3rd of Arrestre

I have to find a way to get to the Ag Sector.

That was my first cogent, waking thought before my eyes opened and my new sleeping quarters came into view. Plain white walls. A tiny slit of a window. No cupboards or shelves for personal belongings, no furniture but the bed, nothing but the barest minimum of comfort.

The mattress beneath me was lumpy, but a hundred times softer than the mat from hut 56. I could have slept for another week.

You don't have a week.

My joints creaked in protest as I pushed myself up and began fumbling automatically for my shoes, responding to the sound of the opening bars of Kreigh Agharitz Paradazh blaring from the sonulator coil in the ceiling.

I mumbled the impolite Agriculture Sectorist version under my breath as I shoved my arms back into the sleeves of my jumpsuit and pulled it up. Convenient, how the High Altyran words for 'glorious rise' rhymed so well with the Low Altyran slang for 'runny excrement.'

No sooner had the Coventry's favorite song ended, but a sharp knock at the door immediately preceded a sharp-faced woman of about sixty, who took one look at me, grunted in disgust, then grabbed my arm in her knobby fingers, the better to escort me down the hall and into a room full of clothing.

I was given a new uniform.

My jumpsuit was taken from me and burned, along with my canvas shoes.

The woman informed me in broken Low Altyran that breakfast was always served promptly at the second bell, muttered something in High Altyran about having to fumigate my room, then shooed me out into the hallway again.

~~~

The communications room was still a hive at full capacity, but after ten hours with no further developments, the energy had gone from frantic and distressed to a more steady hum of activity. The light of day had brought back an appearance of normalcy, it seemed. Messages were moving from one office to another, and reports were coming in thick and fast from scouting parties and patrols, but the terrified gossip had quieted.

Shortly after I arrived and sat at my station in the listening room, High General Erkhaldt left to oversee the plans to hunt down the Icewolf. 

I had no intention of 'listening.'

I had to figure out a way to get to the Agriculture Sector.

There was no way I could leave my post without permission.

I had to make it look like I had permission.

In order to do that, I would have to get ahold of a pass card from the general's desk.

And I would have to do it under the nose of the large, grumpy guard the general had sent to watch his office.

When the guard first came lumbering in, I thought my chances of getting a pass had gone to shreds. But then he grabbed one of the empty station chairs and planted himself down next to the door to the office. Facing me. On my side of the door.

Orrelian would have called him a Thief's Best Friend — a watchman who has turned his back on his post, believing the greatest threat would arrive in front of him. Blinking in disbelief, I watched him settle in for guard duty.

He gave me a fierce, meaningful glower, then brought a small waddingpage out of his jacket pocket and began reading.

Right then. I pressed my lips together, an insane plan taking shape. It would be a long game, but maybe... just maybe... If I pulled it off...

I went to work, scribbling random words on a fresh hourly report page.

The first time I took my 'reports' in, the guard put the waddingpage away and straightened up as if expecting me to try something.

By the third time, the waddingpage stayed in his hand and he only gave a little grunt when I walked past.

Just to see what would happen, I waited a full minute in the general's office on the fourth trip.

The guard didn't seem to think anything of it. In fact, he seemed to appreciate being allowed to read uninterrupted.

So I did it again, with exactly the same result. The guard turned a page and kept reading. Whatever the story was, he was obviously enjoying it.

Phase two.

On the sixth trip in, I took a deep breath, checked the timekeep. Then, instead of going back into the listening room, I crossed to the general's desk, my heart pounding a rapid tattoo against my ribs.

The desk was locked. No surprise there. I looked at the timekeep again. Forty more seconds. The lock was a run-of-the-mill tumbler-and-pin. Nothing difficult if I had my pick set... I had no pick set. I bit my lip, casting about for anything I could use as a pick. There wasn't anything on the desk. The letter opener was too wide.

Thirty seconds. Twenty five.

In a pinch I could have used a hairpin, but I didn't have any — I gasped and tugged my hat free of my hair. It didn't take much. My hair still hadn't grown more than an inch, and was curlier than it used to be. The staff matron who had given me my clothes that morning had given my unruly locks another disgusted grunt before finding me a hat that would stay on. She had made it clear that the only reason she was doing anything out of the ordinary for me, a lowly Sectorist, was because His Grace had asked her to. 

