Sired by Stone

by Andrew Post

  “Of course you know that already, if you were listening to the news like the rest of the planet. You’re public enemy number one now, and after Adeshka’s through with their dustup with the pirates, they’ll come for you next. Maybe even put a certain flophouse hotel manager under arrest because she recently rented room six to the man in question—”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  “It’s not me you have to worry about. But I can have Karl block her from the citizen registry and have her remain unfound by Chidester’s secret police if you tell me what I want to know.”

  “I swear if you go anywhere near Vee—”

  “If I wanted your sister dead, I could just go downstairs and shoot her in the head. I’ll continue not doing that if you tell me what you know. You escaped with my brother’s fiancée, and I can’t imagine she was anything but ungrateful. Maybe she mentioned what she knows about the attack? Specifically, when it’ll take place? Also, if you would, tell her I owe her for blinding Tym. Maybe I’ll kill Clyde first, have her watch, making her wish she was just as blind.”

  Aksel looked over his shoulder. Nevele and Clyde. They trusted him now. He’d proven himself to them. And now, to save his sister’s life, he’d have to dash that newly built confidence.

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Lying?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll go early just in case you are. Maybe Clyde would like to meet us there? Is he with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful. Say hello for me. But before I go, some advice. Grow some eyes in the back of your head, Bullet Eater. The entire planet’s eager for you now.”

  Aksel waited for more creative threats, but Raziel’s whispering intrusion was silenced with a small burst of static as the transmission went dead.

  “Who was that?” Clyde sounded unsure if he actually wanted to know.

  “Your brother.”

  Nevele’s face twisted. “He survived?”

  “Apparently. Both he and Tym, somehow.” Aksel’s shoulders slumped, his hands slapping against his legs. “It was all a plan. The frigate crash, framing me for it right alongside the Odium, everything. And I had to tell him. I didn’t want to, but he threatened my sister and me—”

  “I understand,” Clyde said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look my brother in the face knowing what he’s done, but if he can do something we can’t to save the city, it might be best to just let him. You’re innocent in all this, remember. You had to do what you did.”

  Aksel nodded. Innocent in downing the frigate, maybe. But everything else? All the other odd jobs Raziel sent me on? Knife tips under fingernails, wrenches that never cranked a single bolt but instead a whole lot of teeth. Every item in that lost bag of mine got plenty of use, every stain upon those implements I—and I alone—am responsible for adding. If these new friends of mine only knew, or Vee, they’d probably volunteer me to Chidester’s men. Innocent? In the tableau of my life, innocence only accounts for a few microscopic flecks, maybe—

  A series of hard slams rocked the Praise to Her, gunfire pelting the underside of the ship, the vibration almost painful on the bottoms of his feet.

  Emer shouted back. “Doesn’t look like Nessapolis is as abandoned as everyone said it is.”

  “—we’ll return at noon for another update.”

  Dreck drew his scattergun. Everyone in the room leaped away, overturning chairs and spilling plates to the floor, afraid to get in the crossfire as their captain emptied the magazine into the radio’s grille.

  It lay there, silenced, shooting sparks as Dreck holstered, seething.

  Gorett and the pirates waited for Dreck’s next word. He remained glaring at the dead radio. After what felt like an eternity, he drew a deep breath, turned, and said to all waiting, “We hit them early.”

  CHAPTER 15

  A Kingdom Too Far

  In the Patrol station break room, as soon as telly programming returned to normal morning broadcasts, the group of guardsmen turned to Sir Flam, a wall

  of eyes.

  Flam’s hand moved down from his heart, back toward his stomach, a red dot blossoming on his bandage. He tried to find something reassuring to say, but when he touched his wound, there came a sound that matched his pain exactly: from every window, alarms blared a whoop that started low and came to an earsplitting crescendo. The sound wasn’t uncommon in Geyser. It typically signaled fires and severe weather, but this time it seemed to have a particular pitch heralding something worse.

