Called to Battle, Volume 1 Page 2

“Walking won’t be a problem. Stamping? Hmph.” Strangewayes grabbed a second nozzle to compare to the one that had punched through the arcane turbine.

  “Brisbane thinks the Minuteman may change trench fighting.”

  Couldn’t she see he was trying to concentrate? He stared at the two parts. The faulty nozzle—if in fact that was where fault lay—seemed to have a slightly narrower aperture than the other. Strangewayes pulled calipers from his apron pocket and set about getting a proper measurement.

  “What about the propulsion rig, Captain?”

  According to the calipers, those apertures were actually identical. The charring had misled him. False alarm. He spun the part around in his hand absentmindedly. He closed his eyes and wondered what else could have failed. The soot, the scuffing, and the finish of the metal played across his fingers, each telling a different tactile story. This was burnt, this was pristine, this was gouged by whirling brass, this was hand-finished . . .

  “Did you find something, Captain?”

  He opened his eyes and glared at Lieutenant Burrick.

  “Yes. I found my company’s journeyman warcaster, one Lieutenant Caspi Burrick, buzzing repeatedly in my ear about the problems of tomorrow morning when it should be as obvious as a trencher bugler on fire that I am concentrating quite intensely on the problems of this evening.”

  Burrick’s eyes widened, and she took half a step back.

  Strangewayes closed his eyes and continued to turn the nozzle over in his hand.

  Hand-finished? Really? Was the casting in the Corvis Foundry so sloppy that somebody had to go over these by hand to get them to fit? He compared the two nozzles again.

  The suspect nozzle had been hand-finished in three places. The other nozzle had not. He grabbed a third. No hand-finishing there, either. He held the suspect nozzle up to his eye and imagined burrs or seams or mold lines where the filing, sanding, and polishing had been done. The placement wasn’t right for seams. A big enough burr here would make this nozzle look more like the secondary steam regulator on a Hunter, but that regulator also had attach points in two other—

  That’s exactly what this “nozzle” was. It was a secondary steam regulator from a Hunter. Similar parts, cast from molds that shared most of their dimensions, but the interior of a steam regulator would have a valve and was meant for steam flow, not fire flow, and from the opposite direction.

  Installed backward in the Minuteman, that regulator valve would weld shut on the first real load, completely restricting fire flow. Instant overpressure, quickly building with each piston stroke, followed by an explosion that would burst through the valve and leave that piece looking like shrapnel rather than the absolute obstruction it had been.

  Simple carelessness could account for someone misplacing a Hunter part among the Minuteman nozzles. Absolute ignorance could account for seeing the misplaced part, thinking it miscast, and then filing it to fit instead of recognizing it as a different part altogether. But nobody so incompetent could do such a fine job with the finish.

  No, this was sabotage.

  Almost everybody in this small camp had access to Jagger at some time or another, but swapping out propulsion components wasn’t something just anybody could do, and there was no way to do it while the ’jack was on the march. It had to have happened after yesterday morning’s jump tests, which meant the swap probably occurred yesterday evening when Strangewayes had ordered his crew to pull the systems from both Hess and Jagger to examine them for wear and tear. That put Mo, Rala, Merriweather, and Tully on the short list of suspects. Burrick had looked on and was close enough to make the swap, so she was on the list too.

  Except if the young warcaster wanted to desert or defect, she would want the pair of ’jacks in fighting trim to help with her escape. That ruled out Burrick, didn’t it? Also, she was standing right here next to him in full armor, watching him examine the suspect part, and she hadn’t killed him yet. Strangewayes considered this for a long moment and decided it not only ruled her out but qualified her for a new role.

  “Lieutenant, let’s go for a walk.”

  “Captain?” Burrick looked worried.

  “Not far. Out of earshot but where we can still see this table.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Strangewayes strode to the edge of the camp and turned to face the center of it.

  “We have a saboteur in our little company, Lieutenant.”

  Burrick eyes went wide again, this time with surprise. “Do you know who it is?”

