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Chapter Eleven

Cobetsnya Military Garrison 19

Cobetsnya, Kolakolvia

Illarion Glazkov


“Most of you will not spend much time inside the armor at first,” Kapitan Spartok declared. “For you, your shovels will be your most important tool. I will not train you on the use of that particular tool, because if I have to do that, we may as well hand Cobetsnya to the Almacians.”

The sun baked the new members of the Wall from overhead. The temperature was unseasonably warm for a spring day at noon, and the Kapitan had arrayed them in front of the suits three hours earlier. Sweat spilled down Illarion’s shaved head and into his eyes, stinging them. No movement was allowed. Something about it being “practice” for keeping nerves under control. Illarion had no idea what the purpose of the lesson really was, but it was simpler to follow orders rather than to question. Spartok didn’t like questions.

“Your entire purpose in life—short though it may be—is to make sure your assigned Object stays in the fight. Doesn’t trip over an obstacle and fall. Doesn’t sink. Doesn’t get stuck in the mud. Doesn’t run out of ammunition.” Spartok looked them all in the eye, each in turn. Standing behind him, a handful of the Wall’s veterans nodded in agreement with the Kapitan’s words. “Part of this responsibility means pulling the Object’s driver from the suit once it overheats. You do not want to let your comrades cook alive. In the event you are required to pull a driver from the suit, the next driver will get in, and then you will help them as you did his predecessor. So on, down the line. This process will continue throughout the battle, and if God is on our side, you won’t need to pilot the Object yourself until you’ve received more training. But we can’t count on that.”

Spartok walked past the line of recruits and approached the nearest Object. The suit powered by dead golems stood facing away from the assembled soldiers. Spartok reached up, grasped two handles, and turned them. Illarion could see from the strain on the Kapitan’s muscles that the mechanism for opening the suit was a tough one.

“If the enemy gets around behind you, you don’t want them to easily open it.”

The veteran who’d praised him after the fight on the hill had stopped behind the line of recruits. His name was Arnost Chankov; his rank was Sotnik, the lowest level of officer, but which still made him next in command here after Spartok; and he’d been in the Wall for six years. Illarion hadn’t realized how remarkable that term of service was until he found out that half of them wouldn’t make it through the first year.

Once Spartok opened the hatch, the hot, stagnant air escaping from the suit made heat waves that were visible even to Illarion’s poor eyes. “As you can tell, it’s already hot in there. The armor is mostly constructed of steel plates which get very warm in the sun, and there is very little airflow inside. It’s stifling at the best of times. However, that’s nothing compared to how it will get in battle. It’s kind of pleasant in winter, but even then it will quickly become unbearable when you begin taking enemy fire. In the summer? It is brutal.”

Spartok looked down the line of recruits and pulled a face of disgust. “But you don’t understand anything I’ve said yet. How could you? Recruit Nulina. You are assigned to this Object, correct?”

Svetlana stepped forward. “Yes, Kapitan.”

“Good. Ladies first. Get in.”

Svetlana hesitated for a moment, but when she saw Spartok frown she hurried to the back of the suit.

“Is there a ladder?” she asked.

“That’s one more thing to carry around the battlefield, so no.” He made a stirrup with his hands. “This is usually the best you can hope for.” She set her foot in his hands and used that to step through the hatch. “Make yourself comfortable, Nulina.”

From where Illarion was standing, it was hard to tell exactly what Svetlana was doing, but she seemed to be settling her feet partway down into the legs of the suit. Illarion couldn’t see a seat of any kind, which meant the drivers were suspended in a standing position in the middle of the Object.

“Don’t extend your arms yet. Keep them crossed over your chest. Get a feel for the balance. For the weight of the suit. It seems heavy, yes? When we close the back, the bond between you will be fully established, and it won’t seem as cumbersome as it does now. But neither will it be like simply wearing a shirt and pants. If you fall, you will be exposed. Regaining your feet is extremely difficult, and the other members of your crew will not be of much help. Falling down is the most lethal danger to the Wall, especially if you fall on your face. Now”—there was a bit of hesitancy in the Kapitan’s voice—“I’m going to close the Object. Do not put your arms in the suit’s arms. You aren’t ready for that. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Kapitan. But—”

“This is not the time for questions. You keep your hands off the controls. Fold your arms and stick your fingers in your armpits. Don’t move until I tell you to. Understood?”

