Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  Orontes nodded in a conciliatory gesture. “With all due respect to the bravery of your people, Commodore, how much more combat capacity do you have? Could you withstand double the incursion? Triple? What about an all-night attack of much larger creatures? I know you’re a smart man, surely you’ve considered this?” he finished, and folded his hands, patient and respectful.

  Moss cut his eyes and decided to have the conversation in the open. He’d made it a point to be honest, painfully so, and he wasn’t about to stop now, especially in light of such an unusual discussion. “My officers and I estimate that we could repel twice the attack without permanent loss. At four times the invasive forces, we would cease to exist as a community.”

  A mutter spread among the riders. They were brave and direct, but their consideration of failure had never extended to such extrapolations. Moss waved for calm and directed his implacable gaze at Orontes. Saavin stepped closer, her youthful indignation flaring across a face speckled with the sun.

  She glared at Orontes. “Get to the point. If the Commodore won’t ask, I will.”

  With a blank look, the visitor who had caused such uproar spoke yet again. “I’ve described the creatures that will be here, and I serve under a man who is, without limitations, a military genius. He is an instinctive, relentless, honorable fighter, and he calculates that our guns and your dragons can and will defeat any threat that erupts from the Underneath. Before you ask, let me tell you what French Heavener has at his disposal. 300 rifles. An entire platoon of Hecate and Barrett fifty calibers, manned by a family that is born to kill. There are two light companies with rifles, excellent training, and serious earthworks defenses. Moveable shooting platforms are rebuilt each month, and there are even fifty bowmen who fire bodkin armor-piercing arrows at the first wave of creatures, usually scale hounds, as they emerge from the darkness. New Madrid harvests all of the toxic glands from each kill, and the resulting poison, while not fatal to the demons, has a serious enough effect that they will rarely progress to around the town’s fields. If that isn’t enough to stop whatever the killing moon brings, there are nearly 600 reservists, all armed, who can be deployed to the flanks of the invaders within three minutes. I tell you truly, New Madrid is a tough nut to crack, and even without your magnificent dragon soldiers, I think it likely that they will survive the coming onslaught.” Orontes slumped with the effort of speaking, but waved off any assistance.

  Silence greeted his plea. Then, a single voice, Saavin, asked, “How long do they have?”

  “Next month,” Orontes said. He looked down, refusing to meet the eyes of the dragonriders. Jindy, who peered over the wall, gave a disdainful snort that blew the leaves from a nearby tree branch. Dragons hated demonic creatures; it was as instinctive a disgust as had ever been known. Their relish for combat was only exceeded by their roar of victory with each kill.

  Delandra moved forward with her hands on hips in a challenging pose. “And yet, you think that the opposite is not true? We cannot survive these . . . things? How many of these enormous attackers will we face, if they are here at all? Three? How large are they? You’ve been rather vague, except to describe the destruction of Asheville. I understand it may have had a lasting impact on you, Orontes, but for anyone to even consider aiding your community, we need to know more. Your earlier picture of these invaders leaves me wondering if you underestimate the abilities of our fighting dragons, in which case, I would be forced to inquire why you think they can defend New Madrid, given your guns.” She folded her arms and stared at Orontes with suspicion.

  Orontes acknowledged her question with a shooting motion from one hand. “Guns alone can kill the largest demon, it’s true. So can dragons. Rifles and draconic defenses share that strength, but they also share a common weakness.”

  Moss Eilert’s voice rumbled. “They can’t stop the loss of the town.”

  “Yes, Commodore. The beasts can be stopped, but not quickly enough, and not at a sufficient range as to intervene before they break through Trinity’s defenses. The same is true for New Madrid, although the town is not nearly as valuable as the farmlands. Those fields are the sole reason for humanity to live, quite literally, on the verge of hell. Every single meal that those farms provide has been paid for in blood,” Orontes said.

  “And now you want our blood, too, don’t you?” Byrna held her husband’s calloused hand as she spoke. “I see the logic, but we have an additional problem that the riders might not be considering right now.”

