by Cam Baity
Selling the poor bleeders at the Gauge Pit had been his idea. It was his fault they had lost all their earnings in a bad toss. His fault that he and his associate had become fugitives of the Foundry, then abducted and used by the Covenant.
His fault that the Marquis was dead.
Oily tears spilled from his swollen eye sacs.
Mr. Pynch had earned this fate. So he pumped and he pumped, knowing that he was cursed to live out his cycles here.
A slave.
The Titan spotted Dollop.
Its battery of cannons lit up in a kaleidoscope of flame. Dollop leapt behind the wreckage of a siege engine as fire rained down.
A fearsome howl drowned out the barrage.
Dollop braved a look.
A team of Covenant warriors was taking advantage of the distraction Dollop had caused. A gohr fended off the Titan’s heavy fire with a shield of scavenged debris while a tiulu used his buzzing, bladed forelimbs to hack at the giant’s legs. Then an aio dropped down on the machine and enveloped its head with pitch-black folds, stabbing with javelin legs.
The array of lights on the machine flickered. It toppled to the ground with a crunch. The last of the Titans was gone.
But there was no shout of victory. The Covenant had been decimated trying to keep the Titans at bay. Their fleet of salathyls had been wiped out, and so many of Her Children had been lost. Mehkans were scattered across the Depot, taking cover from the screaming turrets and advancing squadrons.
The Foundry was just too big. Too powerful.
The air was choked with so much smoke and fire that Dollop could not see the train tunnel in the distance. That was supposed to be their target. If only they could bring it down.
But it was impossible. This was suicide.
And still, the enemy kept coming. He saw a team of heavily armored Watchmen race into view, each outfitted with a round case on its back, connected by pipes to something bulky in its hands. The way they glided was unnatural. Dollop squinted into the gloom. The Watchmen each stood on a hovering circular platform that emitted that familiar magnetic glow.
Thoom, thoom, thoom—their weapons discharged in rapid succession. There was a swarm of streaking lights like a flock of electric purple birds. The projectiles curved in midair, hooking around barricades, seeking mehkan targets.
BOOM. Death lit up the Depot.
“Retreat!” roared Treth’s voice. “All units retreat!”
Dollop and the Covenant ran. Watchman bombers rocketed into the fray. Fist-sized magnetic missiles sought out fleeing warriors and stuck to them. The mehkans flailed to remove the devices, only to detonate in white-hot blasts.
The turrets on the outer walls wailed, shredding the Covenant. So many bodies. Dollop tried not to look as he ran, but his path was paved with blank eyes and broken bodies. So many faces he knew, so many brothers and sisters.
A grenade thumped into place right beside him.
He felt an impact and was driven to the ground.
But it wasn’t the explosive.
Treth had tackled him, knocking him to safety behind a dead salathyl. The ground tremored as the missile erupted. The burly gohr picked Dollop up, and together they peered from behind their cover. The explosions had cleared away the train debris from the front gates—the way out. They made a break for it.
Dollop heard a resonant thunk. Treth stumbled forward.
Panic split the gohr’s broad face. He clawed at his shoulder. Dollop saw the glowing purple grenade stuck to his back. Treth looked at Dollop with a sad but knowing expression.
“Go,” the Overguard said, defeated.
Dollop did as he was told. Treth dropped behind the salathyl corpse. Even so, the explosion nearly knocked Dollop off his feet.
On he went, streaming tears.
A Watchman bomber whizzed by behind him, levitating on a magnetic disc. Thoom, thoom! A pair of projectiles whistled at Dollop. He separated his body, tossing his parts wide. The missiles shot through the empty space where he had just been. They looped around, trying to hone in, but Dollop kept shuffling his body until he was springing along in a dozen separate parts.
He reassembled and kept on going.
Almost there—only a dozen strides more.
Figures appeared outside the ruined gates of the Depot, blocking the path. More Watchman bombers, armed with those magnetic grenades. They had cut off the Covenant’s escape.
They readied their launchers. Aimed.
Dollop didn’t even have time to pray.