A wry grin twisted across my face at that delicious irony as I worked the comb free of the band's stitching. The tines were long, slender, and slightly flexible, perfect for manipulating a pair of tumblers.

Then I tucked the comb in my pocket, stuck my hat on my head, stood up and walked calmly back into the listening room because I was out of time.

The guard turned a page, his brows drawn into a line of concentration.

Another handful of 'translations' later, and I was back at the general's desk, rapidly working the tines of the comb past the lockplate while counting down the seconds with the timekeep and wincing at every scrape and scuffle.

The center drawer didn't have anything of interest. Just pens and stationery and other useful odds and ends. I made sure nothing was out of place and locked the desk again, imagining Orrelian making note of that in his little black ledger.

Back to the listening room to pretend  to write another handful of 'translations.'

Back to the desk.

The general was right-handed, so I took a gamble and started going through the right-hand compartment beside the knee nook. My hunch paid off. I stifled a little cry of relief when the first drawer yielded the string-bound book of green pass paper and the general's pass stamp, right there on the top shelf

Moving quickly, I tore several passes off and stamped them, tucked them into the garter of my long stockings, and was about to return everything to its place again when my gaze snagged on a steel file box tucked into a cubbyhole at the bottom of the compartment... and the word "Maps" printed on the box placard.

My mouth went dry.

I glanced at the timekeep. I would have to make another trip.

I finished locking the drawer, then went quietly back to my station. The knowledge of that file box burned like a hot coal, and it was nearly impossible to think of anything to 'report.' If this worked... No. I couldn't let myself wonder what the other side of this was going to look like. I needed to focus. I jotted down a string of random, disjointed words, then checked on the guard.

He shifted in his seat, but only to scratch at his leg, never taking his eyes off his book.

I stood, gathering my reports together just like before.

If he noticed that I was taking them in early, he didn't say anything.

Keeping my steps unhurried, I carried the reports to their bin in the office.

Then I flew to the desk, knelt behind it, and picked the compartment lock again.

My fingers were starting to shake as I pulled the outer door open and reached for that file box. The lock on the box took another count of ten to pick. The lid gritched when I flipped it up, and I stopped, scarcely able to hear over the pounding of my own heart.

Nothing. The guard didn't move a muscle.

Cautiously, I began studying the maps.

They were folded into booklets, their spines neatly labeled. 'Terrain.' 'Shoreline.' 'Dockworks.' 'New Housing.'

The fifth label down had me teasing the booklet out of the box. 'Fortifications.' I paged through the book folds, getting snatches and glimpses of detailed plans, enough to reveal complex locations, different levels of important buildings, and what looked like fortifications for the entire valley. My breath stopped. I sat there, staring at this thing that could crush the Coventry, not quite believing I was holding it.

It was deadly. Taking it would mean my execution if – no, when — I got caught. It was frequently used, judging from the wear on the spine. It's absence would be noted sooner rather than later. I had no way to get my hands on a sylvocapture, no way to copy it, I would have to steal the original with no guarantee I could put it back.

And I might never get this chance again. I would have to steal it now.

Jaw tight, I crouched low behind the desk, fingers trembling as I began undoing the togs on the front of my blouse. I had been given new underclothes by the same helpful matron who had given me the hat, and I unfolded the map into a long rectangle, slipped it beneath my chemise, wrapped it around my waist, then cinched my belt in as tight as it would go.

Next, I would forge the general's initials on the pass card, and then I would be on my way to the Ag Sector. Plans whirling through my head, I had only just put the file box back on its shelf and locked the desk when there was a muttered curse from the listening room, and then the guard heaved his large frame out of his chair, his boots thumping on the floor as he careened around the corner and through the doorway.

With a jerk, I shot out from behind the desk, flying in the direction of the receiving tray I was supposed to be putting my reports in. 

