Ninth City Burning (55 page)

Rachel has the X-2020 back on course well in time to retrieve the badly damaged ShadowSinger—or seize, I should say, as Sensen seems determined to rejoin the 126th under her own power. Not much chance there: ShadowSinger's emergency systems have kicked in to bring gwayd loss down to a trickle, but that's about all she can do at this point. Even Sensen's attempts to shrug off the X-2020 look halfhearted. When she contacts me over a private DS conduit, her voice sounds distant, like something shouted from a high tower.

I think that noco just saved my life, Chase,
she says, resigned.

It certainly looked that way,
I admit. It looked like more than that. I've never seen an equus get that close to a Zero—not willingly—and come away unscathed.

This doesn't mean I have to be nice to her from now on,
Sensen declares firmly.

I think we'd all be disappointed if you were,
I assure her.
Rachel would probably take it as an insult.

The bitch
did
cut my arm off.

I'm sure she'll find a way to make it up to you.
I call up my full 'drille then, ordering them to get themselves out of the fighting while we await the opportunity for another run.
And special thanks to the rescue squad,
I add.
It's good to have the three of you with us again.

It's good to be back, dek,
Pelashwa answers.
You might want to relay all of that to Rae personally, though. She's radio-only.

For the first time since it reappeared, I take a solid look at the X-2020. Now that it's released ShadowSinger into the care of two other equi, I can see the long gashes where some Valentine blade or claw gouged into the white armor, glowing dim blue from the gwayd pulsing beneath. The head's front plate is mostly missing, torn at a ragged angle, like something big got in a good hard bite.

She earned that topside damage crashing head-to-head with a Type 7,
Pelashwa explains.
Got the three of us out of a very tight spot. Not the move any sane person would have used, though. The girl is certifiable, but she sure can fly.

I key my radio to raise Rachel in the X-2020. “Nice work out there, Eques,” I tell her.

“Piece of pie,” she calls back through a scatter of static. It's the same voice I heard just before our clash with the HBTs.
Time to make your stand, man.
I didn't recognize it at the time, but now it seems obvious.

“You good for another round?” I ask her. “This battle isn't over.”

“Fit as a fiddle, but I broke that mind-reading radio, and I'm having a little trouble telling our people apart. Who'd I go after back there, anyway? Is he all right?”

“You couldn't see the identifiers?”

“Well, no, not exactly. Snuggles is short a few pieces just now.”

Again, I consider the X-2020's ruined top unit. The sensory array must be almost useless. “Are you telling me you're flying
blind
?”

“
No,
” Rachel says defensively. “I can still see heat and a few other things.”

Unbelievable. “What were you thinking? Can you even tell friendlies from hostiles in that thing?”

“Well enough to pull
your
big red rear out of the fire,” she says.

It's a fair point. I tell Rachel as much, then open up to the rest of the 126th over DS while keeping my radio transmitting to the X-2020. We may have our lost fighters back, but we're still up to our asses out here and sinking.
The catalogue of energies radiating from Fontana Nellope's mijmere has become erratic, her signature patterns changing to match those of her enemies. Meaning she's starting to weaken. We don't have much time left to help her through this fight. As Nellope orbits back toward the pair of Zeros, I search for another opportunity, anything that will give us a chance at one more strike. Even if I have to risk myself and what remains of the 126th on odds so long they might as well be nonexistent, our chances will still be better than if Nellope goes down.

And then, just as Nellope draws in for her next dive, the swing of her descent suddenly ceases. It's disorienting to watch, a splintering burst of sky and stars. A fraction of a second later, I see the reason behind her abrupt change in course as the space around the enemy sources lights up with detonations bright enough to overpower every discharging weapon nearby. When the disrupting energy clears enough for me to see, both Zeros are reeling. Only one thing could have produced an effect that powerful: a full artillery strike from IMEC-1.

I can't explain it—last I heard, the IMEC was dark with no prospect of rescue—but I'm not going to argue. My 'drille has already come to the same conclusion, and their shouts of jubilation are such that I need to tune them out to raise Centurio Kitu over DS, even as a new barrage explodes across the enemy's mijmeri.

Kitu has only just confirmed what the 126th has already guessed—that IMEC-1 is somehow back in the fight—when both Zeros break from their pursuit of Fontana Nellope. It's as if they've disappeared altogether, until I think to look outside our umbris and see them retreating away into space. They've cut and run.

