Sired by Stone

by Andrew Post

  Ducking behind the square’s fountain rim to reload, she watched Clyde assist Aksel. Often staying one step behind as the one-eyed man downed a pirate, Clyde would then charge up to collect what was of use: ammunition or a gun, Rohm aiding him in pointing out fallen armaments. While they handed the bounty to Aksel, it was plain Clyde wanted to rid himself of the weapons as soon as possible. Aksel, thanking them, accepted each and made immediate use of them. They worked well together.

  But they weren’t bringing the same enthusiasm to the task as Höwerglaz was. When two pirates ran up and took aim at him, Höwerglaz didn’t run for cover but merely put out his hands, his hair whitening. The two stumbled forward, suddenly finding themselves gawky teenagers in their too-big clothes, tripping over trouser legs. They looked at each other, terrified as they became kids, toddlers, newborns—shrinking where they stood—until they appeared half-formed, bulbous pink things, until—pop—erased.

  Nevele’s hands, which had been busily reloading, stilled.

  Höwerglaz thrust his hands toward a ship’s undercarriage as it shot over. The entire thing became a brown, fuzzy lump of rust and dropped out of the sky, crumbling. Liver spots left the back of his hands, and his hair returned full and dark, once again Emer-like. Noticing Nevele had been watching, Höwerglaz winked. All she could do in return was stare.

  Once the current barrage of pirates had been dealt with, they regrouped.

  “How’re you doing?” she asked Clyde, taking his hand. It was cold. No answer came from his lips. She asked him again, and still he wouldn’t look at her but would only nod.

  It was empty in the square for the moment, quiet, even if around them the rest of Geyser was in anarchy. Smoke rose in dark columns, fires spreading like rashes up and down streets. Explosions that set their ears to ringing, constant gunfire here and there, far and close . . .

  Her mind raced. It felt unreal, this happening. Here. In Geyser. She couldn’t help but feel she may have somehow contributed to inviting home this awfulness. She doubted their efforts would do much. That doubt was an easy thing, coming on swift and settling hard in her heart. This wasn’t going to end well. How could it? Even if the Odium were stopped right now, Geyser was already lost. But they had to do something. They had to keep trying. Something might be shaken from the ash after. They could rebuild. But still, that thought: she hadn’t done enough to prevent this. Here it was. The end of Geyser, her home.

  Keeping low, using newspaper stands and peddler carts for cover, Aksel showed Nevele a radio Clyde had claimed from one of the pirates. From it poured manic barking, barely comprehensible.

  “Who is that?” Nevele said.

  “Dreck Javelin,” Aksel answered gravely.

  “What’s he going on about?” She gave up on deciphering the thick-accented ravings.

  Aksel listened, translating the butchered Common. “‘Thin them. I can’t come in any closer with this thing. Remember what I’m carrying here.’”

  “So that one ship that’s hanging back over the bay,” Clyde said, “is the one with Dreck in it, the one with the missile?”

  “Sounds like it,” Aksel said.

  A small group of beleaguered guardsmen ran into the square, pursuing pirates as they spooked them from alleyways and hiding spots. Another starship streaked overhead, gunning them down, killing guardsmen and their own men alike before moving on to rain destruction elsewhere.

  “This is horrible,” Clyde said.

  “It’s war. It’s always horrible.” Höwerglaz brought up a tattooed fist and yawned.

  Nevele nodded at the radio in Aksel’s hand. “Dreck doesn’t want us to focus on him. All these men he’s dropped off here are just a distraction.” She made a circular gesture—the town square was a panopticon and from there, up every street, the four of them could see all that was going on, none of it good. “It’s busywork.”

  They all readied weapons as a silvery shape blew past overhead. It sidled up to the roof of the library they’d seen Flam atop when they’d come in. From the roof a single masked figure leaped off and in. As soon as they were aboard, the expensive-looking starship turned and took off. Barely clear of the city’s platter, it engaged its FTL, a ghostly trace plunging into the distance. East. Adeshka, maybe.

  Clyde asked exactly what Nevele had been thinking. “That was my siblings, wasn’t it?”

