by Cam Baity
The ground angled down and stretched into another grim battlefield, though they could see no mehkan bodies among the ruins. It was a graveyard of Aero-copters, Gyrojets, and even Mag-tanks scattered like squashed apples in a neglected orchard. Everything had been crushed and flattened, just like at the Hatchery.
It was the wrath of Makina.
The blackened field ended at a series of great concentric walls that were cracked and scorched from the conflict. The ramparts were shaped from rough blocks of glass-green ore and topped with serrated crenellations weathered with age. Streams of mehkans crowded winding roads and byways as they poured from all directions and into the city through the battered gates.
Beyond the parapets, the sacred metropolis of Ahm’ral stood upon a broad hill. To the left, the walls extended into the Mirroring Sea, where Phoebe could barely glimpse an expansive port. Domed buildings on stilts were scattered in the flux so it looked as if Ahm’ral were overflowing, spilling structures into the ocean. To the right, the hill was tiered with hundreds of jade-colored domes, glomming together like murky soapsuds. A frenzied line of chanting mehkans wound up to the peak of the city.
And there, towering over Her worshippers like a mountainous sculpture hewn from the heavens, was Makina. She was a vision of swirling cloud and flame. A glowing god, a colossal angel of fire. Makina was motionless except for Her blazing golden eyes, which broke apart and re-formed like blobs of fiery oil in water, melting and shifting hypnotically. A galactic spiral of storm clouds spun above her, like a vortex that threatened to swallow everything in sight. Dozens of Foundry aircraft hovered on the margins, unable to approach, but unwilling to abandon the ethereal threat.
The mehkan chant rose like the tide. A heartbeat. A war cry.
Phoebe could not tear her eyes away from Makina. It felt like the seed at her throat was pulsing in time to the incantation.
“We’ll wait here,” she whispered.
Mr. Pynch trembled and glanced over at her.
“Wait?” he squawked, but then nodded reluctantly. “If you say so, Miss Phoebe. We shall intermiss here for the time being.”
She grinned at him.
“Not you, Mr. Pynch. I have another job for you.”
Dollop and the Marquis perched in the shadowy treetops above the canopy terrace and gaped at the Ascetic with the other chraida. The aged mystic swayed, eyes shut and arms held high.
“Ooooooooooh!” he wailed and shook vigorously. His followers did the same. Only the small cluster of warriors remained silent. They glared at the entranced crowd.
Dollop began to climb down toward the gathering, but the Marquis grabbed him.
“Ha-hands off!” Dollop hissed.
The Marquis shook his head, opticle fluttering dimly in the night. Dollop yanked his arm free. The Marquis snatched his leg, only to have the limb detach in his hand, kick him in the lens, and hop back onto Dollop.
“Chokarai love-ove us,” the Ascetic pronounced, breaking from his trance. “Chokarai save-ave us.”
“So we fight,” one of the warriors growled, stepping forward. “Protect Chokarai.”
“NO!” the Ascetic barked. “Chokarai beg us to leave-eave.”
Dollop and the Marquis wrestled in the treetops. The lumilow’s noodly arms flailed, but the smaller mehkan kept disassembling and re-forming to evade him.
“You love-ove Chokarai?” the Ascetic mewled demurely, clutching his chest with arthritic clamp claws. “You love? Yes?”
This caught the warrior off guard. The crowd stirred.
“We do all for Chokarai but must—”
“Then when Chokarai speak-eak, you OBEY!”
The Ascetic leapt onto his altar and struck an intimidating pose, chittering the jaw of his human skull mask. The crowd growled its approval.
“Aaaaah!” came a shrill cry from above.
The chraida warrior stepped aside just in time to avoid the plummeting figure. Dollop hit the terrace hard and burst to pieces. The gathered villagers gasped. However, when Dollop snapped together and the flickering torchbloom light revealed who it was, they burst into barks of laughter.
“Little Lump!” one of them cackled.
“Little Lump is back!” more chraida chanted with glee.
Dollop rubbed his backside, which was sore from the fall, and shot an angry glare up above, but the arrogant Marquis was gone. He should have suspected as much.
“DOLLOP!” the Ascetic screeched, and the crowd went silent.
