Waybound

by Cam Baity

  Dollop’s words came back to her: Noiseless…they can vanish into thin air…they wield the living weapons…

  “The Aegis!” Phoebe gasped.

  Mehkan faces appeared between the folds of camo cloaks, staring at the kids in cold silence. There were other ripples in space, silhouettes barely distinguishable from the Furrows.

  How many were the Aegis?

  The echoing purr of engines nearby. Phoebe and Micah knew that sound all too well—Cyclewynders.

  The fibrous mehkan pulled the kids to their feet and draped his cloak over them. He grabbed their wrists, black eyes surfacing between sinews to stare at them. The drill-headed viper weapon wove through the mehkan as if his body were its nest.

  The Aegis warrior ran, pulling them along.

  The buzz of Foundry vehicles grew louder. An Aero-copter chugged. The blaring alarms of more V-Stalkers.

  Phoebe focused on keeping up with the mehkan. His strides were silent, and he bounded over the ore with the unerring balance of a jungle cat. They careened through the Furrows, trying to ignore the sounds of fighting behind them.

  “What the…” Micah blurted.

  He was peeking beneath the cloak to see what lay ahead. Phoebe did the same. Their protector was racing pell-mell for a wall. The kids tried to pull free, but the mehkan held them fast.

  They hit the wall at full speed.

  And passed through. The Furrow rippled.

  The surface offered no resistance. Something coarse brushed past, like a sheet of hanging burlap. The same mehkan material as the camo cloak disguised a secret passage.

  They were in darkness, dragged forward by the Aegis warrior. Another partition swept aside, flooding the passage with light. They turned again and again, in and out of hidden passages.

  And then they stopped.

  The Furrows ended abruptly. The walls had shriveled like paper in a fire. The ore was gray, but a few yards ahead it darkened and wrinkled to inky black.

  And beyond that…

  It looked like a monstrous bite had been taken out of the world. The ground dropped sharply into a colossal pit like a volcanic crater. Noxious gray vapor strangled the abyss and obscured its depths with stagnant swirls. The haze rose overhead and bloomed into an impermeable black mushroom cloud that tried to smother the setting suns.

  “Emberhome,” Phoebe whispered.

  They turned around, but the Aegis warrior was gone.

  The V-Stalker alarm grew louder, and though the black CHAR cloud hung too low for Aero-copters to pass through, their encroaching growl put the kids on edge.

  There was no time for fear. Phoebe peeled off her gloves, unstrapped the Multi-Edge, and removed her skirt. She unfastened her Durall coveralls and wriggled out of them. Micah turned away, pretending not to see, and focused on shedding his metal gear. Phoebe flushed as she stood in her dingy blouse and underwear, but this was no time for shame either.

  She slid back into her skirt and turned to see Micah stripped down to his T-shirt and overalls. His Foundry jumpsuit, field pack, and rifle lay in a heap.

  “Boots too,” she said, bending down to unknot her laces.

  “Nah, mine are just leather and rubber. Ma couldn’t afford no metal. You ain’t goin’ in barefoot, are you?”

  She slipped off her Durall boots and out popped the wadded rags she had used for padding. There was an ache where she had wounded her right foot before, and the bandage was filthy.

  “No choice,” she grunted.

  Micah yanked off his boots and tossed them to her.

  “Wear ’em,” he insisted. “No point in openin’ that cut again.”

  She didn’t argue. His boots stank, and they were a few sizes too small, but she was grateful.

  “Ready?” she said as she stood.

  He nodded.

  They exhaled and took their first cautious steps.

  The CHAR-blasted ore had a fragile sheen, as if it were the skin of a burn victim. The darker the ground became, the tackier it was, like wet tar. The sulfurous stink made them want to gag.

  The metal-threaded diamond pattern of Phoebe’s skirt shriveled like leaves, exposing the raw fabric beneath. Micah’s coveralls sagged as the metal buttons disintegrated. He quickly tied the straps together to hold them up.

  Something at Phoebe’s hip grew hot. She reached into her pocket to see what it was.

  Her father’s spectacles.

  The steel frames liquefied in her hands, dripping through her fingers and spattering the ore. She stared at what was left in her palm—the lenses, cracked and caked with ceremonial rust.

