Of Dreams and Rust (19 page)

“I cannot walk away from this!” I take a step toward him, wanting to dismantle his metal armor, wanting to touch him, not his machine self. “These people just want to live and rule themselves. They are just like us.”

“They are not,” he shouts. “Shooting unarmed girls and injured soldiers! Burning a train car full of innocent civilians! They are animals!”

“Then we are too!” I shriek. “Do you not hear what you are saying? Machines made only for killing could march through that canyon and into this village at any moment! There are children here, Bo! Pregnant women and little boys and grannies and toothless old men. Mothers and fathers. And our machines will shoot at them and crush them and burn their lives to nothing. Not for the first time, either. How are we not the same?”

Bo's mouth opens and closes, and then he yells, “Because we are Itanyai!”

I rock back, astounded by how horrid that sounds to me now. “For such a smart man, you have an incredibly small mind,” I say, my voice shaking.

His metal fists clench. “I can make you come with me.”

“You would only have my body. The rest of me would be here. And the part you had wouldn't be worth much.”

“It's worth everything to me!” he roars, advancing on me.

I hold my ground. “If I am worth so much, then help me.”

“I'm trying.” He throws up his arms, which clank and click with the movement. “You're right—I am shamefully shortsighted. Here I thought you were a prisoner. The soldiers said you were being treated poorly.” His eye flames with hatred. “And one of the rebels who hurt you is now your husband?” he shouts.

“Melik protected me however he could. You heard what the soldiers told you.”

“It's been only four days since I last saw you, but you look as if you've been starved and strangled.” He clenches his teeth and points at my throat. “If he is your protector, you need a new one.”

“We are in a war, Bo. Melik defied his own general to save me.”

His eye narrows. “Save you? If he cared about you at all, this is the last place he would have brought you. I know he is a Noor, but I thought he was smarter than that, so I am assuming he is more selfish than stupid. But I am also assuming he is a great deal of both.”

“Stop talking about him like that. My opinion of you decreases with every word.” I feel as cold as a peak in the Western Hills. Every muscle in my body is tight. “If you think so little of him—and of me—you can leave.”

“I won't leave without you!”

“Then stay and help,” I say quietly. “They need us, Bo. If anyone can help, it's you. I can stitch wounds, but you can prevent them.”

He takes a step back. “What are you talking about?”

“If we were somehow able to stop the machines in the canyon, or at least cripple some of them, wouldn't that make our government reconsider?”

“I have no idea, Wen, but stopping them is more than these Noor can do.”

“You don't know what they can do. But you understand those machines better than anyone.”

“I will not betray my country.”

I point to the huddled crowd near the large celebration fire. Melik is speaking to them, his long-armed shadow thrown against the thatched roof of the nearest cottage. “They are your countrymen, Bo. They were born here. This is their land. They claim no other nation as their own, and no other nation would shelter them because they belong in Itanya. Please. Help them.”

“I will never do anything for anyone but you and Guiren,” he says. “You are the only two people in the world I care about.”

I lay my palm on his cheek, warm in the cool air of the night. “Then do it for me, if that makes it possible.” I close my eyes and breathe deep. As my next words take shape in my mind, they cut to the bone. Am I betraying Melik, or am I saving him? Am I cursed to do both at once? “And if you help, I will leave with you once the threat is over.”

He stares down at me for a long time, distant Noor words washing over us. I lose count of how many times I hear the word
“kuchuksivengi”
before he speaks again. “Promise me,” he murmurs. “Promise me you will leave here and return with me.”

“I swear to you,” I say, my voice strained as it tumbles over the lump in my throat. Leaving Melik will not be easy at all, if the pang of longing in my heart is any clue. But not doing everything I can to ensure his survival would be worse. “I will leave here. But only if you help.”

He bows his head. “All right. I will do what I can. We need to talk to them. I need to know what they have to fight with.”

“Thank you.” My arms rise to hug him, but I don't know where to touch him. All of him seems like a weapon. “Would you . . . like to take your armor off?”

He shakes his head. “I don't feel safe without it,” he says quietly.

I will not push him now, because I remember how the people of Dagchocuk responded when I arrived. Melik was my armor, and Bo must supply his own. “Come, then. Melik can translate whatever you need. So can Sinan and their mother.”

“How old is that boy?” Bo asks.

“Sinan? He's fourteen now.”

Bo grunts. “He was at the factory last year.”

“Yes. He is a very unusual boy, I think.”

Bo makes another noise in his throat, and we begin to walk. His footsteps are heavy on the dirt as he makes his strides.

“Is it tiring, having to carry all that metal around?” I ask.

“No. It carries itself. And me.” The weariness in his voice tells me he is making it sound easier than it is. “The movement sequences are set, and all I must do is spur them into motion before they do the rest. Like my spiders, the mainsprings are self-winding. It is not perfect, but—”

“It is incredible, Bo. You are incredible.” And terrifying. I had no idea he had traveled so far in his journey to become a machine.

As we approach the crowd of Noor, Melik sees us coming and slowly lowers his arms. He watches Bo, his face expressionless.

“Are you arguing about how many rocks you will throw at the war machines?” Bo asks, the edge unmistakable.

“No,” says Melik, even and deceptively calm. “We are discussing how much blasting powder will be required to bring down an avalanche of rock on them.”

Bo's eyebrow arches. “You have black powder?”

Melik folds his arms over his chest and lifts his chin. “Three crates.”

Surprise glitters in Bo's eye. “That is encouraging.”

