Blaze of Embers

by Cam Baity

  The mehkan regarded her hand cannon and nodded. He went to grab Goodwin but stopped when he met the eyes of the Watchman.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Phoebe said. “He’s…it’s broken.”

  “Yer in good company, then,” Mr. Pynch sighed to the automaton, but it didn’t reply.

  The balvoor hooked his arms under Goodwin’s armpits and hauled him to a series of isolation chambers at the side of the lab. Each had a steel door with a round glass window and a spindle wheel lock. Inside, high-tech machines and ventilation hoods were shrouded in darkness, along with an array of chemicals in beakers and jars.

  Phoebe spun the wheel to open one of the rooms. “Put him in there,” she said.

  Mr. Pynch dragged the unconscious Chairman into the shadows of the chamber. As soon as Goodwin and the mehkan were inside, Phoebe slammed the door and turned the wheel to lock it. Heart pounding, she raced back to Micah, who was once again glassy and vacant. The Watchman had lost interest as well and was waving to one of the disembodied mechanical heads, trying to get its attention.

  Phoebe was about to announce to Micah that they needed to run, had to get out of there before Goodwin’s transport arrived, but she realized they had nowhere to go. The Ona was all that mattered now, but how were they going to find her? Micah was no use—he barely knew where he was. Stay, and they would be caught by the Foundry again. Flee, and they would be aimless in a hostile mehkan world. And this time, not even the Covenant would be on their side.

  She glanced through the porthole window, expecting to see Mr. Pynch fuming in protest, preparing to slam his significant weight against the door. But he only stared at her through the glass, nodding sadly as if this were exactly what he had expected.

  Phoebe couldn’t trust anyone.

  Could she?

  “Dig!” commanded Overguard Orei.

  The rings of her measuring apparatus body were in a frenzy, scanning the ore caves for drops in air temperature or weaknesses in structural integrity.

  Of the two hundred forty-seven warriors that remained of the Covenant, fifty were wounded, half of those on their way to Makina’s Forge. The leaders of the Covenant Command had all gone to the rust, and the meager remains of the holy army had retreated underground to regroup in the hidden bunker. They were scattered in the dark, repairing weapons and treating injuries. The rations were nearly gone, and the vesper would be soon to follow. None of their siege engines had survived the invasion.

  Neither had the salathyls. The mehkan giants had caved in all entry tunnels into the staging area to cover their tracks. But without salathyls to dig new tunnels, the warriors were trapped down here with no escape, while up above, the Foundry was preparing to deal the deathblow and wipe out the Covenant once and for all.

  So Orei, the sole surviving Overguard of the defeated Covenant, had her soldiers working in shifts, trying in vain to clear out the rubble from the salathyl holes.

  “Dig!” she barked again.

  “Enough!” growled an orange-dappled gohr with his head bound in a foil bandage. “This is jaislid labor. Zha-vengomi is gohr. Zha-vengomi fight until the rust takes him!”

  Orei cinched the warrior’s wrist with a snap of her scythes. The cords of metal sinew on the gohr’s I-beam arm rippled as he strained against her grip.

  “Obey,” she muttered. “Or rust takes Zha-vengomi now.”

  The gohr stared at the whirring planes of the Overguard’s featureless face and resumed his work with a snort.

  Orei knew that the odds of successfully clearing the tunnels were approximately .002 percent, but she would take every chance they could get, no matter how insignificant.

  BOOM. A rain of dust fell on the Covenant.

  The angles of her body inverted as she strode off to investigate. Hobbling out of a side passage, two hunchbacked freylani carried a third of their kind between them.

  “We detonated another of their entry pointz,” one said.

  “But not without zacrifice,” added the other, nodding toward their comrade, who was peppered in hardening bonding rounds.

  “Our crop of cyndrl growz low, Overguard,” grumbled the first. He and his comrade displayed their bulbous backs, where only a scattering of tumorous growths remained—the Covenant’s stock of explosives was nearly gone.

  “Save,” Orei ordered. “When bleeders come. Use them on us.”

