Ninth City Burning (12 page)

I am tasked with communicating our consent to the warehouse guards, and hardly have I spoken the words than a great convoy of mechanical
wagons arrives outside our warehouse. Men unload one crate after another filled with all manner of victuals. They tell us there is plenty more to be had, we need only ask. We are given blankets and sturdy cots to keep us off the warehouse floor, and in the morning the man Ghalo returns with a crew of boys and girls who issue each of us a card bearing our name and likeness and date of birth reckoned by some queer calendar, as well as something called our “number of citizenship.” We are informed that this is to be our identification and we must carry it at all times. In the coming days, we will be assigned work or a place in school, as befits our age and aptitude, and as space opens up, we will be given housing more fit for human habitation than this warehouse.

The benefits of our bargain with Prefect Qu are so ready and so rich that we are immediately suspicious, but in the face of the relief they bring, it is hard to remain circumspect. It is that night, with my coda sleeping warm and safe around me, that I finally shed the armor of sternness and command I have worn since we left New Absalom, and find my heart has broken so terribly that I think I will never find the pieces.

T
he tablets bearing the names of our lost and dead were left behind at New Absalom, and it strikes me now that if we are to remain here, this could be the first step toward abandoning our old lives, toward forgetting our very selves. And so that night I take the sides of a discarded crate and begin carving them with every name I can remember, beginning with my sister's, Rachel Ochre. I include all those lost to the marauding warriors in our flight from New Absalom, and because these tablets are mine, I break the old rule that animals are not to be so remembered, and carve in Jumbo, who ran tirelessly for me for two days and fell to Niagara fire only after taking more wounds than a beast twice his size could rightly endure, and Leon the ratter, who died with his teeth in the thigh of a Leafcoat warrior intent on staving in my brother's head. I cannot remember all the names at once, but whenever one comes to me, I find my tablets and etch it on. Others in my coda see what I am doing, and offer up more names I have forgotten. It is slow work, but we have time.

The days pass, and though we expect to be sent to work or school as promised, it is as though the settlement has forgotten us. Our food is delivered daily, and we are given new clothes and a stove that produces blue flames from small metal tanks, but we see neither Qu nor Ghalo again. Torro visits with another delivery of cans, and is pleased to find his gifts are not needed, but the news of my new citizenship puzzles him. He examines my identification with furrowed brow, as though uncertain of its function. “Old Qu must have her reasons,” he says. “She never does anything just to be nice. You tell your people to be careful.”

Our only other visitors are children who come to hurl stones and hateful words at our warehouse. “Bivvie” is the term we hear most often among
the clatter of rocks, the same word Ghalo used for us, if without so much anger and contempt. The children flee at the smallest indication of pursuit but always return before long. It is one day as I sit watching them, listening to their jeers, that the flying monster appears.

I see it first as a shadow sweeping over the ground, silent as a cloud overtaking the sun. The children glance upward and scatter, running as if some terrible misfortune will befall anyone who allows that darkness to touch them. When I follow their gaze, I find a silhouette gliding across the sky with the ease of a swan over still water. It is the largest thing I have ever known to travel under its own power, with the smooth lines of a raindrop and no moving parts I can discern. Far, far above, I think I see something else, a point of blackness like a dark star gazing down, but I cannot say for certain.

Others of my coda have come to look, shielding their eyes and pointing into the bright sky as the thing passes over us. It is plainly no township machine, and the sight of it brings to mind stories passed sometimes between us Walkers of great beasts roaming the continent, enormous lizards or wolves or birds of prey, accounts mostly heard third- or fourth-hand or from men deeply in their cups and dismissed as tall tales by anyone with any sense. But I have seen spears of light rise above the Valley of Endless Summer, and now this creature, so who is to say. I do not think it is quite alive, but there is a strange energy to it I would not expect from something built of plain metal, and I know then that whatever else it might be, this behemoth is a manifestation of the fear I have seen in the people here.

