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Chapter Thirteen

Cobetsnya Military Garrison 19

Cobetsnya, Kolakolvia

Illarion Glazkov


Training was relentless. Days bled into weeks. When Spartok would finally release the students, usually long after darkness had fallen, Illarion would collapse into instant slumber as soon as he reached his cot—even his dreams were about training—only to be awoken before the break of dawn to begin anew. No respite was given.

They learned to work as part of a crew, clearing obstacles, and freeing stuck Objects. If an Object fell, they could help it, but the driver was the only one who could get it back upright, because depending on the variant—no two were exactly the same—Objects weighed between five and seven tons. They were shown how to conduct basic maintenance of the suits’ many joints and systems. Complex repairs were to be left to the mechanics, and anything magical required one of the Chancellor’s specialists, but if it could be fixed at the front they were taught how.

They trained on loading the arm cannon. A foot-long metal clip held twenty shells by their rims. The old clip had to be pulled out, the new one slid into place, and the hopper lid closed, before the driver inside could operate it. Then Spartok slowly introduced more and more complications to the process, with increasing noise, smoke, and chaos until he eventually had them running out and loading the Object’s weapon with live fire going off all around them. Another recruit was accidentally killed during those lessons, ribs crushed by a cannon barrel, and Illarion and the others had been tasked with disposing of the body by feeding him to the war dogs.

The Kapitan instructed them on using the Object’s full functionality before he allowed them to take turns actually driving. Clumsy recruits blundering about in multi-ton suits made from dead golems was an inherently dangerous process, but eventually they all learned the basics. How to walk. How to shoot. How to strike.

There had been no steam engines in Ilyushka, but Illarion had been told about them, and he’d seen a few of them powering various things around the military district of Cobetsnya. They required fuel to work. Objects did not. Their fuel was the life that lingered in the bit salvaged from fallen golems. According to the veterans of the Wall, an Object could theoretically keep moving forever. The problem was always with the heat created by using the golem’s magic. Even walking slowly eventually turned the interior into an oven.

The drivers were the weak link, followed by the various vulnerable parts, like joints and mechanical controls. But drivers could be replaced, and metal could be mended. The golem magic was the vital resource. Dmitri’s prideful stupidity had not just cost him his life, but it had taken Object 19 out of the rotation, possibly for months. Tearing the head off a suit wasn’t just a simple repair that could be conducted by regular army mechanics. Severing the rune fragment that powered every system required the attentions of the Chancellor’s specialists and their time was extremely valuable.

It was no wonder to Illarion that a real golem would be considered the most terrifying thing in the world. They didn’t need a human being to steer them. They operated on their own. Thus they had no weak link. As far as any of the regular soldiers knew, a real golem could run and fight tirelessly until it chose not to. Fortunately for the empire, the Almacians didn’t know how to make golems either. That secret belonged only to the weird, isolationist Prajans.

However, if their Objects were a mere shadow of what a real golem was capable of, Illarion could understand why both Kolakolvia and Almacia wanted to take over Praja so badly. He’d never thought about such things before because Ilyushka had been a long way from everything. One didn’t think about war and politics when you had a mill to run, cows to tend, and crops to plant. The greatest question in Ilyushka every year had been how deep would the ground freeze?

Regardless of the discomfort, exhaustion, and dehydration, Illarion loved driving. Encased in a stifling steel box was the most freedom he’d ever felt. Through the view port, he could truly see, sharper than he’d ever imagined. While the other recruits were clumsy in their suits, Illarion felt confident and comfortable inside Object 12. The others often complained about having to fight their Objects’ controls to get them to do what they wanted, but Object 12 always responded exactly how Illarion wanted. He was careful to only go as fast as Spartok ordered, never faster, but part of him wondered what he could really do with this thing.

One day Kapitan Spartok and Sotnik Chankov were showing the assembled recruits some of the smaller intricacies of the inner workings they would be surrounded with. The Objects were complicated, and those among them who were not mechanically inclined were quickly overwhelmed.

