by wildbow
He grumbled, but he didn’t have much fight in him.
Mary and Lillian were watching me out of the corners of their eye.
“Sorry,” I finally said.
“Y’should be,” he mumbled.
There wasn’t much conversation. Jamie and Helen weren’t up to much except resting. Mary had her eyes closed, head rocking in time with the strokes of the comb, head periodically jerking when Lillian found a snarl, though she didn’t seem to mind.
I watched them, Lillian asked about the pain, I answered. Mary made some general comments about the runs she’d done to deposit the boxes of spiders, and that sort of died off as she dropped into an almost meditative state, her hair being brushed.
“Oy!” Gordon’s voice was faint, and muffled by the walls of the coach.
“And he’s back,” Jamie observed.
We collectively roused, Helen sitting up, Lillian and Mary shifting position. I opened the door to step outside, flipping my hood up.
“We’re in,” Gordon called out, still too far away to be heard with a normal volume. He closed the rest of the distance, then reached up to hand the Spec-three a note.
The others finished climbing out as the man read it over.
“Gordon,” Shipman whispered, tugging on Gordon’s sleeve.
“Shh,” the Spec-three made the shushing sound.
“Do you see?” she asked.
“See what?” Gordon asked.
“Shh,” the Spec-3 shushed them again.
“Oh!” Gordon said, louder. “Oh.”
I had to step around to Gordon’s side to see. As I did, the man on the bench of the coach looked up, staring down at us. He’d refreshed his cigarette since I’d last had a look at him.
He followed our line of sight, down to his pants leg, which was torn, with a trace amount of blood collecting at the base of his boot. His leg jerked, and in that motion, he realized what had really happened.
The flesh of his legs had been joined, a ragged strip cut away, attached to the other leg.
“What? What’s the—what!?” he jerked more frantically, cigarette falling to the base of the bench.
“Don’t tear it,” Shipman said. “Don’t—careful!”
As the man struggled, one of the spiders from Whitney moved off to one side, away from the flailing legs. Once two legs, they were now functionally one. The Spec-3 saw the thing and twisted, pulling out his gun.
“Dont!” Gordon said, “You’ll spook the horses!”
Even the raising of his voice and the frantic movements of the man on the bench were making them agitated.
Shipman circled around the horses, while Mary climbed up beside the man. Before Mary could deal with the spider, he brought both feet up, then slammed them down, partially crushing the thing.
Shipman didn’t seem to mind. She reached out and grabbed it, fingers between individual legs, and flicked it in Gordon’s general direction with a movement of the wrist. She put her hands on the man’s shoulders, and Mary put a hand on one knee, and he stopped struggling.
“It’s okay. One of the spiders must have gotten onto the coach,” she said.
“What the fuck? What the fuck? I didn’t even feel—”
“Specialized anaesthetic and very standard coagulants,” she said. “It dulls your sense of touch, makes you feel like the limb is asleep, it cuts out partial sections with the incisors and stitches them to adjoining parts with its own silk and its forelimbs. Even if it had a few days with you, it probably wouldn’t kill you. It’s just for the psychological effect.”
“The fuck!?”
I think he’s psychologically affected, I thought to myself. I bit my tongue rather than offering the comment out loud.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s a very easy fix. They just need to cut the spider’s sutures and put the skin back where it belongs. There won’t even be scars.”
“The fuck,” the man said, staring down at his bound ankles. Just his ankles, it seemed, now that I was looking closer.
“Do you think we can get the coach around the sandbag emplacement?” Gordon asked. “I was eyeballing it, but…”
“We can scooch by,” Mary said. “We’ll have to, since our guest here isn’t mobile.”
Gordon nodded. “You want to, or should I?”
Mary smiled, putting a hand to one horse’s neck. It flinched, then relaxed as she gave it a few rubs. “I can.”
The rest of us climbed back in, or partially climbed in. I stayed at the outside, one hand on a bar just beside the door, my foot on the step below.
