by Felix Gilman
They forded the freezing Shayle.
They lasted out the winter in Huntsville, where the mayor was friendly to what was left of the cause—though of course, they never told him Kan-Kuk’s secret, and the General never gave his own real name or rank, but claimed to be only a former Captain, and before that a tailor, now looking to retire in peace.
Linesmen came poking around the town like hungry black wolves, and the mayor and all his people lied to their faces: There ain’t no strangers here. Eventually the Linesmen went away. A kind and brave show of solidarity. In the privacy of his attic room, the General grew misty eyed and sentimental regarding the virtues of ordinary folk.
Kan-Kuk absented himself from their company, his alien kind not being welcome in town. Maybe he went and burrowed himself into the earth for winter; maybe he went stalking the cliffs in the snow and wind. The General didn’t know. As the weeks went by, the General began to wonder if Kan-Kuk had ever existed, had ever come to him like a ghost out of the dark hills and rumbled: You are chosen. To wonder if he’d never gone as in a dream following Kan-Kuk away from the dead and the wreckage of the battlefield and into the hills above Asher, which the men said were haunted, and down into the warrens, and into the beautiful and ancient cities beneath the warrens, where white faces and long thin bodies like veins of marble surrounded him, and probed him, and drank him in with their unearthly blood-warm eyes, and tapped stonily at him as if to see if he were hollow, and whispered secrets to him in the harsh and grating voices of fairy-tale ogres. He’d begun, in fact, to settle into the rhythms of Huntsville’s life, to forget the burden of his destiny, to think of himself as a man among ordinary men again. . . .
But Kan-Kuk called for him again in the spring. He woke at midnight to hear the echo of Kan-Kuk drumming on a river-rock, out beyond Huntsville’s edge. He gathered up his men. The sharpshooter Sam Hart, who’d lost an eye in the fighting at Onakha, stayed behind with a local woman, and the General swallowed his sorrow and pride and envy and gave them both his blessing.
— Come away, General.
—Is it time?
—It is.
—Do you remember when you first came to me?
—It was only moments ago, General.
—Forty years for me. More than that. A lifetime. Long enough for a civilization to come and go.
—I remember.
—I lay on the field of battle after Asher. Wounded in the shoulder by a lucky shot and bleeding badly. Under the stars, in gorse and briars, by the bridge. Our first defeat. It might have been the end of us. The death of the Republic, before it was born. I told myself it would not be. It would not. I called on all my will and . . . And then you came to me. At first I thought I was mad.
—You are mad, in your way. That’s why we chose you.
—Beneath your warrens there was a city. I have not forgotten. And we made a deal.
—Yes. I gave you what strength I had. I helped you make the world over.
—You did.
—I warned you it would not be enough.
—Forty damn good years, though. Or near forty.
—Now it’s time, General. You owe us your services. We have waited long enough.
— Too long. I know.
—Come home.
—Why me?
—You know why.
—You’ll give me the weapon?
—Not a weapon.
—What then?
—You’ll see.
They went up out of Huntsville, and through ancient woods, just a few miles west of the ruins of what had once been Founding, the first colony in the West. They went up into the foothills north of Founding, looking for a particular sullen hunchbacked mountain by the name of Self’s Mount.
—There. And beneath it.
—I am an old man.
—You promised. We gave you forty years.
—I honor my promises. But I am an old man, and frightened.
They went up, and up. They spent a day hunting around the foot of a cliff face of golden brown stone. It caught the sun; its crags and outcrops, its caves and eagle nests cast stark shadows, made its surface as ornate as a cathedral. It was square as a big-city bank. Birds came and went overhead like congregants, like clerks. It was the last homely thing in the mountain. They scrambled up a lunar waste of scree; they delved through the ocean-floor shadows of a crevasse that cut up into the mountains at steep unnatural angles. Kan-Kuk went ahead of them, always, on fierce striding legs, turning his head full of sun-red eyes to glare back at them, urging them on. They stumbled across a wolf pack, hungry and maddened by the long winter, and lost young Martin Hulme. If that was the most fearsome guardian they faced, they agreed, they’d be lucky; and they burned Hulme’s body. Kan-Kuk said
—We are near. Do you hear it?