  “I do not, though it is probably one of my people.” He sighed. “Unless, of course, one of Lieutenant Thorne’s trenchers is a plant and did the deed very quietly while we slept.” That broadened the suspect pool far too much. Sixty trenchers, half of them green, plus the teamsters, the quartermaster, the mess wagon—

  Burrick frowned in deep concentration and stepped closer to Strangewayes.

  “Strategically, sabotaging the Minuteman makes sense for only two reasons,” she said. “First, to deny Major Brisbane the resource two days from now. Second, to deny us the resource sometime between now and then.”

  “Brisbane has the Twenty-first Brigade at his disposal and can manage just fine without a couple of experimental light ’jacks,” Strangewayes countered.

  “I agree. That means the target is not Brisbane’s force but your short company here.”

  “It pains me to say this, Burrick, but the only thing here worth a strike deep behind our lines is you. A warcaster, even a journeyman, is a precious resource, and you’re close to full magus. Killing you makes sound tactical sense.”

  “A saboteur with access to those ’jacks could just as easily slip into my tent and slit my throat, Captain. Besides, I’m not the most valuable thing in this camp.”

  Strangewayes said, “Jagger and Hess? They may be the first Minutemen to march out of Corvis, but their schematics and spare propulsion modules could be stolen even more easily. No need for sabotage.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Captain. I’m talking about you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re one of the finest arcane mechaniks in Cygnar, sir. Captain Darius and General Nemo are top-notch, but their heads are full of battle plans these days. You, however . . . Well, I’ve never spoken to a warcaster who wouldn’t take your team over any other to keep her ’jacks on their feet, and I don’t know anybody who would dare field a ’jack if you declared it unfit.”

  The young lieutenant made a twisted sort of sense. Except for one thing.

  “If I am the target, they could have killed me in my sleep, same as you. And I snore, so they’d have additional motive. Are you suggesting they mean to capture me?”

  “You’re tougher than an iron nail, sir, but how much Cygnaran engineering do you think you could hold back with a Greylord interrogator filleting you while using unholy magic to keep you alive?”

  “I’m a long sight tougher than just an iron—”

  “They don’t know that, sir. More important, on this route, I’m sure the best place and time to stage an attack is right here, tonight. You should put your steam armor back on, sir.” Burrick paused. Strangewayes understood: warcasters, even journeymen, were trained to lead in situations like this, but this was Strangewayes’ command.

  Lieutenant Burrick definitely showed promise—and her high opinion of him didn’t hurt.

  “I’m listening, Lieutenant. What’s your plan?”

  “If you’ll check Hess for sabotage, I can be ready to send it into a fight. With luck our saboteur may figure out we’ve twigged to things and will call off the operation. And if not, we can keep you back with Thorne’s platoon where you’ll be safe right down to the last man.”

  “Safe isn’t how I’m bolted together, Burrick.”

  “No sir, it really isn’t.”

  Strangewayes smiled. Burrick shrugged and smiled back.

  He stared across the camp at his table and the damaged Minuteman beyond it. Hess and Pappy idled in the
distance. He needed to make sure all three ’jacks were part of this fight. Anybody planning to grab him out from under a platoon of trenchers was going to arrive in force.

  “So, what’s the unsafe plan, sir?”

  “I’ll suit myself up and repair Jagger. You privately alert Thorne to our plan, then top off your own firebox and get yourself ready to take control of both Jagger and Hess. If bullets start flying, run Hess into the fight, and I’ll follow. I’m the bait. Whoever’s coming will need to dog-pile on me, be sure of that, and they’ll expect the ’jacks to be disabled. If they get through Hess, you jump Jagger right on top of me and fire the flak guns. I’ll have to keep my head down and have the faith of an ascendant that my armor holds, but that should finish off our hypothetical snatch team.”

  Burrick looked at the wreck and then back to Strangewayes.

  “It’s going to be dark soon, sir. We might not have much time.”

