The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  I leveled the Judge at him a second time.

  "Look, B-bell…." Black stammered. "Look.…"

  With my free fist, I slammed the big green button on the panel, and somewhere in the heart of the tunneler, the machine roared to life. The floor quaked around us.

  Black's mouth dropped open. He understood what I was trying to do, and he was afraid it might work.

  I was going to collapse the Humes tunnel.

  "You killed my friends," I said, and I pointed the gun at his face. The room was small, but large enough that he couldn't lunge at me and knock the weapon from my hand. Dust was filling the air around us, setting in like a morning fog. A conveyor outside the window tried to move, but it was too far seized by rust and instead began tearing itself to pieces.

  Black looked to the self-destruction, then back to me.

  "I d-did what I...n-needed to," he stammered as I pulled the hammer back on the Judge. The click filled me with confidence, and Black began pissing himself. "She's my WIFE!"

  I shook my head.

  No.

  The great machine swayed and I heard the sound of splitting rocks somewhere around me. Black looked up at the ceiling, and whimpered.

  "Children? Innocents?" I shouted over the sounds of the machines and the cracking stone.

  "Mister Bell...Waldo...Wal...."

  "It doesn't work like that. Not in this world!"

  "Wal, please...j-just listen," Black yelled. The room around us shifted slightly and he stumbled against the wall, nearly slipping on his own blood.

  "No more listening. It's over, Black."

  "I can explain," he shouted holding one hand out in a pleading gesture. It was pitiful. A naked old satyr, covered in his own blood from the waist down, pleading for his life while the world around him crumbled.

  Dying machines groaned around us, drowning out Cybill's angry bellowing. Somewhere I heard—or felt—something rumble as it tried to continue its quest started generations earlier. Below the conveyor, I saw a mechanical arm move an arched piece of tunnel and try to stamp it into place. The cement form shattered as it collided with the exposed rock. Ignoring its failure, the machine continued lifting another piece of tunnel lining, slamming it upward. The second piece shattered like the first. The arm didn't stop.

  A girder collapsed somewhere in the distance, along with a whole catwalk. The tunneler twisted intensely, and the window shattered, sending waves of glass cascading outward. I felt the ground around the machine begin to shake. The integrity of the tunnel giving way.

  So much dust.

  I hoped my friends were all right.

  Black—bloody and mortally wounded—rushed me, head down, like a billy goat charging a rival. He was slow. Too much blood loss. Too much arrogance. I shifted, throwing him into the wall at my back. He groaned, but didn't go down. Spinning slowly, he stared at me with hate-filled eyes.

  I didn't wait for another attack. I fired the Judge a second time, and Black's kneecap shattered. He screamed in pain. He scrambled out of the way as I aimed the gun at him a third time. The Judge's cylinder clicked into place.

  We were only feet apart from one another, his back to the broken window.

  Outside, the tunneler continued its work, destroying itself as it chugged on, slamming ancient stone against far more ancient stone and shattering it in the process.

  Water was streaming in from somewhere, and I saw the dust and rocks collapsing as the dying machine threw itself into its work. Structural beams that ran the length of the tunneler's tube form twisted and broke. Parts that supported the Humes tunnel for thousands of years collapsed under the weight of stone. Somewhere in the distance, I heard screams.

  Black twitched like he was going to rush me again, and the Judge barked in protest. My finger pulled the trigger before my brain could even issue the command. The slug erupted from its chamber.

  Peter Black's eyes widened.

  His face froze in a mix of shock and anger.

  The slug caught him full in the chest and lifted him up and out the window, throwing him into the workings of the tunneler.

  The world moved in slow motion as he fell. His body—dead or alive, I could not tell—was caught in the arm as it pushed upward to lay another piece of the unfinished tunnel into place. It slammed against the rocks, and Peter Black—Pan, Puck, The Black Goat with a Thousand Young—disappeared in a spray of mist that was part liquid, part solid, and utterly dead.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  For a moment I just stood there.

  Peter Black was gone. Pan was gone.

  Dead.

