The fog seemed darker in front of them, as if hinting at some looming presence just out of sight. Then the gray-green curtain tore, and there it was.
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.
The funnel cloud seemed to lose energy; then a torrential wall of wind smashed into Modular Man from above. His flight path stagge
red downward. Saint Elmo’s fire played around his figure as energy surged through his generators. He fought the wind shear, reeled upward, then realized that there had to be a better way to do this.
He ceased struggling against the wind and, tumbling, allowed it to cast him downward. He flailed with hands and feet. He hoped he would look completely out of control. Trajectory calculations flashed through his macro-atomic mind. The gray surge of the moat spun nearer. Spray leapt up as the wind struck the water. The android called on his flux generators to sideslip him out of the grasp of the wind shear, then called on his full energies to stop his descent. Gravity tugged at him as his descent slowed. Spray filled the air. The android streamlined his weapons over his back and gave himself maximum lateral thrust. He shot out of the wind shear’s grasp like an orange pip squeezed between finger and thumb.
With any luck Cyclone thought he’d been smashed into the moat — the spray might have concealed his escape. Modular Man raced back into the fog bank, then sped north at wave-top height, following the curve of the outer curtain wall. Once he was thoroughly hidden in the fog, he rose, skimmed over the wall, and began a long ascending curve toward the Brooklyn shore.
He should be well behind Cyclone now. He shot straight up into sunlight, seeing the boiling fog below, the waterspouts dancing over the water, the ruined gatehouse. Cyclone and Mistral were facing away from him. He rose above Mistral in a curving are, calculations flashing through his mind.
He was in the perfect bounce position, above and behind the two aces. He was dropping out of the sun and their billowing cloaks prevented them from checking their six o’clock.
He couldn’t lose. Mistral was going to fall, then Cyclone.
This was going to be murder.
He reached the top of his arc, began to descend. Deployed the laser.
He didn’t have a choice.
He’d been ordered to defend the gate.
He couldn’t think of a way to do that without killing Cyclone and his daughter.
He remembered how he’d fought against the Swarm alongside Mistral, the way she’d hovered over the scenes of the worst disaster, her wind power tearing at the invaders.
He thought of what the microwave laser would do, stimulate the water content of Mistral’s body until her flesh exploded in a blast of steam.
He didn’t want to do this.
And then the rearmost of the two waterspouts, the one that hadn’t hit the Wall yet, lurched forward.
Heading straight for Cyclone.
There was a lengthy moment when Modular Man couldn’t comprehend what his sensory apparatus was telling him.
The funnel took Cyclone from behind and swallowed him. There was a brief impression of arms and legs spinning, of fragments of costume being torn away.
Modular Man hovered, undecided.
The funnel spat Cyclone out and began to disperse. Cyclone tumbled, his famous cloak in rags. His arms and legs fluttered in air.
Then a wind picked him up, buoyed him slightly, altered his trajectory. His arms and legs moved feebly, as if he was trying to move — or perhaps that was just the wind.
The wind increased in velocity. Cyclone began to tumble. He picked up speed very rapidly.
The wind smashed him against the outer curtain Wall of the Rox. Modular Man almost winced at the force of the impact. Cyclone slid off the Wall into the angry, wind-whipped sea. It swallowed him instantly.
The two waterspouts faded. The fog began to roll in again.
Mistral began to fly toward the Rox. Modular Man was still high and behind her, undetected.
Jumped, Modular Man thought.
Mistral penetrated Bloat’s Wall without hesitation and Bloat’s remaining fish-knights parted to allow her to pass.
Modular Man followed her all the way to where the governor waited.
The huge wooden gate grew stronger by the moment.
Inside the barbican, jokers were jeering at him through the slit windows. Tom ignored the taunts, summoned his telekinetic battering ram once more, and hit the gate again.
The crunch of impact echoed through the tog. On his screens, he saw the center of the gate give under the blow. The cracks in the wood widened visibly. Another dozen hits and he’d smash through… except…
The gate was healing itself. Tom watched it happen. Wood reached out to wood; the great, gaping cracks narrowed, faded, and were gone. He zoomed in tight, saw black iron veins creeping slowly through the grain, groping toward each other, thickening. Veins of metal deep in the wood.
“HE’S TURNING THE WHOLE THING TO IRON,” he told Danny through his speakers, his voice thick with frustration.
He heard the voices jeering down from fog-shrouded parapets above, glimpsed joker faces peering out through the slit windows. Someone tossed a Molotov cocktail down out of the fog, but the shell was too far back. He watched it arc out and hit a good ten yards shy. A fireball blossomed briefly on the water.
“The Jersey Gate is down,” Danny told him. “Detroit Steel’s inside the gatehouse. Snot took a direct hit with an armor-piercing shell. You ought to see him now. So are we going to the dance or what?”
