Waybound

by Cam Baity

  Mr. Pynch’s heart valve churned. If the Marquis knocked on that pipe now, they’d be in a whole heap of trouble.

  “Mercy, no! I found such disarray when I arrived here. Mayhaps a jaislid laborer was attempting to access the roots of this sendrite tower and forgot to cover his exertions.”

  “That pile of fancy clothes yours?”

  Mr. Pynch chuckled. “No mehkie this side of the Shroud would be caught dead in apparel of the human varietal.”

  Baldy’s gaze lingered on Mr. Pynch’s garish green necktie. Then he spied an object sticking out of Mr. Pynch’s pocket—it was the furry thing the Marquis had stolen. Baldy’s eyes bulged.

  “Little thief!” he snarled, snatching the pilfered toupee and slapping it onto his gleaming bald head. The fuming man squinted at Mr. Pynch and snapped his fingers. “ID this one.”

  A glowing handheld scanner was shoved in Mr. Pynch’s face.

  Blip-blip-blip-blip…

  He watched Baldy’s hands move to the magnetic club at his belt—it was a Lodestar, just like the one Mr. Pynch had stolen from Micah, then lost in a lousy bet shortly after.

  Now Mr. Pynch was beginning to feel ill, like he had a viral case of rustgut. He could see no easy way out of this. Was the Covenant watching? Would they come to his rescue? Surely, he would be shot dead in his tracks if he tried to flee.

  And what about the Marquis?

  PING!

  “It’s one of the saboteurs!” Baldy growled.

  The guards drew their rifles. The yawning barrels pressed in so close that Mr. Pynch could smell how recently they had been fired. Fingers hovered over triggers.

  A low groan startled them, followed by an ear-shredding glissando. The electronic thrum faded along with the purple glow that had tinted the area. An eerie silence settled.

  The magnetic barricade of the Foundry compound was down.

  An emergency siren wailed.

  Mr. Pynch didn’t miss a beat. He inflated with a pop, his body expanding so fast that he launched a few feet into the air. The men were flung back, their rifles skittering away.

  Baldy scrambled for his Lodestar, but Mr. Pynch rolled end over end, flattening the bleeder. He deflated, snatched the magnetic club, and fired it. A purple bloom of force hurled the metal-armored men down the alley like stray fluff.

  Mr. Pynch was preparing for a second assault—“hit them when they’re down” was his default brawling philosophy—when he heard three muted knocks. He unscrewed the hatch on the sewer pipe and shielded his delicate nozzle.

  “Took yer sweet time down there, didn’t ya?”

  The slime-befouled bundle of naked tubing that was the Marquis emerged, none too pleased. He looked at the trio of groggy guards and blasted up a message.

  Blinkety-blankety-flashy-flick.

  “You most certainly did NOT save me!” blustered Mr. Pynch. “I was handling meself most adequately, thank you very much!”

  The Marquis scraped off handfuls of muck and got dressed.

  “Though yer obliteration of the Foundry’s security apparatus will surely satisfy the Covenant’s needs. You have me regards.”

  The Marquis tipped his top hat.

  “Shall we vamoose?”

  As they raced down the alley, a fireball erupted. Mr. Pynch and the Marquis glanced back over their shoulders to see a gang of Covenant warriors streaming from their hiding places, weapons drawn as they breached the Foundry compound’s vulnerable perimeter. Among them was the thiaphysi who had captured Mr. Pynch and the Marquis. She saluted them with a fist over her dynamo—their obligation was at an end.

  Black smoke curled into the sky above Sen Ta’rine and the Living City rang with a triumphant Rattletrap battle cry:

  “Blaze the Way!”

  Though it had only been a few days since the Citadel’s collapse, the Foundry’s relocation to the Depot was nearly complete. They had engaged the NET system, a glowing magnetic lattice suspended over the premises to deter aerial assaults. The watchtowers were overflowing with soldiers, and multibarreled Frag-cannons scanned the premises in agitated arcs.

  Security had never been tighter.

  Transloaders, hulking Tier-trucks, and Over-cranes clogged the arteries of the complex. All seventeen railways were occupied, yet more behemoth locomotives rolled in through the security gate, awaiting their assignation. The entire Depot teemed with personnel, with most of the commotion focused on trains idling by the tunnel to Albright City.

