Under the Empyrean Sky (The Heartland Trilogy)

by Wendig, Chuck

  “Sorry, Mr. McAvoy, I do not have any… off-the-books hover-panels for sale.”

  Truth is, Pesha Cartwright doesn’t just deal in stuff. She deals in information. But that always comes with a price too high to pay.

  “No, Maven, I need a single hover-rail, if you please.” He can feel the tendons in his neck pulled tight as he strains to be polite. But it behooves you to remember your manners with the maven, because it’s amazing what she can perceive as a slight. And she’s one to hold grudges till the world’s end. “Regulation is fine. If not a strip, then maybe a cage-prop. Something for the back of the boat.”

  “I may be able to help you,” she says, clucking her tongue.

  She waves him toward the back door.

  Outside, the junk does not merely continue but explodes forth like the bowels from a gutted possum. The messy tangle of debris is piled high into walls that form a labyrinth. In the center of the maze stands the skeleton of an old silo. Cael has never been to the center of this junkyard, but he assumes the rumors are true: the maven keeps the very best stuff there.

  She waves him along as she totters forth, her fingers forever working as though she’s playing some kind of invisible harp. Cael can see all manner of things—nearly every bit of it worthless to him—packed into these walls. Corrugated tin, motorvator wheels, hand-plows pocked with corrosion. They turn a corner, and he sees a skinny cat dart under a tire. They turn another corner, and he sees a different cat—this one dead, mummified on an old harvester door as though the cat were sunbathing one day and died the next.

  They walk like this for what feels like an eternity. The maven doesn’t talk. She mumbles to herself, then fritters over to a loose cable or picks up a piece of broken glass and stares at it. Cael’s about to say something, about to give up and bail on this whole expedition; but then they round one of the junkyard corners, and there it is:

  A trio of hover-rails lying against one another like a bundle of sticks.

  None of them is worth writing home about. Hell, they don’t match the one on Doris’s undercarriage, which means she’ll always have a funky lean, but any one of those three will do. With Rigo on the mast and Lane on the sail, they might be able to pick up the rest of that garden by the end of the day. Tomorrow at the latest. Cael’s starting to feel as if his luck is really turning.

  But then the maven moves past the hover-panels.

  He clears his throat. “Uh. Maven? Hey. Excuse me.”

  She turns, an eyebrow cocked. Her eyes flash with irritation.

  “Look,” he says. “Any of these here will do. I mean, unless you have something better?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t see what you’re talking about, Mr. McAvoy.”

  “Here. These hover-rails.”

  “I see no such thing.”

  Cael laughs, even though this isn’t funny. Surely this is some kind of joke. Or maybe she’s crazier than he imagined. He steps forward, jangles the strips against one another. “See?”

  “Oh.” She nods and slides closer, squinting. “Those.”

  “Right. I’ll take one. I should have the ace notes.…” He scrounged the last of their pile and has a few Spades and one Heart. He starts to pull them out of the deck he keeps in his pocket.

  “They’re not for sale.”

  “Not… wh… how are they not for sale?”

  She shrugs. “They are already claimed.”

  “By who?”

  “By whom,” she says. “The way we speak is important, Mr. McAvoy. I do not remember who has claimed these devices, only that they are claimed.”

  Cael doesn’t understand, not until he takes a good look at her face. Then he catches a glimpse of a smile trying to form on her lips, as if someone is tugging on the corners of her mouth with fishhooks and string.

  “This is a game,” he says. His palms are slick. “You’re just messing with me, aren’t you? You’re not going to sell me these. You’re not selling me jack or shit. Not if I had a red wagon of ace notes pulled behind me. Ain’t that right?”

  She shrugs. “You sound very paranoid. Your father raised you to be suspicious.”

  “For good reason! Godsdamnit. That’s great. That’s just godsdamn great.”

  “My apologies, Mr. McAvoy. I’ll have to ask you to leave.” Another lie of a smile. “Have a wonderful day.”

  He tells her she should say “hi” to Boyland One and Boyland Two for him. He’s about to tell her to go to hell, that he hopes Old Scratch steals her eyes so she’ll never be able to look upon her glorious piles of junk again, but he bites the side of his cheek to shut up.

