by Andrew Post
Fixing his robe, Gorett noticed how awful it smelled in there, like old onion-tinged sweat and the cloying odor of engine grease. Strangely, it brought to mind the mini jewelry factory his mother had set up in their apartment kitchen. Odd, getting nostalgic at a time like this . . .
After a few minutes of travel, Gorett noticed all the others as they came and went throughout the ship, tending to different tasks. They were all filthy as this first one, dressed in mismatched panels of armor, some of which he recognized to be lifted from the corpses of Patrol guardsmen. All were unkempt; all had either very long, gnarled hair or skulls shaved to stubble.
One thing stood out at once that they all shared. Each man was missing one part of himself or another: an arm, a leg, an eye, or some teeth. One sat strapped in at the gunnery controls, and as he spun to shoot Gorett a malignant wink, he revealed he had no lower jaw. At first, Gorett thought it was a trick of his eyes. He stared openly and unapologetically, figuring the man was used to this.
“Like anything you see?” the man hissed with the aid of a robotic-voiced speaker box bolted to his chest.
Gorett reeled and stared at the wall, the floor, horror-struck.
They laughed.
Outside one of the smeared portholes, he could see Geyser: just a tiny toadstool far, far below. Jagged Bay surrounding the island was clear and shimmering. He wished he was leaving under better circumstances, but it was better to be a breathing coward than a dead hero. Or, in his case, better to be a breathing coward than a dead traitor. His conscience gave a tiny click of activity, but all he had to do was remind himself about the deposit and that part of his mind was hushed once more.
A door opened, creaking obnoxiously on ungreased hinges.
A man approached.
All the others made way, crushing themselves against the walls of the craft’s hull to give him suitable breadth.
The first thing Gorett noticed was the captain’s headwear, clearly an Adeshka army captain’s tri-corner, although it’d been spray painted a fluorescent green over the Adeshka maroon. He removed a set of aviator sunglasses and sauntered to Gorett, yanking a fingerless glove off and thrusting a hand toward him.
Gorett recalled the man with no nose informing him that Dreck was in the head, which he knew to be the lavatory, and wondered if this man had washed his hands. Either way, he accepted his handshake, which nearly dislocated his shoulder.
“Pitka Gorett,” Dreck droned. “Tell me, should I have the boys prepare the goose down comforter for your chambers? Or would you like to have some quiche and croquet before your midday nap?”
Uproarious laughter filled the craft.
Gorett snickered and smiled politely.
“Just a bit of humor. My apologies.” Dreck took a seat across the narrow hold of the starship and put his right ankle to his left knee, his leather trousers creaking. From seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a double-barreled scattergun.
For a moment, Gorett thought it was the end for him—so soon, too—but was relieved as Dreck used the spiked pommel on the end of the gun’s grip to pick under a thumbnail.
Gorett folded his arms into his billowing sleeves.
With their boss present, the other men were no longer throwing morbid looks at Gorett, but in fact all seemed a bit on edge. It reminded Gorett of the bit of stage acting he’d done for spots in his youth with the other children born of vendor parents. These pirate underlings looked to him like his fellow street performers who hadn’t studied their lines and were hoping those to the right and left knew their cue.
Dreck spoke, still working at something under his purpled thumbnail. “And how long are we goin’ to have you accompanying us, Your Majesty?” he asked, chin to chest. When Gorett didn’t answer straightaway, his jaundiced yellow eyes peered up. “Because I got me a quarter-ton drill-head off-planet in layaway I’ve been making payments on, and I shouldn’t leave the shopkeeper waiting.”
Gorett cleared his throat to summon his kingly voice. “We stay clear of Geyser for some time, and when we return, all the bloodshed will be over. I have my men standing guard. Whatever happens, when we get there, there won’t be anyone to contend with, I assure you.”
The pirate wiped a strand of grease-mottled hair out of his eyes. “Funny. My eyes—they aren’t so good. Correct me if I’m wrong, but your men didn’t look one bit too pleased about you leaving them behind. And the funny thing about men—they don’t tend to have that same fightin’ spirit when their boss man has scooted on them.”
