∧∧ Zeke and Raisin crouched on the ledge of the barrier. The weather pylons rose like teeth in a churning storm they could barely contain. The wind was hard and fast up on the ledge. They had pulled their hand-kerchiefs up over their noses and mouths, but the sand still stung their eyes. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ It hadn’t been easy to get on top. Zeke had climbed a barrier once when he was a kid living in Salt-Lake. He’d gotten in trouble. He’d known better than to go over the edge into the moat, better than to leave home. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Texas was too dry for a moat. They had built steammines instead. They were said to be a fail-safe security, but the outside was still closely watched. Loopholes lined the base of the barrier, facing outward into storm country. Each hole was just wide enough to aim a scorpio out. These catapults launched bolo-catches farther and faster than any man could. Lawmen manned each loophole. They patrolled the ledge. They were supposed to be ready to catch anyone who tried to flee the city-state. In truth they were equally occupied with who or what might attack the city-state from the outside. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke and Raisin had found an unpatrolled ledge in a dead zone. The industrial quadrant was abandoned. The Lawmen were all out making arrests. Raisin had spotted the toeholds and they’d climbed up quietly, hoping that no one would notice given the chaos. The all-quadrant whistle sounded steadily in the distance. ∧∧ ∧∧ “This is the only way to save Leeya. And Eliza.” Raisin had been quiet since they emerged from the hatch. “We have to find Spree. He’s going to open this barrier.” ∧∧ “It’s a long walk to Chicago-Land,” Zeke said. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ They looked out at the steammoat field. The grate was covered in dust and tumbleweeds, lit by the glow of the city-state. He could see the clockwork steam-mines moving beneath it. Beyond the weather pylons was a jagged fence. Hung on it was a flag with a drawing of a cannon and the phrase COME & TAKE IT. A Deserter taunt. Beyond the fence was the storm country. The rot. ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke and Raisin hurriedly read the pamphlet again, trying to memorize the moves. They did Blood/Water/Air for who would go first. Raisin lost. Zeke would be the second mover. ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke tried to internalize all the instructions. He needed to move with precision. In the pamphlet, it didn’t look too far to the fence. Raisin tried to memorize his standing places and how long he should remain in each to trick the mines moving beneath the grate. They would each have to know where the other was, how long to wait, and when to run. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧The wind became sharp, laced with the smell of sulfur. Zeke looked out at the low horizon. He thought he’d see a curvature in its shape, but it was flat. He could hear birds falling to the ground, steamed out of the air by the weather pylons. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Why kill the birds and let bats fly over?” Raisin mumbled under his hand-kerchief. He was stalling. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I guess that’s just how the pylons were built. We need the bats in the Vault to protect everything.” Zeke wondered if they should go over the plan again. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Maybe they couldn’t keep bats out anyway, and the Vault is just the excuse.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “Hh.” Zeke took a deep breath. “You feel ready?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I guess. So on the count of three, we both rappel down our ropes, and then I make the first break, right? And you know your movement pattern, right?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I hope those steammines move slowly.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “Lots of Deserters have made it out this way. I mean, supposedly. I don’t know how many didn’t. This wind is intense.