Endsinger

  They propped him at the railing, holding his arms. The air overflowed with the burned-flower stink of chi, engine song, a choir of propeller blades. To the west he could see the Tōnan mountains, the cancer-black smear of the Stain spreading around their roots far below. Fumes hung over massive fissures in dead earth, little farms on the periphery being swallowed one foot at a time. And out there on the eastern edge, behind a perimeter of railway lines and barbed wire fences and a hundred shreddermen suits lined up all in a row, a giant stirred.

  Black iron. Great foglamp eyes illuminating the blanket of smoke. Three hundred feet high, eight legs curled up under a bloated, rivet-studded belly; the limbs of some ancient spider god dredged up from the hells. Exhaust spires down its spine, great scythe arms edged with chainsaw blades big enough to level forests as if they were built from straw and dreams. The Guild’s monster. Its masterpiece. Ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world.

  Earthcrusher.

  Daichi stifled a coughing fit, blinking fumes and tears from his eyes. Off at the distant Midland junction, he could see troop transports, banners flapping, blades glittering like breakers on an iron-gray sea. The Tiger lord’s warhost, set to crush the Kagé into dust.

  The shreddermen below started their engines; a hundred-strong choir of sawblade arms and tree-trunk legs, crewed by Tiger pilots. An army of flesh and sharpened steel.

  Gods, what could we have ever hoped to throw against it?

  He looked to the Tiger flagship Honorable Death, floating off the starboard. A sharp intake of breath as he saw him, clad in new brass, eyes burning like hellsfire through the exhaust.

  Staring right at him.

  Kin-san.

  He wished with everything inside him for five minutes alone with that boy in a windowless room. A few quiet words he would give his life to hiss.

  But no. Trust had put paid to that ending long ago. Trust repaid with lightless cells and torture, ending here on these two ships, a few dozen feet and a thousand miles apart. They stared at each other, a bitter, vengeful wind moaning across the gulf between them. Staring until the skies split with a thunderous roar, a belching, crunching, clanking rumble felt from the tip of his spine to the base of his skull.

  The engines of the Earthcrusher.

  The Inquisitors lurked beside him, silent and still. Daichi realized it was freezing, thin air scraping his ravaged throat, but the trio seemed not to notice. They stood looking out over the Stain and the unfurling army, slow exhalations of blue-black breath lost amidst the exhaust.

  The Earthcrusher spewed poison plumes a mile high, a jetwash of spattering tar, the garish oranges and yellows of the Phoenix Fleet nearly lost amidst the cloud. The very sky shook as it bellowed, deck vibrating beneath Daichi’s feet, two vast foglamp eyes cutting through the pall.

  The lead Inquisitor turned to the old man, a smile in bloodshot eyes.

  “Where is your Maker now?”

  * * *

  Kin climbed over the Honorable Death’s railing, and without a word, dropped into smoke-washed skies. Gravity clutching, velocity caressing his skin as he sailed belly down into the void, wind roaring in his ears.

  The Stain stretched out below; a great tumor of ash and cracks torn through Shima’s heart. The fumes blanketing the dead earth barely moved despite the prop-blasts from above. Kin closed his eyes as he descended, wondering if he would feel it when he struck the ground.

  He worked at switches on his wrist, and the engines on his back roared to life, snatching him from gravity’s embrace. He swooped under the fleet’s belly, half a dozen Artificers flying with him—the team from Kigen sent to complete the Earthcrusher’s crew.

  The goliath loomed out of the exhaust veil as the Artificers descended. Kin didn’t appreciate how colossal the machine was until they were within fifty yards. The giant towered over everything, the army of ten-foot-high shreddermen at its feet looking like children’s toys. Kin banked around the crescent-shaped forearms, edged with chainsaw-blades large enough to decapitate buildings. This close, the engine’s rumble was a suffocating pressure against his ribs.

  The team landed on the machine’s right spaulder, and a metal hatch in the Earthcrusher’s neck creaked open, red eyes glowing at them from the dark. A Lotusman ushered them into a cramped corridor lined with thick iron piping, moist with steam. Looking down through the mesh gantry, Kin could see power cables and pressure gauges and combustion chambers, interlocking gears smeared with inch-thick layers of grease. There was a kind of poetry to it all, the motion of machines and men, the hiss of smoke and steam. He found himself smiling behind his mask.

  “Welcome to the Earthcrusher, brothers,” said the Lotusman.

