Blaze of Embers

by Cam Baity

  There was a commotion from higher up in the canopy, a throng of angry chraida voices. They had been at it for clicks, but now their shouts seemed to be rising in hostility. Whatever was going on up there, more and more villagers were being drawn to the hubbub, gathering in quite a crowd.

  Dollop stepped out the front door and reached for the nearest branch.

  “Gi-gimme a boost,” he said.

  The Marquis stood behind him, arms crossed tight.

  “You—you wanna know wh-why we’re here?” Dollop asked. “Well, I’ll sh-show you. Now h-h-help me up!”

  The lumie buried his dimmed opticle in his hands.

  Up they went, with Dollop leading the way, determined to not waste any more time. They scrambled from limb to limb, slipping on loose bark, fingers scraped and sore. The voices that rang in the canopy overhead were emanating from the largest structure in the village. It was an open-air platform that stretched between massive pipework trunks to form a torch bloom–lit terrace. Villagers packed in, with others hanging off the edges and clinging to every available branch to get a look.

  “We will not hide!” snarled a deep voice from the center of the platform. “Chraida stand and fight! Protect Chokarai. Riders-of-the-Wind die proud!”

  “Fool!” shouted another. “Cannot win. Cannot beat bleeders.”

  “Must leave Chokarai. Join kin in the Veltran wilds.”

  “Join kin and survive!”

  This sentiment was echoed by many grunts of approval.

  “Cowards!” the first voice bellowed.

  “Traitors!” the crowd hooted in reply.

  Dollop and the Marquis hauled themselves up to a crooked perch that overlooked the terrace. They could just barely see past the tightly packed crowd. A handful of chraida warriors stood on one side, the rest of the tribe on the other. The mob surrounded a shrunken figure with peeling foil skin that was layered in tattoos. The shriveled old thing sat before a large slab altar, a mask of yellowed human bone obscuring his face.

  “No more talk-alk!” the ancient chraida screeched, his gnarled hand raised high to silence the chattering crowd.

  The Ascetic. His shrill voice assaulted Dollop. How many times had it been directed at him, detailing all the ways that he was worthless? How often had it threatened to snuff out his span? Hearing it now, that old familiar fear crept over him. Dollop had wanted to be a chraida because he couldn’t imagine what else he might be. But no matter how hard he had tried to serve the Ascetic, no matter how much he had wanted to join the chraida, this was never truly his home.

  Now he knew who he was. Not a chraida. Not an amalgami.

  He was singular. One. He was Dollop.

  And he refused to be afraid.

  Goodwin is not here.

  I can usually taste him on the air. Nerves in my not-skin bristle, sense every breath taken in the Depot, and his is not among them.

  Air is thick with war. I smell the desperation of the mehkan filth, dug in outside the walls. Cannot retreat, cannot advance. They know their hour comes. Wish I could tear into them, would savor every kill, but can’t reveal myself.

  Not until Goodwin is mine.

  He will return. Always does.

  No one knows I am here. I hid until night came. Melted a hole in their wall. They will find it eventually but will think the creatures made it. When they realize, it will be too late. Now I move freely through the Depot. Limping, wounds in my armpit and leg mending slowly. One with the dark. Still easy when I feel them coming. Human or Watchman, doesn’t matter. I vanish like smoke before they can detect me.

  Scorched buildings everywhere, cratered alleys where battle raged. Feel the weak magnetic hum in what’s left of the overhead NET system. Creatures got farther than I would have guessed. Goodwin underestimated them. Underestimates me.

  It will be the death of him.

  Many Watchmen near the main gate. A mighty force to face the creatures. Hundreds. Weapons loaded. Body armor polished. Programmed for war.

  Like me.

  Move deeper into the Depot, past Control Core, its beams still scarred by my hands. He is not here. My every fiber is tuned in. Hunting him. I boil. Overflowing with fury. Want to take every guard I slip past. Shred them all. Bathe in their agony.

  Can’t. Be patient. Hatred spurs me on. Sharpens my senses.

  Past warehouses. Armories. Vehicle assembly. I know each station, every building, exploit their weaknesses. Keep moving, evade patrols and Omnicams.

  I will dig in like a spider. Goodwin will come to me.

