The Elves of Cintra (28 page)

Outside the fence, there was instant pandemonium. All the Ghosts began shouting at once, gesturing wildly, trying to bring the three trapped inside the fence to safety through a combination of sheer willpower and deafening sound. All of them pressed up against the mesh, gripping the metal links fiercely. Bear even tried to go through the gap until Owl’s cry of dismay stopped him in his tracks.

For a few brief moments, all of them lost control.

All except Fixit.

F
IXIT IS A BOY
who has always been good at finding ways of making things work. Mostly, such things are mechanical in nature. Machines of all sorts, big and small, whole or in component pieces, useful or pointless, taken apart or put together—it is all the same to him. If there is a possibility that he can make it work, he wants to know how. He can’t explain what is so intriguing about machines; he can’t even remember what initially triggered his interest in them. He only knows that he can’t think of a time when working with machines hasn’t been his favorite pastime.

He is the middle child in a family of five, two older, two younger, both parents still alive and looking after them. They are living on a farm in eastern Washington, a run-down operation out in the middle of nowhere, their closest neighbors at least five miles away, the closest town at least twenty. They seldom see anyone except for the Strayhorns, the family up the road, whom they visit a couple of times a year and who visit them in turn about the same number. That is in the beginning, when he is still only four or five and just starting to take an interest in how things work. Shortly after that, the Strayhorns don’t come anymore. His mother says they have moved away. His father begins carrying a shotgun everywhere he goes.

Fixit, as the middle child, has no identifiable place or purpose in the family. The older two work with their father, and the younger two are too young to do anything, twins of fourteen months. They don’t live long anyway. They catch something, plague in all likelihood, the two of them sleeping together in a single bed or sharing a fenced-off play area, and they are dead in a week. He can’t remember their names after a while; they aren’t even real to him. Like so much of what is lost, they seem a fragment of a dream.

After they die, his parents start talking about moving somewhere else, although it is never clear exactly where they think they can go that will be any better. Fixit is seven by now and is immersed in his love of mechanics so thoroughly that he is already disappearing in plain sight. There simply isn’t any reason for the others ever to wonder what he is doing; he is always doing the same thing. Because he is now the youngest, he is treated with a deference that his older siblings do not enjoy and is left pretty much alone. He is smart, and already he is reading old repair manuals and books on various types of engines. By the time he is nine, he has gained a reasonable understanding of solar power, and has begun work on a solar energy collector that can power the lone vehicle they possess but hasn’t worked since the last of the storage cells gave out. He pays some attention to what is going on around him, but mostly he concentrates on his projects.

It’s while he is testing the collector, having taken the casing out into the low hills and away from the house in case anything goes wrong, that one of the renegade militias operating as slavers finds his family, overpowers them, and takes them away. He would never have known that much if he hadn’t seen the smoke from the burning buildings and come running in time to see the trucks disappearing into the distance.

For a few days, he doesn’t know what he should do. He thinks vaguely of going after his parents and his siblings, but has no idea how to do that or even where to look. He stays out in the hills, working on the collector, the concentration the effort requires giving him an excuse not to think about what has happened to his family and what is likely to happen to him. Focused, intense, he completes his work and falls into a deep sleep. When he wakes, he straps the collector to his back and sets out, intending to reach the coast. He is discovered by a small caravan of families traveling out of the sun-and radiation-blasted heart of the Midwest to look for something better. The caravan could abandon him and go on—not needing another mouth to feed, not particularly interested in acquiring strays—save for the collector. Impressed by his extraordinary skill at only nine years of age, they decide to take Fixit along.

By the time they reach Seattle, he is ready to go his own way and leaves them in the middle of the night, slipping away along the waterfront. He is living in an abandoned machine shed when Bear discovers him several weeks later, dirty and ragged and starving, the collector in front of him like a shrine as he sits poring through sets of old manuals he has scavenged. Bear, uncertain what to do with him, nevertheless takes him to Hawk, who recognizes his value immediately and invites him into the family.

But he is still the middle child, even in his new family. He is appreciated when his skills are needed, but otherwise frequently ignored. It doesn’t help that the others have already staked out positions in the pecking order—Hawk the leader, Bear and Panther the soldiers, Owl the voice of wisdom and reason, Candle the seer, Sparrow wild and unpredictable, and River mysterious. He is just an average boy, ordinary looking without much in the way of athletic ability or intelligence. They are strong and beautiful and smart, and he envies them all. Sure, he is the one who can fix things, but it is not an ability that generates much excitement. His propensities for wandering off and frequently forgetting what he is supposed to be doing don’t help, either. They make him the butt of too many jokes. His place in the family is important, but he doesn’t really feel valued for himself.

That changes with the coming of Chalk, a boy his own age and with his own set of problems, a boy even goofier at times than he is. They become fast friends immediately, and suddenly it doesn’t matter so much that the rest frequently despair of them. They value and appreciate each other and occupy the solid middle ground of the family. Fixit with his mechanical skills and Chalk with his artistry are very different on the surface, yet much the same beneath.

