by Andrew Post
Looking back from where they’d run, Clyde could see through the crystalline covering of the tunnel as the figure stood watching from afar. Clyde held Commencement in two hands. He was not yet willing to think they were safe from it. He could almost feel its eyes on him, in him. He imagined it dropping out into the sunshine that allegedly pained it, willing to cope if it meant finally reaching them.
The pirates continued to close the circle, droning, tripping in the deep snow, swelling from their mouths papillae-like fingers, the worms ready for new hosts . . .
From Flam’s radio: “Get down!”
Sweeping overhead, Nigel swung low, raking gunfire through the plagued—downing them ten at a pass. Nevele pulled Clyde aside as another line of erupting snow passed, scattering the encroaching pirates into black mist.
The moment a line was broken in the circle, Dreck stole through, bolting across the sparkling snow. From its dark perch, Nimbelle/Gorett let out a screech, tracing the pirate captain’s escape, reaching but unable to chase—held where it was by the sunlight. Apparently deciding the fight was over, it began breaking down from the edges, the darkness collecting in its middle. It lowered its hands, the staring gray rictus fading. The tight black sphere it became shrank and shrank until it was a pinprick, then nothing. A soundless pop signaled its departure.
Nigel hammered down gunfire. When the next sweep passed, Clyde ran after Dreck, feet and hands numb, his throat raw from the cold. The suns’ rays bounced off the ice and made it almost impossible to see. Most likely, Dreck had run this direction for this very advantage.
Fighting to get even one breath in without choking on it, Clyde chased on, only able to discern the vague shapes of his friends as they leaped over the ring of corpses of the collapsed pirates. Dreck was leading them into the piles of snow-buried junk heaps, small metal mountains dotting the base’s backyard. He dodged past tanklike earth-moving equipment, bounding through the piles of junk and stolen goods only he knew the best way through and across. It was clear he had home field advantage here. They were unquestionably on his turf.
Nevele fired out her threads after him, hoping to catch him around the ankle. The first shot slapped the scattergun from Dreck’s hand, sending it spiraling into a mound of junk out of reach.
Dreck was ready for it, and he moved aside to let the barreling multicolored column of cotton, leather, and wool stream past him.
Nevele’s barrage collided with the arm of a power shovel and knocked it away. The small mountain of jewelry it was keeping chocked up crumbled.
Clyde dashed past before it could avalanche over him. So did Nevele, but Flam was caught by the glinting, golden flow, buried under a billion spots’ worth of pilfered pretties—probably how most treasure hunters wanted to leave this world, but Clyde raced back to help him.
Nevele was already flinging aside handfuls of the flashing jewelry and heirlooms to get at the Mouflon below. “Just go,” she shouted to Clyde. “I’ll get Flam. Stop Dreck before he can get away.”
He didn’t want to leave his friends behind. He sheathed Commencement to aid Nevele, discerning by the Mouflon’s grunts where he was under the bauble heap.
Nevele took his wrist. “Clyde. Get Dreck.”
CHAPTER 28
Showdown under Ceaseless Suns
Clyde had to take two strides for every one of the large man’s. He followed the dotted line of deep footsteps in the snow, having to cup his hand against the suns to see where they led. Finding the trail again, he carried on, weaving between the heaps of rusty refuse, trash, an entire pile of nothing but not-yet-cracked safes.
Ahead, in the shadow of one of the larger piles of pilfered things, something slowly accumulated substance in a puff of dark that swirled and grew into a human figure. Clyde brought Commencement up.
“Killing David Joplin,” it rumbled, coalescing complete, “would be doing me a favor, I’ll admit, but it’d also cause you problems, Pyne. My revenge outweighs yours.” It coughed, its edges going spiky for a moment, then softening again. “We haven’t much to offer, except for you and yours to be spared, overlooked when the time comes.”
“What are you talking about?”
With a bony hand, it made a noncommittal sweep traced by an arch of black steam. “What Dreck’s men became—more of that. We can turn a blind eye to you, spare your friends and family from servitude, if you agree to a different role.”
“What? Willingly become one of those things?”