  As he storms out, he tastes blood.

  Cael’s mad. Spent too damn long at the Mercado. Boat’s in the barn with a stitched sail and a straightened mast—his friends did their part, but he didn’t do his. Without a second hover-rail the boat will remain shakier than a drunken vagrant, which means they could lose their haul again if it tilts too far to one side. Damnit.

  As Cael crosses his broken driveway, his feet crunching on the shattered macadam while the faint odor of lavender tickles his nostrils, he sees the provisionist unloading his rusty hover-cart by their front step. Bhuja is his name. He’s got some kind of palsy where half of his face looks as if it’s lost all muscle cohesion. It droops like a puppet with its strings cut. Just the same, he’s a nice enough sort—not an unpleasant face to see. He waves as he sees Cael approach.

  “Cael!” he says. “Hello, hello.”

  “Bhuja.” Cael nods. “Provision time, I take it.”

  “And then some,” he says.

  “Huh?”

  “I have more than your provisions, young man.”

  That’s odd. Few people send or receive anything anymore. You need reams of Empyrean permits to send anything between towns, and it’s not worth paying the fees to send materials within Boxelder when you can just walk it over to your neighbor.

  Half of Bhuja’s mouth twists into a sympathetic smile. “Appears as though you’re having a dark day. If the look on your face is any indication.”

  Cael shrugs.

  Bhuja sighs. “Then we’ll see how this affects your day.”

  He hands Cael a slip. It’s a Tally slip, and it shows the McAvoys haven’t been giving enough back to the Empyrean. For a long while everyone tithed part of their income, so no matter what you made, you gave a percentage. Now, though, the Empyrean requires you to pay a base fee. They said it would increase productivity, but mostly it just puts families in the hole—and once you fall into that dark place, the penalty fees make it hard to climb out.

  “Shit,” Cael says with a sigh. “Bleeding us for everything we have.” But that’s life in the Heartland. Then he thinks: The garden. The garden will save us.

  Bhuja offers a pained half smile but then holds up a finger. “Ah. Well. I have something else. Something… very interesting.”

  “Go on.”

  “This is for your family.” Bhuja holds up a box. As he hands it over, Cael sees it’s bound tight with red ribbon, and that ribbon must have a metallic sheen or be woven through with little glittery bits, because it’s sparkling in the sun. The box catches the light and twinkles like stars in the sky.

  “What… is it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s Empyrean. Beyond that, who can say?” Bhuja pats Cael on the shoulder. “Tell your father hello for me.”

  Cael nods. He doesn’t say anything.

  It must be some kind of mistake.

  This box is too nice for them. Too nice for anybody here in the Heartland except maybe the mayor, who probably gets plenty of nice packages for sucking so hard at the Empyrean teat.

  As Bhuja pilots his little cart away—wobbling as he goes—Cael remembers to yell after him to say hello to his wife.

  The package isn’t big. About as big as a hatbox, Cael figures. The box itself is the color of Nancy’s milk. But it’s that red, glittery ribbon that draws the eye. In the center of the ribbon—which culminate
s in a box-top bow with poufed, presumptuous loops—sits a tag.

  On the tag is the fanciest handwriting Cael has ever seen. Black ink. As loopy and indulgent as the bow atop the box. The text reads:

  For the McAvoy family.

  It is for them.

  Cael can’t wait for his father. He has to open it now. Thing is, he’s not really sure how to undo the ribbon. Its arrangement is intricate, with knotting that looks as if it might confound the mightiest sails man. He reaches down and barely touches it with one tentative finger—

  But that’s all it takes.

  Cael yanks back his hand as the ribbon unfolds like a swiftly blooming flower, the fabric slithering backward through its own knot.

  The sides of the box fall down one at a time, clockwise.

  The bottom of the box rises up, as though by its own mechanism.

  Cael stares in wonderment. At the back of the rising platform, Cael sees a toy no taller than his two fists stacked one upon the other. The toy has the head and neck of a giraffe and is clad in a white plastic tuxedo. Its lower jaw begins to move up and down, and tinny music begins to play from a small speaker in its back. Cael hears a peppy high hat, a warbling set of horns, and a crooning voice that sounds smoother than butter melting in a hot skillet.

