by Terry Brooks
Logan shrugged. “The question is, do you? These aren’t for me. I need someone to go in with me, cover my back.”
“Hey, you and me, like before,” Panther declared.
“Take me instead,” Sparrow suggested quickly, stepping forward. “I know how to use those better than Panther Puss.” She gave him a smirk.
“Hey, me and him already worked together,” Panther snapped at her. “He ain’t done nothin’ with you—don’t know nothin’ about you. You just a little bird, all feathers and squeak.”
Sparrow stomped up to him. “Who saved your worthless baby butt back in Pioneer Square, Panther Pee? You think you got away from those Croaks all by your cat-brained little self? You remember back that far, all the way to last night?”
“Wasn’t you saved me, beak breath! Was me saved you! You had an ounce of—”
Logan felt his patience begin to slip. He had no time for this. “I’ll take you both,” he interrupted, tossing each a Parkhan Spray. He was gratified to see Panther stagger slightly as he caught his. Sparrow snatched hers out of the air smoothly, swung the barrel into position, and released the safety, all without missing a beat. She snapped the safety into place again and grinned at Panther.
Logan gave the cutting shears to Bear. “Make a hole big enough to let us through. When we’re inside, widen it so that we can pull one of those haulers back out. It might take you some time, but keep at it.”
Bear nodded, saying nothing as he walked over to the fence and went to work. Logan turned to the rest. “Stay here. Stay together. Keep your eyes open. No one wanders off. If there is any kind of danger, get inside the Lightning, all of you. It won’t be comfortable, but it will be safe.”
He took Fixit over to the driver’s side, showed him the security buttons, and told him what they did. By the time he had completed his explanation and had the boy repeat it back to him, Bear had finished cutting open the fence. With Panther and Sparrow in tow, he stepped through the ragged opening and onto the concrete apron beyond.
“Stay behind me and stay close,” he told them, glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t shoot each other.”
He couldn’t have said why he was being so careful about an empty storage facility except that he was bothered by the fact that apparently no one had tried to break into the complex and take one of these haulers before. It was the sort of vehicle that almost anyone would have a use for, including the compounds. Yet here a dozen sat, untouched.
He tightened his grip on the black staff of his office and started forward.
SIXTEEN
T HE DISTANCE FROM the fence to where the haulers were lined up like obedient pack animals was less than a hundred yards, but it felt much longer as Logan walked it. The buildings behind and to either side were low, squat, windowless structures with metal roofs and siding. Doors on rollers stood closed, but he could not see any locks. The apron was surprisingly empty of debris, a condition that was almost nonexistent anywhere else in the country. Even more troublesome was the clean, polished look of the haulers, which lacked any hint of rust or dirt and had the appearance of newly minted machines. Even though the complex seemed to be deserted, the pristine look of the haulers suggested that someone had been caring for them.
Logan looked around uneasily. “Hello!” he called out. “Anyone here?”
No one appeared. Nothing moved.
He glanced back the way he had come. The Ghosts were out of the Lightning and crowded up against the fence, faces pressed into the mesh. Bear was the only one not watching, his attention given over to widening the opening through which they had come. In the silence of the fading afternoon light, Logan could hear the dull snip-snip of the heavy cutters.
He was all the way up to the closest of the haulers when he caught sight of the sensors. Partially embedded in the surface of the apron, they were spaced strategically around the perimeter of the painted oval inside which the machines were parked. No lights flashed on their casings; no beeps sounded from within. He stopped Panther and Sparrow from advancing, pointed to the sensors, walked forward a few steps, and knelt down for a closer look. The sensors lacked any sort of recognizable features—no antennas, no scanners, no identifying protrusions of any sort. They ringed the haulers, but weren’t connected visibly to one another or to anything else. There was nothing to suggest they were even working.
Yet he had the unshakable feeling that they were.
What to do?
His choices were limited. He could not deactivate the sensors without knowing something more about them. So he could either test whether or not they were active, knowing that if they were he might not be too happy with the results, or he could turn around and go back the way he had come and forget about going any farther with this. He could not help thinking that if he were alone, none of this would be happening. He was here, taking this chance, only because he had taken in a bunch of street kids who needed hauling.
He pushed the thought away. After all, they hadn’t asked for any of this, either.
He took another long look around the complex, searching for something that would tell him what to do, and didn’t find it. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that Bear had finished cutting an opening in the fence, high and wide enough to permit them to pull a hauler through. Haulers were big, but easy enough to move by hand when they were unloaded. With Panther’s help, he should be able to pull one of these clear.
All he had to do was walk up to it. Through the sensors, past the alarms, and into whatever waited.
He tightened his grip on his staff of office, feeling the heat of the magic beginning to build. He wasn’t afraid, but he was cautious. For himself and for the children with him. Street kids were still kids. The haulers sat in front of him, lined up and ready. Why would there be any serious protection set in place for haulers, anyway? They had no real value, nothing that warranted firepower of the sort that the compounds employed.
Yet no one had touched these.
