Somehow Kite didn't believe they would.
The Weatheren forced him into the Vorticity's corridors; a pitiless labyrinth of brushed metal and watery strip lights. Distracted crewmen lashed him with cruel, unforgiving glances. Kite wondered if he was the first Askian they'd seen. More likely rumour of the Murkers' aborted attack had filtered down the ranks. Even if by some miracle he could escape the Weatheren he'd never last a minute with these lot waiting to butcher him.
Soon the Weatheren halted him at an assuming door. One of many in a narrow corridor thick with blue-uniformed officers. The Weatheren soldier hammered twice on the metal door, waited for a few seconds then grabbed the handle.
“Move,” he said, giving Kite a painful shove.
Kite found himself in an sterile office. There was a neat desk with a floating screen and a metal cabinet of labelled drawers beside it. Save for a single, gold-stitched eye embroidered on a crimson banner hanging from one walls he couldn't see any evidence of the person who worked here. Except for the familiar scent of sweet almonds.
And the Umbrella Man...
Kite stopped.
The automechanical was bent silently at the knees, his long arms nearly resting on the tiles. His black coat and high-hat had been removed. His mask had been peeled away, the chrome metal skull hinged open like a music box to reveal a cobweb of circuitry.
A small, white-haired man in a natty silk waistcoat and gold monocle had stopped his work, staring at Kite agog. He had a kind, wise face with a rosy cheeks and beard trimmed to a point. On the table beside him was a black velvet-lined case with neatly arranged craftsman's tools. In another, larger case Kite spied replacement body parts; eyeballs, teeth and hands.
“Please continue, Mr.Rhymer,” said the Corrector.
The man, Rhymer, nodded politely and returned to his work repairing the Umbrella Man.
The Corrector hobbled to her desk, leaning on a silver cane for support. Kite'd barely given her a thought since that day on the Lethe. He'd assumed the Watchers had killed her but instead they’d left her battered and bruised. The leg. A swollen black eye. A hatch of stitches across her jawline. Yet she was still smiling. Somehow Kite didn't think that smile would last long.
The Corrector gingerly lowered herself into her chair. When settled she placed a metal security box, the size of a brick, on the desk near the floating screen.
“Well, here we are again, Kite Nayward,” the Corrector said, folding her gloved hands in a deliberate manner. No doubt reminding him that, even temporarily crippled, she was far from harmless. “We are both survivors, are we not?”
Kite met her cold gaze. He tried not to look afraid of her. “W-what have you done with Fleer?” he asked.
“Is that what Valkyrie calls herself?” the Corrector said. “Askian's have such pretty names.”
Kite swore silently. Already he was volunteering information. He had to smarter than this if he wanted to get them both out of this alive.
“I often wondered what kind of person Valkyrie was,” the Corrector said. “The one who murdered nine of my men in Dusthaven. I was quite surprised I can tell you. Barely a woman. Captain Shelvocke really is a thoroughbred coward.”
Kite begrudgingly had to agree with her on that.
“And yet, for someone who has surrendered willingly, Fleer is being remarkably tight-lipped,” said the Corrector. “She refuses to tell us anything about Shelvocke's plans. Even with encouragement from the interrogators.”
Kite didn't doubt Fleer's defiance a second. She would die before she betrayed Shelvocke. And that was what he feared the most. “She was just following orders,” he said.
“Willingly or otherwise we all follow orders,” the Corrector said, dismissively. “And we all have our masters.”
A sharp click nearly wrenched Kite out of his skin. But it was just Rhymer, replacing the Umbrella Man's skull cap.
“I'm hoping you will be more co-operative,” the Corrector said. “Perhaps we can help each other.”
Kite scowled at her. “Help you? You killed Ersa.”
The Corrector frowned. “As I recall Ersa Nayward was trying to stab me in the neck with a pair of rusty scissors,” she said. “And, technically, it was Beaufort, and he was just doing his duty. He can't help it. He's programmed that way. But this is irrelevant.”
Kite set his jaw, grinding his teeth until they ached.
“I may be able to grant you both leniency,” the Corrector said, her tone softening a little just as it had done that day in Dusthaven. “You are technically children after all. If you are willing to answer a few simple questions that is.”
