Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  “It’s a wasteland. Has been for decades. Once called Nessapolis, as bustling and populated as Geyser is . . . was, I mean . . . and not much else there. It’s rumored that’s where Ernest Höwerglaz sits and waits. Apparently. If you believe the stories, that is.”

  “Höwerglaz,” Clyde said, trying it out. “That’s quite the odd name.”

  Nevele smirked. “It suits him if the stories are any indication.” She took a deep breath. “Allegedly one of the most powerful weavers who ever lived. His specialty was that he could take the years off anything and put them upon himself. Give him an antique clock that was broken with age and rust, and with one bat of the codger’s eyelids, he’d be double decades older while the clock would look brand-new. And vice versa: it’s said he once turned himself into a young boy while a brand-new barn fell in on itself with rot even though the last nail hammered into it was still warm from the carpenter’s lip. How I heard it, Höwerglaz had this bear cat he was nursing back to health; it was shot by the farmer who owned that barn. Höwerglaz decided to return the favor by turning the wood, fresh off the lathe, to nothing but ash.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  Nevele nodded, her face solemn. “It would be if only it were true. Some say he was a real man; others say the weavers dreamed him up as a stand-in for us to regard as a role model, a Goody Two-shoes who uses his fabrick for only noble purposes. And then there’s the moronic folks who think he’s something the weavers made up to scare the normaloids.” She loosed a soft laugh. “Not my term. I just use it when . . . you know, I’m feeling salty. Anyway, there are loads of stories about Höwerglaz, how he took the years off an entire planet once and reversed it back to how it was before when it had trees and birds and what have you. Some say he was . . . well, you get the picture. It’s just a story.”

  “Perhaps one day we’ll meet him. It’s probably lonely living in a place called the Necropolis,” Clyde said hopefully.

  “Perhaps,” she answered, as if she were trying to sound as hopeful as Clyde but had disappointed herself halfway through the word. She turned to Clyde and edged her hood back. “I’m sorry if I was hard on you earlier today. I really . . . didn’t know.” She flattened her frizzy hair, smoothing back fly aways.

  “It’s okay,” Clyde said, his gaze fixed on his twiddling thumbs.

  “I’m also sorry I scolded you for looking at me. It’s just that I’m so used to people staring. You can’t even imagine the gawks I got when I was working in the palace. Some people, I swear, just really don’t care. They’ll even point and talk about you, not even whispering, right in front of you.”

  “I didn’t mean to stare. But it’s hard not to seem like I am, with eyes like mine.” He knew his smile probably appeared as frail as it felt.

  “It’s quite all right,” Nevele replied quietly.

  After a moment, Clyde said, “If you want to tell me anything, to ease your mind, I’ll try my very best to not let you get jinxed. I’ll cross my fingers as you say it. Perhaps that’ll help.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’m good for now. Just sitting here pretending we’re not dead set on some harrowing task is sufficiently relaxing for the time being.” She let her gaze connect with his, and Clyde realized she did this seldom in conversation, as if she were just as afraid to look at someone as she was of them looking at her, as if in every face she saw a pane of freshly wiped looking glass.

  “We’ll make this place better.”

  Her warm hand found his and patted it. “Never lose that.”

  “Lose what?”

  She stared northward, in the direction of the dry Lakebed, the awful place called Necropolis, the refugee camp at Adeshka. “Just that.”

  Chapter 26

  Betwixt a Rock . . .

  The following morning was misty and cold. Clyde had been up all night, as always, and had seen it come on. He felt the sand’s temperature drop beneath him. The morning light came, and the suns broke out over the horizon, and when they did, all was gray. The fog peeling in off the bay and over the beach and threading itself into the forest was dense—so dense that the mainland was even harder to see than the moon in the sky on a clear day.

  Without anything for breakfast, the group decided to strike out at once and find something to eat along the way.

  Flam was haphazardly folding his morning writing to his uncle. Becoming frustrated with the uncooperative parchment, he crumpled the letter, pounded it into the opening of his satchel, and grunted. “That’s just great. We’ll be going into the mines with nothing but acorns and handfuls of turf for rations. You expect me to climb all the way up that thing”—he swept his arm toward Geyser’s stone stem towering beside them—“with nothing on my stomach but the owl pellets we come across down here?” He kicked a rock, sending it careening down the beach, bouncing like a cannonball across the sand.

