by Cam Baity
The chraida pressed in, gnashing their teeth and leering at the intruders.
“The—the Foundry,” Dollop insisted. “They’re go-going to wipe out the C-Covenant. You have to—to do something.”
“Have to?” The warrior’s clamp hands snapped into iron fists. “Nothing to us.”
“But if th-they win,” Dollop continued, “the Foundry will destroy ev-ev-everything this time. Mehk will—will fall.”
“You no understand, Little Lump.”
“It’s you who d-doesn’t understand!” Dollop argued.
The chraida warrior glared, earblades twittering.
“You and your pe-people are scared. You—you stay hidden in your trees and let the world fall a-apart around you.”
The Marquis was in a panic as he watched the menacing tribe tense. He waved his hands and flickered desperately to Dollop, as if begging him to stop insulting the chraida. When that didn’t work, he tried to simply cover Dollop’s mouth.
“But you—you are not just Riders-of-the-Wind. You are Ch-Children of Ore too!” Dollop trumpeted, avoiding his companion’s hands. “We all are. And—and the time has c-come for you to help save Her sacred ma-machine.”
Raspy chuckles from the group of chraida.
“Little Lump speaks fire,” the warrior grunted. “But is too late.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Dollop asked.
The big chraida’s secondary arms unspooled a cable and launched it out into the dark. He looked back before departing.
“Chraida leave Chokarai.”
The kids camped inside the collapsed ruin and slept on beds of amber moss, much to the displeasure of the colorful fan-tailed birds. After obsessively checking on Phoebe throughout the night, Micah conked out at last beneath the foil thermal blanket from the Med-i-Pak first aid kit, snoring behind his facemask.
Phoebe didn’t sleep much. She simply didn’t feel tired—almost like her body didn’t need rest anymore. The light pulsing from the seed at her throat was distracting, but the sensation of its cords—or roots—steadily working their way through her body was worse. Occasionally, she would have a mild spike of pain, as one presumably tweaked a nerve, but mostly it was just uncomfortable.
Yet it was also fascinating, in a perverse kind of way. How did this mehkan plant work? Was it some kind of battery, charging up her body to keep it functioning?
Or was it living off her, feeding on her from the inside like a parasite?
That thought disturbed her more than a little. Whether she liked it or not, this seed was a part of her now. She wished there was a way to learn more about it, but even if she could speak to the Uaxtu, they didn’t appear to be a very talkative bunch.
Phoebe fought to comprehend it all. She had been dead. And now she wasn’t.
But was she alive?
Phoebe felt artificial, like a paper doll imposter of her former self. She had died, crossed over, and now she knew the absence—the great nothingness that had taken her parents. They were truly gone. Forever. The thought sank her, like losing them all over again. And Micah, it would take him too. It took everyone, everything, in time. Yet here she was, heart beating, brain whirling, pretending to not know the unknown.
Why her?
Awakened into this unnatural life, even with Micah by her side, she was more profoundly alone than she could have ever imagined. How could she possibly go on? What was the purpose of living, of trying, if all there was in the end was the absence?
A question without answer.
A plaintive bell-toll voice rang throughout Rust Risen.
They had felt it just like her. The Uaxtu had all died and returned. But for what? Did they wonder what the point of it all was too? Did they feel as broken as she did, as they stared into infinity and contemplated the inevitability of the absence?
Time washed past Phoebe unnoticed, until dawn peeked at the corners of the Shroud. She got up and stretched, feeling the seed roots strain beneath her skin and restrict her movement. Her breath was visible in clouds of condensation, so she knew it was cold, but the chill didn’t seem to affect her the way it used to.
Her coveralls were uncomfortably bunched around the middle, and it took her a moment to realize that her ratty sniping skirt was gathered underneath. Micah must have accidentally done that when he dressed her. So she unzipped her coveralls, removed her skirt, and then fastened it on the outside once more. In its pockets, she found the remnants of her silly old prank supplies—a packet of itching powder, their naval map, a needle and thread, one ball of rubber bands, and the paper loon Micah had made for her birthday. His sweet, clumsy gift made her smile.
