Ichor Well

by Joseph R. Lallo

  Gunner stepped inside and flipped open a large chest in the corner of his quarters. At first sight of the contents, Dr. Prist’s eyes widened. The chest was filled to the brim with carefully secured and more or less immaculate labware. He flipped open a pouch and slid out a long rectangular tool made from polished metal and delicate glass.

  “Would a candy thermometer do?” he asked, presenting it to her.

  She raised an eyebrow. “It… it will, actually. How did you get all of this? It appears to be fug-made.”

  “Cost me a fair amount to get my hands on it a few years back. You folk seem willing to part with very nearly anything for enough money. Of course, since then we got five more sets during the heist. Two survived the escape.”

  “Why do you have it?”

  “One of the things that doesn’t seem to be available at any price is anything but the most pathetic of munitions. So I’m forced to cook up my own powder and explosives. You’d be surprised what you can manage with a strong constitution, a steady hand, and a little burn-slow.”

  “I assure you, I would not be surprised. What surprises me is that you know such a thing.”

  He thumped a thick and well-read set of books stowed on a shelf beside the chest. “Another trophy from the heist. Though I worked out the broad strokes through trial and error.”

  She glanced at his hand and noticed for the first time that it lacked the full complement of fingers. “So I see… Would you mind setting up the pressure kettle over that number three burner there? Put it at the third notch. Have you any distilled water?”

  “Of course. But if I’m to let you use my equipment, I’ll have to know what you’ve got in mind.”

  “I need to measure its primary product yields and transition points. If this is indeed from a new well, it could have different levels of impurity, and that could greatly change the necessary conditions to refine it. As you say, a bit of trial and error will be necessary. Ideally I shall retain all my digits. Perhaps most importantly for all involved, any difference at all from the established values would be a strong indicator that a previously undiscovered ichor well has been found.”

  Gunner selected the equipment she requested and began to attach it to mounting rods, which slipped through strategically placed holes drilled in his fold-down desktop. Dr. Prist directed him, indicating what should be raised or lowered. To her credit, she did so without assuming the condescending, supervisory tone that was so often the default for fug folk dealing with surface dwellers. This either spoke well of her social graces, or else suggested she was too thoroughly focused on the task at hand to pay attention to such matters of discourse.

  “Fine. That’s fine. A pipette, please.”

  He selected one and attempted to hand it to her, but she was still clutching the jar protectively.

  “Is there likely to be any rough maneuvering in the short term?”

  “That isn’t the sort of thing we plan ahead of time.”

  “This is precise work. I’m not certain I can be trusted to perform it in such unsteady conditions.”

  “Spend a few years on an airship and you’ll do just fine at it. I’ve dosed burn-slow with saltpeter quite precisely in the middle of a storm without much mishap.”

  She glanced to the equipment, then at the jar. “If you follow my instructions very carefully, do you believe you can perform the elements of this experiment that will require precise dexterity?”

  “That raises a few questions.”

  “What?”

  “Can you trust me with that goop that you seem to value more than life itself, and can I trust you not to attempt anything regrettable while I am occupied with your instructions?”

  “You are concerned about me doing something to you? You people are the infamous ones!”

  Gunner looked at her flatly. “Ignoring the simple fact that self-defense would be my aim in your position, just what sort of a reputation do you suppose you folk have among us in the mountains?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Oh, they had you secreted far from reality, eh? Where do we start with this procedure?”

  She huffed. “Light the burner and half fill the kettle with distilled water. And while you’re at it, explain what you meant by that childish little jab.”

  He measured out the water. “I suppose it comes as a surprise to you, but being in a stranglehold is something we above the fug aren’t terribly fond of. It’s led us to develop quite a grudge while you sit in your little hole and reap the fruits of our labors.”

  “We reap the fruits of your labors. The life you’ve all chosen to live wouldn’t be possible without the products of our innovation. You should count yourself lucky that we have been able to hone our skills sufficiently to keep you supplied.”

  “And in exchange you charge ruinous prices and take every step necessary to keep us from producing any of these precious supplies or even maintaining our own ships. Are we raising this to a boil?”

  “No, no. Just below. Put in the thermometer. I’ll tell you when,” she said quickly. “Your crew is evidence enough of why it is crucial we don’t share our technology with you. Look at the recklessness and cruelty you are capable of with even the scraps of our knowledge. There are so few of us and so many of you, in order for there to be any semblance of a balance of power we must exert some level of control.”

  “Is that how you justify it? Did you come up with that on your own, or do they teach that in schools?”

  “And what of your rigid and nonsensical claims of victimhood? Are they a product of your education? … Just a bit more and then ready the pipette. You’ll be putting in one small drop.”

  “You control the flow of vital materials and happily let whole cities wither and die if they cannot meet your prices. Are you going to tell me that we should be kissing your feet for your graciousness?”

  She unscrewed the lid and presented the jar to him, squinting as it once again chased the fug from the room. “Quickly. These fumes are as unpleasant for me as the fug is for you.”

