The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [100]
These siblings were dead now.
Kingu and Aspu suspected their brother was aware of their approach, that he had broken their codes, and was lurking in wait. Anu had most likely taken an exemplar, somehow, in order to penetrate Mummu’s shield and come down to the surface; they imagined this astute, war-faring human keeping watch right now, raising the alarm as they raced toward him. What would the waiting defenses be, the traps, the guns?
The sisters were agitated, twitchy; as soon as the drones confirmed they were within range of this city they were allowed to begin firing. Fear had occluded any chance for strategy.
The first missiles sent massive gouts of sand into the air, melting them into glass spouts, but with slightly tweaked trajectories the weapons soon began tearing out chunks of stone and brick from the wall, followed quickly by the routing of exposed residences and hovels, all of which collapsed, and fused, taking down others of their kind in huge roils of dust and death.
Screaming above the skyline, as the diggers continued to pound their way in, they saw Anu roar up ahead of them, rotating, seeking. Below their brother was a large fire, and the dark night sky around him began to turn in a vortex of sick purple and black. Was this Anu’s doing? A trap? Skittish, the sisters peeled away. Where was Anu’s exemplar? Their brother, as they headed to quadrants beyond the walls, seemed unable to locate them. Small smart bombs hissed toward him, leaving lines of white gas, like tethers, to burst against his skin.
From rear vids, Kingu and Aspu both watched the cannons that had taken down their brothers and sisters emerge from Anu’s ribs, ugly killers, but his shots went wild, tearing out more buildings and streets.
Then a message came though their receivers; they expected to hear Anu’s rage coming through, but it was not Anu at all.
Firebombs found Serena’s shelter, though one of the explosives fizzled and spluttered and only managed to spray fluids that did not initially ignite. The cognosci living there, which had smelled the man’s approach, warned Serena through spiking anxiety, bouncing from the walls, and she managed to leave by the rear door.
At the same moment, in Hangman’s Alley, Hakim’s booth was also spared too much damage when the incendiary device intended for it was lobbed into the neighbouring stall (selling wallets and small pouches); the previous night, a nervous teenaged recruit had marked an ex on the wrong location post.
Hakim himself was jumped as he closed his restaurant early, obviously concerned about the fire burning on the block adjacent, wanting to go and help, do something. From the north end of the city had come the intermittent sounds of terrific explosions and the shriek of gods. Something monumental was happening. He locked up and moved swiftly toward the area where the fire burned.
His assailants smashed him in the back of the head with a metal bar. He was bleeding and in considerable pain as he broke the left arm of one man and throttled the other into unconsciousness. He killed neither, mostly because the pair reminded him of his youngest two sons, who were constantly making bad decisions. They could use a little leniency now and then.
Gripping the steep slope of clay tiles as winds tugged his body, path felt dampness on his skin, the bombardment of countless machines, each too small to see.
The dungeon roof was in disrepair, with nests and cracks and missing tiles. He found an area where the structure had been so damaged he was able to work one of his legs into a hole. Then he let go of the tiles and raised both metallic hands until the tiny machines began to circle him, slowly at first, then moving quicker, a cyclone.
Kingu and Aspu were near, with a fleet of diggers, attacking blind Anu. Her children were fighting, always fighting. And Mummu was somewhere out there, forming, reforming, in his stunted way.
The seegee swooped into the cyclone and raced exuberantly about, orbiting path’s head a few cycles