by Cam Baity
“I-it’s okay,” he hollered. “You—you can come out.”
The voices quieted. A splash came from behind him.
“My na-na-name is Dollop.”
“Dollop,” repeated a dozen playful voices.
He spun around but saw only a ripple in the lagoon.
“Dollop,” chimed another voice. He spun again.
Inches away from him was a glistening amber eyeball. It was not attached to a face but blinked and shifted on a long stalk that wound out of sight.
He stared back at it.
Movement shuddered up the stalk. In a blur, bits of rubbery metal whisked forward, forming a mouth to accompany the eye.
“Hello, Dollop,” the mouth said.
“Hello, Dollop,” repeated a dozen voices.
Behind him, scores of disembodied mouths attached to flexible stalks smiled back, sprouting from the lagoon like a bouquet of grinning flowers. Several of the mouths folded together, shuffled their pieces, and arched out to join the eyeball. The disjointed parts rearranged themselves to form a hand.
It motioned for Dollop to follow.
The hand led him to a glorious cathedral-like cavern lit by a cosmos of glimmering mineral flecks and surrounded by curtains of vesperfalls. Orange streams cascaded from the vaulted ceiling to mix with the churning flux in a magnificent amber lagoon.
Extending out from the pool was an amorphous assembly of shifting body parts, a wriggling riot of color and shape.
Gently, it reached out to Dollop, a mass of cheerful eyes, singing mouths, and waving hands. Individual faces formed and dispersed like ashes. The mass undulated and pulsed, countless arms stretching toward Dollop and then retracting, a thousand millipede legs forming and re-forming to hold the column aloft.
“Hello, Dollop,” sang a chorus, a thousand voices strong.
“Who…” he said so softly he could barely hear himself. “Wh-wh-what are you?”
But something inside of him already knew.
He was befuddled by a sense of familiarity. His gaze darted from eyes, to mouths, to faces, all unique and yet somehow all one. He tried to get a handle on how many mehkans he was talking to, but they appeared and vanished into the joyful chaos so rapidly that he couldn’t pinpoint any individual for long.
“We are Amalgam,” sang the chorus.
With a soft clatter, the pieces fanned open and expanded, cascading up and out—a hundred arms and hands spread wide as if to embrace an ecstatic Dollop. Because among the smiling faces, dozens were identical to his.
“Welcome home.”
Dawning suns lit the corrugated walls of the sea cave, refracting off the flux in prismatic patterns. A family of silver-and-white mehkans frolicked in the tide, pistoning their bowling-pin-shaped bodies with endearing squeaks. They bobbed like buoys, bounced off one another, and zipped across the surface.
Last night, after an hour of trolling around the islands, Micah had discovered this little cave. It was a good hiding spot, with an entrance that no one would notice unless they drove right past it. But the flux was shallow, and in his haste, Micah had struck the bottom. After ensuring that the Sea Bullet didn’t have any major damage, the exhausted kids had called it a night.
Micah took the first watch, so now Phoebe was on duty, though she suspected he had slept a good deal longer than she had. She would never be able to relax on a boat (especially one with a Foundry agent imprisoned below deck), but at least her discomfort kept her keenly on guard.
The whist was the only thing that could calm her. Phoebe had retrieved it last night after Micah shut off the engines, and she marveled at how its supple folds silenced everything. This was a mehkan wonder the Foundry had not yet exploited. She yearned to pull the hood down and lose herself within it, but not while she was on watch. Micah would kill her.
Her restless stomach gurgled. She needed to eat something, but the thought of another Wackers bar made her want to gag. Phoebe rose from the bucket seat and shook the tingle from her legs. She wandered to the sheltered helm and searched the panels embedded in the black walls. Most were filled with reams of files and instruments she didn’t recognize, but one was carefully stacked with steel boxes. Each contained a metal bottle marked H2O and a stack of foil pouches labeled SCM.
“Self-Contained Meal,” Micah yawned, climbing up from the engine room behind her, rifle at his back. “Military rations.”
