by Gross, Dave
“What?”
“Try not to scare this one off, sir!”
Nemo’s eyebrows arched, but before he could form a smarting rejoinder, Finch waved the young man over.
The journeyman directed his warjacks to stand aside, allowing the wagons and troops that followed to pass unhindered, before hastening over to salute. He hesitated between addressing Finch—to whom he should have reported—and Nemo—whose presence often awed the younger officers into confused breaches of protocol.
“Lieutenant Benedict, Journeyman, reporting as ordered, sir! And sir!”
Before Finch could respond, Nemo said, “How many actions have you seen, Benedict?”
“I served as a trencher for three years, sir. When my talent emerged, I was sent to the Strategic Academy, where I graduated last spring. Since then I participated in two skirmishes against the Cryx in the Thornwood this summer, sir. I saw a lot more action than I expected in Point Bourne during the invasion, but I wish I could have joined you on the march north, sir.”
“You wouldn’t feel that way if you’d been there, Benedict.”
“Yes, sir.”
From the reports Nemo had read of the horrors at Point Bourne, he knew Benedict could not have experienced a more harrowing trial. Nemo hoped for his sake that the present conflict would prove less terrible than the action against Lich Lord Asphyxious. He started to ask why Benedict had arrived without his master, but he already knew the answer.
“Field promotion?” asked Nemo.
“Yes, sir.” Benedict did not flinch, though the reason for dispatching a lieutenant rather than a captain was almost always the same. His mentor had died in action, leaving his journeyman to take his place.
“Were you allocated these Stormclads at Point Bourne?”
“No, sir. Most of my experience is with light ’jacks, sir. The Lord Commander sent these because he thought you might need them, sir.”
Finch snorted as she failed to suppress a snigger. Nemo felt that if Benedict’s worst quality was a preponderance of “sirs,” he would do perfectly well.
“Very well, Benedict,” said Nemo. He stopped himself before giving the man orders. Instead, he turned to Finch.
“Take these big fellows to the mechaniks for inspection,” said Finch. “Report back to me after they’ve been cleared for action.”
“Yes, sir!” Benedict’s salute was as crisp as a freshly ironed collar.
Finch pointed him in the right direction, and Benedict thanked her with a grin and a nod. Finch’s freckles seemed to lighten as she blushed.
Nemo watched the journeyman return to his Stormclads. Benedict sneaked a glance back at Finch before directing the warjacks to follow him to the mechaniks’ tent.
“I can’t even tell anymore,” said Nemo. “How old do you think he is, Finch?”
“Pretty old,” she said. “Twenty-eight, at least.”
Nemo sighed.
As he returned his gaze to the spot Benedict had vacated, Nemo started at the unexpected materialization of three storm callers standing in mid-salute before Caitlin Finch.
“Jimmies!” cried Finch, returning their salute with a non-regulation flourish.
The stormsmiths wore identical long blue coats and held their storm rods at identical angles. Nemo groaned inwardly as he recognized their relatively young faces.
These three he knew all too well.
Most stormsmiths were considerably more experienced than journeyman warcasters. They were among the most adept practitioners of advanced mechanika, their ranks filled by the most proficient mechaniks and arcane mechaniks, including those specializing in storm sciences. It was rare to encounter one under the age of thirty, but now and then a prodigy emerged. These three had graduated from the Strategic Academy together.
Or rather, Nemo often thought, they had somehow escaped.
“Baker, Smith, and Hurndall reporting for duty, sir!” cried the one Nemo thought was Hurndall. He looked different now that his long blond hair had turned bright blue.
Nemo frowned at the notion of a Stormsmith Smith, but he knew remarking on the unfortunate name would only evoke some shaggy dog story with the punch line “Smith.” Instead he narrowed his eyes at Hurndall. “What the hell happened to your hair, Stormsmith?”
