by Cam Baity
Micah looked at her, his brows rising.
“I know you don’t believe me,” she said.
“It-it’s not that,” he stammered. “Are you sure you didn’t…imagine it or something? It was really them…actually talking?”
“It was them. I know their voices.”
“I know,” he said, trying to choose his words carefully. “It’s just, I dunno. Creepy.”
“It’s the only way I can make sense of what Rhom said.”
“But you don’t have the whist anymore.”
“I have to figure out how to talk to him without it.”
Soft footsteps drew their attention. In the dim light of the vibrating stars, they saw Tik peering through a hole in the wall.
“Loaii,” he spoke quietly. “We needing you.”
They followed without question, relieved by the distraction. As they left the cathedral, Phoebe looked back at the Ona’s masked face, the mosaic crumbled and flaking.
The prophet kept her secrets well.
Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself to protect against the bitingly cold air. The wind shook the needle trees, producing a grating squeak that set her teeth on edge. Tik led the kids through the rubble and across the scarred ground to a gentle slope studded with weathered grave markers. A cemetery.
The Broken were gathered at the lip of a deep crater, a woeful cavity that had been blasted by a Foundry bomb. Countless bodies were piled in the pit, lined up shoulder to shoulder and laid atop one another. The Broken stood silently, watching the kids with baleful expressions. Tik spoke to his companions in Rattletrap, and they murmured in response.
“We not having what need for rusting rites,” he explained, miming the turning of a crank. “No ohneshalo, you understand?”
She remembered the machine that had wailed a haunting chord at her father’s funeral. “What can I do?”
Tik bowed. “You Loaii. Speak, Makina hear.”
“But I…”
Phoebe didn’t know the words. She hardly knew anything about the Way. How could she possibly heal this wound?
The mournful mehkans stared at her, hoping for solace. All except for the hairy mehkan with the withered arm—his weeping eyes were fixed on the bundle he cradled. Slowly, reluctantly, he laid the wrapped body in the pit.
Phoebe breathed in.
She saw herself standing at her mother’s grave.
Saw herself reflected in the mirror of her Carousel at home—that selfish, sniping girl who knew nothing about the world.
She breathed out.
Saw herself marching into the tunnel that led to Mehk. Saw herself looking deep into the eyes of the chraida, back when she first realized that mehkans were not machines. Saw herself reflected in the oasis, when she watched her Trinka sink into the vesper—when she finally understood the truth.
In.
At last, she saw her golden father sinking into the ore. He had sought to save Mehk, and now his path was her own. The way had been shaped for Phoebe from the beginning, though she had not seen it. Every step had been essential, preordained, carved for her to tread.
His death was not in vain.
Out.
In the nothing, Her voice will guide you.
Axial Phy had told her that Makina would come to her.
And She had. Because, Phoebe realized as exhaustion and outrage and confusion rose to a boil within her, she believed.
At last, the path was illuminated.
“Mother of Ore,” she whispered, too soft for anyone else to hear. She closed her eyes, focused on her breath.
Phoebe felt calm. Not even the bitter cold could bother her.
“Mother of Ore,” she repeated, this time projecting above the wind. “We are trying to do Your will. Trying to follow Your plan.”
Tik began to translate for the somber Broken.
“We have so many enemies, and we are tired and suffering. But we believe in You. We trust in Your sacred machine. And we know that Your children who have rusted here…”
She turned her eyes to the stars. They were beautiful, delicate spiderwebs of light connected in the sky, like the entire universe was bound together, composed for this very moment.
“…that their embers will blaze in Your Forge forever.”
Phoebe looked at the assembled crowd.
“Praise the gears,” she said.
Tik translated, and the Broken repeated the phrase.
“Praise the gears,” Micah said sincerely. She looked over at him. Tears glistened in his eyes.
As the mehkan with the crippled arm stared at Phoebe, the lines of grief on his face softened. He bowed low to her.
The Broken got to work, tossing handfuls of ore into the pit. It clanked dully against the bodies below. Some of them grabbed pieces of debris to use as crude spades.