  Stop beside a tower block. Grids of windows. Hum of electric power. Stench of sweat. Quarters and barracks. Floors of identical rooms. Just essential needs. Temporary lives.

  Something pulls me in. I stop the hunt. Seek something else. An itch I must scratch.

  Window on the first floor, corner unit. Not sure why it calls to me. Steel frame bends under my touch. Remove the heavy glass, gouges my gummy flesh. Slip inside, wedge the glass back in place. No one will know.

  Dark in here. Musty air.

  Then I remember.

  This room. Just as I left it. White walls. Single bed, starched sheet turned down. Bathroom tastes of disinfectant. Closet nearly empty. A few uniforms folded and in their place. This was all mine once.

  On a table, a case of syringes, half-gone. Vials of serum. Pills. Medication charts in a handwriting that used to be my own. All mine. My life. I awoke in this room on a thousand dawns. Stared at these walls. Injected these chemicals.

  By the bed. Readouts and dials. Equipment to monitor me while I slept. Framed photograph on the end table. Next to it, a bronze medal with a faded red ribbon.

  Mine.

  I know these things. The medal. First recognition of my potential.

  Always knew I would wear a uniform when I grew up. Prison or the army. Moved from home to home, bloody knuckles pounding me, people trying to control me. Break me. So I ran. Enlisted at sixteen. Lied to the recruiter.

  Only the army saw greatness in me. I was stronger and faster than the others. Angrier. Soared through every test. Just a cadet when I got the Medal of Excellence.

  Dreamed of the day I would make my first kill.

  The photograph. Twelve anonymous men in anonymous black uniforms. Not a smile among them. Whisper Corps—the Foundry’s covert task force. Slipped into Greinadoren and took out a squad of Kommandei without breaking a sweat. Dropped from ten thousand feet into the Azsuri Crescent to stamp out a rebellion.

  We were the unknown. Invisible. The best. That’s why Mr. Goodwin recruited us for his secret project. There were four before me—Cassidy, Rosario, Harris, and Garrett. All gone without a trace. Then he came to me. I was ready.

  There are heights beyond the Whisper Corps, Mr. Goodwin said. You have a chance to surpass them all. Dominate, he promised. Become the Dyad.

  I trusted him.

  Rage returns, entering my blood like a drug.

  There they are, staring back at me in the photo. Cassidy, Rosario, Harris, and Garrett—all dead. They took the metal into their bodies, but the metal won. I was the first. First to tame the metal. To survive. I find myself in the picture—fierce dark eyes, my eyes. Can’t help but glimpse my now-face reflected in the frame. Gore. Sores. Face warped beyond recognition. I’m not the man in the picture anymore. Not even human.

  No. This thing that I am now. This is the real me.

  Glass frame cracks in my hand.

  This room is not mine. This life belonged to someone else. The photograph is another’s story. The medal is a stranger’s. Snatch up the puny thing. Bronze turns to jelly in my fist. All that’s left is the red ribbon, like a stream of blood.

  You were right, Mr. Goodwin. I have surpassed them all. I will dominate. Because I am the Dyad. Darkness made flesh.

  The world will fall before me.

  Starting with you.

  Goodwin pulled the kids behind a barricade of desks. They could hear the Watchman’s fast, erratic steps crunch
ing across the glass—one-two, one-two—each closer than the last. There was no escape from the operations area. It was too open. They could make a break for the main hall that led out of the lab, or check one of the side doors, but they would probably be mowed down before they got anywhere.

  The steps were very close now. Goodwin tightened his grip on the knife. They expected to hear the Watchman’s weapon open fire at any second.

  Instead there was a rapid suction sound.

  Goodwin cocked an eyebrow and braved a look. Then, to Phoebe’s astonishment, he stood right up and stared. Curiosity overcame her fear, so she gave Micah’s cold hand a quick squeeze and rose to her feet.

  The Watchman was standing a few yards away beside one of the few intact glass cylinders. Its weapon was pressed against the glass, somehow causing that odd squishing sound.

  Wait…that wasn’t a weapon.

  It was a plunger. A Plunge-o-matic, by the looks of it—a Foundry brand automatic plunger. The rubber bulb flopped against the glass as it was pumped vigorously by a pneumatic piston. The Watchman, its feet slipping on the wet floor, struggled mightily to keep the device under control. Inside the cylinder, an agitated brainworm zipped about, apparently as confused by this bizarre spectacle as Phoebe was.

