David: Savakerrva, Book 1

by L. Brown

  Then too quick, Garth returned to the trench, to the steaming J’kel and T-bar smash.

  Next came the klaxon, the mad stampedes to the troughs.

  Then it was back and forth and back once more, a whirl of day-less nights blurred with slag and sleep net rope. Still an outlier, a solid among the striped, yet time’s relentless erosion turned Garth’s opinion of the herd from wholly objectionable to whatever, a dispassionate shrug. Did they not share the same aches, did all not fear the same G’mach? Of course; but if life under the Machine degraded, devolved humans to brutes and drones, it was also Paradise found.

  Or to Garth, at least close enough, closer than he’d ever known. An event without precedent, he’d actually found someone, was no longer alone. And though escape till tugged, though flight remained an eventual goal, he knew his plan must now account for two.

  Garth laid in his net. Chilled by the sound, the ravenous gusts howling the ice, he couldn’t scheme it, couldn’t see how they’d survive outside the Machine, leave her great steel skirts. Yet Gator had left, just skated away, so did some habitable place exist out there, await beyond the horizon of stars? And if an X-blade thief could make it, could they?

  Too many thoughts and too many ifs, so Garth just laid there with her head on his chest. And as they shared earphones, listened to sounds unheard by the rest, Eylahn learned discernment, formed her own taste.

  She didn’t like everything, not even close, Bruckner rated only a yawn. But minor key ballads she usually liked, Dear Mr. Fantasy always brought sighs — and then she would leave and then he would sleep, then came the horn and the agony of repeat.

  Yet even in the trench, Garth’s mind stayed in the nets. Dangerous, so close to the J’kel, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t forget her rhythmic fidget to bass lines and riffs, how Sonny Boy Williamson made her mimic the harmonica by humming and pinching her nose.

  A wonder, this girl. But he wondered most about how she stood out, how among the herd, these bodies torn up and souls ground down, how one still endured, refused to regress. Somehow in Eylahn, the best of humanity survived, still lived in her smile and half-shell hat. And as Garth pondered this, deep in the trench, that’s when it happened, his insight on fate. For regardless what Dahkaa had said, he knew he hadn’t been swept through the stars just to save a world, no — he was here for something much more.

  So when the klaxon blasted and ended his shift, Garth didn’t move. He stayed where he was because he knew she would come, because when she slipped from the steam and found his arms, he knew it was destiny, nothing he could do.

  Elated by her laughter and thrilled by her touch, Garth thanked whatever celestial throw had brought him to this J’kel in the trench, to this agony of the Machine and Eylahn in his arms.

  Somewhere far behind, many miles south on the cold, solid sea, the starry ice mirrored two moons. The violet pinwheel rose from the west, an orange moon twice its size hung high in the east — and between them, a faint contrail appeared, ghostly vapors off a hurtling mass.

  Maybe a meteor, that celestial streak. Yet as it descended, it not only turned, swept toward the Great Wall of Ice, it slowed, behaved less like a freefalling rock and more like something controlled. Its shape remained hidden, but it arrived with a rumble, with exhalations of power both shivering the wall and spawning a fog, misty tentacles clinging to both its rakish-Y form and the pincer-like appendage now unfolding, opening like a claw.

  Atta Ra emerged. Greeted by wind, a Great Ice howl, he stood on air before the wall. Yet no gust touched him, his liquid light chains remained unmoved as he surveyed the debris, the escape pod wreckage and frozen chunks of non-native bear. The glow of his facial mesh now intensified, the light where his eyes might be, but as he looked for markers of life, some recent biological sign, he detected nothing human, not even remains.

  He widened his search. Linked to his gunship, its sensors and arrays, he surveyed the wall before him, every square inch. Then discerned, against all natural probability, gouges in ice boulders, impressions of a blade tracking straight up.

  Ascending now, Atta Ra followed the gouges to the summit, the top of the Great Wall of Ice. And though his creation lay below, the serpentine J’kel asleep in its trench, he looked elsewhere: first to the miles of ice ahead, then to the starry horizon beyond. Still he perceived no human, no one alive or dead, so whoever scaled this wall must have just — disappeared?

  Absurd, of course. But so was the alternative. Yet as Atta Ra looked north, as he perceived the weeks-old heat signature left by the Machine, his eyes, where they might be, steadily, relentlessly, increased their glow.

