The Song of the Sycamore, page 23
Her hair was straggly and falling out. The result, she had told me, of spider venom. Her face was pockmarked by a host of scars caused by a spray of burning spirit-matter released by the berserker who had killed High Bridge’s tank-rider. She was a short and lean soldier, no fat on her muscles, and her dark eyes held a determination to survive. Her long, slim fingers worked deftly as she applied her tools to the tank’s broken neck brace, which had been the recent cause of intermittent disruptions to a few of the tank’s auxiliary functions.
Hanna was glaring at me. The tank-suit had stepped away from her. ‘I can’t get this done if you won’t keep still.’
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. Controlling the tank remotely was never easy, less so when I had another two months of fighting to think about.
‘Whatever’s on your mind, change the subject. All our necks might depend on it.’
So far, Hanna was the only member of High Bridge I’d spent any time with. The other soldiers were getting acquainted around a few cook fires, fuelled by bricks of Dust-coals donated by Mendis. Evening was drawing in, as were clouds, and most of the merged platoon sat in circles around fires, dressed in worn uniforms with thermal travelling cloaks around their shoulders. It was the end of Noveb, and the crackling flames helped to stay the freezing touch of winter.
The platoon was in good spirits. Open fires were a rare treat on the wasteland, as was the hot food boiling over them in pots. The camp was in sight of the city’s southern gates and close enough to the wall that we’d be protected by Mendis’s shield if anything came from the wastes. The long ether-cannons poking out of turrets bolstered our feeling of security.
Old Castle’s medic was a meticulous man called Bahn. He was wandering among the platoon, ensuring that everyone had a supply of atropine, the little white tablets that all soldiers had to take on the wasteland. During the first two weeks of my City Service, atropine had left me sick to my stomach, but I’d grown used it. Which was just as well. We weren’t like the clansfolk; we were acclimatised to live behind city walls, where the streets were clean and protected by ether. We weren’t made to live out here in this poisoned, disease-riddled world. Atropine propped up our immune systems, helped our bodies to process the harmful things we ingested daily just by breathing the wasteland’s air.
As Bahn made his rounds, he stopped Danii, our communications grunt, who was carrying two bowls of steaming food. When he told Bahn that he’d run out of medicine, the medic produced a tablet from his bag. With his hands full, Danii opened his mouth and flopped out his tongue. Bahn shook his head, chucked the tablet into the gaping maw presented to him and walked away. Danni then headed over to Hanna and me, bringing us the bowls of food.
‘Wendal, you’re not still moping about your wife, are you?’ he said while taking a bowl to Hanna.
Hanna looked away from her work to aim a suspicious glare at the stocky soldier offering her the food, before pointing to the ground beside her pack. ‘Put it down there,’ she said.
Danii placed the bowl on the ground then gave Hanna a mock salute, before bringing the other bowl to me. He peered close through the glass of the helmet. His facial hair was patchy and soft-looking, youthful, as pathetic an attempt at growing a beard as my own.
‘Just accept it, Wendal,’ he said. ‘Your wife is probably fucking someone else by now.’
I snatched the bowl from him. ‘Go and fuck yourself.’
Danii chuckled. He wasn’t married, had no love waiting for him back at Old Castle. He didn’t understand what this war was like for others, or care. I considered having the tank march over and kick him in the balls, but just stared at him instead until he looked off into the twilit wastes of the Rust Plains beyond the protection of Mendis’s cannons. Between the clouds, the first ether crystals were visible in the sky.
‘I’d better get back,’ Danii said, serious now. ‘Command should send new orders soon.’
He strode into camp, over to a fire, where he hefted his communications array onto his back – a strange-looking contraption of twisted strips of metal welded around a misted glass pyramid that hummed every now and then. Once he had extended the array’s aerial, slipped on the transmission gauntlet and placed the receiver phones over his ears, Danii fixed the vocal stud to the collar of his jacket and stood apart from the platoon, listening and waiting to hear from Command.
