The Iron jackal

Thirty-Two

Frey cast one last look at the Ketty Jay as his crew hurried past him, down a passageway between the buildings. It pained him to leave her there sitting in the middle of the square, even sealed tight as she was. But then, he supposed, unless they pulled this off he wouldn’t be alive to come back to her anyway.

That was a heartening thought.

He’d memorised the layout of the compound as best he could from a distance, but the quarry wouldn’t be hard to find. Compared to the camp itself, it was massive. They slipped from building to building, shooting at any guard that came near, heading in the direction of their target. The drifting murk turned distant men into shadows and helped to conceal them. oThe Murthians had driven most of the resistance back towards the centre of the camp, pushing the Daks before them. The guards hadn’t been ready for a ground assault of these proportions. Still, it was only a matter of time before they regrouped and realised they had twice the numbers the Murthians did. Frey hoped the Murthians would get to the pens before that. And he hoped the slaves were up for a fight when they were freed.

Well, it would play out however it played. No time to worry. He had his own agenda.

Bess clunked along ahead of them, terrifying – and occasionally maiming – anyone who crossed their path. The rest of his crew, except Silo, were with him. That was unusual. He almost never managed a full muster, and he wished his engineer had been there to complete it. He missed Silo’s taciturn presence by his side, and belatedly realised he should have given him an earcuff to stay in touch. But he’d had to let him go. He knew well enough how a man sometimes had to do a thing, regardless of anybody else. He’d seen that need in Silo ever since they went back to his old camp.

Malvery had taken Pinn’s burned arm from its sling after confessing that he’d only bound it up to piss him off, so Pinn could manage a revolver again. Harkins had come too, although he was jumping at every loud noise. Well, if he wanted to get himself killed to impress a woman, Frey could hardly turn him down. Frey had done similarly stupid things in his time.

Then there was Ashua. She was a problem he’d have to deal with later. He’d said she could be part of his crew, but he’d have agreed to anything at that point, if it meant saving his neck. She’d find out soon enough that a man’s word wasn’t worth shit if his life was in the balance. As soon as this was all over, he fully intended to kick her off.

The crew would thank him, in the end. Especially the more longstanding members, who would recall the disastrous tenures of previous females on board. Granted, Frey had tended to favour attractiveness over competence in those days, but even the competent ones were kicked off or left behind in the end. It was only a matter of time before Frey got drunk and made a move on them, and whether it was successful or not, life would be unbearable for everyone until she was gone. The Ketty Jay was far too small for sexual tension, but Frey was simply incapable of restraining himself.

It was alright having Jez aboard, because he didn’t fancy her, and she was dead. A live, warm woman, and one that made him unaccountably frisky, was a complication he didn’t need.

Ah, spit on it. You can give her the boot when the time comes. Let’s just try and survive the next few days, eh?

The buildings came to an end near the lip of the quarry. Frey checked the coast was clear and then waved his companions down, indicating that they should stay put. Then he hurried across the open ground to the edge, where he crouched to scout the lie of the land below.

After a few moments, the crew followed him in a flock, crouching all aroundng all a him. Bess settled herself with a creak of leather and a clash of metal.

Frey sighed. ‘I told you to wait by the buildings.’

‘Was that what that was?’ Malvery asked, waving his hand in the air in a poor imitation of Frey. ‘Sorry, Cap’n.’

‘Maybe next time you could use words, instead of interpretive dance?’ Crake suggested.

Pinn spluttered a laugh. ‘Interpretive,’ he leered, as if it was something lewd. What Pinn found funny about it was a mystery.

‘Can’t see bugger all down there,’ Malvery commented, squinting.

Frey had come to the same conclusion. The toxic fog that hazed the upper atmosphere thickened near the ground, and the quarry was like an enormous collecting bowl. Tiers were cut out of the rock, with ramps and ladders between them, but he could only see the uppermost shelf, and a hint of the next. After that, they disappeared entirely. All he could see of the bottom was a yellow bleary blankness, with a few smudges of light.

Frey sighed. Another handicap. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Everyone stick together down there. We don’t want anybody shooting anybody by accident. That means you, Pinn.’

‘Hey! Is that ’cause I shot that feller in the rainforest that time? He didn’t even die!’ Pinn was indignant. ‘That’s victiming!’

Crake turned his head slowly towards Pinn. ‘That’s what?’ he said, his voice dripping scorn.

