Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  “And my brothers and sister?”

  “Now, they I never really got a chance to meet. By the time I was working in the palace, Moira had been sent to Adeshka for school—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but Moira is my sister’s name?” He liked the way her name sounded, the way it rolled off the tongue.

  “Yes, she was the youngest. And there was Raziel, your younger brother after you, and Tym, your second younger brother.”

  “And were they like me? Were they woven, too?”

  Nevele shrugged. “Sadly, I don’t know. If they were, they never had any problems that I was aware of. I dealt only with abuse of weavers, and their names never came up. Which, I suppose is a good thing—even if I never did get to meet them.”

  “Where do you suppose they are?”

  “Well, if they’re smart”—she smiled—“unlike us, then they’re worlds off, trying to keep a low profile. Gorett, as the rumor went, sent some people after them. Some not-so-nice people.”

  “To kill them?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Flam looked up. “To kill them?” Clyde was asking, stupidly. Little lamb, so dumb to this world and how it works. So blissfully ignorant to everything. At every turn, his idyllic picture of this world was being shattered. Fool.

  “I’m afraid so,” Zippergirl said.

  Flam listened, turning his ears this way and that, catching her words both from her lips and in the echo that played after it. She sounded a lot like her brother sometimes, when her voice reached certain octaves. Certainly a similar cadence, especially when the cavern distorted it. It made Flam wonder, for a flash, if Vidurkis wasn’t in here with them now.

  With his mind wistful, his body feeling not in the least his own, Flam stood and approached the two who had their backs to him.

  It would be easy enough. One hand on each of their backs, a single strong shove toward the ravine. Gone. Simple.

  He continued to walk until he caught himself midstep and stopped. There, at his feet, was a single frisk mouse looking up at him. It batted its curiously long lashes at him—reproachfully? A glare from a mouse? It dropped to all fours and scurried off.

  It was a sufficient enough break for Flam to think things over, get some clarity. He took a breath, tried his best to think of the most cheerful things he could, and went back to stand near the cavern wall, the only place he could find a shred of solace from his plagued thoughts. They gathered like the mud being pulled in around a sinkhole. But at least he was far away from the others . . .

  Nevele patted Clyde on the back. “You’re not alone.”

  The members of Rohm who were close sat on their hind legs, looked up at Clyde, and nodded. “We’re with you, Mr. Clyde. We liked Geyser back when it was in working order. We, too, could benefit from some good old humdrum everydayness in Geyser again.”

  Nevele added quietly, “And Flam, too. He lost someone. Perhaps it was an accident, but if it weren’t for the overbearing hours Gorett demanded of the maintenance crews, his uncle probably wouldn’t have had an accident at all.”

  She was speaking confidentially to Clyde, but apparently her voice carried.

  Flam muttered, “Leave me out of this. Pasty knows what I’m after.” He kept his back to them, his horns pressed against the wall. He throttled the water pump’s handle in his grip again, pulling down on it until the metal bar bent with a prolonged creak. “I just wanna get him where he needs to go, and that’s it. I’ll get my satchel filled with wendal stone and be off.” He toyed with the snapped-off handle for a moment, weighing it in his hands before letting it fall to the earthen floor. “My uncle was a drunk. He probably died because he was sloshed to the gills on the job. Don’t try to make it into anything poetic, Zippers. My story ain’t nothing complicated, and it certainly ain’t honorable.”

  “I was saying something nice about you for a change,” Nevele barked at him. She shook her head, visibly reining herself in. She turned back to Clyde. “Look. Never mind him. You and I, we have our reasons. Rohm as well. And everyone else from Geyser who’s living off rationed food and sleeping in a shack at that blasted refugee camp. And Mr. Wilkshire and King Pyne. They’re all our reason to persevere.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Clyde said. “Thank you. But let’s leave it at that for the night.” He was weary from such big talk and massive revelations. He wanted some normalcy. “Let’s get a fire going, and we’ll get our energy back. We’ve got quite a ways ahead of us still.”