The guard came to a halt, but only to take up a position by the door, snapping his heels together and his gun across his chest, trying his best to look like he had been there the whole time as footsteps sounded out in the listening room, approaching the office. The guard never even looked at me. He was more worried about getting his waddingpage back into his jacket pocket, and he didn't see me frantically doing up the last of the togs on my blouse.

But it wasn't the general who appeared in the doorway. It was a young man in a courier's uniform.

"Miss Anderfield?"

To my surprise, my voice worked on the first try. "Yes?"

"You are to come with me," the young man announced, stepping to the side and indicating with a sweep of his arm that I should go through into the listening room.

I dipped into a half-bow, my pulse thundering in my head, my thoughts ricocheting along with it. How would he know? He couldn't possibly know. Straighten up. Breathe. You just have to keep acting normal... There isn't a map under your clothes, nor are there pass papers in your stockings... Just start walking... Nod... Smile... Meekness and stupidity...

Somehow, I managed not to fall as I passed the guard and then the young man, and went on through the listening room, my body marching forward even though my brain was running amok with one awful scenario after another.

The courier caught up with me, then led the way down the aisle in the communications room. Then to the lift at the end of the hallway. Then we were moving downward, past the exit to the parking yard. Just when I thought — with rapidly mounting terror — that we were actually going all the way to the basement, he toggled the lift to a stop and opened the gates.

In front of us stretched a broad concrete rail platform, with one of the sleek Coventry rail engines waiting in the tunnel, gleaming bright in the light from the mirrored lamps strung up overhead. 

The high general's private rail compartment was the only one hitched to the engine.

Just keep going... You aren't dead yet. They can't know...  They don't know... The wood of my boot heels clattered on the corrugated metal of the folding ladder as I trailed the courier into the traveling compartment. 

There was a singular sort of utilitarian decadence about the inside of it, with its polished steel details and dark orange curtains. It was more of a small mobile apartment, really. There was a small bar along one wall, a book case along the other, a tapestry rug on the floor, and couches and chairs instead of bench seats. I sank warily into the orange velvet-cushioned armchair across from the courier, watching him, trying to read any clue as to where we were going or why as the engine came to life and began moving.

The courier watched me right back, a sardonic twist to his lips, then dismissed me and turned to look through the window at the dark blur of tunnel wall flying by outside.

We were moving fast, faster than any rail compartment I had ever ridden in, and the engine didn't make the usual chuffing noise. There was only a hum, and the movement was so smooth it was barely noticeable.

Which made it easier to focus on other things. A crease in the map was pinching my left side, and the thing was getting warm, trapping my body-heat. Perspiration was beginning to make it slide a little, but I didn't dare sit back for fear the thing would migrate up and make a visible bulge beneath my blouse. Or down, which would make it fall out of my skirt when I stood up.  

Then, without any warning, we began slowing, and a moment later the engine came to a smooth, purring halt. The door accordioned open to another underground platform that looked very much like the first, save for the High Altyran words "Command Tower" painted on a gaslight  sign over another lift gate at the far end.

The courier got up and stepped out of the compartment, so I had to follow, wildly praying he would think I was only nervous as I pressed a hand to my middle. 

Across the gaslit platform, into the lift, and then we were going  up. And up. And up. There were no level signs, only the occasional glimpse of stone beyond the viewing pane in the lift gate. We had to be ascending through the heart of the mountain. Rapidly. Almost as rapidly as the engine had just taken us through the tunnel. 

The courier didn't seem to think this was strange. He stood with his hands clasped behind him, waiting calmly.

My heart throbbed in my throat. What were we hurtling toward? What would I have to do in this tower? Would there be a security check to get through?

If they patted me down, this would all be over in seconds.

I took a long breath and let it out slowly through my nose. I did it again, seeking that familiar, cool, numb center where I could detach my emotions and push all the fear and revulsion down deep. Another breath. Another. In, out... In, out —  

The courier ratcheted the doors open and stepped aside, and once again I moved forward, passing through an arched hallway and out into some sort of hangar.

My mouth dropped open of its own accord.