  Kin looked him up and down—barely more than an initiate judging from his voice, his skin still new and relatively clean.

  “I am Shatei Bo, aide to Commander Rei. Our Kyodai requests you report to your assigned stations. We march within moments.”

  “Our thanks, brother,” Kin said.

  “You are Fifth Bloom Kin?” The aide’s eyes glittered in the dark.

  “I am.”

  “Commander Rei requests your presence on the bridge.”

  Kin nodded. “Lead on, brother Bo.”

  A cramped elevator carried them up through the goliath’s neck, the engine song so amplified in the narrow space Kin had to adjust his aural dampeners. The lift doors hissed open into a wide, circular chamber within the Earthcrusher’s skull. Two enormous glass portals stared out over the surrounding wastelands. The walls were lined with instrumentation; gauges and dials, punch-card interfaces. The air left a greasy film over Kin’s glass eye.

  In the room’s heart sat the pilot’s station: a harness of iron and pistons and leather buckles, connected via segmented umbilicals to the instrumentation around it. Kin finally understood Kensai’s frustration at being denied his place here—the thought of sitting at those controls sent a thrill of excitement skittering through his flesh.

  But not to be. Commander Rei was ensconced on the throne, buckled in place. He was outfitted in a regular atmos-suit, eyes covered with telescoping goggles. Artificers were concluding the final stages of pre-walk check. Rei glanced over his shoulder, flicking a switch to close his comms channel.

  “Kyodai Kin, I am pleased you saw fit to finally join us.”

  “Commander Rei.” Kin covered his fist, bowed deeply. “Second Bloom Kensai sends regrets that he could not be here on this momentous day.”

  The commander turned to his aide as if Kin had not spoken. “Brother Bo, oil pressure is still fluctuating on leg seven.”

  The young Lotusman took his seat at the comms station and nodded. “Technician already dispatched. A seal ruptured during engine ignition. Repairs are under way.”

  “… I should see to the Artificer crews,” Kin said. “There is much I need to catch up on.”

  “No,” Rei said. “You should bear witness. Your father assisted in designing this machine. It is only fitting you should stand on the bridge as it takes its first steps.”

  Kin stood beside the control rig, watching Rei from the corner of his eyes. The harness was suspended from the roof, able to swivel with the pilot’s hips. The motion of his legs, arms and head would be transferred via relays to the Earthcrusher itself—the machine mimicking his movements. Control of the chainblades and air defense systems could be wielded via the control gloves, or ceded to secondary stations. The bridge was staffed with half a dozen, the Earthcrusher itself with over sixty, and there were a thousand ways things could go wrong. But presuming all systems were in working order, ultimate control was in the hands of one man.

  That man nodded to himself, scanning his consoles. Seemingly pleased, he cleared his throat and opened his all-channels comms frequency.

  “This is Commander Rei. Pre-walk check complete. Notify ground crew to stand clear.”

  Brother Bo began a countdown over the open frequency.

  “Earthcrusher ambulation will commence in ten
, nine…”

  Rei turned to Kin, looked the Fifth Bloom up and down.

  “You had best hold on to something…”

  * * *

  Daichi stood at the railing, feeling the volume rise, watching the ground crews and shreddermen suits back away from the Earthcrusher. Thunderous plumes of exhaust rose into the sky, an enormous burst of steam spewing from the machine’s bowels. The old man spat black onto the deck, heart pounding in his chest.

  The behemoth moved—trembling at first, a new foal trying to stand in a puddle of afterbirth. Its legs unfurled, one after the other, cacophony rising. And then, like some grotesque from a Docktown sideshow, some hideous collision between insect and machine, it thrust its legs up to the first knuckle into the ruined earth. And it stood.

  The island shook, one impact after another as the beast began walking, four legs shifting forward and slamming into the ground in quick succession.

  DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM

  The remaining four stepping forward now.

  DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM

  A ragged cry went up from the fleet, Lotusmen raising their hands and calling its name; a testament to their power and ingenuity, now taking its first tentative steps toward the red dawn awaiting it to the north.

  DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM

  DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM

  Daichi licked his lips, tasted black. The little man standing beside him turned, bloodshot eyes drifting aimlessly until at last they settled on Daichi’s own.

  “Do you see?” the little man breathed. “The end?”

  Daichi’s gaze was fixed on the Earthcrusher, breath caught in his lungs as the giant lumbered from the staging grounds, pursued by swarms of shreddermen, clattering and clanking like tiny soldiers after their emperor. All of them marching off to war.

