Blaze of Embers

by Cam Baity

  To the absence.

  A rumble behind the sealed door startled Micah and the others. Turrets drooped and lights in the hallway blinked out. The Marquis brightened his opticle to light the space in response. There was a muffled whine as the Radial generator hidden behind the walls powered down. With a click, the sliding door popped open.

  “Mayhaps it be unwise to—” began Mr. Pynch, but Micah was already squeezing through the gap in the portal. Fritz and the Associates scrambled to keep up. The circuits of the inner door’s electronic lock had also been fried, and it offered little resistance as Micah shoved it open.

  “What the…” he muttered.

  Crickets chirped and water trickled within the darkened biodome grotto. It all looked oddly lifeless, as if the plants were made of plastic, despite the distinctive smell of mud and flowers. The Marquis flickered his opticle and pointed. Across the bridge was an opening in the boulders—the four of them ran for it.

  The first thing Micah saw when he burst into the oval room was smoke and sputtering flames. And Goodwin. The Chairman swung a heavy piece of medical equipment against a glass barrier, cursing as it bounced off with an impotent thud.

  Then Micah registered what was on the other side.

  It was Phoebe, sprawled out, motionless. Around her was a smoking ring of blackened and blistered machinery.

  “What’d you do to her?!” he shouted.

  “It was the Board,” Goodwin replied, stumbling. “Give me a hand!”

  The Chairman jammed his fingers in the slender gap underneath the transparent wall and heaved with all his strength—the barrier did not shift. Micah, Fritz, and the Associates joined in, and with tremendous effort, they hefted the partition, its servos shot like the rest of the electronics. Goodwin wedged the piece of equipment in his hands beneath the glass to prop it up. Micah slipped underneath and ran to Phoebe.

  “No, no, no!” He knelt by her side, grabbed her shoulders, shook her. She wasn’t breathing. Her skin was clammy. He put his head to her chest—a weak flutter.

  The others gathered close. Didn’t dare speak.

  “You can’t. No, no. Not now! Not again!”

  The light of the seed had faded.

  “It’s not glowing. Was it exhaustion?” he demanded, looking at Goodwin, eyes burning with tears. “Like outside Rust Risen?”

  “The Board tried to take it from her,” Goodwin explained, out of breath. “It sent out some kind of…electronic pulse.”

  Micah touched the seed—ice-cold. He looked around wildly, trying to understand what had happened. The air was foul with the smell of fried wiring and burnt hair. Now he noticed charred bodies in the twisted machinery that surrounded them, so shriveled they looked like ancient remains that had been excavated.

  She killed the Board, Micah thought. No, her seed did. Must have drained it.

  He shook Phoebe. Slapped her cheeks, trying to jolt her. No response.

  “Gimme some water!” he ordered. Tears were streaming down his face, filling his mouth with a salty taste. Fritz bolted out of the room.

  It couldn’t end here. He wouldn’t allow it.

  Think, you idiot, think!

  Micah pressed on her chest like he had seen in Televiewer shows, though he didn’t know what he was doing. It felt wrong to touch Phoebe without her permission, but he ejected the thought from his mind. He pushed hard, again and again. Then he grabbed her chin, opened her mouth. Lily-white skin. Purple lips.

  He took a deep breath, bent down to her.

  This was not how Micah had imagined their lips might meet for the first time—not in his worst nightmares. He touched her lifeless mouth with his. Blew hard. Her chest puffed up a bit. He blew again. Was he even doing it right?

  He put his ear to her heart again. The faint patter that had been there was gone.

  Micah ripped at his hair. Punched the ground. Screamed.

  Goodwin placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

  Phoebe was going to die for good, and he was powerless to stop it. What else could he possibly do? Micah glanced around. This looked like some sort of medical facility. Maybe they had some of those shock paddle things that—

  Fritz returned, holding his helmet, which overflowed with water. He held it clumsily, trying to not let his loose shock prong fingers get wet.

  A sudden, racing hope consumed Micah.

  He snatched the helmet of water and flung it aside. Micah grabbed Fritz’s wrist, yanking so hard he almost pulled the Watchman off his feet. Micah thrust the automaton’s dangling, sparking fingers at Phoebe’s darkened seed.

