“That’s the thing,” I said. “I’ve been looking into it, and I think I’ve found a pattern. Nothing that explains how the attacks happen—but maybe when they happen.”
“Really?” Kizabel had given up being indignant with me by then. She’s never been able to listen to an interesting problem without getting excited.
“I was hoping you and Lady could help me work it out.”
“Well, I’m happy to help,” said Lady Jane. She had exchanged her pajamas for recreational gear and commenced alternately jogging in place and stretching her hamstrings, as though in preparation for vigorous exercise. “If Kizabel is going to insist on holding a grudge, you and I can just ignore her.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kizabel said, sighing resignedly. “Let’s have at it. You want something to drink? It’d be tea. I’m never touching aquavee again.”
“She only stopped puking about two hours ago,” confided Lady between knee lunges.
We were up all night and well into the following afternoon, testing theories, looking at the data from every angle. Lady is a wonder with heavy calculations (and, incidentally, word games), and she worked the numbers cheerfully while jumping rope and doing ostentatious, one-armed push-ups. By the time we had finished, I was pretty confident about our findings, and what we’d found was grim indeed. Curator Ellmore was the logical outlet for our concerns: She could inform Command of what Kizabel and I had discovered without making us any new enemies. And since I knew she would be at supper tonight, I dragged myself here to enjoy some exquisite food I barely have the stomach to swallow.
When the Curator finally gets up to leave, I abandon my plate of uneaten pie and melted ice cream and hurry after her. “Curator,” I say, catching up to her in the hall, “I need to speak with you. In private.”
“How fortuitous,” she says. “I need to speak with you as well, and I was just on the way to my office.”
I don’t stop to wonder what business the Curator might have with me. As soon as we’re alone, I launch into the discoveries Kizabel and I have made, explaining everything in a rush, feeling somehow that if I don’t say it all now, I won’t ever get the chance.
Kiz and I have learned two important things about yesterday’s attack. The first is that, like all incursions behind our main lines, this one is somehow connected to a major battle at the Front. That was the pattern I had noticed and wanted Kizabel’s help parsing out: Whenever the Front sees heavy fighting, we at the rear experience a corresponding attack not long afterward. It wasn’t an easy connection to prove, in part because the lag in communication with the Front means we only ever learn about the fighting there after the corresponding attack here has already occurred, but the pattern is very real. We’ve got the data to prove it.
The second thing we learned is that Imperator Feeroy was wrong about Romeo’s never changing tactics. Kizabel and I looked at battles going back for years, and when we compared the enemy’s behavior to the battle two days ago, it was pretty clear the “lingering” Feeroy described was actually a shift in objective. Romeo never intended on hitting our production facilities—he wanted to engage our defenses.
All of which points to one very disturbing conclusion: This isn’t the war of attrition we thought we were fighting. Something about it has changed. We’ll be able to repair most of the losses incurred during this most recent battle in a matter of months, meaning that if Romeo’s goal was really to weaken our defenses, he’s almost certainly planning to hit us again, and soon. Whatever success we had in the other day’s action, it’s too soon to declare victory. This incursion was only the beginning.
“Very compelling,” Curator Ellmore says when I’ve finished. We’ve been in her office for nearly an hour now, and it’s become apparent little if anything I’ve said has surprised her. “And what actions would you recommend?”
“We should evacuate all cities and settlements we don’t have the resources to secure and consolidate our forces until our defenses have been fully restored.”
The Curator nods, closing the folder with my report inside. “I advised the very same thing this morning at my meeting with Command. Unfortunately, Princept Azemon decided to follow Imperator Feeroy’s recommendation to increase production as a means of bolstering our damaged defenses. The other Principates will do the same.”
“But we’re spread too thin as it is! We can’t possibly expect—”
Curator Ellmore holds up a hand, as though to say there’s no use debating what we both already know. “I will make sure the Princept sees your report, but I’m afraid the decision has already been made.” The Curator has never looked particularly old to me, though she must be well past eighty. Now, though, I see the lines of worry deepen on her face.