  “I see it,” Daichi rasped.

  “No. You do not.”

  The Inquisitor pointed at the colossus.

  “Not there.”

  He pointed to the ground beneath their feet. The miles of deadland, wreathed in choking, soup-thick fog. Daichi swore he could see tiny figures moving in the vapor, watching the Earthcrusher depart. The little man spoke again, an unmistakable smile in his voice.

  “There.”

  18

  MOCKINGBIRD

  The rain was warm as firelight, thick as treacle, black as midnight.

  Yoshi trudged along the empty railway line, swathed in a hooded cloak of black rubber. Split-toed boots crunching in the gravel beside the rust-chewed tracks, gloved hands inside his sleeves. He’d not been able to find a handcart driver awake at Yama station, and trains weren’t running since the refinery explosion. So, he was walking south, gale blowing black droplets into his goggles, soaking bitter into the kerchief around his face.

  Had to start fucking raining, didn’t it?

  Minutes turned to hours beneath a thunder sky. A few Kitsune farmers were reaping the last of their lotus before the rain’s toxicity ruined it, despite having nowhere to sell it anymore. The downpour finally dried to a trickle, and he slung the hood back from his brow, wrung out his kerchief. And glancing into the sky, he saw a winged silhouette sailing amongst the bloody-gray.

  At first he thought it might be Hana and Kaiah, come to talk him down. But squinting hard, he realized its wings glinted metallic, and there was no rider on its back.

  He watched the beast spiraling in broad circles, seemingly without point or purpose. There was something lonely about the figure up there in all that sky, something that spoke of a body who’d lost their way. Licking his lips and spitting, Yoshi reached into the Kenning, groping for the arashitora’s mind.

  Looking for me?

  A long silence, broken by distant thunderclaps. He watched the beast for a slow minute, about to shrug and set boots to road when he felt the beast’s voice thunder in his mind.

  WHY WOULD I LOOK FOR YOU, MONKEY-CHILD?

  … Who the hells you calling monkey-child, birdbrain?

  AH, BIRDBRAIN. VERY GOOD. A BARB SO SHARP THE VERY AIR BETWEEN US BLEEDS, BOY.

  Someone shit in your morning oats or something?

  ARASHITORA DO NOT EAT OATS.

  Can’t hurl an ounce of blame if someone’s been shitting in them.

  YOU ARE NOT AMUSING.

  Oh, doubtless.

  OH, DOUBTLESS.

  What, so you’re a mockingbird now?

  MOCKERY WELL DESERVED, BOY.

  Fine. Go fuck yourself.

  Yoshi ran one gloved palm over his stubbled scalp, pulled his hood back on, and resumed walking. He could feel the arashitora still circling above, languid, occasionally swooping toward the earth, pulling up at the last moment and hurling back skyward. Like a child, running for no reason other than he had legs and there was ground beneath his feet.

  Yoshi found himself reaching out again, marveling at its texture—nothing like the simple beasts he’d spent his life inside. There was an element of Daken in there, a sense of the feline that bought hard-edged sorrow up in Yoshi’s chest. But there was also a primal, razor-sharp edge, predatory and stained with frustration. He’d never felt anything like it in all his life.

  I CAN FEEL YOU, MONKEY-CHILD. STUMBLING ABOUT IN MY MIND.

  So?

  SO GET OUT.

  Say please.

  PREPOSTEROUS. COULD GUT YOU LIKE A FISH. COULD DRAPE THE CLOUDS WITH YOUR INNARDS. WEAK. WRETCHED. USURPERS. TURNING SKIES TO RED AND—

  Izanagi’s balls, I’ve just figured it. You’re out here sulking, aren’t you?

  … YOU KNOW NOTHING.

  I know a tantrum when I see it. Gods know Jurou taught me all about them. Rich boys throw the worst kind, believe me.

  AND WHO IS THIS JUROU? ANOTHER MEWLING MONKEY-THING?

  Yoshi stopped short, reaching down and slinging a handful of mud into the sky.

  Come down here and spit that shit! I’ll teach you some respect for the dead, you whoreson. I’ll fix it so you can apologize to his godsdamned face!

  He drew the iron-thrower he’d stolen from the Kitsune Daimyo, dancing in a ridiculous, frustrated little circle. Finally he spat into the mud, thrusting the weapon back into his obi and marching down the tracks with thunderclouds crashing over his head.