“Yes, Kapitan.”

Spartok swung the steel doors shut and cranked the handles into the closed position. As soon as he did, a deep thrumming noise began emanating from the suit. Metal joints creaked, and the mass of steel straightened, almost coming to attention.

“Depending on how good your connection to the Object, the more you will be able to get out of it. The suit’s combat efficiency will increase. It will mimic your movements, provided all your limbs are in their proper places. There are physical controls, but there is also a lot of nuance to how the magic translates those movements, which you will learn with practice and time. These Objects are why they call us the Wall. A single one is worth a platoon of regular soldiers. A line of us is worth an army. I need all of you to move to the far side of the grounds. It’s time you had a demonstration. First Sotnik Chankov, please prepare your Object.”

“Yes, sir.” Chankov jogged to one of the suits—numbered 74—at the other side of the training grounds, with two other veterans in tow. They opened the suit, helped Chankov in, then shut it behind him. The thrumming sound was louder from his Object, but Illarion couldn’t see much of anything with them being as far away as they were.

Chankov’s suit began walking. It was quite the sight. It was almost like watching a man in an old-fashioned suit of armor, only far bigger. Illarion was awestruck by the thing. Many of the recruits gasped. Despite being told to stand at attention, Igor Verik couldn’t help but clap with glee. Surprisingly enough, none of the veterans snapped at him. A moving Object was just that impressive.

“As you can see, the Object responds to Chankov’s will. The small movements he makes are read by the machine and it moves as he does, but in an exaggerated way. It takes some getting used to. The rest of you should not expect to move as easily as Sotnik Chankov. He’s one of my best drivers and makes most of us look clumsy.”

Chankov marched to stand opposite Svetlana’s Object. Illarion was impressed by how mobile the armor appeared to be. It seemed lighter than it should have been for so much steel. It was . . . unnatural. Impressive, but unnatural. He couldn’t fathom how the Sister of Nature could approve of such a thing, but she sent him here, so they must be alright.

“While in this armor you will become a perfect servant of war! How are these suits so effective?” Spartok yelled at the recruits to be heard over the noise of the Object’s stomping. “They, like the scraped golems they are built from, are nearly impervious to damage.”

Spartok walked around to face Svetlana’s Object, and before Illarion had time to process what was happening, the Kapitan drew the pistol from his belt, and shot the suit in the face. The impact was marked by a small flare of blue.

The recruits flinched at the bang. The veterans laughed at them.

Spartok bent down and picked up something from the ground, then held it up so the recruits could see.

“What is it?” Illarion asked Lourens in a whisper, who was standing to his left.

“The bullet. It’s smashed flat.”

“A golem has two layers’ protection,” Spartok said. “One magical, one physical. A golem’s aura causes projectiles fired at them to slow dramatically or stop before impact. The bullets lose a great deal of energy, so even those that hit the hardened body beyond the magic field do very little damage. And golem bodies are made from things like solid rock or malleable clay, and we’ve seen some that weigh as much as thirty tons, yet they still move with the grace of the most gifted athlete.”

“I doubt that,” Lourens whispered. Of course he was incredulous. Lourens was the only recruit who had been a champion athlete, having wrestled for some fancy academy in Volgodarsk. Illarion had never heard of the place, but the others had reacted like that was very prestigious.

One of the veterans behind them muttered, “All of you recruits should pray that you never have to face a real golem, because they make our Objects look like toys.”

“Luckily for the empire, the Chancellor figured out a way to harvest this power from the bodies of fallen golems. The remains of one Prajan golem can be used to create a squad of our Objects, each of which inherit a fraction of that golem’s power. But I know what you are all thinking. I fired only a single pistol bullet at Recruit Nulina. That’s not so impressive. It would have bounced off a regular piece of metal that thick just as well. So let us give you a better demonstration of the abuse an Object can take.” Spartok raised his voice again. “Sotnik Chankov, are you ready?”

Chankov’s response was louder than expected, considering it should have been muffled by all that steel. “I am ready, Kapitan.”

