Blood and Iron (26 page)

She came to a halt bathed in electric streetlight, the stamp of marching feet all around her, a steady stream of infantryrobots marching past in perfect time. And, in the centre of all that motion, stillness. Five faces looking down at her. Infantryrobots.

The Storm Trooper loomed above her, still holding her hand in his.

‘He tried to rape me,’ said Susan. ‘Help me.’

‘Leave,’ said the Storm Trooper. ‘She’s mine.’

It was the wrong thing to say. Five rifles swung from shoulders and pointed at the black robot.

‘Are you telling us what to do?’ asked one of the infantryrobots. The Storm Trooper raised itself up, then it seemed to notice the faces of the other soldiers. Susan got the impression that these were experienced fighters. Their bodies were well worn, covered in a fine tracery of scratches.

‘What’s a mother of Artemis doing roaming the streets with the city preparing for attack?’ asked the Storm Trooper.

‘I was trying to get back to the making rooms and he captured me,’ lied Susan. ‘He dragged me down there. He took my hand . . .’

‘Give it back to her,’ said the lead infantryrobot.

‘She’s lying!’ The Storm Trooper seemed more amused than angry.

A rifle pointed directly at his head.

‘Give her back her hand!’

The Storm Trooper dropped the hand to the ground. Susan quickly snapped it back into place.

‘I must get back, right now!’ she said, and before anyone could stop her, she turned and ran up the street, losing herself in the crowd of marching robots.

The Storm Trooper’s voice followed her up the road, deep and growling, it cut through the sound of the marching.

‘I’ll be coming for you . . .’

Susan ran up the street, dodging through the moving ranks. Ahead of her she saw a black phalanx of Storm Troopers, and she dodged down another side alley. She was quickly lost in darkness, the lights of the city vanishing as the buildings enfolded her.

Where was she? This was like no part of the city she had been to before. It seemed so empty, and it took Susan a moment to realize that the area in which she walked was almost completely devoid of metal. Stone buildings ran in every direction. Tall and short, wide and long, crammed together higgledy-piggledy, they seemed ancient and modern and everything in between.

It seemed so strange, so un-Artemisian, in a city that prized utility above all else. She walked through an area without purpose. The current in her body seemed to pulse. Somewhere behind her was the Storm Trooper. She imagined him looking for her now, creeping through the darkness, reaching out to seize her shoulder . . .

She spun suddenly around. Nothing. Only darkness. She started at a sudden movement, and then relaxed. Just her hearing and vision turned up full and responding to every stimulus.

She walked carefully on, her path defined by the bright stars above her, irregular patches of light over the dark world.

It was so silent, the sound of the hammering and marching had faded to nothing and for the first time in months Susan felt utterly alone. It was a new sort of fear, different to that instilled by her capture by Artemisian troops. This was the fear of the strange, the unknown. The fear of asymmetric streets under starlight, the fear of empty windows and hollow buildings.

Ahead of her two towers climbed into the night, so tall, their shapes only seen where they occluded the stars. There was something so unsettling about them, she wanted to avoid them, but now all the side roads seem to have vanished. She could either walk towards them, or back into the arms of the Storm Trooper.

The two towers seemed so sinister, but there was nowhere else to go. They rose higher into the sky as she approached them; they loomed over her.

She found herself walking between them.

‘I’m coming . . .’

The Storm Trooper! It was almost a relief to hear the words, their distant menace a thread of familiarity to lead her from this strange night.
Keep away from him, but don’t get lost in this empty, silent place.

She felt the metal door to her side. In the middle of all this stone, its presence seemed amplified. She found herself walking towards it without thinking. It was a stupid thing to do, she realized later. Where else but in here would the Storm Trooper think to look for her? But nonetheless she found herself placing her hand on it, feeling for the catch through the metal, opening it.

She edged into the darkness beyond and pushed the door close, shutting out the city beyond.