  How far, he could not say. All he knew was that he craved things the way they were. He knew they couldn’t be the same, ever, not after what he had learned about himself. But he’d go until a new normal could be made, and within that, he’d take comfort. He just knew that the time between now and then would be chock-full of unpleasantness. But it had to be done, and he was willing to do it as much as anyone is willing to face less-than-stellar odds stacked against them. He sat back, tossed a fist-sized stone into the darkness, and listened to it sail. If only it were that easy; if only he could just glide in an endless carefree dive and let things come as they would. He thought of one of Mr. Wilkshire’s sayings, usually in reference to microwave dinners when Miss Selby had evenings off: Easy as falling.

  But of course, anything good—anything truly good—was never obtained as easily as preparing a microwave dinner. Or falling.

  Chapter 33

  The Rumor Mill Gets Inundated

  Aksel met with Neck Steve in the man’s shack, planning all the details of the escape. It seemed it wouldn’t be a pleasant affair. Aksel had pictured the Odium coming overhead with drag hooks and ripping the fencing down, lots of noise and confusion, but the actual strategy was much more covert—like a prison break.

  Remaining incognito required Aksel to listen to Neck Steve go on and on about how great the Mechanized Goddess was and nod and smile and even dispense a few expressions Moira and Karl had told him he might need to know: May your gears always stay greased, brother. May she keep your wiring straight always. May she keep the rust out and the cogs turning. Things like that.

  Seemed like Neck Steve felt the need to inject them constantly into conversation. Maybe he was just relieved having a fellow follower with him here, instant friends just because of what Neck Steve assumed they shared.

  By the end of the hour-long talk, Aksel was exhausted from playing his part. Leaving, he grinned and gave a sly wave to his new best friend. “Midnight.”

  “Midnight,” Neck Steve said with a broad smile. “We’re going home, brother.”

  “You might be,” Aksel said under his breath, walking off. “I’m jumping headfirst into the badger warren.”

  It’d gotten dark in the meantime. Flashlight beams cut this way and that, and the general din of the camp settled, as it did every night. Cook fires blazed here and there, and the smell of rations being prepared—a bitter smell of processed soy and artificial flavoring—wafted freely.

  Passing through the camp agora, he nearly ran into an old woman hunched at the edge of the muddy creek. By candlelight, she was attempting to filter the brown water through an old cotton tunic. Having only one working eye, Aksel had poor depth perception and nearly bumped her off the trash-strewn bank.

  “Excuse me,” he said, righting the makeshift water bucket he’d knocked over.

  The water absorbed into the thirsty earth within a second. They both stared forlornly as the puddle quickly disappeared.

  “Ah well,” she said, “looks like Gleese needed it more than I.”

  “Forgive me,” Aksel said, bending to fetch her plastic ladle where the weak current was beginning to drag it away. He handed it to her and looked into her kindly old face. While partly obscured by a faded paisley babushka, her eyes were a brilliant green and her smile was perfect, teeth as white as the ivory keys of a new piano.

  Her expression folded, from the mundane smile you’d offer a stranger to wide-eyed panic. One scabby hand latched onto his sleeve. “I’ve been meaning to find
you,” she said, almost with a gasp. She leaned in close. “I’ve heard you’re the man to talk to.”

  Aksel recoiled slightly. “About what?”

  Could word have spread so quickly about the DeadEye? What now? Was he going to be the refugee camp’s go-to man for settling scores, a problem solver for hire? He needed to keep a low profile.

  “I need to get home,” she said.

  So that was it. “Shortly, ma’am. Heard it through the grapevine we’re all heading back to Geyser in a week or two.” The lie stung, especially laying it on such a nice old lady, but right now he felt it necessary.

  He tried to walk away, but she grabbed him hard, with both hands this time, around the thick of one arm. Her grip was surprisingly steely. “I need to find him and make sure he’s okay. He doesn’t know anything about the world. I had to leave him. I didn’t want to, but I had to.”

  “I’m sure your son is fine.” He would’ve said anything at this point if it meant this woman would let him go and stop making such a scene. Dotting the perimeter of the agora, faces lit by campfires were openly gawking. Heated arguments, crying, drama of any sort were crowd makers in a place without a single working TV. And a desperate, begging old biddy ranked up there as prime-time entertainment.