  Gaze down, Aksel nodded. “Yeah.” He stood, grabbed his most recent firearm, a flimsy-looking scattergun. “But I’ll go out on a limb and say if they’re running away—it doesn’t bode well for us.”

  “Mr. Flam.” Rohm pointed a tiny pink finger.

  Clyde drew Flam’s attention with a broad wave.

  Nevele had wondered what was keeping the Mouflon from coming down sooner. She remembered briefly seeing two others up there with them—she hadn’t gotten a good look—but when he emerged, limping down the library steps, he was alone.

  “Did they leave?” Aksel asked as he joined them in cover.

  Clyde leaped at him and threw his arms around the big lug.

  The Mouflon clapped Clyde on the back, nearly smothering him in his arms. “Good to see you, too, Pasty.” And to Aksel: “Yeah, they’re gone. Well, one left of their own accord and the other . . . Listen, Pasty, when this is all over, I have a few tales you need to hear. It’s been quite the time in Geyser while you were away.”

  “Likewise everywhere else on this cursed rock,” Aksel put in, leaning out to peek up the street.

  “Aksel Browne, right?” Flam said to the Bullet Eater.

  Aksel swung round, sizing up the Mouflon. “We know each other?”

  “I bought some parts for my auto off you, few years back, in the cart market.” Flam indicated a corner of the town square, which was now piled with something on fire. “How is that skinny bloke of yours, anyway? Ricky, wasn’t it?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh,” Flam said, eyelids fluttering. “Okay, then. Sorry. So, um, what’s the plan?”

  “Stop them,” Aksel said. From the moment this Ricky person had been mentioned, Nevele noticed how Aksel’s face became creased—his brow crumpling down around his eye patch. He stared off for a moment, two, then drew a deep breath and shook his head, and only then spoke again, noticing everyone was staring his way. “Sufficient?”

  “Works for me,” Flam said. “Who’s this?”

  Höwerglaz stuck out his tattooed hand. “Ernest.”

  They shook, but Flam’s face went through a series of shifts. “Ernest what?”

  “Höwerglaz.”

  “Ernest Höwerglaz? Father Time?”

  “Don’t break out the autograph book just yet,” Nevele cut in. “He’s only helping if we keep things interesting for him.”

  Höwerglaz shrugged.

  “Well, long as he’s not shooting at us,” Flam said, “I like him.”

  “Fantastic,” Aksel said. “Now that we all know each other, let’s move.” He stepped out onto Armand Avenue where it split off from the square. The rest followed. Nevele scuttled up to Aksel in the nearest patch of temporary shelter, a shattered bus station.

  “Hold up,” she said. “Mind sharing your plan with the rest of us?”

  The one-eyed man was about to move on down the next street, ignoring her, when she caught him by the arm.

  “My plan is to go to the southern edge of town and shoot at Dreck, the man angling to blow up your city. Anyone with better ideas, I’ll be all ears.”

  Since no one had any alternatives, Nevele gave him a permissive wave. “Fine. Lead on.”

  Even before turning the next corner, Nevele could smell blood. The street ahead was like a butcher’s floor. Pirates, townsfolk, and guardsmen, none moving. Spent shell casings and whatever implements the townspeople had tried to defend their homes with: pitchforks, sharpened broom handles, croquet mallets.

  “Heavens,” Rohm murmured.

  A solitary Lulomba came into view, perched high on a building. The pale naked man with his hair hangi
ng in his face inclined his head, tracking an Odium ship. He pointed, and a flurry of Blatta took to the air, diving headlong at the ship. The dog-sized bugs banged carapaces against the ship, voluntarily squeezing themselves into the air intake scoops. Engine suffocated, the starship went dead, crashed to the street, skidded for a block, and ended its slide with a fiery blast. After, a man scurried off, bounding across rooftops on all fours. The remaining Blatta troops scuttled behind him, awaiting orders.

  “Y’all see that?” Höwerglaz said. “Such dedication. And all that without sight!”

  “Yeah . . .” Aksel remarked. “Real interesting.”

  It grew impossibly quiet on the street, where dreadfulness had dragged its hand through. As much as it made Nevele’s guts ache to do it, she plucked a machine gun from a dead pirate’s hands. Its grips were still warm, but it had a nearly full clip.