The Command Tower was a man-made cavern hewn directly out of the top of the mountain ridge. High, vaulted ceilings soared overhead, and the floor was an expanse of pavement so vast that the people working at the farthest end looked an inch tall. Massive five-story tall hangar doors stood open along the length of the cavern, allowing a clear view of bright mid-morning sky, and the pavement inside the tower extended outside, forming a wide platform that jutted over the treetops.

Four of the airships were moored to that platform, nosing up to it like great, ink-dark, air-borne whales.

Fingers curled around my elbow, and then the courier yanked me forward, breaking my stupor with a sharp, "Come on. His grace is waiting for you." Then he was hurrying me to the right, toward a group of men gathered in front of what looked like a panel of circular portholes set into the wall of the cave.

The high general was among them, his hand lifted to his mouth, stroking his goatee as he watched whatever was going on in the portholes. The short, bull-necked man next to him happened to see us coming and turned toward us.

You are a humble servant of the Coventry... you are small... you are broken...you would never steal a map or hide anything in your stockings... My heartbeat took off at a crazy canter. I didn't stop gaping around, letting my eyes stay wide and my mouth stay open, and my feet stumble. Let them think I was overwhelmed by their might and their technology. It wasn't difficult. There was a lot to take in.

The portholes weren't portholes, for starters. More like a very large version of a sylvocapture reel. Only, instead of individual images flashing across the magnifier, it was a continuous, ongoing stream. One of them was viewing the grounds around what was left of the medical sector building. Another was trained on the dam. Several more were of sections of wall, or lengths of rail, or sector buildings. All of them were changing and moving, as if they were showing things while they happened. Guards on rotation. A repair crew cleaning up Medical Sector rubble. Even Rushidi walking down the hill to the Ag Sector canteen. 

It was eerie, as if I had stepped off that lift, taken a leap forward in time, and left my own reality behind with all the barbarians and swamp people.  

"Ah! Here she is! Just in time. But I thought there would be more to her. This is your secret weapon, Brannen?" The bull-necked man was saying in High Altyran.

The courier dragged me to a stop a short distance from High General Erkhaldt.

Erkhaldt didn't acknowledge my arrival, merely lifting a non-committal shoulder, still stroking his goatee and staring at the viewing screen in front of him. It showed nothing but a stretch of rocky mountainside, the perspective swaying slightly, as if the viewer were floating and looking down from above.

They had some sort of advanced sylvocapture device mounted on an airship. Logic said that was the only way they could get the image I was seeing, but how they relayed the image to the portholes in the cavern was beyond me.

Bull Neck raised a thick eyebrow and glanced at me again.

I sank into a bow, operating  more by habit than thought,

Bull-neck burst out with a deep, rolling laugh, then crowed, "And to think we couldn't have found that supply route without her! You always were one to hold strange cards up your sleeve."

Supply route... My insides knotted even further as realization hit, and I had to force myself not to gasp. Five mice when the seagull is crooked... It had been a supply route.  

The high general snapped his fingers, then held up an imperious hand, beckoning with a jerk of his fingers.

I straightened and shuffled forward, desperately hoping the horror crawling through my middle wasn't showing on my face.

He pointed at the familiar grey hulk of a listening device set up underneath the viewing screen he was looking at.

The command was clear enough. I perched obediently on the swiveling chair provided and lifted the sonulator earpiece to my ear, extremely conscious of the weight of Bull Neck's attention on my shoulders. He was watching my every move, as were the other two officers in the group.

I squinted and adjusted some dials. The voices on the other end of the sonulator were muted, as if they were coming from the end of a long, echoing tunnel. A tunnel of wind. There was a heavy rushing sound overlaying everything that made it impossible to pick anything out. Some distant, detached part of me had the good sense to be glad, even while I made a show of concentrating on what I was hearing.

Then, suddenly, there was a flurry of movement in the trees on the magnifier screen, and Bull Neck let out a hoot. "The hunt is back on, boys! He's breaking cover!"

I glanced up, unable to keep from watching as a man in dark, mottled, ragged clothing burst out from a patch of trees, running all out for the next patch of cover. He was carrying something across his shoulders that seemed heavy, making him stagger as he ran. I sucked in a little breath when he hit loose gravel and stumbled, but then he hoisted the thing up again, giving a glimpse of antlers and hooves as he hauled himself and his burden up a short stony ridge and into a gulley on the other side.