  She suppressed a giggle.

  “Defunct unit,” Goodwin said as he stepped out from behind the desk with the kids close behind. The Watchman turned, cocked its head at the Chairman like a curious puppy, then returned to the urgent task of wrangling the Plunge-o-matic.

  Jutting out from the side of its head was a foot-long piece of shrapnel.

  “Its AR processor has been destroyed,” Goodwin murmured. “The mehkan component inside appears to have overridden all functions.”

  The Watchman lost its grip on the Plunge-o-matic and dropped the wobbling device at their feet. Phoebe studied the strange automaton. Though its body armor was dented and its Durall uniform was singed, it had somehow survived the destruction of this lab. One of the Watchman’s hands was damaged, and two fingers—its shock prongs, Phoebe realized—dangled loosely on tangled wires. The Watchman tapped on the glass cylinder to get the brainworm’s attention.

  If what Goodwin said was true, then the mehkan creature inside this robot soldier’s head had bypassed the circuitry that imprisoned it and was now in full control of its Foundry-made body. She didn’t know if she felt bad for the creature within or admired the thing’s newfound freedom.

  Goodwin approached the Watchman and retrieved the hand cannon from its hip. The automaton looked down at its now-empty holster, baffled. A spastic convulsion rippled through its body, and sparks sputtered from its head wound.

  The Chairman set his combat knife down on the nearest table and aimed the Watchman’s firearm at the kids.

  “Outside,” he said. “We will wait for our transport there.”

  Micah stared at the gun. Phoebe moved protectively in front of him.

  “Put that down,” she snapped. “Haven’t we done everything you’ve asked?”

  The curious Watchman cocked his head again.

  “Walk,” Goodwin said sharply, gesturing to the hall.

  Phoebe gently tugged Micah’s arm. He did not move.

  But something else did.

  It tumbled into the lab like a boulder. They barely had time to register the blur before it bashed Goodwin off his feet. The Chairman crashed into a table, knocking Watchman heads aside. The hand cannon clattered from his grip.

  The dark shape’s momentum carried it into one of the barricades of desks. Phoebe yanked Micah aside as debris flew. The Watchman stared in wonder.

  Goodwin regained his feet, eyes aflame, searching for his weapon. The boulder unfurled into a compact shadowy figure and charged. Goodwin snatched up his combat knife from the table and dodged. Slashed out with the blade.

  The attacker corrected, held up a thick arm protectively. A grunt as the weapon found its mark. Phoebe glimpsed something she never expected to see again.

  A filthy green-striped necktie. It couldn’t be.

  Goodwin lunged. Mr. Pynch deflated and darted to avoid the knife. The Chairman kept coming at him. The blade glinted with each jab. The balvoor caught Goodwin’s wrist and popped his spines out. The man howled. His knife clattered to the ground.

  Phoebe knew they should run. This was the only chance she and Micah would get. But she was too stunned to move.

  Mr. Pynch advanced on Goodwin, who stumbled back, clutching his bleeding hand. The defunct Watchman had retrieved the hand cannon and was holding it awkwardly by the trigger guard, trying to wedge the gun back into its holster.

  “Unit,” Goodwin snarled. “Give that to me!”

  The Watchman seemed surprised at the attention, and helpfully offered the weapon to Goodwin with its damaged hand. The Chairman snatched it.

  The instant his fingers touched the Watchman, there was a burst of blue sparks.

  Goodwin stiffened, his breath wheezing out like a punctured tire, then collapsed.

  Phoebe stared, mouth agape. She looked from the Chairman’s inert body to Mr. Pynch and back again. The Watchman looked at its shock prong fingers, prodding them and delighting in the colorful pops that emerged at every touch. Another shudder trickled through the Watchman’s body as it turned to show its discovery to the worm in the tube. Mr. Pynch held his mitts out defenselessly to the kids.

  Everything was a jumble. How was it possible? How could this liar, this mehkan that had left them to die, be here, now?

  “Why?” was all Phoebe could manage to say.