The words slipped from the Corrector's thin lips. Kite knew he couldn't trust a word she uttered. Leniency? Both of them were condemned already. They were Murkers, the Enemy of the Foundation. More than that they were Askian. Everything about the two of them made their survival impossible.
But what if he could earn Fleer some mercy? Even a drop to spare her suffering...
“What questions?” he said.
“Let me begin with your friend, Dice Clay, he - ”
Kite hadn't expected to hear that name again. “Clay's not my friend,” he said.
The Corrector nodded. “Maybe that's just as well. He told me all about the Clockwork Jinny. How you found it in the wreck of the Monitor. Of-course I was looking for something else entirely, which is why I missed it in Dusthaven,” she said, frowning as if that little oversight had cost her dear. “But that hardly matters now. Did it tell you about the Observatory?”
Kite didn't see a reason or risk in denying it.
“And what else did you learn from it?” the Corrector asked, but when he didn't reply she added, “hurry now, the interrogators are very efficient. I should know. I hand-picked them.”
Fury bubbled in Kite's veins. Fists clamped together he shuffled closer to her desk, close at he dared. “I know about the Cloud Room if that's what you mean,” he said.
The Corrector's lips parted. A look of quiet astonishment took hold. She glanced at the mysterious box on her desk. Then she glanced at Rhymer, but the curious little man appeared to be engrossed in affixing the Umbrella Man's immaculate new mask.
“Mr.Rhymer?” the Corrector called to him. “How is Beaufort?”
Rhymer removed the monocle and rubbed it with a handkerchief. “A few minor adjustments remain, Corrector,” Rhymer said, in a clear, educated voice. “To the voice recognition circuits mainly. Reassuringly there was no lasting damage done to his core processor.”
“That is indeed reassuring,” the Corrector said. “I hate to interrupt your good work. Would you leave us for a moment?”
Rhymer gave Kite a curious look, then nodded slowly. He slipped his fine frock coat from the back of a chair and silently left the room.
“What else do you know?” the Corrector said, when they were alone.
“That the Cloud Room's your big secret,” Kite said. “That you've been hunting for the mechanikin so Shelvocke and anybody else wouldn't find out where it's hidden.”
The Corrector didn't react this time. She stared at Kite from behind her desk, studying him. Scanning for signs of weakness and lies.
“And Captain Shelvocke knows the Cloud Room's location?” she said eventually.
Kite swallowed. Did he dare risk a deal? “L-let Fleer go first,” he said. “Then I'll tell you.”
The Corrector cocked her head slightly and tut-tutted. “You should not play games with the First Light Foundation, Kite Nayward,” she said. “These are games you cannot win.”
Kite turned away, feeling stupid and helpless. He'd always been easy to read, even Fleer said so once. He looked at the metal cuffs burning cold against his skin. Helpless, powerless, unable to run or fight. Unable to wriggle his way from this woman's powerful gaze. What could he do? While he was standing here Fleer's life was being whittled away. All because of him...
“I just want Fleer to live,” he mumbled.
Again the Correct
or watched him closely, puzzling over the secrets his eyes might reveal.
“Yes, I believe you do,” she said, reaching for the black box. She removed a small silver key from her uniform pocket and slipped into the lock and opened the lid. “I will give you one last chance, Kite Nayward. If you and Fleer are to have hope chance of survival, you will tell me everything you know about this.”
The Corrector dipped her gloved hand into the box to remove a polished, silver orb. Kite blinked, unable believe his own eyes. She was holding the mempod.
57
Any Machine With A Mind
At first Kite tried to convince himself he was looking at a copy, a clever duplicate. Yet, the mempod was identical in every way. Those same organic swirls. The Starmaker's signature craftsmanship. There was no doubt in his mind - it was Ember.
“Your dear Fleer had it hidden in her boot,” the Corrector said, holding it up. “I assume you didn't know?”
A hollow, wretched feeling chewed at Kite’s insides. What a fool he'd been. Even after throwing his life away to try and stop her, Fleer had tricked him.
“I take it the mempod was hidden inside the Clockwork Jinny,” the Corrector said. “What data does it contain?”
“Data?” Kite said.