He was carrying a dead deer. That fact meshed with the destruction of the convoy, and a fresh wave of guilt sank its claws in. it wasn't too hard to guess why this Illyrian soldier had been out shooting game. I had given the Coventry the information about the supplies meant for these Illyrian rebels. Whatever was happening, I had probably started it.

"Almost on him, now... Permission to take the shot, sir?" Bull Neck asked.

"Permission granted," Erkhaldt said quietly.

All I could do was stare at the man on the screen. Five mice when the seagull is crooked... 

A chain of bright lights zipped into view, and large pockmarks began peppering the rocky ground behind him, dogging his footsteps, sending up plumes of dust that got closer and closer.

They were firing incendiary rounds at him. My heart lurched into my throat as he stumbled again, this time falling to his knees. The incendiaries nearly caught him, then. With only inches to spare, he regained his feet and barreled up another ridge. He was nearly there. If he could just make it a few more meters, he'd be in the trees again. But the rounds kept coming, and as he topped that ridge, he took one in the back, the force of the impact sending him lurching to the right. He managed two more faltering steps and went down, sprawling onto a flat table of stone.

But he wasn't dead yet. He lifted himself up on his elbows and pulled himself forward, his efforts clumsy, his legs limp and dragging.

The voices in the earpiece were suddenly harsh, and much clearer than before, a man yelling, "Get up, Ikarru! Move!" While other, more muffled voices called back and forth in the background.

In the Command Tower, Bull Neck shouted a loud, victorious, "Send in the hunters! End him!"

"Cancel that order," General Erkhaldt said calmly. Then he was right there, bending close, leaning to place his right hand on the writing desk in front of me, his left on the back of my neck. "What are they saying, Miss Anderfield?"

Frigid gooseflesh erupted beneath his fingers, spreading down my spine, and I nearly choked on nothing. Somehow, I managed to lift my hand to the earpiece, pressing it tight to my head. "I ah..." I whispered, only barely remembering to answer in low speak. "They are urging the man to keep going,'" I quavered, panic tearing at me as the truth left my tongue. There wasn't any getting it back, though, and I couldn't think of a lie. Not with that hand burning against my skin, those long fingers flexing... I could practically feel the pale blue of the map glowing through the thin cotton of my blouse. 

For a moment, the general stayed there, studying me. Then he stood up. "They can see him. Get in position, but don't go in. And hold the dogs," he ordered, watching the porthole again. He didn't lower his hand, only shifted his grip a few inches along my shoulder. My insides crawled in response.

A disgruntled look crossed Bull Neck's heavy features, but he relayed those orders to a young woman at another sonulator set nearby. 

I closed my eyes tight as the voices in the earpiece became more agitated, that first voice becoming strident, "We can't leave him out there! He's still alive... You want me to sit here and watch him die—"

Then, abruptly, another voice came through, the Illyrian heavily accented, "You think Ikarru would want you dead? You go out there, they'll kill you too — Lanuki... Lanuki, wait, don't... " There was a pause, then a very distinct, unforgettable Northlander brogue, "Flaigha."

I looked up at the porthole so fast I nearly dropped the earpiece, fumbling to keep it against my ear as I searched the stretch of rocks. The man was still there. He was lying very still now, with one arm outflung as if reaching for help, a dark slick of blood trickling over the stone slab beneath him.

Another man appeared, coming in from the right, legs pumping as he dodged between tree trunks at full speed.

I wasn't sure what I expected. It couldn't possibly be Arramy's voice I had just heard, so I shouldn't have been disappointed that it wasn't Arramy running through the trees. This man was short, his dark Illyrian braids flying. He reached the edge of the rocks and kept going, right on out into the open, pelting across that slab toward the man lying prone in the middle.

The view didn't follow him. It skewed sharp to the right and tightened in on two men coming through the trees after the first, following at a swift jog.

Both of these men were lean like the others, their clothing ragged and striped to match the forest around them. One was shorter than the other, with a shaggy beard and a dark cap on his head. The other was tall and rangy, his hair pale against the gray tones around him.

