by Gross, Dave
Mags blinked twice but then chuckled. “So I went to a meeting once or twice. That doesn’t make me a cultist.”
Nemo frowned as he considered her answer. There were many casual Cyrissists in the Strategic Academy and in the Steam & Iron Worker’s Union, and there were even more among the stormsmiths, so Mags’ admission was hardly shocking. In his experience, however, people volunteered more information to silence than to questions. He stared into her eyes.
“Oh, come on, ’Bastian. The Cyrissists invited every mechanik and arcanist at one time or another. Hell, I hear they even invited you a few times.”
“And I attended one of their receptions. How many did you attend?”
“Four,” she said, raising her cup. “It wasn’t—if you’ll pardon the expression—my cup of tea.”
“Why not?”
“Not nearly enough strapping young men who fancied old, teat-less mechaniks. You’d think for all the years I’ve put in, the army could fit me with a mechanikal pair.”
Nemo sputtered, drawing hot tea into his nose.
“Or at least a better leg,” she said. Her tone turned serious. “You could help me out with that, if you wanted to. Put in a good word for me again.”
Nemo sighed and nodded, trying not to let the guilt show on his face. He’d promised Mags he would cut through the red tape at logistics and move her name to the top of the waiting list, but the truth was that he’d forgotten. There was always a more urgent matter demanding his attention. She assumed he’d already interceded, and he felt too ashamed to tell her otherwise. “I will,” he said. “Just as soon as we have a moment’s peace.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Mags bobbed her head, but her smile never quite reached her eyes. “So, about this Cyriss thing, there’re a couple of boys in the shop who know more than I do. You want me to send them your way?”
Nemo blotted his mustache with a napkin, grateful that the gesture allowed him to cover his embarrassment, both at her crass remarks about her missing breasts and his chagrin that he had not done more to help her acquire a better prosthetic. “Yes, after our briefing.”
“What briefing?” she asked.
“The one you’re giving on the clockwork soldiers,” said Nemo. “It takes place in the map tent, and it begins in an hour.”
Despite himself, Nemo savored the sound of Mags running back to the workshop, but he winced at the squeals her old mechanikal leg let out at every second step. He could have fixed it himself, if only he could find the time for something less urgent than a threat to the country. Soon, he promised himself, he would make that time. Hell, he would make her the finest mechanikal leg in all of Cygnar. Despite their merry war, Mags was more than a friend to him. She was the closest thing he had to family.
That thought brought a pang of guilt to his stomach. How many promises had he made—and broken—to his family? Mags was right to give him a hard time, even if she took an indecent pleasure in tweaking him.
Nemo sometimes wondered why he surrounded himself with incorrigibles like Mags Jernigan and Ford Blackburn instead of more disciplined soldiers. He knew the answer, even if he didn’t like to admit it.
“Irritation forms the pearl. Your best ideas always come after someone has made you grumpy.” That’s what Mina had always said to him, back when she still loved him.
It felt like a thousand years ago.
Nemo shook away the nostalgia clouding his thoughts. It was crucial that he focus on present issues, not his past failings.
While his small company awaited reinforcements from Point Bourne, Nemo felt vulnerable so close to the Cyrissist force holding Calbeck. Part of that, he realized, was purely a psychological reaction to the extraordinary sights of the past two days. The enormous tower in the center of the village made an intimidating sight. That anyone could erect such a huge structure in secret was nigh inconceivable.
Nemo had employed a mercenary company to investigate reports of unusual warjacks in the area, but until the Devil Dogs’ captain, Samantha MacHorne, showed him what lay on the south bank of the Dragon’s Tongue River, he could never have imagined an enemy force had established a foothold in his country.
Nemo found his tent flap open and Caitlin Finch waiting beside the frame that bore his storm armor. She had already donned her own armor, and she didn’t see him at first, as she covered a yawn with her hand. She turned the gesture into a smart salute once she saw him standing in the entrance.
Nemo turned his back without a word. Finch knew what to do.
