by Andrew Post
Bumping him aside with her shoulder, Moira wrenched away, wordless, arms crossed.
Raziel smiled at her, then at Flam.
To keep himself from caving Raziel’s head in, Flam turned toward the north skies. Feeling someone’s gaze, he scanned below. On all other roofs and every available bridge that allowed a clear view north, the guardsmen were ready. A good number were looking his way, raised visors revealing faces composed of worry but determination: they were ready to see their duty through.
Flam saluted. Every one, every brother and sister of the Patrol, returned the gesture: a fist presented at chest height, as one would hold up a shield. He held his salute as they did the same, the sinking suns’ warmth on his balled hand, galvanizing it like a kiln, hardening it to nigh invincibility. Flam squinted toward the north just as the first black dots on the horizon appeared.
“Got the pricks’ coordinates,” Aksel shouted from up front. “So if we choose, we can always take the fight to them, make them host the shindig instead of the other way around.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Clyde said, no longer needing to shout. He was surprised at how cleanly the Praise to Her now ran, being factory new once more, humming instead of grumbling.
“Well,” Aksel said, “still good to have it in the ol’ back pocket just in case.” He tapped at the control panel. “Looks like we’re going to be late. I’m seeing a fleet ahead, nearing the bay right now.”
Clyde stepped into the cockpit. Aksel nodded toward the radar. Watching the little red dot that was so small on a vidscreen but represented something so enormously catastrophic, Clyde felt his heart turn to lead. “Get us there. Now.”
“Aye-aye.” Aksel glared back at Höwerglaz. “I just wished that if I had to get roughed up—it’d been for something other than a shite-headed weaver’s prank.”
Höwerglaz gifted Aksel with a look of indifference, held it, then winked, laughing boyishly, snorts and all.
Aksel shook his head and faced forward.
Clyde kept Commencement across his lap, staring at Höwerglaz until he looked his way. “Why?”
Höwerglaz’s smile faded. “Why what?” He raised his tattooed hand, the lemniscate nearly faded to nothing. “Oh, this? Had it put on a while back. Comes in darker when I’m edgin’ close to millennial. Alarm clock of sorts.”
“Not that. Why not side with us completely? Why wouldn’t you want to help? The Odium’s nothing but—”
Höwerglaz watched the landscape speed past. His small smirk never leaving, one that suggested humbleness and curiosity.
The way he moved his eyes over things made him seem less like a fellow organism and more like a fish looking through its bowl. Clyde could imagine Höwerglaz perched on an underwater castle’s mossy crenellations, smiling, observing.
“Can you see the future?” Clyde said, wondering if that wasn’t what Höwerglaz was actually doing, looking out the window like that.
“See enough stuff happen, yer likely to pick up on patterns. I mean, it’s not like I have visions”—he wiggled all his fingers—“or consort with the spirits or a damn crystal ball or nothin’, but, yeah, to a degree, I can see how things’ll shake out.
“But to answer it plain, I knew ya was comin’, true. And another thing: I don’t know why everybody thinks I live in Nessapolis. Ya saw it. Ain’t sheeit there. Somebody ol’ as me needs activity or mah brain gets to driftin’.”
Clearly. “And what did you determine?”
“Look. I had to see with mah own peepers ya’d do what was necessary when it was necessary. Get me?”
Clyde flashed back on the rocky crawlers and the argument about returning the pistol to Emer—Höwerglaz. Or allowing Nevele to strangle that pirate to death. “Killing is not the answer. I’ve never killed anyone. You said you weren’t going to help us if I wasn’t interesting, yet here you are. You’re breaking your own rules.”
Höwerglaz stroked a beard that’d shrunk to a dark thistle from the great gray banner that earlier had hung to his belt. “Yer right. Ya dinnit kill nobody. But that’s not the point I was tryin’ to get at. You came up with that all on yer own. I never said nothin’ about killin’. Speaks pretty loudly of ya, if ya ask me, jumpin’ the gun to that mighty big conclusion.”
“I—”
Nevele put her hand on Clyde’s knee. “I think he means that killing isn’t the answer, you’re right, but it’s more about the willingness to accept the burden that comes with an act, any act.”
