The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1) (25 page)

56
Deadly Games

They held Kite in a cell at first. A white metal cell with ten horizontal lightning bolts for bars, buzzing and flickering, burning the sterile air. Even huddled in the corner, the heat from the mosfire prickled Kite's bruised skin. Drawing his knees to his chest he shivered as if his body had been chipped from ice. There was no escaping this new prison.

High in one corner a red eye silently observed him. How long were they going to keep him here? How long until they tortured him? Any minute now he expected them. The interrogators. Silent creatures in surgical masks and white lab coats. The ones who had stripped him to his vest and shorts and left him to stew. Any minute now they'd return to cut out the information their masters wanted.

Kite didn't care what the Foundation did to him. But fear of what these bastards might do with Fleer began to cut into heart like blade made of ice. He wanted to be strong, wanted to stand up to them, but he knew how weak that fear made him...

He heard a distant voice. Or was it a cry? A scream?

Fleer.

Kite scrunched his eyes shut. Anything but that. His swollen lip throbbed. The metallic tang of blood still lingered on his tongue. How could Fleer do this? Just throw her life away for Shelvocke?

A heavy door opened in the black room beyond his cell. Boots padded heavily on the hard tiles. Kite shrivelled into the corner. One by one the mosfire bars retracted, leaving horizontal ghosts on his vision. Slowly his eyes adjusted. The bulky frame of a Weatheren soldier filled the cell door.

A ruffle and a bundle of unfamiliar clothes slapped on to the tiles. An  orange boiler suit and rubber-soled shoes.

“Put them on,” grunted the Weatheren.

Kite didn't move. “W-where's Fleer?” he said.

The visor stared back. Kite watched out his own tiny, pathetic reflection shivering in the mirror-bright skymetal. “Now!” the Weatheren yelled.

Shivering Kite pulled on the boiler suit and wriggled his feet into the too-small rubber shoes. The Weatheren made him put out his hands and he snapped those hard, metal handcuffs on him.

“W-where are you taking me?” he asked.

The Weatheren said nothing. He dragged Kite from the cell and into a corridor of black unmarked doors, each one locked with a keypad. The air stung of disinfectant and harsh chemicals. Muffled cries leaked out from places unknown. Kite shuddered violently, his imagination twisting with cruel and terrible images. Was Fleer imprisoned behind one of these doors? Would they show her mercy because of her injuries?

Somehow Kite didn't believe they would.

The Weatheren forced him into the
Vorticity
's corridors; a pitiless labyrinth of brushed metal and watery strip lights. Distracted crewmen lashed him with cruel, unforgiving glances. Kite wondered if he was the first Askian they'd seen. More likely rumour of the Murkers' aborted attack had filtered down the ranks. Even if by some miracle he could escape the Weatheren he'd never last a minute with these lot waiting to butcher him.

Soon the Weatheren halted him at an assuming door. One of many in a narrow corridor thick with blue-uniformed officers. The Weatheren soldier hammered twice on the metal door, waited for a few seconds then grabbed the handle.

“Move,” he said, giving Kite a painful shove.

Kite found himself in an sterile office. There was a neat desk with a floating screen and a metal cabinet of labelled drawers beside it. Save for a single, gold-stitched eye embroidered on a crimson banner hanging from one walls he couldn't see any evidence of the person who worked here. Except for the familiar scent of sweet almonds.

And the Umbrella Man...

Kite stopped.

The automechanical was bent silently at the knees, his long arms nearly resting on the tiles. His black coat and high-hat had been removed. His mask had been peeled away, the chrome metal skull hinged open like a music box to reveal a cobweb of circuitry.

A small, white-haired man in a natty silk waistcoat and gold monocle had stopped his work, staring at Kite agog. He had a kind, wise face with a rosy cheeks and beard trimmed to a point. On the table beside him was a black velvet-lined case with neatly arranged craftsman's tools. In another, larger case Kite spied replacement body parts; eyeballs, teeth and hands.

“Please continue, Mr.Rhymer,” said the Corrector.

The man, Rhymer, nodded politely and returned to his work repairing the Umbrella Man.

The Corrector hobbled to her desk, leaning on a silver cane for support. Kite'd barely given her a thought since that day on the Lethe. He'd assumed the Watchers had killed her but instead they’d left her battered and bruised. The leg. A swollen black eye. A hatch of stitches across her jawline. Yet she was still smiling. Somehow Kite didn't think that smile would last long.

The Corrector gingerly lowered herself into her chair. When settled she placed a metal security box, the size of a brick, on the desk near the floating screen.