Apparently satisfied with the state of his nails now, he tucked the scattergun away. “Be a shame if we come back and that deposit was already dragged outta the ground, wouldn’t it? I would be mighty sad about that. And there’s a bit of a funny thing ’bout me, Pitka. You see, boo-hoos are contagious. When I’m not happy”—he leaned forward—“nobody’s happy.”
“You’ll keep your hands off me.”
The entire group, Dreck included, broke into a fresh peal of laughter. They all mimicked Gorett with yippy voices and commenced with further howling and doubling over, slapping knees. Even the man missing his jaw let loose a robotic ha-ha-ha from his speaker box.
“Okay, boys. That’s enough,” Dreck said, chuckling. “We all knew he was going to be this way, so let’s just . . . let him get it out of his system now, all right?”
The man with no nose suggested, “Let’s give him the rules.”
Dreck shouted at the top of his lungs, “Simply stupendous idea.” He clapped his hands in time, and the others joined in. Dreck watched them like a proud parent would watch a performing child as they called out in a singsong chant: “You cheat, you bleed! You cheat, you bleed!”
Soon, Dreck joined in the song, and all of them began to dance, shouting their mantra: “You cheat, you bleed! You cheat, you bleed!”
He turned away, pulled his robe tighter, and stared absently at the aircraft’s grimy bulkhead. “At least I’m not in the company of any blasted fabrick weavers.”
He didn’t mean it to be so loud, and he didn’t think he could’ve been heard, not over the engines of this rust bucket, but the dancing stopped at once, save for the man who had only one leg, who hopped for a few more steps until finding a grip on a wall-mounted handle.
In one fluid motion, Dreck lifted Gorett by his cloak and slammed him against the opposite wall of the aircraft. He pointed into his face, gritted his teeth, chuckled low, then caught Gorett’s stare, ready to talk with his temper momentarily dammed.
“Apologies, mate. But would you possibly care to repeat that?”
“Let go of—”
“No, no, no. I asked you to repeat what you said about weavers just now. And I asked it nice. I did.”
Gorett could scarcely breathe with Dreck’s forearm pressed against his throat. “I was only expressing that I’m glad none of you are fabrick weavers.” He choked. “You’re just salt-of-the-earth men”—he indicated the others with a strained bob of his head—“and not practitioners of fabrication.”
Holding Gorett in place, Dreck lifted his opposite hand in front of the king and opened and closed his fist a couple of times.
Gorett watched calmly at first and was about to ask what the meaning of all this was, then his scalp began to tingle. The flesh of Dreck’s outstretched arm developed marks, like the latitude and longitude lines of a map. Then, in one silent burst, the entire arm divided into individual dices of flesh suspended like an exploded-view diagram of a machine.
All the while, Dreck remained perfectly calm—as if this didn’t hurt an ounce at all. His brow twitched, and the dices of flesh tumbled and moved around atop one another in a puzzle of dizzying complexity. No longer did the man have fingers or an arm, just a chaos of cubes chasing one another, turning, flipping, folding, compressing, decompressing—all while Dreck watched, seemingly bored.
“You see, Gorett, even the most blue collar of Gleese’s children can be granted fabrick, if the fates choose it. I happen to be a Fractioner. Yep. Anything mechan
ical, anything with working parts or elements that move I can take apart and put together any way I please. Even you, for example. I could take you apart, Pitka, make it so your head is coming out your arse, perhaps put two arms on one side—or, hell, I could just make you into a mess that looks somethin’ akin to my mum’s Sunday haggis. And the best part about it: you wouldn’t feel a thing. Not unless I wanted you to, of course.”
The men with their missing parts. That was how it was done.
Dreck must’ve seen him looking at them. “Aye. I fix ’em when I can. I do my best with what they bring back in a bag.” He indicated the man with half a head. “Stewart is a particular achievement. Ain’t that right?”
The man without a lower mandible droned a fuzzy, “Yes, sir.”
“Bone worms,” Dreck said. “Pretty nasty things. Did what I could, but you can see with your own eyes Stewart’s still alive and well, in one definition or another.”
