The Half-Made World (71 page)

“
Enough!
You’ll kill the General, you idiots, you
slagging
idiots, we have our duty, this is meaningless if we
don’t do our duty
.”

Silence fell. The men attempted to pull themselves together.

“We go in,” he said. “Motor guns at the bridges, we go behind them, street by street.”

But that was only one of his cannon; and the other, some two hundred feet away, on the other side of the ranks, continued to fire.

As soon as Dr. Bradley was dead, and his stolen device disarmed, Creedmoor lifted the General up from his bed. The old man seemed disinclined to move of his own will—or such as was left of it—preferring to remain stiffly curled on that hard bed like it was his mother’s lap. He’d been groomed quite finely, Creedmoor noticed, and dressed in a white shirt and black pleated uniform trousers that, though somewhat stained and worn at the knees, were perhaps the smartest clothes in the whole sad town. There was a red jacket, gold braided, many medaled, hanging from a rusty hook by the bed. Creedmoor wrestled it over the General’s shoulders. The effect was quite striking. “You must have been something to see in your prime, sir. Ah, now, ah now, steady.” The General struggled away, eyes rolling, mouth working. “You’re in fine strong spirits, sir, but we must be going.”

In the end, Creedmoor had to carry the General outside in both arms like he was carrying an unsatisfactory bride back out over the threshold. This quickly posed problems, for two local fellows tried to rush him with clubs and throwing-axes and it was a damn difficult trick to shoot them while shielding the General—and without dropping him, for though the earth was rain softened—and quivering now, puddles shimmering and rippling at the sound of the oncoming machines—the General was so fragile, so thin that he might break himself falling on a featherbed.

—This is going to get tiresome.

—Stop whining, Creedmoor. Flee to the west.

Liv ran past the Mortons’ house, and saw through the window that inside the house was no longer silent or dark. Sally Morton was awake, and working. She and three other women, two of them as young as she, one old enough to be her grandmother, stood around the dining table preparing poultices of herbs and leaves.

They glanced up for a moment as Liv came in the door, then returned to their work. There was a stiffness about them that was not calm, but something like it:
discipline.

The old woman beckoned Liv over. “Come on then, Doctor. Make yourself useful.”

Liv ignored her.

She wanted to tell them:
Run.
It was hopeless to fight the Line. But they wouldn’t have listened.

Sally lifted her eyes from the table. “Doctor—”

She turned and left.

Outside it was lighter now; it was getting lighter all the time. The sounds of battle were cold and clear. She breathed deeply, and smelled smoke.

She headed south, toward the hospital and perhaps, if they were still there, Creedmoor and the General. She had no idea what she could do, but she had to do
something
.

Creedmoor went loping through the town, the General cradled in his arms. The town was emptying out like an hourglass as its men went east to the fight. Two more men confronted him and, juggling his burden, he cut them down. Once one of the mind-bombs went whistling right overhead and he let the General’s legs drop in the mud and shot it left-handed from the sky. The General flailed and stretched and appeared to be trying to speak.

—This old man’s no light burden, not anymore. He struggles. He’s full of animal spirits. His time here’s done him good. This is hard work for one man.

—We are here with you, Creedmoor.

—I need help. A companion to share my burden. And do you know, I do believe I’ve had a crisis of conscience.

—No you have not, Creedmoor. Go west, at once.

—Or what will you do to me? We’ve discussed this matter, my friend. I will go on westward, but not alone.

He sniffed the air and caught her scent.

—She’s on her way here, look. She knows only we can save her from the enemy.

As Liv passed Woodbury’s house, she heard that cheerful whistling overhead again and started running, blindly, skirts hiked up, staggering through the muddy streets, looking back over her shoulder for bombs, Linesmen, who-knew-what. She didn’t see Creedmoor step out of the shadows, pulling the General behind him. She didn’t see him standing in her path, grinning cheerfully, arms outstretched, until she ran right into him.

She caught her breath, looked up at his face, and recoiled.

He grinned. “Still alive! My luck rubs off on you, Liv. I worried you were dead! My conscience is eased. I have a favor to ask. Your patient needs you, madam.
I
need you. I’m sure you’d rather not die here with these idiots.”

Creedmoor let go of the General’s arm, and the old man started to fall over. Liv rushed to hold him up. She didn’t speak; she didn’t meet Creedmoor’s eye.

But the General would not stand, and Liv was not strong enough to carry him against his will. And it did appear that he had a
will
now. He twitched and shook. He twisted feebly but with determination. Liv pulled him up like she was yanking up a skinny weed by its roots, and he would instantly snap back down again, curling on the ground, face pressed against the earth.

—Is he
fighting
us, Creedmoor? Why won’t he come?

“Is he fighting us, Liv? Why won’t he come?”

She knelt down. She leaned in close. The General was silent.

“You’re his doctor, Liv. Will he speak to you? Will he at least give you one of his fairy tales to puzzle over?”

“Mr. Creedmoor, why would he speak? Why would he need to? Isn’t it obvious? He won’t leave. None of these people will leave. This is the last of the world they built. The General won’t abandon his men.”

“Well,
shit
. These people are mad.”

“Mad? What do you call
yourself,
Mr. Creedmoor?”

“Fair enough. Fair enough. Well, then, I think what you’re saying is that to take the General out of here, we must save the town? Is that right?”

—
No,
Creedmoor. We do not care what becomes of these people. Take the General and leave them to die.

She looked closely at him, trying to figure his motives. That only made him smile.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Creedmoor. You must save the town.”

—Hear that? Doctor’s orders, my friend.

—No, Creedmoor. Pick him up and carry him.

—Oh, come now. The Enemy is at hand. Don’t you feel a little of the old bloodlust?

—No, Creedmoor.

—Too bad. I feel like playing hero.

“What are you going to do, Creedmoor?”

“Go to work. You should find a hiding place, Liv. Keep an eye on our charge. I’ll be back for you both.”

Lowry had what part of his forces he could still control move up to assault New Design’s eastern and southeastern bridges. The first thing was to get the motor guns placed. That meant sending small five-man squads ahead, slowly covering ground while the guns were wheeled up behind. Lowry went behind the guns, crouching, running.

Behind him there were screams, and the whistle of arrows and the rattle of gunfire, and he understood that the soldiers of New Design had ambushed his forces from the rear, from the forests. There was nothing he could do about it now—because in front of him, with a great roar, the young men of New Design came charging out of the town and across the bridge. They waved their swords and their banners and cheered some nonsense that Lowry couldn’t hear, because the Linesmen’s motor guns immediately whirred into action.