Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  The star grew a halo for a second as it broke atmosphere and hovered through the thin, gray clouds. The starship’s undercarriage lights came on, and its landing gear clanked down, its jets tossing up a wall of choking dust.

  Pressing an arm to his forehead, Aksel squinted his eye shut and charged on, leaning into the hot gale.

  More lights slammed on. Most likely, onboard cameras were sizing them up. There were no cockpit windows; the thing was entirely enclosed from one end to the other. Approximately fifty feet tall and with a wingspan of just as much, the Odium craft bore the standard artistry the pirates subjected each of their stolen crafts to.

  This one was painted in elaborate, interlocked patterns of gold, burgundy, and midnight blue. On the tip of each wing was a dotted line of tassels, several of them missing or burnt to black nubs by exhaust.

  Soon this strange paint job made sense. Next to the smiling cat face of their Dapper Tom insignia, the ship’s name was painted in a curly, exotic font: Magic Carpet.

  Neck Steve clapped Aksel’s shoulder. He took his cheeks in his callused hands and screamed with glee.

  Aksel couldn’t help but laugh, even though they were about to be picked up by the most fearsome group of disenfranchised kill-happy psychos in the solar system. Neck Steve’s enthusiasm was infectious.

  The Magic Carpet touched down, its landing gear hydraulics squeaking. A strange buzzing sound came next, likely the magnetic locks being set. In one whoosh, all the engines cut off, the desert thrown into deafening silence. Not a second later, the back gate blossomed open and a ramp was lowered. Three men walked out, boots heavy on the diamond-plated metal. It would’ve been hard to miss that each one of them was . . . lacking something.

  For one man, in place of an arm, there was just a smooth field of shiny flesh on his shoulder. The next man was missing his left leg below midthigh and relied on a wooden crutch. The third pirate helped him down the ramp. When the light caught him, Aksel thought he was seeing things, perhaps a rogue shadow or something. But, no, he had a triangular black hole in the middle of his face where his schnoz had been.

  “Two o’ you, huh?” this man said, his voice sounding like someone with a severe head cold. “I thought we were just picking up one.”

  “Slim pickings, at that.” The one-armed man looked dubious. “I think I should get the captain to estimate this lot. Might be throwing these two back.”

  The first man agreed, and the one-armed man bolted up the ramp, his stride off-kilter.

  The man with one leg sat on the ramp and, with a crusty fingernail, picked at a patch of lichen growing on his crutch. With the engines off, they were steeped in silence. Aksel glanced to Neck Steve and for the first time, saw worry marking the large man’s round features.

  For a spell, they watched the pirates and the pirates watched them.

  Finally, the man with the missing nose ran a gloved hand over his bald head, the leather squeaking. “If I know my captain, he’s going to suggest a recruitment rodeo. See if any of them actually got the giblets required for the job.”

  This got the seated man to look up. Wild eyed and grinning, he flicked the nub of lichen away. “I like the way you think, Proboscis.”

  “Thanks, Colin.” Proboscis’s gaze fell on Aksel and Neck Steve. He sniffed, and it made a sound like a squeeze horn. “I do too.”

  “Even if the captain doesn’t think o’ it, you should suggest it.”

  “I just might do that.”

  “Your name is Proboscis?” Neck Steve asked, his voice small. Not teasing whatsoever, but posing the question with childlike curiosity. Trying to get to know the men who might, hopefully, become his future coworkers.

  If Aksel could’ve kicked him, he would’ve.

  The no-nosed man stared. “It’s a nickname.” He gestured limply at his own face. “On account o’ all this business. Like you’d call a short feller Stretch or . . .”

  “A dead tosser Breather,” Colin supplied, leering at Aksel.

  “Well, Mr. Proboscis, I just want to say how . . . just how honored I am to be here. I found you guys online and sent an e-mail. I’m Steven. From Geyser. And I know you guys don’t know me or anything, but I’ve studied the Mechanized Goddess’s decrees from back to front. I know every passage.”

  “You the spy?” Colin, the man with the crutch, asked.

  Neck Steve smiled broadly, happy to be remembered. “I am, sir, yes.”

  “Fat lot of good that did us,” Proboscis said and honked a scoff. “Wasn’t a damn bit o’ trouble there at all. You spied on a city that had no defenses worthy o’ spyin’ on!”

