Waybound (5 page)

“Is sh-she okay?”

“Would you be?” Micah shot back, more harshly than he had intended. His muscles were on fire. He wanted to be left alone.

“Sh-shouldn't you be praying wi-with her?”

Micah scoffed and focused on sorting his ammo.

Dollop twiddled his fingers giddily, shifting from foot to foot.

“So…Isn't it ama-mazing here? Ev-everyone is so primed with fu-function. Th-they say they're all my clan, my br-brethren, that they would all ru-rust for me. I'm one of th-them!”

Micah ignored him.

“There are so—so many mehkans in the Covenant. Ev-every race, all Makina's children p-p-putting aside differences. No more Gr-Great Decay! All to-together, all getting ready for—”

Dollop strode up to Micah excitedly, stumbling over his neat stack of ammo cartridges and knocking them over.

“Dollop!” Micah hollered. “Just stay outta my way.”

The little mehkan cringed as if he had been struck.

Micah immediately regretted it. His freckled face softened, and he crawled to his feet, muscles aching.

“I didn't mean it,” Micah said. “I'm a jerk, I know, I'm just—”

“You're sc-scared,” Dollop said quietly.

Micah felt his face flush. “Naw, it ain't that,” he said, dismissing it with a smirk.

“I-It is. And it's ok-kay.”

Micah's self-assured grin crumbled. He felt naked. He couldn't tell if he was about to scream more insults at Dollop or start blubbering like a baby.

“I—I am too,” Dollop said. “But we do-don't need to be. Ma-Makina guides us now, don't you see?”

“Not really,” Micah said with a shrug.

“You have be-been chosen to serve Her,” the mehkan chirped, barely able to contain his excitement. “The ge-gears have engaged! The Covenant has been pr-preparing for many phases. The moment of reck-ckoning is near.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“So-soon we will march. Soon we will ta-take back Mehk!”

A chill rippled up Micah's spine. He snatched up his rifle.

“If that's true,” he grunted, “then I got a lotta work to do.”

Dollop watched as Micah slapped a magazine into his Dervish rifle, cocked the bolt, and spun the barrels with a whiz. The mehkan held a fist over his dynamo, then slipped away.

Micah stretched his arms and shook his hands vigorously before raising the gun. He got a target in his sights.

The Covenant was going to take back Mehk?

The thought burned away his fatigue. This was his chance to fight back against the Foundry, his chance to prove himself. He thought back to his big sister, Margie, how she had adjusted his grip and showed him how to relax his aim. Micah took a deep breath and let it out.

Then, just like Margie had shown him, he waited for that quiet moment before he needed to inhale again. Stillness came.

He fired. Not a single shot hit the target.

Micah gritted his teeth, ready to try again.

He would protect Phoebe. No matter what.

Muddled sunshine oozed in through the tent ceiling, which was made of a translucent membrane that must have been mehkan hide. A tray of water and rations lay untouched.

Phoebe knelt in the back room of the domed temple where her father's body had lain just that morning. The chamber was intended for solitude, and aside from the walls and the black ore underfoot, it was featureless. She was wrapped in the strange rust-colored shawl that blocked out all sound. The tar-thick silence left her floating. How long had she been back here, pretending to pray? Three hours? Four?

A day? A lifetime?

It didn't matter. Nothing did. She was alone.

No mother, no father. An orphan.

Her breath stopped. That word. How could a concept so foreign, so other, suddenly have become the one thing she knew for sure? It smothered her every pore like smoke.

Orphan.

Phoebe looked down at his spectacles in her hands. She traced the spiderweb crack on one of the lenses with a ragged nail, crusted red from the ceremonial rust. How far she had come to save him, how much she had risked. And lost.

All for what? To be caught by the Foundry and used to force her father's confession. Then when the Covenant had come to rescue him, they were held back because Phoebe demanded they save Micah. If it wasn't for her, Orei would have gotten her dad out of the Citadel alive, along with Entakhai and Korluth and all those brave mehkan warriors. Right now, her father would be feeding vital information to the Covenant, guiding them in their next attack on the Foundry.

If she had never left home, her father would still be alive.

Why? Why did it have to be like this?

No answer. Just the oppressive rhythm of her breath within the silence of her shawl, magnifying the anguish that threatened to swallow her whole.

Phoebe's shawl was ripped back, and the rush of sound was disorienting. Orei loomed over her, glimmering rings and scythes in orbit, snaring the meager light. The thick cords within the Overguard's throat vibrated with her fluttery, disembodied voice.

“You are done,” Orei commanded.

“What?” Phoebe blinked her tender, bleary eyes.

“You grieve too long. Four point eight clicks. Must prepare for your mission.”

“No…I—” Phoebe felt like she was trying to rouse from a deep sleep. “I—I just…”

I just buried my father, she wanted to say, but her mouth wouldn't form the words.

“Rusting rites finished. Urgent matters press. The Aegis comes. Must be ready to depart.”

“What are you talking about?” Phoebe gasped, her anger rising. “I can't turn it off. Just like that.”

Pendulums and sliders ticked in Orei's ever-shifting body, measuring the air around Phoebe. “Unacceptable,” Orei stated. “Loaii must be strong.”

“I don't care!” cried Phoebe. “Leave me alone!”

“Core temperature rises two percent. Wasteful. You must—”

“Get out of here!” Phoebe screamed. Her heart thrashed in her rib cage like a wild thing trying to escape. She reached for the tray of rations and hurled it at Orei, who easily sidestepped it. “I hate you! Leave! NOW!”

