Dead of Veridon (33 page)

I jumped over the Wright. He looked in pretty bad shape, but his eyes followed me as I rushed past. That was a good sign. The hallway was dark, but I could hear Wilson ahead of me, and Matthew behind. The girl must be somewhere ahead. I ran recklessly forward, hoping that Wilson would say something about any obstructions. There was a light ahead.

We all skidded into the lit room at about the same speed, the iron girl in the lead. This was an assembly room of some nature, long and low, crossed by workbenches that ran the length of the floor. The benches were crowded with lines of gears and other mechanical bits, all neatly laid out by size or shape, even color. The light came from frictionlamps on stands at the end of each bench, and several more that hung from the ceiling. While it had the look of a room built for work, a room that was usually bustling with activity, there was no one here.

The girl was running hurt: she had on the same lightly bounded coverall, but the belt was missing, and there were tears along her upper arms and down one leg, the canvas lined with blood. There was the slightest hint of a limp in her springing gait. She tried to hurdle one of the tables and clipped the edge, scattering tools and falling to the floor in a crash. Wilson pounced on her, and Matthew and I stopped short, unable to get a clear shot in the tangle.

"Who is she?" Matthew snapped. The girl and Wilson were trading trips and counterstrikes between the tables, neither able to establish a dominant position. Matthew's shortrifle hovered over the scene. I batted the barrel toward the floor.

"Been following us for the last two days. First picked her up outside Crane's place in the Wettingwary." Wilson delivered a series of blows that she barely deflected, each attack from the anansi's spider arms shuddering into the table behind her. Even injured, she was unbelievably dangerous. "She was at the factory, just before you guys picked me up."

"Your friend's going to need help," Matthew said. And he was right. The iron girl was gaining the upper hand. She kept pressing him, her expressionless iron face showing no pain, no fatigue. It was only in her arms that you could see any weakness.

"Yeah," I answered. "You wanna go in there?"

"Not really."

The rest of Matthew's team showed up, minus two. Probably left behind to care for the injured Wright. All eyes went to the bizarre fight at the center of the room. Another table went over, the tools and gears sliding to the floor like ringing bells.

"Okay, fine." I looked around and picked up a discarded wrench that was nearly as long as my arm. Tossed the shotgun to Matthew. "Hold this."

It wasn't easy finding an opening. As soon as I stepped forward, the girl looked at me once, then turned back to Wilson. But from then on she maneuvered to keep the anansi between us, or direct his attacks in such a way that I'd have to scramble to stay safe.

"Come on, Burn. You've got a reputation to uphold," Matthew joked. I shot him a look, then just threw myself into the fight.

Not sure what happened. Pretty sure it wasn't Wilson who struck me down, but there was no way to tell. I stepped into the range of the melee, holding the wrench defensively in both hands. A blow struck the metal, knocking it back into my face, and as I was shaking that off another blow came in to my leg, then my knee. I buckled and hit the ground. Saw the next strike coming in, this one clearly from the iron girl. I got the wrench in the way, bracing it with both hands and catching her boot with the shaft. The force of it rang through my arms, leaving my hands stinging. I lurched to my heels, squatting and trying to maintain my balance. Without looking at me, the iron girl threw another kick at me, then another. I blocked what I could, absorbed what I couldn't. I was about to stand when she connected with my chin, throwing me backwards. When I stopped rolling, I was on my back, staring up at the smiling faces of Matthew's team of Badgemen.

"You get the idea," I said, struggling to my feet. I picked up the wrench and limped into the attack. "Come on."

Grumbling, the officers set down their weapons and drew the short cudgels every Badgeman was issued; at birth, was the story. We crowded forward and rushed in. It went well at first. Several blows struck the girl, once in the head, but mostly in the body or shoulder. Wilson hung back, getting a rest as we took over. I was feeling pretty good about it, even as I took a shot in the belly that staggered me. And then the Badge boys were getting in each other's way, and their cudgels found more friendly targets than the girl, and suddenly they were falling back. The style of her attack changed, focusing on diverting her enemies into each other, rather than striking them herself. Soon everyone was disarmed, and most of them were on their knees. One last round of blows from the girl, long leg kicks that pushed us back, and then we were standing in a ring around her, gasping for breath.