  Garth tried not to laugh, but it took tremendous effort. And so, apparently, did learning to dance, for as Eylahn stomped her cleats and flapped her arms, she glistened with exertion, with dips and spins all her own. But style didn’t matter, very little did, so sharing the earphones. they danced the ice in the shadow of the nets, just scraped and flailed till spent.

  “Okay!” Garth rasped, throwing up his hands. “Done, I’m done, let’s rest. Want to check out the mall?” Turning away, he staggered toward the curtain of coats, the Casbah under the nets.

  A faint screech interrupted, called from the windskirts behind. But Garth ignored, just rubbed the ache of T-bars and dance from his torso and back.

  “Crowded tonight,” he said, peeking between two coats. “There’s some kind of sale?”

  But Eylahn said nothing, so Garth looked back. Then wondered what he missed, why Eylahn dashed toward the windskirts, the hanging steel plates.

  “Hey!” Garth called, suddenly concerned. “Where’re you going, wait up!”

  But she didn’t, and as Garth gave chase, he watched her take the same route as Gator, a quick zig-zag between the plates into the howl outside.

  “Eylahn!” Garth shouted, now running headlong. Then not quite dodging the plates, after banging one and scraping the next, he recoiled from a cold lash of wind. No longer sheltered, overwhelmed by the blitz of wild night and stars, he looked for Eylahn, but found only ice.

  A feral screech startled, turned him toward the windskirt behind. Angry and menacing and much too close, a saw-beak bird hissed, then spit at Garth.

  “Peekha,” soothed Eylahn, now scaling the skirt. “Peekha,” she repeated, and a few hisses later, the same sort of bird that feasted on Hollywood’s flesh flapped onto her arm.

  Garth nearly shouted, almost leapt for its near-lethal head, but at the last he held back, just stared transfixed as Eylahn clicked and cooed and stroked its puffed chest. Then slowly, just inches from its Sawzall beak, she slowly unfolded a wing.

  “No, wait, what—?”

  Eylahn didn’t wait, didn’t even respond. Too focused on the bird’s tiny wing splint, an item crafted from fabric and slag, she slowly eased it off. Then cooing Peekha one last time, she lofted the bird, released it to the wind. It climbed fast, even gave a farewell screech, yet it wasn’t the creature that made Garth wonder, it was its nurse.

  Is that why she fed me, was I just another bird?

  “Ree!” shouted Eylahn, now pointing above.

  Expecting a flyby, some last hissing spit, Garth ducked, then looked up. Then wondered how he missed it, the pinwheel moon right overhead. But tonight it had company, and shifting his gaze, he discovered the second moon, a bright orange orb twice as large; and, by the look, seemingly in the pinwheel moon’s path.

  “Dohla ree!” Eylahn exclaimed, and bright with excitement, she pointed not at the moons, but to the space in-between. A region, Garth perceived, animated with energy, shimmers of light.

  “Woah,” Garth’s anxious reaction. “That’s normal, I hope?”

  But Eylahn stayed quiet, just nested into his shoulder and neck and eyed the moons.

  And that was enough. Maybe just tired, likely too cold, but out on the ice and under the moons, whatever brought her in close was reason enough, and without hesitation or hope, with nothing but the wind all around and this mo
ment now, Garth kissed her lips.

  And for an instant, the length of an icy gust, she kissed him as well. But as the wind slackened, so did her kiss, and as their eyes met, Garth said — nothing, he’d never said so much.

  As for Eylahn, though she also stayed quiet, she first wavered, then raced back to the Machine.

  And never looked back.

  They came from the north.

  Icy miles away and wailed by wind, a man with meaty hands and mangy hair peered through a crude periscope. And crouched, with difficulty, in the cramped hull of an enclosed boat, a wooden vessel driven by the snap of unseen sails.

  Still peering through his eyepiece, the man dipped into his heavy coat — spackled with scales, it could have been skinned from a monstrous trout — and retrieved a crude pen, an implement topped by a small glass bulb. And then, he gave it a shake.

  The buzz came first. And then from the bulb, an insect’s abdomen began to glow, a blood red bioluminescence revealing the man’s face. Creased and leathered, abraded by battle and acquainted with death, it would, among pirates, nicely blend in. But blending was not for all, so via a few gold screws, a pair of short tusks protruded from his jaw.

