The Air War (Shadows of the Apt 8)

by Tchaikovsky, Adrian

  ‘Signal for what, Corog?’ Taki asked him.

  The old Master Armsman’s expression was openly baffled. ‘Get out of the sky. Land as soon as you can, on roofs, in the street, crash if you have to. Just get out of the sky. You have to hold them, keep them off the city, until the artificers and Stenwold Maker reckon we’ve got our best shot. Then you down your machines as soon as the Ear sounds, and . . .’

  ‘And what?’ Taki pressed.

  ‘If you’re still in the sky right then, you’ll find out the hard way,’ was all that he would say. ‘Now get in your fliers. If your regular machine’s with the artificers for the ground-attack refit, get yourself in a spare one. If there’s none left, cheer us on.’ A proportion of the Stormreaders were being modified following some new requirement from Stenwold Maker or the Speaker or someone: some were still in the workshop being fitted out.

  Corog crumpled the scroll and glanced at his own machine. ‘We have a little time now, because we’re letting them come to us. Make sure your machines are fully wound and ready. Nobody heads off half-sprung. Know this: best guess says that they’ll come all together, everything they can put in the air. Ready yourselves for that, as best you can.’

  The Ear continued its melancholy drone, and they took to their machines more soberly now – the entire remaining might that Collegium could put in the air. Taki looked around her, thinking about just how many Farsphex the Empire might have to throw at them, and how difficult engaging them for even a short time was going to be without suffering heavy losses. Around her, although she might forget names, she knew every face, as familiar as her old flying comrades from Solarno, most of whom had died in the last war while retaking her city from the Empire. But Solarno now sat under Imperial and Spider colours again, and so what had been the point?

  She was acutely conscious that this would probably be the last sight she had of many of these people: Mynan airmen, Collegiate student aviators, volunteer academics, merchant pilots turned to war, artificers and tradesmen retrained in the city’s time of desperate need. It might equally be their last sight of her.

  She was scared, and the sudden fear mingled with the old excitement that an aerial duel had always inspired in her. I may die, but at least I live first, and show me a better death.

  And, out over the rugged land that separated Collegium from the Second Army, the Farsphex were closing.

  General Tynan had listened to every word that Aarmon and Cherten had to say, sitting there with Mycella of the Aldanrael at his right hand, his trusted adviser. With his eyes half-closed, he had heard them both out, taken in every scrap of evidence or supposition, leaping to no conclusions but setting out the facts in his head with the same patient care that had guided his career as an officer.

  ‘You think it’s a trap,’ he had remarked to Aarmon.

  ‘I think they have husbanded all their strength for tonight, to destroy as many of us as they can, sir. I think they know they must cripple our airpower, for their own to have a chance against your army tomorrow,’ the pilot had confirmed.

  ‘And you, Colonel?’

  ‘I think we have our orders, sir,’ had come Cherten’s response, ‘and both my spies and those of the Spiders are reporting that they are simply running out of working machines to put in the air – conserving their strength for the siege.’

  ‘The nature of the trap, Major?’

  ‘New technology or reinforcements for the air,’ Aarmon had guessed. ‘Better orthopters, perhaps, or Sarnesh machines or pilots to counter our . . . advantage.’ For the mindlink was still not a matter to be openly spoken of. ‘Their pilots are as good as ours, sir. Their machines are, too. If they could ambush us with twice the number, say, or three times, they could crush our largest raiding party, perhaps stop even one Farsphex escaping.’

  Tynan had blinked. ‘And if it was more than just a raiding party? You know the Colonel wants a massed bombing raid.’

  ‘Depends on their strength, sir, but, even if they outnumber us, we have the advantage. We fight together in the air.’

  For a long time, Tynan had stared at the straight-backed pilot standing to attention before him, and then Mycella had leant in and whispered something to him. Aarmon had felt Colonel Cherten’s instant disapproval and frustration – that there were counsels he was being excluded from – but Tynan had simply listened, his eyes flicking up briefly to Aarmon.

  Mycella’s last words had been loud enough for them all to hear: ‘After all, we know about traps, my people.’