“Well, here we are again, Kite Nayward,” the Corrector said, folding her gloved hands in a deliberate manner. No doubt reminding him that, even temporarily crippled, she was far from harmless. “We are both survivors, are we not?”

Kite met her cold gaze. He tried not to look afraid of her. “W-what have you done with Fleer?” he asked.

“Is that what Valkyrie calls herself?” the Corrector said. “Askian's have such pretty names.”

Kite swore silently. Already he was volunteering information. He had to smarter than this if he wanted to get them both out of this alive.

“I often wondered what kind of person Valkyrie was,” the Corrector said. “The one who murdered nine of my men in Dusthaven. I was quite surprised I can tell you. Barely a woman. Captain Shelvocke really is a thoroughbred coward.”

Kite begrudgingly had to agree with her on that.

“And yet, for someone who has surrendered willingly,
Fleer
is being remarkably tight-lipped,” said the Corrector. “She refuses to tell us anything about Shelvocke's plans. Even with
encouragement
from the interrogators.”

Kite didn't doubt Fleer's defiance a second. She would die before she betrayed Shelvocke. And that was what he feared the most. “She was just following orders,” he said.

“Willingly or otherwise we all follow orders,” the Corrector said, dismissively. “And we all have our masters.”

A sharp
click
nearly wrenched Kite out of his skin. But it was just Rhymer, replacing the Umbrella Man's skull cap.

“I'm hoping you will be more co-operative,” the Corrector said. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

Kite scowled at her. “Help you? You killed Ersa.”

The Corrector frowned. “As I recall Ersa Nayward was trying to stab me in the neck with a pair of rusty scissors,” she said. “And, technically, it was Beaufort, and he was just doing his duty. He can't help it. He's programmed that way. But this is irrelevant.”

Kite set his jaw, grinding his teeth until they ached.

“I may be able to grant you both leniency,” the Corrector said, her tone softening a little just as it had done that day in Dusthaven. “You are technically
children
after all. If you are willing to answer a few simple questions that is.”

The words slipped from the Corrector's thin lips. Kite knew he couldn't trust a word she uttered. Leniency? Both of them were condemned already. They were Murkers, the Enemy of the Foundation. More than that they were Askian. Everything about the two of them made their survival impossible.

But what if he could earn Fleer some mercy? Even a drop to spare her suffering...

“What questions?” he said.

“Let me begin with your friend, Dice Clay, he - ”

Kite hadn't expected to hear that name again. “Clay's not my friend,” he said.

The Corrector nodded. “Maybe that's just as well. He told me all about the Clockwork Jinny. How you found it in the wreck of the Monitor. Of-course I was looking for something else entirely, which is why I missed it in Dusthaven,” she said, frowning as if that little oversight had cost her dear. “But that hardly matters now. Did it tell you about the Observatory?”

Kite didn't see a reason or risk in denying it.

“And what else did you learn from it?” the Corrector asked, but when he didn't reply she added, “hurry now, the interrogators are very efficient. I should know. I hand-picked them.”

Fury bubbled in Kite's veins. Fists clamped together he shuffled closer to her desk, close at he dared. “I know about the Cloud Room if that's what you mean,” he said.

The Corrector's lips parted. A look of quiet astonishment took hold. She glanced at the mysterious box on her desk. Then she glanced at Rhymer, but the curious little man appeared to be engrossed in affixing the Umbrella Man's immaculate new mask.

“Mr.Rhymer?” the Corrector called to him. “How is Beaufort?”

Rhymer removed the monocle and rubbed it with a handkerchief. “A few minor adjustments remain, Corrector,” Rhymer said, in a clear, educated voice. “To the voice recognition circuits mainly. Reassuringly there was no lasting damage done to his core processor.”

“That is indeed reassuring,” the Corrector said. “I hate to interrupt your good work. Would you leave us for a moment?”

Rhymer gave Kite a curious look, then nodded slowly. He slipped his fine frock coat from the back of a chair and silently left the room.

“What else do you know?” the Corrector said, when they were alone.

“That the Cloud Room's your big secret,” Kite said. “That you've been hunting for the mechanikin so Shelvocke and anybody else wouldn't find out where it's hidden.”

The Corrector didn't react this time. She stared at Kite from behind her desk, studying him. Scanning for signs of weakness and lies.

“And Captain Shelvocke knows the Cloud Room's location?” she said eventually.

Kite swallowed. Did he dare risk a deal? “L-let Fleer go first,” he said. “Then I'll tell you.”