The pale hair that had earned him his various nicknames on both sides of the fight.  

I frowned, trying to make out his face, but he was moving too quickly, and the viewer was swiveling around trying to track him.

Then the young woman at the sonulator spun in her chair, her words clipped with excitement, "Confirmed sighting, sir! It is the Icewolf." She stopped, listening to her earpiece, then added, "And his second. Both of them, sir."

The general squeezed my shoulder in a way that said I had just played a part in whatever was about to happen. "Release the dogs and close in."

Bull Neck grinned wide and relayed the order, prompting a round of cheering from the other officers and staff gathered to watch the portholes.

The Icewolf was in their sights, the man who had become the bane of their existence, responsible for wiping out entire platoons and leaving grizzly, demoralizing messages, blowing up rail lines and stealing ammunition and equipment, always striking hard and fast and then disappearing into the trees like a ghost. Of course they were cheering. They were finally going to be rid of him.

I wasn't breathing. I had forgotten how. My gaze was riveted to that round convex of glass, my muscles tense, my fingers tightening into fists, clutching at the fabric of my skirt as if I could catch a glimpse of the man's face if I just gripped something hard enough. I didn't need to see his face, though. Recognition was creeping through every fiber of my heart, firing with every aching beat. The way he moved, all speed and grace and intent... that long, lean build... the flash of bright silvery hair...

Part of me rejected that thought. Arramy was far away, safe and sound. That was how I had imagined him for the last several months. I had made a sort of peace with that idea. I was here, I would probably die here, but Arramy would get to survive somewhere out there in the world. No matter how hard I tried to tell myself it was impossible, though, my heart insisted that Arramy was that man running through the trees, heading straight into the trap Erkhaldt had set.

A sob burned in my throat, threatening to break free. I didn't dare let it out. The general's hand still rested on my shoulder, and the map still pressed against my skin. Too much depended on me getting to the Agriculture Sector, now. I had to be  meek little Larra Anderfield for a while longer. So I sat perfectly still, not making a sound as one of the Coventry's huge patrol dogs streaked across the porthole, then another, and another.

I saw the man next to Arramy drop to his knees behind a fallen log and raise a rifle to his shoulder, firing at the dogs, bringing one down while Arramy kept going.

Incendiary rounds began flying from somewhere, lines of white dots appearing, then chunks of tree and stone flying, making Arramy duck as he ran. But he didn't stop. He kept going to the edge of the rocks, then he was out in the open, charging across the stone slab. I could see his mouth moving. Shouting at the young man now bowing over the dead soldier on the ground.

The young man shook his head, but began untying the deer from his brother's shoulders anyway. He was still shaking his head when Arramy skidded to the ground beside him, bringing his own rifle to his shoulder and taking aim at the Coventry soldiers coming through the trees.

There were so many of them.

Dogs. Men. Incendiary rounds.

I couldn't keep from flinching as pieces of stone erupted from the ground right in front of Arramy's feet, a pockmark appearing in his footprints as he and the Illyrian began retreating, Lanuki dragging the deer and leaving his brother's body behind.

Unbelievably, they reached the trees, and for one, fleeting second, hope sparked in my chest.

Then, as the view swung, chasing after Arramy, it caught the moment a bright white dot struck his head.

I blinked slowly.

Time stalled.

Arramy was on the ground.

He wasn't moving.

The man with the shaggy beard was there, and another, an Illyrian, and they grabbed Arramy's arms, hauling him up, dragging him away, firing wildly at the Coventry soldiers coming across the rocks.

Arramy still wasn't moving. He should have been, but he wasn't.

I needed to see him move, I had to see him move, he wasn't moving — why wasn't he moving —  

There was noise all around me. Bull Neck was jumping up and down, pumping his fist in the air and shouting. The general's fingers tightened on my shoulder, squeezing briefly then releasing as he raised his hands and began clapping.

No. I was seeing things. I was tired. This was a bad dream. Arramy was in Pordazh Vennos.

He wasn't moving. 

That man up there only vaguely resembled Arramy. I had filled in the rest with what I wanted to see.

