Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  Apparently they had expelled their muck, one at a time, let it dry in a hard shell from one side of the floodway to the other, building off what the last had laid down. They had created bridges from their regurgitated sick that could’ve passed for stone at first glance. On the walls of the geyser were nest pods, tiny globular eggs nestled among bone-gray honeycomb. He cursed under his breath, truly stunned at the sight. He squinted down and saw that the Blatta had turned the inside of the geyser into a corkscrew, a path circling down to where it reconnected with the tunnels going deeper. It reminded him of the grooves inside a scored gun barrel, the entire geyser one massive passage for an enormous bullet to be shot from.

  And that’s exactly what would happen, Vidurkis thought, once the pressure built up enough. Perhaps the bugs weren’t so dumb after all. Perhaps that’s how they were going to get their numbers up and out, rocketed out of the geyser to rain on the city from above. Landing behind the palace walls would be easy. “Simply incredible,” he breathed.

  He had to hand it to them: they were, in their own way, on the cusp of serving the Goddess without even knowing it. If the Blatta did invade, kill everyone, and take back Geyser, he couldn’t really hate them. They were at least being creative, the first rule of a life of Mechanization.

  He was so impressed he’d temporarily forgotten his quest. At once, he straightened his armor. He took a long time to scan the floodway at the corkscrew path below. His dying eyes loosed a flash of gray light in slapping waves but hit nothing. No Blatta, no Mouflon, no Margaret, no pale man. He smirked. No one in sight, at any rate. With the playing field no longer so cramped, he thought it a good time to use some other tools.

  He dropped to a knee and fetched the winger grenade from his bag. After a minute of fondling the thing all over, trying to find out how to activate it, his finger caught the pin. It was secure, preventing the user from accidentally tripping it. With a few tugs, it snapped free. The metal cylinder violently shook in his hands. He tossed it away, fearing that if it detonated while he was still clutching it like a fool he might lose his hands. It banged and rolled down the slanted corkscrew walkway a few yards, stopping when it caught on a sharp stone.

  The torrent of robotic sparrows shot in a flood from the top of the canister. They became a six-foot tornado spiraling in the geyser floodway in front of Vidurkis.

  From it, a monotone voice posed a single query: “Target?”

  “A group below in the tunnels. Kill them. Ignore insects, unless the targets are riding them.”

  “Priority target?”

  “The largest one,” he said. “But make sure they all die.”

  “Understood,” the robotic sparrows said and scattered for a moment only to snap together into an arrowhead shape and shoot down the open floodway, weaving between the Blatta bridges, flying true until they pounded into the tunnel opening and out of sight.

  The tunnel marked with an O stretched on forever ahead of Nevele. Clyde had asked her not to volunteer as scout, but since she’d been in there the day before, she said she knew it better than the rest. He’d reluctantly agreed.

  He watched, chewing his lip.

  She stood just inside the opening, keeping the others in sight as they peeked in behind her.

  There was nothing to be heard besides the push and pull of the wind that found its way through the caverns. She looked down, reporting she saw something glimmering among the debris and Blatta droppings. She bent and picked it up, spat upon it, and cleared away the muck with the heel of her palm.

  She brought it back to show them. It was shiny like metal but flecked with iridescent sparkles of deep cobalt. The glow from their electronic torches danced on its surface; it seemed to catch it and swirl it around within itself before absorbing it.

  “What is it?” Clyde asked, mesmerized.

  “I think this is it—what caused all this mess,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “That’s . . .” Rohm started.

  “Yes. A fragment of wendal stone.” She weighed it in her hand, bouncing it. “Approximately a pound, maybe a little less.”

  “It would easily fetch a thousand spots in any prospector camp on Gleese,” said Rohm, “if the going rate is what it was a month ago.”

  She held the stone out to Clyde, as if she couldn’t wait to have it out of her hands.

  He looked at it with big, curious eyes and gently took it from her. It certainly had an appeal about it. The way it shined—even in weak electronic light through filthy flashlight lenses—was remarkable.

  Even so, such a thing shouldn’t have displaced people or caused so much death. He suddenly didn’t see beauty in the hunk of wendal stone. “So this is it?”