“During a recent visit to the Order of the Golden Crucible in Fharin, sir, there was a slight misunderstanding. It actually makes for quite an amusing anecdote, if you would care to hear—”
“Tell me you aren’t the only stormsmiths Stryker could spare.”
“No, sir,” said Baker or Smith, whichever one was the ginger. “Four more are coming with the Storm Striders. Pond and McCoy are with the Fireflies. Jones and Troughton and their assistants have the storm towers.”
“How many Fireflies and towers?”
“Two of each, sir,” said the other one, Smith or Baker.
That was something. In fact, it was more than something. While Nemo might have quibbled over his selection of storm callers, Stryker had sent much more galvanic armament than Nemo had imagined he could spare. He hoped the Lord Commander hadn’t been rash in depleting his garrison while Cryx remained an unchecked menace.
Nemo released the specialists to Finch. When she dismissed them with a warning to have their gear ready for inspection within the hour, their precisely sequential salutes and “Yes, sirs!” caused Nemo to raise a suspicious eyebrow. He could never tell whether these pranksters were insolent or just mentally peculiar.
As they departed, Nemo asked Finch, “Jimmies?”
“Because their first names are all James.”
“I thought one was Gerald.”
“Honorary Jimmy.”
Exasperated, Nemo turned back to Chaplain Geary. The Precursor knight stood a respectful distance away, but his eyes gave away his eagerness to see the captives.
“Come.” Nemo beckoned to him. “Let us start in the workshop.”
As they returned westward across the camp, Finch pointed toward the map tent. “Sir.”
Standing beside the guard were four mechaniks, their fearful eyes fixed on Nemo.
“Of course,” said Nemo. “Mags’ Cyrissists.”
“Cyrissists?” said Geary. “You have some in your army right now?”
“If we disqualified them, we’d lose half our best mechaniks. Besides, the king has granted them the right to practice their religion freely.”
“The Cyrissists are not a religion but a cult.”
Nemo stopped himself from pointing out that the difference between a cult and a religion was one of perspective. The Menites, once the dominant religion in all of western Immoren, still considered the Church of Morrow a cult, and a heretical one at that. The Crown’s endorsement of a temple in the capital city surely elevated the Cyrissist movement above its previously marginal status. The question was whether it was a friendly or enemy religion. The actions of this Convergence sect were clearly supporting the latter answer.
Nemo wanted to question the known Cyrissist mechaniks without Chaplain Geary present, yet he had promised the knight a look at the clockwork soldiers and the captured “vectors” and “servitors”—terms the mathematical part of Nemo’s mind found intriguing and oddly appealing. If only he had been able to study the constructs in less trying circumstances, he would have found the prospect exciting, perhaps even relaxing.
“Sir,” said one of the mechaniks, “none of us had anything to do with what happened at the workshop. We were already here.”
“’What happened at the workshop?’” said Nemo. When the men looked at each other rather than answer, he turned toward the man standing guard. “That’s a question, soldier. Exactly what happened at the workshop?”
“There was a disturbance, sir. That’s all I know. Major Blackburn headed that way shortly before you arrived.”
“Keep these men here.”
Nemo didn’t wait for an acknowledgment. He ran toward the mechaniks’ shelter, barely able to keep himself from breaking i
nto a full run. Geary and Finch followed close at his heels.
Guards surrounded the workshop tent, including fresh troops who had arrived with the reinforcements. Blackburn gave orders to one of the arriving lieutenants when he spotted Nemo, then ran to meet him.
“Sergeant Jernigan and two of her assistants are missing. So are all of the captured clockwork soldiers, along with those cylinders you showed us. Two guards on the western perimeter have been killed, torn to pieces by those little saw-projectiles we faced last night.”
“What of the vectors?”
Blackburn turned his head at an inquisitive angle.
“The enemy warjacks, man. Are they still here?”
His head bobbed in understanding. “Yes, sir.”
“What exactly happened?”
