Suicide Run (Engines of Liberty Book 2) Read online

  Calvin’s voice was as cold as steel. “I won’t ask you again.”

  Gulping, Ben worked himself into a sitting position. He wasn’t bleeding seriously enough to threaten his life, for which Calvin was grateful. He’d have enough trouble assuaging his conscience as it was.

  Ben spoke between gasps. “The numbered keypad . . . punch

  in the frequency there. The black button turns on the microphone . . . so you can talk to whoever you’re calling.”

  “Which frequency do I use?”

  Ben grimaced and tried to draw in a breath, shifting his grip on his leg. “You’re the one who broke in here! You don’t know who you’re calling?”

  Calvin waved the gun. “I know who I’m calling! Just not the frequency.”

  With a thrust of his chin, Ben pointed to a clipboard on the wall, with a list of approved frequencies, and the regions they covered.

  “Good. Now don’t take this personally, but I have to tie you up.”

  Ben actually laughed. It was a joyless sound.

  Minutes later, Calvin was setting the HAM radio to Mount Vernon’s frequency Mount Vernon. When it was ready, he tried the microphone.

  What would he even say? He shrugged and pressed the button. “Amelia? Are you there?”

  No response. He waited a moment and tried again. “Amelia, it’s me, Calvin. I’m in the Ohio country. Can you hear me?”

  The speakers crackled and an angry voice came through. “Calvin Adler! What the hell are you doing on my radio?”

  Commodore McCracken.

  Calvin jumped a little in the seat. “Sir! Your sons dispatched

  me to Camp Liberty under a false pretense, and I—”

  “They didn’t send you anywhere you little twit, I did! You’re there by my order! How did you get a HAM radio?” McCracken demanded.

  Blood running hot, Calvin hit the button again. “You did what? Why?”

  “I see what frequency you’re on,” McCracken said, sounding distracted. Feedback warbled over the speakers. “I am notifying Major Tyler. You’re getting pilloried, boy.”

  “That won’t work! I tied up the technician,” Calvin snapped. “There’s nobody else in the HAM office.”

  “You’re an idiot, Adler. Major Tyler has a radio in her own quarters.”

  Calvin had not counted on that. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Because you refuse to do your part! You were warned and you had every chance to play by the rules,” McCracken hissed.

  “It’s because your daughter kissed me, isn’t it?”

  Pause. “She’s done foolish things before. She’ll grow out of it.”

  That those words could so easily escape the man’s lips . . . Calvin almost shrieked with rage. “You tyrant!”

  “One brat’s tyrant is another man’s commodore. Welcome to the war, child.”

  “You think I’m going to let this happen?”

  “You already have. There—I’ve signaled the Major. Get ready for a long walk home.”

  Calvin took up the real pistol again, mind reeling, his anger burning like never before. The seemed to swim around him.

  “I will make you bleed for this, McCracken.” He slammed the

  gun down on the radio until it sparked, smoked, and shut off.

  The time had come to leave Camp Liberty.

  Although the sun didn’t rise or set for those who never left the base, Major Tyler kept most of the brigades on a dawn-to-dusk itinerary, so the majority of the brigadiers were down for the night. Calvin dashed out of the HAM office, his boots thudding against the stone floor all the way to the motor pool. Jack Badgett’s dragonling was not where he left it, but rather on the other side of the aisle, meaning it had been repaired and topped off. The key wasn’t in the ignition, as per camp rules. He’d anticipated this, and drew out two thin pieces of metal he’d salvaged from the smelters, thinking back to the first night that he’d bypassed the ignition switch in Mount Vernon’s stables.

  Whether it was the blood hammering in his ears or the distant siren at the HAM office, he didn’t hear the trio of engineers pass by with a loaded wagon, hauling a pin drum for a clockwork giant. Between the siren, Calvin’s frantic demeanor, and the fact that he was trying to start a mimic without a key, they made a rapidly astute judgment about who he was.

  “Hey!” One engineer abandoned the wagon and dashed over to him. “Get off of there!”

  So much for the plan. Calvin drew the pistol and leveled it at the engineer’s head.

  “Give me the keys!”