  And Tynan had looked Aarmon in the eye and said, ‘How soon can you be airborne, all of you?’

  In the echo of Aarmon’s answer, he had then turned to Cherten. ‘Double our speed towards Collegium. Their army’s out there and they think they have a day at least until we clash. That’s a lie. We clash today. Abandon the baggage and support here, and move out our soldiers, automotives and the siege train right now. We’re going to war.’

  Under great protest, Nishaana had been left behind with just four orthopters, a token force to defend the army. If the Collegiates did choose to attack Tynan on the march, even as the Imperial fliers struck their city, then the Second would have to scatter, protect its machines as well as they could, and have one of Nishaana’s people make best speed for Collegium to call the fliers back. Aarmon reckoned that the Collegiates were desperate enough to try it, but Cherten had been dismissive.

  Pingge knew Aarmon’s thoughts, relayed through Scain’s murmuring them even as they came to him. Whether or not the Collegiates had reinforcements or some new device, the Wasp aviators knew that Collegiate air power would be the greatest threat to any besieging force, and Collegiate control of the sky would make taking the city near-impossible. War had changed in so few years, but they, the Air Corps and their Collegiate rivals, were at the cutting edge, the masters of the storm.

  Their orders were to destroy the enemy air power. Bombing the city was secondary and, for greater speed in the air, they carried a reduced load of explosives, enough for a few hard passes should the chance arise.

  ‘Nearing,’ Scain said, loud enough for her to know it was meant for her ears.

  Carefully she set to loading and spanning the little ballista they had bolted onto her hatch. A sudden buffet of air sent her lurching her forwards, an explosive-tipped bolt tumbling out into the night. The chain was taut about her ankle, catching her before she needed her wings. Many of the pilots had wanted to forgo the chains, but back in Capitas the engineers had ensured that the stigmatizing protocol was adhered to, and Colonel Cherten proved to be their brother in diligence in the Second Army’s camp. For herself, Pingge had felt the benefit of it more than once, when being jolted and rattled about in the heat of an aerial battle. For all her Art, if she had been flung from the Farsphex, she could never have regained her place.

  She looked into the reticule, seeing Collegium ahead, landmarks that were as familiar to her now as to a native, it almost seemed, but less so in daylight. ‘They didn’t launch,’ she called, against the rush of air. There had been no Collegiate blockade to meet them halfway to the city, but then halfway to the city was not very far at all this time. The Second Army – the Gears – had made its signature steady progress west, and now its goal was in sight. Pingge was looking at it, even then.

  If the Collegiates had attempted such a blockade, they would have been outmanoeuvred. Aarmon had divided his force into three, approaching the city from east, north and south, the latter two to double back west if they met no resistance over the city itself, and thus catch their enemy in the rear. Now it seemed as though all three wings would meet over Collegium, their mind-link allowing them to intermesh effortlessly.

  ‘Light bombing to draw them out,’ Scain murmured Aarmon’s words, and then his own response, ‘Will do, sir,’ before pitching his voice up, ‘Pick a target, Pings. Wake them up—’ and almost immediately, ‘No need! They come!’

  Thirty-Seven

  The Fly-kinden scout attracted some notic
e by diving out of a clear sky, shrugging off the challenges of sentries, her arms held up to ward of reprisals as she skidded to her feet in the centre of the Collegium camp. By that time enough had seen her Maker’s Own sash, and a few more had recognized her face, so she was allowed to pick herself up and take a quick glance to get her bearings. A moment later her wings were skimming her towards the command tent.

  Amnon was in conference with her chief officer, the Beetle woman Elder Padstock, when the Fly gasped out her report.

  ‘They’re coming!’

  ‘The automotives?’ Padstock beckoned a messenger towards her, about to send orders to ready the artillery. The Collegiates had foreseen such a strike, after the disaster at the trenches.

  ‘Their entire army, Chief!’ the Fly got out, her chest heaving for breath. ‘All of ’em.’