I saw through the window as sourpuss Shipman showed more energy and excitement in two seconds than I’d seen out of her in the entire time I’d known her, bouncing in the spot and putting an arm around Gordon.
It works, she was saying, going by the movements of her lips.
My hood flew back as the coach lurched forward, and I didn’t fix it. Things rocked left and right as the coach scraped the cliff wall to the right and the sandbags to the left. The stitched that hadn’t accompanied the Spec-three were still standing watch, and their heads turned, dull eyes watching us.
Not nearly so well made as Fray’s Wendy had been. They were intended to do only one thing—follow orders. The man who was supposed to give the orders wasn’t with them. I hoped that Westmore wasn’t attacked in the time it took a replacement to walk down and join them.
Westmore was a city that had been built in wartime. Obvious enough. Walls, gate, defensive emplacements, and buildings that had been made solid, helped by an excess of material from nearby mines in the mountains and hills. Every building had a gutter around it, redirecting the water. Here and there, collections of debris and leaves blocked the way, or enough water had backed up to lift a collection free, and a grouping of brown-black detritus was scurrying along at the base of a building like some decaying, leafy version of a rodent.
It was a contrast to Whitney. Where Whitney had been a sprawl, too many people crammed into one space, Westmore was organized. Even at rest, people were in squads. Working, they were in formation. Everyone matched, with only slight variations in facial features, stature, and hair color.
The stitched were corralled, in strict rows and columns, their belongings at their feet, guns at their sides, butts on the ground, hands on the barrels.
In stitched alone, Westmore had twice as many soldiers as its little sister at the base of the mountains had in regular rank and file. It easily matched Whitney’s number in human troops, and Whitney’s soldiers weren’t, for the most part, even experienced in fighting, as this group looked to be. The ensuing conflict would be the enemy’s first.
Every set of eyes, the stitched included, watched us as we rolled down the main street, past neat stacks and wagon-loads of supplies.
On the other side of our vehicle, Gordon was doing the same thing I was. He gave Mary a verbal direction, guiding her to our destination.
We passed a barn, and I saw inside. There was something unnatural within, four eyes reflecting light, a deep scar running down its face, horns bigger than I was scraping the floor of the stable. A war-beast. Some Academy student’s final project for their fourth year of study, probably. His reputation would hinge on how well it did.
There were others. Like everything else, the creatures were neatly organized, kept in their own discrete places. Weapons from some of the Academy’s brightest.
“What are you thinking?” Mary asked me. She sat above me, looking down over her shoulder at me.
I could see the Brigadier waiting for us at the end of the street, standing under a set of eaves. An older man, with a beard and no mustache, wearing a uniform without a hood, a stylized helmet on his head.
Unlike my feeling from earlier, I could put my finger on this one. Something about the man, and all the little details put together. That prey instinct that had come up in my first interactions with Mary, an awareness that came from countless clues the subconscious registered that the consciousne
ss didn’t.
“Why does it feel like, if things go on as planned, we’re going to lose this battle?”
“Excuse me?” the Spec-three who was on the bench asked, indignant.
“I don’t know,” Mary answered my question. “But it does feel that way, doesn’t it?”
Previous Next
Esprit de Corpse—5.8
The stitched gave each of us a pat-down. I bit my cheek rather than protest at the pain as clumsy hands prodded my side. It wasn’t worth it, the stitched wouldn’t care, and I didn’t want to seem weak, when we already had two members down. The older man, now with his helmet doffed, was studying us. Jamie and Helen were looking less than stellar, even with their injuries looked after. I could put on a brave face.
“It would be easier—” Mary started. She made a face as the stitched pulled a knife out from her beltline. “If you’d let me remove the knives myself. Or I can tell you where they all are.”
The stitched didn’t react or respond, and the Brigadier didn’t give the order.
We waited in silence while it found eight more knives, each belted around Mary’s upper thighs. It gave her a quick pat-down, then stood straight.
