by Cam Baity
Phoebe couldn’t believe it. They had been followed to the most dangerous place she could imagine by the clumsiest, noisiest thing in the world.
“Go away!” Phoebe hissed, turning off its stupid plunger. “If anyone hears us, we’re dead! Now get out of here before I—”
But the Watchman wasn’t paying attention. Something down in the battlefield of wreckage had drawn its eye. Abandoning its Plunge-o-matic and its favorite branch, the automaton emerged from the cover of fallen trees and disappeared over the crest of the hill to wander off below.
“Good riddance,” Phoebe mumbled.
But she had a pang of panic. That thing was a liability. It would attract unwanted attention. The mehkans would kill the Watchman on sight, but if it managed to get away, the clumsy thing would come running back to them, revealing their location.
Her mind whirled. Should she have let it go? She didn’t know what else to do. Risking a look down the slope, she could barely make it out, save for the occasional pop of sparks as it wound through the junkyard of destroyed Gyrojets and Aero-copters. Phoebe glanced at Ahm’ral, hoping that, at that very moment, she might thrill to the sight of Mr. Pynch emerging and heading toward them. How insane was this, that the scheming balvoor seemed like the only one she could count on?
Were those footsteps nearby, or was it just her own pounding heartbeat?
She returned to Micah, his eyes dulled by a thousand-yard stare, and grabbed his shoulder. He pulled away.
“Micah.”
No reaction.
“I can’t do this on my own.” She shook him.
“What do you want from me?” he snapped. His voice broke like a ship upon a reef, heart-rending sobs racking his body.
“Keep it down,” she whispered, glancing around nervously. “What do I want? I want your help. I want you to snap out of it.”
“I can’t,” he moaned, hugging himself tightly, face twisting into a white mask of pain. “I can’t. I can’t!”
“Cut it out,” she growled, shaking him harder.
She could have sworn she heard movement. It might have come from the forest or from the road, from anywhere.
“You can. You have to,” she whispered, trying to calm herself. “We got this far, didn’t we? We did it together. Now we have to see it through.”
“No!” he shouted. “They’re gonna get us. Mr. Pynch, Goodwin…” He pointed at Makina. “That. One of ’em will get us. We can’t do it!”
“Shut up, Micah. Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “We’re not giving up. You never used to give up!”
“That was before! But we already lost! We’re gonna die!”
His words were a hysterical howl. The sound rolled down the hill and rang through the forest, shimmering among the leaves.
SLAP!
She didn’t plan it. The sound reverberated in her ears, and she felt the sharp pain of contact with Micah’s face on her gloved fingers. His jaw dropped open in surprise, and he touched his reddening cheek. Phoebe remembered a lifetime ago, back in the tunnel leading to Mehk, she had done the same thing—slapped him as hard as she could to shut him up. He had deserved it then for talking about her deceased mother, just as he deserved it now. In the tunnel, he had vowed to not hold back if she tried to hit him again, but here he was, numb and silent, blinking stupidly.
“I’m not going to die,” she said. “Not again.”
Micah swallowed hard. Did his eyes look less glassy? She hoped so. He turned his head, listening. Mehkan voices. Their harsh language had never sounded so sinister.
Phoebe rose to a crouch, eyes peering into the dark. Below, she could see mehkans peeling away from the parade of pilgrims on the road. Climbing the hill. Pursuing the sounds of the argument they must have heard. Behind them, in the skeletal sprawl of the forest, starlit shapes stalked through the trees.
Close. Shouting like hunters in pursuit.
She readied her hand cannon and looked back at Micah. His eyes burned into hers, and for the first time since Goodwin had appeared behind the Shroud, she felt like he was in there somewhere—the Micah she knew.
He grabbed her hand and fled down into the battlefield.
“J-j-j-just wait a tick,” Dollop stammered to the angry mob closing in around him. The Ascetic led the pack, hungrily chattering the jaw of his human skull mask.
Dollop was trying to plot his escape, but the prospects were grim. The only thing that chraida respected as much as the Splinters was physical strength, but there was no way he could win in a fight with any of them, even against the decrepit Ascetic. Dollop was fast, but not nearly as fast as them, so fleeing wasn’t an option either. He could jump off the terrace and try to grab on to something on the way down—a truly terrible idea. Or he could play the role of Little Lump again and plead for mercy.
