Sing Down the Stars (The Celestine Series Book 1)

by L. J. Hatton

  Several of them didn’t have legs, but operated as the top half of a body welded into a facsimile of a laboratory. They were dressed in lab coats and useless safety goggles, and one by one they glanced up and out their window to the hall, taking a look at nothing in particular with eyes that could never pass for human. Their mouths opened and closed in off-time breathing patterns, or silent, phony conversations. The back wall was emblazoned with the words Bring the Rain.

  The rest of the machines could move from station to station, but even these existed in varying degrees of completion. They were functional, but they didn’t have all their casings in place. Some had flesh on their arms, but it hung ragged at the shoulders, without clothing to cover the joints. One had a head that had been outfitted down to the hairs in its beard, but that was all it had. The rest of its body was exposed wires and framing. The entire layout had obviously been taken from my father’s schematics, but whoever assembled the pieces had taken no care with the intricacies necessary for them to function with any sort of fluidity or grace. It was more of a freak show than our circus had ever been.

  “We’re here,” said one of the men I’d followed, finally stepping out of the scaffolding’s shadow, with a hand on the control for his radio.

  A welded-torso machine shuddered and slumped at its station, like it had just had a heart attack. When the conveyor next moved, its lifeless head bumped along for the ride. A figure stood from behind the station, holding a soldering wand in one hand, and I had to catch myself before I fell off the scaffold from the shock.

  It was my mother, back from the grave.

  CHAPTER 23

  When I was a child, I dreamed of finding my mother alive and well. She’d be beautiful and young, exactly as she was in my father’s stories. I couldn’t imagine her any other way.

  When I got older, and understood what death was, I stopped dreaming of that day.

  The woman behind that glass was perfect in the way only a child’s imagination could be. Beyond that, there was something about her eyes . . .

  I knew my mother’s eyes. They were Anise’s eyes, and Vesper’s, and Nim’s. They were the darkness of strong coffee and sparked like the last embers in a campfire. They didn’t reflect the dull, glassy emptiness of a golem’s stare. Whoever she was, she couldn’t be my mother. My mother wouldn’t be dressed in the silver uniform of a Commission drone. My mother was dead.

  Her hair stuck to her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. Water beaded on her forehead and cheeks, but she never wiped it away. As she moved closer, opening a door to the side of the viewing window, I understood why the one man had said “she,” while the other called her “the thing.” There was a wooden cadence to her movement, and an unnatural stillness when she stopped and forgot to blink.

  She wasn’t human.

  “What do you require?” she asked the men waiting for her.

  “Warden says you’re to help on the rings. Winds are too high for the usual crew.”

  The woman clasped her hands behind her back and turned to follow them. Even her hair moved with a pendulum’s precision.

  She was a copy. A machine.

  Somehow, the Commission had created their robotic soldier, but why pattern her after my mother?

  Once they were gone, I climbed down for a better look at the hub. If the whole thing was like the tech room, then my knowledge of my father’s designs would be an asset, but there was no equipment below the scaffolds where I’d been hiding. Instead, it was a window to the outside.

  The window bubbled out, like a bug’s eye, letting me see above and below. Everything was below, except the sun.

  The facility was bumping the ozone layer and was held up by enormous whooshing turbines. There was an entire aerial flotilla moored to the ends of different walkways, which swayed in and out of wispy clouds as though they were in the midst of constant fog. At each end were rings. This was the “dock,” and it had nothing to do with the sea.

  Birch’s “center” was a floating fortress the size of a small city.

  I leaned out as far as I dared, holding the guardrail and turning over for a better look at what was above us. There was a dome that reflected the waning daylight. Beyond that was the outer shell of the atmosphere itself, close enough to space to see the curve of the Earth.

  Escape was going to mean more than simply getting out the door, unless I wanted to jump.

  Horrified, I ran back the way I’d come, not considering it a stupid move until I was inside the greenhouse and stuck between sobbing and gagging.

  I was hyperventilating. I paced the floor near the doors, holding my head, then holding my sides, unable to decide which position did the most good. The pain in my ribs was back, and it had garnered sympathy from a dozen other body parts that began to ache in time. I needed more of that infernal bark.

  I made my way to my hutch. The door was standing open, and Birch was inside.

  He came back.

  “Okay, think this through. She can’t have been taken, there would be signs. No one’s sounded an alert, so she’s not caught; she’s just not here. Which means she’s out there, and that’s not good.” I got the impression he spent a lot of time talking to himself.

  “Birch?”

  He raised his head.

  “Penelope!”

  He turned and pounced on me.

  “Ribs,” I choked out, and he sprang back as suddenly as he’d grabbed me.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t get much company.” He passed me a strip of bark from the pile I’d made. “Here.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but took the bark. “You look half-panicked.”

  “More than half. When you weren’t here, I thought . . .”

  “That I’d been found?”

  “And taken,” he said, nodding.