“About the Cloud Room,” the Corrector said, growing impatient. “I had one of my scientists analyse it. It appears to be corrupted. Shelvocke must have found out something from it to risk venturing into Skyzarke.”
Slowly it dawned on Kite that the Corrector had no idea of how dangerous Ember was. “Don't you know why the Monitor crashed in the Thirsty Sea?” he asked.
The Corrector looked uncertain. “The exact cause has proved hard to determine,” she said. “We suspect the Murkers played their part in bringing it down.”
“Wrong,” Kite said. “I was there. I watched it happen. Your scientists dug Ember out of a tunnel but they -“
“Ember…you mean the Starmaker’s daughter?” the Corrector said, leaning forward. “You mean he created a facsimile of her inside this?”
Kite was surprised the Corrector had deducted this much already. “She brought the Monitor down, not the Murkers,” he told her. “She has a rhyme that destroys machines. She almost sank the Phosphene.”
“A rhyme?” the Corrector said.
“The Forecaster's Fable,” Kite said.
For a short time the Corrector stared at the harmless little orb. Then, slowly, her lips thinned into a secretive smile and her eyes marvelled. Kite had seen that look before; it'd possessed Shelvocke the moment he'd first grasped Ember's power.
“Thank you, Kite Nayward,” the Corrector said, breathlessly. “I believe you have just given me the answer I have been seeking. You have no idea how long I have waited for - ”
Kite staggered sideways, the office lurching around him. Papers slid from the Corrector's desk and her cane clattered on the floor. Through the thin rubber soles he could feel the ascender's colossal Maelstrom engines hammering with chaotic acceleration.
A cold cloud of fear engulfing him, Kite waited for the words of the Forecaster's Fable. The words that would send this behemoth of the skies crashing to earth. But then his bones grew heavy and his temples tightened like knotted cords. They were ascending. And that's when it finally struck him. Ember wasn't going to sink the Vorticity. She was going to use it.
“Speed 40 knots, altitude 40,000 feet and rising,” the Corrector said, reading the screen as it flashed up warnings. Then she cupped mempod in her hands like a rare flower. “She's taking us to the Cloud Room.”
There was no hint of alarm in the Corrector's voice. Kite couldn't understand it. Why wasn’t she raising the alarm? Why wasn’t she warning Fairweather?
Just then Kite sensed movement out of the corner of his eye. The Umbrella Man's spine had straightened. Slowly his head twisted, scanning the office. Then he began to rise, cold cables twanging inside his metal limbs. It had to be Ember. Kite could imagine her running rampant in the Umbrella Man’s binary mind. Knitting his brain into new thought patterns, splicing together new commands.
After all Ember needed a new body.
“Beaufort?” the Corrector said, standing awkwardly. The wonder had gone from her eyes, replaced by growing alarm. “What...what are you doing?”
Drunkenly, rocking on his big boots, the Umbrella Man staggered and lurched and slowly began to advance on the Corrector.
58
The Arrival
“Beaufort, halt!” the Corrector said, stumbling backward against the cabinets. She held up a desperate, shaking hand. “Halt I said. Beaufort, no don't -”
The Umbrella Man's giant hand closed around the Corrector's throat. He lifted her and shook her like a doll. The mempod jumped from her grasp and clattered on the tiles. Seeing the Corrector rendered powerless and afraid, satisfied some dark streak in Kite. Why shouldn't the woman suffer for all she had done?
The Corrector's metal nails slashed at the Umbrella Man's sleeve. She kicked and clawed, but there was no escaping the automechanical's crushing grasp. Soon she was gurgling for each precious breath, eyes rolling in their sockets. Seconds of life left.
Kite frowned. “Ember, let her go,” he said, realising if Corrector died he'd never find out where Fleer was being held.
The Umbrella Man twisted his head, wheezing in confusion.
“Leave her,” said Kite. “She's not worth it.”
Metal fingers snapped open. The Corrector crumpled into a gasping, shuddering heap. She crawled away, finding a corner to huddle in, clutching her red-raw throat.
“Where's Fleer?” Kite demanded, pushing by the Umbrella Man.
The Corrector croaked incoherently, sucking in lungful breaths.