  “Just happened to be ambulating in the vicinity and thought you might do with a smidge of assistancing,” the mehkan said in a quavering voice, with a half-hearted grin. He winced and clutched his arm, the sleeve cut and dark with ichor.

  Phoebe snatched up Goodwin’s combat knife and sawed through Micah’s restraints, all the while keeping her attention fixed on the treacherous balvoor. Mr. Pynch looked bad. His lumpy face sagged, his wonky eyes were squinty, and he had a bedraggled air about him. He took the discarded hand cannon from Goodwin and stepped toward the kids, crunching through the debris on the floor.

  “Stay back,” Phoebe said, eyeing the gun in the mehkan’s hands. She backpedaled, clinging on to Micah, and pointed the knife at Mr. Pynch.

  “Miss Phoebe,” the mehkan pleaded, nozzle spinning as he registered their fear. “Master Micah. I mean no malfeasance. Here.” He placed the gun on the ground and slid it over to them. “I’ve merely come to restitutionize.”

  Phoebe was about to reply when, with unexpected speed, Micah snatched the hand cannon up and pointed it at the balvoor. The boy’s eyes bulged with rage, and his teeth were bared. Mr. Pynch made no move to protect himself. Instead, he spread his arms wide in a gesture of surrender. Micah squeezed the trigger.

  “No!” Phoebe screamed.

  She shoved Micah’s arm, throwing off his aim. The muzzle flash illuminated the lab, and a ricochet rang. Mr. Pynch hadn’t moved an inch.

  Fury blazed in Micah’s face. “What’re you doing?!” he screamed at her.

  “Saving him,” she insisted. “From you.”

  “He don’t deserve to live!”

  “Maybe not. But I’m not going to let you kill him.”

  “Would be a charity,” Mr. Pynch murmured. “Do it, Master Micah.”

  Micah raised the firearm again, but Phoebe forced it down.

  “I don’t trust him either,” she said. “But if he wanted to hurt us, why would he risk his life? Why would he give us the gun?”

  Phoebe swallowed, her throat painfully dry. Mr. Pynch had put himself in danger for them before—the memory of his brave rescue in the Vo-Pykarons was still vivid—in order to sell them for profit. Yet now Mr. Pynch seemed so pitiable and genuinely forlorn—not at all like the villain she remembered.

  She looked Micah in the eye and could see how lost he was. His gaze was bottomless, pain and fear all the way down.

  “Give it to me,”
she said softly. Micah’s body sagged as she took the hand cannon from him, as if some final reservoir of strength had been drained.

  Phoebe exhaled a sigh of relief. She looked at Goodwin’s unconscious body, at the Watchman who stood observing, and at the balvoor who had come to their aid.

  “I don’t deserve yer mercies,” Mr. Pynch said.

  “No, you don’t,” she said, pointing the firearm at him. “Now tell us why you’re here. And it better be good.”

  “I caught yer scent, and here I be. At yer disposal.”

  “Is that it?” she replied. “You expect us to believe that?”

  “I expect nothing from you, Miss Phoebe.” The mehkan’s eye sacs spied the glowing seed at her throat. “What be that?”

  “None of your business.” She scanned the shadowy lab for unseen threats. “Where’s your friend?”

  Mr. Pynch cast his eyes to the ground.

  “The Marquis has…gone to rust,” the balvoor mumbled. “To be forthright, me span has taken a turn for the terrible since me associate and I…since we betrayed you.”

  “We’re supposed to feel bad for you now?” she snapped.

  Mr. Pynch shook his head. “I merely state it as a factuality. When me nozzle olfactorated you, I thought…I thought if I begged reconciliation, it might reverse me fortunes. Not in a superstitious way, mind you, but I’ve naught else to wager on.”

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. The Watchman shook with a sparking tremor.

  “But if I do say so,” Mr. Pynch said as he nudged Goodwin’s inert body, “I be mollified that me arrival was so serendipitous. Perhaps that be as much of a repayment as I can offer.”

  Phoebe scanned the lab, and her gaze settled on the side doors. She set the combat knife down and used both hands to point the gun at Mr. Pynch. The weapon felt like a lead weight in her hands. She had never fired one of these before, but she hoped at such close range, she wouldn’t miss, if it came to that.

  “Drag him over there,” she demanded.