by C. R. Grey
“Are you Mr. Loren?” Hal asked, stepping forward with a hand outstretched. “I’m—”
“I don’t use that name, and so I can only conclude that you’re new around here.” The teacher scowled. “It’s Tremelo, but don’t go thinking that a first-name basis makes us ‘pals.’ That goes for both of you.”
With that, the motorbuggy roared into clinking, clanging action, and several students scrambled to get out of its way. The fox in the sidecar yipped at Bailey as it passed. Bailey gaped. His heart started beating loudly—he’d just encountered the very professor he’d meant to find.
“That’s Tremelo Loren?” Bailey asked Hal. “I didn’t think he’d be so”—he struggled to find the right word—“dusty.”
Hal cleaned his glasses on his shirt; they had been knocked in the dirt when he’d fallen.
“You’ve heard of Tremelo?” Hal asked.
Bailey nodded. “I read something about him, that he’s a trainer—he can make people’s bond with their kin stronger.”
Hal squinted through his glasses, confused. “Really? I thought he just teaches Basic Tinkering—mechanics and stuff. Taylor says he’s a useless teacher. Then again, my brother isn’t exactly the most reliable source. I mean, just look at that motorbuggy; it’s impressive for having built it himself.”
In the distance, the motorbuggy let out a rich belch of smoke as it backfired, scattering a group of girls and their goat kin. The goats took off toward some shrubbery at the edge of the grounds.
“Don’t let those creatures near my berries!” called a red-faced woman with two buck-toothed groundhogs riding on her shoulders. “I just pruned them!” She hurried after the fleeing goats as the girls laughed.
“So,” Bailey said to Hal. “What now?”
Just then, a short, squat woman in a tweed suit hustled toward them.
“Are you new, boys?” she asked, as the wombat clinging to her head removed a hairpin from her messy bun.
“Um … yes?” Bailey answered, watching the wombat chew on a piece of the woman’s hair.
“Excellent. Welcome to Fairmount. Here you go.” She shoved a map into Bailey’s hands. “You’ve just come from … ?” the harried woman asked them.
“The Golden Lowlands,” Bailey answered.
“Excellent—I don’t suppose either of you know a”—she stopped to scan a clipboard held in her tightly clenched hand—“Bailey Walker, would you?”
Bailey gulped.
“That’s me,” he said, through a mouth as dry as sand.
The woman looked relieved enough to hug him.
“Thank Nature. We’ve been looking for you—you’re to come with me. And your friend?”
“Hal Quindley,” Hal offered.
The woman checked her list again. Her wombat eyed Bailey as if he were a piece of especially ripe fruit.
“Quindley, you’re in the Towers, dear. Walker, with me!” She turned and walked quickly through the throng of bustling students toward the central campus. Bailey looked at Hal, stricken.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Hal, sounding very much like his uncle.
“Yeah. I bet you’re right,” Bailey answered, though his mind was racing. His hands shook as he followed the woman, her wombat bobbing above the crowd. He turned back and saw that Hal was watching him anxiously.
“I’ll see you soon,” Hal called, waving. Bailey hoped he was right.
The woman introduced herself as the dean of students, Ms. Shonfield. She led Bailey to the administration building, which housed the staff offices and the library. Bailey caught a glimpse of the meeting hall being decorated with garlands and banners for the welcoming ceremony scheduled for the next morning. Ms. Shonfield’s office walls were packed with yellowed photographs of Fairmount headmasters of old, posing with members of Parliament and once-famous tinkerers. Bailey was especially impressed by a very grainy photo that showed men and women in formal dress during the Age of Invention, cutting a ribbon in front of a new, shiny rigimotive car. Ms. Shonfield caught him looking.
“The maiden voyage,” she said proudly. “A few of our own professors were on the team that developed the rigimotive, back when our engineering program was a tad larger. We used to be much more of a research academy, but when Melore was killed … well, things got a little leaner.”
Bailey noticed the tall, dark-bearded man holding the scissors. His striped suit was covered by a long greatcoat, intricately woven to look like soft, wild fur. His smile was wide under his top hat, his eyes sparkling.
