Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

“You be careful. They’ll be watching for you.”

  Chance hurried through the mall, keeping out of sight as best he could. He’d taken the wider route, closer to the buildings on the border in hopes that he’d be less noticeable the further he was from the center of the plaza. It afforded him plenty of places to hide among the sprawl.

  A bolt of lightning split the sky overhead, striking a nearby street. It made Chance jump and nearly drop his carrier.

  His nerves were on edge, and his heart pounded in his ears. The firefight was raging, the sound of rifle reports sounding erratically from both sides. He had to hurry if they were going to have enough ammunition for the charge.

  Turning a corner, he tucked underneath an awning and hugged the lip of a table full of jewelry. He paused, dumbstruck. Wiping the rain from his eyes, he stared ahead of him, at what he couldn’t believe.

  There, sprinting across a gap just ahead, was Stoddard. He was ducking between stalls, his hands shielding his head from the rain, as he made his way in Chance’s direction.

  Chance knelt there, baffled at the cruel tricks of fate. Of all the people he could have encountered in that moment, he’d never expected Stoddard.

  Simon hugged his booth, a fresh volley of bullets digging in around him. They’d spotted him as he’d come up through the mall, and he was pinned down. This close, he was the most attractive target. He heard others of the Resistance trying to return fire, but it wasn’t deterring the guard. The sound of metal whizzing overhead remained constant.

  He couldn’t stay there. He knew that much. It was just a matter of timing when he could move. He scanned the booths and carts ahead, selecting one he thought he could reach during a reload.

  Another volley struck the broad side of his booth. Now was his chance.

  Simon rose and dashed across the gap, clutching the satchel to his side. His leg twanged, his old injury flaring up as he forced pressure on it, but he ignored it. There were more pressing matters to consid—

  He felt a bite through his shoulder, and his whole body spun as if struck with the force of a sledge. He lost his footing and fell, rolling a few times on the uneven cobble until he came to rest a few feet from his cover.

  He lay there not moving. Not thinking. Waiting for his senses to catch up with him. He’d experienced something like this before as a militiaman, when he’d injured his leg. The similarity in the feeling hurled him back in his memories. He saw the faces of the men who’d surrounded him then, leaning over him, lifting him to safety.

  He’d be alright. They’d look after him. All he had to do was rest. Regain his strength. In a while he’d be as good as…

  Something wasn’t right. He opened his eyes and reality came rushing back to him as he realized where he was. No one was there to help him this time—just him. How much time had passed? Enough for the guard to reload?

  He listened, anticipating the sound he knew would come: the many zipping balls intent to seek him out and put an end to his life.

  But, none came. The volleys sounded, but he no longer heard the metallic pings of nearby bullets. Perhaps they’d seen him go down and taken him for dead?

  He counted his fortune and lifted himself slightly. His collarbone burned where he’d been struck, and he touched it lightly. His hand came up red with blood; the cursed cogs had got him good.

  But this wasn’t going to be how he went, he told himself. He still had a task to complete.

  Grasping his shoulder with one hand and his satchel in the other, Simon crawled behind a nearby cart. It was slow progress, but he was moving. An ache set into his shoulder, sending a burning pain through his chest. His breaths came in short gusts, and he clenched his fists to ride out the pain.

  He kept crawling. One way or another, he was going to get to those steps.

  “Stoddard!” Chance called, leaping up from his hiding place.

  Stoddard froze where he was, stunned before a look of relief came over him, as though a great fear was lifted from his shoulders. “Chance! Gods above, I hoped I would find you.” He breathed deep, recovering from his run.

  How did he keep finding him? Chance wondered. The man was relentless.

  “What are you doing here?” Chance asked. “Shouldn’t you be up there?” He gestured to the capitol.

  “Why? Because I have ties to the meritocracy?” Stoddard asked. “I’m a man of science, Chance. As are you. Science doesn’t take a side.”

