by J. C. Staudt
“Now is not that time,” I said. “Sure, the Regency is weak, but Maclin is still very strong, and they’re very pro-techsoul.”
“We aren’t so foolish as to think Pyras can last forever,” said Malwyn. “The city sinks a little every year. We’re going to run out of gravstone eventually. You’ve helped throw the world into chaos, Muller. It’s the kind of chaos primitives like us have been needing for a long time. We have an opportunity here that may never come again.”
I began to shake my head, grasping for the right words. “Techsouls are still genetically dominant. If a techsoul and a primitive have a child, there’s an overwhelming chance it’ll be a techsoul. There’s no endgame for you that results in your taking back the throne. They’ll just drive you out again.”
“It isn’t power we’re after,” said DeGaffe. “It’s safety. We don’t intend to illegitimize every lord in the stream. All we want is to be treated as equals. Primitives may eventually die out, yes. Do you not think those of us who are left deserve to live productive, happy lives?”
“Of course I do,” I said, “but I know a lot of people—a lot of techsouls—who don’t. The hatred my kind feels towards yours makes a little more sense now. These things have a way of being passed down from father to son—prejudices that never really die, even though people might not remember the underlying reasons for them.”
“That is precisely the problem we must overcome if we ever want a chance at a normal life,” said DeGaffe.
“The real problem is that Maclin Automation is too powerful to beat,” I said. “They control Roathea now, and they’re not giving it up.”
Thorley spoke up. “What about all the callsigns you learned back at the crash site? Can’t you commandeer their army?”
“Commandeer? No,” said Chaz. “We can deliver commands, but Maclin’s operatives will still be able to override them.”
“Then we command the army to attack itself,” Thorley said. “We speak the callsigns and tell them to destroy each other.”
“That would cause complete pandemonium,” said Chaz. “More innocent people would die.”
“Maybe,” Thorley said. “But how many people will Maclin’s mindless drones kill in the coming years if we let them stay in power?”
“You’ve got the right idea,” I said, “but I think we need to go a step further. We need to make sure Maclin never rebuilds. That means destroying Maclin itself.”
“The island?” Chaz said.
“The island.”
“That place is like a city-sized bank vault,” said Chaz. “It’s been reinforced ten times over. How would we ever destroy it?”
I smirked at him. “Chaz… I’m surprised at you. You’re supposed to be the smart one around here. What element supports every island in the stream?”
“Driftmetal.”
“And what happens when you attach a gravstone clinker to a driftmetal ingot?”
“The gravstone interferes with the driftmetal’s cumulative anti-gravitational mass.”
“Causing it to…”
“Lose altitude.”
“So,” I said, “let’s put the pieces together. Maclin is an island that floats on driftmetal.”
“Yeah, I know,” Chaz said, getting annoyed. “I still don’t get it.”
“Driftmetal loses lift when it’s exposed to gravstone. What are we standing on top of the world’s largest supply of right now?”
Chaz’s mouth opened. “Gravstone.”
“You’re a genius, Chaz. You are smart, and beautiful, and capable. Capable of making things. Make me something that can carry a crap-ton of gravstone, and then get us to Maclin.”
“Mining enough gravstone to bring down a floater that size would—”
“Be detrimental to the future of Pyras. I know. But if we don’t grab Maclin by the throat, we lose. We are done.”
Malwyn leaned against DeGaffe’s desk. “If we have to evacuate the city, everything will change.”
“If you do nothing, everything will change,” I said. “Maclin develops cutting-edge technology. If they ever decide they want to find you, they’re going to find you a lot quicker than the Regency could.”
Malwyn swallowed. “We’d be risking everything we have if we go through with your plan.”
“You stand to gain a lot more if it works. The people of Roathea and the stream support the Regent and his familial bloodline. They’re loyal to him, and they’ll fight in his name. If we take Maclin out of the picture, we can restore the Regent to his throne. It might not follow the ancient law to the letter, but it’ll be a step in the right direction for primitives across the stream. A chance to survive.”