All day we wait for the great floating blot to indicate its intentions, but it merely hangs silent in the sky above us like some strange and alien moon. At night, its surface glows with ribbons of light that remind me of the auroras of the far north, or my few sightings of angel's stitches and sparrow fires. The town around us seems abandoned, and we see not a single citizen until late the following morning, when a convoy of trucks arrives, bringing Ghalo and a number of his men. He begins speaking before we have all had time to gather, as though addressing our warehouse and not the people inside.

“Citizens of Settlement 225,” he says, “due to extraordinary and unforeseen events, the Ninth Principate has issued special supplementary quotas, which will include an emergency ancillary draft. Draft numbers will be announced via telecast beginning at 1800 hours tonight. All citizens not
yet registered must report to the Office of the Prefect immediately for registration and evaluation by Principate censors.”

Ghalo is nearly halfway through his announcement before Thom has been brought out, and I rush to translate, feeling a chill at the words, though there are some, such as “Principate,” I do not understand. Around me, I hear others who know the township language interpreting for those who do not. When Thom makes his reply to Ghalo, he does not need me to convey the anger in his words. “Explain your meaning, man.”

Ghalo glances at Thom, as if only now apprehending his presence. “These new quotas come as something of a surprise, yes,” he says coolly, “but as citizens, I should think you all understand the draft and the reasons behind it.”

“We have already agreed to fight for your militia,” Thom says. “There is no need to draft us into service.”

“Oh yes, you are already part of our
militia
,” Ghalo says, slowly, as if speaking to a child. “The Principate censors are here to recruit soldiers for the
Legion
.”

Thom offers nothing but a burning glare in reply.

“The Ninth Principate governs this settlement and many others like it,” Ghalo continues, now stammering a bit as he goes on, “and it employs a fighting force known as the Legion to ensure our safety. At present, the Legion is engaged in a great war, and soldiers are needed to fight. Our settlement is expected to contribute its share. When the number of volunteers is too few to meet our quota, we are forced to hold a draft.”

We have all heard of this war the townships claim to be engaged in. Now and again, we will glimpse a banner bearing images of battle or slogans denouncing a mysterious “Enemy,” or catch some reference in overheard talk between townspeople. We consider it impolite to inquire, however, not only because of the effort everyone makes to hide any mention of the war from us—covering their lurid posters of knights and monsters as we ride into town, clamming up whenever we are too obvious in our eavesdropping—but also because in all the years my people have walked the continent, we have never seen evidence of any conflict grander in scale than that perpetrated by warring tribes, nor heard tell of such anyplace outside the townships themselves. Reports of roving giants have far more to them than this supposed “war.” We have come to see it as a sort of local tradition, like our own winter festivals, or superstition, as with certain peoples of the lakelands
said to believe themselves descended from lions. Either way, to offer up contradiction, especially unsolicited, would be ungracious, and might cost us our welcome and the fruitful trading it brings. But now it seems this township fiction demands some real form of sacrifice.

Angry voices have begun to rise behind me, but Thom silences them with a gesture. “You told us nothing of any conscription,” he says.

“Contributing to the war effort is one of the foremost duties of citizenship.” Ghalo has assumed the air of a man wronged, as if he has caught Thom cheating in a trade. “As with all responsibilities of citizenship, the draft is clearly outlined in our settlement charter, which can be found at the Office of the Prefect. You or any of your people could have gone to read it at any time. Now,” he says, turning his back by way of conclusion and striding toward the trucks, “if you will please ask everyone to form an orderly line, we can have all of you to the Town Center and back in time to watch the telecast tonight.”

No orderly line is formed, and we need no settlement charter to tell us we have been sorely deceived. Before Ghalo has taken two steps, my codesmen have erupted in anger at our betrayal. I do not see all of what happens, but I feel the surge at my back as some rush toward Ghalo and his trucks. I hear the shouts, then the thunderous crack as Ghalo's guards fire into the crowd. Thom vanishes from my side, and when I look back, I see him kneeling on the ground, dark blood welling from a wound in his thigh. Despite his injury, there is no mistaking the killing gleam in his eye, and like a striking snake, he rises and jabs his fist into the throat of a guard who has run up behind me.