—No. But I don’t doubt it, old friend, I don’t doubt it at all.
—You will be tested.
—No doubt. No doubt.
“Sir. We ain’t alone up here, sir.”
The General followed Deerfield up onto the scarp in the windless lee of which they’d made a brief camp. At Deerfield’s gesture, the General crouched among the mossy rocks. Deerfield pointed down over the valley. Black ants crawled over the scree below. . . . “The telescope, please, Mr. Deerfield.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I count twenty-two of ’em.”
“Yes, Mr. Deerfield. Ah. Aha. Twenty-two men of the Line. No vehicles. No Vessels overhead.”
“I reckon we can take ’em, sir. I been watchin’. They’re lookin’ for someone. I reckon they followed us up from Huntsville, sir. But they don’t know where we are yet. If we strike first, we can take ’em before they can bring out their bombs or their gas or all that.”
Deerfield’s instincts were generally sound—but he was a hunter, a trapper, he saw no further than the immediate kill. He did not understand the stakes, or the weight of responsibility on the General’s old shoulders. They could not take risks now. . . .
The General collapsed the telescope. It made a pleasing firm sound. His mind was made up. “No, Mr. Deerfield. This is a moment for circumspection. Discretion is the better part, as they say. We’ll avoid them. They don’t know why we’re here. No one knows but us. This is nothing but damned bad luck. They think us ordinary bandits, or ragtag remnants of the Republic. They’ll forget us soon enough.”
But they kept coming. Up into the cold and the dark, among pines as sharp and hostile as bayonet blades, scrambling over frost. The Linesmen had caught their trail—that much was clear—and they were closing steadily. Shots were exchanged by long-rifle, more for show than for any serious purpose; they pointlessly wounded the trees, or were swallowed by the dark. The Linesmen were distant but coming closer. They glowed. . . . The General’s men labored under thick furs. The Linesmen fought off the cold with electrical heaters, the filaments of which burned an angry buzzing red. That was all that the General could see of them—like fireflies in the dark, in the pines. As they got closer and closer, there was a hum, a hiss, barely audible.
And at last the General came to the end of the pines. A level hollow of bare flat stones stretched out before him; no cover. Kan-Kuk waited there. With silent resignation—indifference?—Kan-Kuk fell in alongside the General’s little band. They ran for their lives headlong over the bare stones. Over the sound of their own ragged breath, the clatter of their own boots, they heard the whistle of the bombs. . . . Then that terrible noise began, and the General fell into pieces.
CHAPTER 52
LIV CHOOSES
The General’s voice had begun to fade. Every word now took more breath out of him than he had to spare. Liv leaned in so close, her ear was almost to the General’s mouth; her head was nearly lying on his heaving chest.
“ . . . falling into pieces. Bleeding away. Dying again. Waiting to be reborn again into struggle again and again, when the stars turn and morning comes. Every time . . .” His lips moved weakly, effortfully, but only a thin murmur of brea
th escaped, only a sigh, only silence.
“Hah. Ah. If that was all it took to open his mouth, we should have shot him weeks ago.”
“Shut up, Creedmoor. Shut up. Oh, I swear I’ll kill you if you say another word.”
Liv waited a long time for tears to come, but they would not. There was a dry ashy bitterness in her eyes and her mouth. She thought she might never cry again.
Eventually she stood. She scraped up ash in her hands and threw it over him. Two handfuls to cover his face; three, four to cover his chest. Ash settled in his slackly open mouth. It dulled his deep green eyes and the polished medals on his red jacket.
She should have closed his eyes and his mouth.
She looked west, into the thunderclouds over the Western Sea, and she looked back east. There was no sign of dawn yet.
“Not a weapon,” she said. “A cure.”
