The Prime runs a hand over her jaw. “What if we keep the mag-rifles,” she proposes.
“But they’re how I barter my pack free.”
“Your pack and all of Bedrock will be free if we do this correctly. Why give him a weapon this efficient? Why arm him when we can arm ourselves?” A pause. “If we keep the mag-rifles, build a fleet, and attack when the skies are clear, his modified rifles won’t stand a chance against this new technology.”
“So I just let my pack suffer until we build a fleet? That could take moons!”
“It will.”
I stand, slapping the table. “I’m not waiting any longer. I traveled across the wastes, dammit. I found the Verdant. Your people are calling me gods touched. Don’t I get a say in things?”
“But you’re not gods touched, Delta.” She steels me with her good eye. “No one is, according to what you found at Eden. Not even our long-lost ancestors whose skulls held what the General calls stars. Those “stars” are just tech. Old World tech. Our gods are nothing, and we are certainly not touched by them.”
“How can you be so calm?” I’m still standing, practically shaking.
“Controlling perception is a necessary skill as a leader, Delta. Do not confuse my careful planning with lack of enthusiasm. I am tempered and careful because I know we have only one chance. Now, please sit, so I can continue to explain.”
I glance at Asher, Reed. My half brother nods encouragingly. Asher’s brows flick skyward, as if to say, What other choice do you have?
I flop into the seat.
“This is promising, Delta of Dead River,” the Prime says evenly. “The stars are aligning, the pieces sliding into place. This is the closest I’ve ever felt to being ready to attack him. But even with the mag-rifles and a wind wagon fleet, there is still the issue of his dam wall—breeching it, accessing Bedrock itself . . .”
“The blast barrels will breech the wall,” the Reaper offers. “We can mount them on the wind wagons, fire as we approach.”
“Yes,” the Chemist says, tapping her fingers against the table. “We have enough black powder to do it. It should work.”
“Is this the prototype?” I ask. “It’s finished?”
“You’ve been gone a full moon, Delta,” the Prime says. “We’ve made progress.”
“What is it? What can it do?”
“A blast barrel,” she says, “is like the barrel of a rifle, but much larger, and able to fire projectiles much larger, too. We’ve been filing rocks into balls since the Trinity began work on the first prototype.”
“We haven’t tested them on something like the General’s defenses,” the Reaper says, “but I believe they will breach the wall.”
The Prime nods in agreement. “Still, the Loyalists will have the high ground until the dam falls, plus their catapults.”
“Catapults?” I echo.
“Weapons that can launch a projectile over great distances without gunpowder,” the Reaper interjects. “They’re positioned along his outer dam. A swinging arm launches the payload.”
I saw these during my time in Bedrock, and was right to assume they provided defense.
“Even with the mag-rifles, we will not have the advantage until we’ve infiltrated Bedrock,” the Prime continues. “And by then the General will have armed everyone, even his ilked-up workers, who will do anything he commands for another drink of water. We need to render his weapons useless.”
“Which is why I thought we should give him the mag-rifles and attack during a storm,” I mutter.
“His weapons can still fail him,” the Prime says. “It’s just a matter of doing what we already tried once, several years ago.” Her gaze slides to Reed, and his eyes widen.
“The powder?” he whispers.
“Yes. If we blow his stored powder, the Loyalists will only be able to fire on us so long as their powder horns are full. Once they’ve used what’s on their persons, they’ll be powerless.”
“No disrespect, my Prime, but you couldn’t blow his stores years ago, when you stood right beside them,” the Reaper says.
“I didn’t have an inside man then.” The Prime keeps her gaze rooted on Reed. “Are you truly on our side?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
“Could you go back there and blow the powder on a decided date? Is there a story you could weave so that you’re welcomed home without suspicion?”
“I’m sure we can think of something.”
“Oh, please,” Asher grouses. “You’re going to have your entire plan hinge on this ram skull?” He flings a hand at the mask propped on Reed’s forehead. “The Loyalist who cost you your eye?”
“I like to believe that we are more than the actions of our past.” The Prime looks to me. “Delta, what do you think?”
I can see Asher’s point. I don’t know Reed, not truly. But he hasn’t put even a toe out of line since he joined our party in Harlie’s Hope. The moment he saw the Loyalists closing in on us yesterday, he could have held me at knifepoint, and when we captured Ember, he easily could have sent word to the General with his tiles. But he’s done nothing but stand by his word.
I have to believe him.
I have to start trusting people, or the future of the wastes is going to be more of the same: fractured packs, wandering vagrants, the powerful leeching off the needy.
Distrusting is how we survive this world. But to move beyond surviving—to truly live—we need to trust each other. Not everyone, but definitely the few who show us that they care more about the greater good than about themselves.
“He’s always been on our side,” I say. “All this time, he’s just been playing a part.”
“Excellent. Now prove it.” The Prime tosses a leather bag toward Reed. When it hits the table, several tiles spill onto the surface, symbols winking up at him. “Call for aid. Request what remains of the General’s Four. We’re taking out his most trusted Loyalists before we even put this plan in motion.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The tiles don’t allow for communication as specific as the Prime has requested, but Reed thinks that at least one of the remaining Four will be sent by default. He puts a message into the leather pouch and sends it up with Ember. We watch her soar east from the steps of Prime Hall. In no time, the night sky has swallowed her from view.
Come morning, Reed will travel north to Harlie’s Hope, where he asked for aid to be sent. The Reaper and a few other security details will accompany him. Asher is still grumbling his doubts when Amari the Tender asks me to show her the wind wagon. It’s late, the moon high above us, but I can’t come up with an excuse to delay.
I follow the Tender through the streets, grateful for their emptiness this time. The wind wagon waits in the clearing just inside Powder Town’s defense wall. I show the Tender how it works, explaining the steering and the brake, the rigging and the sails. Her most trusted woodworkers shadow us, nodding in the glow of their lanterns. Building a fleet will take time, and the Tender plans to start first thing in the morning. If and when Harlie has recovered, she can help oversee things.