‘Uh… Victiming?’ Pinn said, as if talking to a child. ‘Like when someone’s picking on you? Ring any bells, Mr Education?’

Crake gave a weary sigh. ‘One day I’m going to buy you a dictionary,’ he said.

‘He can share it with Frey!’ Ashua beamed.

‘Why do I need a dictionary?’ Frey complained.

‘No reason,’ said Ashua. ‘Now let’s get down there and mortify some guards.’

Frey was caught in one of those moments when he didn’t know what somebody meant and couldn’t decide whether to pretend he did or not.

Pinn groaned, as if explaining things to Frey was extraordinarily tiresome. ‘Mordant means dead, don’t it? So mortify means kill, obviously. They even sound the same. Right?’ He looked at Ashua, who nodded encouragingly.

‘Oh,’ said Frey. ‘ Oh! Let’s mortify some guards. I’m with you now. Didn’t hear you right the first time, that’s all.’

Crake and Ashua exchanged a glance, though it was hard to tell its meaning behind their goggles. Malvery tutted to himself. Frey had the distinct impression that a joke was being had at his expense, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was.

Something exploded just overhead, making them all duck. One of the Delirium Trigger ’s Equalisers shrieked through the air.

‘Probably shouldn’t be hanging around in the open like this,’ Jez pointed out.

‘That’s why I told you to stay in cover,’ said Frey. ‘Don’t want to see anyone get mortified.’

He suspected that was Crake stifling a laugh as they headed along the lip of the quarry, but the daemonist might have been just coughing behind his mask.

They caught sight of several guards running away from them, towards the almighty firefight in the middle of the camp, but they managed to reach the nearest ramp unnoticed. The stony slope was wide and built for vehicles. They made their way down it, and on to the first tier. The quarry wall hid them from sight from the rest of the camp, making Frey feel marginally safer. There were no guards in sight, and they followed the shelf to another ramp, which took them further down into the quarry.

The fog closed in around them, stifling the sounds of conflict. The sound of machine guns faded to a distant rapping. Explosions became dulled and lost their threat. Little noises were amplified by this new quiet: Frey could hear the rustle of clothes, the creak of Bess’s joints, Harkins trying not to hyperventilate. They could hear faint cries down in the quarry. Guards were calling to one another in Samarlan.

‘They’re down there somewhere,’ said Malvery. ‘Could be they don’t know we’re here. But I reckon some of them’ll be heading up to the camp to find out what all the commotion is.’

‘Right. Eyes peeled, everyone,’ said Frey.

‘For all the good that ’ll do,’ Ashua muttered.

Frey took her point. They really couldn’t see a great deal. Anything more than ten metres away was only a shadow, and anything past twenty was invisible. ‘Well, y’know. Do what you can.’

They made their way down to the next tier. On the way, they passed sinister, hulking shapes, sitting motionless and silent. Earth-moving vehicles, with drills and scoops and tracked wheels as tall as a man. There was something about the brute scale of industrial machinery that intimidated Frey. He felt very small in comparison.

‘Footsteps,’ whispered Jez. She held up her hand to halt everyone – for some reason they understood when she did it – and then slid through the fog to the edge of the tier. Frey went with her. They squatted, and she pointed.

On the next tier, fifteen metres below, a dozen shadowy figures hustled through the murk. Frey could just about make out the rifles in their hands, the Dak bayonets fixed to the barrels. He felt a chill, and waited till they passed by.

‘I reckon, if they’re going that way, we should go the other,’ Frey opined.

‘Sounds like a good plan, Cap’n.’

They returned to the others and moved off in the opposite direction to the guards. This quarry was so big that there had to be more than one ramp between each shelf. Shortly afterwards, and with a smug glow of self-congratulation, it turned out he was right. They slipped down to the level below, evading the guards on the way.

The lights on the quarry floor were much closer now, but they still had no idea how far they had to go. It was hard to know where anything was in this ghostly netherworld. The sounds of the battle above were a fuzzy percussion, coming to them as if in a dream.

They were moving along the shelf, searching for the next ramp down, when Jez suddenly put her hand on his chest to stop him. The rest of the group halted with him, some more silently than others.

‘What is it?’ he whispered.

She narrowed her eyes in concentration. ‘Not sure. Hard to tell where the sounds are coming from.’ She listened. ‘I think they’re trying to be quiet.’

