Tim Akers - Dead of Veridon

"What the fuck?" I yelped. The next time it slithered forward, I practically ran away. Not a lot of room to run, but I made up for the lack of distance with speed. "Get away from me."

"Clarification. Do. Not. Move."

The globe pulsed, the plates and pipes that clasped the core of light rattling like a windchime, and then the room was pure light and heat. And then blackness, and I was gone.

Twice in a row. I got in here with my lights out. I was getting out the same way.

I felt alive. Alive like I'd never been, alive like a star falling out of the sky. Burning alive. My lungs were on fire, and my blood was glowing in my veins. The rational part of my mind said this was all very bad, but I didn't care. Everything felt good.

I rode a column of wriggling black slugs up out of the river. They got me to the shore, miles downriver of the city's gate and within sight of the waterfall that had nearly claimed my life. The far horizon was filled with the broad fields of the Arbarra Rare, the distant land that we had seen for generations but never reached until the invention of the zepliner. I pulled myself onto the muddy bank of the Reine and turned my face to Veridon. And ran.

I don't know what the Mother Fehn did to me, but it was amazing. Didn't get tired, didn't hurt. My hands were clean and new, like she had washed them clean of a lifetime of scabs and calluses and work. That's how I felt, all the way down to my bones. New. Clean. I trotted down the river road toward Veridon, and my legs ate up the distance. In no time at all I was passing through the scattered homes leading up to the city, and then the city gate itself. The broad gate was closed. Rare enough, in these days of zepliners and automated carriages, long years since siegecraft was even practiced. The gate was no challenge. I took it hand over hand, scaling the iron grating and hauling myself over the unmanned gatehouse. Didn't stop to think how unlikely that was, how it was a good ten feet from the top of the gate to the top of the wall, and that I had just swung myself up there like it was nothing. Of course I could manage that. Feeling as good as I did, I could manage anything.

From the gatehouse I could see the city laid out in front of me, the streets still empty in the wake of the curfew. All of my fatigue was gone, all my doubt. Three things caught my eye: the column of smoke that rose from the Manor Burn; the black, circling bands of crows around the Church of the Algorithm on the far side of the city; and, finally, the cracked husk of the Manor Tomb. A grand tree was growing out of it, wretched and knobbly, poking through the windows and shrugging aside walls like a giant. The tree was bare, and stood half again as tall as the Manor itself. It looked like a seed pod that had burst its shell.

I knew instinctively. That was the Patron, or what was left of him. Not dying, but living in such a way that he couldn't really be called alive. Crane had eradicated the Family Tomb, their lineage, their place on the Council, and their holdings. All in one blow.

Trouble for later. I turned my face to the Church of the Algorithm, and hopped from the gatehouse down to the street below. Thirty feet, and I landed without a bruise. Pushed that into the back of my mind, and just ran.

Everything seemed brighter. Clouds still hung low and heavy across the city, but the frictionlamps that lined the streets burned sharp in my mind. I lost myself in the smooth effort of running, the cobblestone streets passing under my feet like a dream. I breathed, and the city breathed with me. Faces peered out at me from closed houses, eyes wide, as I rushed past. I thought about waving, to reassure them, but I wasn't sure that would help. Wasn't sure what I looked like. A madman running through the streets, faster than thought.

Valentine had given me a revolver. I had forgotten. As I crested the last terrace and began my descent to the Church, I unholstered the piece and checked the load. Looked good. There were additional rounds in my belt, shiny against the dark leather. Worry about their time in the river vanished under the all-consuming optimism of whatever was flowing through my veins. My clothes weren't wet. Why would my shells be damaged?

Why weren't my clothes wet? Never mind, just run. Run and run and run.

There was the Church. The engines had stopped, finally ground shut by whatever Camilla — or Crane — was doing deep below. The courtyard was clear, but there were Wrights standing at the gates. Wrights with guns. I adjusted my track to keep buildings between us, but they had already seen me. Signals were given. Rifles were raised. I grinned and ran on.

Ran faster, in fact. I was having trouble keeping up with my feet. Felt like something was running through me, some vast eye that was burning through my body. My grin had become stiff, my hands quaking from the presence of that terrible mind. The Wrights' first shots danced off the cobbles by my feet, off the walls, whistled high overhead. Warning shots, or poor aim. Rational Jacob would have ducked for cover and found a better way to approach. Rational Jacob would have tricked his way in, or given up and floated down the river. Rational Jacob would not smile and run straight at them. I was not Rational Jacob.

I came out of the street that opened onto the courtyard in front of the Church, dodging to one side as I hit the cobbles. There was a wagon, a supply wain that had been left there by its owner, prior to the curfew. I ducked behind it and kicked the stops out from its wheels. With a great, groaning heave, I set my shoulder against it and started it moving. Faster and faster, each time I shoved my shoulder into it. Once I had some speed I fluttered the brakes on the inside wheel and turned the wagon toward the gates. Slightly offset, so I would have cover for most of the approach. There was enough of an incline that I didn't have to give it much, once inertia took over. I drew my revolver and threw my arm around the edge, firing blindly. Bullets clattered at the wheels of the wagon, ricocheting up into the wood, or past my legs. Good shots, these Wrights. I put a hand on the corner of the wagon and kept pushing, accelerating toward the gate. Still grinning.

One of the Wrights got smart and maneuvered for position. I saw him scrambling between barrels, getting far enough to the side that the wagon was no longer between us. But line of sight goes both ways. I put a shot into his shoulder, and another into his leg, and then the hammer fell on an empty cylinder. Still running, I tossed the cylinder open and thumbed six fresh rounds into the slots. By the time I'd reloaded, I could see the wall of the Church gate over the top of the wagon.

Impact.

The wagon went sideways into the bars and smashed. Splinters went into my arm as I covered my face. I vaulted the wreckage of the wagon and kicked at the gate. It was already bent beyond its limits, and my boot struck the perfect spot. The right hand gate creaked and fell into the Church courtyard, rattling like a dropped saucer.

The second Wright stood up from where he had taken cover from the wreck, rifle at his shoulder. I put a shot into his chest even before he had the rifle clear. Good shots, these two, but poor at close tactics. Probably not a lot of cause for small-unit maneuvers inside the Church.

I dropped into the Church grounds and started walking toward the chapel's side door. These were wooden doors, cheap. A recent addition, bolted on as the Algorithm inside grew and swelled and new entrances were needed as old ones were choked shut by the engines of god. I was more careful now. Surely the crash would have been heard inside. They knew I was coming, or that someone was coming. There were a lot of windows looking down into the courtyard, but I didn't see any faces.