  “But . . . I did it. Just like you asked.”

  The one-legged man shrugged. “You got a point?”

  “I just want to say I think I’d really be an asset to this team and a good fit is all . . .”

  “Fantastic. Another wannabe.” Proboscis laughed, the sound more like nasal hiccups, but he abruptly stopped. He drew a gun, its barrel parallel to the ground.

  Aksel dodged, pulling Neck Steve with him, but the gun didn’t waver. The man was aiming at the dead landscape behind them.

  Proboscis shot up to his feet. “Oi, who the shite are you?”

  Aksel spun about. Out of the gloom stepped a figure, seemingly materializing at the edge of the starship’s rear blue-white lights. It was the cocoon from the corpse pile, now a living human shape wearing the sack like a poncho, but the burlap mummy’s face was awash in shadows.

  Proboscis brought a hand to his forehead to block the blinding light. “Closer. Let me see your hands.”

  The figure stepped forward, upraised hands shaking at the end of his twiggy arms.

  Ricky. His face was shiny with perspiration. “I’m . . . I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Aksel nearly screamed with dismay and anger.

  “You?” Neck Steve barked. He shot a glare at Aksel.

  “You two, quiet. You in the body bag, you had better start talking . . .” Proboscis kept his eyes on Ricky but shouted, “Captain!”

  “I can’t run,” Ricky squeaked. “I just . . . I have a bad knee and . . .”

  “Friend o’ yours, mates?” Colin, who had also drawn steel, angled his weapon toward Aksel and Neck Steve. He clicked back the hammer. “Well?”

  Aksel wasn’t sure what to say.

  From the ramp, Proboscis hoarsely called, “Screw it; just kill ’em all.”

  Hands up, Aksel closed his eye. Here it was. Death. He flinched when a sound broke the cool, desert silence.

  Not gunshots. It was Colin’s and Proboscis’s laughter.

  When Aksel opened his eye, the guns were being put away.

  From within the starship came a cacophony: thuds, slammed doors, creaking metal, one final boom. Proboscis and the man on the ramp stiffened, laughter breaking off. The crutch’s tip dug into the ramp’s rubber treads, and Colin scrambled to a standing position. The captain of the Odium pirates came down the ramp, his face in a patchwork of shadow and light as he walked into view.

  Ragged apparel from head to foot. Every piece of patched garment on his slender frame was battered and oil stained. An underarm holster hugged a sawed-off scattergun, and a three-barreled handgun dangled from his hip. His stringy red hair hung from a bandanna that sat low on his brow. He wore various pieces of homemade jewelry, all of which featured nuts, bolts, rivets, washers, tiny plastic toy wrenches, and screwdrivers. Some were woven into his hair, and two washers anchored the ends of his long, blond moustache.

  “Evening, fellas.” His voice was low and monotone, except when he punched out a syllable with random force.

  “Evening, sir, Captain Dreck Javelin, sir,” Neck Steve blubbered, saluting.

  Dreck got all the way down the ramp, bypassed Aksel and Neck Steve, and cut directly to Ricky. He gave the young, greasy man the once-over, apparently puzzled by the burlap body bag, and made a slow circle to the first two. Like a man with a fat wallet at a cattle auction, he looked them up and down.


  He returned to the ramp, his men filing around him. More pirates were coming out now, a similarly ragged bunch. One, Aksel noticed, was dressed in a laughably bad wig with lipstick smeared on a mouth that showed he wasn’t the least bit happy about it. This pirate also wore a lei and a hand-painted sign, secured to his belly with shipping tape: Welcome Aboard! A bet lost, no doubt.

  “Three o’ you.” Dreck tilted his head to confer with Proboscis. “I thought we were picking up one.”

  Proboscis never took his focus off the new recruits. He shrugged. “I thought so too.”

  As much as Aksel’s arms ached, he didn’t dare lower them.

  Beside him, Ricky followed suit, while Neck Steve held his crisp salute.

  Dreck faced them again, shaking his head to clear the hair from his eyes. “What’re we going to do about that, then? As I understand it, our weight limit is pretty much at its max.” He smirked. “And if Ludo back there hadn’t quit with the nightly binge of creamed ardamires, we might not’ve been able to pick up anyone tonight.”