“How?” said Malwyn. “The Regent is a tyrant.”
I shook my head. “The Regent is dead. His son is a good kid with a kind heart. If you help him reclaim his throne and reunite him with his family, I don’t believe he’ll turn his back on you.”
“I won’t trust a member of the royal family as long as I live,” said Malwyn.
“Maybe you’d be convinced otherwise if you met him yourself.”
DeGaffe gave me a curious look.
“I can arrange a meeting. I wouldn’t expect you to favor this crazy plan of mine until you have the young Regent’s guarantee that things are going to change.”
Malwyn was skeptical. “The Regent’s eldest son is half a child.”
“He is,” I said. “He’s got some growing up to do. But he’s not like his father.”
“All men are like their fathers.”
“Wrong,” I said. “Take me, for example. My dad’s a law-loving, boot-licking, primie-hating scumbag. I’m the opposite of that. Although the scumbag part’s debatable.”
“If the heir is as compassionate as you say, there may yet be a chance for us,” said DeGaffe.
“There’s more than a chance,” I said. “There’s a distinct possibility.”
“What must we do to make this meeting happen?”
“We could make a landing platform on one of the buildings so you could fly the Ostelle into Pyras,” Chaz suggested.
“The crew just finished repairing her,” I reminded him. “There’s no way I’m bringing my boat through the nearflow. She’ll get torn to shreds.”
“A ship that size can get through the nearflow in a couple of minutes,” said Chaz. “She might get dinged up, but she’ll be fine. Your Ostelle is a good boat. That’s what you always say.”
“You’re making me nervous, Chaz.”
“I think I’m giving you confidence.”
I sighed. “Fine. But I’m bringing her down. Even Mr. Sarmiel can’t fly my Ostelle like I can. Riding those rented hoverbikes through the nearflow was like bowling with ping pong balls.”
“Good thing we have access to Pyras’s hoverbikes,” Chaz said. “The built-in cracklefields should help.”
I tossed Councilor Malwyn a hopeful look. “We can use those?”
We could, he said. As long as we avoided big floaters, fueled them up before we returned, and didn’t get blood on the seats. We made a fast, effortless trip through the nearflow that same night. Pyras’s hoverbikes, with their crackling blue spheres, deflected every rock and dust particle that came their way. When we arrived aboard the Ostelle, I called an all-hands meeting.
“We’re about to undertake a short but difficult journey,” I said. “We’re going through the nearflow.”
Gasps and murmurs.
“There’s a city down there,” I continued. “A city full of primitives who just want the opportunity to live their lives like you and me. We’re going to help them do that. The hostility between techsouls and primitives began long before any of us were born. It’s time to end it. It’s time to bring peace to our world by putting aside our grudges. Now, I’m not so foolish as to think harmony between our people is going to happen overnight. It’s a process. But that process has to start somewhere, and what better place than at the top? We’re going to free this world from Maclin’s dominat
ion and restore the royal bloodline to the throne. We’re going to win back the Regency.”
A cheer went up. I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I felt like a traitor to my own values, wanting the old Regency back in power. But as I had recently discovered, there can be no progress while chaos reigns.
After my speech, I pulled Mini-Max aside. “How are you feeling, buddy?”
Max shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Nervous? Maybe a little scared? That’s alright. It’s natural to be scared at a time like this. But remember: it’s not about what you’re feeling, it’s about how you let those feelings affect what you do. Actions make a person who they are. I want to get you back home to your family. But you’ve got to show me you’re ready for what’s ahead of you. There’s a great big world out there, and you’re going to rule the whole thing. Some important folks want to meet with you tonight. They’re going to support you, but they want to know you’ll support them in return.”
“They’re primitives, aren’t they?”
“Yeah.”
“What should I tell them?”
I studied him for a moment. “Your dad was pretty hard on you, wasn’t he?”
