. A trick? The incoming pilot was signalling with the heliograph codes that had been developed before the new breed of pilots had emerged, but Bergild and most of her people had never learned them. At last someone got hold of one of the older pilots who had, then interpreted an intent to land. Bergild instructed that the visitor be guided in far from anything critical.

  So who’s got one of my Farsphex?

  She and Oski and Ernain skipped out of the automotive, their wings carrying them above the great marching mass of the Second and its Spider allies, over the labouring transports — wheeled, tracked and walkers — and the articulated forms of the Sentinel automotives. The Farsphex had come down, with one of her own machines still wheeling overhead, and some sergeant had detailed a few squads of Light Airborne to deal with whoever stepped out. By the time Bergild and the others had arrived, the orthopter’s passenger had disembarked and presented his credentials — and was on his way to General Tynan post-haste.

  The newly arrived pilot was still standing by his machine, and Bergild saw that his armour boasted a red insignia and pauldrons — nothing she recognized.

  Ernain knew, though. The Bee-kinden was so well informed about goings on in the Empire that she would have taken him for Rekef if he wasn’t so free with the information. Although I wouldn’t know
what other information he’s not being free with, I suppose.

  ‘Red Watch,’ the Bee identified. ‘Very new, the Empress’s darlings. Looks like special orders for the general.’

  A section of the army had halted for Tynan to receive the orthopter’s passenger, and Major Oski was able to pull sufficient rank to get them within earshot as the man presented himself as one Captain Vrakir, also Red Watch. Looking up dourly after scanning through the newcomer’s papers, Tynan did not appear delighted by this indication that the Empress had not forgotten him.

  ‘So what does she want?’ the general demanded. ‘There are no orders here.’ He did not suggest that Vrakir had been sent to spy on him, but that was hardly a wild leap of logic. He should have had this meeting in private, Bergild reckoned, but then General Tynan was a blunt-speaking man who did his best to live his life in the open. The Spider commander, the Aldanrael woman, was close by Tynan’s side, though, and who knew what thoughts were passing behind her calm exterior?

  ‘There will be orders, General, in due course,’ Vrakir replied stoically. ‘For now, I ask you to accept me as the Empress’s voice here.’

  For a moment Tynan looked as though he might argue, and surely everyone there was thinking, This is not how you run an army, but whatever the Empress had written on that paper in Tynan’s hand, it was sufficient.

  Then the word came, and Bergild called out, ‘General, orthopters inbound!’ because he was right there and it would save time. Everyone was looking at her instantly — perhaps all the more so in shock at a woman’s voice daring to accost their leader — but she was already in the air and racing for the automotive that carried her machine ready for launch.

  Behind her, Tynan was shouting out for everyone to get moving again — no stationary targets for the Collegiate bombs — and for the infantry to spread out as best they could. Everything fell into a well-rehearsed chaos, familiar from every previous day of this march. Bergild, herself, had thoughts only for the sky.

  Taki had never flown a bombing run. She understood the necessity of the work, but it was not her work. She was a pilot of Solarno and she took her prey in the air. There was no glory in attacking an enemy that could not fight back. When she had explained that — the one time she had tried, anyway — to the Collegiate pilots, most of them had looked at her as if she was mad.

  Beetle-kinden were a practical-minded lot. If they were forced to fight, then most of them would far rather build machines to do it for them, ideally in a way that precluded retaliation. That made Taki think of the Empire, the way it had brought Myna to its knees, with so little danger to its own side, by orthopter and artillery. Collegium would not be taken so readily, but the whole business brought a sour taste to the mouth. Where were those sunlit days in Solarno, when she would joust in the skies against her brothers, air-pirates, free pilots, Princep Exilla dragonfly-riders, and all bound by their common kinship? Here she was now at the cutting edge of Apt warfare and already mourning a lost way of life.

  Mantis-kinden would understand, she thought, even as she adjusted her course to head against one of the Farsphex, as the Imperial machines rose out of the great marching host. They wouldn’t understand the machines, but the thoughts behind them. Oh, for an Apt Mantis to teach to fly. . Clouds of the Light Airborne were scattering upwards, wings aflare — not that they would be any real good in the fighting, but they would be out of the way of the bombs. The heavier infantry, the Spiderlands troops, and all the rest still shackled to the earth, they were dispersing as much as they could, losing cohesion and slowing their advance to do so. Well, fine, we’re not exactly here to bomb them to death, just to break their toys and kick over their larder. For there was a multitude of automotives with the Imperial force, though not half as many as when they had come this way the first time. All the important loads that the Empire could not do without had been split up across the army — more good sense from the Wasps — but it meant that any vehicle over a certain size became a target.

  And this time they’ll know it. The plan was typical committee-born Collegiate nonsense, and Taki had argued fiercely against it, but it was a good plan nonetheless. Still doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  Then the Farsphex was flashing into her sights, already turning aside as she began to shoot, obviously warned by some other Imperial pilot. Taki slung her Esca Magni into as tight a turn as she could, unhappily aware that she had managed it tighter in her time. Her prized craft had taken its share of knocks in the fighting over Collegium a month before and, although the mechanics had done their best, she was going to have to give up on it soon. Sentiment was something she had been indulging in, and could not truly afford. She needed a new orthopter.

