by J. C. Staudt
Blaylocke managed a grunt, but it was all he could do to free himself from Yingler’s grip.
Yingler dragged him to the edge. “Sure. I’ll let him go.”
My plasma shot opened a sliver in Blaylocke’s cheek as it tore past him and embedded itself in Yingler’s throat. I sprang to my feet. Yingler gurgled, leaning over the precipice and bringing Blaylocke with him. They fell.
I dove and caught Blaylocke by the ankle. Yingler let go and tumbled into the nearflow. I was clinging to the floater’s edge, holding Blaylocke upside down by one foot, when Chaz jumped in to help me pull him to safety.
“You know you’re not a very good shot,” Blaylocke said a minute later, wiping blood off his cheek. “What if you’d missed?”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “That was a risk I was willing to take.”
“Why did you try to save him?”
“I guess I thought it was possible that Yingler wasn’t a total asshole.”
“I guess you were wrong.”
“No I wasn’t. Neither was Sable. We gave him one last chance. He proved he wasn’t worthy of it.”
The two primitives nodded. A moment passed.
“Anyway,” I said, “we’d better get back to Pyras. We’ve got a convoy to fly.”
“You can hold the hovercell door closed on the way back so the inside doesn’t get ruined,” Blaylocke said.
I smirked at him. “This will be the first and last time I ever take orders from you, Blaylocke.” I headed for the hovercell, but Blaylocke stopped me. I turned back, winds swirling.
“Thanks for saving my life,” he said.
I shrugged. “You’ve saved mine a few times and I’ve never thanked you.”
He waited, expecting more.
I raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I was going to start now, did you?”
When Chaz finished repairing the cracklefields on the hoverbikes, we returned to Pyras. With only a few hours until liftoff, I made the rounds on my Ostelle to be certain the crew was in place and the boat was ready for another trip through the nearflow. Fortunately, we’d have help going up this time. My parents, who’d been itching to leave Pyras since the moment we arrived, cornered me as I emerged from belowdecks.
“You can’t do this, son,” said my dad. “It’s not natural.”
“To help people in need?” I said. “How is that not natural?”
“These primitives don’t need you. We don’t need them in the stream shaking things up either. Everything ought to stay the way it is.”
“Everything isn’t the way it is,” I said. “Maclin rules the world.”
“We’ve been following the news from up skyward,” said Mom. “We think Maclin has done a fine job in the Regent’s place so far. They’ve got a whole group of folks making the rules now, not just one man telling everybody how it is. Don’t you think that’s a better way of doing things? Sounds like people are warming up to them.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “The same people who fought the robots tooth and nail when they came in are now fine with them being around?”
“Well…” Dad said. “Maybe not fine. More like… getting used to.”
“Maclin isn’t going to do a thing about primitive rights. They’re not going to do a thing about anything. They’re the same as the old Regency, only worse. I’m sorry you don’t like this, but it’s happening. Things are already set in motion.” I pushed past them and went to the Kingsholme to meet with Chaz.
“You’re just in time,” Chaz said when I entered the workshop.
“For what?”
“Your activator. When it’s time to launch, use this.” He handed me a small cylinder with a flip top.
I unlatched it, then flicked it open to uncover a small red button. “This looks dangerous,” I said. “Are you sure you want me holding it?”
“I’ve got one too,” he said. “It’s got an emergency failsafe. It’ll override every safety we have in place and launch the drop pods. All you have to do to prime the override is press that button three times within three seconds, then hold the button down for a further three seconds. I recommend keeping the top closed and latched at all times.”
“I feel really good about our chances,” I said. “We’ve got this in the bag.”
He gave me a look. “That’s what you said about the Secant’s Clarity. And about finding a crew on Mallentis. And about invading Roathea. And about the Seskamode bank heist. And about—”
“Alright, alright. I’ll hold onto this.” I stuffed it into a pocket. “When’s launch time?”
“Half an hour.”
