Night's Engines

by Trent Jamieson

  Flashes of woodland came to him, trees leaning against each other, gnarled and weary. Screams came near and distant. Mumbled conversation, because the Old Men never stopped talking. Cadell had managed to rein all that in, but David knew how much it had cost him. David could taste death in his mouth, they had killed recently, they were always killing. He felt some sympathy with their hunger, with their rage, even if it was directed at him. After all, whether they liked it or not, whether he liked it or not, they were linked now. And would be until either they died or he did.

  Margaret was wrong – Death didn't wait for them, it accompanied them.

  The Old Men were some distance to the south-west, but not nearly far enough away. At least now they couldn’t catch him for a while. David sensed that even if he made it to the Tearwin Meet, and activated the Engine, they would still come after him, that they wouldn't stop.

  His stomach rumbled.

  “You better eat something,” Margaret said, lobbing a can at him. He snatched it out of the air easily, reflexes so much better attuned to food, even when it was wrapped in metal. The tin opener followed. He caught that too.

  Beef, he could sense it even through the can.

  “Thank you,” he said. “What about you?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  David envied her.

  He ate alone, watching the city fall behind the horizon, his back turned to her because he was ashamed how he looked when he ate. The meat was cold, and salty, there was no blood to it, it was unsatisfying. When he was done, he wiped his face, walked past her and checked the larder, certainly a lot of food.

  He opened another can and ate it too.

  And by the time he was done, Hardacre was little more than a soft and fading glow, the dark around it possessed of a great and terrible authority.

  He hoped that Whig paid good attention to the note David had left him. David worried that he was leaving them buried to the neck in trouble, hadn’t he been doing that all along? Since the moment he’d run from his assassinated father – the body still twitching – he’d been leaving behind one darkness after another, and more bodies than he wished to dwell upon.

  What did it matter that he was doing it again?

  After all, if he failed, then none of them had that much time left anyway. Old Men or Roil, there really wasn’t a lot of difference. At least the Old Men wouldn’t have them twitching to the commands of Witmoths; the Old Men’s one command was die.

  Simple.

  Even the biggest fool could understand that.

  CHAPTER 17

  Let us be honest. When all lost their heads, Stade didn’t. Madness leads to madness, but his was a particularly rational one. How are we to blame with such distance? With distance, quite easily, blame and analysis are all we have left. Stade rose to power because no one, Engineer or Confluent alike, ever offered a viable alternative.

  When others faltered, he remained strong and persuasive. A charm that combined political aptitude with coercion.

  Consequences of Defeat, Henbest & Tate

  MIRRLEES-ON-WEEP, TEN YEARS AGO

  1500 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL EDGE

  Two days after the great storm when, for the first time in a generation, the mighty gates to the levees had been closed, Stade walked through a city swept clean. But that could never hide the nature of this suburb. Excrement remained excrement, no matter how you scrubbed it.

  Tomlinson Pharmaceuticals was built in a neighbourhood less than salubrious, places that Stade tried to avoid because he had grown up in them. He did not like to revisit the scrambling hell of his childhood, but there were times that such excursions couldn’t be avoided. And he could trust this work to no one. Two Vergers walked with him, a new recruit by the name of Tope – who had already proven himself loyal – and Mr Sheff, an old and canny bastard Stade had known since he’d first joined the Council. Sheff knew when to whisper and when to murder, and could differentiate between the two.

  A young boy tried to sell them the latest street drug, fresh blood obviously, or he would have recognised two Vergers. Sheff snarled at him, Tope reached for his knife, but at a headshake from Stade, he slid it back into its sheath. And the boy, wide-eyed, sprinted for his life down the nearest alleyway.

  Stade smiled, then frowned. He'd been that boy once, he wished him well. Tomlinson himself met them at the door. A nervous bird-like man with owlish glasses that he kept sliding up and down his nose, an irritating tic that had made it easy for Stade to hate the man from the beginning.