Höwerglaz tapped the end of his nose. “One smart gal right thar. That’s what makes a hero, son.”
Clyde nearly missed what Höwerglaz said, recalling Nevele’s confession about Zoya Kesbanya’s father. He’d always adored Nevele for how she’d helped weavers in need, but he’d always felt she was giving edited versions of those stories. But he never expected something quite like that was left on the cutting room floor.
And as much as he wanted to remove her hand from his knee and scoot away, he couldn’t. What she’d done had been cleansed from her conscience by his fabrick. The weighty badness of her confession had healed him when he’d needed it most. But for it to have healed such a wound, it must’ve been something that bothered her immensely, threatened to crush her under its weight. If she’d felt that bad, she must still be the woman he knew—good at heart.
Still, it was a big revelation. And as much as he hated to think it, he couldn’t help but feel he didn’t really know her anymore.
He looked at Höwerglaz, who gave Clyde a knowing stare, as if he could parse the exact cause of Clyde and Nevele’s sudden discomfort. Reading body language was probably one of those things that sharpened as you grew older. If that was the case, then for Höwerglaz, speaking aloud was probably all but superfluous.
Höwerglaz cleared his throat, sat forward. “I’ve lived long enough to see—from a distance, up till now—an entire line of Pyne men and women learn things the hard way. Don’t know what it is with y’all. Each of ya’s had trouble with this. ’Specially after fabrick got introduced into yer bloodline. Probably more so, since it takes a certain kind to not let power shoot straight to yer head.”
Clyde looked at Commencement balanced across his legs, the ornate sheath depicting the twin souls twisting about the sword in the middle of the embossed tableau. Grigori Gonn had copied the pictures from archival photos of Clyde’s father holding the sword and had taken molds from the gun barrel’s imagery before melting it down. Clyde felt better holding it as a sword. He never liked Commencement as a gun, the royal revolver. He was scared even wearing it, afraid it would go off by accident each time he sat down. But as a sword, it felt . . .
“A sword’s still a single-purpose thing,” Höwerglaz said, “regardless of how much nobility you pin on it. Weapons are tools, nothing more. Like a paintbrush. The painting itself, the product of a tool’s use, is equally likely to be a nice one as a crappy one. A weapon—sword, gun, doesn’t matter—ain’t no different. Good and bad: mutually possible. Ya never can tell which’ll pop up in somebody. And keeping yerself as blank as that fresh canvas ain’t the way to go about it. Ya gotta put a few licks on to see what colors stick.”
“So, given enough time, eventually I’ll give up on my beliefs? It’s just a fact, an inevitability? I will have to end someone’s life?”
Höwerglaz drew a deep breath. “If you want to continue to believe in somethin’, anythin’ at all, fightin’ is an inevitability, yes. Not killin’. Fightin’, understand? Defendin’, protectin’, savin’ folks through action, not words or finger-waggin’ while soapboxin’ your beliefs. There’s a difference. But . . . I think, deep down, some part of ya already knows that. Otherwise, why keep luggin’ that thing ’round? Looks heavy.”
“It is.” In more ways than one.
Aksel called back from the cockpit. “Charging up the FTL. Five minutes.”
“Do you know what’ll happen with us, then?” Nevele said.
Höwerglaz ignored her questio
n, asked his own. “Either of y’all keep up with astrology much?”
Clyde and Nevele shook their heads.
“I do,” Rohm piped up.
“Well, at least we got one of ya. But for the others’ benefit, let’s start with astronomy. Y’all know in our particular galaxy we got the two suns, I hope. Aurorin, named after the light lord. And Teanna, the light lord’s lady. And Gleese, unlike any other planet in the entire known universe, moves in a shape like, well, this.” He held up a hand, the faded infinity symbol. “We move around the suns in turns, from one to the other. Once every five hunnert years, the suns get close enough for the handoff: Gleese shiftin’ from goin’ ’round Aurorin, to Teanna. Y’all knew that, right?”
Clyde and Nevele nodded. “Mucks up the weather,” Nevele added. “Half the planet won’t see the suns for over a year.”