“If you do not intimately understand every bolt, wire, and bit of insulation in your Object, you will be a liability to your crew. Every minute your Object is out of the fight is a minute you have failed your brothers. If we are not advancing, we are losing. If we are not in front, squishy pathetic infantry die in our place.”

“Eh.” Chankov shrugged. The other senior members of the Wall laughed.

Spartok smiled and shook his head. “They’re lesser soldiers, but they’re still our countrymen. So we do our best to keep as many of them alive as we can. After all, if we do not, we’d have to buy our own drinks!” The Kapitan turned back to the line of recruits. “The key to victory isn’t bold acts of heroism, though you’ll have plenty of opportunities for that. The key to victory is efficiency. It is reloading cannons quickly. It is turning over pilots with minimal downtime. Only that stuff doesn’t look as exciting on the posters, so instead they always paint some square-jawed Glazkov-looking farm boy holding a rifle, while squinting steely eyed, and pointing toward the west.”

Some of the recruits made the mistake of laughing, only recruits didn’t get to laugh at the Kapitan’s jokes yet. Spartok stopped in front of Alkovich. “Does combat efficiency amuse you, Recruit?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Then what do you do if, while on the front line driving your Object, the Almacian soldiers toss their gas grenades your way? Recruit Alkovich, what would you do?”

Illarion knew little of the man, only that his parents were bakers in their small village to the east. Alkovich was a decent enough sort, though he seemed to lack any real knack for strategy beyond charging and killing.

“I would charge through the gas and kill them all,” Alkovich answered, true to form.

Spartok nodded, “And risk being separated from the rest of the Wall? Is that wise, Alkovich?”

“No, sir.”

“Your spectacular death would make a fine poster, but it’s not very efficient. What could you do instead?”

“Have the entire Wall charge and kill them all.”

Spartok brought a hand to his forehead and seemed to try and rub away the stupidity he had just heard. It was a gesture Illarion had seen often and grown to appreciate in the man. Spartok had no time for idiocy. Illarion had never considered himself a cunning man by any means, but he also knew that many of his fellow recruits lacked the common sense to survive a single winter in Ilyushka.

“You cannot charge into the gas,” the Kapitan said. “Your dismounted crew would be unable to follow because the gas would choke them. Your Object only works as well as the team who supports it. Visibility in Almacian gas is almost nonexistent. Which means you have a higher chance of losing your footing or of having their troops flank you. What is the correct response to a gas attack, Sotnik Chankov?”

“Close vents and withdraw,” Chankov answered immediately.

“Withdraw,” Spartok agreed. “You will have a limited window to get away from the gas due to air supply. The vents installed in all the Objects let air in and heat out. However, they are a liability against Almacian alchemists. They sometimes use gas that can burn, blind, or choke you, and if you breathe enough of it, even die. When their gas gets inside the suits, you become compromised. So when you see their gas coming, the driver will close his vents, and begin an orderly withdrawal in the best direction according to the wind and battlefield conditions. The crew will run like hell ahead of the Object to make sure the path is clear. Time is of the essence, because with the vents closed, you will eventually run out of air and perish.”

“How long do we have, Kapitan?” Lourens asked.

“It varies. Depending on how much enemy fire you have already taken, how hard you are breathing, or if you are injured. In perfect conditions—which you will never experience—you will have ten to fifteen minutes at most. The same as a coffin.”

Illarion tried to imagine what it would be like to be trapped inside the suit, slowly suffocating. It seemed an awful way to be sent into the afterlife.

“Now that you all understand the risks you will each take turns inside your Objects with the vent covered from the outside to mimic a dwindling air supply. We will time how long it takes for you to lose consciousness, so you recognize your limits. Recruit Pavlovich, because you are full of questions, you get to go first.”

The remaining recruits progressed rapidly under Spartok and Chankov’s supervision. Illarion knew their improvement was because of the instruction of their superiors, and the endless repetitions of training, but also because of the sense of finality pervading the group. They all knew training would end soon, and then they would be going to the front. It was learn what they could now, or else. Failure was not an option. Slowness to learn was not an option. Disobedience was pure stupidity.

