Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  Nevele twisted around and lay down, pulling her cloak up over herself as a blanket. “Good idea,” she huffed.

  “Yeah, splendid,” Flam grunted and rolled over in the other direction.

  Clyde watched the mice litter the ground and give way all at once to a heap of slumbering frisk mice. Again, as on the previous night, he was alone.

  Within the hour, all their breathing had slowed and even Nevele was softly snoring.

  For a few hours, Clyde fed the fire, watching the last bit of moisture in his coat steam away. With that task done, he put it back on, the coat nice and warm on his back and arms. But as he tugged it by the lapels to get it straight on his narrow shoulders, Mr. Wilkshire’s citizen dagger dropped from the pocket. It made a loud clatter, but no one in their various heaps of coats around the fire stirred.

  As quietly as he could, he removed the blade from the scabbard. Past the inscription on the metal, he looked at his reflection. He could see sadness in his eyes, and that was sufficient to make him turn the blade away. He angled it so he was looking at the fire, then at Flam, then Nevele, then up above. He looked to the stars he could see in the open spaces in the canopy that changed with the wind as the leaves rustled and shook, and he wondered if there was another fabrick weaver as pale and sleepless as he doing the same thing at the same moment.

  He hoped so.

  Chapter 21

  The Bullet Eater Details His Summons

  They sat in Aksel’s shack, nearly knee to knee in the narrow pressboard hut, a lantern glowing between them. They kept their voices low, not knowing who was listening next door. With so much time to fill during the day, the refugee camp was a great place for gossip to spread like wildfire. Ricky was more curious than even Aksel had been about Karl and Moira’s proposition, posing more questions in the span of ten minutes than Aksel had the entire time he’d been in the infirmary with them. A good number he could answer, but many more he could not.

  Ricky passed the can of beer—actual beer!—to Aksel. “Why do they want you to get chummy with Neck Scar?”

  “Turns out his name is Steve, oddly enough, and even though ol’ Stevie Boy likes to act as if he hates the Odium, he’s actually a member.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “That’s what they said. Apparently he says all that crap about them so no one will skin him alive.” Aksel pressed the flat of his hand against his face so he could drink the beer without spilling it all over his lap. They’d had his DeadEye taken out just so they could talk to him without fear, but they’d since reinstalled it after he’d agreed to help them. He was still feeling the effects from the injections of numbing wonder drugs. “Steve was living in Geyser as a spy. Actually helped let the Odium in.”

  “How’d he do that?”

  Aksel passed the can back. “They didn’t say, really. Just said he took down a few key security measures the city had in place, and, well, with enough of the sky not being watched, they could sneak right up before Geyser even had a chance to get ready.”

  Ricky took a quick sip. “So they want you to get buddy-buddy with Scar Steve and . . . join the Odium?”

  “Not so loud,” Aksel said, eyeing the seam in the wall where the two warped panels of wood didn’t quite meet. “You and I are already on thin ice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Aksel finally looked at him. “They know we’re not actually citizens.”

  “Did you roll on me?” Ricky asked a little louder.

  “How could I have rolled on you? They knew.”

  “All right. Sorry.”

  “Either way, I mean, I kind of had to agree. Otherwise, we’d both be out on our butts.”

  Ricky patted his knee. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Hey, what are friends for, right?”

  Since there was only one can of beer, they had to take turns holding it up in cheers and taking a drink.

  “So they knew about you, huh?” Ricky asked quietly.

