Stephen Hunt - The rise of the Iron Moon

Both men were so intent on watching the horrific migration of death following the tide towards the capital, that they failed to notice that the swelling mist rising behind their backs was tinged with veins of crimson, an ominous reflection of the blood-filled waters of the Gambleflowers. In fact, it took Radford and Sykes minutes to hear the hollow bony clicking deadened by the fog. And by the time they saw the hulking black silhouettes of a legion of slats cutting through the cover, it was too late for either of them.

Two new burnt, torn-up bodies joined the black tide and bloody waters heading down towards Middlesteel.

Molly could see that the camp commander, Colonel Buller, was getting irritated – possibly due to the pressure he was under to deliver a successful test firing this afternoon – especially considering almost everyone involved in the project was thronging around the spiral-shaped cannon as if a festival day had been declared – whether their schedules of work said they should be labouring right now, and whether they were invited or not. Everyone was desperate to see whether the great contraption – this bastard fusion of Jackelian engineering and Timlar Preston's Quatershiftian genius – was going to live up to their hopes or blow apart in an explosion that might put a volcano to shame.

The colonel leant over the wall of the firing station, a platform built on stilts like a tree house with a panoramic view of the organized chaos below. 'Sergeant, clear those work-shy layabouts away from the firing rings – filling the reservoirs is dangerous enough work as it is, without being jostled by malingerers.'

Soldiers from the Jackelian Corps of Engineers pushed back the navvies that were getting in the way of the careful work of filling the glass-lined fuel reservoirs. Molly approved of the commander's caution. When it came to dealing with the volatile explosive liquids needed to drive their engine of gunnery, human error would be enough to scupper the whole project.

'He's in a snappy mood, today,' said Purity.

'I'm afraid we won't get too many chances to do this,' said Molly. 'Timlar Preston has calculated that the force of any more than four firings will wreck the cannon's barrel beyond use. Two test firings to calibrate, one live, and one left in reserve: that's all the chances we'll have.'

Molly should have resented Purity, but try as she might, she couldn't. The young escaped royalist had been filled with the power of the land, just as Molly's own connection with the power she had taken for granted had been snapped. She had been as young and eager as Purity, once. But this was the way of all things. Youth faded. Cynicism deepened. When Molly looked in her mirror to brush out her red coils of hair she saw lines on her forehead that she found hard to recognize sometimes.

'Well, manners don't cost anything,' said Purity.

Yes, she saw more than a little of who she had once been in the young Purity Drake. 'I hope you've been busy building up a stock of rubber lining for the cannon, young damson. Because after today's test firing it'll all need to be re-laid for the next attempt.'

Purity wrinkled her nose in disgust. 'I go to sleep in my bunk and all I can smell is blessed rubberized sheeting.'

Molly smiled. 'You've been spending too much time with the commodore.'

A uniformed engineer came into the firing station and saluted Colonel Buller. 'We have the blank shells on the loading turntable, sir. I've finished testing them, and I can report they match Lord Starhome's dimensions and weight exactly: we are now ready to fill the first shell with sand to approximate the flight crew.'

'Fill it with sand equal to ten people's weight, captain,' said the colonel, pointing to a turntable mounted above the spiral-shaped cannon where Lord Starhome and a series of blank shells rested in metal cradles.

'Ten!' Molly started. 'I wasn't planning to take passengers-'

'Apart from me,' interrupted Purity.

Colonel Buller looked surprised then vexed. 'I thought Lord Rooksby had told you…'

'Told me what?' Molly demanded.

'You are not to be allowed into the craft on the day of the launch. The party to Kaliban is to be headed by Rooksby. Parliament felt that you were too close to this project and your motives may have been tainted by your association with one of the foe's natives.'

'Tainted! Molly shouted. 'This is my cannon, and the native you're so concerned about gave his life to make sure it was constructed.'

'That is as may be, damson, but the guardians on the committee overseeing this project are firmly of the opinion that the expedition to Kaliban will have far more chance of success if it is appropriately composed of a selection of scientists, ambassadors and soldiers. I think upon reflection you will agree that professionals are better suited to survive the hardships of the journey, as well as scouting the weaknesses of the enemy while finding and negotiating with potential allies. Certainly better suited than writers of penny dreadfuls and-' he indicated Purity, '-shoeless seamstress friends of the author.'

Molly's face was turning crimson with anger. 'This is outrageous.'

'No, Damson Templar, it is expediency. If the tales from our army's survivors are to be given credence, we are currently facing complete military disaster. Your vision contributed to the marshalling of resources necessary to complete the cannon, and parliament now judges your contribution honourably discharged. We cannot possibly stake our nation's survival on the fate of a single celestial fiction author.'

'Parliament now judges,' spat Molly. 'I know who's been pouring poison in the right ears. Oh yes, Lord Rooksby has changed his tune since the RAN was defeated, that dirty snake of a scheming jigger. When I arrived here, he was swearing blind that the Army of Shadows had marched over the polar ice from the other side of the world, not come from Kaliban. He said this cannon was a joke and now he wants to bloody command it?'

'This is madness,' protested Purity. 'You can't do this to us. Molly was touched by Kyorin, she knows things that are vital to-'

'Young lady, half my comrades have been touched – touched by the Army of Shadows and lying dead in the killing fields across the border in Quatershift. I rather think that the House of Guardians is very well-decided in this matter.'

'We shall see!' Molly stalked off. 'We shall see how well they've bloody decided.'

Molly ran down the ramp from the firing station, ignoring the sound of Purity still attempting to argue the colonel around, brushing past a gaggle of scientists coming up the ramp. Oliver was in the crowds below, pushing through the spectators from the forest's mills and manufactories and smelting works. He could see how angry she looked.

'What is it?'

'You're the Circle-damned key, why don't you ask your friend Purity up there.'

'Molly – what?'

But she was through the crowd of navvies and heading towards the turntable where Lord Starhome and the test shells waited, the half-steamman craft's bright hull in stark contrast to the grey iron of the testing shells modelled on his pattern. The turntable was designed so that each shell could be rotated to face the injection-run down to the breech of the spiral-shaped weapon. An operator in the cab of a crane was exchanging shouts with the muzzle loaders as Molly shoved past the soldiers, climbing up the ladder to the turntable.

Lord Starhome was still in the breech-facing position, while a gang of engineers focused their attention on one of the blank shells next to him, preparing to drop heavy sandbags inside a hatch in the shell's side. Weight enough to match the gang of pirates who had stolen the voyage to Kaliban away from under her nose.

There was a door-sized hole in Lord Starhome's hull, the living metal flowing around the edges while Commodore Black passed equipment through to Duncan Connor. 'Have you come to help us, lass?'