The thought of demeaning himself like that made Dollop want to leap off the side of the platform and leave his fate to the Great Engineer. But he knew he had to survive this, had to make it back to the Covenant. He had to—
“Look! See!” one of the chraida barked.
“Chokarai speaks!”
This got the Ascetic’s attention. Villagers were backing off, mesmerized by something in their ranks.
“Away!” the Ascetic screeched. “BACK-ACK!”
With his gnarled claws, he tore through the mob to see what the commotion was. The crowd gave way and allowed their leader to pass, their oil-black eyes glinting in awe at what lay before them. Dollop risked a few steps forward to see as well.
On the Ascetic’s altar, the Splinters of the Chokarai had rearranged themselves into an unmistakable pattern. It was the last thing Dollop had ever expected to see.
A dynamo.
“Ghaaaa?!” the Ascetic cheeped.
“Chokarai says fight!” declared a voice.
“Little Lump true!”
The small gang of defiant chraida warriors bounded to the altar to bear witness to the truth of the villagers’ claims.
“Here!” one of them proclaimed. “Chokarai true.”
“No, you misread-ead Splinters,” the Ascetic blubbered.
“Nothing misread,” the warrior with the muzzle rimmed in piercings snarled. “Chokarai speak. Chokarai want blood.”
“Blood!” came a fanatical cry.
“We fight!” said another.
“FIGHT!”
The crowd of villagers sprang away from the altar and clustered behind the small group of warriors. The Ascetic was quickly losing ground. He began to sway and mumble singsong to himself, but when the grizzled old mehkan saw that his followers were no longer paying him any mind, he gave it up.
“Yes!” the mystic shrieked. “We fight! Bones to mash. Bloods to eat.” He got back amidst his people. “Chokarai has spoken. Riders-of-the-Wind obey.” The mob teemed with fervor. “WE FIGHT-IGHT!”
Cables shot out, chraida howled and bounded away. The mob spilled off the terrace into the pipework wilderness beyond.
Dollop’s head was spinning. He looked around at the sparse platform. It was bare save for the Ascetic’s altar and a lone figure.
The Marquis.
He examined a smudge on his white glove and looked up at Dollop with a shrug, the shutters of his opticle skewed in a look that was unmistakably sheepish.
His finger was stained with Splinters of the Chokarai.
Phoebe and Micah careened down the slope, charging into the field of blasted vehicles below. Nearby mehkan shouts circled like a pack of snarling wolves. Foundry wreckage grew around them like mechanical giants rising from their graves. Lit by Makina’s brilliant glow, the field of debris cast long, disorienting shadows. The kids stumbled, banged their shins, twisted their ankles. Kept moving.
But Phoebe felt something wrong. With her body, her breath.
She ignored it. Had to.
The field pack on her back snagged on a tangle of metal. She struggled to free herself, but it was held fast. Left with no choice, she slipped from the straps, aban
doned the pack, then raced to catch up with Micah. Partially vaporized tanks lay hunched on the ground. Their frames had been rendered as insubstantial as burnt parchment, with ragged holes blistering solid metal. Weaponry was melted like candles, and great gouges in the ore had been carved where the mighty war machines had died.
Wreckage shifted, and Rattletrap barks filled the night air as the mehkans continued their hunt. Thudding footfalls nearby. Phoebe followed on Micah’s heels as he huddled inside the crumpled wheel well of an armored transport. They pressed into the steel shell, catching their breaths.
She felt the ravaged vehicle move.
No, their shelter was steady. It was her mind that tumbled. She clutched at the wall, trying to gain control. The world tilted in muddied vertigo. Nausea burbled up within her. Phoebe’s vision dimmed. Sound was muffled.
Felt like she was slipping away.
“You all right?”
Micah’s whisper sounded like a memory. So faint. What was happening?
With violent ferocity, the structure protecting them was torn away, but she didn’t hear the screech of metal. Could only see the world in jarring flickers. Phoebe knew that she and Micah were exposed. Saw a gang of vague mehkan silhouettes.
