Fabrick

by Andrew Post

  They gripped on to the Mouflon and, together, rode up the remainder of the hollow shaft and out the top of the geyser, launching high above the city into the radiant sunlight.

  “Hold on,” Flam shouted, and Nevele and Clyde clutched his suit’s straps.

  The circular city below kept falling out from beneath them, the hot air pushing them into the sky.

  The Blatta didn’t have to beat their wings except to perform minor corrections to stay level. Together, they rode up through the cloud bank, Geyser washing out of sight.

  Flam couldn’t help but let out a whoop. They were genuinely flying, and what a thrill it was.

  Chapter 43

  The Reemergence

  The light of the suns warmed their skin. They soared until it seemed if they dared go any higher, they might leave the planet. The three, upon the overburdened Blatta, held on for dear life but couldn’t help but laugh. It was such a relief to be out of the mines, and what better way to make an exit to a new place of such high contrasting scenery?

  Clyde saw the strange people Flam had apparently befriended, all lithe and with matted hair. They looked happy, though. Not a single sad face among them. And if they could tolerate Flam for any length of time, well, they couldn’t be all bad. He spotted a hunched, gray-haired Mouflon riding a Blatta hands free of the reins, and Clyde’s mind reeled. Could this be . . . Flam’s uncle?

  Before he could ask, he was interrupted when he felt a stirring in his guts. It was the same sensation he’d felt when they were saved by Nevele’s net when the elevator gave out. But it wasn’t as bad. He just felt weightless all of a sudden. Flam’s satchel levitated. They were falling. He took two fistfuls of Flam’s back hair and held on for dear life.

  The Lulomba landed among the Patrol autos on the roof of the palace, the stairs, the balconies. There was no one there to fight. All the guardsmen’s guns had been cast aside, their helmets scattered all over. A pyre roared, a heap of Patrol armor melting down to liquid metal.

  Flam steered the Blatta to touch down softly in the courtyard. Clyde and Nevele climbed off and surveyed the empty palace grounds.

  “Did we strike so much terror into the men that they vaporized?” Greenspire inquired proudly.

  Clyde looked to Flam, who was still seated atop the Blatta, nearly crushing the poor thing. It was a remarkable sight.

  Flam nodded at the strangeness of it all. He dismounted, letting the saddled insect scurry away. “Looks like there won’t be much of a fight.”

  Clyde surveyed his surroundings. He couldn’t remember the palace at all, even though apparently it had once been his home. At the arched front doors, he saw a group of men stripped down to their chain mail tunics and breeches, standing together in a loose knot. They all looked terrified, backing away as a group of saddled Lulomba approached, arrows ready.

  Flam, Clyde, and Nevele—and Rohm, on Nevele’s shoulder—pushed through the collected Lulomba and made their way up the stairs to meet the guardsmen.

  In the weird clicking dialect of the cave people, Greenspire gave the word to stand down.

  The guardsmen looked dejected and apologetic, noticing Clyde step up to the balcony with Commencement in his hand. They seemed to silently debate who would step forward to explain themselves.

  “What’s going on?” Clyde said. “Where’s Gorett?”

  One of the guardsmen, young with blond hair and shining blue eyes, stepped forward. “He’s abandoned us. He decided to align with the Odium and flee. He feared this would happen—that the Blatta would invade.” He looked them over. “But I’m sure he never expected all this.”

  A Blatta clicked its pincers, the guardsmen recoiling as one.

  Glancing at the bug riders and then Clyde, the guardsman added, “We don’t serve him anymore. No. Not after today. Honestly, a lot of us wanted to quit when he sent everyone away, but because of the wages and his threats . . . Forgive me, but it’s been a long few months.” He rubbed his temple, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. He seemed nearly in tears.

  “I understand,” said Clyde. “So what next?” He looked at Flam, then at the older Mouflon, who bore a faint resemblance.

  They returned stoic Mouflon stares, studying Clyde as he studied them.