I ask Kitu whether we're planning to pursue, knowing as I do that the probability of catching them now must be close to zero.

Not today, Chaser,
he answers.
Command wants us to consolidate around IMEC-1. The Valentines are attempting an ordered retreat, and we think it's time to add a little disorder. See how many we can get before they escape. The more we polish off now, the fewer we'll have to deal with later. Get your wounded someplace safe and form up.

I relay Kitu's orders to my 'drille.
I'm afraid Shadow's going to have to stay behind,
I add.
Activate your beacon and settle in, Sen. We'll be back for you as soon as we can.

Hope you brought a good book,
Ottumtee quips.

Kiss my ass, Otto,
is Sensen's reply.

Everyone stay cool now,
I warn them.
Having the enemy on the run is no reason to get sloppy. It's looking like this party is almost done, so anyone who gets themselves killed now is going to be in trouble, understood?

Affirmatives all around.

It's an unnecessary warning—not because the 126th is too disciplined to become careless, though I'd like to think that's true also. As we fly to join the rest of Sixth Cohort, already the Valentine fighters we pass have begun to sizzle at the edges, taking on the brittle look of dried mud or ash as they crumble away.

W
hen I think on Death, I imagine her as a child, a girl in a white dress with untidy hair, running barefoot through the battlefield, collecting lives like wildflowers. She goes about her work without malice but spares no more mercy for her quarry than would any lighthearted thing for a daisy or dandelion that has captured her fancy. I have never seen much benefit in appealing to her sentimental side or bidding for her favor with promises or gifts, but it seems to me there is a certain etiquette to be observed in Death's presence. It is simply this: Do not try to keep your life from her, do not clutch it to your breast or hide it beneath your hat. If she has a place for you in her basket, she will find you out one way or another. Instead, go to her at the outset. Take your life and put it in her pocket. Say to her,
You just hold on to that for m
e. At least then your hands will be free to fight.

We have become well acquainted, Death and I. I have learned the sound of her footsteps and the tunes she hums at play. There were times when she held my life in her hands, lifted it to her lips, and twirled it between her fingers, contemplating its color and scent, the leaves shivering in her chilly breath. But on each occasion she has deemed it wrong for her arrangement and set it loose to fall, fluttering, behind her.

I have been spared once again. When the last shots had been fired in the Realm of Dis, my life was there on the field of stars, waiting for me to gather it up. For a little while, I even harbored the notion it had come back in colors brighter and more brilliant than I remembered. I know now that was a false hope.

The battle did not end when our enemy broke and ran but lasted for many wearying hours after, during which my escadrille was tasked first
with chasing down a portion of the Valentine fighters flying about on various troublemaking ends, a job my comrades called “mopping up,” then with helping contain the damage to our city. IMEC-1 had been badly shot up, its skyline cracked like a brawler's teeth, and we were needed to clear the streets of rubble and quell areas of supernatural upheaval.

By the time Snuggles and I returned to the Stabulum, we were in a thick haze of exhaustion. I am proud to say I was able to dismount under my own power, a claim not every eques out that day can make, though I will admit to somewhat losing track of my cardinal directions after my feet touched the ground. Snuggles had his wounds attended to first, was doused in a greenish cauterizing fire, then a sort of sealing orange foam before I was permitted to step free, at which point I was met by a curtly unfriendly medic who examined and questioned me and finally informed me I had a ruptured eardrum and moderate subconjunctival hemorrhaging but no life-threatening injuries. After scrawling a green number “3” on my uniform, he departed in search of more serious cases, delivering a stiff nod and a “Nice work, Eques” like a final dose of medication.

I spent an unknown period of time sitting where I was, dazedly observing the mayhem of the Armored Cavalry's return, before another passing medic took pity on me and pointed me toward the Stabulum exit with assurances that beyond lay a station where I would have my choice of coffee, tea, or juice, and as many cookies and crackers as I desired. I was on my way to this promised land when from the direction of my retreat came a familiar and welcome voice: Kizabel.

“Rae!” She was out of breath, something I might have taken note of under other circumstances. Kizabel does not run anywhere if she can help it. “You made it! You guys were fantastic! I—
gah
!” she cried, having taken me in. “Look at you! Vinneas said you were all OK! What happened?”

