Ninth City Burning (45 page)

She holds out her hand. “Give me that. Your trencher, too.”

I do what she says, and before I know what's happening she's used the trencher to hurl the banana right at the IMEC. It shoots straight for the burned cottages and glowing people all roaming around in the mist. About halfway there, the banana catches on fire, just lights right up. It pretty much disappears before it gets to the IMEC, but the little boy who'd been pointing at Spammers seems satisfied. He stops pointing, anyway, and as he walks away, the ground where he'd been standing stops moving.

She hands me back my trencher. “Thanks, Miles,” she says, using my rank, miles, meaning just a normal, ordinary guy from the milites.

I'm pretty impressed. I knew you could use a trencher to launch things like that, but setting something on fire midair can't be easy. “Sure,” I say, “no problem.”

She's already on her way back to the Immunes, though, shouting, “There! Was that so bloody difficult?” One of the other Immunes starts to argue with her, but she says, “We can do a full repair later. For now, we
need to keep all this shoddy workmanship from getting any worse.” Someone else speaks up, and she yells, “I don't
care
whose fault it is! Now patch the rest and let's get out of here!”

“So did we break it or not?” Spammers whispers.

Hexi shoves him. “We'll know when it falls on us.”

It doesn't fall on us, though. Actually, we're able to fix things up pretty quickly, once someone brings back a few bowls of fruit. I guess Spammers wasn't the only one sneaking a bite here and there because there are plenty of other spots around the cottages where the ground doesn't quite hold together. Throwing fruit stops them from sliding away, but it doesn't exactly melt the dirt and everything back into place. Instead, the piled-up ground just stays the way it is. Mersh is stuck hurling apples with the rest of us, on orders from that intense-looking girl. It turns out her name is Immunis Kizabel, and she's the person who
designed
the whole crazy IMEC. I'd heard of her, of course, but I'd been imagining some old lady. Immunis Kizabel is probably only a little older than my kiddos and me.

“Seriously,” Spammers says as Kizabel and the other Immunes rush off to some other part of the island. “I'm never going to understand this place. Not ever.”

About two hours later, we're looking up at a genuine flying island. It didn't come together exactly the way I expected, just lifting out of the ground like a cookie from a sheet of dough or whatever. Instead, it kind of folded together like a box. The finished thing is really two flying islands stuck together, kind of. Like, the place where we'd been working on those cottages actually ended up on the
bottom
, and so did a few parts of the city, and a bunch of other trees and meadows and so forth. There's even a lake, right in the center, and when you look up at it, you can see the land below reflected in the water. It makes Spammers and me kind of dizzy, doing that, but Hexi can't get enough of it, seeing Limit Camp and our bunks and the mess hall and everything, all far away and upside down in this great big lake in the sky.

“I wonder if the harvesters and everything have to turn upside down to land up there,” Hexi says later while we're waiting for transportation to IMEC-1, formerly Ninth City. We're outside the umbris now, and the light has gone back to normal. It's late afternoon and cold enough to see your breath.

Spammers groans. Hexi has gotten better at giving him a hard time, I
guess. “I don't think I'll ever get used to living on that thing,” he says. “But hey, maybe we won't have to, if we're lucky.”

Hexi looks over at him. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it, girlie. They've got to send that thing off into the Realms, right? Well, they can't take
all
of us with them, can they? Who'd hang around and watch out for Earth for the next thirty years? I know Torro's thought about this, haven't you, boyo?”

I hadn't, actually, but I'm thinking about it now, even though I'm trying not to. I'm a little scared that if I let myself think about it, something'll go wrong.

Spammers is grinning at me now. “So say they decide to leave good old Twelfth Century behind! They close up the Realms, and we don't have to go to the Front. Maybe we have to stay on a few extra years with the Legion, but who cares? We'll be the first legionaries to get home without having to leave for fifty years first!”

Hexi is getting excited now, too. “Hey, maybe we can all go start our own settlement!”