  Cheerfully contributing to the cacophony, almost buried under the enveloping racket, Flam’s desk phone rang from across the room. Momentarily forgetting his position, he exchanged looks with the guardsmen, hoping it’d be—even if just this one time—someone else’s responsibility.

  “That’s your phone, sir.”

  “Yes, thank you, George.” Flam lumbered over and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “This is the office of Lord Seddalin Chidester, King of Adeshka and surrounding provinces, to speak to the head of security of the Geyser Patrol.”

  “Uh, speaking.”

  “Please hold for line decryption.” The line went quiet a moment. When audio returned with a hard click, Flam felt his ears prick up and his back straighten, pain piercing his gut.

  “Are you there?” a gravelly voice said. Flam had heard Chidester speak plenty of times, but it was odd hearing him pose a question directly to him.

  “Hello, sir. This is head of security, Tiddle Flam—Sir Tiddle Flam, I mean.”

  “Sir Flam. We tried contacting the palace there a moment ago, but it seems your steward is somehow indisposed?”

  “Uh, yes, he’s . . . away at the moment.”

  “You’re next in the chain of command.”

  “I understand.” Where the plummets are you when I need you, Pasty?

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, many innocent lives were lost late last night during what I am considering a declaration of war.”

  “Yes, I just saw the news report, sir, and I’m very sorry for your city’s loss.”

  “Not just an Adeshkan loss, Sir Flam. The good people of Gleese as a whole suffered a loss. Which is why I’m calling to ask Geyser’s assistance. Last year during a troubling time for your city, mine was happy to provide assistance. Now I request your consideration in answering the call for us in kind.”

  “Actually, sir, I meant to call you earlier about something, but . . .”

  “Yes? Yes? Speak, man. Time is of the essence.”

  “Well, thing is, I’ve recently learned some information regarding the true culprits who crashed the frigate. Raziel, Tym . . .” He hesitated, then closed his mouth before Moira’s name could escape. “Pyne.”

  Behind Flam, a hushed rabble began to brew among his guardsmen. A backhanded swat of his arm silenced them.

  The alarms continued to scream, making it hard to hear King Chidester, but his bewilderment cut through the wailing just fine. “Francois Pyne’s sons? Preposterous.”

  “Preposterous or not, it’s the truth. I suggest you call off your attack on the Odium—and have it announced on the radio, a public address. Because while they might be to blame for a lot of nasty things, that frigate crash was not the Odium’s work. And by poking the sleeping bearcat like that, you open us up for a whole slew of retribution, just like any bigmouthed dumb arse tends to find himself in when tossing accusations around willy-nilly. Your Majesty.”

  Chidester harrumphed. “I beg your pardon!”

  “Forgive me, but they won’t attack you directly. No, we’ll receive the brunt of it. Geyser’s always been an easy target. And we have the deposit—wendal stone.”

  “Yes, I remember hearing about that.” Chidester sounded jealous, as if he wanted a deposit under his city just to say he had one.

  “So we need to strategize here. We have to go on the defensive, not the offensive.”

  King Chidester was quiet a moment. “I’m s
orry,” he began, and as soon as he’d said it, Flam closed his eyes, “but I’m afraid I cannot reroute anything your way. We’re deploying now, everything we have to scour the ice caps. But I assure you, we’ll do our utmost to stop them in the event they choose to attack Geyser in response to any supposedly false accusations I may have made. And even if they are false, Sir Flam, consider this: having the Odium finally conquered—something that’s been put off far too long—will not cause too many sleepless nights. Innocent or not for this particular attack, they are guilty of many others. Having them gone will be a boon for Gleese—a disease finally meeting its cure.”

  “Is this because they’ve been talking about giving you the boot these past few years? Happy to take up some crusade against the bad guys to make yourself look a hero?”

  “Sir Flam, this is war. It has nothing to do with my appearance as king. It’s an obligation, as all wars are, and it isn’t taken up without scrupulous consideration.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll try our best to contain the threat and be systematic in our counterattack, but your choice to remain idle may lead to collateral damage. It’s true: war may still find your city, making your involvement beyond your control. Better to join now, while it’s still a choice.”