  “And since I was in your space, the warden would have known who helped me.” My focus had been singular and selfish. Birch had put himself in danger, and how did I repay him? I made it worse. “I’m sorry.”

  We both sat down on the metal floor.

  “I thought all that was left of you was your coat,” he said.

  One of the traveling coat’s sleeves poked out from under the grass mat on the floor.

  “They never would have left it behind. It’s too valuable,” I noted. Warden Nye knew exactly what that coat was. I should have been more careful with it.

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. The warden’s quite fond of the things your father builds.”

  That was a horrifying thought.

  The golems were dangerous enough, but if the warden could fine-tune something like the mechanism in that coat, there’d be no need for holographic unnoticeables. He’d be able to skip anywhere in the world. That, combined with this center and the things he’d stolen from the train, would make him the most powerful man in existence.

  “Should I bury it?” Birch asked. “I know it’s a memento, but—”

  “I’ll do it,” I told him. And then I’d bury whatever I buried it under.

  “I’m sorry I made you wait, but I went back to my room for these.”

  He unbuttoned his silver jacket. Beneath it was another, though this one was tight enough to strain the buttons. He took that one off, too, revealing a black Commission shirt and jeans wrapped around his waist. I was surprised he could walk at all.

  “These are my old ones; they’re a size down, and this way, if anyone sees you, you won’t stand out. The Center’s swarming with silver jackets most of the day, and the assembly crews wear denim. I couldn’t hide shoes, though.” He kept pausing, and then finding new things to say when I didn’t pick up the conversation. “I know you might not like to wear the ankh, but—”

  “They’re perfect,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I hauled the clothes into the hutch, wedging the door into a dressing
screen. Now I had a costume, and a role to play. I could venture out and not worry about anyone seeing Penelope Roma. All they’d see was one of their own who’d likely never been to a place as grand as this island in the clouds, and so any awkwardness or confusion from me was to be expected.

  Birch had handed me a lifeline, so why did I feel like I was betraying everyone I’d ever cared for?

  I found myself slowing down as I dressed. I’d worn so many disguises, but this one intimidated me. I didn’t want it to infect me, sink through my skin and my bones, and change me because I’d worn it too long.

  “Um . . . do you need . . . er . . . with your ribs the way they are, should I . . . I mean . . . Do you need help?” Birch asked, knocking lightly against the side of the hutch.

  “I can manage,” I told him.

  “Oh.” He seemed disappointed. “Good. I mean, I would have helped you, but—”

  “I play five different roles in The Show, when I’m not acting as ringmaster, and have about two minutes to change costumes between them. I’m not that shy.”

  The sound he made in response didn’t actually qualify as words.

  “Besides, I’m wrapped with leaves to my hips. There’s not much to see.” Needling Birch was nearly as fun as doing it to Jermay, only Jermay gave back as good as he got.

  I worked the shirt over my shoulders, wishing I had a mirror to make sure things were sitting straight.

  “The Show’s a circus, right?” he asked, seizing on a chance to change the subject.

  “It’s my family.”

  “I’ve seen pictures. Animals. Acrobats. You. The warden has cases full. I liked the movies, but you were only about seven or eight in them.”

  “He has movies that old?”

  I’d seen the pictures, but the idea of Warden Nye replaying my childhood at will was worse.

  “I wish I could have seen it in person, but . . . Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said. “Talking keeps them breathing.”

  I left the jacket hanging open and pushed the hutch’s door out of my way to join him again. I held my arms out as well as I was able, hoping for an impression of a dresser’s dummy.

  “How do I look?”

  This would have been the point when Jermay and Birdie began making jokes at my expense, while Klok straightened my seams and Winnie rolled her eyes at them. Of course, that was before we knew she could speak. I wasn’t sure about her real sense of humor. All I knew was that Birch had none.

  “Be careful with your hair,” he said, giving me a serious glance-over. He took a rolled-up cloth cap from his pocket and stuck it on my head. “Either hide it, or figure out a way to make it regulation. And try not to wince when you walk, or you’ll get yourself escorted to medical.” He pushed my shoulders back, gently. “Let’s hear your voice.”

  I coughed into my fist to clear my throat.

  “What should I say?”

  Birch’s face finally brightened at the sound of my altered accent. I’d combined my Caravan usher’s voice with the sound of the men I’d heard in the hall.

  “The warden’s right, you are a brilliant mimic.”

  If this warden had spoken of me in those terms, and by a name no one had a right to know, then why had he waited so long to come for me? He’d obviously been watching me since I was a child. He knew what I was—had he been waiting to get rid of my father first?

  “Does he talk about me a lot?”

  “Sometimes. He’s been wanting to collect you for a long time, but it wasn’t safe before he moved up here,” Birch said.

  “Safe for who?”

  “I don’t think he wanted anyone on the ground to know. Especially Warden Arcineaux.”

  Arcineaux was what Nye had called the gargoyle. I wouldn’t want him in my business, either.

  “He’s quite a collector,” Birch was saying.

  “Arcineaux?”

