Maximillian Fly

by Angie Sage

  Minna recovers herself and gives a little simper. “Oh, Maxie, it is you in your silly glasses. You are such a tease.”

  I do not reply.

  It is considered good manners to help someone out of a hatch, but Minna merely turns on her heel and stomps away down the passage on her sturdy beige tree-trunk legs. I wait until the kitchen door is firmly closed behind her and then I begin the task of extricating myself. It is not easy due to the fact that someone has added extra beading around the inside of the opening. Given that Andronicus would not know a hammer if it hit him—I push that thought quickly to one side—I know this must be Minna’s work and done this morning by the look of it. She is both petty and thorough.

  As I slowly pull myself upward, I reflect that despite the pall that the presence of Minna Simms casts over the house of Andronicus, I still love to come here. I have learned so much of the world from my dear friend and I regard him as a person of great insight, which is why I do not trouble him with my doubts about Minna Simms. Andronicus clearly considers her to be a trustworthy person—she is his sister after all—and I must be content with that. Oh, this hatch is a trial. But I will not call for help. I will not. Aha! I now have my middle limb free.

  As I wriggle my way upward, easing my wing cases through the infernally narrow gap, I feel that you are still watching me. But it is not with amusement—which would be understandable—but with disapproval. I suppose it is because the affinity you young ones feel for one another. I believe you are anxious about the small fugitive who is still in my house. Alone. I shall confess to you that I too was concerned about leaving him. But he was sleeping soundly and I feared that if I woke him and he found that his sister was gone and he was alone with me, he would panic. I have left him supplied with water and fruit. I have also locked his door so he does not wander and come to harm. So he is safe enough for now, unlike his poor sister. I need to find a Rat to take him to safety and Andronicus will know how to contact one.

  But first I must . . . get . . . out of . . . this hatch. I am stuck with my lower segment in the chill of the cellar and my top two segments and three limbs sticking up into the passageway. It is utterly ridiculous. It is also suspiciously quiet in the kitchen and I have the distinct feeling that Minna Simms is watching me through the keyhole. The thought of this spurs me on. Using my two powerful lower limbs to push against the steps below, I lever myself upward, and suddenly I shoot out of the hatch and land with a clatter upon the floor. It is most undignified. I dust myself down, refold my underwings, and as I set off up the stairs, I hear a splutter of laughter from the kitchen.

  On the first floor I open the door to Andronicus’s private room and find a monstrosity. Like the Vermin, it is superficially attractive. It is tall with a healthy shine and is even the possessor of six delightful, delicately slim, bowed legs. “What,” I ask Andronicus, “is that?” However, I know full well what it is, and I also know why it is there.

  Andronicus has the grace to look embarrassed. “It is a dining table. A gift from my sister,” he says in his soft, deep voice.

  “I am shocked you accepted it, Andronicus,” I say.

  My friend pulls out one of the four-legged, high-backed ancillary creatures that accessorize this thing and are kept tucked neatly beneath its flat carapace. I believe they are called dining chairs. “Try it, Maximillian,” he says. “It really is not so bad.”

  I regard the creature with disgust. “This is not respectful of us, Andronicus,” I tell him. “This custom does not suit us. I see no reason to use this . . . eating equipment. It is an insult.”

  “It’s a dining table, Maximillian, not an attack,” Andronicus protests.

  “It is both,” I tell him. “But mainly, it is an attack.”

  I see hurt and confusion in Andronicus’s eyes and I feel bad, especially when I remember how he saved me last night. “Forgive me, my friend,” I say. “I am a little overwrought.”

  “Forgiven,” Andronicus replies with a sparkle in his eyes and he quietly shuts the door. “I am humoring her, Maximillian,” he whispers as he leads me into the room. “Minna is leaving tomorrow and I do not wish to part on bad terms.”

  I at once feel better. “Leaving tomorrow?”

  “Indeed. First thing in the morning.”

