by M. E. Parker
Nico opened the book, a different text from yesterday’s. Sindra ran her fingers under the first sentence. “That word. Do you even know what it means, or do you just sound it out?”
“’Course I know what it means. That word is remarkable. Means something better than other things.” He raised his head as he spoke.
Sindra noted the shape of the r and committed the sound to memory. “That first letter, how do you know to say it like that?”
“Ahr—’cause that’s how you pronounce it.” Nico snatched the pages back from Sindra and began reading. “This holy book is called Vogue, March, 1967. What Women are Wearing.” He flipped to the middle. “These are the prescribed articles of clothing that women must wear.”
She recognized the hat in the picture right away, like the one Pinky had put on her head. She leaned over his lap as he read. She watched his mouth, the way he formed the letters, observed his lips and the spittle from his pronunciation of p’s and b’s, making mental notes about the subtle differences between blouse and plows, unable to tell the difference, except for the s.
Every day, when he finished his reading, Nico placed the book he’d read from in a nook by the window. As soon as Sindra heard the dreadful sound of the lock click shut, she reached for the book and practiced rereading what Nico had read, applying anything new she’d learned that day.
In the months that followed, in addition to reading, she passed the time learning to sew with Pinky and memorizing the canons of Orkin’s Landing. Her confinement wore her down. Minutes, seconds, days—they dragged on as if one were no different than the other. Nico’s voice, once soothing, began to grate on her nerves, and his face annoyed her as he read with a little twitch in the corner of his mouth.
“What does that mean? What does that say? What’s that letter? Your questions never stop. Women should not ask so many questions.” Nico dropped the book on the ground. “I told you already. A can be ‘ah’ or ‘a’ or even ‘uh.’”
“I know. That’s not what I’m asking.”
“What are you asking?” Nico rubbed his eyes.
“I’m asking about that word, awl.” She pointed to a passage in the book. “You say it just like a-l-l.”
“Sometimes the other letters in the word change how it’s pronounced. A-l-l, ‘ahl,’ would be a long a if you put an e at the end instead of an l. Making it ale.”
Sindra scratched her head, trying to understand. “Okay, well what about holy? You say ‘ho-lee,’ and on the sign with the big white letters there are two l’s and you still say ‘ho-lee.’ The double l’s should change the way it’s pronounced, right?” Sindra thought about that sign often, so prominent on the hillside. “And how do you know the missing letters are o and r? H---L-L-Y-W-O---D could be anything, right? Like HALLYWOLD or HULLYWORD or HOLLYWOLD or HOLLYWOOD or—”
“But none of those words make sense, do they? Orkin figured that the Old Age people that built the letters misspelled the words, but their mistake didn’t change its meaning.”
Sindra watched Nico leave, heard the lock click, and leaned back in her chair with a sigh. Sitting so much these past few months had made her legs weak and her back ache, so she began to stand by the shuttered window, peering through a slit for a glimpse at life in Orkin’s Landing, and in her many hours of solitude, Sindra spoke with the child she carried, hoping to impart some of what she’d learned in her seventeen years of life.
“If you’re a boy,” she rubbed her belly, “figure out who you can trust.” She hoped for a boy so that he could avoid all the pain she’d endured at the hands of men. “If you’re a girl—sharpen your claws and get used to the taste of your own blood. The world was not made for you. Either way,” she thought of Myron and his dreams of finding a better place in his airship, “never stop searching.”
That night, she fell asleep with visions of Myron, the two of them raising her baby together in Bora Bora without all of the hardships and holy books and nonsense about things people can’t do. She questioned her decision not to leave this place and try it alone somewhere else. But the hope of seeing her baby’s face, hearing the cry, feeling skin to skin on her breast, was the reason she’d lived in confinement for four months. Out in the Nethers alone, her baby wouldn’t stand a chance. Living here, resting, with food in her belly, gave her baby the best shot at life.
Myron once told her that his grandfather’s name was Samuel. Samuel taught him how to build an airship. She liked the name, respected the man behind Myron’s stories, so if her baby came out a boy, she would name him Samuel; otherwise, she’d go with Sam, the perfect name for a strong, intelligent girl.