Spartok looked up into the faceplate of Svetlana’s Object. “Nulina? I need you to keep your arms crossed just as I instructed before. This can be . . . uncomfortable. Understood?”

The suit’s head nodded, which was surely an unconscious movement on her part, and a metallic, distorted version of Svetlana’s voice said, “Understood, sir.”

“Chankov, when I am clear, feel free to engage.”

“With pleasure, Kapitan.”

Spartok holstered his pistol and crossed the grounds to stand with the recruits. Chankov’s Object swiveled a bit, watching the Kapitan, and then it turned back toward Svetlana.

“Range is hot,” Spartok said.

Svetlana’s Object had begun trembling, probably because that was what she was doing inside and it was mimicking her movements. It made an unnerving rattling sound. Chankov’s Object took a single, bracing step forward and lifted one arm. At this distance it was hard for Illarion to tell what exactly was mounted on the end of that arm. It appeared to be a rifle of some sort, but probably five times the size of any gun he’d ever seen before. It had a box on top, or maybe it was a funnel, or some kind of hopper.

Illarion noticed that Spartok and all the veterans had pressed their hands over their ears. He hurried and did the same.

There was a terrible roar.

Gouts of flame erupted from the arm cannon as Chankov unleashed a chain of explosions. Splashes of blue incandescence enveloped the front of Svetlana’s Object, and just below the churning sounds of endless gunfire, Illarion could hear Svetlana screaming. He took a step forward, but a sharp glance from Spartok arrested his advance.

He silently cursed the stupid reflex. What was he going to do? Go stand in front of her to get ripped apart by gunfire?

Chankov fired the giant gun at least twenty times before it fell silent. He’d never heard of a gun that held so many shots. But then the two members of Chankov’s crew ran up to the Object, which immediately lowered its weapon so the soldiers could reach it. One opened the hopper on top of the gun, while the other shoved a large piece of sheet metal holding gigantic brass shells into it.

“That’s how they reload it,” Lourens said, more to himself than to anyone else, but Illarion could see the others in their immediate vicinity nodding along in understanding. Illarion tried to imagine reloading the Object’s weapon like that, but while taking fire in the middle of combat. Or clearing the ground in front of the giant so it wouldn’t trip and fall. His mouth went dry.

The crewmen ran away, and then the roaring gunfire continued. Illarion couldn’t hear Svetlana’s screams anymore, and he hoped she wasn’t dead. He’d skinned plenty of deer and elk that had been felled by a gun a fraction of the size of that thing. If one of those rounds snuck through it would blow Svetlana to pieces.

The blue flames created a wall of shifting energy in front of Svetlana’s Object. Not on the suit, Illarion realized, but in front of it. He had originally thought the projectiles from Chankov’s cannon created that flash, but that wasn’t the case at all. The azure flares were from a barrier that prevented the gunfire from hitting the suit. Spartok hadn’t been exaggerating. It really was magic.

As suddenly as it began, the thunderous noise stopped, leaving Illarion’s ears ringing despite his hands being clapped over them. Chankov lowered the cannon so the smoking muzzle was pointed at the ground.

“Range is cold,” Chankov said.

“Range is cold,” Spartok confirmed as he strode to the back of Svetlana’s suit, grabbed the handles and opened it. A plume of steam escaped from inside where Svetlana was supposed to be, then the woman herself fell out of the Object. The recruits all ran forward, pressing to see if their friend had been killed.

Sweat plastered her clothes to her skin, and her shoulders shook. At a distance, Illarion thought her to be weeping. But when he got closer, he saw she was laughing. She pushed aside the men who tried to help her up and regained her feet.

Spartok nodded his head in slow appreciation. “Now you understand, Nulina. What have you learned?”

“That in these suits,” she said with a fierce smile, “we will be gods.”

The men cheered, but the Kapitan took a step forward, reached out, and grabbed her by the shoulder. He pressed his thumb into the soft tissue there, and for the first time, Illarion noticed the cloth of her shirt had been charred there. Svetlana’s grin vanished instantly and was replaced by grimace of pain.