  Nevele nodded, solemn. “Yep. That’s what it was all about.”

  “A shiny rock,” Clyde scoffed. “All that horribleness for this.” He shook the precious stone in his hand. If it could cry, he wouldn’t mind hearing it. But he knew it wasn’t the rock’s fault. It was the people who put a price tag on it, pinning such imaginary value on a silly thing like shiny blue rock. But since he didn’t have any of those people around—who were probably long dead anyway—he projected all his disgust onto it.

  “I guess I should’ve just left it where I found it,” Nevele said. “I didn’t figure it would upset you like this.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Clyde said, even though he felt anything but.

  He wheeled around to find Flam, but he wasn’t anywhere near. In fact, he was across the plateau, a frightened look on his face.

  “Looks like you might be able to buy a new auto after all,” Clyde said, trying to be cheerful. He walked over with the stone, but for each step he took forward, Flam took one back.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, please throw that in,” Flam said, gesturing toward the abyss. “I don’t need to see it any clearer than that.”

  “I’m giving it to you,” Clyde said. “Of course, I’d like to. I want to take every bit of this stuff and throw it in there, but this one I think is all right to hold on to. Here.”

  Flam showed his palms. “Don’t give it to me. Throw it in. Please.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Clyde was so close now that if Flam took another step back, he’d teeter on the edge.

  “Mr. Clyde,” Rohm advised, “perhaps you should give him some space.”

  “I’m just trying to show him my word is good. He’s been a big help.”

  Nevele’s face showed she was just as concerned as Rohm sounded. “I think you should do as he says and just throw it in.”

  The Mouflon’s face was cast downward. Blinking fast, he seemed pained.

  Clyde whispered, “I’ll do it if you really want me to.”

  Flam nodded.

  Clyde looked at Nevele and Rohm and shrugged. He canted back his arm to lob the stone into the darkness. He heard Flam shuffle and dart before he understood what was actually happening.

  Nevele shouted.

  Rohm screeched disharmoniously, blaring contrasting alarms.

  “Wha—?”

  A hand struck him in the back, twisting a fistful of his suit and wrenching him around. It was Flam, pawing all over Clyde to get to the chunk of wendal stone. Desperation was in his face, his jaw slack and his eyes enormous. He said nothing. Above, the atmosphere mites expelled more and more snow. Clyde wasn’t sure if Flam had changed his mind or simply lost it.

  “Careful,” Nevele screamed.

  Perilously close to the edge of the plateau, Flam drove a fist into Clyde’s face. A flash of white streaked Clyde’s vision, and he fell, releasing the shard of wendal stone. He got to his feet quickly and backpedaled from Flam and the cliff’s edge.

  He smeared the trickle of blood rolling out of his nostril. The single brushstroke of crimson from wrist to first knuckle didn’t make him want to retaliate; it just made him sad.

  The Mouflon turned, holding the rock in his hand and hungrily staring into its flecked, craggy surface. He looked up at
Clyde, not a trace of apology present. If anything, he looked . . . not himself. “There’s got to be more of it around,” he said, voice low.

  “That’s not what we’re down here for,” Clyde snapped. “If you want that piece, go ahead and keep it. I’m sure it wasn’t worth hitting me over, though. What’s gotten into you? It’s time you said why you’ve been acting so strange.”

  “I’ve been acting strange?” Flam shouted. “You’re the one who’s gotten us wrapped up in this shite. You. Harboring secrets. Sequestered Son, praise his name. Bah. When this is all over, you’ve got a throne, the whole city to yourself. I’ve got to get something out of this, too, don’t I? Some sort of payment for giving my word to you, you pathetic little twerp.”

  “Maybe I’ll release you right now,” Clyde yelled. “Tell you that your services have been rendered and I’m through with you. Would that make you happy, you greedy . . .” Swearwords failed him. “Look. How about this? We’ll keep going and you can stay behind and pick up all the rocks you want. How’s that sound to—?”

  “Go right the plummets ahead,” Flam roared. “Say it. Tell me I’m released. Tell me I’m through being your chaperone. Not that it hasn’t been a lovely time, nearly being killed every other Meech-damned minute. You and Miss Patches there can make kissy faces in the dark all you want, then. Me and the mice, we’ll go back and do as we please once we’re through with you!”