“No,” it said. Was that a smile? “Not that. Sully those fair features of yours? Banish the thought. No, keep David alive for us, keep him prisoner here long enough that we can dispatch someone to collect him. Consider your reimbursement no servitude—being overlooked during the coming blight.”
“If any of Gorett is in there with you,” Clyde said, “I’d never side with you. Nor will I allow Dreck to escape now that we’ve finally cornered him.”
What am I going to do now? He didn’t know, but allowing anyone Gorett had sided with to win didn’t interest him. How many times was he going to change sides? How long could he run? Where would he go next when this new pact inevitably failed too?
The entity stared, its fleshless face betraying nothing. “Fine,” it said at last, “Kill the pirate, but consider the offer rescinded. He was ours, and you, in taking his life, will simply replace him. You’ll be swept in with every other one on Gleese. But remember, Pyne, when it takes you and everyone around you, we offered a pass.”
It curled up on itself, folding into a black dot, and disappeared.
Clyde lowered his sword, staring at the now-unoccupied space. Had he just made a terrible mistake? Could Gorett and whoever was copiloting that monster really do what it’d done to the pirates elsewhere, to others?
“Maybe we should’ve listened to her,” Rohm said, muffled within Clyde’s pocket.
“Maybe,” Clyde said after a couple of false starts. His teeth chattered. Tucking his chin into the collar of his jacket and bringing up his hood, they pushed on deeper into the rows of tall loot mounds.
They’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Shielding his eyes again, he continued searching for Dreck—or David Joplin, his real name, supposedly.
Snow fell upon a clearing amongst the high loot piles, a meadow of undisturbed white.
Ahead was a shallow indentation in the ground, a round metal pit. It had a split up the middle, closed fast, striped in cautionary black and yellow. The door to the belowground hangar, Clyde assumed, walking its edge, keeping his eyes peeled for the slightest bit of motion. He scanned the surrounding piles, the crane towers, and their stretching rusty booms. No sign of Dreck anywhere. He’d lost the footprint trail. The pirate must’ve doubled back somewhere.
“See anything?” he asked Rohm.
“No.” His voice was small. He was freezing. They had to get this over with now and get back in, where it was warm. “I’m feeling very tired, Mr. Clyde. And I think that’s probably a sign of hypothermia setting in.”
“I know. I’m sorry . . . We need to find Dreck before he gets away, though.”
“I agree. I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. I’ll hold on for as long as I can.” Rohm’s small quivers in Clyde’s pocket, right over his chest, were slowing. No longer a constant quaking but an infrequent thrum, dulling with each pulse.
They pressed on.
The cold was making his knees creak like rusty hinges. He tried to catch his breath, but everything deeper than a slow, small inhale would make him cough raggedly. Commencement felt like it’d be permanently affixed to the palm of his hand. He turned around. Everything looked the same. He couldn’t even see the base anymore through the drifting curtains of continuous snowfall. He decided to follow the loot field’s edge and start making lefts to hook back around.
Upon reaching the far corner, Clyde came to a pile of swords. Varying types and sizes, mostly rusted to uselessness.
The heap rustled. Clyde raised his own steel, which was entirely unlike
any in the snow-dappled pile. From the other side, Dreck climbed to the top, frost in his beard that crackled away when he smiled. He turned a heavy device at hip level toward him, what looked like a portable cannon with a small sphere affixed to its end. The reflective orb slowly spun free of the cannon’s muzzle.
For a moment, neither man—the one above or the one below—said anything.
“Who is she?” Clyde shouted up. He hated having to pose anything but blows to the pirate, but he was afraid he wouldn’t learn any other way.
“Nimbelle? Her parents oh so generously gave me my first ship. All that you see around you is thanks to her folks’ contribution.”
“Who is she now? You called her—”
“Queen Disease. Made something of herself, it seems. Which, I guess I’m partly responsible for. No shortage of trying, certainly, plaguing my men like she’d been . . . of course, that was a lot less vile than the new breed she’s got now.” He paused. “Surely you’ve heard of her and all her . . . followers, zealots. No? Never heard of that outfit of hers, the Sign of the Wyrm? Or what their goal is?”