  The group laughed, one larger man in the back markedly less loudly.

  “And none of you can go back, not after you’ve seen our faces. Even if we did let you go back to the camp, I kind of doubt they’d welcome you with open arms. Open fire, possibly.” He smirked, brown teeth showing.

  The silence seemed to last a month.

  Dreck drew a breath. “What’ll it be, then, boys?”

  “Sir, if I could say something?” Neck Steve inched forward.

  Dreck glowered and, after a second, made a small motion with his hand for him to go ahead.

  “I’d just like to say how great it is to be here among you. And how much I’m looking forward to this opportunity—”

  “Shut it.” Dreck sneered at him, as if he were at the edge of vomiting. “Just shut it. Never talk to me like that. Ever. You’re embarrassing yourself. Goddess almighty, look at you.” He strode forward. “You were my first pick, but I changed my mind. Figured a man with a slice like that across his gizzard would have a greater inventory o’ bollocks in his trousers, but I reckon I was dead wrong.”

  A low rumble of laughs emitted from the pirates crowded on the ramp.

  “Might I make a suggestion, Captain?” Proboscis called out.

  Dreck stared at Ricky, still apparently intrigued by the burlap sack. “Go ahead.”

  “Perhaps a rousing round o’ recruitment rodeo would be the way to go.”

  Slowly, Dreck nodded, still sizing up the recruits. He paid particular attention to Aksel and his eye patch.

  “Recruitment rodeo,” Dreck said, drawing the words out. He adopted a radio announcer tone: “Due to an overabundance o’ interest, the Odium will now be taking submissions for consideration only by way o’ a . . . recruitment rodeo.” He smiled. “Yeah, I like it. A lot.”

  But then he frowned. He checked a pocket watch dangling on its chain. “But unfortunately, we have a date in Geyser and we’re due there in the morning. I guess we’ll have to postpone the rodeo for now. Plus, I wouldn’t be surprised if the fuzz keeps this place carefully watched.” Dreck’s gaze flicked toward the horizon and various points in the sky.

  “But, Captain, what about the weight?” Ludo piped up.

  “We won’t be going that far,” Dreck answered, keeping his back to his men. “We won’t need to break atmosphere. So taking on a few extra pounds won’t be much of a concern for the time being. We’ll do the rodeo when we stop for supplies.” He looked at Aksel and the others. “So, fellas, good news for you: consider yourselves in on a probationary basis. Sound good? Good.”

  Aksel shot Ricky a look, not a good one. As Dreck handcuffed the three new recruits’ wrists, he considered piping up to ask if he could forgo the recruitment rodeo and kill Ricky himself. As they were taken inside the starship and immediately down a flight of stairs to the cramped holds below, Aksel saw red whenever he caught the back of Ricky’s stupid head filled with its stupid thoughts about jumping the stupid gun and escaping.

  They were brought into a little room that smelled worse than all the bad smells of the camp crammed into one. Several bone-thin men were chained to stationary bicycles, stair-stepping machines, and a few other pieces of indoor exercise equipment. Each one, Aksel noticed, was wired to a central machine the size and shape of a refrigerator on its side, a green light affixed to its top with all the wires converging into it.

  “Welcome to the heart of the Magic Carpet, where the magic is made, you might say,” Dreck narrated. “Kind o’ like seeing behind the illusionist’s curtain, I bet. Probably thought the Odium used demon hearts and the spleens of orphans to run our crafts.” He nodded for Proboscis to show Aksel, Neck Steve, and Ricky to their places. Three spots were open in the rows of wired-up machines. Aksel’s hands were chained to the yoke of the stationary bicycle. They pedaled, encouraged by Proboscis’s gun and a wiggling of his fingers like a tiny man running.

  Dreck stood at the front of their row. “We need eighty-five thousand volts o’ good, old-fashioned electricity to keep the reactor’s cooling cycler online. If it drops below that, well, there won’t be much around for me to scold, let’s just say. The room’s sealed, so if you attempt any kamikaze missions to try taking us down, forget about it. The engine will stall, but we’ll survive while you blokes are cooked alive.” He clapped. “Great. Well, enjoy it, lads. The rodeo’s on a rain delay, but we’ll let you know once we get a new date penciled in. May the Goddess keep your gears greased.”

