Gun Red Fifteen is a seventy-two-souler,3 and like all the big guns aboard IMEC-1, it’s nicknamed after some outstandingly violent geographical feature back on Earth—“Old Faithful” in this case, a title that as far as I can tell is at least half-ironic. “Faithful” is indeed one of the oldest pieces of artillery still in operation, and while it’s every bit as accurate as the new 144s and the massive 208s,4 it has developed something of a personality over the years. It is occasionally slow to fire, as though registering disapproval of the choice of target, and is suspected of holding grudges against crew members who insult or mistreat it. Faithful’s loyalty is irreproachable, however. A strict yet respectful gun commander is usually enough to curb any misbehavior, and fortunately that’s what we have in Tesserario Leuvenven.
The tall and barrel-chested Tessie Leu makes for a formidable presence as she marches along our gun’s upper levels, gathering information from spotters and calling out adjustments to the trajectory of fire, all while maintaining a steady slew of orders to us gun monkeys below. I have a theory that the main requirement for gun commanders is not any kind of technical skill but the ability to issue repetitive commands for long periods of time without becoming droning or dull. Tessie Leu has the at once martial and matronly air of someone used to dealing with large numbers of small children, an attitude I think would be appropriate even if this gun weren’t crewed mostly by kids fresh from some Academy or other—which, as I deduce from the bug-eyed youthfulness around me, it is.
I’ve only seen Tessie Leu once before today, during a thirty-minute orientation session after I was assigned to Old Faithful, and I expect the same goes for my fellow gun monkeys. This is no elite, highly coordinated unit; gunner training takes all of five hours, and that’s about four-and-three-quarter hours longer than necessary.
Crewing a piece of heavy artillery is possibly the simplest job in the Legion. The only conscious participation required is the most token sort of focus, summoning up just enough will to get to that nebulous state before intention forms into an actual artifice—after that, the gun takes over, grabbing hold like a hand clasping a hand, drawing the power out through you, and deploying it to deadly and destructive effect. I’m sure if the Legion could think of a way for the gun to do everything, they’d have us strapped to a stack of bunk beds, more milking cows than monkeys, but current state of the art still calls for this modicum of active involvement.
Every gun is equipped with a series of levers arranged around its base like spokes on a wheel, and each lever has a row of gun monkeys5 to work it. The levers operate by a mechanism resembling a hybrid between oars on an ancient galley ship and the hammer of a CE Old West pistol, the kind that had to be cocked before firing. At Tessie Leu’s command of “power!” each row heaves back on its lever, and as we do, Old Faithful drinks up energy through us. The next step is to duck back, reflexively covering our ears and preparing for the burst of sound and shock and psychic queasiness that accompanies the discharge of so much universe-altering force. We get a few breaths to recover, then Tessie Leu is back, calling for another round of power.
Needless to say, there isn’t a lot of opportunity for gun monkeys to get acquainted, to develop close personal relationships and overall esprit de corps. Most of us weren’t even assigned to a specific gun until two days ago, when Command finalized its deployment for the rest of the Legion and started filling in the artillery with whoever was left. But despite knowing that we are, if not outright dispensable, for the most part fungible and interchangeable, morale among the gun monkeys of Old Faithful is at a raging, thunderous high.
Part of the credit goes to Tessie Leu, who somehow manages to imbue our limited interaction with a measure of affection and encouragement, peppering her one-word commands with grains of reassurance and motivation that would doubtlessly come off as cheesy in other contexts but seem heart-swellingly inspirational in the midst of a battle, when the capacity for irony is largely nonfunctional. Nor does it hurt that we’ve seemingly got Romeo bent over our collective knee and are presently spanking his ass to a fine ruddy pink.
