The Harvest (20 page)

“If I was meant to be a lesson for children then,” he asks, “what am I now?”

The gun barrel hovers, its black eye staring beyond the firelight.

“A ticket back to heaven.”

“How’s that?”

She decides to tell him. She doesn’t owe him, but the night is long and dark, and this conversation is a stone to break up the river.

“You’re a terrorist, Arthur. A wanted man. Now more than ever. I can buy my way back in with you on a pewter platter.”

“Alive? Or as a corpse?”

Her finger curls around the trigger like a worm around an apple stem.

“The gun has a lot of power,” she says. “I can feel it. I get it now.”

She removes her finger from the trigger, eases the gun back into the box, still loaded. She closes it, then says:

“You get to live, Arthur. Things are changing up in the skies, and I don’t yet know who will be the one to take you off my hands and give me my pardon. But as soon as I figure that out, I’m taking you straight to them, and they can do what they want with you. Ask you questions. Cut you open. Throw you off the back end of the new war-flotilla I keep hearing about. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore except putting all this behind me.”

“What you want is a dream,” Arthur says. “You can’t put the snakes back in the can, Proctor.”

She shrugs. “I’m going to try.”

FOUR CONVERSATIONS AND A FISTFIGHT

SLEEP
IS
A
GHOST
Cael chases but cannot catch. The room they give him here in Pegasus City isn’t much more than a closet—the towers of the Saranyu crumbled and collapsed when they fell, and what remains standing are stunted, broken fingers, crooked and strange. The rooms shoulder against one another like old wooden fences that would fall to pieces if they didn’t have the others to lean on.

His thoughts run laps around him. And his Blight-vine is itchy, too. It burns at his chest, from where it originates. It tightens and loosens around his arm, sometimes sliding along the underside of his arm and reaching up and grabbing his hand. Leaves tickle the insides of his knuckles. Sometimes it feels intimate. Other times it feels insistent, urgent, like it wants him to get up and go
do
something.

Lord and Lady knows he’s thought about it.

He could go out. Midnight. Throw around the Blight-vine like it was nothing. Tear his way through this so-called Pegasus City like it’s nothing more substantial than a moldy old bedsheet. But for what? He doesn’t know where he has to go. Or if Esther’s secret weapon is even here in the city, or if it fell elsewhere. Too many things he doesn’t know.

What he does know is that everything has changed.

Or, worse:

Every
one
has changed.

That bothers him. Cael was never like Lane. He never wanted to go out and completely change the world—just wanted to change it for him and those he cared about. Set them up, get a little garden going that the Empyrean couldn’t see. He never wanted to be part of something bigger.

Just something a little bit better.

He doesn’t like change. It leaves him feeling weird, like the world went its way and didn’t think to bring him along with it.

His mind keeps revisiting Lane. Lane was always the firebrand, but always one who followed his captain. Now he’s a captain all his own, and Cael respects that. But he’s having a helluva hard time dealing with it.

His mind goes there, but his heart—well, his heart hurts. Keeps thinking about Gwennie. And Wanda. And back to Gwennie. He thought he’d never see Gwennie again. And Wanda . . . she’s his Obligated. Which still means something, right? Or maybe it never meant anything at all. But she has changed. She changed
for him
. That scares him. It scares him because he likes it, he likes that someone would do that, but deep down he also knows how wrong that is. That someone would put herself in danger, would allow the Blight into her body, just for him?

Is that what love is?

Or is that something altogether stranger?

Is it just obsession?

Jeezum Crow, does Wanda love him? Is she
in
love with him? Does he love Gwennie and does she love him? Gods, to see her again was something, wasn’t it? Spying her there in the corn, even as the world was going to hell all around them, even as a godsdamn mechanical was about to draw down on her . . . he shudders. Irrepressible.

Because he knows that mechanical wasn’t all mechanical.

