by Cam Baity
“With CHAR.”
The mere mention of the toxic chemical filled Phoebe with a sinking nausea, as she thought back to the blight of Emberhome. But something else sickened her even more—something drifting vaguely among the smoky stench of war.
The unmistakable, cloying scent of roses.
The closer the Rangecart got to the tunnel, the more it seemed to recede. Fritz spun the wheel to avoid obstacles, and they held on to keep from being flung out. Fighting raged in all directions, littering every avenue with danger. The road was cratered and congested with flaming debris. They had no choice but to proceed on foot.
Doing their best to support Goodwin’s broad bulk, Phoebe, Micah, Mr. Pynch, and Fritz exited the vehicle to hobble toward the tunnel and its promise of escape. The smell of roses was overpowering now, like a blanket pressing down on them. And the light was changing, growing, shadows skewing in strange directions.
As if a new sun had arisen.
Phoebe was compelled to turn back and look. Between buildings, she had a clear view beyond the outer wall of the Depot. She could see out through streams of smoke to the expanse of red mesas beyond. A holy storm was gathering.
Makina was here.
She swept across the land, covering tremendous ground with each stride. One moment, She was far away, an ominous white smear on the horizon. Seconds later, She towered taller than a mountain, divine destruction made manifest, anger turned to flame. A host of Foundry aircraft swarmed around Her like flies, unleashing their arsenals at Her from every angle. If their weapons affected Makina, She did not show it.
Even in the daylight, She was dazzlingly bright to behold. The white fire that pulsed within Her clouded body was painful to look at, like staring directly at an eclipse. The red mesas around Her looked like molten lava in Her blistering aura.
As Makina ravaged toward the Depot, every turret on the outer wall pivoted to face Her. Frag-cannons blazed, focusing the full force of their firepower. Missiles screamed from batteries atop buildings, carving paths through the sky with streaks of smoke. Watchman soldiers lobbed mortars from mobile artilleries. The explosions came in such quick succession that they melted into a constant drone like a titanic waterfall.
Makina did not acknowledge the Foundry’s assault. Her nebulous body, a swirling celestial weather system, remained unaffected. She did not roar. She did not bleed.
It was like trying to shoot a cloud.
She slowed Her approach, swelling until She was indiscernible as a figure.
“The Condors!” breathed Micah.
Planes were converging in the sky above the overwhelming Engineer. Her amorphous golden eyes watched the aircraft as fat, dark shapes plummeted from their bellies. They seemed to fall like snowflakes, weightless and harmless.
But Phoebe knew what they were. There was no greater weapon. The black cylinders fell down toward Makina.
The CHAR bombs were too close. Their blast would be devastating. They would rain black death on the Depot.
On them.
The detonation would disintegrate everything, and what was left would be saturated in CHAR. Walls would melt. Towers would collapse. The sinister chemical would dissolve all the metal and ore that it came into contact with. She felt Micah grow still beside her. He understood too. Phoebe felt her breath, her heartbeat.
The world seemed to stop as the bombs fell.
The black specks penetrated Makina’s pure white form.
There was an apocalyptic, oil-black flash within Her as the first bombs detonated. The others followed in rapid succession, a string of ebony firecrackers releasing poisonous decay. Dark CHAR clouds spread inside of Makina like an ink stain. The heavenly fires of the Great Engineer were smothered. Her shining white form shrank, receded, went dark.
And then…
The storm clouds of Her body churned. She was a raging black hurricane. The dark clouds spun in a vortex, stretching, thinning. Diluting as Her light pierced through.
Makina absorbed the CHAR. Drank it in.
The black was gone. Her unfathomable form rose up, expanded. Her arms shot up to the sky. Out poured a shock wave corona of white flame. The fleet of Condors overhead were the first to feel the blast. The aircraft pitched and plunged, helpless as feathers, seized by raging winds that tore them asunder. Screaming hot wind peeled through the Depot. Structures bowed. Armored vehicles tipped. Phoebe and the others were airborne. She collided with the ground, rolled across the lane, hit a steel median strip.
The wave passed. Phoebe still felt the heat of it on her cheeks. She looked up.