  CRACK! A blinding jolt of electricity.

  Micah was blasted back. Fritz was knocked head over heels.

  Phoebe jerked, arching off the ground. Then she fell limp again.

  Goodwin raced to Micah. The Associates went to assist Fritz, who was streaming wisps of smoke. They all looked to Phoebe, who remained motionless.

  Micah crawled to her side. Stared at her. Looked around helplessly at the others—there was no hope left in their drawn expressions. He brushed Phoebe’s dark, lank hair away from her alabaster face, sweeping it back from her throat.

  Within the dull black seed, a weak light sputtered to life.

  Like an ember stirred.

  “Phoebe?” Micah cried. “Phoebe!”

  Her lips moved. He put his ear to her mouth, and she spoke quietly to him. Micah’s body went slack. He hung his head and his shoulders shook.

  “What, lad?” Mr. Pynch blurted. “WHAT?”

  Slowly, Micah craned his neck to look up at the others. His red face was lifted in an elated smile, tears flowing freely.

  “She said…” He sniffled and wiped his eyes. “‘Gotcha.’”

  A wave of confusion washed over their tense faces. Then relief.

  Micah threw his arms around her in a passionate embrace. She was listless and lethargic, but her arm came up and weakly fell across his back. Mr. Pynch’s eye sacs were swollen with oily tears. He smeared his drippy nozzle on the sleeve of the Marquis, whose opticle shutters quivered with emotion. Even Goodwin’s eyes were shimmering.

  Fritz looked from one to the other, fascinated. He stood up and began to applaud.

  They sat like that for a long, drawn-out moment. Micah felt Phoebe’s frail chest rise and fall with breath. Finally, he released her from his embrace and looked into her heavy, glassy eyes. Her lips trembled in a sad, forsaken smile.

  “I ain’t lettin’ you off the hook that easy,” Micah whispered, his voice breaking. A glint of light caught his attention.

  The seed was burning brightly once more. As her strength returned, she sat up and looked around the room, taking in the smoking destruction that surrounded them.

  “They’re dead,” she croaked.

  “Good riddance,” Micah grumbled.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head, trying to clear it. “The leaders of the Foundry are dead.”

  The Marquis blinked rapidly.

  “Indeed. We take yer meaning,” Mr. Pynch considered.

  “The Ona. Makina,” Phoebe explained. “What are we supposed to tell them?”

  They sat together in worried silence.

  “The chain of command is clear,” the Chairman announced.

  They all looked at him as he stood painfully and straightened his tie.

  “The Board is no more,” Goodwin said. “That means that I alone oversee the operations of the Foundry.”

  “Meaning what exactly?” Micah wondered.

  “Meaning I will accept responsibility for all of this.” The Chairman’s expression was calm and resigned, with none of the haughty power he usually exuded. “If I alone can save lives by surrendering, then I shall do so.”

  Phoebe got to her unsteady feet, holding on to Micah.

  “Yes,” she said hoarsely. “But not alone.”

  Dollop wearily descended into the Foundry crater, past a steady tide of mehkans clambering out of it. They were flocking to
Makina, ready to partake in the carnage. But Dollop refused to have anything to do with that madness.

  He was so confused. The Way taught that the Great Engineer was a source of infinite love, not of malevolence. And despite what he had witnessed this night, that still felt true to him. Dollop needed it to be true. He knew he had to go home. Somehow, he would make sense of it all. He would wander Mehk and preach the Way—the Way that he believed in—the tenets that promoted empathy and kindness toward all Her creation, great or small. Mehkan or human.

  But as he crept down the melted scaffolding and mess of collapsed floors, Dollop knew he was just deluding himself. Preaching such things would be considered heresy in Mehk, especially by the Covenant. No matter how highly they regarded him now, they would never allow him to question Makina’s commands or doubt Her wisdom.

  There was no denying it—he could no longer be a part of the Covenant.

  Was he destined to always be an outcast? Perhaps that was his function, after all. Not a teacher or guide or warrior—but a hermit. To be forever alone with his thoughts. His thoughts and memories, which, knowing him and his poor excuse for a mind, would be lost and forgotten soon anyway. Yet the mere thought of living out the remainder of his span in isolation was unbearable.