  “It’s the only option,” Nevele stated, fixing the holster’s straps to her hip again.

  “Only time I envy you, Pasty. Never have to rely on meals to raise your spirits. Of course, it doesn’t seem like a lot could dampen them anyway.”

  Buttoning his coat, Clyde shrugged and took the slight as a compliment. He carried on behind Nevele.

  They moved from the beach into the copse of trees at its inward edge as the terrain petered out, gradually giving out to a stonier landscape. Here and there was a piece of forsaken mining equipment, each stooped in a brown ring on the rocks where it had fallen to disuse and rusted in place.

  At midday Flam took the lead, using his bent blunderbuss as a walking stick again to negotiate the larger rocks. Rohm had found it easier to break down and scurry along the stony path. Clyde and Nevele walked together, careful not to tread on any of the frisk mice as they followed Flam.

  The mist burned off, and suddenly they found it obnoxiously warm. At their early afternoon break, they lunched on pears and apples found at a long-forgotten orchard bursting out of its fences.

  To combat the heat, Flam stripped himself to the waist and collected his panels of armor like nesting dolls, wrapped up the whole collection, and carried it at his side as a schoolgirl would do with a belted stack of textbooks.

  Clyde walked with his suit coat hooked on a finger over his shoulder.

  The collar of Nevele’s cloak was soaked with sweat. Clyde was going to ask if she wouldn’t be more comfortable taking it off, since she was heaped in so many layers, but he thought better of it. She’d take it off if she wanted to.

  After Rohm’s members finished passing through a puddle in single file, they hid the spoor of their lunch in a shallow crack between two rocks and moved on.

  Flam called over his shoulder, “So you’re sure none of the bugs will be out during the day?”

  “They’re nocturnal,” Nevele said. “They come out to forage during the night and return to the hive to feed their young and sleep during the day. I highly doubt we’ll come across a single one until we’re deep inside. They’ve probably abandoned the original hive and moved into Geyser’s stem and sewer system by now.”

  They came to another abandoned machine. Clyde had to strain his neck to see all the way to its top. There was a cockpit with the door hanging open, the hot wind knocking it forward and back. The blade at the front was dented and covered in a thick patina of dust from broken rock, enormous jagged teeth set into the blade every few feet, each one as tall as Clyde and as wide as Flam’s shoulders. The wheels were bigger than he had known existed. He could easily get inside one and stand upright without hitting his head.

  Once around the rusted metal beast, they spotted the opening to the mine ahead, an enormous hole in the hill face like a giant’s yawning, toothless maw.

  “Is that it?” Clyde asked, breathless.

  “It is,” Nevele answered. “The Kobbal Mines, the most prosperous on all of Gleese. I bet Mr. Wilkshire would be astonished to think his little friend had made it all the way to his former workplace.”

  Clyde smiled. “I’m sure you’
re right.”

  Flam scoffed. “Why don’t you two just get some of these rocks and build yourselves a cottage. Your lovey-dovey talk is making my guts ache.” He grinned as he turned around, giving away an insult he had in store.

  Clyde steeled himself for it, for as much as he knew Flam meant well, some of his jibes still stung. But when Flam turned around to expel it, the Mouflon’s smile dropped. Flam wasn’t looking at Clyde and Nevele but at something behind them . . .

  Nevele noticed this too, and together they whipped around.

  At the far end of the beach, a man atop a gunmetal-gray insect approached rapidly, kicking up clots of dirt and stone. The driver sat up in the saddle, let the reins loose, and brought a rifle to his shoulder with both hands. His black hair was a torrent around his head, framing a bearded, smiling face.

  They all moved as one, putting the mining vehicle between them and him.

  The shot rang out and ricocheted off the rocks where their feet had been seconds before.

  Clyde’s heart felt like it had sprung up and lodged between his back teeth. “It’s him,” he choked.

  Nevele nodded gravely, removing the pistol from her makeshift holster.

  Flam frantically went through his satchel looking for his knife.

  Rohm’s members scampered up the side of the vehicle to the top, the last few to go whispering that they’d keep an eye out and do what they could as the group’s eyes and ears.