Despite his constant improvements, his custom armor remained awkward to put on without assistance. Finch fit his boots, greaves, and chausses into place, securing and double-checking that the recessed latches and conductor assemblies remained flush with the armor’s surface.
Nemo donned his battle robe and allowed its skirts to fall to his feet before raising his arms to receive the breastplate. After securing the gauntlets, vambraces, upper cannons, and pauldrons, he braced himself to receive the weight of the arcane turbine. These days, it was always heavier than he expected.
Nemo activated the turbine and felt its static field run invisible fingers through his hair. His mustache bristled, and the last grains of sleep evaporated from his eyelashes.
Finch stepped back, her face stark in the blue-white glow of Nemo’s electrical aura. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Briefing in the workshop,” he said, checking his timepiece. “You have just enough time to grab a quick breakfast.”
Nemo waited a few seconds before entering the map tent precisely on time. He was satisfied to see Sergeant Jernigan, Storm Chaser Finch, and Major Blackburn awaiting him. They stood between the partially disassembled body of an enemy warjack and a dismantled clockwork soldier. Beside each of them stood a glassy cylinder, the larger one dark, the smaller glowing a steady blue-white.
“Go,” he said without preamble.
Mags held a meaty hand over the soldier. “First off, there’s no power core. No firebox, no storm chamber, no nothing that I can identify, anyway.”
“But how—?” began Finch.
“Finch,” said Nemo. “Listen first. Ask questions later.”
“You always pick the feisty ones, don’t you?” said Mags.
“Continue, Sergeant.”
“Here,” said Mags, peeling away the back plate of a clockwork soldier. “This is definitely a power junction. No, before you ask, it isn’t a generator.”
“Where is the power source?” said Nemo.
“This.” Mags touched the blue-white cylinder she had removed from the soldier’s chest. It glowed as brightly as it had when Nemo had first seen the clockwork soldiers. “The big ones we pulled out of the warjacks have already faded. I’m guessing they keep the soldiers ticking way longer than the big units.”
“How long?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that without a proper workshop, more samples, and more time. For the warjacks, I’d wager we’re talking hours, not days. Definitely not more than a day or so. These guys? Like I said, there’s no way of telling in this field workshop.”
“How did these warjacks capture Calbeck if they can operate for only a few hours?”
“I don’t got that figured out just yet. Their power junctions look like they’re receiving power from more than just this unit.”
“Receiving? That suggests—”
“Yeah, the main power source is independent of their bodies.”
“Transmitted from the tower?”
“Seems the most obvious possibility. Anyway, there’s other interesting stuff.”
From a small crate, Mags lifted a clockwork soldier’s head and connected it to a brass-and-chromium module she had removed from the chest. She picked up the glowing cylinder. One cap glowed beneath an etched Face of Cyriss, which Nemo took for the front. On the back, he spied a contact plate that matched one on the box.
Nemo took the cylinder from Mags. “The
power source?”
“It’s more than that,” said Mags. She gestured to the matching contacts on the box and cylinder. “Give it a try.”
Nemo fitted the cylinder to the box. As they made contact, he heard a faint hum from within the chest module. The ocular lenses on the soldier’s head remained dim and blank.
Nemo set aside the cylinder and fetched a pair of narrow pliers from Mags’ worktable. He removed the head from what he was beginning to think of as a spinal axis and began clearing lightning-twisted metal from the aperture.
Finch picked up the cylinder and hefted it. “Could this be a sort of cortex?”
Mags and Blackburn shrugged. Nemo offered only a noncommittal grunt as he continued to work on the head. He cleared the blackened conduits that seemed least integral to the connection and reassembled the head, spinal axis, and power exchange. At last he retrieved the cylinder from Finch.
When he fit the cylinder to the power exchange, a voice box in the helm squawked. The ocular lens flickered with blue-white light.
A choppy sequence of sounds burst out of the voice box.
“What did it say?” said Blackburn.
