The Half-Made World (61 page)

“And there we were. There was no arguin’ with him. He led us out to the edge of the camp—where we could see, against the settin’ sun, the black smoke of the Line approachin’, closing the miles between us. And he had the boy brought out. He struggled, but by the General’s orders, he was not yet to be harmed. We chose a jury by lot. One of the men had the
Commentaries on the Law of Our Fathers
in his pack—not you, was it, Rutledge? no?—and that served us as a guide. Crime was not common in our camps, you understand. Not common at all. We sat the jury on feed sacks. We brought out torches and oil lamps for the General to read the
Commentaries
by. He was very insistent that he not serve as judge; not if he was to execute the boy’s fate himself. We chose the judge by lot, too. A chaplain, I think. Could have got yourself an early start in the judgin’ game, eh, Rutledge? I remember the boy’s face in the light of the torches. We determined by questionin’ that he was of an age to stand trial. Malnourished as he was, he might have been an infant, you see. And the sun set, and we watched the Line’s smoke get closer. We watched the three black specks that rose from the Line’s camp, against that red sky; we watched them come closer, closer, until we could hear the whine of the rotor blades and we knew the Vessels were on us. And still, under the General’s glarin’ eyes, we conducted our trial. We heard evidence. There was doubt as to whether the boy was under our jurisdiction at all, as I recall. Even as the Line approached. It was a point of principle. That was the man he was. You know, I forget now what happened to the boy. But how fiercely the General fought when the Vessels arrived! When it was time to set aside law and reason and take up a rifle—as the lead and the gas and the shatterin’ noise rained down on us! Why, then . . .”

But no one was listening to Morton’s story anymore. No one had been for some time. Apart from Liv, everyone assembled at the table appeared to have had heard the story many times. As Morton talked, lost in his past, his young wife had leaned over the table and asked Liv: What were the houses of the outside world like? What was it like to live in a house of stone or glass? What was it like to wear silk?

“And the Smilers?” Waite said. “Are they still doing their good works?”

“I suppose so. I’ve heard of them. Sirs, I passed through that world very quickly. . . .”

Waite nodded and smiled complacently. “Well, I’d like to hear more if anything comes to you. In the meantime, I’ll just have faith we’re doing well.” Morton and Rutledge murmured approval, as if Waite had said something clever or brave.

Dr. Bradley quizzed Liv on medical science. It turned out, not to Liv’s particular surprise, that he had backwards ideas about the brain. No doubt he was a good field surgeon. She tried not to embarrass him. She did not entirely succeed. He scowled behind his mustaches. The right side of his face had been badly burned, so that it was blotched and red and shiny-swollen. His eyes were very blue, very intelligent and fierce.

Captain Morton’s young wife filled the dinner party’s mugs—dented old metal steins, three shot glasses, a chipped china mug, the rest were of carved polished wood—with New Design’s rough wormwood-tasting brew. Only for the men; the wives and Liv drank water. Dr. Bradley drank rather too much.

“Is the General in your care, now, Dr. Bradley?”

He wouldn’t answer. She spoke quickly.

“May I see him, Dr. Bradley? I was making progress with him, I believe, and I believe he has vital intelligence, something in his memories frightens the Gun, and perhaps we might make use of it to defend this place. Doctor?”

Bradley barked, “He doesn’t need the help of strangers.”

The table went awkwardly silent for a minute; and so Captain Morton proposed another toast to the General, to his heroism and unyielding courage and apparent unkillability:
As if he’s as immortal as the ideas for which he stood—no,
stands
!

“Though sadly reduced in stature,” Peckham said. “Like the idea, stuck out here doing nothing. Perhaps they’ll both get strong again together.”

Bradley nodded and mouthed,
Hear, hear
. Rutledge scowled.

The men knocked back the booze, save Waite, who, as a Smiler, was Dry.

It took another round of drinking before anyone could ask Liv the
real
question. In the end, it was Justice Rutledge who asked, “And how goes the War? Where is the Line now?”

“Kingstown. Kingstown is the westernmost Station. But they have forces as far as Kloan.”

“Where is Kingstown, madam? Where is Kloan?”

Liv told them; she gestured on the table to indicate the distance she and Creedmoor had traveled.

They went silent. Waite’s smile froze. Bradley emitted a barking bitter laugh. Morton’s wife covered her mouth in shock.

“Ah. When we came here,” Morton said, “we marched for many months. Nearly a year. From the farthest west of the settled world to the peace and fertility of the oaks, where we built New Design. . . . Now it’s a quarter of that. The world shrinks.”

Liv went on, “And there are forces of the Line pursuing me. They may be only days away. Gentlemen, it may be possible for us to make an alliance with John Creedmoor, who—”

“Never.” Bradley banged his stein on the table. “The fight comes to us. Again. At last.”

The guests departed, and Morton retired to bed. Sally tried to refuse all help with the cleaning, but Liv wouldn’t hear of it. Liv took a brush and set to work.

They chatted. Liv probed gently, careful not to spook the girl—and so learned that Sally had been born on the trek, and her earliest memories were of New Design; and that her brother was a promising young guardsman and a fine shot with both bow and rifle; and that she was a schoolteacher; and that Captain Morton was very kind; and that there was a dance coming up, which would be much the same as last year’s dance; and—

“Dr. Bradley seemed an angry man,” Liv said.

Sally dropped her dark eyes. “I couldn’t say.”