A machine gun opened up somewhere above them, firing blindly through the fog. Danny swore and returned fire. Tom frowned, tightened his grip on the arms of his chair, and hit the gate again. The crash sounded more metallic than wooden this time. Again the gate gave a little, then held.
“Radha’s high enough,” Danny reported. “She’s moving in. The windy twins have a nice tornado going in the east, that ought to hold Bloat’s attention awhile.”
On screen, Tom watched random fire kick up the water of the bay. Another Molotov cocktail came spinning out from the gatehouse. The iron snakes were melting into each other, mating, becoming solid metal bars.
Shots went pinging off the steel plate.
“Shit!” Danny cried out in alarm. “Too damn close!”
“YOU ALL RIGHT?” Tom asked.
“For now,” she said. “How long you planning to park here? Not that I’m complaining, but one of us isn’t wrapped in armor plate, remember?”
Tom grimaced. He could smash the fucking gate. He knew it, even if the jokers inside did not. He could imagine what it would be like. It left a bad taste in his mouth. He twisted the volume of his speakers up to maximum. “LISTEN UP IN THERE. YOU GUYS IN THE GATEHOUSE. ANYONE UP ON THE WALLS. GET OUT OF THERE. NOW.”
Hoots and catcalls were all the reply he got. The gate was almost whole now, solid iron fifty feet high.
“That scared ’em,” Danny offered. “Good idea, they’re laughing too hard to shoot.”
“I MEAN IT,” the Turtle insisted. “YOU ASSHOLES WANT TO LIVE, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE.”
“Look at the third-floor window, over on the right,” Danny said. “I think they’re trying to tell us something.”
Tom zoomed in on the window. One of the joker guards was mooning them. The window was very narrow. Fortunately, so was the joker’s ass. “Just hold that pose,” Danny said. She aimed and squeezed off a careful round. The joker in the window shrieked, and suddenly vanished.
“Good news and bad news from Jersey,” Danny told him, a little breathlessly. “The good news is, Pulse just showed up.”
“About time,” Tom said, relieved.
“The bad news is, he’s on their side. He’s fighting the Reflector. You ought to see it. It looks like Snot’s inside a cage of light, wrestling with a hundred glowing snakes. His clothes are on fire. I think he’s pissed.”
Tom sighed. All right, enough. “Hang on,” he told Danny. “I’M THROUGH PLAYING AROUND HERE,” he warned the defenders. “NO MORE KNOCK-KNOCK ON THE GATE. THIS TIME, I’M BRINGING IT DOWN.”
“Tell them you’ll huff and you’ll puff and you’ll blow their house down,” Danny suggested. “Or is that Cyclone’s department?”
It was all an adventure to her, Tom realized. Suddenly his anger flared. He turned down his speakers to a whisper so only Danny could h
ear. “What the hell do you think this is, a Rambo movie?” he barked at her angrily.
She looked down at his camera. “What are you so upset about?” She sounded puzzled.
“Those are people in there, and if I hit that wall as hard as I hit the bridge, they’re going to die. You ever seen anyone die? Ever killed anyone?”
“No.” Her voice was smaller, subdued.
“They don’t have any spare bodies,” he told her. Then he turned away, disgusted at his anger, at her, at the whole situation.
“Turtle,” she said softly. He looked back up at the overhead screen. The infrared goggles hid her eyes, but Tom could see that he’d hurt her. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She was. Tom could see it in her face. “Me too,” he said gruffly, feeling awkward. He wrenched his attention back to the gatehouse, twisted his speakers back to full volume. “ALL RIGHT,” he announced. “NO MORE MISTER NICE GUY.”
He forgot about the battering ram.
He thought of a freight train.
He laid the tracks with his mind, straight across the water, running dead on into the gatehouse. Not at the gate. The gate was solid iron now. At the stone wall just to the right of it. He closed his eyes, summoned an invisible train twice as big as any real train had ever been, sent it hurtling forward. For a moment he could see it in his mind’s eyes, hear the iron thunder of its wheels against the rails, the doomsday wail of its steam whistle.
But it was all teke. The enemy couldn’t see a thing. The defenders were still jeering and hooting when the train crashed head-on against the base of the gatehouse.
The whole barbican shook with the force of the impact. The entire bottom half of the gatehouse collapsed inward. Huge stones came tumbling off the parapets to crash into the bay. Tom heard screaming. The immense iron gate still stood, but now there was nothing to anchor it on the right. Tom grabbed it with his mind and pulled. He heard the shriek of tortured metal. The gate resisted, twisted slowly, then gave all at once, ripping free of the stone in an explosion of dust and rubble. He flung it backward; it arced over the shell and splashed down in the waters of the hay behind them.