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “OK. I’m ready.” ∧∧ “One, two, three: shoot.” ∧∧ They rappelled down the face of the barrier. Zeke’s throat tightened. Gravity pulled them down sharply. Zeke let go of his rope too early and landed on his tailbone. ∧∧ Raisin’s landing was smoother. He took off across the field. The steammines started tracking his movement immediately, the clockwork clicking to life. Hissing geysers of steam shot up through the grate behind his heels. He swooped from side to side. Then he stopped dead in the planned holding place, the first of seven. The mines reconfigured and started to lurch toward him beneath the grate. The steam whistles from within the city-state sounded an escape alert. ∧∧ ∧∧ It was Zeke’s turn to run, while the mines were drawn to Raisin’s spot. He leapt up and zigzagged across the dusty grate. The steammines were fast. He felt disoriented outside the walls that had surrounded him for so long. He could not stop moving until he was in his designated spot or the mines would cook him. He dove to reach his holding place. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Lawmen began to dot the ledge. They shouted wildly. The covers of the loopholes slid open. They loaded the scorpios with bolo-catches, meant to tie Deserters’ ankles and bring them to the ground. ∧∧ ∧∧ The first run was the longest. It had gone well. Raisin ran as soon as Zeke made his spot. He hopped forward, taunting the steammine that tracked his path. ∧∧ Zeke counted the seconds. Raisin would be to his next spot by now. He sprang up. A bolo-catch whizzed by, grazing his calf. The scorpios were firing. He ducked and dodged and finally made his next spot, diving again. He sat up to watch Raisin’s next run. ∧∧ Raisin left his standing spot. He tore at full speed across the grate. It was too soon. He wasn’t swerving enough. Zeke heard a bolo-catch eject and scream through the air. ∧∧ Zeke shouted. Raisin slowed. The bolo-catch caught his back foot and circled around his legs like a whip. Raisin fell face-first on the grate, a cloud of dust rising and filling his lungs. ∧∧ “Keep moving. Move!” Zeke half stood. He looked back and forth from the barrier to his friend. A cheer rose from the Lawmen. Raisin’s legs were tangled. He coughed and flinched wildly in the dust. He rolled onto his back, trying to reach his feet and undo the chafing web of the bolo-catch. ∧∧ Jets of steam shot up around him. Raisin yelped as he tried to roll away from their scalding blasts. It was too much for Zeke. Even though he knew the mines could track straight movement, he ran out onto the open grate, directly for Raisin. ∧∧ Zeke had almost reached him when he felt the sting of his own fate. He didn’t have time to react to the whiz of the bolo-catch before it snaked around his ankles. The ground rushed toward him. He stretched out his hands and fell forward, skinning his palms on the grate. He was ten feet from Raisin, ankles tied. ∧∧ As Zeke crawled toward him on his belly, he felt blood drip down his ankles. He pulled with his elbows against the grate. ∧∧ “It’s over,” Raisin yelled. Steam shot up around them in volcanic blasts. The mines closed in. ∧∧ Zeke reached Raisin and yanked his friend’s boots off. He ripped at the rope of the bolo-catch. Raisin wriggled his feet free. ∧∧ ∧∧ “You shouldn’t have stopped,” Raisin said. He leapt to his feet. His bare feet were free. He bent down to untie Zeke’s. ∧∧ “Don’t! Look!” Zeke pointed into the grate. A steammine was directly below Raisin. He leapt out of the way just in time. Zeke’s feet disappeared in a jet of scalding steam. ∧∧ Zeke choked on a scream. Pain shot up his legs. He looked at his feet through watering eyes. His melting boots dripped into the grate. His toes were exposed, marbled skin and blood. The loopholes slid open at the base of the barrier. Lawmen came streaming out with weapons drawn. ∧∧ “Run,” Zeke shouted at Raisin. ∧∧ “But you—” ∧∧ “Run!” Zeke coughed. Steam and dust mixed in his lungs. ∧∧ ∧∧ “They won’t kill me. Find the safe camp. Go tell Spree. Run! Now!” ∧∧ ∧∧ Raisin looked up at the advancing Lawmen and back down at Zeke. Then he ran. They fired after him. Bolo-catches zinged above Zeke, but Raisin had a good start. He made the fence beyond the pylons. He leapt it deftly and disappeared into the clouds of the storm country. ∧∧ The Lawmen surrounded Zeke. Steamsabres pointed at his neck. They jerked him up by his armpits, ignoring his mangled feet. He gasped in pain. They dragged him back to the loop-holes, back to the angry Law whistles, back to the city-state. ∧
24/10/43
HILL COUNTRY, TEXAS
Dearest Elswyth,
The militia made camp in the night. I could see lightning flashing its forked tongue in the distance and hear the coarse notes of thunder that followed. I prepared for a drenching, but it did not come.