Before the General Call to Arms went up, we were all scared more or less completely shitless—in some cases literally, I’d wager, based on the suspiciously foul atmosphere around the benches circling Old Faithful’s trunk. Tessie Leu had a speech prepared, of which I remember exactly nothing thanks to the thudding rush in my ears and the suddenly overwhelming importance of little details of the kids around me. The boy sitting to my right, for example, has an array of freckles along one hand in the exact configuration of the Big Dipper,6 and the girl to my left is a dead ringer for the female lead in one of the old CE films Lady Jane is always trying to get me to watch, a particularly disturbing example in which the apparent heroine is murdered only a few scenes in. I was alternately watching Big Dipper trying to steady his shaking hands by gripping the lever in front of us and recalling flashes of the scene in which my other neighbor’s doppelgänger was stabbed to death in the shower by a cross-dressing psychopath, when all at once the sirens went off and Tessie Leu was shouting at us to move. The ensuing sphincter-loosening terror passed almost immediately once we set to work, and soon my whole bench was moving together, Big Dipper and Psycho Girl and the rest all rocking back and forth as one.
It was some time before my mind came around to the fact that there was a battle going on, and I began to take heed of the spotters mounted alongside Tessie Leu. I’m not very well versed in the brevity code used to reference targets and threats and vectors for large-soulage firepower, but I quickly learned how to pick out the reports of a confirmed hit. Tessie Leu has begun keeping us up to date as well, now that we gun monkeys have found our rhythm and the necessity of shouting us back into synchrony has become less pronounced.
From where I sit, it seems Old Faithful has proved a terror to Romeo’s creepy-crawly hordes. Our spotters have already awarded us credit for taking out several of the colossal Type 7s that typically wreak havoc with our infantry, along with no few raiding parties of 5s and 6s and whole swarms of 3s. They’ve even lauded us for making the final strike on two separate Type 0s, though as Zeros almost never go down except under sustained fire, it wouldn’t surprise me if ten or more other guns were making the exact same claim.
As much as I enjoy hearing what a murderous, steam-rolling juggernaut we’ve become, the whole thing feels weirdly abstract. No one down here can see what’s going on, and despite the sounds filtering in from outside—a lot of booming and banging combined with the kind of nightmarish squealing you’d expect during a fire at a menagerie of imaginary mutant monsters—it’s hard to imagine how anything we’re doing relates to the actual fighting. Imway’s always talking about the rush of combat, but this feels more like doing laundry. Once the back-and-forth of crewing takes over, it’s surprisingly easy to get the Valentines and their Hieronymus Bosch–inspired swarms out of your mind.
In fact, it’s entirely possible accounts of our rampant butt-kicking are being inflated all around, but we gun monkeys are letting ourselves believe. Big Dipper, who spent the first two pulls of our volley dry-heaving onto his knees, is now the most enthusiastic gunner on our bench, while Psycho Girl has left off her earlier fear-drenched porcine squealing for something more like a wolf’s growl. Every time news comes down of another hit, the benches of Old Faithful shout back in unison, a wordless roar that somehow articulates both a jeer to the enemy and a cheer for our gun as a whole.
And because it seems our interactions with Romeo are strictly of the our-steel-toed-boot-to-his-face variety in terms of one-sided wreckage, no one on the benches is prepared when we end up getting stomped instead.
I don’t know if someone up in Command saw the tides of battle taking an unfavorable turn, if our fighters on the front lines knew they were being beaten back or outflanked; maybe our spotters were restricting their reports to the sunny and fair. Whatever the reason, we gun monkeys see only clear skies ahead right
up until the first figurative clap of thunder.
Between one shot and the next, Tessie Leu’s usual call of “power!” changes to “hold!” About half of us let out the triumphal shout that’s become as much a part of our rhythm as anything, and three full benches go through with their pull, only to come to an abrupt halt when they see everyone else stalled in attitudes of confusion and dawning fear.
Tessie Leu walks calmly to the console at the edge of her platform, and as she leans in, conferring with Command, silence descends over Gun Red Fifteen. For the first time since the Call to Arms, I get a serious earful of the battle, the tremors of other guns and the steady oceanic sound that must be the generalized combat beyond. An image of the huge umbris of thelemity surrounding us pops into my mind, our fighters swirling with Romeo’s like weather patterns over a planet. I doubt Tessie Leu takes more than a few seconds to confirm what she’s heard from Command, but the moment seems to go on forever. You can almost see the foreboding sweating from Old Faithful’s gun monkeys. When Tessie Leu speaks again, her orders are sharp and forceful.
