closer to the action, Jax had the advantage of a full two seconds over them, having been focused on the captive’s eyes at just the right moment. And to a being of metal and magic, two seconds were but an eternity: two hundred centiseconds, two thousand milliseconds. In two seconds a servitor could transform itself from a statue to a missile.
Jax’s wake sculpted snow, dirt, and moldering leaves into twisting vortices.
A glancing collision with a fellow Clakker ignited a shower of white-hot sparks.
Slow human nerves and sinews caught up with the sequence of events. The officer started to flinch.
The tomahawk handle clanked against Jax’s chest. He wrapped himself in a ball, enveloping the weapon.
The first mechanical reached the officer. It started to pull him aside but had to do so gently, ineffectually, owing to the fragility of human bones.
The wind of Jax’s passage flipped the officer’s hat into the air, tousled his hair.
Another servitor skidded into the original path of the weapon to shield their master with its body.
Jax landed. Bouncing and skidding through the underbrush, he ripped a furrow in the frozen earth.
The tent collapsed, canvas shredded and poles snapped by the vicious rarefaction wave created by Jax’s departure.
Sparks drifted to the snowy ground. Sizzled. Became smoky wisps smelling of ozone and dark magic.
Jax unfolded. The shattered tomahawk tumbled to the ground. The handle had snapped in two and the steel blade had been warped. He tromped through the underbrush, hopping over his own furrow, returning to the camp just as the humans registered the sequence of events. Both looked confused and alarmed. Now it was the officer who studied his surroundings, wide-eyed, while the Frenchman sighed.
Well
, thought Jax.
That should eliminate any doubts about my loyalty.
Collapsing tent canvas draped itself across the oven Jax had stoked. Flames engulfed it. But this was a mundane fire. Harmless. A trio of the nearest servitors strode into the flames. In moments they had suppressed the blaze before it spread through the camp.
The captain shook off the metal hands holding him. He approached the captive until they stood just feet apart.
In Dutch, he said, “That was an act of war.” Jax wondered if the Frenchman understood. “We’re within our rights to execute you.”
When the Frenchman spoke again, his voice was just barely above a whisper. Jax couldn’t distinguish what the man said from the background rustle of wind, the rustling of the humans’ clothing, the ticktock patter of his kin. He couldn’t even tell if he spoke French or Dutch or Algonquian. The officer stepped closer.
“What?”
The other man twisted in his captor’s grip. He lunged for the epoxy bladder, fingers outstretched to puncture it. But this time he was far too slow. The military Clakker easily yanked the grenade beyond his reach. The Frenchman’s shoulder gave a wet pop. He yelped.
The ax was a ploy
, Jax realized. To himself, he thought,
He knew he had no chance of hitting his mark, not with so many of us around. He did it to ignite the need to gloat. To lure the officer closer
.
Others followed the same train of thought.
A vengeful suicide
, said the servitor who had tried to pull the officer out of harm’s way.
Maybe the French truly are ideologues.
Shaking his head as though disappointed in a child, the officer turned and walked away. But he stopped after a few strides and glanced over his shoulder. To the military Clakker, he said, “Break his arm.”
Even the lapping of the river and the wind through the trees couldn’t muffle the sharp wet
crunch
. A hoarse scream shook snow from the naked boughs.
Jax navigated through the camp via the soft glow of moonlight on snow. The sentry outside the prisoner’s tent acknowledgedhis approach in what had, in recent months, become the traditional fashion among their kind.
Clockmakers lie
, she rattled.
Clockmakers lie
, he responded.
Somewhere
Jax’s wake sculpted snow, dirt, and moldering leaves into twisting vortices.
A glancing collision with a fellow Clakker ignited a shower of white-hot sparks.
Slow human nerves and sinews caught up with the sequence of events. The officer started to flinch.
The tomahawk handle clanked against Jax’s chest. He wrapped himself in a ball, enveloping the weapon.
The first mechanical reached the officer. It started to pull him aside but had to do so gently, ineffectually, owing to the fragility of human bones.
The wind of Jax’s passage flipped the officer’s hat into the air, tousled his hair.
Another servitor skidded into the original path of the weapon to shield their master with its body.
Jax landed. Bouncing and skidding through the underbrush, he ripped a furrow in the frozen earth.
The tent collapsed, canvas shredded and poles snapped by the vicious rarefaction wave created by Jax’s departure.
Sparks drifted to the snowy ground. Sizzled. Became smoky wisps smelling of ozone and dark magic.
Jax unfolded. The shattered tomahawk tumbled to the ground. The handle had snapped in two and the steel blade had been warped. He tromped through the underbrush, hopping over his own furrow, returning to the camp just as the humans registered the sequence of events. Both looked confused and alarmed. Now it was the officer who studied his surroundings, wide-eyed, while the Frenchman sighed.
Well
, thought Jax.
That should eliminate any doubts about my loyalty.
Collapsing tent canvas draped itself across the oven Jax had stoked. Flames engulfed it. But this was a mundane fire. Harmless. A trio of the nearest servitors strode into the flames. In moments they had suppressed the blaze before it spread through the camp.
The captain shook off the metal hands holding him. He approached the captive until they stood just feet apart.
In Dutch, he said, “That was an act of war.” Jax wondered if the Frenchman understood. “We’re within our rights to execute you.”
When the Frenchman spoke again, his voice was just barely above a whisper. Jax couldn’t distinguish what the man said from the background rustle of wind, the rustling of the humans’ clothing, the ticktock patter of his kin. He couldn’t even tell if he spoke French or Dutch or Algonquian. The officer stepped closer.
“What?”
The other man twisted in his captor’s grip. He lunged for the epoxy bladder, fingers outstretched to puncture it. But this time he was far too slow. The military Clakker easily yanked the grenade beyond his reach. The Frenchman’s shoulder gave a wet pop. He yelped.
The ax was a ploy
, Jax realized. To himself, he thought,
He knew he had no chance of hitting his mark, not with so many of us around. He did it to ignite the need to gloat. To lure the officer closer
.
Others followed the same train of thought.
A vengeful suicide
, said the servitor who had tried to pull the officer out of harm’s way.
Maybe the French truly are ideologues.
Shaking his head as though disappointed in a child, the officer turned and walked away. But he stopped after a few strides and glanced over his shoulder. To the military Clakker, he said, “Break his arm.”
Even the lapping of the river and the wind through the trees couldn’t muffle the sharp wet
crunch
. A hoarse scream shook snow from the naked boughs.
Jax navigated through the camp via the soft glow of moonlight on snow. The sentry outside the prisoner’s tent acknowledgedhis approach in what had, in recent months, become the traditional fashion among their kind.
Clockmakers lie
, she rattled.
Clockmakers lie
, he responded.
Somewhere
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