Stephen Hunt - From the Deep of the Dark

This was the future of warfare Daunt was inventing here. Of all the prizes to claim, this was a terrible accolade Daunt had never imagined possessing. If the ex-parson had any consolation, it was only that nobody would survive on the island to enter his name in the history books for originating this slaughter. Not the Nuyokians, not the gill-necks. The invaders didn’t want to be here, fighting in this alien realm. Whatever lies the sea-bishops among the Advocacy’s leadership had concocted to set their invasion force against the Isla Furia, the invaders had no passion for it — fighting the surface-dwellers outside the womb of the sea, dying in the beating heat across such strange, unfamiliar streets. No desire to die here. Only a grim murderous determination now to repay the casualties inflicted upon them. A butcher’s bill unlike any battle in history. Slaughter on an industrial scale. The Jackelians had mills for everything, now one of their numbers had established a manufactory for murder. All hail the pacifist commander — inventor of the scientific method, warfare as science.

‘Gaze upon the future, Mister Morris. I am the master of it,’ said Daunt. How am I better than the sea-bishops? They have their dupes lined up for the slaughter and I have mine. And here in this peculiar city of the past and city of the future, our proxies are dismembering each other to decide which race will endure.

‘Nothing modern about this vicar. We’ve been at it long before you lifted the marshal’s baton.’ Morris glanced back up at the volcano’s slope, noticing the guns had fallen silent in their camouflaged bunkers. ‘We’re not going to fall back under barrage?’

Daunt pointed to the massing forces in the ruins of the once palatial library opposite. ‘There’s more of the enemy now than Lord Trabb has shells left in the stronghold’s magazine.’

‘So we’re only to fire when we see the whites of their eyes. Not that you can see their peepers with those fish tanks they’ve got on their heads.’ Morris spotted something out of place on the farm terraces above them. Figures moving among the spouts of fire being thrown up by the Advocacy artillery. ‘What’s that? Tell me some arseholes aren’t still ploughing and watering the paddy fields up there?’

‘I’ve made arrangements with Lord Trabb,’ said Daunt. ‘Something more gainful for his labour force of mechanicals to be doing than tunnelling fresh mining shafts.’

Morris shielded his face against the high sun with a hand. ‘They’re digging a network of fire steps up there!’

‘Trenches,’ said Daunt. ‘Trenches are what they’re digging.’

Yes, Daunt had formulated an equation for his new style of warfare. And the Advocacy was about to discover that as hideous as their losses had been to date, they could get a lot worse.

Dick Tull shivered as he woke up, his teeth chattering and his fingers trembling against the frost-covered pile of rotting vegetation. Circle’s teeth, it was night cold outside. At least the hill of decaying turnips, corn heads and blackened potatoes serving as his bed were frozen solid enough for his body to be laid across the top of the mound, rather than drowned underneath a rotting slush.

There were dozens of other bodies thrown across the mound, the mummified sacks left by the sea-bishops’ feeding, and Dick had to work hard not to retch at the sight as he pulled himself up. He recognized the tall buildings surrounding him, the grand crystal canopies glinting in the moonlight. This was the State Protection Board wing of the civil service complex at Greenhall. So, they had dragged his corpse out of the cells without feeding on his poisoned flesh. And all I had to do was stop my heart for an hour to get here. Dick smelt the tang of his jacket, rank even to him. Garlic powder the contents of his cane’s suicide pill, along with the Court of the Air’s cardiac drug. Garlic. He tried not to chuckle through the cold burning agony of his throat. It was strange how many myths had their basis in reality.

There was a clanking from inside the bottom storey of the building, the light of a furnace burning inside. Best to be out of here before the sea-bishops on the janitorial staff showed up and tried to feed him into a fire.

Dick patted his jacket pocket. Still there. It wouldn’t do for Algo Monoshaft’s sacrifice to be for nothing.

Gemma Dark’s men opened the cell door and pushed her coughing brother, manacled anew, out into the corridor. Gemma glanced behind her. The dregs of Parliament’s cowardly Fleet Sea Arm were cowering along the back of the soiled chamber, along with Jared’s fancy piece, still standing tall, defiant to the end.

‘You won’t be so cocky, thief girl, not after Walsingham has run you through his mind ripper. You’ll only be provisions for his people’s larder after that.’

The dirty little whore flashed Gemma her fingers in an inverted ‘V’. That obscene gesture of defiance, the lion’s teeth, never went out of fashion back in the Kingdom. Gemma snorted in amusement and sealed the cell door.

Commodore Black tried to say something but broke into a fit of coughing, unable to cover his mouth with the weight of his chained hands.

‘Don’t worry brother. She’s got an hour or two before my allies come for her. Your troubles, however, are a lot more immediate.’

‘Come on now, Gemma, you won’t do any harm to me. We’re family, aren’t we?’

‘Blood’s thicker than water? Let’s spill some of it and see.’

‘At least let the blessed girl go free, then. What harm has that poor lass done to you?’

‘The Mistress of Mesmerism means something to you, brother, and that means something to me.’ Gemma turned to her escort. ‘Stay here. After Walsingham has ripped what he needs from the thief girl’s mind, make sure she’s pushed to the front for the first hungry pack that turns up with an appetite.’

The commodore groaned and Gemma laughed, shoving him down the corridor. She had a more old fashioned arrangement lined up for her brother’s interrogation. ‘I think that counts as a kindness, don’t you? She’ll probably be sucked dry by the time you get back to the feeding pen. You won’t have to watch my allies exercise their shockingly crude table manners on the silly little thief girl. Just a sack of skin and bone discarded in the corner for you to remember all the good times you had together.’

Her brother was sobbing, but Gemma felt no pity for the traitorous dog. His crocodile tears were oil to the flames of her rage. How dare he care for her, a Middlesteel guttersnipe, when he had cared so little for the thousands of his people he’d abandoned to their deaths at Parliament’s hands? Fleeing when the fleet-in-exile had been burnt in its u-boat pens, betrayed by renegades among their own ranks. Getting her darling Bull killed after he’d been captured, selling out to the enemy’s secret police when push came to shove, just to preserve his own cowardly hide. All that Gemma had done, all that she had seen — it all should have been her brother’s fate. Instead he had tossed it over to her. A final bitter legacy as cruel as the one her parents had heaped onto their offspring. The children of exiles, hunted and pursued to the ends of the globe. Rebels by birth and blood. Well, the world had made her a privateer, every new breath a victory, and now they would drink from the bitter chalice they had mixed. Let the world choke on it. She would rule over its survivors. Gemma would be their saviour, wringing gratitude out of the people like blood from a soiled rag discarded from a surgeon’s table. But there was still her brother to deal with. Too weak to rule, too headstrong to be ruled.

‘Don’t torture me, Gemma. For old time’s sake, just put a bullet in my head. Don’t let me linger in this wicked nest of demons.’