“We’re still gathering reports, but we know a squadron of clockwork soldiers struck the workshop during the attack from Calbeck. From the footprints, we see they retreated to the west, presumably to return to Calbeck. I have rangers tracing their steps.”
Nemo thought of the known Cyrissists under guard at his map tent. How many more were present now that reinforcements had arrived?
“How do we know our own people didn’t take the automatons and leave voluntarily?” Nemo glanced at Geary. He hated asking such a question, especially in front of the Precursor chaplain, but he needed the answer.
“We’ve found prints leading from and back to the western wood. They look like they came from more clockwork soldiers. There are signs of a struggle in the workshop, including a small amount of blood.” Blackburn emphasized “small amount,” perhaps in consideration of Nemo’s friendship with Mags. “I don’t think our people gave up without a fight. More likely they were captured.”
“Did no one witness this kidnapping?”
“None that I’ve yet found, sir. There was a great deal of confusion during the attack.”
“What of the commandos you had covering the west?”
Blackburn’s face hardened. “The survivors report seeing movement on the way back, but they had their hands full returning the wounded. They encountered more of those floating spheres, different from the ones you captured. These flew straight toward the men before exploding.”
Homing mines, thought Nemo. What a fiendish implementation of the technology!
“I want that village surrounded,” said Nemo. “Enlist all the new troops you need, commandos first, but use others if you need more to cover the perimeter all the way to the Dragon’s Tongue on either side.”
“Yes, sir.” Blackburn returned to the men at the workshop, dispatched two as messengers, and set off to the west.
Seething, Nemo watched the major go. He had taken the morning’s attack as a probe meant to test his defenses. He was beginning to accept the likelihood that the entire exercise was one great diversion to cover the rescue.
He had misjudged his enemy. Mags had paid the price.
“General, if there is anything I can do…” Geary left the platitude unfinished.
Nemo shook his head. He tried to resist the urge to inspect the workshop personally. Blackburn was as competent an officer as he had ever had. Yet despite his complaints about her crass behavior, Mags was one of his oldest friends. He had to see for himself.
“Wait here,” he told Geary. Finch followed him into the tent.
The damage appeared less terrible in reality than in his imagination. A box of parts had fallen to the ground, spilling gears and screws across the flattened grass. Tools lay scattered across a table where they would normally have lain in neat order. A trail of rags led to an overturned box. Perhaps the attackers had used the oily cloths as gags or bonds for their captives.
Nemo found the bloodstain on the corner of a heavy table. Blackburn’s description of it as “a small amount” seemed an understatement as Nemo imagined it had come from his friend’s head wound. He knelt for a closer look.
Finch leaned over his shoulder. Her gasp of concern piqued his own fear of what the evidence was telling him.
He spied a few fine fibers stuck to the bloodstain.
“Finch, hand me a needle probe.”
After a brief search, she slapped the tool into his hand. He lifted the hairs from the blood. Under the shade of the tent, he couldn’t make out the color. He cradled the discovery in a cupped gauntlet and carried it outside.
The hairs were not black, but even in the full morning light, he could not discern whether they were grey, blonde, or light brown. His eyesight was not so poor that he required spectacles, but he had taken to wearing assistive lenses when reading anything longer than a short letter. “Finch, fetch me a—”
Before he could finish, she handed him the magnifying lens she had brought out of the workshop. He scowled at her presumption before raising the lens and examining the hairs.
They were thick, short, straight, and undeniably grey.
“Morrow preserve her,” he muttered.
Finch reached for his arm, but he withdrew from her touch.
“We still have the—what did the prisoner call them?”
“Vectors,” said Nemo. “The prisoner!”
He ran, and Finch ran after him. Chaplain Geary hurried after them in a futile effort to keep up.
The guards and the mechaniks stepped aside as Nemo rushed into the map tent. There on the table lay the reconnected head and voice-box assembly.
“They didn’t get them all!” said Finch.
