Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  “Ah, you’re here.”

  A gunshot sounded, and a cheer echoed behind it.

  Glancing, Aksel saw the woman that the group of pirates had been pursuing, now slumped and lifeless in the street. The pirates descended upon the body to take anything of value, yanking necklaces and cutting the ribbons binding her shoes to her legs.

  Aksel thought perhaps Dreck didn’t agree with this display when he drew his gun, stepped out from under the starship’s wing, and fired once into the air. But apparently he was merely summoning the pirates.

  The men came running and gathered in a circle at the end of the ramp.

  Aksel and the others were dragged, stumbling, into the middle with Dreck.

  Dreck stuffed the three-barreled gun away. “In the lawless spirit of Mole Hole, this is where we’ll hold the recruitment rodeo.”

  Excitement boiled up into every pirate face.

  Dreck spun on his heel. “For those who’ve never been to a rodeo—and how sad for you—it works like this: You three will attempt to kill each other, and whoever is left standing will be welcomed aboard. Every man you see here has gone through this. And if the Mechanized Goddess sees potential in you, she will make your tools work to your benefit.” He turned to Proboscis. “Give them their means, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Certainly, Captain,” Proboscis wheezed and drew from a holster at the small of his back a set of three switchblades and a small plastic remote, bundled by a length of twine. He took them all out and handed them to each man in turn, keeping the remote to himself.

  Aksel took the proffered switchblade. It was a type he was quite familiar with. He thumbed the button.

  “Not yet, friend,” Dreck said. “That’s not how the rodeo is done.”

  Proboscis said, “The knives have magnets inside controlled by this.” He waved the remote above his head. “Each round, I will press the remote, which will randomize a device inside every knife that may align the magnets to release the blade or keep it locked in place. Understand? One man will stand here and another here, both o’ you holding the stabby end of the handle to the other man’s neck. When I say go, you will press the button, and if the Goddess is smiling upon you today, your tools will do the same and kill the other man.”

  Aksel stole a peek at Ricky. He looked ready to fall apart, either from exhaustion or from the mental turmoil of this game. Over the course of pedaling for what felt like months, Aksel had forgiven Ricky. It made sense that Ricky would follow him. He didn’t need to ask him why he’d come. They’d always been partners, always looked out for one another. “Why not here, through this shite as well?” he could almost hear him say.

  Aksel felt the switchblade give a small vibration over and over as the magnets wheeled one way and then another, Proboscis testing the remote from a distance. The blade would pop out, then retract, and pop out again randomly. He looked up from the switchblade’s brushed chrome handle just as Proboscis pointed at him, then Neck Steve.

  “You and you. Right here.”

  Aksel swallowed, his throat so parched it felt as if boulders were being forced down his esophagus. On jelly legs, he stepped forward to where Proboscis pointed and squared up to face Neck Steve, who took to the position without hesitation, his round face set. Aksel looked at him full-on. If he had lost twenty pounds in sweat from the six-thousand-mile journey from the refugee camp to here, he wouldn’t be surprised.

  “Knives up.”

  Neck Steve immediately brought the cold knife handle out and held it to the skin covering Aksel’s carotid artery.

  With trepidation, Aksel held his switchblade up and pressed its harmless, slotted end to Neck Steve’s scarred neck.

  “One more for good luck,” Proboscis said and issued a few more clicks of the remote so their knives’ magnets swapped around a few more times. “And . . . go!”

  Aksel closed his eye and pressed the button. It wouldn’t depress all the way. He opened his eye and didn’t smell blood, nor did he feel a cold blade harpooning his throat. That round was over, no winner or loser named.

  “Next.”

  Neck Steve and Ricky.

  Click.

  Click.

  No blade.

  “Next.”

  Aksel and Ricky. Friends.

  When Proboscis said the word, Ricky closed his eyes.

  Click.

  Only after hearing Ricky’s knife did Aksel press his own.

  Click.