As she did so she heard the movement in the room behind her.

She turned around.

Yellow eyes illuminated the darkness.

Wa-Ka-Mo-Do

Wa-Ka-Mo-Do summoned two dressing women and made his way to the Copper Master’s forge. There he stripped away his panelling and allowed the women to clean him, to adjust his electro-muscle, to work smooth the roughened bearings, to gently oil him. Red coal light filled the room, white flame flared, pumped by the leather bellows. There was the gentle knock and clank of metal on metal.

The armourer was summoned; she opened a black metal case before him. Inside was a display of pistols arranged in order of colour, alloys running from grey to black.

‘May I recommend this one, Honoured Commander?’ she said, lifting a black snub-nosed specimen from the case. The grip was smooth, it would be moulded to the shape of Wa-Ka-Mo-Do’s hand should he choose it. ‘I supervised its construction myself. It is made of steel, obviously, but there is a version in red brass, should you prefer.’

‘No, thank you, Ging-Lan-Keralla. Do you have a shotgun?’

The armourer could not quite conceal her look of hurt surprise.

‘My apologies, Ging-Lan-Keralla. I did not mean any insult to your craft. But I think a shotgun would be the most suitable weapon within this city. Less lethal, for one thing. And easier to aim at close quarters.’

‘The commander is perhaps not used to firearms?’

Wa-Ka-Mo-Do gazed up at the armourer. There was no insult intended, he was sure.

‘I am competent, Ging-Lan-Keralla, however I prefer the blade. I would be most pleased if you would sharpen my sword, and the blades of my body.’

At that he extended the blades at his wrists and fingers. He caught the change in the electrical hum of the dressing woman nearest to him and noted how she immediately looked away from his naked form, blades extended. Ging-Lan-Keralla, however, gazed down at him with a look of approval that was entirely down to her craft.

‘It will be my pleasure, Honoured Commander. And I shall arrange for a shotgun to be delivered immediately.’

Wa-Ka-Mo-Do was a self-made robot, and his form caused a little confusion to the dressing women, but they worked efficiently enough. Despite the pressure he was under, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do allowed himself to relax: this was one of the arts of a warrior.

Eventually, he was cleaned and fixed and tuned. A dressing woman brought him the first of his panelling, freshly polished.

‘My mistake,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘I should have told you that I was dressing for the field, not the ballroom,’ and he showed her how to hold the gleaming scarlet-painted metal in the flame of the fire, blackening it. As he did so Ging-Lan-Keralla returned with a short, black shotgun.

‘Thank you,’ he said, admiring it. ‘But why the wooden stock? Surely that will make it harder to repair?’

‘It will. But the Commander of Sangrel is known as a poet as well as a warrior, and that is both a weapon and a thing of beauty.’

‘It is indeed,’ he replied, turning it in the light.

‘Excuse me, Honoured Commander,’ said the armourer, taking the gun. She fastened a long leather strap to it, and then slung the gun over his shoulder.

‘There. It suits you.’

Wa-Ka-Mo-Do looked at himself in a sheet of polished copper. It did.

‘Thank you, Ging-Lan-Keralla. You are a master of your craft.’

Her eyes glowed briefly.

His body oiled and humming sweetly beneath blackened panelling, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do stepped out into the midmorning daylight.

His company was waiting for him in the Street of Becoming, just beyond the Ice Gate.

Eighty robots, in red-brass bodies, their swords sheathed in wood at their left side, their rifles slung over their right shoulders. They were lined up in compact formation, each robot pressed against the robot in front, a mass of metal pushed together so that virtually no inch of space was anything but robot. Only their eyes moved, following him as he walked to meet them.

Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah was waiting, too.

‘Honoured Commander, I wish to be allowed to accompany you on this mission.’

‘No, Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah, I want you to remain here. I need you to watch La-Ver-Di-Arussah.’

Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah was visibly shocked.

‘But Honoured Commander, she is my superior!’