‘They?’ He peered into the gloom. He could just about make out the looming shape of another bulky vehicle ahead.

Pinn joined them. ‘Why’ve we stopped?’

Jez shushed him. ‘They’re above us,’ she whispered, looking up at the ridge. ‘I think they know where we-’

The silence was destroyed by the bellow of an engine, and the fog filled with dazzling light. The vehicle ahead had come to life. Powerful headlamps and floods beamed through the haze. In their glare, Frey saw the outline of some kind of enormous bulldozer, a monster of black iron, seeping smoke. There was a shout, and suddenly rifles were firing, sharp flashes in the gloom.

Caught out in the open, the crew scattered in panic. Frey’s first instinct was to run back in the direction they’d come, but then he caught sight of figures running along the ridge overhead, setting themselves in position to fire down on their targets. They’d be cut to pieces, unless ‘Up against the wall! Take cover against the wall!’ he yelled.

The crew, thankfully, listened. The wall to their left was roughly carved and deeply rucked, and there was an overhang at the top, which meant that the guards above wouldn’t be able to hit them without leaning out over the edge. Bullets pinged and sparked around them as they crammed themselves into whatever niches they could find. Most of the shots were aimed at Bess, who was counted as the biggest threat, but they had no effect on her other than to make her angry.

‘Bess! You need to shield us!’ Crake called to her. She squatted down with them, putting her metal body between the crew and the bulldozer.

Frey leaned out of the fold of rock where he’d stashed himself and fired off a few shots in the general direction of the enemy. The lights made it impossible to see his targets, but it lit the crew up nicely for the guards.

Crake and Harkins were panicking, fumbling with their guns and covering their heads whenever a bullet came their way. The rest of the crew were calmer in returning fire, but their situation wasn’t good. The enemy had the high ground, which meant they couldn’t move. And there was nothing stopping the Daks coming down the ramp and round the back of them. If that happened, their cover would mean bugger all: they’d be sitting ducks.

Then, just when he thought things had got quite bad enough for the moment, the bulldozer started to move forward.

Frey’s heart sank. The tier was only a dozen metres wide. Getting past the enemy would mean running onto their guns – onto their bayonets – down the narrow space to either side of the bulldozer. A choice between a wall or a steep drop. But if the vehicle got too close, the enemy would get an angle on them, and they would have to flee their cover. Which meant the soldiers above could pick them off with ease.

He muttered a string of swear words under his breath. He took a shot at where he thought the cab might be, to see if he could get the driver, but he only heard the long whine of a ricochet.

‘Cap’n? Any ideas?’ Jez asked.

‘Nope,’ he said. And that meant they were in deep, deep trouble.

Pushing on, out from the cluster of buildings that surrounded the Ketty Jay, across the open spaces of the camp. Silo’s boots pounded the packed earth as he ran, his shotgun cradled in his arms. The metal tower of the gas derrick rose high above him. Huge storage tanks rested at its base, inside a tangle of pipes and distillation apparatus.

Bullets picked at the ground, sending up scuffs of poisoned dirt. Men were running around him, forging through the foetid air and the stench of rotten eggs. Someone to his right was hit in the chest and went down in a tumble, rolling to a stop. His companions jumped over him and carried on.‹ carried/font›

On the far side of the open ground were the barracks and more administrative buildings, and beyond them, the gates to the pens. The Daks still hadn’t got themselves organised. Most retreated before the attack. Others took cover and attempted to resist, but without the coordination of their fellows, they were soon overwhelmed. The Murthians were not well drilled, but they had a clear purpose and the advantage of surprise. Bodies fell on both sides, but many more Daks than Murthians.

Silo pressed himself up against the side of a long narrow building, grateful to be out of the firing line for a moment. The buildings in Gagriisk were low, ugly and practical, with a temporary feel about them. Their windows were sealed with bubbles of windglass and their doors were stout and metal.

He heard a hiss. The door of the building opposite popped ajar with a rush of air that stirred the surrounding fog. Silo crossed over and hid behind it as it came open. He heard muffled voices, the scuff of booted feet. Two of them.

He kicked the door closed and fired twice.

They were Samarlan officers in uniform, wearing masks that covered their whole head instead of just goggles and a breather. It made them faceless and machine-like. Still, they died like everyone else when you shot them.