“Who is that?” he asked.
Ms. Shonfield shook her head.
“It’s a miracle that picture has survived,” she said, a note of wistfulness in her voice. “So many photographs from that era were destroyed when the Jackal took power. That’s Melore, the fallen king. This photo was taken only one week before his assassination at the Aldermere Progress Fair, and his palace invaded and burned … ” She trailed off, lost in the pull of history. The wombat sat on her desk, chewing on a piece of paper and looking wistfully into the distance.
“Wow,” said Bailey. He’d heard about King Melore, of course. Though twenty-seven years had passed since Melore had died, most people Bailey knew remembered the king fondly.
“Yes, well, what’s done is done,” she said, rousing herself. “I didn’t bring you here to speak of dead kings. Go on. Take a seat.” She gestured to a chair across from her desk. “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Walker. We don’t know where to put you.”
Bailey shifted in his seat, dreading the questions to come.
“I thought it was clear on the registration forms,” she said, shuffling several papers on her desk. “We absolutely must know what Animas you are, so we know where to house you and get you registered for the most appropriate courses.”
“Oh,” said Bailey. He took a deep breath. “I haven’t really got a … I mean, I haven’t … ”
Ms. Shonfield leaned in, listening intently.
“No matter what your Animas is, Bailey, there’s no need to be ashamed! We take all kinds here at Fairmount. Not like the old days! Had an Animas Sloth graduate last year and you know, when he wasn’t sleeping in class, he was absolutely lovely.”
Bailey looked down at his hands, resting on his now dirty work pants, wrinkled and worn after a two-day ride on the cramped rigimotive. He just wanted to get to his trunk, and crawl into a real bed.
“I haven’t Awakened to my Animas yet,” he said. “I don’t know what it is.” Or if I have one at all, he thought.
Ms. Shonfield sat back in her chair and snatched her glasses off of her face. She squinted at him.
“An Absence,” she said breathlessly. “That’s quite … unique.”
“I guess so,” said Bailey, as the word Absence—so final, so bleak—echoed in his ears. His mom and dad had made a point never to use it. People with a lifelong Absence were rare to the point of myth. In the stories Bailey had heard, they always ended up insane, or worse.
“It’s not permanent, I’m just developing slowly, that’s all,” he added quickly, just in case she was about to tell him he couldn’t stay. “I’m adopted, so it’s taking me longer to figure out what kind of animal I bond with. I … I’m always looking, though.” He tried to sound cheerful. He tried to think of his father, encouraging him to be patient, telling him that his Animas could be anywhere—just someplace he hadn’t looked yet.
Ms. Shonfield pinched her lips together and appeared to be working out a puzzle in her head. Bailey’s stomach felt like it was made of lead.
“I just need a little time, and training,” he said, feeling increasingly desperate. “You—you won’t send me home, will you?”
“Of course not,” Ms. Schonfield said. Bailey relaxed. “But you’ll have to miss out on a couple of core courses, I’m afraid. Biology and the Bond, for one. The class will be of no use to you without an Animas. It’s fairly hands-on, you see. Unfortunately, we haven’t offered one-on-one Animas training in many years.”
Ms. Shonfield leaned forward on her staunch elbows and looked closely at Bailey.
“My boy, you have a hard road to go here, I won’t lie to you. I’m sure you know most children Awaken to their Animas at approximately age nine. The latest I’ve ever met is eleven. This isn’t to discourage you, dear—but to let you know what you’re in for.”
Bailey looked up from his hands as she continued.
“We will find appropriate courses for you, don’t worry about that, and we will wait and see how you take to school life. But there will be plenty of students—and yes, though I’m sorry to say it, adults—who won’t understand your Absence. Who may try to treat you differently as a late waker. But you won’t let them, will you? You belong here, Mr. Walker. We chose you, based on your aptitude, your intelligence, and the word of those who love you, not which corner of Nature’s kingdom you may hail from. You’re late to Awaken, and I’m sure this has brought you some pain, but I assure you, when you do Awaken to your Animas—and I have no doubt that you will—we here at Fairmount will be at the ready to help you as you grow into it. Don’t ever doubt that you belong here.”