“Gods don’t feel pain, Recruit. Gods don’t burn. Gods won’t be baked alive inside their armor if they aren’t given relief.” Spartok continued gripping her shoulder and didn’t let go until Svetlana was on her knees. There was blood on her shirt from where the blistered skin had split open.

“This is the lesson, Recruits. There is no such thing as benefit without cost. While the Object protects you from direct harm, it is not impervious. The force of the projectiles levied against you is mitigated by the magic harvested from the golem’s remains, but that energy turns into heat. A heat that will cook you alive if you are not mindful. For those of you too stupid to understand what I just said, the more the Object is struck, the hotter it gets. The harder it is struck, the hotter it gets. If you aren’t careful, you will get cooked alive inside the Object.”

Then Spartok held out his hand to help Svetlana back to her feet.

“You have seen our scars. Now you know where they come from. The Wall does not wear uniforms decorated by metal that melts or ribbons that burn. Those are for lesser soldiers than us. The Wall wears our awards on our skin. Now the rest of you must show you can withstand the heat. Who is next?”

“I am.”

All eyes turned to Illarion as he stepped forward.

A savage grin split Spartok’s face. “Let’s go to your assigned Object then, Glazkov.”

Illarion could feel Object 12 before it came into view. The presence of it. The potential in it. Once they were standing next to it, Illarion reached out before the Kapitan did and grasped the handles at the back of the suit. Illarion heaved at them, expecting serious resistance like he’d seen when Spartok had opened the last one. None came. The handles turned easily in his grasp.

Spartok seemed surprised, but he hid the emotion well.

The doors swung open, and the interior was exposed. Without thinking about it, Illarion used the back of the suit’s armored leg as a step and hoisted himself up. It felt natural, like he had been created for this moment.

“Now’s not the time to show off,” Spartok said in a quiet voice behind him. “No matter how well the suit responds to you, you are not ready to drive it yet. Keep your arms crossed. I’ll not have such potential wasted because of impulsiveness. Understood?”

“Yes, Kapitan.”

Illarion’s feet settled into stirrups at the top of the Object’s legs. To the side were controls that would strap around his arms. At the end of those jointed steel bars were smaller controls, a series of rings clearly meant to be worn like a glove, and the impulse to put his hand inside was nearly overwhelming. Instead he folded his arms tight against his chest. The space around him was wrapped in padding, probably to protect the driver’s body from colliding with the hardened steel interior. As Spartok closed the door behind him, Illarion was plunged into darkness. The space was cramped, the air difficult to breathe, and the heat was already stifling. Now he understood why during testing Yannic had made them huddle inside tiny dark boxes to see which recruits would panic.

But Illarion wasn’t afraid. A quiet settled over him, a sense of oneness with the armor surrounding him. As he stood up straight, he realized there was a spot to stick his head, like a padded bucket. It was a tight fit, but once he squeezed his skull inside, he realized he was looking through the view port of the bulbous helmet that sat atop Object 12. It had a much wider range of vision than he had suspected would be possible.

And it was clear.

Everything, both near and far, held sharp edges. The colors seemed brighter and more vivid than ever before. Illarion gasped, because this was the first time he’d ever known what it was like to really see.

Except he had no time to marvel, because that was when Spartok said, “Chankov, fire when ready.”

Chankov’s Object had walked into position. A gout of flame erupted from the other Object’s gun, and for one brief instant that muzzle blast was the most beautiful thing Illarion had ever witnessed, with its billowing edges of orange, red, yellow, and black.

Then he got hit.

Object 12 shook. It was like being inside a metal drum hit with a hammer. As the metal vibrated around him, Illarion’s view turned into the same blue incandescence he’d seen during Svetlana’s test. Chankov kept on firing. It was terrifying, yet exhilarating at the same time.

Illarion looked down from the view port and saw that the blue light was growing inside the Object. Each time one of the massive bullets struck the golem’s magical shield, tiny blue flames briefly flickered in the corresponding area inside the suit. He flinched as the magic hit his body, sharp and hot as a spark from a campfire.