There were increasing rumors about their imminent deployment. Streams of wounded soldiers entered Cobetsnya on a daily basis, and their replacements looked younger and younger to Illarion’s eyes.

As relentless as their training had become, it ended without warning. Illarion awoke on his own one morning, which was odd, because they were usually roused by Chankov yelling at them, and it was nearly dawn, so being allowed to sleep in was odd and frightening. The others were still asleep, so he walked outside the barracks to figure out what was going on, and half expected to see Spartok prepping a firing squad to execute them all for not following some forgotten order. Instead, he found Sotnik Chankov walking toward their barracks.

“Morning, Recruit.”

Illarion saluted. “Sotnik Chankov, is something wrong? Have we missed training orders?”

“Only one order for today, Glazkov, and I’ll have you pass it on so I can go back to bed. The Kapitan said to let you all get some extra rest. You’re getting the morning off, because after that you’ll all face your final test to be fully admitted into the Wall.”

“Oh.” He was a little shocked. Intense training had so fully consumed every waking moment for so long that he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Excitement, but also dread. “May I ask what our final test be?”

“Nothing you would expect,” Chankov said with a grin, but it vanished quickly from his face. “Ideally you’d all have another few weeks of training. No, that isn’t right. Ideally, you’d have six months, but that hasn’t been realistic for a long time. We don’t have that luxury anymore. We still have so much to drill into your thick heads.”

“The war goes poorly?”

“Watch your mouth.” Chankov glanced sharply at Illarion, then softened his expression. That hadn’t been said as a superior, but as a comrade. “Don’t ever say something like that where a commissar might hear you. Don’t even think that. But . . . ” He looked around to make sure they were alone. “Yeah. Word is Almacia recently made a big push at the front, and we lost a couple miles of trench. Miles we had gained back over the course of the last five years, we lost them in a week.”

That explained the caravans of bandaged and battered infantry that had been entering the military district over the last few days. Many had been disfigured or had limbs amputated. The recruits had not been allowed to speak to them, but the men coming from the front had all seemed gaunt and haunted. “I’ve seen the wounded.”

“Me too. If they’re sending them all the way to Cobetsnya, that means they’re the lucky ones too messed up to ever go back out. Those will get medical releases and go home, or pressed into service where possible here in Cobetsnya. The rest have their wounds treated as best they can at the field hospitals, then are sent right back as soon as they’re strong enough to fight. Injuries that would have retired a soldier before are now considered inconveniences to be overcome.”

“We will fight as long as the Tsar needs us, sir,” Illarion said automatically, because that’s what he’d been taught, but then he hesitated. Chankov struck him as an honest man, and he was curious. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Sure.”

“How long will the Tsar need us?”

The junior officer chuckled. “That’s the question, isn’t it? They like to say that this war’s been going on for a century, but in reality, it’s been more like a bunch of different wars, with gaps between them. The fighting never totally stops, but sometimes it gets real hot—like right now—other times it cools down, sometimes for several years, because both sides have to rest and rebuild. It’s a dirty truth, Glazkov, but soldiers break. Not all physically—though there is certainly plenty of that—but mentally. In their heads. It’s a hell of a thing.” He looked up as the stars faded and dawn broke. Chankov may have worn the tattoo of a ghoul on his body, but it turned out their Sotnik wasn’t a ghoulish man at all. “Sometimes the dead are the fortunate ones.”

“Do you consider yourself . . . unfortunate, Sotnik?”

“Nah.” He laughed. “The Sisters watch over me.”

Illarion started to say that one of them watched over him too, but then he decided to keep that to himself. He’d found the other soldiers who talked like that didn’t mean it literally like he did. “How do you figure?”

“It’s not a popular thing to talk about in the empire nowadays, but my whole life I’ve had faith.” Chankov looked around again, to make sure no commissars had snuck up on them in the last few seconds. “Not just in what the state church declares either.”

“I’m from the north. Many of us still believe in the old ways there.”