  He led them through a building that was the picture of industry. Machines whirred, men and women worked at various conveyor belts, sorting and packaging. Tomlinson's staff must have numbered at least a hundred people. Obviously the production of salves and map powder was quite lucrative.

  There was no small talk – certainly no talk of the Grand Defeat. Stade only got that in the halls of Parliament now, thanks to that damn Medicine Paul. At least Tomlinson was deferential, he opened the door to his office, a big room on a mezzanine with a window that afforded a view of the workers below. Stade wondered if they were as terrified of Tomlinson as the chemist was of him. At a nod from the mayor, Sheff pulled the blinds to the window closed. Stade could see sweat beading on his host's brow.

  Stade could tell that Tomlinson hated him. No matter how hard the chemist tried to hide it, or his fear, it shone bright in his eyes. Still, he walked to his desk, picked up a clipboard and scanned its contents, as though the mayor was just like any other client.

  “All of the subjects have acted similarly under the drug,” Tomlinson said. “A low level of euphoria, a gentle calm. Though it can have side effects, a certain haphazardness of character, moments of clarity giving way to confusion. An addict could be quite conflicted, almost mad.”

  “Everything is weighted with... consequence, Mr Tomlinson.”

  “To scramble the mind so, it is–”

  “Exactly what modern medicine does, and this is a very specific form of medicine. Now, the drug is easy to produce?”

  “Yes, and to produce cheaply. We can have it in the... facilities within a month.”

  Facility was a polite way of saying prison, those groaning, fetid pits where the damned would cling to a drug like this. Stade chewed on his cigar. It would start with the prisons and spread out from there. He said, “Good. The, um, recipe

  – I want it distributed as widely as possible.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Tomlinson rose to his full height, almost as tall as Stade. “This drug will reduce the will of a city.”

  “Mr Tomlinson, I am not putting it in the water. “ Stade loomed over the chemist, tapped a little ash onto the ground. “Believe me, there are far more dangerous things than this drug you have invented. Far more dangerous things.”

  Tope cleared his throat. And Tomlinson’s eyes grew pleasingly wide.

  Stade said, “Of course you have nothing to fear. This is a legal contract.”

  Tomlinson took a deep breath. He walked to his desk, watched closely by Tope and Sheff. He pulled a file from the teetering pile of notes. “Everything you need is here.”

  Stade walked from the building; the boy was back on the corner, but the moment he saw Stade and his Vergers, he ran. Tope gave him a look, and Stade shook his head, in a few weeks he would be selling Stade’s new drug. Though perhaps not on this corner, there would be too many bad memories here.

  The production of drugs was such a dangerous activity, all those chemicals. Fires got out of hand all too quickly. It would be a terrible tragedy of course, and as a mayor who had risen on the back of small business he would speak at the funeral. One did such things for important constituents: it was a sign of respect.

  He couldn’t risk anyone in Parliament finding this out. Not even Warwick, he wouldn’t understand. His friend wouldn’t understand a lot of things that Stade had put into action. A week after the Grand Defeat, and still no one seemed to understand that the world was ending.

  R
ain clouds had gathered. Stade pulled Tomlinson’s file under his jacket, and scowled. He hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella.

  Part Two

  Drift

  I should have taken David with me, not left him with the monster Cadell. Though in truth where I had ended up was just as dangerous. The worst thing was all the time I had: to doubt, to regret, to grow fearful. I'd been left alone, my companions murdered, my city squandered for something that was already lost to it, an Underground that had been overrun by Mayor Stade's enemies.

  We were all haunted by the past, by the ghosts that drift and challenge. In a kingdom of the dead with night drawing close, what else could you expect? I don't think anyone slept easily in those last few weeks. We were waiting, every single one of us, for something to come. Roil or not, we knew it would be bad.

  And it was.

  Whispers in the Dark, Medicine Paul

  CHAPTER 18

  There was no city quite like her. When I close my eyes, sometimes all I see are those walls, ice-slicked, and I half fancy that the earth moves to the beat of the Four Cannon. Tate haunts me still.