  “Somebody just said I’m one of the finest arcane mechaniks in Cygnar. I’ll have Jagger ready.” Strangewayes looked back across the camp at Pappy and considered what a saboteur might have done to the Grenadier. “When you talk to Thorne, have him swap out Pappy’s magazines. Our saboteur could have done a lot of things, but a bad grenade fuse is an easy bodge and would do the most damage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Strangewayes jogged back to his tent and began pulling on his steam armor. Often the twins or a junior mechanic or two would help him, but given the current circumstance this was something he needed to handle on his own. From the bottom up he began buckling in, his heart racing just a bit when the heavy leggings were locked down. This was the critical point when his armor was half-on, half-off, and unpowered. This was when he was truly the most vulnerable, not out on the battlefield with Cygnaran warjacks within reach of his wrench.

  He stoked up the firebox, attached the pauldrons to either side of the small steam engine, and then shrugged his way into the assembly without burning himself—a trick he’d mastered long ago. He grabbed the breastplate and began buckling and cinching everything, his mind racing along with his heart.

  The second Minuteman, Hess, almost certainly had a blocked compression nozzle, but replacing it would have to wait. It was securely mounted deep in the propulsion module above and behind a hot firebox. Cold, the part could be swapped out in a minute and a half. Hot was a different story, and right now Hess was the only warjack Lieutenant Burrick could control. They needed Jagger up and running before they could afford to pull that firebox.

  Armored up, he strode out to his table and grabbed a nozzle—a bit scorched but still true to spec. He dropped it into his apron pocket, picked up the schematics, and then swept the remaining parts off the table and straight into the scrap box.

  “Tully! Merriweather! Front and center!” he shouted.

  The two mechanics double-timed up to their captain with salutes and “yes, sirs.” Strangewayes waved the schematics at them and then slapped the bundle of paper down on the empty table.

  “Battle drill, boys. Build me another propulsion module from replacement parts. I want Jagger ready to bound into action in half an hour.”

  “Half an hour?” asked Merriweather.

  “Yes, sir!” said Tully.

  Strangewayes strode over to the downed Minuteman. Jagger was on all fours, a standard repair stance to put weight on its fists and knee plates, keep freshly lubricated hydraulics off the ground, and expose the entire upper back for easy access all the way from the stack to the ash hatch. The boiler was completely detached, and a new firebox sat empty alongside the split furnace.

  Mo and Rala were inspecting and cleaning slug cartridges. Rala was clearly in a hurry to finish, as she had one in her mouth. Reckless. Effective, but reckless.

  “Battle drill, you two. Let’s bodge this wreck back together, and let’s see how quickly we can do it.”

  Rala spat the cartridge into the towel in Mo’s hand, and he fed it into Jagger’s magazine. The two of them shrugged into their tool vests and then patted each other down to check the placement of their tools.

  Engaging his steam armor, Strangewayes grabbed the two-hundred-pound boiler and easily lifted it up and into place. A heartbeat later four grey-green hands and a pair of wrenches spun bolts into brackets so quickly they were almost a blur. Strangewayes grabbed a bent radiator plate with the corner of his wrench, and by the time he had it true the twins had the steam line socketed and attached. He pounded the split shut on the furnace, and Rala slid the metal patch in place a half-second after his final stroke. Mo worked on that weld while Strangewayes realigned the hip flexor and Rala body-checked the leg back into true.

  The twins were in rare form this evening, like extensions of Strangewayes’ own arms. It was fifteen minutes of furious, frantic precision, and at the end of it, Jagger was upright, standing ready for the new propulsion module and replacement firebox. Right on time, Tully jogged across camp with the finished replacements.

  “Assembled and ready to go, sir.” Tully carried the racked compression chambers and the central turbine over to the Minuteman. “Need help mounting it?”

  “No.” Strangewayes took the assembly from him. “The twins and I have a head of steam on, son. Grab Corporal Merriweather and field-check Hess. Top off the water, the firebox, and the hydraulics, and make sure the guns are loaded.”

  “Expecting trouble tonight, sir?”

  “Expecting trouble always, Corporal.”

  Strangewayes waited for Tully to leave, then pulled off his glove and felt inside the assembly. Four nozzles, each at the end of a compression chamber, each positioned to blow heartfire across the arcane turbine, each precision machined to be— Thamar’s drooping dags. Three of them were precision machined. One, however, was hand finished. Strangewayes unbolted the offending nozzle’s compression chamber, slid it from the module frame, and unscrewed the nozzle. He reached into his apron pocket, withdrew a proper nozzle, and screwed it on, then slid the repaired compression chamber back into the module frame and bolted it down.