The guard topples, sputtering, but two more come rushing after. Thom has broken the arm of one and the jaw of the other before a third deals him a blow to the skull with the butt of his rifle, then all three are on him, pinning him to the ground as they bind up his hands. I have watched all of this rooted in place, but now I rush to Thom's aid and am put solidly on my rear by a guard's backhanded slap. That is when the general commotion impresses itself on me, the moans and shrieks of the injured and the indictments of the guards. Several of my codesmen have taken bullet wounds like Thom's, the guards having kept their aim low to avoid a deadly shot, and of these, most are now being led away. Strong hands encircle me, and I see Mama has come to lift me to my feet.

Ghalo, who has moved only a few paces, surveys the violence as though
he had expected nothing less. “Your wounded will be treated at the Town Center,” he says wearily, “but I am afraid disturbances of this sort carry our harshest penalties.” He addresses his next words to me. “I hope you can convince your people to cooperate before this incident gets any worse.”

There is little convincing to do. We know this is a battle we cannot win, and those of us able to walk heave ourselves into the trucks. Even Baby Adam must come with us because there will be no one left at the warehouse to watch him. Only those aged fourteen to sixty may be drafted, but for reasons I cannot grasp, anyone nine years or older is required to register. Not even those too old to fruitfully hold a gun are spared, and so Baby Adam rides beside me, his face buried in Mama's skirts.

We have been driving only a short while when the sky is rent by a sound like tearing leather. From my window, I glimpse an aircraft moving low over the nearby buildings, a swift and elegant thing shaped like a diving bird, and while I am certain it is some cousin to the shadowy apparition floating noiselessly above, in its movement and noise it seems more akin to the truck rumbling beneath me.

The metallic falcon vanishes over the horizon of rooftops as our convoy rattles slowly behind. Presently, the blocky forms of factories and silos shrink into the dwellings and shops I recall from my previous visits to the townships. When the trucks finally shudder to a halt, I see we are in the marketplace, where we Walkers do most of our trade. High over the place looms a great showpiece of a building, an edifice of concrete and tall windows, meant, I suppose, to inspire fear and obedience. I take this to be the Office of the Prefect because that is where Ghalo and his men now take us.

Outside, a great mob has gathered, all made up of children—citizens of this settlement registering for the first time, I presume. My coda makes a strange addition, for otherwise the throng contains not a single adult, only a few dull-eyed chaperones standing along the perimeter. As I join the crowd, one man pulls me aside, and I am surprised to see it is Torro. “Hey, Naomi,” he says, his head low like a man hoping to avoid recognition, “I need to talk to you.”

“What you need is no concern of mine,” I growl, pulling free of him. “And I will thank you to keep your hands off me.”

“Look, I'd have warned you if I knew, I really would have. I mean, they're only supposed to do the draft once a year, and this year's was like two months ago. They only told us about this one today. People are real mad about it.”

“I cannot imagine why anyone would be upset. I have heard forcible recruitment is one of your duties of citizenship.”

“Hey, I'm real sorry this happened to you, I really am. Old Qu really pulled a dirty trick on you. I get it. But you've got to listen to me now, or it's going to get a whole lot worse.”

“I do not quite see how such a thing is possible.”

Torro glances furtively about, first at Ghalo's guards, then at the ponderous building above. “In a few minutes, they're going to take you all into the Prefect Building, and they're going to give you a test.”

I regard him skeptically. “What manner of test?”

“That's the thing—they don't tell you. They just ask you a bunch of questions. It's like they know some secret, and they want to see if you know it, too. But what I want to tell you is, if you feel like you can answer any of their questions, don't. Understand?”

“No, Torro, I cannot rightly say that I do.”

“It's just, I don't know.” He runs his palms over his bristly hair, desperation clouding his face. “It's like, I took the test, too, starting when I was nine and every year until I turned fourteen. And I knew some people who must've told the Prips what they wanted because I never saw them again. So like, you've got to tell your people what I just told you. Don't give the Prips what they want.” He raises his eyes to take in my codesmen, all of them watching us with dark expressions. “Is that your brother there? The little guy? You know they're not going to let him come with you, right? He's too young. I can watch him for you if you want.”