  The engineer held up his hands, but also held his ground. “Not

  going to happen. Put the gun down, kid.”

  Calvin moved the gun to his free hand, then blindly tried to start the mimic while keeping an eye on the tech. When he thought he had it, he took his eyes off the man for a split-second to confirm . . .

  A lot happened at the same time. The engine started, the engineer lunged, and Calvin accidentally pulled the trigger. He didn’t shoot the man, but a lot of technomancers would’ve heard the shot. He already heard other guards and soldiers coming in response to the HAM siren.

  The engineer’s fist landed awkwardly on the back of Calvin’s neck. Calvin slashed wildly with the pistol and clubbed him across the face, knocking him down. The other two men had run to join their friend, but they could only manage a clumsy surge when they tripped over his prone form, and then Calvin was jamming his pistol in the holster and revving the throttle. He almost fell off the saddle when the mimic lurched off the ground, and the blowback from the rear booster knocked the remaining engineers onto their butts.

  Flying! He went for the doors, ignoring the guards’ shouts and demands that he cease and desist. The main door loomed big in his line of sight, and his thumb hovered over the trigger for the belly cannons.

  He never got the chance to use them.

  A cannon fired. Something exploded. Metal shrieked and ripped apart. The mimic bucked, its lifter fans squealing in protest,

  followed by a jolt in his stomach as he lost what little altitude he had. The dragonling mimic crashed against the paved floor and Calvin flew over the handlebars, landing hard on his back and rolling for several yards, his pistol wedged painfully against his hip. Another dragonling mimic touched down behind his, and Captain Hamilton dismounted it, his face a landscape of rage. Smoke leaked from the barrels of his mimic’s belly cannons, and Calvin pieced it together.

  “Trying to run, coward?” Hamilton sneered.

  Seething, Calvin drew his knife and lunged for Hamilton. The captain hadn’t expected this and barely managed to feint so as to avoid getting run through. Calvin plowed into him and then went down, driving an elbow into Hamilton’s throat.

  “You! Stay away from Amelia!”

  Hamilton choked, and it was the strangest choking noise Calvin had ever heard, until he realized the deranged captain was laughing at him. Pushing hard, Hamilton heaved Calvin onto his back, pinning him to the floor with his superior weight.

  “Does the recruit have a crush on my little Amy?” he said. “Choke on your disappointment. You’ll never have her.”

  Hamilton’s fist came down on Calvin’s face like a mallet, over and over, each impact driving his skull against the ground. Drowning in the fog of battle and desperate for deliverance, Calvin struck back and clutched at something in Hamilton’s belt—his service pistol! Hamilton landed another blow, but Calvin jammed the pistol against him and squeezed the trigger. The insane captain

  screamed and arched his back in pain.

  Heart aflame and blood coursing, Calvin knocked Hamilton aside and got up. The captain bled from a deep graze wound across one shoulder blade. He’d live. Calvin stomped on Hamilton’s stomach as hard as he could, leaving him gasping.

  “You’re done,” Calvin rasped.

  Voices echoed down the ramp. Calvin almost couldn’t hear them for the ringing in his ears. Stuffing the gun into his belt, he stole Hamilton’s still-working
mimic and flew to the exit. The porters, who had witnessed his altercation with their captain, didn’t hesitate to open the doors when Calvin threatened to shoot them. The night sky beckoned, and Calvin emerged above ground for the first time since arriving.

  Freedom.

  CHAPTER 7

  Godfrey had graduated from the Ipswich School in Suffolk, an institution that prided itself on its breadth of magical disciplines. During one term he’d been required to take a class called Analog Sciences, studying the mechanics of the world completely independent from any magic. He’d argued with his father all year long to let him drop out, swearing that he’d never have any use for it.

  He’d just have to keep this one instance to himself.

  Godfrey cast a screening spell with his wand. At first it generated a cloud of white fog, but when he wiped it away with his hand, the air was clearer than before, and he saw the world beyond

  through several different hues.

  “Say, there’s a trick.” Sophronia edged closer to examine the

  many hues on the screen.

  “Just something I picked up at Ipswich School. The red patches are warm spots. Yellow means moonlight, and green—marks the movement of air low to the ground,” Godfrey said.