  “No!” The word came accompanied by the immediate wilting of several plants on all sides. Birch grabbed his wrist with his other hand, dropping to his knees beneath a wave of pain he bit his tongue to contain.

  “Birch!”

  “Don’t,” he said, struggling to control his breathing. “Don’t touch me. It’ll pass, just don’t touch me. Don’t . . .”

  “But what—”

  “It’s the restriction bands.” His face shifted from red to pale and back again, and he reached out to touch the blooms he’d just destroyed. They sprang back to life. “I got angry, but I shouldn’t have. I wasn’t prepared for you mentioning him like that.”

  “Arci—I mean, the other warden?”

  “You can say his name—or call him Arsenic, like the rest of us.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I tuned out, and he was the last one I heard you talking about. Who’s the collector?”

  “Warden Nye. He covets rare and unusual artifacts, including people who fall into either category.”

  “Unusual like a fortress in the stratosphere?” I asked.

  “You made it all the way to the wheel?” Birch sounded impressed. “The warden said his great mistake has been underestimating you.”

  “I got to a window.”

  “Most of our windows are in the wheel. The hallways are laid out like spokes around it. You really are one of a kind.”

  Like my father’s golems, and the copy of my mother . . .

  I wasn’t a weapon; I was a trophy, and if the warden was snapping up everything valuable to my father, I wasn’t the only person who fit that description.

  “I think one of my sisters is here,” I said. I thought I felt Anise’s grounding presence nearby, but it could have been my imagination. “Was anyone brought in off the road? Can I see them?”

  Birch looked uncomfortable. “After the fiasco with the train, and the other attacks—”

  “Attacks? We defended ourselves!”

  “Even the run at Arsenic?” he asked.

  “That was different. I was trapped, and I couldn’t leave that boy behind—he needed help.”

  It felt good to be on the other side of that need for once.

  “The way I’ve heard it, you left the Ground Center a wasteland, and nearly killed Arsenic on top of it. It’s all the workers have been talking about for a week.”

  “Unintended consequence. I haven’t used my abilities very often, and I wasn’t prepared for them to take over the way they did.”

  “Whatever you did, Arsenic didn’t like it. He’s trying to convince the Commission that allowing Nye to control this facility makes him too powerful. If Arsenic figures out you’re here, things will get worse. They’ll want Nye to relinquish something, but he won’t let go of the Center, and he won’t lose you. I’d guess he’d hand out any other acquisitions at the dedication to solidify their confidence in him.”

  “My friends and family are not party favors!”

  “He’s got no alternative, and you won’t be able to find them; they’re somewhere out of sight. The prison level, most likely. That’s where he hides people.”

  Warden Nye sounded like he was socking away emergency currency for a rainy day, not handling live people who might not agree that they needed to be hidden in a prison.

  “You should have told me all of this first thing,” I said.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”

  “Well, I do, so tell me everything.”

  “Unless you’re able to bounce when dropped from extreme heights, all you need to know is that there’s no way out of here.”

  “There are supply ships coming from the ground; I saw them unloading cargo. They’re the way off. Show me—”

  “You’d never make it out the door, and if you found a way, you’d never make it to a ship unseen. Let your people worry about their own fates.”

>   “I don’t believe in fate. You said it was impossible for me to be here, but I am.”

  “Because of a device that no longer functions.” He toed my discarded coat.

  “But others do,” I said. A plan was forming in my mind. It was far-fetched and possibly insane, but my father had made an art form out of both, and I had mimicked him long enough to pick up the skill. “The warden has something of my father’s. A machine capable of flight. The last I saw, it was in a room full of holograms and packing boxes. It looked like an office. If you know where—”

  “No,” Birch said, backing away, suddenly terrified.

  “You do know. Where is it?”

  He turned and ran.

  “Birch!” There should have been an echo when I called after him, but the greenery muffled it. Even my footsteps against the metal were stifled. “Birch!”

  I caught up with him at the doors.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

  “I should be in my room.” He tried waving me off. “I’ll be lucky if no one’s looking for me.”

  “That didn’t bother you ten seconds ago,” I said. He leaned away from me, like even breathing the same air was a danger. “I don’t expect you to come with me. You’ve already risked more than your share; it’s my turn. And if you’re afraid I’ll leave you behind when I find a way out—I won’t. I promise. I’ll—”

  “There is no way out!” he shouted. An expression sculpted by some buried trauma surfaced for a moment before he barricaded it behind his usual manners. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  He touched the doors, hand trembling as they opened, and bolted before I could make another argument.

  I’d pressed too hard.

  I had no idea how long Birch had been the warden’s prisoner, or what he had endured, but I’d seen Winnie’s scars, and I’d heard Nagendra’s stories of the years following Brick Street, when those who claimed to remember the riots were forced to forget by means too terrible to repeat. Birch was hiding a fugitive under Nye’s nose; the penalties for lesser infractions were unthinkable. Nye was a man even the other wardens wanted to keep on a short leash—of course Birch panicked.