The little mehkan stood as straight as he could. The ancient chraida plopped down on the altar and held out his crooked feet.
“Here,” the Ascetic commanded. “Rub-ub, Little Lump!”
This elicited more chortles from the crowd. Memories of massaging those rotten, gunk-laden toes haunted Dollop’s dreams. The Ascetic offered no “hello,” no “how have you been?” or “I’m so glad to see you alive.” It was right back to business as usual.
But not for Dollop.
“N-n-n-no,” he said.
“Whaaaaaat?” the Ascetic growled.
“I—I won’t,” Dollop asserted. “I’m not your s-servant. I serve Makina, the—the Great Engineer, Ev-Everseer, Mother of—”
The chraida tribe exploded into laughter. The Ascetic leapt forward to swat Dollop, but the little mehkan broke apart and re-formed behind the old chraida.
“Blasphemy!” the elder squawked. “No speak-eak of heathen god. Only Chokarai!”
The chraida hooted their agreement.
“Your fo-forest won’t protect you from the Foundry,” Dollop retorted. “You mu-must protect yourselves. The ti-time is upon us. You must fi-fight, just like they said!”
He pointed to the small band of warriors who had been arguing the same point. They were fearsome, bulging with powerful pistons, decorated in tokens of their enemies and scars from many battles. But now the chraida warriors backed away, not wanting to be associated with Little Lump.
“You nothing! Know nothing-ing!” the Ascetic snapped. “You not chraida. No care about us. But Chokarai love us. Chokarai save us, tells us to run-un.”
“And—and then what?” Dollop asked the tribe. “St-start running now and—and you’ll never stop! The F-Foundry wo-won’t rest until each and every one of us is—”
The Ascetic suddenly burst into an excruciating squeal and began spinning in place, dancing to music that only he could hear. Whether it was an attempt to distract or a result of genuine madness, Dollop couldn’t say. But he seized the opportunity.
“Th-th-this very moment,” he pleaded with the crowd, “the Covenant fi-fights the Foundry. Fights them for—for all of Mehk. We’re outnu-numbered. We need your help! Come with—with me, f-fight with me! We, the Ch-Children of Ore, can still save Her sacred ma-machine!”
The villagers were no longer laughing at Dollop. Instead, they considered his words.
“You—you are the Ri-Riders-of-the-Wind!” Dollop declared as boldly as he could. “You do not run! You f-fight!”
“Dollop nothing!” the Ascetic snapped, and all eyes turned back to him. “Chokarai speak-eak Splinters! Spirit words in shavings and slag-ag. We listen Dollop? Dollop who want us all fight for no one and rust-ust? Or we listen Splinters?”
The chraida elder scattered a fistful of metal shards across the altar, then leered malevolently at Dollop as he waved his hands mystically above them.
One glimpse at the crowd’s reverent reaction and Dollop knew he had failed. There was no way he could beat the Ascetic—no way he could beat their superstitions. How could Dollop expect these mehkans who had treated him so callously to do the right thing? They were just like the Marquis, only looking out for themselves. These mehkans did not know the Way. They did not know what it meant to interlock.
“Little Lump mock Chokarai!” growled a voice.
“Toss him!” howled another.
“Heathen!”
The crowd was angry. Dollop had seen chraida mobs turn viciously on their own without w
arning—it didn’t take much. He clutched his dynamo.
Dollop backed away as the villagers closed in.
Mr. Pynch entered Ahm’ral through a gate so near the coast that he could see dazzling droplets of flux sprayed by the waves into the night sky, twinkling like stars.
This particular portal was known as the Gate of Gohr, least ornate of the entrances built in tribute to the three pillar races who first joined under the edicts of the Way to establish this ancient city. It was coarse and unadorned, hacked roughly from obelisks that would never fall in battle—just like the brutish gohr themselves. The other two passages, the Gate of Kailiak and the Gate of Hohksyk, were glorious feats of mehkan design and closer to Mr. Pynch’s destination, but right now they were congested and overflowing with traffic.
Here in the lowest tier of the city, the ore had been bleached silver by epochs of flux, making the port district look like a jeweled pedestal holding Ahm’ral aloft. Each of the six higher tiers, slotted and channeled for flood control, were less stained than the one below it, so that the city’s famous green hue intensified at the top where the unfathomable figure towered.