  “And what about that two-toned strip up there?” She pointed at a ribbon of light not far from the wrecked City Hall. Curious, Godfrey traced some runes around it to amplify his focus.

  “Bugger, that’s a radio signal!”

  “A what?”

  “Tricky to explain, but they can transmit sounds over great distances. It doesn’t just happen, though—it’s coming from that . . . oh, what’s the word? Antenna. But there’s nothing else there . . .” Godfrey trailed off, hearing Maitre Kalfu’s words in his head: Look deeper.

  Could it be?

  “Well, we can have the beasties sniff around or—” Sophronia began.

  A deep boom cut through the silent night as the weedy lawn in front of City Hall tilted upward, like it was perched on the wing of a huge bird. Thirty square feet simply sliced open to reveal a pitch black tunnel. From its depths, a dull roar drew near to the surface. Godfrey’s lips curled into a grin when a technomancer—his technomancer—raced out of the gap astride a mechanical dragonling. Seconds later, a pair of gryphon-shaped machines followed, clearly in pursuit.

  Underground! That was what Kalfu had meant! Godfrey wanted

  to smack himself—had he only considered the literal interpretation, he could have signaled for backup sooner.

  “Izzat them? Are those . . . technomancers?” Sophronia’s stared open-mouthed at the three noisy machines rushing through the town. Wasting no time with an answer, Godfrey slapped his palm to Lucie’s neck and connected his mind to hers. Lucie maintained a steady psychic link with Bruno, and while Godfrey was still far from the lodestone, he wasn’t as far as he’d been in Louisiana. It only took a moment to finish merging with the wyvern.

  A splendid whitewashed building came into focus, bathed in magical light even after sundown. He’d recognize that building anywhere: Vauxhaul Outpost in Port Atlantis. Why was Nigel at the Royal Mage Corps headquarters? The House of Commons was next door . . .

  Steering Bruno’s head to one side, Godfrey realized that the beast was standing in an open courtyard paved with cobblestones, illuminated by magical wisps in crystal lanterns. Nigel Sharpe stood nearby, still in his flying leathers, flanked by a brace of serious-looking mages in red cloaks and bowler hats. Nigel narrowed his eyes at the wyvern.

  “There,” he said. “Told you she’d call. Bruno gives me that look when there’s another in his head.”

  Back in Youngstown, Sophronia shook Godfrey’s shoulder. “Hey, what gives? You don’t just take a girl’s beast like that.”

  “Hush,” Godfrey told her, his eyes shut tight. “Your beau’s

  dismounted.”

  Another mage stepped into Bruno’s sight, barking orders to his men.“What’s the bloody ruckus? Get on with it!” His accent was distinctly Oxfordian, and his voice made the hairs on Godfrey’s neck stand up. It was none other than Marnie Crutchley, the High Commander of the Colonial Royal Mage Corps. Oh, bollocks!

  “Link up to your beastie, then! We’re not standing out here for our health!” Crutchley ordered. Godfrey sensed a shift in the connection when Nigel put his hand to Bruno’s neck, and he suspected the rugged faunamancer was surprised to feel someone other than Sophronia at the other end.

  “Hear now!” Crutchley demanded, looking Bruno right in the eye. “This ruffian comes soaring in here on orders from Fitznottingham, only we got confirmation days ago that Fitz was killed by a dirty rebel! You will explain yourself and surrender for punishment, impostor!”

  Gunfire erupted down in the charred Youngstown valley. Distracted, Godfrey almost lost touch with Lucie’s mind. Were the technomancers shooting at each other? He swallowed hard and licked his lips.

  “Lord Crutchley! We’re short on time—I trust that Mr. Sharpe has explained our arrangement, and—” Godfrey started.

  “Couldn’t give less of a damn for your arrangement! Identify yourself!”

  “I am Godfrey Norrington, son of Sir Waldo Norrington.”

  Hopefully his father’s name might provide even an ounce of clout in this desperate hour. Down below, the two gryphon machines chased the technomancer on his smaller, more nimble craft, but they were still attacking him. “The rebels, sir! I have found their base in the Ohio country! They rebuilt it in the mines beneath an old outpost.”