He knows that when he ripped the head off, the vine tasted something. The vine tasted blood. Human blood. What the Maize Witch said was true: The Empyrean is taking people and making them into machines. Soldiers. Workers. Puppets. It wrings Cael’s stomach like a rag.

And with that he goes back to thinking about the Blight again, and how the others see it, and how the others have changed, and Gwennie and Wanda and Pegasus City and the Empyrean and, and, and—

Circles and circles. Thoughts tying knots around other thoughts.

Sleep kept at bay by the chewing rats of bad ideas.

Morning comes with a knock at the door. It isn’t a friendly knock.

Whomp whomp whomp
.

Whole building seems to shake with it. Dust streams down. Cael, shirtless, rises not from sleep but from some cobbled-together half-sleep where his waking thoughts mingle with dreamlike ideas. He rubs his eyes and goes to the door.

The whole frame is crooked and the door sticks. But he manages.

Standing there, two people.

The man he recognizes. Killian Kelly. A withered specter of what he once was, like a healthy stick whittled down to splinters. He’s pale and pasty. Got a cock-eyed lean to his body—favoring not just a leg but one whole side of him, like half of himself is somehow rebelling.

The woman—a girl, really—Cael doesn’t know. She’s pouty. Lips in a pointed sneer. Long blond hair bound back in a ponytail, with a hard slash of bangs across her forehead as if someone trimmed them with a bowie knife.

Both of them have sonic pistols. Killian’s is a fancy one, too—a lean, elegant Rossmoyne, by the look of it. Hers is more utilitarian. Dinged up, scratched. But that maybe means it has seen more action.

Cael grunts. “Good morning. You the welcome wagon? Whatcha got for me? Couple nice pastries, maybe, cup of hot dandelion tea?”

“Look at that,” the girl says, staring down at Cael’s arm. The vine there is not one vine, not really, but three: each emerging from a barklike patch in the center of his chest. Sometimes he touches that spot—it feels like a bit of tree bark on spongy ground. Floats the way a kneecap does when you push on it. The vine pulses, as if liquid sluggishly runs through it. “That’s a helluva thing you got there.”

“Yes,” Killian says, never taking his eyes away from Cael’s own. “Something of a marvel. Last time I saw it, it was a good bit smaller, and yet, the damage it did. You remember that, Mister McAvoy? You remember my first mate, Billy Cross?”

“I remember how you shot him,” Cael says. He knows he’s poking the beast on this one, but it’s like tonguing a broken tooth: he just can’t help it.

“That’s a rather deliberate misinterpretation of events,” the raider captain says, showing his teeth.

“You tried to shoot me. I turned the gun away and yet you still fired the weapon. And your first mate took that bullet. I was defending myself.”

Killian points a finger, leans in. “You’re a
monster
—”

The girl plants a hand on his chest, eases him back.

“My overeager friend here . . .” She stops, looks up, then laughs a little. “Funny to be calling him my friend, because up until yesterday we didn’t agree on much. And then you showed up. Common enemies are a wonderful thing in times of trouble. Gets everybody on the same page. Turns out, Killian and I agree on one thing, at least: we don’t care for you.”

Cael frowns. “I’m sorry, and you are?”

“Luna Dorado. Right-hand man to Mayor Moreau.”

“You don’t look like a man.”

“I got balls bigger than yours, I bet.”

“You might, at that. Listen, I didn’t sleep for squat last night, so if you don’t mind cutting through the clouds and getting to the point—”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Luna says. “Lane has made that clear.”

“But,”
Killian adds, “you’re not to disrupt what we’re trying to accomplish here. This is a good place, a
necessary
place. But things still hang in a delicate balance, and the last thing we need is some Blighted punk messing it all up. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mister McAvoy?”

“You don’t sound like a raider anymore. You sound Empyrean.”

That does it. Lightning dances in Killian’s eyes. “Shut up. Shut your crass mouth. You go about your business and you leave Lane’s alone. If not . . .” He lets his words go, one hand resting on the Rossmoyne shooter at his hip.