  It was hard to comprehend, but it seemed like it should be the end. Music rises. Fade to black. Yet, I was left just standing there in the control room.

  I was broken. It hurt to breathe. My knee was shouting at me. My arm hurt. My nose bled, and I could feel the stinging cuts along my arms and face.

  My stomach growled and it made me laugh.

  I stood there, tucking the Judge into a jacket pocket.

  Around me the world broke apart. Rock rained down as the tunnel collapsed. The tunneler in which I stood thrashed about, breaking itself against the ageless stone it had once bullied into submission.

  I smiled, oddly proud.

  My idea worked, in a way: the tunneler was too old to work properly. Its gears, flywheels, and hydraulics were seized. Permanently frozen by age, rust, and rot. The energy being fed to them was very real and operated with or without the machine's consent. It built pressure, it forced the machine onward in a herky-jerky mimicry of its original design.

  Lines burst and the structure of the whole machine twisted in place as its cutting teeth tried to work against the ancient stone. I heard pops and saw streams of sparks as the brilliant white lights exploded and power panels burst. A hiss of steam, followed by a thrumming boom as a boiler or a hydraulic line ruptured. The sound of metal grinding against stone was so loud, the rest of the world was drowned out.

  I saw Cybill.

  Much of the tunneler had already collapsed, and her great twisted form writhed a hundred or so yards away. The bonfire that warmed her to life was embers now, partially drowned in the rising water. Her nightmarish form thrashed about as her massive, foggy mind realized what was happening.

  A few of her great eyes turned their focus on me. The weird hourglass irises shrank in the light. Her hate was obvious. So similar to that of her fallen husband.

  Cybill's great maw, ringed by the boney beak, opened into a roar, but I was deaf to it. It was pointless, and she knew it. A tantrum. An angry fit.

  She lurched toward the tunneler, toward me, as if she could stop the inevitable. It made me smile, which I hoped only angered her more.

  Tentacle arms as big around as an ox pulled the tunneler's backside apart, bringing more parts of the tunnel down. Rocks fell like rain with each swipe. She pulled her bulk into the back of the machine, howling as mangled girders punctured her yellow flesh. She tried desperately to stop the machine, so intent on finishing its job that it was destroying the space it once created.

  Cybill was too slow, too seized by her years of slumber to get to me, to stop the tunneler. Bigger rocks above broke free and fell. First one tentacle was pinned, then another. She writhed and tried to pull free as more rocks crumbled down. With one last scream she shouted at me, her mouth a wide and silent hole.

  My control room shuddered and slumped forward, and it was all I could do to not fall out. When I regained my footing, I looked out to see Cybill staring at me. All her eyes were focused on me as I crouched by the broken window in the small control center at the heart of her undoing.

  The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat of a moment, a half breath.

  "I got you, you bitch."

  The stone that crushed her was massive. Four, maybe five times her size. Forced down from the weight of the Sunk above it. Her scream was silenced with a pounding finality. Behind the stone, water rushed in, filling the space. Drowning the Humes tunnel.
r />   I was lost.

  I knew it.

  I accepted it.

  Leaning against the wall of buttons, I hoped my end was swift.

  A man ain't nothing without his name. My old man would be pleased. My name would be restored. I smiled. I thought of my friends.

  Hagen's nervous drumming of the spurs along his knuckles played in my memories. It was odd how fate had thrown us together, and how willing he had been to see it through with me.

  I jumped as part of the tunnel slammed into the top of the small control room. I saw a dent in the ceiling where the rock had landed. It wouldn't be much longer now.

  More water was rushing in—torrents of it—swallowing up the lower half of the tunneler. Its color was turning from a rushing white to a churning red as it mixed with the rust and blood.

  Wensem would escape with Little Waldo. I knew it. There was a reason he and I were partners. I felt sad. I'd miss walking the roads of the territories with him, guiding whatever caravan needed help. Bell Caravans would be more than fine in his hands. He'd take care of the company. Build it into the caravan empire of which we often spoke. He'd look after my folks. He'd make sure they were okay.