  “He’s not my son,” she said, hysterical. “He’s . . . he’s . . .”

  “Ma’am, whoever he is to you,” Aksel said sweetly, patting her hand with his free arm as a gentle cue that he’d appreciate it if she’d let him go now. “I’m sure he’s okay—”

  “But he doesn’t know nothing about anything. He’s too innocent to be out on his own. Please, I know you’re planning to get out somehow. You have to take me with you.” It seemed she had no control over herself. Her eyes seemed to apologize for what her mouth was doing. To Aksel, she looked insane. Too much exposure to the suns coupled with too much worry—it could happen to anyone. Some days, it took Aksel conscious effort to keep it together.

  “Please,” she shrieked, “he can’t be out on his own. He can’t.”

  Soon, a younger woman rushed over. “Miss Selby, please, let this man go. He can’t do anything to help us.” Like all people from Geyser, she had a lilt to her voice, something Aksel had heard originated from a place called Europe. “I’m terribly sorry,” the woman said. “She’s upset about her boss’s good friend. She was close to him and worries a great deal about him.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Aksel said, stepping away. He turned and walked on, feeling every eye on him. He took a corner and dodged down an alley, but still his skin burned as if they watched him through the walls of plywood and scrap tin. Everyone in the town center now knew he meant to escape, and word would spread fast.

  He slapped aside the curtain of his shack’s doorway and let out a ragged breath, his head spinning. What if Neck Steve heard their plan had leaked? What if every refugee begged them to bring them, even if it meant hitching a ride with the Odium? Would Neck Steve call it off, abandon Aksel entirely? Moira and Karl would get word within a day, and minutes beyond that Aksel and Ricky would be in the Lakebed with nothing but endless desert landscape and the ceaseless beating of the suns on their backs, easy picking to whatever hunted them first.

  But the most important question simmering to the top: who had loosed the rumor in the first place? Aksel hadn’t spoken to anyone about it except Neck Steve, and while dim, he didn’t seem like the type to voluntarily ruin his own plans. Too much of an Odium fanboy to allow that, surely.

  The back of Aksel’s head thudded on the metal wall. He wracked his mind as to how this had gotten out of hand in less than twenty-four hours. His skull ached, reminding him of his most recent hangover. Seeking some sort of solace, Aksel thought about what had caused that recent hangover.

  And just like that, he remembered he had told someone about the plan. Over beers.

  Ricky.

  Aksel was halfway to Ricky’s stand, cutting through the alleys, when Neck Steve walked out in front of him.

  Aksel steadied himself against the side of a shack.

  “What the hell happened? Everyone knows.”

  “I don’t know.” Aksel wouldn’t dare sell out Ricky. Violence and Neck Steve weren’t exactly strangers; he’d kill Ricky at the drop of a hat. Aksel was kind of scared for himself in this cramped alleyway.

  “This isn’t good. Not good at all, brother.”

  “No, it’s not, but it’s fine . . . I mean, it will be. At midnight, right?” He glanced at the sky. Just a few hours. “I don’t think anyone knows what time they’re coming by.”

  Neck Steve sized Aksel up, as if he were weighing the possibility of just killing him. Apparently his conscience won out. He put a hand to his forehead and stared at Aksel.

  “What?” Aksel murmured.

  “I just hope they still let us join.”

  Aksel nodded, then stopped. “Wait. I thought you were already a member.” He lowered his voice. “You were in Geyser, planted as a spy, weren’t you?”

  Neck Steve waved a hand. “Initiation. Well, part one of it. I mean . . . you had to do something to prove your devotion to the Goddess, didn’t you?”

  Aksel scoffed. “Right, of course. Yeah. I . . . yeah. You know, bad stuff. I do bad stuff all the time. It was like, you know, easy. Cake.”

  Neck Steve drew in a deep breath and, like a bored horse, let it sputter out from his lips. The pirate-initiate dropped his arms to his sides, palms slapping his legs. With heavy-lidded eyes, he said wearily, “Just be ready.”

  He shuffled toward his shack, swearing to himself.