When the day finally came for her water to break, Sindra labored for hours with Somerville and Pinky at her side and a gallery of Orkin’s Landing presbyters who insisted on cramming into the tiny room for the show. Dromon paced and the chemist made faces.
“Get out of here.” Sindra tried to wave off the crowd, which made her uneasy. “It hurts.”
“I know it hurts, but you gotta push.” The top of Pinky’s head rose between Sindra’s legs.
Sindra screamed as a bolt of pain shot down her back. Every time her abdomen contracted it felt like an excruciating stint in the stretcher block.
Since the seed of Sindra’s baby certainly came from a ghost and not a slog, Lalana, the animal doctor in Jonesbridge, had given the baby a fifty-fifty chance of surviving birth. After the trials of escaping Jonesbridge and the agony of labor, the question that had plagued Sindra for months would finally be answered—if her baby took a breath outside the womb, would he or she have both arms? Both legs? Hearing and sight? Or would her baby suffer the fate of a slog birth, deformed and destined for the dead yard within the first few days?
Sindra watched the faces of the crowd in the room for signs that might hint at her baby’s health. Dromon and Somerville stood behind Pinky as she cupped the baby’s head. The chemist, two other women, and an old man in a robe all looked on, holding their breath until the baby slid into Pinky’s arms.
The robed man stepped forward, his eyes concealed by the shadows of his hood. He cut the umbilical cord, wrapped the baby in a blanket, and stepped outside, slamming the door behind him.
“Where are you taking him? Is it a him?” Sindra tried to sit up. “What’s wrong?” She heard a faint cry from outside. “Bring me my baby!”
“There, there, dear.” Pinky wiped Sindra’s forehead with a towel.
“Where’s he taking my baby?” She yelled again, “I want my baby!”
The crowd in the room departed, leaving only Sindra. “Where’s my baby?” she screamed again when the door locked.
Chapter Two
Jonesbridge had buzzed with activity since the defeat of the E’sters. Slogs worked extra shifts. The administrators diverted attention from munitions to secretive projects in the machine shop and salvage. Defense troops deployed elsewhere, leaving Jonesbridge virtually undefended from outside attack.
Myron’s promotion proved to be a worse fate than the drudgery of labor. The tedium of keeping a sharp eye on the workers in his charge left his mind free to roam in his dreams like never before. After only four months in charge of the salvage factory, Myron found himself demoted back to a slog on the line, working for Saul, instead of over him.
From his first day in the admin overlook, he’d kept his eyes peeled for anything he could use to build a new airship, so he could take the same course Sindra had taken, holding out hope that they could still journey to Bora Bora together. That was the dream that drove him to take another breath, but he had other dreams, aspirations that his grandfather had once told him have to stand in place of those dreams that lie beyond reach.
With his knack for salvage and his aptitude for gears and metal, and with his strength and endurance that exceeded anyone else’s at Jonesbridge, he’d always hoped the Superintendent would someday put him on a mobile salvage squad beyond the gorge, scouring the burnt earth. As the ghost captain spoke, Myron anticipated the w
ords as if he’d formulated them himself.
“Them E’sters left enough scrap in their ruins to supply our factories for a good while. Only problem is it lies outside the gorge. Much of it in the gorge.”
Another ghost stepped forward. “Our trustworthy defense teams have been deployed on another important mission. The mobile squad will come from the slog ranks. But—Civil Guards are authorized to shoot on sight for any infraction you commit out there.”
Two ghosts escorted Myron to procure his ration before they led him to the supply train depot. Fifteen slogs shackled one in front of the other waited by an open train car. On Myron’s ankles, the ghosts fastened iron cuffs with a slack chain between his feet. On his left foot, a chain connected him to the left foot of the slog in front of him. They chained his right foot to the right foot of the one behind him.
Myron could smell the breath of the man at his back as he drew close, and it turned his stomach.
“Watch your back, Myron,” Saul whispered. He nudged Myron between the shoulder blades.