  “We keep moving,” Aksel said, “get him within range of our meager artillery.” He raised a finger. “Try for just below the nose of the ship. That’s where the aiming systems will be for the missile. After that—”

  An Odium ship circled around the square and, on its second pass, dropped open its bomb bay doors. Instead of a rain of explosions, a fine mist dribbled out, coating everything as they raced up the street.

  One of Geyser’s familiar sea breezes pushed the smell, and Nevele realized what it was. “We need to move.” She shot to her feet, grabbing Clyde and Aksel. “They’re going to—”

  The starship tipped itself back. The engines’ glowing heat coils touched the stream. Ignition was immediate, rushing along the long trail the ship had slathered onto the street. A wall of heat pushed behind them as they ran up the remainder of Armand Avenue, passing through the empty intersection of Second Circle, then Third.

  When Nevele dared a glance over her shoulder—the ship was dragging a long flaming serpent, keeping it sated by pouring more green syrup down its throat as it chased.

  She could feel the heat on the backs of her legs and arms. On her neck, through her clothes—that first tingle preceding a bad burn.

  They dodged through the strewn rubble of Smith’s Grocer.

  “Here,” Aksel shouted, ducking into a bicycle repair shop. Nevele and the rest followed, nearly bottlenecking themselves in the doorway. She shoved Höwerglaz and Flam ahead, then Clyde, and moved inside just as the flames were a mere yard away—and roaring closer.

  She pushed the door just as the reaching fingers of flame came crackling and pouring through the gap, trying to fling the door back open as they pushed against it. As one, they shoved and shoved until it finally slammed shut.

  Aksel’s hair was crispy. Clyde had to slap flames out of a sleeve. Flam’s surcoat bore black smudges. They’d all been singed, but it was a far better than what could’ve happened.

  The worst of the long tail of fire dragged by, making every window in the place rattle and even some of the bicycles on display click as the wheels were bumped into motion.

  The starship, even though they couldn’t see it, passed back and forth in front of where they’d gone, spraying down more and more fuel, probably dousing the roof of the building as well. They couldn’t stay in here long. Already the air was growing hazy.

  “I think we can pass through the alley, Ms. Nevele,” Rohm said, “get to Fourth Circle by moving along Grass Street, then Ossa Drive.”

  Nevele nodded. Rohm knew Geyser’s layout better than anyone.

  Without further discussion, they moved to the back door, peeked to confirm it was safe, and pressed on. They zigzagged between the buildings, as the alleyway’s wonky course demanded, and came out onto Grass Street. It was the agricultural ward, where seed sellers and flower shops and miller sheds lined the street.

  The smell of burnt bread filled Nevele’s nose. Elevated wheat platforms towered next to them, now with only blackened stalks in the wooden field derricks’ burnt soil. The windmill’s rice paper blades, alive with fire, turned, squeaking sorrowfully.

  Flam’s radio came to life.

  “Where ye be, lad?”

  Aksel stopped in his tracks. “Who is that?”

  Before he could answer, Flam’s finger paused over the radio’s talk button. “Our friend.”

  “Yes, but who? What’s his name?”

  “Nigel.”

  “Nigel Wigglesby?”

  “Yeah, why? You know him?”

  Nevele recalled Aksel mentioning he’d been a serviceman for Adeshka’s Fifty-Eighth militia. And that he’d made a bad call at some point. Nigel was in a wheelchair. Perhaps that’s what had landed him in it.

  Aksel cleared his throat, his blue eye flicking erratically. “Did, yeah. Just . . . answer the man, would you? Bloke’s” —he flopped a hand around—“clearly worried.”

  Flam, snout wrinkled with confusion, looked to Nevele.

  She shrugged.

  He clicked a button. “Flam here. We’re okay. On Grass Street, south end. How’re you holding up?”

  Aksel strode off a ways, then stopped to press a hand to the brick side of a building, leaning into it.

  Clyde approached him.

  Nevele couldn’t hear what was being said except for Aksel barking at him, “I said I’m fine.”

  Clyde drifted back to the group, shrugging.

  Aksel remained where he was, folding and unfolding his arms, shaking his head a lot.

  Höwerglaz said, “What climbed up his ass?”