“Gold star for the lady. Now the astrology. In a week’s time, Gleese will be movin’ out of Teanna’s orbit, where we’ve been, and into her husband’s care. And they say that while we’re in Aurorin’s orbit, only war and destruction follow. Backwards, I’m sure it seems, being that Aurorineans believe the Light Lord to be a more benevolent and understandin’ god. Still, that’s how it’ll be.”
“You’ve been here that long—to have seen this happen before?” said Nevele.
“Well, the memory’s vault gets some rust on the hinges sometimes, so . . .”
Never a straight answer.
“But I will say, again, patterns. It’s not mah intent to be a downer, but let’s be honest: nothin’ bad ever happens just once. Sad, ’specially with how everythin’ has been pretty nice this past trip ’round Teanna.”
“Wait. You call these past five hundred years nice?” Nevele said. “How about the three million who died in the Territorial Skirmish? Or everyone who was in Nessapolis when that freak sandstorm hit? And let’s not even consider the frigate crash yesterday.”
“By comparison. Ya see, the door that lets bad things mosey in an’ make themselves at home is always open, girlie. Things always go bad before they go good—nature’s law. It’s the easy route, and nature’ll always take the easy route. Ain’t no river goin’ up a mountain. And let me tell y’all one thing: last time we were orbitin’ Aurorin beats these past five hunnert years by a damn sight.” He developed a faraway look. “Mercy,” he finished quietly.
Talking to Father Time made Clyde feel as insignificant as he did when looking at a star map. Like nothing he could ever say or do would have a lasting effect on anything.
“How old are you exactly, anyway?” Clyde accidentally thought aloud. And remembering his manners, “That is, if you don’t mind . . .”
Höwerglaz chuckled. “Old. Old enough to remember Earth.” He gazed out the porthole again, as though if the clouds moved just right he’d see this Earth again.
“Will you help us?” Clyde said, desperate.
Höwerglaz shrugged. “That’s entirely up to y’all. You need to surprise me. Make me clutch my chest and proclaim, ‘Golly dern, would you just look at that?’”
From the cockpit, Aksel said, “All right, mates, here we go. From three hundred miles per hour to about nine million. Next stop: Geyser.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Rohm said with a shudder.
“It’ll work,” Aksel said brusquely, accidentally illustrating his uncertainty. Thumb poised over the flashing green button, Aksel twisted in his seat to shout back, “In five . . .”
Nevele’s hand on Clyde’s knee tightened, her fingers making a stone claw. Clyde put his hand on top of hers. She was shaking, keeping her focus on the floor. He gave her hand squeezes until she returned one. He loved her more than anything, even if he could never say it. He hoped she knew that.
“Four . . .”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a peep. “I should’ve told you.”
“Three . . .”
“It’s okay,” Clyde said. “We all make mistakes.”
“Everyone but you.” If she was attempting levity, it came off slightly accusatory instead. “I’m just scared that nothing has happened yet. I mean, I’m supposed to be jinxed now, right? Because of what I told you?”
Clyde hadn’t thought of that. He kept his expression calm. “It’ll be okay,” he said, late.
“Two, one. Firing the FTL drive now.”
The view out the window became still, as if the starship had suddenly stopped. There was no tremor under Clyde’s seat. Nothing jostled them anymore.
But, no, it wasn’t stopped. They were just moving entirely too fast for anything to be observed in detail, the world outside a snapshot to Clyde’s optic nerves.
For a moment, it felt peaceful in the starship, silent except for the soft trilling of the FTL tachyon generator. Clyde closed his onyx eyes, knowing the tranquility would be brief. What they were barreling toward would be the complete opposite.
Clyde wondered if Höwerglaz really could see his thoughts, predict them just from experience after having seen people—apparently some who had been his forebears—go through similar events. He questioned if Father Time really knew how scared he was and if he cared.
CHAPTER 20
Homecoming
Gorett, lost in black thoughts, flinched when Dreck spoke. The pirate captain asked over his shoulder, “Colin, ‘Eve of Destruction,’ if you’d be so kind.”
