The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  Thoughts of Wensem and Little Wal drove me onward. No more killings. I was determined to stop these bastards. Peter Black's maneuverings to make me the trigger in his grand scheme would end here.

  My hurt knee banged into something hard that gonged low and loud in the tunnel. I dropped to the floor, seeing explosions of stars in my vision. I gripped my knee and rolled on the hard dry ground, biting my cheek to keep myself from screaming out as I waited for the pain to ease. My stomach twisted in knots. I huffed short quick breaths.

  When my knee eventually stopped howling, I felt blindly for what had sent me careening to the ground. A large metal box on wheels sat in the center of the chamber, filled with some sort of rough stone. Rail cars, of a sort at least. Intended to haul out the refuse as the diggers continued building their tunnel deep below the warrens of the previous city.

  I was losing count of how many times I had struggled to my feet recently, but I repeated the motions yet again and pushed my way along; hands held out blindly as I stepped, swung my bad leg, and stepped again. It felt like hours before I began to see the outline of my hands; my heart hammered a beat and I forced down a loud whoop. Light! Precious light from somewhere ahead! I had to pull myself back. Light, yes, but I could also hear voices up ahead, some stern, a few panicked, one loudly bellowing.

  A gunshot.

  It echoed around and behind me, rolling like thunder, engulfing me in its ripple of sound. More shouts and some screams of pain followed.

  More rail cars emerged from the gloom, black shadows large and lumpy, gradually becoming visible. Metal rusted to almost nothing, wheels forever locked. I stayed as low as my bum leg would let me. Scurrying between cars at an awkward, bent gait. My hands came away red with rust as I pushed from cart to cart and moved from one hiding spot to the next. They had to assume someone was coming after them. I met no Children in the tunnel, which meant they had either fled down some passage unknown to me, or they were waiting with others. However many were at the apex of the tunnel—fifteen or five thousand—they would all know Zilla was dead.

  The light up ahead intensified as I came to the slope's crest. It emanated from a massive bonfire on the tunnel's floor. The shadowed darkness behind me kept me hidden and safe. I smirked at this—a sentient shadow had nearly killed me. Now shadows protected me.

  Head low, I edged closer, moving as silently as my leg would allow. From a distance, I probably resembled a goose with a broken leg struggling to walk, I pushed and rolled and shuffled, trying to keep pressure off my knee.

  I could hear a multitude of voices over the crackle of the bonfire. Many of the rail cars that had lined the center of the old tunnel had been moved to huge piles to either side. The cleared carts turned the space into an enormous amphitheater the size of the Hotel Arcadia's lobby.

  People dressed in burgundy moved about, but the chanting had stopped. The massive crate I had left in the caravansara sat to one side of the makeshift space. It was presided over by about ten figures in dusky red robes and squat birettas, and an eleventh I couldn't make out.

  Ducking behind a cart a decent way from the edge, I tried to count the number of people I could see. It was mostly Children, and neither Wensem or Little Waldo were among them. The final count was probably fifty, maybe sixty if I was being generous. A decent gathering, but not the "ten-thousand young" a part of me had expected.

  They came in various shapes, sizes, and races but they all wore the ruddy red of Children. Pan's flute sewn onto their arms, tattooed onto their necks and faces, scarred into their naked chests. Six bodies lay in a line on the floor, blood pooling around their heads. I recognized them as my escaped captors. Clearly their retreat hadn't won them any sympathy from the rest of the cultists.

  A few of the bigger and burlier of the group stood near the edge of the amphitheater, rifles, clubs, and knives held white-knuckled in their meaty hands. The one closest to me picked his nose as he peered out into the gloom where I now hid.

  Behind the gathered figures rose a huge machine, several stories tall, a gargantuan cylinder lying on its side. It emerged from the gloom like the prow of a ship cutting through a fog and occupied the entirety of the far end of the tunnel. The tracks I had been following ran through the middle of the cleared space, under the bonfire, and emerged from the other side before disappearing into the machine's belly.