"Well," Wilson grumbled as he loosened his shoulders and prepared to go back in. "That was a nice break."

To our surprise, the iron girl held up a hand, then put her fingers under her chin and, with a shriek of pain, ripped the mask from her face. It clattered to the ground like a discarded plate. To my surprise there were clusters of writhing wires on the inside of the mask, over the eyes and mouth, slick with blood. The girl's face was pale and slick with her own blood, streaks of it running from her mouth, even from her eyes. But I recognized her.

"Lady Bright," I said, still gasping for breath. "I should have marked you for a traitor from the start."

"I'm not your traitor," Veronica said. "But I am very tired. If you'll just give me a chance to explain."

"Explain to the Wright you stabbed back in the hallway," I spat. "I know murder when I see it. Tell me, was it you who butchered your family at their meal?"

"Watch your words, Jacob Burn," she answered, assuming a fighting stance. "And if you will bring me the Wright, I will gladly explain to him."

"He'll be lucky to live," Matthew said. "My men are caring for him, where you struck him down."

"Then you should see to your men, Investigator."

Matthew looked warily between us. I edged away, trying to get to my shotgun, which was leaning on a bench about ten feet away.

"Leave the weapon, Burn. And Investigator, I mean that quite literally. You may even consider that an order, from a Councilor."

"You have to be kidding me," I said. "Matthew, she tried to kill a Wright of the Church. You can't possibly be considering taking orders from her."

"I've seen your stat sheet, Burn," he said. "You can't claim any sort of moral high-ground here."

"I've had enough of talking," Wilson said. "I'm ready to go if you are, lady."

"Yeah, put her down, Wilson," I sneered at Veronica. "I'll bet you're not so tough without your magical iron face, are you?"

Without a word she shuffled forward, if lightning can shuffle. Two strikes, once to my chest, the second an open-handed slap across my face. When I picked myself up off the ground she was back where she had been, as if she had never moved.

"The mask helps. But I'm better than you, Jacob, because I have trained for this my entire life. I don't need magic tricks to put you down."

"I've really had enough of this," I wheezed, holding my chest. "Wilson, knock this bitch down a notch. Matthew, go get your men and get them in here. We need to keep moving."

"What about the Wright?" he asked.

"We have taken care of our brother," a voice said from the shadows of the hallway behind us. We turned to see a collection of Wrights, led by an Elder of the Church, filing into the room.

"I've been wondering where you jokers had gotten to," I said. "You probably already know this, but there's this crazy Artificer trying to break your little god. This one was helping him."

"Yes. We have seen to Mr. Crane, although the girl was proving elusive. We do have our own defenses, you know, Mr. Burn."

"I remember," I said. I walked over and snatched my shotgun from the ground. Other Wrights began to appear in the room, entering from hidden doors. They all looked very calm, very quiet. "Look, if you don't mind, we'd like to get this Crane thing taken care of. He's caused a lot of trouble for the Council, enough trouble that they've let me join their club." I smiled. The Elder didn't bat an eye. "Because that's how desperate they are. See? Nevermind. We need to see Crane, put him in custody."

"Ezekiel Crane won't be leaving this building. We have dealt with him."

"Killed him, you mean? Because, just to be clear, I'm perfectly fine with that. I've gone that route myself a couple of times in the last two days. But he's a tricky guy, and I'd really like to confirm that he's truly 'taken care of,' you know. So," I motioned to Veronica, "if you'll just take custody of her, show us the body, and we'll get out of your hair."

"You haven't taken custody of me yet," Veronica spat.

"Matter of time. Lots of Wrights in this room, Lady Bright. How many of them do you think you can take down?"

