Ninth City Burning (47 page)

I hear Imway ordering our party to hold steady, but there is no waver in our ranks nor anywhere along the vanguard's line. We keep our course
while the call and answer of gunfire goes on, the flak and debris of spent energy and shattered enemies whirling with our passing.

The Valentines are slow to relinquish their offensive, but they are no fools, either. Once two more swarms of shadowy shapes have sallied from Lunar Veil, only to be flattened beneath the determined hammering of our guns, the Valentines perceive the danger, and fighters cease to emerge from the sky.

Centurio Kitu orders the Sixth Armored to close ranks. The time has come to move, to press the advantage we have won before the enemy can gather up some new strategy. The vanguard bursts forward in a roar of speed, and together we charge into Lunar Veil.

The last time I came this way, I did not realize I had entered another world until I was nearly back out of it. It was only after poor Snuggles began to succumb to his injuries, rent to shreds by horrible talons and jaws, that I took in the night around me and the distant view of Earth like a patch of blue glimpsed from a well's bottom. I recall some disappointment that I would not get to die under my own sky, but I have never been overly concerned with the choices denied me, and this seemed no great tragedy. What mattered was that my task was accomplished, and there was nothing left to do. The crossing now is much the same: a shroud of mist hiding the world from sight, then a wide sky of alien stars. I do not wonder if I will see Earth again. The place is one more pale memory, and I have a new errand before me.

Gradually, I perceive the 126th on my wings, and the lines of the vanguard spreading wide on either side. Imway calls out, warning us to brace for combat. Already my senses have begun to prickle across the many articles of mayhem at my disposal, bolts and pulses of destroying energy I can wield like arrows and scythes and long-reaching fists, and the slender, chalk-white lance we carry for close combat, now forming in my hand like a crackling icicle as I sight ahead, waiting for the enemy to appear.

It seems at first that there is nothing before us but a haze of dust sprinkled across the firmament, but with alarming speed those far-off specks become glinting motes, and the motes a multitude of terrible monsters, all claws and teeth forged in sleek, matted metal. I have one brief instant to contemplate this flying wall of blades before it comes crashing onto me.

It is chaos, simple and complete. The enemy is all around, a multitude of metallic creatures built for war. They come in all sizes, configured according
to their preferred mode of attack, arms to slice and grapple, mouths to bellow out fiery blasts, bodies built like bullets or the jagged edge of a saw. Their ranks extend in every direction, twisting and curling like thorny vines. Snuggles and I circle and dip, striking out at the seemingly endless tangle of foes. The voices of the 126th fill my mind, calling out warnings and advice, and without quite realizing it, I have joined in, registering dangers and opportunities, offering and summoning assistance. Imway can be heard above them all, coordinating our maneuvers, rallying and guiding our attacks.

We set upon a collection of good-sized fighters, flattened shells bristling with clawed arms like nightmarish crabs, and cut them to pieces with our lances. The Valentines use animated armor much like our equi, and each cut draws a splash of gushing, bright green gwayd. Their fighters are different from ours in at least one respect, however: They destroy themselves the moment they are defeated, crumpling like burning paper until only twisting threads of ash remain. It shakes my rhythm, the first time an adversary folds and vanishes under my blade, but only the once. My enemy is the spirit inside the armor, and once that is gone, it makes little difference what sort of husk is left over.

The crab-warriors dispatched, we turn to join another unit from the Sixth contending with a long, tangled thing that brings to mind an endless, razor-legged millipede. We have turned over a rock, and now we must tangle with every awful creature hiding beneath.

The vanguard has hit with speed and power, but our momentum can't last. I count at least five Valentine fighters for every one of ours, and once we've exhausted the first feverish exchanges of our assault, it's plain the shock we delivered is quickly passing. Soon, we will have to deal with our enemy's full and enraged strength.