  “Thank you, Rohm,” Nevele sputtered. It seemed she had more to request of the mice, but the frantic metal footfalls stopped just on the other side of the mining machine.

  “Oh, Margaret Mallencroix”—the voice to Clyde’s ears was like an out-of-tune horn, a battered sound, as if it came from deep inside a well with moldy walls and rotten mortar—“how ever did it come to be that you found yourself so far from your room?”

  He clanked from his mount to the craggy soil, his boots crunching into the stones. A steady, predatory series of careful steps came next . . . each one closer than the last. Advancing the bolt on his rifle to push up the next round, he droned, “Let’s take the fuss out of this. Just line up for me. I swear I’ll do it quick—one shot apiece.”

  Clyde’s blood ran cold. He gripped the citizen dagger in two hands, a leathery squeak sounding as he throttled the handle.

  “What’s he paying you, Vidurkis?” Nevele shouted from behind the cover of an enormous tire. “Gorett doesn’t cough up spots easily. I’m sure he’s promised you something he doesn’t even have in hand. He hasn’t gotten an ounce of the stone yet—”

  “He doesn’t want you alive, Margaret.” He sounded giddy.

  A nudge. Clyde turned and saw that Flam was holding out the guardsman’s helmet to him. Clyde took it and put the terrifically heavy thing on his head. Flam gestured for him to flip down the visor, and he did. The Mouflon mouthed with furry lips, “Keep it down.”

  Nevele whispered to the others, “I’ll keep him busy. The rest of you get to the mine and go as far in as you can. His gray light doesn’t work on me. Flam,” she began, a steely tone in her voice, “stay with Clyde.”

  One of the few of Rohm that remained on the ground stared blankly ahead as they saw with the eyes of their others up top. “Miss Nevele. He’s coming around the front . . .”

  The hand in which she held the pistol went white knuckled.

  Rohm chimed in, “We will do what we can.”

  “Wait,” Nevele urged.

  But the last two mice scampered up the side of the machine and, in a flash, were over the top and gone.

  Vidurkis took another slow step forward, approaching the front corner of the three-story-tall machine. He swept a strand of hair out of his face while the forefinger of his other hand found the trigger guard and a finger slipped into it. Keeping watch ahead, trained on the edge of the machine from which the Mouflon, the pale man, or his sister might spring at any moment. He was about to charge, spring into their cover, and open fire when he felt something softly impact his shoulder. He ignored it, taking it for the first droplet of oncoming rain, but then another hit, heavier. Then another and another.

  He took another step. Not important. Not now. He was so close to having them. He could smell the Mouflon.

  He felt a painful pinch on the back of his wrist and saw the frisk mouse, paws set where it had pushed away the glove. He swatted at it, but the rodent was quick and had jumped up his shoulder and sunk its teeth into his earlobe in less than a second. He shouted and thrashed to scatter the mice off, enraged. Soon, a steady trickle of them showered on him. He could feel them working their way through the hem of his tunic under his armor, into the cusp of his boots, even up his sleeves. When they all had access to the Executioner’s soft tissue, they bit at once, as if on a cue.

  “Go now,” his sister shouted.

  The Mouflon and the pale man charged the entrance of the mine.

  Firing from the hip, Vidurkis hit nothing but air.

  The cracking shot seemed to speed the two up. They reached the opening and disappeared, running down the ramp where it steeply curved into pitch darkness beyond. They were not the target. They could run in there if they wanted, get devoured. That was fine.

  Margaret was still out here with him. That was the objective. That was what the Mechanized Goddess had set for him—his step one, so to speak. Sending up a quick prayer to her, he immediately reaped a gifted celerity. He caught one of the frisk mice and squeezed it to death, its bones crunching pleasantly. He cast the limp thing aside, wiped the blood off on his pant leg, and continued on to the other side of the dozer.

  Clyde, still wearing the visor, could barely see anything in this dark place.

  Flam stood ahead of him, one arm reaching back to shield Clyde. He held the ruined blunderbuss by its barrel, ready to fling it up the ramp out of the cave if the pearl-eyed slaughterer dared to appear.

  Clyde blurted, “Where’s—?”