Pressure in her hands. Micah yanked the gun from her grip.
He burst from hiding. Flash-flash-flash—he opened fire at them. Drove the mehkans back. Dragged her along behind him. She looked down. By some miracle, her legs were moving, though it felt like her mind was still stuck in slow motion.
Sound returned. Adrenaline banished the murk that threatened to smother her.
She was all instinct.
Micah fired shots behind them. Kept the enemy at bay. They dashed around the innards of an Aero-copter. A clang of steel inches away jarred her nerves. One of the pursuers was hurling projectiles, whipping its own chain-link digits at them. The kids wove between exploded metal chassis. Debris was piled in a treacherous jumble. Some of it was still smoldering, heat and smoke conspiring to slow their escape.
More voices. Crashing footsteps from all directions. Phoebe and Micah scrambled up a ramp formed from the wing of a Galejet. They rolled over the top and slid down the other side, crashing into a heap of remains. Couldn’t tell which way to go. Twisted wreckage in every direction. Climbing was too slow. Navigating between torn ships was no faster. Indistinct shadows streaked across the debris, snaking darkly toward the kids. Screeches closed in. Howls of victory. Micah readied his hand cannon.
It was coming back—she could feel it.
Numbness crept up on her again, seeping in. She was going blind, going deaf once more. Her hands and feet felt like weights. Tingling. She fought to keep focus. A vibrating tug at her throat like a snagged fishhook. The seed embedded there seemed to be draining her, sucking out her consciousness as if through a straw. She tore open her collar to clutch at her neck.
Its light was sputtering. More dim than before.
Her seed was dying.
“PHOEBE!”
Phoebe…
Her eyes snapped open.
She was on the ground now.
Had she passed out? For how long?
Everything was quiet, muffled. Micah’s face was close to hers. Warped. Horrified.
She was paralyzed, her body tense and locked up, tightened by the web of iron cords underneath her skin. Mehkans were bounding toward them. She gasped for air.
A silent blast shook her to the core.
The wreckage around them blew apart like a burst dam. The world went white. Makina had come for her. The mehkans shielded their eyes, drew back as if scorched by Her heavenly light. The brilliant blaze hurtled toward them. Dust swirled. Mehkans scattered.
Instead of the flowing white clouds of the Great Engineer, a huge body like an oversized manta ray appeared, skidding to a stop. Its four powerful rotors, like circular fins, squealed and whined as they slammed into towers of junk.
A Gyrojet.
How? How had the Foundry caught them?
Then Micah was lifting her, carrying her toward the aircraft. What was he doing? With great effort, he hauled her up a gangplank and into the belly of the aircraft. He deposited her on the cold steel floor, where she lay gasping, trying to comprehend.
The Gyrojet jerked to life again, trying to take off, weaving as if drunk. The vehicle crashed through rubble and tossed the kids roughly.
Phoebe managed to blink. Micah came into focus. He was bracing himself by the open hatch, firing his hand cannon down at mehkans trying to board. Then something else seemed to catch his attention. He turned toward the cockpit and shouted at the top of his lungs, though Phoebe still couldn’t move, nor could she hear a thing.
Hands snagged the edge of the door frame. Micah dove for them. Reached below.
Hauled up a rotund figure. Mr. Pynch. He had come back.
Micah shouted again, and the Gyrojet’s rotors thrummed. It strained to lift into the air. The cabin convulsed as if it would be torn to pieces. They were picking up speed. The aircraft collided with more wreckage and threw Micah and Mr. Pynch to the deck. Wind from the open hatch tore at them. The jet launched off another mound of debris like a ramp.
They were barely airborne, grazing, grinding across the surface of the battlefield. Then there was an explosion of liquid silver as the Gyrojet shot out over the Mirroring Sea, skipping across the flux like a stone over a pond. Phoebe looked out and saw the glittering waves crashing against the shores of Ahm’ral, and the undulating mass of worshippers at the peak of the city groveling at the feet of their incandescent god.
The Gyrojet climbed, unsteady and wavering, into the air. With a mighty heave, Micah and Mr. Pynch pulled the hatch closed, then collapsed.