“Then you might not think this is crazy then, Glazkov, but either way I don’t care, because I know it’s true. I’ve got this recurring dream. I know it’s from one of the Sisters. I dream of a little cabin, surrounded by farmland. I dream of a dark-haired beauty in a pure-white dress helping me with the harvest. She holds my scarred hands and looks into my eyes, and there’s safety there.” The vet sounded increasingly wistful as he spoke. “There’s no danger around us. The war is over. And we hold each other in peace . . . ” Chankov trailed off.

Illarion shook his head, because he understood. He’d nearly had that life for himself before his lack of obedience had torn it all away. “What does your future wife look like?”

“No idea. Other than the dark hair, I never seem able to see her face. In fact I don’t see much. Just two figures who I know are happy together.”

“How do you know it’s you in the dream?”

“I don’t.”

They both stood in silence watching the sky brighten. Behind them, sounds of the other recruits waking drifted to their ears. They were alarmed and suspicious too.

“Should we be worried about the final test?” Illarion asked.

Chankov didn’t answer, and Illarion wondered if the man had heard. He was about to repeat the question when Chankov said, “You should always be worried. Be confident, but always have that small edge of worry. It keeps you sharp. But you? No. I wouldn’t worry too much. At this point all of you are going on a crew. We need the bodies. The real question is if you’ll ever be allowed to drive. The ones who should be afraid are the ones who lack a soft touch.”

“Soft touch?”

“That is all I’m allowed to say. Anything more will put me in the Kapitan’s bad graces. Keep your head and you’ll be working on Object 12 in no time. That was my first crew, you know. Soldiers talk ill of old 12 because that suit has been in the wrong place at the wrong time more than probably any two other Objects put together. I used to think they were just superstitious, but right after I was reassigned, the entire team for Object 12 got killed by an artillery strike.”

“That’s why 12 is here?”

“That was a few years back. Object 12 has had its full complement killed six times over since then. Most feel that suit is cursed, but I don’t agree. I think it’s just waiting for the right team. Maybe you’ll be the one to lead that suit to glory, Glazkov.” Chankov saw that others were coming out of the barracks, and once again he was the superior officer. “Tell the others to muster in front of Building 5 at noon.”

Illarion waited in front of Building 5. He had watched the others enter one by one, and as of yet, none had come out. Either they were all dead—a possibility—or they had exited by a different door than the one they entered in. Though he didn’t doubt their skill, he worried for his friends.

No sounds—screams or otherwise—could be heard from inside the building. The quiet was unnerving. He’d become so accustomed to the noise of training—grunts, screams, and gunfire—that to be without them now bothered him more than he expected.

As they called names, the line dwindled, until it was just him and Alkovich left. Alkovich was ushered in, and Illarion was alone.

He tried getting a glimpse into the interior while the door was open to get a hint of what was to come, but his terrible eyes couldn’t make out anything more than blurs. Being outside the suit was beginning to feel like a personal insult. Every time he stepped into Object 12 his clear vision was like a gift from the goddesses. A gift that was ripped away the moment he was outside of the armor.

How long had Alkovich been inside? Seconds? Minutes? It felt like hours.

Above, a raven cawed.

He already knew what he would see when he looked up, but he needed confirmation. Perched on the highest point of the roof was a single raven, watching.

“That’s never a good sign,” Illarion mumbled.

“Recruit Glazkov. Come this way.”

Chankov was standing in the doorway holding a clipboard. When Illarion looked back, the raven was gone. He followed his officer inside.

Building 5 was the secure warehouse where the Objects were stored during the night. All of the suits that had been sent back to Cobetsnya for refit were standing there empty, except for 19. It was still being repaired because of Dmitri’s foolishness. Nearby was a single table with Kapitan Spartok sitting behind it. Illarion saluted him. There were a few other observers as well. He saluted in their direction too just to be safe.

A sudden splash of water caught his attention. He looked to the side and saw two women sloshing water from buckets onto the concrete floor. The water turned pink from blood, and Illarion thought he saw a small clump of hair washed between the cracks along with some red, meaty globs.

All of Chankov’s words about not worrying fled Illarion’s mind, and his stomach began to churn.

