“I find it unusual that a group like this—a group with rules—would turn down two of its own.”
“He’s got the Full’s tongue,” the boy in blue hissed. “Dirt him now, Fang.”
But Fang dismissed him with a curt wave.
“Two of our own?” Fang asked. “’Splain it, Loper.”
“You call yourself orphans. Well, orphans have a code that’s known the world ’round. It states you take care of your own. And who are we but a couple orphans that have walked in out of the desert, scared and injured. Would you deny your fellow orphans sanctuary?”
This time the murmurs turned to discussion. Fang’s head arched around. He could sense an uneasiness among his people. Then Snapfinger whispered into his ear until he grinned.
“But you ain’t orphans,” Fang said. “Your fem’s a swole. That makes a family. And we got our own family, separate. That makes us rival players.”
“Rival players,” Snapfinger aped.
Friday glanced at Robinson. He had slipped the razor into her hand when they embraced, and she was ready to use it. But Robinson was still hoping to avoid bloodshed. And then, something Underfoot said came to mind.
“If you be wanting to stay vert, you’ll ’member this for when you step to the roots: tell ’em…”
What had the boy said? Robinson couldn’t recall.
“You play the game,” Fang said. “Or do you deny it?”
The game. It was the same the world over. Survival. But how to play it?
“No. I don’t deny it,” Robinson said. Then he remembered. “Though it strikes me we might be on the same side.”
“How so?” Fang asked.
“We didn’t come here by accident. We were sent to put out the mother’s flames.”
Gasps rang through the building. Friday studied the crowd, but Robinson never looked away from Fang. His mouth had fallen open. It took him a moment to regain his composure. Rather than respond, he pulled Snapfinger and the other blues into a huddle.
Friday leaned in, whispering, “What mother?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Robinson answered.
Fang finally broke the circle and pounded the staff on the floor to quiet the crowd. Then he approached Robinson.
“Sent, you says,” Fang enunciated. “By who?”
“Whom,” Robinson said, unable to resist. “And the answer is, I don’t know. It came to me in a vision.”
“Vision,” Fang scoffed. “Matters not. You says you can free the mother. Well, here’s your luck. The Fire Lords come this very night. Douse her flames and you’ll stay vert long enough to keep your feet and lope on. Does we have a pact?”
Things were moving too fast. Robinson needed time.
“No,” Robinson said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m injured. I’ll need a few days to recover.”
Fang sneered. Maybe he sensed weakness in Robinson. He stepped close so only he could hear.
“Five days, she comes next,” he said. “Same as the blues. Same as the bones.”
He shook his staff, giving Robinson a close-up of the rectangular tiles inside, each marked with numbered dots, including several fives.
“If your word hold north, all be happy acres. If not … you’ll be praying it’s the Fire Lords dirt you and not me. That be Crosses, Loper. Swears.”
The teen smirked, stepped back, and raised his arm to the crowd.
“Orphans of O!” he shouted. “Sons of Troyus! Glory news! Celebrate the game! At the roots, I say, the Tree of Gifts has given again! By the Brothers Ark! By Ton-Bra the Great! This one’s been sent to snuff the mother’s flames and end the spit and firm made with the Flame Lords. Glory, glory!”
“Glory, glory!” the children repeated.
“But sand it’ll take. Five days’ worth, so this one swears. ’Til then, his swole fem will be a guest o’ the nest.” The rhyme drew laughter. The children were excited. A different kind of buzz now permeated the room. “And this mighty-mighty will do his dance with Snapfinger as his shadow.”
Snapfinger stepped forward, sneering.
“About that,” Robinson said. “I’m afraid my vision showed a different orphan.”
“Who?” Fang asked.
Robinson made a show of perusing the crowd. Then his eyes fell on Underfoot. The boy subtly shook his head until Robinson pointed and said, “Him.”
More whispers followed. Underfoot never blinked. But Fang’s playful sneer was gone. There was worry there. Robinson would have to find out why.