Wa-Ka-Mo-Do chose a different tack.

‘Forgive me, Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah. You understand I am a robot of the High Spires. I do not always express myself as well as robots such as yourself. What I meant to say was that La-Ver-Di-Arussah will find her attention drawn to many events. I wish you to maintain the peace whilst she is otherwise engaged, not to raise the tension.’

‘Surely you would be better placed to do so, Honoured Commander. Let me lead the troops instead.’

He was right, realized Wa-Ka-Mo-Do. But the Vestal Virgins had been most insistent that he leave. More than that, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do wanted to see what was happening outside the city.

‘No, Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah. A good commander should walk the extent of his command. Now, return to the Copper Master’s house. I will lead these robots.’

Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah saluted, obviously torn between what he believed to be right and what he believed to be his duty, then turned and made his way back up into the city.

‘Captain,’ called Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, and a captain detached himself from the crush of robots. He wore bronze flashes on his shoulders. ‘Get the robots ready to march.’

‘Commander.’

Wa-Ka-Mo-Do watched as the ranks of robots opened up like a bellows. Arms unfolding and legs shuffling free. The company expanded before him, filling the street. He took his place at the head, told the captain to give the order, and the company began to march.

Outside the Ice Gate, Lake Ochoa shone with the healthy blue of copper salts. Wa-Ka-Mo-Do turned his gaze away from the Mound of Eternity, imagining the eyes of the Vestal Virgins upon him. It was a fine day, lit by a yellow sun that warmed the metal of the robots moving busily back and forth around him. He heard the singing of the nearby rails: a train was approaching the station.

‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do! Wa-Ka-Mo-Do!’

The voice came from over towards the lake. A human was running towards him. Rachael. She was wrapping a piece of cloth around herself as she came, concealing the pink-white skin of her body.

‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do! Wait!’

Couldn’t she see that he was marching at the head of eighty armed robots? Didn’t she realize that he wasn’t going to bring the troops to a halt, just for her? It dawned on Wa-Ka-Mo-Do that she really didn’t. Humans didn’t seem to consider the Empire’s work as being important. It wasn’t even a considered insult; it was just a simple lack of awareness.

‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do! I know you can hear me!’

He remembered her father’s attitude the night before. He didn’t want to be seen to insult Rachael again, even unknowingly. Maybe in human terms it was just as wrong to ignore a young woman as it was to give her something to drink. Frustrated, he ordered the captain to call a halt. Beyond him he felt the discharge of electricity, heard the clank of metal as the soldiers stopped.

He turned and waited for Rachael as she ran past the red-brass robots, their bodies warming in the yellow sun.

‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do! You stopped! Thank you!

Rachael was in front of him, wrapping that strange piece of cloth over her body. It was almost transparent. Through it he could see the two dark strips of cloth she wore around her chest and the top of her thighs. She realized that he was looking at her, and she clutched the cloth tighter. Then she looked straight at him with those copper-blue eyes.

‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, I wanted to apologize.’

‘For what, Rachael?’

‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, what I did last night was wrong. Tricking you into giving me drinks. I was taking advantage and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.’

‘I accept your apology,’ said Wa-Ka-Mo-Do. He was uncomfortably aware of the captain standing by his side, gazing straight ahead.

‘I hope I haven’t got you into too much trouble?’

‘Trouble?’ said Wa-Ka-Mo-Do in surprise. ‘I’m the Commander of Sangrel.’

‘I know that,’ said Rachael. ‘Listen, I explained everything to my father. It should be okay.’

Again, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do was struck by the humans’ attitude to the robots. They certainly did not act like guests of the Emperor. He dismissed the subject.

‘All is harmony, Rachael. Now, if you will excuse me . . .’

She finally seemed to notice the soldiers, lined patiently in the sun behind him. The contrast between her soft pink body, barely wrapped in thin cloth, and their hard, steel bodies was marked.