Olivia

The First Stone was one of the few places in Lower Central still touched by sunlight.

The Sky Gardens connected nearly all of High Central at the thirtieth floor. Below that height, so tall even a Golem could walk beneath without scraping the ceiling, nearly a million and a half people did some of the City's most important work. It was a mark of how important the First Stone was — both army headquarters and the heart of the comms network — that nothing was built above it.

The dozen labourers that passed Olivia on the street, wearing thick overalls and gloves badly scarred by coal and cinder, helped make the ceramic pipes that carried the Spire's flames across the City. The train she had just stepped off of had been filled with the masons who shaped the stones for the walls. The building she passed, with the orange glow of a forge spilling through the open windows, was where salamander shot was manufactured. The headquarters for the Bureau of Oversight was an eight-minute walk to her left. And all of it sat beneath High Central's gardens.

But the First Stone — a forty-storey monolith as wide as it was tall — towered over Olivia bathed in the bright morning sun. Directly behind it, the Spire rose up and cleaved the heavens, a lance of orange light so bright it would blind someone who looked at it. The walls were simple grey stone, unadorned save for the army's emblem, a sword plunging into a wall, carved into the stone above the front entrance.

The only noteworthy luxury the First Stone was afforded, were glass doors. A dozen of them set at the top of a short stairwell, each wide enough to admit three people, that swung both in and out. And like every indulgence the City offered, there was another purpose.

A half-dozen soldiers were running hard for the doors, one of them directly in Olivia path. Her eyes fell on the young soldier's right arm. When her failing eyes saw the colour, she darted forward. pulled the door open, and held it wide. The young woman gave a short wave as she passed, but didn't speak. Which, considering the urgency of the hour, was more polite than Olivia expected.

After all, Golems had breached the outer walls. Certain niceties were abandoned under such duress, even to a Crafter.

Olivia strode up to the reception desk, where a well-dressed man with grey hair and the polished mannerisms of High Central was having a terse conversation with a rather frightened looking army sergeant.

"I want to know that my son is on his way home. You can damn well show me up to the Lord Captain, or at least whatever sap is in charge of the comms."

"Mister Lamar, I've told you before, the Lord Captain is busy," the sergeant insisted, though not forcefully. "And the comm hub is likely to be busy until the invasion is over. I can't let non-essential personnel through, let alone civilians."

Olivia recognized the name. Reginald Lamar, the number two man for the Bureau of Civil Development. A man of means and authority, who was fully capable of following through on a convincing threat. "Listen, you puffed-up desk clerk. You are going to find out where my son is, or I will have you and your entire extended family fending for yourselves in the Undercity."

The sergeant turned pale, and held up his hands. Olivia smiled with cheer she didn't feel, and stepped up to the side of the desk. "Perhaps I can help resolve this issue, Mister Lamar?"

"Ah, Madam Crafter. I doubt you can make this fool any more competent." Reginald Lamar sneered, and folded his arms. "But be my guest."

"I doubt I could make him any angrier than you've managed to," Olivia added, loud enough to ensure she was overheard. Before Reginald could say anything more, she put her back to him and addressed the soldier at the desk. "Sergeant, the Lord Captain, is he busy, or is he 'busy'?"

The sergeant looked from her, to Reginald, and back. "He's honestly busy, madam. Train collision on the third causeway, off Godichelli's wall. We're worried the evacuation won't keep pace with the Golems."

"Burn me, I'm glad I made it back when I did," Olivia said. She spun around, and pointed at Reginald. "There you have it. The Lord Captain is busy. Now go home, Mister Lamar. I'll send a runner, priority blue, when I get news."

"Madam Crafter?" The sergeant asked.

"I'm not burning leaving until I get what I came here for!" Reginald Lamar bellowed, and was halfway to jabbing Olivia with his finger until he thought better of it.

Once again, Olivia turned around and put her back to one of the most powerful men in the City. "I was asked to lend whatever assistance I can offer to the First Stone. Dremora asked me to help with the comms, fix the machinery, tell Bureau Chiefs the Lord Captain is a little short on free time, that sort of thing. Didn't think I'd be getting to work so quickly."

"Look, of course I know the Lord Captain's busy during a burning invasion," Reginald began to say, but he wilted as Olivia stared at him. Wilted as if she had carelessly let the air around her get a little too hot.

Which, Olivia realized with a sudden wash of unease, she had.

"Mister Lamar. I could rip this building apart with little more effort than you spend signing your name," Olivia said, her voice quiet but earnest. "And I don't mean that as a threat, but I want you to keep what I said in the back of your mind. Now, I just returned from the front. I stood with five other Crafters, some of the most powerful in the Guild. We stood and fought a Golem. They're dead, and the Golem is still marching on the City."

"Shadow of ash," Reginald Lamar cursed. He sighed, his shoulders sagged, and his gaze fell to the floor. "I, just want to have my son back."

"I'll send word, when I can," Olivia promised. She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. "As we both know, I'm not authorized to dispatch a courier, but I'll do it anyway. Now go home, or take some of the lottery tokens your bureau minted and buy a bar a round."