  The gunshot sounded. Then another. Then screaming—but from Vidurkis only.

  Clyde tried to step forward, to run out and help in any way he could, but Flam clutched a twisted ball of Clyde’s shirt.

  Nevele appeared at the top of the cave’s ramp and charged down, her hood flapping. At her feet, frisk mice flooded in, terror on all their little faces. Once in, she turned and stood between the opening and Flam and Clyde, shoving them back. She aimed her pistol up the ramp, as the remainder of Rohm scurried down to collect with the others. The last one hobbled along as fast as it could go, one broken leg dragging behind. Clyde was going to jump out just long enough to fetch the poor thing, but Flam pushed him back and lunged for the mouse, directly in Nevele’s sights.

  “Get out of the way,” she hissed. “He’s right outside.”

  Mouse successfully fetched, Flam cupped it in his hands and spun to return it to the others.

  Vidurkis appeared at the top of the ramp, his face torn to ribbons. The only thing that seemed to be unharmed were his eyes. The rest was a mask of red with tiny bites sprinkled liberally throughout. He glanced at his sister for one second, then switched onto the next available target.

  “Flam,” Clyde cried, his voice bouncing within the helmet. He stood helplessly as Flam looked at precisely the wrong moment. Even though his own eyes were protected, Clyde turned away as the red mask of Vidurkis’s face shifted into a cruel rictus unleashing the gray light.

  Nevele shoved the stock-still Flam out of the way. The frisk mouse had climbed to his shoulder and was poking his cheek, trying to get the Mouflon to move even farther from danger.

  One of Vidurkis’s hands showed gory evidence of having been chewed into disuse by mice teeth. He raised the rifle and attempted to aim with the other hand.

  With Flam clear of possible harm, Nevele raised her pistol. No stare down, no pithy comebacks, nothing at all like Clyde had read two enemies should engage in during a fight—they seemed ready to kill one another right now, satisfied with the burden that’d follow, almost inviting it.


  They both fired at the same time, the dual cracks resounding deep into the caves and coming back a moment later.

  Both had missed.

  Vidurkis awkwardly advanced the next round.

  Nevele thumbed back the hammer.

  They squared up to fire again.

  A deafening thunderclap sounded. The entire ceiling of the crevasse was awash with white smoke.

  Glancing up, Nevele saw the top jaw of the cave’s opening crumble, bright blasts of sparks between the rocks. Just as the first large pieces fell, she took a backpedaling leap.

  Clyde was now tasked with moving the dull-gazed Flam out of the way. He dug his heels in and pushed the Mouflon to take a single step. Rohm compiled and promptly assisted as boulders the size of autos broke away from the passageway. They struck the ground with such violent force it seemed they would split the planet.

  A safe distance away, the group stopped. Choking on the dust, they looked at the cave’s blocked exit.

  Flam came to his senses, his pupils rapidly dilating. He focused and blinked furiously as if trying to shake off the effects from a nasty thump to the head. “What the plummets happened?”

  Clyde lifted the visor on the helmet. “I think maybe the gunshots caused an avalanche or something.”

  But then, among the debris, Clyde spotted some wire. Some of the rocks had sooty asterisks smudged on by explosions. He pointed this out to Nevele.

  “We must’ve set off a detonator of some kind. There was an explosion. I heard it.” She sniffed. “Black powder, by the smell of it.”

  A voice sounded from behind them, gruff and gravelly. “Actually, love, it’s one-quarter beech quartz, a couple of pellets of guano, and just a dash of black powder—but, yeah, that black powder smell really stands out, doesn’t it?”

  The group whipped around.

  Out of the shadows came a man in an electric wheelchair. He had a grand handlebar moustache, curled at the ends into sharp points that stuck out at least six inches from either side of his face. He wore a sweat-stained bandanna, a tattered sleeveless tunic revealing muscled arms covered from shoulder to wrist with tattoos, and a pair of workman’s breeches tucked into the biggest pair of boots Clyde had ever seen. Upon one shoulder perched a bird that appeared to be molting, its only feathers on its wings. The man stared at them with disarming, caramel-colored eyes. He controlled the wheelchair with one hand on a joystick; the other hand pointed a three-barreled blunderbuss directly at Nevele’s chest.