  “Uh . . .” Rohm murmured, taking a step back.

  “Don’t pull Rohm into it. They didn’t do anything. They’ve been nothing but helpful this entire time. You? You don’t get enough morning sunshine, and you’re nothing but a bag of complaints the rest of the day!”

  “Say it, Clyde. Your Highness, Clyde Pyne of Geyser. Tell me I’m released. Say it.”

  “No, I won’t. You know why? Because it’d be too easy. Then you’d get exactly what you want. You consider yourself such a proud Mouflon. I’m going to make you keep your word, all the way until the end.”

  For a beat, all was quiet while Clyde and Flam stared at one another.

  Seemingly spurred by demons unseen, Flam lumbered forward, gaining momentum rapidly. Even though Clyde had little to no fighting experience, he was able to dodge the incoming Mouflon with a quick sidestep. Flam stopped short and spun in place, pitching loose gravel out from under his hooves as he came in with a tree trunk arm raised, the wendal stone wedged in his thick fingers.

  Quickly, Clyde’s hand trailed his jumpsuit’s belt and found Commencement. His fingers grazed the handle, felt the texture of the inlaid images—the streaking souls, the sword they coiled—and stopped. He would not shoot his friend.

  Dropping his arms at his sides, he let Flam come up on him, the Mouflon’s eyes wide, lips peeled back in a snarl.

  Clyde remained standing before him, made no move to dodge the blow. The fist rocketed in, and he took it square across the cheek, his head slung to the side. The wound burned as if a slab of molten rock had struck him.

  Facing him, Clyde stood with his hands limply at his sides.

  Again, Flam wheeled back and hit him, this time with the arm not clutching the rock.

  Knocked off balance, Clyde was thrown down and caught himself on his hands and knees.

  He heard a quick scuffling of boots. Nevele, unable to suppress herself any longer, was moving to his aid. Peering up from where he lay in the dirt, Clyde saw her entire body was busy with activity. Beneath each sleeve and pant leg, things were squirming. Her bare hands and the skin of her face and neck were unbinding, her laces pulling out and collecting at her forearms and hands—readying to be deployed.

  Through the mask of loose flesh, she met Clyde’s gaze, seeking him for permission to lash Flam to pieces.

  But he raised a halting hand to her.

  With hesitation, she rebound herself and stepped away.

  Clyde climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, and faced Flam again. His nose was bleeding even more profusely than before, running down to his chin in a thick trail. He let it drip freely. He wanted Flam to see what he’d done. Perhaps it’d shake him out of whatever had gotten him so wound up.

  “Don’t eat, don’t sleep, but I see you can bleed pretty well.”

  Clyde ignored it. This wasn’t his friend. “I don’t know what’s come over you. But if we’re in this together, then you have to trust us. If you’re just after the wendal stone, say something. If that’s all you want, I’ll release you from your word and you can go. But if there’s something else, now is the time to speak up.”

  Flam gaped at Clyde.

  Clyde thought maybe he’d said the right thing and whatever was plaguing his friend had been lifted.

  Then an indignant smile crossed Flam’s face as if whatever had its hold on him had keyed in the reply it really wanted Flam to say. “All hail the new King of Geyser. Look at you, making speeches already.” He hocked and spat, the foamy missile smacking above Clyde’s left eye.

  He didn’t wipe that away, either. “If something happened on our way here, if something’s going on, say something. Perhaps we can talk it out. Nigel gave us plenty of medicines. Perhaps you got a flu of some kind. Maybe you have a fever or—”

  “Look out,” Flam shouted and reached for Clyde, wrapped him in an arm and, tossing the wendal stone aside, grabbed Nevele and carried them both out of the way.

  From what, Clyde wasn’t sure, but as he was yanked from his feet and hoisted away, he saw what Flam had seen.

  From the O tunnel came a wall of metal, buzzing wings and the screech of mechanics announcing a thunderhead of robot birds.