  … I AM SORRY.

  Go to the hells.

  I DID NOT KNOW HE WAS DEAD.

  Then maybe you should think before you run your fucking mouth.

  BEAK.

  Whatever.

  WHO WAS HE?

  None of your godsdamned business.

  FRIEND?

  …

  BROTHER?

  He was my everything, that’s what.

  Yoshi heaved a sigh, lifted his goggles to run his hand over his eyes.

  He was pretty much everything.

  HOW DID HE DIE?

  He didn’t die. He was killed.

  AH.

  Ah.

  AND SO YOU WALK ALONE, HOPING TO FIND SOME ANSWER FOR YOUR LOSS? YOU WILL FIND NONE IN THE CLOUDS, BOY. BELIEVE ME, I HAVE LOOKED.

  I’m not looking for answers. I’m looking to kill the bastards who killed him.

  REVENGE.

  Godsdamned right.

  YOU WILL FIND NO PEACE IN IT. THE STAINS NEVER WASH OFF. I KNOW.

  Oh, you know?

  YOU WOULD DO BETTER STAYING HERE. WITH YUKIKO. WITH YOUR SISTER. WAR IS COMING, BOY.

  Do I look the kind who’ll risk his stake for people he doesn’t give a shit about? Hells, three months ago, those Yama folks would’ve happily chained me to a stone and lit me on fire.

  MUCH CHANGES WITH THE SEASONS.

  Not everything.

  THE SHAPE OF HEROES, CERTAINLY.

  So I look like a hero to you?

  YOU LOOK LIKE AN ORDINARY BOY.

  A blinding arc of lightning kissed the sky.

  SO YES, YOU DO.

  Save the speech for someone who cares, Mockingbird.

  YOUR ANSWERS ARE NOT WHERE YOU THINK. DEATH CANNOT UNDO DEATH.

  No shit.


  WHY THEN? WILL YOU SPEAK LIKE THESE SAMURAI? OF HONOR? LOYALTY?

  Think I left my honor in my other pants.

  THEN WHY DO THIS?

  Yoshi came to a sudden halt, boots scuffing in mud and bluestone. He looked at the silhouette above, sharp lines of mechanical wings, jet stripes and snow-white feathers against a seething gray sea. He ran a hand over his scalp again, pictured dark eyes alight with laughter.

  The mouth he’d once kissed, bloody and lipless.

  The hand he’d once held, gnawed and fingerless.

  Because blood answers blood, Mockingbird.

  He shook his head.

  Because some motherfuckers just need killing.

  Yoshi walked on. It started spitting again, thick droplets of viscous ooze pattering between rusted tracks, striking the metal in off-beat notes. Yoshi pulled his kerchief over his mouth. Walking along the bleached wood, he prayed the downpour would hold off a little longer. He didn’t notice the arashitora until he’d almost bumped into him.

  Yet there he was.

  Sitting across the tracks, tail sweeping side to side. His feathers were stained gray by the rain, metal wings gleaming dully. His eyes were molten amber, bright as the hidden sun.

  WHERE DO YOU LOOK FOR YOUR REVENGE?

  Kigen city.

  THAT IS TOO FAR FOR ME TO FLY. I MUST RETURN TO YAMA SOON.

  If you say so.

  BUT I CAN TAKE YOU TO WHERE THE METAL ROADS MEET.

  … Midland Junction?

  IF YOU SAY SO.

  Why would you do that?

  IT WILL RAIN AGAIN SOON.

  So?

  YOU WISH TO WALK IN IT?

  No.

  THEN GET ON MY BACK BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND.

  Yoshi tilted his head, looked the arashitora in the eye. He glanced at the clouds smeared overhead, the long stretch of rail track, the black rain spattering into one outstretched palm.

  All right, then. My thanks.

  He crawled up onto the thunder tiger’s back, adrenaline turning his guts to tumbling, mumbling water. The arashitora stood, Yoshi swaying on his spine as the beast loped down the track, leaping once into the air, wings spread, crashing back down to earth with a jolt. Yoshi cursed, held on for dear life as the arashitora leaped up again, this time catching the air beneath his wings, tearing at the empty between clouds and earth and rising into the sky. The boy felt the blood flee his face, watching the ground fall away beneath him, swooping around in a long, loping arc that pushed his innards up against his rib cage. The beast’s wings were a song of metal and gears and pistons, creaking with the uplift, soaring into the rain and cloud.