  The whole process took less than a minute.

  He turned the finished propulsion module over in his hands three times, then bolted it into place and began installing the firebox.

  Mo and Rala looked at him and then in the direction Tully had departed.

  “Lemme see the bad part, Captain?” Mo asked.

  “Me first!” said Rala.

  Strangewayes finished with the firebox. It was unfueled and completely cold, but he felt the fire of anger all the way to his fingertips. Tully or Merriweather. One of those two was the saboteur, certainly. But it was neither, let alone both, of the twins. He shouldn’t have doubted them, much less dressed them down the way he had. The other syllables in their shared name, “gamun” and “uman,” meant “quiet” and “faithful.”

  Or “manic” and “fanatic.” What an incredible language, that those words should all fit right now. These gobbers were more than loyal. They were like his left and right hands, only faster and truer than the hands he’d been born with.

  He passed the compression chamber to Rala.

  “Mo asked first, but you had the spine to tell me my ears are too small.”

  She cocked one of her ears at him as she accepted the nozzle.

  He nodded at her. “Too small to hear what you heard and not quite large enough to listen to you when you told me about it. I’m sorry.”

  Rala shrugged then spun the nozzle around in her hands, feeling it all over in much the same way Strangewayes had earlier that evening. Then she thrust her finger into it and her eyes went wide.

  “It’s a backward steam valve,” she whispered in shock and amazement. “Filed to fit!”

  “Gimme!” said Mo, snatching it from her hands. He thrust a finger into the nozzle and his own eyes went wide.

  Strangewayes held out his hand, and Mo obligingly dropped the nozzle into it. He slipped the sabotaged part into an apron pocket, then looked down at the twins and put a finger to
his lips.

  “Not a word. This is our secret. Stoke Jagger, lickety-split, and then start polishing the armor. If Merriweather or Tully offers to help, tell them I’m punishing you. If they insist, you have my permission to brain them with a wrench.”

  The twins leapt into action again, four hands throwing coal into the firebox so quickly it looked like a black stream. Both of them had wrenches handy and wore wary grins.

  Strangewayes looked across the camp at Burrick. She nodded at him and glanced toward Jagger to indicate she was now controlling the ’jack and was ready to send it into action the way only a warcaster could. Strangewayes felt just a moment of envy.

  He walked over to Lieutenant Thorne’s tent. Pappy stood outside, idling.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Come on in, Captain.”

  Strangewayes slipped into Thorne’s tent. The lieutenant sat on his bedroll with his Radcliffe carbine in his lap and a sick look on his face. He held one of Pappy’s grenades in his hands. The fuse-pip had no fuse in it; it was packed with powder instead.

  “How’d you know, sir?”

  Strangewayes gave him a wink. “It’s what I would’ve done—if I were in a hurry and not as smart as I actually am.”

  “Well, sir, the platoon is on alert, half of each tent awake, half turning in for a light but restless sleep. It’s the only kind the greenhorns get, regardless.”

  “As you were, then.”

  Strangewayes ducked out of Thorne’s tent and made his way across camp to where Hess idled. Tully was checking a magazine, and Merriweather was reading the pressure gauges along the steam lines.

  “Spot check, lads,” he said, announcing himself. Both corporals blanched and stepped away from the ’jack. One of them probably feared for his career; the other might fear for his life. No way to tell which. Or maybe it was both of them. Strangewayes looked each of them in the eye and wished, perhaps for the hundredth time, that the human soul could be read the way boiler pressure could.

  He turned to the Minuteman and stepped in front of it, looking up into its glowing eyes.

  If I were a saboteur and I thought someone might be on to me and might know to control the ’jack in some way to avoid my original sabotage, what would I try? An obstruction in one of the weapon muzzles would be quick and easy to hide, but it would also be the first thing anybody suspicious would check. Sand in the hydraulic reservoir would make a mess, but it wouldn’t be catastrophic. An externally fused grenade could be tucked behind the head, maybe, the fuse ready to be touched off by bleed from the cortex, but it would take significant sleight of hand to—