  The pair of freylani saluted grimly. The Overguard continued her rounds, ensuring that the armormolders were patching the damaged ore-plate of their frontline warriors and that any who needed medical attention received it. At the back of the bunker, Orei detected Axial Kho, who was prostrated on the ground, mumbling a heated chant. The Overguard too said a silent prayer, for it was the only thing that could save them now.

  “Prepare, Children of Ore,” she announced to the battle-worn warriors huddled around her. “The Great Engineer awaits us.”

  Margaret shook herself awake. She cast a glance around to make sure no one had seen her doze off. Her butt was numb from spending the past two days glued to this steel-backed chair, and she was starving and exhausted beyond reason. The few hours of sleep she had managed to grab in the break room weren’t nearly enough.

  It wasn’t enough for any of them, but it would have to do.

  She desperately wanted to refill her coffee, but all the military brass, both blue and gray, had gathered on the main floor of the Cube, so she couldn’t leave her station now. Everyone stared at their monitors with a laser focus.

  The tension was becoming unbearable.

  “Take your places,” ordered General Freemont. “No rousing speeches. We’re here to do what needs to be done.”

  A furious hammering of keys commenced. The wall of projection screens came to life. Numbers scrolled. Diagrams expanded. Analytics whizzed past too fast to register.

  This was it, she realized. This was really happening. She didn’t know how she felt, hadn’t even had time to stop and consider it until now. Margaret understood that Meridian had no choice. A brazen attack of this magnitude simply could not go unanswered. And yet she couldn’t get bouncy little Amelia out of her head.

  When Margaret had been stationed in Trelaine, she was assigned to gather intel on the Rodeau dam, investigating the materials used in its infrastructure. The magnitude of her task had been overwhelming, but Margaret never said no to opportunity. So using her fluent Trel, spoken with a flawless accent, she had interviewed hundreds of ex-government workers under the guise of hiring for an independent contractor. It was a lie, but a necessary one, all in service of Meridian’s security.

  One man, whose name she couldn’t recall, had been desperate for the job. He had been forthcoming with everything he did at Rodeau, including his work on the proprietary power inverters that particularly interested the Foundry. In the middle of his interview, the door had burst open, and a little girl came bounding in, her nose oozing snot. The man had scolded his daughter and begged Margaret for forgiveness. Apparently, his wife had passed away and the girl was out of school due to illness, but he could not afford to miss the interview. After he had made little Amelia introduce herself and apologize, Margaret proceeded with her questions, as a giggling, snot-soaked three-year-old bounced around the office.

  All while she had known that she was lying through her teeth to this poor man.

  For the Foundry.

  “Commence Operation Backlash,” General Freemont commanded.

  The Cube responded. Hundreds of technicians worked as one, executing carefully constructed plans. A map of Trelaine appeared on the wall with all the appropriate targets marked—targets that Margaret had helped to designate and prioritize.

  She knew it had to be done. For the good of Meridian.

  “Ready, sir,” replied a Cube supervisor.

  Statistics scrolled across Margaret’s screen, the first data set prediction for their initial strike. Soon, all thirteen countries in the Quorum would know their wrath.

  But what would hap
pen to Amelia? The answer to her question was in the fifth line of the analysis in red numbers. The casualty estimate.

  “Fire!”

  The hallway that led out of the destroyed lab lay before Phoebe. She and Micah had to go. Now. There was nothing standing in their way.

  So why had she stopped in her tracks?

  Because they couldn’t do this on their own. They needed help if they were going to find the Ona. They needed a guide. The thought revolted her. She looked at Micah. He was staring at the ground, still absent. Although he would be outraged at what she was about to do, there was no other choice. And no time—Goodwin’s transport would be arriving any second.

  Phoebe left Micah and sprinted back across the lab. She seized the wheel used to lock the isolation chamber and turned it until the bolts clanked. The door opened.

  “What are you—” came Micah’s frantic voice behind her.

  Mr. Pynch was sitting on the floor, head buried in his hands. He looked up at her, and his wide mouth hung open. Goodwin was on his back beside the mehkan, stirring.

  “What are you doing?” Micah managed, his voice desperate.

  The balvoor was clearly befuddled.

  “Miss Phoebe, I—”

  “Just shut up and come with us.”