He wasn't moving...

The Icewolf was Illyrian. That was all. He was a tall, silver-haired Illyrian. Surely they had some of those.

I looked down at my fingers, dumbly registering that they hurt. My knuckles were white, and they didn't uncurl fully when I willed them to move. Four rows of scarlet half-moons dotted the grey fabric of my skirt, matching small bloody crescents in my palms.

Frowning, I smoothed my skirt over my knees, trying to blot out the lithe, graceful way the Icewolf moved... trying to convince my stupid heart I hadn't just watched Arramy die...

He wasn't moving.

Something was coming apart in my head. I could feel my thoughts turning to fish, sliding and slippery, darting away, impossible to grab. The freezing cold thing in my chest was rising up to swallow me whole. All I could see was that white dot disappearing into strands of silver hair, and a tall man dropping to the ground.

Like a rock.

A big, dead rock.

As if from a great distance, I was aware of the general's order to come with him, to follow the group of officers as they filed through the archway and into the traveling compartment. They were going somewhere, for some reason. I must have done it, must have gotten up and moved myself on command, because a little while later I realized I was staring at the curtains in the rail compartment.

Bull Neck was there, somewhere behind me, loudly joking that today was a good day for a parade.  

There were other officers there too, sitting on the couches and sipping at drinks as the engine sped us toward our destination. One of them was wondering how the High Minister survived the blast, and another said someone named Jorren locked them both inside a reinforced room just in time.

I smoothed my skirt again. And again. And again. It hadn't been Arramy. The Icewolf was dead, but the Icewolf wasn't Arramy. Because if Arramy was dead, I couldn't — If I had just watched Arramy die, that would mean — If that had been Arramy — 

I couldn't finish any of those thoughts. Every time, they darted away, and I didn't want to catch them. 

The engine slowed, then stopped, and I had a hazy impression of leaving the rail compartment and getting into a lift, then walking out the huge main doors and onto the veranda in front of the headquarters building. That was indeed where I was when I raised my head again and looked around. All of the officers stood in front of me. The three men that made up the Triumvirate stood in front of them, looking out over the parade ground. I was alone at the back, the only woman, and the only staff member on the announcement platform.

Below us, several thousand people packed onto that expanse of marble at the bottom of the steps, blotting out all the glare of white with their charcoal uniforms.

The High Councilor was saying something, his melodic, articulate voice booming through a sonulator, going on and on about how mighty they all were. How they should be proud of their birthright. To be sons and daughters of the Order of the Coventry was an honor only they and their descendants would ever have.

I stared out at all the grey people on the parade ground. There were no jumpsuits of faded blue, white, yellow, green or red, only a sea of grey-clad Paradazh-born, all of them cheering wildly as they learned that today they had claimed a victory. The Icewolf was no more. They were wonderful. They were glorious. Nothing could stand in their way. They would crush the Illyrian rebels like gnats and go forth to claim their birthright.

The High Minister's words grated over my soul and I stopped listening, my pulse rattling in my chest.

Around me, there was a swell in the shouting and cheering, and Karronido's "parade" began with a thunder of drums that nearly masked the rumble of bitrack treads and creaking of gears as a steady flow of monstrous war machines rolled up out of the underground parking yard, their rail guns decorated with streamers and bunting. A lane had been left open for them, taking them in front of the announcement platform before turning left and running straight to the main gates of the parade ground. Some were bitracks, some were bigger, made for blowing up fortifications or transporting other machinery.

Row upon row of their heavily armed forward patrol marched out after the machines, the beat of their boots on the pavers sickeningly regular and strict. 

There was a high, raspy whine overhead, and a hundred of their two-man flying machines swooped past in groups of ten, trailing orange banners and dropping orange flowers and silver tinsel on the crowd.

Then Karronido's latest experiments began emerging from beneath the headquarters.

