Maximillian Fly

by Angie Sage

  The Vermin returns my gaze. “She called you Maximillian . . . so are you . . . are you him?” he whispers. “Max? The baby?”

  I sit down beside the Vermin. I feel very strange indeed. Because I was a baby once. I have a photograph.

  Chapter 28

  Cutting Loose

  P

  It’s Parminter here. Maximillian is a private person and I think we should leave him alone with Tomas for now. Of course, I would have loved Maximillian to come with me, but I fear for Tomas if he is left alone. He looks so frail. And I trust Maximillian to protect him, now that he has discovered the truth. I glance back and see them sitting side by side behind the bales. They make a strange pair, a broad-shouldered Roach next to the collapsed Astro suit with its wide hoop of a neck and Tomas’s sad little head poking out like a bewildered tortoise. I am so shocked by what has happened to Tomas. What a brutal place Hope can be.

  So, will you come with me? Please? To be perfectly frank, I would really appreciate your company. I am more frightened of going home than I let Maximillian know. I can’t get the sound of Ma’s scream out of my head. All last night I was hoping she would come to the hut but, as you know, she didn’t. I have been telling myself that there are lots of good reasons for that; it’s a long way and there would have been a lot of clearing up to do after those guards went. But deep down I know that nothing would have stopped Ma from running the two long miles down the skylon tunnel to see if we were safe and to tell me that all was well.

  In my heart, I know it is bad.

  But I must try to be positive. I shall tell you what a beautiful morning it is. I do love the misty haziness of dawn when you can almost forget that we are sealed beneath the Orb. Of course it’s not like being Outside. When I was with Grandma we used to walk to the top of the hill and watch the sunrise. You would not believe the colors in the sky—brilliant orange, yellow and almost luminous pink and pale green—and to see the sun for real was breathtaking. It would rise up above the hill like a huge ball of orange fire. Oh, it was such a good feeling to be out there with no barriers between us and our universe, where we all belong. But then I would look down the hill at the city in the distance, where the huge white dome of the Orb squatted like a giant spider’s egg sac and I would feel so sad for all those trapped inside.

  I think Maximillian describes things to you as he goes, right? So I will do the same. I’m flying a safe distance from the Orb, which is close here where it reaches all the way to the ground. I keep away because sometimes the charge will arc across to objects that go too near. If you look down to my right, you can see a deep, wide ditch between the end of the field and the scorched area beyond where the Orb meets the ground.

  Because I am afraid there might be guards in our house watching the fields, I am flying to the next skylon—number two, the North-East. They are good people there and it is also away from skylon four and the farm on the other side of us, which now belongs to the Bartizan.

  So I’ve now reached skylon two and I’m heading across the long North-East field, which has just been sown with hemp. There are a couple of people tending the field; they wave as I fly overhead and then get back to their work.

  And now I’m past the fields, flying low over the rooftops and heading for our lovely red tin roof, which Ma painted especially for me. But I mustn’t think of Ma. I really must not, because I’m here now, gliding in, and I must take care and concentrate. Below our yard is deserted. Silently, I drop down and land in the shadows close to the wall. I can’t smell any baking. I stay very still, listening hard. I hear nothing. The back door to the kitchen is wide open and I make myself walk toward it. I step over the threshold and stop dead.

  Oh.

  The kitchen is trashed. Food jars smashed on the floor, pans hurled to the ground, stools overturned, their legs in the air like stranded beetles, the table strewn with papers and the soup thrown across the floor. The fire in the stove is out and the bench where only a few hours ago Maximillian and I sat holding hands has been smashed in two, by an ax by the look of it. The pictures are all pulled from the wall and from its little burrow way up in the top right hand corner I see the red-eyed eagle on the spout of Maximillian’s horrible teapot staring out at me. It’s creepy and I get the weird thought that the evil little eagle has engineered all this destruction and now sits, gloating over it.

  I lean against the table, stunned. I hear my voice, reedy and scared, breaking through the heavy blanket of silence. “Ma?” I call out. “Ma?”

  There is no reply.