  Fragments of the Old City, Margaret Penn

  THE CITY OF TATE

  WITHIN THE ROIL BUT NOT OF THE ROIL

  Margaret increased the night sight of her field glasses and swept the horizon, tracking the thin pale line of Mechanism Highway. No matter how she adjusted her field glasses, the convoy did not appear.

  In the south-eastern quarter, Sentinels fired at a drift of floaters blown in too close to the walls. The Sentinels' bullets punctured the creatures' gas sacks with a wet slap. Margaret turned towards the sound and watched the last floater, its jaws snapping uselessly, crash to the ground like a burst balloon.

  Another threat efficiently dealt with, as all threats were here. Footsteps crunched on the ground behind her.

  “Go home,” Lieutenant Sara Varn said, her breath escaping in plumes from cracked lips as she spoke. “You're not meant to be here until tomorrow and I will not have a weary sentry on my wall. Get some rest.”

  Wrapped in the standard black cloak of Tate's Sentinels, Sara’s single concession to Halloween was a tiny silver skull pinned to her collar. She wore heavy spiked boots. Strapped to her back were two ice rifles, while a rime blade and ice pistols were holstered around her waist. Ice weaponry proved effective against the creatures of the Roil, but was inefficient. It took considerable time to charge up and reload each gun, so Sentinels bristled with weapons, swapping and changing from pistol to rifle and (if severely pressed) to blade.

  The city itself remained the best weapon.

  Ice sheathed the Jut; refrigeration units lipped each merlon, pumping a chill into the air that transformed the cloying warmth of the Roil's winds into frigid gusts.

  Sara clapped her gloved hands together and, despite the futility of the gesture, blew on them.

  “Of course. While you're here...” Sara pointed east. “A nest of Sappers, staying an inch or so out of range of the main guns.”

  Flares went up.

  Margaret stared at the spot with her glasses. Six of the beasts disturbed the ruined earth. Their huge dark eyes met the light fearlessly. Then Roil spores, drawn by the heat, smothered the flares – and darkness drowned the Sappers again.

  “Quite a large nest,” Margaret said.

  Sara's eyes lit with a grim humour, she clapped her hands together again. “Already under control. We're sending drones out soon. Heavy endothermic bombing, ground breakers. You know, the standard stuff. Odd though, we haven't seen Sappers this close to the city in years, they nearly destroyed the north wall. We got them then and we will this time, too.”

  Margaret kept her gaze squarely on the Sappers, they did not move. Just stared at the city walls, like they were waiting for something. “When are the drones being launched?”

  Sara laughed. “Soon. Just go home and rest. Tate can look after herself without you.”

  “All right, I'm going,” Margaret said finally, and lowered her field glasses, slipping them into a case hung from her hip. Still she hovered there a moment longer.

  “I'll send a message the moment they arrive,” Sara said.

  “The bells are set, so ring me. Three for the moment they drive through the gates.”

  “Three it is. It's always three, we've done this before many times. Now go.”

  Margaret climbed to the top of the Wire-tower – the stairs creaking with her every movement – and opened a cabinet in which hung a half-dozen leather harnesses. She pulled out hers and hooked the harness around her chest and waist, making sure the tugs and collars fit snugly; then linked herself to the wire.

  She flicked a switch by the side of the tower, smiling despite herself as gears clicked into place. Beam engines hummed, counterweights fell, and the tower rose another couple of yards, making it the highest point of this section of the wireway, lifting her into a zone of hot winds. The whole structure shook slightly, then the wire tightened, lifting her even higher as it did so. Margaret made a final check of her harness; the hooks and wheels were in line, free of tangles and no cracks in evidence. Satisfied, she nodded to herself, then let go. She hovered there for the briefest of moments, a final hesitation perhaps, but it was too late, gravity had its way and she flew, suspended by the humming wire.

  “Whatever you do, do not look down,” someone had warned her once.

  Such advice was absurd! Where else could you look? There were no stars above, just the netting doming the city, and the dark blur of the Roil. Down below, Tate’s lights shimmered, distant and comforting, beautiful in their constancy.