I gathered she must mean my subconjunctival hemorrhage and damaged ear, and briefly narrated the events that had brought me here—all at an unnecessarily high volume, I was later informed.

“Well, you look awful,” she said candidly. She too had a green number “3” traced across her chest. I was about to ask how she had earned it when she added, “I bet we can get you cleaned up before Vinneas finishes whatever tremendously important thing he's doing over at the Basilica.”

She was speaking too quickly, even for Kizabel, and I had trouble keeping up. “When did you talk to Vinneas?”

“Just now. A few minutes ago. He saw you were about to land and asked me to come find you, since I'm nonessential personnel at the moment, and he's being tremendously important, as I believe I've already mentioned.”

A hazy warmth pulsed through me then, something excited and expectant, at the news that, from whatever high vantage Vinneas occupied, he had marked my return, picked me out amid all the whirling confusion, noted me specially. The feeling was brief because on its heels came the question of why he had sent Kizabel running down here for me. “Kiz, what's wrong?” I asked, fear bubbling in my gut. “What happened?”

I think Kizabel saw the distress come into my face, and in an effort to head off my panic, she made what turned out to be a poorly calculated assurance. What she said was “Don't worry. Naomi's fine.”

A few moments passed while I sank into pure, cold dread. “Where is she?”

Kizabel seemed to realize her error and hurried to salvage the situation. “There's no reason to worry. Really. Just stay calm. Everything's OK.”

“Kizabel!” I screamed, feeling the wildness begin to take over. “Tell me where she is!”

Amid all the noise and commotion of the Stabulum, the urgent calls of medics, the oaths of injured equites, and the screeches of their equi, I was still loud enough that people turned and looked.

Cornered, Kizabel opted for a different tactic. “At the Academy's infirmary. It's only protocol, I promise,” she assured me. “Rae, listen to me. She's perfectly fine. We can go see her right now.”

I did not wait around for further invitation but set off at a run in what I judged to be the direction of the Academy. Kizabel rushed after, keeping me on the correct general course and offering apologies for me whenever I bowled over some unsuspecting person. Fortunately, the city was full of legionaries dashing about on urgent errands, and my heedless and uncivil behavior fit nicely into the general traffic.

By the time I reached the Academy's infirmary, I was just about out of my mind with terror. Had I simply stopped, taken a few breaths, and listened, as Kizabel kept hollering after me to do, that journey might have been a deal less desperate, but it would not have helped much. Nothing would satisfy me until I had seen Naomi.

And there she was, as Kizabel said she would be, with no outward appearance of harm, propped up in a small white bed and wearing a wide
grin seldom seen on her somber face. I went to her, at first not even daring to touch her, then taking her little face in my hands, holding her chin and cupping her skull and running my fingers over her, searching for any sign of hurt.

Naomi responded to my concerns by struggling and swatting me away. “Rae!” she shouted. “Will you stop it! Let go of me and quit fretting, you old nag!” This protest, and others in a similar vein, finally set me at ease. I had detected some tenderness in Naomi's arm that worried me, but if she was calling me names, there could not be much wrong.

Above her protestations, I heard laughter around us, and looking about discovered that Naomi occupied the middlemost in a long row of beds, all filled with convalescing legionaries overflowing with mirth at the scene I had made. Naomi, humiliated at being mothered over in front of her fellow soldiers, laid into me further, which only increased the general merriment. But I could tell, even if Naomi couldn't, that this was laughter of fellowship, and when it subsided, I was given to learn just what sort of reputation I had soiled with my mollycoddling.

My sister was a hero. Naomi told part of the story herself, and soon Kizabel, who I had left behind in my final sprint through the ward, arrived to fill in the details she had intended to give me before I went running through the city like a lunatic. Kiz had some official intelligence courtesy of Vinneas but could narrate the important parts firsthand—as could every legionary in the ward, I discovered, when several piped up with their own versions of the story. It seemed they all remembered exactly where they were and what was happening when Naomi's valor tipped the scales of battle. So did I, once I'd heard enough of the story to understand what had happened.

When IMEC-1 went dark, and the heavy guns fell silent, and our enemies threatened to overwhelm us, it was Naomi who fought her way in to give us another chance at victory. She had been one of several, true. It was thanks to the combined efforts of the Legion's reserve that we were saved. But Naomi, and the little gentleman Jax, were the ones who made the final push to revive our fortress and its cannons.