  “If you say so,” Chance said. The thick drops of rain streamed over his face and he blinked through them, not willing to take his eyes away from Stoddard. “I suppose you’re going to try and convince me to come with you now?”

  “I’m here to convince you not to throw away your life,” Stoddard insisted. “I’m putting myself in danger to save you.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need saving.” Chance pushed past him and made to continue on his way.

  “You and I,” Stoddard said. “We are not soldiers.”

  “I’m whatever I need to be.”

  “Yes, you are,” Stoddard smiled.

  Chance wanted to knock that smile off his face.

  “You’re a remarkably resourceful young man, Chance. A true opportunist. I’ve admired that from the first moment I met you.”

  “Don’t pander to me,” Chance spat.

  “Very well,” Stoddard said flatly. “But tell me, why are you so intent on throwing your gift away?”

  “I have no gift.”

  “Oh, poor boy. You poor boy. Your gift is greater than you or I can even comprehend. Don’t you understand?” Stoddard pleaded. “The knowledge you carry—the secrets of the Aether—they’re more valuable than anything you could possibly do here today. This little feud, whatever it’s about, is nothing compared to what’s in your head.”

  “I’m fighting for my friends.”

  “You’re putting at risk one of the greatest scientific advancements since the beginning of this city!”

  “Everything there was to know about the Aether spark died with Ashworth,” Chance insisted.

  “That’s not true!” Stoddard shouted. “You can’t fool me. You know more than you admit, and my offer still stands. Everything I’ve learned about the Aether I’m offering freely to you. Just come away from this scuffle.”

  “Still trying to play the friend?” Chance said. “You must think I’m a fool.”

  “Not at all,” Stoddard swore. “You’re a genius, Chance. A protégé of the city. You only need the resources and the right guidance. I can provide those if you’ll only listen to me.”

  “I’m nothing.” Chance said it under his breath. He’d accomplished nothing. He’d discovered nothing. He’d saved no one. At the very least, he could do something for the resistance—for his friends.

  He turned to go.

  “That’s not true, either,” Stoddard called after him. “I see it in you plainly enough. And Ashworth saw it to. He saw your potential, Chance. He saw what you could become! Why else would he have signed off his entire laboratory to you? He wanted you to carry on his work.”

  Chance stopped abruptly, a new thought interrupting his. How did Stoddard know Ashworth had signed over his property? How could Stoddard possibly have known that?

  Then it clicked. The documents. The notebooks. All of Ashworth’s research had been seized by Vanzeal… and taken to the one who’d issued the order.

  “It was you,” Chance said, turning slowly. “It was you all along.”

  Stoddard hesitated, a look of apprehension coming over him as he realized his mistake. “Now listen here, Chance. I—”

  Chance was done listening. He was done entertaining Stoddard’s lies. Every word from the man was like venom in his veins. It heated his blood and caused his whole being to quake.

  As he looked at Stoddard now, listened to his silken words try to talk him down, Chance recalled all of his pain since the Aether had come into his hands. The bombing. The fire. Ashworth’s murder. Ponti’s home. His deterioration. His friend’
s concern. In a single chain of events, Chance traced everything he’d suffered to the man who stood before him now.

  He’d set the gears in motion and triggered this mess.

  Chance’s grip tightened around his carrier. If there was anyone in the city who deserved to be punished for what had happened it was Stoddard.

  Simon pulled himself up against the wheel of an abandoned cart with his good arm. He was close enough he was certain he could reach the steps with a well-aimed throw. Not an easy feat given his condition.

  He was losing blood, and the pressure in his shoulder had spread down his side. He could hardly use his right arm. Positioning himself so that the pressure was off his shoulder, he breathed deep to recuperate strength. He’d worn himself out crawling.

  Glancing ahead, he saw the soldiers on the steps were looking worse for the wear. They’d suffered considerable casualties, their numbers thinned and many wounded among them. Nonetheless, they’d held their line. Whomever was commanding those men must have been a force to be reckoned with.

  It would be the death of them.