  A while back, Aksel had imparted his entire history to his friend one night. Ricky didn’t talk to him for a day, chose to park his cart on the other side of the square, but had returned the following afternoon saying he’d had to just let it digest. Ricky didn’t claim to be a saint and said as much, and he promised he’d never hold Aksel to any standard he wouldn’t hold himself to. But Aksel had to admit that it was, after all, quite a thing he was asking Ricky to accept about him, what he’d done in the militia. Having him come back and say he was all right with it, all of Aksel’s past, meant a lot. Askel had wondered if they were just acquaintances before, two men doing a similar job in a shared space, talking only to pass the time, but it turned out they were actually friends. Aksel was glad; he didn’t exactly have people warm up to him all that often. Rarely, actually. When they’d been swept up to be brought to the refugee camp a few months later, they’d looked out for each other. Watched each other’s backs, took turns sleeping in the early days when everyone was sleeping on the ground, not a single shack built yet. Sometimes Ricky slipped and called Aksel his brother. Aksel would cuff him on the shoulder and laugh, but yeah, it did warm his heart. Not that he’d ever tell the goof as much.

  “They knew everything,” Aksel said. “Every flipping bit of it.”

  “Who do you suppose they are?”

  Aksel passed on the final sip so Ricky could have it. He shook his shaggy head, feeling the tiniest of buzzes developing. This was the question he’d agonized over the most since Karl and Moira had rereleased him into the camp. He shared what he knew with his friend.

  “The big guy, Karl? I take him to be ex-military. Moira? I have no idea. She looked like . . . you know when they pull someone up out of the water that’s been dead down there for a long time?”

  “She was all fat and bloated?”

  “Not at all. Skinny as a twig, but she was pale as that. I didn’t get a real good look at her face, but I could tell she didn’t like being stared at. And on top of that, the two of them kept referring to Adeshka as . . . I don’t know, like a place they apparently pledge fealty to or something.”

  “It is a big city, after all. Hell, even you’re from there, aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t born there, but yeah, I consider it home.” A bleak flash crossed his mind. Aksel studied his friend’s pockmarked face. When Ricky gave something consideration, he nodded, as if his thoughts were all loose dice inside his head that he had to keep shaking until he got the desired arrangement. He shook it many times, leading Aksel to consider perhaps the beer was working for him as well, making his thoughts uncooperative.

  “Well,” Ricky said suddenly with a smack of his lips, “I don’t really know what kind of jam you’ve gotten yourself into, brother, but it appears to be quite the kicker. You’ve been tasked to join the most feared entity on the planet, get in with them, and . . . what, exactly?”

  “Find out what they know about something called the Sequestered Son.”

  “Sun, as in the suns?” Ricky pointed skyward. “Or son, as in male child?”

  “Son, as in child. I had to ask the same thing.”

  “What in the hootenanny do you suppose the Sequestered Son is?”

  “No clue,” Aksel said. “Not only that, but I have to sabotage their plans to attack Geyser again if possible. Not if it means my life, especially if I learn something about this Sequestered Son business. That’s my top priority, I guess. And after that, I’m to look into why they’re so adamant about attacking Geyser when there are so many other cities that’d be a hell of a lot easier to get at.”

  “Good gracious, that’s a lot for one man.”

  “Tell me about it.” Aksel looked at the empty can in Ricky’s hand. “Do you happen to know where we can score a few more of those? I have a feeling I should enjoy life tonight while I still can.”

  Ricky smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.” He bobbed his head as he walked out of the shack, shaking his thought dice again, Aksel figured. Trying to make up his mind on whom to
approach first for the brews among the reliable handful of smugglers around camp.

  Aksel, despite the grim assignment he’d been given, couldn’t help but smirk. Ricky was a good pal. At least he had him.

  Chapter 22

  Pursuit

  Vidurkis stood before the broken door of room number eleven, scanning everywhere with his pearlescent eyes for details that might tell him something, anything. There were definitely signs of a scuffle. She had truly given someone a run for their money—whoever had been stupid enough to break the seal on her chamber door. She’d always been a spirited one. Belligerent. Easy to provoke but not easy to trick. Feisty.

  Laid into the metal in a scattershot of tiny holes was evidence that buckshot had been fired. Not a lot of people used buckshot anymore. Everyone in the Patrol used silicone bullets. Judging by the human carrion he’d seen, the Odium were supplied with expensive weapons with rounds that burned hotter than the suns and tore through the air so quickly they scorched the very oxygen. No, the buckshot was a crude weapon—something a Mouflon would use.

