by Gross, Dave
Long gunners continued marching into the Cygnaran camp from the direction of Point Bourne. At last report, hundreds had swelled the ranks of Nemo’s army, along with trenchers, commandos, and the rangers who had already dissolved into the woods and hollows surrounding Calbeck.
Aurora made a mental note to increase the flying patrols across the river. She doubted even the celebrated Cygnaran long rifles could reach so far with any accuracy, but she had been surprised often enough for one day.
“Numen,” said Sabina. Even through the mechanikal voice modulator, Aurora could hear the trepidation in her tone.
“What is it?”
“Prime Enumerator Septimus requests your presence in the village below.”
“Does he?” said Aurora. The clockwork priest should have presented himself or requested an audience with Aurora, not summoned her. She saw her mother’s hand in this latest provocation. Was she testing Aurora or simply undermining her attempt to succeed at something other than the priesthood.
“Numen, there is something else.”
“What is it?”
“This morning, before the strike on the Cygnar camp, Septimus requested the service of four wings of angels.”
“For what purpose?”
“He refused to say, so of course I turned him down.”
“And you did not tell me?”
Sabina cast her gaze to the floor. Her brass wings drooped. “He suggested that it was unnecessary, and that distracting you would only endanger the Great Work.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“It was less his words than his demeanor. He seemed to imply—”
“Yes?”
“Or perhaps I simply inferred that he would make trouble for you if I reported his request.”
“You answer to me alone, Sabina.”
“Yes, Numen, I know that. I— I wished only to protect you.”
Sabina’s excessive vigilance was one thing in combat, where her duty was to shield Aurora from harm. In political matters, it was becoming increasingly maternal—and Aurora had little patience for any behavior that smacked of mothering. “You will protect me best by keeping me informed of everything, including these hints of intrigue.”
“Yes, Numen. Please forgive me.”
“See that it doesn’t happen again. I have placed great trust in you.” Perhaps too much, Aurora thought.
“You honor me.”
“What do you think Septimus wants to show me?”
“I don’t know, Numen. Enumerator Bogdan delivered the message to one of my angels. She says he seemed more excited than usual.”
Aurora thought about sending Sabina in her stead, or—better yet—a simple soldier to summon the priest to the observation deck. Such a gesture would provide a smart reminder that it was Aurora, not Septimus, who led the mission.
Alternatively, she could make Septimus wait, perhaps descending the astronometric nexus tower via the automatic staircase and walking through the streets of Calbeck. Perhaps in the time it took for her to arrive, he would begin to dread her displeasure as much as he feared her mother’s.
No, she decided. While the clockwork priest’s summons might itself be a political maneuver, he was certainly wise enough to support it with a meaningful occasion. Perhaps he had intelligence to share. It was even conceivable that he genuinely required her guidance.
“Where is he?” asked Aurora.
“In the temple.”
Of course, thought Aurora. He would call her to the one place where his authority was more obvious than hers.
“Very well,” said Aurora. She went to the eastern edge of the observation deck. An unbidden surge of annoyance prompted her to run, throwing her armored body over the edge to plunge downward.
“Numen!”
With a swift calculation of distance, time, and the acceleration of gravity, Aurora spread her wings to enjoy the tug of air beneath her razor-sharp “feathers,” but only for a few seconds. As Sabina cried out behind her, she activated the displacement field and glided down to the streets of Calbeck.
She landed lightly, but her wings raised a cloud of dust from the street. Her sudden appearance startled a patrol of reductors. Upon seeing her, the unit prefect bowed. The troopers followed his example. Aurora ignored them and walked along a street of empty shops.
Sabina and the rest of her bodyguard landed behind her, silent but for the scrape of their brass wings closing.
The sweet smell of ale wafted from the open doors and windows of a tavern. Aurora’s soldiers had previously used the building to house captives. Some sought to ease their fear by drinking, several to the point of sickness. Aurora had approved Pollux’s request to relocate the prisoners lest they kill themselves with fighting or excessive drink.
