Waybound (30 page)

“We,” he replied. “This. This Housing of Broken.”

Phoebe felt a chill—Rhom had not led them astray.

A group of mehkans emerged from the shadows. There were at least fifteen of them draped in dingy gowns, some the same species as the one who spoke. One was a blind freylani, his telltale hunchback covered in black tumors like rotten potatoes. Two others were swathed in sprocketed helical bands, but their bodies were knotted together and conjoined. There was also a hulking mehkan covered in mangy steel wool, the kind that the kids knew usually had one monstrously oversized arm. But this poor fellow's appendage was flimsy and atrophied, and he clutched a swaddled bundle.

As the mehkans approached, the kids saw how feeble they looked. Several leaned on makeshift crutches, one was being wheeled in a tilbury. They reached out to Phoebe, trembling. She did not flinch. Their metallic skin was shriveled and cold, but they touched her face gently, their mouths moving in silent supplication. Some kissed her coveralls, weeping viscous tears.

Micah stepped aside to give them room, his eyes sharp and his hands tight on his rifle just in case.

“Makina made us this,” said the diseased mehkan who had spoken to them. “Embers stirred, reborn this. Punish for evil we do in past span.”

“That's terrible,” Phoebe replied.

“No, no!” the mehkan insisted. “Makina loves. Axials love. We tchurbs, all carry rot-pox.” He gestured to the other diseased mehkans like him. “No one help. Think we bad luck. No one…
kashli mya'hr
, touch. Tchurbs wander, no can earn gauge. But—” He broke into a hacking cough, and his bony frame strained beneath delicate skin. “Only axials care us. Feed, yes? Help sore. That why tchurbs Makina's most devote servants.”

The mehkans backed away, and Micah lowered his weapon.

“All us the Broken. Volmerid, thiaphysi, ettik, freylani, tchurb. Some no can walk or see. Born wrong, you understand?”

“The axials took care of you all,” Phoebe said. “Is that why you can speak Bloodword? What's your name?”

“Tik,” he said. “Yes, I clean for axials. They teach for me.”

“What happened?” asked Micah.

Tik looked around. “Foundry. Come with machines. Tear things, holy things. Try take axials away, but Broken fight. Then fire in the sky. Destroy Housing, we hide. All who fight now rust, you understand?”

The kids nodded.

“We do,” Phoebe said urgently. “But we're here on a very important mission for Makina. Do you have a Hearth?”

“Hearth?” Tik said the word as if he had never encountered it before. He turned to the group of Broken, repeating it, but they only looked back at him blankly.

“You know, a wall of drippy metal stuff used for talking to…other people,” Micah tried to explain discreetly. “From far away?”

“Nothing like this,” Tik said with a frown.

“Did another bleeder ever visit here, before the Foundry came?” Phoebe asked. “A man who was a friend of the Way?”

Tik consulted the others again, and then shook his head.

“Does the word ‘father' ring a bell?” Micah tried. “Anything here called ‘father'?”

The mehkans just stared at the kids.

“Please. We need your help,” Phoebe pleaded. “We were sent here. We were told that my father would show us the way to the place where the Ona died. That has to mean something.”

The tchurb's eyes opened wide. “Emberhome?”

“What's that?” Micah asked.

The tchurb coughed again, a hollow rattle ending in an unpleasant clang. “Yes, I show.” Tik spoke to his friends, then turned back to the kids. “The Broken go, must bury rusted. Cannot wait for rise. You come. I show Emberhome.”

The group of mehkans bowed as the kids were led away.

Tik clambered feebly over debris, his stubby fingers and toes struggling to find a grip. With the aid of Micah's light, they headed through a sunken arcade and squeezed through a collapsed doorway into a round, crumbling building.

An entire portion of the chamber had been reduced to ashes, and what remained was peppered with bullet holes, but nonetheless the space was stunning. The cathedral—for Phoebe didn't know what else to call it—was reminiscent of the shrine in Bhorquvaat, though much larger. Amid the wreckage, she saw raised podiums of dark, polished ore radiating from the center. The curved ceiling was a lustrous, dusky gold, though it was partially peeled back like a candy wrapper, revealing the interwoven stars.

Stretching up from the center of the dome was the tower they had seen from the outside.

“Yes, yes,” Tik said, noticing that the tower had caught their eyes. “Lamp of sea. Ward of Broken. Used to glow all cycle. But sungold beacon stolen phases ago. Dark now, only dark.”

“Like a lighthouse?” Micah asked.

“House of light. Yes,” Tik said. “Come.” He led them through the rows of podiums to the center and gestured to the far side of the rotunda. “Emberhome,” he whispered.

“Wicked,” Micah said.

The rifle light revealed a mosaic enameled onto the curved wall. It must have once been astounding, but now it was damaged nearly beyond recognition.

The image depicted the Ona cloaked in flowing veils, face obscured by her Bearing as she gazed at the sky. Extending around her was an elaborate temple of intersecting circular arches and dynamo pillars. Black scars gouged the image, obscuring details, and frigid night air blew through a large hole that obliterated half of her body. Despite that, they could see wavy golden halos emanating from her hands, though it was impossible to tell what the shapes might have once been.

“This picture the Ona's
gha-tullei
, uh…sanctuary. Place of holy. Emberhome. There she rust, may her golden ember blaze.”

“Please, Tik,” Phoebe said, unable to hide her desperation any longer. “We have to find it!”

“Was hidden in Coiling Furrows. But the CHAR destroy secret Emberhome.”

“Destroyed?” Phoebe pressed eagerly. “Then where was it?”

“Many CHAR. Many Furrows. Cannot say where, you understand? Impossible to find. Emberhome lost now.”

