“But think about it,” argued Ember. “Withdrawing in good order will allow us to return better prepared…”
“I said, no. You told me last time out that I need to make decisions and stick to them. That’s what I’m doing. Your suggestion is noted, but we’re staying.”
“Only one thing for it then,” said Hannar-Ghan. “Fura-3 time!”
“Absolutely not,” Roon-Kotke snapped. “You’ll kill us all with a blast charge. We need to disable the sentry not vapourise it.”
“Disable… Yes,” Lor-Qui muttered, before tapping a page in his notebook.
“Got something, Lor?” asked the Caster-Corporal.
“Perhaps. You remember my DoubleQuick modification, I take it?”
How could they forget? Lor’s extra code had saved their lives back in gate nineteen, accelerating an Ocara-2 to allow Ember to swim an almost impossible distance between two underwater buildings.
“DoubleQuick was born out of some early experiments with the Ampa binding. Doubling the oconic output ultimately gave me the best balance in terms of potency, longevity and energy consumption. But I tried higher configurations too — fourfold and fivefold boosts. These delivered more output, but they did so inefficiently, drawing too much power. However, one of those old bindings might work here.”
“As fascinating as all that is, Lor,” Hannar-Ghan said. “Ampa don’t work. Already tried it.”
“The normal Ampa has proved quite ineffective, certainly. But a modified binding might give the sentry enough of a jolt to disrupt the oconic weave, hopefully causing it to unravel. We’d disable the conjuring rather than destroy it.”
“And why didn’t you mention this before?”
“The code is unfinished. And somewhat inelegant.”
“But will it work?”
“It’s highly unstable and I’m not entirely sure what the effect will be on another oconic target. But the theory is sound.”
“Well, if nobody else has any bright ideas…” Roon-Kotke glanced at each of them in turn. Ember shook his head.
“How long does it take to cast?” the Corporal asked.
“Same as a normal Ampa. All I need is a bit of peace and quiet to recite the incantation.”
“Then do it.” Roon-Kotke barked the order. “Everybody sit tight and keep your bindings capped.”
Ember leaned back against the wall as Lor-Qui started to incant his hacked binding. The kid was undeniably brilliant. Logician material. Roon-Kotke was lucky to have him. He doubted that any other combat-tech would have survived their last mission in the same way Lor had. He still didn't quite understand the oconics behind the Ocosconan’s miraculous escape. Something to do with bubbles. To be honest, he’d dozed off a little when Lor had explained it.
All Ember knew was that Lor’s escape was indicative of the combat-tech’s quick and creative thinking. For when you spend your days fighting things that you've never encountered before, sometimes you need to throw out the rule book. Maybe dip that rule book in pitch and set it alight, then throw it out. It's why the Corporal allowed him to carry a blade and a bow. It's why he encouraged Lor-Qui to tinker with the core bindings. Together with Hannar-Ghan’s unwavering strength and pigheaded loyalty; plus Junn’s youthful inexperience and fear of almost everything that moved, they made a damned good team.
Roon-Kotke sighed. “This is going to disable it, you said?”
“Absolutely,” said Lor-Qui, just before the room exploded.
4. THE COLD BLACK RIVER
STONE WIPED HIS HAND across his forehead, leaving behind a dark smear of filth.
For two bells he’d trudged along the river’s foreshore, trousers rolled up to his knees, basket on his back, fetid black mud oozing around his legs and inbetween his toes. And what did he have to show for it? A cracked clay pipe. Four rusted rivets. An arm’s length of old rope. Barely a crown’s-worth of booty if he had to guess what they’d fetch at the marine store. A pittance. He looked towards the murky river Eene, judging the water line. Perhaps there was still time to dig up something of greater value before the tide came back in.
After all, he needed the money.
He straightened his cap, ignored his aching back, and looked towards the half-built bridge at Eddo’s Wharf. Two boys, muck-scrappers like him, were already sifting through the mud and shit beneath its incomplete arch. Might not be anything left, but Stone reckoned it still might be worth a look-see. Considering the number of rowboats, barges, skiffs, dredgers, pleasure boats and huge, iron-hulled cargo ships that passed by, there was always something new to find with each tide. Even lumps of fat had value. Thrown overboard by the cooks on bigger vessels, fat could fetch a pretty profit if you could scrape up enough of it.