Before I can say anything else, there’s a faint chirp in the air just beside the Curator’s ear, and she says, apparently to no one, “Yes, thank you. Send him in.”
Behind me, the door to Curator Ellmore’s office opens, and Censor Reggidel steps in. “Good evening, Curator,” he says, taking a seat. “I see you’ve already brought the boy.” He glances at me, reads the befuddlement on my face, and says, “And you haven’t told him yet.” He shrugs. “I thought he would have guessed.”
“Guessed what?” I ask.
“You’ve been promoted, Vinneas,” the Curator says with a resigned smile. “Imperator Feeroy requested you specifically as part of his new initiative. He’s put you with the censors. Full senior status. Quite the honor,” she adds dryly. “The position carries a rank equivalent to centurio.”
I glance at Reggidel, then back to Curator Ellmore. “All of this was decided today?”
Curator Ellmore gives me a long look, and it’s all I need to understand what’s happened. Imperator Feeroy has classified me as an obstacle, so he’s getting rid of me. He brought me onto active duty in the Legion, then promoted me to a post it should have taken years of hard work to achieve—an honor, as the Curator said, but one that will keep me well away from anything happening at Command—all so he could ship me off on the pretense of rewarding merit when what he really wants is to put me at a safe distance, someplace where I won’t be able to undermine him.
I get the idea that Reggidel has worked out all of this as well and finds it hilarious. “Welcome to the censors, boy,” he says with an avuncular grin. “Looks like we’ve got a new most hated man in the room.”
ELEVEN
NAOMI
There is no time for grieving yet, and until that time comes, I must be strong. In this, Mama has been my example. She was waiting when we clattered into camp, and I watched her face as Reaper Thom told her what had befallen us in our scouting, of the raiders coming fast behind us. And though Mama had only just learned her exquisite daughter Rae was dead, killed in some trap of unknown treachery, she did not cry out or weep as I had done, only nodded, and said, “Then we must saddle the horses.” She had heard our bugle call, the signal for enemies approaching, and loaded her guns, but Thom’s report made it clear our choice was to leave now or not at all. I knew then that whatever sorrow I carried must be sealed up and stored away. To be a limp and sobbing weight would only put everyone in more danger.
There were some who refused to go, disbelieving Thom’s tale of hostile warriors beyond counting, a horde about to descend upon New Absalom, and others who believed but lingered to hitch their wagons, cleaving to the wealth they had spent their lives collecting. They are all gone now, dead or taken, as are many of those who rode out with us, bringing only their weapons and what goods they could carry on their backs. Of more than seventy in our coda who came singing into New Absalom some three days past, barely twenty remain.
We reside now on the outskirts of the last township we visited before coming to New Absalom, a place its inhabitants call Granite Shore. They are wary of us here, making no secret of their opinion that we are thieves by nature and will at the merest opportunity take anything not bol
ted to the floor. They have put us up in a warehouse, a tall and echoing structure with thin, drafty walls, lately used to store sugar but now holding only a collection of hard pallets for my people to sleep upon. Even these sparse accommodations were offered only grudgingly, after we had surrendered ourselves and were already within the township fences, and it became clear something had to be done with us, as we could not be trusted to wander freely about.
We Ochres, once the smallest clan of our coda by far, now stand about middle in number. The families of Fisher and Silva have been cut down root and branch, and of the Sullivans only Marcus and Jenny remain. Apricot is our last Bose. But Mama’s kin, the Hollises, remain strong, as do the Mancebos, and we have enough Simon Gardiners yet that nicknames still serve a purpose. As night comes in, we sit around a fire built of planks salvaged from broken crates, flames wavering in the chilly wind that pushes through our flimsy shelter, and argue through what sparse prospects remain to us.