But her cheer was short-lived. In another pocket, she found her father’s spectacle lenses, cracked and spattered with metal melted by the CHAR of Emberhome.
After everything he had fought for, after losing his life for the Covenant, her father had been wrong about them—wrong about the Ona. Phoebe had followed in his footsteps, she had found the mysterious Occulyth and died because of it. But why? Was it a necessary sacrifice, like the one Loaii offered in the Accords? No. She knew now that the stories of Makina and Her Forge were myths, whatever Micah thought he had seen. And if it had been her duty as Loaii to die, then surely Orei or Dollop would have warned her. So was the Ona evil, then? Was she just a liar and a murderer?
Or was the truth something in between? Neither black nor white?
Just like her father had once said.
She gazed through the battered remnants of his spectacles. Her eyes strained to make anything out in the cracked and hazy world seen through them.
The truth, then, no matter how hard it was to find.
Forget the absence—this was her purpose.
For him. For her.
Phoebe slipped the lenses back into her pocket. Snatching up Micah’s field pack, she left his side and descended several steps to a small courtyard next to a trickling brook, surrounded by the autumnal trees. She sat down on a toppled pillar and opened up Micah’s bag to take stock. There was the Med-i-Pak and five Self-Contained Meals they had taken from the Foundry boat, one nearly empty canister of water, dozens of Wackers bars, a bunch of cartridges of ammo for Micah’s useless rifle, and her old Multi-Edge, which had malfunctioned and was balled up in a metal knot.
She used the rest of their water to splash the dirt from her face and peeled away the filthy bandage on her forehead to check the wound, surprised to find that it didn’t hurt in the slightest. A side effect from the seed, maybe? After tying her dark, uneven hair back with a rubber band, Phoebe searched Micah’s pack for the VooToo compartment. She popped it open, put the orange tube in the vesper stream and the clear tube into their metal bottle, then hit the button to replenish their drinking water.
All that done, Phoebe figured she should eat. She didn’t feel hunger—perhaps another result of the seed—but she assumed her body needed fuel after everything it had been through. Thinking it wise to save the SCMs, she grabbed a Wackers bar, tore it open, and tucked in. She almost spat it out. The metallic aftertaste made her think that the candy had gone bad. But when she washed it down with water, she found that it too tasted like metal. The more she ate, the more she got used to it, because all the other flavors were still there, but it was irritating nonetheless.
Phoebe nibbled at another Wackers bar and sat back down, contented, in the mist-drenched morning of Rust Risen. Though she could barely make out the nearby Uaxtu because of the Shroud, their fiery seeds glowed bright as beacons. She listened to the intonation of their echoing bells as notes drifted and melded in harmony.
There was a lonely kind of peace here. She yearned to explore the ruins of the strange Uaxtu city, to wander among their golden gardens and whisper-soft vesperfalls. To share a bit of their somber serenity.
“Phoebe?” Micah cried, sounding panicked. “Phoebe?!”
“Down here,” she called.
He burst out from the ruins, and relief washed over him as he spotted her. He came t
earing down the steps to join her. “I thought…” he started. “I was worried you—”
“I’m fine. Just getting everything ready to go.”
He watched as she finished loading all the supplies into his hard-shelled pack.
“Oh…good,” he said.
“Your eye looks better,” she offered. “What happened to it?”
He blinked, noticing he could finally open the swollen one.
“Eh, it’s no big deal, just some dumb ol’—”
Shadows moved behind Micah.
A man charged out of the mist. Coming for them.
“Run!” she shouted.
She was halfway across the courtyard, throwing on the field pack. They had to get out of here, and fast. How was it possible? They were so far from anything!
Phoebe looked to her side—Micah was not there. She glanced over her shoulder.