  Mr. Pynch’s bristly brows cocked, but he stood, trying to focus. As soon as he emerged, Phoebe slammed the door shut and locked it. She looked in through the round window as Goodwin scrambled to his feet, face contorted in monstrous rage. Spittle flew from his furious lips as he shrieked and pounded on the glass.

  But no sound escaped from the sealed chamber.

  “You go first,” she said to Mr. Pynch. He bowed humbly, flashed a hopeful gold-toothed smile, and ambled out of the lab.

  Micah was agog, but Phoebe grabbed his elbow and pulled him after the balvoor. She glanced back and saw that the defunct Watchman was following them.

  “Stop, unit,” Phoebe said, remembering how Goodwin had addressed it. She waved her hand cannon. “Stay.”

  The Watchman stopped in its tracks and watched them go.

  Mr. Pynch and the kids hurried down the corridor and out the shredded entrance of the Hatchery. The night was heavy with vibrating stars that edged the devastated Foundry complex in frosty light. Phoebe zipped up her coveralls to hide the glowing seed at her neck and keep it from drawing unwanted attention.

  “We need to get as far from here as possible,” she said. “They’re coming for us.”

  “Hard to be certified,” Mr. Pynch replied as his nozzle clicked. “But I’m afeared their apparati be imminent, coming from Ahm’ral…or whatever…that is….”

  He pointed into the distance, toward the massive white hurricane that the kids had spied from the mountains. It was churning, glowing with pockets of fire. There were other lights in the sky too—search beams and the wing indicators of aircraft.

  Coming toward them.

  Phoebe was about to break into a run when Micah yelped. There was something in his voice, a combination of excitement and terror that made the buried cords connected to her seed tense. The three of them stared in awe, distant fires reflecting in their wide eyes as the storm opened. Clouds pulled apart like curtains to reveal a searing white supernova within.

  “By me matron’s rusted rack and pinion,” breathed Mr. Pynch with a slight wheeze.

  Two titanic arms, swathed in storm and flame, emerged. They spread epically wide, extending toward the aircraft with a fathomless reach. Hands stretched for miles.

  And then smashed together.

  Phoebe flinched. There was no sound at first because of the distance. Blossoms of orange and red marked the explosions of the vehicles. Then came the earthquake. It was a kettledrum in the ore beneath them, so deep Phoebe felt it in her marrow. The impact threw them off balance and left their heads ringing. The trees in the surrounding forest shivered. The wreckage around them settled. Dumbstruck, they looked up again. The clouds vanished. The hurricane was gone. What remained betrayed reality, defied logic. Stole their senses.

  Time stood still.

  Everything Phoebe thought she knew dissolved.

  The Ona was a murderer. All of the tales of the Way, those comforting reassurances about rebirth and eternal justice, were all lies. There was no Forge. Nothing beyond death. And yet here She stood. Two titanic column legs, long flowing arms, and a jutting head—a white giant of mist and fire. Incomprehensible as it was, it was true. Phoebe could not deny what stood before her, larger than life.

  “Makina,” Micah said, voice crackling, eyes heavy with tears.

  The name almost made Mr. Pynch’s eyes pop from his head.

  Phoebe knew what she had to do.

  “Take us to Her,” she said.

  “Her? But—but—but—but what about…Don’t you see…” For the first time, words failed the verbose balvoor, and all he could manage to do was point at the sky and make a helpless squeaking noise.

  “Phoebe,” Micah protested. “You don’t understand….”

  “You’re right,” she agreed, “but if that really is Makina, then the Ona will be with Her. Mr. Pynch, are you going to take us there or not?”

  “Well, I…I’m afraid that…” the anxious mehkan explained, twiddling his fat fingers. “What I mean to articulate—at this specifulic moment, as it were—be that I have other distractionary preoccupators that require me…”

  His eyes roved independently between Phoebe and Micah as his substantial mouth compressed into a squiggle.

  “At yer services, Miss Phoebe,” he said with a resigned sigh. “This a-way.” Mr. Pynch motioned with his arm and winced. The balvoor’s sleeve was wet and brown with ichor where Goodwin’s knife had slashed him.