Now what? They had escaped the mehkans only to be back in the Foundry’s clutches. But at least they weren’t dead.
Phoebe’s fingers twitched. She felt her chest rise and fall.
Relief eased the expressions of her companions.
The interior of the Gyrojet was partially collapsed on one side, and dark, lit only by a single flickering fluorescent tube. The cargo hold was topsy-turvy, with a scattering of large crates and a jumble of seats that had come unbolted. The horizontal oval windows were tinted, and an unmistakable odor of scorched metal and burnt electronics permeated everything.
Phoebe tried to make sense of it. She had expected to be confronted by Goodwin and a slew of Foundry agents, but there appeared to be only one other figure inside. The Watchman in the pilot’s seat turned back to them and waved, the dagger of shrapnel in its head crackling with sparks.
Mr. Pynch chuckled. She could hear it now—sound was fading back in again. The seed at her throat ceased its panicked throbbing, and whatever exhaustion had overcome her ebbed. But a haunting memory of the sensation lingered.
Phoebe weakly drew herself up to her elbows.
Mr. Pynch deflated with a wheeze as Micah bounded up to the defunct Watchman.
“Can you believe it?” Micah said. “Good thing he’s on the fritz, eh? Saw his sparks through the windshield.” The boy’s eyes lit up. “Thatta boy! Good ol’ Fritz!”
Micah clapped the automaton on the back but quickly drew his hand back, jolted by an electric shock. The jet swerved, then overcorrected, rattling its passengers. Apparently, the Watchman had retained some of its Foundry programming, because it had somehow managed to get one of the barely functional vehicles to fly.
Phoebe was thankful that the clumsy robot had taken a fancy to them, for whatever reason. Maybe the mehkan critter trapped within the Watchman was more observant than she knew.
“An auspicious unravelment, to be certain,” Mr. Pynch grumbled, a troubled look on his sagging face. “But I be the unfortunate bearer of objectionable tidings.”
“What’s wrong?” Micah said. “Didn’t you find the Ona?”
“Most assuredly,” the mehkan replied. “She was with her…er…godhead…as you surmised. Divine command has been decreed. Makina’s wrath shall soon b
e known.”
“Meaning what?” Phoebe croaked.
“Meaning…” Mr. Pynch searched for the words. “The Great Engineer has Her celestial sights set on a final reckoning.”
“So She’s gonna wipe out the Foundry once and for all?” Micah asked.
“Worse,” the balvoor muttered. “She be bound for yer world…”
Phoebe’s throat was dry. Her mind was numb. Still she knew.
Knew what Mr. Pynch was going to say.
“…to destroy it.”
“Condors are ready for takeoff, sir,” a coordinator hollered to Goodwin over the rush of wind in the back of the Rangecart. “Preparing to receive payloads, pending your authorization.”
The Chairman was rushing across the Depot with a team of Watchmen, Foundry administrators, and military executives. A nicotine-yellow dawn broke as the Rangecart whizzed past platoons of soldiers and scores of Gorgon 4s, Mag-tanks, and other combat vehicles ready for deployment. Scorch marks on the steel facades and craters on the ground served as a testament to the recent assault. Repairs were going smoothly, aside from the overhead lattice of magnetic cables known as the NET system, which was proving more difficult to return to full capacity.
Goodwin hadn’t heard a word from the Board since his return. They hadn’t bothered to acknowledge that he was still among the living, nor had they responded to his attempts to make contact. He had been told that they were absorbed with managing the response to the Quorum’s attack on Albright City.
Fighting in Mehk. Conflicts at home. War on every side.
Goodwin felt like a rabid dog let loose in the Depot. His platinum-threaded suit was tarnished and torn, his face was smeared with soot, and his hair was a wild mess. He was famished and hadn’t slept a wink, but now was not the time for petty comforts.
There was work to be done.
“I’m telling you, James,” said one of the military executives. “We can’t pry the Covenant out of their holes without incurring unacceptable losses.”
“Our seismic engineers have been digging away out there with Geodrills for the past two days, but the pesky creatures keep collapsing our tunnels,” another added.