  He dosed out the drops under her watchful gaze. The moment the pipette was free, she clamped the lid back on and the fug began to seep back in.

  “You can stir it a bit, then remove the thermometer and clamp on the kettle lid with all valves shut. We’ll check the smallest relief valve once with each notch on the pressure gauge. Phlogiston should come first. Standard samples will bear it at the third notch. … Good. For now we wait. And while I’ll admit your existence, as you’ve described it, does seem rather unpleasant, your record utterly ignores the unfathomable misfortune we’ve experienced in the fug.”

  “And what misfortune is that?”

  “Really now… we experienced the calamity.”

  “So did we!”

  “No. You observed the calamity. We experienced it. Granted, few of us remember it, but ours were the cities laid low by the arrival of the fug. The people taken by the rolling clouds of fug did not merely vanish, you know… Those cities may be empty now, but not in the beginning. Open the valve now, just slightly.”

  He did as she suggested, to very little effect. From the sour expression and the scrunch of her nose, she could smell something that wasn’t making it through his mask, but no sign of phlogiston.

  “Close it up again. It seems your ichor is indeed different. It might be a shade more difficult to process. I don’t suppose you’ve got any masks to spare. The fumes are rather strong right now.”

  Gunner wordlessly fetched a mask from a hook beside the entrance and handed it to her.

  “You say you don’t remember the calamity?”

  “Before my time,” she said.

  “Stands to reason. It was hundreds of years ago, after all. I know you fug folk are long lived, but surely not that long lived.”

  “It has actually been one hundred forty-nine years since the calamity. The sesquicentennial is in a few months. And though I say it is before my time, it is by no means beyond the lifetime of the bulk
of our populace. I just happen to be a part of the very small second generation of fug folk. … The pressure is rising quickly. Let’s test that valve again.”

  He twisted the valve and was rewarded with a lance of brilliant green as phlogiston hissed from the nozzle.

  “Ah, excellent, wonderful,” Dr. Prist crowed.

  She very carefully secured the jar to the table beneath one of the convenient leather straps scattered about its surface, then slipped a small pad and pencil from a fold of her dress and took note.

  “We’ll twist the valve a bit until the pressure stays steady. Bleed off the phlogiston and then close the valve again for the next step.”

  It was a delicate adjustment, but Gunner did so rather easily. “So it’s true then. You fug folk are indeed formerly human.”

  “Of course we are! What did you think? We crawled out of a hole one day?”

  “Have you been talking to Coop? I’d rather assumed you were altered by the fug, but I’m a bit more academic than many of the people of Rim. Crawling out of a hole is one of the kinder theories in ready circulation. But if most of the residents of the fug are somehow still alive since the calamity, then why do you claim most don’t remember it?”

  “Get a beaker ready for this next stage, and a tube. You’ll want to collect the result, or at least prevent it from leaking everywhere. And the transition from human to fug person is not a gentle one. Most suffered the same unpleasant fate as any of you might experience if left to the mercy of the fug without your masks. Even for those of us who survive, the physical changes are quite painful, withering our physiques in some cases, enhancing them in others, and altering our complexions. The change is deeply debilitating, rendering many unable to care for themselves for days or weeks in the worst case. But as you’ve no doubt noticed, there are mental alterations as well. Many of us have had our intellects vastly enhanced, and that alteration is no less destructive.

  “In the worst case, people were left wholly without memory. Many had to relearn the language. Most were merely stripped of their experiential memory. They were left to rediscover who they were, forgetting even their names. More than a few succumbed to madness. Only a handful has any memory at all their time before the fug. It was eventually decided that a line should be drawn before the fug and after. The first generation chose new names, laid their old lives to rest. If you ever find yourself visiting Fugtown without vandalism or thievery in mind, you might visit the western edge of town. The three graveyards. The first, filled to capacity, marks the resting place of those taken by the calamity. The third is where the current residents are inhumed when they pass. The second is filled with empty graves bearing the original names of those who formed the local first generation. It is really quite a haunting place.”

  Gunner looked at the chemist. Her eyes had a distant, introspective look he’d never seen in a fug person.

  “Oh,” she said. “The pressure is just about right. The beaker please, Mister… heavens, we’ve not been introduced either. Gunner, was it?”

  “Guy von Cleef. Gunner certainly for preference.”

  “The beaker, quickly, Mr. von Cleef. And keep it away from the burner. What comes out next is what we call ‘pyrum.’ It is what makes burn-slow burn, and in its unaltered state it isn’t nearly so gradual in its combustion.”

  It took two more notches on the pressure gauge before a gray vapor worked its way down the tube, condensing along the way into a hazy liquid that seemed to be thinner than water. The vapor tapered off after just a few seconds, producing no more than a few drops of the stuff.

  “That’s a very good yield,” she said. “It appears your ichor source will have proportionately greater pyrum-to-phlogiston ratio, at least by a small amount. You’ll want to be very careful with that. It is exceptionally volatile.”