  I had come to the end of the tunnel and had found the tunneling machine. It had seen better days. I could imagine it during its heyday, before the Aligning, when its crew worked through its various floors building the tunnel around them as the machine chewed through the earth.

  The scaffolding that wove through and around the great machine was rusted and collapsed at points, and vines wove in and out of rusted metal walls like worms through soil, covering extended steel beams that looked on the verge of collapse.

  This made sense to me, the gathering here in the end of a tunnel beneath the city. I knew little about the Firsts; my knowledge was child-like compared to the lore Hagen and Samantha knew. I remembered my uncles trying to scare me with tales of the Sleeper; they spoke of his dwelling place deep within the earth. A fat monstrosity that required pale servitors to bring it food like a gluttonous ant queen, its will enacted by sentient blobs of goo. The tales had always fascinated me more than they frightened me. The creature sounded more helpless than scary.

  Yes, this place made sense.

  A dwelling under the Sunk, hundreds of feet in the bedrock. Away from the buzz of Lovat. It made perfect sense. This tunnel, as immense as it was, was the perfect birthing room for a monstrosity. The perfect lair. I could see Children dragging victims down below to sacrifice them before their god.

  Inching even closer, I tried to avoid the gaze of the nearest thug as I tried to catch a glimpse of Wensem or his son, but saw neither. A few figures moved among the rusted catwalks of the great drilling machine, but I didn't see my partner among them. Had the Children already dispatched them? The thought sickened me. My mind turning into a bonfire, blazing with hatred. Should I rush into the throng? I had only five shots in the Judge, but it was clear that whatever had happened here earlier had been interrupted. Most of the Children seemed to be waiting for something.

  Then he appeared.

  Peter Black.

  Pan.

  A lanky maero with a small face pushed the old man in his wheelchair. It was him. Two dark horns rose from his head through a mane of greying hair. He still wore the suit jacket I had seen before and was still shirtless underneath. A blanket still lay across his lap.

  It was all I could do not to rush the bastard. A short distance from the crate, the maero stopped pushing and bent down to whisper something in Peter Black's ear. The old man smiled that patron's smile and then patted the hand of the maero before pushing himself up and out of the chair.

  Peter Black rose and walked to the bonfire.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Gone was the weak grandfatherly act I had seen at Black's offices, as much a lie as his supposed disability. He moved at a strut. Chest out. His green eyes sparkled wickedly. A grin was plastered on his face, splitting his silver goatee in two. His lower half was goat, his legs bending back from the knees and then jutting forward. His feet were black cloven hooves that matched his horns.

  Beneath his open coat he was naked, and seemingly proud of the fact. He strutted with the arrogance of a teenage boy. His prick—absurdly proportioned—dangled between his legs, half-obscured in the long tangles of black hair that covered his lower half.

  Peter Black—Puck, Pan, Black Goat, Baphomet, whatever name he went by—was in his element, and I hated him for it.

  With a theatrical turn, he spun to face the crowd. Arms extended, his coat flapping behind him like a cape. His back to the bonfire, he raised his hands, silencing the group surrounding him. "My friends! My family! My Children!"

  The cultists cheered with wanton abandon. All I wanted to do was shoot him. Instead, and maybe to my credit, I waited. My goals we
re still very clear in my mind: make sure Wensem and Little Waldo were all right. If Wensem and his son were okay, then I would focus on rescuing them before I killed Peter Black. If Wensem was dead…I honestly didn't know what I would do. I hated the possibility. I'd likely try to massacre the lot of them.

  "My Thousand Young!" Black continued. "I apologize for the delay. Things were underway, and I know it is frustrating when plans don't run smoothly. We know this is a fallible world. A world without direction. Without leadership. It rusts around us just as this machine behind us rusts away. But..." he paused, and a hush descended over the throng. "We know we can restore it to perfection!"

  They loved him for it.

  "It seems while we have had to make a few more sacrifices this night, things are straightening out. I can assure you the Mother will be most gracious even with these delays. She understands better than any of us, better than myself, how rusted this world is; her own family, her mother and father, her brothers and sisters, and her aunts and uncles have been driven back. Forced into dreams. They slumber in deep and distant places."

