The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  Cooper nodded, his mind working rapidly. “How does the gargoyle differentiate between acceptable targets and HVAs?”

  “Facial recognition,” replied Jason. “Surveillance photographs of HVAs have been registered in a database. The gargoyle only needs a glimpse to assess whether a target is one.”

  “What if the HVA’s face is hidden?”

  “Then it’s classified as expendable. The computer makes the decision very quickly.”

  Hazel, arms folded, had been pacing the room, deep in thought. She stopped suddenly and stared again at the clip, which was playing on a loop. “What if it can’t make a decision?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jason.

  Her face shone with excitement. “What if the targets’ features were changing?” she asked. “Shifting so quickly the gargoyle wasn’t certain what it was looking at? What would it do?” Leaning back in his chair, Jason studied the ceiling. “I don’t know for sure,” he confessed. “But I think it would keep trying until it could make a decision.”

  Cooper’s heart rate quickened. “It won’t fire until it makes a decision? Even if it never arrives at one?”

  “No,” said Jason slowly. “It shouldn’t.”

  Cooper picked Hazel up, twirled her around, and kissed her. “You’re brilliant. Do you know that?”

  She flushed pink. “I’ve been told that once or twice, yes.”

  He kissed her again before setting her down, his mind racing with possibilities. The gargoyles’ design flaw wouldn’t ensure a successful siege course—far from it—but Hazel’s insight offered a glimmer of hope.

  “How would the Workshop respond if gargoyles failed to fire automatically?” he wondered. “Could they override the targeting system and tell it to forget about HVAs?”

  “In theory,” Jason mused. “But if the targeting system’s stuck in a loop, new commands might not get through. It would require a reboot.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Could the guns still be fired?”

  “The drivers can always disable the targeting system and operate the guns manually, but that would prevent the computer from rebooting.”

  Cooper nodded. “So they’d have to choose between firing their weapons manually or waiting to reboot the targeting system.”

  “Correct.”

  “Do the drivers spend much time training with the guns?”

  “Almost none. The targeting system’s so much better, they rarely bother—”

  Jason turned in alarm as a loud knock sounded at the apartment’s door. Shutting down his workstation, he led them out, pointing at a hallway closet. Cooper left it for Hazel and Toby, while he followed Jason into the main room, grabbed his pack off the dining room table, and slipped within the closet by the door. Leaving it slightly ajar, he set down the pack and unsheathed his kris. The knocking grew almost frantic until Jason opened the door. Someone stormed right in.

  “Why don’t you answer my calls?” the visitor demanded.

  Cooper didn’t need to see the man to know he was middle-aged, half drunk, and bordering on a nervous breakdown.

  “Calm yourself, Dr. Wyle,” said Jason coolly. “I turned it off because I needed some rest. I haven’t slept in two days.”

  The man laughed bitterly. “Sleep? We don’t get to sleep! Haven’t you heard the news?”

  “About the missing museum hag?”

  “Not that, you idiot! A special train’s arrived from the capital with a rakshasa aboard. He’s to escort a group of us back to Blys. Your presence has been ‘requested.’ ”

  Jason sounded stunned. “But I’m just a technician. I don’t run anything.”

  Dr. Wyle chuckled. “That’s what I told them, but they insisted. Apparently you made a favorable impression on His Majesty during his little viewing party.”

  Silence.

  “What are you upset about?” Dr. Wyle sneered. “You’ve always been so eager for promotion. Well, here’s your chance! Just don’t disappoint our beloved king. If you do, we’ll be hosing you off a wall.”

  “When are we supposed to depart?” asked Jason quietly.

  A pause. “Sixty-seven minutes.”

  “I need a drink. Would you like one?”

  “Dear God, yes.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “A double. Neat.”

  Through the closet door’s opening, Cooper saw Dr. Wyle sink heavily onto a couch. The man was not a eugenics experiment—few of the senior engineers were. Instead of exotic, blended perfection, he had a long, pale face with an aquiline nose and melancholy brown eyes. Dark hair was turning gray and his sunken cheeks suggested a recent and dramatic weight loss. He stared dazedly at the carpet, blinking only when Jason pressed a tumbler into his hand.