  “You two again,” Dreck ordered, bringing his index and middle fingers together in a scissoring motion toward Aksel and Neck Steve. “We’re losing daylight here.”

  Knives up. “Go.”

  Click.

  Click.

  “She’s being fickle today, eh, mates?” Neck Steve said hoarsely, but none of the pirates laughed.

  Aksel and Neck Steve stepped away from each other, neither acknowledging the other. This was just survival, really. If they had to voluntarily kill each other, Neck Steve wouldn’t bat an eye. Each time Aksel was paired with the man, he didn’t wait to press the button. He didn’t want to kill him, but if there was no way to get away, well . . . he was going to take what he had. He just hoped he had a chance to explain in the afterlife.

  “Go.”

  Click.

  Click.

  “All right,” Dreck grunted. “Enough is enough. Lightning round. Patches and Sack Man. You two, square up. Proboscis, keep hitting that thing. We’ve got to scoot boots soon.” Dreck eyed the horizon with a hand cupping his brow. “I’m sure one o’ these Molers called Adeshka when they saw us landing.”

  It took a lot for Aksel to step forward within Ricky’s reach again. They put the knives up. There would be no way to avoid it this time, no hoping they’d just kill Neck Steve on the next round. One of them had to die, or they all would.

  He looked into Ricky’s eyes. They were rimmed with tears. His mouth was moving, repeating the same phrase over and over. As Proboscis readied the magnets, Aksel had time to study Ricky’s chapped lips and pick up on what he was mouthing. “This time, this time, this time.”

  “Go.”

  Ricky pulled his knife away just as the blade popped out, giving Aksel just a glancing slice across his neck.

  Ricky spun and dove at the pirates with the knife low, ready to come in at Dreck with clearly nothing on his mind but sticking him in the heart with the blade. It was over in a flash. Ricky took only three long strides before a shot rang out and he was sprawling to the ground, the knife dropped from his hand.

  Aksel stood staring, the world’s sound sucked away.

  A smoldering bullet hole burned through Ricky’s heart.

  Aksel threw himself down to his friend’s aid. He didn’t care if it blew his cover.

  Ricky’s voice was scarcely audible. He was gone in a moment, but in that moment Aksel listened intently. “You go ahead. I’m sorry I followed you, but I had to get out of there and . . . just . . . you go ahead. You win. Look at me when I say this next bit, okay?”

  Aksel did.

  “Keep it up. Keep winning.” A weak smile formed on Ricky’s bloody lips, and his body went slack.

  When Aksel’s ears cooperated again and he returned to reality, he heard a chorus of erupting cheers.

  Aksel, despite himself and his audience, felt he would weep. Ricky had volunteered his spot so that Aksel could go on with his mission.

  He turned toward Dreck. His DeadEye’s computer was triggered by Aksel’s murderous thoughts, and the barrel prepared to extend from his left eye. One mental command—Stand down—was all it took for the computer to deactivate.

  “Something to say?” Dreck asked.

  “No.”

  Dreck holstered the gun nonchalantly. “Then . . . next.”

  With Ricky’s corpse not a full stride from his boot, Aksel stepped up to Neck Steve. The big man looked shaken now. It was an honest moment, facing death. Aksel had been there before: with the Fifty-Eighth, as a cart-pushing merchant accused of ri
pping someone off, even on a few occasions due to misunderstandings at bars. This was altogether different. They were being subjected to it. It was cruel.

  “I’m sorry if I win.”

  Neck Steve’s words shocked Aksel, but there was no time for a reply. Proboscis gave the go, and both men frantically clicked the knives in time with the remote’s advancing of the internal magnets.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Something felt different the millisecond that Aksel pressed his switchblade’s button this time. If there truly was a Mechanized Goddess—something he didn’t believe in—something had been issued, a stroke of luck, a sudden swap of fates. He felt the knife kick the blade out of its handle.

  Neck Steve’s face showed that he was the loser. He dropped his own switchblade to bring both hands to the knife in his neck. He fumbled to one side, a wet spatter hitting the unpaved road, gurgled, gasped, choked . . .