Thoom, thoom, thoom!
Wavering streaks of purple blurred past his vision.
But it was not the Watchmen who had fired. They stared at purple missiles stuck to their chests. Dollop covered his head.
In a white storm and a rain of debris, they were gone.
The way out was clear again.
Looking back, Dollop saw another Watchman bomber racing toward him on a levitating magnetic disc. He was about to run when he realized that something was off. The awkward figure wobbled, trying to balance on the tilting platform while struggling to keep the heavy grenade launcher in position.
Dollop rubbed his eyes, only half-believing.
The Watchman was gangly and lopsided, and his bulky armor didn’t fit right.
“Who a-are you?” Dollop gasped.
The stranger did not speak. Hefting his massive, tube-laden weapon, he managed to lift up the faceplate of his helmet.
It was a face Dollop had hoped to never see again.
A cheery glow flickered down. The flash of an opticle.
Dollop had been saved by the Marquis.
Phoebe didn’t dare slow down.
The last thing she had heard was Micah calling her name, telling her to run. She wanted to race back to his side, but she knew what she had to do.
She prayed that she was still on course. Dusk was darkening so fast that it was hard to make out their dissolving footprints. The Occulyth could light her way, but uncovering it would surely reveal her. She could feel it quiver through the material of her skirt, a living thing buzzing with anticipation.
The slap of bullets against metal grew louder. Slowly, the Furrows emerged from the haze. The ground sloped more sharply, rising to the crisp edge of the crater above her.
Then a sound so welcome it was like a ray of sunlight—the cry of the ring bird. Even in the dim light, she could make out the buzzing red-and-gold shape. It hovered a safe distance from the blight, like a hummingbird outside a window, waiting for her.
Despite her exhaustion, she pushed harder.
Flashlights behind her. Footsteps crunched through the ore.
She stumbled. Clutched the Occulyth.
It felt like the steep slope would topple her backward, but she kept her eyes fixed on the surface above.
With a snarl, Phoebe fought her way over the crest of the hill. The bird was a spastic blur, its cries shrill. She could tell by how it was moving, dashing away from the edge and then coming back, that it wanted to lead her on.
As the black CHAR faded away underfoot, the air tasted different—lighter, cooler, sweeter. Black tar sloughed off her boots and sizzled into the ore.
Phoebe risked a glance back. She saw flashing beams, heard huffing breath as the Foundry soldiers ascended in pursuit.
The gray texture of the Furrows shifted as the camouflaged Aegis phantoms pressed in. She felt sorry for those men behind her, so certain their success was within reach. They were the enemy, yes, but they were still human beings.
There was no time to consider it.
The ring bird swooped at Phoebe, ruffling her hair with a whack of wind. It ratcheted urgently before disappearing through a secret entrance in the wall. She followed, diving back into the darkening maze. The ground shook with a powerful explosion. The thrum of Aero-copters deepened.
Phoebe clung tighter to the pulsing star. It was the answer. This could end it. Retrieve the Occulyth, and Mehk will prevail.
That’s what the O
na had said.
The ring bird led her through another series of passages, whirling around sharp turns, plunging through narrow crevices.
Then, abruptly, it stopped and hovered in place.
This was a dead end, a teardrop-shaped alcove within the Furrows. The bowing walls twisted and conjoined to create a vaulted ceiling. The fading magenta light of evening raked through, but otherwise the chamber was dark and still.
Had the ring bird lost its way?
No.
A stir of movement. There was the familiar shimmer of texture that meant the Aegis was near. Many of the camouflaged forms were gathered together.
Slowly they parted.
A figure seemed to materialize behind them. She was shorter than Phoebe and enveloped in billowing veils. Wide, leaflike fins drifted around her and swam before her face as if floating on a languid, dreamy tide. Her skin was the color of weathered ivory, her veils and fins a tarnished gold, yet the figure was somehow luminous, casting a soft glow on the gray walls.
The ring bird let out a bright trill and flew to the figure, whose raised arms ended at long, tapered hands tufted with feathery fingers. The bird nestled into an outstretched palm.