  “Do you think we made a mistake?” he said, as though speaking to himself.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jason, sitting in a nearby chair.

  Dr. Wyle shrugged and sipped his drink. “Throwing our lot in with Prusias.”

  “Don’t let anyone hear you say such things,” said Jason sharply. “I’m going to forget I heard it.”

  “I’m not the only one,” said Dr. Wyle. “Our enemies aren’t as weak as we assumed. Harine’s in outright revolt and Rowan’s army’s closing in.”

  “You don’t honestly think they’re a threat,” said Jason, with a subtle note of disdain. Cooper was impressed; the young man was adjusting quickly and playing his role with some skill. Cooper doubted Dr. Wyle would notice that anything about Dr. Barrett was amiss. The Agent hoped that held true for others.

  Dr. Wyle picked absently at a hangnail. “I don’t know what to think. There are reports of vyes streaming out of the mountains to the north. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands!”

  “Isn’t that a good thing? Vyes serve Prusias.”

  “Not these kind. The vyes here seem to hate them. They call them ‘Raszna.’ ”

  “Things will work out.”

  A scornful laugh. “Will they? Two of our colleagues were just discovered dead in a cargo train. I’m telling you, Dr. Barrett, things are going bad. I think even Prusias is hedging his bets.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dr. Wyle grimaced. “I shouldn’t say anything. I don’t know for certain.”

  “Tell me.”

  The engineer took a slow, deep gulp and exhaled. “I overheard the rakshasa ask Dr. Tressel for the Workshop’s architectural plans—Prusias’s imp is interested in our vaults.”

  “So what?”

  Dr. Wyle finished his drink and fixed Jason with a bloodshot eye. “I think the king wants a bunker. A fortified little nook where he can retreat if things go wrong.”

  “Then Dr. Tressel will build him one. She’ll probably be promoted.”

  Dr. Wyle’s smile was so hollow, so defeated and crazed it sent a chill down Cooper’s spine. “Do you honestly think anyone who knows about the king’s secret bunker will be allowed to live?”

  “You’re being paranoid, Dr. Wyle.”

  “And you’re being naïve, Dr. Barrett. But I thank you for the drink.” Setting the empty glass upon the table, he rose from the couch and made for the door. He paused three feet from where Cooper was hiding. “Pack for a week. I’ll meet you at the platform. Don’t be late.”

  When the engineer departed, Jason closed the door and rested his head wearily against it. “Did you hear all that?” he murmured.

  “Every word,” said Cooper, stepping out.

  Hazel and Toby entered from their hiding spot in the hallway closet. Turning away from the door, Jason gave his guests an almost helpless smile. He might have been walking to the gallows. “What should I do?”

  Cooper clapped him on the shoulder. “Pack a bag, Dr. Barrett. We’ve got a train to catch.”

  It was a frigid morning in late January when King Prusias walked onto his balcony to survey his enemies. There they were, hordes of tiny toy soldiers carpeting the
frozen hills below. Each camp was like a glittering city whose torches and banners flickered in the dull red dawn.

  It was not the sight of Rowan banners that made him seethe. Or these upstart Raszna that had flowed down from the Alps these past months like snowmelt. No, these were simply enemies. Prusias could deal with enemies. It was betrayal that infuriated him, fawning liars and traitors that set his teeth to a slow grind. But he consoled himself with a promise. When this farce was complete, when his enemies were crushed, the king would focus his attention—unwavering, personal attention—on punishing those demons that had risen against him. Each turncoat upon that field would squirm and plead and weep for death. And Prusias would not give it to them.

  “My lord?”

  Smoothing his heavy black beard, the king glanced down at Mr. Bonn. The dutiful imp was standing at his side, his red skin turning almost blue with cold.

  “My lord, you need to don your armor. Lord Grael and your captains will be arriving shortly.”