  “I sure as hell am aware of it, Byrna!” Delandra snapped. “We need everyone here to feed this town. Our dragons aren’t just fighters, they’re hunters. Without them, and the fish, and the trade, we starve. Done, finished business, close up the gates, it’s over. Do you understand? The climate here is not forgiving. We’re barely holding on with limited refrigeration, and if we lose that . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  The implications were clear. Riders murmured their assent, and no less than three dragons chimed in as well, their cavernous burbling adding to the general air of discontent and worry.

  Orontes smiled slightly. “As I mentioned earlier, I am here to propose a partnership, and it is not limited to our rifles. Rae,” he asked the dark woman standing across from him, “how fast can your dragon fly? Straight line?”

  Startled by his question, she hesitated, and then answered, “In good conditions? Well over 100 knots. There are a few dragons that can do better, but not much. In a dive, closer to 150.”

  Spellbound chuckled in the fading light at Rae’s admission of his skills.

  “Fair enough. How much weight can a dragon carry, over a distance?” Orontes asked.

  The Commodore held up a hand. “Where are you going with this?”

  “How much weight, Commodore?” Orontes repeated.

  Saavin said, “Even the smaller dragons can carry more than 1000 pounds. Closer to 2000, I would say. They do it with big fish all the time, and sometimes for several hours when we range out to sea and bring catches back inland.”

  Orontes nodded with obvious satisfaction. “I am authorized to provide Trinity with no less than thirty dragonloads of food over the next two months. Our agricultural division is producing enough that we sell or trade more than forty percent of our crops. Food is something we have in excess. Dragons, we do not. In exchange, you’ll also become part of our trade route, which is constantly expanding. I have complete confidence that, if he remains in his position, French Heavener will be the person who brings a new level or organization and safety to an area covering several hundred square miles. Perhaps more.”

  There was a stunned silence. Trinity wasn’t starving, but the presence of fish at every meal had grown old decades earlier. They simply couldn’t grow enough food for themselves. To be included in a trade cooperative was an incredibly attractive offer. Until that moment, the desert precluded Trinity from entertaining any idea of wider connections with the shards of the nation. There was a collective flare of hope among the listeners.

  Moss said carefully, “What you are describing is not a trade agreement, Orontes.”

  “It isn’t? I assure you, the offer is legitimate. The amounts are not only feasible, they’re easily achieved,” Orontes said, confused. Was he being called a liar? It seemed unusual for the Commodore, who was nothing if not professional.

  Byrna clutched Moss’ arm, and several of the quicker riders smiled broadly. Saavin was practically dancing in place. She whispered something to Rae, who grinned wickedly.

  “You speak of reformation, don’t you? Isn’t that what the ultimate goal is? To regain our lands, spread out, and connect once again?” Moss asked.

  Orontes nodded once. “I agree. It seems likely that is what French has in mind. He plays his cards very close to the vest, though, and beyond broad sketches, has not shared anything with anyone except Harriet Fleming. But yes, Commodore. I think that our military leader believes it is time to take the fight to the enemy, and moreover, he thinks he can win
.”

  Byrna raised a tentative hand. “There is a fatal flaw with this proposal.” Everyone turned to face her, and she waited until each pair of eyes was affixed on her furrowed brow. “The dark night of the moon falls at the same time for New Madrid and Trinity. Our dragons—and riders—cannot be in two places at once. No matter how noble the cause, we cannot sacrifice one raft of souls merely to pull another from the river.”

  Orontes nodded once more with gravity. “I have not made myself clear, and for that, I apologize. We do not expect you to forego your own defenses. It would be folly to even ask such a thing. When I spoke of the rifles and militia, I meant that a portion of them would be coming here, permanently if necessary, to train, augment, and defend your populace. These would not be green recruits, either. French has preselected veterans with years of combat experience, as well as some of the finest shooters that we have. In short, we would split the forces for the short term in order to meet and crush the larger attack. Then, the dragons that have been fighting at New Madrid would return here, along with every last soldier we could spare, and we would fight and defeat the giants before they have stridden from the beach.”