  “. . . about as well I as I can,” Nigel was saying. “Any sign of your uncle anywhere?”

  “Sorry, no,” Flam said. “Where are you?” He scanned the skies. Nothing resembling Nigel’s craft passed by.

  “Under the platter, hanging back for a minute to finish up some field repairs.”

  “Mind giving us some cover here in a minute? We’re moving south, and it’s pretty open.”

  “Certainly. Back your way shortly.” Before Nigel cut off, a quick chitter of Lulomba-speak snuck through.

  When Nevele asked why it sounded like Nigel had the Lulomba with him in his ship, Flam explained, rolling his eyes whenever the word pilgrimage came up.

  She nodded, mostly understanding.

  “Might be a tick,” Nigel called out after a second. Starship fire sounded. “Rotters found us.”

  Preceded by streaking tracer rounds, Nigel’s starship pushed over the city’s platter. The overworked engines screeched, leaving a long black trail.

  “Madman,” Aksel breathed.

  Behind Nigel’s rickety moon hopper, chasing closely, were two Odium ships that weren’t in much better condition. Some clever twisting and banking kept most of the fire from finding its mark. Nigel executed a textbook loop-the-loop, dropped behind the two Odium ships, and shot down both into the Margin. As he tore overhead again, he gave a thumbs-up out the window—but it was clear the old miner was a bit rattled.

  “I’ll scout ahead,” came from Flam’s radio. “Full speed ahead, team!”

  Together they moved onto Wilkshire Lane.

  CHAPTER 22

  Whispers

  Through the cockpit glass, Gorett could see much of the residential ward was in ruins. Beyond it, into central Geyser, were so many columns of dark smoke. His heart was breaking.

  Below, some guardsmen fired from a broken window, each bullet smacked away by the Magic Carpet’s Tesla shields. Dreck grumped over his shoulder, “Blow that building. I want to be on our way home before the hour.”

  “Aye, sir,” a pirate replied.

  A moment later, the building buckled, bricks flying and spinning away with one well-placed mortar round. It held; then half of the building slipped and tumbled off the side of the platter, into the bay.

  “Done, sir.”

  Why, do you suppose, is Dreck always so quick to remove the worms his men pick up? Contrary to the old wives’ tales about how I soak away calcium, I don’t. Nothing to the point of harm. I lay eggs, yes, but it’s so my nesting dolls—my children inside my children, them and you respecti
vely—can make more, spread enlightenment. We’re no threat to your well-being whatsoever. So why do you think he butchers his men?

  I don’t know, Gorett thought in reply, assuming he was about to find out.

  He fears growth. Any man who develops a mind of his own is a man who cannot be led. Happens enough times, Dreck, neck-deep in thinking men, will lose his hold.

  Is that what you do: help the infected think?

  I am a teacher, yes.

  Who are you?

  Perhaps it’s still there. Look under your seat.

  What?

  Under your seat, Pitka.

  Gorett bent forward, pushing a hand under. Amid the foam and cold metal springs, his fingers brushed an intricately folded piece of paper. Keeping it low between his knees so Dreck wouldn’t see, he opened it. Within was a crayon drawing of a man and a woman in pilot attire: goggles and flight suits. Between them, a shorter figure with crazy red coils for hair. Mommy, Daddy, and Nimbelle, it read in a child’s handwriting—still crooked despite how carefully scrawled the crayon appeared to have been wielded.

  How did you know this was here? Things aligned. This isn’t about saving Geyser. This is revenge, isn’t it? You were using me. You’re using the worm to—

  Yes. But don’t sound so hurt. Reverse psychology isn’t new.

  What?

  Pushing you to stop Dreck—I knew full well it’d only harden your inaction. Just let your true nature take over, allow cowardice to speed bump you. You bleed weakness. But rest assured, as flimsy as your will is now, with my help, you won’t have to be forever.

  She must’ve heard him thinking.

  You will do nothing to stop them. Dreck getting the wendal stone deposit and Ernest Höwerglaz is all part of the plan. My plan within Dreck’s plan. Hidden as I am within you. Soon, we’ll be even closer—fused together, king and queen, as one.

  No. I will save Geyser.

  You will do no such thing. Do you hear me? You will mind your mother.