Dragonfly Falling (37 page)

He shivered, clinging there
to the gantry-top, because it was a whole new war that was being waged. He felt
as though he was watching the years blister and shred, the world reborn in fire
into some unimaginable future age. The age of the artificer.

And it was terrible, but
it was beautiful. Seeing those drops of flame at such a distance, with no
screams, no sight of charred bodies, it was beautiful.

‘The airships are a
refinement, of course,’ Drephos remarked, scholarly. ‘The incendiaries are an
entirely new plan. I intended to improve on the taking of Maynes, which dragged
out over months even after the walls had fallen. Tark will not stand a tenday.’

‘Your incendiaries . .
.’ Totho stammered. ‘How . . . ?’

‘You tell me, Totho. Let
this be a test of your skill. What difficulties do I face?’

‘They cannot be accurate
from such a height,’ Totho almost protested.

‘Difficulty the first,’
agreed Drephos. ‘And a lesser artificer might have persuaded General Alder that
accuracy was not necessary.’ Another brilliant drop flared and fell. ‘And yet
it is, and they
are
accurate. So how have I done it,
Totho?’

‘You could . . .
assuming a low wind, such as today . . . you could fix the propellers into the
wind, hold the ship as steady as you can . . .’ Even as he spoke Totho realized
that something in him had responded to the bombing in a way he did not like,
something that could consider wholesale destruction as no more than a problem
set by a College master.

‘Go on,’ Drephos
murmured and, despite himself, Totho did.

‘Then you could attach a
telescope – I have seen men use telescopes on the best crossbows, tech-bows and
magnetic – to allow them to strike a target at the weapon’s utmost range.
Something similar . . . with calibrations perhaps, linked to an altimeter?’

‘Oh very good.’ The
metal grasp on Totho’s shoulder tightened in an almost paternal squeeze. ‘And
close enough to how I did it. The calibration required an enormous amount of
calculation to get right, what with there being no real opportunity to test it,
but my airship captains inform me that they work very well indeed. So, next
problem?’

Totho glanced at
Kaszaat. She was not looking at Tark, just staring at the rail she held on to.
Another flash of fire caught his gaze, and he felt suddenly ill imagining those
people he had seen, spoken to, trying to find shelter from such a barrage. The
Ants built their houses in stone but still there seemed a great deal on fire
down there.

And his traitor mouth
continued. ‘You would want to control the timing of the missiles’ ignition, if
you could. A higher ignition would disperse the flame and impact over a greater
area; a lower impact would cause more focused damage.’ Delivered as though this
were some piece of theory for discussion by the class.

‘I knew I had read you
well. That’s excellent thinking, Totho. So solve for me problem the second.’

It
isn’t as though I’m helping him. He must already have solved it.
‘I
suppose you could have . . . clockwork fuses or timers?’

‘Such as those you were
intending to destroy my airships with? And what further problem would you
encounter with that?’

Totho still watched, and
by some chance three of the airships loosed their charges, that flared into
being within seconds of one another before bursting across the city. ‘Cost,’ he
suggested, and Drephos crowed.

‘So few artificers even
consider it, but we will still have to drop so many incendiaries before Tark is
ours. Something cheaper?’

Totho racked his brains,
considering all the mechanisms and devices he had learned of. After a moment,
Drephos laughed again.

‘No matter. You’ve come
far enough to repay my foresight in saving you. You must learn to think simply,
where simply will suffice. Tell him then, Kaszaat.’

‘Simple cord,’ said the
Bee-kinden woman. ‘Cord of differing lengths—’

‘And when it reaches its
length, it pulls out a trigger, and ignites the incendiary!’ Totho saw clearly,
and for a moment was so in love with the elegance of the idea that he did not
see a city burning at all, simply a demonstration of artifice and skill.
‘That’s brilliant—’ And he stopped, abruptly shamefaced.

Drephos had not noticed
the catch in his voice, but merely watched the airships as they began to make
their slow way back to the Wasp camp. ‘They will be nearly out of incendiaries
now,’ the master artificer said. ‘And my range-finders do not work well in the
dark. I have yet to devise a machine that can see in the dark as well as I can.
Do you see my point, though, Totho?’