Naomi suffered a broken arm in the fight, but thanks to the healing powers of fontani, the bones had already mended. She held up the disputed arm for me to see, wincing as she worked her fingers but determined to demonstrate her soldier's grit. “Charles says I'll be good as new in a day
or so,” she said proudly. “If I work at it, I'll be able to heal up faster pretty soon. I could maybe even fix your eye. Does it hurt very badly?”

My eyes had shut to allow me better focus on the multifarious work of gathering up my scattered wits. Seeing Naomi healthy and in the flesh helped immensely, but I still had to reassemble my understanding of the world and its present order. I had departed Earth believing my sister as safe from the Valentine hordes as any human alive. She was to be left behind the rest of the Legion, and I had it on good authority that even if the reserve was called to battle, she would be traveling in the opposite direction. Now I was faced with the business of reconciling my memories to the truth that, in the very worst moments, she had been in the thick of things.

“Naw, it doesn't hurt,” I said. “Just looks bad is all.”

“Rae, I am all right,” Naomi replied sternly. “Truly. Don't cry like that.”

A few tears had indeed gotten away from me and were plainly the source of much embarrassment to Naomi. I mopped the culprits up best as I could. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

“We won, Rae,” Naomi said, slowly, as if this was a complicated matter demanding careful explanation. “I was afraid at first, but there was always someone to help. I wasn't alone more than a minute before Charles swooped in and sent me to fight with Jax. And we did it. Jax and I beat a Zero together. The next one I'll whip all on my own. You watch.”

At that, the room of laid-up soldiers loosed a hearty hurrah. I mustered what I thought a convincing smile. “I'm sure you will, S—” I began to say “Sunshine” but stopped myself just in time. “Sure you will. Everyone back home will be so proud of you.” I was proud of her, too, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to say so.

“They were here!” Naomi said excitedly. “Reaper and Apricot and the Simons, too! Simon Rumble had a little shriveled-up ear and said the magic they'd use to grow it back was going to turn it blue, and when the medics told him it wouldn't, he asked if they could make a blue one for him anyway.”

She went on a few minutes longer before one of the attending doctors came to shoo me out. Naomi, still boasting, consented to have her hair smoothed back and her forehead kissed, after which I exited the ward to the shouts of soldiers who believed their recovery would also benefit from some kissing.

Kizabel was waiting for me outside. She had backed off to allow me some privacy with Naomi but now was eager that I not be angry with her.
“Rae, I am
so
sorry! I had a whole plan for how I was going to tell you. I drew a flow chart and everything. And then I got there and I saw you and I completely blew it.”

“It's all right, Kiz. Everything's fine.” I had begun to cry again, and felt exceedingly foolish about it. Everything was indeed fine, or as fine as I had any right to expect. Naomi was safe as she could be, circumstances considered; so was the Earth and everyone on it. My friends had come back with all their stitching more or less together. Naomi said it herself: We won. So why was I carrying on like this? “Just ignore me. I'm being silly.” I drew her in for a hug, and again noticed the “3” on her uniform. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, nothing catastrophic.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Just a little IED mostly. Nothing I can't sleep off. Hey,” she said, new excitement in her voice, “let's go see Vinn. I bet things are cooling down at the Basilica by now.”

Kizabel seemed to consider a visit to the Basilica one of her more brilliant ideas and was crestfallen when I begged off, claiming exhaustion as my excuse. Really, I was feeling very much out of sorts and unsure how I would stand up to further company. Sitting with Naomi had left me a deal more injured than the whole fight that came before, though I didn't feel it properly until a while later, when something happened to prod that same hurt spot again.

The something was named Vinneas. He was a handsome man I thought I remembered from a long time ago, though when I finally saw him again, I had the notion we'd last met in another life, or at least another world. By then, the IMEC had returned to Earth so that repairs could benefit from the rapid pacing of time there, and I, along with the rest of the 126th Equites and every able-bodied soldier of the Legion, was laboring day and night to set our fortress back to rights. Vinneas, too, had been swallowed up by this monumental task, and while I had never entirely lost track of him, would often note the print of his mind in some plan we'd been assigned or recognize a familiar turn of phrase in orders coming down from Command, it nevertheless wobbled my sense of time and place when, at the end of a long shift, I spied his tall frame at the edge of the Stabulum.