A clear shot, thinks Mulaghesh as they run up to the harbor yard gates. And the right timing.
She hears an om on her right, up north into the city, and a smattering of screams. The sounds of gunfire are near constant. She keeps waiting for a pause, for Saint Zhurgut to take a breather, but he doesn’t: he is an engine of destruction, and he’s doing what he knows.
“Sigrud, Signe!” Mulaghesh shouts to the harbor gates. “Are you in there? It’s me!”
The gate falls open and she walks in. She sees Signe standing along the wall, pointing a pistol at her. Then Sigrud’s face emerges from behind the gate. He jerks his head impatiently, as if to say, Well, come on.
“Good,” says Mulaghesh. “You’re all alive.”
“He’s paying more attention to the homes and residences,” says Sigrud. “He seems to have forgotten the harbor altogether. So we’re safe, for now.”
“We are, but he’s destroying the city!” says Signe. “He’s killing everyone he can! He’s a damned monster! Where did he come from?”
“From the sword, I suppose,” says Mulaghesh. “You said that in the old days departed sentinels could possess the bodies of the living, yeah? I guess picking up that damned sword was the trick.”
“How the hells could a Voortyashtani sword still be…be, well, active?” asks Signe.
“Beats me,” says Mulaghesh. “But someone meant for me to pick it up. If it’d worked, that’d be me standing on top of that chimney, trying to kill everyone within a mile.”
“Can we stop him?” says Sigrud.
“I have some options,” says Mulaghesh. “And we can stop him. It’s just a matter of simplicity, provided we’re all healthy and willing.” She looks at Signe. “That PK-512 of yours—is it operational?”
“The what?”
“The minigun. The giant fucking cannon you’ve got set up in front of your yard of statues!”
“Yes, I think so….My predecessor had it installed, but…but no one really knew how to use it.”
“Well, I do.” Mulaghesh squats down and starts drawing a map of the harbor in the mud. “Listen. There’s a chance that one of the Ponja guns we’ve brought can maybe penetrate his armor. So there’s a chance there’s literally a one-shot solution to all this.”
“Then why haven’t you shot him?” says Signe.
“Because if it doesn’t work he’s going to know where we are and slaughter us like cattle. If that’s the case, we need a backup.”
“Which is?” asks Sigrud.
Mulaghesh looks at Signe. “You know how to operate that train of yours?”
“The supply train?” asks Signe. “Yes, of course.”
“Good.” Then she looks at Sigrud. “And you—are all your limbs in working order?”
“More or less.”
“And you think you can use one of these?” She lifts one of the Ponjas, which is like a small cannon.
Sigrud shrugs. “I received training on a prototype, long ago.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a maybe.”
“Maybe will have to do. This isn’t Bulikov, Sigrud—I don’t think you can get inside Zhurgut’s gut and carve your way out of him, not this time.” She takes a deep, deep breath. I hope this sounds smarter when I say it, she thinks. Because it sounds damned dumb when I think it. Then she begins speaking and drawing out her plan in the mud at her feet.
***
Mulaghesh and Signe sprint northwest toward the SDC loading yards, where the supply train runs. Signe hauls Captain Sakthi’s radio box, and Mulaghesh has thrown a Ponja over her shoulder. They’re not going as fast as Mulaghesh would prefer, because for some damned reason Signe insisted on taking along the damned briefcase she brought to Mulaghesh’s room earlier that night.
Mulaghesh tries to ignore how much her feet and arms and back hurt. You’re getting old, girl, she says to herself. You can’t put yourself through a fight like this anymore.
“This,” says Signe, panting, “is maybe one of…of the worst plans I’ve ever…I’ve ever heard of!”
“Just do your part,” says Mulaghesh, “and we’ll see how it goes.”
“But…But the timing of it! The sightlines, the…well, the everything!”
“You spoke your piece back there,” says Mulaghesh, vaulting over a short wall. “Don’t waste your precious breath saying it again now.”
Finally the supply track appears ahead, along with the watchtower. The spotlight in it is dark, the huge PK-512 beside it crouched and silent. Electric lights run along the track, white and buzzing, giving the area a strangely spectral, antiseptic feeling. The two of them slow to a stop before the track, their breath whistling and chests crackling.
Signe sets the radio box down with a thump. “The train’s stationed up ahead,” she says, pointing uphill.
Mulaghesh looks up at the watchtower standing over the train track. “How long will it take you to fire up the train?”
“I’ll make it work,” says Signe.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“I’ll make it work!”
“You’d better. Because you have to.” Mulaghesh looks back at the city. Saint Zhurgut stands on his perch, continuing his one-man assault on the entire city. Somewhere, Mulaghesh knows, Captain Sakthi and the other Saypuri troops are escorting all the civilians they can find back up to the fortress.
“There’s something else,” says Signe, setting down her briefcase and opening it.
“What?” snaps Mulaghesh. “What now?”
“I figure now’s the time to give you this….Mostly because I’m not sure if I’ll get another chance.” She turns the case around.
Inside the case is one of the most intricate creations Mulaghesh has ever seen: a gleaming steel hand, with jointed fingers and a flexible wrist, and some sort of small lock set in the center of the palm. It’s a false hand, but it’s leagues better than the one she’s using now.
“Wh-Where did you get this?” asks Mulaghesh.
“I made it. I have been observing the way you’ve been trying to compensate. That thing you’re using now is an ornamental piece of shit.” She lifts the hand out of its case. “Adjustable digits that you can lock into any position. Same goes for the wrist. And there is a latch in the center of the palm. Here’s its mate.” She takes a small steel ring out of the case. It has a clasp at the top, and at the bottom is what must be the male end of the latch. “You can slide this down a rifle barrel and tighten it on. Then you can lock it to the false hand. It won’t be as good as a normal hand supporting it, but it’ll be better than what you’re using.”
Mulaghesh stares at it, astonished and confused. “I…Um.”
“I think the words you’re looking for,” says Signe, “are thank you. And also it will make you a better shot, which will be very handy in the next five minutes. Take your shirt off.”
“What?”