She tore into a bag and grimaced. “Smells like cat barf.”
He took the pouch from her and pulled its activation tab.
“Self-heating cat barf,” he corrected, reading the label. “Turkey stew with garlic flatbread. Score! I’ll pack some for later.”
He tossed the flatbread to Phoebe. It was salty and dry, but she washed it down with water.
Micah scarfed down the steaming contents of the pouch.
“So now what?” she asked halfheartedly.
He ignored her while he gobbled up his barf stew and shuffled through the boat’s cabinets.
“Yoo-hoo…” she prodded.
“Bingo!” he chuckled with his mouth full.
Micah turned around with a laminated booklet. He strutted to the steering wheel and unfolded a naval map on the console.
“Check it,” he said, chewing noisily. “We’re probably right around here. Smack dab in the…looks like the ‘Mirroring Sea.’” He slurped another mouthful and gave the map a flick. “And there, blammo! Just like the fat man said.”
Phoebe saw that he was right—to the east lay a stippled area labeled ‘The Talons,’ just as the Agent of Tongues had described.
She inspected the map further. “Why is that whole area crossed out with red lines?”
“Probably a radio dead zone,” he guessed, sucking up the last tidbits of his stew. “Out of signal range or something.”
“That wouldn’t matter much to us, now would it?” replied Phoebe, gesturing to the destroyed radio.
“Better safe than sorry,” he said with a shrug.
“We need to ask Gabriella before we mess anything else up.”
Micah’s face pinched up. “How ’bout we keep ol’ Foundry McStrangles out of it, huh?”
“That’s a human being down there.”
“A hostage,” he corrected.
“You can’t keep treating her like that.”
“Like what?” Micah shot back with a grin. “Like she’s dangerous? Like she might try to kill me or somethin’?”
“We need her help.”
“What makes you think we can trust her?”
“What makes you think you can get us to Rhom?”
“Got us this far, didn’t I?”
“I mean in one piece,” she sighed, crossing her arms. “Or did you forget that you wrecked the boat last night?”
“Not wrecked. Parked. Didn’t want it to drift.”
“I’m no sailor,” she said with a snide laugh, “but I’m pretty sure that’s what an anchor is for, Cap’n.”
Micah’s smirk flattened.
A silence stretched between them. She regretted her little insult. He stared her down, and she held it as long as she could.
“Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m just saying…I meant—”
“Fine. Let’s go pick Foundry’s brain, if it’ll make you happy,” he said, tossing his empty food pouch and wiping his mouth.
“Really?”
“But not a word to her about what we’re doing. We ask the questions, got it?”
Phoebe nodded.
Down they went with Micah in the lead. He popped on his rifle light and approached the lavatory. He took a breath and whacked aside the pipe they had set up as a barricade. Micah whipped the door open, then leapt back and readied his aim.
Gabriella sat in the dark, calm and alert.
Micah flicked on the interior light. She squinted.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Micah said. He leaned in and tore off her duct tape gag.
She didn’t flinch. “They’re going to f
ind you,” she croaked.
“Did I say you could talk, Foundry?” Micah growled.
“We need your help,” Phoebe admitted to the woman.
She smiled, but not in a cruel way. “Let me guess. You ran my boat aground last night, and you need me to get it free.”
“Hardly,” Micah spat, while Phoebe nodded.
“I can do that,” she said. “Untie me.”
“No chance,” Micah snapped, and went to put the duct tape back over her mouth. Phoebe put a hand on his arm.
“Can you tell us how to do it?” she asked.
“Sorry, my boat isn’t that simple.”
“It’s my boat now, Foundry,” Micah grunted.
“Relax,” Phoebe whispered.
Her advice had the opposite effect. “Start talkin’,” he warned.
Gabriella looked at him, almost like she felt sorry for him.
“I know your sister,” she said.
Micah tensed.
“Margaret Tanner. She was a cadet of mine in ballistics training. Good soldier, quick learner. Drafted into the Foundry’s special engineering corps right out of MIM. Deployed to Trelaine.”
