Wildfire
Page 91
“Don’t they need a Prime animator?” I asked.
Rogan shook his head. “Once a Prime has made them and animated them, an Average and above can activate them.”
“We’ve had Sturm under surveillance since his name was mentioned,” Bug said. “There is no indication an animator Prime is in residence.”
“Will they reform when struck with conventional ammo?” one of the team leaders wanted to know.
“Yes,” Rogan answered. “You can toss a grenade in the middle of one. They’ll fly apart and reform.”
“Awesome,” Leon said, his eyes lit up.
Mom fixed him with a parental glare.
Constructs weren’t robots. Robots were interconnected structures, driven by a power source, where each part was attached to and depended on the other parts to function. Destroy enough parts or the right parts, and the structure became useless. A construct was held together by magic. Destroy a part, and it simply reformed, with magic compensating for the loss. It was the difference between building a horse with an Erector set, with metal plates, bolts, and nuts, and tossing all these parts into a horse shape defined by magic.
“How do we kill them?” I asked.
“The only way is to reduce the number of particles below critical,” Rogan said. “Usually that number is twenty-five to thirty percent. There are three ways to do that. Destroy the particles, jettison them beyond the reforming radius, or isolate part of the construct to prevent it from reforming.”
Jettisoning the parts wouldn’t work. He’d tried that before with the construct we fought. It wrapped around him and tried to crush him. He would push it back, then it would crush him again. Of course, that time we had an active Prime manipulating the construct. This time we probably wouldn’t, but we had three constructs instead of one, and they wouldn’t be standing still while Rogan played telekinetic baseball with their particles. If they were made of a single piece, he would toss them so far and so fast, they’d make a sonic boom as they flew by. But they were made of many small parts, which meant targeting each part individually.
“Isolation is the most efficient,” Rogan said. “I need to bury them under something with sufficient mass and weight, so they can’t reform.”
“We could crack the wall for you, sir,” one of the team leaders said. “With the right charge placement, we can split it into chunks instead of blowing it up. We can’t guarantee that they would all be the same size, but we will do our best, sir.”
Rogan frowned. “I’d need a circle and time. We have to occupy the constructs until then.”
Occupy them . . . “Do they have target priority protocols?” I asked. “Would they be able to differentiate between a high- and low-priority target?”
Rogan’s face shut down. “No.”
“No, they don’t?” I clarified.
“No, I won’t let you do this.”
“Last time I checked, I wasn’t a vassal of House Rogan.” I smiled at him. “I can do whatever I want. And you know Sturm thinks I’m a high-priority target. Even if they don’t have target prioritization, the animator mage that’s going to activate them will recognize me.”
His blue eyes darkened. “No, you can do whatever I judge to be strategically sound. I have the numbers advantage in this operation, I’m in charge of it, and I’m telling you that’s too dangerous. You’re not playing bait.”
“Rogan, what exactly are you going to do if I don’t listen to you?” I asked. “Refuse to fight Sturm?”
“I can physically prevent you from approaching Sturm’s fort,” he ground out.
“No, you can’t,” Catalina said quietly.
Rogan’s magic splayed out around him, a furious elemental thundercloud. The magic-sensitive people in the room sat up straighter, unconsciously trying to put some distance between themselves and the churning power. It shot out and met the cold wall that was my magic.
We stared at each other. The tension in the room was so thick, you could slice it with a knife and serve it with tea.
Leon whistled a melody from a gunfighter Western.
Rogan crossed his arms, regarding me. “Just out of curiosity, how are you planning on surviving long enough?”
“She’s going to let her grandma handle that,” Grandma Frida said.
“I would like to help,” Edward Sherwood said.
The room turned to him.
“You’re not a combat mage,” Rynda said softly. “And you’re still recovering.”
“But I am a Prime. My brother is at the root of all this mess.” Edward’s jaw was set.
“Thank you,” Rogan said. “We can use your help.”
I crouched in the field. Rogan waited like an impassive statue next to me. A few hundred yards away Sturm’s compound glowed, a bright electric jewel in the midnight fields. We’d doubled around the compound, across the pastures. The only road leading to the compound lay on our left, where it ran into the gate and the main guardhouse inside the electrified fence perimeter. Another, smaller guardhouse waited to the right, and two more were behind the ring of the inner wall, out of sight.
The place looked like a prison.
Around me Rogan’s people waited, quiet shadows in the dark night. I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes left on the deadline Adeyemi gave us. We had cut it too close. The wind was rising, the air thick as soup with violent magic.
Behind me, Cornelius stood with his head bowed. Behind him, Diana and Blake, Cornelius’ older brother, waited quietly, eight jaguars sitting at their feet, three black and five golden. The big cats watched the night with their bottomless eyes. Matilda sat with the cats, a human child somehow part of their pack. I couldn’t figure out why everyone insisted on bringing her with us despite the danger. When I asked Diana about it, she just smiled.
Edward Sherwood stood by himself on a level stretch of ground. He’d been sprinkling seeds out of a large packet around himself for the last five minutes.
Nothing left to do but wait.
“Are you sure you want to use that old tank?” Rogan asked me for the third time. “I can still get you a better one . . .”
“Hey!” Grandma Frida reached out and poked him with her finger. “You can get her a newer tank, but not better.”