Spammers laughs. “Just like old Mersh said! Unbelievable!”

But there's one other thing, something they don't mention. No way they'd've forgotten. I guess they just don't want to talk about it.

There's a great big army of Valentines out there, waiting for old Lunar Veil to open so they can storm on through and kill us. Before this flying island can go off on its jolly way and leave me and my kiddos behind to start our own settlement or head back to Granite Shore or anything like that, we've got to deal with Romeo. Maybe we all
will
get to stay on Earth, but first we've got to make it through this battle alive.

O
f all the considerations necessary to uprooting a vast metropolis and outfitting it for combat across a series of hostile alien worlds, the most troublesome by far is deciding who gets to run the thing. Kizabel would accuse me of trivializing the staggering amount of work and aggravation that went into getting IMEC-1 both literally and figuratively off the ground, of belittling what herculean feats the straining backs of humanity's defenders have wrought, and, of course, she'd be right, but however banal the negotiations surrounding the IMEC's administrative status—its place within the Legion and
vice versa
—may seem when compared to the apotheotic spectacle of plucking an island from the earth and setting it in the sky, I have a feeling the consequences will be every bit as convoluted and thorny.

The IMEC had its share of detractors—for the most part venerable military chiefs who objected to gambling the future of the human race on some half-baked scheme cooked up by a couple of untried novices. However, once the Consulate had voted—unanimously—in favor of commissioning what was decried variously as “a schoolboy's farcical toy” and “a suicidal monstrosity,” it seemed just about everyone in the upper echelons of the Legion and Principates of Hestia considered him- or herself the natural choice to command the aforementioned toy/monstrosity.

The trouble—most of it, anyway—arose from the fact that IMEC-1 fell rather mistily into a gray area between several preexisting authorities and institutions. It was a city, obviously, but it was also a weapon of enormous power—or would be, if we could get it to work—as well as a military base, one which would house practically everything that remained of the Legion. Who, then, should be in charge? Should Princept Azemon, who had
governed Ninth City for the past fifteen years, continue to do so after its transformation into a flying fortress? Most certainly, in the opinion of Princept Azemon. Or should the IMEC be entrusted to someone prepared to lead in an exclusively military capacity? According to various individuals prepared to lead in an exclusively military capacity, the answer was a resounding yes. To further complicate things, all twelve of Earth's Legions would be represented in the IMEC's garrisons. At the Front, where every Realm had its own supreme military commander, this wouldn't have been a problem, but on Earth, the Dux of each Legion is traditionally answerable only to his or her Princept and the general directives of the Consulate. The idea that any Legion—even the Fifth, whose numbers had been reduced to the extent that it could no longer form even a single full cohort—should cede command to another Legion's Dux was, apparently, so insulting as to be unthinkable.

Had there been time to bicker and scheme and maneuver, it's likely anyone with a remotely reasonable claim to the IMEC would still be bickering and scheming and maneuvering, but fortunately—for the purposes of expediency, anyway—the world was about to end, and so the debate only lasted about three hours. The decision Consul Seppora handed down was that, while each of the twelve Legions would remain under the leadership of its respective Dux, ultimate command of IMEC-1 and its legionary detachment would fall to Ninth City's own Dux Reydaan, who would be responsible for all tactical and strategic decisions. To the whole assembly's credit as soldiers, the ruling was accepted immediately and without argument, though I suspect the general stoicism resulted in part from Seppora's promise to revisit the issue after the coming battle, assuming the destruction of humanity hadn't rendered it moot.

Following the meeting, Curator Ellmore was heard to comment that the truly tragic thing about what was now being called the First Battle of Lunar Veil—rather optimistically, I think, since a Second Battle of Lunar Veil would be conditioned on our ability to build a flying island—was that most of our military leadership survived. I don't completely agree, especially as I'm now part of the military leadership, but I see her point. None of our officers wanted to be left out of the upcoming glorious mission to save humanity, and as a result, they continued to squeeze themselves into the chain of command well after all the top spots—and indeed, any
conceivably useful position—had been filled. Even after its thorough renovation and expansion, the Dux's Basilica feels overcrowded.