Bailey nodded, solemn and grateful.
“That said, Mr. Walker, I think it’s best to put you in the Towers as well for now. I’ll arrange for your trunks to be directed there.”
Four
AS A CLOUD-FILLED MORNING dawned over the foul-smelling docks of the Gray City, a striking young woman with violet eyes stood overseeing a busy factory.
From a distance, Viviana Melore was quite beautiful. Up close, it was possible that the cheekbones were angled a little too neatly; that the mouth, painted with maroon lipstick, was a little too cruel; and the forehead, which closely resembled her dead father’s, the former king, was a little too high.
Viviana clutched a rusted rail, surveying a large, open workroom that reeked of hot ink and oil, and the pulp of freshly made paper. Below her, workers were busily attending to printing presses and assembly stations, tinkering with gears and folded paper with fresh ink.
Through the room’s wide, grime-coated upper windows, she could see what the many workers at their stations below her could not: across the river, the towering dome of the Parliament, its grand copper roof tarnished to green. From here, she could not see the palace wing she’d escaped—but simply knowing it was there made her fingers twitch. She would tear that building down the moment she had the chance.
The taking of Parliament would not be difficult, of that she was sure—it was made up of weak, corrupt men and women. Since deposing the Jackal, they’d all but ignored the people, and the people were poor, desperate, and angry. The city was like a stone wall with too many cracks, and rather than working to fix them, Viviana was determined to blast them into rubble.
She breathed deeply, inhaling a wisp of thick smoke that rose up from the machine on the floor. It filled her nostrils and triggered a memory from long ago. Smoke, flames rising, the desperate pounding on the other side of the door … She straightened her shoulders and banished the memory from her mind. Just another piece of unpleasantness from the past.
She took a moment to adjust her suit. While many wealthier citizens in the Gray City chose ensembles embroidered with the image of their Animas, Viviana’s decoration of choice was black silk thread, depicting not only her Animas, the pig, but many others, their claws outstretched, teeth bared.
Joan, her assistant, gave her weekly report. “Everything is going smoothly so far,” she chirped over the whirring of the presses. “We’ve completed production of the Orsas that will fly to Red Street. Those for the fish market are preparing for takeoff any moment now.”
Joan handed a small paper object to Viviana for her approval. A windup paper bird, no more than three inches high, with Viviana’s crest printed on it wings. Joan delicately pulled a loose bit of paper sticking out from behind one of the bird’s wings, and those wings began to whir into action. Viviana held on to one of its delicate paper feet to keep it from flying away.
“It’s an On-the-Spot Orsa,” Joan explained. “Designed to drop instantly.”
As she spoke, the paper bird began to unfurl. The tiny rolls of paper that made its wings and back burst open, forming a small poster in Viviana’s hands that read, WE WILL BE FREE, OR WE WILL BE NOTHING. By the time NOTHING had been revealed by the unfolding paper, all that remained of the shape of the bird was a tiny chirping beak that made a sound like a gasp for air. As the beak finally unfolded and gave way, the word DOMINAE joined the rest in a perfectly square billet, the size of Viviana’s hand. All that remained in Viviana’s palm was a tiny spring motor, its spinning barrel slowing to a stop.
Viviana smiled.
“Very well done,” she said, which was, for her, an enormous compliment. “But you said the market? What about the Opera Square? Can we reach as far as the Gudgeons?”
“Some of the larger Orsas have been engineered to fly longer distances,” Joan said. “But we will not rely on the Orsas alone.”
Joan took Viviana’s arm, leading her along the walkway to a spot overlooking a stretch of long worktables, where a group of men and women were busy cleaning a mess of discarded copper gears and wire. Something large—or many somethings—had been assembled here.
Joan whistled, and a tall, thin man in a three-piece navy suit—which Viviana could see was coated with a layer of dust—looked up, and began hurrying up a clanking metal staircase, beckoning to several of the workers to follow him.
