by Lee Bond
Book growled, but of course, that couldn’t be right. The Book was a machine, and while it was eating enough energy for an entire Stack, just like a starving animal, it couldn’t be the alien technology making the noise.
No, it had to be the streamers of sizzling luminance swirling around and around the metal-bound tome making the noise.
Kiersey lolled his head so he might catch one last glimpse of Book before he died; the blood and other fluids pulsing through the hole carved into his body were doing so much slower now, like one of those old-fashioned Exodus clocks running out of power.
There. There it was, just as he’d known, just as he’d imagined, just as he’d hoped.
The Book from Arcadia, forged from metal and riddled with gears and flywheels and all manner of curious and seemingly unimportant mechanical fripperies, spinning. Brilliant flares of illumination welling up between each turn of a wheel, each tick of a gear, each spin of a cog. Each motion filled the air of the chamber in weird shadows.
“I told you.” Kiersey croaked triumphantly, feeling something hot and sticky pooling in the back of his throat. He tried moving a hand, to paw at the lights, but all strength had fled. “It’s beautiful. People will come from all over to see it, and we’ll be trillionaires before the end of the day.”
Lisa Briu, standing by the console, unable to feel anything other than rivers of hot pain from where her left arm used to be, nodded mutely, unable to take her eyes off Book.
The arc of power that’d torched Somie clean to the bone like she was some kind of meat had cooked her arm right off the shoulder. It was somewhere down by her feet, which was lucky in a way; she’d only just taken a handful of stimulants to get through the boring bits with something approaching quickness, and that first surge of chemical rush had coincided with that electric death fist punching out through the safety glass like it hadn’t even been there.
Riding that powerful amphetamine rush, Lisa’d been up and off the couch towards the primary control panel before she’d even known what was happening, fully intent on shutting the project down, hoping she managed it before another deadly stream came burning through their connections.
Only to find the panels locked out. Missing her arm, she couldn’t possibly type fast enough to locate the reason behind the security lockdown, leaving her with only one option.
Turn and watch Book.
“It is.” Lisa Briu agreed hollowly from the control station. “It really is.”
The howling sound boiling from the containment room grew louder, the lights flashing between the spin of the machinery grew solid.
Another surge was coming.
Lisa looked to her panels, and blanched. Where the first surge –the one that’d killed Somie instantly, gutted Kiersey and taken her arm- had been the equivalent of everything that they’d poured into the weird tech, the next one was going to be greater than all of it combined.
Their Book was thirsty enough to drink the Stack dry as a bone.
God forgive them all. The whole Stack! All those people! The … the …
Lisa opened her mouth to cry a warning, but light filled the room, vaporizing everything not forged from the indestructible and overwhelming power of the King’s Cloud.
Book had fed, but Book was still hungry.
It went looking for more power. It needed to be awake.
Needed to fulfill Destiny's mandate.
***
Chevy Pointillier, eyes closed and remembering better times ‘neath The Dome, before it'd all gone so bad, before the King had truly gone mad, before, well, before they’d all been asked to live in such cruel and grimy conditions, smiled from ear to ear when he felt the lights go out. His old ears quirked a bit too, didn’t they, when he realized that there’d been a barely audible hum the whole time he’d been awake, only he’d gotten used to it right from the start, hadn’t he just?
Tricky how the world were like that, hey? What you could get used to, e’en when you couldn’t see it?
Through the glass, Chevy could hear the whispered curses and fumbling panic of Missy Cherry and Master Crimshawn as they struggled to regain control over their dead environment.
The old Gearman opened his eyes and rose smoothly from his little cot by the window that looked out over the world, though he did spare a bit of a peek before moving over to the door keeping him from freedom: aye, ‘twas as he’d thought.
Their whole part of the world, from top to bottom and who knew how far or how wide were cloaked in complete and utter darkness, hey? The only thing out there throwing any light on anything were them wonderful things as flew through the air, though against such a backdrop of midnight blackness, ‘twere more like looking at fish swimming through the deepest parts of the ocean, with them fishies as grew lightbulbs out of their heads to navigate by.