‘Your . . . ?’

‘That this is the proper
place for you. Here, where the metal meets. You must have guessed the great
secret of our artificer’s craft, since it comes to all the best minds
eventually.
War
, Totho. Think how many inventions
and advances come from war. Not just weapons but in all branches of our
science. It is war that is the catalyst, that inspires us and whips us on.
Artifice feeds off war, Totho. You must see that. And war feeds off artifice,
so that each clings to the other, like a great tree growing ever higher and
higher. They are the left and right hand of mankind, so as to allow him to
climb to the future. War is the future, Totho. War to hone our skills, and our
skills to make war.’

‘There must be more than
that . . .’ Totho started. ‘At some point war would have to end because the
weapons would become . . . so terrible that if anyone used them . . . everyone
would die.’

Drephos’s laugh came
again, no less gaily than before. ‘Do you think so? I disagree. There is no
weapon so terrible that mankind will not put it to use. On that day that you
describe, the end to war would only come after the end of everything else.’

‘And that is what you
are working towards?’ Totho said.

‘Look down there, boy!’
Drephos’s mismatched hands encompassed not only the camp but the fitfully
burning city. ‘What of that would you save? Take away my machines and they
would be at each other’s throats with swords and knives instead. Then take away
their steel and they would pick up rocks and clubs. There is no saving them:
they are merely the fuel for war’s engines. Only we, Totho – we are the point,
the reason. We, because, alone amongst this destruction, we create, and we
create so that they may destroy, so that we may create anew.’

‘I cannot join you,’
Totho whispered, but something had swelled in his heart, that stopped the words
ever being properly heard: something that beat along with Drephos’s words, and
the pitiless, sterile glory that he spoke of.

‘Only think,’ Drephos
said softly. ‘Only think, and watch, and learn. Is it so terrible to be a
master of the world – to control, rather than be lost to the current? Come, I
will teach you some more that you never learned at the College. I like you,
Totho. I see a keen mind, an artificer’s mind. That is the most valuable thing
in the world, and I would not see it wasted.’

Drephos descended the
gantry awkwardly, dark wings flickering once or twice to keep his balance, and
once a hiss of pain as his injured leg locked briefly. Kaszaat had simply
floated down on her own, leaving Totho to make the downwards journey rung over
rung, wondering if Drephos was humouring him by doing the same, and deciding
not.

‘The general and his
clowns are done for the day,’ Drephos observed, making off into the camp with
his uneven stride. ‘In truth, they are done for the war. All the planning is
now here, in my mind. They merely stand slack-jawed and wait for me to hand the
city over to them. But I will show you how they play with the toys I have given
them. Here!’ His gauntleted hand picked out a large tent ahead of them, near
the centre of the sprawling camp. The three of them ducked inside, finding the
officers’ map table and a crudely sketched ground-plan of Tark.

‘The battle plan is
remarkably simple, as all the best plans are,’ Drephos explained to Totho. ‘The
airships batter a neighbourhood with the incendiaries, and sometimes with
targeted explosives if there’s a barracks or a similar hard shell to crack. The
incendiary material I have devised burns exceptionally hot – enough to fracture
stone – but briefly, and so, once an area has been swept clear, the Empire’s
soldiery can move in without fear of immolation. In this way we secure more and
more of the city, a street at a time.’

‘But what about the
people left behind by the retreat?’ Totho asked. ‘They cannot be taking
everyone with them, surely?’

‘You forget the
admirable self-possession of the Ant race, Totho. They forget nobody, leave
nobody unless they are forced to. Their civilians evict themselves in good
military order. And so hundreds, thousands even, will flee their homes, and the
remainder of the city becomes more and more crowded. And the results of the
next airship bombardment, therefore, become all the more effective.’

Totho stared at the map,
seeing red markers for the latest positions of Ant forces, black and yellow for
the heavy hand of the Empire that was creeping in from the sundered wall.