Reginald nodded, slugging and weak, as if giving up the fight had taken the fire out of him. He more shuffled away than walked, and Olivia worried she was watching another casualty of this war. She waited until Lamar was halfway to the door, before she turned around and addressed the sergeant again. "Think you'll be all right? I should go make myself useful."

"Let me take you up, and introduce you to the Officer at the Comms," the sergeant said, spinning in his chair and standing up. "I think she'd appreciate having someone who can tell off pretty much anyone in the City."

"There's no need, sergeant. I know the way," Olivia said. "I practically lived here when we were building the expanded switchboard."

"Alas, Madam Craffer, it's necessary. If I'm not with you, you're likely to be interrogated by every officer you encounter on the way."

The sergeant gestured to a small side office, and another soldier slid into the seat to fill the post. Olivia fell into step beside him, as they started up a long stairwell. "So Colonel Dremora sent you here?" the sergeant asked once they were halfway up the stairs.

"No," Olivia admitted, and she took a moment to enjoy the sergeant's discomfort. "Captain Dremora made the request."

"I'm not sure he's allowed to do that," the sergeant mused, though there was a look of wide-eyed wonder on his face. "Though in some circles, being asked to do something by the Rangers would get you further than a colonel's orders."

"Is this one of those situations?" Olivia asked.

"You'll see," the sergeant said, as if that were an explanation.

The sergeant lead her through the familiar balcony corridor above the main hall, three stories up. Familiar, because Olivia had helped install the three stories of machinery that lay just on the other side of the wall. As they walked, Olivia put her hand against the wall, and felt the familiar hum of the electrical currents, and the irregular clack of arriving signals.

"The load is still within tolerable levels," Olivia murmured, as she caressed the wall. Expecting the sergeant to look at her as if she had lost her mind, she raised her voice a little and explained. "The electrical current isn't taxing the transmitters. I can't hear a high-pitched whine from the transformer blocks, and the lines aren't bleeding a lot of excess heat. Your comms officer runs an efficient operation."

The sergeant, like anyone who wasn't deeply versed in a highly technical skill, only smiled with benevolent indulgence of an asylum warden. "I'll take your word for it, Madam Crafter," he said.

The first door in their walk were the thin, windowed, flapping doors usually installed in front of kitchens and other high-traffic locations. The sergeant went in first, and held the door for her.

Olivia stepped into cacophony. A hundred urgent conversations assaulted her ears, and her poor sight couldn't keep up with the blur of people rushing around the room. Despite all she knew about the comms, she couldn't follow what was happening around her.

Her right hand tensed into a claw, and not for the first time in her life, she wanted to gouge out her useless eyes. She grasped at the nearest flame, a lamp on the wall, and took it.

All at once, she could see.

The blur of the swirling mob came into focus, and she could see the messengers, receivers, and signal operators for who they were and what they did. She could pick out each and every conversation as if it was the only thing being said. The hum of the electric currents, the subtle difference of a cracked casing as it was plugged in, the hard screech of a messenger just beginning to run. Olivia saw and heard all of it, and followed the furious activity of over a hundred it as if it were just a machine she was assembling.

Olivia sighed in relief, her hand relaxed, and she smiled like the first time she had ever tasted chocolate.

Olivia could see the sergeant, as if she was reading what he did in a book, as he stepped up to a stern looking captain in the middle of the row. With eyes of fire, Olivia saw the insignia on the pommel of the sword, the two bars denoting a captain were set low, near the handle, with the comms specialist insignia of two dots and a dash set above.

"Captain Turnbull," the sergeant said crisply, with a quick salute. "I have a Crafter with me. She's volunteering her services."

"Comm two-twelve, forward to Billows station seven. Courier priority green," Captain Turnbull bellowed, her voice carrying powerfully over the room. She then turned crisply and returned the salute. "Thank you sergeant. Madam Crafter, is your name on my list? If it isn't, I'm sure you know how a door works."

Olivia frowned for a moment, but through the flame she saw a note posted on the door behind her. In the straight bold lettering of someone writing angrily, there was a list of names, titled: 'Useful Civilians. Anyone not on this list can be told (politely) to throw themselves in the Spire'.

"I'm offended Margery Plaime is above me," Olivia said. "She wouldn't be worth a thimble of used spit if you overloaded the transformers."

"Crafter Polden? Thank the candles at the end of everything, I was worried you were wasting my time," Captain Turnbull said, and pointed to the last row of relay switches at the far end of the room. "I could use you on one of the comm stations at the end, managing Relay Nine."

"That's the Bureau Relay," Olivia said.

"It is. I think you'll be better than my people at filtering useful messages and important requests. I don't want the Bureaus to think they're being shut out, but I don't have the resources to accommodate Civil Development asking for a projection of the damage the Golems have caused."

Olivia sputtered, torn between amusement and outrage. "They're asking for that while the Golems are still walking the fields?"