  “Phoebe,” Micah said, taking her hand in his.

  This was the last remnant of her father. Everything else was gone now. There was nothing left to lose.

  She closed her fist around the lenses, squeezing until her palm hurt, until she was sure her tears were at bay.

  Together Phoebe and Micah marched into Emberhome.

  Micah stumbled after Phoebe into the crater.

  Looking above, he could barely see the flaming orange sky at the rim. Streaks of white whizzed overhead as stray bullets shot into the blight and dissolved. He hoped that the Aegis could hold off the Foundry. They just had to buy a little time.

  After a few minutes of scrambling down the mushy surface, the ground evened out. There were weird bumps and irregular ridges like washed out sandcastles. He reached out to touch one, and the mound collapsed as if it were made of ash.

  There was almost no visibility because of the haze, so he and Phoebe stuck close together. Losing sight of each other down here would be like getting separated in a blizzard.

  Micah hated how the CHAR felt under his shoeless feet. Beneath a brittle top crust was a warm sludge that he would sink into if he stopped moving. He glanced back at their footprints and saw them slowly filling in, rising like black dough.

  And the smell. Ugh. The metal-mold taste coated his tongue.

  But the worst part was definitely the creepy, dreamlike silence. The rumbles of distant explosions were muffled as if they were underwater. The crunch of every footstep seemed to die in the air, half-formed.

  “See anything?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “What if it sank? Like hundreds of years ago?” he wondered.

  “Then we find it and dig it up.”

  “Gonna get dark soon,” he mumbled, looking at the red ring of dusk that marked the lip of the pit. “We should split up and…”

  He glanced at Phoebe. Her eyes were closed and her lips moving as if she were lost in a trance. Micah didn’t want to interrupt her, but he didn’t feel much like wasting time with her mumbo-jumbo stuff either.

  There was a rumble up above. Aero-copters would have to fly over the corrosive cloud, but Micah wondered if they might still be able to spot him and Phoebe from up there. He squinted into the murk for a hint of searchlights but didn’t see any.

  Phoebe began to wander, eyes closed. He caught up and overheard the words she was muttering over and over.

  “Guide me, Makina. Illuminate the path.”

  Micah was getting anxious, but he didn’t want to show it. He watched impatiently as Phoebe turned around a couple of times, wandered off again, then stopped.

  She opened her eyes.

  Somewhere in the hazy distance was a fuzzy pinprick of light. It stood out against the blight, like a lone white star in a foggy, black night. A beacon.

  “What the…” Micah said, his voice pinched with excitement.

  She breathed a noise, something between a sob and a laugh.

  They went toward the light.

  It was hard going. They had to pull their feet from the clinging muck, and it was exhausting and slow. But the closer they got, the more brightly the light shone.

  Micah’s feet slowed him down. The splintered CHAR crust scratched his soles with each step. It was hard to tell beneath the tarry glop, but he was pretty sure he was bleeding.

  Wearing Micah’s work boots, P
hoebe was already far ahead. But she saw him lagging behind and trudged back. She grabbed his hand. Not yanking him, not trying to force him to speed up.

  Staying together.

  The only sounds were their crackling steps and panting breath. Micah forgot his pain. As they approached, they had to cover their eyes, the light was so bright.

  There it was—the Occulyth.

  It was just a few yards ahead, lying atop the CHAR like a feather floating on a black pond. They fell to their knees before it, and the light dimmed, so that it no longer dazzled them.

  As if the Occulyth knew they were there.

  It was smaller than they had expected, about the size of a saucer, a star with seven rounded points. A cloud of light danced inside the transparent form, weaving among dark squiggles that looked like veins. Its texture was like jelly, but dry and tough.

  And it pulsed.

  “It’s alive,” Micah gasped.

  “It’s not metal,” Phoebe said, reaching out to it carefully. “But it doesn’t look like anything from our world either.”

  “Don’t touch it.”

  She nodded. Using her skirt, Phoebe cautiously picked up the Occulyth. She wrapped it securely, and its light dulled. The kids stood shoulder to shoulder, both of them staring at it in reverent silence as if it were a newborn baby.

  “Praise Makina,” Phoebe whispered.