Rogan shook his head. “Once a Prime has made them and animated them, an Average and above can activate them.”
“We’ve had Sturm under surveillance since his name was mentioned,” Bug said. “There is no indication an animator Prime is in residence.”
“Will they reform when struck with conventional ammo?” one of the team leaders wanted to know.
“Yes,” Rogan answered. “You can toss a grenade in the middle of one. They’ll fly apart and reform.”
“Awesome,” Leon said, his eyes lit up.
Mom fixed him with a parental glare.
Constructs weren’t robots. Robots were interconnected structures, driven by a power source, where each part was attached to and depended on the other parts to function. Destroy enough parts or the right parts, and the structure became useless. A construct was held together by magic. Destroy a part, and it simply reformed, with magic compensating for the loss. It was the difference between building a horse with an Erector set, with metal plates, bolts, and nuts, and tossing all these parts into a horse shape defined by magic.
“How do we kill them?” I asked.
“The only way is to reduce the number of particles below critical,” Rogan said. “Usually that number is twenty-five to thirty percent. There are three ways to do that. Destroy the particles, jettison them beyond the reforming radius, or isolate part of the construct to prevent it from reforming.”
Jettisoning the parts wouldn’t work. He’d tried that before with the construct we fought. It wrapped around him and tried to crush him. He would push it back, then it would crush him again. Of course, that time we had an active Prime manipulating the construct. This time we probably wouldn’t, but we had three constructs instead of one, and they wouldn’t be standing still while Rogan played telekinetic baseball with their particles. If they were made of a single piece, he would toss them so far and so fast, they’d make a sonic boom as they flew by. But they were made of many small parts, which meant targeting each part individually.
“Isolation is the most efficient,” Rogan said. “I need to bury them under something with sufficient mass and weight, so they can’t reform.”
“We could crack the wall for you, sir,” one of the team leaders said. “With the right charge placement, we can split it into chunks instead of blowing it up. We can’t guarantee that they would all be the same size, but we will do our best, sir.”
Rogan frowned. “I’d need a circle and time. We have to occupy the constructs until then.”
Occupy them . . . “Do they have target priority protocols?” I asked. “Would they be able to differentiate between a high- and low-priority target?”
Rogan’s face shut down. “No.”
“No, they don’t?” I clarified.
“No, I won’t let you do this.”
“Last time I checked, I wasn’t a vassal of House Rogan.” I smiled at him. “I can do whatever I want. And you know Sturm thinks I’m a high-priority target. Even if they don’t have target prioritization, the animator mage that’s going to activate them will recognize me.”
His blue eyes darkened. “No, you can do whatever I judge to be strategically sound. I have the numbers advantage in this operation, I’m in charge of it, and I’m telling you that’s too dangerous. You’re not playing bait.”
“Rogan, what exactly are you going to do if I don’t listen to you?” I asked. “Refuse to fight Sturm?”
“I can physically prevent you from approaching Sturm’s fort,” he ground out.
“No, you can’t,” Catalina said quietly.
Rogan’s magic splayed out around him, a furious elemental thundercloud. The magic-sensitive people in the room sat up straighter, unconsciously trying to put some distance between themselves and the churning power. It shot out and met the cold wall that was my magic.
We stared at each other. The tension in the room was so thick, you could slice it with a knife and serve it with tea.
Leon whistled a melody from a gunfighter Western.
Rogan crossed his arms, regarding me. “Just out of curiosity, how are you planning on surviving long enough?”
“She’s going to let her grandma handle that,” Grandma Frida said.
“I would like to help,” Edward Sherwood said.
The room turned to him.
“You’re not a combat mage,” Rynda said softly. “And you’re still recovering.”
“But I am a Prime. My brother is at the root of all this mess.” Edward’s jaw was set.
“Thank you,” Rogan said. “We can use your help.”
I crouched in the field. Rogan waited like an impassive statue next to me. A few hundred yards away Sturm’s compound glowed, a bright electric jewel in the midnight fields. We’d doubled around the compound, across the pastures. The only road leading to the compound lay on our left, where it ran into the gate and the main guardhouse inside the electrified fence perimeter. Another, smaller guardhouse waited to the right, and two more were behind the ring of the inner wall, out of sight.
The place looked like a prison.
Around me Rogan’s people waited, quiet shadows in the dark night. I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes left on the deadline Adeyemi gave us. We had cut it too close. The wind was rising, the air thick as soup with violent magic.
Behind me, Cornelius stood with his head bowed. Behind him, Diana and Blake, Cornelius’ older brother, waited quietly, eight jaguars sitting at their feet, three black and five golden. The big cats watched the night with their bottomless eyes. Matilda sat with the cats, a human child somehow part of their pack. I couldn’t figure out why everyone insisted on bringing her with us despite the danger. When I asked Diana about it, she just smiled.
Edward Sherwood stood by himself on a level stretch of ground. He’d been sprinkling seeds out of a large packet around himself for the last five minutes.
Nothing left to do but wait.
“Are you sure you want to use that old tank?” Rogan asked me for the third time. “I can still get you a better one . . .”
“Hey!” Grandma Frida reached out and poked him with her finger. “You can get her a newer tank, but not better.”