  The enemy pilot threw the Farsphex into a surprisingly nimble climb, but changed course suddenly, and Taki knew that the Imperial mind — the collected thoughts of its mindlinked pilots — had seen what new game Collegium had brought.

  The Stormreaders were quartering the sky, seeking out the Imperial fighting craft and driving them mercilessly, but not one of them heading for the ground. They were making all-out war on the Farsphex, the Spearflights, the rabble of other machines the Empire had mustered, whilst at the same time the rest of Collegium’s air force was hoping for a clear attack on the ground.

  They had put a surprising amount of craft in the air, for such a grounded folk. The Collegiates had given Taki orthopters and fixed-wings and heliopters, and most of them were as lumbering and bulky as their owners — flying barrels, flying crates, all wood-hulled and unlovely things that had been drawn from a life of cargo-hauling or flying courier duty, or lugging complaining passengers from city to city in the Lowlands. There were more than two score of them, and most were loaded with bombs where the Stormreaders could only carry a handful. Each had a civilian pilot willing to make the run — no reluctant draftees here by Taki’s insistence — and another man or woman in the hold ready to rain fire and death on the Empire. Some of these craft had hastily fitted mechanisms to release their cargo, whilst others would rely on holes cut into the floor, or shoving bombs out of a side-hatch.

  If the Farsphex got through to them — even if the older Spearflights did — then the result would be a massacre, but there were more Collegiate fighter craft in the air than Imperial, by some margin.

  The Farsphex she was chasing twisted round and tried to double back, but another Stormreader was already there and arrowing in so sharply that Taki had to slacken her own pursuit or risk running into its bolts. She saw the Farsphex take a spray of hits, tilt a little in the air and then level out. By then she and her newfound wingman were both on its tail, harrying it away from the bombers and daring it to brave their shot.

  Below them, the first bombs landed — delivered too hastily, with the rosy fire of their explosions cracking open ahead of the Imperial advance. But there were more where that came from, a great deal more.

  Bergild’s mind was full of the voices of her fellows, all of them trying to get past the Stormreaders in order to reach the bombers, and all of them being driven in every direction across the sky by the Collegiate fliers. They were doing their best to assist one another, to stay calm and coordinate their movements, but she could feel the desperation creeping in.

  She corkscrewed her Farsphex groundwards, a dangerously steep descent at the best of times, bolts flashing past her from the craft following on her tail. Then another Stormreader was rushing at her, flat and low over the heads of the Second Army, its piercers stuttering. She had to jerk away: it was that or end up with shredded wings and unable to pull out of the dive she had been in. There was one of the clumsy Collegiate bombers in her eye, though, and she had pulled out not so far from it; and so she feigned reaching for height, pulling her nose up, and then letting the Farsphex fall away to the right, towards her target, hoping against hope that her attackers would be fooled just long enough.

  For a handful of seconds she was there, the two Stormreaders committing themselves to the false course she h
ad abandoned, and she rattled the bombing fixed-wing with a score of bolts, punching into its solid hull. Not enough. But even as she thought that, the vessel lurched and pulled up, its pilot losing his nerve. Then her shadows were back with her and she threw the Farsphex up and away, giving up her target for the sake of saving her hide, but knowing that the cargo fixed-wing would circle back for another try, unmolested, unless she or another of her fellows could stop it.

  One of her pilots shouted out a hit: a lumbering, bomb-heavy heliopter clipped out of the sky with broken rotors, tumbling end over end to plough into the earth, spilling crew and munitions. To her right a Spearflight, which had once been one of the fleetest craft in the air, was gutted by a Stormreader’s bolts, the narrow metal needles cutting open its belly and smashing its motor, so that the Imperial aircraft slewed sideways in the air, wings stilled, and then fell, with the pilot struggling to get the cockpit open and bail out.

  She was fighting to rejoin the battle, risking more and more to break through the cordon that the Stormreaders had thrown up, and dodging between the raking lines of their shot. There was another bomber now at the edge of her attention, as hard to reach as the centre of a maze. Bolts scattered across her hull, one smashing a cockpit pane. Bergild wrenched her goggles down as the wind roared about her.

  Her target, an orthopter with something of the grace of a fighting craft, was lining itself up with one of the transport auto-motives, and she locked her wings, stilling their beat without engaging the propellers as the designer had intended. The Farsphex dropped as abruptly as though all Apt flight had been nothing but a tinker’s dream. She took three hits to her underside as she fell through the metal hail, one of which punched into the bombardier’s compartment behind her and ricocheted wildly — and how glad I am not to be carrying a passenger — and then she was out of it, fighting to restart her wings as the ground yawned to receive her, coming down so swiftly, so true, that she almost collided with her target. The Stormreaders would already be stooping on her, hunched and deadly machines designed for just that, and she had seconds to strike before she would have to pull away, or die.