  Micah looked at her. Her long, filthy face was aglow. She was Loaii, he knew that now. The Occulyth was reflected in her golden brown eyes. They looked deeper than he’d ever known, like he had been too stupid to ever really see them before.

  The moment stretched out—just her and him, bathed in light. Time was stuck. What the hell was going on? His stomach flopped like a fish. He felt sick. Had the CHAR gotten to him?

  Micah licked his lips.

  They had done it. They had won.

  A horrible thought slapped his brain, as if it wasn’t his own.

  He should kiss her. Right now. It’s what Maddox, hero of his absolute favorite Televiewer show ever, would do.

  Micah leaned closer to her.

  No, don’t be such an idiot!

  He hesitated.

  A flashlight glinted in the haze.

  “Run,” Micah barked. He pointed to the fading footprints that the two of them had made. “Follow those back to the Aegis.”

  “What about you?” she said.

  He realized that he had already made a decision. His words came out certain and strong. “Can’t run without shoes. I’ll hold ’em off. Get that thing to the Ona!”

  “But what about you?” she repeated.

  A thousand emotions collided in the worlds of her eyes.

  “I dunno,” Micah admitted.

  “We’ll come back for you, I swear.”

  His lips quivered, mind on fire.

  Kiss her!

  Don’t kiss her!

  “Run,” he croaked.

  Phoebe held his eyes for a split second.

  Then she fled, clutching the wrapped Occulyth tight, shielding it to hide the light. He watched her receding, climbing through the blight, her shape disappearing into the dark.

  “Run!” He screamed it in the opposite direction, hoping his voice would penetrate the muffling CHAR haze and draw the pursuers away from Phoebe. “RUN! RUN!” He jumped up and down, making as much of a racket as he could.

  The flashlights found him. Foggy silhouettes appeared, racing men in crinkly, protective suits.

  Now it was his turn to flee.

  Every step hurt, but he didn’t care. He had to save her.

  “Phoebe! RUN!” Again, he shouted in the wrong direction. He glanced back—they were falling for it! Some of them branched off on a wild goose chase. More flashlights glimmered.

  His feet were screaming agony.

  Micah knew he couldn’t outrun them, but he pushed on anyway. Every second they worried about him was one more second of head start for Phoebe.

  Steps crunched up behind him.

  He pivoted, tried to zigzag.

  Tackled.

  A masked Foundry man in a jumpsuit hurled him to the ground. Micah squirmed, kicked. Crack! His bare foot connected with a jaw, knocking the mask aside.

  The man’s face was exposed. His eyes blazed.

  Three other suited Foundry soldiers closed in. Strong hands seized Micah’s ankles and pulled him. He dug his fingers into the ground, trying to slow himself.

  “Get off!” he screamed.

  The Foundry man flipped him onto his back. Micah was momentarily blinded by a flashlight, encased in a sleeve of glass to protect it from the CHAR.

  Then his fingers grazed something half-buried in the ground.

  A stick.

  He seized it, swung with all his might. The blow caught the Foundry man solidly in the face. His nose gushed blood. The man cursed and drove his fist into Micah’s belly.

  Air whooshed from his body. Vision dimmed.

  But not before he glimpsed the stick slipping from his grip.

  Its thin, white shape was unmistakable.

  Made no sense. Didn’t belong here.

  Something was wrong.

  A human bone.

  Mr. Pynch awoke in a place he didn’t recognize, and yet it fit his mental state—dank, rotten, and falling to pieces. The walls were coated in moldy gobs of flux scum like congealed fat. Knurlers and pinpods clung to the surface, feasting on the corrosion. Feeble light wavered in from a jagged hatch.

  He started to get up, but immediately shriveled back down. At first, he thought it was just too much viscollia, but then a faint memory of getting thumped resurfaced. He felt the back of his bushel of quill hair—yep, matted with his own dried ichor.

  That’s when he noticed his arms were bound in hoistvyne.

  Mr. Pynch tugged on the chain. It was taut and secure.

  Footsteps pounded toward his cell. With an unbearable, rusty shriek, the hatch opened to reveal a hulking silhouette.

  “Wakey, wakey!” a familiar voice shouted. It was his gohr drinking buddy from the Rathskellar. The brute yanked on his chain, dragging Mr. Pynch across the cell. “Up, scrap!”