  Crutchley glowered and shoved Nigel aside, bonding his own mind to Bruno’s. The alien sensation of a distant consciousness sent chills down Godfrey’s spine, but he let it happen. If Crutchley didn’t believe him, this was all for naught.

  It worked. Having seen Youngstown through Lucie’s eyes, Crutchley jerked his hand back and barked an order to someone on his end.

  “Stand by, Master Norrington! You are authorized to draft a teleportation spell. We’ll need a clear beacon to send in the toughs,” he said.

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Crutchley out!” He severed the psychic link. Godfrey released Lucie and exhaled, as Sophronia fixed him with an accusing glare.

  “Thought your name was Fitznottingham.”

  “Sorry. Lied ‘bout that, but the rest was true. Steady now, for we are about to be in the throes of battle. You will speak of this night to your children’s children!”

  *

  Calvin cut sideways around a building, then dropped the RPMs on the lifter fans. His landing gear scraped the ground, spraying sparks in his wake. He ducked under a fallen tree and he kicked the lifters back on, clawing for altitude, hoping the tactic bought him some time, but no: the crack of gunfire and the near-misses whizzing past his head told him that the gryphoneers were still too

  close.

  He’d have to take his chances out in the open. The gryphons had larger fuel tanks but they also consumed kerosene much faster than the dragonlings. If he could ride hard and evade their shots, they’d have to turn back for—

  The mimic jerked sideways beneath him, and a violent shake robbed him of his balance. One of the gryphoneers had landed a crack shot on Calvin’s starboard lifter fan, blowing it to shreds and sending the dragonling into a rapid tailspin.

  Youngstown spun around him in a whirlwind of silver and black streaks, halting only when the mimic crashed into an iron carriage. Propelled out of the saddle, Calvin slammed ribcage-first into the top of a bench and met the ground with his face. For several long seconds he couldn’t feel his nose. When sensation returned, a roaring pain hit him like a stampeding boar, and he tasted blood.

  The gryphons landed behind him, thudding onto the broken pavement. Their gunners dismounted with rifles in hand. More footsteps, and Calvin counted four infantrymen charging through the wreckage as well, training their sights on him.

  “Don’t shoot! The Major wants him alive,” someone said.

  Rough hands yanked Calvin to his feet
. He tried not to cry, biting back tears for both the pain and the futility of the fight. He would never be free. Whatever mystic forces bestowed liberty on mankind had decided that it just wasn’t for him, no matter what he did.

  They patted him down and relieved him of both pistols. A foot soldier slipped handcuffs onto Calvin’s wrists and dragged him over to one of the gryphons. Calvin stared at the menacing mimic, wondering how he might escape this time, knowing that it was impossible, that he’d never see home again, never see Amelia . . .

  Overhead a thick black cloud suddenly burst into being. Lightning touched down in a wide radius around the city, and thunder boomed so loud that the very night ripped open. It was so powerful, so abrupt, that a few of the technomancers dropped their weapons in alarm, even as a hole appeared in the air and two wyverns flew out of it, each carrying a human passenger.

  Calvin crouched behind a TechMan who’d kept his wits and trained his rifle on the invaders. One rider was a girl wearing riding leathers, and the other was a younger man in the robes of a mage. Something about him looked familiar but Calvin didn’t have time to identify him, because in their wake came a veritable army of mages, one hundred strong or better. They surged in on beasts and brooms and carpets, wands in hand and curses on their lips.

  “Enemy incursion!” yelled one of the foot soldiers.

  “They’re not supposed to be able to reach us here!” said another.

  “You tell them that!”

  Gunfire peppered the sky, drowning out the rest of their

  words. The mages instantly retaliated with a shower of multi-colored sparks—volatile curses that rained down like fire. Some hit the infantrymen, killing them instantly. Other shots went wide. From the ground, one foot soldier caught a mage in the chest and unseated him from his broom.

  Valiant as the effort was, the mages had the element of surprise as well as superior numbers, and the amount of brightly-colored curses jetting from their wands was greater than the bullets that cut through their ranks.