  He let the words hang. Watching the crowd.

  "But..." he finally said, his voice almost a whisper, letting the cultists hang off the cliff of his words, "This is only temporary. The stars are right once again and they can reawaken! Their bones were dried up, but now my Children, now, they can LIVE AGAIN!"

  The crowd roared.

  After a time Black hushed them. "My Cybill will reward us for our sacrifices. Reward us and rain blessings down upon us. Secret knowledge. Life eternal. Power. POWER! Believe me, my Children, when I say she will be most thankful. She will reward each and every one of you for your service!"

  He grinned the sadistic grin of a madman and again waited until the cheers died down before continuing his speech. He was good at this.

  "There was an incident with the Guardian."

  Boos.

  "Now, now, those responsible have faced the repercussions of their failure," Black said, motioning to the corpses. The crowd turned on the bodies, hacking with blades, kicking with feet, punching with balled fists. Black watched them with pride as he spoke, "Rest assured, he will be captured. There are, after all, only so many places he could go."

  Laughter now. The crowd smiled up at their leader and nodded with blood-spattered faces.

  I shrank back. The irrational part of my mind was wondering if Peter Black knew I was here, right now. Wondering if this whole show was for me.

  "These are the sacrifices the Mother wants. The substances to awaken her!" Black turned and looked over his shoulder, calling out, "Talc! Hübner!"

  Two thick dauger stepped out from the crowd. One wore a mask of dark black material while the other wore a pale white one. Both carried shotguns. Both looked twice my size.

  "Fetch our Guardian. Fetch him and bring him here. The hour is almost upon us and he is—after all—our guest of honor."

  The room erupted into more cheers. A few Children tore their clothes, and knives and hatchets stained with blood were waved about. I shuddered and sank behind the cart, trying to calm my nerves and stop the pounding in my chest.

  When I could look again, I saw the two thugs advance from Black and pass through the crowd. Talc and Hübner moved like seasoned killers, soldiers ready to die for their cause. Their knotted arms of muscle flexed with each step, and the dull lights of the tunnel caused their skin to gleam. Tattoos of skulls and fire and dark writing I couldn't read wove their way up exposed flesh. Fanatics. Two killers as dedicated to this madness as Zilla. Did Black really have thousands like these at his disposal or was that just a tale? A few days ago I would have dismissed that notion, but now…I wasn't so sure.

  Carefully watching around the edge of the cart I followed Talc and Hübner as they moved away from the crowd, disappearing into the half-lit murk beyond the circle of light. I wondered if Samantha had been able to take Hagen back to Saint Mark's. I couldn't be sure. Hagen had been in a bad state when I had left them, and as tough as Samantha was, Hagen outweighed her. She was going to have a tough time getting him up and into the elevator. The Judge shifted in my waistband, reminding me of its presence, urging me to do what my rational mind wanted to avoid.

  No more innocent deaths.

  Not on me.

  Not at my feet.

  Talc and Hübner wouldn't make it to Sam and Hagen. They couldn't.

  One last glance at the circle of cultists and I assured myself that Wensem wasn't to be found. Head down and trying to be as silent as my leg would allow I slipped away from my vantage point and began picking through the labyrinth of waist-high carts as Black dove back into his speech with the fervor of a politician.

  The going was faster than the coming. The thugs who had been watching the shadows as I had approached had turned and joined the crowd, ignoring the possibility of attack. Black's loud, echoing voice and the cheers from the Children covered up the sounds of my shuffling. I was able to relax a bit as I limped after the two masked dauger.

  Neither Talc nor Hübner were moving very fast. They made small talk and picked through the overturned carts, shotguns held relaxed at their waists. They were both tall for dauger—nearly as big as Wensem—and both had thick shoulders and wide upper bodies. Both probably lifted weights and worked as doormen or bouncers when they weren't helping a bloodthirsty cult hunt me down.

  I edged closer, grateful for their slow pace.