“Liv. Liv, untie me.”
Liv ignored him. She covered her mouth, sick at herself, and began scavenging the Linesmen’s bodies for provisions.
“Liv—where are you going?”
“Back to New Design, Mr. Creedmoor, to look for survivors.”
“The survivors won’t welcome you back, Liv. You brought the Line on them; you brought me on them. You let their General die. They’ll give you a trial and a hanging.”
“That may be true.” Two of the Linesmen had carried packs. One had been torn by Creedmoor’s—by Marmion’s—bullets. She hefted the other and found that she could carry it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps I’ll go back east, then. Over the Worlds’ Ends and back home. I shall stop for my friend Maggfrid. I think we’re entitled to go home—no one could fault us for it.”
She cut off a Linesman’s belt and examined the pouches. A small knife, wirecutters, some white powder, something heavy and wheel-toothed that when struck made a small blue flame.
Creedmoor tried to sit up. He gasped and fell painfully back. Liv turned to watch him.
“If I untied you, could you walk?”
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded.
“Not well. You hurt me badly, Liv. The healing began but didn’t finish. Not before . . .”
She studied his expression until he closed his eyes. Then she turned away.
Each of the Linesmen had a steel water bottle. She unscrewed them one by one and found that they were all empty.
“Self’s Mount,” Creedmoor said.
“Yes.”
“Self’s Mount. The old man said it. He mumbled and he was cryptic, but I heard that distinctly. He was going to Self’s Mount when they caught him.”
“I heard him, too, Creedmoor. Do your masters know that?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“If they knew they would have sent me there, not here.”
“Then no one in the world knows that but us.”
“That may be true, Liv.”
“Except the Folk themselves, I suppose. What is this thing, Creedmoor—this weapon?”
“I don’t know. Honestly. I’d tell you if I did.”
Two of the Linesmen had heavy metal implements that, when a copper plate was depressed, emitted a dull red light and some warmth. Not enough to cook with; enough maybe to prevent freezing on cold nights. Liv took one.
“You deserve to die here, Creedmoor.”
“I do.”
“The General spoke of a cure. Where is this place—Self’s Mount?”
“Far away. The foot of the World’s Ends, in old country, within the lands of the Line.”
“You know where it is, then. But one could also find it on a map, I expect.”
“I expect you could.”
The Linesmen had better knives than hers. She took one.
“In Line territory, Liv. The Line has held that land for two hundred years or more.” He turned on his side and spat blood. “In the shadow of Dryden, right in its fucking shadow.”
“But they don’t know it’s there,” she said. “One assumes.”
“But they dig everywhere. Nothing can be buried so deeply they won’t dig it up in the end. It’s only a matter of time. They’ll find it and take it and be unstoppable, Liv—”
“I doubt I would make it back alone, Creedmoor.”
“Back to New Design? Maybe.”
“Back to the world.”
He nodded. “Likely not.”
“So.” She sat near him. Not too near him.
“So,” he said. His wrists were bloody where he’d struggled against the rags that bound them.
She trailed the point of the Linesman’s knife in the ash. His eyes fixed on it. He tore them away and said, “We must find it. We must find it before the Line does.”
“We, Creedmoor?”
“You’d never make it alone, Liv, you said so yourself. There’s months of wilderness between—”
“Then you’d bring it to your masters, instead.”
“No. No. Not them. They’re gone, Liv. I’m free. We can keep it for ourselves. We can turn it on Gun and Line alike. End the war. Think of the fame, Liv, think of the glory.”
“I don’t care for the glory, Creedmoor. And I don’t care to be involved in this . . . madness. Look what it’s done to you.”
“I have friends—even now. I know people. I can find us allies. I can take the old man’s weapon and use it. If we don’t, Liv—the Line will grow, Liv, it will conquer, it will eat, it will conquer Gun in the end, and once it’s swallowed the West, it will swallow the East, too, and your Academy and your home. There’s no stopping it. It—”
“Maybe, maybe not. Nothing you say can be trusted.”