  I am very pleased with this news—so pleased in fact that I agree, against all my better judgment, to have lunch sitting at the eating apparatus. Among friends we Roaches prefer to lie upon rugs and cushions. In mixed company we sit upon stools, for our wing cases need to be free to drop down behind us when we sit, and a chair back does not accommodate this. I wince as I bend my carapace in order to fit upon what Andronicus calls a Chippendale dining chair. I gingerly arrange my wing cases so they hang down either side of its bony back and their tips graze the floor, and then I place my three upper limbs upon the table’s high carapace in order to keep me steady—until Andronicus tells me this is bad form and I should put them in my “lap.”

  I do not like the word “lap.” It sounds unsavory. I feel my temper fraying. “What, pray,” I demand, “is my lap? Where might it be situated? On top of my head? Folded inside my underwings? Precisely where do I find it, Andronicus?”

  Andronicus sighs. “Please, Maximillian, this is only for today. Your lap is the inner lower half of your segment that is now bent forward. Just rest your upper limbs on there.”

  This feels rather unhygienic to me, for it is in close proximity to our exit valves, but I have given up any protest. I do as Andronicus asks and I am grateful for one thing only—that Mama cannot see me now.

  The door opens and Minna strides in carrying a tray with two bowls of steaming sludge, which she places in front of us with an exaggerated flourish. With a filthy cloth she wipes the edges of the bowls where the sludge has spilled, and with that most annoying of instructions, “Enjoy,” she sashays out of the room.

  Reluctantly, I pick up the eating implement that Minna has provided—a long, fat dropper with a brown rubber bulb on the end. It smells vile. I dread to think what it has been used for in the past. I wait until Minna’s creeping footsteps have gone all the way down to the kitchen and then I speak. “Andronicus, dear friend,” I say. “I do not wish you to think I am ungrateful for your delightful luncheon invitation, but surely you must see, this thing”—I hold up the dropper between my thumb and forefinger with some disdain—“is most disrespectful toward us.”

  Andronicus sighs. “I know. I can only apologize, Maximillian. But Minna will be gone soon and there is no point upsetting her now.”

  Personally I can see many good points to upsetting Minna right now. However, Andronicus is a considerate person—if he were not I would have been left out on the roof last night and by now might very well be an exoskeleton at the foot of the Night Roach Silo—and I must respect that. I poke my finger into the lukewarm bowl of thick, lumpy sludge, which although Minna knows we are vegetarian, has an unpleasantly meaty smell.

  “Give that muck to me,” Andronicus says. He gets up awkwardly from the eating accessory and disappears with the bowls. I hear him emptying them into the dry waste composter in the bathroom. He returns with the empty bowls and two paper bags from our favorite shop, Parminter’s Pantry, the small bread-and-vegetable emporium run by Parminter and her mother using produce from their farm. “I knew lunch would be vile,” he says. “It always is. I’ve been living on Parminter’s takeouts ever since Minna arrived. It’s lucky for me she can’t bear to see me eat.” He giggles. “Although I must admit to being particularly revolted the first time she stayed for supper.”

  I laugh. I am so happy that my dear friend has not been completely cowed by his sister. I extricate myself from the dining equipment and join Andronicus beside his tall bay window, where there is an array of sumptuous velvet cushions on a delightful silk rug. My dear friend has exquisite taste. In this happy state we graze our way through the finely seasoned strips of vegetables and at last I get the chance to tell him of my terrible discovery this
morning—and of all my foolish misjudgments that have led up to it.

  Andronicus does not berate me for my recklessness in taking in my young fugitives—indeed, he praises my bravery. He says that if you stand aside and allow barbarity to happen you become part of it yourself. Which I believe to be true.

  But something is troubling me. “Andronicus,” I say, “you talk about barbarity, but last night, before I arrived, Cassius and two of our group voted to effectively murder that young Vermin. What has happened to us?”

  Andronicus nods sadly. “Things have changed since Cassius joined,” he says sadly. “People seem . . .”

  “Nastier,” I finish for him.

  “You’re not wrong.” Andronicus sighs.

  “The thing is, Andronicus,” I tell him, “I like the young Wingless ones. Yes, they are noisy and unpredictable, but they are passionate and remarkably brave. I admire how they have overcome their inability to fly. They are damp, soft creatures, but they have good hearts and they make me smile. And now I find I am very worried for my young Kaitlin.”