  Gingerly, I pick my way across the debris of the kitchen and go through the connecting door into the bakery. It is as I expected. The shopwindow is smashed, the floor is strewn with glass and the wall that hid our safe place is a pile of jagged wood and plaster. I peer inside and see that the frass has done its job and the hatch is undiscovered. This is good, because it means they do not know where we are—yet. Perhaps we will be able still to get to the Outside. But for now, as I survey the wreckage of our happy home, all I can think of is Ma. I am so afraid for her.

  A sudden longing to be back with Maximillian comes over me. I hurry into the workshop and take the bolt cutters. They’re very heavy, so I go back into the kitchen to get my flight bag. Oh, it is so horrible in here; it feels as though all our happy times have been smashed to pieces. My flight bag is still hanging by the stove, and as I make my way carefully over to get it, the nasty little teapot’s red eyes watch me malevolently. A shiver runs through me, and the thing seems almost alive. Take the DisK, Parminter, I tell myself. Take it away from here.

  I am lifting the eagle down from its aerie when I suddenly know that there is someone behind me. Slowly, I put the teapot down on the stone-cold stove and tighten my grip on the bolt cutters. And then, as though I am the wolf in the game: What’s the time, Mr. Wolf? I suddenly swing around.

  Cassius! There he is, right foot raised, frozen in the classic creeping-up-on-you pose. He looks so comical that I want to laugh. But this is no laughing matter. I take a deep breath and make my voice as calm as I can. “Cassius,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  Slowly, Cassius puts his foot to the floor. “I am performing a search for wanted persons,” he says. “And I am pleased to say it is now partially successful.” He leaps forward and before I can do anything he has grabbed my middle left arm so hard it hurts. He leans toward me and I smell meat on his breath. “Where are you hiding him?” he snarls.

  “Hiding who?” I ask as I secure my grip on the bolt cutters.

  “You know who. Maximillian Fly. Liar. Thief. Traitor.”

  Cassius is like a nasty leech I can’t shake off. I don’t want to do this but there is no choice. I swing the bolt cutters out from under my wing and bring them down upon his wrist. With a lightning reaction, Cassius grabs the bolt cutters just before they hit him. He hurls them aside and in a cold fury he twists my middle left limb. I feel it pop out of its socket and I’m gasping with pain.

  Cassius looks smug. “It is treason to attack an officer of the Bartizan,” he says.

  My head is swimming, but I am not going to give Cassius the pleasure of seeing how shocked I am. “Huh,” I say. “There’s no way they’d let a nasty old Roach like you become an officer of the Bartizan.”

  Cassius will not be goaded. I get the feeling there is something he wants from me. “Parminter,” he says, “let us be civilized about this. You tell me where that traitor Fly is, and I’ll do my best to keep your mother safe.”

  The thought of Ma makes my eyes prickle with tears, but Cassius’s words give me hope. It sounds like Ma is still alive. “You have your own fate to consider too,” Cassius says. “Tell me where Fly is and I’ll give you a head start. Ten minutes until I call the guards.”

  “Maximillian left here yesterday afternoon,” I tell him. “He went home.”

  Cassius has a really creepy smile. “Very commendable loyalty, Parminter,” he says. “But, alas, not very helpful, especially not for your mother.
Fly was observed leaving his house late last night, carrying a sack. We have reason to believe the sack contained stolen Bartizan property. And that he brought it here. Unfortunately, despite a thorough search, we have been unable to locate it.” A nasty gleam comes into his eyes. “But you know, Parminter, I get the feeling that a bright little thing like you would know where it is, hey?”

  Fool that I am, I glance at the eagle-eyed teapot, and Cassius sees me. “Ha!” he cries, and his long arms reach for the teapot.

  “No!” I yell, and I dive at him. In one slick movement Cassius places a cuff on my upper right wrist and fixes the other end to the table leg. Then he saunters over to the stove and picks up the teapot. And I have to watch as, with the air of someone about to enjoy a good lunch, Cassius pulls a stool up to the table and sits down opposite me, cradling the horrible teapot in all four of his hands. “Well, well,” he says, “let’s see what we have in here, shall we?” And he draws out the wadding, unwraps the DisK and holds it up triumphantly. “Just what we’re looking for,” he says. “So kind of you to point it out.”