“Thank you, Loaii,” wheezed Tik. “We bury now. You rest.”
“You guys need help,” Micah said, seeing how much difficulty the feeble mehkans were having with the task.
“No. Our family, you understand? It is for us the burying. Now safe for us work. Loaii pray, keep Uaxtu away.”
The word rang a bell—Dollop had mentioned them before.
“Uaxtu?” Phoebe wondered.
“Ember-reapers,” Tik said in a nervous whisper. “Evil ones who defied Makina. She punish. They haunt dead places.”
“Well,” Micah said with a grin, “glad we could chase away all your ghosts and stuff. They won’t be botherin’ ya’ll tonight.”
“You not know Uaxtu?” Tik’s small, sore-dappled mouth quivered. “Loaii must know. Loaii must beware.”
“Tell us,” Phoebe said as Micah suppressed a yawn.
The night was patterned with the clank of the Broken shoveling ore. Tik stared into the mass grave for a moment.
Then in quiet, halting words, he told the story.
And in the place atop the Ephrian Mountains, where living blue does not reach and rust red is the crowning peak, dwelt the Uaxtu. There the mountain did not grow, for all was death and corrosion.
And near was the Shroud, den of our Mother of Ore, and near was Her Forge, where came the embers to be blazed and stirred and doused. Beyond its borders did Makina decree no mehkan should venture until the gears of fate decided it was their time.
But wicked were the Uaxtu, for they did not follow Her Way.
And spake the Uaxtu, one to another: “Of all mehkans, we are wisest, and will bow to none. Therefore, why should the secrets of rust be Makina’s alone? Let us seek this sacred knowledge, that we may become as She. Let us learn what lies hidden beyond the Shroud, for none have returned from there to tell.”
Of foul tongue did the Uaxtu weave evil incantations as they slaughtered their own children. Then did they venture beyond the Shroud, seeking the embers of their slain. And they did steal the embers back and returned them unto the rusted bodies of their young. And lo, the bodies did live again.
And spake the Uaxtu, “Look upon us and tremble, for we have conquered rust, and we are greater than the Engineer.”
But Makina was not pleased. These, Her precious creations, had betrayed Her. And with heavy grief, She did condemn them. Upon them She did breathe Her holy fire, and they were turned to ash. And they became as shades, banished to eternal undying.
So spake our Mother, “Seek My Way, find thy function. But woe to those who defy me. Woe to those who profane the Shroud!”
Thus were the Uaxtu damned, eternally hollow, hungry to reap holy embers to replace their own. And only the blessing of the Waybound would repel their lustful greed.
And their forsaken home atop the Ephrian Mountains, where living blue does not reach and rust red is the crowning peak, did the Great Engineer name Rust Risen.
Accord IV: Edicts 06–11
I do not stop running for hours. Yet somehow I don’t tire, like a train rolling downhill.
I am at home in this darkness. But the world feels enormous, wider and deeper than I have ever known it to
be. Frightens me, and that is not a feeling I am used to.
Pain grows with every stride, a volcano within where the bonding rounds entered my shoulder and chest. Muscle shreds. Minute by minute, I reach new heights of agony.
But I won’t stop. I will the pain to fuel me. And I know that help will meet me at my destination.
I run faster.
Taste blood through my not-skin. Their blood. Try to remember their faces, but they’re already fading. How many were there? The images in my head stick together, edges smearing.
I sense my way. Smell the path. Have never been here, but somehow I know where to go. The past is a confusing mess, part dream and part memory, but now is clear. The place I seek is near.
The suns peek over the red mesas, like slanted wedges holding up the sky. I slide into the shadows, shelter from the day.
When I stop running, the pain eats at me. Every sense drowned out by fire. Wounds are gaping, mouths torn open in my flesh. The white bonding agent is gritty and crumbling like sand. Can’t stick to me. But the rounds are still inside. Digging deeper.
My mind is a vortex. Can’t tell what I have done from what I’ve imagined. A torrent of images. Bodies melting under my fingers. Death cries pouring out of them, purple as wine. Eyes turning dull. The hours are wax, dripping, distorting around me.