“No.”
“The bone worms are wyrms, as in dragons. Not as romantic as springing out from volcanoes like in the stories, no, but from an equally fiery place—men. And with each mutation the worms go through, each host they take and then spread to the next, they’re one step closer to that of their ancestors—before the Great Snuffing, of course. And maybe I knew Gorett still had a worm in him when I had Höwerglaz do what he did. Maybe I wanted to see if she could succeed. Shite, I barely know what I’m after half the time.” He paused to grin. “But I’m going to assume by the look on your face that all this about worms, wyrms, and dragons is news to you.”
“Yes.”
The pirate shrugged. “Damn shame you won’t get to see any of it, should it happen.” Dreck fired the ball, sending it darting toward Clyde, making a harmless pop as it was sent flying.
Jumping aside, Clyde watched as it bounced across the landscape behind him, hitting the snow once and bounding high. In the middle of its arc, it suddenly struck still in the air as if it’d hit an invisible wall of glue.
A low hum—and a portion of the sword pile leaped away from under Dreck’s feet in a dizzying, clattering sweep. The mass raucously collected around the ball, armoring it in a dense, bristling coating—thicker and thicker.
With one pull on the cannon, the bristling boulder began rolling—following the dragging gesture orders of its commander, jangling as it raced toward Clyde over the frosty ground, leaving a gouged trail in its wake.
Dodging free of its trajectory, Clyde felt he hadn’t been fast enough when the enormous wad of forsaken weaponry scraped along his side, a dozen blades dragging dull edges across his flank, arm, and waist. Hissing at the pain, Clyde flung himself away before the sword sphere could roll over him on its next pass.
It rumbled off, bounced with a clang when it hit the rim of the hangar door, stopped in its terrible trek, and began rolling back. Gaining momentum with terrifying speed, it tossed sparks as it ricocheted off metallic debris, pinballing among the loot piles.
Feinting to the left, then the right, Clyde dove aside, and felt the ground shake as it trundled past.
While it raced off to a safe distance, Clyde stole the moment to pick up a sword from the fringe of the pile, craned back, and flung it up toward Dreck. The rusty short sword floppily flew, and Dreck only had a second to react. He brought the cannon up in front of his face, and the sword bounced off with a clang. The sword boulder crumbled, the fist-sized ball inside shedding its dense, rotten-metal skin.
Charging down the heap, kicking blades out ahead of him, Dreck leaped the last few yards, bringing down a sword retrieved from the pile.
Commencement up, the blades connected, crashing.
Dreck, a head taller than Clyde, continued to press down with his own blade, pushing Clyde to his knees. Over the nicked blade, Dreck snarled, weighing himself behind his. Clyde pulled Commencement, the blades sparked apart, and he rolled aside.
Dreck charged in again at once, swinging a diagonal swipe. Clyde deflected, leaped back again, spun, and attempted a riposte. Blocking the jab, Dreck quickly replied with a swing of his own.
The blades met.
Both men pushed away, scrambled back, and circled one another, breathing hard, drawing a ring of footprints in the muddy frost, passes eclipsing each other.
“You kill me, you’ll lose an ally,” Dreck said between foggy puffs of haggard breath. “I’m the only one who can help you find her. You want to spare everyone on this rock from becoming like my boys, it’d be wise to keep me around.”
Clyde moved in, feigned high and came in low for a swipe at Dreck’s middle.
The pirate jumped back and deflected by adding a smack behind Commencement’s momentum—nearly throwing the blade out of Clyde’s numb hands. Dreck allowed Clyde a small window to recover, continuing to circle him, sword low in one hand, body turned partly away: a fencer’s stance.
With his free hand, he worked the cold-pinked digits open and closed. When he thrust an open hand toward Clyde, he dodged, a portion of the junk heap behind him dissolving into portioned cubes.
Dreck attempted one throw of his fabrick again and again, Clyde narrowly moving aside each time—except for one, when his leg was winged by the Fractioner’s effect. He stumbled, the pain waking up his frozen limb, a shallow square divot stolen from his calf. Blood dribbled, leaving rubies in the snow and ice—but he continued to circle, trying to coax the pain away so he could move in for a plunging attack. He charged, throwing Commencement’s blade in high, angling for Dreck’s throat.