  What then? What did the gears of fate have in store for him? There was only one way. One who would accept him with open arms. A place that he could call home.

  Amalgam.

  True, Dollop had barely escaped intact, and returning surely meant that he would lose his very self. But what good was being an individual when it meant living and rusting alone? At least if he rejoined Amalgam, he would know peace. He would know love. And he could forget about Makina. About this confusion and misery and violence. And most of all, about poor Phoebe and Micah, may their golden embers blaze.

  That settled it.

  The tunnel was within sight now, and he worked his way down. No one would even notice that he had gone. He would vanish into Amalgam without a trace, relinquish himself, and be free from Her sacred machine forever. He would…

  Movement caught his attention in the crater far below.

  None of the pilgrims had noticed it, because their attention was focused up above, and their eyes weren’t as keen in the dark as his nocturnal ones.

  There was a light down there, flickering in a familiar pattern.

  The little core in Dollop’s chest lurched. He bypassed the tunnel and made his way farther down into the crater without a second glance from emerging mehkans. The deeper Dollop went, the faster he ran, keeping his eyes and ears open for any other signs. He was sprinting now, separating his segments with every bound, stumbling down, nearly tumbling over the ledge.

  Dollop skidded around the corner, smack-dab into a lanky shape.

  Fli-fli-flicky-flash?

  “Ma-Ma-Marquis?” he warbled. “I—I can’t be-believe it’s—”

  Other figures marched into view. Dollop saw them. They saw Dollop.

  And he fell into a pile of blubbering pieces.

  Phoebe saw the acrid smoke of a massive bonfire long before she and her companions reached the surface. Dollop led the way, his chest stuck out proudly to display the blood-red dynamo of the Covenant. Behind him followed the three wary humans and Fritz. The Associates brought up the rear, doing their best to pretend as if they belonged. A river of pilgrims pouring out from the tunnel broke around the group, stunned and giving them a wide berth as they climbed to the surface.

  A mountain of burning machinery greeted Phoebe when she emerged from the crater of Foundry Central. Its monstrous flames licked at the stars, and its heat pressed hard against her. A throng of mehkans, thousands strong, encircled the flames, some dancing and chanting, others prostrated on the ground in prayer. It was a funeral pyre, she realized—they were honoring their kin.

  The worshippers halted their ritual to watch the heretics pass through their ranks. They crowded around, snapping and snarling Rattletrap insults. A thrown rock clanked against Fritz’s helmet, and he stumbled forward in a spurt of sparks. Mehkan hands grabbed at him, but Mr. Pynch and the Marquis fended them off.

  That confounded the mob even more. Mehkans defending a Watchman?

  Dollop escorted his friends past the funeral pyre and approached the heavenly figure of Makina. Phoebe could see his parts trembling as if it took all his composure to not cower in Her light. The Great Engineer stood before the construction site of the splintered Crest of Dawn, filling the iconic archway entrance to Foundry Central. Makina’s back was to them, Her attention focused on Albright City in the distance and the suspension bridge that stretched across the bay toward it. The floral scent emanating from Her was overpowering.

  As they approached Makina’s shifting, cloudy feet, a hazy shimmer warped the air—the Aegis. They threw back the cowls of their camouflaged cloaks and blocked the way. Dollop saluted them and spoke in Rattletrap. He was playing the part they had agreed upon. As a member of the Covenant, he was requesting audience with the Ona under the guise of having the banished bleeders in his custody.

  The Aegis nodded and allowed them to pass, but an arm materialized from behind a camouflaged cloak to block Fritz and the Associates. There was a brief exchange as Mr. Pynch and Dollop pleaded with the Emberguard, but they would not relent.

  “Me humblest apologies, Miss Phoebe, Master Micah,” said the balvoor. “But it appears that them concealified Covenanting scrapanapes won’t permit our inclusion.” Mr. Pynch squinted a roving eye at the Aegis and spat at the ground indignantly.

  The Marquis put a sympathetic hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. Fritz mimicked him and used his good hand to do the same to Micah.