  Parminter, I tell myself. You are such an idiot.

  Cassius gets up and walks to the door, then turns to look back at me. “They’ll be here to collect you in about ten minutes. Enjoy.” And with that he is gone.

  Now, you may think that getting away from a table leg is easy. Just turn the table upside down and slide the handcuff off. But our table has weird legs. They have all kinds of bumps and Cassius has fixed my cuff onto a narrow waist between two lumpy bits. However, the bolt cutters are still lying in the corner where Cassius hurled them. I don’t think he knew what they were. The problem for us Roaches is that our arms are not strong and now I have only three working upper limbs. My lower left middle hangs uselessly—and very painfully—by my side. But using my body weight I manage to push the table inch by inch toward the bolt cutters. I have just reached them when, in the distance, I hear footsteps—hard, booted, hurrying steps. Cassius has wasted no time. The bolt cutters are heavy and unwieldy but desperation makes me strong and I sever the chain first go. I am free! I hear shouts from the shop, the sound of boots upon glass. I grab my flight bag and hurry into the courtyard, where I put the bolt cutters into the bag and sling it around my waist. As I rise up into the air two Bartizan guards walk into the courtyard, but I am lucky. They are looking the other way, toward the barns. I dare not fly for fear of being seen, so I land as lightly as I can upon the roof and flatten myself into the shadows of the bulky smoke filter that is wrapped around the chimney stack.

  The guards are in the kitchen now and I can hear their voices coming up the chimney.

  “Oh no! She’s escaped.” This is a young one with a squeaky voice. It sounds scared.

  Another, an older woman, says gruffly. “Idiot Roach, chaining her to a table leg. Why didn’t he bring her in himself? I do like that teapot.”

  They go out into the courtyard and join the third. “Flown the roost,” the woman reports. I can see her now, tall and chunky. There is no way anyone would twist one of her arms out of its socket.

  The third guard swears.

  “It’s mission failure, isn’t it?” says the squeaky young one, a scrawny young man who looks like he should still be in school.

  “That’s right, son,” the guard says glumly.

  “It’s my third mission failure in a row,” the young man says, anxiously looking for support. He doesn’t get it.

  “Tut-tut,” says the woman.

  “I’m done for, aren’t I?”

  There is an awkward silence.

  “We . . . we, er, don’t have to report it as a failure.” The young man sounds so desperate that I almost feel sorry for him.

  And then the woman, the leader I think, says, “Well, we don’t have to do anything.”

  “Exactly.” He sounds so relieved. “We don’t have to do their dirty work. We don’t have to go terrorizing Roaches and locking up innocent baker-ladies.”

  “No, we don’t,” the woman says. She pauses and adds, “Not if we’re traitors.”

  I can feel the young man’s fear from here. “What are you doing?” he yelps suddenly. “Let me go! It was just a joke. Honestly. Just a stupid, stupid joke,” he gabbles.

  “A traitorous joke,” the woman says.

  There is a shout, the sound of a scuffle and I hear the squeaky voice rise even higher as its owner begs for mercy. I watch the two guards march their new victim away down the street and I do not move until the sound of boots is no more.

  As I slowly fly away with the bolt cutters, I cannot but help feel guilty. I escaped, but another was sacrificed. They got their traitor after all.

  M

  I am sitting in the middle of a field and I think that maybe I am in a dream. The Vermin has told me so many strange things, and every single one of them makes me feel most peculiar. I have made a list for you to read because I cannot say them. Here it is in order of peculiarness:

  My Kaitlin Drew is my half sister.

  The Vermin is my half brother. Its name is Tomas.

  Tomas and Kaitlin’s papa was my papa too.

  Their mother was my nurse.

  Mama buried me in the yard.

  Tomas’s mother and my father dug me up and ran away with me.

  We lived just along the street from Parminter’s mother.

  When I was about two years old, Mama took me away.

