The Interminables Read Online Free PDF
Author: Paige Orwin
she had lived through the ruin of civilization. She also wore pants, but women did that now.
Janet Justice. The Twelfth Hourâs primary information and surveillance specialist. She wasnât a wizard, but what she did was as close to magic as modern civilization had ever produced.
â Guten Tag, Herr Chirurg Czernin ,â she said in schooled German.
Istvan took his hat off, folded it, and tucked it beneath his bandolier. â Grüà Gott, Fräulein Justice ,â he responded in the same tongue.
She stirred her tea. She was one of the few non-medical people on task often enough late at night to encounter Istvan regularly, and over the years had proven both fearless enough and good-natured enough to humor a ghost asking about computers in return for an opportunity to practice her second language.
He hunted through the pin box and chose a red one.
She raised an eyebrow.
Istvan nodded, regarding the map. It covered a rough approximation of the northeastern United States, divided into fracture zones, spellscars, and what remained of the nation before.
Big East followed the new coastline, a half-flooded urban wasteland home to, among other things, the Black Building, the Magnolia Groupâs crashed spaceship, the Wizard War memorial, and dozens of tiny survivorsâ enclaves, scavenger camps, and odder things that came and went. The Twelfth Hour claimed former Yale University, much of New Haven, and the nearby Generator District as its own, though its ambitious patrol territory covered most of Big East. The crater that marked Providence loomed in the north, forbidden ground dominated by the fortress-state of Barrio Libertad.
Beyond Big East stretched the spellscars, a vast band of twisted wilderness and deadly magics, and past that lay what passed for ânormalâ regions, administrated by government remnants and flooded with refugees.
The pattern was the same for the Greater Great Lakes fracture, Chicago through Toronto: impossible cityscape ringed with impassable horror, its original population fled, transformed, trapped, or dead.
It was the same the planet over, as far as anyone knew.
asked Miss Justice.
Istvan replied.
He pushed the pin into an area thirty miles outside former New York City, where he and Edmund had lost the mercenaries. Triskelion itself lay in the spellscarred Appalachian mountains of former Pennsylvania, further west, sandwiched between Big East and the Greater Great Lakes.
What were they after? One warlord or another had been trading Bernault devices from both fracture regions for years, as far as anyone knew, but not once had a Bernault-powered weapon been deployed against anyone. It was as though whoever was behind it collected the devices merely for the sake of collecting them. Or stockpiling them.
For what? Against what? How many did the Cameraman have now?
Was he planning to sink all of Big East into the sea?
Istvan shook his head. he said.
Miss Justice grimaced.
She set her cup down.
He didnât know how, exactly, she stayed in contact with the satellites or how they stayed in orbit, but they were so high up that the Wizard War hadnât touched them and they had proven, overall, surprisingly useful.
he continued,
Janet Justice. The Twelfth Hourâs primary information and surveillance specialist. She wasnât a wizard, but what she did was as close to magic as modern civilization had ever produced.
â Guten Tag, Herr Chirurg Czernin ,â she said in schooled German.
Istvan took his hat off, folded it, and tucked it beneath his bandolier. â Grüà Gott, Fräulein Justice ,â he responded in the same tongue.
She stirred her tea. She was one of the few non-medical people on task often enough late at night to encounter Istvan regularly, and over the years had proven both fearless enough and good-natured enough to humor a ghost asking about computers in return for an opportunity to practice her second language.
She raised an eyebrow.
Istvan nodded, regarding the map. It covered a rough approximation of the northeastern United States, divided into fracture zones, spellscars, and what remained of the nation before.
Big East followed the new coastline, a half-flooded urban wasteland home to, among other things, the Black Building, the Magnolia Groupâs crashed spaceship, the Wizard War memorial, and dozens of tiny survivorsâ enclaves, scavenger camps, and odder things that came and went. The Twelfth Hour claimed former Yale University, much of New Haven, and the nearby Generator District as its own, though its ambitious patrol territory covered most of Big East. The crater that marked Providence loomed in the north, forbidden ground dominated by the fortress-state of Barrio Libertad.
Beyond Big East stretched the spellscars, a vast band of twisted wilderness and deadly magics, and past that lay what passed for ânormalâ regions, administrated by government remnants and flooded with refugees.
The pattern was the same for the Greater Great Lakes fracture, Chicago through Toronto: impossible cityscape ringed with impassable horror, its original population fled, transformed, trapped, or dead.
It was the same the planet over, as far as anyone knew.
He pushed the pin into an area thirty miles outside former New York City, where he and Edmund had lost the mercenaries. Triskelion itself lay in the spellscarred Appalachian mountains of former Pennsylvania, further west, sandwiched between Big East and the Greater Great Lakes.
What were they after? One warlord or another had been trading Bernault devices from both fracture regions for years, as far as anyone knew, but not once had a Bernault-powered weapon been deployed against anyone. It was as though whoever was behind it collected the devices merely for the sake of collecting them. Or stockpiling them.
For what? Against what? How many did the Cameraman have now?
Was he planning to sink all of Big East into the sea?
Istvan shook his head.
Miss Justice grimaced.
She set her cup down.
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