  “We’re not choosing to be idle here. We can’t do anything else.”

  “Well, it may not appear so to you, but cowardice has many faces—”

  “Cowardice? Let me tell you something, Chidester. Here in Geyser, we’re anything but—”

  Chidester rattled off without conviction, “May Lord Aurorin keep you and your city in his protective light, Sir Flam. Next time your people are in need, I might suggest calling out west upon the city-states of Embaclawe. Or farther, to Rammelstaad. The Territorial Skirmish was, after all, quite some time ago. Maybe one of those fine nations would be willing to help a former enemy now that you’ve found yourself with nothing but new ones.” The line went dead.

  Flam remained holding the receiver, listening to the droning dial tone, trying to think of what he’d say when he turned around.

  The alarms wailed on.

  The phone shook his hand, the disconnected line humming out an ominous, dead note.

  The whispering behind him started up again. “What are we going to do?” one guardsman managed, his panic spilling free. Another asked the same, stepping toward Flam. Fear. So much fear, and so fast. It spread amongst them like wildfire. Say something to them, you twit.

  He couldn’t turn. Not yet. He fought hard to keep his knees from quaking. His throat stripped itself of moisture. His pulse beat faster, faster. Alone. Four hundred against however many the Odium might have—dedicated cutthroats all, probably now boarding up, snapping magazines to rifles, dragging whetstones down the lengths of thirsty blades.

  Back when he was a solitary treasure hunter, any sort of alarm going off meant one thing: beat feet. But this was something he couldn’t run from. Clyde had asked him, as a friend, someone he trusted, to occupy this position. Sure, maybe not right alongside him and Nevele, but to be here, at home, watching over things. Pasty hadn’t touched Commencement on Flam’s shoulders and dubbed him Sir Flam for nothing. He must’ve seen something in him.

  Flam finally set down the phone, drew a breath he hoped would steel him and keep his voice from shaking in the presence of his guardsmen.

  “Get to your posts. We’re going to be on our own.”

  Gorett stood before the mirror, the sound of the pirates racing up and down the hall like thunder just outside his door. He watched the shiny, pale entity coil and uncoil inside the semitranslucent yellow hill on his neck. It moved in time with its words: You know what I’m implying, Pitka. You’re by no means a stupid man, despite how much you sometimes feign.

  What do I need to do?

  It went still, perhaps contemplating. Then it gave a quick, snapping wriggle: Go do what we’re already both thinking. We need to stop him before takeoff if we want Geyser to remain standing.

  Okay, Gorett thought in reply, dragging the collar up around his neck. He gave it a reassuring pat and made for the door. Thank you.

  Just go. Before it’s too late.

  Almost immediately upon leaving his room, Gorett was tugged aside from the swell of pirates all rushing to the elevators. The length of Dreck’s arm pinned Gorett’s frail, wrinkled throat to the wall. The worm thrashed under the threat of being squished.

  Unable to speak, Gorett pleaded with his eyes, banishing any trace of sabotage from his mind—as if Dreck could suddenly be like the worm and hear what he was thinking.

  The Odium flowed around them like two stubborn rocks in a river, all packing into the station’s freight elevators twenty at a time to the hangars below. Once they were in position, the ceiling would split apart and spray life into the sky like a pregnant spider crushed underfoot.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Dreck said over the clattering of boots and armor and the pirates’ shouting and slapping one another, getting themselves bolstered, shaking off dust that’d gathered on their bloodlust.

  “I,” Gorett choked out, “I was going to make sure the Magic Carpet was fueled.”

  “Of course you were.”

  When the elevator doors shimmied aside with a grating creak, Dreck dragged Gorett in with him to share the ride down. “I think today you’re going to be my copilot. That way if you feel the temptation to do anything silly, it’ll be where I can keep an eye on you.”

  The elevator jerked down the shaft in starts and stops. The entire ride, even though Gorett had nowhere to escape, Dreck kept a firm hand on the ex-king. Once down in the hangar, he pushed Gorett out ahead first, to move of his own volition only a moment before Dreck snagged him like a hooked fish and dragged him along again.