Robinson and Friday were given a minute to say their goodbyes as the children funneled from the room, many taking to the branches of the Tree that led to other destinations. Some rose to the heights of the building while others descended to the floor. They marched like ants across the metal tributaries that bowed and bounced under their collective weight. But none so much as stumbled. The tree’s secretive pathways were known to them all.
Robinson wanted to assure Friday they would be okay, but she put a finger to his lips and silenced him. She knew his heart and knew the Goddess would provide. After four reds shepherded her up through the tree, Robinson turned to find Underfoot at his side.
“You plays the game well,” was all the boy said.
Robinson wanted to ask what kind of games left children hanging from cages. Instead, he asked, “What now?’
The boy nodded to the Tree. “To the Up ’N Up.”
The steps were narrow, the angle steep. Names and words were etched on every surface inside the husk of the metal tree. How long had it been here? What inspired children to build such a thing? Robinson doubted he’d ever get the answers. The Tree seemed an integral part of their society. It was clearly sacred. But to truly understand his predicament, he needed to unearth Troyus’s secrets. This, he thought, is where it begins.
Halfway up the twisting edifice, Robinson noticed the passageway with a locked gate. He leaned in for a view, but Underfoot hurried him along.
Eventually, they spilled out on the building’s rooftop, where an impressive greenhouse stretched across the mall’s circumference. A biosphere teeming with food crops in a mélange of colors. The odor of thick, musky peat rose from the soil.
“This be the Up ’N Up,” Underfoot said. “Where we prod the edi’s.”
Edi’s, Robinson thought. Edibles.
A covering hung overhead crafted from scavenged bits of plastic and glass. A water filtration system sent fine mists pluming into the air as children wearing the same green outfits as Underfoot tiptoed carefully around, prodding produce like leafy greens, chard, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Robinson also saw citrus fruits and berries. The moist air was scented with pungent sweet basil and cilantro.
It all made Robinson’s stomach grumble.
Then he noticed how hastily the children were picking produce and stacking loaded woven bushels against the far wall.
“How much do you kids eat in a day?” Robinson asked.
Underfoot shook his head. “Ain’t for us. S’for the off’rin’.”
“Offering? For whom?”
“For the mother.”
Underfoot plucked a tomatillo and tossed it to Robinson. He bit into it and wiped the juice running down his mouth. It was delicious.
“Since the far and back, orphans have vert our own edi’s. Once in the out, then up here. Probs are reg like—too much water, too little sun—but we Greens know the rules. We know the urt’. The turn o’ days. We keep Troyus in the game.
“Then a few years back, the Greens up here get to illin’. Edi’s too. None knows why. ’Til we fig’re this.” Underfoot looked out over the mall parking lot to the forest beyond. “The trees.”
“What about them?” Robinson asked.
“We burn ’em up top to keep old man ice from frostin’ the edi’s. But one Sum’, they get rackled and don’t grow back. We set deeper in the cut, but these new trees, they don’t burn right. Makes the air sick we fig’red.”
“Huh. I remember reading that some
wood can release noxious gas when burned. And in a confined environment like this one, it’s not hard to see how it could affect both people and plant life. What’d you do?”
“Dustynose—she was leader of the fives ‘fore Fang—she had ideas ‘bout doing things different, but the Blues did the dance ’til her sand ran out. Bad play, most says. She was liked.”
“What do you mean her sand ran out?”
“When a Halfer reaches three and two—what you call seventeen—they become Fulls. And Fulls can’t play no longer in Troyus. Says so in the rules. So a choice gets put. Leave the game or take the leap.”
“The leap. I suppose you mean from the tree.”
Underfoot nodded.
“And how long have these rules been around?”
“Since the first orphans was short. ’Fore the far and back.”
Robinson sighed. Children rearing children. The idea should have been foreign to him, and yet he understood how they could survive because he had done the same. Kids were adaptable, their minds and bodies pliant. They could survive the physical and emotional breaks better than adults. They could recover faster. Still, Robinson felt sorry for the boy. Even if he told the boy what he was missing, he didn’t think he would understand.