‘What’s his story?’ Hanna had moved away from the tank and held the bowl in her cupped hands, blowing steam off the food it contained. ‘He’s not as funny as he thinks he is.’
‘Yeah, Danni’s a punchable sort.’ I removed the helmet and ate some of the sweet and pallid gruel made from Dust-flakes mixed with boiling water. ‘He acts like a meathead, but he’ll stand strong when it counts.’
Hanna nodded and lifted her bowl to her lips. ‘What about this commander of ours?’
The platoon from High Bridge had taken more hits than Old Castle. Only eight of them had made it to Mendis, and among their dead was their commander, whose attitude to battle strategies had, apparently, been on the reckless side, and it was a wonder that any of them had survived to reach this far. As for Hanna’s new commander …
‘Childs is set in his ways,’ I said. ‘When he gives an order, don’t ever question it. If he asks your opinion, tell the truth. He’ll know if you’re lying.’
‘Typical career soldier, huh?’
‘Yes and no. He doesn’t bestow rank – we’re all grunts to him. Very pragmatic – best person for the job at hand, that sort of thing. Keeps us on a level.’
‘Shame.’ Hanna smiled. ‘I’d just reached lieutenant.’
I finished my food, wiping remnants from my whiskers. ‘Anything I should know about your lot?’
Hanna shrugged. ‘Amelia, our cannoneer – she’s a little twitchy and humourless. We should probably keep her away from Danii. As for the rest of us …’ She winked. ‘Regular grunts, just as Childs likes.’
Done with her meal, Hanna threw her bowl to one side and fetched a soldering iron from her pack. She then returned to the tank and said, ‘Lie on your front, please.’
With the helmet back on, I gave the tank a mental command and it dropped to its knees. Once it lay face down on the frozen ground, Hanna straddled it and studied the metal hemisphere protruding from its backplate like a huge boil. It was the containment unit for the tank’s fist-sized ether crystal. Hanna picked up the soldering iron and began applying it to points on the hemisphere’s circumference.
‘So what’s her name?’ Hanna asked as she worked. ‘Your wife?’
‘Eden.’
‘She waiting for you back in Old Castle?’
I nodded.
‘You’re lucky. No one waiting for me at home. And I still have a month more than you to serve.’
I didn’t envy her that. Hanna’s home city lay at least two hundred leagues south of mine at the edge of the huge coastal region of the wasteland known as the Straight of Salt, which comprised three cities: High Bridge, Old Castle and Alexria. It would be a long march home for Hanna and her friends once the rest of us had returned to Old Castle. If we made it that far.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ Hanna said. ‘I don’t see the point in staying in High Bridge once my tour of duty’s done. I’m thinking of coming back out.’
I frowned. ‘You want to be a career solider?’
‘Actually, I was thinking of survivalism.’
I had to control my surprise in case the tank bucked under Hanna. ‘I don’t think you’re quite insane enough to be a survivalist.’
She smirked. ‘You don’t know me well enough yet.’
On the wasteland, you only ever got to experience the worst a person could be – the killer, the pragmatist, the soldier who prayed that others died so they could see home again. Eden had told me that when she came back from the war, and I’d grown accustomed to it being true. Still, I’d never met anyone who wanted to be a survivalist.
‘It’s funny,’ Hanna said as smoke rose from the soldering. ‘I always thought I’d end up following the Magicians’ way. The wasteland changed that. Don’t get me wrong, I could never be a good citizen, but I stopped seeing desolation and danger around me and started seeing opportunity. I mean, you must wonder what treasures are waiting to be found out here, Wendal.’
I didn’t, and I never had. The wasteland was made of rock and torn metal and broken glass and secrets, compacted, crushed into a hostile landscape as though the Ether Wars had summoned mighty giants to stamp and destroy all things human-made. As far as I was concerned, the only thing waiting under the wastes was any one of an infinite number of ways to die, and Hanna was welcome to any treasures that hid alongside them.