“No. But it’s true.”
“Your hands are tied too tight. You may lose the use of them.”
Real fear in his eyes, real desperation.
“Even if you don’t, it will be some time before you can walk unaided. You wouldn’t make it back alone either.”
“That’s true, too.” He nodded vigorously. “I know that. I do.”
“I don’t trust you, but I do think you understand self-preservation.”
“You can’t just go home again, Liv. You know you can’t.”
“Be quiet, Creedmoor. I’m thinking.”
Liv climbed to the top of the dune and looked back east. In the night, she could see nothing but more dunes; the horizon was close and constricting.
She said, “Are you watching me?”
“I can’t see you, Liv, not from down here—you’d have to untie me—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Creedmoor. Don’t speak. You’ll open your wounds.”
She looked west. In the distance, the mad clouds roiled, glowing, forming and unforming. She recalled the General’s words: beneath their warrens there were beautiful and ancient cities.
“Ku Koyrik. You let us pass. Why? Did you mean for this to happen? Did you mean for the General’s secret to come to me? Is this accident or design? What should I do?”
There was no answer.
She knelt, somewhat self-consciously. She stretched out and pressed her ear against the earth, feeling suddenly the great rightness and sanity of that action—but though she remained there for some minutes, she heard only her pulse pounding in her head. There was no message for her.
If she’d had a coin, she might have tossed it, but she didn’t, so the choice had to be hers.
She made her decision and acted at once. She slid down-slope to the ash where Creedmoor lay, and knelt to saw through the oily rags that tied his hands.
He was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed and said, “Thank you, Liv.”
He sat up, stretched his stiff swollen fingers, and winced.
“Hurt less when they were bound. I ask you, does that make any damn sense?”
“Be still, Creedmoor. Let me look at your leg.”
“Ah, Doctor. Doctor. You’re a very wise woman.”
“Never forget it, Creedmoor.”
EPILOGU
E
ONE: ENGINE SONG
~ SIX MONTHS LATER ~
The Engines go thundering back and forth across the continent, on scar tissue of tracks raised over the plains, in hideous scarp-sided canyons cut and blasted through the hills. They drive through tunnels and their Song echoes in the darkness, drums beneath the earth, comes crashing out the tunnel mouth into the light in a booming, belling note. New tracks go down, opening new routes. Humboldt to Gloriana, over the wetlands; Antrim to Dryden, obliterating the hills and the villages there; Firth to Coffey. The mesh closes tighter. Lines converge. The tracks are like fences: no one dares cross them. Children come out from towns by the new tracks and stare in awe at those lines stretching into the distance, into the future that waits downline for them. On clear nights, the Engines’ Song beats and drones out over the prairies. Everyone hears it. Everyone, everywhere, knows what’s coming, unstoppable, implacable. . . .
But there’s a new sound in the Song. Something off. A beat that stumbles. A tiny, brittle wrong note. Nothing any human ear can pin down—not in the brief moment of the Engine’s presence, as it comes howling out of the East and receding into the West—but something that’s always there. An impossible impurity. The Linesmen shift uneasily at their posts. They have sleepless nights—they look grayer even than usual. Their hands shake. Construction falters on the new towers of Harrow Cross and Archway. Wiring goes astray and papers are misfiled. Beatings are ordered but morale does not improve.
The Engines sing to each other: Lowry has failed. Lowry has failed. Months go by and no return. Lowry has failed. The trail is lost. What will come out of the West? What will come? The sick note is fear, is not-knowing when their end may come. The continent shudders with it.
TWO: JEN OF THE FLOATING WORLD
The Floating World overlooks Jasper City from up on the bluffs. By day it’s invisible among the trees. In the night they hang paper lanterns on the branches, and gaslight glows from behind the crimson silk curtains in the girls’ rooms, and the Floating World hangs over businesslike buttoned-up Jasper like a lurid dream.