Max nodded.
“So was mine. A smack upside the head was the best advice he ever knew how to give me. You’re not my son, but if you were, I’d tell you to do what you know is right.”
“How do I know what’s right?”
“Everyone knows right from wrong. A lot of people just don’t pay attention.”
“Do you?”
I laughed. “Not as often as I should. When you become Regent, you’ll have to decide what you think is best for everyone, not just yourself. You have to think about your people first. It’s your responsibility. That’s why I’d never be any good at ruling the world. But you know something, Max? I think you will.”
From behind the wheel the next morning, I took one last look at my beauty. She was shiny and new in places, older and worn in others. The sails were furled, the hatches battened, all crew but the necessary deckhands shut away belowdecks. I looked overboard, down where the nearflow rushed past, a never-ending disharmony of stone and dust. Bringing my Ostelle through that storm went against my every inclination. Then again, so did all the helpful things I’d done for people since I first set foot in Pyras all those months ago.
“Make ready, Mr. Sarmiel.”
“Ready, Captain.”
“Everyone strapped in?”
“Strapped in, sir.”
“Hold onto your keisters.”
I eased the controls forward, moving with the wind. The skies ahead were clear, but we needed to pick up speed before we could descend. Anything could come along and block our path while we were accelerating.
I felt the steam engines quake under my demands as I pushed her forward. I imagined a collective cry from those below as they felt the boat move but couldn’t see where we were headed. They’d be praying to Leridote once the nearflow started pummeling us.
The quicker she went, the more I felt her struggle with the effort. I wasn’t sure I’d ever pushed her this hard before—not without wind in the sails to drive us, at least. Steam engines give you more power than turbines do, but it’s a deeper, fuller power; not the sort that fires you off like a rocket.
An uninhabited floater loomed ahead in the distance. I pushed the throttle as far as it would go. Full speed ahead, I almost shouted. I didn’t need to. Mr. Sarmiel tightened his grip on the railing. My eyes flicked back and forth between our path and the nearflow, the medallion filling me with its glowing acclivity. This was no hoverbike; the Ostelle was no Galeskimmer. She was big and heavy and cumbersome; it took time and foresight to run a proper maneuver with her.
The floater ahead was coming up fast. My Ostelle was still being outrun by the nearflow’s fast-moving traffic, but there was no more time to accelerate. We were a pancake waiting to be flattened. It was get out of the way or be pulverized.
I spun the wheel hard to port. With the medallion stretching out every instant like thread, nothing happened for what felt like a long time. The floater approached, and for a moment I was sure we would collide with it. The ship creaked, then pitched left like a diving falcon. The masts leaned, nicking the floater on their way down and narrowly avoiding a break. I caught the spinning wheel, eased back on the throttle, and kept her on a steady descent.
Rocks punched the hull like battering rams. The noise in the interior cabins must’ve been deafening. A heavy stone shot past my right shoulder and bounced off the mainmast, taking a splintery bite. The deckhands were crouching, arms thrown over their heads. Mr. Sarmiel stood tall and ordered the mast reinforced with a rope binding.
We descended into the nearflow’s thickest activity. Thanks to our speed, the larger rocks were only glancing off now. I kept pushing her downward, knowing every second counted.
That was when one of the engines stalled.
The loss of thrust jolted us to the right. A barrage of stone slammed the starboard hull as we swerved. Some ricocheted; others drove their sharp points between the boards. I pulled the wheel hard left, trying to compensate for the dearth of right-hand power. The bad engine spewed black smoke, which rushed forward to cloud the deck. That’s what I get for pushing her too hard.
I managed to straighten out, but we’d slowed to less than half speed. Each stone that struck carried the difference, landing like hail on dry leaves. Pieces of my beautiful boat began to disintegrate before my eyes. There was only one maneuver that was getting us out of this alive.