“Tell me!” Kite said.
The door to the Corrector’s office clattered open. Soldiers piled in, three of them at least. A Sergeant amongst them blurted out, “Corrector, the Admiral sent us to -”
A stunned, horrified pause.
Then the men went for their weapons and Kite knew what would happen next. The Umbrella Man grunted and swung about, smashing aside the table and chair. Like a five-ton fist the Umbrella Man came down on the soldiers. He smashed in their heads. He snapped their arms. He stamped on them like toy soldiers broken in a moment's rage.
Kite wanted to throw up. Hot blood and metal stained the air. The Umbrella Man stood blood-speckled and motionless in the grim aftermath. Was Ember silently puzzling over what she had done? Did she even care?
Then Kite spotted the horrified face of an officer in the doorway. He staggered away from the scene, hollering for reinforcements. More soldiers would come now. More men would die. Somehow Kite had to get Ember away from here before she could kill them all.
Out of the corner of his eye Kite spied movement at his feet. The mute Corrector, grasping for the mempod. Messily Kite kicked it from her fingertips.
“The Cloud Room, Ember,” he shouted, snatching it up. “We go together, just like we promised.”
The Umbrella Man lurched back to life, taking a moment to retrieve his high-hat and umbrella. Kite wondered if some dormant sense of programmed Weatheren decency remained, stopping him from leaving a room incorrectly attired.
Going first Kite edged out into the corridor. The Ember-controlled Umbrella Man followed him in long unsteady strides. Kite might have laughed at the absurdity of it had he not had to step over the butchered bodies on the way.
“Arms!”
A knot of soldiers were shuffling down the corridor toward the Corrector's office, taking aim and spitting warnings. Fwumph! The umbrella opened into a wall of black armour. Kite ducked behind it, instinctively covering his head. Low-voltage bolts smacked harmlessly against its shell, spraying hiss-hot sparks in all directions.
Shielded him the Umbrella Man ushered Kite across the way and into an empty stairwell. A silver door beckoned at the top. Kite scrambled up the steps only to find the door locked with a keypad, the white buttons labelled with meaningless
symbols. Kite couldn't read them. He panicked, but the Umbrella Man pushed himself and stood, staring meaningfully at the keypad.
With a click the door unlocked itself.
Kite dashed through, finding himself in a cold passageway. The Umbrella Man dipped his head to squeeze through after him and the door locked itself again, sealing them both inside.
For a moment at least it seemed safe. Storage rooms and racks of boxed-up equipment stretched in either direction. There was no sign of the soldiers. But Kite knew that would all change soon enough. The distant flutter of alarms told him the whole airmachine was on high alert now.
“Can you get these off, Ember?” Kite said, holding up his handcuffed wrists.
The Umbrella Man's black lens eyes focussing with busy zhip-zhip noises. Then he made a clumsy grab for Kite's wrist with a hand big enough to crush his bones.
“Watch it!” Kite said, wrenching his hands away. “I don't want to end up like those soldiers.”
The Umbrella Man stamped his boot. Kite didn't know where the Umbrella Man ended and Ember began, but the combination of the two frightened him no end. Then, with surprising precision, the Umbrella Man nimbly pinched the handcuffs between a giant finger and thumb and snapped them apart.
“I know it's tempting, Ember,” Kite said, rubbing his wrists. “But try not to kill any more Weatherens.”
A hollow snort. Kite hoped that meant 'yes'.
“Fleer's here somewhere, Ember,” he said. “She's hurt. She needs our help. Do you think you can find her?”
But the Umbrella Man had fallen silent. His great head was craned back, listening to something Kite had only just begun to hear - the shape of an ominous new sound. A clamour of industrial noise, rising to smother the alarms. Pistons and propellers and mechanical things in motion. The drumbeat of a structure so extraordinary large and immensely powerful that it seemed to be swallowing the Vorticity whole.
59
No Way Back
The Vorticity had arrived. Docking. Mooring. Coming into port. Whatever it was ascenders did when they stopped ascending. And much like Kite's own disastrous attempt at landing it was noisy and violent: a great shuddering and grinding of metal on metal and sovereign clangs like teeth chomping into her hull.
The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1) Page 23