Orei took a step forward and tilted her head. A strange change came over her as the myriad pieces of her shifting anatomy slowed. It looked as if she were moving underwater, as if some invisible force was trying to grind her body to a halt. She took an unbalanced step back, then abruptly spun through the tent flap and shoved past Axial Phy, who was just entering.

The elderly mehkan seemed undisturbed by Orei's behavior. The delicate chains dangling from her vestments whispered like spring rain as she ambled in. Phoebe looked warily at Axial Phy, expecting another callous rebuke. However, the priestess just shuffled over to the scattered provisions and carefully arranged them back on the discarded tray.

“Sorry,” Phoebe whispered, gesturing to the mess.

“Loaii.” The axial's words came in a scrape. “Forgive her.”

“Why?” she said, curling her lip resentfully.

“Because she must not feel.”

“She's evil.”

“No, she is kailiak,” Axial Phy said. “They have no bonds. They do not feel the way we feel. Cannot.” Sadness darkened her voice. “Kailiak are mehkans of precision and measurement. It is their most vital function. Emotion is poison to them, interrupts their systems so that they cannot act, think, or even breathe.”

Phoebe considered this.

“Your pain touches us all, Loaii, but none more than Overguard Orei. She is moved by your sacrifice—an unusual tenderness that, for a kailiak, can be deadly.”

The diminutive axial set the tray aside and approached. Beneath her crumpled golden robes, Phoebe saw the hint of stubby legs rotating around her body, as if her pelvis were a wheel. Axial Phy reached out her skeletal arms and with broad clamp-like digits, adjusted Phoebe's shawl.

“It's my fault,” Phoebe said, lip quivering. “It's my fault he's dead. I—” She burst into full-throated sobs, shaking violently.

Axial Phy wrapped her in a tight embrace. Phoebe had never been this close to a mehkan before. She could feel the axial's hard, knotted form beneath her shimmering robes.

“I am a worker. A mere jaislid, born to serve,” came the axial's coarse whisper. “But I obey no ore-bound master. I serve Her. And from my labors, there is one thing I know for certain.”

Phoebe looked up at her.

“The gears do turn,” Axial Phy said. “Their purpose is unclear, yes, but there is purpose all the same. The components interlock, all integral to the whole.”

Phoebe felt warm, flat fingers petting the tangles of her hair. “But what does that even mean?” she asked. “That doesn't change anything. He's dead. Because of me.”

“Because of the Everseer. Your father was taken beyond the Shroud, returned to Her Forge. You did not cause it, nor could you have ever stopped it.”

“But what…What am I supposed to do?” Phoebe pleaded.

“Use the whist,” the old mehkan said, indicating the rust-colored shawl. “It is a rare thing, an ancient art nearly lost to the epochs. The whist is bestowed to mourn a fallen hero. Never has it graced one who is not Waybound, much less a human.”

“I tried to pray with it like I'm supposed to,” sniffled Phoebe. “But there's…nothing.”

“You burden yourself. Do not pray. Use the whist to find comfort, to feel fiercely the love of your father. Embrace its silence, and I promise, your pain will melt like flux into the ore.”

Axial Phy's face eased into a crinkly smile.

“Then, Loaii, in that nothing, Her voice will guide you.”

Phoebe gently pulled out of the embrace.

“What is ‘Loaii'? What does it mean?” Phoebe asked.

Beneath the veil of clinking chains, the mehkan's eyes flickered. “There is no word in your tongue. It means…” The axial thought for a moment. “For you, the path is…illuminated. She guides you. Few have borne the title.”

“Loaii,” Phoebe said softly.

“Loaii,” Axial Phy repeated and bowed deeply. “Use the whist to find peace. Makina will come to you in time.” The old mehkan pivoted, her robes rustling as she withdrew from the tent.

Phoebe closed her eyes and draped the whist over her head. The axial's words had made Phoebe feel lighter, like she wasn't such a fraud after all.

But her head was still swimming with questions, especially about her mission. She didn't understand much of the Ona's cryptic words, and there was no one to ask—she and Micah had been sworn to secrecy. The Ona had said she would explain everything once their escort arrived, but Phoebe couldn't wait.

She needed Micah. They needed to figure this out.

Phoebe stared down at her father's spectacles. One thing the Ona said rang perfectly clear.

His function was. To save Mehk. Now it is. Yours.

B
anks of floodlights flared on as night congealed in the sky. A toxic CHAR cloud lingered over the vast blackened pit where the Citadel once stood. The area was cordoned off and accessible only to workers in protective suits. Any metal brought within its slowly expanding perimeter would decompose into poisonous slop, so all operators were equipped with specialized gear made from high-fired ceramic, reinforced glass, and wood.

Goodwin peered out at the haze from the paltry lean-to shelter. After his unexpected meeting with President Saltern, he had returned to Mehk to face Chairman Obwilé and the four directors. First, Goodwin had learned that they were taking the Dyad Project from him, then he had been tasked with his new assignment: managing the aftermath of the Citadel—glorified janitorial work.

“You were responsible for this mess,” Obwilé had purred, taking far too much pleasure from Goodwin's fury. “It is only fitting that you should be in charge of cleaning it up.”

So they had shipped him out here, to this mobile command center, little more than a tent village, a handful of open-bed cargo trucks, and a closed circuit Com-Pak relay dish. Goodwin reapplied mentholated cream beneath his nostrils and adjusted his filtered facemask as he surveyed the charts and blueprints.