Just like the mosaic in the Housing of the Broken.
Phoebe was awestruck.
“Loaii,” sighed the Ona. The word was a kiss of spring, full of sweet music and the promise of renewal.
Phoebe felt a lump rise in her throat. She looked down at her undignified self—bruised and bloodied, clothes in tatters, tracking sizzling CHAR footsteps from Micah’s work boots.
“Come” the Ona motioned with a pale hand.
As Phoebe approached, she saw that the Ona was in constant motion, like sea grass beneath the water. Her body was obscured by shifting veils, so there was no way to be sure how many arms and legs the prophet had. She appeared to be weightless and floating, an apparition of grace.
“How I have feared for you, my brave Loaii.”
Her voice was different in person, less broken and jagged than it had sounded in the liquid-metal Hearth. It was still difficult to pin down, a mystical mix of childlike and ancient, masculine and feminine—soothing, hypnotic.
“I…I…” was all Phoebe could muster.
“Please forgive me,” the Ona spoke. “I did all I could to find you. The Covenant scoured Mehk. I sent my Emberguard to piece together your trail, but always you were on the move. Yet despite all you have suffered, despite knowing so little of your true function, you have come, dear, sweet Loaii.”
A fin parted and Phoebe caught a glimpse of the Ona’s face. It was more landscape than skin. The eons had worn deep, pallid crags into her features, which were an intricate lattice of tightly knit, organic gears, locked into place like a jigsaw puzzle crusted over by time. It was a visage of profound love and deep sadness.
Yet the Ona’s eyes twinkled with joy. They were like nothing Phoebe had ever seen, shining white orbs flecked with gold and marbleized with copper ribbon. Infinitely wise, unfathomably old.
“Micah,” Phoebe insisted. “We have to save him. He’s—”
Undulating fronds reached out and caressed Phoebe’s cheek.
“Fear not. All shall be made right,” the Ona cooed, “for what you have accomplished will realign the gears of fate. No more shall the Foundry slaughter us, Her Children. Because against all odds, Loaii, you are triumphant.”
The Ona’s feathered fingers twitched eagerly as she reached out and took the Occulyth from Phoebe. It burned so brightly at the prophet’s touch that Phoebe had to shield her eyes. The Occulyth knew it was home.
“Please tell me,” Phoebe gasped. “What is it?”
“A miracle. Long dreamt, much awaited.”
“How will it save Mehk? Why did it survive the CHAR? How…” She looked intently at the Ona, a new question bubbling to the surface. “How did you survive it?”
The Ona embraced the Occulyth within her many veils. Its blazing light shone through her fins, revealing a shadowy webbing of bone and musculature before fading to a golden glow.
“I know there is much you wish to ask, Loaii,” purred the Ona. “But your task is not yet complete, and the time is nigh.”
“My task?” Phoebe squirmed inside. “There’s more?”
The Ona drifted closer, veils waving in a mesmerizing dance.
“Dear child, do you know the tale of Loaii?”
Phoebe shook her head.
The Ona’s ethereal eyes smiled.
“In the Word of Makina, Second Accord, the edicts tell of the Primal Age, many epochs after Her Spark brought us all into being: ‘Tired was She, but Her work was yet unfinished.’”
The Ona’s voice had changed, a distant song that felt to Phoebe as if it were a mere thought in her own head:
“For although She had hung a wreath of suns upon the heavens to light the day, the night was still imprisoned in the deepest darkness. She did beseech Her Children to help illuminate the night, but they were selfish and slothful, and none was willing.
“At this, She was saddened.
“But there was one who saw the Great Engineer’s grief. Loaii was her name, youngest and most pure of the Everseer’s Children. And she offered to seek a light worthy of the impermeable night. For she loved her Mother deeply, and longed to reveal the majesty of the sacred machine so all would see and give praise.
“And so did Loaii set forth to search Mehk, traversing it from end to end. Yet no righteous light did she find. So she set forth to search the Mirroring Sea, seeking top to bottom.”
Phoebe was captivated. The Ona’s veils embraced her.