Silo stepped past their bodies and looked into the doorway. There was another sealed door beyond the open one. An airlock, to keep the atmosphere clean inside. So that was how they endured this toxic place. There’d be no such luxuries for the slaves.

Two Murthians ran past him, sparing him barely a glance as they headed towards the pens. Silo hurried after them. There was the sound of machine gun fire ahead, audible over the booming of the anti-aircraft gun and the scream of engines in the sky.

The two Murthians ran out of the cover of the buildings, into the open, carried on by the momentum of vengeance. A machine gun rattled; bullets chipped and puffed at the ground and walls. One of them jerked like a badly-handled marionette and went down; the other skidded to a halt and fled back into cover. Silo caught up with him at the edge of the building. He was breathing hard and whimpering, staring at his dead companion, eyes shocked behind his goggles.

Silo had no words of comfort for him. He’d learn, just as Silo had. Or he’d die.

Around the corner of the building was an area of clear ground in front of the gates to the slave pens. The Daks were dug in deep here. There were machine gun emplacements on the walls, and bunkers surrounded by stone barriers at ground level. A pair of tracked flatbed vehicles were parked near the gates, for transporting the slaves from pen to quarry. Plenty of cover for the thirty or forty guards that defended the gates, but almost none for the Murthians if they tried a frontal assault.

This is where the Daks were going, he realised. This was their emergency plan. They knew that if anyone invaded the camvaded thp, they were either coming to free the men in the prison, or the slaves from the pens. Since the invaders were Murthians, it was obvious which they’d go for. The Daks had been caught off-guard by the Cap’n’s plan, but they’d regrouped here, and Silo couldn’t see any way to winkle them out that didn’t end in a shitload of dead Murthians.

His gaze roamed the surrounding area, and then settled.

Unless…

He caught sight of Ehri and Fal, hiding close by. He made his way back through the buildings towards them, avoiding the open ground. There were still Murthians and Daks battling here and there, but he avoided the gunfights and soon reached Ehri’s side. She looked back at him, her expression unreadable.

We cannot attack with those guns there, she said.

We have to get through somehow, said Fal urgently. ~ Listen to them.

Silo could hear something between the sporadic rattle of gunfire and the explosions from overheard. A distant hubbub of shouted voices. The slaves on the other side of the gate. They sensed the chance at freedom, and they’d roused.

He felt a surge of fierce pride at the sound. The Murthians weren’t like the Daks; they would never lie down and submit to slavery under the Sammies. So many generations they’d been under the yoke, yet they were still angry, still eager for the fight. Once, he’d thought a more subtle approach might have been more sensible, that their mulelike resistance to being ruled would be the very thing that kept them in chains for ever. But, hearing those voices, he knew he’d been wrong. The smallest compromise would have been the first step to giving up. And his people never gave up.

He surveyed the ground in front of the gates. Several bodies lay there, Daks and Murthians, blood seeping into the dirt. Too many had fallen on the Murthian side already, som e of them barely adults, killed in the first battle they ever saw. All of them here on his account, because of his plan to attack Gagriisk.

He thought he should feel something, but he didn’t. Where was the crushing weight of responsibility? Where was the guilt he’d been so terrified of all these years? He’d never wanted to be a leader again after his failed coup against Akkad. He’d become a follower instead, for fear of repeating the same mistake and inviting another tragedy. But now here they were. People were dying because of him. And he looked on their bodies, and nothing happened.

He was a violent man who led a violent life. That was the way of it. Handing off responsibility was just a chickenshit evasion. How many people had he killed on the Cap’n’s behalf? A fair few, he reckoned. The Daks brutalised his people all their lives, but in the end they were slaves too, and only following orders. Did that make them innocent? Not in his eyes. So how did being a follower excuse him from responsibility, just because he let someone else make the choices?

Lead or follow, it didn’t matter half a damn. People lived and died, regardless. If those kids didn’t die because of him, they’d likely die some other way pretty soon. In the end, all a man was responsible for was himself. And that went for everyone.

Well then, he thought. Raise your voice, or don’t.

I have an idea, he said.

Tell us, said Fal.

Silo pointed. Beyond the open ground there were a few more small buildings, and visible behind them was the anti-aircraft gun emplacement, set atop a shallow rise.

I think that gun could be more usefully employed.

Ehri and Fal exchanged a glance. Silo saw the grin in Fal’s eyes.

Lead on, old friend, he said.- We’re with you.