  Next, he surveyed the pale individuals with the ratty hair and painted bodies, still saddled on their insects. They seemed to have no opinion either but crowded around the older Mouflon as if waiting for a cue.

  Lastly, he looked at Nevele and Rohm, but they gave no indication as to what Clyde should do either.

  This was truly up to him, entirely in his hands.

  For as long as he could remember, he was the one who jumped when asked and took confessions when barked at. Now he was the one responsible to issue a decision. It was a weighty feeling, as if he were holding Geyser together. He felt, for the first time, as if he had gravity. Not the same that kept everything from spiraling into the starry airless yonder but a different kind. A scarier kind.

  He turned to the guardsman and took a moment to form his question. “Is he coming back?”

  Another guardsmen stepped forward to answer, this one older. “I was a communications officer for Gorett. He sent a message to the Odium, said that if they helped him he’d give them a share of the wendal stone deposit. I’m sure, being who they are, they’ll want to make good on that contract and return.”

  “And he didn’t take any of you with him?”

  “No,” the officer said, jaw tight. “Gorett has revealed himself as a traitor. A wretch like him is unworthy of our service. He turned on his own people not once but twice.” He noticed Clyde’s gun and scowled. “That’s Commencement, King Pyre’s royal sidearm. Why do you have it?” But his anger was quickly ushered away. With eyes big, he moved his mouth but couldn’t speak the words: Sequestered Son.

  Clyde, not wanting a big rabble to come out of this, continued at once. “You men worked in allegiance to Gorett, not because you were honoring him, but because you were working for the palace. While you may have been doing wrong, you had to obey him or be killed. You can stay in Geyser, but not one of you will be allowed to wear the uniform of the Royal Patrol again.”

  All the guardsmen nodded.

  The communications officer said, “That’s quite a good amount of pity you’re showing us, sir. We truly appreciate it, and we understand your decision. I don’t think any of us would want to put the uniform back on, even if you asked us to.”

  Not one among them argued this statement.

  “Please go,” Clyde said and waved them on. “Remain in the city, though. If what you say about Gorett is true, then he’ll be back soon. The quarantine is still in effect, and there won’t be any way off the island for a while. As a matter of fact, you there,” he said, taking the communications officer by the arm as he passed, “let’s rectify that problem right now. The geyser is flowing again. Power will be restored. Contact the encampment where the citizens are being held, and call them back immediately.”

  The guardsman, in plain tunic and breeches, turned and headed up the blond stone steps in tired strides.

  Clyde looked back at Flam and Nevele, and together they followed the guardsman inside.

  The palace was cool and dark, its architecture strangely curvy. No hallway was a straight shot. No corridor had a single corner. Yet it didn’t have the feeling of being obscure or mazelike at all. If anything, it felt naturally made. As power came back and electric candelabras and chandeliers sprang to life here and there, Clyde noticed the walls had the same glimmer to them that a majority of the structures around the city did, shimmering flakes set into the stonework.

  They followed the communications officer as he loped along, a visible hitch in his step.

  “My name is Alan,” he said without turning around, his voice boomeranging behind him to Clyde and the others. “I served the Royal Guard since I was sixteen. I won’t say how many years that’s been.” He chuckled and gave Clyde a glance.

  Clyde
offered a smirk and noticed Alan’s smattering of gray hair. He didn’t entirely trust this man yet. Not after what they’d been through.

  “I suppose you’ll probably want to see the main chambers,” Alan said, stopping at a set of impressively large doors with wrought-iron hinges. He nodded at the emerald gun tucked in Clyde’s holster. “If you are who I think you are.”

  “I’d rather not let that be known just yet,” Clyde began.

  Alan nodded vigorously with a big smile on his face. “I understand. No need to explain. Just let me say, though, if you are, you know, him . . . let me be the first to say it’ll be an honor being in the same city with a man who bears the name Pyne.” He seemed to want to touch Clyde, to pat him on the shoulder or even embrace him like an old friend but refrained. “I really liked him.” Blinking, he collected his posture and took a step back. “I’ll get on the horn with Adeshka and let them know it’s safe for our citizens to start heading back. I’m sure they’ll be happy to get the news.”

