Fountains of Mercy

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  “They don’t taste like chicken,” Arturo observed.

  “Not even chicken tastes like chicken anymore,” Pete winked. “Not after those fryers got into the pepper patch. Pre-seasoned!”

  The men discussed troop distributions and plans for a while when a heavy hand pounded on the door. “Yes?”

  Antonia Okofor poked her head in. “Bird message, sir. That dam upstream started leaking from the top. The watcher’s going to join the refugees in the hills.”

  “Good on him,” Pete said. “Well, gentlemen, how good is Raymond Young at amphibious warfare?”

  Both Arturo and Martin bared their teeth, and Arturo said, “Not as good as he’ll need to be.”

  Nine feet high and rising, the ancient song said. What Tye Kuyper described easily matched that, and more. He shivered and panted, soaked to the skin and exhausted. “It’s a breakin’ sor. Breakin’ bad. Real bad. Chunks of rock in the river just up the bend,” he pointed that way, the same way as the approaching force. “Anyone caught out’s gonna be gone.” He wheezed a little, “An trouble from east, refugees from the sisters’ farm comin’ here too. Wilem’s with them, trying to get ‘em to hurry so don’t get caught.”

  “Good job” Martin Starhemburg said. “Very well done. You’re dismissed.”

  The teenaged boy bloomed at the praise, drew his shoulders back and nodded crisply, turned, and strode out of the room. Martin leaned back against the edge of the table. “Those gals’ timing always sucks.”

  “Don’t it, though, Sarge?” Thao Nguen observed. “Get here just in time for the Fires, then have to go it alone after their sponsor dumps ‘em, lost half last year’s crop, and now this.”

  “If it weren’t for bad luck, Mr. Nguen, some of us would have no luck at all.”

  “They’re Gerald’s problem,” Pete decided.

  “What?” Martin looked incredulous. “Gerald doesn’t have any soldiers, just the bridge staff.”

  “And the sisters have to cross the bridge to get to us. If they can and he can still keep the bad guys out, then great. If not, I’m sorry, but we can’t go out and get them, women or no.”

  Five years ago he would never have said that. Five years ago he would have been petrified by the very suggestion that someone might attack Vindobona. Now he just wanted it over, and for the river to cooperate. That’s the problem with rivers, no matter where you go, Pete thought looking over the maps and diagrams once more. They do what they want when they want, and if you happen to be in the way, or inconvenienced, well tough. You’d better flee or float. “I’m going up on the wall to see for myself.”

  Martin didn’t try to stop him, just saying, “Stay low and look cheap, sir.”

  Thao went with him. Pete climbed the interior stairs of the western gate, on the highroad to the Heritage Center. He nodded to the guards and they let him pass. He went up a half level, stepping out onto what was supposed to have been a place for sunset viewing and star watching. Instead he saw a wide sweep of brown-and-gray flecked with debris, all rushing past where a blue-white river had once run. The northern and eastern banks, lower than the city side, already caught debris as the swollen stream expanded out of the flood plain. Pete turned and looked west and south, noticing how wet the area between the river and the high road already looked. Young’s men would have a horrible mess if they tried to cross the fields, and they couldn’t all fit on the high road. We’re dry, with food and water, fuel, and walls. They have a rising river, artillery, and desperation. I think we’re even, maybe.

  The “army” approached before dawn the next day, during the dark twilight, as yet another rain shower dribbled to a stop. Arturo called Pete up to the gate to watch. “They’d look pathetic if I didn’t know what they’ve already done,” Pete told his head of defense.

  “They would. Never underestimate desperation, boss. Never, ever—think what Cynthia could do if cornered.”

  The mass moved slowly, and Pete imagined he could hear the sounds of thousands of boots sliding down into the mud and sucking out again. At least Young had thought to put the siege machines on the highroad, so they could move and would be in position to hit the gate and surrounding wall. But his men labored through the muck. A few had climbed up onto the high road and Pete thought he could see shapes moving toward the Heritage Center wall. “Surprise waiting there. Not just attack shahma, either.”