But in that private place where even Chalk isn’t allowed to go, Fixit still dreams of doing something that will make the others look at him differently. Something like Sparrow did in facing down and killing that mutant insect. Something so exciting and wonderful that they will never stop talking about it.

Something heroic and awe inspiring.

Just once.

At Oronyx Experimental, he gets his chance.

W
HILE THE OTHERS
scrambled frantically at the barrier of the chain-link fence, Fixit kept his head. He ran to the Lightning S-150 AV and keyed in the security code on the touch pad. He had watched Logan Tom set the code earlier and paid close attention to the sequence of numbers. His memory did not betray him, and the locks released. He slipped inside, flicked on the switches that would power up the engine, engaged the shift, and shot forward. The vibration of the vehicle throbbed through him like a shot of adrenaline, and he was grinning broadly as he wheeled toward the opening in the fence.

He knew what he had to do.

He caught a glimpse of Chalk’s pale face, shocked beyond words, as he tore across the flats from the highway toward the fence. The Lightning hit a deep rut and nearly tore the steering wheel out of his hands as he bounced wildly to one side. For just an instant it occurred to him that this was a huge mistake, that he wasn’t up to it, and then he was through the gap and rocketing toward the battle. Logan Tom was down, sprawled on the earth, his staff a dozen feet away as the machines closed on him. Sparrow and Panther had turned back and were firing the heavy Parkhan Sprays into their attackers, desperately trying to keep them at bay. But it was a futile effort; the machines were too well protected.

Fixit glanced down at the array of weapons buttons on the dash, just below the loran’s bright lock-on screen, sorted through his memories of what they did, and chose two of four with red arrow symbols. He punched them in as he swung out and away from his friends to get clear of them, and a pair of dart missiles launched from the vehicle and into one of the machines, exploding with a blinding light and sending out a shock wave that rocked the AV and knocked Panther and Sparrow sprawling. Two of the machines disappeared. It caused the others to turn toward him, and he punched the second set of buttons. But this time nothing happened. Two were all that were loaded, he guessed, wishing he had asked a few more questions when he’d had the chance.

His grin tightened as the AV rocked and lurched through laser fire.
Oh, well. Too late now.

He roared toward the machines, their lasers stabbing the concrete all around him and then the Lightning itself. He held the machine steady, his arms aching with the effort, and increased speed. He was on top of them in seconds, sideswiping the closest, crumpling several of its metal legs and crippling it. Then he was past them and tearing toward the hangars from which they had emerged. Not where he wanted to go. Were there more? He wheeled back, the AV skidding, tires shrieking. For just an instant, he thought he was going to lose control completely. Logan Tom was on his feet again, sprinting for his staff. He snatched it up and wheeled back in a single fluid motion. Blue fire exploded from the tip and rocked another of the machines. He was yelling at Panther and Sparrow.

Fixit charged the one that remained, throwing the levers to what he believed to be the heavy BRom charges, shells that could punch through concrete. But torch wire uncoiled instead, ripping free from the containing spools and wrapping the last attacker in yards of corrosive thread that burned the metal skin with white-hot intensity. In seconds the wire had eaten through, and the machine was lurching like a drunken animal.

Fixit reached Logan Tom and skidded to a halt. The Knight of the Word leapt for the passenger’s door and threw himself into the machine. “Go!” he snapped, hands flying over the weapons panel. Fixit did as he was told, and the AV screeched toward the fence. Panther and Sparrow had already reached the barrier and were charging through, the other Ghosts crowding around in celebration. Fixit took the Lightning through right after them and jammed on the brakes at the highway’s edge. He was breathing so hard that for a moment he just sat there, his hands on the wheel, his body shaking, his eyes staring straight ahead.

“You can let go now,” Logan Tom told him, and reached over to help pry his fingers loose. The dark eyes met his own. “That was good work, Fixit.”

Fixit nodded, and then grinned. “Thanks.”

Logan nodded. “You might want to look in the backseat now.”

When he did so, he found himself staring at the prone figure of the Weatherman, still strapped to his stretcher. Fixit took a deep breath. He hadn’t even noticed that the old man was there.

The Weatherman’s eyes were wide and staring. It didn’t look as if he was breathing.

“Get out of the vehicle and join the others,” Logan ordered, his voice strangely calm. “Go on, before they come over here. Hurry!”

Fixit did as he was told, his heart in his throat, his mouth dry as he opened the door and staggered away on legs that were unexpectedly weak. He got only a dozen yards before he was surrounded by the other Ghosts, who cheered and clapped and pounded him on the back, celebrating his daring rescue.

“That was so wonderful!” Sparrow declared, her grin huge.

“You got some iron in you, little man,” said Panther. “Takes some hard edges to do what you did. Some tough stuff.”

Only Owl seemed to realize what was wrong. Logan Tom caught her eye as she lagged behind the others, and she wheeled herself over to join him. Out of the corner of his eye, Fixit could see her peering inside the Lightning. He tried not to look, but he couldn’t help himself. Logan Tom was bending over the old man, putting his ear on his chest, then close to his mouth.
Please,
Fixit prayed.
Don’t let him die.