Chapters (41)
- Title
- Indicia
- Steel Frame
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Acknowledgements
- About The Author
- 'Ironclads' by Adrian Tchaikovsky
- 'NineFox Gambit' by Yoon Ha Lee
- 'Grunt Life' by Weston Ochse
THE JACKETS DON’T leave me time to ask. They’re winding us up already, and the line responds on instinct, working through the beginnings of another halting march.
The back of the line decides it. When the second-last con has slack on the neck behind them, they punch the shoulder ahead. Half a second more, and the next con does the same. A shiver works its way through the line until each of us has checked lengths, and made ready for the walk.
The front stamps a boot.
One, two.
The rest of us join in, eyes closed.
One, two.
We wait for the beat, let it carry us along. Salt wakes his ancient tune again.
“Chain gang,” comes the call, “march!”
One, two.
Right foot, left.
The first in line steps wide, and the rest of us shuffle along behind, more to keep the timing than because we’re moving yet. The next steps out, and the chain keeps creeping.
When we were still new to this, we’d put our hands out, waiting until the one ahead was a full arm’s distant before we leant into the stride. Now we do it by feel and tempo. Heartbeats pump and bootsoles roll like tank tracks. We are the machine.
The wardens steer us through the stencilled door I saw before, and then another, sealing each one shut behind us as we go. A few steps in darkness, then light creeping in from ahead: at first, it’s barely as bright as the halls we’ve been crawling through, but it warms quickly, becoming a sunrise up ahead.
We stop before it dawns. There’s a groan and a shuffle, too sudden for comfort. We bump and stagger and trip. A few collide, or scrape knees and knuckles. Judging by the shouting, someone has fallen over themselves near the front, and the line has to wait while they find their feet, find the rhythm all over again. Another two steps, and there’s another stall, another stumble.
Twelve steps after that, and I see what’s cut them short.
Christs above and below.
Where the hell are we?
Our little tunnel ends on a doorstep, and our low ceiling cuts away. We go from a cramped hole to a cavern, the ceiling suddenly a thousand metres up. We manage to keep the march for a few more beats, but the sudden rush of air and noise rips the song away, leaves us lurching across the threshold and blinking at the bright and chaos.
The hangar is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, under NorCol’s name or otherwise.
Hot winds blow thick with engine wash, pierced by screaming gunship throats and the guttural flares of shuttles, clouds of fighting craft taxiing through the iron heights above us. Thrusters glow hot enough that I can feel them on my skin, nearly half a K away.