  Gorett’s feet fought to keep him standing. In the hangar—and inside his head—it was hot and noisy.

  Up the back ramp of the Magic Carpet, they passed the Nimbelle height chart and entered the cramped cockpit, a glass bubble making up the nose cone.

  Dreck shoved Gorett into the copilot’s pit, removed his own lime-green hat, jammed it onto the headrest of his seat, and pulled on a leather flight cap. He threw various switches, and in a few seconds, the rear compartment of the Magic Carpet filled with tagalong pirates, all brandishing weapons, loading, reloading, checking breaches, whooping and cheering.

  Pitka Gorett felt the main engines kick on, shaking his back, despite the seat’s dense padding.

  A widening wedge of the suns’ blue light fell in as the ceiling of the hangar split. Chunks of ice rained down, shattering on the hard floor. Gorett flinched as one particularly large piece fell, growing as it descended toward the glass above his head. But something prevented it—a quick zap, lightning springing from nowhere—shattered the tumbling boulder.

  “At least we know the shields are working. May the Goddess bless Everlasting Guide Tesla, aye?” Dreck laughed and flipped more switches. He donned a pair of headphones over the flight cap, angling a microphone down in front of his bearded face. “Is Bessie onboard, all tucked in?”

  “Aye,” came the reply from somewhere within the station, or perhaps in the Magic Carpet herself; Gorett didn’t know.

  Gorett peeked over. He knew which trigger on Dreck’s flight stick would launch it and which would detonate it once it had dug a satisfactory depth into the city’s stem. He’d been watching for months.

  When the time comes, said the voice inside Gorett he’d almost involuntarily come to refer to as Mother Worm, you still have a chance to stop them. It will undoubtedly cost your life, but remember how much Geyser meant to you. To us.

  I miss you, Mother.

  And I miss you too, Pitka. But you’ll see me again soon.

  Dreck’s hands expertly fell onto the controls. He was smiling, downright electric. When he pulled a cord overhead to sound a horn, an ear-splitting wail, twenty-six ships all threw their main thrusters.

  Gorett spilled side to sid
e, the Magic Carpet ascended, the engines straining to punch the starship up through the slate skies, barreling through the protective blizzard.

  The world past the cockpit glass became awash with blaring sunlight, unfiltered and undiluted. It’d been the first time in a while Gorett had seen the suns as something more than just hazy disks.

  Once at a satisfactory altitude, Dreck leveled out the Magic Carpet, a moment of weightlessness stirring Gorett’s guts. The artificial gravity was flipped, and various equipment and weaponry clanked back snug in nets.

  Gorett pressed his forehead against the window’s cool glass, hoping it’d subdue his mounting nausea. “Twelve o’clock, sir.”

  Dreck didn’t reply, merely jammed a thumb on his flight stick. To either side of the cockpit, gun barrels slid out and locked into position.

  From the blue expanse, vague shapes came straight at them. The distant starships opened fire: white, silent flashes.

  A second later, the shots streaking toward the Magic Carpet were torn off course by the shield. Gorett covered his face and screamed, but his fingers had become too narrow to hide much.

  Forgoing evasive maneuvers, Dreck drove the Magic Carpet on, the tempo of oncoming bullets increasing, their shields slapping each thunderbolt away.

  Nearly upon them.

  Neither group diverted.

  Dreck made an inhuman shriek, his war cry.

  Mere yards from impact, the Adeshkans broke formation. The Magic Carpet charged through.

  “They’re circling around, sir.”

  “Let them,” Dreck shouted.

  Below his feet and through the cockpit bubble, Gorett could see the ground far, far below. It was snow-covered, as always this far north, but slowly faded into rougher terrain: black rock, the occasional grove of spindly conifers, the glassy surface of a pond. The Odium fleet tore over its surface in reflection: a mass of indistinct triangular shapes, white contrails pointing unerringly south.

  More shots rang out, aft.