Waybound (23 page)

P
hoebe lay huddled in a miserable ball in the engine room, and her tears showed no sign of subsiding. The outline of sunlight around the ceiling hatch had long since gone black. She felt weak, and not because of the seasickness.

How was she going to look Micah in the eyes ever again?

The vibrations of the engine room died away, and blinking indicator lights went dark. She suspected that Micah was powering down the Sea Bullet to grab some sleep. The lavatory was quiet, which meant Gabriella had probably passed out in a hog-tied heap. The boat settled, rocking gently in the Mirroring Sea, and silence gathered around her like morning fog.

That's when Phoebe thought of the whist.

She sat against the wall and lowered the cowl over her head. Immediately, all noise snuffed out, leaving only a peaceful void.

And Phoebe gave herself to it.

Blessed relief. She breathed deeply.

Phoebe noted a strange, unfamiliar sensation. It was as if she were drifting upward, her consciousness pulling free from the weary burden of her body.

She did not resist.

Slowly, she departed the Sea Bullet and rose into the night. The air was bitingly cold, but she did not feel it. She was an ephemeral speck of heat and light, an ember soaring weightless, carried aloft through the frigid night sky.

The Shroud called to her. She went to it, a wave of consciousness returning to the endless shore. Unanchored, Phoebe tumbled through the sky.

A murmur of whispers grew as she neared.

In an instant, she understood.

Axial Phy's words rang clear.

In that nothing, Her voice will guide you.

The voice of Makina, it had to be. Phoebe had heard it before—in fact, it had been with her all along.

Follow
was Her word, spoken as Phoebe faced the black tunnel deep in the Foundry. It had drawn Phoebe to Mehk.

No
, She had said, and Phoebe had saved the liodim.

With every fiber of her being, she longed to hear it again. Now, more than ever, she needed guidance.

Phoebe plunged into the Shroud. She felt lost, confounded by the ineffable gray. But she let nothingness fill her.

To be here she had to not
be
at all.

And then came a laugh so pure that its dulcet tones seemed to kiss the air.

This was not the voice of Makina. It was even more precious.

Not one, but two voices, speaking one word.

“Cricket.”

Phoebe tore from the Shroud. Her ember plummeted through the nothing, colliding down to substance in one breathless instant. Her body jerked forward, eyes snapped open.

It couldn't be,
she thought.

She had touched the unknown. Part of her insisted that it was just her imagination, a product of her grieving mind.

But was it possible? Could it have really been them?

Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. And yet she had heard them. They had spoken.

They were calling to her from beyond the Shroud.

Normally, the emptiness Phoebe felt was too much to bear. Her mother's death had torn a hole within her, and losing her father had ripped it wider.

Why, then, was she not crying now?

Because hearing them had awakened something.

Her parents were watching over her.

If she could hear their voices, might she discover a way to speak with them? With Makina Herself?

The hole in her heart began to mend.

Phoebe pulled back the hood and reentered the reality of the engine room. The line around the hatch overhead glowed with a dim light. Time had swept past her. Night had come and gone.

There was a hollow banging on the lavatory door.

“Phoebe?” came Gabby's voice. “Are you there?”

She rose to her feet, reeling from the stiffness in her muscles. With a couple of tugs, she removed the pipe and opened the door. Gabby was sitting in the dark on the closed commode.

“You either gotta untie me,” she said in a hoarse voice, “or you're going to have to give me some help.”

“With what?” Phoebe asked, turning on the interior light.

The woman nodded to the toilet.

Watching for any sign that Gabby might use the opportunity to get free, Phoebe obliged. They avoided eye contact during the awkward process, but Gabby had not been bluffing. It made Phoebe aware of her own pressing needs.

“My turn,” she muttered to Gabby.

At first, Phoebe's instinct was to be mortified, but the woman just nodded and turned her back. What a luxury the tiny bathroom seemed now. Between the humiliation of navigating the issue with Micah (meaning avoiding it at all costs and only going when the other was busy) and the impractical nature of doing it in Mehk, this commode was a godsend.

And strangely, it was easy with Gabby. Almost like they were just a couple of girls back at Fort Beatrice—the ones who would only go to the bathroom together, for whatever reason.

When she finished, Phoebe closed the toilet lid and helped Gabby back onto it. They sat down and considered each other.

“It's funny,” the woman said, “I'm supposed to be on vacation right now, but they extended my tour when the Citadel went down. Did you have anything to do with that?”

“They let you go on vacation?” Phoebe asked.

“Of course,” Gabby said. “No matter what you think about the Foundry, it's just a job to us. A good one too. My fiancé and I were planning to go to Prosper Falls. You ever been there?”

Phoebe shook her head.

“Three hours south of Albright City,” the woman explained. “Natural hot springs in Kappermane State Park. You gotta see it to believe it. I miss the woods most of all when I'm on duty here. Our trees, our stars—you know?”

Phoebe had a far-off look.

“What are you thinking about?” Gabby asked.

“I…” Phoebe said, looking wistfully at her feet. “You said Albright City, and I thought about downtown. I used to go through it every day on the way to school. It always looked so big, like there couldn't possibly be a bigger world outside of it.”

Gabby considered her.

Phoebe caressed her whist.