  “Nope. And they can’t mine under the walls, if they’ve even thought about trying. The groundwater’s so high it will flood their tunnels and trenches. If we could, I’d say just wait them out. But we can’t.”

  No, we can’t, not really. And I suspect someone is already trying to come in through the outflow sewers. Pete growled a little as he watched the grey-and-brown mass of men—and some animals—oozing across the sodden fields.

  Pete hoped they were men. He’d been surprised to discover that he didn’t like the prospect of killing women, even if they were part of the force attacking his city. Arturo’s suggestion that Raymond Young might use any surviving female captives from Donaupas as shields and hostages made him first queasy, then furious. I knew he was slimy, but I had no idea he’d turn out to be a monster. And where did he learn military tactics, or is he listening to former professionals, like I am? Or was he just lucky, and the people upstream just foolish?

  As the mass of men, oxen, and horses advanced on the city, a series of flashes to the west caught Pete and Arturo’s eyes. A knowing smile appeared on Arturo’s face, and he studied the Heritage Center gate with his digital binoculars. “I can’t see much yet, between the distance and the dim light, but the little surprise seems to have worked. I wonder if they’ll find the other ones, or if they’ll give up for now?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Martin Starhemburg said from the shadows on Arturo’s other side, spooking Pete. “But I suspect we’ll have a messenger at the gate in a few minutes, unless something truly strange is going on back up the highroad.”

  As he peered into the grey, Pete saw some sort of commotion: people moving out of the way of something, then getting back into loose formation. A few of the animals spooked, and one of the throwing machines lurched out of line. Pete held his breath, hoping it would plunge off the road, but someone or something stopped it while still on the pavement. “Damn.” The source of the disturbance seemed to be a rover. Yes, now he could see it better, a rover with a lot of modifications: what looked like armor plate on the sides, an energy rifle or two mounted on the roof, people riding on the rear in a framework of metal, and no front lights.

  “Stealth or saving the batteries, Sar Major?” Arturo inquired.

  “Batteries. Wonder how they charge it,” Martin replied, watching the people around the rover and farther up the road. “Who’s watching the sewers?”

  “Lonnie’s Rats. Loknori’s people know the system, and the subbies know dirty tricks. They make a good team, a long as they stay downwind,” Arturo said, as much for Pete’s benefit, Pete suspected, as to answer Martin’s question.

  As the soldiers watched the road, Pete turned and walked north, along the wall. A surge of motion out in the field struck Pete as odd, and he stopped to peer that direction. What the? How’d they . . . OK, I’ll give him points for anticipation. I wonder how many animals he’s killed, though. Someone had mounted a stone thrower onto a flatboat or sledge of some kind, and oxen and men dragged it over the boggy ground.

  Pete saw that Tom Kirkland had come up on the wall as well. Tom shook his head and spat as he watched the figures laboring to drag the monstrosity within range. “Well, that should be fun to watch.”

  “Fun?”

  “Sure. Just a touch smarter than mounting a ballista on a boat. What’s going to happen when they fire from that soft, uneven surface? Nothing good, since actions generate reactions—rock goes forward, and thrower goes backwards, or down, or both.”

  The man beside them sniffed. “That could be a hell of a muddy splash.”

  “Yes indeed.”

 
; Pete continued along the wall, trying not to hurry, trying to act as if he and Arturo had everything under control. What Pete really wanted was to see the river’s level. He needed daylight, but the twilight refused to brighten under the thick clouds. He’d reached the northern curve of the wall, by the administrative fort, before he saw what he needed to see.

  The Donau Novi had begun overrunning the docks. Upstream, it lapped into the water meadows and fields on the city side of the stream. Cold knowledge made the hydro-engineer shiver. He and Don had run the calculations twice each yesterday and reached the same conclusion: once the dam went, which he’d suspected would happen during the night, the flood surge would reach the highroad, two kilometers at least from the normal riverbank. And come a meter up the walls, possibly more but not too much more. Would Gerald’s bridge hold? It might, if that stupid little breakwater upstream diverted enough flow.

