Freewalker (20 page)

“What's Gyoxip?” Roan asks Mabatan.

“One who stands between Hhroxhi and humans. An intermediary. That is what they have asked Lumpy to be.”

“And the silver thing?”

“A whistle. When it is blown, they will come,” says Mabatan. “Let's go. Xxisos is ready.”

Xxisos moves the steel bar and opens the hatch. With a hiss and click of farewell, the three humans leave the Hhroxhi domain.

THE QUARRY

INSOFAR AS THE SACRAMENTAL DIRT IS FOR THE EXCLUSIVE USE OF THE MASTERS IN THEIR ONGOING BATTLE WITH THE DEMONS, UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSION OF THIS SUBSTANCE IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN AND THE CLERICAL ASSEMBLY IS HEREBY EMPOWERED TO DETER ILLEGAL USE OR POSSESSION BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

—PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

S
TOWE, PALE, HER EYES DARK
, moves past a large window that overlooks the newest part of the City, a medical complex to accommodate the growing demands of the aging Masters and their minions. Five square blocks of domes, all connected by clear tubes abuzz with hundreds of people contently occupied, a little lump of coercion behind their ears.

She despises this place and its smells: sweet pungent florals over the bitter reek of dying flesh. Darius had made her want to be part of this. Now she wants... she wants...

The source.

Yes. And it is only through Darius that she can get there.

“I'm sorry, Our Stowe, my orders are no... no visitors,” stammers the cleric guarding the door.

“Since when am I a visitor?” Stowe inquires imperiously.

Before the cleric can squeak out a reply, Darius's voice rings out from within the room. “Let her in!”

Her best cherubic smile in place, Stowe sweeps past and enters the white room. The Eldest is sitting up in bed, sipping tea, she's sure it's verbena, his favorite. But how ridiculous he looks: a multitude of wires snaking into every pulse and errant nerve of his body, sacks hanging above his head dripping blood and other disgusting fluids into whatever it is he's had newly replaced. His glance, however, is no less probing than usual.

“Stowe! How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Darius pats the bed, indicating that she should sit, the attached medical paraphernalia all quivering with the motion.

“But I'm the one who should be concerned, dear Seer. Such a difficult operation. You must be very uncomfortable.”

“Comfort? I have only vague recollections of what that was. I'll be up on my feet in a few days, that is the important thing. The transplants have taken perfectly. Our science steadily improves, and as it does, it answers our needs with greater expedience.”

Expedience, yes, that's always the answer, isn't it? Stowe wonders how much he's had replaced this time. Heart? Liver? Lungs? He looks pale and decrepit. Is there any of the original Darius left? Is it possible that he's become someone else entirely? Some... conglomerate thing?

He strokes her hair.

The bones. Some of the bones are surely his.

“I've been terribly worried about you.”

His touch is weak, it would be easy to snuff him out.

No, no, what is she thinking? She's not ready yet. Do it now, and where would she be left? No Dirt. No power. No escape.

“You are so kind to me, Father. In fact, everyone has been so generous and caring. And I am grateful, deeply grateful. Though I have to admit, all this rest and system cleansing is making me a little stir-crazy.”

The ancient one laughs, his implanted teeth bared, but when he finishes laughing, it is abrupt. Too abrupt.

“Your energy, child, astounds me. There's not a Master among us who could have survived that journey. Never mind one who's been weakened by a bowlful of Dirt each week.”

He is brooding over Kordan. What will he do to the poor vulture? Then again, what does she care? She'll never have to deal with that vile, preening oaf again. It seems Willum is not so soft after all. He has orchestrated Kordan's fall with brutal effectiveness.

The Master's tone shifts to mild condescension. “... And after only a week of rest, you're ready to go again.”

She won't take it personally. When one is as powerful as Darius, it is difficult not to condescend—she has only ten years to his hundred and twenty. Let him go on thinking that her mind is feeble compared to his.

“Stowe, much rides on your strength and ability. We must not take unnecessary risks. I cannot allow you to return to the Field too soon.”