I find myself with three equites of the 126th, isolated among a forest of Valentine claws and teeth. Without any of us announcing an intention to do so, we draw our lances and edge together. We fight head to toe, so that each has plenty of room to strike, cutting back the horde around us. But the whirling attacks edge closer, advancing and retreating but slowly constricting around us, until the vise is so tight we can hardly move without angry thorns digging into our armor.

The deepening danger and desperation of our position sharpens my focus, and as I work Snuggles farther into the fray, he responds with a surge of eager power. We were both fashioned for this work, each in our own way,
and it feels natural to our shared body, neither one of us drawing back, even from oncoming death.

As a pair of pincers narrowly misses my shoulder, I spot a hole in the attack, like a worn patch of cloth, and aim my lance there. My comrades do the same, and together we shred our way out, a luminous pea soup of gwayd splashing away in heavy globules. Only when we are clear, floating above a new onrush of enemies, do I understand what allowed our escape. Our city has found its way through Lunar Veil, guns blazing to scatter the Valentine lines.

A voice I recognize as Haiyalaiya's springs into my mind. Her equus, 126-012, EndIsWaiting, hovers at my shoulder.
Hot boiling shit! Glad you're on
our
side!

The rest of the 126th has joined us now. We close ranks and dive back into the fight.

A
solemn mood has fallen over the Basilica of Tenth City, quite a difference from when I arrived this morning. The lively scene then reminded me of my coda readying to break camp for some long journey. I suppose that is not so strange. Our Legion was about to set forth into another world, after all, though no one here would be going anywhere. From where I stood, there seemed nothing so solid and stationary as this Basilica, with its stone walls and ceilings high enough to dwarf the tallest pine canopies of the northern forests. The great map at its center, what they call the Board, appeared as delicate as the rest of the Basilica was sturdy. By the look of it, a loud cough might have brought the whole thing tumbling down. I found myself thinking of Baby, and the way he would play soldiers with chess pieces, arranging knights and castles in elaborate formations without any regard whatever for the rules of the game.

Likening the Basilica's Board to a chess square seemed apt enough once the call to battle came. The silent concentration of those gathered around was as tense and focused as that attending the pitched grudge matches between Reaper Thom and Randy Tinker Bose. You could almost forget that somewhere, real soldiers were fighting, until the order came to fire Tenth City's guns.

The report of our first fusillade sent a shudder through the Basilica's floor and proved the Board was more robust than it appeared, for not a piece was knocked out of place. Instead, a scattering of small green orbs appeared above our position and sailed toward the site of combat. When they found their mark and word came back of a direct hit, you would have thought we'd won the war, the way people cheered. But I suppose we had to take our victories where we could.

I knew Rae was somewhere among those specks and blocks, and my sentiments then were much the same as those I felt whenever she went scouting. I was afraid she might not return, true, but such a possibility never seemed real to me. I could not imagine the enemy that would be too much for my sister. Far more genuine was my dread that when the time came for me to stand in her place, I would not live up to the example she had laid out. And here she was riding forth again, and me at the rear, my nerves quivering at the mere echo of battle.

After two more volleys, each as successful as the first, the great double-ended pyramid used to signify our flying island met the wide disk marking the border of Lunar Veil and dissolved into a scattering of golden fairy dust. Thus ended our part in the fighting, or so we are given to hope.

Most of our commanders now appear at a loss for what to do next. We all know the fate of the world is being decided at this very moment, but to us it is as if we have loosed an arrow and now can only wait and hope it finds its mark. We cannot even watch because Lunar Veil is by its nature impassable to nearly all signals that could bring us news of the battle. Legionaries who only minutes ago were feverishly coordinating our attack on the Valentines now stand motionless along the tiers of raised platforms, staring at the Board as though, by dint of sheer concentration, they might see past the curtain of sky. Only the man standing beside me seems to suffer no uncertainty regarding what the situation requires of him. “Back at it, gentlemen and ladies,” he bellows into the Basilica's quiet. “This still is an active engagement. You've all got your orders, and none of those include using your mouths as flytraps. If you're monitoring an observation post, keep at it. Everyone else, get moving.”