  Papa is dead. He was sacrificed at the Steeple. He played the flute.

  There are many other things that the Vermin has told me, but they are all so sad that I do not know if I can hold them inside me without bursting my carapace.

  P

  I am flying slow, the bolt cutters are a deadweight and the pain from my arm—which I have tucked into my waistband to stop it from flapping as I fly—makes me feel ill. It seems like forever, but at last I see Maximillian and Tomas behind their flax bales. I coast in, drop the bolt cutters a few yards away and land with a bump. Maximillian is already on his feet. “Oh, Parmie,” he says. “What has happened?”

  He called me Parmie. I clench my teeth and make a stern face because I will burst into tears if Maximillian is any nicer to me. “Can you put it back for me?” I ask briskly.

  This is one of the good things that have come from our friendship group. Titus is an Underground nurse and one evening he taught us how to put dislocated limbs back into their sockets. Maximillian looks nervous but he grasps my useless arm firmly and with his hand on my wing cases, strong and steady, he gives my arm the push-and-twist-and-push-and-up-and-IN and we both hear a deep, dull clunk as it settles back into its home. I am so relieved that I have to sit down. It is all too much.

  M

  There is a security cuff on Parminter’s upper right wrist and she is very shaken. Something bad has happened to her. But I must not think about that. She is here now and that is enough. “Does it still hurt?” I ask anxiously.

  She looks up and tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “Only a little bit. Nothing like it did. Thank you, Maximillian.”

  I understand that we have both decided not to talk about what happened back at the farm, because there is something we must do right now. Our arms are not strong, but with both of us holding the bolt cutters we have just enough strength to cut through the steel mesh of the Astro. It is slow going.

  “Free my hands,” the Vermin whispers impatiently. “I can do the rest.”

  We can’t free his hands because we can’t get the heavy Astro cuffs off his wrists—we just don’t have the strength to cut through the thick metal bands. But we do manage to cut the suit away from his arms and he flaps his arms like a bird, the heavy cuffs weighing him down. “Free!” he says hoarsely. He looks at me. “Maximillian, thank you. I can never repay you for what you have done.” And he wraps his arms around me and holds me close, the cuffs clattering on my wing cases. I am shocked, but strangely happy.

  Chapter 29

  Countdown

  K

>   It is SilverShip dawn and the sound of birdsong is being piped into my cabin. As the light slowly brightens—look, kids, just like the rising sun—I lie on my sleeping shelf and think how yesterday I was waking in Maximillian’s house to proper daylight and those two real little birds were hopping and tweeting outside on the parapet. So much has changed since then.

  I listen to the increasingly loud dawn chorus—which will end with a series of shotgun blasts—and I feel wretched. I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking about Tomas up there in the sky. And when I wasn’t thinking about Tomas, I was expecting any minute to be marched up to the Astro Room myself. Because by now they surely must have discovered that the DisK isn’t inside Tedward. So why haven’t they come for me?

  The birdsong is becoming increasingly frantic. The sound of the cuckoo kicks in and I know that in sixty-six seconds the shotgun blasts will begin. It is time to face the day. I am out of the cabin just before the first blast and confronted by something very weird. The walkway is lined with ground crew, blank-faced and formal, repeating in unison, “Silence, please. Proceed to the refectory. Silence, please. Proceed to the refectory. Silence, please. Proceed to the refectory. . . .”

  But it’s not silent. There is a low, rumbling roar filling the air and our ears. It is a little like what they call thunder in the Outside storms we sometimes hear, but unlike the thunder, it just keeps going. As we move along the walkway in anxious silence, the low-level rumbling and the impassive gaze of the ground crew add to my feeling of dread. I am convinced they are going to make an example of me. They will tell everyone that I’m a traitor and take me away to be Astroed. Later this morning both Tomas and I will be floating beneath the Orb together.

  Feeling so scared that I’m shaking, I walk into the refectory and see six huge numbers projected on the blank white wall: 00:34:47. I’m so stuck in my terror that it takes me a few seconds to get it. Duh, Kaitlin. It’s the Countdown to Exit.