  He regarded the guardsmen waiting around for him to give his next order. The closest one had his visor pulled up. He was young, plainly new to the Royal Patrol, the sole private in his platoon of sergeants and grizzled veterans.

  “What do you make of all this, boy?”

  The private stammered incomprehensibly. He wore a few badges: some markings on his helm and breastplate indicating that he’d seen things, done things, but still he was clearly scared of Vidurkis.

  That was more than fine with Vidurkis. It’d worry him if he came across someone who wasn’t.

  “Well?” Vidurkis stepped closer.

  “It would appear to me, sir, that Patient Eleven was disturbed. The sea-level elevator at the end of the hall had its gate ripped off. It appears likely that Patient Eleven was released, turned on her saviors, killed them, and escaped to sea level.”

  Patient Eleven, Vidurkis scoffed. The code name for her that Gorett had chosen. Vidurkis could only think of her by her real name, Margaret. But he played along for the time being, referring to her as they did. It wasn’t the time to ruffle feathers.

  “The elevator car is down there,” Vidurkis said, pointing through the open air shaft. “Shattered upon the reception platform. Do you suppose Patient Eleven was in the car when its cable snapped? Tell me what you think, what you see, Private.” His tone was even, silky, each word bleeding into the next.

  “I assume she found a way to use the elevator, yes. And the cable broke, and she fell.”

  “And if she killed her saviors, where are the bodies?”

  The private shifted. Splosh. “They . . . fell with the car? There is evidence that a water main broke within the facility, after all. Perhaps they got washed out of the gate and fell below.” Splish. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have your ability to size up a crime scene. Sir.” It was tacked on, quick. He winced.

  Vidurkis watched a bead of sweat roll down the boy’s forehead until it fell from the outcropping of his heavy brow and vanished with the brown water around their feet, all of it racing for the hole in the floor up the hall.

  He left him there, holding him in his gaze one more painful second before approaching the edge. Dropping his chin to stare at the open space beneath Geyser, he let his mind relax. It was the only way he could use one of the aspects of his fabrick—the far look.

  Below, appearing almost like a model set painstakingly detailed, the trees looked like tiny sprouts, the oxygen in the air creating a natural haze that made the world look ethereal, as if heaven was actually below rather than above. But never mind that drivel. The Mechanized Goddess said there was no heaven or hell—or plummets or insufferable pit or whatever you wanted to call it. No, the only insufferable pit was the agony one felt when they dared cross the Goddess’s followers, made themselves into wrenches in the works that needed to be excised.

  He blinked, reminding himself he was on the hunt for more details . . . The elevator’s reception platform was shattered; the car itself looked like a crushed tin can. He followed the undulating slope of the landscape and glimpsed the forest floor through the canopy when the wind blew just right. It was morning, and the suns were shining in from the west and northwest respectively. Leaning just right and using his eyes just so, he could focus a bit farther. He’d been blessed; his fabrick was multifaceted.

  When the limbs of the taller trees rustled, he could see a flash of something in a small clearing.

  Focusing a bit harder . . .

  A flicker of yellow?

  He waited for the sea wind to cooperate, to move the elephant-ear leaves just right.

  And then he saw it clearly. A flame.

  He spun on his heel. “Unless it’s bandits, it might be her. Send a transmission to the palace. Tell Gorett we’re saddling up and heading to sea level.”

  The Mouflon stood on the edge of the dense stand of trees, looking out over the ocean to the west. He basked in the suns, letting their rays spatter over him and warm his spirit. He sat, removed a fresh quill from the back of his neck, and went to writing his uncle the umpteenth letter. He wasn’t sure what to tell him but decided to record his feelings about the new member of the group.