  As more rock rained down, my last thoughts were of Samantha leading her brother to safety. Her instant trust in me. The bravery she showed following us into this tunnel. How she saved us both from Zilla's straight razor. It was a debt I'd never be able to repay. I closed my eyes and thought of her smile, her dark eyes, the curve of her chest and her hips. The spurs near her temples, and the small ones jutting from her chin. The way she would tilt her head as she read some tome of forgotten knowledge, and the occasional glance she would cast in my direction. Carter's cross, she was beautiful. It was a shame I'd never be able to take her to dinner. I knew a few places she might enjoy.

  My stomach growled again. I really wanted—

  A wall of cold water struck me in the chest, pinned me to the wall of buttons, and then sucked me out of the small control room as it flooded the Humes tunnel. Heavy stone slammed against my back and my skull. I struggled against the current, but everything moved so fast I never had a chance to take a breath, I never was able to finish my thought.

  My lungs ached and I gave in, my body unwilling to struggle.

  The world became liquid blackness.

  I let it take me.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I awoke to a choking cough, and it annoyed me.

  Firstly, I was having a damn good dream, and it involved Samantha. I'll keep the details to myself, thanks very much. So there's that.

  Secondly, it felt really good to get sleep. I had been in pain since the day I escaped Lovat Central and was shot, and this sleep had become a wonderful place of escape where my head ignored the signals the rest of my body was sending.

  So waking to someone continually coughing was annoying.

  It was my chest that hurt first. My lungs.

  I was further bothered when I discovered that I was the one doing the choking cough, and I was doing it a lot. I could feel water come up out of my lungs, and with each hack, I spat it out. My chest burned. I hacked and choked. My insides felt raw and bloody by the time it began to subside.

  Opening my eyes, I saw the form of someone pull away from me. Everything was blurred, like looking up from underwater. I blinked and tried to tell my hands to wipe the water from my eyes, but my hands decided they weren't moving.

  I was cold. I was soaked. I shivered and inhaled sharply.

  It hurt. The cool air of one of Lovat's lower levels filled my chest. Above me, a yellowed sodium lamp buzzed in the ceiling, its curved bowl filled with a handful of dead bugs that dulled the light and cast my surroundings in the constant glow of twilight.

  Samantha's beautiful face leaned in, soft, the features not quite sharp.

  I smiled.

  Another hallucination. I've heard of worse.

  She was still as beautiful as I remembered. Those eyes, those dark eyes, flashing. The small horns protruding below her temples. A smudge of dirt across her forehead. Her lips turned into a smile, and I felt a warm hand touch my face. It made everything instantly better.

  The hallucination spoke.

  "He's breathing," she said, her eyes focused on me, though she was speaking to someone else. She wiped my face dry with the sleeve of her shirt. Careful not to touch my nose. "He's alive."

  I wanted to move, I wanted to sit up, but my body was taking its sweet time reacting to my commands.

  "Thank God," said a masculine voice. The alpha male in me felt a little jealous. This was my hallucination; I shouldn't have to share it with someone else.

  Where was I? My brain didn't process the question quickly. Last thing I remembered was Peter Black. His face. Hatred and shock as he fell from a window, gunshot wound to the chest, stomach, and knee. I tried to focus on remembering what had happened after, but it was all muddled. It was like waking up after a bender. Only along with the headache, everything else in my body hurt. I remember Black falling, falling, and after that...nothing. Blankness.

  Here.

  Was I dead? Was the afterlife real?

  "Wal? Can you hear me?"

  It was my Samantha hallucination again.

  I gave what I thought was a nod and then tried to speak, but my mouth rebelled and all I could do was flap my lips and cough up more water. Always the charmer.

  "Wal? Can you hear me?" Samantha repeated.

  Guess it wasn't much of a nod.

  I breathed deeply and tried to speak again. I was able to force out a mumbled moan that I hoped sounded like a yes and was delighted when Samantha smiled.

  "Thank God you're alive." Her smile widened. "Look, you rest here, there's a medical cart on its way. They're going to take you to Saint Phillip's on Level Six. Do you understand? Saint Phil."

