Another round of explosions sounded deep in the manufactory, shaking the ground and convincing Sirus they had done all the damage they could. He and Forest Spear rushed outside, finding the sky above the town criss-crossed by arcing lines of tracer from the surviving gun emplacements. Their fire was augmented by numerous repeating guns on the ships moored at the wharf. Sirus saw a Red fold up in mid air, caught by two converging bursts of cannon fire that sent it plummeting into the streets. Another Red swooped down, spewing flame at a squad of militia, then fell dead as their carbines sent a fusillade of exploding bullets into its chest.
A mental survey revealed to Sirus that he and Forest Spear were the only Spoiled to survive the attack, a distinction that wouldn’t last long judging by the large number of militia streaming towards them from the town.
There was a brief rumbling cry from above followed by a gust of wind as Katarias came to earth near by. Sirus and Forest Spear scrambled onto his back, ducking as bullets zipped around them and the beast sprinted forward before launching himself skyward. Katarias twisted and turned as cannon shells and bullets chased them across the sky, swooping low and banking to soar to the north end of the town where the rising smoke and flame from the manufactory masked their escape.
The drake let out a loud roar as they flew away, wings sweeping as he bore them towards the mountains. Whether it was an expression of triumph or grief for his lost kin, Sirus couldn’t tell.
CHAPTER 46
Lizanne
She jumped from the Typhoon’s gondola before it came to earth, landing hard and sprinting towards the smoking ruin of the manufactory. Some of the townsfolk called out to her but she tore past them, only vaguely registering the corpses, drake and human, that marked her path. Several long rows of covered bodies had been placed on the flat ground before the manufactory and teams of workers were busy carrying more from the blackened structure. Lizanne’s gaze swung wildly from face to face, finally alighting on one she knew.
“My father?” she said, rushing to grab Madame Hakugen’s arm. The woman stared at her for a moment, eyes uncomprehending in her soot-stained face, then gave a helpless shake of her head.
“I don’t know,” she said in a thin whisper. “I haven’t seen him.”
Lizanne left her, running to the ruin to be greeted by the dreadful carnage that lay within. Her strength seeped away and she slowed to a stumble, moving in a daze as she took in one horror after another. A group of workers, melted together by drake fire into an obscene parody of a sculpture, clawed, stump-fingered hands reaching up to her, teeth gleaming in the charred remnants of their faces. A young assembly worker, remarkably untouched by the flames and lacking any obvious injury, lying dead beneath her work-bench, face frozen in a wide-eyed mask of terror. She found the worst of it at the rear of the building. Hundreds had died here, crammed together amongst the heavy machinery as they tried to flee only to be roasted alive. The stench of death seemed to claw its way into her being, choking nose and throat before sinking an acidic claw into her guts.
The world went away for a time, everything becoming hazy and distant, when she came back to herself she was retching air past a dry throat, staring at a pool of her own vomit. A sound came to her then, soft but easily heard in the eerie quiet. Someone was sobbing. Lizanne got unsteadily to her feet and followed the sound to the walkway above the manufactory floor, climbing up to find Tekela weeping over the body of Jermayah Tollermine.
“It was him,” she said, raising a tear-streaked face to stare at Lizanne. “A Spoiled in a general’s uniform, they said. Sirus did this. He did this because I failed to kill him.”
Lizanne found she had no words for her, finding that all sensation seemed to have fled her body. She could only stand and stare in dumb fascination at the knife handle jutting from Jermayah’s neck. It was a curious design, one she hadn’t seen before. An intricately carved piece of bone, its elegant curve oddly pleasing to the eye.
“Lizanne.”
Professor Graysen Lethridge stepped cautiously onto the walkway, tattered lab coat besmirched with soot and blood, though not his own as far as she could tell. He looked at Jermayah’s body, face sagging in grim resignation. Lizanne’s first thought was that he must be a product of her imagination, something conjured to prevent her slipping into madness. But then her father’s arms enfolded her and the freezing numbness transformed into an instant blaze of relief that had her convulsing in hard, wracking sobs as she clung to him.
“Over eight hundred killed,” Madame Hakugen reported. “Three times that number wounded. About sixty percent of the machinery is damaged beyond repair. Fully half the stocks of recently completed munitions destroyed.”
“The new explosives?” Lizanne asked, turning to her father.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “We just completed the casing, it’s mostly still intact, even salvageable. But the chemicals needed to achieve the correct explosive mix were consumed in the fire.”
“And,” Tinkerer added, “the precision instruments required to manufacture the detonator.”
Lizanne had found him wandering the ashen remains of what had been his workshop, expressionlessly rummaging through the detritus as he gathered various components and scraps of charred paper. Apart from a faint grimace when Lizanne enquired as to his well-being, he hadn’t betrayed any particular reaction to the disaster, although she noticed he was blinking more than usual. Looking at him, she found she had to suppress a guilt-riven and unpleasant inner question: Why couldn’t it have been him instead of Jermayah?
She went to the window of Madame Hakugen’s office, looking out at the ships in the Sound. Five freighters had arrived that morning to collect the latest shipment of weapons and were now destined to leave half-empty. “Madame,” she said, “I require an honest and unvarnished opinion; how long will it take before this facility can resume production?”
“There are many variables involved . . .” Madame began then fell silent as Lizanne glanced over her shoulder, gaze steady and demanding. “At this juncture,” Madame continued in a subdued tone, “too long to make any difference to the outcome of this war.”
“Thank you.” Lizanne returned her gaze to the window and was surprised to find children at play in the park, running and laughing, seemingly oblivious to the pall of smoke that still hung in the air over the Mount. Just another horror witnessed in their short lives, she thought. One of many. Perhaps all this has rendered them immune to fear. It occurred to her that, win or lose, the children who would grow up in the aftermath of this war were already spoiled, in mind if not body. What kind of world will they build? But then, they could hardly do worse than we have.
“Please call a general meeting of the work-force,” she said, turning to face them. “The Mount Works Militia will sail to Gadara’s Redoubt together with any adult who wishes to volunteer for military service. Lone parents with children are excluded.”
“And those left behind?” Madame asked.
“Sufficient shipping will remain to carry them away should the need arise, though in the event of our defeat, I can’t imagine a safe place where they might go.”