“Recruit Illarion Alexandrovich Glazkov,” Spartok spoke without looking up from the papers set on the table in front of him. “Are you prepared to face your final challenge before becoming a full member of the Wall?”

“Yes, sir.” He even managed to force down the tremble of nervousness that threatened to invade his voice.

“Very well.” Spartok stared at Illarion. He could be a frightening man at times, but normally their commander was informal, sometimes even jovial if nobody drew his ire. There was none of that today. “For the official record, I, Kapitan Maxim Spartok of 1st Company, Special Guard’s Regiment One, Tsar’s Army, will be administering this test. I am being supervised by Commissar Bosko also of 1st Company.”

Illarion glanced nervously toward the observers. He’d met the sneering, condescending Bosko before. He was here to ensure loyalty to their beloved Tsar, but Illarion couldn’t help but dislike the fact that a man who’d never labored with a shovel to get an Object unstuck from the mud could sit in judgment over the rest of them. The other observer was a stranger, who was wearing a coat that had no ornamentation on it at all. No rank insignia, no medals, not so much as a ribbon. That was odd in the Military District.

“Also joining us is Mr. Kristoph Vals from Directorate S.”

Illarion cringed. The other recruits had told him about the Directorate in hushed whispers. They were the men who rooted out spies and enemies who plotted against their beloved Tsar . . . or who the Directorate said plotted against the Tsar. He had never heard of the Directorate before coming to Cobetsnya, but even the villages of the forgotten north knew about their predecessor organization, the Oprichniks. Even though the last time they’d terrorized Ilyushka had been when Illarion’s grandparents had been children, the villagers had still spoken about them like they were demons, black-robed warriors atop black warhorses, each one carrying a severed dog’s head that they claimed could still sniff out traitors. And from how many farmers they’d murdered, there must have been a traitor hiding behind every bush.

“It is their duty to ensure I am administering this test with honesty and clarity, and that the Special Objects of Kolakolvia are being operated by individuals who can be trusted to handle them with care. Should you fail, you will be sent to the infantry for the remainder of your enlistment. Should I or the representative from the Directorate decide you are unfit for the Wall for any reason, you will be sent to the infantry. The Directorate reserves the right to have you executed on suspicion of being a spy or a danger to the empire. Do you, Recruit Glazkov, agree to these terms?”

There was more sloshing of water behind him, but Illarion forced himself not to look. It took a moment for the words to come. Finally, he nodded and said, “I do.”

“Very good. Please enter Object 12 and prepare to operate it. Do you require assistance?”

“No, Kapitan.” Illarion crossed the room, stepping over the fresh, bloody puddles, until he reached his assigned Object. The giant figure towered above him, but its massive presence was calming. He swung open the hatch, and effortlessly hauled himself inside. The steel was still radiating heat from when the other recruits assigned to 12’s crew had tested. He swung the hatch shut behind him. It smelled like metal, oil, the sweat of the of previous drivers, and a familiar odor that Illarion didn’t have a name for. It was sort of like the air after a lightning storm. He suspected that was the smell of golem magic.

There was an energy inside the Object. It was hard to describe, but it was there. In a way the feeling reminded him of his family’s mill. Take a massive stone, so heavy that movement seemed impossible, but once the power of the river acted against it the potential was unleashed, and that weight became a tool that could crush anything.

He quickly buckled the leather straps around his feet and legs. Then he locked the harness around his waist, chest, and shoulders. Each of those straps was attached to a steel ring, which was in turn connected to tensioned chains that fed through the interior walls of the cabin to direct the mechanisms in the Object’s body. Every movement of muscle would be translated and magnified in steel.

Once the harness around him was secure, he reached for the arm controls. These were more complicated, consisting of a few articulated metal bars that connected around his bicep. He secured his left arm first using his right hand. They’d been taught that was the more important limb to have secured correctly, because that hand operated the cannon. If it was off-center, then the cannon’s aim would be off. Not that shooting would be part of their final test. He would’ve heard it while waiting in line. Plus, he could tell just from the weighted pressure against his arm that the ammo hopper was empty. However, when he’d mentioned he could tell that last range day, Spartok had said that was in his imagination, because there was no way the driver could tell the gun’s status just by feel.