  The fog of thought descended on every warrior in the circle, and Saavin stepped forward slightly. “Earlier, you said French thinks he can win. What do you think?” Saavin asked without gloss. She stared hard at Orontes, taking the measure of the man again.

  “Do you remember the claw that you took from my body?” Orontes asked the circle. When he saw a spate of nods, he went on, “There are creatures that wield talons larger than that, and within two weeks of arriving in New Madrid, French Heavener designed a shooting rotation that made the lethality of the long rifles nearly 100% more effective. Before he came, it is my understanding that one in three creatures broke through to the creek, and the fields beyond. No more. French Heavener is a savant. He knows the land. He knows animals, and plants, and rocks, and above all else, people. I think he is the most dangerous person on the surface of the earth, and every creature from underneath would be well served to avoid him at all costs.”

  The sun was setting in a coppery hurrah, and the first relenting of the day’s heat began. In the long interim following Orontes’ assessment of French Heavener’s battlefield acumen, dragons began to groan and stretch as they prepared for evening flights. Moss looked at his wife, who smiled wanly.

  The commodore turned to his people. “First, we defend during the killing moon. Then, we go to war elsewhere. I think”—Moss paused, his voice rough with emotion—“I would like to see this nation back together.”

  The riders loosed a roar that was matched by the dragons, as the bond between two peoples who had never met became forged in the dying light of the Texas desert.

  19

  Ruins of Louisville/Kentuckiana

  “Parker, I’ll admit it, I was wrong. You’ve absolutely cleaned this block.” Cynthia’s tone was ruefully honest. She might be the top dog, but she knew a moneymaker when she saw one, and Parker had earned her crew more in two days than they’d scratched out in the previous season.

  “Thanks, Cyn- Boss.” Parker caught himself and looked away, the dutifully prodigal son.

  In addition to loads of tools, chemicals, and coin money that had been hidden in three different homes, Parker found an entire sealed area in a loft garage that was virtually made of money. There were steel fencing materials, dry concrete in sealed bags, and nearly a thousand feet of heavy duty Mylar fabric, which Cynthia had gone crazy over for some reason. There had even been a medium-sized outboard boat engine, wrapped in a brittle linen sheath that kept the Evinrude in virtually flawless condition. With work, it would purr, and could be added to their little fleet. They found useable insulation, more nails and bolts, and the complete surprise of sixty pairs of work boots that were still in their original boxes. The crew had whooped like maniacs at that score, and they’d all gotten a new pair to put on there and then. At the last house on the right hand of the block, they discovered and successfully disassembled two large greenhouses, which were worth their weight in food. For communities who lived with hard winters, those structures meant the difference between survival and starvation. It had been, without exception, the best haul of Cynthia’s entire life, and she was a second generation salvager. It took two hard days, and the beginning of a third, to load the boats, but when everything was tied and stowed, enough daylight remained that Cynthia gave the order to move out downriver. They’d left a small stash of stores for the three men who would guard the gate to the drowned city, with the final admonition not to drink Louisville dry in their absence. The three were trustworthy veterans, so the chiding was more for show than anything else. Before the afternoon had begun in earnest, the four boats under command of Cynthia Pennyroyal were plucking their way down the rolling breadth of the Ohio River, laden with echoes of a time that had long since washed into the sea.

  20

  New Madrid, August 13, 2074 A.D.

  Colvin Watley entered the engineering building with a fastidious aversion to touching any of the work surfaces. He cast a cheerless, false grin at James Nguyen, who was little more than a small shadow crouching near a troublesome flywheel. The mechanism was bright with scarring, a sure sign that it had been prized from some other location and was being refitted for service in the endless irrigations systems that spanned the fields. New Madrid left little to chance, and constant water for the crops was a quasi-religious concern for engineer and farmer alike. A tidy man of thin build, James, returned Colvin’s charade with a blank stare, then returned to his work with a low snort.