The jingle of chains grew quiet when a ghost stood on a crate to address the slog line. “I don’t expect to see any shittery on the way to the rim. Keep them chains straight. March with the cadence. Stay in step.”
Another ghost yelled, “If you’re too stupid to know your left from right, this here is left.” He turned his back to the line, raising his left arm. “And this here is right.” He raised his right arm. With a deep breath, he barked the cadence. “Left. Right…”
Chains rattled as the group marched toward the train, tripping and stumbling as at least a quarter of them marched opposite the correct foot, including Saul, whose mistake sent Myron stumbling into the man in front of him.
“Wrong foot, fool.” Saul slapped Myron in the back of his head.
Myron swung his arm, elbow first, trying to make contact with Saul. “You got it wrong.”
Saul lowered his voice as a ghost ambled by them. “I see why your girl ran off without you now.”
“Quiet back here.”
Myron braced for a swat from a discipline rod that came moments after the ghost spoke, striking his lower back.
The procession marched up a ramp into the windowless train car. They sat in a line that ran around the interior perimeter of the car. Darkness fell over the sixteen faces that all bore nervous excitement as the last puff of outside air rushed in through the closing doors.
Myron’s eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to decipher the outline of Saul’s head. He eyed Saul’s profile, the narrow chin and overbite, a face he associated with betrayal, but the clack of the train on its tracks lulled him into a trance.
Four months had passed since Myron sat in the creek bed, blood oozing from his leg, watching Sindra twist on a rope beneath the airship he’d built, Coyote Man safely in the basket, lifting into the smoke. He’d constructed numerous outcomes to fill the void of not knowing whether Sindra, or the entire contraption, had plummeted onto the sharp rocks at the base of Iron’s Knob, or into the gorge, or smack into the E’ster encampment, but whenever he envisioned a safe landing, it was always on a barren mesa in the middle of the Nethers. No water. No food. No protection from the wind that legend claimed blew bullets of sand and stone. As they traversed the bridge, the sounds on the track and the speed of the train changed, punctuating the depth of the void beneath them. After all his attempts to construct an airship and all the time he spent planning, he would finally get to leave Jonesbridge, if only for the day.
When the train stopped, the mules unloaded first, braying as they plodded down the ramps of the adjacent cars. A lock clanked open, and the door to the slog car slid aside. His fellow slogs squinted, holding up their hands to shield their eyes from the sudden light. Saul glared at Myron.
“Up, up,” the ghost shouted.
The line disembarked in opposite order of how they’d boarded. Each received waterskins to sling around their necks, and a set of field tools: pliers, pluckers, sandyrods, and hammer. In a panic, Saul lifted his waterskin to his mouth and gave it a squeeze.
Myron patted his own waterskin, curious as to why he wasn’t thirsty like everyone else. He had thought a lot about his discovery of S.L.O.G.’s in the belly of the Stony Mountain facility and what it meant. He wondered how many of those that were called slogs actually were slogs, and how many (most, he presumed) wore the name as nothing more than a slur. Growing up in isolation, Myron never realized how much stronger he was than other people, how much faster. Not only could he outlast Saul’s thirst, Myron was sure he had three times Saul’s strength, as well.
Two ghosts approached the group. “There’s a whoresworth of E’ster trap out here, yet. Still rotting and stinking up the place.”
One of the ghosts pulled a wheelbarrow full of lime bags up to the line. “Splitting off in pairs. First thing is pulling out what’s left of the corpses from the armor and giving ’em a dust.” The ghost traveled the line handing each slog a bag of lime. He pulled out an iron ring full of keys and unlocked every other shackle, making eight sets of two slogs, with Myron and Saul, as the last two in line, still shackled together.
“Oughta be dusting you with lime,” Saul said under his breath.
Myron jerked his leg to walk, pulling the chain that connected them, forcing Saul to follow as they headed toward what had been the E’ster encampment, now filled with the burnt skeletons of artillery and catapults. By the train, still outfitting the mules, Myron spotted Lalana and Errol and fought pangs of nostalgia for the brief time they were all going to fly away together.
“Start over there,” a ghost yelled to Myron. He pointed toward a mangled troop transporter. It was constructed of solid metal with holes blasted in the side and the roof crunched.