  Tusk lifted his lantern pen. A primitive gage mounted above, and its needle, a quivering sliver of fish bone, nudged the high end of a span of marks. Noting the result, Tusk turned to a leather navigation chart, then added a small x. The latest in a series, the line of x’s led toward a tiny sketch, a rough silhouette of the Machine.

  “Ruhg?” More grunt than articulated thought, it turned Tusk toward Gator, the X-blade thief. Crammed together with nine other men — each clad in thick hides, they crouched single file with panting vaaliks — Gator clenched with tension and basted in sweat.

  Mulling his response, Tusk first eyed Gator, then the rest, then just balled his hand into a fist. Permission requested, now received, Gator and the nine dug into floorboard stowage bins of Z-shaped rifles and long-blade skates.

  Garth ducked through the curtain of coats and entered the Casbah. Something was wrong, Eylahn had run, but what had he done? Was a kiss not a kiss in this world of the herd, did it mean something else? Regretting his reckless act, whatever cultural mayhem his lips had sprung, he wove through the aisles and looked for the girl who, once more, had left him alone.

  A shout turned Garth around. Not Eylahn, just some scuffling, a merchant and customer warring with words. It shouldn’t have mattered, yet somehow it did, but when the customer stumbled near a flicker of flame, Garth only sighed.

  Oh, it’s him.

  He’d seen the old man when he first fell in, they’d also crossed paths several times since. But instead of just mumbling, this Merlin from Camelot Lost now shouted and fought, clawed for an object in the merchant’s hand. And perhaps he just wore the frazzled seller out, but somehow, the wizardly look-alike stole the thing away. Yet the prize had a price, and indifferent to age, Yak now opened the Casbah curtain, and Ox threw him out.

  Order restored, haggling resumed.

  But Garth stayed put. Seeing old Merlin manhandled reminded of Detroit, of assaults on the weak and the unstable cast out, just wandering the streets. Even worse were the old man’s shouts, and as he raged outside the curtain of coats, buyers and sellers simply ignored.

  So do the same, Garth told himself, and resuming his search, he checked the next aisle. But though Merlin’s shouts grew faint, their vehemence increased, so despite all frustration — where’d she go! — Garth left the Casbah to check on Merlin, see if he’d found some new distress.

  Garth’s instinct correct, Merlin stumbled toward a just-planted tower near the back of the Machine. Not dangerous, not yet, but if he continued his course, the old man would violate a prohibited zone, a buffer between the tower and the J’kel in the trench.

  “Hey!” Garth called, waving his arms. “Come back!”

  But not only did Merlin keep going, he threw something at the J’kel. A poor throw, his release was off, so whatever he tossed just skittered to a bright green line, a ‘do not pass’ boundary of light. Yet the object stopped close enough, for blinking to life, the tower began to thrum.

  Oblivious, Merlin just cursed the J’kel and chased the thing just thrown.

  “No!” shouted Garth, sprinting to catch up. “Stay away, stay back!”

  But the mad graybeard did neither, and retrieving the object, he again aimed at the great glowing J’kel. Then cocking his arm — “Hala!” he screamed — Merlin crossed the line.

  The tower answered with a blazing discharge, a spearing orange flash consuming everything north of his cleats. Nothing remained to prove Merlin lived, nothing but molten steel and ash.

  And also, now hitting the ice, the last thing he held. Skidding a bit, it stopped before Garth; and seemed to prove, if any doubt remained, that he died just as he lived, just completely out of his wits. Because why else, Garth wondered, for what reason would you attack the J’kel with a Casbah souvenir?

  An hour later, Garth lay in his sleep net.

  Alone.

  Memories of Merlin settling like ash, he thought only of Eylahn, of where she was and why she’d left. Likely the kiss; too rushed, too much? Hard to say, hard to critique your first.

  But he’d see her again, of course, she’d come back. Though if she didn’t, could he survive this place alone? Would he end like Merlin, some outcast unhinged?

  About to doze off, Garth wondered if he already had, if he’d just dreamed the slight quiver in his net. He wanted to look, chase the hope it just might be her — but just like Ashley, he’d met this delusion before. Hope was the road to despair, and after a night of both his first kiss and last, Garth wanted only escape, so closing his eyes, he slid into sleep.