The Corrector cocked her head slightly and tut-tutted. “You should not play games with the First Light Foundation, Kite Nayward,” she said. “These are games you cannot win.”

Kite turned away, feeling stupid and helpless. He'd always been easy to read, even Fleer said so once. He looked at the metal cuffs burning cold against his skin. Helpless, powerless, unable to run or fight. Unable to wriggle his way from this woman's powerful gaze. What could he do? While he was standing here Fleer's life was being whittled away. All because of him...

“I just want Fleer to live,” he mumbled.

Again the Corrector watched him closely, puzzling over the secrets his eyes might reveal.

“Yes, I believe you do,” she said, reaching for the black box. She removed a small silver key from her uniform pocket and slipped into the lock and opened the lid. “I will give you one last chance, Kite Nayward. If you and Fleer are to have hope chance of survival, you will tell me everything you know about
this
.”

The Corrector dipped her gloved hand into the box to remove a polished, silver orb. Kite blinked, unable believe his own eyes. She was holding the mempod.

57
Any Machine With A Mind

At first Kite tried to convince himself he was looking at a copy, a clever duplicate. Yet, the mempod was identical in every way. Those same organic swirls. The Starmaker's signature craftsmanship. There was no doubt in his mind - it was Ember.

“Your dear Fleer had it hidden in her boot,” the Corrector said, holding it up. “I assume you didn't know?”

A hollow, wretched feeling chewed at Kite’s insides. What a fool he'd been. Even after throwing his life away to try and stop her, Fleer had tricked him.

“I take it the mempod was hidden inside the Clockwork Jinny,” the Corrector said. “What data does it contain?”

“Data?” Kite said.

“About the Cloud Room,” the Corrector said, growing impatient. “I had one of my scientists analyse it. It appears to be corrupted. Shelvocke must have found out something from it to risk venturing into Skyzarke.”

Slowly it dawned on Kite that the Corrector had no idea of how dangerous Ember was. “Don't you know why the Monitor crashed in the Thirsty Sea?” he asked.

The Corrector looked uncertain. “The exact cause has proved hard to determine,” she said. “We suspect the Murkers played their part in bringing it down.”

“Wrong,” Kite said. “I was there. I watched it happen. Your scientists dug Ember out of a tunnel but they -“

“Ember…you mean the Starmaker’s daughter?” the Corrector said, leaning forward. “You mean he created a facsimile of her inside this?”

Kite was surprised the Corrector had deducted this much already. “She brought the
Monitor
down, not the Murkers,” he told her. “She has a rhyme that destroys machines. She almost sank the
Phosphene
.”

“A rhyme?” the Corrector said.

“The Forecaster's Fable,” Kite said.

For a short time the Corrector stared at the harmless little orb. Then, slowly, her lips thinned into a secretive smile and her eyes marvelled. Kite had seen that look before; it'd possessed Shelvocke the moment he'd first grasped Ember's power.

“Thank you, Kite Nayward,” the Corrector said, breathlessly. “I believe you have just given me the answer I have been seeking. You have no idea how long I have waited for - ”

Kite staggered sideways, the office lurching around him. Papers slid from the Corrector's desk and her cane clattered on the floor. Through the thin rubber soles he could feel the ascender's colossal Maelstrom engines hammering with chaotic acceleration.

A cold cloud of fear engulfing him, Kite waited for the words of the Forecaster's Fable. The words that would send this behemoth of the skies crashing to earth. But then his bones grew heavy and his temples tightened like knotted cords. They were ascending. And that's when it finally struck him. Ember wasn't going to sink the
Vorticity
. She was going to use it.

“Speed 40 knots, altitude 40,000 feet and rising,” the Corrector said, reading the screen as it flashed up warnings. Then she cupped mempod in her hands like a rare flower. “She's taking us to the Cloud Room.”

There was no hint of alarm in the Corrector's voice. Kite couldn't understand it. Why wasn’t she raising the alarm? Why wasn’t she warning Fairweather?

Just then Kite sensed movement out of the corner of his eye. The Umbrella Man's spine had straightened. Slowly his head twisted, scanning the office. Then he began to rise, cold cables twanging inside his metal limbs. It had to be Ember. Kite could imagine her running rampant in the Umbrella Man’s binary mind. Knitting his brain into new thought patterns, splicing together new commands.

After all Ember needed a new body.

“Beaufort?” the Corrector said, standing awkwardly. The wonder had gone from her eyes, replaced by growing alarm. “What...what are you doing?”

Drunkenly, rocking on his big boots, the Umbrella Man staggered and lurched and slowly began to advance on the Corrector.