  “Thank you,” Clyde said as the guardsman walked off.

  He turned to the giant doors, reached for the handle, but didn’t take the big metal ring in his hand just yet. Facing the door, he heard Flam shuffle forward. A big paw clapped him on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Looking away from the handle, he saw Flam’s big smile.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Pasty? Let’s check out your home.”

  Clyde felt a burst of enthusiasm. “All right,” he said, and pushed through.

  Inside was bigger than any room he had ever been in before. The walls held a tableau stretching from one wall to the next as a continuous piece of fantastic creatures, darting starships, and winged maidens. Above, more murals. A man and a woman, she with cascading raven hair and he with a slicked-back silver coif. Together they clutched a longsword made of a deep emerald-colored metal. Together they beamed benevolently, their gazes earnest and loving.

  Nevele stepped next to him. “There they are. Lord and Lady Pyne.”

  “I can see where you get your hairstyle from now,” Flam teased.

  Below the king and queen, seeming to float within this painting’s beatific world, were four swaddled babies. None of their faces could be seen.

  “Tym, Raziel, Moira, and you.”

  Clyde’s focus returned to the sword, the centerpiece of the painting. His hand trailed to his side and brushed Commencement, lodged firmly in its holster.

  “It was a sword,” he said.

  “Could be again,” Nevele suggested. “Once the smithy gets back.”

  “Geez, Pasty. What’ll you ever do with this place? What a dump.” Flam guffawed at his own joke, walking to the throne and approximating it from a safe distance, hands on hips. He looked over his shoulder. “I’m kidding.”

  Clyde smiled. “I know.”

  They continued to tour the chamber, looking at all the leather-bound books on the shelves, the immaculate stonework, Nevele providing trivia on the things she knew. And finally at the front of the room, she pressed a button, and shutters rose from the floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the far wall. Clyde approached, suns blaring into the room. The view overlooked Geyser, all of it at once. Night was falling, and every streetlight glowed without flickering or dying out. Every bulb upon the geyser itself was illuminated. The entire city was glowing in white light.

  An hour later, the palace security walls at the edge of the front gardens were dropped. Anyone could come up as they pleased, which Clyde wanted. They had little in the palace pantries that hadn’t spoiled, but he requested some coffee and tea be available at the very least. His heart swelled when the first elevator in the courtyard was lowered and even more so when the first load of people were brought up from the island docks. They looked both crestfallen at the broken state of their city and happy to be home.

  Clyde and the others had gone off to help make the city as respectable as they could for the returning citizens, activating custodial bots and the like, but the place was too much of a mess to tackle all in one day.

  It didn’t take long for an infectious relief to spread among them, and more people were brought up one elevator trip at a time. Happiness began to take hold. Children chased each other, taking to familiar streets and recovering lost toys and belongings. Adults walked around, hugging loved ones. Tears were shed, Clyde noticed, but the smiles far outnumbered them. To his eyes, they seemed to look at Geyser not as one would look upon ruins beyond hope but as a project that—while big—just needed to be started and taken one thing at a time.

  Clyde returned to the palace, to his father’s chamber, and saw Nevele typing at a processor. She turned the monitor around, showing him the image of a microphone on the screen. Wide eyed, she urged him over.

  He looked at it, then at her, confused.

  “Say something,” she whispered, waving toward the monitor. “It’s on.”

  “Like what?” Clyde said, and that was when he heard his own voice, a half beat later, booming over the city.

  Out the windows, he saw some of the citizens standing around the functioning geyser, looking around in a concerned way as if they were about to hear another speech that began, “Please gather only what is necessary . . .”

  Nevele raised her hands and backed away, a playful smile on her face. “Hey,” she whispered, “you’re the big cheese now. Not me.”