“Some of you want war. Some of you want to come back to the world and fight.”

“I couldn’t say, ma’am.”

“How strong are you?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Where does Captain Morton stand?”

“I really can’t say, ma’am.”

“I don’t wish to upset you. I understand, Sally. This must all be a terrible shock. Why, you’ve been here all your life. Out here alone, quiet. Raising your children in peace. What if this changes everything? I imagine it’s different for some of the old men, who were used to war. For instance, Dr. Bradley and Mr. Peckham seem terribly eager to face the Line and Creedmoor both; and so does President Hobart, though he’s too young to remember. Justice Rutledge thinks differently, perhaps. Where does Captain Morton stand?”

The girl shook her head and turned away. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I shouldn’t speak on these things.” Her voice was flat, but she nervously rubbed her pregnant belly.

“Sally—what if there were a way of ending the War? What if I told you there was a secret that would end Gun and Line and bring peace to the world?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I really shouldn’t be talkin’.”

CHAPTER 42

THE SERPENT

Creedmoor had left the tree line far behind, and walked on bare stone. Ahead of him, the mountain gathered into a spearlike peak, stabbing the sun. The sun was so bright that he could hardly see. The rocks baked and glittered. The beast led him on with traces of blood, scatterings of scale, and above all, the electric-oily-acidic stink of its spoor.

—So let’s say I give the General over to the Knights of Labor. The union men are good in a fistfight, and they have chapters everywhere. They hate the Line, same as they hate all bosses; and they hate you, thieves and shirkers that you are. They hate me, too, after that incident in Beecher City, but maybe they’ll let bygones be bygones if I give them the secret to remake the world. How about that?

No answer. It was still thrilling and a little terrifying to think such things—to be free to think such things.

—We can go hide together in No-Town, I guess, but who knows if it exists, or where, and in any case what good will hiding do?

He stopped to examine a rock on which the beast had sharpened its claws.

—I can never remember these days which Barons and Mayors and Sheriffs are secretly on our side and which are secretly on the other side or if there are any at all who are just what they say they are, still. So best not give the General to any politician, then.

There was something ragged in the edges of the thing’s claw marks. It had taken Creedmoor a while to realize that it reminded him of marks made by a drill, or a circular saw—nothing animal.

—Or the Liberationists. Not much in fashion these days, too earnest, but they’re decent fellows to a fault; on the other hand, would they use the weapon or just make speeches about it?

His eye caught a flicker of movement on the slopes above. A shadow moved between rocks. Had there been clouds, he’d have thought it was just a cloud shadow, but there weren’t, so he leapt to his feet and ran after it.

—Or what about the Republic? Maybe that poor bastard back there was a solitary deserter, or maybe there’s more of them, in which case, maybe it occurs to me I should have just joined them in the first place, when I was a young man—I could have died nobly at Black Cap or Asher!—and maybe it’s not too late—maybe I’ll bring them this monster’s head as a peace offering!

He leapt across a crack, then leapt again, caught the edge of a rock face above him, pulled himself, and kept running. In the distance ahead, something moved again between the rocks. Motion of legs first then long tail whipping behind, a suggestion of spines. It was even bigger than he’d imagined.

—I still might just publish it in the newspapers. I still might.

Night fell with shocking suddenness, leaving Creedmoor stumbling in the dark. The world went red, then gray, then black. The rocks were looming shadows around him. He shook his head and rubbed at his eyes.

—Lights, please.

He squinted. Ahead of him was only blackness. No stars.

—Be like that, then.

He groped his way to a mass of rock, taller than he was, rough and still warm to the touch. He drew his weapon and crouched behind it.

Suddenly his heart thumped and he felt short of breath. His night-sight was gone. He could hardly make out his hand in front of his face, not to mention that his hand was
shaking
. It was more than thirty years since he’d last had cause to fear the dark.

The gifts of the Guns were leaving him.

He tried to recall the climb up the mountain; he’d been strong, yes, and fast—but was he still as strong as he’d been back in the world? Maybe; maybe not. He began to count the aches in his legs and his back. Perhaps that was how it worked: The voice was the first thing to fall away, then the night-sight, then—what next? There was no way of knowing.

If he were wounded, would he heal? Healing was probably the greatest of the Guns’ gifts, because without it, how could one dare be so
reckless
as the Gun demanded? . . .

He reached for his knife, thinking to cut his palm, before remembering that he’d left his knife with Liv. And he couldn’t find a rock sharp enough to cut himself on.

—So much for the experimental method, Doctor.

The night was silent. The monster was waiting patiently for him. It was a sporting sort of monster, Creedmoor had to give it that.

He considered running away—crawling down the slopes, maybe or maybe not breaking his neck. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d turned tail like a coward, and he could always lie to the Doctor when he got back; except, of course, that the monster, sensing weakness, would surely give chase.

He pointed his weapon into the darkness and waited for the monster to come charging madly out of it. It did not.

Would his weapon fire? He examined it thoughtfully. He’d certainly never bothered to load it at any point in the thirty years he’d carried it. He didn’t know how the Guns arranged for it to operate nor, until now, had he ever cared; but if the night-sight was leaving him, maybe next the weapon wouldn’t fire. He stretched out his arm, winced with anxiety, and tried but failed to find the will to pull the trigger. His hand shook and sweated, and he couldn’t face the thought that he might pull and learn the worst.