Such fragile bodies we are born into, thought Aurora. She could hardly wait to be shed of hers.
And yet she enjoyed the smell of malted barley. The thrill of the brisk autumn air was another sensation she would miss. Even Forge Master Syntherion’s most advanced creations did not include olfactory or tactile sensors approaching the sensitivity of human organs.
Such simple pleasures were a sacrifice Aurora was more than willing to make in the pursuit of perfection. She was content to enjoy them for a short time longer before leaving them behind forever. If only the fluxion directive—and her mother—did not insist on delaying her transference.
The reminder of the frailty of the village residents gave Aurora another idea how to deter an assault from the Cygnaran army. “Sabina, tell Pollux to have the guards release the prisoners for exercise at the base of the realignment node. They should be in groups large enough to be visible to the Cygnarans.”
“Yes, Numen,” said Sabina. She began relaying the order to one of the other guards, but Aurora added, “Deliver the message personally.”
“Yes, Numen.” Aurora heard a tone of wounded contrition in her mechanikal voice. Having lived all her life among machines, she knew the sound of sincere regret, even filtered through an artificial voice box.
With her remaining guards, Aurora approached the temple.
In architecture, the building appeared purely Morrowan from steeple to decorative buttress. Septimus had directed his servitors to erect a large Face of Cyriss over the church doors. Through frosted glass, the features of the Maiden of Gears glowed blue-white. Although the priest had left the stained glass depicting acts of the ascendants in place, the goddess’ icon, and the reductors standing like paired statues at each entrance, completely changed the character of the building.
Inside, Aurora found Prime Enumerator Septimus standing near the altar, his mechanikal hands reassembling components of damaged clockwork vessels as his almost musical voice intoned equations of praise to the Maiden. Beside him, Enumerator Bogdan stood attentive before a row of tools, eyes closed, lips moving in the ritual calculation of the goddess’ orbit.
Behind the altar, the Vault of the Enkheiridion had been torn from the wall, replaced with the Face of Cyriss. The holy book of Morrow lay open at one end of the altar. Otherwise, the trappings of Morrow remained in their accustomed places throughout the chamber: pews, candles, fonts, and a choir.
As Aurora approached the altar, she saw the lightning-twisted bodies of six reductors lying at its foot, along with the arms and lower body of a seventh. An eighth stood at attention to one side, its chassis marked with the fresh cuts and seared weld marks of recent repair. At the sight of Aurora, he made a clumsy bow.
Accretion servitors hovered over the steel husks of the other reductors. They had already removed four gleaming essence chambers from their chests. Two of them worked together to open a fifth.
Three miserable-looking people sat behind the rail of the choir, flanked by a pair of vigilant reciprocators. The clockwork soldiers held their scalloped shields to form walls on either side of the captives, their halberds held ready in an unspoken threat to any who dared to leap the rail.
The prisoners wore the heavy leather
aprons of mechaniks. Black grease highlighted their fingernails and smudged their faces. Two were men, one tall and bulky, the other lean with a pox-scarred face. The third was a woman whose muscular shoulders bore tattoos of gears and pistons.
“What have you done, Septimus?” Aurora had already apprehended the situation, but she wanted to hear the clockwork priest admit what he’d done.
“Numen, I used the confusion you inflicted on the Cygnaran camp to recover our lost comrades. In the process, my soldiers were able to recover all but two—”
“Whose soldiers?”
The prime enumerator’s voice box clicked off, the clockwork equivalent of a man’s biting his tongue. When the ambient hiss returned, Septimus said, “Convergence soldiers. Under your command, Numen.”
“And do I understand correctly that you sought to enlist my clockwork angels in this unauthorized mission?”
Once more, Septimus clicked off his voice modulator rather than speak in haste.