  The shipment to Trelaine was being assembled, Goodwin realized—without his involvement.

  He observed from an enormous plate-glass window in the circular conference room on the top floor of the Control Core. This impressive, cylindrical tower was the Depot’s high-rise heart of glass and steel. At the room’s center was a lengthy copper table inlaid with a golden image of the Crest of Dawn. Trapezoidal chandeliers hung overhead, and supple burgundy carpet spread underfoot. Workers laid cable, carried in plush furniture, and hung paintings on the walls.

  Goodwin sat in a chair opposite Chairman Obwilé and the four directors, whose faces were lit from beneath by Computator panels. Their attention was fixed on the voices coming through their earpieces—removable ones, Goodwin noticed irritably, still feeling an ache where his own earpiece had been implanted. Apparently, he was not important enough to be included in this conference between the directors and the Board.

  Once they were done, Obwilé and the others fixed Goodwin with indifferent stares. He took that as his cue to begin.

  “Good morning, and thank you for your time. Materials gathered from our raid reveal fifteen Covenant encampments scattered throughout Mehk. If we attack from the region marked here”—he pressed a button on his Scrollbar and the map appeared on their screens—“we can drive them to—”

  “Thank you, James,” cut in Obwilé, “but stick to the facts. My team doesn’t need your advice in these matters.”

  “Of course, but I urge you not to delay. They are scrambling to recover, so we are perfectly positioned to strike.”

  “You were summoned here to deliver a report. That is all.”

  There was a click in his earpiece. By their reactions, Goodwin could tell the rest of the directors heard it too.

  “There has been an attack on our compound in Sen Ta’rine.”

  “Nine Watchman units destroyed. Six injuries, two fatalities.”

  The directors exchanged glances.

  “Eighteen enemy mehkans killed, five escaped. Minor damage to our facility. We have a team in pursuit.”

  “Is the threat ongoing?” inquired Director Santini, a jowly man with a haughty air and a black, manicured goatee.

  “No, but it appears to have incited riots elsewhere in the city.”

  “You see? We must act now,” Goodwin said gravely.

  “You believe this is the Covenant?” Director Layton asked.

  “Unlikely,” interjected Obwilé. “There is no reason to think—”

  “Let James speak.” Her voice was frigid.

  “Without a doubt,” Goodwin replied. “With our new intelligence, we can cripple them, but time is of the essence.”

  There was a tense moment while the four directors huddled. Chairman Obwilé adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and touched his earpiece. Evidently, the Board had something to say to him alone. Perhaps they had a secret purpose for him—it wouldn’t be the first time the Board had played one of its pawns off the others. Or perhaps they were reprimanding him.

  “James, we are granting you a temporary advisory position on the Covenant Task Force,” Director Layton said at last. “You will serve under General Moritz. Don’t make us regret it.”

  Goodwin nodded and made sure not to glance at Obwilé, enjoying the man’s frustration from the corner of his eye.

  “You have my thanks,” he said. “There is one other matter.”

  “Yes?”

  “The children are alive. The Covenant is protecting them.”

  “What makes yo
u think you know this?” Obwilé asked.

  “In the camp, one of the prisoners, a sort of priest, said something. I had the words translated: ‘The infidels will wither. Phoebe is the light of Loaii.’ It is unclear what the term ‘Loaii’ means, but they appear to believe she is a kind of saint.”

  “What of it?” inquired Director Santini.

  “Are these delusions relevant?” Director Layton asked.

  “Yes.” Goodwin looked at their scowling faces. “If we hope to eliminate the Covenant, we need to understand their objectives. I propose we send a recon team to track the children down and—”

  “You waste our time,” scoffed Obwilé.

  “No, Mr. Chairman,” Goodwin said calmly. “If the Covenant thinks they are important, then we should do the same.”

  “As I recall,” Obwilé sneered, “you dismissed us when we told you to find those children.”

  “They were not a priority then,” argued Goodwin. “And I did, in fact, detain them—”

  “Only to lose them once again.”

  “Enough,” stated a voice in their earpieces.