Makina gazed down at Her holy city, molten golden eyes as bright as the suns. Her body of voluminous clouds and fire illuminated the masses as if it were day. She stood upon an enormous ziggurat at Ahm’ral’s peak, built in Her honor long ago. Mr. Pynch had always scoffed at the stories claiming that in those days the Great Engineer would stand upon that very throne from time to time and look out upon Her creation.
Yet here She was, standing and looking out once more.
The whole affair gave Mr. Pynch the heebie-jeebies.
He had never seen Ahm’ral so overrun. The circuitous lanes that wound between domed buildings teemed. Even the city’s famous canals were brimming as mehkans on skiffs and riding trained vellikrans jammed the vesperways, pressing toward Makina.
As Mr. Pynch navigated through the lower tiers, an excited chant was on every mehkan’s lips. Every language could be heard, from the primitive grunts of hamlets near the Veltran Gap to the familiar lilt of the overpopulated city of Sen Ephra. Tribes and cultures that had been at loggerheads since time immemorial were mingling. There were gohrs singing with vols, tiulus helping jaislids, even a band of merry balvoors drinking with a family of lumilows. The sight of their twinkling opticles brought a lump to Mr. Pynch’s throat, but he kept his mind on the mission at hand.
The pilgrims he traveled among slowed to a stop as their thoroughfare merged with an even greater one. But Mr. Pynch wouldn’t be deterred. He slipped through the spattered silver door of a cheap flugul shop he knew from past affairs. The dark and dingy establishment was bare. Mr. Pynch considered scouring the backroom for a free meal, but he hadn’t the time. Instead, he snatched a few cold scraps left behind on a tray and gobbled them up as he headed out the back door.
Emerging into a claustrophobic alley piled with refuse, Mr. Pynch made for a low rusted grate at the foot of the adjoining building. He gave the frame a few swift kicks, and it jostled loose. With an airy wheeze, the balvoor flattened himself and slipped down into the city’s abandoned vesperduct system.
The dilapidated, cobble-ored network was hundreds of phases old, as ancient as Ahm’ral itself. Long ago, the three pillar races had diverted vesper from the Ephrian Mountains, routing it across the arctic wasteland and allowing civilization to flourish here. As time passed, a more efficient underground conduit system replaced the vesperducts, leaving these rudimentary tunnels in disuse and mostly forgotten. Still, they were a marvel of engineering and had served Mr. Pynch and the Marquis well on several illicit occasions.
He rushed through musty passages that were blacker than an aio’s cloak, save for the occasional grate that cast down a shaft of Makina’s white light. If it weren’t for the balvoor’s whizzing nozzle to guide him toward Her sweet alien odor, he would have gotten lost in a matter of ticks. Feet stomped a rhythm on the streets above, and the collective chant of the masses felt like the pulse of the city. Mr. Pynch clambered through the veins of Ahm’ral, ascending as swiftly as his stubby legs would take him.
Then, without warning, there was utter silence.
Something was going on up above. Mr. Pynch could feel anticipation crackling in the air. He chugged onward, climbing a series of crumbling, rough-hewn steps. At last, he reached the uppermost tier of the city and tried to force a grate open, but the dense crowd standing atop it made it impossible. Mr. Pynch extended a few quills from his mitt and jabbed at the feet that blocked his path. The mehkans above yelped and backed away, allowing him to wrest the grate aside and squeeze through to the surface.
Being a mehkan of short stature, Mr. Pynch couldn’t see much, because of the worshippers and the blinding light. But he sensed the heat of Makina towering above, so breathtakingly intense that he wanted to shed his heavy chusk overcoat.
It was then that he heard something amidst the reverent silence—a faint voice he did not know, a strange mix of timbres in an unknown accent. Balvoors like himself were masters at recognizing languages and speech patterns, but he found himself befuddled by what manner of mehkan this might be.
“—ask why She let Her Children suffer,” the curious voice intoned. “Why allow Her sacred machine to be ravaged so mercilessly? Why did She permit the Great Decay to tear mehkan from mehkan, brethren from brethren?”
Mr. Pynch inflated to force his way through the crowd. Upon reaching the nearest building, he dug his mitts between the huge crystalline ore blocks. With some effort, he scaled the curved wall and hauled himself up atop the dome for a better look.