Nemo shook his head. He hadn’t caught the words either, but he was certain they were words. He inserted a finger into the neck, feeling for a dull black membrane he had spied earlier. It trembled as the voice spoke again.
“Spare me,” it said. “I submit to lawful capture.”
“You can hear me?” said Nemo.
“Yes,” replied the voice.
Nemo gestured for the rag on Mags’ shoulder. When she passed it to him, he draped it over the soldier’s glowing eye. Despite the unusual circumstances, there was no sense allowing him to see his captors or the contents of the workshop. “Who are you?”
“Platon, reductor of the 7th Priority Task Force of the Convergence of Cyriss.”
Convergence, thought Nemo. So that is what they call themselves. More astonishing was the notion of an artificial creation capable of coherent speech. Nemo suspected there had to be more to it, but he asked, “You are a mechanikal construct?”
“My body is, yes. But I am a person, not just a servitor or vector. Please, inform the Numen of my capture. It doesn’t matter if my body is destroyed. Just keep my essence chamber intact.”
“Servitors are the small floating constructs, then? And vectors are the larger machines?”
The voice barely hesitated before responding, “Yes, that is correct.”
“Sir!” A guard stood at the tent opening. Beyond him, Nemo saw the messenger panting nearby. He had traveled far and fast. He hoped that meant reinforcements were coming.
Nemo waved the man in and accepted a sealed parchment before dismissing him. He broke the seal and read only the first few words before he heard the whistle of incoming artillery.
“Cover!” Blackburn pulled Finch down. Nemo and Mags dropped, sheltering their heads beneath the map table.
“What about me?” cried the captive. “You have a duty to protect prisoners of—”
The first shell struck far across the camp. After the explosion came the patter of raining earth and the shouts of the injured. While the sound was clearly that of an incoming mortar, the explosion had a different character. Whatever weapon had just struck, it was nothing like the Khadoran mortars Nemo had heard all too often before.
“Mags, stay here. You,” Nemo pointed at the guard. “Secure this tent. No one enters until I return. Blackburn, assemble your knights. Finch, you’re with me.” He clutched the message in one hand. “We can’t wait for these reinforcements to arrive.”
“Do we withdraw until they do, sir?” asked Blackburn.
“No, Major. We attack.”
Aurora
Aurora oversaw the attack from the southern edge of the observation deck. Sabina stood at her side, the rest of her bodyguards behind them. Far below, Convergence forces fired on the Cygnaran camp.
Even as she stretched out her thoughts to direct the Ciphers in their bombardment, Aurora sensed the tension in Sabina. Aurora no longer joked that her bodyguards were wound too tight. Those who had resided in clockwork vessels as long as Sabina found such puns more pitiable than witty.
“Numen, Storm Lances to the east,” said Sabina.
Aurora saw them. A dozen mounted knights rode out of camp in an obvious attempt at a flanking maneuver. With their lightning lances ignited, there was no missing them in the early morning light.
Rather than draw back the Ciphers, Aurora reached out to one of the heavy vectors. She changed its servipod mortar from bombardment to flare mode and fired a shot directly over the cavalry. A blazing white flare descended toward them, less to direct additional fire than to remind them just how visible they were.
With the remaining Ciphers, Aurora continued punishing the camp with a combination of anti-personnel and trench-breaking mortars. The bombardment shells fell among the tents, flinging shrapnel in all directions, felling soldiers who failed to reach shelter in time. Elsewhere, the penetrating shells left enormous craters in the ground, hindering movement.
A shell fell directly on a tent, blowing scraps of canvas and a cloud of sod into the air. Aurora noted no sign of furnishings or human remains in the brief explosion. Another tent exploded nearby, equally devoid of contents.
“I knew it!” she said, turning to Sabina. “There was no way Nemo could have moved such a large force so quickly. He seeded decoys throughout the camp.”
“You were wise to probe the defenses, Numen.”
To the southwest, the storm lances spurred their mounts to a gallop, heedless of the warning flare. They rushed toward the seemingly undefended eastern quadrant of Calbeck.