  He held it up to the glow of his phlo-light, suddenly quite interested. “Really now. We shall have to discuss that in greater detail.”

  After fetching a rubber stopper and stowing the beaker safely, he turned to her again. “So I suppose that is all?”

  “No. Two more steps. There’s a final gaseous product, and then there are the solids, which should be left behind. Based on the variances we’ve observed, I believe two more pressure notches will be necessary before we see the final product. If so, that’s very good news. It is a wider margin, which will greatly reduce the precision necessary to extract the primary products without triggering the production of the third.”

  “When we were recruited for this ichor well scheme, only phlogiston and burn-slow were listed as products of ichor. You’re suggesting there are others?”

  “Indeed, but you’d never know it from the way the South Pyre team treats the process. One is treated as though it isn’t a product at all, and the solids are generally discarded as unwanted byproducts. I understand they are reluctant to part with even a fraction of the products, despite the fact we’ve already seen three valuable medicines come from processing these ‘byproducts.’ Knowing the wonders achieved by the other ichor products, it is criminal not to fully explore the chemically complex remnants of the primary reactions.”

  “Knowing what I know of fug folk—which in light of present conversation is a good deal less than I thought—I suspect it is yet another form of information control.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’d never heard of ichor before this ridiculous enterprise. No real surprise, since you fug folk would prefer we didn’t know anything about what goes on below the surface. So your South Pyre people jealously guarding the contents of their kettles for fear of the rest of you learning too much of their business makes sense.”

  “You believe we would hide that sort of thing from each other?”

  “… You were as good as held prisoner in an academy.”

  “My expertise is rare, and I was sequestered to ensure the safety of the knowledge.”

  “If one is frightened information is likely to be lost, it is safer to share that information, wouldn’t you say?”

  She crossed her arms. “If the information was generally known, it would be far more likely that it would slip from our fingers and into those of the surface dwellers. And we’ve already discussed the wisdom of keeping secrets from you.”

  “Believe that if you like. But tell me, what do you know about inspectors?”

  “Inspectors? Oh. Those little creatures. They… tap on things. Check for rot and such. Why would you ask?” she said, her confusion at the question clearly genuine.

  “No reason,” he said.

  “Remove the tube now and get ready to open the valve fully and stifle the burner. You’ll want to keep your hands away from the opening as well.”

  On her mark, he twisted the valve. A jet of dense purple gas escaped with terrific force. The blast, thanks to its ferocity, was brief, but the residual cloud of the stuff that billowed and mixed with the haze around them was unmistakable.

  “That was fug,” he said sharply

  “Yes. And it was produced precisely at the point I’d predicted. Once the kettle cools, you’ll want to—”

  “You’re telling me that fug is a product of ichor.”

  “Yes. Clearly. What do you suppose caused the calamity?” she said matter-of-factly as she scribbled down some notes.

  Gunner snatched her pencil. “You know how the calamity happened?”

  “Well, as I’ve said, no one who survived has any memory of it, and there were no survivors near the event itself, but we’ve determined what happened, certainly. As we’ve seen here, ichor renders into its different products at different temperatures. The second, pyrum, burns at a very high temperature. At some point, something must have heated the surface of the ichor enough to generate pyrum, which then ignited, producing a continuous reaction. That’s why it is called South Pyre. It still burns to this day, producing a constant flow of both phlogiston and fug, and fueling its own flame with pyrum. We harvest the former, of course, and bottle it for utilizatio
n and sale.”

  “How difficult would it be to cause that to occur at the new ichor well?”

  “It depends upon how exposed it is, but dropping a gas lantern or a hot coal would probably be enough.”

  “And what would happen if this second well were to ignite?”

  “It depends on the size, but likely there would be an exceptional increase in fug production. It would probably raise the fug level a few hundred feet.”

  “There are dozens of towns that are a few hundred feet from the average level.”

  “I don’t think there is much to worry about. If the well hasn’t ignited naturally by now, I can’t imagine there is much risk.”

  “A whole team, including two members of our crew, is on their way to set up the beginnings of a facility there. It will be steam powered, and thus there will be plenty of fire.”

  “A bit of care is all it takes to avoid an ignition.”

  “They won’t know to take care. And I’m not convinced ignition isn’t the aim of some of the people involved.”

  “Mr. von Cleef, we are not monsters.”

  “Maybe not as a rule, but as an exception? There are always monsters. And this one needs only light a match and toss it in a hole to murder thousands. A simple lunatic would do that as a lark. And you people actually have a proper reason to do it, since it would expand your holdings.”

  “You’re suggesting my people might justify the senseless destruction of dozens of your cities.”

  “You not having been to the surface much, you wouldn’t know it, but ever since our run-in with the dreadnought, there’s been a change. There are those who feel as though we made the devil bleed that day. You’ve all locked things firmly down, done your best to remind us you’re the ones calling the shots, but plenty of our people have come to view you as a bit toothless. If this new well could help you expand your realm just that much more and prove once and for all that your hands are always about our throats, I don’t doubt there are those among you who would gladly take the opportunity.”