The Great Engineer’s liquid golden eyes stared at the Depot. Nothing could stop the Mother of Ore. Even the CHAR had failed. Makina’s arm formed into a mighty tornado.
And down it came.
“Into the tunnel,” Goodwin shouted. “NOW!”
Micah and Phoebe snapped out of their stupor. With Fritz and Mr. Pynch, they carried the Chairman toward salvation, the only place where they might be free from this unstoppable avenger. Only a few hundred yards away.
Makina’s arm descended, smashed down. Tremors rippled throughout the Depot like water. The once-impermeable walls crested and sank, cracking like eggshells.
A collective cry erupted, hundreds of mehkans praising their savior.
Pandemonium. The streets came alive with people. Foundry employees—workers, soldiers, and executives alike—streamed out from buildings. Rangecarts and other vehicles screeched around corners, desperate to flee the inevitable. The Watchmen, incapable of fear, held their ground, but they were laughably feeble now. As Phoebe and the others raced for the tunnel, they caught glimpses of the Foundry automatons continuing the futile battle, blindly firing away with their little rifles to no avail.
If she ditched Goodwin, they would be able to move much faster. There was a chance that they might be able to slip through the tunnel before Makina disintegrated this entire compound. Phoebe knew that Micah was thinking the same thing, but they also both knew they needed the Chairman. Now that he had seen for himself what Makina was capable of, he would have to help them warn all of Meridian.
It was worth the risk.
Like rats escaping a sinking ship, the Foundry employees retreated to the tunnel. They came from all directions, screaming in terror. A Cargoliner that had been idling on the track began to chug forward, and people tried to jump aboard as it departed, desperately clutching on to any available handhold.
The air pressure grew heavy. Phoebe felt her hair standing on end. The storm that was the Great Engineer neared. She swept away the remnants of the outer walls with Her mighty hand. A jet of fire melted a dozen outlying buildings.
A thunk and a scrape of metal.
“No,” Goodwin heaved. “Damn them!”
Black iron prongs emerged from around the lip of the tunnel. Petals of a tremendous metal iris portal were cinching closed.
The frantic screams of Foundry employees intensified. They flooded to the tunnel, some of them spilling through as the iris tightened. Then it sealed with a final, resounding clank. The tunnel was closed.
Phoebe faltered, Micah released a pathetic sigh, and Mr. Pynch deflated. Even Fritz seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. Goodwin’s body weighed her down as if he were made of lead.
There was no way back. They were trapped in Mehk.
More buildings fell behind them. Makina was pulling the Depot apart piece by piece in a blazing rage. Powerful gusts of wind showered the desperate humans at the blocked tunnel with hot ash. They stopped pounding on the iris portal and scattered like roaches from the light, taking cover where they could.
A deluge of dust from the collapsing towers enveloped Phoebe and her companions. The world was swamped in a peppery haze. It was hard to breathe. She and Micah attached their facemasks, but it was still impossible to see. Phoebe stumbled, fell. Lost hold of Goodwin. Couldn’t tell where anyone was. She might have been inches from them, or a thousand miles. Earsplitting crashes thun
dered throughout the void.
Hands grabbed her, dragged her into shelter beneath an overturned vehicle that had been thrown up against a building. Phoebe looked up to see who had rescued her.
Mr. Pynch was wind-torn, and the bushel of quills that made up his hair and eyebrows was tousled and standing on end. He flashed his golden-geared smile, which was grimier than usual. She patted his arm in thanks and looked at her companions. Micah was on his back, blackened with soot. Fritz waved his own hand in front of his face shield, which was opaque with dust. Goodwin was wincing as he rolled up his pant leg to reveal a swollen, blackened limb.
The wind died down and the ash drifted.
As the wreckage settled, the passionate chanting of voices grew louder. Footsteps clattered past. There was sparse fighting still scattered throughout the Depot, the echoes of rifle fire and the crunch of Watchmen being overwhelmed. Through the smoke and dust, illuminated by rays of holy light, Phoebe saw the silhouettes of mehkans stalking through the ruins. Judging by the occasional scream, she guessed they were hunting down the remaining humans.