When I set the clinkers, we were already at such low altitude that the effect was muted at best. It wasn’t like dropping from high in the stream. Pure driftmetal runners want to go up; they want to find their point of equilibrium. The further they are from that, the fewer unused clinkers remain to force them down.
We fell, albeit slowly. I heard glass shatter as stones punctured the rear windows of my cabin, and was thankful Sable and Ezra were no longer inside. I thought of Thomas and Yingler, locked in the brig, and hoped they were both crapping their pants in terror.
With only one engine running, I couldn’t hold her straight for long. I eased off on the throttle to keep from going crooked. We were almost in the clear when a huge floater came along and smacked the boat’s underside, jarring the keel. If the center runner came loose, we were in for a long trip back the way we came. Our descent halted, our speed slowed to a crawl, we sat like a lame animal in a stampede, swept along and pummeled in the flow.
Stones cracked against the hull, taking pieces of it with them. The stern railing exploded as a heavy rock scraped over the deck, forcing me to dive out of the way. The rock slammed into the steering controls and ripped them free, wheel and all. I could only watch as it struck the mizzenmast and snapped it like a twig.
Rigging lines whipped the air as the mast toppled over, a great tree felled in a single blow. Sails unfurled; deckhands scrambled for cover. I crawled to the clinker switch panel, which was hanging onto the console by wires. I flipped the remaining few, engaging every last clinker available.
A floater knocked the boat sideways. We began a slow spin to the right. Another one battered the remaining steam engine. The vent blew open with an ear-piercing whistle—not as loud in the nearflow as it would’ve been otherwise. Bringing my Ostelle down here had been a huge mistake. I should’ve fought harder to get Pyras’s help. They had technology that could’ve made this whole thing smoother. I inhaled a deep breath, ready to scream at the top of my lungs for everyone to abandon ship.
Then we began to move.
Not windward or downward, or even upward. Pieces of the ship were crawling; its planks and boards, masts and handrails. Nerimund, I thought, looking around. There was no sign of the little guy on deck. He must be in the storage hold. Everything made of wood—which was most of the ship, to the exclusion of its lightweight metal decking—was holding itself together.
My Ostelle shrugged off the next few stones like a
horse shaking off flies. Slowly—slowly—the boat descended. As we left the thickest part of the nearflow, a haze of stinging dust washed over us. We settled in the quieter space beneath the storm. The boards shunted the stones stuck between them and stretched to mend themselves.
Sensing the calm, people began to emerge from belowdecks to survey the damage. She was a wreck, floating in place and completely disabled. There were few areas of the ship that hadn’t been touched by the storm, especially along the right side.
“Mr. Sarmiel. Hold her steady,” I said.
Sarmiel blinked at me, probably wondering with what controls he was supposed to hold her steady, but he remained as unflappable as ever. “Aye, sir.”
I rushed below, pushing my way past everyone and ignoring the innumerable questions directed at me. In the storage hold, I found Sable cradling Nerimund in her arms. The little duender was wooden no more, though my first thought was that he was heading back in that direction.
“Oh no,” I said, crouching beside them. “He hasn’t put himself back into a coma, has he?”
To my surprise, Sable wasn’t crying. She shook her head. “He’ll be okay this time, I think. It wasn’t bad.”
“It was about to be,” I said.
“We would’ve made it through fine if that steam engine hadn’t blown,” she pointed out.
“Probably.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Thank Leridote we’re still alive, and that our duender decided to save our keisters yet again. Handy thing to have around, a duender. When he wants to be.”
“He always wants to be. We’re not always easy to figure out, though.”
“Tell me about it. There are some people aboard this boat I’m still trying to figure out.”
She smirked. “The one thing he always seems to understand is when we’re in danger. They have a simpler way, duenders. They’re not so concerned with ownership or privilege. They hold life in the highest regard, and they make it their ambition to nurture it.”
“Thanks, Neri,” I said. “I owe you. Bigtime.”
“I owe you,” said Nerimund. “Bigtime.”