“Masks up! Straps on!” she calls, circling Old Faithful to address each row of gunners in turn. “Raise masks and strap in! Now!”
A visible shudder of shock rattles down the benches. We all understand the plain, face-value meaning of her words, how these translate into specific actions we’re being asked to perform; what doesn’t quite register is the reasoning behind them. Minutes ago we were winning this battle, but if we’re hearing Tessie Leu right, Gun Red Fifteen is in serious peril. Whatever our status is in the overall fricassee of cross fire, whether the fontani of IMEC-1 have been killed or routed or just got distracted chasing a ball of string, one thing is clear enough: Thelemity is about to become very scarce around here, and probably our lives with it. We’re about to go dark.
Our Ingenically Mobilized Expeditionary City works so smoothly most of the time that it’s easy to forget the whole self-sustaining flying island concept actually depends upon a frankly ingenious diversity of artifices, without which this place would be little more than a gigantic boulder sprouting a few building-shaped crags. Among the IMEC’s many lovely amenities are a breathable atmosphere and consistent gravity, both perfectly mimicking the environment of Earth, homey comforts that really show their value in a Realm like Dis, which has neither.7 Artillery gunners are all issued a set of D-55 Tactical Survival Attire,8 featuring masks that, when closed, effectively seal the wearer off from nearly any environment not hospitable to human life, as well as straps we can attach to our benches or other handily placed buckles to keep ourselves in place in the event that gravity becomes unreliable.9 Until now, the only feature of our D-55s we’ve had cause to use has been the remarkably effective cooling and sweat-wicking system, but from the sound of it, there’s a good chance this place will become weightless and airless very soon.
For all the imperative significance of her orders, Tessie Leu has to issue them twice before any of Old Faithful’s crew reacts, and even then compliance is spotty at best. The network of clips and straps that seemed so simple during training now strike me as bafflingly counterintuitive and complex. Only the knowledge that a solid jolt in zero gravity could launch me at neck-breaking speed into the nearest wall focuses my attention enough to hook myself in. I pull up my mask and feel it close around my face, a vacuum-tight seal that will keep me breathing at a pressure of one Earth atmosphere for five hours at least, more if I can stop hyperventilating. I’ve got everything in place and double-checked when I remember our emergency safety protocol says to raise masks first, and I’m actually about to pull straps and mask and start over when I realize how pointless and potentially-life-endingly-stupid that would be.
Hardly have I taken my first breath of D-55-conditioned air when a furry disorientation passes through me, and my mask fills with the smell of rotten eggs, one of the many unpleasant odors that sometimes arise when thelemity meets the mundane world. My involuntary jerk of surprise as I feel myself lifting gently from my seat sends me shooting forward, but my straps tighten, holding me in place. My head swims with the woozy feeling of dangling over a cliff’s edge, accompanied by panic-level heart palpitations that won’t go away no matter how much I remind myself I’m all locked in and safe as can be under the circumstances.
As incompetent as I was in deploying my safety gear, most of my comrades have fared still worse. Two gun monkeys from the bench ahead of me bounce into the air, propelled by some careless pressure against floor or seat that wouldn’t have mattered were there gravity around to provide a counteracting force; one manages to grab a nearby handle, but the other snatches only open space as he floats gently and helplessly upward.
Beside me, Big Dipper has made the same mistake I did regarding mask-and-strap order, but hasn’t progressed past his straps. Fortunately, Old Faithful, and every other heavy gun aboard IMEC-1, has an air lock that slams shut when the thelemity cuts out, thus sparing Dipper from imminent asphyxiation. He does start to rise from his seat, however, causing him to flail even more frantically. I reach over and pull him back down, and after bonking him on the head as a reminder to close up his mask, I get to work on his straps.