Our only certainty is that we cannot remain here. We have been told as much by one of the township’s magistrates, a man named Ghalo, who appeared this afternoon in a rumbling mechanical coach and demanded to speak with our leader. Reaper Thom was chosen to parley with him, and I was sent as interpreter, for Thom has never learned the language of the townships, and in any case, I had negotiated the cease-fire with these people, which made me something of an ambassador. Thom listened impassively as Ghalo explained how little there was to spare in his township, proclaiming poverty, though he was fat through the face and had strings of meat lodged in his teeth. “We will provide you what we can, but I am afraid we are not a wealthy settlement, and we must ask you to leave soon” was what he said. Through me, Reaper assured the man we would not trouble him long, and in that regard my coda is in full agreement. To subsist on what handouts these people deign to provide fills us with bitter resentment, and we take the little that is offered only because refusing would be to forfeit our lives. Though weary and wounded, we are resolved to set out as soon as we are able. Where we will go is a matter of less certainty.
Simon Grumble Gardiner and his cousins say we should head for the southern territories, where the weather is milder and we stand a chance of surviving in the open, sleeping beneath the sky and subsisting on wild game and forage. A different faction, headed by Gideon and Phoebe Hollis, argues that we ought to go north, making for another winter roost in the hope that others of our people will be settled there and willing to give us succor. The two parties bicker back and forth, and voices speak up in support now of one and now the other, but never saying what we all know to be the truth: that both paths will likely lead to our death. The southern lands are overrun with hostile tribes, and we will be outnumbered and exposed on all sides. In the north, we would stand paltry chance of reaching another haven, and if there is no one waiting when we do, we might as well lie down on the frozen ground and give ourselves up to the cold. Either way, we will have to outrun a winter already prowling close behind, poised to fall upon us with its icicle teeth.
It is not easy to hold back the despair that grows in me as I listen to my coda weigh one manner of death against another. Nor do they remark upon the ravenous tribesmen who chased us from New Absalom, now likely waiting just beyond the township fences, Nworkies and Leafcoats and Niagaras and What-Whats, and still others I could not name by sight, all gathered into a warriors’ confederacy unlike any we have ever known. To get even a few miles past the fences would be no small miracle; to survive longer would necessitate still greater wonders. I listen, relying on the trick I have devised for when fear or sadness threatens to overtake me: I put on the face I wear whenever Baby is acting up and I need him to mind me or Mama or his manners. Only now it is not Baby I intend to get in line but my own trembling spirit. Yet I cannot help envisioning the grim road before us, and that is what I am doing when from the warehouse door comes a commotion of shouts and banging.
Simon Rumble Gardiner has discovered a stranger outside our warehouse and pinned the interloper against the metal wall with his big brawler’s fists. When I see who Simon has in his grasp, I leave my place by the fire and rush over. “Simon Gardiner!” I shout. “You take your hands off that man, or I’ll put a knife your gut!”
“They took our knives,” Simon replies. “Took them with our guns.”
“I expect I’ll make do with a spoon, then.”
Simon looks over his shoulder, and I am relieved to see him wearing a grin. “Caught this one prowling outside,” he says of his captive. “No telling what manner of mischief he’s about.”
“Do as she says, Simon,” calls Reaper Thom. “That boy means no harm, and I prefer not to give his people cause for quarrel.”
With a shrug, Simon releases his grip on the townsman, who staggers back, wearing a look of bemused humor, as if to say being handled so roughly was all in good fun. “Just the girlie I wanted to see,” he says to me in the language of the townships. “That’s twice you’ve rescued me now.”
It is the man from the woods, the soldier who negotiated the surrender of my coda. He is without his gun and vest, wearing only the formless garb of most township men. “If you wish to continue in my acquaintance, you may call me by my name, which is Naomi Ochre,” I inform him.
“Fine with me, Naomi Ochre,” he says, smiling. His face is not uncomely, dusky and square of jaw, with white teeth and a bristly cap of dark hair. “My name’s Torro, in case you’re wondering.”