Sweat poured down his face. His clothes quickly became sodden. The air grew stifling, and he longed to open the helmet so he could breathe. But he kept his arms folded as directed, enduring the increasing heat. Several rounds hit in the same area, which seemed to briefly overwhelm the magic. There was a whine of a ricochet as a fragment of one of Chankov’s bullets struck steel plate. The impact jostled him against the harness he wasn’t strapped into. He lurched forward, and one arm hit the metal plate in front of him. Illarion’s skin hissed at the contact. He winced but didn’t cry out. He’d show no weakness in front of his friends.

“Cease fire, Chankov.”

The gunfire stopped. The other Object lowered its arm in a safe direction. Chankov’s crew immediately ran out to feed more clips into the ammunition hopper.

“Range is cold.”

The sound of the cannon had seemed muted compared to how shockingly loud it had been outside, but oddly enough other exterior sounds seemed much louder to his ears. He could hear his comrades’ excited conversations forty yards away as if they were close by. He could hear Dmitri Orlov bragging to Lourens about how he would prove his mettle by not keeping his arms crossed in the suit.

When the back door opened, cold air rushed in. Illarion practically fell out the hatch. He lay there, catching his breath while the other recruits crowded around him. A few seemed surprised to see that he wasn’t actually dead. The rest were excited by the display, fearful about their upcoming turn, or both.

“Look at this.” Spartok walked around to Object 12’s chest plate, and gestured at a spot where a smear of lead had blasted off the green paint. “This is an excellent example of how magic is nice, but good old-fashioned armor plate still has its place. Sometimes the golem shield will be overcome, and your object will still take much of the hit. I bet that rang your bell, eh, Glazkov?”

“Yes, Kapitan.”

Spartok reached down and grabbed Illarion by his burned arm and hauled him up. Illarion hissed in pain as the new blisters popped.

“How was that?”

Shaken, he resisted the urge to babble about magical lights and the miracle of sight, because Spartok preferred simple and direct answers. “It was fine, sir.”

“Excellent.” The Kapitan shoved him away toward the side of the courtyard. “Next!”

Dmitri volunteered.

As the rest of the recruits moved back behind the safety line—Lourens had to help Illarion because he was rather dizzy—Spartok led Orlov to his assigned unit—Object 19. When Orlov tried pulling on the handles as Illarion had done, they failed to give as easily. Spartok opened the hatch for him, then had to help the recruit figure out how to climb inside the armor. As Spartok repeated his basic safety briefing, Chankov’s Object walked to its firing position.

After the Kapitan gave the range commands and got out of the way, Chankov began shooting again.

Shimmering blue enveloped the front of Orlov’s suit, but it was no longer as defined to Illarion’s eyes. He’d never known a clearness of vision like he had inside the armor, but now that everything was blurry again he experienced a pang of loss nearly as keen as he had after the destruction of Ilyushka.

The arms on Orlov’s Object moved.

Giant steel hands lifted, held out before him as if to ward off the incoming shots. Chankov immediately stopped firing, and Spartok ran toward the suit of armor.

“Stop panicking! Let go of the controls!”

The Object jerked back and forth, and the recruits could hear Dmitri screaming about how he was burning and couldn’t breathe. All they could do was watch in horror as the recruit, who had just been boasting about how he was too brave to keep his arms crossed as ordered, reflexively reached up to try and open his helmet. It was an all too human reaction to feeling suffocated, only the Object’s hands were a thousand times more powerful than a man’s, and metal tore as the Object ripped the helmet from its body.

Dmitri’s head was still inside.

The entire suit fell forward, hitting with a thud that could be felt across the whole range. There was a stunned silence as blood poured from the hole.

“Damned idiot!” Spartok rushed over and picked up Object 19’s torn helmet. He shook it until Dmitri’s head fell out, but he wasn’t concerned about it. Instead Spartok glared at the jagged, broken joint where the helmet had once been connected and shouted, “The technicians just repaired this suit. He’s lucky he’s dead or I’d have him executed for damaging the Tsar’s property.”

Then Spartok stared at one of the towers, where important men must have been watching the exercise. “Chankov, have the recruits clean this mess up,” he ordered as he started walking toward the towers. “I’ve got to go assure the commissar that further tests with the Objects will wait until I am sure these morons can follow orders. The next one to disobey will be put against a wall and shot.”


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