Nemo frowned at the storm chaser’s exuberance. Seeing his expression, Finch calmed herself and added, “He claimed his leader would exchange prisoners.”
“It’s true,” said the head. Nemo realized he should have done more than cover its optical lens with a rag. The captured soldier could still hear.
He went to the table and removed the essence chamber from its power junction. He paused, uncertain whether residual power allowed it to continue hearing. He decided to examine it in detail later. He stepped outside the tent.
Chaplain Geary arrived, puffing from the exertion. One look at Nemo’s angry face prevented him from speaking.
Nemo turned to the guards. “I want these mechaniks separated and isolated. Double the guard on this tent, and keep these men under visual observation at all times. Have someone bring the devices I left on the table to the mechaniks’ workshop.” He walked away, still formulating his plan.
“What are we doing, sir?” asked Finch.
“We’re going to interrogate these Cyrissists, starting with our remaining captive.”
Aurora
Aurora paced the circumference of the observation deck. Her bodyguards hastened to keep pace with her, their heels clicking on the deck. In Sabina’s absence, they remained silent unless Aurora addressed them.
Despite her best efforts, Aurora could not see the scouts her angels reported creeping up to the very edge of the village before being driven away by her troops. One had reportedly come close enough to speak with some of the prisoners inside the schoolhouse before a reductor patrol spied him. Somehow the ranger still managed to escape, even through the doubled guard of obstructors and eradicators along the perimeter. She felt a grudging admiration for the man’s feat. Perhaps the legend of the Cygnaran rangers contained more truth than she had ever realized.
With the village surrounded, Aurora no longer felt the need to conceal her strength. She had already directed the Transfinite Emergence Projectors to step out from beneath the shelter of the realignment node. Permutation servitors orbited their gun platforms like moons, ready to dart forward and intercept enemy fire.
She moved the Prime Axiom out from behind the riverside leg of the realignment node. Aurora felt the dull thrum of its massive displacement field as it glided across the streets. The titanic construct knocked the corners off of houses as it passed, its massive drill vices held safely above the rooftops. Those same drills had bored the pit beneath the node, allowing the optifex to install the realignment conduits and the geomantic translocation apparatus.
Nemo’s reinforcements had arrived sooner and in much larger numbers than she had expected. The forces of Cygnar had earned their association with lightning in more than one way. Still, there was no cause to despair. Aurora reminded herself that the present Cygnaran forces still numbered little more than half the strength of her Convergence army.
She could not help shuddering at the ferocity Sebastian Nemo had displayed in response to her probing attack. Even before she revealed her reserve, the man had to have understood that he was grossly outnumbered. Rather than withdraw from her attack, Nemo had responded with a swift and direct assault on her forward units. In such a brief exchange, he had destroyed or disabled a surprising number of her most valuable units.
He had not done so without losses, of course. Aurora was pleased with the effectiveness of the Mitigator and Diffusers. And the reflex servitors had caused shocking casualties among Nemo’s fearsome commandos; she wished she had requisitioned more of the deadly mines for perimeter defense. Unfortunately, they destroyed themselves in performing their tasks. She would have to place the remaining dozen reflex servitors carefully.
A hiss at the southwestern lift announced Sabina’s return from the upper chambers. She approached Aurora and bowed. “Numen, the last of the essential construction is complete, but the optifex have only begun the preliminary calibration. They cannot give a definite timeline for the realignment.”
Aurora filled her lungs with a cleansing breath. She had miscalculated in provoking Nemo. Even outnumbered, with his reinforcements he could prove a genuine threat to the operation.
She needed to change her tactics. She had more than enough prisoners to exchange for her captured vectors, servitors, and soldiers, but she hesitated to offer them too soon after the morning’s skirmish. Aurora wished only to deal from a position of strength.
A triad of clockwork angels landed on the eastern side of the observation deck. Sabina went to receive their reports while Aurora returned her attention to the expanding Cygnar camp.