The Air War (70 page)

‘We knew something was wrong from about ten minutes in,’ Aarmon reported wearily. They were in Tynan’s tent, though the general was elsewhere, readying the
troops for the first engagement with the Collegiate foot. Instead, the intelligencer Colonel Cherten was taking centre stage, sitting on Tynan’s camp stool with borrowed authority, as the
same pilot delegation stood before him: Aarmon, Scain, Nishaana, with Kiin, Pingge and Tiadro as their diminutive shadows.

‘They met us closer to the city than usual, and with less force, but the efficiency of their first response is variable. We assumed the balance of their machines would come from some
unexpected angle. They never came. Instead we broke their formation and chased them all the way to the city. There was some scattered resistance after that, mostly individual orthopters, and their
ballistae batteries, of course, but . . .’ A small gesture of the hand, barely opening the fingers. ‘Where were their machines? Where were their pilots? Colonel, we
know
them by
now, the best of them, those that have survived this long fighting against us. No names, but I could identify at least a dozen, maybe a score of their aviators. None of them was in the sky over
Collegium last night. I even sent a few machines back—’

‘Against orders,’ Cherten noted with a crisp smile.

‘Sir, when we’re in the air, the only orders that count are mine.’ Aarmon was a bigger man than Cherten, and amongst friends, and for a moment the chain of command strained and
creaked between them, the intelligence officer off balance for a second before forcing an easy smile to his face, waving the comment off.

‘Continue.’

‘I had assumed the Collegiates had finally realized that they were losing, night after night, and had committed their air power against the army here, hoping to do enough damage to make
taking the city on the ground impossible. I sent machines back to give that warning, and to rouse those who were off shift.’ He gestured towards Scain, who had served as the messenger.
‘But they never came here. Our entire reserve sat in their Farsphex and waited, but they never came at all. Can I ask about our intelligence operation in Collegium, sir?’

Cherten frowned, because that was a taboo question from anyone outside Army Intelligence. Pingge was well aware that Cherten was reckoned to be a Rekef agent placed within Intelligence,
information obtained from some channel of gossip of the pilots most recently out of Capitas. Whatever games the Rekef was playing with its junior cousin right now, the pilots had no idea, save that
any such internal division did not bode well.

‘And why might that be pertinent, Major?’ Cherten asked archly, recovering his superiority.

‘If your agents have assassinated a large number of the enemy pilots, that accounts for it, sir,’ Aarmon explained bluntly. ‘If not, we need another explanation, because
something is definitely going on.’

For a long time Cherten just stared at him, holding the impenetrable veil of the intelligence service closed, but then he shrugged. ‘We have agents in the city, and they will be liaising
with the Aldanrael spies already in place, preparing a kill list and working through it. Viable targets are likely to be their leaders, not the body of their aviators.’

Pingge sensed the slight sense of relief among the pilots, and understood them immediately. They had come to know the enemies who clashed with them night after night, whose faces they never saw
but whose technique, individual style and skill were as familiar as a sparring partner’s. They had lost friends and comrades to those foes, but there was an honour to that rivalry, and Pingge
knew all the pilots believed in it. When the time came, that was how they would go – an endless moment of torn metal and blood, fire and falling. A pilot’s death was owed to each of
them as the due of their place in the sky’s aristocracy. Death by the assassin’s blade was a groundsman’s death, and their enemies deserved better.

‘I have had some reports from our opposite numbers amongst the Spiders, but they’re uncertain at best,’ Cherten went on. ‘Give me your thoughts, Major.’

‘Assuming there wasn’t some colossal mistake on their part – for instance, sending their machines somewhere way off the mark to counter some attack we didn’t make –
then it comes down to this: they had machines, however many, that they didn’t use. So: either they are saving the remains of their strength for the actual assault, and have decided not to
defend their city, or they want us to think them undefended, to make us complacent. It may be that they have amassed a greater force than we are aware of, and want us to bring all our force so that
they can challenge it.’

‘Are you saying you think this is a trap?’ Cherten asked him levelly.