He made up his mind. He turned around abruptly and motioned for Panther and Sparrow to back away. “I don’t like how this feels. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” Panther stared at him with dark, angry eyes. He gestured toward the sensors. “Because of those?”
“You heard!” snapped Sparrow, already walking away.
Panther was shaking his head in disgust and turning after her when something caught his eye—something that Logan had missed entirely or maybe didn’t even exist. But it was enough to trigger an immediate response in the boy, who wheeled back and fired a sustained burst from the Parkhan Spray that peppered the haulers and blew several of the sensors that sat closest into scrap.
No! Logan thought, eyes sweeping the concrete apron. Panels concealed in the flat surface were already sliding open, and the remaining sensors were dropping from sight. Huge doors set into the walls of the buildings to either side of the haulers, their weight balanced on huge steel rollers, opened like hungry mouths, and from the darkness within there was a whirring of motors and the soft, ominous click of gears engaging.
“Get out!” Logan shouted at his young companions.
But Panther couldn’t seem to move, frozen in place, perhaps stunned by his own reaction, perhaps simply caught up in the moment. Sparrow was shouting at him. From somewhere back behind the severed links of the fence, the other Ghosts were crying out in either dismay or support, it was impossible to tell which. But Panther didn’t seem to hear any of them, his eyes fixed on the black holes that had opened in the sides of the buildings.
An instant later, a clutch of metal-legged machines skittered into the daylight, heavy and squat. They had the look of monstrous insects, their bodies supported on multiple legs, their heads studded with orbs that pulsed and glowed, weapons jutting like mandibles from their jaws. There were five of them, all of a size that suggested they were meant to repulse anything short of a nuclear strike that might try to invade the complex.
No hauler was worth this, Logan thought. Not that a re
sponse like this had anything to do with haulers. This had to do with something of far greater importance, something that Oronyx Experimental had been working on when the end came. The human workers might be gone, but the guard machines they had built to defend their efforts remained in place, programmed to repel any invasion.
He rushed over to Panther, seized his shoulders, and spun him about. “Run!” he shouted in his face, shoving him toward the fence.
Then the heat of the lasers began to scorch the concrete apron, thin red beams slicing past him. He wheeled back in response, hands gripping the black staff, and sent a burst of the Word’s white magic into the closest of the attackers. It cut the legs out from under the machine and caused it to stumble into another so that both went down. But they were slowed only for a moment before righting themselves and continuing their advance. Logan backed away hurriedly. The machines were big and looked ponderous, but they moved quickly and smoothly. They were meant to survive enemies stronger than himself.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Panther and Sparrow turn and fire their weapons at the approaching behemoths. “No!” he screamed at them. “Run!”
They were wasting their time. Their best chance was to get back outside the fence and hope that the machines were not programmed to advance beyond the boundaries of the complex. The Parkhan Spray was a formidable weapon, but not nearly enough to stop these monsters. Even his magic might not be enough.
He used it anyway, hammering at the insect-like machines with sustained bursts aimed at the joints of their crooked legs. He brought one down, its legs sufficiently damaged that it could not rise again. But the others kept coming and were nearly on top of him. He turned and ran hard, dodging the lasers that sought to cripple him. The machines were not concentrating on Panther and Sparrow, whom they had judged less dangerous. They were concentrating on him. His magic shielded him from the worst of the blasts that were scorching everything around him, but he could feel himself weakening from the effort. The chain-link fence was still a long way off, too far to be judged a sure thing.
Then an explosion right in front of him sent chunks of concrete flying into his face, and he went down in a tangle of arms and legs, his staff sliding out of reach.
Outside the fence, there was instant pandemonium. All the Ghosts began shouting at once, gesturing wildly, trying to bring the three trapped inside the fence to safety through a combination of sheer willpower and deafening sound. All of them pressed up against the mesh, gripping the metal links fiercely. Bear even tried to go through the gap until Owl’s cry of dismay stopped him in his tracks.
For a few brief moments, all of them lost control.
All except Fixit.
FIXIT IS A BOY who has always been good at finding ways of making things work. Mostly, such things are mechanical in nature. Machines of all sorts, big and small, whole or in component pieces, useful or pointless, taken apart or put together—it is all the same to him. If there is a possibility that he can make it work, he wants to know how. He can’t explain what is so intriguing about machines; he can’t even remember what initially triggered his interest in them. He only knows that he can’t think of a time when working with machines hasn’t been his favorite pastime.
He is the middle child in a family of five, two older, two younger, both parents still alive and looking after them. They are living on a farm in eastern Washington, a run-down operation out in the middle of nowhere, their closest neighbors at least five miles away, the closest town at least twenty. They seldom see anyone except for the Strayhorns, the family up the road, whom they visit a couple of times a year and who visit them in turn about the same number. That is in the beginning, when he is still only four or five and just starting to take an interest in how things work. Shortly after that, the Strayhorns don’t come anymore. His mother says they have moved away. His father begins carrying a shotgun everywhere he goes.