There he was, on his back, at the feet of the lumbering form.
“MICAH!” she cried, torn for a moment between her best friend and the chance to escape. She had to go back. So she did.
Defenseless, she raced toward an enemy she knew all too well.
Goodwin.
“Don’t you dare touch him!” she screamed.
The Foundry Chairman was worse for the wear. His normally impeccable suit was dirty and torn. His white hair was wild, but behind his facemask, his icy eyes were as keen as the combat knife in his hand.
Micah was gasping for air. Phoebe looked at him. He was deathly pale, pouring sweat, clutching his chest. His shaking hands tore at his facemask, trying to rip it off.
“Stop! You need it to breathe!” Phoebe pleaded as she restrained him. She looked at Goodwin. “What did you do?!”
The man gripped his knife tighter, stalking closer.
She scoured Micah’s body for a wound but found none.
“I’m dying…I’m dying…” Micah wheezed.
“No, you’re okay,” she assured him. “You’re not hurt.”
His eyes were crazy and unfocused. Spittle flecked his lips. He was shaking uncontrollably. What in the world was wrong with him?
Goodwin pulled a bundle of thick black cord from his pocket.
“What do you want from us?” she demanded.
Goodwin took a menacing step, gleaming knife outstretched. Phoebe stood to face him. Micah whimpered like a puppy beside her, struggling for air.
“You,” Goodwin said flatly, stepping closer, knife pointing at her throat. “Both of you. I want—” He stopped in his tracks, eyes glinting with the yellow light of Phoebe’s glowing seed. “That.”
She held his stare as long as she could, then knelt back down to Micah. His expression was frozen in terror.
“So,” Goodwin said, “the rumors are true. They seemed too wondrous to believe. I had not dared to hope, and yet…” He was smiling now. “Incredible.”
“What are you talking about?” Phoebe barked.
“You two have done the impossible,” he said, voice brimming with passion. “I told you of the undiscovered bounty in Mehk, that there were tales of a rare mehkan that could reanimate dead tissue.”
He approached with his knife pointing right at her, and she reeled. Goodwin grabbed Phoebe’s shoulder. He grazed the seed at her throat with the tip of his blade. It crackled with a bright spark, which thrilled him even more.
“And here you are, back among the living.” An elated smile bloomed on the Chairman’s face. “We have work to do, my dear. Much work indeed.”
Goodwin reached down and grabbed the hyperventilating boy, hauling him to his feet as if he were a plaything. Phoebe rushed at him and tried to break his grip, but Goodwin yanked her by the collar and tossed her to the ground.
“Help!” she cried to the unseen Uaxtu. “Somebody help us!”
“When I tracked the boy up here,” Goodwin said, unspooling the black cord in his hand and winding it tightly around Micah, “I expected to return with only one problem solved. Instead, I will return with the discovery of the century.”
Phoebe scowled at him, plotting her next attack.
“Do you comprehend the significance of your achievement?” Goodwin went on enthusiastically, binding Micah and pinning his arms to his sides. “You children have done the unthinkable. You have cheated death. You have singlehandedly surpassed the luminaries of Foundry science and their centuries of—”
“You’re tying him too tight!” she yelled. “Don’t you see he can’t breathe?”
But Goodwin continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “What you have done here will change the course of humanity. You have forever changed the world.” He offered her a warm smile as he tied a series of knots. “Your father would be so proud of you.”
With a snarl, she went for his knife, hammering at his shin with her boots, trying to break his wrist. But Goodwin was too strong. He let go of Micah, who flopped to the ground, and grabbed her hair with his free hand, wrenching until she squealed.
“But we need to come to an understanding first,” Goodwin explained, calm as ever. “We are leaving now. If you do not do as I say, if you do not follow, if you try to escape, I open up your friend Micah’s throat. Then I carry you. Do we understand each other?”
She dug her nails into his wrist, but to no avail. He yanked her hair harder.