  For a second Amnon watched Padstock freeze, expressionless, and then she was rattling off orders. ‘Tell the mechanics to have all the automotives readied. Pass word round all the officers and sub-officers to assemble, just like for the drills. You,’ and she picked out the exhausted Fly, ‘get me the other chief officers right now.’

  It seemed forever before they gathered, though in truth it was barely minutes: Marteus of the Coldstone Company, the Mynan commander Kymene and Amnon’s lover, Praeda Rakespear. With Padstock and the huge Khanaphir they made up the War Council of Collegium’s army, the first such in its history.

  ‘Report,’ Padstock prompted the grey-faced Fly, and the diminutive woman straightened up, looking soldierly.

  ‘Saw dust at first, Chief. Got my glass out. Looks like all the fighting bits of the Second are coming our way, double time, right now.’ That her mind was fixated on that inexorable advance was very clear. She had been one of the far pickets, a strong-winged flier with a telescope keeping watch for some gambit of the enemy’s. Now, it seemed, the Wasps had eschewed gambits.

  ‘Such speed . . .’ Praeda said, shaking her head. ‘It couldn’t be, surely? How clearly did you—?’

  ‘Oh, clear,’ the Fly replied belligerently, scowling at the challenge. ‘Believe me, all the dust in the world won’t hide that.’

  ‘What’s their battle order?’ Marteus snapped.

  ‘Saw maybe ten, maybe a dozen of those woodlouse auto-motives leading the charge, what looked like transports backing ’em, and on either wing too – carting infantry, it looked to me. Heavier transports at back.’

  The Collegiate officers exchanged glances.

  ‘That’s what we banked on,’ Praeda observed.

  ‘Then at least something’s going according to plan,’ came Marteus’s mutter.

  Kymene drew herself up, as one of her countrymen began buckling on her breastplate: black with two red arrows, one descending, one ascending, the badge of Myna from before they threw off the Wasps in the last war – We have fallen, we will rise again. ‘We have to advance to meet them in the field, or else fall back,’ she declared, brooking no argument. ‘This,’ and her gesture took in the whole sprawling Collegiate camp outside the tent, ‘cannot be considered a defensive position.’

  ‘We’d not have to retreat far to give our walls over to their artillery,’ Praeda pointed out.

  There was a moment of exchanged looks, mirrored grim expressions. No general wanted to have his hand forced, but the realities were stark.

  ‘The soldiers are mustering, or already mustered. Let’s move them out,’ Marteus concluded. For an Ant going to war there was precious little enthusiasm in his voice.

  ‘You must speak to them,’ Amnon rumbled, as his first contribution. Kymene was already nodding. After all, the two of them were the only ones present who had actually led an army before.

  ‘They go to fight, perhaps to die,’ the Khanaphir First Soldier continued. ‘They look to you as their leaders. They trust you to give them the right orders. You must speak to your people, reassure them. Or I will. I have done this many times before. I have the voice for it.’

  Padstock and Marteus exchanged glances, but Praeda put a hand on Amnon’s arm.

  ‘Do it,’ she agreed.

  The Collegiate army was still mustering, the last soldiers finding their places as their commanders came out to them, treading the steps of a drill they had practised plenty of times over the last tendays. Amnon glanced about, and then jumped up onto the flat back of a transport automotive, with Marteus and Padstock flanking him. To his left were the cohorts of the Coldstone Company, their motto In Our Enemy’s Robes, with many of the older soldiers still wearing souvenirs from past battles with the Empire or the Vekken. To the right was the Maker’s Own Company, whose words were Through the Gate, commemorating the fearless spirit with which Padstock and her fellows had marched out, along with Stenwold Maker, to confront the Second Army at the end of the last war.

  Between them Amnon saw the balance of the Collegiate force. Mostly these were Three-city Alliance fugitives, Mynans reinforced by a handful of Szaren Bee-kinden and grim-faced Ants from Maynes. Kymene was already passing amongst them; not for her the grand oration, but a personal valediction: a hand on the shoulder, confirmation to each that she would be with them. Beside these was a handful of Sarnesh drivers and crew for the automotives they had sent in support.