Gorett watched the dice of Dreck’s hand move around, rearrange, and then come back into shape. Dreck released the stasis, and he opened and closed his hand again. He paused, flipped his hand around for Gorett to see, the limb complete.
“Another example might be in order.” Dreck turned to one of his nearby men, this one with only one ear. “Get our little friend Aksel out here, would you?”
The pirate dutifully sprang to his feet and marched off.
Dreck pulled away the arm pinning Gorett to the wall, but he kept the king in his fixed stare. The faintest of smiles curled on Dreck’s flaking lips.
A young man with long, ratty hair and an eye patch was brought out into the aircraft’s holds. Two of the other pirates had to restrain him. Gorett got a look at the writhing man, bearded and generally disheveled, naked above the waist and dotted with deep bruises. His eye patch banding his head had been knocked askew so it now was more like a nose patch, and below it, a snarl of fear and anger stretched his pale lips wide. Dreck broke his gaze from the king to face the captive, narrating for Gorett’s benefit.
“We got a rule among us, Pitka. One that’s kind of important when dealing with aeronautics. Weight is something of an issue, as you probably know. Can’t fly straight with a lot of excess worthlessness in your trunk.” He looped an arm around the bound man. “Isn’t that right, Aksel?”
Gorett glanced at the porthole. An endless blur of yellow screamed past below. They were no longer over Jagged Bay but over the dead Lakebed to the north of Geyser’s island, the mainland.
Gorett had never seen this man and didn’t really like the look of him, though he wasn’t as ghastly as the others. For whatever reason, he felt a sympathetic fear for him. Holding on to the strap dangling from the ceiling even harder now, he said, “You’re going to throw this man out?”
“That I am.”
After grabbing the chain binding the man’s wrists, Dreck pulled so his palm was clearly displayed. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the man screamed. Dreck looked over his shoulder at Gorett as he removed a square from the victim’s palm without even touching it.
“Let’s say a year, then. Will that be sufficient enough of a wait?”
Dreck’s question was nearly drowned out by the man’s scream ringing off the metal walls.
Gorett nearly covered his ears. “Why are you doing this to him?” he cried, unable to stomach it a moment more.
“Answer me.” Dreck eyed Gorett. “It’s rude not to answer when someone asks you a question.”
“Yes, yes, a year. That’s fine!” Gorett snapped, as if this would end the suffering of the man in Dreck’s grasp. Instead, the screaming continued, even doubled, when Dreck motioned for one of the others to reopen the rear compartment hatch.
“So why am I doing this?” Dreck said, grunting with his near inability to restrain the man. “Because, like the boys told you in their informative serenade, you cheat, you bleed.”
Gorett winced at the spray of fierce noontime sunshine. Wind pounded inside, and trash and debris were ripped out. It felt like his hand would break if he clutched the strap any harder. Gorett’s beard became alive, twisting this way and that.
Again, the man with the eye patch made fleeting eye contact with him. But the man was too woozy—either from pain or blood loss—to sustain it.
“And when trying to keep the weight down, who better to give the flying lesson to than one of the cheats?” Dreck cocked an eyebrow while turning the profusely bleeding man around so he was squared up with the open hatch. The injured man kicked weakly, but it was pointless.
“Any last words?” Dreck asked, his mouth pressed against the man’s ear.
He clutched his hand, blood pouring between the fingers. His gaze was loose, his remaining eye rolling. “Yeah,” he managed, “I’ve got one.”
“Oh?” Dreck said, feigning pleasant surprise. “Go on, then. Do tell.”
“Bang.”
The eyelid surrounded in a deep tan-line popped open, and a telescoping shaft emerged from the socket in a flash.
Dreck recoiled as if slapped, shouted in surprise—and anger at being surprised—and kicked the man in the chest, sending him tumbling toward the open hatch. Just as his boots were skidding across the precipice of his doom, a blast sounded—and a spattering of warmth hit Gorett’s face.
The man fell out of sight silently. Clutching his arm, Dreck slammed the button next to the hatch to raise the ramp.
It sealed once more, and Gorett’s beard settled down. He touched at his face and looked at his fingers. Red.