“You’ve met Mr. Clarke, the tinkerer,” Joan said as the man strode toward them on the walkway. The workers behind him, almost tripping over their long, heavy aprons, carried several enormous wooden crates in their arms. Viviana could see how shabby Clarke’s suit was up close, how pale and sallow his skin—but there glinted in his eyes something proud and intelligent.
Clarke bowed low, smiling broadly, displaying a mouth of long, yellow teeth under his beak-like nose. He gestured to one of the workers behind him to open the box in his arms.
Out of the box fluttered—no, clanked—a metal raven, easily three times the size of a natural raven, made entirely of gears and bolts and expertly manipulated copper. Under a translucent layer of black paint, its metal workings gleamed, reflecting the gas lamps hanging above the workroom. A perfectly round mechanical eye whizzed and whirred in its socket as it looked first at Viviana, then Joan, then at Clarke, who nodded to it as if to an obedient child. The raven unfolded its wide copper wings, which clicked as its many gears turned, and flew to the railing of the walkway. It fixed its eyes on Viviana and opened its metal beak menacingly.
Viviana’s own voice boomed forth from the inner whirrings of the bird’s mechanical ribs and out of its throat, the beak serving as a perfect gramophone trumpet. “My human brothers and sisters,” it echoed, “we will be free, or we will be nothing!”
As the sound of Viviana’s amplified voice died away, the bird closed its beak.
“It’s brilliant,” Viviana said, and she meant it. “What do you call them?”
“I have been calling them the Clamoribus, but of course you are free to—”
“Perfect,” Viviana said, cutting him off. “‘The Screams.’ I like it.”
“Their timing couldn’t be more perfect. Parliament has taxed the people to exhaustion and the city has nearly crumbled with disrepair. People see how Parliament stuffs its pockets,” said Clarke, as the raven restlessly—just like a real bird—shuffled its feet on the railing. The light from the window shone on its black-painted talons. “The Gray City needs someone with vision.”
Viviana looked over at her beaming assistant. She had known Joan since they were girls in the Dust Plains. Joan’s cute blond bob and sparkling blue eyes had always been misleading—she had the look of a cheerful simpleton, but Viviana had known for years that Joan was capable of anything.
“My clever Joan, you’ve found us such an ingenious tinkerer,” Viviana said sweetly. “If only every part of this campaign could be left
in your hands, I would have no worries in the world.”
“Nor should you,” Joan said, smiling gratefully. “It is as you have always said—”
She didn’t get to finish. Below them, a female worker shrieked. The sound cut over the noise of the machinery.
“What’s happened?” demanded Viviana sharply.
“I saw one! A rat! A filthy spy!” The worker’s shrill voice echoed over the din of the presses.
In an instant Viviana lifted a silver whistle to her lips. The shrieking noise overpowered the clanking machines. At once, several of the starving alley cats along the wall sprang toward the poor worker who’d sounded the alarm. They found the squealing rat underneath the press and dragged it out into the open, tearing at it without mercy. The worker covered her eyes with her ink-stained apron as the cats clawed the helpless rodent to bits. When Viviana could see from her perch that the rat had been sufficiently decimated, she gave the whistle a second blow. The cats returned to their places against the wall, silently licking the blood from their paws.
“That’s a very impressive trick,” murmured Clarke.
Viviana accepted the compliment wordlessly. It was more than a trick—this was years of practice and focus, all her bitterness and rage channeled into usefulness. No one but the most gifted humans had the power to assert full control over the minds of their kin, and no one, not even those in the Parliament, would ever dare to attempt it.
This is how it should be, Viviana thought. The Animas bond meant having empathy for animals, which made a person weak, ignoring their own needs in favor of something lesser. Dominance, however, meant control. We will be free, or we will be nothing.
“Have someone nail what’s left of the rat to the door.” Viviana raised her voice so that it echoed through the warehouse, just as it had out of the raven’s mouth. “The resistance obviously needs to be told where they and their spies are not welcome.” She waved a hand. “Now back to work, all of you.”
