Dead of Veridon (Burn Cycle)

by Tim Akers

  "I can't imagine what you're going to offer me, but I suspect I'm better off on my own. Thanks, though." I tried to push past her.

  "Nonsense. You're very stubborn, but you're also very much just one guy with a shotgun. You think he's doing something at the Algorithm?"

  "It makes sense, doesn't it? That cog, the Wrights even call it the heart. Or maybe he's after Camilla. It doesn't matter, though, does it? It was the Algorithm that got the Council to ban the Artificers. It was the Algorithm that replaced the Guild as the driving force of technology in Veridon." I snapped my fingers and pointed to Wilson. "In the Manor Tomb, when we were rushing upstairs. All the technology had turned into plants and stuff. Imagine what would happen if he did something like that in the Church."

  "We'd all be worshiping trees, I get it. But you can't think you'll be able to stop him on your own. I've sent for the Badge officers who are protecting the Manor. If what you've said is true, there's nothing there for them to guard, anyway." She paused, then drew nearer. "Is it true? Is the Patron dead?"

  "He looked awfully sick," I said, measuring my words. "And you left him in the care of a man who intended to kill him, and who had access to technology we don't even begin to understand. I can't imagine he survived."

  "Actually," Wilson said, imposing himself on the conversation. "Crane said that he couldn't kill him. Just that what the Patron was becoming couldn't be called living, after a certain point."

  "I'm not sure that's any better," Angela whispered.

  "Listen. We'll get this sorted out. And you have my sympathy. But the last time I talked to him, the Patron didn't seem too happy with the state of things."

  She didn't answer, just nodded and backed away. We went to the door.

  "They'll meet you at the Church," she said. "It's not much, but it's all I can offer."

  I smiled and went outside. "It's more than I expected," I said to no one in particular. Wilson pretended to not hear.

  THE STREETS WERE less empty than they had been earlier. Curious mothers and frightened fathers stood at the doors of their houses, looking up, or gathered at the cross-streets, talking quietly to neighbors. Many were armed. The city had the feel of a place under siege. Veridon's walls had always been the rivers, but it felt like the rivers themselves were attacking us. People knew what was going on, although they hadn't been told. Blood was in the air. Blood and fear.

  More than one group hailed us as we passed. It was like they could sense the Council's authority on my shoulders. Usually, with the tattered condition of my clothes and my general miscreant's bearing, these people would either ignore me or shirk away. Today they called out, and asked what the Council was doing. What was going on. I didn't answer. Although I suppose rushing down the street, fully armed, with an equally well-armed anansi in my wake was its own answer. That we were clearly heading toward the Church of the Algorithm probably meant something to them, too.

  Things changed once we got to Hallowsward, the district around the Algorithm. No one was standing in their doors, or gathering at the crosses. The windows were boarded up from the inside. There were a couple homes that had been barricaded at their front gates, the approaches guarded by men with guns. This was a richer district than most of Veridon. These people could afford guards. Something must have spooked them. Something more than a general sense of uneasiness. I approached one of the barricades, shotgun on my back, hands in the air.

  "Hello up there! Jacob Burn, Councilor of Veridon! What news?"

  I was met with silence. The men behind the barricade were scanning their rifles across the street, although the barrels spent more time lingering over me than I liked.

  "I'm on Council business!" I yelled. "What have you seen?"

  "All manner of things," one of them finally answered. "Would you be fetching the Badge, then?"

  "Badge are occupied throughout the city," I lied. Well. I misdirected. Since they weren't actively shooting at me, I approached the barricade. "I'm here to assess the situation in this district, and do what I can to resolve matters. What can you tell me?"

  The men were well-dressed. Butlers or horsemen, the type of servant expected to look good in front of the master. But they handled their rifles well enough. I only got so close before one of them poked his weapon in my direction. I stopped, hands still in the air.

  "Could've used the Badge earlier. Not sure but you're too late. Noise has mostly gone away."

  "What noise?" I asked.

  He nodded down the street, in the direction of the Church.