Cael thinks, but does not say:
I could break both of your necks before you even cleared the holster.
He’s not sure that it’s true. He feels confident. Overconfident, maybe. And he’s not looking to stir the soup, so—

All he does is nod, then ask: “We done here?”

Before they answer, he slams the door.

He waits for them to leave. Then he goes to find Gwennie.

The hallways are like the hands of some big giant that reached down and gave them a twist. Shattered marble floors rising here, sinking there. Walls cracked and split. Light fixtures hanging—though they have power. Some spark and pop, little firefly embers hitting the shattered tile and dancing before dying.

He thinks they put her on the other side, around the square.

The building groans and shifts as he walks.

He wonders if it’s safe, if Lane has done enough to keep this place stable. Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he doesn’t care. Would Lane put Cael in an unstable building just because he was pissed? That seems callous, even for Moreau.

It’s Gwennie he’s looking for, but it’s Rigo he finds.

Rigo, outside Gwennie’s door, with a small bundle of flowers. Cael doesn’t know what they are, but the blooms are big, round as his fist. Pink petals like the crinkly material of some girls’ Obligation Day dresses.

“Rigo,” Cael says. He can’t help but smile—no matter what changes, Rigo still seems like Rigo. A rock in the stream.

“Hey, Cap. I was coming to see you next.”

“I can head back to my room—”

“No, no, this works. Sorry you’re in such digs. They’re setting up new apartments, and this place needs serious renovation, but it’s far down the list.” He must see the look on Cael’s face because he says: “It’s not dangerous. They put in supports, and Empyrean construction is pretty powerful stuff—heck, half these structures survived the fall.”

Cael sniffs. “I saw some of it fall, you know? I was up there. Some buildings were buoyed by these big balloons so they fell slower. Others weren’t so lucky . . . dropping out of the air. Like holding a vase in your hand and then just opening all the fingers.” He mimes the motion. “People were in those buildings. These apartments all belonged to people who are now dead.”

“Yeah. I heard they had . . . a lot of bodies.” Rigo shifts uncomfortably. “I hate the Empyrean as much as the next guy, but I dunno.” He visibly swallows. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“What, Lane? Yeah, it’s all right. He’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. And he was a little drunk, I think. I just hope—well, I just hope he knows what he’s doing. I know I couldn’t handle the horse he’s riding.”

“Pop worries about that, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. That’s why he came here. To see if he could partner with Lane and join forces. Pop’s got a whole new grow operation. A hobo army a lot bigger than last time. Lane and him got into it pretty good and . . . I stayed behind. Pop asked me to. He wanted me to keep an eye on Lane and maybe see if I could . . . change his mind about things. But I dunno.”

“Well. Shit.”

“Yeah.” Rigo looks down at his feet, the one that’s real and the one that isn’t. “Are we gonna be okay, Cael?”

“You and me?”

“Nah, I know you and me are square. I mean everyone else.”

“Not for a while, I don’t figure. But maybe one day.”

Rigo suddenly perks up. “Oh, jeez, I got you something, too.” He reaches behind him and pulls from the hem of his pants a small, flat screen. A visidex. Chipped on the one end, and the back is pocked with tiny craters—some of them still home to tiny bits of stone. He hands it to Cael. “This is from the Saranyu. Everyone up there seemed to have one and so there are quite a few floating around. This might have a map of the old flotilla on it. Maybe it’ll help you find what you’re looking for here.”

“Thanks, Rigo. I don’t know what to say.”

“Just keep me in the loop. Don’t brush me aside. I’m here to help.”

“It means the world,” Cael says, and means it.

“The Maize Witch. Is she really real?”

“Yeah. She’s something. I don’t trust her, exactly. But I’m alive because of her, and I guess I owe her a chance, at least.”

Cael’s heart jumps as the door they’re standing in front of opens.

Gwennie stares out at them, hair mussed up, one eye wide, the other eye wincing. She smacks her lips. “Lord and Lady, you boys are chatty.”