Waybound (3 page)

“Where is my driver?” Goodwin muttered as the embassy doors clanged shut behind him.

“Ten minutes.”

His lips curled in a knot—the insults were never ending.

“A taxi then,” he muttered.

Despite the humid drizzle, Goodwin straightened his lapels and held his head high as he marched down the sidewalk. The florid stonework walls of the embassy, weatherworn and spattered in years of pigeon filth, were an eyesore. They diminished the swooping grace of Albright City's iconic bronze streetlights. Goodwin's resentment grew with every step.

A convoy of black Autos approached with predatory speed. Three vehicles squealed to a stop by the curb while another two hurtled into position, cutting off any retreat.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“Be patient, James. Your Auto is in transit.”

A door flashed open. Agents in black suits and sunglasses emerged to scan the streets—not Watchmen.

“We have a problem,” Goodwin muttered.

“What is it?”

“Here, Mr. Goodwin,” said an agent, opening the back door of one of the Autos. A group of familiar faces stared out at him.

“James. Report.”

He ducked inside the Auto and settled onto its luxurious leather seat as the door slammed shut. Goodwin nodded pleasantly to the five scowling officials that surrounded him. The gentleman in the middle was remarkably handsome, tanned and fit, with meadow-green eyes and sculpted chestnut hair dusted with just enough gray to warrant the word “distinguished.” At the moment, his famous face was devoid of its trademark smile.

“Hello, Mr. President,” Goodwin said, nodding to the others. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Cabinet. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Saltern?”

“Find out what he wants.”

“We have no time for his petty grievances.”

“The hell it is,” Saltern snapped. “Where have you been hiding, James? We've been trying to track you down for a week.”

The sunken face of Dr. Jules Plumm flashed across Goodwin's mind—the two of them sharing that precious bottle of Chequoisie on the now-fallen Citadel's balcony.

“Abroad,” Goodwin lied. “Attending to operations overseas.” Not even the President of Meridian was permitted to know about the existence of Mehk and the Foundry's secret dealings there.

“No more evasions,” cut Saltern. “Explain yourself.”

“Pardon me?” Goodwin replied. He was not accustomed to being addressed in such a way, much less by this petulant man.

“You're negotiating with the Trels,” Saltern interrupted. “Behind my back!”

Goodwin considered the members of the Cabinet.

“That's right,” Saltern continued. “I know all about your little deal with Lavaraud. What are you up to?”

It took tremendous effort for Goodwin to keep his tone cordial. “Time was of the essence, Mr. President. You know that under normal circumstances, I much prefer to consult with you directly. But the Foundry saw an opportunity to undercut the Quorum's hold, and we acted. Of course, we did so knowing it was your intent to seek a peaceful settlement to—”

“Not by selling out to the enemy!” snarled the President.

“We are not selling,” Goodwin corrected. “We are buying.”

“If you think that silkbelly will be won over by your bribes, James, then you are a bona fide idiot.”

“Do not presume to—” Goodwin began, his words sharp.

“Keep your temper! We cannot afford to antagonize him.”

“Tell him whatever you have to. Just be rid of him.”

“If this gets out, there will be a feeding frenzy,” Saltern growled. “Prime Minister Kura of Moalao called my administration ‘a mob of sniveling piglets.' I have an election in less than a year, James. The last thing I need is the Foundry undermining my authority with backroom deals!”

Goodwin took a deep breath. “Mr. President, I was only—”

“And just what do you think happens when the rats suspect we are weak? They come in a swarm. Well, it is my job to protect the people of Meridian.”

“Sir, I was pursuing a diplomatic solution on your behalf.”

“You'll do nothing without my involvement, understand? Nothing. I am not, I repeat, NOT the Foundry's puppet!”

“Defuse the situation and leave.”

Goodwin had suffered enough of little men shouting at him. But he resigned himself, relaxed the growing tension in his shoulders, and swallowed down his pride.

“On behalf of the Foundry, I apologize for circumventing your command, Mr. President,” said Goodwin, the epitome of calm. “The error was mine alone, and it will not happen again.”

“Let's hope not,” Saltern huffed, and his Cabinet looked on in approval. “Now is not the time to cozy up to these thugs. We need to put our foot down and stand tall, or this great nation will never be secure.” An advisor whispered something into the President's ear. “Cancel your deal with Lavaraud.”

It took all Goodwin's willpower to not strike the man.

“And put everything you promised him directly into Meridian's defenses.”

“I…” Goodwin assumed his friendliest expression. “Of course, Mr. President. I will submit it to the Board for approval.”

“No,” ordered Saltern. “If you can find the resources for those conniving Trels, then you can do the same for your own country. Do it now. You're the Chairman of the Foundry, are you not?”

It hit him like a sucker punch. There was no way Saltern could have known, but still the words wounded. Goodwin hid his fury behind a professional smile.

“I will begin the transfer process this very day.”

“That's more like it.” Saltern knocked on the window, and an agent opened the door. Goodwin was abruptly dismissed.

“Oh, and James,” the President called. “Step out of line again and there will be real consequences.”

The door shut, and the convoy sped away.

“Return to Mehk.”

“Chairman Obwilé has a new assignment for you.”

Goodwin's icy eyes stared after the Autos.

Chairman Obwilé. He was not ready to accept those words. That conniving little worm had seized the opportunity and stolen his title. This was not how things were supposed to be. Not at all.

The bruised sky growled, and a warm rain fell. He huddled his shoulders and pulled up his collar against the downpour.

Deputy Manager Goodwin waited for his driver, who was nowhere in sight.