‘This is useless,’ Hanna grumbled, climbing off the tank and returning the iron to her pack. ‘I’ve done what I can for now, which isn’t much. Put it on, see how it feels.’
At my command, the tank stood and opened out like a flower unfurling its petals until it became a random collection of armoured plates hanging in the air. Some were large and hinged, others small like scales. Ether knew ether, and each plate contained a splinter of magical crystal that was in tune with the main crystal held in the containment unit on the backplate, which, in turn, complied with the mental commands I gave through the helmet.
Stepping backwards into the tank’s embrace, I first clicked my boots into the thick sole-plates on the ground before sliding my hands into the gauntlets. When I ordered the tank to wrap me in its fortified shell, the plates closed in and fitted to my body and limbs. The ether magic that kept them in place also prevented them from touching me, creating a warm, pressurised buffer. The curious feeling of lightness came next; with each plate secure, the tank made me feel as though I was both floating and grounded, but never anything short of powerful.
Lastly, the cannon clicked into place on my right shoulder and whirred worriedly. The air around me wavered as I activated the energy shield.
‘Test the sonar,’ Hanna said. ‘It should be working now.’
The glass helmet fed the low and familiar hiss of static into my ears. The tank sent out a mid-ranged bleep, which received a series of high pings in reply as it identified each of the soldiers sitting around the campfires. It was good to have reliable sonar again and I let Hanna know it was working by giving her a thumbs-up with a gauntlet. Then I heard a new ping as the sonar detected a presence coming from the city gates. It was Commander Childs.
He made his way towards us, carrying his helmet under his arm, short sword sheathed at his waist, ether-cannon hanging from his shoulder. He cut an imposing figure, strong and grizzled, wearing a customarily grim expression. His full beard and grey hair looked neat and clean. With a surge of jealousy, I reasoned that he had taken advantage of a bathhouse while inside the city. I struggled to remember what the luxury of a hot bath felt like.
The wasteland had long ago beaten any tolerance out of Childs. For the soldiers of High Bridge, this was their first day under his command, and I suspected that one or two harsh lessons were heading their way.
Hanna saluted as he approached. I deactivated the shield. Childs ignored us both, surveyed the camp, looked satisfied by what he saw, and then turned to me.
‘What’s the situation with my tank?’ he demanded.
‘Sir, I’ve repaired the crack in the neck brace,’ Hanna answered, ‘but the whole suit requires a full service and a few of its plates need replacing. There’s little else I can do out here without getting my hands on some new parts.’
‘Disappointing. I’d hoped you’d be good at your job.’
Hanna looked to the ground. ‘Yes, sir.’
Childs pursed his lips. ‘I suppose you’ll just have to find what you need at Fort Icus.’
Whatever Hanna required could undoubtedly be found in Mendis, but there was no point going down that road. What Childs referred to as the soft-handed bureaucracy of city administrators could take days to deal with any acquisition request. And we were moving out tonight.
‘Danni!’ Childs snapped. The communications grunt whipped off his receiver phones and saluted. ‘Any word from Command?’
‘No, sir!’
I could sense the collective relief filter through the camp. No new orders meant we remained on course to spend the night in soft bunks, which were less than three leagues away, no more than two hours’ march.
‘Platoon, put out those fires and pack up your shit!’ Childs roared. ‘I want to be in the officers’ mess by full dark.’ He turned a slow, cold glare on Hanna. ‘And then, engineer, you can prove your worth to me.’
Chapter Forty
Hungry and thirsty, lost beneath a mountain, I relied on the tank’s helmet to show me the way through the tunnel with grainy colourless imagery. I didn’t know how long I’d been following this path, but it had been sloping downwards for quite some time now, and I reasoned that I must have travelled far beneath the Ayros Mountains. There was no way to tell where the tunnel would come out, but I desperately hoped that it would lead me to the base of a mountain on the west side. I’d take my chances out on the open wastes, fancied that I could make it back to Fort Icus. If the tank behaved itself.