“Shut up,” he threatened, his voice cracking.
“I bet you take after her,” Gabriella said. “You must be smart to have made it this far.”
Micah spun and stomped away, rushing up the ladder. Phoebe and Gabriella heard him banging around on deck.
“Hit a nerve?” the woman asked.
“He can be…a little touchy,” Phoebe admitted.
Gabriella laughed quietly.
“Look,” Phoebe said. “We’re not what you think we are. We’re not the enemy.”
“I don’t think that,” replied the woman softly. “No one does. You’re just two kids who are a long, long way from home.”
The truth of the statement struck Phoebe like the hot suns reflecting off the flux. She studied the woman’s features.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Gabriella confided, “but you guys have fans. Well, had…To be honest, everyone thought you two went down with the Citadel. They’ll be so glad you—”
The electric generators buzzed to life.
“No. Oh no,” Gabriella said. “You have to stop him.”
“Why?”
“He’s gonna burn out the—”
The woman’s words were lost in a deafening scream of metal. The engine room heaved. Phoebe was tossed aside.
“Stop him!” Gabriella ordered.
Phoebe nodded and closed the door to the lavatory, careful to reaffix the metal pipe under the handle. The boat jerked, tearing against the seabed. She rushed up the ladder and yelled to Micah, but he couldn’t hear. He pounded on the console.
Then, in a final bubbling crunch, the Sea Bullet scraped free.
“—right now!” she screamed, finishing her unheard tirade as the boat lurched and she toppled back.
Micah spun around, heaving, his face aflame with rage.
Goodwin perfected the knot in his necktie. It was remarkable what a night’s sleep, a shower, and a shave could do. More than once, he had woken in the night, certain he had heard whispers in his earpiece. He suspected that the Board spoke to him while he slept, issuing subliminal messages to his unconscious mind.
But their control over him wouldn’t last much longer.
He strode to the bedroom of his living quarters, one of identical hundreds at the Depot. As he slipped into his platinum-pin-striped topcoat, Goodwin checked his Scrollbar.
The screen displayed a topographical map of the red mesas around the Depot. He had found an isolated precipice a few miles to the north, hemmed in by sheer walls and hidden from sight.
It would serve his purposes.
Within minutes, he was strolling into the chrome-tiled lobby of the Control Core. It was practically deserted. Just how many people were attending this gathering?
As he ascended in the plate-glass elevator, Goodwin could hear the muted sound of celebration from up above. The doors slid open and he emerged into a Foundry gala. A bronze Muse-o-Graph belted out a jaunty bandstand tune while Watchmen attended to a room packed with revelers.
A waste of precious time and resources.
The crowd was gathered at the curved wall of tinted glass that overlooked the Cargoliner rails. As Goodwin approached, he noticed a flurry of glances and whispers in his direction.
“All set, Mr. Chairman,” announced a voice over a conical intercom prominently displayed on a gold pedestal. Reflexively, Goodwin turned toward the voice, before he remembered that it was not addressing him. “T-112 is ready for departure.”
The crowd settled and someone turned down the music. Obwilé approached the pedestal, the very image of leadership. “Commence the delivery. And send my regards to Premier Lavaraud,” Obwilé said and winked with rehearsed charm.
In the Depot below, the fully loaded Cargoliner blasted its electronic horn and began to inch toward the tunnel. As it vanished into darkness, the crowd applauded. Watchmen distributed crystal flutes of fizzing champagne.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I owe you all a debt of gratitude,” Obwilé announced. “I know how trying these last several days have been. We faced impossible odds during our transition, all while mourning those brave souls who were lost in the Citadel.” Somehow, in the midst of his speech, Obwilé’s gaze managed to find Goodwin. “But despite these obstacles, we persevered. Together, as the Foundry always does, we have succeeded.”
Murmurs of approval circled through the crowd.