  “Prideful, cogs,” Simon cursed. They may have been the enemy, but he took no satisfaction in their circumstance. He’d been at the mercy of a commander like those too many times himself.

  Looking back at the fountain in the center of the plaza, he saw members of the Resistance popping up here and there, keeping up the barrage on the steps, but their rate of fire was audibly diminished.

  They’re conserving ammunition, Simon realized. They were running out of time.

  He scanned the opposite side of the steps for signs of Chance, but none could be seen. He couldn’t wait much longer. They needed to put up the smokescreen.

  “Come on, Chance,” Simon groaned. “Where are you?”

  Ringgold trudged at a quick soldier’s step, scanning the booths and carts with a trained eye. They’d searched the area where Donovan had said he’d seen Stoddard last run to, but so far they’d turned up no sign of him.

  Ringgold kept a wary eye toward the center of the plaza. He didn’t want to draw the attention of the revolutionaries. He was a skilled duelist, but even he had to bow to the deadly simplicity of a rifle.

  “Are you certain he came this way?” Ringgold asked.

  “I’m positive, sir.”

  “Where could he have gone.” Ringgold held a hand up to block the rain. It was difficult to see. At the rate they were going, the firefight would be over by the time they’d found them.

  “Perhaps we should split up,” he suggested.

  “Excuse me?” Donovan asked. “I don’t know if that’s the wisest choice. I’m an office clerk, not a soldi—”

  Ringgold held up a hand to silence him.

  There, down a small corridor of booths, he caught sight of two figures. They were squared off with one another, and Ringgold recognized them despite the rain.

  He called out, but a peal of thunder sounded, stripping away any other noise. Ringgold cursed, picking up his pace as he ran toward them.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Chance snapped. The sound of thunder resounded around them, making Stoddard jump. “Stop lying to me! You killed Ashworth!”

  “I told you,” Stoddard said. “That was not my fault.”

  “Harper. Keller. Kwame.” Chance spat each name at Stoddard as though it were a bullet. “It’s because of you that they’re dead. You murdered them all!”

  “Chance, I—”

  “You’ve hunted me and my friends for months. You’ve destroyed everything I’ve ever worked toward, and now you want to pick at our remains? I won’t let you prey upon my friends like you’ve preyed upon me.”

  “It’s not like that,” Stoddard tried to explain. “I’m only trying to—”

  “Do you even see what you’ve done?”

  Chance was at his limit. Every fiber of his being was honed on Stoddard, seething with hatred.

  “All of this,” he shouted, gesturing to the grizzly scene of the plaza, “is because of you!”

  He couldn’t contain his hatred any longer. It bubbled up past his breaking point and his hand tightened on the flask in his carrier. With all his might, he drew it out and hurled it at Stoddard’s head.

  “No, Chance!” Ringgold shouted. He’d stepped out from between two booths, as Chance wound up.

  Stoddard flinched, his arms rising as the flask flew straight for him. There was a blur of red as Ringgold dove forward, throwing himself in front of the doctor. The flask collided against Ringgold’s shoulder, bursting at the epicenter and spewing flames across the length of his body. Stoddard tumbled as Ringgold knocked him to the ground, shielding him from the worst of the blast.

  Stoddard cried out, writhing in pain under Ringgold’s body as he grasped his exposed arm. His sleeve was shredded and burned, the skin below charred instantly from the intense heat. A stub remained where his hand had once been.

  Chance had only a moment to take in what had happened before the second duelist was upon him. With a single motion and the sound of springs, Chance felt the cold reality of steel sweep across his chest and he fell backwards against the ground.

  “No!” Stoddard shouted through his pain. “No! You didn’t! You can’t!”

  The duelist sheathed his blade and knelt over Ringgold, pulling him away from Stoddard and checking for signs of life. Ringgold remained motionless where he lay, his body horribly burned, his chest unmoving.

  “Sir!” Donovan cried as he rushed to Stoddard’s side. His expression twisted and he shrunk back momentarily as he looked at Stoddard’s arm.

