as it became clear that Hulgins hadn’t noticed what she was doing, she ran.
She saw Mr. Waite the Smiler by the water pump, leading a group of boys in an affirmation of resolve and courage and pride. None of the boys had rifles: they had spears, and bows, and knives. They wore furs, under which their thin bodies were tense and trembling. Waite looked like a boy himself, and Liv supposed he was, in a way: he must have been of the generation that did not remember the old world, that had been reared outside of time and history, and had never, therefore, grown up. The smile on his face was ridiculously wide and confident. Liv thought of the department store dummies she’d seen on some of her infrequent visits to Koenigswald’s big cities, in quieter, saner times. Waite’s smile had that same quality of waxy artless salesmanship. She smiled back and nodded. She slowed to a walk. Waite and the boys watched her as she passed. She tried to look as though she had legitimate business, somewhere important to be. She didn’t know where she was going.
When Bradley’s arm tired, he lowered the bomb. He held it at his side, fidgeting with the hammer. His face twitched and snarled.
—He feels foolish, Creedmoor. You make him look ridiculous in front of his men. He imagined a heroic confrontation. This waiting is farce.
—You always perceive our weaknesses, my friend.
—He is only more dangerous for it. He may act foolishly. He is keen to die grandly. His old fingers tremble.
—Do you hear that? That whine, that tremor, abusing the ether. Our pursuers are clearing the throats of their hideous machines. They are about to sing their unmusical song. Will this be the sound that kills, or are they going to speak, first?
—Every sound the Line makes kills, Creedmoor. Either the body or the spirit. Only we offer true life.
—Is that what you call it?
—Watch Bradley. If his attention falters, kill him.
Lowry’s flat nasal voice settled over the town like a foul rain; it crept in through the hospital’s curtained windows. “I REPEAT: BRING HIM OUT, WE’LL BE ON OUR WAY. IN HALF AN HOUR IF HE’S NOT OUT HERE’S WHAT WE’LL DO. . . .”
Bradley’s riflemen went pale with dread and their weapons began to tremble; but Bradley was made of stronger stuff, and though his eyes, red rimmed, started to water, they didn’t flinch from Creedmoor’s hovering hand.
Creedmoor raised his voice over the din. “He’s lying, Dr. Bradley. You know it. The Line leaves nothing unchanged. He won’t just take his men away. He’ll destroy you. It was already too late for you long before they got here. Do you know when it was too late? When they sat down and looked at their maps and drew the line of their progress, and you were in their way. There may not even be particular malice in it. You’ll die here, Doctor. But something can be saved. Let me take the General away from here.”
Bradley’s eyes opened wide. He sneered.
“Now I know what you’re thinking, Doctor: He’s old, even older than you, or me, and quite mad, and what’s he that’s worth saving, all on his own? But hear me out, Doctor. The General has a secret. Did my friend Liv tell you that? I know what it is. I’m in on the secret. A weapon. The First Folk have a weapon. Or not so much a weapon as an idea, maybe, or a dream, or something we have no words for. They offered it to him.”
Creedmoor turned to Bradley’s riflemen. “You’re young,” he said. “Do you know that the General used to pal around with a fellow of the Folk? A caster of stones, a wise man, a something-or-other. I met his wife, believe it or not. The General made a deal with the Folk, I reckon. They built his Republic for him and in return—”
Bradley spat. “Shut up, monster.”
“Don’t like that sort of talk, eh, Doctor? Mystical bullshit, tarnishing your glorious rational virtuous origins. But listen: They promised him a weapon. The weapon puts an end to spirits, Dr. Bradley. A final end. I know you’ve destroyed Engines and maybe you broke Guns, but you know you only broke their housings, you know they came back, they would always come back, like the Folk themselves, like nightmares, like a disease with no cure. And so they never learned fear.”
—Why are you telling him this, Creedmoor?
From behind Creedmoor’s back came the