Strange, strange sights, this Outside.
In his mind’s eye, Piggy in the Middle, that thing he knew down to his old toes was Book and nowt else, well, that old and ancient tome now burned in his mind, didn’t it just? A veritable beacon of promise and hope and who knew what else. The urge to reach it before anyone else were insurmountable. ‘twere a bit egoistic, but of all the folks from Arcadia, he reckoned he were the only one as could hold on it and what lay inside wi’out getting all puffed up with airs and madness.
Airs alone weren't too much to worry about, though, not really, as there weren't an Arcadian in the world as hadn't -from time to time- put on that special tone, hey, or stood in that particular manner. It were an Arcadian pastime true enough, but …
It were the madness thing that had his short and curlies especially tight. Garth N’Chalez, the freshly crowned King of Fallen Arcadia, he weren’t the most stable of men, were he? Honorable as the day were long and willing to get right down there in the dirt to do as needed doin’ on any day of the week you cared to mention, but inside that man’s eyes there were hints of things as weren’t conducive to proper thinking. A lad like Dom gettin’ his hands on Book and finding out more of what lay inside Garth’s mind would lead to a Universally bad day.
So aye, airs alone weren't worth stewin' over, but mixing that attitude with madness would lead direct to a bouillabaisse o' trouble and damnation.
Chevy ignored the growling in his guts. It weren't the time for food.
Once Chevy reached the glass door, he rapped ever-so-politely on the clear surface with a gauntleted hand.
‘twere as if he’d gone and splashed a mealy-mouthed gearhead in the middle of a pile of the nattering, chattering, oil-soaked and machine-parted lads and lassies; Cherise Bosiele shrieked so loudly that Seterreq Crimshawn looked like he wanted to punch her before engagin' in the more manly version of the same. This were quickly covered up by a clearing of the throat and an abrupt case of Bein’ Serious.
“Now look you.” Seterreq strode firmly over to the glass prison. “Don’t even think of trying to escape. There are armed guards on every floor, and they have orders to shoot you in the legs. You wouldn’t make it very far.”
Behind him, Cherise whacked her handheld against the console so hard it cracked. “Dammit.” She hissed, throwing the broken thing against the wall. Electronic guts fell to the floor with a faint clatter. Cherry … Cherise … moved to join Seterreq, who actually looked somewhat brave, standing there, holding his own against their … guest.
A guest who, in the limited darkness, clad in his metal long coat, seemed suddenly a great deal more threatening and intimidating than ever before. Those stories he'd told, tales of holding his own against maddened … what … cyborgs, of a kind, or against monsters from myth and legend …
They no longer seemed like stories. Standing there, silhouetted by light streaming in through the small window, Chevril Pointillier was a nightmare all his own. A smiling gentleman, all full of sly nods and engaging winks, with a blade hidden behind his back, ready to, in his own parlance, 'do for you all'.
They were going to have to get that coat from him. That was obvious.
They needed to get touch with Security right now, needed to get a few people down here to ensure this imposing figure from Arcadia didn’t make a run for it, but the chances of that were very unlikely. True, this Tynedale/Fujihara installation was a satellite office, but it was still a fulltime undertaking. With a staff of hundreds, running dozens of experiments … there was a strict protocol everyone had to follow, one that hadn't been updated to include the presence of a possibly dire threat from Arcadia.
“Ah, true, true.” Chevy nodded cordially, leaned 'gainst the glass wall immediately next to the door he knew would swing wide open were he to e'en look askance at it. “There is that, hey? All them guards, doin’ all manner of thing, yes? Running to and fro in a desperate attempt to keep things from getting out of control, I shouldn’t doubt. Large place like this? I reckon I hain’t the only thing being kept in a pretty cage, though I would like to think that I is the only lad about as is polite enough not to murder anyone in cold blood.”
Seterreq nodded slowly, uncertain what was going on. Chevril Pointillier was acting even more polite than ever before, a fact which only made the vaguely threatening pose he'd adopted all the more terrifying. A man, whispering to them from the darkness, in a weird jacket?