Was it me that did those things? I believe it was.
Thirst. How did I not notice? A startling new pain, wrestling with the bullet wounds. If Mr. Goodwin were here, he would bring me water to drink. Would hold it to my lips, rid me of this torment.
I tense my muscles, contract every fiber of my body. I have gone mad, I know that. Cannot take all these tortures at once.
Warmth trickles from the holes in my chest. See thick ooze coming out, dull gray. Can it be?
The lead bullet casings. Melted.
Pressure in my chest lessens. Yes, the rounds are leaking out of me. I have expelled the objects, driven them from my body.
I clutch at my wounds and discover something new. My flesh is like putty. Smears at the touch, clay between my fingers. I push the edges of the lesions together and they fuse. Flesh becomes one. No trace of the holes in my not-skin. Whole again. Healed.
I am the Dyad. Darkness made flesh.
Shuffle toward my destination, grateful for the pain.
The wind howls in this empty hell. Clumps of razor wire skitter by. Hunger yawns inside. There are white growths like cactus made of salt. I try to eat them, cannot. Find squeaking creatures scuttling about, little ball things made of wheels and gears.
No man has ever eaten the metal vermin of this world.
But I am not a man.
Fast as they are, I am faster. Burst in my mouth like tomatoes, drink their sour juices. They quench my thirst. Feed my hunger.
My strength drips back.
I climb to my destination, a raised basin surrounded by leaning cliff walls. Cool and dark.
Nestle into a shallow fissure, feel the ore soften against my corrosive touch. Burrow into it like a molten womb.
Here I will wait.
I did everything you asked, Mr. Goodwin. All the instructions on your Scrollbar, followed them to the letter. You loosened my restraint in the lab, released me to do your bidding. Then I sat with the secret, waited for the perfect time.
Laid waste to your enemies for you. You must be proud.
Now I have found the meeting place on your map.
I need you—your guidance and wisdom.
Please, Mr. Goodwin.
Come for me.
It was so cold when Phoebe awoke that she thought her cheeks might be frostbitten. The previous night, she and Micah had huddled together under a foil thermal blanket he had found in the Med-i-Pak. The metal sheet was icy on the outside, but their body heat made it so toasty underneath that the kids had removed their coveralls and slept in their dingy old clothes.
Between nightmares of the fiendish Uaxtu and worries about how to reach beyond the Shroud without the whist, Phoebe had barely slept all night. Now she needed to find somewhere quiet, a private place where she could concentrate.
Somehow, she would find a way to talk to her father again.
Wan light seeped from the gap in the Emberhome mosaic. Phoebe got dressed, then climbed though it and into the shattered cemetery. The cold wind had died away, leaving the world calm and still. Piles of rubble, toppled monuments, and spindly needle trees glimmered in the light of dawn. She wiped a gloved finger across a shining, silvery mound—everything was covered in a shell of icy flux.
Breath fogging from her mouth, Phoebe climbed the slope and looked out upon the placid Mirroring Sea. The Broken had filled the mass grave with ore, and around its perimeter they had etched mehkan runes to consecrate the grounds.
Beyond the site, she spied a semicircular gate embedded in the partially toppled surrounding wall. It hung askew, battered by the recent attack. Phoebe was curious what lay beyond, so she poked her head through.
A shady arbor of rivet-gnarled roots formed a winding tunnel, soot blackened and warped by the recent fires. But as she walked deeper through it, the damage faded away, until she found herself in a secret garden that seemed to have gone unnoticed by the Foundry. It was an unexpected wonderland encased in a shimmering crystal skin. Florid clumps of purple blooms grew alongside lush, bronze needle trees, and yellow, fork-shaped petals drooped from spiraling boughs. Everything was dusted in silvery frost. The only signs of the attack were fissures in the flagstone paths and a few overturned planters.
Phoebe strolled through the garden, feeling its icy silence embrace her like the whist. She looked around the peaceful grove for a comfortable seat while she readied herself for prayer.