They were trapped, and it was just a matter of time before the Covenant found them. The Ona had to be stopped. Phoebe knew what to do, and it terrified her.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Once, not so long ago, she would have hoped to hear the voice, single words whispered in her mind to guide her. It had spoken to her twice before, both times giving her courage when she needed it most. But now she knew better. That voice had been nothing but thoroughly convincing self-deception—a desperate delusion, nothing more. This choice was hers to make, and hers alone. She knew the risk and willingly accepted the consequences.
Phoebe detached her facemask and listened. Whatever she did, she couldn’t look at Micah, lest he guess what she was about to do and try to stop her.
The clomp of mehkan footsteps was close.
“Wait here,” Phoebe said. “Keep an eye on Goodwin.” Then, without another word, she slipped out of the shelter.
“What are you—” was all she heard Micah say.
She charged out into the haze, following the sound of stalking mehkans. She could make out the dark smudges of their hunched forms in the smoke and blinding ash. They saw Phoebe and snarled in Rattletrap. Came for her. She stopped, raising her arms as she spoke, her voice stronger and more commanding than it had ever been.
“I am Loaii,” she declared. “Take me to the Ona.”
The Depot was unnervingly still. The sounds of conflict had been reduced to the odd gunshot, the occasional scream. Makina appeared to have halted Her destruction so Her Children could pillage the compound and hunt down the remaining bleeders. With Her shape obscured by smoke, the Engineer was like a wall of light, unforgiving as it revealed Phoebe to the charging mehkans.
They swarmed around her, each with a blood-red dynamo on its chest, a glinting declaration of allegiance to the Covenant. Their eyes were malevolent and suspicious.
Had they understood her declaration? Was there a chance they recognized her?
The mehkans growled to one another.
“Loaii! Loaii!” came Mr. Pynch’s stagy, zealous cry.
The balvoor stomped up beside her, humbly pleading to the mehkans in Rattletrap. Micah rushed to her other side and stood in front of her protectively. One of the Covenant, a burly orange gohr with a tremendous bladed cudgel in his crane-claw hands, grunted fiercely at Mr. Pynch. The balvoor pointed at Phoebe and spoke again, bowing and scraping as he used the word “Loaii” repeatedly.
The Covenant warriors murmured amongst themselves. Phoebe stood, heart slamming within her chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Feeling like a fool.
She heard the word ripple through their ranks as one warrior repeated it to another in disbelief. Phoebe kept her chin high, trying to convey an authority she did not feel. Not long ago, the Covenant had stood in rapt awe before her, full of reverence for the sacred status she held. But she had no idea what the Ona had told them since, and she could not tell if their feelings about her had changed.
“Lo-Lo-Loaii?”
The familiar voice rang out, an excited chirp from somewhere deep within the growing crowd. Covenant members moved aside as a diminutive figure collapsed his parts and squeezed through their ranks.
“Dollop?” She could scarcely believe it.
He popped out from among his comrades, slathered in red pigment from head to toe, amber eyes wide and delirious with amazement. Dollop looked from her to Micah and back again, and a spectacular grin spread over his odd little face. His mouth moved wordlessly as he danced from foot to foot. Micah began to laugh, overcome with such a rush of joy and relief that he simply couldn’t contain himself. Phoebe just stared at their friend, shaking her head with her mouth agape. Micah smothered Dollop in a tight embrace that lifted the little fellow clean off the ground. Phoebe joined in and melted into the hug. She squeezed her friends close, drawing strength from them.
“Dollop,” Phoebe said, relishing the sound of his name. “Dollop, what happened? We thought you died in the camp!”
“N-n-no!” Dollop grinned. “She—She spared me. She has come, Lo-Loaii! Praise the ge-gears, Makina is real! I h-have s-so much to tell—”
Dollop saw Mr. Pynch beside them and did a double take.
“He’s okay.” Phoebe smiled reassuringly. “He’s different now. Right, Mr. Pynch?”
But the balvoor’s reaction caught Phoebe completely off guard. He sucked in a gulp of air, inflated like a party balloon, and burst into epic whoops of joy. His jubilation was baffling—why was Mr. Pynch so ecstatic to see Dollop?
Then they were blinded by a light from the crowd. Another familiar face emerged.
The Marquis stepped over the crowd on extendable legs, opticle flaring bright.
“Me associate!” Mr. Pynch crowed.