It pushed all sorts of buttons, didn’t it just?
Seterreq couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen. Something … bad.
“Just be on your best behavior.” The scientist nodded again, firmly. “All three of us aren’t stupid. We know you know the door to your, ahem, quarters isn’t locked and that you could leave if you wanted, but if you stay where you are and be a good man, maybe we can see about getting you that helm you drew up the other day. Doesn't that sound fair? Like a fair deal?"
Cherise didn’t much care for Seterreq’s obsequious approach to dealing with their prisoner. She stepped forward, literally shoving her partner out of the way with a forearm and bulling into the conversation. “The moment you come through this door, you’re dead, is what he’s saying.”
Chevy grinned once more from ear to ear. He reckoned with the dim sunlight filtering through windows at his back he looked a little strange, mayhap a little frightening, hey? But that were what it was about sometimes, weren’t it, when you was dealing wi' folks as thought they were in the better position?
It weren’t always about blatant and bold intimidation.
Sometimes it were about filling people with the willies, through and through.
“Oh lass,” Chevy replied gently as he made his way back to the window overlooking proud Zanzibar, “I hain’t never said nowt about going through the door. Doors, windows, holes in the walls, as a Gearman, why, I done used about every kind of aperture known to the King to move to and fro through my old, dead world, didn’t I just? Why, one time, I used a sewer to effect a bid for freedom, hey? Got meself captured, I had, by the so-called Gentleman Bolt Neck, hadn't I? Down I'd gone, just like a turd. I hain't thought o' that 'un in, well. A perishingly long time."
“Chevril Pointillier!” Seterreq barked as loud as he could, but to no avail. The old man in the metal jacket was rap-rap-rapping the window leading outside. “Don’t you dare! We’re thousands of feet high!”
Cherise looked to Seterreq. “I don’t think that window is ferroglass.”
Chevy put the truth that assertion a moment later when he banged the simple window out of it’s frame. All it took were a swift bump wi' an elbow, too, which just screamed shoddy workmanship. Head poked through the opening, the Gearmaster watched the pane tumble out o' sight.
Aye, they were a way up, weren’t they just? No matter. Heights weren’t a thing that bothered Arcadians, as somewhere in everyone’s bloodline there’d been a gearhead or six. You were just born a solid lad or lass ‘neath The Dome. Took more'n the thought o' goin' splat to get them guts all knotted up.
The Arcadian hoisted himself up smoothly and, 'ere he stuck half his frame through to the outer Outside, he raised a gauntleted hand in caution to mostly kind Seterreq and Cherise. “Now, mind your manners, friends. I been a good fella and you been all right, e’en if you are the sorts of people who don’t see nowt wrong wi’ keepin’ a man prisoner for no real good reason. Come much closer and I shall be forced to climb back out and knock you two around, and of the three of us, though I am your elder by quite a few years, I am wearing my jacket. Hain’t got the strength to it that I need just yet, but I am stronger than the two of you. And frankly speakin', I is the sort o' man who'd kick a lad in the pills hard enough to invoke religion and mean enough to play equal dirty to a lady. Just so we is on the same page."
“You … you can’t climb down.” Seterreq stammered, most of his wits stolen away.
“It’s miles.” Cherise swallowed noisily. The thought of all that height … she absentmindedly clutched Seterreq’s arm.
“Oh lad, lass,” Dom gave them his best devil-may-care smile, one that dropped a few hundred years off his age and took their breath away, “climbing is a young man’s game, true enough. Funny thing, though, is I is not recall sayin’ nowt about climbin’.”
And with that, Dominic Pointillier, Gearmaster Extraordinaire, did leap from the window, a harrowing action that brought a round of shrieks and screams out of both Cherise Bosiele and Seterreq Crimshawn. Before they knew what they were doing, they were at the wide open hole, shielding their eyes against the wind and smell of the outside world. They looked everywhere, straining to find sight of an aged madman plummeting to his death.