  At the mention of Grael, Prusias gave a grim smile. Today, Lord Grael would trample the king’s enemies before perishing valiantly on the field of battle. Although Grael’s victory was all but inevitable, his upcoming assassination was a delicate business that had required careful planning. There was no denying Grael was a brilliant general and that his troops obeyed him with fanatic, berserker loyalty. Of course, these admirable qualities made him too dangerous a rival. And thus, once he’d served his purpose—once he’d ground Rowan’s little coalition to pulp—one of Grael’s aides would dispatch his master and earn koukerros.

  Prusias stared out at the armies camped across the river, far beyond the range of his gargoyles, catapults, and mortars. Poor fools, he thought. You’ve spent weeks huddled there, waiting for more allies to show. How many graves have you dug for your frozen dead? After so much toil and sacrifice you won’t even make it across the river to my gates. Pity. I’d have liked to see the gargoyles in action.

  With a grunt, Prusias left his balcony, following Mr. Bonn into the scented warmth of his bedchambers. The malakhim were waiting by the king’s bed with fresh bandages and a gleaming corselet of black, overlapping scales. He suffered their ministrations, grimacing as they fit the heavy corselet over his massive head and chest before buckling the gold-hilted broadsword at his side. The armor and the sword were expensive props, a concession to Mr. Bonn, who suggested a king must show solidarity with his troops. Prusias found the notion absurd; he wouldn’t be anywhere near the fighting. In any case, Prusias rarely used weapons in battle. The demon preferred his hands. Or teeth.

  Glancing at his reflection, Prusias admired the darkly handsome features looking back at him: the leonine mane of black hair, the heavy brow, luminescent cat’s eyes, the thick and plaited beard. The demon never understood why so many women today seemed to be attracted to pretty men as opposed to the masculine splendor in his mirror. Perhaps his look was outdated. He smoothed his bandages.

  “There’s been no sign of Bram, I take it.”

  “None,” said Mr. Bonn. “Not for months. And our spies report that the child, Mina, remains at Rowan as you predicted she would.”

  Prusias nodded. “What of Lilith?”

  “I cannot speak for her whereabouts, but her forces remain in Zenuvia.”

  Prusias chafed at the mere thought of Lilith’s cunning and patience. “She’s conspired somehow with Menlo,” he growled. “I know she has.”

  “The queen readily admitted she’d met with him,” Mr. Bonn reminded him. “And if Lilith wanted to betray you, why doesn’t her banner fly with the others?”

  “Because she’s plotting something else!”

  Mr. Bonn recoiled at the outburst, assuming the submissive posture he adopted whenever his master’s temper flared. Prusias liked to see him this way, docile and terrified. Saliva pooled in the king’s mouth. When the imp found his voice, it was barely a whisper.

  “My lord, without her forces present, Lilith is no threat. But if your enemies concern you, there is always Yuga. You can send her against them if you choose.”

  Prusias almost laughed. “Bring Yuga near the city? Are you mad? She’d devour the entire capital.”

  “I was under the impression that Your Majesty can control her.”

  “Nothing controls Yuga.”

  “But the green stone—”

  “Is merely a beacon,” Prusias sighed. “Having the means to call Yuga does not make her my puppet, Mr. Bonn. And we don’t need her to smash this rabble on our doorstep. Grael will be enough.”

  “Of course,” said the imp delicately. “But if he is not …”

  Prusias stood taller as one of the malakhim buckled a fur-lined cloak about his broad shoulders. He chuckled at his servant’s misgivings. “If Grael should falter, we still have walls they cannot scale and a gate they cannot break. We have catapults and archers and do not forget our Workshop horrors, Mr. Bonn. Do you really believe a mob of humans and vyes can overcome dreadnoughts and gargoyles? Ha!”

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Bonn. “But it is wise to prepare for contingencies. We all need a plan B, as it were. And thus, if Your Majesty will indulge me, I’ve taken the liberty to acquire a …”

  The imp hesitated.

  “A what, Mr. Bonn? Spit it out.”

  “Er, a body double, Your Majesty.”

  Prusias was rarely speechless, but he stared now at Mr. Bonn. Was the imp joking?

  “You see,” Mr. Bonn explained, “if things go ill, we can whisk you off to safety while an imposter remains behind.”