Fixit, as the middle child, has no identifiable place or purpose in the family. The older two work with their father, and the younger two are too young to do anything, twins of fourteen months. They don’t live long anyway. They catch something, plague in all likelihood, the two of them sleeping together in a single bed or sharing a fenced-off play area, and they are dead in a week. He can’t remember their names after a while; they aren’t even real to him. Like so much of what is lost, they seem a fragment of a dream.
After they die, his parents start talking about moving somewhere else, although it is never clear exactly where they think they can go that will be any better. Fixit is seven by now and is immersed in his love of mechanics so thoroughly that he is already disappearing in plain sight. There simply isn’t any reason for the others ever to wonder what he is doing; he is always doing the same thing. Because he is now the youngest, he is treated with a deference that his older siblings do not enjoy and is left pretty much alone. He is smart, and already he is reading old repair manuals and books on various types of engines. By the time he is nine, he has gained a reasonable understanding of solar power, and has begun work on a solar energy collector that can power the lone vehicle they possess but hasn’t worked since the last of the storage cells gave out. He pays some attention to what is going on around him, but mostly he concentrates on his projects.
It’s while he is testing the collector, having taken the casing out into the low hills and away from the house in case anything goes wrong, that one of the renegade militias operating as slavers finds his family, overpowers them, and takes them away. He would never have known that much if he hadn’t seen the smoke from the burning buildings and come running in time to see the trucks disappearing into the distance.
For a few days, he doesn’t know what he should do. He thinks vaguely of going after his parents and his siblings, but has no idea how to do that or even where to look. He stays out in the hills, working on the collector, the concentration the effort requires giving him an excuse not to think about what has happened to his family and what is likely to happen to him. Focused, intense, he completes his work and falls into a deep sleep. When he wakes, he straps the collector to his back and sets out, intending to reach the coast. He is discovered by a small caravan of families traveling out of the sun-and radiation-blasted heart of the Midwest to look for something better. The caravan could abandon him and go on—not needing another mouth to feed, not particularly interested in acquiring strays—save for the collector. Impressed by his extraordinary skill at only nine years of age, they decide to take Fixit along.
By the time they reach Seattle, he is ready to go his own way and leaves them in the middle of the night, slipping away along the waterfront. He is living in an abandoned machine shed when Bear discovers him several weeks later, dirty and ragged and starving, the collector in front of him like a shrine as he sits poring through sets of old manuals he has scavenged. Bear, uncertain what to do with him, nevertheless takes him to Hawk, who recognizes his value immediately and invites him into the family.
But he is still the middle child, even in his new family. He is appreciated when his skills are needed, but otherwise frequently ignored. It doesn’t help that the others have already staked out positions in the pecking order—Hawk the leader, Bear and Panther the soldiers, Owl the voice of wisdom and reason, Candle the seer, Sparrow wild and unpredictable, and River mysterious. He is just an average boy, ordinary looking without much in the way of athletic ability or intelligence. They are strong and beautiful and smart, and he envies them all. Sure, he is the one who can fix things, but it is not an ability that generates much excitement. His propensities for wandering off and frequently forgetting what he is supposed to be doing don’t help, either. They make him the butt of too many jokes. His place in the family is important, but he doesn’t really feel valued for himself.
That changes with the coming of Chalk, a boy his own age and with his own set of problems, a boy even goofier at times than he is. They become fast friends immediately, and suddenly it doesn’t matter so much that the rest frequently des
pair of them. They value and appreciate each other and occupy the solid middle ground of the family. Fixit with his mechanical skills and Chalk with his artistry are very different on the surface, yet much the same beneath.
But in that private place where even Chalk isn’t allowed to go, Fixit still dreams of doing something that will make the others look at him differently. Something like Sparrow did in facing down and killing that mutant insect. Something so exciting and wonderful that they will never stop talking about it.
Something heroic and awe inspiring.
Just once.
At Oronyx Experimental, he gets his chance.
WHILE THE OTHERS scrambled frantically at the barrier of the chain-link fence, Fixit kept his head. He ran to the Lightning S-150 AV and keyed in the security code on the touch pad. He had watched Logan Tom set the code earlier and paid close attention to the sequence of numbers. His memory did not betray him, and the locks released. He slipped inside, flicked on the switches that would power up the engine, engaged the shift, and shot forward. The vibration of the vehicle throbbed through him like a shot of adrenaline, and he was grinning broadly as he wheeled toward the opening in the fence.
He knew what he had to do.
He caught a glimpse of Chalk’s pale face, shocked beyond words, as he tore across the flats from the highway toward the fence. The Lightning hit a deep rut and nearly tore the steering wheel out of his hands as he bounced wildly to one side. For just an instant it occurred to him that this was a huge mistake, that he wasn’t up to it, and then he was through the gap and rocketing toward the battle. Logan Tom was down, sprawled on the earth, his staff a dozen feet away as the machines closed on him. Sparrow and Panther had turned back and were firing the heavy Parkhan Sprays into their attackers, desperately trying to keep them at bay. But it was a futile effort; the machines were too well protected.