‘It might be, sir. We were tearing strips from their city last night. Either they
cannot
defend or they seek a single strike that will cripple our air power. Maybe they have
redesigned their machines, or they have reinforcement pilots from Sarn or elsewhere, or they are simply desperate enough to risk all by committing everything they have. Both sides have understood,
from a tenday ago at least, that they are failing to hold us. Each night that their pilots have lessened the impact of our bombs, they have also reduced their ability to defend against us when the
army arrives.’

‘You know our orders demand commitment now in the air.’

‘Sir, what intelligence has come from the city? I can make no suggestion without that.’

Cherten looked uncomfortable. ‘It is difficult . . . most of the Spider spies are Inapt, so information regarding technical subjects will always be unreliable. There is a suggestion that
Collegium is suffering shortages, to the extent that they are unable to keep their machines airworthy, that they are husbanding their strength against the actual siege. But with the Inapt
it’s hard to be sure what they think they mean. So, suggestions . . . ?’

‘If they have a great force prepared, then anything short of full commitment could see us lose whatever force we send out,’ Aarmon said, laying out the options methodically.
‘If we hold back on the basis that they may possess some overwhelming force, we lose a night’s work, give them more time to repair and rebuild, and we’ll only discover the truth
of their plan when the army reaches the walls tomorrow.’ Aarmon paused for a moment, and Pingge knew that thoughts were flying between him and the others. ‘If they are just saving
everything they have to throw at us during the siege, then it would be better if we could draw them out tonight. If they truly wish to draw us to one final battle, if they believe that they have a
chance to destroy our air strength, then . . . if they have amassed so many additional fliers then our army’s chances against the walls are doubtful.’

Colonel Cherten snorted at that, and all six of the aviators – Wasps and Flies, men and women – stared at him.

‘I think you overestimate the importance of your machines, Major Aarmon,’ the intelligence officer declared, ever so slightly patronizing, and Pingge thought,
Oh, pits, he
doesn’t understand.

‘Sir, General Tynan must be made aware of all I have said, to make an informed choice,’ Aarmon persisted.

‘Oh he’ll hear it,’ Cherten agreed. ‘The senior officers will meet with our General and our Lady-Martial, and you will hear of our decision shortly,’ he assured
them. ‘In the meantime, ensure that your orthopters are ready to fly, armed, fuelled and serviced.’

Who’d have thought so much of soldiering was digging holes?

Straessa, known as the Antspider, or ‘Sub’ to her men, watched the earthmovers slugging away at the ground, grinding out trenches that would be five feet deep when they were done,
their drivers working to a complex plan laid out back at the camp by a committee of whoever seemed sufficiently interested. Certainly her own chief officer, Marteus, had not been remotely bothered,
plainly considering it work not fit for soldiers. So it was that Straessa’s detachment were here now, standing about with snapbows on their shoulders watching the machines dig. Three
detachments of twenty had come out there to bake in their armour, their automotive transports having slewed to a halt in an untidy clutter behind them. The day was scorching, with not a cloud in
the sky.
Weather like that will kill more people than the bows do, if the battle’s held in it
, she considered. Sartaea te Mosca was already passing amongst the soldiers, reminding them
to drink regularly, taking water bottles back to the automotives for refilling from the barrels they carried. The transformation in the Fly-kinden lecturer fascinated the Antspider. Back at the
College she had taught ancient mystical techniques that nobody believed in to students incapable of truly understanding them, and was denied even a full mastership by an institution that was always
on the point of obliterating her role entirely. She had pottered about, hosting and socializing, and being both inoffensive and ubiquitous. Meanwhile everybody forgot that she had come to the
College from Dorax, where the old Moth ways still held sway. Only her name, Sartaea, was even an echo of her origins, and she otherwise seemed such a mild little creature that she could not
possibly carry even a ghost of the Bad Old Days.

Now she was all business, tending to her charges, refusing to take no for an answer. No larger or more obtrusive, but te Mosca seemed to have become almost a force of nature, impossible to argue
with. If only she had run her minuscule department with such iron, then she would by now either be a full Master or exiled from Collegium for good.

‘Tell me something comforting,’ Straessa called out to her, as she passed.

‘We can’t possibly lose,’ te Mosca replied promptly. Her smile was grim and small, but at it least it was still in place. ‘The omens have foretold a great
victory.’