  "Awful sounds," he said. "Like metal tearing. Like an engine the size of a building. And crows like you wouldn't believe. Crows to block out the sky. We've been hunkered down ever since."

  "Engine the size of a building," I repeated. "Thanks for your time, sir. Best of luck with your barricade."

  Only one engine that big, and these men knew it. The Wrights of the Algorithm had been putting together an engine for the last several hundred years inside their church. Taken random bits of machinery and found cogwork that they had dredged up from the river Reine, assembling it according to some pattern that looked a lot like guesswork. To them, the pattern was god. It was a divine assembly, conjured from their souls and meshing with their hearts.

  And from the sound of it, their god was suffering.

  FOR ONCE, THE Badge beat us there. A squad of officers was huddled in the lee of a warehouse that overlooked the Church of the Algorithm. The Church itself hunched over the Ebd river like some complicated nautilus that had washed to shore and broken open. Water flowed through its many chambers, feeding or cooling boilers far beneath the surface. Domes bubbled out of the architecture, bristling with bell towers, and walkways led into the open courtyards between buildings. The Church grew every year, just as the mechanical algorithm that chewed through its corridors grew. New buildings were added, or even grown, at a breathtaking rate. And that was just the development that was plainly visible. The majority of the Church was submerged beneath the river. The waterline upriver of the Church rose and dropped with chaotic frequency, as the obstruction grew and new channels were opened to prevent flooding. I wondered if anyone in the Council knew the depth and breadth of this place.

  Despite my fears, though, the Church of the Algorithm looked quiet. At least as quiet as it ever did. The engines of god were rumbling, the chimneys spewed steam into the air. The boilers boiled. Nothing about that swirling cancer of architecture looked any different from what I was used to seeing. Wilson and I finished our descent to the river and went to talk to the Badgemen who had been sent to assist us. There was an old friend among them.

  "Curious Mr. Matthew," I said, smiling. "Matthew the Joker. I don't think it's any coincidence that Lady Tomb sent you to help us out, do you?"

  "I volunteered for the duty," he said. This was the man who had questioned me after the factory fire. I didn't see him as an ordinary beat cop. The crash gear he wore looked custom-fitted, though, so maybe he liked to play brutal boy every once in a while. "When it was obvious that the Council Families were dividing our forces and keeping us away from the Church, I made sure I was on the team that went to the Tombs. And when we saw what we saw there, I made sure I got put on the team that came down here."

  "What exactly did you see there?" I asked.

  "Don't be cute, Burn." He turned from me and addressed himself to the Church. "Going to be a hell of a nut to crack."

  "Seriously, I want to know what you saw." I pulled him around and poked his chest. "I'm holding the Burn seat on the Council; answer my questions."

  "You want to know, you read the report," he said. "And if you're really on the Council then I'm sure this conversation is over. We've got business here, with the Algorithm. That's as far as your authority with me lies, Burn."

  "What the hell has gotten into everyone today?" I asked. "Okay, fine. You want to be a smart ass, I can understand that. What have you seen of the Church?"

  "Nothing," he said. "Nothing different, at least. But
we've got reports of a tremendous noise, and lots of blackbirds circling the building before diving in. Then nothing else."

  "Crows," Wilson said. "Not blackbirds."

  "Same thing, smart ass."

  "It doesn't matter," I cut them off. "We have to assume that Crane is inside. I don't like that we haven't heard any fighting. The Wrights should have at least put up a struggle."

  "Assuming that they're fighting," Matthew said. "Assuming that they haven't been in on this thing from the beginning."

  "That's actually an interesting thought," Wilson said, stepping in. "Angela said that there have been no known attacks on the Church. While it's possible that they could have simply been hiding them from us, it's also true that a lot of the technology of the Artificers is compatible with the technology produced by the Wrights. The engram singers, for example, must be implanted with cogwork engines for the maker beetles to take effect."

  "What's also an interesting thought," Matthew said. "Is that they're a bunch of weaselly little cog-lovers, and I don't trust them as far as I could throw them."