Dreck collapsed into a seat, a bullet hole in his left shoulder. “Why didn’t anyone check him for one of those?” he screamed at his men.
They mumbled apologies and went back to their tasks with a little bit more of a skip in their step than before, all fighting to keep out of the captain’s sight.
Gorett also kept quiet and watched as Dreck held up his trembling, bleeding arm, made it splinter apart again. When it was a cloud of cubes floating in the air, the bullet—the breadth of Gorett’s thumb—hit the floor with a thud. Dreck reassembled his arm and it was once again whole, not a single mar in the suns-leathered flesh whatsoever. Dreck hocked and spat on the closed hatch. “Good riddance.”
“Who was he?” Gorett said, unable to keep his voice from quavering.
“You cheat, you bleed. Remember? Or, in his case, you take on the recruit, toy with him, and make him kill someone to prove he’ll go the whole nine yards. And then you run a check on him to see if he’s a spy. Here. Catch.”
Something landed on Gorett’s lap. He stared at it: the bloody tile of flesh nestled among the white hills of his robe between his knees. As much as he wanted it off him, he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. “A spy?” Perhaps someone had heard about him aligning with the Odium and planted a spy to covertly dispatch him.
Dreck glanced out a porthole, as if afraid the man he just threw out might be hanging on to the tail fin. “He used to run with a militia based out of Adeshka. I will never trust a man with military experience save for what I teach him. Shame, too. We just picked him up the other day. Really went for it. He killed another man just to make us believe he was one of us.”
He looked at Gorett briefly, then back outside the Magic Carpet’s porthole once more. With a fingertip, he squeaked a drop of blood off the glass that was obstructing his view. “Probably would’ve been fine keeping him on, even with his history, if I hadn’t opened my big mouth about who we were picking up next. Just couldn’t take the chance.”
Gorett wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or scared by the pirate’s forward thinking. Clearly Dreck had some sort of plan. He thought it best not to respond at all.
Dreck shrugged and stepped away from the porthole. “Listen, we’ll reach the ice caps by sundown. I’d suggest you get comfortable. It’s going to take a while, and we don’t stop for anything.” He cuffed Gorett on the knee as he passed him. “Chin up. As captain of the Odium, I’d like to welcome you aboard, King Gorett.”
�
��Thank you,” Gorett replied numbly.
“Roll out the welcome wagon for our guest,” Dreck muttered on his way out the door. His laughter boomed throughout the ship.
A man in women’s makeup and clothes appeared, adjusted his coconut bra, and made sure his lei was straight. He danced in front of Gorett, a look of misery on his face. “Welcome aboard, Mister Prime Minister. Welcome aboard,” he sang dryly.
Gorett ignored the man as well as he could. Looking down, he caught sight of the swatch of skin. It made it rather impossible to ignore the mistake he had made.
A year with these people.
Chapter 41
A Ceremonious Occasion
Flam saw where his uncle had been living for countless cycles: in a dark hole in the wall with makeshift tents of animal skins and collected exoskeletons of Blatta. The bugs seemed completely docile now, and not a one attacked or even made noise. Unlike their riders, they could see in the dark and heeded hand gestures and understood several vocal commands. The humans themselves were a strange group, though. They walked around with no clothes on at all and seemed to be either painted or tattooed with splotches of green and black in intricate designs all over their bodies. The men wore unruly beards and hair that hung to their shoulders. The women uniformly wore their hair forward, swept from back to front in a veil in front of their faces. Everyone walked in a hunched manner, even the children. It seemed their bodies had adapted to maneuvering narrow passages, and even when the space allowed for an upright walk, they continued to bend at the middle.
Greenspire gestured at a seat by the fire. On the spit, they were roasting what appeared to be a giant maggot skewered end to end. He poked the grub with his finger and gave it a few more rotations over the fire. He leaned over the roasting maggot, gave it a long sniff, and turned toward Flam.
“I know it’s not typical Mouflon eating, but you have to remember I’ve been down here for a very long time. Chik-clickity. Of course, Mouflons are famous for adapting. Legend says some of us developed gills like the Cynoscion just to eke out a living.”