  Andronicus is gloomy. “If the Vermin has taken her, it will surely return her to the SilverShip. And then she will be gone.” He leans toward me, while keeping an eye on the door as if he thinks Minna Simms might be listening. “Do you believe what they say?” he asks. “That there truly is an island over the ocean where the SilverShip colony thrives?”

  I shake my head. “Parminter says that if they are thriving, why doesn’t the ship bring back messages from them? Which is a good point. She says it is a disgusting form of population control. And terror.”

  Andronicus smiles. “And what do you say, Maximillian?” he asks.

  “I say that if it was so good, why would those young SilverSeeds be so desperate to escape?”

  Andronicus nods. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “I wish I could help my Kaitlin Drew,” I say.

  “I do not know how you can,” Andronicus says sadly. “But at least the brother is still with you.”

  “Yes. I wanted to ask you about him. I need to find a Rat to take him to a safe house.”

  “Shhh . . . ,” Andronicus hisses. Minna’s slow and heavy footsteps are coming up the stairs.

  We hide the Parminter’s Pantry bags beneath the cushions and, with some difficulty, seat ourselves at the dining apparatus. I feel my segments lock painfully but I manage to take up the position just in time for Minna to swan in bearing a large plate covered with a cloth, which she proudly places upon the table and with a flourish pulls off the cloth. We both gasp with pleasure—and this time it is genuine. For upon the plate lie an excitingly large array of round golden sun biscuits. My mouth waters in appreciation.

  “Don’t say I don’t spoil you, Andy,” Minna says gaily as she takes the empty bowls and their revolting brown droppers. “Now, you boys enjoy yourselves. I’ve plenty more in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, Minna,” Andronicus says, looking as thrilled as I feel, “you really shouldn’t have.”

  Minna stops at the door and swings around to look at us. “Oh, yes I should,” she replies with a creepy smile that seems to have a peculiar air of victory about it. I feel uneasy but I tell myself that Minna is merely pleased with the biscuits, which are not easy to make. Sun biscuits are a great favorite of the Roach community. They are bright yellow, crispy and a joy to eat.

  We retreat to the cushions with the sun biscuits. “Cheers,” Andronicus says, raising his delightfully round biscuit to mine, and we drop them into our mouths in perfect synchrony. They do not disappoint. The explosion of spices is intense, the sensation of melting fills my mouth and as the biscuit dissolves my head swims with joy. These are the very best I have ever tasted. Andronicus’s eyes are shining. “Another?” he asks. I believe this is called a rhetorical question.

  We clink biscuits—they have a beautiful tinkling sound—and throw them into our open mouths. The taste detonates inside our heads. We cannot stop. My dear Andronicus is a greedy eater and I do believe I see two biscuits for every one of mine disappearing into his welcoming mouth. But I do not begrudge a crumb. He is my beautiful friend.

  I do believe these are the strangest sun biscuits I have ever eaten. With each one that dissolves like a starburst upon my tongue, I feel increasingly dizzy. A high-pitched ringing settles into my ear tubes and I begin to wonder why dear Andronicus is looking so fuzzy around the edges. Something is not right. . . .

  And now there is but one biscuit left. Andronicus picks up the last ray of sunshine and waves it playfully beneath my nostrils. “For you, Maximillian. For my beloved friend. It is for you. You.” He giggles dreamily.

  I shake my head. “No more,” I tell him. “There is something bad in them. Oh, Andronicus, oh dear . . .”

  Andronicus smiles. “Dear Maximillian, my best friend . . . my best, best friend ever. Cheers!” He opens his mouth, throws the last biscuit in and then collapses upon the cushion.

  “Andronicus,” I say. “Wake up. . . .”

  But the room is spinning and I cannot focus upon my dearest, my darlingest Andronicus: friend of my heart, biscuit of my soul. . . .

  Chapter 15

  Going Up

  K

  I am in a small, brightly lit cell somewhere beneath the Bartizan. I’ve been here for what feels like hours and I’ve had plenty of time to ponder the totally dumb thing I’ve done. What was I thinking of? I try to recapture the feeling I had at the moment I turned around and walked back in though the Gateway to the Future. I see now that it was, weirdly, because everyone was listening to me and I’m not used to that. The people outside and even the guards were hanging on every word I said and suddenly I wasn’t acting anymore, I actually believed what I was saying. It all went to my head.