Enumerator Bogdan stepped forward. “The fault is mine, Numen. In relaying Prime Enumerator Septimus’ request, I may have expressed myself poorly. Any confusion is entirely my fault. I beg you to blame me, not the prime enumerator.”
There was more than enough blame for the two of them, Aurora thought. But she would not be fooled by this transparent effort to make a scapegoat of the lackey.
Aurora stepped past Bogdan, her sudden motion forcing him to retreat so quickly he almost tripped over his own robes. She looked down at the holy book. Septimus had left it open to an illustration of Ascendant Corben, patron of alchemy, arcana, and astronomy.
She wondered what Septimus was scheming. To Cyrissists, Corben was the most sympathetic of the ascendants. Many converts had come wearing medallions of Corben before exchanging them for tokens of the Maiden of Gears.
The twin gods Morrow and Thamar had been revered as Cyriss-inspired savants long before humans discovered the existence of the Maiden. Thus it was little surprise that many continued to worship Morrow even as they delved deeper into the equations of the perfect deity.
Aurora turned back to her bodyguard. “Take these prisoners to separate confinement in the village.”
“Numen, if you will permit me to explain,” began Septimus.
“You are here to direct the troops as I command,” said Aurora, “not to second-guess my decisions by taking prisoners without my orders.”
Septimus rose an inch on his silent pistons before bowing his head. “As you say, Numen.”
Aurora stepped close, whispering into his aural receptors. “And if your action prompts the enemy to attack before we have completed the geomantic realignment, it is you, not I, who shall have to answer to the iron mother.”
The clockwork priest bowed deeply as he skittered backward on crab-like legs.
Aurora turned to her guard. “Now take them. See that they are treated as humanely as the citizens of Calbeck. Let no one but me or one of my designated guards speak to them.”
The reciprocators stood aside at the approach of the clockwork angels. Wordless, the prisoners filed out of the choir box. A clanking piston set the rhythm of their shuffling pace.
The faces of the men were slack with fear and shock, but the woman could not tear her gaze from the automatons. She stared at the quiet action of their limbs, the steady glow of their lenses. There was no fear in her countenance, only awe and longing.
Aurora recognized that look.
When the woman stepped out from the choir, Aurora saw that her mechanikal leg was the source of the noise. She reappraised the rest of the woman.
Despite the strength of her arms and shoulders, the woman’s body was failing her in more ways than one. Her flat chest was proof that she had lost more than her leg, and she moved with a caution that suggested she suffered great pain in her joints. Judging by her greying hair and the lines around her eyes, Aurora guessed the woman was well into her sixties.
“Bring that one to me,” said Aurora.
Behind the alter, Bogdan whispered something to Septimus. Aurora turned to see the clockwork priest nodding his mechanikal head. As he saw her looking at him, Bogdan said, “I meant only to suggest you question that prisoner personally.”
“Leave us,” said Aurora.
Septimus bowed. “I shall collect these recovered essence chambers for the enigma foundries,” he said. After a pause he added, “With your permission, Numen.”
“See to it.”
Septimus gestured to the accretion servitors, who collected the six recovered essence chambers and followed Septimus down the aisle toward the entrance. The salvaged reductor followed them.
Bogdan hesitated beside the altar. His eyes sought Aurora’s permission to remain behind, but her returning gaze told him he would not receive it. He scurried after Septimus as the reciprocators escorted the priest, his salvaged soldier, and the captive men out of the church.
Aurora turned to the prisoner. Her clockwork angels stood to either side of the muscular woman, ready to grab her at the first suggestion of attack.
“Name?”
“Sergeant Margaret Jernigan, Chief Mechanik,” she said. She stared at Aurora’s wings, her lips parted in admiration.
“Show me your mask.”
“I haven’t carried the token in years.”
“But you embrace the truth of knowledge, science, and Cyriss,” said Aurora. “It is by the blessing of machine technology that you walk, is it not?”