"Welcome to communications."

Olivia looked over to the switchboard at the end. "I can run more than one station at a time."

"How many?" Captain Turnbull asked.

"A dozen. I'll run the entire Bureau Relay."

"Are you sure?" For the first time, the captain looked as if the iron focus slipped, and a moment of desperation shone in her eyes. But Turnbull blinked, and the moment passed. "I don't want the comms clogged because you took on more than you can handle."

"I can do twelve without taxing myself. Eighteen would be a stretch of my capabilities," Olivia said.

"That's..." Captain Turnbull whistled. "That's astonishing."

"Let's hope it's enough. This is going to be a hard war."

Captain Turnbull nodded, her frown fading and her eyes turning wide. "It is. And I'm sorry about the friends you must have lost already. Let's get you set up."

Olivia followed the captain, who marched across the room in a convincing imitation of an avalanche. Clerks and messengers scattered as she passed, and the path she forged through the room might as well have been laid with tracks. "Relay Nine, all hands, up and at attention!"

"All of you, take fifteen. Go to the bathroom, get some tea, get a bite to eat if you can. After that, report to the sergeants on the line. You'll be spotting people on breaks for the next few hours."

"Captain, what about the relay?"

"Crafter Polden will be talking over for all of you. Thanks to her, some of you might get some sleep before the invasion ends. Your fifteen has already started."

Olivia rushed in as soon the soldiers moved. At each station, in front of the audio receiver she placed a small pad of paper, and left a small burning piece of herself shaped into a tiny ball of flame. She did this to ever station, leaving a dozen sets of her eyes and ears, so astonishingly aware, listening with impossibly potent senses for a message.

Olivia then used the flame on the lamp up on the wall behind her to examine the switchboard. While she looked, she closed her eyes and lifted her glasses to rub her nose, and her hand paused as it gripped the rim.

A part of Olivia was already pulling at her arm, to pull them off her face and dump them in a paper bin. Or onto the ground so she could grind them under her heel. Her sight, so frustratingly useless at the best of times, left her feeling like she was trying to breathe though a pillow being pressed against her face.

But she forced her hand open, and breathed to steady herself. She might be fire, but she was also flesh and blood. And the minute she forgot that, she would be another Saval.

A metallic click pulled Olivia back into the moment. With her eyes and ears already trained on it, she took a pinprick of flame and held it with her will, tracing it over the pad. Three more receivers clacked to life, and she started transcribing the messages onto the pads. Even as she wrote, she walked to the switchboard and examined the hundreds of plugs set up in a grid.

Hundreds of fingernail sized ports in a grid like a game board, with each two ascending rows growing darker in colour, from white to black.

She pulled out several of them, and started rearranging the routing. A dozen plugs dedicated to civil development in red were replaced by a single line in grey, to free up three lines for emergency reports from their engineering branch. Parliament was relegated to a single line in white. Oversight, the bureau that monitored the guild, she gave two lines, but both in brown. She dedicated four different lines in black to any report of a Golem's activity, and wrote down a request to dismiss the rank requirements.

Satisfied, she held one last plug in her hand, and her thoughts turned to her apprentice. Vincent was on the front lines now, and while he wasn't facing a Golem, the danger to him and the people around him was as serious as it could ever be. And she knew, just by the workload around her, that she might not hear about him until after the Fifth. So she shoved the plug to a blue port, and tapped the filter requirements into the comms. And through the flame, saw Captain Turnbull look her way and frown almost as soon as she did it.

"Crafter Polden," the captain barked, marching across the hall. "You just asked for a specific forwarding filter, routed to your desk. What reports are you asking for?"

"Anything to do with the Cadavalan Rangers," Olivia admitted.

"They were dispatched to Barleybarrel. What does that have anything to do with you?" Captain Turnbull asked. "Why are you so interested in them?"

Olivia considered telling the truth, for a moment. But Vincent's presence could be viewed as insubordination, or even a danger that required a hit squad from the Bureau of Oversight. So she searched for a moment, to find something the captain might believe. "There's someone I was hoping to keep tabs on."

"Who and why?"

Olivia, to her own astonishment, felt her cheeks get warm. "He's a sergeant with the Rangers. We met when I went to fight the Golem. I, uh, I'd rather like to see him again."

For the first time since Olivia had met the woman, Captain Turnbull smiled. Like many of the smiles since the Fifth had begun, this one wasn't entirely happy. "You can keep the forward request. But I want any information you receive. I have family in Barleybarrel."

"Aye, ma'am," Olivia said.

"And one last thing." Captain Turnbull tapped the row of brown plugs. "Give the Bureau of Statistical Analysis a dedicated line up here. Just one, and restrict it to the 'Department of Multi-Disciplinary Forecasting'."

Olivia hesitated, her hand holding one of the plugs in her hand. "That's an odd little branch of a small bureau."

"Agreed. Do it anyway," the captain said, and marched off to attend to a group of messengers steaming through the front door.

Olivia plugged the line in, and got back to work.