His name is Legatus Cressock. He is the commander in charge of the Legion's reserve here in Hestia, an older man but very hale in the way all aged Principate people seem to be, with broad shoulders and a shock of thick gray hair. We met a day ago in the briefing where the order of this battle was first laid out for me, and he was friendly enough then, like a gruff but gentle old hound. In combat he directed his troops with stern good humor, but as with everyone here, he underwent a change as IMEC-1 disappeared into Lunar Veil. There is no joy in his smile as he watches his soldiers busying themselves with the defense of Earth, and his hands grip our platform's railing as though he intends to squeeze the life from it.

Charles said almost nothing throughout the whole opening skirmish,
trusting in Cressock's expertise and speaking only when he wanted to make some point of instruction to Jax or myself, but now he says, “No need to tire them out, Legatus. It's going to be some time before we have any real news from Dis. If Reydaan decides to call in the cavalry, you'll want everyone fresh.”

Charles has already explained our part in the present engagement, and even had he not, the briefing we attended with Legatus Cressock, and numerous others before and after, were education enough. We are part of the Legion's reserve, the portion held back from combat so that we may seize any opportunities that arise in battle, though it is obvious to everyone that the opacity of Lunar Veil will make seizing opportunities difficult. For that reason, Charles says, we may also think of ourselves as an extreme rear guard, left behind to thwart any enemies who find their way past our main force. In the case of a rout, it will be up to us to make Earth's last defense, but that piece of our mission is unspoken, and no one speaks it now. I wonder, though, if it is this possibility of a final, hopeless fight that now hangs so heavily over the Basilica.

“Something of a lost cause, staying fresh,” Cressock says with what sounds to me like bitterness. “This situation is going to wear on them whether or not anyone is shooting at us. At least if we keep them busy, they won't have time to dwell on a situation they can't do anything about.” He looks over to where I am standing with Jax. “This is your first action, isn't it, ma'am? I know Fontanus Jaxten has stood for the city during an incursion before.”

Legion people are always highly formal and polite. I like that about them. “This is my first assignment, sir, but I have joined Jax on one previous occasion. Nor am I a stranger to organized violence. I have seen a deal of it elsewhere.”

“Organized violence,” he repeats, his eyes crinkling at the edges in a way that makes me think he approves of my comment.

“I will own that is something of a contradiction in terms.”

Cressock lets out a short, barking laugh. “Then you already know more about war than I did the first time I saw combat, and I must have been nearly twice your age. The Legion will be in capable hands with you. And you, sir,” he says, nodding to Jax.

“Legatus,” Charles interjects, somewhat sharply it seems to me, “I think it's about time we got ready to move. It's earlier than scheduled, but a little
practice now should make the transitions smoother later on, wouldn't you agree? And it'll keep the troops busy.”

Charles is referring to the way Lunar Veil drifts constantly over Earth, following the path of the Moon. With time, it will pass beyond the sight of Tenth City and the range of its guns. The reserve will have to move if we intend to keep watch for anything coming through, but I had thought that necessity was still some time away.

“Yes, sir, I think you're right.” The grim set has returned to Cressock's face. “Let's see how speedy these old dogs can be about prepping for the trip.”

“Jax, Naomi,” Charles says, looking down at us, “why don't you go and see if you can find Malandeera at the Forum. I'll coordinate with the Legatus and his people and meet you outside.”

Jax was quiet all throughout my conversation with the Legatus, and he remains so until we are nearly out the Basilica door. “I'm not crazy, am I?” are his first words to me. “You heard that, right?”

I ask him to be more specific. “Something weird was going on back there,” he says, “with Charles and Legatus Cressock.”

Now that Jax has mentioned it, I think he is right. It was as though only part of what passed between the two men could be heard in what they said. “Cressock was angry about something, I think,” I reply. “It must be some recent development, as I met with him only yesterday, and he seemed genial enough.”

“And did you see the way Charles got sort of mad at him?” Jax asks. “When he started talking about going off to war the first time? What was up with that?”