Every airship in Pyras was ready for liftoff that afternoon, a mass exodus the likes of which I have never witnessed before or since. Several hundred primitives would remain in the city through the coming years to keep up its essential infrastructure, curate the Kingsholme, and work the gravstone mines. The rest—thousands upon thousands of others—were migrating to the stream, putting their faith in Maxwell Baloncrake, Jr. and our ability to cripple Maclin Automation in one swift stroke.
One aerial vessel in particular was the key to this entire enterprise. Dreamed up by Chaz and yours truly, I had affectionately named this contraption the Armageddon Ring; a circle of scaffolded steel housing a dozen projectiles loaded with gravstone and high explosive. The projectiles themselves were based on the rocket getaway pencils beneath the Regent’s throne room. They were designed to launch downward and penetrate deep before delivering their devastating payloads. All we had to do was lift the Ring several dozen miles into the air and fly it across the skyward realm. No big deal.
The convoy of airships began to leave Pyras: blimps, dirigibles, hot air balloons, prop planes, hovers, copters, thopters, and a few homespun aircraft unlike anything I’d seen before. My Ostelle was the lone streamboat in the convoy, since the whole driftmetal/gravstone interaction made streamboats too risky for regular use in Pyras.
When the Armageddon Ring’s multi-cell gasbags were inflated and the airspace above her was clear, we lifted off. She was a ponderous thing to steer, heavy and delicate. Each missile pod had its own protective shell to safeguard its intricate electrical systems. Eight propeller fans around the Ring’s outer edge allowed a skilled pilot to control her like a drone. Right now, that skilled pilot was me, and I was controlling her from the deck of my Ostelle while Mr. Sarmiel ran the boat. If the weather got bad or something got damaged, we could dock the ship to the Ring for repairs.
Dozens of shieldwall hovers went up ahead of the main convoy, small metal boxes with huge steel sheets attached to one side. When they were in place, they activated their cracklefield generators to form a temporary barrier across the nearflow, giving Pyras’s smaller craft a way through. The barrier was by no means all-encompassing, but it did provide us with a huge swath of clear airspace.
Thus, the full strength of Pyras ventured into the great beyond, toward a new life and a new home. Once we cleared the nearflow and rose above the clouds, the going got easier. Chaz and I operated the Armageddon Ring in turns; when no one was able to pilot the Ring, we lashed it to my Ostelle and towed it behind us.
The trip to Roathea only took a few days, but it felt like much longer. I wasn’t speaking to my parents over our disagreement about Maclin, nor had I spoken with Sable since our argument. That made Thorley, Eliza, Ezra, and Nerimund awkward company by extension. Rindhi was pissed at me for keeping Thomas locked up, and Thomas probably hated my guts by now for the same reason. Blaylocke was aboard a different transport ship with his wife. That made Chaz my only friend. Which I wouldn’t have minded, except he was getting more anxious and irritable as we approached our destination.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked him the day we arrived in Roathean airspace.
He stopped his tinkering, but didn’t look at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you haven’t been yourself lately,” I said. “Something’s bothering you. Don’t deny it.”
; “Long hours pushing the Ring around,” he said.
“That’s not it. You’ve got something real on your mind.”
He sighed. “Okay then. I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“Everything. We’ve got thousands of people up here. We’ve got this huge, intricate device to discharge without anyone noticing. Our target is a reinforced island protected by thick walls and artillery emplacements. We’ve done some crazy stuff together, Mull, but this is far and away the craziest. I can’t shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen.”
“You’re probably not wrong,” I told him. “Don’t lose hope now. We’re so close. I can’t promise everything will go right. But I can promise that whatever happens, it will have been worth the struggle. We can’t win this thing if we don’t put up a fight.”
There was a knock on the open door frame. I looked over to see Braylan Jigson standing in the doorway. “Pardon the interruption, Cap.”
“Think nothing of it. What’s up?”
“We’re almost in position over Maclin. Not too close to Roathea, as instructed.”
“Excellent. Make sure we’re ready to launch by nightfall,” I said.