“If I may…” Mary said. She reached up and pulled a long, thin knife out from the thickest part of her hair. More a needle than a blade. She raised one foot up, bracing calf against knee, and pulled another knife free of the heel of her shoe with a bit of a jerk. Rather than a handle, it had a t-shaped configuration, more a knife that was punched with than thrust. A matching knife came out of the other shoe.
She deposited two more, another punching knife from behind her belt buckle, and one with fluid in a reservoir in the handle from behind her back. Finally, she provided the garotte-wire that had been curled around her body, hidden on the other side of her belt.
Absolutely, utterly unnecessary. She could have kept the items on her person and lost nothing for it, but I suspected she wanted to make a point.
“We’ll have to teach them to do better,” the Brigadier observed.
“Yes sir,” Mary said.
The Brigadier was old, a caricature of a man with a puffed out chest, bedecked in a uniform jacket, with tight leggings beneath, making it seem like his upper body was meant for a different lower body than the one he had. He had kind eyes, as he appraised us.
I instantly disliked him.
He looked at the man who still sat on the bench of the coach, his ankles bound. The man looked deeply uncomfortable and embarrassed.
“See that Specialist Timothy gets care. Patrick, see that your stitched search the vehicle for more spiders. Lambs, you can come inside,” he said. “We’ll talk.”
We passed through the doors, joined by the stitched guards. Formations seemed to have been ingrained into them. As we moved two-by-two, the stitched did as well, two between Jamie and I and Mary and Lillian, and two at the rear.
Past the doors was a coatroom, and we quickly removed our things. Adult-sized shoes were on the floor. The Brigadier paused, taking in the shoes, examining us and our feet, then said, “if you wouldn’t mind carrying on the rest of the way in socks and stockings?”
Dutifully, we peeled off our raincoats and boots. I stepped onto the wooden floor beyond the coatroom, lifted up one foot, and saw a muddy print. The grime and the wet had soaked into my boots. My socks were just as dirty as the soles of my boots, if not dirtier.
I peeled off my wet socks and progressed barefoot, which was only slightly better.
The Brigadier had chosen a lodge as his base of operations. It was one of the largest buildings, one of the sturdiest, and I suspected that had little to nothing to do with his choice. The exterior was stone and mortar, up to a point that was just over the top of my head, with logs extending up the rest of the way. The roof had a tree growing across it, augmented building, and swept up at an angle, the lowest point just over the front door, the highest point of the roof at the far end, where a chimney speared up from a stone fireplace-cum-stove. It looked like a bedroom and bathroom were to either side of the coat room, tucked in at the front. The remainder was an open living space, with tables surrounded by nice chairs and a couch, a desk was positioned near the fireplace, and the only piece of furniture that didn’t match the decor had been placed opposite the desk, a heavy table.
A stitched boy was feeding the fire. No older than I was. Probably the Brigadier’s personal servant. He looked like he’d been around for a while, a stitched with actual stitches.
The Brigadier was a man who liked his comforts. A candle burned above the desk, and a glass held ice but no drink. If I smelled him, I could smell a trace of drink, but not the sour tang of an alcoholic. As the boy and his style of dress suggested, he was a man who took care of things.
Hard to read, when it came to this situation. He was so wrapped up in himself that I couldn’t get a good sense of who he was as a strategist.
Maybe that was a hint unto itself.
We walked all the way to the end of the room, passing the area that served as a sitting room or a tea room, where books and maps were laid out. The wood of the floor got progressively warmer as we approached the fireplace. By the time we reached the end, it was hot enough to be on the cusp of uncomfortable. I glanced over the table opposite the desk, and saw far more maps, as well as various letters. Pens were scattered here and there.
He took a seat at the desk. “If the injured feel the need to sit, you could take one of the chairs behind you and turn it around.”
Jamie did. He dropped his backpack on the floor by the chair. Helen remained where she was.
I did, too.
“Whitney is under attack, then,” the Brigadier said.