“Cressock was not the only one,” I say. Jax has me pondering now, thinking about the heavy atmosphere that seemed to hang everywhere in the Basilica. Tension over the ongoing battle, yes, but something else as well. Could it have been fear? “Is that how your commanders usually act—during an incursion, perhaps?”

Jax shakes his head, brows furrowed. “No. That was just . . . weird.”

As a description, “disquieting” would serve as well as “weird.” But I have no good explanation for the behavior of Charles and Cressock, and I doubt Jax has, either, as I conclude from his silence as we emerge from the Basilica onto the Forum of Tenth City.

It is a far less pleasant city to look at than Ninth, I have decided. Close
living is a common feature of all Principate cities, which endeavor to contain as many people as possible within thelemity's limited purview. But whereas Ninth City's geography of towers and battlements appears to follow some natural organizing principle, like a grove of tall trees that arrange themselves to leave ample sunlight and air to breathe, Tenth City has the look of a mouth crammed with too many teeth. The smooth, gleaming blocks appear to jostle for space, uncomfortable in one another's presence.

Like Ninth, Tenth City is built around a central Forum with a fountain of extravagant and symbolic design adorning its center, and that is where we find Fontana Malandeera, her eyes turned skyward. It is possible to discover a great deal about the world from one's mijmere—even things hidden from human sight—by cultivating a kind of double vision. As a baby crying in its crib may become a mewing cat in the dream of its sleeping mother, so the details of reality find their way into a mijmere, and often something invisible to the casual observer will become glaringly obvious through the eyes of fontani usikuu. Charles has said that with practice it is possible for fontani to look across great distances even without the aid of a mijmere, but I am still some way from learning this trick.

As we approach, Jax calls out, “Can you see anything?” Meaning has there been any news from Dis. Because of the obstacles Lunar Veil poses to communication, messages between the Legion's main body and its reserve are to be sent in the form of signaling rockets. But time in Dis moves slowly by our reckoning here in Hestia, and I doubt the fighting there will be past its first few minutes—much too early for there to be anything of significance to report. If Jax is already looking for news, he is more anxious than I thought.

“Clear skies,” Malandeera says, turning a rueful smile our way. “No doubt our boys and girls are already making a mess of things.”

Fontana Malandeera has made no secret of her dissatisfaction at being assigned to the reserve. As the only legionary to return alive from the Front, she considers it her duty and privilege to heap a measure of ruin upon the hordes that killed her comrades and pursued her the long way to Earth. Fontani will be at a premium in this battle, however, and while the Consulate has decided there must be at least four of us in the reserve, no commander was willing to give up a trusted and familiar fighter so that Malandeera of the Twenty-Second Legion could have her revenge. Though Malandeera plainly disagrees with these orders, she is a loyal legionary, and her stance is closer to impatience than anger.

I have an idea to question her about the scene we witnessed in the Basilica, but Jax is quicker with his queries. “Do you think they'll call us in?” he asks. It is an attempt at swagger and not at all convincing. “When will we know?”

“Can't say for sure,” Malandeera answers. “It's been a long time since I've seen signal rockets in a battle. But I think there's reason to hope you two have a long wait coming before you end up in the thick of things.” That rueful smile appears again. “Not too long, though.”

Here is another odd comment. The Consulate has already debated which portion of the Legion should embark into the Realms if we are victorious today, and while nothing has been decided, most are of the opinion that our youngest soldiers—namely Jax and myself—ought to remain behind for what many are calling the “MapleWhite Campaign.” If the mission succeeds, and the Valentine Host is delayed sufficiently for the Legion to rebuild, it will be twenty years or more before Earth sees any fighting more serious than a routine incursion. Perhaps this is what Malandeera meant about hoping Jax and I will have a while to wait before we see real battle. But how long would be “too long”?

I am about to request a word of clarification when I spy movement over the skyline of Tenth City. Our fighters have begun to rise over the stony spearpoints of buildings in preparation for the coming journey. I pick out the armored figures of equi among them, and the heavy globes known as tetra fortresses.