  “Will you be all right down here alone?” she asked, glancing warily at the onlookers.

  “Don’t you freternize yerself on our account,” Mr. Pynch dismissed with false cheer. “We be capable and resourceful mehkies. You just…You be careful, understand? I want you all intact and wholesome when we recombobulate.”

  Phoebe hugged the balvoor and squeezed him till his wonky eyes popped. Micah did the same to the Marquis, who wrapped his long arms tightly around the boy. Goodwin watched the display of affection between them with interest. The kids went to hug Fritz, who stood with open arms, but a few sputters of sparks made them decide against it. Instead, Micah formed a fist from Fritz’s good hand and bumped it, which was of endless fascination to the Watchman. Dollop saluted Fritz and the Associates, then led the humans into the Crest of Dawn construction site.

  Makina was only a few dozen yards away, radiating that welcoming, hearth-like warmth. Phoebe stared into Her roiling, glowing white depths, getting lost in the hypnotic light. Micah nudged Phoebe to snap her out of the trance.

  They steered to Makina’s left, toward the giant support column encased in a skeleton of scaffolding. There were Over-cranes, Earthshakers, and Tier-trucks loaded with building supplies. Portions of the site were fenced off with neon-orange mesh where the damage was most severe. The column’s main elevator had been reduced to a crumpled gash, so they made for the open-air construction lift attached to the scaffolding. The four of them got in, Micah shut the gate, and Goodwin hit the button.

  Up they went, feeling the grim silence hang between them like a lead weight. Phoebe looked at Micah, then the others. They were all thinking the same thing.

  These were likely the last moments of their lives.

  She wanted to tell them to not be afraid, but those words would be hollow. Atop the Crest, there would be no escape from whatever fate the Ona chose for them.

  As they rose floor after floor, Phoebe remembered her first visit here as a kid, holding hands with her father and mother, eyes watering from the cold wind blowing from the bay. Phoebe’s father had managed to convince her that the Crest of Dawn was a candle at the top of the giant chocolate cake of the world and was taking her up here to prove it. She remembered that first breathtaking view from the observation platform, and while she had been disappointed that ther
e was no cake in sight, it most certainly had felt like being on top of everything.

  “Whoa,” Micah breathed.

  Below them, Albright City teemed with military might. Out at sea, hundreds of battleships glittered on the horizon, and hundreds more aircraft blinked in the sky—a blockade at the mouth of Foundry Bay.

  “The Quorum,” Goodwin muttered.

  “It’s a face-off,” Micah said. “And we’re stuck in the middle.”

  But Phoebe could not bring herself to look. All her fear lurked in the ocean, her every nightmare crashing against the shores. Salt and water—the taste of horror.

  Up they went, thousands of feet into the air, past levels of scaffolding and catwalks connected by narrow ladders. The wind blew at them in brisk sheets.

  At last, the service lift groaned to a stop. Phoebe took a breath, opened the gate, and stepped onto the platform of the Crest of Dawn—or what was left of it.

  The larger-than-life Foundry logo suspended above them was now a scrap-metal sun twisting out from a shattered ring. Shrapnel from the battered rays was scattered about, some of it embedded in the floor and massive support columns. The remaining beams hung precariously, held in place by cables and repair gantries. As they strode out from the lift, they saw where the original platform had been blasted away and replaced with temporary framework and sheet-metal planking. Singed patriotic ribbon and bunting clung to the railing like stubborn scraps of flesh. The top of a ladder peeked over the edge, a taunting hint of the maze of scaffolding below them.

  The spectacular view was interrupted by the long, skeletal necks of myriad Over-cranes that extended on either side. The blinking firefly lights of Omnicam drones buzzed around them in the distance, keeping careful watch on Meridian’s enemy.

  And lingering just to the side was the glowing storm of Makina, Her eyes dancing in slow motion, breaking apart, and congealing like pools of golden oil on water. From this vantage point, Phoebe could see some sort of dark mass behind Her eyes, encircled by clouds—the mind of the Everseer. Buried in the middle of it was an unusual throbbing squiggle of white light, more solid than the clouds, its luminance of a different quality.