Totho had not slept at
all well, yet. The city of Tark had been under the radiant shadow of the
airships for four days now. The same savage pattern had been repeated over and
over. The Tarkesh formed up against the Wasp advance, the airships drifting in
like weather. The Tarkesh then retreated, or they burned. A third of the city
was now a blackened ruin, the Wasps’ encroachments dark with the ash of their
victories.

Totho had not slept well
simply because his dreams were troubled with small modifications, innovations
and tinkerings, by which this entire process could be made more efficient.

In the day he had a
limited run of the camp, because Kaszaat watched over him and there were always
guards within shout. He made no attempt to escape, however. He had nowhere to
go.
It would be simpler if they killed me
, he
thought, but made no attempt to provoke that. Sometimes Drephos would call upon
him, and then he would be put to the test, examined on his artifice, or shown
again the map table, given some lecture on the order of battle. The very
artifice of war, of supply and strategy, in itself held a keen interest for the
Colonel-Auxillian.

Drephos rearranged the
blocks on the rough sketch of the city, heedless of the damage he was doing to
the tactical situation. Everything would have to be moved soon enough to
represent the latest advance.

‘You see, the Ants don’t
give ground lightly,’ he explained to Totho. ‘They fall back and regroup, as
good soldiers should, and then they press forward again. And toe-to-toe they’re
better than the imperial soldiers, make no mistake. That mindlink their Art
gives them is a wonderful advantage. Some Wasps have it, true, and the Empire
has specialist squads, but not enough to make a difference. Especially as our
men at the front are the light airborne, and they can’t possibly hold off heavy
Ant infantry. So what do we do?’

‘I am . . . not a
tactician, sir,’ said Totho cautiously.

‘A good artificer must
become one, or at least become familiar with that trade. You must know how your
creations are being used, how to best put them to work. Remember, any army
officer, given half the chance, will waste any advantage you give him. Kaszaat,
explain.’

The Bee-kinden woman
glanced at the table, and then looked up at Totho with a bright, challenging
look in her eyes. ‘When the Ants engage, we target their soldiers directly. In
order to use their superior discipline they must stand close, solid formations.
Then the airships take them. It is the best time. Our forces are more mobile.
Most at least can avoid the fire.’

‘Most?’ Totho asked
weakly.

‘What’s the matter?’
Drephos asked, mocking him. ‘I thought these Wasps are your enemies. If their
own officers care nothing for their lives, why should we?’

Memories of the bright
orange flares, the incendiaries flowering over Tark in all their deadly wonder,
lit up Totho’s mind, and he shivered.

‘Are you going to . . .
wipe them all out, destroy Tark?’

Totho had begun to
believe it. The fighting had been fierce. The Ants had ambushed the Wasp
airborne a dozen times, killing scores of them in each engagement before
themselves being wiped out or driven back. The fiery rain over the city
continued relentlessly, relieved only by nightfall or when the airships had to
return to the gantries for rearming and refuelling.

Though the Ants had
tried, they could not adapt to this new warfare. They had been fighting the
same set-piece war against their neighbours for centuries. Now the Empire had
reinvented the word: ‘war’ no longer meant what they thought.

‘That may be necessary,’
Drephos said, evidently none too interested. ‘But unless the Tarkesh are very
different from the Ants of Maynes, it will not be. You see, they are a
pleasingly logical breed, Ant-kinden, and there is an inevitable conclusion
bearing down on them: that if they wish to save anything of their people,
anything at all, then they must lay down their arms and accept what treatment
the Empire gives them. A third of their city is already in ruins, and it will
mean years to rebuild what these few days have taken from them. They will
realize, eventually, that their destiny as slaves offers them more of a future
than their destiny as martyrs. Then they will surrender. Because they are a
rational people – an Apt people – they understand the numbers, you see.’

Totho was feeling very
cold all over. The logic was icy and unassailable. ‘But they are soldiers –
every one of them. Surely . . .’

‘They are soldiers who
cannot fight back. They will eventually realize this. Their civic pride will be
heated and cooled, heated and cooled, until it is at last thrust into the
waters one time too many, and it breaks. A month to take Maynes?’ Drephos
clenched his gauntleted hand. ‘Now I have given them Tark in a tenday. For
that, they will give me whatever they want. Including you.’