  “We cannot spare resources to mere hunches.”

  “The children are of no consequence at this time.”

  “Report to General Moritz, James,” Director Malcolm said with a flash of his white-capped teeth. “Focus on the Covenant. If you find evidence that the children are pertinent to our interests, then we can revisit this matter.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Goodwin nodded, burying his contempt.

  Heel. Roll over. Play dead.

  His time would come.

  Just as Phoebe had suspected, the trickle of vesper swelled to a stream, then became a creek that carved through the lush jungle. They had been hiking for hours, and while her coveralls felt like a Toast’em Oven, the trek was not at all unpleasant.

  Much like the rain forests she had heard about back home, this jungle was a torrent of life. Magenta, parrot green, and fluorescent yellow blooms dominated the creek beds, their vibrant faces turning like pinwheels. Amid the tahniks, trees with hinged, zigzagging trunks sagged with purple punching-bag fruit. And a rainbow orchestra of flying things was rehearsing in the canopy. Phoebe couldn’t call them birds exactly, because most of them didn’t have wings. There were propellers, soaring kites, leaping springs, and some that hovered like flying saucers.

  It was sensory overload—too many kinds of plants and animals to take in at once. And that had her kind of worried.

  Earlier, she and Micah had stumbled upon a host of carnage-splattered mehkans like miniature jackhammers on stilts. Startled by Micah’s armor, the horrific, oversized mosquito things scattered, leaving a blackened carcass behind. Whether they were predators that had brought the poor creature down or just scavengers, she couldn’t say.

  “Hold on a second,” Phoebe said. She loosened the straps on the Multi-Edge’s sheath and cinched it around her slender waist.

  “Not like that,” Micah chuckled. “Put it ’round your leg.”

  She realized he was right, but her beanpole legs were too scrawny for the straps, so she continued fastening it at her side.

  Micah just shrugged and clattered ahead through the florid pinwheel flowers. He paused for a moment by the vesper, activated his VooToo, and dipped the tubes in to get a drink. He marveled at the blooms surrounding him. Spatters of electric blue forked through with streaks of oven red and orange, and as the petals turned, their colors swam in a hypnotic whirlpool. He leaned in to inspect one of the beautiful blossoms.

  A little spritz of glitter squirted out of the pinwheel into Micah’s face. He backed off and brushed the dust away.

  “You okay?” Phoebe asked as she approached.

  Micah sneezed. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m…” He sneezed again, knocking his helmet askew. “I’m just…ah…ahh…”

  “Don’t sneeze.”

  “Ahhhh…”

  “Seriously, seriously. Don’t sneeze.”

  Micah’s eyes opened, and he scrunched his nose uncomfortably. “Why? Wha…what’s wrong?”

  She looked at him intensely.

  “Nothing. But it stopped your sneezing, didn’t it?”

  Phoebe smirked, and he growled in annoyance, rubbing at the pesky irritation in his sinuses.

  She looked around to get their bearings and realized that it must have been midday because the ring of mehkan suns had nearly joined in the sky. Something pale and hazy loomed in the distance. At first, it looked like a massive white flower, hundreds of petals splayed wide. It reminded Phoebe of the dahlias from Mr. Kashiri’s garden back on the estate. But it must have been miles away. Beyond it stretched a vast silver ocean, blanketing the horizon like a liquid mirror. There was movement among the flower’s ruffles like little bustling ants, and it had creepers too.

  Not creepers. Roads.

  “It’s a city,” Phoebe marveled.

  “Pretty,” Micah said distantly.

  She looked at him with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Pretty, pretty coconut,” he said, sort of to himself.

  “What did you say?” Phoebe asked.

  He lolled his head around to gaze at her.

  “What’s that? No, nothin’,” he said.

  She watched him curiously. “There’s Covenant hiding out in the cities, that’s what Dollop said. Maybe we can get help there.”

  “Better skedaddle then,” Micah blurted. He marched off, wending his way along the creek. Phoebe watched him stumble and giggle as he regained his footing. She frowned and followed behind, focusing more on Micah than on her surroundings—so much so that she missed a muted sound echoing in the jungle.

  A creak. Then a snap.