“I propose a toast,” Obwilé said. “With this first half of our shipment to Trelaine, we hold fast to our dedication to peace and prosperity. May the Quorum be relegated to the history books, and may the Foundry continue to build a better, brighter future.”
The crowd raised their glasses.
Goodwin joined in, smiling through gritted teeth.
Laughter rang, crystal clinked, champagne was swallowed.
The music came back on, and the assembled elites resumed their jolly mingling. Goodwin approached Director Malcolm, who was having his drink refreshed by a Watchman attendant.
“A true victory,” Goodwin proclaimed to the director, who flashed his bleached-white smile.
“One which we all can share,” Director Malcolm agreed.
“How go preparations for the Council of Nations conference?”
“That is confidential information, James,” the man replied coolly. “But rest assured, everything is accounted for.”
Goodwin accepted the dismissal with a humble bow of his head, though the director’s assurance hardly eased his concerns.
“That is a relief. You will be happy to know that my initiative against the Way is proving effective. The cities are on lockdown. Conflicts are escalating at our hatchery near Ahm’ral, but—”
“We are aware,” the director said patiently.
“But what still concerns me are the children,” Goodwin said, lowering his voice. “They are lost, and the Covenant appears to be doing everything they can to find them. Our enemy is planning something, and I suspect the children are involved.”
Director Malcolm touched his earpiece, receiving orders from the Board. He smiled again. “A compelling case,” the director said. “Rest assured, we shall discuss it at our meeting today.”
Goodwin nodded in satisfaction.
The tinkling of a spoon on crystal silenced the room.
“My apologies for the interruption,” Obwilé said, his gold-rimmed glasses flickering. “I just want to quickly embarrass the man of the hour. James, if you would join me for a moment.”
The jovial crowd chuckled, and all eyes fell upon Goodwin.
He remained at ease, not wanting to let Obwilé get the drop on him. With a smile and a playful wag of his finger, Goodwin approached the Chairman, but for the life of him, he couldn’t guess what the man was playing at.
“We may have had our differences in the past,” Obwilé said, patting Goodwin’s broad shoulder. “W
e’ve locked horns at times, but that’s merely a necessity of the job.”
Goodwin nodded and smiled even wider as he stared at Obwilé, picturing his hands closing around the man’s neck.
“Over the years, I have come to admire a great many things about this man,” continued Obwilé, “but one trait stands above all others. And that, of course…is his grace.”
The crowd looked on with quiet affection.
“James,” Obwilé said warmly. “You have my thanks for a lifetime of dedication to the Foundry.”
The Chairman offered his hand to Goodwin, who took it. Obwilé’s skin was cold and papery dry.
“You served us with the same grace with which you are so humbly stepping down,” Obwilé said, smile uncoiling. “May you live out your remaining days on Olyrian Isle with the satisfaction of a job well done.”
Goodwin was riveted. He still clutched Obwilé’s hand, feeling the man’s pulse quicken as he savored his coup.
This twist of the dagger.
“Mr. James Goodwin, you will be missed,” intoned Obwilé.
The crowd erupted into enthusiastic applause.
This gathering was not just to celebrate the shipment to Trelaine, Goodwin realized in a sudden tempest of wrath.
This was his retirement party.
Dollop couldn’t stop smiling. He had only been with the amalgami for a few clicks, but it might as well have been a lifetime. The twinkling darkness resonated with their harmonic songs, and though Dollop didn’t know the tunes, he was overcome with how uncanny it all felt.
A tumbling collection of parts gathered around him. He recognized many of the pieces from his own anatomy—forearms, elbows, and mouths, even segments of heads. They were as varied in color and consistency as the pieces of his own body.
The pulsing mass budded to form six figures that looked much like Dollop. Still tethered to Amalgam, they lightly touched his body, examining every inch. They did not move in perfect sync, but there was repetition in their gestures, like one action echoed between them. Their fingers tickled the spattering of silver burn scars he had received in the Citadel and caressed the dynamo on his chest.
“We have waited for your return,” one of them said.