  Nevele kind of gives this Mouflon the creeps—but what she can do with her fabrick is really something extraordinary. You should see her, Uncle Greenspire—how she can create nets and ensnare things with the strings from her skin. I know it’s against our custom to admire those unnatural folk, but I think even you, a dyed-in-the-wool despiser of fabrick, would have to say you were impressed. Maybe with her help, we can get Pasty where he needs to be. I know I was certainly having my doubts in myself, when the burden was entirely on my shoulders. She and I don’t get along, no, but in her company, I feel the least bit more sure we’ll get Pasty where he needs to be. Even though I might be impressed by a weaver, I still do not trust her. I’ll trust in Meech to guide my trust where it belongs. That is all for now.

  Your troublesome nephew,

  Flam

  He looked up, tucking the letter into his satchel with the bundle of others. Clyde had appeared nearby with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the sun-drenched ocean glistening all the way to the horizon.

  “Morning,” Clyde said.

  “Aye and a good one, too, isn’t it? The suns are out, not a cloud in the sky. You will find I’ll be in a better mood today than I was yesterday.” Flam struggled to his feet, kicking the dirt upon which he had been sitting. Another Mouflon custom: never leave butt-prints upon any planet. Bad manners.

  Clyde glanced back at the camp, where Nevele was snuffing the fire. She emptied seawater from one of the sprout tins on it, then dropped dead limbs over it to thoroughly disguise it. Clyde caught Nevele’s gaze for a strange moment. She broke contact first, turning so her hood was hiding her face once more as she threw a final branch on the dead campfire.

  Flam watched the whole exchange. Turning toward the suns, he said quietly, “I believe she’s up to something.”

  “I thought you said you’d be in a good mood today.”

  “That I am, but a good mood and a healthy suspicion aren’t mutually exclusive. I think there was a reason the Patrol kept her where she was. She’s not telling us everything. She tells us sob stories about being an awkward youth to try to win us over, but I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she used those strings of hers to tie us to a tree and go after the wendal stone herself.” He took out his telescoping knife and made the blade go out. He used the nasty bent end of it to pick at his teeth. “I just don’t trust her.”

  Flam watched Clyde out of the corner of his eye to gauge the young man’s reaction. Clyde glanced back at Nevele, who reached into a low-hanging branch to a cluster of berries. She pulled them down, didn’t take any for herself, but threw them to Rohm. While the mice quickly devoured them, Nevele watched and smiled.

  “She wants to get back at the prime minister, and I’m all for that,”
Clyde said. “The man is cruel and framed Mr. Wilkshire for the deaths of all those miners. Our goals are the same.”

  “Don’t be so trusting. It’s like the fortune-tellers do. They take a little about you, just a hint, make a good guess about it, and start unraveling a story. Then whatever you seem to go along with and nod to, that’s what they’ll prattle on about until you believe, without a doubt, that they’re on board with you. Give her a moment’s notice, and just like those Meech-damned so-called mystics, she’ll have a dagger in your back with one hand while the other is fishing out the spots in your wallet.”

  “But I don’t have any spots.”

  “It’s a figure of speech. What I mean is this: She might be using us. She knows what’s in the mine, how valuable it is . . . And I’m not saying any of this for certain. I just want you to be on your toes. You’re new to dealing with folks. And not all of them are worth your time.”

  “Fine,” Clyde said, throwing up his hands and walking away. “I’ll keep it in mind that someone who saved our lives might actually be trying to kill us.” He walked back toward the camp.

  With a bite of anger, Flam watched Clyde approach Nevele and wish her a good morning. They carried on like they were the best friends in the world. Flam couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but he clearly saw the stitched-up girl put a hand on Pasty’s arm when she spoke to him. She said something about tending to some morning ritual of her own and walked off.

  Flam’s blood boiled as he was forced to witness Clyde stand there, hands in his pockets, watching her stroll off. He could practically see the cartoon hearts drifting out of the top of his head.

  Flam grunted. “Daft stooge.”

  Once everything was packed, they wordlessly fell into loose formation and began their trek. There wasn’t a clear trail to follow through the dense woods. They would have to keep Geyser’s stem in sight to keep to the right track. Not that it was hard. The city was so considerably sized that unless they were under a thick canopy of trees, it could be seen from anywhere on the island.