  Clyde looked at one couple in particular out in the square, spied from all the way across the front gardens. He focused on them as he spoke through the citywide PA system. “Welcome home,” he said, sharing what he felt in his heart. “Welcome home, everyone.”

  An official reception was held the following day. Even though a majority of the city’s people were bone tired, there was still a good turnout at the great hall.

  One woman charged up the palace’s front steps, and a few volunteer guards tried to bar her entrance.

  Clyde had been sitting outside with Nevele when he heard the commotion. Even more startling was that he recognized the woman. Miss Selby.

  “It’s okay,” he told the men trying to hold her back.

  She squealed at the sight of Clyde, overjoyed. They let her go, and his dear friend leaped up the last few stairs. She nearly strangled him with her overzealous embrace. “I thought that was your voice. Thank goodness. I was sure you were—” She was smiling, but tears were in her eyes. “I went to the house, and . . . Do you know about Mr. Wilkshire?”

  All he could do was nod.

  She thumbed his chin so he’d look at her. “It’s okay, Clyde. It’s okay. He’s in a better place now.” She embraced him again. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

  “I’m glad you’re here too.”

  Voice muffled in the hug, Miss Selby said, “Dear, I have to say, I’m very confused about what’s going on around here.”

  Clyde chuckled. “Me too.”

  “Will you explain it to me when it’s all sorted out?”

  “I will.”

  “Clyde?” Nevele said.

  Miss Selby released him, and he looked at Nevele at the top of the stairs, her thumb pointed over her shoulder. Despite the bandages on her face and neck, she wasn’t wearing her hood and her hair was swept out of her radiant eyes. “I’m really sorry to interrupt, but I think everyone’s ready now.”

  “Go ahead, dear. I’ll be in there too, cheering you on the entire time.”

  “Thank you, Miss Selby. I’m very happy to know that you’re . . . that everything went okay . . . that you . . .”

  “I understand, dearie.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I love you too.”

  When Clyde arrived, Flam was on the dais, examining the throne. Noticing Clyde had arrived, he stepped out of the way to give him full view of it and the changes they’d made to it.

  The seat was heavily padded in red leather, the massive chair set on top of a tablet of marble. When Clyde entered this room, the commotion stopped. Not even a murmur passed as all waited for the Sequestered Son to say something, do som
ething, even so much as look at them.

  Clyde had heard of stage fright, but this was ridiculous. There must’ve been a thousand people in this room. He trained his gaze on his feet. He was still in his ripped miner’s suit. He had been looking for something more suitable but had simply run out of time. Getting a city back on its legs was no small chore.

  Clyde approached the throne and put a hand upon its armrest, feeling the various temperatures of the natural materials: stone, metal, wood. He held his hand there and stared at the seat a moment. He didn’t step up onto the tablet, didn’t ease himself into the chair. For the first time, he acknowledged the crowd head-on.

  The crowd began to talk among themselves. Many of them claimed he looked like his mother, while just as many claimed he looked like King Pyne. Altogether, though, no one seemed repulsed by his ashen face or dark eyes. “Sequestered Son” was what they said most. He must’ve heard it uttered three dozen times before he said a single thing.

  “It wouldn’t be right,” Clyde said, standing alongside the battered old throne.

  The murmuring became honest noise. Some displeasure, some blatant confusion.

  One person deep within the throng shouted, “What do you mean?”

  Nevele must’ve understood throne room etiquette. It made sense. She worked in the palace for years. She walked to the edge of the crowd, flashed her eyes wide at Clyde, and made a funny face by pulling the corners of her mouth down. Well now, isn’t this embarrassing? she seemed to say to him. She pointed at herself, tapping the tip of her finger against her own forehead, then back at Clyde. She mouthed, “Just look at me, okay? Ready? Here we go.”

  She drew a deep breath and shouted through the competing noise, “Why not? Gorett’s gone; you haveCommencement. You are King Pyne’s son, right?” It seemed she was attempting to mimic a man’s voice by dropping her voice low, her chin held to her chest to eke out the necessary depth.