  Heart pounding, Aksel watched him skulk off. “You got it, brother.”

  Chapter 34

  Two Curiosities Unearthed

  The meager campfire threw golden light onto the wet cavern walls, making them appear to undulate like a breathing, living thing. It was oppressive to Clyde, but then he felt something alight upon the tip of his nose. He looked up and saw in the highest reaches of the fire’s light tiny snowflakes slowly descending, extinguishing the doomed feeling just a smidge.

  “Must be an opening somewhere.” Wiping the flake away, he saw his fingertips were not only wet but streaked with black. He patted the rest of what he guessed was now smeared across his nose. “But I don’t believe I’ve ever seen black snow before.”

  Rohm hunched by the fire in their miner suit. “Atmosphere mites, Mr. Clyde. They make the air breathable on Gleese. They suck up the toxic fumes from the geyser’s spout and turn it into oxygen. But when they get nervous, they make snow instead of air.”

  “Does that mean the Blatta are near?” Clyde himself became nervous then, but fortunately for his trousers, he didn’t make any snow.

  “No.” Rohm snickered. “We make them nervous.”

  “Useless,” Flam grunted, brushing away the flakes that had collected on his horns. “What sort of defense mechanism is that?” He mumbled something else, but it was too low for anyone to hear.

  Nevele took another wooden handle she’d found from the broken assortment of miners’ tools and tossed it onto the fire. “We’re lucky to have them. Otherwise this trip would have been over hours ago, especially after the cavern closed.”

  Clyde remembered the man pursuing them, firing at them moments before Nigel had detonated the cavern ceiling, saving their lives. Those fierce pearl eyes, that wicked black beard framing a feral sneer. It was nearly impossible for him to imagine he could, in any way, be related to Nevele. He remembered the man shouting her name: “Margaret Mallencroix.” Accidentally, Clyde said it aloud.

  “It’s strange to hear that name,” she said blandly, focused on the fire.

  “Why? Isn’t it the name you were given when you were born?”

  “Yes, but I went simply by Stitcher, or Royal Stitcher, while working for King—er, your father. Apologies; that’ll take some time. Anyway, he was big on titles and formality. The only people to ever call me Margaret were my parents and, of course, my brother.”

&nbs
p; “It’s hard to convince myself that you and Vidurkis could possibly have a drop of shared blood.”

  “I can hardly come to terms with it myself. When he was a kid, he’d lash our ponies raw when they didn’t do what he wanted. Mother was always trying to get him to have more patience, to show a little heart toward living things. He never seemed interested in doing anything unless it was hunting, harming, or killing.”

  “Must be why he decided to join the Patrol.”

  Nevele watched as the fire took the fresh bit of wood, lapping around the pickaxe handle’s length and then chewing into its grain bit by bit. “Yes, I think he joined the Patrol as an excuse to hurt people. It’s the only way someone like him could fetch a regular paycheck without becoming a bandit or bounty hunter. He liked Geyser, oddly enough. Took a lot of pride in living there. Claimed he did what he did to root out anything that would attempt to corrupt the city. Lo and behold, look at who he ended up pledging allegiance to.”

  Clyde imagined Vidurkis and Gorett having meetings in dark spaces, bent over candlelight and whispering their wicked plots to one another. But, if he was thinking on the timeline right, his father was still king when Vidurkis was Executioner.

  “Did my father hire him?” he asked, batting some smoke out of his eyes. “I’d really hate to think that he would. I mean . . . I apologize. He’s your brother. I shouldn’t—”

  Nevele merely shrugged. “It’s fine.” She poked the fire, rolled one log over onto another to get it to burn. “But you have to understand, Geyser wasn’t nice around the middle of your father’s kingship. For a spell there, people like my brother were necessary to have around.”

  Clyde nodded, hoping he understood.

  “Vidurkis,” she said, appearing almost pained in saying his name, “was an extreme man for an extreme time. And when things evened out and the city was a safe place to live and work and raise families, he became sort of redundant. Hated it. Started seeking out crime, going against Patrol protocol. Some said he even started some of his own, bringing bad men into the city from other places, knowing they’d be up to no good. Give himself something to do.”