All the men talk of is war. General Irion is believed to be camped nearby. They are afraid of some machined cannon he captured. Supposedly it is a new contraption, an artillery that integrates gear work and is powered by a steam engine. Possessed of devastating power and unlike to any other weapon, or so the story goes.
They say Irion means to use the cannon to blast through the walls of a great fortress, one of the lost citadels that the Spanish have always looked for and never found. Another exaggeration.
How will I escape my circumstance? Sometimes I feel as if these letters to you are the last way I’ll be able to visit Chicago ever again. I only have seven leaves of paper left. I have to think carefully about where I want them to transport me. I need to be away from here.
There was a fine day last spring, I wonder if you remember it? We were sitting on the stoop of your Aunt Em’s farmhouse. I had accepted a rare invitation from your father to attend something that included his family. I had a high spirit about me that could not be trampled.
The reason for my presence at the farmhouse was supposed to have been some modest sample-collecting in the fields. It wasn’t long after I arrived that I gleaned this task would fall away, and the true mission joined—one of being with family.
The land yielded up a pleasant grove of trees, flowering bushes ringed the yard, and there was a fine breeze blowing all the time.
There was food, a large farmhouse spread. The air was filled with laughter and talking. Your aunts were dressed gaily and wore ribbons in their hair. Presently your father became embroiled in a discussion of market forces with a colleague, and I found myself alone on the back stoop with you. Do you know how I have treasured this moment?
You had been given charge of the small children there, including a pair of distant nephews. They were maybe two years and four? The boys had taken a keen interest in a goose pond not far from the porch. You called out that they mustn’t get their shoes and stockings wet. They immediately stripped off all their clothing, an act that made you roll with laughter at their overeager obedience.
The boys chased the geese around the pond, shouting out names for them and trying to catch them. They were yard geese and so had clipped wings but still were just a bit too quick to grab, and good thing too. Had the boys managed to get hold of one, they most certainly would have been bitten.
But they never did tire of it and you laughed again and again, brushing my knee each time. Between breaths, you turned to me and told me that you loved children dearly. I have often wondered if there was a hint in the sentiment. It fills my heart to think it so.
With joy, I raced out into the yard after the boys and snatched up a goose with my bare hands. It honked a shrill alarm while the boys petted and poked it, but the show was all for you.
How far I have come from that place. This land feels like the end of the earth. I am banished to my tent. The men are arrayed around the campfire, Raising clamor. They are as drunk as boiled owls.
I can’t help but overhear their preposterous conversations. They do seek Irion, but for nefarious reason. The man with the bared teeth continues to repeat the legend of the seven cities of silver and gold, handed down from the Spaniards who died trying to find those places. Legend had it that one city was close to this territory. The stories tell of a fountain of youth, and how it arrested the age of all the inhabitants within. Such tales have led many men to their deaths.
He says that Irion has made it his work to scour the fields of west Texas until he finds this lost city. The militia is waiting to see if Irion indeed discovers a city, so that if he does they might plunder it. They are presently arguing about how he will do it, and if he means to dig underneath it, as he did in the Battle of the Secret Tunnel.
As I said, they are drunk, and daft besides. For example:
Today they caught an armadillo and tied it to a post. I had a thrill at finally seeing one of these elusive creatures, but you would have been sorry for the state it was in. They had its tail knotted with twine, and it was alternately pulling at its tether to get free and curling into an armored ball and biting at its own tail in despair.
They seem to be laughing at the poor little pig now. It is no way to treat a creature of this earth. I remember when I first arrived at the Museum of Flying and undertook to learn the skills of the naturalist.
I had purchased an old goose from the market with the intention of practicing the taxidermy of waterfowl. The preparation of study skins was still new to me. I followed the instructions set out for me by your father, and when I was finished I held the bird in my hands and turned it over and over. The perfect white down, the gently faded spots, even the long elegant feet all struck me as sacred in that moment. The rows of perfectly neat feathers, made by no hand.
I became overwhelmed with regret at killing such a fine specimen. Death for a useless exercise, made only to please your father. I began to weep, quite beyond my control. The strength of the design, the sheer physicality of the bird, juxtaposed with the frailty of the life within that container. The small hot breath with which the fates have imbued every living creature, the animating force. Those children at the farmhouse. Your father’s displeasure. More than my heart can bear.