Aurora diverted her attention to the light vectors she had hidden beneath a thick bramble. The servitors had done excellent work laying camouflage upon the heads and torsos of the three-legged machines.
Aurora first took control of the Diffusers. The vectors’ articulated arms gave them the appearance of Galvanizers, a similar model dedicated to repair—but that impression was as deceitful as the foliage concealing them. Aurora targeted the enemy through the Diffusers’ sensors, calculated the optimum course for their projectiles, and fired their spring-propelled weapons. The homing ripspikes flew out in perfect trajectories, blasting the shield out of one man’s grip and impaling two of the other riders.
Aurora’s mind next leaped to the Mitigator, physically distinguished from the Diffusers only by its upper chassis and ranged weapon. Its hurlon chamber hummed as the bolas spun inside. It flew, whooping, toward the cavalry, its razored net enveloping the legs of two horses, shredding the animals’ flesh. The mounts screamed and fell, pulling their riders down with them. In their struggles, they only tore themselves more dreadful wounds.
Under other circumstances, Aurora would have let the vectors charge in to finish their work. She could hear the eager tension in her angels’ limbs as they leaned forward, aching to join the conflict. Yet this was not an assault, Aurora reminded herself.
It was only a test.
The shriek of a chain gun rose from a trench at the edge of the Cygnar camp. Aurora felt a flash of irritation at the realization that her servitors had failed to locate both the trench and the presence of a heavy gun. What else might they have missed?
The anger barely warmed her cheeks before transforming into a pang of guilt. She knew full well the limitations of the servitors when she assigned them the task of scouts. Unlike vectors, which she controlled directly, or the autonomous clockwork soldiers and priests, servitors were limited by their situation response algorithms. They could harbor only the most succinct lists of conditional commands encoded from the small brass sheets fed them that provided their instructions. Even the most advanced servitors could not approach the ability of a living soul to comprehend what it saw and relay that information in a cogent manner.
Aurora should have sent troops to scout the camp before mounting her rescue operation, but she had focused her attent
ion on the ill-fated recovery mission. The result was poor intelligence on the camp, as well as the loss of another Monitor and eight of her reductors.
Even without First Prefect Pollux to remind her, Aurora knew she had no one but herself to blame for these mistakes.
“Numen, Commandos,” said Sabina. She pointed west, at the edge of the same woods where Nemo had ambushed her strike team.
At first Aurora noticed nothing, but then she perceived the faint movement of men through the woods. If not for the autumn’s stripping of the leaves, they might have been invisible from the observation deck.
“Shall I warn Prime Enumerator Septimus?”
“No,” said Aurora. She had ordered the clockwork priest to keep those troops in reserve while she used the vectors to probe Nemo’s defenses. “We’ll keep the soldiers in place behind the Ciphers. I want to see how these Cygnarans react to the reflex servitors.”
Confident she would hear that reaction when it came, Aurora returned her gaze to the east.
While the surviving cavalry withdrew out of range of the Mitigator and Diffusers, two of the storm lances dismounted and ran back to the fallen riders. One needed help to walk, but both had slipped out from under their fallen steeds.
Despite their efforts, the rescuers couldn’t free the horses from the razor nets. Aurora kept her face still as the fallen horses thrashed, the blades digging deeper into their legs. When the futility of escape became clear, one of the rescuers raised his lance and fired a mercy shot into a horse’s skull.
Aurora flinched. She cast a surreptitious glance to the side to see whether Sabina noticed her reaction to the animal’s death. If she had, she betrayed no sign of it.
After euthanizing the second horse, the rescuers fled on foot. If she allowed them to retreat unchallenged, Nemo might think her weak.
She returned her attention to a Diffuser, targeted one of the retreating men, and fired. A homing ripspike cut through his chest and dropped his limp body to the ground.
As the lance fell from his hand, something twisted in Aurora’s gut. She couldn’t decide whether it felt just or pathetic that he was the one to die after saving his men and dispatching their horses.