Myron stuck his head into the half-open door of the transport. His nose burned. Inside, he counted ten E’sters, torn apart and mixed with debris, pieces of bodies in the state of decomposition where their faces had caved and their skin had turned gray.
Myron worked to remove the door of the damaged transport on the left side and Saul tinkered with the one on the right. Myron broke down the door with a cold chisel and heavy hammer. He began separating body parts from rubble and pulling the human remains into a pile outside of the transport. He did his best to keep his eyes up, not glancing down to the dismembered arms and legs, the broken faces of the E’sters, but had to look at them when he dusted the pile.
He rubbed his neck and gazed into the horizon. The smoke on this side of the gorge thinned, leaving more sunlight to bathe the parched earth in yellow. Silhouettes of barren peaks created a gray wall against the western horizon, where civilization ended and the Nethers began.
They worked, Myron and Saul, as far from one another as the chain would allow while they were dismantling the transport, but the removal of the side panel required them to work as a team.
Lalana led a mule and cart to the transport for them to load the heavy doors and other large metal scraps to take back to the train.
She stared Saul down and eased up beside the cart, pretending to work on the mule’s harness, whispering to Myron. “This is Chimney.” The mule’s ears twitched when he heard his name. He brayed and yanked his head toward Lalana. “Youngest, fastest mule in the stable.” Myron strained to hear her voice.
Saul stopped work, cocking his ear toward Lalana.
“You take Chimney.” She nodded toward the horizon, her voice so soft Myron could hardly make out her words. “Go. Find that girl.” She waited for Saul to look away before loosening the buckles on Chimney’s harness. “Give him a good kick.” She pointed to the best spot to nudge the mule, on the side of the belly. “Then yell his name a few times. He’ll bolt out of here like his mane’s on fire.”
Myron nodded to the shackles between him and Saul. Lalana cut her eyes to his hammer and chisel.
“Mule’s ready to go. Best load all this metal up now,” she said, no longer whispering.
The ghosts patrolled the work area,
as expected, in teams of two, one team within earshot of the zoned work area. To the south, two slogs dismantled the E’ster command post. Near the gorge rim, another two slogs took apart a fused cannon turret.
Chimney had already begun separating from the cart, gnawing on a bramble a few steps away. Myron had to time his escape with precision. Every tick counted. He and Saul bent down in unison, each with a pair of hands on the door to hoist it into the cart. Myron eyed the shackle for a weak link, spotting the perfect place to strike.
With the first metal door seated in the cart bed, they bent for the next one. Once Saul lifted his half, Myron dropped his side and reached for his tools. The hammer struck the chisel on the chain link. The link pressed into the dirt beneath.
“What are you doing?” Saul struggled to see over the edge of the heavy door. “Guards!” he yelled. He dropped the load and stood straight, pointing at Myron, the same way he’d betrayed him before.
Myron grabbed the chain connecting his leg to Saul’s and yanked Saul’s legs out from under him. He positioned the link on the metal corner of the salvaged transport door to give support underneath, so he could sever the chain. With the chisel in position on the link, Myron raised the hammer. Saul punched him the face. Myron fell back, and the hammer clanked off the edge of the cart. Saul lifted the hammer over Myron’s head to strike. Myron dodged the blow by rolling to his left. Saul moved in, wrapping the slack of the chain around Myron’s neck. The two nearest ghosts ran for the scuffle, but climbing over debris slowed their progress.
Myron elbowed Saul in the stomach and wedged his fingers between the chain and his throat to open his airway. Myron twisted around, winding up chest to chest with Saul, both tangled in the tether chain.
His last chance. This was it. No more shirker coop or stretcher or ceremonious execution. This time, they’d put a bullet through his head and dust him like the hundreds of E’sters littering the ground. The ghosts, getting closer, took aim at Myron. He pummeled Saul in the face, who fell limp to the ground. Reaching for his hammer on the other side of the cart, Myron tugged the chain, pulling Saul with him, but his chisel had rolled under a hunk of E’ster battleworks.