  Aksel looked away and tried not to listen. Steve was gone in a few seconds.

  He turned toward the pirates, who wore it plain on their faces that they had wanted the other man to win. Money was exchanged, slapped reluctantly from one filthy palm into the next. Dreck was the only one who seemed remotely pleased. More so when Proboscis next to him gave over a handful of spots, the plastic coins raining into the captain’s waiting hand.

  Aksel felt sick. If he hadn’t thrown up already, he would’ve now.

  He turned away from it all, felt his boots developing a mind of their own. Just run.

  Behind him, a revolver was cocked. “You look like a man who’s changed his mind,” Dreck droned.

  True, he didn’t want this. His friend was dead. His mission—to find the Sequestered Son, to find out when the Odium intended to attack Geyser again, if that was their plan—didn’t matter anymore. He had a hard time drawing the words into his throat, some curse that would provoke Dreck to shoot.

  Neck Steve weakly twisted on the ground, kicking a leg, reaching with a bloody hand toward the sky. Dreck temporarily moved the gun barrel from Aksel to fire three rounds toward the interruption.

  “What say you, Patches?” Dreck said. “Climbing aboard with us or no?”

  Back still to Dreck, Aksel looked to the sky. What if this mission operated as some sort of retribution, that once complete would wash all his shame from him? What if finding the Sequestered Son meant loosing himself from everything before, so he could float up toward a better life? He didn’t care about having a new name, the pick of the cities, or all the spots that could fill his wallet. He didn’t want to be the man to do these jobs anymore. He didn’t want to have a reputation hanging on him like a stain. He didn’t want to die under these circumstances, unfulfilled, a man incomplete. All this passed through his mind in the span of a heartbeat, while a dozen murderous pirates stood behind him. His various thoughts compiled into one.

  He had to keep going.

  “May the Goddess keep your gears greased, brothers.” He turned.

  Dreck smiled and lowered his gun. “Glad to hear it. Now get on board, all of you. We got a king in need of a lift.”

  Chapter 40

  Dangerous Accommodations

  Pitka Gorett had ordered his men to gather in the palace’s front lawns at precisely one hour till highest suns. Once they were in formation, he exited onto the balcony and looked over them all, a sorry sight compared to how they’d looked at the onset of this mess.

  The formerly strapping men were malnourished and visibly exhausted. They all had their visor-equipped helmets off and tucked under their right arms uniformly, but it seemed done out of habit, as if they were going through the motions, waiting for him to be done just so they could go sit down.

  The king drew in a deep breath, a deliberate three-second pause for effect. “My men. This is a wearisome time for Geyser. In the entire history of this great city, we have never encountered so much tragedy. Our enemies surround us, coming up from the earth and down from the skies to claim our lives. Everywhere we turn, there is peril and challenge.” He surveyed their faces, seeing concern and doubt.

  He continued after a sigh. “But you must stay vigilant. You must see to it that Geyser remains as a prevailing outpost for mankind on this planet. While I may be gone, know that all your efforts will not go unnoticed.”

  At that, some of them shifted; some glowered.

  “All of you have fought hard, seen to it that law and order can remain steadfast in this glorious place. But I must realign my focus to see to it that I face my own challenges as well. I must keep the crown safe. I must fight my own fight to ensure that the kingdom of Geyser continues to draw breath. Upon my return, all of you will be granted many treasures, your pick of the houses in the residential ward, and a generous share of the deposit’s earnings.”

  “You’re leaving us?” one of the men called out.

  “No,” Gorett shouted to keep them in line. “I am not leaving you. Do not make it sound like abandonment, guardsman. I will not forsake you. I simply see that we need further numbers. I mean to forge an alliance with an outside force, perhaps quell one enemy’s desires so that we can live to fight another equally powerful foe, one that has infested the geyser herself.” He gestured grandly at the towering visual aid in the middle of the city.

  “But the Odium killed my sister!”

  “They burned down my father’s church.”