A ratcheting trill cut through the quiet. It came from farther down the winding path, behind a wall of purple blossoms. As she followed the trail, the sound multiplied. She rounded the corner to find the way blocked by a curtain of lacy vines. The air was jumbled with chirps and hoots.
She passed through the jingling veil and into an enclosure surrounded by woven copper vine. Blurred violet fluttered past, followed by a twirl of blue and a flap of opal. Fifty or sixty flying creatures flitted about, perching on branches and roosting in foil bushes. Some flew using propellers, others with stacked wings like jittering biplanes. Phoebe saw hydraulic necks and corkscrew beaks, wiry prehensile tendrils and flat paddle feet. They honked like rusty horns, warbled, and sang tinny songs in a delightful musical interplay.
It was a mehkan aviary.
Phoebe realized she was not alone. Tik and a few other tchurbs were here, surrounded by fluttering creatures that swarmed the buckets in their hands. It was feeding time.
“Loaii!” Tik called out in surprise as a small bird with three striped wings alighted on his shoulder. “You well? You safe?”
The other tchurbs put down their buckets and bowed.
“I’m fine. Please, don’t mind me,” she reassured. “They’re beautiful. What are they?”
“Garvhan, tielr, bonji—all kind,” Tik said as he fed the birds handfuls of gray kernels. “Only two escape during attack. Others hide, like the Broken. We very lucky.”
“Are they your pets?” she asked.
“Not us,” Tik said. “Axials keep. Us duty now.”
Phoebe approached the fluttery fray.
“Old tradition, you understand?” explained Tik. “Said ‘be surrounded by wings, fans the ember.’ You want?”
Tik offered some kernels to her, and she accepted. She held her hand out to the flock, but they cast wary eyes at her, not trusting the look or smell of a human. Phoebe didn’t blame them, seeing as how she recognized the parts of a Dish Wand, a Hair-streamer, and other Foundry products within their anatomies.
But one of the birds felt bold. It was the size of a robin, with a vise-like beak and bright yellow eyes. Spiky stiletto feathers splayed at wild angles from its compact form. It flashed a curious lemon-drop eye at her and hopped closer. Then closer.
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In a flash, it pecked at her hand and leapt back. Phoebe watched with surprise as its body inflated, revealing a hole in its center like the inner tube of a tire. In a hiss of wind, the feathered ring twirled away with a sound like playing cards rippling through the spokes of a Bike wheel.
She grabbed another handful of kernels from Tik and followed after the ring bird. It wobbled and spun to a tree on the other side of the enclosure. Gathered in a bronze needle nest atop one of the boughs was a family of similar birds. Some were pea green with orange eyes, some ivory white with purple plumes. A few fluttered away as Phoebe got close. Others formed rings around the branches and swung from them playfully.
A golden head poked out of a hole bored into the pale tree trunk. It blinked, then hopped onto a limb in full display.
All became clear in a breathless instant.
These birds looked like the halos above the Ona’s hands in the Emberhome mosaic. Phoebe almost laughed at the realization—she and Micah had gotten it backward.
She piled kernels on her shaking arm and held it out to the golden bird. Less antsy than the others, it hopped onto her open hand and sidestepped up to her elbow to nibble at the seed.
This was her chance. She glanced at the tchurbs, certain that they would be upset if they saw what she was doing. As carefully as she could, Phoebe took measured steps out of the aviary, parted the ivy curtain, and stepped into the open garden.
Could this be it, or was she totally out of her mind?
Before she could decide what to do next, the bird dove off her arm, transformed into a feathered ring, and spun away. The creature twirled past the tops of the trees and out of sight.
She winced. What had she been thinking? The cold cut into her again. Phoebe hesitated, trying to figure out how she was going to explain her foolish behavior to Tik.
And then the ratcheting trill sounded out.
The ring bird was back.
It hopped down a couple of branches, trying to get her attention. Phoebe stared at the brilliant bird in wonder. The creature was anxious—it had a job to do.
They both did.
In the mosaic, the rings weren’t coming out of the Ona’s hands, they were flying into her hands. This bird would lead them to Emberhome. She had known it the instant she saw its coloring—shiny gold with a crimson splotch on its chest.