Tim Akers - Heart of Veridon

You can also hot-load the foetus. Give it some general pattern to follow and inject it into the patient without any sort of preparation. That’s a much messier way to handle things, because you don’t know how the foetus will interact with the body. Bones can break, skin can burst, but the foetus doesn’t notice.

This is what happened with Emily. She had turned into a tumor of metal and wire. Blisters of metal traced her arms and shoulders. A thin brass cage covered her face, and a contraption of pipes and boilers had erupted from her chest and neck. That device was puffing smoke into the air, a black sooty discharge that smeared the near walls in grime. Her arms and legs were held spread, clamped in metallic shackles that were thick with cogs and pipes. Something was pumping into her blood from a hundred needles, intravenous lines bristling from her exposed shoulder and breast. Foetal metal, slate gray, dripped from the few needles that had pulled free. A belt of leather fit across her ribs and belly, laced shut with chain and a padlock.

Sloane stood next to her, grinning like a knife. He held a pistol to her temple. Above her a slow torsion pendulum twisted. She was dying, being made ready for the Angel’s possession.

“You’re showing a little spark, Jacob,” Sloane said through gritted teeth. “A lot of trouble these last few days.”

“Let her go, prick.” My voice was incredibly tired. “You’ve got us here. Now let her go.”

“Not yet. Hardly yet. Besides, I think she’s getting used to it.” He trailed the pistol down her cheek, touched it against her lips. “And I don’t think she could survive, anyway. I think it’s done too much damage. Would you like to find out?”

“I’m going to cut you, Sloane,” Wilson said. “Cut you and cut you until your blood runs black.”

“You’re a brave bug, Mr. Wilson. I’m a little surprised you survived our visit in the sewers. Regardless, I’m glad you can be with us now. Our friend should be here any moment. The Cog please, Jacob.”

“You don’t need her anymore. You’ve got me,” I said, and took the Cog out and held it up. “And I’ve got this.”

“Ah, but that flying bastard’s still around. And I don’t think he’ll let us go until we’ve come to some sort of… resolution.”

“About what?” I asked.

“We’ve made a deal, him and me. The Cog for Camilla. A very noble bunch, these Brilliant. That’s what the Church calls them, you know.”

“You can’t give him Camilla. You don’t have her. And he can’t live without the Cog.”

“We can guide him, though. Give him your girl here, in her improved form, and he’ll last for years. Long enough to get back to wherever he came from. And certainly long enough to retrieve precious Camilla. As soon as we tell him where she is.”

“You’re going to get him to destroy the Church for you.”

Sloane smiled. “Excellent. And yes, then we’re going to keep the Cog, and set up a new God. More of a factory, I think, than a Church. Very good trade to be made in miracles.”

“Go to hell,” Wilson said.

“Yes,” He said. “Eventually. For now, though, kindly lay down your weapons or I kill the girl.”

“If she dies, you’ll have nothing to give the Angel.”

“Perhaps. But I’m sure arrangements will be made.” He cocked the gun and pressed it against Emily’s temple. “Your weapons, please, and the Cog.”

Sloane’s eyes flashed. Wilson gawked at me, turning slightly, his knife dipping towards the ground. I let my shortrifle drop.

“Very good, Mr. Burn. A good choice. If you’ll be so kind.” He took a step forward.

I only had a lightning flash of his wings, the steel-gray lined in electric blue as he swept down from the skies. The Angel landed behind Sloane. Sloane’s eyes rolled up in shock, then the Angel’s blade-arms rose out of the man’s chest. He scissored apart like a rag. The Angel looked at me. His blades folded away, and he held out his hand.

“The Cog is mine. Return it, and you will live.”

I dropped the Cog and swung my shotgun around. The Angel’s eyes followed the Cog to the ground. I fired twice before he even remembered I was there. I put my foot on the Cog and fired again. The shot rippled across his body like pebbles striking a pond. Wilson yelped and threw himself forward, knife in hand.

Mistakes; I couldn’t bend to pick up the Cog without letting down my guard. I couldn’t keep firing with Wilson closely engaged. My shotgun was choked down, meaning the blast had put some shot into Emily’s unconscious form. So many mistakes. Wilson’s mistake was worse.

The Angel batted the anansi aside then advanced on me. I kicked the Cog behind me then fell back, firing as I went. The hammer eventually fell on an empty chamber. I dropped the gun and went for the shortrifle at my side. The Angel charged.

I raised the ’rifle across my body, deflecting the blow of his arms. His wings beat across my face, eclipsing the storm and blinding me. The feathers were knife sharp. They fanned across my arms leaving behind superficial cuts and thin streams of blood. I bashed his face with the butt of the ’rifle, kicked his knee out from under him, then lost my balance and tumbled down the hill. My head was resounding with the impact of stone against my skull. I crawled to my knees and peered up the hill.

He was searching the ground, looking for the Cog. I carefully checked the load on my shortrifle, sighted down the barrel and put a slug in his head. He put a hand on the ground to brace himself. A light dust of cogwork poured onto the ground, like sand from a cracked hourglass, hissing as it scattered down the rock. It clumped into the pools of water. He wavered there, staring down at the ground for a minute. Eventually, he resumed his search.

I stood and walked towards him evenly. Every third step I paused, sighted the ’rifle, and fired. His body groaned with each impact, the shot disappearing into the confused cogwork of his body. He was slowing down.

“This is too fucking easy,” I said, then placed the barrel gently against the back of his head. He reached up and crushed the chamber. The shell exploded, peeling back the fingers of his hand and shattering the iron stock. He kept looking for the Cog.

“Jacob!” Wilson yelled from up near the Torch. I looked his way. He waved the Cog in the air. I ran to him.

“What the hell is he doing?” he asked.

“Looking for that. It’s his heart, his pattern. He shouldn’t even be able to hold himself together.” The Angel’s wings were beating slowly. “He doesn’t give a rat’s ass for us. Here,” I took the Cog and looked over at Emily. “I’ll keep his attention. You free her and get out of here.”

“The Badge is swarming,” he said. Down by the launch derricks a whole crowd of graycoats were milling about, staring up at us and the Angel. “We’ll never get out that way.”

“Just get Emily. Meet me down by the Dawn. I’ll get us out.”

Wilson went over to Sloane’s body and started searching his clothes. I watched long enough to wonder at how little blood there was, and how Sloane’s body had fallen in such symmetrical lines. I turned back and saw the Angel looking at me, at the Cog in my hand. I ran down the hill in the other direction, toward the open expanses of the Torch’ and away from the hangars. He spread his wings and followed, the slow beat of those sharp feathers blustering him around in the wind.

There was a little wood on the downslope opposite the city. It was made up of iron-hard trees that grew out of the rocks, their roots pushing deep into ancient cracks, living on the barest soil. Their leaves were pale yellow, and their trunks were thin and springy. They whipped in the storm’s fury like breakers on the shore. I threw myself among them just yards in front of the Angel. The trees knocked me down, and I tore the skin on my knees as I skidded down the hill, bashing into the tough bark of their trunks.