At first glance, the interior of the Basilica looks much as it did in its former life as the center of Ninth City's military operations: an enormous space, comparable in size and composition to the largest cathedrals and mosques of the Common Era. At the center, beneath the huge, vaulted dome, is a dynamic model of Ninth City, popularly referred to as the Board. Our assets and defenses, our fighters—and, when relevant, the enemy's—are all represented in pieces of carved stone, easy to differentiate by size and color as milites, equites, artillery,
et cetera
. The pieces move independently, shifting across the model city or floating above as corresponds to the motion of their counterparts in the world outside. On unexceptional days, the Board has the languid, almost hypnotizing peacefulness of a koi pond. Today, it more resembles a wasps' nest, though the image of a pond lingers with me, especially given recent alterations to the Basilica's floor.

Whereas Ninth City, like any reasonable human dwelling, was set firmly and dependably on the ground, IMEC-1 is afloat and exposed to attack from all angles, and to account for this new range of peril, the Basilica's soaring interior has been mirrored downward to accommodate a new Board, with our double-sided city floating in the center. It would be easy to mistake the Board's lower half for a reflection in the polished stone floor, but a closer look reveals that the two sides are very different, each with its own geography, its surrounding pieces moving on their own unique errands.

To avoid distinctions such as “up” and “down” or “top” and “bottom”—meaningless, even harmful when operating in a world where orientation is often relative—the IMEC's two surfaces have been given direction-neutral names. The “red” or “city” side bears the closest resemblance to the old Ninth City, supporting its most recognizable landmarks, including the Forum, of which the Basilica makes up a prominent portion. The “green” or “country” side is more residential in character, its skyline less ambitious, hosting the majority of the IMEC's open space and its only large body of water. Both sides are equally well protected, however, bristling with our towering City Guns and battle spires, amply supplied with garrisons ready to sortie at a moment's notice.

At present, the model of IMEC-1 is a grid of carefully arranged pieces. The Board, so frantic since this morning, is quiet but for a few buzzing circles
of last-minute positioning and preparation. Here inside the Basilica, the scene is more frenetic. Officers jog back and forth carrying messages and orders along a layer cake of platforms extending nearly floor to ceiling—or perhaps ceiling to ceiling is the better description. Gravity reverses at the level dividing the Basilica's mirrored halves, so that from each side's perspective the other appears upside down. Climbing from one to the other is a simple if bowel-jabbing procedure, though it's difficult to shake the subliminally disorienting sense of passing into some reflected, parallel world.

Every piece on the Board, from the heavy, rounded cubes representing full cohorts to the starlike, luminous specks that mark our fontani, carries an abundance of information. The exact content of that information depends on the subject in question and its position relative to the IMEC. In the case of distant enemy units, we may get only a grainy visual, but if a squad of milites happens to be marching past the Basilica, we can watch them from any angle we choose, read the condition of their bodies and equipment, gauge their morale, see through their eyes, smell through their noses. Instruments for reading such intelligence—some large and baroque, others small and fragile—are mounted along the platforms that encircle the Board, the densest clusters indicating posts where commanders roost to observe and direct the Legion's movements. Low-ranking officers like me are issued only small durbunler, devices similar to binoculars in design and appearance and—with a little imagination—function.

Fontanus Charles Cossou joins me while I'm standing along one of the platforms, scanning the IMEC's City Side. As the lenses of my durbun pass over each piece, the legionaries signified sweep into view. I've spotted a cohort of milites loading into one of the battle spires, and by adjusting my durbun's dials, I can observe them filing onto the assault platforms circling up the spire like kernels on a cob, taking their places in quiet rows, nervously fiddling with their lazels and adjusting their armor.

“They're ready,” Charles says. He's watching the pieces on the Board, but the way he says it makes me think he can see those milites better than I can.