  I don’t know what I’m doing in this cell. It doesn’t look good. I thought they’d send me back to the SilverShip crew quarters, but now I’m beginning to wonder if they’ve put me in Oblivion. How could I have been so stupid?

  Oh! The door’s opening. A guard, a stocky woman in a fancy black-and-gold Bartizan jacket, comes in. She is carrying a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of juice balanced on a big box, which she carefully puts down beside me. “Food, drink and clean uniform,” she says. She walks to the wall and pulls back a sliding panel. “Bathroom and shower in there. Put your old uniform in the basket. I’ll be back in half an hour.” And then she’s gone.

  I feel weak with relief—they don’t feed you in Oblivion and they certainly don’t bring you clean clothes. The sudden absence of dread brings my appetite back. The sandwiches are the usual spicy yellow paste—cat sick, the little kids call them—and the juice is the usual neon sweet sludge. I feel like I’m back with the crew already. I gulp down the gloop; then I open the uniform box and pull out new everything. I take out my jacket and find three gold stars embroidered above my number. Three gold stars. I’m shocked. In my whole six months I never got a star because I wouldn’t play their game. Jonno had one star and was hoping for a second. I smile: this is really going to annoy Jonno. And then I remember that Jonno is alone in Maximillian’s house, that I will probably never see him again, and I feel my smile fall off my face. But there is no point thinking like that. I get cleaned up and put on the new stuff. I try not to feel proud of the three stars, but I do. I wonder if I’m quite the rebel I thought I was.

  In no time at all, the guard returns. I’m so back in SilverSeed mode that I stand up at once. “Kaitlin Marne, come with me, please,” she says.

  Marne. My stomach lurches. They are using Dad’s old name—this feels ominous. But on the plus side I have three stars and she said “please.” Also she doesn’t grab my arm and frog-march me out. She trusts me to walk beside her, which I do, like the good three-star SilverSeed I have so easily become.

  We head down a wide wood-paneled corridor and stop outside an impressive pair of double doors flanked by black marble columns. She throws open the doors like a magician proudly showing the success of a trick, and reveals the fa
bled Bartizan tower elevator. It is a ramshackle affair with a sliding concertina cage-like door that she heaves open with a loud clattering. She indicates for me to step inside, follows me in and repeats the process with the doors. Then she keys in a code—which I make sure to remember—and we begin to move slowly upward, accompanied by a loud clanking and the occasional disconcerting judder. I know how the elevator works—we learned it at school—but even though I know we can’t fall because a safety ratchet will stop us, the higher we go, the more anxious I feel. Because I now suspect that I am on my way to the very top of the Bartizan tower, and everyone knows there are only two reasons for that—either you’re headed for an Astro or the Guardian. As the lighted numbers for the floors flash steadily up, I begin to panic. There is no way the Guardian would want to see me, so it must be an Astro. Those cat sick sandwiches were my last meal.

  The elevator comes to a juddering halt and an illuminated TOP appears above the column of numbers. My legs feel like water as we step out into a circular space flooded with light from a dome of colored glass that casts dancing rainbows onto the dark wood floor. The smell of beeswax polish suffuses the air and the atmosphere is hushed. I’ve read about temples and sacred spaces and this is how I imagine they would be. There are three hefty dark wood doors leading off the space: one has a huge silver number 9, one a giant silver A and the third, which I now see are double doors, has no label but is flanked by two men in Bartizan black-and-gold jackets, standing to attention. But all I can see is the shining silver A. A for Astro. Not so long ago Mom walked through that very door, and now it is my turn. I feel dizzy and close my eyes and I see a big green A. There is no escape.

  I feel my guard’s hand beneath my elbow, walking me forward. “Come on,” she says impatiently. “Your appointment is in thirty seconds.” Thirty seconds. Is that all I have left? The Bartizan guards step forward. “Kaitlin Marne for Madam Guardian,” my escort says.