“But there is. Now I know there is.”

Downtown Albright City was seized with traffic as Aero-copters surveyed from the sky. The authorities were keen to maintain the peace below the epic platinum facade of the Council of Nations building. As always when the CN was in session, demonstrators paraded on its plated steps, and heavily geared riot police stood watch.

Inside the golden-glass lobby sat a spectacular column forged from every metal in existence. From manganese to zinc to titanium, the flags of every nation in the world were sculpted upon it, each with its own unique alloy, weaving together in a swirling eddy that stretched up to the steepled ceiling.

Security was especially tight because representatives from all thirteen countries of the infamous Quorum were present.

The assembly hall was packed, its bold metallic décor illuminated by sunlight beaming in like a spotlight. The stage was flanked with Televiewers, gold banners stretched from floor to ceiling, and interpreters crowded a nearby balcony.

If the Council of Nations was a theater, then President Saltern was its star.

Amply dusted in makeup and decked in a stunning gunmetal-blue Durall suit, Saltern's magazine smile was broad. He was mid-speech and just warming up. Saltern noted that the members of the Quorum were the only nations not listening. Greinadoren, the Kijyo Republic, Moalao, Trelaine—the cast of villains was all there, lined up like targets in a shooting gallery. They made a show of being embroiled in their own conversations.

“Of course, trouble runs rampant in the global economy,” Saltern continued, the practiced cadences of his speech as masterful as ever. “Yet we see our challenges as opportunities in disguise. By dedicating ourselves to international cooperation, we will ensure liberty and prosperity to our partners. However…”

His eyes drifted up to the golden-mirrored lounge above the assembly hall. The faceless Foundry Board was there, he knew, waiting to hear their script come out of his mouth.

Oh, to see the look on their faces.

“There are those who seek to undermine Meridian's progress, those who don't want to play fair in a free market.
Cowards
…” Saltern emphasized as he looked to the Quorum, “who scheme in the shadows. Well, I'm here today to draw a line in the sand.”

Murmurs clenched the room.

“A secret arrangement was put forth,” the President announced, his voice rising with passion. “An attempt to purchase the allegiance of a bully, to buy Meridian an ally. It was a bribe, plain and simple, offered by our very own Foundry.”

An uproar. Voices shouted, papers were thrown. The press descended with reporters and Omnicams. Only the members of the Quorum sat deathly still. Saltern savored the outrage he knew must be erupting within the mirrored Foundry lounge.

“Only there was a catch,” he said with a devilish grin. “It was a setup. I instructed the Foundry to make a phony deal, a trap bursting with cheese. And guess what?” He let the Assembly Hall go silent. “We caught a rat. Premier Lavaraud, I'm afraid your so-called payday delivery has been rerouted. Tough luck.”

Heated words sputtered among the Quorum as they all directed their shock and fury at Lavaraud.

“Yes, Trelaine,” boomed President Saltern. “Once a proud nation, now nothing but a cartel of crooks looking to cash in. And they're not the only ones. Why is the Quorum really here today? To listen? To collaborate? No, friends. They hold world peace hostage, and expect us to pay them a ransom.”

Bedlam was taking over the assembly hall, but Saltern's speech gained power and momentum.

“Now I ask you…are these the kinds of allies that Meridian needs? Are these the kinds of allies anyone would ever want?”

Together, the members of the Quorum tore off their Council of Nations badges, while the rest of the ambassadors booed. The press was in a frenzy, FotoSnaps flashing and Vocafones shoved into faces. The nations of the Quorum gathered up their attendants and shoved their way indignantly toward the exits.

“I say NO,” President Saltern trumpeted, his voice silencing the crowd. “Too long we've put up with your bluster and your vows of retaliation. Meridian does not yield to threats. We do not fear you. This is the line I'm drawing, right here, right now. Stand with us, and you will stand tall.”

Lavaraud was the last to depart the Assembly Hall. He tossed his CN badge to the ground with disgust, and with one last look of malice at Saltern, he took his leave.

“Oppose us”—Saltern grabbed the podium and leaned in—“and you will fall.”

The applause was deafening. This was his finest hour.

The President breathed in the adulation. Meridian was the most powerful nation in history, and Saltern was its leader.

He was not about to let the Foundry or the world forget it.

M
r. Pynch was ready to collapse. He had spent two grueling cycles navigating these confounding land bridges with barely a wink of recharge. Fog clotted the sky, leaving the morning so dark he could barely see a spit's distance in front of him. He missed the Marquis's luminous opticle more than ever.

The only good news was that he was near the coast and at the end of the Arcs. The train tracks below halted at a massive Foundry port on the other side of the cliff. If the Marquis had survived his fall, the derelict settlement of Ghalteiga was the last place he could have gotten off before the bleeder outpost.

It was a wreck of weathered squalor built into the precipices above the choppy Mirroring Sea. Battered shacks were scattered across the top, clinging to cliff faces like the stubborn little knurlers that stuck on barges in the wharf below.

If the Marquis was here, he'd be in the Rathskellar. It was a notorious drinking hole where the grizzled volmerids and gohr who worked the docks drowned their cares with viscollia. Mr. Pynch's nozzle could have sniffed it out a dozen quadrits away.