  He went back to the top of the western gate. “I think that’s a, what was the term, not catapult, back there,” he heard Arturo saying.

  Martin replied, “Trebuchet, sir, and the one on the flatboat is a ballista. I’d be more worried about the trebuchet. It can get things over the wall,” adding under his breath, “if it doesn’t come apart after the first few shots.”

  The “armored” rover approached the gate and stopped. One of the doors opened and a figure in a tailored, remarkably clean, light-colored coverall stepped out. Pete and Arturo both blinked at the sight of Raymond Young, looking like he’d arrived for a high-profile administrative meeting instead of a siege. He folded his arms and tapped the ground with his foot, as if expecting something. Pete shrugged. Young could go first.

  Finally Young grew impatient, or decided that the watchers could not read his mind. “Open the gate,” he called up to them.

  “Why?” Pete called back.

  “Because I’ve brought Company security people, the settlers you dispossessed, plus refugees. Under the Company charter for this municipality, you are required to provide subsistence-level shelter and consumables to those forced out of their own residences.” His voice carried well and he sounded bored, as if going through the usual formalities of a meeting or annual conference.

  Don joined Pete and Arturo up on the top of the gate. “What’s he want?” Don asked. “And Gerald says he votes in favor of whatever Pete wants.”

  Gerald for mayor. All in favor? “He wants in, him and his friends.”

  “A question, Mr. Young,” Arturo called down. “What happened at Donaupas?”

  Raymond seemed taken aback, or so Pete guessed from his step backward. Does he not know, or are we not supposed to know? “What do you mean? Did they have some sort of trouble?”

  “Some sort, yes.” Arturo gave Pete a look. Pete shook his head a little. Arturo called down, “Oh, and apparently the dam upstream was built by a low bidder. There’s some question of its integrity.”

  “Ah, much like anything else touched by an engineer, then,” Raymond called back with a sneer. “Enough. Let me in.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Young. You and your friends will need to go around. We don’t have supplies for us and for you.”

  Young smiled, a long, lazy, nasty smile, as if he’d wanted to be told no. “Oh good. That’s what the fools at Donaupas said too. I suspect you’ll like my toys even less than they did.”

  Pete took a deep breath, about to call down and warn them about what might be coming. Then he stopped. No. He and his followers made their choice, and if they reap the consequences, it’s their problem. That was, assuming they didn’t breach the walls, or sneak in the back, or come up through the sewers, or . . . He probably shouldn’t have listened to all of Arturo, Martin, and the other soldiers’ talks about siege warfare.

  “Get under cover, boss,” Arturo didn’t quite order as Raymond Young’s vehicle wove back through the crowd on the highroad. “And be glad they didn’t shoot at us with that roof mounted gun.”

  People shooting energy rifles at the walls didn’t bother Pete. Part of the matrix holding the basic stone material together absorbed and diffused energy blasts. After the Jarlorm War, that had become standard in all colonial walled structures, and the clash with the Gormies had just reinforced it. As long as Young had not found or devised a high-powered energy cannon, the walls could take what he dished out. However, the ballista and trebuchet could cause damage, depending on the loads and what they intended to do with them. Pete stopped at the administrative fortress long enough to make certain that Cynthia, baby Sabrina and Pete Jr., Sheila White, and the others were still under cover in one of the half cellars. Then he trotted across the city to Gerald’s bridge.

  Panting, Pete climbed up to the top of the wall on that side. In the distance, he could see the women of the sisters’ farm colony hurrying as fast as they could. Gerald’s people waited by the bridge on the city end, and a few sharpshooters lurked behind false rocks atop the eastern wall. The area around the road on the eastern shore already swam with grey-brown water, making the highroad the only route. It looked as if a few men on horses raced to intercept the women, with minimal success, so far. Pete wondered how Raymond’s men had crossed the river, then turned his worries to more important things. He looked around and found Gerald listening to someone on the radio. Oh, yeah, need to turn mine on. He dug the earpiece out of his belt pouch and turned the receiver on. After a moment of hissing and popping, he heard a faint voice. Pete adjusted the volume to a more comfortable level, just in time to hear a dull “boom” from the west.