  “Dahveed!” she whispered, and Garth nearly leapt. He twisted toward the dark perimeter rope, but saw nothing, no one stirred. Her whisper only imagined, he knew she’d never return.

  “Ssst!” came the next whisper, but this pulled his gaze down. Barely visible, a flutter in the next sleep net below, a hand waved come on! Then it dropped out of sight, and Garth saw nothing but a flash of bird on a hand-painted cleat.

  Leaping headlong, Garth was gone, a mad scramble of chase down a hole through the web. Some kind of passage, it led to the next sleep-level down, a dark realm of snore and malodorous scent that appeared, surprisingly, not sleepy at all.

  His gaze fixed on the quick-moving cleats, he perceived activity on the periphery, a life beyond repose. Men carving slag, women toiling with needle and thread — and most surprising, some even smiled. A seminal event, but Garth couldn’t stay, could only chase, and after corkscrewing into yet another net, he passed gamblers with colored sticks and handfuls of jewels.

  Then without warning, he slid into sog, a crater of clothes sudsy and damp. Sensing stares, he lifted his gaze to the herd’s undressed, men and women scowling at the boy soiling their wash.

  Garth retreated, squished back out. Fearful he lost the bird on her cleat, he tumbled into a large web behind, a niche unoccupied, or so it first seemed. But squinting a bit, turning around, he discerned faces, maybe ten, a circle of scowls reminding of a pack.

  Garth glimpsed an opening. Tensing before leaping, he hesitated at the outline of a half-shell hat. Was it hers?

  The pack jostled a bit, made room, then Garth smiled. Eylahn was back, was coming his way, but she wasn’t alone. Bracketed to her right and left, she held the arm of a man who slouched and a woman quite stout; and the effect, to Garth, reminded of old bookends, a mismatched set.

  “T’filj, M’la—” Her tone oddly formal, Eylahn nodded to Garth. “Dahveed,” she announced.

  One of the pack unwrapped a small cylinder. A candle, by the look, and though its stub of wick looked too disheartened to burn, it defied expectation and did. And as its flame illuminated the mismatched pair, Garth perceived opposites, a man so bland he seemed poured from murk, and a woman with a stare that could scare back the dark.

  The knead
er of slabs now parting the gloom, it was her, Garth knew, Helen of Swill was back.

  “Dahveed—” Her usual musical voice still more a dirge, Eylahn gestured first to the woman, then to the man. “M’la — T’filj.”

  The words confused, but this sudden formality now roused a thought. It seemed quite a leap, this idea flung up, but now Garth wondered if these two mismatched bookends — were they actually, incredibly, a set?

  Eylahn bowed to Garth. Sensing ceremony, hot coals to be walked, Garth bowed right back. And just to cover his flanks, he bowed to the bookends, to her parents as well.

  Eylahn’s father — T’filj? — replied in kind, but when her mother — M’la? — refused to bend, Garth couldn’t tell if it was a vote of no confidence, or just sciatica, a hauler’s bad back.

  Seconds passed and M’la still didn’t move, Eylahn’s mother seemed trapped in a cast. No waver, not the slightest nod, and then it happened, Eylahn sniffed. Nothing loud, but if Achilles had his heel, Helen had her child, and as Eylahn trembled, her mother tilted, one slivered inch, toward Garth.

  One inch or ten, that’s all it took, and with an uncorked squeal, Eylahn leapt into Garth. Puckered for destiny, for his first second kiss, he instead felt her grab his hand. She squeezed it hard, pressed something in, and when she released, Garth felt something in his palm.

  Plants?

  Flowers, by the look: one red, the other white, and by their twisted stems, both twined into one.

  The periphery stirred. No longer scowling, at least not as much, the candle-flicked faces mumbled some tired sing-song. Verses, best guess, and though lacking in tune, they made Eylahn go limp; and falling into Garth, she knocked him flat.

  Synapses all firing, a hormonal hot mess, the boy on his back considered a staggering surmise. And rejected it entirely, it made no sense. But to those in the herd, to a girl who knew nothing but sawbirds and the Machine? Maybe this was everything, the most life could mean, and though Garth struggled for another explanation, some non-marital cause, he didn’t struggle for long. Lost in her hair, her intoxication of touch, he emptied his mind of the J’kel in a trench and Atta Ra far off until nothing remained but a question, a simple could life be better than this?