The Magic Carpet was on autopilot as they tore along over the great unchanging field of sand, Lakebed. Dreck put his feet on the control panel, legs crossed at the ankle, hands behind his leather-helmeted head. Colin found the cassette tape and jammed it in. From bare speakers tacked all over the ship’s interior came a slow drumbeat.
Strumming.
A gravelly-voiced man began singing—about violence, war, and the general unmaking of a world and how, apparently, he’d been told by someone unnamed that they didn’t believe this was the end times and he reassured them it indeed was. Because of the archaic recording style, the singer’s voice came only from the right set of speakers—basically shouting into the side of Gorett’s head.
The sudden, sharp harmonica blat made Gorett twitch.
He felt almost as if the singer were addressing him directly, naming places he’d never heard of—Jordan River? Red China? Selma, Alabama?—the song went on. He could do nothing to stop it. The song’s general vitriolic nature grew as it continued, building and building, made all the more haunting by the choral backup.
Apparently familiar with the song, Dreck mouthed the words, eyes closed.
Look at him, Pitka. He believes he’s a champion for the little, stepped-on man, Mother Worm whispered, almost sounding as if she was stepping forward from the chorus to lay out some spoken-word lyricism. But even he sees dirt and filth has hidden potential, like modeling clay cut from the ground that can be shaped into something beautiful. And having walked away from so many fights, he’s only hardened his resolve that he’s doing the right thing, that he’s divinely shielded by his goddess. No one has ever discouraged him, Pitka. Until you. You will stop him.
Leave me alone. I . . . I’m just one man. What can I do? I’ve accepted what’s to happen, and you—whatever you are—should do the same.
Tsk. I’m your heart’s mouthpiece, Little Pitka.
A sharp beep tore Gorett away from Mother Worm. Next to him, Dreck sat up, slapped his leather cap up from his eyes, dragged his feet off the controls, and took the joysticks. “What’ve we got, boys?” he said, clicking off the autopilot. “And turn the music down—can’t hear myself think.”
Gorett watched the Lakebed drift by far under the glass floor. They were nearing its southern edge, the terrain becoming a series of rash-like bumps, the foothills of the South Razor Mountains. In the occasional pond and lake, he saw the reflection of both the Magic Carpet and the fleet behind her—and now, two new starships trailing, keeping a cautious distance.
“Adeshkan pursuer classes, both attempting missile lock, sir,” the pirate mann
ing the radar answered.
“Ready flares, and get another sizzler ready,” Dreck said. “They know we’re close. Maybe Geyser and Adeshka hammered out a deal.” To himself, he added, “Chidester’s lending a hand to someone? Ha. That’d be the day.”
“Flares ready, sir. On your mark.”
Another pirate said, “Dead south, two ships in Geyser airspace, sir.”
“Repeat that,” Dreck said. “At Geyser?”
“That’s what the readout’s showing, sir. Two ships, running patterns around the island.”
“We’ll deal with them when we get there. What of the shites tailing us?”
“Still trying to lock.”
“Hold the sizzler, but as soon as they loose on us, give ’em the flares.”
“Aye, sir.”
Dreck’s thumb moved to the joystick that’d launch the missile, stroking the waiting red button.
Dreck was clearly mulling it over, considering launching it prematurely and trying to steer it to its destination from here. It’d likely not make it, run its fuel to E before even halfway there. Losing that much velocity, it’d likely just bounce off the city’s stem instead of piercing it, a complete waste.
Mother Worm was right about Dreck, Gorett decided, watching his thumb reluctantly draw away from the trigger. He wanted to live to see the destruction as it happened. Bear active witness. Not merely throw a last-ditch effort while they got robbed of the sight by getting shot down. The stone waited, and his eyes were hungry, his fingers rapped out individual beats on the flight sticks—giddy with anticipation, so ready to see his prize, and hold it to his chest, well won.
Pitka knew that feeling well. He used to lose entire weeks of sleep waiting to hear from the miners that they’d finally gotten access to the stone. Pacing, imagining how it’d feel under his hands—if it’d be cool or permanently warm like some volcanic rock. He used to imagine kissing it, laying his cheek against it as if it were his mother’s shoulder, telling it how much he’d dreamed of this day.