  Ordering my hand to touch hers was a small victory and I gave it what I hoped was a gentle squeeze, feeling the small spurs along her knuckles. Guess I was a little off with the whole hallucination thing.

  I moved to sit up.

  "Wal, don't move, wait for the doctors."

  "Wha—" I began, finding it difficult to speak. I coughed up more water.

  "Wha—" I tried again, before eventually finding my voice. "What...what ha-happened?"

  The male voice came again. "We were hoping you'd be able to fill us in. Last we saw, you were heading down the tunnel, gun in hand and hell-bent on finding Black."

  I turned my head and saw Hagen standing with his hands in his pocket. The broken stub of his single horn looked like the knot of a tree springing from his forehead. His unruly nest of hair was caked with dirt and dried blood. His eyes were ringed by dark circles, and one remained swollen shut matching his puffy lips. He looked like hell. He gave me a reassuring smile despite his wounds.

  "Is...is Wensem okay?" I asked. I could remember my business partner's last look at me before disappeared down the dark tunnel. His jaw set, the kid who now bore my unfortunate name screaming in the crook of his arms.

  His words came playing back through my memories, "Maero are hard to kill."

  Carter's cross, I hoped that was true.

  "Haven't seen him," admitted Hagen, then as if to reassure me, "If he was down there, I'm sure he got out. He is tough."

  Flashing red and blue lights danced on his skin. I panicked.

  Bouchard.

  Lovat Central.

  This wasn't over—they'd still be after me. I couldn't let Bouchard catch me like this. I couldn't face the cells of Lovat Central for a second time. It was lost. My memory of events were foggy. Black was gone—drowned, right? Somewhere beneath me? Wensem hadn't surfaced. With him went my alibi. I'd be back to where I was when this started. Hiding among addicts in pitch dens and doing my damnedest to avoid the police.

  I moved to sit up.

  "Lovat Central," I stated as Samantha placed a gentle hand on the center of my chest and shook her head. Her eyes were kind, so kind. I wanted to just lose myself
in them.

  "Calm down, Wal. Lovat Central knows what happened; when we got to the top of the elevator shaft, we found the first officer we could and explained everything. They're arresting any of the Children who survived. There is going to be a full investigation. Hagen and I have agreed to come forward as witnesses."

  "You're safe, we'll make sure you're safe," Hagen said with a smile.

  I laid back and closed my eyes.

  Safe.

  Was it true? Was this nightmare all over? Was that it?

  I struggled to remember.

  Everything was such a blur.

  * * *

  When I opened my eyes again, I was inside the sterile interior of a brightly lit hospital. At once I could tell it was both expensive and highly elevated. Sunlight—real sunlight—flooded in through windows to my left. A pot of flowers sat near, drinking in the sun. The walls were painted a fresh pale yellow. The borders near the ceiling were decorated with painted marigolds of fine oranges and rich yellows. The linens that lined the bed in which I lay in were nicer than anything I had ever used before, soft and warm.

  Looking down the length of my body, I could see my right leg elevated and braced in a contraption that reminded me of the bones of the tunneler. As I rolled my head around, I could see bandages across my chest and wrapping around my upper arm where a Lovat Central bullet had torn through.

  Two transparent tubes ran from my arm up to a pair of glass bottles hanging upside down in wire cages and mounted to poles. One was clear, and the other looked a lot like blood. Something itchy sat astride my face, holding my broken nose in place.

  On my left sat Samantha Dubois. An old leather book in her hand, legs crossed. When she saw I was awake, she looked up at me and smiled.

  "Welcome back."

  "What happened?" I said, my voice a painful rasp. "Last thing I remember was lying on my back somewhere in the depths of the city."

  "You almost died. When the Sunk seemed to, well...collapse, everything was a bit crazy. Cephels and anur were scrambling to get out of the water. Shortly after that, bodies started rising. Yours among them. A Lovat Central officer pulled you out of the water, but you were blue and you weren't breathing."