Stone took a deep breath and trudged on.
Every day he walked the stretch of river between Eddo’s and the Eng-Zo warehouses. There and back. Rain or shine. Risking life and sometimes limb to pluck treasure from the mire. And by treasure, he hunted for scraps of old canvas, nails, washers, bottles and bones. With a bit of luck, a brass button or two. With a bit more luck, a silver coin, even a whole purse. Stone had dug up a money bag during his first week on the foreshore, twenty-one crowns jingling inside it. It was the thought of finding another one that brought him back to the mud day after day.
He moved slowly, the black river sludge sucking at his legs, reluctant to let him go. It squelched in his odd sandals. One brown. One black. One too big. One slightly too small, his toes overhanging the end. But they served their purpose, protecting him from the mud’s hidden dangers — sharp rocks and broken glass, copper nails and sheared iron. Walking barefoot on the foreshore was a foolish way to scrap. Stone had a criss-cross of ugly scars on the soles of his feet to prove it.
A fat-bottomed barge ploughed past, churning up the foul water. He watched the black waves break over the mud, hissing and bubbling, hoping they carried something of real worth with them. He waited a moment for the water to recede, looking for telltale glints of metal in the filth, odd shapes or unusual colours that would mark something worth plunging his arm into the malodorous mud. Just as he’d been taught.
He checked the water line again, gauging the distance to the bridge. If he walked higher up the foreshore, where the mud wasn’t as deep, he reckoned he could still make it there before the tide made the area dangerous. The sewer pipe beyond, another profitable (if disgusting) place to scrap, would have to wait until another day.
He turned toward the river bank.
A voice yelled out behind him. Familiar. But pained.
He turned, the mud resisting him, slurping in protest. Mistress Yali waved to him from the water line, down on one knee, struggling to stand, the wicker basket on her back weighing her down. She wore an old bonnet to keep her greying hair tied up, a ragged brown dress and an old leather apron with a large pocket.
“A little help?” She hollered at him.
Stone slogged towards her, lifting his knees high with each step, fighting the mud’s sticky embrace. Scrappers looked out for each other. The tides on the Eene were often unpredictable, the currents fast, the water deathly cold. Mistress Yali had been here longer than all of them. She'd rescued Stone more than once; told him where best to work, what was worth raking up and which of the fencers in the city offered the best prices. Without Yali’s guidance, Stone would have died his first week on the foreshore, no sandals, no basket, no respect for the river.
Helping her was an easy decision.
By the time he reached her, the old woman was encircled by shallow water.
“You shouldn't be working alone,” Stone said, hooking his hand under her arm. “Not this close to the water.”
“I'm not alone,” Yali said, as Stone pulled her up out of the mire. “You're here aren't you?”
“And if I hadn't come by?”
“But you did.” Back on her feet, Yali looked down at her muddy apron and smoothed it down, brushing away some of the slime. She hunched her shoulders, reposi
tioning the basket on her back. “That's better. Wash from that damned barge near knocked me off me feet. Didn't hear it coming. Can you see my stick?”
Stone scanned the thick mud, but couldn’t see anything. He shook his head.
“Hells,” Yali sighed. “I liked that stick.”
“What are you doing down here?” Stone asked her. “You told me never to work the water line.”
“And I stand by that morsel of advice. You should still abide by it. As for me, I've worked this river since I was a young’un. I know its moods as well as any of the boat captains who sail it. I can feel the rhythm of its tides like I can feel my own heartbeat. There’s often good scrapping to be found closer to the water, long as you keep clear of the Justice galleys. But you’re right, I should have been more careful.”
“Yes, you should have,” Stone mumbled.
“Found much today?”
Stone shook his head.
“Some days the river doesn’t give up its treasure easily.” The old woman reached into the pocket of her apron. “But...” She rooted around inside it until she pulled out something thin, shiny and rectangular. “As you’ve been kind enough to help me out, I’d like to give you this.” She offered the object to him on the palm of her hand. “Take it.”