“To whom, exactly?” Melik asks.

“I think I'm going to help you, Red.”

Melik scowls. “We do not need your help.”

“Really?” Bo chuckles. “What is a war machine's weakest point?”

Melik's mouth is tight as he says, “Its leg joints, I would imagine.” Sinan leans over quickly and whispers something in Melik's ear. “Or maybe the hatch that leads to the engine.”

Bo smirks. “Your little brother understands them much better than you do.”

I don't miss the way Sinan stands a little straighter. Melik doesn't either, and he nudges his brother and gives him a small smile.

“But you are both wrong,” Bo says, erasing the brothers' pride in an instant. “The machines are built for uneven terrain and dusty conditions. Raining rocks on them with blasting powder is possible, if imprecise and risky, and three crates will not bring down enough to do more than temporarily slow them. Their leg joints are actually the most protected and well-constructed parts of them. And though their hatches are more vulnerable, they are still armored. A better strategy is to attack from the ground and stop their beating hearts. I know exactly how to get to them too. Now tell me again that you do not need me.”

Melik's nostrils flare. “We might. But we also do not trust you.” The men and women around him may not understand my language, but that wariness and dislike is etched into their features. Not only does Bo look like a war machine—he is clearly Itanyai, and clearly unfriendly. They would not hesitate to shoot him if Melik gave the word.

Bo's smile does not warm the cold look in his eyes. “Under most circumstances, Red, you shouldn't trust me.” His suit hums as he looks down at me. “But in this case I have every reason to help you.”

Melik's gaze crosses the distance between Bo and me, and from his frown, I suspect he believes that space is smaller than it is. “You have tried to kill me twice before—for the same reason.”

“And I also saved your miserable life.”

“Which makes balance between us. Now you are free to try again.”

“I'd love to do more than try,” Bo says. “But I won't.”

“Because of Wen.” Three words, and their weight on me is crushing.

Bo nods. “Because of Wen.”

Melik stares at me for a long moment. One during which I wish he would say exactly what he is thinking, but he doesn't. “Very well,” he says softly. “We will accept your help.”

Chapter

MELIK AND A few of the others trace the outline of the canyon in the dirt, carving bends and ridges from memory. Melik uses his paces to measure miles, talking nonstop to the men and women gathered around him. But as Bo moves forward to look, shoulders and hips and elbows and backs create a wall of flesh, edging him out. Instead of pushing his way through, which he could do easily, Bo drifts to the back of the group, giving me a look that says,
See? They will not let me help.

Then Sinan pokes Bo's metal arm. He jerks his hand back when the spiders on Bo's shoulders raise their fangs, but he seems more fascinated than afraid. “Teach me about the machines,” Sinan says, as much a challenge as a request.

Bo stares at the boy's face, at his defiant stance and the eager glimmer in his eyes. “Why don't you go argue about crates of dirt and blasting powder with your brother? Not all of his ideas are stupid.”

Sinan folds his arms over his chest. “None of his ideas are stupid. But I think understanding the war machines themselves will make us more able to defeat them.”

Bo tilts his head. “Very well. We'll see if you are capable of understanding them. They are far more complicated than a horse-drawn plow.”

Sinan's mouth twitches, like he wants to grin but is trying to look like a man. I sit on a low stone fence and watch as Bo takes a sharp stick, one used as a spit for meat devoured earlier in the evening, and makes drawings of his own in the dusty earth.

The war machine's body and legs take shape quickly. “Eight legs with three segments each. This configuration allows the legs to take on a bow-shaped structure that is both powerful and flexible,” says Bo, his metal fingers wrapped around the stick as he slides it along the ground. “The movements of the legs are very efficient.” He holds his hand, palm down, parallel to the ground. “The thorax and abdomen of the machine are stable, with no vertical oscillation, as the legs propel it over the ground.”

Sinan wears a grimace of concentration as he listens. I am sure he does not understand Itanyai words like “oscillation,” but he seems to pick them up from the context. “Are they able to jump?” he asks.

Bo shakes his head. “But they can accelerate quickly and maneuver over uneven ground easily. They are capable of climbing inclines as steep as sixty degrees, though that burns a lot of fuel. The front and rear legs are synchronized on each side, with the middle legs synchronized to the opposite side.” He gazes fondly at his drawing. “It really is marvelous.”

Sinan frowns. “But if the legs are synchronized, what does the pilot do?”

“He creates modifications in the patterns with the levers in the cockpit. He is heavily protected. There is a metal hatch at the top of the thorax, but no windows. Only the small eyes at the front. Some of them are connected to openings on the sides and rear of the abdomen with a mirror system.” Bo's eye briefly meets mine as I realize how much he has learned from these animals of war.

Next Bo draws two long guns where a spider's fangs should be. “The front gunner sits in a compartment below the pilot, but there is also a way for the pilot to control the guns from the cockpit if necessary. The machine is most dangerous head-on, but there is also a top gunner here.” He taps the top of the spider's round abdomen. “He is protected from ground attack but would be easy to take out from above. His chair is positioned over the fireman's compartment. That crew member manages the engine, adding coal to the firebox and monitoring the boiler's water levels. His hatch is on the rear of the machine, also armored. It can be penetrated, but it is not easy. There is something else, though. A panel, here.” He pokes a spot where the thorax and abdomen are joined. “Beneath that panel is a kill switch of sorts, meant to be used if the boiler catches fire or the pilot is incapacitated.”