First came a group of heavy guard, escorting several soldiers carrying strange, bulky devices slung from thick straps over their shoulders. The devices glowed an eerie aquamarine-blue, but there wasn't anything particularly formidable about the soldiers bearing them. In fact, most of them weren't much to look at. Certainly not the paragons of strength the Coventry usually signed into combat training. It was the animals that preceded them that made me catch my breath. I had hoped never to see one of those sinuous forms again, gliding over the ground like some sort of land-dwelling eel, long black-and-white crests flaring. But these ones were wearing a glowing blue device over their heads, and they stayed in an unnaturally rigid formation, showing no inclination to attack the humans around them. In fact, when the soldiers stopped in front of the announcement platform, the animals began moving in fantastic patterns, forming choreographed shapes and designs that melted from one into another, clearly obeying intricate commands from the soldiers with the glowing devices. I could only guess what sort of power that took.

Last but not least, Karronido's 'monsters' appeared.

I squinted, trying to make out more details through the gaps between the officers in front of me.

Six sets of metal limbs that gleamed like polished metal in the sun. Unearthly glowing white eyes set in faces without nose or mouth. Fiery hearts of white-blue light locked inside cages of metal ribs... 

They marched in perfect sync all the way around to stand in front of the announcement platform, facing the crowd. Then, abruptly, they all raised their right arms, palm out, and a blinding white star of energy crackled to life between their fingers.

Without warning there was a clatter of nearby rifle fire that prompted gasps from the onlooking Paradazh-born. 

I shifted a little, trying to get a better view of what was going on, and found a line of Coventry guards firing incendiary rounds at the metal monsters, volley after volley, until there was a pal of smoky haze drifting over the front of the announcement platform.

The monsters didn't move an inch. In fact, they seemed to have absorbed all of the rounds fired at them. Not only were there no holes in their shiny metal bodies, there were no rounds on the ground around them either, or behind them, all of them simply vanished. The white energy in their palms still remained, undisturbed, the crackle of it audible in the sudden silence. 

Then, off to the right of the platform, a flicker of white caught my eye, followed by the sound of clanking and shuffling as several men in white jumpsuits were bought to stand where the line of soldiers had been.

They were made to kneel at gunpoint, and they sagged there on the pavers, their new white jumpsuits against the white marble only serving to make the state of them painfully obvious. They were filthy, unshaven, their features haggard, their legs and arms like sticks.

The High Minister was saying that these men were criminals. Traitors. They had been given a chance to be part of a greater calling, and they had thrown it away, choosing instead to plot against the Paradazh, seeking to kill the Children of the Coventry.

Then he gave a signal, and the metal men lowered their arms, taking aim at the prisoners. There was a fierce flash of light, a strange pop that rippled through the air, and then there were six blackened, melted craters sliced neatly from the marble where the condemned men had been kneeling.

For several seconds the parade ground was quiet.

Then someone began applauding, the sound increasing in waves until the cheering had reached a deafening crescendo.

I swallowed hard, tasting bitter ash on my tongue. I stared at the men in front of me, eyes dull. 

Father. All the people on the Galvania. Aunt Sapphine. Raggan. Orrelian, Marrin, and the other rebels. The girls in the cargo bin, the others in the med hut. Now the Icewolf. The men on that platform were steeped in so much blood it seemed to ooze from them, seeping through their shadows, trickling from their mouths. 

My hand moved to my waist, my fingers seeking the edge of the map just above my belt. It hadn't slipped. Somehow it had stayed right where I put it, even while I was walking and moving, obeying the commands of the High General. I lowered my hand at once, simultaneously relieved and horrified. I hadn't lost it, but I very well could have. I hadn't been thinking about it, hadn't even been aware of it . 

But I did have it.

Handing it to the Illyrians might be the last thing I did. There was no telling how long I would have before the general realized it was gone, and there wouldn't be any way to run, or anywhere to hide.

Once again, I saw a tall, light-haired man running across a rock-strewn slope... that same man lying so still on the ground. If that was Arramy... If the world really wouldn't have him in it anymore... Then I didn't have to try to survive this. A grim acceptance settled in. My heartbeat calmed, and a smile tugged its way free. It would be a good way to go, really, if I could pull it off.

AN:

So... HUGE chapter that took for freaking ever to finish... So sorry...
And... Um... Thoughts? Anyone?
*ducks a flying tomato*