“What the …” Seterreq blinked. “Where the hell did he go?”
Cherry pointed a trembling finger at an aircar that seemed to be having some kind of mechanical difficulties.
Seterreq rubbed his eyes. Literally rubbed them to make certain he wasn’t hallucinating.
There, over a hundred feet away, Chevril Pointillier stood atop an unmoving aircar, having what seemed to be a terribly polite conversation with an understandably overwrought driver. A few words were had, and then, the passenger side door popped up. Chevy swung in, limber and smooth as a gymnast in his teens.
The car disappeared into darkness.
“I do not believe that.” Seterreq slumped onto the bed. “I do not believe that at all.”
Cherise joined her partner, resting her head on his shoulder as she sank into comfort. “We’re done for. Our careers are over.”
***
Amidst shouts and screams of warning and other dire occurrences should he persist in his futile attempts to break free from his indestructible prison, Dominic Breton, one-time leader of the Book Club Regular sect within the Gearman Corps, were doing just that; the moment the power’d gone out this time, his captor down below had pulled his gun immediately, but Dom’d already been on the move, bouncing up and down and shimmying from left to right, an overgrown, murderous toddler jammed into a gigantic Jolly Jumper.
A few seconds passed, then more men and women rushed in through one of the open doors, their weapons drawn and aimed at him as well, with one thoughtful soldier amongst them launched a brilliant white globe aloft to provide light for them all.
Well, Dom were personally quite pleased for the harsh light spilling from the orb floating high above all their heads for –while he could see in near darkness, something of a small, pleasant surprise- it were really hard to gauge the enemy when they were nowt but gentle smudges.
Relen put the bullhorn to his lips and started bawling. “Dominic Breton, cease and desist or you will be harmed.”
“Oh.” Dom grunted the word, straining with all his might to break loose. He could feel summat were happening with the metal maw strapped ‘round his right hand, and once that were broken, it’d only be a matter of time. “Can’t have that, hey? Can’t have your lab experiment shot full of holes or whatever it is those guns of yours do, can you? More … hnngghh … more valuable wi'out holes, me. That’s … ughnnn … basic, that is."
Relen looked over his shoulder to see who'd had the wisdom to come run
ning this way; while there were many things in this building that needed proper overseeing, Relen knew –better than most, since they’d gotten hold of their prisoner- that both Voss and Uderhell were positively insane over Arcade City mysteries. They’d sooner see the whole structure come down around their ears than lose Dominic Breton.
“You. Stazyak. You’re the best shot here. Clip him in the shoulder.” Relen snapped his fingers at the crowd of soldiers until Stazyak, a young blonde woman with one cybernetic eye, stepped forward. She immediately began unlimbering the rifle she carried with her at all times, one specifically tasked to her implant.
Something deep inside the right mouth crunched suddenly and Dom felt all manner of loose bits and pieces swirling around his hand. With a triumphant hoot, he ripped his right hand loose, shattering the metal casing and sending double handfuls of spare parts tumbling down below, where they clinked and clattered like a music box.
Only this music box spelled his freedom.
“Dammit!” Relen snapped angrily. “Maybe a tad more than a clip, if you please, Stazyak. The chums upstairs won’t like it, not one bit, but we can’t have this man running loose. It’ll be worth all our lives then. Put one between the shoulder and the arm, if you please. Pop that arm loose. We’ll put it back later on."
Stazyak nodded and took proper aim, though she had a different target in mind; rather than popping an arm loose inside the skin, her intent was to drill one of her big bullets right into the hip, or just below. A bullet the thickness of her thumb through all that meat’d convince him to stay right where he was, and should he break loose after that, well, a man with a hole the size of a fist put through his leg wasn't a man that'd be going anywhere quickly.
Dom started whacking away as best he could on the thing holding his right leg place, but it were somewhat difficult, given that he was essentially hauling the left arm tentacle along for the ride, but whack away he did, keeping one long, thoughtful eye on the young girl with the gun down below.
