by Andrew Post
“So. Did you bug me?”
“Yes.”
“And you saw everything?”
She nodded, a dagger of black hair falling in front of her eyes. “Well, heard, but yes.”
“And you heard it when Ricky died. Am I right in that assumption?”
Tiny nod. “You are.”
“Way to show some sympathy. Why the blazes didn’t you two do something, then?” He picked up a handful of sand and considered throwing it in her face.
“I wouldn’t,” she said, her bottomless gaze never moving from his.
Aksel let the yellow fistful flow between his fingers. “Forgot you can read minds.”
“It’s not exactly mind reading; it’s more like . . . Listen, we couldn’t risk the Odium knowing anything about us. Intervening would’ve blown our cover.”
“Speaking of cover,” Aksel snapped, “did you know they would check my record? If you wanted me in there with them, playing spy for you, you probably should’ve done something about that. They knew I was in the Fifty-Eighth.”
Moira’s lips pressed together a little harder. She blinked.
“Good comeback,” Aksel scoffed. He threw up his hands. “So what now, huh? Any more fun and excitement in store for me? Should we go pay my mum a visit, put a bullet in her? I mean, we keep on like this, I should warn you, I will eventually run out of people I care about.”
“Nothing of the sort,” she said flatly, a vague smile playing on her lips. “Now we’d like you to come along and tell us what you learned.”
“Why bother? You were apparently listening the whole time, weren’t you? They didn’t know a thing about the Sequestered Son, never even mentioned him.” He ran a hand up the side of his head where the DeadEye was installed, feeling for little bumps where a tiny microphone may have been added.
“We want you to come along,” she began with gritted teeth, “because you weren’t just a mole for us, Aksel.” She was still crouching there and so alabaster white she could’ve been a statue. The only way to tell her eyes were moving in their sockets was how the shine on them flicked about on their glossy jet surfaces. “When we said we hired you for your special set of skills, we meant that. We could’ve sent anyone in there to spy on the Odium. And we could only hear, not see, what you saw. We still need your firsthand report on any weaknesses in the Odium you observed.”
“Then you’ll let me go?”
“Well, no, we’d like you to stick around if you would. We’d like to ask for your help again.” She reached behind her to retrieve something. She extended it toward him: a dangling satchel, plump and bumpy. Right now, he wanted nothing from her.
Apparently bored with holding the satchel out to him, she let it fall before him. When it landed, it made a familiar sound—one that made Aksel’s ears prick up. That crunch all men crave hearing: that of a whole lot of spots falling into a heap. He ran his gaze over the satchel, guessing at how much was in there.
“A lot,” Moira said. “For helping us with that, with them.” She jutted her chin toward the sky. “The first phase.”
“First phase?”
She stood, silent in her movements, each of which was steady and deliberate. “Yes, and that’s followed by a second. Calling it a first phase would be stupid if there weren’t a second planned.” She reached out an arm, indicating something in the distance.
Aksel sat up, an arm shielding his face against the gritty wind.
When the sandy haze shifted again, he noticed a waiting starship, shiny as the day it rolled off the assembly line, angular and pointy. Its side hatch had been rolled aside, and there stood two others just like her, framed in its opening. Pale as parchment with eyes of obsidian. Men; both with hair just as dark as hers, down to their shoulders. One slightly taller than the other, the shorter of the two seemed particularly unfriendly, scowling like that.
They didn’t wave, even when Aksel awkwardly did. I’m so confused.
“Who are they?” he asked.
“Tym and Raziel,” she said warmly, gazing at them. It was the first time her voice had even a single note of emotion to it.
She looked down at Aksel, fuzzy with cactus thorns, one-booted, and covered in filth. She removed a glove before offering a pale hand to help him up. “They’re the ones, with your help, who will kill the Sequestered Son.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Brian Jacques, whose kindhearted spirit of wonder helped inspire the world of Fabrick. I’d like to think Matthias and Rohm would’ve been fast friends. We’ll miss you.
Also a huge thank-you to Lorie Jones, Emily Steele, and the entire Medallion Press team. Never was there a more dedicated, lovely group of people!
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