"How many do you think
you
can take down?" she asked. "Because I think we're going to make a little game of it."

"Jacob!" Wilson snapped. I turned around to see the Elder reaching for my shotgun. His skin was pale, and black tar lined his teeth. I put the butt of the shotgun into his face without thinking about it, then fell back until I was standing next to Bright. Matthew was staring at me.

"He's got them!" I yelled. "Crane has them all!"

"On the contrary," the Elder said. "We've got him. Or the parts of him that count."

I leveled the shotgun at his face and pulled the trigger. He fell in a black, bloody mess. A pair of crows, their feathers smeared with gore, dug themselves up out of his chest. Each one was nesting in a brass cage in the dead man's lungs, the pipes of the hollow bars trilling like soggy wind chimes as the black birds burrowed their way free. I cycled the shell and fired again, ending the birds. Another Wright stepped into the Elder's place.

"Very good. Two shots, and you've put one of us down. Count your shells, gentlemen, and count us." He smiled wickedly. "If you're holy enough, you might see the pattern."

"I was doing really well here," Veronica whispered, "until you geniuses came along."

"You can't blame us. And you could have explained yourself."

"Can't talk in the mask. And a second ago you were going to turn me over to these guys. Now you're standing beside me, trying to figure how many of them we can take down before they kill us." She snorted. "Is that what criminals mean when they talk about loyalty?"

"Situations change, lady. We do what we can to survive."

"You're going to do great in the Council. Your father would have been so proud."

"Can we tear my family apart a little later on? Maybe after we get out of this?"

"Everyone shut up," Wilson snapped. "Gods! Humans, they won't shut up. The worse things are, the more they natter on."

"I think we would all appreciate a little silence," the Wright said. "So here's what we're going to do. We promise that if you surrender your weapons and come quietly, you will not be harmed. We must detain you for the next day, maybe two, but then we'll release you back into the city."

"I'm going with option two, whatever the hell that is," I said.

"Because you're an idiot, and stubborn as a child," the Wright said, nodding. "As we expected. Perhaps if we swear on something very important?"

"There is no oath you can take that will secure my surrender, Wright. You will fight us here, and we will die, but there will be a fight."

"Perhaps if they swear to you on my name?" a girl's voice asked.

The crowds of Wrights parted, and a child walked through them and into our presence. She looked to be eight, maybe nine. Most of her wasn't there. Her shoulders and arms were stripped to the bone, tiles of porcelain smooth skin jigsawing down her neck like a mosaic that had begun to fall apart. Ribs crumbled in place like fine china that was being ground invisibly to dust. Her face was perfect, though, delicate and bright. And behind her, new wings of black wire, swirling with electric grace. Her legs and hips looked new, too, freshly fashioned from the miles of gearwork and engine parts that were scattered throughout the Church of the Algorithm.

Camilla, the Angel of Veridon.

The last time I had seen her, she was pinned in place, deep beneath the Church of the Algorithm, kept alive by a tenuous thread that connected her to her mechanical heart. Now the whirling cog of pattern and power spun in her chest. And between the framework of her skeleton, behind the ribs and down her arms, swirled an angry horde of crows. She looked like a restless shadow, blackness edged in feather and beak and glassy eye. When she talked, I could even see a ghost of feather between her teeth, and her hair fluttered restlessly on her head.

"Did you think I would go away, Jacob? After I failed to secure the destroyer's heart from you, did you think I would just stop trying? You went out of here, you buried your dead, and you forgot about me."

"Cam, that's just not true. I told everyone. They didn't believe me."

"I don't really care, Jacob. As you can see, I take care of myself."

"What is... what..." Matthew stammered. For him, the little angel Camilla was a fairy tale, something everyone was told about as a child and then stopped believing when they grew up. The Church used it as part of their origin story. That an angel had come to the city and offered her help, that the Wrights of the Algorithm had used their knowledge of cogwork to heal her of some sickness, and in her gratitude the angel sacrificed herself to bring knowledge to the city of Veridon.