  The door slammed, Proboscis remaining with them. He threw a wheel set into the door to lock it fast. Standing in front of the line of new recruits, the noseless man drew back the hammer, the ratcheting sound keeping time with the slow crawl of his smile.

  Over the whirring, he shouted into Aksel’s face, “Get kicking.”

  Chapter 38

  An Impromptu Reunion

  Clyde stared into the darkness that had just swallowed his friend. Thankfully, the heartbreak was short lived. A heavy slam and a whooshed “Oof” announced Flam’s ungraceful touchdown, followed by a moan, a cough, and then a word not suitable to be quoted here.

  Clyde was so relieved, he actually laughed. Shining his flashlight into the chamber, he saw no Blatta scurrying down the walls to eat him or anything else. The darkness seemed to wholly absorb light.

  “There he is.” Nevele pointed.

  Far, far down was the brown dot that was their friend. His light blazed out a white triangle. He had fallen what seemed to be five stories, but it was hard to say. From above, it looked like Flam had landed in some sort of nonplace, as if he had reached the center of Gleese where there was nothing but solid darkness.

  “Is anything broken?” Nevele shouted. “Are you hurt?”

  “Well, I think my arse has two cracks in it now.”

  Clyde and Nevele exchanged looks.

  “He’s just fine,” she concluded.

  Flam slowly got to his feet and was glad that when he shined his light to and fro, there weren’t pieces of his body scattered all about. He could hear Nevele shouting: “Are you really okay, or are you just being macho?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Flam groaned, pushing a knuckle into the small of his back. “Mostly.”

  Above, into the narrow gap he had fallen through, lights darted this way and that. Undoubtedly the others were trying to figure out some way to get him out. He hoped it wouldn’t involve Stitches unraveling herself and using those things to pull him back up. He didn’t typically consider himself afraid of germs, but that seemed unsanitary to him.

  In the meantime, he decided to get his bearings. Maybe he could find a new route out. The surface he stood upon felt mighty cold, the chill soaking through his hooves and making his leg bones sore. He caught a glimmer on the ground. He waved his torch and saw another, then more.

  He bent and picked up some loose debris. Turning it to the light, he saw it gleamed just like . . . wendal stone. With some difficulty, he got his flashlight
to shine as brightly as it could.

  His jaw dropped.

  He was standing directly upon the deposit: the glacier-sized hunk of wendal stone.

  He knew he had a mission to fulfill. He knew he had given his word to Clyde. But he set all that aside to savor this moment.

  He stood in the boundless glory of the sight, all this stone. If it could be harvested and brought to the surface and taken to the prospectors, his great-great-great-great-grandkids could probably live off it. That is, if he didn’t blow every last bit of it on the finest drink, smoking mold, a different auto every day of the week . . . Plummets, why stop there? One every day of the month—the year! Not to mention the biggest reward of them all—he could settle down finally. Give up the scavenging, plant some seeds, so to speak, and live out a life that didn’t require eyes in the back of his head and a loaded ’buss under his pillow.

  More pragmatic uses for the money came to him. He’d have his parents’ burial plots remodeled. When his father died, they were too poor to get him a tombstone made out of anything but wood, and his mother’s funeral plaque was stamped plastic. He’d change that, get genuine marble—better yet, crystal—monuments put in. Something that’d befit the type of elegant, wonderful people they were. Something nice for Greenspire, too, even though his casket was empty. He was still his uncle, after all. Maybe he’d order a tombstone-slash-mailbox, somewhere he could deposit all these letters weighing down his satchel. That’d be nice.

  His starry-eyed delusion was smacked away when Clyde’s voice rained in from above. “We’ll come down and get you.”

  Hands on his hips and nodding for no particular reason, Flam peered from one corner of the beautiful sight to the other. The possibilities. “No rush,” he called back.

  Wondering if his goofy grin would ever go away, he turned around and nearly walked into the arrow trained upon his face.

  Standing directly ahead of him was a shrunken young man, wraith thin, his skin stained a putrid green, his eyes eerily milky. At first he thought the man was tall for a human, but then he noticed the man was at eye level with him because he was seated atop a saddled Blatta.