  “They found the second surprise at the farm. Alex was right, that stuff’s dangerous,” Thao said.

  Damn, there go any windows they didn’t remove.

  “What stuff?” Gerald asked, eyes on the bridge and the water levels.

  “Something from soya beans. When they’re a little damp and you try to store them, the gas is intoxicating and asphyxiating. And explosive.”

  “Oops.” Gerald leaned forward, eyes on the women. “Crap. Trouble behind and the water’s surging.” Pete leaned as well and saw how the surface seemed to be jumping. “We’d better hope that damn mill weir does more than cause a debris jam.”

  The sound of yelling began in the west. Pete wanted to go look, but fighting was Arturo and Martin’s job. He was supposed to lead, as unlikely as that sounded. So he stayed on the wall and watched the three-dozen or so women, some on foot, some in overloaded wagons or on animal back, racing to the city, with the river and Young’s outriders both after them. Come on, please Lord, please, he begged.

  Behind him he heard a swish THUD. He turned in time to see bits of something falling back to earth on the western side of the city. “The trebuchet works,” someone said in his ear. “Damage report.”

  “Went through the storehouse roof, two blocks inside the wall. Looks like a stone block for ammo,” a new voice replied.

  Thanks be, not fireblobs then.

  “Concentrate fire at the crew and at the frame,” Martin ordered. “Keep them from reloading easily.”

  After another long pause he heard a thud and an odd squelching sound, barely audible over the river noises and yelling. “Scratch one ballista,” Arturo reported.

  “Come on, come on,” Gerald prayed under his breath. “Faster, faster.” The women seemed so close, but now that they’d gotten to the paved road, the men behind could move faster too. Pete bit his lip. He’d been ordered not to tell the men when to fire—he didn’t know sniping from stardust, as Prof Sar-Major Martin had let him know. Shoot, shoot! What are you waiting for? They’re in range, come on, shoot, for the love of Heaven shoot! He grabbed the edge of the stone in front of him, trying to will the women across and the men to fire on the raiders.

  One of the women, the slowest runner, stumbled, and Young’s men whooped, their triumph, audible over the sound of the river and Pete’s own heartbeats. A burst of light shot out, hitting the woman, before a spatter of shots began darting out from the towers of the bridge and the top of the wall. The other women continued
on, leaving their dead sister behind. The first horse set foot on the bridge, and the rider slowed but kept coming. Pete heard the gate open below him, and the women surged ahead. Those on foot picked up speed as best they could, and the soldiers fired close behind them. The instant the last form crossed the central arch of the bridge, Gerald called, “Pull back! Pull back! Activating pass through in five.” Several men clambered down from the far tower and ran pell-mell toward the city, and the men on the wall began firing, covering the maneuver. Two of Young’s men returned fire—their shots splashed against the wall, and Pete ducked.

  “Four.” Pete sensed a rumble through his feet, and heard a new, growling tone in the river sounds.

  “River’s in, the river’s in!” Arturo called.

  “Three” Gerald reported, calm.

  A thud from below and, “East gate shut and locked. All present or accounted for.”

  “Two.”

  The rushing roar drowned out everything else and Pete thought he felt the very city shake as the floodwaters hit the lower wall.

  “One.”

  The central bridge deck slid up and back as the guardrails became guide rails and hydraulic pistons pulled the span in toward the city. Through the gap Pete saw the odd shape of the pier, with an upstream prow like a boat.

  “Wait, the piers deflect water.”

  Gerald smiled. “And debris. And without the center span, there’s more vertical space if anything needs to come through. And it keeps unfriends out. We found a shipment of well casings and used those and that heavy crude for the fluid for the pistons.” His smile weakened a little as he looked down. “I believe we are seeing a point one percent probability flood.”

  Pete looked as well and felt his eyes bulging. A thousand-year flood indeed, he gulped. The water came a meter up the outside of the wall. The other side of the river stretched as far as he could see, at least to the trees three kilometers away.