  The toy presides over three items:

  A round fruit or vegetable, smaller than a pigskin football, with smooth skin that’s green on one side but then transitions into a pink ripeness.

  A small, ornate jar with a metal screw top and a glass handle decorated with crystal butterflies. Contained within is a dark, creamy substance.

  A rough-textured envelope of handmade paper.

  It’s the envelope Cael grabs first. In it he hopes to find answers.

  And he does. They’re just not the answers he expects.

  Inside the envelope, Cael discovers a wad of ace notes. He doesn’t count them, not yet, but he guesses there are fifty or more. That’s a week’s worth of family income. A good week.

  And behind those a letter. Written not in the same froofy calligraphy as the box’s tag but in handwriting Cael knows all too well.

  Mer’s handwriting.

  Cael holds up the letter in the bold, bright light of the afternoon sun. But as he starts to read it, he feels a blue light scan across his vision. And then, the strangest thing yet, his sister’s handwriting glows blue, too.

  Above the letter, her face appears. A three-dimensional image—diaphanous, digital gossamer threads come together to form his sister.

  She speaks, reading the words of her own letter aloud.

  “Hey, Pop, Mom, Cael. I know you all are probably mad at me, and I don’t blame you. I just wanted you to know that I’m safe. I… had a plan this time, not like the other times when I went off half-cocked, but a real plan. I followed the train tracks to the Provisional Depot. You probably know this, but the scows come and bring down provisions from above, and the last time I ran away I met somebody in the Provisionist’s Office.…”

  Her face looks sad then for a moment.

  “Well. Whatever. Point is, he helped me hitch a ride, and now I’m up on one of the flotillas. And, no, I won’t tell you which one. I don’t want you coming after me. No good can come of that.

  “I’ve gone and sent you a package. I hope you like it. I’ll send one every few weeks as long as I am able. See, Cael? I told you I’d hold up my end of the bargain.

  “I love you all. Please do not come and find me. I’m… happy here.

  “Love, Merelda.”

  Cael blinks.

  “Well, I’ll be a possum’s mama,” he says, shaking his head.

  She did it. Mer really did it. She ran away, and she’s not coming back.

  The taste in his mouth is like nothing he’s ever experienced. Cael’s had chocolate before—it’s been some years now, but back in day-school, once a year they’d get these little buttons of chocolate with caramel centers. They were his favorite thing in the whole world.

  But this? The stuff in the glass jar with the butterfly handle?

  This is his new favorite thing in the world. It’s thick but light. It’s creamy but silky, too. This must be what it’s like to take a big bite out of the nighttime sky. Dark, rich, sweet. And a little tingly bite of salt, too, which only seems to bring out all the other flavors.

  He licks the back of the spoon. “What’s this stuff called again? Pot of cream?”

  “Pot de crème,” Pop says. Way he pronounces it is “poh-decrem.” “It’s a custard.”

  Cael doesn’t know what a custard is, but he believes a jar of this per household would make all the hardships of the Heartland worth it.

  He hands the jar back to his father, who takes a spoonful and slides it into Mom’s mouth. She groans, her jaw working just enough so Cael can see it. The groan doesn’t sound like one of pleasure, but it’s the only sound she can really make. He hopes she’s enjoying it.

  It’s nice sitting here like a family.

  Outside, night has fallen, and for a moment Cael feels as though everything is as it should be. Odd how a taste of good food or drink can make you feel like all the world is in order.

  His father puts an old book in his lap, uses the cover as a cutting board, and draws the knife twice down the center of the swollen fruit Mer sent them. He pulls out the middle and cuts around it, exposing and removing a fat, flat pit—itself as big as a Heartland peach (which are admittedly sad, wrinkled little things). The other half he scores with the knife and reverses so that the skin pops inward, the fruit’s golden flesh thrust outward.

  Pop cuts a cube, leaves it on the end of the knife, and extends it to Cael.

  A sweet explosion with a sour kick fills Cael’s mouth, and now he thinks this might be the best thing he’s ever eaten. He feels chills on the back of his neck.

