Yet that skepticism was easily forgotten. Moving through the empty camp, Merit felt the presence of its vanished owners, and listening to the silences, he accepted that at any moment the first voice from a tree would find him.
His companion held a less superstitious attitude.
“I found the room,” Fret shouted from the far side of the lodge. “The copper river’s here.”
Startled birds broke into flight.
“Wait for help,” Merit shouted, and not for the first time.
But then came the cold clank of iron, rusting hinges squeaking. “Too late,” the youngster replied. And then, “All clear.”
Barely three thousand days old, Fret was an idiot about many matters, including the need for caution. But there was no telling the state of this machinery, and Bountiful’s captain had nobody better suited to bring an old call-line back to life.
Moving carefully along the walkway, Merit watched for booby-traps left to ward off copper thieves. But there were no trip-wires, and the small room seemed safe enough. Fret was lucky, or he was blessed with sharp instincts. Either way, not so much as a dirty needle was ready to hurt them.
The prudent old slayer was in no mood to dress down anybody.
“It doesn’t look too awful,” Fret said, bare hands tugging at rubber-clad wires.
“The owners haven’t been gone long,” said Merit.
“But idiots left the service hatch open.” There was a gap in the floor that allowed the rain to jump inside. “Another hundred dawns, and rust will start eating out the housings back here.”
Call-lines were expensive to build, particularly in the wilderness. Long wires had to carry voices and codes all the way back to the Districts. The primary generators were always underpowered. And worse, there weren’t any secondary generators on the wire waiting to boost the signals. Both men wore broad tool belts, and both carried alcohol in tall red cans. Fret pulled out his biggest wrench, and without the slightest concern, he straddled the hole in the floor.
Foresters liked their long views. The forest below had been cut and hacked until it there was only half of a normal healthy canopy. Brilliant sunlight was everywhere. Standing at the brink, Merit spent a few moments watching for coronas; the lifetime habit couldn’t be set aside, even today. Then he took a breath and stepped back again, thinking of ways in which this one simple job could go wrong.
Fret’s wrench was shiny and almost new—too expensive to be purchased by a youngster, perhaps given as a gift by parents ecstatic that their careless boy was entering a profitable trade. Corona meat had been cooked and refined to pull out the valuable iron, and the carbon came from the blackest old timbers, while methods older than human memory had built a simple, changeless device that could accomplish a multitude of tasks.
That very expensive wrench became a hammer.
Fret smacked the line below the floor, where it was suspended in plain view. With precision, he dented the insulation, and then he set the wrench on the floor beside one foot, nothing beneath him but bright air, and with a professor’s voice, he explained, “You can tell a lot by the spring in the rubber.”
“Be careful,” said Merit.
“Oh, I didn’t hit it hard,” the youngster said, misunderstanding the warning. “But the insulation looks good. No sense wasting fuel if there’s zero chance of our shouts getting through.”
The generator’s tank had been drained. Merit opened its cap and began to pour in the contents of the first can.
“I know these machines,” Fret said. “I know everything about circuits and currents, all of that. But you know what? Nobody’s ever explained to me what really happens inside the copper.”
Merit was too tired to pour neatly. The fuel slipped free, building streaks on the tank’s dirty red body.
Words flowed out of the youngster. “Sure, I studied negative charges, and the positives, and how they fly along the wire. And magnetism builds invisible clouds, fields or whatever you call them. But I had one teacher try to convince me that the world is full of lights that we can’t see, colors that our eyes can’t find, and invisible clouds that we’re never going to feel. He said that those colors are here all of the time. Even in the darkest night, those nothings are busy. That’s why we bury our wires inside these big sleeves. Because raw wire is full of noise, all of it senseless, and there’s no room left for even one of our voices.”
Fret was full of noise.
Drained, the first can felt weightless. There was no reason to use the second can. Their business would be finished soon, provided the generator worked and the line was intact, and provided they could contact Prima without delays or too many risks.
“Have you heard about these invisible lights?” Fret asked.
Setting down the empty can, Merit said, “Yes.”
A moment ago he was exceptionally tired, but the stink of fuel or simple nerves had done something to his head, clear thoughts on the move again.
“Maybe people should wear rubber around their heads,” the slayer thought, half-seriously. “Maybe our currents would flow better then.”
Fret left the hole, walking to the line’s endpoint—a wooden box wearing sawdust and one durable black receiver. Brandishing a small wrench and a heavy old screwdriver, he gave one mighty shrug. “Let’s give the generator its chance.”
The pull cord was on the other side of the chamber, and the quickest route was an easy jump over the hole in the floor. Merit felt light, almost relaxed, except he was neither. He was tired and so very sad at the same time, but those sensations had vanished. In the company of this young man, he felt renewed, and the illusion lasted until he was jumping over the opening in the floor—suspended above the oblivion, suddenly wondering if the exhausted legs had given him enough of a push.
They had.
But something was wrong, something that a piece of him understood before his conscious shriveled mind saw what was obvious.
“Sir,” said a tight, angry voice.
Merit blinked, staring at Fret’s furious expression.
“Stupid sir,” said the boy. “You just kicked my wrench out the damned hole.”
Zakk was watching the world with tiny eyes, with the tiny binoculars. He could see very little, but the view seemed to impress him nonetheless.
Meanwhile Divers and the other Seven saw enormous swaths of wilderness and busy air, and they felt nearly blind. Flocks of powerful wings flew fast under the canopy, avoiding enemy fire, and the airship fleet from the District of Districts was still in the remote distance—giant gasbags looking like a swarm of flies only now reaching the edge of the Corona District. But there had been no battles today. Each side seemed to be trying to avoid enraging the other. The great prize was still missing. Diamond was lost. The important souls were cursing beside the hanger, demanding answers that nobody could give, and a moment later, a lowly colonel came running on hands and feet.
He was a local man. Divers knew him.
“They’re sending us our new wing,” said the officer. “Everybody needs to be out of its way.”
Zakk appeared eager to run into the trees above the tarmac.
Divers knew better. The aircraft in question was a slip of darkness on the edge of what he could see, and there was ample time. She dropped both of her telescopes and then showed the officer her canines, each as long as the man’s tired arms.
The colonel summoned the courage not to back away.
Nothing happened. Nothing changed. Then without a word, Divers looked back into the hanger, into the gloom, noting that heavy wagons were rolling clear of the deepest bunkers, new weapons filling the cradles.
Yesterday meant little bombs and simple guns.
Somebody was getting ready for bigger battles today.