“Yes sir,” Gordon said. “We moved too soon. We hoped they would be active late at night. When the majority of people were deep asleep, and we hoped there would be more. Enough that their first few attempts to eradicate the spiders would fail.”
“But you were nearly ready. You said as much in a recent missive.”
“Not that close. Account for the fact that they’ll respond faster in the daytime, it won’t be enough. I’d say we have less than a day before the window of opportunity closes,” Gordon said.
“I think you’re underestimating what that kind of psychological warfare will accomplish,” the Brigadier said.
“We’re well versed in that kind of warfare, we’ve dealt with experts in it for as long as we’ve been working together,” Gordon said.
“Which obviously isn’t that long,” the Brigadier said. “Not to belittle what you do, of course.”
“Of course,” Gordon said.
Only those who knew Gordon would be aware of the subtle change of tone, or the hints that he was working just a little too hard to keep his words carefully crafted.
“They’ll break,” the Brigadier said. “It’ll put them on their heels. People will leave Whitney, too afraid of a repeat performance.”
“Sir,” I said. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Of course it is!” he said, in a laughing tone. “There are always nuances and complications. This is war.”
Brigadier Ernest Tylor lifted his glass, drinking the water from the melted ice, then opened a drawer to retrieve a bottle of what might have been scotch. He tipped it into the glass.
He saw us watching, and he smiled. “The ice is a travesty, I know, but I allow it because it goes so well with the heat of the fire. I’d offer you drinks, to thank you for your hard work, but…”
He gestured, a kind of up-down motion.
“But we’re too short?” I asked, feigning confusion.
Jamie elbowed me from the left, and Mary kicked my leg. It hurt more than if she’d been wearing her shoes. Somehow.
“It’s fine, sir,” Helen said. “Two of us can’t even drink, and I can’t even enjoy it in the same ways, myself.”
“Strange group,” the man said. He was barely drinking what he’d poured for himself. One sip. A gesture of power? Ha
bit?
I watched and waited for him to take another sip.
The moment he did, I opened my mouth, knowing he couldn’t cut me off without sputtering.
“Sir,” I said, “In all seriousness, what I was saying before, about complications. They’re more prepared than you may be giving them credit for.”
He swallowed, stayed like that, glass in hand, then set it down. “How so?”
“Three or four assassins, skilled, each augmented. One of them was an uncanny shot with a rifle from about a kilometer away.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“They’re confident. They know the resources you have to bear, they have countermeasures in place. They have resources, some ace up their sleeve that we weren’t able to uncover before we had to flee the assassins. They think they’re going to win this.”
“Then they’re idiots,” the Brigadier said. “We outnumber them threefold.”
“Virtually every soldier they have has a gun they’ve nicknamed the Exorcist. Designed to put down stitched and augmented creatures.”
“Not a concern. I’ve led armies in battle. I’ve even managed situations like this. A fortified position, an insurgent groups with numbers on their side. Those numbers swiftly dwindle at the first hint of defeat. You’ve delivered that, and I’ll see that you get medals for it.”
Mary reached out and took my hand. I squeezed it.
The look she gave me out of the corner of her eye was one of worry. The hand-holding was for reassurance, not for some desire to celebrate the recognition and the victory.
Yeah. That feeling we’d had was getting worse.
“There were scientists. Ex-Academy. This isn’t rabble, sir,” I said. “They have knowledge they can bring to bear. Experiments of their own.”
“Who?”
“Louis Peralta,” Jamie said. “He specialized in pain. Leopold Pock, produced modified, vat grown humans, of a different type than the assassins we encountered. Edwin Grahl, John Durant, Christina Wilder, Ian Roy, Wesley Vas—”
“I get the picture,” the Brigadier said. “How many total?”
“Eleven.”
The man nodded, rubbing his beard. “At a certain point, it becomes academic. Assuming the guns are twice as effective as the norm, the experiments all Academy class, they still have to reach us before they can take action.”