I lower my durbun to salute. “There are a lot of inexperienced legionaries out there, sir. I hope we did enough to prepare them.”

Charles doesn't acknowledge my salute. Like many of the oldest veterans, he doesn't put much stock in legionary protocol. “You've given us a
chance, Vinneas,” he says. “That's what we needed more than anything. Assuming this contraption of yours holds together.”

“I've made sure there's a supply of bubble gum and duct tape on hand, sir,” I say, my standard response to concerns regarding the structural or conceptual soundness of IMEC-1. I've heard a lot of these over the past month, and few have been delivered with a grin, like this one from Charles. Having accepted my proposal, the Consulate felt obliged to transfer me over to Command, officially to advise on the preparations for defending Earth. As far as I've been able to discover, my duties consist solely of absorbing frustrated rants from my fellow officers whenever we encounter any kind of problem or setback. For this, I have been awarded the foolishly lofty rank of centurio. I might have been made an optio or tesserario, except that I was already a censor, and despite being a dead end in terms of rising to the highest levels of the Legion, the censors do head up their own division of operations, making them equal to centuriones in the overall chain of command. The Consulate couldn't very well
demote
me for my part in our new plan, so here I am.

“Excellent,” Charles says, still grinning. “We'll do the rest. Or they will,” he concedes, indicating the milites and several other pieces gliding across the Board. “If all goes according to plan, I won't come into it at all.”

“You're part of the reserve?”

“Heading it up, in fact. I was just conferring with Feeroy.”

He nods toward a platform a few levels above ours, and when I look past the expanse of drifting pieces, I see Imperator Feeroy glaring down at us. Despite how virulently unpopular his plan to evacuate Hestia has become, Feeroy remains adamant that it is our best and safest option, and other commanders have seized upon his conviction to distract from the fact that they had been just as vocal in favor of evacuation back when the only other option seemed a gallant but doomed last stand. With Dux Reydaan assuming command of the Legion overall, Feeroy might reasonably have expected the Ninth would be his. Instead, under the logic that a commander so eager to avoid a fight should have that portion of the Legion least likely to see combat, he has been assigned the Legion's reserve forces, who will wait behind on Earth and join the battle only if summoned. I can't help respecting Feeroy's commitment to his beliefs, but that doesn't keep him from blaming me for everything that's happened. I doubt
it helps any that his decision to ship me off with the censors is the reason I'm now the Legion's youngest centurio. In terms of angry tirades, he's been my best customer so far.

“Has he told you anything about his plan for us out there?” Charles asks.

“No.”

“You should ask him.”

I watch as Feeroy studies the movement of pieces across the Board, far more intent than I would expect of a commander who will be leaving the majority of his troops behind. Something in his expression makes me uneasy. “Here's to hoping you miss the whole battle, then,” I say to Charles, though one thing I've learned about plans is how quickly they can fall apart.

“Adventure, heh. Excitement, heh. A Jedi craves not these things.” Charles grins at me in a way that makes me feel I must be missing something. “But promise you'll let me take this baby for a spin once we're off in the Realms,” he adds, turning to look down at the hefty, goldenrod-colored piece used to represent the IMEC.

“It's a deal.”

He steps back and surprises me with a sharp salute. “I'll see you at the victory party, Centurio.”

When he's gone, I continue scanning the IMEC, looking over the disposition of our forces. No doubt there are several officers around who'd like to expend some nervous energy by shouting at me, but as I see it, my real job is worrying about strategy. For all my glib comments about gum and duct tape, I know the IMEC is far from perfect, that there are still bugs and glitches, problems with its layout and function a month simply wasn't enough time to fix, even with the entire Legion working nonstop. I tune the dials on my durbun, surveying first the overall placement of artillery, then the blocks of troops positioned around the city. I'm panning past a crowd in the Academy courtyards, where some of the cadets recently inducted into the Legion are mustering, and over toward the Stabulum, when a huge face abruptly pops into my field of vision.