  "Well, your obvious lack of distrust of technology is adorable, in a down-to-earth, rough-guy sort of way," Wilson said, "but that doesn't mean that you haven't had a good idea. Purely by chance, of course, but there it is."

  "I have half a mind to arrest you," Matthew fumed.

  "You can't arrest him. He's here with me, and I'm here representing the Council," I said.

  "Jacob Burn, the last time I saw you, you were in custody for acts of terrorism. That you were sprung by that monster Tomb does nothing to raise my opinion of you." He spat over his shoulder and gave me a little shove. "For all I know you're here to disrupt my investigation, break into the Church of the Algorithm, and steal some bit of magic coggery to undo whatever it is that happened to Patron Tomb and take over the Council."

  "I want to get back to the part where the Church and Crane were in on this from the beginning," Wilson said. Stubborn, stubborn bug. "Because that has legs. Maybe they've had some trouble with their source of cogwork and are trying to supplement their Algorithm with work from the Artificers. Or maybe they've finally decided to cast off the Council and take over the city. That seems entirely possible."

  "Enough bright ideas," I said. "We've got enough trouble without trying to make up new conspiracies." I began ticking points off on my fingers. "Crane is the last remnant of a family of Artificers, purged out when the Guild was exiled. He's back to get revenge on the city. He's killed a bunch of Councilors, and now he's trying to destroy the religion that got the Guild in trouble in the first place." I held up my hand, showing my fingers to Wilson, Matthew, and the gathered officers of the Badge. "That's the story we're sticking to. Everyone got it?"

  Numb nods all around. Poor guys had probably thought they were dealing with a simple power struggle in the Council. Only Matthew looked unconvinced.

  "Good enough," I said. "So we're going to go in there, find Ezekiel Crane, and we're going to kill him. I don't want to know anything more about his motives, I don't want to give him a fair trial in a court of his peers, I don't want to question him to find anything out. I want him shot. And if that doesn't kill him, I want him shot again. Any questions?"

  None of them bothered to nod. They just stared back at me.

  "Okay, then. The front door is as good a place as any to start. Suit up, check your ammunition, and follow me."

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Mad Angel Among Us

  MATTHEW HAD THE best with him, that was obvious. They moved across the courtyard efficiently. Covering corners, communicating through hand signals, staying low and fast. I had never seen anything like it. Probably good that the average Badgeman wasn't this well trained. We'd have no decent crime in the whole city.

  The original seat of the Church of the Algorithm was a tiny stone chapel that still served as a side entrance to the complex. If it wasn't attached to this seething, nightmare architecture, the chapel could have fit in on the street of any tiny country hamlet. It looked out of place, though. I think the Wrights kept it out of nostalgia, instead of tearing it down and rebuilding it, as they had with the other buildings they had absorbed over the years. This tiny chapel had a low wall, and a courtyard, and then a tall wooden door that led into the nave. The nave itself was choked with machinery, but legend says that it was the first chamber of the Algorithm, the first room where the pattern had formed.

  We rushed across the courtyard, Matthew's team leading the way. Secured the gate, then the wall, then the front door of the chapel. I let them do their job, but when it came time to charge in to the chapel itself, I felt it was my duty to be in front. So how's that for a change? Leading a charge of cops, into a church. Not my usual approach.

  Wilson and I huddled outside the door. We had seen nothing of the Wrights, or Crane, or his small army of crows. Large army. I don't know how big an army of crows is supposed to be, but I felt Ezekiel had a lot of crows.

  "What's the plan?" Wilson asked. Matthew and his team were close by, watching windows and alleyways.

  "Have you ever asked me that and had me tell you something useful?" I answered.

  "Not really."

  "Then let's stick with that. We're just going to go in there and figure out what's going on. We're going to find Crane. Probably shoot him." I checked the load on my shotgun for the fortieth time and settled my back against the stone wall. "Mostly we're not going to get killed. And we're going to save the city."

  "Right," Wilson said, skeptically. "And that's all you have?"