  "How long you think we got?" the one with the darker mask asked.

  "Well, they still have to fetch that maero and his kid from the belly of the tunneler. He wasn't coming easy, mind you. Broke Nightingale's neck and Smith probably won't walk ever again."

  "Carter's cross."

  Pale mask nodded. "I have no idea how the hell they got him down here. Why they didn't just do him in his house?"

  "I don't know the exact reasons. Something to do with the ritual. Father was talking about it with the priests. After those cravens showed up."

  "So they brought him here?"

  "They did, before the Guardian actually. He's been trouble ever since. Was tied up by the bonfire before he broke his bonds, threw the priest holding his son into the fire, and disappeared into the tunneler."

  "Which was how Nightingale was killed and Smith was hurt?"

  "Yeah. He wouldn't come out. Father eventually sent Bent and Dornan in after him. They should be able to talk sense into that lump of a head. By the Firsts, I hate maero."

  My foot banged against an empty cart and the dauger with the darker mask spun around, bringing the shotgun up to his shoulder. I dropped down, prostrate on the cold floor of the tunnel.

  "What is it?" asked a voice.

  "I heard something," said the other. I couldn't tell which. If it wasn't for the masks, I'd have a difficult time telling them apart.

  "Hear what? The roar of the siblings? Father's speech? I'm angry we're missing it."

  "We have a job to do. An important one. If we pull it off we'll do what Zilla and her crew never could. There should be rewards in that."

  "I'll tell you what, blessed or not, I am glad that shadow bitch is dead. She was nothing but trouble. If she hadn't screwed it up we wouldn't be tramping after the Guardian like this."

  "She was a priestess," the other said, his voice a rasp of shocked reverence.

  "I don't care if she was the bloody Mother herself. She was cocky and arrogant. Everything was a show. It all had to be done just right. Remember when we worked for ol' Palladios? Two shots to the back of the skull. Leave the gun. Maybe clear out a register. Walk away. Lovat Central would be left scratching their heads."

  A chuckle, then, "Yeah. I miss those days."

  Silence settled between them and they withdrew, and I began to follow. Their forms grew more and more murky as the darkness swallowed us. Eventually one of them broke the silence, "Palladios was different. Those jobs didn't have the ramifications this does…or the rewards. Besides, none of the Precious Families are Father."

>   "Look, I know Father is upset by her loss, but I say we're better off without the umbra. The way she did that painter. Carter's cross, Talc. What a mess."

  The conversation had brought both dauger to a stop. Behind me, the crowd cheered as Black made some point I couldn't hear. I pulled the Judge from my jeans and held it close. Making sure all chambers were loaded. I'd only get one chance at this. Both of these dauger were armed, and their masks gave them some protection. I couldn't afford to miss.

  They kept talking as I eased from behind a cart and crawled along the floor, dragging my hurt leg behind me. I moved around behind the one with the pale mask, Talc I believed, and paused for a moment. Both were too engaged in conversation to notice.

  "What about the trinket man? The one they brought down with the Guardian."

  "A liability. Yes, I know. What about him? You heard the report. There was some shooting, no one knows who, but at least two were killed. After the siblings brought the word to the body, Father immediately killed the power to the elevator. Odds are he's stuck down here as well."

  Their conversation had given me enough time to edge closer to the dauger with the pale mask. Only one cart sat between him and myself. I pulled my good leg underneath me and coiled it like a spring, ready to push up at a moment's notice.

  "There's an unknown here," said Pale Mask.

  The darker masked one crossed his arms and looked annoyed. "What's the unknown?"

  "Who was shooting? I thought we had taken the Guardian and his friend unarmed and brought them bound, as custom dictate—"

  The crowd exploded behind us, shaking the tunnel with its roar. Pale Mask never finished his sentence. Summoning all my strength, I pushed up on my good leg and leveled the Judge at the back of the dauger's head, pulling the trigger without a second thought.

  "Talc! Look ou—" the darker mask—the one named Hübner—shouted.

  The Judge issued its sentence.

  Fire belched from the barrel.