Last to Rise(41)

Some of the guards shot at them, though their aim wasn’t great and most of the Storad stayed well out of the guns’ current range in any case. Perak said the last lot of guns down at Factory Three could shoot more than double the distance. Until then, or until a decision as to what the hell to do had been reached, Malaki ordered the guards to stop shooting.



“Well?” I asked.



Pasha’s monkey features scrunched up in concentration as he surveyed below. “It’s… ah, there. Dench. He knows, Rojan. He knows what you and I can do. That I’m looking in their heads right now, trying to work out what they’re about. Got them all repeating a phrase over and over in their heads so I can’t see past it. Currently, said phrase is ‘Fuck Rojan.’”



“Nice. He doesn’t know about what Allit can do though, does he? Allit?”



The kid was pale but stoic, his eyes shining with hero worship of Pasha and, dare I say it, me. It felt good, but part of me knew I was going to have to let him down gently, because a hero I ain’t.



He shuffled forward and grabbed at a finger as he’d seen Pasha and I do countless times. A twist, a crack that made me grimace along with him, a whimper from a voice not yet broken properly. But he was made of stern stuff.



His eyes went far away, as though he was looking somewhere else, and I suppose he was.



“Almost here,” he said in a whisper, and we knew what he meant. More Storad machines, more men. Then his mouth cranked up into a one-sided smile. “Not just them. Others too. Below.”



“What do you…? Oh.”



From up here we could see the inner gates, see where the Storad had noted our lack of shooting and had sent a small sortie to check them for strength, for weaknesses. We could see this side too, see what the Storad couldn’t. A barrel-load of men. Guards in their tabards, milling restively, waiting for the order to shoot.



The guards had always been an arrogant bunch of bastards – I swear it was on the application form: “Please rate your arrogance from 1 to 10” and only someone putting 11 had a hope of getting in. I suppose it came with the territory. They got to do things most of Under only got to dream about. Like having a decent wage without having to bust a gut for it. They were damned good at not busting a gut to solve any crimes, certainly. Instead they revelled in their small rise above the masses, in the freedom to do whatever the hell they liked to a suspect as long as he wasn’t Ministry, and Goddess help them if they arrested a Ministry man.



They hadn’t signed up for this, I could almost see that thought radiate off them. They’d signed up for a uniform that meant they got to bully people in their normal course of work, for a steady stream of bribes, for the little extras that being a Ministry man, however menial, could give them. They were just your regular guys with a tabard and not much else. I could hardly even blame them for joining up – a job’s a job and you do what you can for you and yours. Perak had brought about enough changes as it was, ones that screwed with their nice, contained little lives. New captains, ones who frowned very hard indeed on bullying, bribery or extras. On top of that, now they had to risk their arses in a way they never had before, in a way few of us had ever had to, and they had to be shitting bricks down there. I almost felt sorry for them. Almost.



Even without the different uniforms, you could tell the Specials from the regular guards. While the guards shuffled about like naughty children told to stand in the corner, the Specials stood serene, on the surface at least. Waiting with an infinite patience that was somehow even more bollock-clenching to look at than the uniforms or any amount of bravado would have been.



But bravado wouldn’t have helped then. The guards were crapping themselves and, looking the other side of the gates, I couldn’t blame them. All of the guards and Specials had guns now – Trade had been pumping them out as fast as its factories could, at least until the raw materials ran out. The Storad, though, had come for war. Had prepared for it, must have done, must have just been waiting for the right time. Every damn one had a gun or something like it, most had two. Some had other contraptions that grew on their backs like weird metallic monkeys. I didn’t know what they did, but I did know I didn’t want to find out. And behind them, perched in the top of the valley and looking over them like a watchdog, they had the machine that had already taken down gates that were strong as mountains. It was silent now, presumably so as not to blow up its own men, but it was still there, and it still worked. The other machine, the one I’d bent, looked neglected and bleak, but it didn’t matter. A few people wouldn’t be a problem for the machine that was left. No, they’d soon be a big fat mess.