  "That's it."

  Wilson looked to Matthew. They both shrugged.

  "Let me try," Matthew said. "We go in. We secure our immediate area and assess the situation. Then we make a decision."

  "That's pretty much what I said."

  "He said it more clearly," Wilson pointed out. "Either way. They both start with 'We go in.'"

  "Agreed." I stood up and gathered Matthew's team behind me. When everyone looked ready, I gave the nod. One of his bully boys smashed in the door with a hammer bigger than my leg. I rushed in after him.

  The room was dark and silent. The only light was from the transepts of the old chapel, four arms that crossed the central chamber. Each transept held some kind of altar, and each altar was glowing faintly in the darkness. The altars themselves appeared to be idling machines, the light coming from the internal workings, pulsing with heat and energy. The rest of the chapel bristled with cogwork, walls that were mosaics of gears, columns that looked like camshafts. The whole space looked like a thousand clocks had exploded at its center, and the shrapnel was embedded in the walls. And all of it was still.

  I stumbled to a halt about halfway through the room. Wilson and Matthew bracketed me as the team secured the entrances. We looked around at the machinery in a kind of awe.

  "Is it all like this?" Matthew asked. Civilians were rarely allowed into the inner spaces of the Church of the Algorithm.

  "Almost none of it," I answered. As a member of the Founding Families, I had seen much of the upper levels of the Church. And, of course, I had broken in with Emily, two years ago. I winced at the memory. "In fact, I'm not sure this part of it is like this. These mosaics should be moving. The whole building should be."

  "Yeah. The whole Church is supposed to be one giant puzzle of cogwork, always in action, always running. Calculating the algorithm, or expressing it. Or something." Wilson stared around the room like a kid in a candy store. "It's definitely never supposed to stop."

  "So that's item one in our assessment of the situation," I said. "The Church is broken."

  One of Matthew's enthusiastic little soldiers gave a signal that I took to mean 'all clear.' Matthew stood up and wandered the room like a tourist.

  "I don't like this," I said. "I mean, it's fine that the Algorithm has stopped. What I don't like is that there are no Wrights here."

  "It's a big building, and they're obviously having problems. Maybe they're somewhere else, trying to g
et the engine going again."

  "Trying to jumpstart your god," I muttered. "I can't imagine that's a good thing."

  Wilson shrugged. "If they're not here, that means they're not stopping us from looking around."

  Matthew came back and made some complicated hand gestures.

  "You can just talk to us," I said. "That's probably going to be quicker."

  "We're ready to move. There are no signs of struggle here. Main door is secured, and we've got two exits. One goes up, the other goes down."

  "Down it is," I said. Much as I didn't like the idea, if there was trouble, it would probably be deep inside the Church.

  We formed up and started down. Matthew's team was very efficient, and very annoying to be around. After about two rooms of clearing corners and signaling fire lanes, I got bored and walked on ahead. Matthew gave me a nasty look, just before I lost sight of him around a corner.

  "Do you think this is wise?" Wilson asked, trotting behind me. "Those guys seemed to know what they were doing."

  "Maybe. But we'll never get anywhere at that rate. I don't think they appreciate how enormous this place is."

  Enormous, and empty. The Church was always a cacophonous place, full of motion and noise, and the ever-present Wrights of the Algorithm. Because my previous visits had either been guided tours or criminal intrusions, I had come to expect a Wright around every corner. Now the whole Church lay dormant. Every time I came into a new room, I expected to find a clutch of engineer-priests kneeling over some contraption. Or maybe even dead on the floor. It seemed like some violence had occurred, given the state of the engine, but I had yet to see even the faintest trace of a struggle. Wrights were big guys. They spent their lives assembling a god out of giant metal parts. Any fight they were involved in would have gotten bloody. But there was nothing.

  Worse, the silence inside didn't match the business outside. From the warehouse, the Church had looked perfectly normal. As if all the engines were running and the boilers churning. But from in here, the engine of god seemed dead. Silent. What kind of deception was that, and how could it be made to work?