  Mr. Pynch staggered to his feet while his captor unhooked the hoistvyne and hauled Mr. Pynch out into a cramped hallway.

  A rhythmic boom shook the greasy, flux-worn walls.

  “Look here, me good mehkie,” Mr. Pynch offered. “What do you say you and me arbitrate some manner of agreement? Perchance we could—”

  The gohr unleashed a spittle-flecked roar. With a massive, six-clawed clamp hand, he clubbed Mr. Pynch in the back of the head. A fireball of pain blinded him, dropped him to the floor. With another rip of the chain, the gohr had Mr. Pynch on his feet again, sluggishly plodding up a steep stairwell.

  Up they went, step after agonizing step.

  The booming noise grew louder as Mr. Pynch was pulled through another hatch. What he saw deflated him entirely.

  It was a long compartment blazing with humid heat. Rows of gasping mehkans were crowded in the dark, chained together and toiling at crooked axles that ran across the width of the space. They shoved and heaved at giant cranks in unison, the source of that deep, rhythmic sound.

  These cranks were attached by slime-coated ducts to a grisly contraption at the far end of the compartment. It was a mound of exposed viscera, half-submerged in the floor, augmented with rusted rotors and clusters of giant pistons.

  A sickening realization dawned on Mr. Pynch. He looked out the oblong windows, hoping that he was wrong.

  But he wasn’t. Through the translucent membranes of the portholes was churning silver flux. He thought he could make out the dim shadow of a qintriton swimming past.

  Although he had never seen one from the inside, he knew with crushing certainty where he was. He was trapped in a submersible vessel on the back of a deep-sea wryl. The rows of laborers were powering this grotesque contraption, which controlled the mind of the massive tusked beast.

  And Mr. Pynch
knew who commanded such monstrosities.

  Marauders—thieves and slayers of the sea.

  The gohr led Mr. Pynch through the heaving crowd to a spot between two skeletal jaislids. He chained Mr. Pynch to the floor, grabbed his hands, and slapped them onto the axle handle.

  “There must be some mistakement,” Mr. Pynch stammered, panicked. “This be unjust. I don’t belong here!”

  “Oh, but you do,” growled a sinister voice.

  The gohr stepped aside as a gaunt figure approached. He was mottled brown and red, and though he stood upright on two sinewy legs, his serrated arms were long enough to stab at the ground. The mehkan’s head was sickly copper with two pus-white eyes. A ring of oozing snouts and acidic mouthparts dangled beneath his face and down his back.

  It was a hiveling—one of the most uncommon and utterly despised races in all of Mehk. And not just any hiveling.

  “Tchiock?” Mr. Pynch asked in shock.

  “So the fog has lifted,” the mehkan spat. “I was so very disappointed when you didn’t recognize me in Ghalteiga.”

  “What be the meaning of this?” Mr. Pynch asked.

  “You stole from me, Pynch,” Tchiock drooled, snouts twittering. “In Kholgit. An entire shipment of viscollia—gone.”

  Mr. Pynch attempted a jolly laugh.

  “Be that the reason for this whole conflagration?” he chuckled. “Not ‘stole,’ dear Tchi. A misunderstandimation. I will gladly reimburse any damages me associate and I may have—”

  In a flash, Tchiock’s saw-toothed arm pierced the front of Mr. Pynch’s chusk overcoat and yanked him near.

  “You will pay,” Tchiock gurgled. He held up a scourge of barbed ivy and dangled it in Mr. Pynch’s face. “I will work you. I will starve you. I will make your every cycle a prison of misery until you beg me to end your worthless span. And then…” The hiveling’s noxious mouth tubes leaked acidic saliva on his lapel. “Once I know you are sincere, I will grant your wish myself.”

  Tchiock raised his scourge.

  “Now pump!” the hiveling bellowed. The whip slashed across Mr. Pynch’s shoulders. “Pump!”

  Down the barbs came. Again and again.

  Whimpering, Mr. Pynch grabbed onto the axle handle and did as he was told. He stared down as he toiled. His green, striped necktie was shredded and splotched with acid. The mismatched stitches that Phoebe had sewn were in ruins.