  For a moment, the sparrows hovered and scanned the travelers with harmless blue lasers swatting this way and that, apparently measuring each of them several times. It wasn’t the way Rohm worked together. They were disorganized and frenzied while sizing up their prey, as if each bird was in direct competition with its neighbor to collect the most data the fastest.

  Clyde and the others stared in bewilderment. After the perfunctory scan was complete, the sparrows became a rippling mass, darting like a startled school of fish.

  To Clyde’s horror, Rohm stepped forward. The frisk mice coordinated to lock their jumpsuit boots into the crunchy earth, preparing for an attack. They ballooned the miner suit as broad as it could be, puffing up the chest and shoulders to exaggerated sizes.

  Unable to form words fast enough, Clyde shouted unintelligibly, more scared than he had been on this entire journey. These mechanical birds, with their razor-tipped talons and cruel beaks, could eliminate Rohm in seconds.

  The sparrows rearranged into a triangular fist of metal, zeroing the point squarely on Rohm. They shot forward as one, rocketing across the cavern, scattering the inky snowflakes.

  Rohm took the strike to the chest of their suit, the birds punching into it as if intending to impale their target clean through. None of the mice were able to hold on to their brethren for long. The suit ripped, and mice spilled out. They tried to collect, but it was a fruitless effort as the sparrows rapidly devoured, pecking and clawing and reducing the suit to ribbons. Gnarled, furry carcasses rained from storming birds.

  “No,” Clyde shouted, scrambling for his revolver. Flam raised his blunderbuss, firing into the flock of sparrows as it moved away and dove again for another pass at the straggling mice trying to make a break for it.

  Nevele swung her arms in overhead circles, laces smashing the sparrows ten at a time.

  Clyde fired into the pack again and again. Despite having downed a few with each bullet, he felt there was no hope. They’d never kill them all fast enough.

  The birds continued their bloody work, unbothered by the travelers’ salvos.

  Flam threw the empty shell aside from the blunderbuss, reloaded, and fired again. The final scattershot round ripped through the last handful of the terrible things, the pieces raining into the crevasse in a disjointed, chiming song of spilling bolts, wires, and circuit boards.

  Silence then.

  Cl
yde was the first to holster his weapon and approach the tatty remains of Rohm’s jumpsuit, the sundered garment dotted throughout with splotches of red. Dropping to his knees, he began gently feeling down the legs and sleeves for a soft lump—for any of the frisk mice that may’ve survived.

  “Please, please,” he begged, his voice splintery. “Not all of them.”

  In the left boot, an infant mouse remained, having found shelter within an alcove of the boot’s steel toe. It took some coaxing, Clyde telling the poor thing numerous times that it was okay to come out. Its motions were slow, its eyes enormous. It reluctantly stepped into his palm.

  It was unavoidable. It saw its dead siblings scattered around, but Clyde lifted the mouse and carried it away as fast as he could anyway. He cupped his hands around it, but the mouse had seen enough. It held a paw clamped to its chest, tiny pouts escaping from its mouth made into shrill, panicked whistles by its big front teeth.

  “Are there any others?” Clyde choked. “Can you hear them?”

  The frisk mouse looked up at Clyde, nestled in his white palm, and after a second of staring into the misty air, measuring it, slowly shook its head.

  Speaking as only one, its voice was nearly inaudible. “Only me.”

  Clyde pinched his eyes shut. He brought the tiny mouse to his chest and let it climb onto his shoulder. Once there, nestled against his neck in the safety of his suit’s high collar, it whimpered and soon wept openly. Clyde wept as well.

  He removed his revolver and reloaded it, tossing the empty brass to the stone floor of the plateau. When he looked up, Flam and Nevele were both trying their best to hide the fact that they, too, were crying.

  Hands spread, Flam sputtered, “Pasty. Forgive me. I didn’t mean a word of what I said, I swear to Meech I didn’t. I think when Vidurkis nabbed me with his gray light . . . I think it’s gotten in my head somehow. I’ve . . . it’s been hard, these past few days.”

  Nevele sniffed, wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “What did you say?”

  “Your damned brother. He hit me with his eye thing when he chased us in here. I can’t stop thinking these really bad things. This whole time, it’s been driving me insane.”