“Yes!” she shrieked.
“Excellent,” Goodwin said and released her.
She staggered back. Goodwin finished binding Micah, and Phoebe rushed to his side. He was pallid and drenched in sweat, but his trembling had mostly subsided, leaving him unresponsive and staring unblinking into space.
“Micah?” she said softly. “Are you all right? Are you there?”
She gently shook his shoulder. He didn’t acknowledge her.
“Don’t worry, okay? I won’t let him hurt you.”
His eyes were glassy.
“Well, well,” Goodwin said, and Phoebe looked up.
The Uaxtu had surrounded them. The teetering rusty giants appeared out of the mist with their seeds flaring bright. They took cautious steps toward Goodwin and the kids, blinking their curious eyes, reaching out their delicate, twittering fingers.
“Please,” Phoebe called to them, “do something!”
The Chairman hauled Micah to his feet by the remaining cord, held his knife to the boy’s throat, and backed away.
“Come, Miss Plumm,” Goodwin said as he retreated from the gathered mehkans, his voice serrated with a hint of threat.
“Please,” she wept to the Uaxtu. But her eyes were curiously dry.
Phoebe remembered that after her mother died, she had vowed to never shed another tear. When she then lost her father, she had broken that promise. But now, it seemed the seed that had brought her back was going to make her live up to her word. In her new body, with this second life, there would be no more tears.
With Micah’s hand in hers, she let Goodwin take them away. The Uaxtu watched as their unexpected visitors disappeared into the Shroud.
And their mournful bells rang.
It was past noon when Goodwin and the kids finally emerged from the Shroud. As the fog dissipated, they saw the blue coral peaks of the Ephrian Mountains spread out beneath an oily, overcast sky.
They had been marching all morning, with nothing to interrupt the monotony but an occasional order from Goodwin, so when he halted their descent, it was a relief. The Chairman opened the field pack strapped to Phoebe’s back and took out their water canister. After testing the air to make sure it was breathable, he removed his facemask, took a long swig, then handed it to Phoebe. She loathed the idea of drinking after him, but it appeared that she had no choice.
She drank her share and approached Micah. His expression was still slack and lifeless, and his vacant eyes frightened her. What had happened to him? How long would he remain like this? She needed him now more than ever.
Carefully, she removed his facemask and eased the canister to his parched lips. Micah didn’t look up as he drank a little
water, letting the rest trickle from his mouth.
“That is enough,” Goodwin said, retrieving the bottle. “Time to go. I intend to arrive before dark.”
“Arrive where?” she asked, but Goodwin was already leading Micah away. She hurried after him, not willing to be so easily ignored. “Where are you taking us?”
The Chairman kept on marching, the last wisps of mist curling in his wake.
“I asked you a question,” she demanded. “I want to know—”
A knot tightened at her throat, as if the seed buried there were a screw twisting. The cords beneath her skin seemed to harden and retract, yanking at her insides. Her limbs locked. She stumbled.
“I warned you, Miss Plumm,” Goodwin called over his shoulder. “I will not tolerate any disobedience.”
Phoebe let out a strangled yelp. The Chairman looked back and saw her distress. He hurried to her side and caught her before she fell.
“What is it?” Goodwin asked, concerned.
He checked her pulse and felt her forehead. Phoebe’s muscles were cramped and locked tight, and the light of her seed sputtered. Then, without warning, the cords slackened and she gasped, released from their iron grip.
“Has it passed?”
She nodded and caught her breath. Once he was sure she was safe, cold detachment returned to his face.
“What would cause such a…” Goodwin muttered as he assessed their surroundings. “Curious.”
Phoebe looked up at him.
“Perhaps our little miracle requires it,” he mused.
“What…are you talking about?” she rasped.
“We will need to run a full battery of tests on you before we can be certain, of course. All the more reason to hurry.” The Chairman gave Micah’s leash a tug. “Curious indeed.”
