The pedestrian door to the hangar was slightly ajar. However, the gap could have been as wide as the Eternal Sea to Farris, who was accustomed to the door being bolted and locked.
She invited those without keys, he realised, slipping his fingers between the door and frame. A slight tug was all it took to give him enough room to slither inside without making a sound. But as he moved to return the door to its initial position, a rough, male voice called out to him.
“Lock it behind you,” it said. “You’re the last one here.”
Farris peered through the dim hangar as he let the door click shut behind him. Several figures stood a fair distance off, huddled around a shapeless silhouette. A sliver of moonlight from a window far overhead caught one of those standing in the dark, accentuating the distinctive grey hair of Argyll the Silverback.
The other shadowy figures resolved themselves as Farris approached. Ruairí stood next to Argyll, his arms crossed over a puffed-out chest.
The rest were Simians whom Farris had never met before. He counted eleven in total, which came a surprise given that they outnumbered those in the Silverback’s inner circle.
‘To those it concerns most.’ Is it possible that these strangers know more about what’s going on here than I do?
Another glance at each of the Simians confirmed that they did not. One of them was a young fellow, glancing this way and that as they waited. Another held his arms behind his back in a stance as patient as a Simian Churchguard, but as forced as one true to his heritage.
They’re all frightened, he realised, noting how a particularly dark-furred Simian idly shifted his weight from leg to leg while another curled his fingers in and out of a fist. None dared to speak out of turn while in the company of the Silverback. His overbearing presence of authority still seemed to manifest even with his face barely visible.
The object which the Simians had all gathered around was even less discernible than their purpose. Where once it seemed like a shapeless mound of steel, now there appeared to be something more solid hidden beneath a draped cloth.
I expected Garth to be here. Farris craned his neck over his shoulder to observe the rest of the bare hangar. Surely, he’s the one this concerns most.
Nicole’s absence also came to mind, but he forced the thought away before he could consider it fully. It had been almost three weeks since he had last dwelled on her, and he had hoped his feelings would dissipate as quickly as they had first overcome him.
But that was before he had found that parchment on his doorstep, written by her hand, signed with her mark.
He heard Nicole’s footsteps first, echoing through the hangar with a rhythm of one walking with confidence and urgency. She appeared at a far corner of the room, coming from what seemed to be a small cabin tucked away from plain view. Farris realised that he had never seen her enter or leave that building, back when they worked together. Only now did the thought that she also lived there cross his mind.
She always said that she was working day and night. But I never thought she could have meant that literally….
“I had a speech prepared,” she said, walking up to the side of the strange object. She reached a hand to one if its upper corners, barely reaching the creased fabric.
“From the early days of this project, I dreamt of this day, fantasising about what I’d say. I was going to refer to the Simians who build Sin only to witness it fall, or quote Elis Highwind, who built the first airship only to have it grounded by the Church. Words, however, are easily forgotten. This is something that will be remembered for eternity.”
With a flourish, she revealed what was hidden beneath the shroud.
It looked like a suit of armour, standing tall and proud in the characteristic blue-tainted steel of Old Simia. But as the others took a step back, Farris compared its proportions to the Simian who had built it.
It was more than twice as tall as an average Simian, with broad shoulders supporting a heavy helm with no features other than thin slits for eye holes. On legs as thick as a Human’s body, it stood in a position so natural that it seemed able to spring to life at any moment.
When it abruptly stepped forward with a thud of metal against stone, a shrill gasp escaped Farris’s lips.
Despite its apparent weight, its movement was agile and quick. Its legs worked like ones made from flesh, bending at a knee covered with plates of steel, ensuring no joint was exposed.
The monstrosity raised two hulking arms over its head. One was longer than the other, gradually tapering off to a sharp tip like a lance used by a knight. The shorter one ended at the elbow —if such a word could be applied to something so abnormal—and instead held a thick tube, like something Farris had seen before.
A firearm. His feet took him several paces away from the steel beast before his brain fully processed the revelation. As the mechanism went into action, Farris learned that this observation was false, and the truth was far more unsettling.
With a hideous roar, a massive burst of fire erupted from the arm. Blue flames brought sudden illumination to the room, immediately casting away every inch of darkness from the hangar. The plumes extended upwards, almost singeing the rafters overhead.
All around Farris, the others cowered in fear, covering their faces from the sight before them. He too was shaking, with the familiar fingers of anxiety groping at his heart.
But as quickly as they appeared, the cobalt flames vanished, leaving those who had witnessed them in darkness.
None spoke as the steel beast returned to its initial position. Faint sounds of movement came from within, then the helm began to shift slowly backwards, smoothly and silently, until it hung open. From the hole emerged Garth’s head, beads of sweat running down his brow.
“It gets too hot in there,” he said, casually hoisting himself out of the huge frame. “We’ll need to troubleshoot that ventilation system a little more before we move forward.” With a gentle thud, he landed on the ground. “The mechanisms of the limbs feel more natural now. The legs could have passed for my own!”
He delivered the last line like a jape, but the smirk vanished from his face once he realised that the others were in no humour to laugh. The youngest Simian wore an expression of terror, petrified like a sculpture. The tallest of the group held his head in his massive hands. Ruairí stared only at the ground, his lips moving silently, his head shaking back and forth.
Only the Silverback smiled. The grin seemed out of place on the old Simian’s face, so much so that Farris could have mistaken him for another. Argyll’s features were no longer stern and solid, rigid with determination. The whites of his eyes seemed to shine through the dark, his face beaming at the monstrosity that had unfolded before him.
“Nicole,” he said, his tone different to how it has even been before. “Is it true that not a single component of the Reaper is made from material that can be manipulated by a mage?”
“Yes,” said Nicole, her voice barely a whisper. Although she gazed straight at the Reaper, her eyes didn’t seem focused. “The flames, too.”
“Ah!” said the Silverback, giving Farris a very uncharacteristic pat on the back. “I believe we have Farris to thank for that. Beggar’s flames, fuelled by two tanks of thainol, correct?”
“Yes,” said Nicole, in the same flat tone as before. Her lips moved after that, but nothing came out. Her stance was no longer as confident as it had once been, for now she stood with her shoulders hunched forward. Her eyes were wider than usual, and some colour was lost from her cheeks. Garth and Argyll didn’t seem to notice.
“One alone could take on a battalion of mages,” said Garth. “And once the other eleven are built, not even the gods themselves could stop us.”
“The recruits,” asked Argyll. “How long will it take to train them?”
“Not long at all. The mechanisms of its movement are complex, but once you’re inside, it feels just like an over-sized suit of armour.”
“W-wait,” stammered the youngest Simian. “I’m just a soldier. I don’t know the first thing about working with… that.”
“You were not chosen for your skill,” said Argyll. He threw a glance over each of the other Simians. “None of you were. Garth was chosen to be the first Simian to pilot one of these because he has the passion to put his life on the line for our cause. You were all chosen for the same reason. It will not be skill or finesse that will win us this war, but technology. As I speak, Humans faithful to the One True God are arming themselves with weapons we built, ready to help us in this struggle. These Humans who call themselves the Sons of Seletoth are willing to give their lives to win our war, but can the same be said for you?”