  “Mango,” Pop says.

  Cael presses the fruit against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. He doesn’t really need to chew it: It’s so soft, it practically evaporates. “Oh, Lord and Lady, this is so fantastic. I didn’t think tastes like this existed. Am I dead? Am I at the gates of the Lord and Lady’s mansion? I am, aren’t I?”

  Pop laughs. It feels good to see him laugh. “No, Cael. You have not died. Or, if you have, I came along with you.” He flicks a mango cube into his mouth. The pleasure on his face isn’t as plain as on Cael’s, but the way he draws a deep breath is telling.

  “How’d you know it’s a mango?” Cael says, taking another cube and sliding it between his mother’s lips. “I’ve never even heard of one of these before.”

  His father shrugs, says, “I read books. That’s all.” But the way he says it, Cael’s not so sure. Pop doesn’t give him a chance to ask. “So. Your sister. She’s on one of the flotillas.”

  Cael barks a laugh. “I almost don’t believe it. But I guess that explains the treats.”

  “I know you’ve never seen anything like this in the Heartland.” Pop pulls out the giraffe-headed toy, turns it around. Rubs his finger on the back of the toy’s faux tuxedo, across the eight little speaker holes back there. “These are Empyrean goods, all right. These are the spoils of a good life.”

  Those words echo in Cael’s mind. Spoils of a good life. He likes that idea just fine.

  “Thanks to Mer,” Cael says.

  “To Mer.”

  Cael waits. Decides to say it. “She’s not coming back, Pop. Not this time.”

  “No. I don’t think she is.” For a moment his father looks sad. Finally he forces a smile. “Well. It is what it is. Mer has her own path now, and it’s not ours to interrupt.”

  “Least she’s not a hobo.”

  “If she were, we’d still love her.”

  “Her leaving is going to come back to us, isn’t it?” Cael already knows the answer. Nobody’s allowed to leave her hometown, not without special dispensation, without a whole passel of permits, and without a handful of bribes few can afford. It’s bad enough they have the shame of everyone t
hinking Merelda is wandering around like some vagrant. But a crime committed by one member of a family is punishable against all members of the family. “What if the proctor finds out?”

  Pop shrugs. “She won’t. Harvest Home is done and so we dodged that charging bull. She doesn’t have much reason to come down here until the next quarterly tally. She lives on one of the flotillas, and her gaze is not that far-reaching. She cares little about us. We’re too small.”

  “But—”

  “It’ll be okay,” Pop says. He claps Cael on the shoulder. “Let’s just enjoy this strange and wonderful family meal, huh?”

  Cael tries. Tries to focus on this, on the Lottery, on the garden they will soon harvest. But dark clouds continue to shadow these bright moments. Merelda. Gwennie. Boyland.

  “Sure, Pop,” he says, forcing a smile.

  “The mango was so syrupy—”

  “‘You couldn’t stop licking your finger for days,’” mocks Lane. The three of them are walking down Main Street.

  “Well, not days,” Cael says. “Hours, at least.”

  “Thanks for sharing it with me and Rigo.” Lane elbows Cael in the ribs. “We, your bestest friends in the whole hell of the Heartland.”

  Rigo makes a sad face. “Yeah, Cael. What gives?”

  “Come on, don’t bust my nuts on this,” Cael says. “It was nice to just sit there with Mom and Pop for a while. Eating some Empyrean treats.”

  “The Empyrean.” Lane snorts, then spits in the dirt. “Your sister’s one of them now.”

  Cael shrugs. “She’ll never be one of them.”

  “She’s up there. Drinking chocolate. Eating weird fruits. Draping herself in their sparkly ribbons and dancing with robots.” Lane does a quick dance forward and stomps on a corn shoot pushing up through the earth. “She’s basically a traitor to the Heartland, you know.”

  “That’s a bit melodramatic.”

  “And you’re a traitor, too. For not sharing with your buddies.” Lane gives Cael a hard elbow in the ribs, and Cael’s not sure if he’s joking or half serious or all-the-way serious. “You’ve changed, Captain. Grown cold in your pursuit of fame and fortune.”

  “Now you’re just making stuff up.”