“Oh, Master, no, of course not. I do not want to go to the Dreamfield, I just want to go outside.”

Darius laughs again. “That's all?” He caresses her cheek with the back of his hand, tubes grazing her neck and shoulder.

Careful, careful.

“I miss the outdoors. The open air. I've been invited so many times to the Quarry, don't you think it's time they had a visit from Our Stowe?”

“But you have always turned down their requests. Why the change of heart?”

“Dirt is magical to me, it touches my spirit, as you do, Father. The thought of seeing it pulled from the ground by mere workers repelled me. But now that I've been without it, I've felt another side of its power and I've grown curious to learn more.”

“You want to pick at the scab. I understand.” Darius nods. “Well, quarrying is lonely and dangerous work. A visit from you would be very affirming. And who knows, perhaps the country air would be good for you as well. When would you like to go?”

Stowe smiles. Her most childlike smile. At least what she imagines a child's smile to be. Innocent, enthusiastic, and devoid of all suspicion, malice, and fear.

The drive to the Quarry is lovely but sedate. Stowe, in a near perfect mood, is happy to contemplate the endless flatlands, all overhung with gray looming skies. Today, her cumbersome, heavy dress feels comfortable and warm, the air of the car well ventilated and fresh. It's a wonderful day. Clearly this plan is perfect, for it has settled her mind. She has no reason to argue with herself, because both sides of her are in total agreement. She is ready and Dirt is the answer.

Willum looks sullenly out his window. He hasn't spoken to her since he was informed of this outing.

“Don't pout, Willum.”

“Forgive me, Our Stowe, for being so deep in thought. I am here only to share in the glow of your presence.”

Stowe smiles in the face of his sarcasm. “Willum, there is no need to be so formal.”

“No?”

“I need to tempt myself so that I can resist. There's no challenge otherwise.”

“Your wisdom in this matter is unassailable, My Lady.”

Stowe glowers. If he wishes to act like a servant, why should she care? Why does it unnerve her so? He's probably just angry, worried about her, but never mind. She has other concerns. She will think about how to deal with him later, but for now she can simper as obsequiously as he.

“I am honored, my Primary, by your trust.”

The vehicles stop at a security point, where heavily armed clerics carefully examine everyone's identification. One more sign of the Masters' growing fear of the Eaters. For years, the Eaters have found ways to smuggle Dirt out of this facility, the only place in the world where it is mined and stored. Darius would like to starve them out of the Dreamfield—the way she's being starved right now.

She wishes her eyes would stop aching. Dr. Arcanthas has prescribed drops, but they do nothing. Nothing!

The guards wave them on to the second of the five gates. Each inspection promises to be as long and tedious as the last, but Stowe is sanguine. With every security check, they draw closer to the source. She can sense it. There's Dirt in the air.

At last the vehicles arrive in front of a small concrete bunker. The reinforced steel doors are thrown open and Master Fileth, the new Overseer of the Quarry, emerges.

“Our Stowe,” he says, with a reverential bow. “We are honored by this visit. So happy to see you have recovered from your illness. You've been in the thoughts of us all.”

Darius has high hopes for Master Fileth, the latest in a long line of Overseers of the Quarry. His predecessors have all failed to stem the leakage of Dirt, but Fileth has already implemented exceptional security measures and this has raised the Eldest's expectations. How sad it will be for poor Fileth if he fails. Judging from his appearance and demeanor, though, Fileth has every intention of making his appointment a success. He's exceedingly self-assured, a small, elegant man who looks to have retained his original external parts. Stowe wonders if torture hurts more when your body's still completely your own.

“Thank you, Master Fileth. I have waited too long to visit the quarry and its workers.”

“You give us nothing but pleasure.”

You must see every inch of the complex.

“I want to see every inch of the complex.”

“Then you shall.”

The entourage walks behind the building and through another high fence, this one electrified, its wiring being repaired by two of those brain-addled Gunthers, with their hideous eyeglasses scrunched up their noses. Darius says there's only a few dozen of these wretches, that they perform a valuable function and should be tolerated. But to Stowe's eyes they're everywhere, and loathsome like insects—she would like to stamp them all out.