  “I’m aware of what a body double is,” the king simmered. “What I do not know is why you believe the Great Red Dragon would need one. Do you think me feeble?”

  “No!” squeaked the imp. “It’s simply a precaution. As is the retreat I’ve had prepared.”

  “What retreat?”

  “A bunker deep inside the Workshop, my king. There was an ancient vault that I’ve had repurposed and fortified on your behalf. Should our enemies enter the city, we can fall back while your double remains to inspire your troops.”

  “No enemy is entering my city.”

  “Of course not,” said the imp hastily. “That would be unthinkable. But my king must acknowledge that unthinkable things have happened. They happened on Walpurgisnacht. They happened on the fields of Rowan. Prudence demands a plan B.”

  Prusias exploded. “Failure demands a plan B! I won’t hear this talk much less entertain it. Mention this bunker or body double again, and I’ll have you flayed. Is that clear, Mr. Bonn?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Mastering his temper, Prusias exhaled, checked his bandages in the mirror, and noticed that one was already spotted with blood. Cursing softly, he gestured impatiently at one of the malakhim to replace it. It was time to meet Lord Grael, and he was loath to betray any weakness.

  The conference with Grael and his officers was mercifully brief. In it, Grael shared his plan to divide his troops and smash the enemy’s flanks. Lord Grael’s legions comprised a hundred thousand riders. It was a smaller force than the army camped outside the capital, but the rakshasa was unconcerned and declined reinforcements from Prusias’s own legions garrisoned within the city. The general reasoned that his troops—heavy cavalry, demons, and deathknights riding armored mounts—were going against starving humans and vyes, most of whom were on foot. While there were other demons among the enemy forces, turncoat braymas and such, their numbers totaled no more than ten or fifteen thousand. Grael’s own legions were sufficient to overwhelm this enemy; he had no wish to trade speed for greater numbers. He also had no wish to share the glory. Indeed, the duke was so certain of a lopsided outcome, he wagered that traitor braymas would turn upon Rowan in a desperate bid to earn the king’s forgiveness.

  The king would not forgive them, of course, but Grael’s confidence did lift his spirits. And Prusias was not ungrateful. He was even tempted to call off Lord Grael’s assassination, but he let the impulse pass. In his hea
rt, Prusias knew his rival had to be eliminated. If Lord Grael presented a threat before, it was nothing to what he would pose in the wake of today’s victory.

  Don’t worry, Grael, we won’t forget you. I might even build you a monument. Something in bronze.

  The king’s spirits were still buoyant when he and his entourage arrived at his sun terrace, a broad stone platform that offered sweeping views of his city and surrounding lands. While the morning was dark and horrifically cold, Prusias wanted to hear the roar of battle, to see the armies clashing on the field. He wanted a Jovian perspective.

  He also wanted company.

  The smuggler was not yet aware of his arrival. Madam Petra was waiting at his breakfast table, her attention fixed on a gargoyle, whose arachnoid body twitched and trembled on a nearby parapet. The smuggler’s eyes wandered over its many legs and bulbous belly to fall upon the Workshop operator adjusting its controls. The man flashed an admiring smile—a smile that was met with cool disdain as Madam Petra looked away. Prusias had never beheld such a fetching profile.

  The woman turned, her eyes falling upon the king where he stood with Mr. Bonn and a retinue of guards and servants in the shadowed archway. Rapping his cane on the flagstones, Prusias crossed the terrace and beamed at her. She rose at once, curtsying low and surrendering her hand for a kiss. Prusias lingered over her flesh’s scent, its softness, before releasing it.

  “How good of you to join me,” he purred, pushing her chair in for her. “I trust the hour isn’t too early?”

  The woman searched the servants and guests as they continued to arrive on the terrace. “Where is Katarina? Mr. Bonn said my daughter—your hostage—would be joining us.”

  Prusias made a creditable show of surprise. “Did he, now? I don’t know why he would make such promises. A battle’s not a fitting spectacle for a girl Katarina’s age. No, it’s better she stay in the Workshop with her new friends and playmates.”

  “I was told she would be here,” insisted Madam Petra stiffly.