My strap-work is quicker the second time around, but not quick enough. I’ve only got Dipper about half-secured when the world suddenly turns white.
My next sensation is of bouncing around like some crazy, high-energy particle, the straps holding D-55s to the seat tensing to absorb the force of my movement. I’m left with a gyroscopically spinning brain and the understanding that there’s been some kind of impact or explosion. Without thelemity, all the nifty countermeasures that protect IMEC-1 from attack will be disabled, allowing Romeo to sit back and shoot proverbial fish in a barrel.
Ironically, the one weapon he can’t use directly against us now is thelemity. Thelemic artifices can’t last outside an umbris, meaning any weapons that rely on thelemity for their destructive output won’t work. That doesn’t mean Romeo can’t use thelemity to fire some good old-fashioned explosives, however, or pelt us with projectiles thelemically accelerated to superhigh velocities. And if our heavy artillery has been as pivotal in this battle as we down here were given to understand, Romeo will want to get rid of us as promptly as possible. Probably Old Faithful was targeted in the very first volley.
Whatever that blast was, it didn’t hit us directly—if it had, the atoms of my brain would no longer be sufficiently interconnected to ponder the matter—but it came close enough to hurt. To my left, through eyesight that keeps sliding askew and spasmodically righting itself, I spot an elephant-sized hole in Old Faithful’s side, and beyond stars and dark sky intermittently visible between flashes of colorful strobing light.
A hazy, mostly incomplete thought floats across my consciousness, something on the order of Hey! We’re in a war! Fancy that! With calm near to paralysis, I note bits of debris pinging off of my mask before exiting into the general vacuum, and a floaty feeling in my limbs quite separate from the literal weightlessness of zero G. Is this really what all the fuss is about? is what I ask myself. It seems so silly. We’re just a bunch of junk drifting through space, fighting over other junk floating through space.
The two rows of benches nearest the hole in GR-15 are mangled and splintered, their levers twisted to uselessness, their former occupants all gone, most likely pulverized in the blast or sucked through the breach as Old Faithful explosively decompressed. Dazedly, I realize my own bench is almost empty—everyone from Psycho Girl on has simply vanished, leaving only me and possibly Big Dipper of the eight who had been here I’m-not-quite-sure-how-long before. I swivel to search for Dipper just as his limp left arm connects with my mask.
He’s still there, in body if nothing else, floating half a meter above his seat. His incompletely affixed safety straps kept him tethered in the overall area of our bench, but he must have been whipped around quite a bit. Also, he never got his mask up. I yank him down, and ha
ve his mask closed and sealed before I notice the blood trailing from his nose and the bloated, bluish tinge of his face. My sense of time is too addled to know whether he’s been exposed to the vacuum in here for fifteen seconds or fifteen minutes, but I’m afraid all the friendly atmosphere in the world won’t do him any good.
My distress at the possibility that Big Dipper might have been killed is as unexpected and overwhelming as the impact that likely killed him. I am seized by the sudden conviction that if this boy is dead—this near-complete stranger whose name I don’t know and whose voice I wouldn’t have recognized if replayed for me in crisp high-fidelity sound—the entire world and life itself are totally and absolutely without meaning.
After a few panicked and confused moments, during which I become determined to at least finish strapping Dipper in, I happen upon the diagnostic patch on the thigh of his D-55s. The pressure and temperature inside his suit are both good, and to my astonishment there’s the blip of a weak but consistent pulse. By some improbable happenstance, he’s alive.
High above, the top of GR-15 lights up with a halo of chattering light—our antibombardment batteries getting to work. They’ll slow Romeo down, but without thelemity, I can’t imagine us lasting long. Already, another barrage has started falling, each impact shaking Old Faithful like a bottle of bugs in the hands of a mean-spirited child, flinging poor Dipper around like a rag doll. I hold on to him, trying to keep him safe until the shaking stops, and I can finally close up his straps.
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