At the next gate, Stowe watches as workers pass through security on their way out of the facility. Everything they carry is being investigated, and one by one each is escorted into a hut, to be strip-searched, no doubt. Will the guards dare be so brazen with Our Stowe?

With every step, Stowe's sensitivity to the Dirt increases. Her body trembles with anticipation. Though she can feel Willum's eyes on her, she is unconcerned. What could he possibly see that he doesn't already know?

But nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the quarry. It is a massive deep hole as large as the entire village of Longlight. At its edges caves have been dug out, great stone arches supporting the ground above. The workers all wear goggles and masks, identical to the ones that Felith is passing out now.

“You will need these. Inhaling Dirt makes one an excellent candidate for early lung replacement.”

Stowe examines the equipment, then looks up into Willum's watchful eyes.

“Better eaten than breathed,” she says to her guardian. And with a mischievous grin, she dons the goggle and mask, then fairly bounces after Felith down the steps into the excavation.

“As far as we can tell, the meteor struck somewhere in the center of this area. As it blasted apart, it irradiated the earth's crust up to a depth of approximately three stories, over the entire impact perimeter. Gleaning the Dirt from the soil was not difficult, though purification proved a challenge. But about three years ago, that supply was exhausted, and we were forced to start excavating from the stone.”

Exhausted three years ago. It wasn't long after that they invaded Longlight and took her and Roan. Could there be a connection? Could they have—

Keep your eyes focused on your surroundings. Observe
carefully. Every nook. Each crevice.

What was it? She lost the thought. Something about her brother. No matter, it will come back to her.

Felith guides them through the first sandstone arch into a shallow cave, where workers painstakingly scrape with flat metal sticks at the purple veins in the rock. Bits of stone corrupt the crystalline powder collecting on the oilcloth that's spread at their feet. Every few minutes the material is carefully swept up and placed in a large metal jar.

“These jars are transported hourly to Processing. Shall we continue?”

Stowe doesn't reply. Instead, she edges closer to the workers. “How did the Dirt come to be mixed with stone?” she asks, the urge to stick her hand in one of the containers and gorge almost overwhelming.

“The simple truth is that we do not know. There are many theories. Some believe the heat at impact melted parts of the stone, weakening it, permitting the surrounding soil to penetrate. Others think that in the explosion, fragments of the meteor fused with the softer rock in the ground. There has been a great deal of investigation attempting to determine relative potency. But as our supply of Dirt is finite, caution has slowed the process somewhat.”

Explore. There must be a stockpile. Open every door.

Indicating that they should proceed, Stowe presents her arm to Fileth.

“I am honored, Our Stowe,” he says, awe in his voice as he proudly extends his wrist.

Not so honored if he knew she only offered because she can barely stand, her head spinning from the proximity of the Dirt. It must permeate her whole body, because her every cell is screaming, demanding that she join with the Dirt in the rocks. Lick it, rub it on her face, squeeze it in her fists, roll in it.

Breathe. Breathe. Control.

She allows Fileth to guide her back to the small concrete building. More guards. Steel doors. Inside, additional security people and yet another set of metal doors. Felith and one of the guards each place a key in separate locks, together they turn them, and the doors slide open. An elevator. The members of her entourage paste themselves against its walls to make room for her voluminous skirts as they descend several levels. When they step out into a huge, brightly lit room, their relief is visible.

Here, the floor, walls, and ceiling are a pristine white, as are the fully hooded suits worn by the dozens of workers who stand over conveyor belts, sifting through the violet compound.

“This is the epicenter,” says Felith. “All the Dirt that exists in the world is refined in this room.”

“How much do you process each day?” asks Stowe, now grateful for the mask, as she struggles to control the twitch in her cheek.

“There was a time when this facility produced a pound a day. But since we have resorted to drilling the rock, we are lucky to garner a pound in a week.”