  A scattering of mehkans limped out of the shadows. They helped one another along, some carrying comrades on their backs. Luckily, a hohksyk was with them—he was climbing through the jungle canopy, using his liquid-silver sensor to lead the way. The ragtag Covenant band was headed to a rendezvous.

  And Dollop was just trying to keep up.

  Back in the camp, falling debris had pinned his leg, separating him from Loaii and Micah. After wriggling free, Dollop had rearranged his pieces to shorten the wounded leg, using the leftover parts to extend one arm like a crutch. With the help of his brethren, he had hobbled to the Housing tent, where Axial Phy opened a secret tunnel. Once they were through, the axials had collapsed the tunnel so the Foundry couldn’t follow.

  That was clicks ago, and now it was nearly fusion.

  There was a voice up ahead, and the survivors quickened their pace. Just beyond the next tahnik, the meager remnants of the camp were gathered around the mouth of a fresh salathyl hole. They were listening to Overguard Orei issue commands, her arcs and sliders moving briskly.

  Dollop nearly sang with joy at the sight of her, but he knew such an outburst would be frowned upon.

  “Proceed two hundred eight quadrits. Join secondary and tertiary teams. Overguard Zo’rinder commands there.”

  The warriors were divided into two distinct groups. Dollop wondered what was going on.

  “Those are your orders,” she said. “From arch-axials. From the Ona herself, may her golden ember blaze. Repeat, this is critical. Her most vital component. Now go.”

  The mehkans saluted, clenching their fists to their dynamos, and Dollop hastily did the same. One group prepared to depart while the other stayed behind, organizing their thin ranks.

  “Ov-Overguard!” he called out.

  Orei was engaged with one of her subordinates, and she didn’t look at Dollop as he limped up to her.

  “You were spared the Shroud,” Orei said. “Unexpected.”

  Dollop didn’t know what to say to that.

  “You are no warrior,” she stated flatly. “Go with Underguard Cya’s unit. Departing now.”

  “Wh-where are they going?”

  Orei turned to Dollop at last. “To find Loaii.”

  Dollop’s liquid amber eyes bulged.

  “Bu-
but I thought they didn’t ma-make—”

  “Status unknown. My failure.” The movement of Orei’s apparatus began to lurch and slow down. “I had Loaii. In Hy’rekshi camp. Outnumbered. I—” Her warbling voice quivered, becoming almost unintelligible. “Lost her. No remains detected. Covenant Command requires status of Loaii.”

  From the confines of her orbiting form, Orei withdrew a long white spike—a salathyl prong, used to summon one of the great mounts. Dollop reached out tentatively and took it from her.

  “I-I’ll do my best to fi-find them both.” Orei’s discs began whizzing, and he had to pull back to avoid a painful slash.

  “You must,” she barked, regaining control. Orei strode past him to join the team of warriors that waited to serve her.

  “Wh-what about you? Can’t you, um, come with me?”

  She stopped and spoke over her shoulder.

  “I am strategist of Covenant Command. Not permitted to seek Loaii. Makina guides our hand. The Ona has spoken.”

  Dollop could hear wind whistling through Orei’s scythes.

  “And Her word is war.”

  Something was wrong with Micah.

  He had been talking about Moto-bikes for the past ten minutes without a break, and most of it was clearly nonsense.

  “See, in ’78 they totally screwed up the Mach Three chassis design till it was all WEEEEEHHHWW!”

  He knocked into her with his oversized body armor and Dervish rifle, then leaned in close and made a lunatic face. Little specks of dust twinkled amid his freckles.

  “Which is funny ’cause that was right around the same time they started powering their tire pumps with pinstripes.” He staggered ahead of her, careening toward a stand of spinning flowers. “Bin stripes. Gripes. Pipes. Pah, pah, pah.”

  “Careful. It’s steep here,” she warned. The vesper creek was rushing past them now, cutting a deeper path into the ore.

  Micah tripped over his own feet and took a nosedive into the fluorescent pinwheel flowers. As he crashed into them, they released a hiss of glitter, showering him in sparkles.

  “Party time!” Micah crooned. “Party ti…taaa…Ahhh-CHOO!”