  “Wait,” she said and reached out to loosen Mr. Pynch’s green-striped necktie.

  “What you be—” he said, about to protest.

  She unwound the sash from his neck and knotted it around his arm, above the wound. The stitches she had made in the garment were hard scars beneath her gloves. She had no clue if a clumsy tourniquet like this worked the same on a mehkan as it did on a human, but he didn’t refuse.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, studying her closely with his wonky eyes and his steadily spinning nozzle. “Let us abscond to Ahm’ral then, and adhere to the backcountry. No need to blatantly conspicuate ourselves upon the thoroughfares.”

  With that, Mr. Pynch dashed into the dark with surprising speed for such a fat mehkan. Phoebe started after him, but she stopped when she saw the look of desperation in Micah’s eyes.

  “Please,” Micah moaned. “We have to get rid of him. He’s gonna sell us out, like he done before. Please, Phoebe.”

  His voice was heartbreaking, and she wanted nothing more than to ease his mind.

  But she couldn’t.

  “We need him,” she replied. “I’ve got my eye on him. You have to trust me.”

  She hooked her arm into his and pulled him along, despite his weak resistance.

  When was he going to snap out of it?

  A clatter behind them. Phoebe whirled. There was the defunct Watchman, clinging to the Plunge-o-matic. It was staring down at the pile of debris it had stumbled into.

  “I said stay,” Phoebe barked at the automaton. “That means don’t follow, understand? Stay!”

  To emphasize her point, Phoebe raised the hand cannon and fired off a warning shot. The kickback almost hurled the weapon from her hands. The Watchman looked at Phoebe curiously, then wandered over to the bullet hole she had just made in the debris to inspect it more closely.

  She took advantage of the distraction to grab Micah and hurry after Mr. Pynch. The ground was uneven and slick, like striated sheets of ice. It was hard for the kids to proceed, but Mr. Pynch did not let them fall too far behind. He guided them down the jagged foothills toward a forest that looked like a battalion of skeletons armored in silvery flux frost. The bronze needle leaves tinkled darkly as they navigated between pallid trees. The wind groaned like a
dying thing. They heard no life in the forest—no buzzing of wingnut flies or calls of mehkan creatures. It was ghostly. Barren.

  Soon the knitting-needle canopy grew so dense that starlight could barely penetrate it. But Mr. Pynch’s sense of smell was keen, and he navigated effortlessly in the darkness, whispering directions to help the kids avoid obstacles. It was slow going, especially with Micah clinging to Phoebe like a frightened child.

  A roar passed overhead. Then another. Foundry aircraft.

  Goodwin’s escort, she supposed. He would be out for blood.

  Phoebe wished that she could see the city in the distance to confirm that Mr. Pynch was indeed taking them where he had promised. He seemed humbled and earnest, and she wanted to believe him, but that would be idiotic. She felt the hand cannon in her pocket and found comfort in the icy steel.

  It was hours later, as they were clambering down an uneven bank, that Micah’s legs gave way. He tumbled against her, and she dug her heels in, toppling forward. Mr. Pynch sprang to their side in a flash and managed to hold them both up.

  She looked back at Micah to make sure he was okay. His face was ghastly, eyelids heavy and teeth chattering. The cold and exhaustion were setting in. She could feel them too, but not as keenly as he did, probably because of the Uaxtu’s seed.

  “He needs to rest,” Phoebe panted. “How much farther?”

  As if in response, distant chants rose above the moaning wind. Mr. Pynch’s nozzle clicked, and his face screwed up into a lumpy jumble, looking truly perplexed.

  “What in the rust be that?” he said, his nozzle spinning.

  The balvoor crouched low and motioned for them to follow. Phoebe dragged Micah along, hearing the chanting grow as they crept closer. Soon the trees thinned out, and they could see they were on a forested ridge at the outskirts of Ahm’ral. A breeze swept past, and as it filled Phoebe’s nose with a peculiar scent, she realized why Mr. Pynch had been so baffled. This was a fragrance she would have never expected in Mehk. It was a familiar odor, deep and rich, full of sweet life. The earthy scent of roses.

  They took cover in a circle of fallen tree trunks to spy on the ancient mehkan city.