A silver belt buckle. Worth a few crowns, easy.
“Go on. Take it,” Yali urged again, nodding her permission. “For your mother.”
“I can't,” Stone said, surprised by her generosity, confused by it. While scrappers looked out for one another, they usually kept what they found to themselves. “This is too much. If anything, I owe you. For all the things you’ve done for me.”
“Pah! Don’t be an arse, boy. Take it. I insist… I bagged a good haul yesterday. Chanced on a corpse ‘neath a barge by the wharf. Wedged under the bow, all bloated and white. Poor sod. I figured he had no further need for his purse, buttons, pinky ring, that buckle I just give you…” She raised a foot out of the mud. “Or these boots. Nice, eh? I thank him for his generous donation. So take the gods-damned silver.” Yali grabbed his hand, opened up his fingers and stuffed the buckle into it. “Get a good price for it. Looks like it’s worth at least three crowns. Maybe more. Don't let that bastard Rook cheat you out of it. Does he know about your mother?”
“I don’t think so.” Stone examined the buckle, tracing his finger over the loops and swirls engraved in the silver. The Eene licked at his legs.
“Then watch you don’t let it slip. For the old bugger will play on it; pluck your strings and show you a quicker route to your heart’s desire. If you ain’t smart, he'll have you thieving or blagging with his boys ‘fore you know it. I don't want that future for you. Your mother, bless her heart, wouldn't want that neither.”
“This isn't much of a future.” The cold black river. The slate-coloured mud. The refuse, the sewage, the sulphurous stink. The fear you won’t find anything worth selling, ending the day with the shakes and an empty belly.
“It ain't. People might mock us. But what we do is honest work and we don’t hurt no one doing it. New opportunities with every tide. You could do a lot worse in this city. At least we’re free. As much as anyone is with the Mulai in charge.”
“Thank you. I'll pay you back. I promise. No matter how long it takes. Once I free my mother, I’m coming back for you. You’re on my list.”
Settle the debt.
Free his mother.
Repay Mistress Yali for her kindness.
“Ah, you’re a sweet one.” The old woman patted him on the head. “You ain’t lost your ambition and that’s a rare thing, especially down here. But I fear this is my lot in life and I've accepted that sad fact. In time, you might too. It’s hard to raise yourself up and out of the mud.”
“But not impossible? You told me the Rook did it.”
“Aye, but the journey cost him dear. Ain’t the same person he once was… Hides behind that mask of his. So best not bring that up if you see him, or anybody who works for him. He don’t like it known. Got that?” Yali stared at him, as if daring him to disagree.
Stone nodded.
“Good. Well then, enough talk. Let's be going, shall we? The tide's coming back in.”
Stone stuffed the belt buckle into his trouser pocket and held out his hand. “Here, let me help you.”
Yali swatted his offer of assistance away. “I'm not that old, boy.” She stomped past him. “Or soft. What is it you say? ‘Hard as stone’. Well, I’m tough as the iron hull of a Greatship. Ain’t nothing breaks me. So come along! And do try to keep up.”
5. THE WEAPON WE SEEK
CASTER-CAPTAIN ZAN-NAKA MINDHAN shook his head in disappointment. Not at the small and squarish room he used as his office; nor at the plain wooden desk he sat behind, which wobbled whenever he leant on it. No. Roon-Kotke Khundhan recognised the man’s pitying look. He’d seen it the last time he’d come back from a mission without anything to show for it.
“So…” Zan-Naka said at last, tapping his pen on the desk. “What happened after Lor-Qui fired this unlicensed and untested Ampa charge?”
As usual, the oval-faced Captain had squeezed himself into his tight dress uniform — sky blue with white trim, silver buttons barely keeping it fastened. A sweep of brown hair covered his forehead, while small round optics perched on a puffy nose that looked as if a bee had stung it.
“The sentry was destroyed sir,” Roon-Kotke explained with a wince. “Unfortunately, we believe the walls of the facility had been weakened by the firefight and that’s why the roof collapsed after the explosion. There was no way to advance after that, so I had no choice but to order a return to the Terminus.”