“Uh… about that. You might want to come topside, Cap. There’s a storm coming in. Ring’s blowing around pretty bad out there.”
Great. “Thank you, Jigson. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Chaz was worried. “See? By speaking my fears, I’ve brought them into existence.”
“Oh, please. That’s a bunch of baloney. Nothing’s going to happen.”
We headed up top. I felt bad for Chaz, but I felt worse for myself. I’d gone to the trouble of calming him down only to have his fears reignited by the threat of a little storm.
When we came topside, I discovered that the storm was anything but little. My Ostelle was surrounded by a tube of thick, swirling cloud marked with streaks of gray and black. It felt like being inside a slow-moving tornado. The Armageddon Ring floated a dozen yards off our port side, cables straining through the knotholes as the wind pulled her away from us. None of the other aircraft in our convoy were in sight.
Mr. Sarmiel started to say something when lightning struck the Ring’s steel scaffolding. A pair of rigging lines whipped free. The balloon lifted, and the Ring began to tilt.
“Haul her in,” I shouted. “Haul her in. We’ve got to repair that line.”
“We’ll never pull off a targeted launch while she’s skewed to one side like that,” Chaz said.
“I know. I’ll fix it.”
The cables whizzed through the knotholes as the crew turned the winches. I shouldered a fresh coil of rope and moved to the gate, ready to step across to the Ring when she came close enough. I wanted to look down, but I didn’t let myself.
“I’ll do it,” Chaz said.
“No, it’s fine. I got it.”
“I have to check the guidance panels to make sure the lightning didn’t fry anything.”
“I’ll check them,” I said.
Chaz didn’t argue further.
When the Ring came within reach, I hopped across and tottered on the outer beam for a split second before steadying myself. My first thought was, Why didn’t I harness myself in? Or at least tie a safety rope around my waist? Because I was an idiot, that was why. Because I was too concerned with being the big brave hero of Chaz’s fears to take precautions against falling to my death.
The worst possible place I could’ve looked was down at the mottled, brooding tapestry beneath my feet. Chaz yelled something at me, but I was mesmerized. With my boots seesawing over the narrow steel bar, it was impossible not to think of how far I’d fall if I let go; how many innumerable inches, feet, miles. From this height, there was no landing I’d ever survive.
I turned back. “Toss me a safety line.”
Chaz cupped his ear. “What?”
“Throw me a rope so I can tie myself off.”
He nodded, then fastened a rigging line to the mainmast. He fashioned a lasso from the other end and threw it out to me. Careful to keep my balance, I slung the rope over my shoulders and cinched it tight around my chest. I gave him the thumbs-up, then stepped across the scaffolding to the Ring’s inner beam, holding the rigging lines as I went. I shuffled around the nearest missile pod and inched my way toward the outer edge of the Ring again.
The snapped rigging line was just a few feet away, fluttering in the wind. The tube was blocking my view of the Ostelle’s deck now, and I was too far away to tell Chaz to give me some slack. I took hold of the rigging and leaned out over empty space, stretching my arm toward the free-hanging line. It wasn’t enough; my reach was a good two feet shy.
I leaned out as far as I dared, feeling the weight of my body shift on the steel bar beneath. My stomach lurched as the whole Ring began to tilt with me. I hung on and reached. One of those telescoping mechanical hand augments would’ve come in handy right about now. Yeah, I’m punny, even in the face of death.
I leaned out until the rope around my chest went taut. I glanced back to find it snagged on the bottom of the missile pod. Unhooking it was going to be a job. The wind abated for a split second, bringing the rope so close it brushed the tips of my fingers. I cursed and made a futile grab for it. That was when I slipped.
Slipping wasn’t the worst part, though. The worst part was what I saw next.
11
When the sole of my boot slipped off the steel scaffolding, I thanked Leridote for that rope around my chest. Instead of free-falling off the edge of the Ring, I slammed spine-first into the side. The impact jarred my back and left me dangling, but I managed to spin myself around and climb back up.