The two partners raced into each other’s arms, bowling each other over and somersaulting across the ground. Copious tears burst from Mr. Pynch’s eyes, and his massive scrawl of a mouth wavered between laughing and sobbing. The Marquis wrapped his arms three times around his friend’s ample girth while his opticle cycled rapidly through a brilliant rainbow of colors.
“Alive! Alive!” Mr. Pynch repeated, until he was so overcome with emotion that he was reduced to inarticulate blubbering. “Me esteemed associate has hornswoggled the rust itself!” The Marquis fished a handkerchief out of the inner pocket of his red-stained suit and helpfully pressed it to his associate’s spinning nozzle. Mr. Pynch blew with a sound like a squashed trumpet.
There was noticeable confusion among the surrounding Covenant warriors. They edged back, giving the five companions some space, uncertain how to deal with this scenario. Dollop spoke to them reassuringly in Rattletrap.
The Marquis approached the kids, signal lamp shutters tilted at a sheepish angle.
“We ain’t forgot what you did,” Micah warned.
“But he—he saved me!” Dollop said. “The Marquis h-helped me bring the chraida. Helped s-save the Covenant!”
“We did give Mr. Pynch another chance,” Phoebe pointed out.
“That you most assuredly and mercifulently did.”
“How about it, Marq?” she asked. “Do you think you deserve a second chance?”
The lumilow brightened and nodded enthusiastically.
“Last chance,” Micah corrected, patting the gun at his side.
Phoebe held her hand out to shake, but the Marquis spiraled his hose-like arms around the kids for a tight embrace. Dollop clapped his little hands with glee.
“That settles it, then.” Mr. Pynch sighed. “Reconciled and re-agglomerated. Now tell me, where you been obfuscating yourself, ya exorbitantly slippery fingersneak?”
The Marquis flickered a giggle, wrapped his arm around his associate’s thick neck, and proceeded to project a story to him.
“Ev-everything is as it should be,” Dollop trilled. “Thank the—the Everseer. We are inter-terlocking again. It’s a—a mira
cle!”
“We are truly blessed.” Phoebe chose her words wisely.
“Pr-praise be Her in-infinite and infallible plan. Ma-Makina kept you safe, just as I pr-prayed She would. After She d-d-destroys the Foundry, the Gr-Great Decay will be no more, and the go-golden epoch of harmony can b-begin!”
“We all want peace,” Phoebe agreed. “But, Dollop, right now I need to report to the Ona. It’s urgent. Can you help me?”
“Yes!” Micah blurted, playing along. “Exactly.”
“The—the Ona?” Dollop wondered. “Of course! She w-w-will want to see Loaii. Come, fo-follow! I’ll be your gu-guide.” He winked at them. “And I—I won’t get lost this time.”
Off Dollop went, marching into the crowd they had drawn. Phoebe did not know how the Ona would react to seeing her alive, but she had to be confronted.
The Ona had to be stopped.
As Dollop led the kids through the wasteland of the Depot, Phoebe looked back to make sure Mr. Pynch and the Marquis were keeping up, but they were nowhere to be seen. Micah had noticed it too. She wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, but their disappearance was more than a little suspicious. Another worry occurred to her.
“You guys left Goodwin alone?” she whispered to Micah.
“Fritz is watching him,” he replied.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Phoebe was growing fond of the defunct Watchman, but she wasn’t sure he had the best judgment—or any at all, for that matter.
“I told him to zap fatty again if he tried anything,” Micah explained. “Besides, you didn’t give us much of a choice when you took off like that. Cut that out, would ya?”
Phoebe gave a hesitant smile. They had come to her rescue, and she was grateful for that, but a greater fear still lingered.
“But what happens when Kaspar comes back for him?” she asked. “When he comes back for us?” Micah didn’t have a snappy comeback for that.
Dollop led the kids toward the light, through the haze of dust and floating ash. It was dreamlike, a drifting vagueness that reminded Phoebe of the peaceful expanse of the Shroud at Rust Risen. Her empty stomach growled, and she cursed herself for having to abandon the field pack. Weakness was creeping in. Phoebe hoped it was a result of too little food and too much adrenaline, but she worried it might be the seed at her throat, its meager strength waning. Her legs grew heavier by the second.