“Seriously?” Micah sighed, exasperated. “There ain't nobody who knows where this place is?”

“Not nobody,” said the tchurb. “Arch-axials know.”

“Where are they?” Phoebe asked.

“Taken by Foundry.”

“All of them?”

“Not all,” Tik said, motioning to the cathedral.

The kids glanced around the desolate ruins.

“Am I missing something?” Micah grumbled.

But Phoebe understood. The platforms arranged around the dilapidated space weren't merely decorative. They were tombs. The remaining arch-axials were all dead.

“Loaii,” wheezed the tchurb. “You pray, yes? Ask Makina. Then arch-axials speak secrets. You understand?”

She nodded halfheartedly.

“You understand,” he confirmed. “I go. Rusting rites must be observed. Many to bury. I return, Loaii. Praise be.”

Tik bowed low and hobbled out, leaving them alone in the cluttered darkness. Micah flashed his light at the mosaic again.

“
You alone can make the descent
,” Phoebe whispered to herself, “
to the heart of prayer, where my Bearing once lay. Retrieve the white star, my Occulyth, and Mehk will prevail
.”

“‘Heart of prayer,'” Micah blurted all of a sudden. “Tik said Emberhome was her sanctuary.”

“And it was destroyed by CHAR,” Phoebe thought aloud. “Which means no metal. A big crater where mehkans can't go. Micah, that's why only
we
can make the descent.”

“It all fits! It's gotta be Emberhome,” Micah agreed. “Now we just gotta find it. Too bad the only people we can ask are in a buncha frickin' coffins.”

The word flipped a switch in Phoebe's brain.

“Coffins,” she gasped, looking around. “That's it! Don't you see? The axials, the way they're buried. These are the same sort of platforms they used to bury—”

“Your father,” Micah finished in sudden realization.

“Rhom knew,” she said.

A little shiver passed between them.

The answer was here. Somewhere. It had to be.

And they were going to find it.

C
hairman James Goodwin stood like a pillar in the heart of the operations room. The Control Core hummed with activity. It was clear that the Foundry had been missing its leader.

The surgeons had detached his insidious little earpiece, but he still wore it as instructed. He surveyed the digital map with his newly appointed military executives, pleased that the strikes he had ordered in Sen Ta'rine and Ahm'ral were going well. The Covenant's meager resistance wouldn't hold out much longer.

Soon enough, he would tear the whole mess out by its roots.

“Mr. Goodwin,” came a voice over the intercom. “I have that call you asked me to connect.”

“I will take it in my office,” he said. “Pardon me, gentlemen.”

The military executives nodded to Goodwin as he took his leave. Guards posted by the elevator stepped aside to allow him to enter, and he rode to the top floor.

The loft was still under lockdown, but changes were underway. The investigators had documented the scene, the remains had been removed, and a team of workers was busy repairing furniture, replacing glass, and tearing up the carpets.

Goodwin closed the door to his office and sat in his armchair before tapping the conical brass intercom mounted on his desk.

“Connect me,” he said.

A dark scene appeared on his Computator screen. It showed a lavish room with high ceilings and a golden four-poster bed. The sheets were torn aside, and an askew lamp illuminated two struggling figures—a man and woman in their bedclothes, gagged and bound. Black-suited Watchmen loomed over them.

“Hello, Mr. President,” Goodwin said.

The couple stopped squirming.

“Right now, you are asking yourself, what on earth have I done? I need you to ponder that. What…have…I…done?”

Goodwin gestured, and a Watchman tore away Saltern's gag.

“How dare you, James! You know I—”

Goodwin snapped his fingers, and the Watchman threw a punch into the President's gut, folding the man over on the ground. Muffled sobs came from the woman tied up beside him.

“Do I have your attention?” Goodwin asked, interweaving his fingers. “You are the President of Meridian, leader of the most powerful nation in the world. You are this at the Foundry's pleasure. And as you might have guessed, we are not pleased.”

Saltern nodded weakly.

“Your role has been clearly defined for you, and for the most part, you have performed adequately. Until now. It appears you have forgotten your place. So allow me to make something clear.”

Goodwin leaned closer to the screen.

“You are a trifle. A clown to keep the audience entertained. But the fool who thinks he is king is a sad fool indeed.”

Saltern stared murder at the screen.

“Say it with me. The fool…” Goodwin started.

“The fool who thinks he's king is a sad fool indeed,” Saltern spat. “You've made your point.”

“Your livelihood,” Goodwin spoke slowly. “Sarah's, that of sweet Annie and little Denton…” The woman next to Saltern sat bolt upright. “They all hinge on what you do from this moment forward. It is simple. Obey, and we will provide. Step out of line again, and you will be of no more use to the Foundry.”

Judging by their expressions, Goodwin knew that his message was coming through loud and clear.

“Tomorrow evening, the world will be watching your much anticipated campaign rally. A speech will be given to you by Foundry officials, which you will recite atop the Crest of Dawn, begging forgiveness for your idiocy at the Council of Nations. Do you understand?”

Saltern nodded.

“Good night, Mr. President.”

Goodwin hit a button, and the image on his Computator cut out. He leaned back in his armchair contentedly.

He had wanted to do that for a very long time.

The intercom bleeped softly.

“Mr. Goodwin? I have someone on the line…” The voice hesitated. “Sir, I think you're going to want to take this.”

Goodwin frowned. “Proceed,” he said.

The line crackled.

“This is Chairman James Goodwin.”

“Sir!” came a woman's voice, distorted by a poor connection. “I have…urgent…and I…intel should go to you.”

“Who is this?” he demanded. “What is this about?”

“Engineer…Gabriella Flores…” the woman said amid the static. “I know where the…children are.”