Regardless, Illarion would keep his left hand far away from the cannon’s bolt and firing mechanism until directed. Then he slid his right arm into place and secured it by biting the leather strap and tugging with his teeth until the buckle was secure. Chankov was right outside, and could have helped with the process, but unlike most of the recruits, Illarion never struggled with getting his Object into action. He’d found he could ready it by himself faster than the others could with assistance. Plus, if Chankov helped, he was strong as an ox and would enthusiastically cinch up the harness until it felt like your ribs were going to break.

Illarion slipped his fingers into the rings that controlled the suit’s hands. He moved them a bit and heard the noise as giant metal fists clenched outside. Those mighty hands could hold various weapons or tools, but on their own they could punch through brick walls. In training they had bent steel pipes and crushed rocks with those hands.

Last of all he lifted his head into the padded helmet. At first he’d just thought it was an extremely tight fit to keep the driver’s skull from bouncing around when their Object fell over, but now he knew the helmet itself was a control, and by twisting his neck from side to side, the Object’s head was capable of a small bit of movement. He peered through the view port. Instantly his vision cleared.

“Object 12 is ready, sir.”

Spartok seemed pleased by how quickly he’d done that. “Move up to my table.”

Illarion carefully turned his head side to side first to make sure there was no one underfoot. An Object was a whole lot faster than a millstone and capable of crushing a human body just as flat. All clear. Then he moved. It wasn’t his muscles that moved the machine. The machine took orders from his body, and then the ghost of the golem gave power to the metal. Illarion lacked the words to explain it, but it was almost as if the Object partly came to life. Slowly lifting one foot after the other caused thousands of pounds of armored doom to walk.

He was unsure how much he actually needed to move, or if just thinking about moving was enough for the ghosts to do their work, but all the controls were there to prevent misunderstandings between man and machine. He looked forward to testing that idea out when he had more freedom, but he certainly wasn’t going to try anything new right now!

Object 12 strode to the center of the room. The Kapitan didn’t seem worried to have the giant lumbering toward him, but Bosko took a nervous step back. The new man cocked his head to the side with a look of predatory interest. Now that Illarion could see better, from the splintered edges of the table, a few recruits had struggled with judging the distance. He stopped the Object directly in front of the table and stood waiting to see what fresh horror the Kapitan was about to inflict upon him.

One of the women brought in a small, closed wicker basket and set it on the table.

“Your test begins now,” Spartok said. “This will determine how much control you have over your Object. While you will not be the primary driver of this armor should you become part of the Wall, it is required that every member of the crew to be able to step in and fill that assignment. Please open the lid of the basket without ripping it free of the hinge holding it to the basket itself.”

Illarion stared down at the basket with suspicion. Was there a live grenade inside? A trap set to explode and bake him in his suit? Or was it to just show how much control they had? All movements within a suit were magnified ten times, and he remembered the recruit who had been kicked out of the program immediately for having unsteady hands. It would be a challenge to not crush a delicate wicker basket.

He reached down and deftly flipped up the lid, revealing the contents.

“It . . . it is a kitten,” he said in disbelief.

“Very observant of you, Glazkov. I can’t wait to have such intellect in the Wall. However, your keen recognition of animals is not the test. You will pick up the kitten with your Object, and you will pet it.”

“To be clear, sir, you want me to pet the kitten?” He was tempted to add, with giant steel hands that can pulverize bricks?

“Yes. We use kittens because they are fragile, and because war-dog puppies are too expensive. Begin.”

As he reached down, the man named Vals said, “Oh, and—Glazkov is it? Yes?—Glazkov, I am quite fond of that particular kitten. The prior recruit did not fare so well, as you can tell by the pieces on the floor. You would do well not to injure this one. It is my new favorite kitten.”

It appeared to be sleeping.

Ever so gently, Illarion scooped up the animal with his right hand and lifted it closer to the view port. Then with his left, he slowly stroked the head of the tiny creature.

The kitten yawned, arched its back, and purred.


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