The Captain fixed him with a hard stare. Roon-Kotke couldn’t help but look away. His eyes flicked to Zan-Naka’s long-suffering assistant, Daode-Kotke Khundhan. Even he looked more sour-faced and judgemental than usual.
“You do know,” said Zan-Naka, “that by destroying that Ocara weapon, we lost a prime opportunity to study it? Nobody else has come across a sentry-class Ocara before and we might not get the chance again.”
“Sir,” Roon-Kotke began. “I am truly…”
Zan-Naka held up his hand and Roon-Kotke stopped in mid-sentence.
“I’m not finished, Corporal.” Zan-Naka pushed his optics up onto his nose. “You do remember what we do here? You do understand the primary focus of our mission?” Roon-Kotke nodded. “Then what you should have done when you realised that you were facing a new and potentially valuable conjuring, was secure the room. There had to have been another option. Perhaps you could have waited for the sentry's charge to run down?”
“Sir, that might have taken weeks. Months.”
“Because of your actions we'll never know will we?”
“We were pinned down by Fura. My overriding concern was the safety of my squad…”
“As it should be. But if you were so worried about your men, why didn’t you fall back? Especially when you realised that you were outmatched? Did the idea even occur to you?!”
“Yes,” said Roon-Kotke, thinking back to what Ember had said. “But...”
“In fact, did you need to engage the sentry at all?”
“Well, I…”
“Faced with such an opponent, you should have returned to the Terminus and requested assistance. By destroying the Ocara, you have hampered our chances of venturing deeper into the facility. You might have destroyed other precious weapons stored there. For your sake, Roon-Kotke, I hope you haven’t. I gave you the chance to lead a squad after Yiren-Mar disappeared. But you keep coming back to me empty-handed.” Zan-Naka pulled a piece of paper towards him and stared down at it. “Your record doesn’t make good reading, does it? In gate fifteen, you lost Yuanu-Zoza. In gate seventeen, you unleashed an infestation of arachnids. You didn’t find anything in gate eighteen and flooded nineteen, rendering most of the facility there impassable… I trust I didn’t make a mistake in promoting you?”
“No, sir. I’ll do better. I…�
�
Roon-Kotke considered reminding the Captain about the Witching Jars they’d brought back from gate eleven and the capacitors plundered from gate twelve. Hells, they’d returned with a couple of spouters from gate nineteen, still in their tins. Didn’t that count for something? Some failures maybe, but also some successes. As for losing Yuanu-Zoza, that wasn’t his fault and he’d been cleared of any blame or wrongdoing. But you didn’t argue with the Captain. You didn’t disrespect the chain of command.
So he gave Zan-Naka the wishy-washy answer: “I didn’t want to give up, sir. I wanted to push forward, not fall back.” Because I’m not like my father. I’m not a coward. “If it helps, my squad and I will gladly go back with the technicians to start digging through the rubble.”
“That is precisely where I should send you. But I need you for another gate. The technicians can handle some digging on their own.” Zan-Naka sighed and blew out a long breath. “I don’t like doing this, Roon. But you made a bad decision. I want you to learn from it. Work all the angles next time. Our mission here is to retrieve Kajjon technology for the good of Ocoscona. Not to blow it up. A sentry like the one you found would have been an important and powerful addition to our defences.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Zan-Naka looked at him. “Perhaps having a Mulai in your squad is clouding your judgement. Lord Su-Zo has promised to send me some fresh casters. Would you like Cobb replaced? I’m still not sure that I trust a mercenary.”
The offer to ditch Cobb might have been tempting before gate nineteen. Yes, the Mulai constantly questioned his decisions. But without Ember’s heroics, he and the rest of his squad would have drowned in the silent depths of a cold Acharawan lake. Cobb was older — Roon-Kotke guessed he was in his late thirties. But he’d come to appreciate that the Mulai’s age was an advantage. It gave him a different perspective. And those barbarian weapons he carried? They gave the squad a unique set of skills. Besides, who would he get if they sent Cobb away? Another rookie like Junn that he'd have to train up? Or somebody switched in from Rahi's squad, who'd resent the move and potentially undermine his authority? Deep down, he knew that he owed Cobb for saving their lives. He needed a chance to balance the scales.
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