“Do all Greens know as much as you?”
“Nah,” Underfoot answer. “But like I says, my sis gave me learning. Plus, I always been small. No one notices me.”
“Underfoot, huh?”
The boy shrugged.
A mash of feet announced the Greens had finished gathering their offering and were leaving. As bushel after bushel of produce passed, Robinson saw the problem. Food earmarked for Troyus was now being given away, and the children were suffering for it.
He tried to ask Underfoot about the mother, but the boy would only say he’d see soon enough.
They stayed on the rooftop as the sun descended and the moon sprang like a cork to bob among the clouds. One of the Greens returned with two rations of food. It was the best Robinson had eaten in months.
Braziers were lit as the night grew chilly, filling the biosphere with a warmth that made Robinson sleepy. Just as his eyes grew heavy, Underfoot nudged him. A low throbbing noise sounded as something approached. Robinson waited. Then it appeared, a flickering light high in the sky. As it grew closer, Robinson’s hands moistened.
The light soon split into two flames, each suspended at opposite ends of the shadowy form that now bore down on the lot behind the mall.
Underfoot muttered something that might have been a prayer when the thing, now discernably white, swooped in and released four successive fireballs that exploded across the cement and lit the area with flames. It arced into the air, roaring with delight as it came back around and touched down with a series of chirps.
It rolled menacingly across the lot, its voice loud and choppy. Only when it came to a stop did two geysers of fire pirouette high into the air, accompanied by an earsplitting roar. Underfoot looked away in fright. Robinson’s eyes narrowed.
He knew what would come next. People appeared, hustling cans of kerosene, he suspected, to a raised platform. In return, they took the food that had been left out for them. Fang had said they’d made a ‘spit and firm’ with the Fire Lords. A deal, Robinson assumed, meant to replace their firewood supply. Undoubtedly these Fire Lords had changed the terms. What kept the children of Troyus from revolting? A fairytale. Robinson didn’t know the source, nor did he care. To the orphans, the mother could have meant a million different things. But he recognized it immediately from the moment of its approach.
The mother was a plane.
Chapter Six
Cassa
The return journey to the farm took longer than Cassa expected. The reasons were many, though he knew the Master would view them as nothing more than excuses.
One of the most significant reasons were with Cass’s bull. It had begun breathing erratically following the dust storm, retching endlessly and hacking up sputum and gore. Cassa worried it had inhaled too much dust while buried beneath the sand.
The loss of the pack also had consequences. Cassa had become an easier target for raiders, and while he would never be easy prey, he had to keep to the open lands and avoid areas where predators might wait. At night, he slept fitfully and was forced to do without fires, though the latter was of little loss to him. For it was fire that had irreparably changed his life.
To this day, it was still hard to remember the time before the flames had marked him, taking half his face and tongue and leaving him imprisoned in a shell of dead skin forever. It was the Master who had found him at death’s door and ordered Viktor to coax him back to life. His suffering was without measure, but Viktor’s magic prevailed. A new monster was born, one that would feel no pain or fear and know no mercy.
Cassa’s only request was the mask. He claimed sunlight hurt his eyes, but the truth was that he couldn’t bear the sight of himself.
After a week of tedious riding, the prairies ebbed away, replaced with rolling hills. As the karst topography emerged, the landscape palate went from bland ochre to lush greens. Lakes and streams became plentiful. Rivers fed from baseflows ran along the limestone bluffs, regaled with the vibrant colors of sycamores, river birch, and maple. Redbud and dogwood flourished among the wild viburnum and hawthorn.
Cassa marveled at the beauty, though he knew it too had its dangers.
Caves in the region were abundant, the result of groundwater eroding the dolomite, limestone, and chert without relief. Predators and the afflicted took refuge in these caves, so often he didn’t know whether to avoid the sinkholes or the shadows.