T
he Covenant camp was submerged in a canyon overgrown with bulbous, branching growths that looked like a network of pitch-black neurons. A few beams of sunlight and the ghostly glow of cocoon lanterns painted everything in mournful shadows. Hundreds of mehkans were assembled in silent reverence, crowded into the temple courtyard. They dotted niches in the walls and perched on cast-iron vegetation that filled the canyon.

Movement caught Phoebe's attention, and she turned her bloodshot eyes upward. The camp was hidden at the base of a primeval jungle, concealed by a camouflaged roof that mimicked the surrounding undergrowth. She watched the silhouette of a beast lumber across the canopy and envied the wandering creature. All she wanted was to be free from this place, from this moment—to vanish into the jungle without a trace.

Phoebe was a husk. She hadn't slept or eaten since they had arrived the previous day. She hardly knew anything anymore.

All she knew was agony. And that this was her dad's funeral.

A platform of dark, polished ore had been erected atop a fresh grave, one among many gently sloping mounds. Micah and Dollop stood on either side of her in solemn vigil, surrounded by the Covenant. Dollop whispered translations of the prayers and proceedings, but his hazy words washed over her. Micah was silent and stoic, his jaw set firmly and her father's Dervish rifle slung over his shoulder.

He hadn't moved more than an arm's length from her since their encounter with the Ona's likeness at the Hearth. She knew he must have been drowning in grief too, aching to spill it out, but she was glad he kept it to himself. Or maybe the relentless knife of loss had carved away his words.

On the platform before them, three axials in shiny robes shuffled about, reciting prayers in Rattletrap to which the crowd responded in unison. Phoebe was fixated on the raised bier behind them, the altar where her father had been laid. All she wanted was to see his face, but her view was obscured. The voices of the Covenant gathered into a rumbling vibration that she could feel in her belly. Their prayer shifted like snow banks, harmonies melting into one another in dreamy patterns. Then Axial Phy stepped forward.

“Come, Loaii,” she croaked, reaching a hand out to Phoebe.

Her gut twisted. She could feel hundreds of expectant eyes.

“No,” Phoebe whimpered. “Tell them to do it without me.”

Dollop gently took her arm to guide her forward.

“Hey, she don't want to,” Micah hissed, grabbing her other arm to hold her back.

“Sh-she must!” Dollop insisted. “Phoebe is-is his only cl-clan. Only she c-can bear the rust for him.”

“But she said…”

Micah's words crumbled as Phoebe pulled from his grip.

She mounted the steps as if in a trance. The collective moan of the crowd grew louder. Axial Phy, her face half-hidden by the twinkling chains that dangled from her headpiece, clutched Phoebe's hand firmly. Her arthritic claws were warm, the skin loose and crinkled like a dried leaf. The axial turned Phoebe around to face the crowd, and she hadn't the strength to resist.

The Covenant camp stared. Phoebe kept her head down, not brave enough to face the chanting sea, the penetrating eyes. It was all she could do to pretend that none of this was real.

The crowd parted and five figures stepped forth. Phoebe recognized Orei, her shifting body of midnight-blue rings glinting. With her was the hulking crane-claw mehkan known as Treth and three others who must have also been Covenant Overguards. They carried an ancient hunk of metal that came up to Phoebe's belly, and with a gritty clunk, they set it at her feet.

Wide at the base and tapered at the top, the artifact was layered in carvings and bored through with an arrangement of holes. There was a circular window encrusted in years of green patina that displayed its gleaming heart—a column of interlocking golden teeth like the markings of a dynamo.

“Turn the gears, Loaii,” spoke Axial Phy as she motioned to a handle jutting from the side of the device.

Hands pressed on Phoebe's shoulders, and she obeyed their command to kneel. She tugged weakly at the crank, but the mechanism was rusted and its teeth wouldn't budge. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Micah move to help, but Dollop held him back.

Phoebe tried again, throwing her weight against the handle. Reluctantly, the gears groaned and began to inch forward. The artifact released a shriek like an animal in pain, and the Covenant's collective prayer rose in pitch to match it. Phoebe strained her entire body. The screech clawed through her, as piercing and wretched as her own suffering. She poured herself into the effort, focusing every ounce of pain into the exertion.

The raucous scream of the device reached a crescendo, as did the mehkan chant. Just when she thought she might collapse, Axial Phy pulled her back. The grating mechanism continued to steadily churn, caught up in the momentum she had created. Then the crowd went quiet, and Phoebe heard something new as the noise molted its harshness like dead skin.

It was a strange musical tone quite unlike anything she had ever heard. The resonance was eerie, wavering and multiplying, wrought with an aching sadness beyond words.

It was a dirge, like a choir of iron angels.

A warm sensation spread across the back of her head, then trickled down her neck. She looked up with a start—the axials were emptying a decanter on top of her, anointing Phoebe in a pearlescent substance that was thick as glue. They manipulated the stuff with great care as it flowed over her.

She gasped, too stunned to protest.

The axials eased Phoebe to her feet as the viscous liquid seeped down her shoulders and arms, all the way to the ground. The priestesses worked their hands in darting movements, sculpting the fluid into billowing sheets, contoured to her slender frame. It oozed over her head to form a cowl, and a veil of rivulets gelled into swaying beads before her face. The material dried and darkened to a lifeless orange-brown, congealing into a smooth film like the membrane of an egg.

The world went quiet.

At first, Phoebe assumed the mournful tone had stopped, but she could see that the gears continued to churn. The axials' mouths were moving in a chant, yet she heard nothing. The absence of noise was absolute. Whatever this supple garment was, it embraced her in merciful silence.

Axial Phy bent down and gathered up a pile of rust that had flaked off the artifact's gears. She parted Phoebe's veil and smudged red runes onto her forehead. The old mehkan trickled the rest of the rust into Phoebe's cupped hands.