  “This is a perfect example of why King Pyne was a much better leader.”

  In moments, they all had broken into a choir of anger.

  Gorett had to shout several times to regain their silent attention. “You must stay true to the cause. You must see to it that your individual deaths are not merely empty sacrifices but a means to an end in a fight that will come to an end as long as we persevere!” And since it seemed the time to put his foot down, he shouted, “I will not tolerate a mutiny, and any man who abandons his post will be killed!”

  “By whom?” one of the communications officers shouted. “Who will enforce it? You? You won’t be anywhere near here. You warn us about abandoning our posts. What are you doing? You’re the deserter here if anyone is to be called such a thing.”

  They all cheered at that. As one, they broke file and were now becoming a mob of soldiers, cutting across the courtyard and picking their way up the palace stairs to the balcony, shouting their disgust.

  Gorett knew this would be his sole opportunity to get away unharmed. He went down the other side of the stairs lining the front of the palace and bolted as fast as his legs could carry him to the main gates, picking up his cloak in the front so he wouldn’t trip. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually ran.

  Even though they were weary, the guardsmen gave immediate chase.

  Gorett shoved through the gates and tumbled out into the city square. He had grown up here, knew the city like the back of his hand. He had requested they pick him up in the square, but since there was still no sign of a ship, he had to lure the guardsmen away from the landing zone if he was going to make it out with his life. He quelled his fear and turned it into a burst of energy. Soon I’ll be through with this place.

  He made the loop through the alleys, across First Circle Street. He evaded the men who had once hung on his every word and cheered at the climax of every rousing speech he’d given.

  He was slathered in sweat when he returned to the square, pleased to see it was clear of his former men-at-arms. Against the glare of the suns, he spotted the telltale blossom in the sky, whiter than any cloud. His heart sang.

  The obnoxiously painted craft glided down like a swollen bumblebee. Among the colorful blotches of paint, a big, round cat face had been stenciled onto its side. That damned winking cat with the top hat and its tongue protruding. Nearly every building in his city was marred with it. But Gorett’s opinion of the Odium’s mascot, the Dapper Tom, changed at once. If it meant his safety, he’d have the image tat
tooed onto his forehead. Fine. Whatever. Just get me away from this mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  The engine gurgled and clanked, and when it changed over from forward thrust to hovering, employing six smaller jets along its belly, it spewed a black cloud and clanked and wheezed even louder.

  Behind him: “There! There he goes!”

  The guardsmen spilled into the square, took up pieces of trash and broken rock, and opened fire at their king as well as the Odium craft. Gorett pounded at the underside of the hovering craft, screaming for them to open up. The hatch depressurized with a loud hiss, spewing steam, and the rear of the craft split open, a long metal plank ejecting.

  Clambering up it, Gorett used the handles and dug his fingers into the slats of the plank, dishonorable on his hands and knees. He didn’t care. He was nearly free. He’d made it here unharmed. If he weren’t breathing so hard right now, he may have laughed.

  Once inside, he didn’t even take a look at who was there. With any luck, it would be empty, sent down on autopilot to fetch him.

  But no, he confirmed, as he collapsed among the myriad filthy boots. He was yanked up to his feet, his cloak tearing. Even this he didn’t care about—the manhandling or his garments being ruined.

  The hatch slammed, followed by a prolonged screech and thud as the cabin pressurized again. The lurch in his belly told him they were no longer hovering. They were moving now—and fast. He fumbled backwards, tried to grab one of the pirates but they let him go ahead and fall into the bulkhead and back onto the floor.

  Over him, one of them stood. He recognized him from the wanted posters that he, as king, had often been asked to review and estimate a reward for. Small, wicked eyes over a dark triangle in the center of his face where a nose should have been. Hard to forget a face like that.

  “I’d like to offer you my most humble thanks and—”

  “Save it,” the pirate said, picking him up again and shoving him harshly into a jump seat bolted to the wall. “The captain will be out in a minute. He’s in the head at the moment.”