So, from a distance, the company lines approached like a thunderstorm rolling forward off the sea. From a height, they looked like lines of arrows drawn on a sand table, the better to indicate their objectives. Surprise was a sheer impossibility.
The Warrior lines danced northward, the half-Runner Cavalry sprinting ahead; leaping with sheer exuberance to snatch and crunch the meaty little bodies from the air. They became living, jogging trees themselves, as the emerging nymphs struggled to climb any height; as the newly fledged saw them as handy roosts for hasty test-landings. They traveled light, surrounded and suffused with all that they could ever want for perfect food and drink. From a distance, they could not be seen at alclass="underline" mere ripples in the flowing field of crawling aquamarine.
The Miners wasted little time or effort. Assuming that they intended to recapture the sand mines, they would have to turn through the neck that led to Butterfield Station. South and west of that was already mired in marsh, the basin filled by early winter rains. Eastward was the mountain. The neck was an old, compacted river levee, now slightly elevated above the silty plain long since scoured away by the incessant wind. It was the only option for moving quickly.
So, the conclusion was foregone. If they stayed on the levee, they would fry in their own reflected fire, or the fire of concentrators operated by the Mining teams. If they slithered down banks greased with the bodies of winter flies, they would be mired in the seasonal back swamps. If they attempted to breach the banks to the north and east, a honeycomb of sand-traps awaited them. From a hundred points, the trebuchets awaited, ready to commence flinging. Signal watchers lined the hills, day-dreaming of the feast to come, already tasting sweet winter fly meat. Farmers lined the levee, listening for their approach.
The battle was vicious.
The battle was brief.
Those who survived remembered the buzzing din of Beelzebub; the grinning faces of demons; the sinking of an armored battalion beneath a rising sea of aquamarine.
Like castaways, faces red with burns, eyes shielded with torn strips of rags, raw lips cracked and bleeding, they staggered back the way they’d come. Reduced to sucking bugs for juice, many fell to the slimy ground kicking, sweating, trembling, their pupils shrunk to pinpoints. The smarter scraped mud into shirttails, and sucked on that instead. The water squeezed out green, then brown, then not at all. Their wounds began blistering and peeling.
Eventually, a clutch of Himmist kids on horseback was the best thing they’d ever seen. As they approached, the kids chatted briefly among themselves, then wheeled and bolted, horse’s tails flagging in the air like retreating banners. Some stood dumbfounded. Some sank down, sobbing. Some cursed. A sergeant said: “We’ll camp here.” Here was nowhere. No-one objected. Some were not going to make it. The least wounded commenced to digging. A few hours later, a shriveled old man in a pickup truck genuinely was the best thing they’d ever seen.
Bonneville, New Utah
It was a quiet coup. The first to notice were the devout, at four a.m., who did not awake to the strains of a muezzin. The next were the sacristans, who at four-thirty found themselves quietly, but firmly, escorted to join their brethren in Allah for morning coffee. At five, after it had been explained that they would be escorted by a number of burly young men employed by TCM Security, the remnants of the TCM tithe committee found it reasonable and expedient to accept an invitation to an ecumenical breakfast. By five-thirty, when the SunFreight pulled into the rail yard, the assorted primates, bishops, patriarchs, elders, imams, aldermen, and dignitaries discovered their plans for morning prayers and services drastically rearranged.
For their part, SunRail yardmasters and transit police learned very quickly that the inbound cargo and passenger list from OLaM Station also had been altered rather dramatically from what they’d originally sent in the outward bound direction. By six, hands of Warriors and squadrons of Himmist cavalry had fanned out through the city, in time to greet the shift changes at the DAZ-E field, Hopper strip, transmission stations, and city police.
By six-thirty, the assorted dignitaries had all been briefed. The message was simple: an alliance of TCM Security and The Church of Him wished to ensure that there would not be any disturbances such as those suffered in Saint George. Bonneville’s cooperation was expected. Absent cooperation, the Himmists could and would prevent movement of anything at all into or out of the city by any means save the Lynx. Indefinitely.
There were, of course, questions regarding how this might be done. Some of the questions were not especially politely phrased. Butterfield Station survivors were brought in to explain. Several in the audience expressed even less polite disbelief. A hissing Warrior led by a gleaming white Master was brought in by way of show-and-tell. The various factions recognized them in their own ways: Angel; Demon; Ape; Motie. When Enheduanna then addressed them in their own language, they nearly fell from their chairs. When Enheduanna gestured gently to the wings, to be joined enthusiastically by three goggle-eyed children, the youngest of whom proudly told the tale of how Tweety Kitties had saved him and his siblings from bad men, then reached out and took a hand of a sinewed Warrior, the buzzing of disbelief ensued again. When Enheduanna then explained the alliance of forces under the command of Sargon the Protector, two fainted, and all began to sweat. It was, the bishop would later explain, a rather sudden introduction to the neighbors.
The need for haste was impressed. A common press statement was achieved. By eight-thirty, it was released. By nine, the various guests were released as well, and rushed to explain the rules of order to their flocks, islands, and employees. Saint George was notified by ten o’clock that morning: the city stood under His protection.
"It’s no good, mother. You are finished here.” Wind whipped sand across the Lynx port hard enough to sting exposed skin. Lillith pulled her tunic close around her face.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that they’ve already recorded appeal. It’s public record everywhere now—not just in Bonneville. Saint George, Maxroy’s Purchase, and filed for protected status at accession. They all know. You forcibly poached an existing mining claim.”
She snorted. “Appeal? By whom? Protected? By whom? They’ll be admitted in Colony status, and we’ll have the concession. We hold all the cards from here. This setback is merely temporary. They’ve no basis. We bought out the Orcutt and TCM claims in legal, recorded transactions. The rest is commons.”
Michael stared at his feet, the wind whipping his whites around his ankles. His face flashed resolute; quavering; blank; near tears. She reached out a languid hand, brushed hair from his face, patted his cheek—was startled when he snatched her wrist in a vice grip. He snarled without raising his head. “Appeal? By the legal heiress—who still lives. You screwed that up royally, Mother—or your keen little go-to did. As you well know, Orcutt’s claim only extended to the foothills. The Swenson line holds the rest. And get this, mother dear.” He looked up now, face contorted with disgust. “That patent wasn’t local. It was Imperial. So the claim will be heard by the Judiciary. We’ll be laughingstocks at Court, thanks to your nasty little mess. Or worse.”
At this, Michael yanked her around and pointed into the dark. “And protected? By that!” A hand of hissing Warriors stepped forward from the shadows, heavily armed. “Nothing was ever enough for you. You’ve brought us to this!”