  “We have to go,” the duelist said. “We can’t waste time here. They’ll have seen the blast.” He seized Stoddard, pulling him away from Ringgold’s body.

  “Come along, sir,” Donovan urged, doing his best to help. “Let’s get you away from here.”

  They both leaned forward and lifted Stoddard from the ground. He wasn’t a heavy man, but it was difficult to grip him. Donovan let out a cry of alarm as some of Stoddard’s skin slid off where he was holding him.

  “For the sake of our lives,” the duelist barked. “Hold him!”

  Donovan grasped firmer and they lifted him again.

  “No!” Stoddard cried, fighting against the pain and their strong arms. “You have the wrong man,” he insisted, pointing to Chance. “Save him! Save him!”

  He kicked and struggled, but the pain got the better of him and he felt his strength drain. Defeated, he watched helplessly as he was dragged away. Chance’s body faded from view behind them and Stoddard wept openly, surrendering to the cruel trick of fate as his last hope was lost from view.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The Secret

  The master alchemist may not have the power to change lead to gold, but they will have changed—either making heaven of a hell or misery from a gift.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  C hance lay on his back, sucking in short gasps of air as his mind fought to catch up with him. He was having a hard time grounding his thoughts in the moment; they spun dizzily around him. Everything seemed to be racing by and he closed his eyes to try and block it out.

  He tried to draw in a deep breath, but no matter how hard he tried the air never seemed to stay with him. He strained to move, but he felt pinned against the rough stone.

  After struggling for a moment, he gave up and sank back into the ground. The pain was too much for him. He lay still, listening to the distant sounds of the battle and watching the flickering glow of flames as they clung stubbornly to one of the nearby booths.

  Even in the rain, they refused to be snuffed out.

  Chance’s mind swam, as if it drifted through murky water. Occasionally a wave of thought crashed down around him and he felt himself dip below its surface, only to return to this same place again as his vision cleared and he sputtered for a breath.

  He thought of the Resistance. How would they take the steps now that he couldn’t clear the way?

  He thought of Liesel. He�
��d never come through on his promise to pay her back for all the help she’d given him.

  He thought of Rhett. Who would look after him if he couldn’t?

  He thought of Margarete. He’d never apologized for what he’d put her through. Never told her how much deeper his admiration for her went.

  He thought of Ashworth and Harper, and wondered where they were now. Had they learned anything more about the Aether since they’d gone.

  And he thought of Ringgold. About the argument they’d held onto for so many years. It seemed so pointless now. School. His apprenticeship. Their godforsaken need to compete with one another. All of it.

  His head lolled to the side and he saw Ringgold’s body only a few feet away. It lay limp and lifeless, half-draped in the blood-red cape. His face was uncovered, however. His eyes were closed, his burnt expression one of unexpected peace.

  Why would you do that? Chance asked silently. Why would you try and stop me, Ringgold?

  Of all the misfortunes he’d endured, this was the cruelest of them all. At the very least it would be his last.

  Chance felt his eyes sting as tears clouded the horrible vision before him. A tender mercy. Turning away, he looked into the sky. The sun was shrouded entirely by the blackened clouds which churned overhead. Every so often he’d see flashes of lightning, though the sound of the thunder was fading with the battle.

  And then Chance was confused.

  Light was coming through the clouds. He blinked through the rain, trying to focus on the light as it grew. It shimmered between the drops like dust falling from a sill, swirling in slow prismatic waves. He tried to follow the particles, but they faded in and out so that he couldn’t tell if it were one continuous stream or several moving patches.

  For a moment he thought it was drifting toward him… but that wasn’t right. He looked harder. The light was moving away from him. It was escaping through the clouds.

  Chance followed the trail. His eyes were getting heavy and he struggled to keep them open as he searched until he was looking down at his chest. There, concentrated around the gash, he saw the light bleeding out as he exhaled. It drifted like wisps of smoke, mixing with the rain in a gentle blend of blues and golds.