The Wall rose out of the bay like some vast cliff, a massive construction of dark stone that towered a hundred feet above the waves. The fog took away all sense of scale; the Wall seemed immense, impregnable, endless. Up top, Tom knew, wary jokers waited behind well-oiled machine guns in the watchtowers and nightmares out of Bosch prowled the ramparts. But the top of the Wall was lost in fog now, the enemy as blind as they were.
Tom stayed low over the water, and followed the curve of the Wall toward the west. It would be easy enough for him to fly above it, but those weren’t the orders. The idea was for him to make as much commotion as possible at the North Gate, like Detroit Steel and Snotman were doing at the Jersey Gate, like Mistral and Cyclone would be doing when their tornado blew apart the East Wall. Meanwhile, Elephant Girl could reach the Rox undetected, and with luck Corporal Danny would put a rocket right down the throat of the big bloatface atop the golden dome.
“There,” Danny whispered urgently.
On Tom’s forward screens, the barbican took shape out of the fog. The gate was fifty feet high, deep-set in stone, heavy dark wood banded by black iron. He could see guards watching through the slit windows of the gatehouse.
He thought of a battering ram.
Except for the continuous booming at the Jersey Gate, quiet fell over the Rox. Bloat’s staff moved restlessly beneath his pulsing form. Miss Liberty’s torch hung over them all like the Sword of Damocles.
“The Jersey Gate’s getting pasted,” Kafka was reporting. “They’re taking serious casualties. The bastions are starting to crumble under shellfire, and I don’t know if the gatehouse will hold. If we don’t get someone there to knock out those tanks and rocket launchers…” He looked at Modular Man, and the android felt his heart sink.
“Lemme get my breath back,” Pulse said. “I’ll handle it.”
“Wait.” Bloat’s head jerked upright. “Something’s going on … all the gates are being attacked!” He spun toward Kafka. “Pulse to the Jersey Gate!” He pointed at Modular Man. “Something’s going on at the East Gate — I can’t tell what. Defend it!”
Modular Man’s response was inevitable. He glanced upward into the murk.
He’d been right. It was shooter time.
He had finally found the energy to become the Outcast once more when it began again.
Mental voices began shouting for the governor: there was an assault at the East Gate; at the Jersey Gate, Snotman and another ace like a gigantic robot were approaching; someone had spotted Elephant Girl through the tendrils of high drifting fog, climbing far above the Rox; now the Turtle was hitting the North Gate as well.
Teddy was suddenly reliving the tenor of a few months ago when the nats first assaulted the Rox, when he wasn’t sure of himself or his power. He remembered the fright and the feeling of utter helplessness. This was just like that; no … this was far worse. This time he knew his power and its limits, and he was very afraid that it wasn’t anywhere near enough for this.
“Oh, piss,” the Outcast said. It sounded very unwizardly and the words dissolved the link. Exhausted, he fell back into himself. Teddy felt dislocated, torn apart. He didn’t know if he was Teddy or Bloat or the Outcast. Governor!
The power was still there, but it was simply the old channel he had always used before, and he did with it what he’d always done. He called the demons up from his subconscious, had them strike the Jersey Gate in a massive suicidal wave to bury the aces there; he imagined the Manhattan Gate closing, closing, becoming a structure of thick steel and impregnable stone despite the horrible battering it was taking from the Turtle. He caused new fogs to belch from the gargoyles’ straining mouths. He let the lava river underneath the Rox surge with newfound force against any possible attack from that area.
Even that, which was too little for the Rox, was too much for him.
There were so many places to watch, so many locations under attack. Teddy felt schizophrenic, his attention scattered. A thousand mindvoices screamed at him.
The Outcast screamed back wordlessly, a paean of anguish. He rapped his staff against the flagons and left the ramparts.
There was a howling at the Brooklyn Gate. The fog twisted and roiled as if it were alive. Even the light seemed effected by whatever was going on — the darkness was pierced with strange flashes of green.
Modular Man followed the thin ribbon of causeway leading from the castle to the Brooklyn Gate. The radar image ahead was confused, giving him an impression of turbulence without any clear indication of what was causing it.
He knew he was approaching the gatehouse with its four round bastions, and he dropped his speed. He didn’t want to get into trouble before he had some idea of what the trouble was.
There was another brief green flash. Something boomed ahead, a sound like lightning.
The fog was torn apart. A buzz-saw roar filled the air, and Modular Man burned energy as wind gusts buffeted him. The air was a sickly green and filled with a furious, fine salt spray.
Two pillars of water hovered over the gatehouse, coiling and bending like snakes. Waterspouts. Lightning crackled around and through them. Spray and white water boiled over the ramparts. Bloat’s fish-knights circled furiously over the gatehouse, unable to cross the Wall to get at their attackers. No other defenders were visible, though some abandoned weapons were scattered on the battlements.
Above and far away, hovering in the air, were two bright figures.
Cyclone and Mistral. They were living up to Cyclone’s name.
One waterspout was nearer the gatehouse than the other, and seemed larger and more powerful. The other waterspout was thin by comparison and hovered uncertainly behind. Perhaps, the android reasoned, Mistral hadn’t had as much practice as her father.
The first waterspout screamed as it lurched over the gatehouse. Debris spun upward as one of the covered bastions imploded. Water spilled over the walls. Several of the fish-knights disappeared into the funnel or were flung into the water with backbreaking force. One of the giant carp flopped in the moat, apparently drowning in its own element.
Modular Man rose, his weapons tracking on the nearer figure. The radar image was confused but he had a decent optical track. His microwave laser pulsed. A line of steam lanced toward Cyclone as the fine sea spray vaporized in the ionized air.
Lightning flashed from the funnel. Modular Man felt air sizzle against his plastic flesh. He wondered if his laser had somehow triggered it.
The laser burst didn’t seem to affect Cyclone. Modular Man had fired a microwave laser — a maser, actually — tuned to one of the water frequencies. In the Columbia physics department they called it the “chicken band,” because it was used in microwave ovens.
All of the beam’s energy had gone into vaporizing the mist. Not enough had remained to impact on the target.
Modular Man was going to have to get closer. He rose, trying to stay inside the Wall till he was at Cyclone’s altitude.
One wall of the gatehouse crumbled. The gate itself had been reduced to kindling — foaming water surged right through the gatehouse tunnel. One joker ran madly on four centaur legs from the gatehouse onto the walls and was swept away. Cyclone began to dance through the sky, cape billowing. Clearly evasive action.
That jetting spear of steam, or maybe the impact of the remaining microwave energy on Cyclone’s armor, had given the android’s attack away.
The funnel cloud veered for Modular Man, howling like a chain saw and spitting debris. It was an awkward weapon. Energy surged from the android’s flux generators and he easily avoided the waterspout as he spiraled higher. He fired a short burst from the Browning just to distract Cyclone, but the bullets were torn away by the furious wind.