Beyond the masses lay a vast plaza, which held the pure emerald-green ziggurat that Makina stood upon. Her clouded feet were as wide as the towers of Sen Ta’rine. Standing between them was a diminutive figure swathed in undulating golden veils. He had heard enough stories and seen enough Waypoints to identify the mehkan, but seeing her in person had a curious effect on him. It was as if Mr. Pynch had awoken from the strangest dream he had ever known, only to discover that reality had been reshaped to match the fantasy.
This was the mission Phoebe had given him—find the Ona.
“Our pain has a function,” the mythic figure continued. “To draw us closer to Her embrace. To prepare us for Her glorious return. To allow us to share in Her triumph.”
The rapt pilgrims nodded, faces awash in holy light, barely breathing lest they miss a single word. Mr. Pynch felt queasy and light-headed, like he was falling. Maybe it was the sheer scale of the crowd, an enormous horde, greater than any gathering he had ever witnessed. Maybe it was the fact that here stood the Ona, ancient leader of Mehk, a legendary figure who had supposedly fallen to the bleeders long ago. Maybe it was the experience of being at the foot of a living god, overpowered by Her heavenly light and tantalizing perfume.
But that wasn’t it—not really.
“Our faith shall be rewarded. Our time has come. We, the Children of Ore, interlock at long last to bathe in Her light. To follow Her march to retribution.”
It was because a new world was emerging before Mr. Pynch’s very eyes, and he didn’t understand it at all. Nor did he much care for it.
“At long last!” The Ona’s words cleaved the night. “The Great Engineer will rain Her wrath upon the Foundry.”
“He’s selling us out,” Micah said for the hundredth time.
Phoebe ignored him. There was no answer she could give that would calm his nerves. After having choked down an SCM from the pack, some sort of mystery meat with rice, Phoebe told Micah to rest while she kept lookout. He had slept for maybe an hour before rousing to resume his unhelpful moaning.
They were still hidden among the fallen trees on a hill overlooking Ahm’ral. It was true, Mr. Pynch was taking a long time, but she hoped that meant he was making good on his word. If not…well, then they would be in a heap of trouble.
The chanting from within the city had long since stopped, and the silence was disturbing. Makina still t
owered over all, blindingly bright, with her head steeped in clouds, but nothing moved. Phoebe was desperate to know what was happening. A few times, she had been forced to flatten down among the fallen trees to hide from passing pilgrims. They occasionally emerged from the forest and scurried down through the battlefield of demolished Foundry tech to join the masses in Ahm’ral. Each time, Phoebe felt her heart leap into her throat, and Micah had cowered. They hadn’t been spotted yet, but it was only a matter of time—their position was not secure.
There was a crunch of bronze needle underbrush.
The kids huddled in among the trunks. Branches of a nearby tree shivered. Phoebe raised her hand cannon. A spark flickered in the dark, revealing a humanoid figure.
Phoebe lowered the gun and sank back.
“Not you again,” she muttered.
The damaged Watchman still held the Plunge-o-matic in one hand, but the other was gripping a thin white branch glinting with bronze needles. The Watchman shook its branch, apparently intrigued by the muted tinkle it made. Micah looked at the intruder, his dark eyes tinged with fear. The Watchman shuddered as sparks rippled through its body, twirling around the metal shrapnel in its head like electric ivy.
Phoebe picked up a hunk of ore from the ground and flung it at the Watchman.
“I told you to leave us alone,” she whispered.
Instead of heeding her anger, the Watchman approached and crouched beside the kids to see what they were looking at. The Watchman observed Ahm’ral for a moment but quickly lost interest. It shook the branch erratically, fascinated by the sound.
“Do you mind?” Phoebe snipped.
It did not. The automaton looked to Micah and shook its branch again. Although its fabricated face was incapable of emotion, it seemed genuinely proud to share the discovery it had made, but Micah just scooted farther away. Agitated, Phoebe put a finger to her lips, urging the dumb robot to be quiet. It echoed the gesture, though when its dangling shock prong fingers touched its face, the resulting zap knocked it backward. It landed loudly on the Plunge-o-matic, its rump activating the device.