It wasn’t until the sight of black oaks and the smell of sumac hit him that Cassa began to relax. Viktor had told him he might see the catkins appear if he returned before summer, and sure enough, the pistillate flowers filled the axils, though their acorns wouldn’t ripen until autumn. Even Bull’s condition seemed improved. Then, over the chirrup of warblers and buntings, he heard the unmistakable call of human cries.
Cassa spurred the bull to the edge of a narrow pit where, fifteen feet below, a man and woman lay, covered in blood. The man’s leg was broken, the woman’s nails bloodied from trying to scale the sandstone walls.
“Help us,” the woman pled in the common tongue when Cassa’s shadow fell over them.
Cassa eyed them for a moment before leaving.
The farm came into view a short time later. It was once a sprawling estate now reduced to a single ranch house nestled against a grove of trees with a large barn in the center of a vast, open field.
Cassa directed Bull to a post on the fringe of the field where an iron bell hung. He rang it three times and waited. The barn’s loft doors opened and a figure appeared. He signaled Cassa before lifting his own set of pipes to his mouth, blowing three notes.
The bull groaned as Cassa spurred it across the open field. He looked down to see dried blood coating the dirt. Crossing the field always made him shiver.
When they reached the barn, Cassa slid the paddock door open and walked the bull inside. He removed Bull’s bridle, bit, and saddle and dropped them in the tack room. The sound caused one of Viktor’s human guinea pigs to moan on the other side of the giant double doors. Cassa hated the things. They were feral, they stank, and they often died in the worst of ways.
Viktor’s lab took up the western half of the barn, where he did his best to keep his equipment safe and sterile. The man descended the ladder from the loft just as Cassa sat down.
“Ah, Cassa,” Viktor said. “I wondered when you might return. How was your latest outing? Was it fruitful?”
Cassa said nothing, and Viktor chuckled. “The master will not be pleased. And if I might ask, how many of my lovelies did you lose this time?”
Cassa’s sigh was answered enough.
“Pity,” Viktor said. “Their augmentations were some of my best to date. But never fear. I always have new plans in the works.”
Cassa cleared hi
s throat and craned his head toward the main house.
“Out, momentarily.” Viktor pulled his glasses away and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “Believe it or not, he took a few pets down to the river to see if they could fish. I expect he’s drowned most of them by now.” Viktor blinked twice, leaning toward Cassa. “Is that blood on your collar? You haven’t been applying the salve I made, have you? What’s the use of my implanting a chip to dull your pain receptors if you won’t treat the wounds? Take off your mask.”
Cassa didn’t move until Viktor said, “Please.”
With a slow breath, Cassa removed the mask. If the sight of his face bothered Viktor, the man didn’t let it show. Then again, he worked with much worse every day.
Viktor dipped two fingers into a jar of salve and began administering it to Cassa’s neck and head.
“It’d be one thing if the tissue damage had been uniform, but there are still microscopic patches of dermis in there fighting for life. That is excess skin and nerves, capable of producing fat and sweat and blood. I've spared you a great deal of pain, but I know there is more.” His fingers lingered until Cassa grabbed his arm. Victor pulled away as if nothing happened.
“What I cannot do is reduce your risk of infection unless you apply this daily. Understand?” Cassa nodded curtly. “Good,” Viktor said, returning to his desk. “Now, come see my latest creation. I’m calling it ‘the berserker module.’”
Viktor tittered over a small circuit board he’d been soldering. “Gauche, I know, but I couldn’t resist. You see, when an afflicted subject receives a sustained electrical shock to the paravertebral ganglia, a massive dose of epinephrine is released into the blood, prompting the fight-or-flight response. Now, a mutation to the sympathetic nervous system works in tandem to produce a systematic, frenzied attack. They will literally kill themselves to achieve their goal—or, in this case, any order we give them. The problem is getting humans to respond similarly. They have no such mutation, so attaining this effect has been troublesome. Regrettably, we’ve been taking in fewer subjects.”
Cassa held up two fingers before pointing to a point on a map.
Robinson Crusoe 2246: (Book 3) Page 4