  Beyond all of the massed military strength of Collegium, the cooks, servants, mechanics, entertainers and all the other baggage that the army had collected watched on, and no doubt each of them was trying to decide: Stay, or flee?

  Praeda climbed up beside Amnon and handed him a speaking horn, for even his voice would not carry to so many ears. He took a deep breath, feeling a great weight fall from him, as though he was back in his proper place for the first time since leaving his city and his station. These were not his people, but they were cousins of a sort, and if this battle to come was not his battle, the addition of Khanaphes to the Empire made the wider conflict his war.

  ‘You have heard the call to battle!’ he said, voice loud into the horn, and louder still as it rolled like thunder over them. ‘The enemy of us all brings his strength against us, and I know full well that each of you feels the worm of fear within you. It is what makes us human. Do not think that I have not felt it, too.’ In truth he did not feel it now, but he could dredge up the sense of it from distant memory.

  ‘At your backs is your city. You have not seen my home of Khanaphes, which styles itself the greatest city of the world. For thousands of years has Khanaphes endured, our stones grown old long before your College was ever built. And yet I say to you: if any city is a wonder of the world, it is Collegium. Was ever there a city more fit to take pride in what it has achieved? Was ever there a city whose people were more capable of steering their destinies than you? Where the Wasps have laboured mightily to imprison the minds and bodies of all who fall under their shadow, so have you laboured to set yourselves free.

  ‘Hear me, for these things you take for granted: that you may choose your leaders, that you do not go hungry on a poor harvest, that your surgeons and doctors know all wounds and diseases, that your families live each day without fear of tyranny or oppression.’

  He was acutely aware of Praeda standing beside him, and he saw the speaking horn shake as she held it up. He put an arm about her, in front of those thousands, embracing one of their own.

  ‘The Empire will take from you all these things. They know only the chain and the whip and the iron rule of their law which says: Do as you are told, or suffer. Do you ask yourselves why they come? Can you imagine the blow you strike against them simply by being as you are? Can you think how many in the Empire must ask, Why can we not live as they? The Empire comes to rid you of these freedoms, because those same freedoms will unmake the Empire itself, given time.

  ‘But now, you must march. You must take up the pike and the snapbow, the automotive and the leadshot.’ Words that would have been unfamiliar to him not so long ago, and yet he had learned them well. ‘For all that you own, for all the comfort and the freedom that your city has gifted you
with, you must fight. For all those that you have left behind, friends, family and lovers, you must fight and you must not yield. You are scholars and tradesmen and merchants made into soldiers. Now you must make yourselves heroes!’

  And on the last word he thrust his sword high. A Khanaphir army would cheer him immediately, but there was a curious pause, a moment where the Collegiate soldiers made up their own minds rather than being blackmailed into a response, and then a few, and more and then all of them roared their approval at him.

  It was all he could do for them, that transplanted fighting spirit. Between that encouragement and their training and the weapons the artificers had crafted for them, they would have to manage.

  Praeda raised the speaking horn to her own lips. ‘Drivers, to your machines and be ready! Automotives move to the wings, infantry muster in order east of the camp ready for the advance!’ She squeezed Amnon’s arm and jumped down from the bed of the transporter, running for the automotive that she would drive for him as he led the charge on the left flank, powering towards the enemy siege train.

  Amnon climbed down more slowly. It was not that he was weary, but the fierce passion that normally filled him in times of war was waning; perhaps he was too far from his home, too far from any battle his people might recognize. All very well to talk of chariots, but still . . .

  There was a brittle crack, and then a thunderous retort, and he felt the very edge of the heatwave as his automotive – Praeda’s automotive – exploded.

  Amnon stared, unable to put the various pieces of the scene together. The drivers had all rushed to start their machines, spin up their gyroscopes, release their flywheels, fire their engines. Now the two of them either side of her were partly staved in, as though punched by some giant, their sides raked with broken shrapnel, and between them a sort of fiercely burning framework peeling outwards like the petals of a flower. And Amnon bellowed something wordless and rushed towards the flames, arms outstretched, shouting her name, but it was too late, already too late.