I think to ask what sort of person names a child Torro, but in my experience all township people bear similarly nonsensical names. Instead, I say, “Tell me your business, Torro.”
“I brought this for you.” He reaches past the warehouse door and presents me with a heavy burlap sack. “You can share it with your people. It’s not a huge feast or anything, but it’s all edible at least.”
The sack is full of canned food. We Walkers occasionally trade for preserves like these, and I recognize portions of meat and fish and vegetables, even bread. I hand the bag back to him. “It is kind of you to offer, but I will not accept your charity.”
“Hey, it’s not charity,” he says, still smiling. “It’s kind of like a thank-you, you know? My kiddos were all real happy you didn’t just shoot me in the head like you could’ve. Like, they would have been pretty upset if you had. So when I told them about you, they all wanted to throw something in to bring over here. I think they’ll be mad at me if I just bring it back.” He shrugs. “If you don’t take it, I’ll probably just throw it away.”
“That would make no sense at all,” I say, looking back at the sack. It would be a shame to waste good food, and with my coda going hungry. “Very well. You have my thanks, Torro. Please convey my gratitude to your kiddos as well.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” he says, and with one more smile, ducks back into the night.
My coda is at first mistrustful of such unwarranted generosity, nor does the explanation that Torro’s gifts are in a sense a blood payment ease their minds. Once I have opened the first can, however, others join me, hunger trumping their caution. What few rations we took from New Absalom amounted to only a mouthful for each of us, and until now, this township has offered only cans of thin broth to warm over our fires. But welcome as this food is, it presses upon us the urgency of our departure all the more, for we know we can expect no more such gifts. If we stay, we must either starve or be reduced to begging and thievery.
In the morning, Thom takes me to speak with one of the armed men who are always posted just in sight of our warehouse. I inform this guard that we intend to leave the township and ask him to summon someone of authority to make the arrangements. Shortly thereafter, five mechanical coaches draw up outside of our warehouse and empty a dozen tall, broad-shouldered men onto the street. All carry guns, though by their bearing it is plain they comprise an honor guard for the woman who emerges from the center coach. Her face and figure are equally stout, and she wears her ye
llow hair in a tight bun. Ghalo stands behind her, bending to speak into her ear as she surveys those of us who have come outside to witness the spectacle of soldiers and sleek township machines.
I know by now what is expected of me and go to Reaper Thom’s side as Ghalo and the woman approach. Ghalo is plainly subservient here, his deference much in contrast to the bluster of his previous visit. “Prefect Qu,” he says, “I present Thom, headman of the bivvie caravan, and Naomi, his interpreter.” I have noticed that township people have no family names and do not seem to understand their purpose.
Thom replies, and I translate, leaving out most of the scorn his words convey. “Reaper Thom Mancebo wishes to inform you that the time has come for us to leave,” I say. “He thanks you for your hospitality and asks that you return our weapons and allow us passage to your borders. If we have anything that would be of value to you, we will gladly trade for ammunition, as our own stores are low.”
Qu the Prefect has keen, intelligent eyes, and as I speak, they examine me and Thom in turn. “If you are determined to leave, you are, of course, free to go,” she says when I have finished my speech. Her tone is unaccountably solicitous. “But you must be aware of how cold the weather has become, and I’m afraid there may be hellions still camped beyond our fences. You would be far better off remaining at our settlement, at least until winter is over.”
Reaper’s reaction to hearing our troubles laid out as though we had not yet considered them is ungracious, and I must rephrase carefully. “We have already burdened you too much, and it will be better for us to leave now, before the worst of winter sets in.”
“Your concerns are thoughtful, but quite unnecessary,” the Prefect says with stalwart cheer. “Here at Settlement 225 we all have a duty to share what we produce. It is not a luxurious life, but we are comfortable enough. You will have shelter and all the food you need.”
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