‘Tell me something comforting and true.’

The Fly shrugged, the smile turning bittersweet. ‘Ah, well, there you have me.’

The air was laden with dust, a choking morass of it that the earthmovers threw up, gritting the eyes and throat, a smothering blanket that only intensified the heat.
It’s just as well I
know this is important. Seems like the sort of nonsense they’d give out for punishment detail in other armies.

The theory was sound, though. When the armies finally clashed – any day now – the Collegiates would make their stand in these earthworks, shielded from enemy shot and shell, defended
by a fence of stakes, currently resting on the beds of the automotives, with entrenched artillery to support them. The broken ground of the trenches would trip up even the new Imperial automotives,
whilst the Collegiate machines would sally down pre-planned safe paths in order to attack the enemy supply and siege engines.

Straessa pulled down the neckerchief she was using to screen the dust from her lungs, and took a swig of water, more to forestall a telling-off from te Mosca than because she felt the need for
it. The Fly-kinden woman veered off, satisfied, and went to berate Gerethwy instead. The lanky Woodlouse youth stared down at her as though he had never seen anything so impertinent in all his
life, but within a few moments he too was uncapping his own flask, giving in to the inevitable.

That was when a call went out from on high. They had a few with them who possessed the Art of flight, and there was a rota of lookouts, but Straessa had not expected to need them. After all, the
enemy were miles away, according to the scouts.

A Fly-kinden dropped down hard enough to buckle at the knees.

‘They’re coming!’ he shouted.

She fought back all the stupid things she would have said before some Ant had been fool enough to trust her with a rank, however inferior – all the
What?
and
Who
? and
Are
you sure
? – and instead just barked out, ‘Report!’ as she ran over. All around her, soldiers were readying their weapons, charging, loading, not calmly but not panicked
either.

‘Half-dozen automotives coming along fast, Sub,’ the Fly choked out.

‘The army?’

‘Just the machines, Sub.’

Six automotives? For a moment she felt like laughing. The Collegiate forces could surely defeat them or drive them off. They had sixty soldiers, three armed transports and the earth-movers. The
look on the Fly’s face brought her up short, though. ‘Tell me.’

‘Like woodlice, Sub, but they were moving as fast as a horse can gallop, it looked like, and heading straight for us. Sub, these are the ones we’ve heard of – the ones that did
Myna.’

‘Sub!’ someone else called out to her, pointing. There were dustclouds building rapidly to the north-east, the enemy’s machines coming on
fast
!

‘Everyone to the automotives!’ she shouted. ‘Move it, all of you! That means you on the earthmovers too!’

Technically Straessa did not have overall command, for each detachment was under its own sub-officer. At least one of the other officers was shouting at his men to stand and shoot.
And we
should have worked this sort of thing out before.
The Beetle-kinden had no rigorous tradition of giving and obeying orders, though, being a people who loved discussion.

Still, her own people were on the move, and at least some of the others. The bulk of the earthmover drivers were still at work, though, and Straessa pounded over to them, shouting at them to get
going.

‘We’ll never get the machines away in time,’ one of them objected. He was a big Beetle of middle years, and plainly did not want to be told what to do by some halfbreed
student.

‘Sod the machines. Get
yourselves
out!’ she snapped at him.

‘If I lose this machine—’ the Beetle started, plodding to a fault, and then there was a hollow boom nearby, a thunder and a whirling plume of dust, the echo of it almost
lifting Straessa from her feet. One of the other earthmovers had been staved in as though an invisible fist had struck it. A moment later its fuel tank exploded with a wretched pop, flames creeping
weakly from the burst seams.

The Beetle needed no more encouragement, but was already running for the transports, and then so was almost everyone else. Straessa held on for one moment more, horrified and fascinated,
watching the shapes loom out of the dust. Those high-fronted, armoured forms of overlapping armour plates, that single lidded eye that opened only when the machines ground to a skidding halt for a
moment, when it flashed and belched as the leadshotter behind it let loose. There was only this half-dozen, but their swift and rushing movement struck a primal fear into Straessa that she had not
known she could own to.