The pirate swatted the attack away with his free hand and brought his own blade down, dragging it the length of Clyde’s back. Agony. But—without hesitation—Clyde turned, stabbing low.
Dreck deflected again. Clang. And again and again. Clang, clang.
A blade came down onto Dreck’s right, slicing into his bicep. The pirate yelped and wheeled away, swinging back at whoever had just dared to do that. It hadn’t been Clyde.
Not willing to let Dreck out of his sight for even a moment, Clyde glanced—and saw Greenspire emerging from behind the sword pile. The ancient Mouflon wielded a claymore in one hand as if it weighed nothing, his other bulky arm pulling a swaddled bundle tight to his chest. Head tipped, he tracked Dreck by his crunchy footfalls and exhausted breathing.
Dreck was equally bewildered. “Where the hell did you come from?”
Stealing the chance, Clyde issued a backhanded swing. This time he connected, catching Dreck across the chest. The blade cut open his coat, the long slit spilling bloodied clots of goose down. Dreck hissed but still managed to move when Greenspire brought down a high, powerful swing.
Dreck deflected the strike, but the force of impact knocked him back, breaking his stance.
Stealing this opening as well, Clyde plunged Commencement forward, Dreck narrowly dodging with a sideways hop.
Together Clyde and Greenspire, with the swaddled hybrid infant clutched to his chest, continued to push Dreck back. They kept the pirate busy deflecting right, left, left, right, left, a rapid, broken beat of steel on steel, skidding apart, meeting again.
The crusher of men, with compound eyes, humanlike features intermingled with pincers and a platelike organic armor, could be seen when the infant’s swaddling fell away as his elder charged at Dreck. It seemed wholly indifferent to the fight, possibly even asleep.
“He will mend the whole of Gleese, even if you kill me,” Greenspire said, nodding horns at the infant in his arm. “Your blood will fuel the start of this planet’s recovery.”
“Ha, a horrid little bug baby drink my blood? I think not!” Dreck swung, and when an opportunity arose, he planted a boot into Greenspire’s middle, shoving him back.
Clyde saw it coming as Dreck drew his hand in close to his side—and then thrust it forward—but he could do nothing to stop it.
Th
e pirate’s fabrick tore into the old Mouflon, barreling into his broad, furry abdomen. At once, Greenspire’s belly was broken down into cubes, deeper and deeper. Clyde could see the other side of him as soon as the hole broke him down from front to back. Greenspire let out not a sound, a shout, nothing—merely dropped to the snow, the crusher of men tumbling from his hands, rolling away.
Dreck barreled forward, his sights on the squirming, now bawling infant, his sword high.
Clyde rushed, met him, putting himself between them. He came in swinging low, catching Dreck across the knee with a panicking swipe. He could feel the gritty scratch in the handle as his blade dragged bone. Dreck shouted out; the sword he’d intended to chop the child to pieces with fell as he dropped to all fours.
Clyde readied Commencement—and himself—to bring the blade down on the back of Dreck’s waiting, exposed neck. Act, he heard in his mind, considering it, even if it was advice from a man as deceitful as Höwerglaz. I have to do this . . .
But even if he was ready, he hesitated and it was long enough. Bolting up with a backhanded swing of a fist, Dreck caught Clyde across the jaw. Losing Commencement, the emerald-green blade sinking into the snow, Clyde fell in beside it on his back, tasting blood.
Dreck fell atop him, pinning his knees into Clyde’s shoulders. Blood and melted snow dripped onto Clyde’s face as Dreck squeezed his hands around his throat. Dreck’s lips peeled away as he stared down at Clyde, the pirate’s head backlit into shadow by the suns above. Framed in the glacier’s fissure, it looked like an eye with two pale irises. Watching, apathetic.
The darkness swallowing Dreck’s face spread as Clyde fought for breath, feeling the heat swell in his cheeks as the trapped blood battled to get back to his brain, hands slapping around uselessly at his sides.