  From here it was easy to imagine the streetlights as constellations. But these were constellations crowded with people, going to and from work, trudging home in heavy cramponed boots designed for the frozen roadways. Someone, looking up, saw her and waved. Margaret waved back.

  Margaret adored the wireway. Of all her parents' inventions, she loved it most. She felt ungainly and too tall, cramped in on all sides, anywhere but here. Here she was free, the wind roaring in her ears, the wheels on her harness sibilant and swift, and the city a sparkling microcosm below.

  Pride for her parents' and her city's achievements swelled within her. When she had been younger, she was jealous of all the time they spent away from her. Until she realised her parents were not just protecting the city. They were protecting her.

  She reached the next wall, and something slammed against the sky. The Four Cannon burned, and as she watched, the first one tumbled towards her. She tried to release herself from the wire and couldn’t.

  “You’re dead, just like us,” a cold-breathed voice whispered in her ear. She turned and looked at Dale's face. Her first kiss. He had no lips now. He reached to stroke her face or scratch her eyes, and the cannon fell.

  THE PINCH

  1392 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

  Margaret woke, the last shadows of the dream clenched around her heart, to a distant detonation.

  Where was she? She snatched at the rifle thatlaid beside her. They’ve found me, she thought, her legs already swinging over the bunk. She nearly cracked her head on the hard roof of the gondola – smaller than the Dawn. She blinked, no smell of the pub. And she remembered she wasn’t in the Dawn, nor her room in the Habitual Fool, but that she was in the air nonetheless.

  Another rumble in the near distance; and she realised that it was no iron ship, just a storm, and she was still on the Aerokin named Pinch, flying to the city of Drift.

  She yawned. For the first time in weeks, she had slept more than a couple of hours straight. And while she still felt a bone-deep weariness, it was marginally better. David was snoring in the bed across from her; she looked over at him. His eyes were closed, but his mouth had curved wide with a smile that was almost manic. It chilled her, she would not have been surprised to see Witmoths sliding over those lips, except David’s transformation was something utterly different.

  He shifted between talkative and quiet. And som
etimes he just stared at her, only the gaze possessed an intensity that David had never had. Margaret would glare back and David would shake his head and apologise.

  Oh, and his dreams. The boy was always whimpering and crying out. He might possess the power that Cadell had given him, but it hadn’t desensitised him to fear. He would snap awake – Margaret’s sleep (which was hitched with its own baggage) already broken – the Orbis on his finger gleaming, and sob, till tears and snot slicked his face.

  He didn’t seem to care that Margaret watched him.

  And despite the small space, and the fact that she hadn’t caught him, she was sure that he was still taking Carnival. How else could he remain so calm, when every bit of her was itching to be free of this cabin? All he did during the day was read from his small stash of Shadow Council novels. Margaret had tried to read one of them, and found it utterly unpalatable. The books hadn’t changed much in style or substance since the ones that her father had read, perhaps a little crueller, a little more violent. All they did was make her yearn for her parents’ library, and remind her again what had been lost. But the books kept David occupied, which in itself would be good, but it also made it easy for him to avoid talking strategy.

  They had no plan for Drift, for what needed to be done when they arrived. Kara had said that there would be more information in the Pinch, but that had been little more than an inventory of supplies. They were going in blind, and as far as Margaret saw it, that was David’s fault.

  She slid from her bed, landed on her feet lightly and walked towards the control panel – or what would be the control panel at some stage when Pinch had matured – as the Aerokin hummed to herself softly. Everything seemed all right – though Margaret really couldn’t tell.

  Outside it was still dark. She touched the translucent wall and it cleared and she could see in the distance, through the murk, a fire burning down below. Then she realised that it was moving slowly, almost imperceptibly, towards them. She tapped the wall again and watched it shift, drawing the image into tighter focus. She couldn’t make out much, other than that it was not one fire, but three. Already they were drawing away from the fire.