I was on my hands and knees, looking down through the scaffolding, when up through the storm clouds came a swarm of insect-like mechanica with razor-like fins and sharpened propeller blades. They were drones, but I’d never seen their like before. I scrambled to my feet—carefully—and inched around the missile pod to get closer to my Ostelle.
“Something’s coming from below,” I shouted. “Robots.”
Chaz leaned over the railing. Mr. Sarmiel and half the deckhands did the same. Their eyes widened at the sight. Fat raindrops began to fall.
Chaz looked up at me. “What should we do?”
“I don’t know. Those things don’t look friendly,” I shouted back.
They weren’t.
When the first razor-fin buzzed past the Armageddon Ring’s balloon and tore the outer covering, it became clear they were up to no good. Did Maclin know we were coming? I wondered. Or did they detect us somehow? Are they really this good at thwarting anyone who tries to come against them? They must’ve been, to have lasted so long and become so powerful.
More razor-fins struck the scaffolding, scraping the metal, pinging off, mangling themselves and falling away like discarded toys. Some recovered and swooped in for another run. They were the size of watermelons—too small to make easy targets. Plus, I’d wasted all my throbweb darts keeping Chaz and Blaylocke off my tail during Yingler’s unsuccessful rescue. I began shooting plasma at them, aware that a missed shot in the wrong direction could have dire consequences. Even with the medallion’s help, the flitting insectoids were hard to hit.
They began to fly at the balloon, slashing at the outer envelope to their own detriment, slipping on wet patches or tumbling out of sight as they sustained damage. They were the most willfully self-destructive pieces of tech I’d ever seen. The balloon’s envelope was thick rubber-coated ripstop nylon, harder to tear than the weaker canvas stuff. The ballonets beneath the envelope were just as tough, but the repeated assaults of dozens of razor-fins soon began to take their toll.
When the first of the gasbags burst, the Ring dropped several feet, separating my boots from the bar on which I was standing and giving me that fluttery feeling in my stomach. I caught myself, crying out in surprise, and waited for the apparatus to level out.
“Chaz, how close are we to launch?” I shouted.
“We’re right above Maclin now,” he said. “All we have to do is stabilize the rig and check the guidance panels to make sure there are no electrical shorts.”
“What if there are?”
“Any number of bad things could happen,” Chaz said.
I bent my legs to let a suicidal razor-fin hurtle past. “Hate to break it to you, but bad things are already happening.”
“What are we going to do about the robots?” he asked.
“Ignore them,” I said. “Let’s concentrate on arming the rig.”
Lightning sizzled through nearby clouds, standing my hair on end. I pulled the detonator from my pocket and flipped off the cover. The shiny red button called to me. Shiny red buttons always call to me.
“Don’t do it, Mull,” Chaz said. “She’s not ready yet.”
“Let her out,” I shouted.
“What did you say?”
“I said… let her out. Unlock the winches and give the cables some slack. After the launch, you can pull me back in.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Chaz yelled back. “Come in now.”
Wind brushed my hair from my eyes. Razor-fins zipped around me like killer bees. “I can’t,” I said. “The rope’s snagged.”
“Unsnag it.”
“It’s caught on the bottom of the missile tube. Trust me, Chaz. I know what I’m doing.”
“You never know what you’re doing.”
“I put up a good front though, don’t I?” I lifted the detonator. “Mr. Sarmiel?”
“Aye, Cap?”
“Release the cables.”
Sarmiel looked at Chaz, then at the crew, then back at me. For the first and only time since he’d been in my service, Sarmiel questioned my orders. “What was that you say, Cap?”
“You heard me, Sarmiel.”
He hesitated. Cleared his throat. “Release the cables.”
Braylan Jigson and Gulliver Bernwell unlocked the winches. The cables whizzed through the knotholes as the wind carried me and the Armageddon Ring away from my Ostelle. She looked beautiful, my boat, against the backdrop of that roiling sky.