Jernigan nodded a reluctant affirmative.
“Your body is failing, as all bodies do. I can see some of what you have lost already. How much is there that I cannot see? You don’t have to live in pain.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you expect me to—”
Aurora cut her off with a gesture. “The Convergence values minds, not bodies. Those who prove themselves worthy, and those who fall in battle for the Maiden, can leave behind their broken husks and live in perfect clockwork vessels.” She indicated the nearest angel, her chromium body standing a foot taller than Aurora.
“‘Those who prove themselves worthy,’” Jernigan recited. “You make it sound like you want something from me.”
Aurora nodded. “What price would you not pay for perfection?” she asked. “For freedom from pain? For immortality?”
“I won’t hurt anyone,” said Jernigan.
Interesting, thought Aurora. She had expected something more along the lines of refusing to betray her people. “You have prayed to Cyriss before, haven’t you? You know the promise of eternal transfiguration.”
Jernigan nodded. “Life inside a machine. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Are you sure you won’t show me your token?”
“I haven’t carried one in years,” said Jernigan, but her eyes dropped to her chest.
“No?” said Aurora. She suspected the woman’s devotion—or at least her hopes—ran more deeply than that. She had noticed how the clockwork tattoos upon Jernigan’s shoulders converged toward the flat chest hidden under her apron. She raised her voice. “Show me your mask.”
With a grimace, Jernigan unfastened her apron and peeled down her dirty tunic to reveal her tattooed chest. Cogs and axles concealed the scars of her mastectomy, but nestled in the center of them all lay the unmistakable face of the Maiden of Gears.
“Cyriss has guided you here,” said Aurora.
“What, so you could capture me?”
“No,” said Aurora. “So I could reward you.”
THE FOURTH HARMONIC
Magic rooted in mysticism embodies failure to graph scientific principles.
Nemo
A murmur through the camp first alerted Nemo. He and Blackburn saw the nearest soldiers staring north. Turning, they had their first glimpse of the colossal.
It was easily the size of a Stormwall but without the smokestacks of its Cygnaran counterpart. The familiar blue-white light radiating from points all across its body marked it as a Convergence machine. Even if there could
have been any mistaking its identity, the glowing Face of Cyriss removed all doubt. The giant construct’s arms ended in trios of enormous drill points, each large enough to render a heavy warjack into scrap metal. Two massive units above its shoulders appeared to house some unknown weapon. Nemo noted the circular apertures, but he could not deduce the contents from the unusual shape of the apparatus.
“I’ll send another rider to Point Bourne,” Blackburn said without tearing his eyes from the thing.
Nemo nodded mutely. The very fact that the Convergence could field a colossal warjack elevated the current standoff from a skirmish to a threat against all of Cygnar.
“Sir,” said Blackburn. He pointed to the base of the colossal, where a haze of dust blew away from the three mighty arches that served as its legs. “Tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing.”
“Morrow,” Nemo whispered. “It hovers.”
By creating Cygnar’s mighty colossal warjack, Nemo thought he had ensured the nation’s dominant position in warjack technology for years to come. Even the creation of similarly sized machines by the other countries and factions of Immoren had not diminished that advantage. The Stormwall remained the pinnacle of military power.
Or Nemo he had believed until today. One glance at the massive hovering machine told him he was years behind, not ahead.
Nemo held out little hope of the Lord Commander sending any additional reinforcements, let alone a Stormwall. “Perhaps we can avoid a full-scale conflict,” he said. “The fact that they are revealing a colossal suggests they wish to intimidate us.”
“Or that they know our rangers have surrounded the village and would have identified it at any moment,” said Blackburn. “They couldn’t have kept it a secret for long.”
Nemo nodded again. One of the things he liked about Blackburn was the speed with which he comprehended the most likely cause of any tactical situation. In some ways, the major reminded him of how Nemo himself might have turned out if he had not divided his life between military action and technical research.