  “Have you seen sign of the messenger?” Colvin asked the woman he approached without fanfare. He was anxious enough to forget his sterling manners, but the dark haired, sweating woman he addressed didn’t seem to notice.

  She smiled awkwardly at him, her brown eyes squinting in the fumes of her workspace. The expression whitened a long scar that creased one of her pocked cheeks, and her hair was tucked under a woven hat that stank of perspiration and oil.

  “No, hasn’t French been posting outriders? I would think they’ll know before me. As you may have guessed by my work bench, I don’t leave here often.” Honor Dolarhyde was far from pretty, and she hunched over her workbench in a position that made her resemble a grimy troll at labor. As one of the primary engineers for New Madrid, her skills were in demand from nearly every quarter, even if she rarely found the time to bathe. Her love was the unsolved mystery and, in New Madrid, she had ample opportunity to imbibe in her passion.

  Watley shook his head in a patronizing arc. “No, dear, our fearless soldier has kept that from me. Why, I don’t understand, since I should be informed of such doings.” His opinion of his own value hadn’t been diminished in the slightest, despite being badly outplayed by the supposed rube from Asheville. He still seethed at the memory, but kept his lingering hatred under wraps. Colvin Watley was an excellent actor.

  “Of course you should be. You’re too important to be treated like a hired hand.” Honor smiled tentatively up at her guest, who stood sweating in the confines of her workspace. It reeked of carbon and chemicals. There was an acrid tang in the air that made Watley’s eyes water ever so slightly. Behind Honor ran floor to ceiling steel shelving, bearing a wild array of electrical tools and gear. There were entire racks of pilfered motors, coiled wire prized from houses and vehicles, and even avionics packages prized from aircraft that would never fly again, but had been stripped to their barest shell in the name of creative engineering by the crew of New Madrid. Batteries and casings were arranged with care next to an entire locked steel mesh cabinet that was filled with chemicals, all labeled in block letters and primly ordered according to type.

  Watley didn’t pretend to care, but turned instead to address the woman who could build virtually anything with enough time and materials. “Thank you, dear. I’m gratified to see that my gifts are not entirely unnoticed. Speaking of which, have you made any progress with my idea?” he as
ked, smiling winningly at the mousy woman. He marshaled his features seamlessly as his smile shifted from coy to paternal. It was best for a man of his attraction not to shine too much of his light onto a young, desperate woman like Honor. She thought for a moment, and then tapped at a folder that rested upright in an aluminum frame.

  “I’ve got the plans right here, but honestly, it’s just a matter of finding some decent metal framing. We have three trains expected this month, and the crews working in the suburbs of Kansas City will almost certainly have what we want. With a little help, I can build one . . . maybe a little bigger than you want? Say, sixteen feet by twenty, minimum?” Honor said.

  Watley looked alarmed. “Oh, no, dear. That’s far too large for a model. I wouldn’t want to deny the community of materials that we need for other, more pressing matters. Think of this as an exercise in design, based on a theory that I’ve had for some time.”

  Honor pointed at the file. “Where did you think of this? It’s not like we haven’t been building with defenses in mind.”

  He weighed his next words carefully. “My grandparents were alive during something called Hurricane Claire.”

  “The one that wiped out Wilmington?”

  “That one, yes. It was a Category Five, which I assume means worse than anything else, but it hit at night, during a high tide. In the morning, Wilmington was gone, but my grandparents were inland far enough that they only lost the first floor of their house to flooding,” Watley said. The storm killed thousands, and effectively ended the entire livestock industry in the state of North Carolina, after three days of torrential rains had brought every hillside down in a catastrophic slurry.

  “I understand wanting to build out of metal, but why the height? We’re not dealing with water, and we have a history of earthquakes,” Honor asked. She was an engineer, but her vision, in Watley’s eyes, was limited by an unhealthy does of pragmatism.