“And still Loaii found nothing worthy to shed light upon the darkness. So she set forth to scour the great sky, corner to corner. Still was no light deserving of the honor.
“And Loaii saw then the rise, that wreath of suns made by her Mother’s loving hand to kiss Her creation every day. And Loaii did cherish their light, for they were perfect in their glory.
“And thus spoke Loaii:
“‘For Thee, beloved Mother of Ore, for Thee I give of myself, that Your light may forever shine upon us, Your Wayward Children.’”
Phoebe was lost in the depths of the Ona’s eyes.
“And Loaii did cast herself into the suns and set herself ablaze. ‘Take the sacrifice of my body, O Great Engineer,’ Loaii declared as the golden flames consumed her, ‘and with it, chase away the darkness and illuminate the night forevermore.’
“And Makina did rise from Her slumber, and lo, She was overcome, for Her daughter, youngest and most pure of Her Children, did love Her beyond measure. And Makina did raise Her mighty hands, and She did clap thunderously. Loaii, blanketed in flame, was exploded into the million stars of the night sky.”
Phoebe’s eyes were heavy with tears of bliss.
By the time she noticed the Ona’s veils tightening around her throat, it was too late.
I have waited all day.
Red suns are dying on the horizon, but I dare not venture from this spot. I will wait. Mr. Goodwin will come.
He promised.
Been laying in this crevice for hours, feeling the metal soften beneath me, listening to the distant music of war. The Depot is far away, but I feel the anguish through the ground, taste the blood on the air. I yearn to be there—to kill.
No. Must wait.
Feel the pulse of the Aero-copter long before I hear it.
Joy floods me. My not-skin burns with it.
A searchlight dances across the mesas. I leap from my shelter. Wave my arms, shout, “Here I am!” in bubbling sounds that no one but I can understand. The light bathes me. Blinds me.
I raise my arms to the sky.
The chime of a targeting system. The whisper of the Aero-copter’s Dervish turrets pivoting into place.
Sounds no man can hear. But I do.
And I know what they mean.
I dive for cover, crawl back into my crevice before the gun erupts. The world lights in explosive
flashes. The mesas shudder.
But I am not hit. Not this time.
Why? Why are they shooting?
The confusion is a blip. Survival smothers it.
Men coming. I taste them on the wind. Hear the scrape of steel clasps as they descend the cables. Six of them. No, eight.
I know this maneuver. When I was a man, I led strikes like this. They come from two sides to pin me in. If I run into the open, the Aero-copter will cut me down. Must be a sniper nearby too.
The crevice is not deep. Nowhere to hide within. The walls on either side are sheer. Dig my fingers in, feel the ore soften to my touch. Climb up like a lizard.
I wait.
They think they are silent. Cannot hide their heartbeats.
The assassins press in, edging along the walls, guns ready. Their commander signals. They spin into view, ready to kill me.
But I am not there. Delicious panic.
I drop.
A storm of hot blood.
Bullets punch the wall. A round enters my armpit. I breathe pain. It flows through my blistered veins. I do not fear it.
Charge.
They are well trained, but not for me. I pulp one against the wall. Another empties his rifle at me. Peel him like an orange. The last knows there is no point in fighting.
He is right.
Spotlight of the Aero-copter finds me. Opens fire.
I dash across the open plain. Hot rounds tear into me. I leap, grab one of the cables the soldiers used to rappel down. It gums in my hands, my weight stretches it. Must go quick.
A shot. Shell bursts through my leg. Incandescent pain, beyond solar. I roar. Cling to my rage. Climb.
They wait for me inside.
I smash, I maim. I hurl a soldier out the side. The pilot is helpless. Squeeze his helmet until it flattens under my touch.
Grab the controls. Find the sniper.
In a nest, a divot at the top of the mesa. He sees what I am doing. He has nowhere to run. I steer the Aero-copter at him.
Plummets from the sky.
I jump.
The night comes alive with flame.
I hit the ground hard, roll off the cliff and fall. Hit the ground again. Lay still. Stare up at the fire tasting the sky.