On paper, City Service looked simple: six months marching away from home, and six months marching back again. At least, that’s what you told yourself. The reality of the wasteland was anything but simple. We spent a year hiding from death, fighting for all we were worth. But sometimes death found you, and the only option left was to pray you were quick enough to outrun it.
Commander Childs had believed that fear was good. Fear made a soldier defiant, made you fight harder to survive. Childs had always been straight with his soldiers, brutally honest, because he saw no point in dressing up the truth just to soothe our concerns over facing the clansfolk. Even when he was telling us about once seeing a wastelander take down three soldiers with his bare hands before a tank-rider killed him, or the time he found a deserted settlement and a pen strewn with the bones of soldiers used to feed the clan’s bears, he was always quick to remind us that the clansfolk weren’t the only monsters on the wasteland. But it was the clansfolk who dominated our thoughts nonetheless. Monsters could be avoided, frightened off with superior firepower. The warriors of the wastes would hunt and fight until they or you were dead.
Pragmatism and luck were the key factors in surviving City Service. And there I was, hiding beneath a mountain, praying that I could stay one step ahead of the death the clansfolk had already given the rest of my platoon.
The mountain tunnel wasn’t particularly wide. Thankfully, it showed no signs of narrowing, but the walls were close enough that I had to deactivate my energy shield as it kept sparking against sharp juts of rock. It would probably do the tank good to lessen the strain on its ether crystal, anyway. A couple of times, my passage was hindered by shards of porous rock protruding from the ceiling or the ground like huge, jagged teeth. The tank had enough strength to break them out of the way, but complained about the extra use of power.
I continued on carefully, the sonar active, its bleeps and pings telling me as best it could in our current environment that no living thing had followed me or was waiting ahead. Despite the power of the tank, I could feel my pace slowing, my body aching. I’d only had a few hours’ sleep in the last couple of days. When the tunnel began to rise, the trek became so arduous that I could no longer ignore my fatigue. I’d have to risk sleep and rest soon.
I had only ever witnessed Childs’ brutal honesty falter once. Danii had asked him if there was any truth to the stories that the wastelanders sometimes took prisoners to cook on spits over their campfires. Childs had shrugged at the question, his eyes filled with the darkness of too many years spent fighting in the war. He claimed that if cannibalism ever occurred on the wasteland, then it was due to necessity, a choice between living and dying. And that was a reality for both sides on the wasteland. Had Childs ever been forced to eat fellow soldiers or clansfolk to survive? No one had dared ask him, but the answer to the question hung in the air above our commander like a bad ghost.
The path rose for some time, and when it levelled out, I could hear the sound of running water. When the tunnel dipped, it was joined by a clear stream rushing in from a passage on the left. The passage itself was the first deviation from the path I’d seen so far, but it was too narrow for the tank to fit. The stream continued down and away as far as I could see, having cut a furrow in the rock over thousands of years, flanked by natural walkways.
I stopped at that point and commanded the tank to open. Its plates parted and I stepped out. The air was cool but warmer than I expected. I placed the tank in lockdown and illuminated the glass of the helmet with a pale radiance which stayed on when I took it off and set it hovering above the suit’s neck brace. In the weak light, I crouched beside the stream and cupped water into my hands. It was cold but not icy. All soldiers were taught what they could or couldn’t ingest on the wasteland, what was too poisonous for atropine to handle. Deciding the water looked and smelled fresh enough, I lifted my hands to my lips. It was good on my dry throat, slightly sweet, and two more cupped handfuls abated my hunger. Splashing my face and rubbing the coolness on the back of my neck, I drank a little more then sat beside the stream, wondering about my plan.
We were supposed to take atropine daily. A couple of days without and its effects would lessen sufficiently to leave my immune system vulnerable. I only had two tablets left, in a tin in my fatigues’ pocket, and I took the first while I sat beside the stream. Hopefully I’d be well on my way back to Fort Icus before I needed the second. Finding a way out of these mountains was the priority.