Rrr! I cannot concentrate. Outside the clatter of ugly embittered voices is unceasing. And the wicked laughter growing ever louder. I can no longer stand for this. I will lay this pen down and return shortly.
Not the results I’d hoped for. I’m furious. I badly need rest.
Just now, I got up from my tent and interrupted their circle around the fire. Though my foot fares a bit better, it is still an irritant to rise and walk. I made a polite case for peace and quiet, and they jeered. It was then I saw what wretched game they were playing at.
They were casting stones at the poor armadillo, still tied to its post. The soldiers laughed as the rocks bounced off its hide. With each stone they yelled, “Remember Fredonia! Remember Bexar! Remember Goliad! Remember Atlanta! Remember the Alamo! Remember San Jacinto!” They were playacting as though its armor were the walls of a city and the stones were fired from the slings of the soldiers. One declared that he carried a torch to burn the city down, and began casting bits of burning wood at the little armored pig.
Finally one man rose and, shouldering his rifled musket, said, “Your defenses are useless against Irion’s great machined cannon.” His shot was so loud even the most inebriated of his compatriots jumped. It found the heart of the defenseless armadillo, and all the men rose up in riotous laughter. The creature’s lifeblood pooled in the dust.
I took great offense at this needless slaughter. When I protested, the man with the bared teeth stated that it was a lucky thing not all their prisoners were tied up and tortured so. I decried that I was not a prisoner. Flustered, I asserted that Irion was to be held in the highest esteem. In folly, I said that I was seeking him for my own purposes.
Half of the man’s face sneered. He said that we would all go to join his cause. One of his lieutenants added, “By stealing all his gold,” and the pack again erupted in yelping laughter.
I marched back here, to my tent. I do not care to waste the few leaves of paper I have left on this bile, but I am livid. They have just posted a guard outside my tent. Apparently I truly am a prisoner.
All things must move or die. What would the fates have me do?
Yours on the Brink, Zadock
FAM. DASYPODINAE
GEN. DASYPUS
24.10.43, 2:15, 70 deg., 10 knots, 6/10ths cloud coverage
Hill Country
Armored Pig (Armadillo). About 18 inches, small with plated bands across its back. Almost like a turtle crossed with a hare. Its primary defense must be to jump, because the specimen I observed danced at the end of its tether desperately. Eventually, so threatened, it tried to curl into a ball. It pained me to see it in such a tortured state, u
nable to flee for safety or turn inward for solace. I suppose it is better for the creature to be out of its misery. May this drawing extend its life in some small way.
Leeya,
It’s all coming apart now. I don’t know that you’ll even be back to find this letter or if this city-state will still exist. The opening of the tunnel will be like a floodgate, and the rot will rush inside and everything will crumble. There are not enough Lawmen here to defend Texas from an attack.
I never thought the Auspices would open the tunnel…I detonated a dustbomb underground. It won’t stop them for long, but it was enough to keep Zeke in the city-state. If he’s gone, there is no one who can set things right.
I am desperate to find him, enough to go back to the Vault. It was a calculated risk. Thankfully Daxon wasn’t there. I checked all the watchpost recorder files from the past few hours. No one has spotted Zeke or Raisin.
My father obtained a phial of Daxon’s blood before he was taken away. I used it to open Daxon’s office. I searched through every piece of paper, terrified the whole time I’d get caught.
/////// ZEKE’S LETTER IS NOT THERE ///////
But my father’s sealed file was. As well as a stack of blacked-out records—a thread on Bic.
I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before. The violence in Bic’s eyes. The way he looked at girls. The way he wanted to possess them.
The scarier thing is knowing that Daxon is behind him. He promised Bic the Senate seat once Zeke was out of the way. Then he used Bic’s proclivity for sexual violence to his own ends. He pointed Bic in the direction of the Auspices’ recruits. He wants to hurt them.
Bats of the Republic Page 30