either comin’ up on the edge of the grand metropolis of Gears, or we’s meetin’ up with a large band of criminals.” He swallows.
My heart takes a jerk in my chest at the thought of the latter. I check Clementine’s oxygen-tank gauge. It’s running low. We’re going to have to stop soon to change it. I can’t possibly change it on the fly. But I don’t want to stop where there are criminals. “Is there any way to be sure?”
“No, mum, I’m afraid there’s not.”
My mind wanders over the oxygen supply we have with us. Three full tanks and four half-packs, “minis,” to be used only in dire emergency, as they don’t always perform. We’ll need to conserve at least a tank and a half for the return trip. I was right about the supplies in the cupboard. They were dashedly low.
I wonder about pitching ourselves higher into the clouds—could we risk breathing the air up here without any masks? Then again, the altitude might get us, and we could well find ourselves quite literally falling right out of the sky.
I have no choice, I’ll have to land soon, the border of Gears in sight or not.
I push Clementine on with my heels, feeling my stomach clench at the prospect. The Continental Positioning System clicks wildly, then remains silent for a stretch of time. Criminals—it must have been criminals, elsewise the machine would have kept bleeping as it registered more and more heartbeats. We fly in silence until the needle on Clementine’s oxygen tank falls to zero, sounding a harsh alarm.
I sit back, clutching the reins tight in my hands, a knot forming in my stomach. Sweat slicks my palms.
“What now?” C.L. says.
“I dunno.” I swallow. “She’s got a quarter-pint reserve, maybe, before she’s completely out.”
Clementine gasps for air, her mask sucking in.
The Continental Positioning System groans, then starts bleeping at rapid-fire speed, thank God . Its register shows thirty, sixty, eighty-nine, one hundred three, one hundred fifty-seven heartbeats. A town, it’s got to be a town. We must be over Gears. The knot in my stomach gives way. “You’d better shut it off now,” I shout to C.L. “We’re getting too close. Someone’s going to see the light.”
He fastens the gun back into the saddle as I coax Clementine down through the clouds. The air becomes instantly more difficult to process. Our air-mask gauges scream, lights flash. I start to cough until I’m gagging.
“You all right?” C.L. grabs me. I’ve fallen sideways in the saddle under the force of the cough.
“I’m fine,” I say, coughing hard again.
But I’m not fine. Far from it, actually. I haven’t been since Urlick and I crawled down into the ravine at the back of the forest, on our way to the Core. For some reason my lungs react to everything now: changes in atmosphere, pressure, air quality, everything . . .
Or at least I hope that’s all it is.
I clear my throat hard again, force down the urge to cough, for C.L.’s sake—and my own sanity—my heartbeats faster than the ones coming in on the register, as treetops come into view. Chimneys, rooftops, smokestacks flutter past. I swing out wide, avoiding Gears altogether, flying instead back over the lightly forested range just before her city limits, where the freak-show caravan is likely to have bedded down for the night. The plan is to commandeer the train and ride it into Brethren, creating a big-enough and long-enough diversion to give me time to break into the old stone jug and save Urlick.
According to C.L., the freakmaster travels the main road into Gears, so his train draws enough attention to lure potential customers out of their homes. He’d never arrive in the streets at night, always at break of day, when the most people will be out and about. They held one afternoon show for the people of Gears, then moved on to the higher-paying customers of Brethren, passing through the checkpoint and setting up in Brethren’s town square for an evening
My heart takes a jerk in my chest at the thought of the latter. I check Clementine’s oxygen-tank gauge. It’s running low. We’re going to have to stop soon to change it. I can’t possibly change it on the fly. But I don’t want to stop where there are criminals. “Is there any way to be sure?”
“No, mum, I’m afraid there’s not.”
My mind wanders over the oxygen supply we have with us. Three full tanks and four half-packs, “minis,” to be used only in dire emergency, as they don’t always perform. We’ll need to conserve at least a tank and a half for the return trip. I was right about the supplies in the cupboard. They were dashedly low.
I wonder about pitching ourselves higher into the clouds—could we risk breathing the air up here without any masks? Then again, the altitude might get us, and we could well find ourselves quite literally falling right out of the sky.
I have no choice, I’ll have to land soon, the border of Gears in sight or not.
I push Clementine on with my heels, feeling my stomach clench at the prospect. The Continental Positioning System clicks wildly, then remains silent for a stretch of time. Criminals—it must have been criminals, elsewise the machine would have kept bleeping as it registered more and more heartbeats. We fly in silence until the needle on Clementine’s oxygen tank falls to zero, sounding a harsh alarm.
I sit back, clutching the reins tight in my hands, a knot forming in my stomach. Sweat slicks my palms.
“What now?” C.L. says.
“I dunno.” I swallow. “She’s got a quarter-pint reserve, maybe, before she’s completely out.”
Clementine gasps for air, her mask sucking in.
The Continental Positioning System groans, then starts bleeping at rapid-fire speed, thank God . Its register shows thirty, sixty, eighty-nine, one hundred three, one hundred fifty-seven heartbeats. A town, it’s got to be a town. We must be over Gears. The knot in my stomach gives way. “You’d better shut it off now,” I shout to C.L. “We’re getting too close. Someone’s going to see the light.”
He fastens the gun back into the saddle as I coax Clementine down through the clouds. The air becomes instantly more difficult to process. Our air-mask gauges scream, lights flash. I start to cough until I’m gagging.
“You all right?” C.L. grabs me. I’ve fallen sideways in the saddle under the force of the cough.
“I’m fine,” I say, coughing hard again.
But I’m not fine. Far from it, actually. I haven’t been since Urlick and I crawled down into the ravine at the back of the forest, on our way to the Core. For some reason my lungs react to everything now: changes in atmosphere, pressure, air quality, everything . . .
Or at least I hope that’s all it is.
I clear my throat hard again, force down the urge to cough, for C.L.’s sake—and my own sanity—my heartbeats faster than the ones coming in on the register, as treetops come into view. Chimneys, rooftops, smokestacks flutter past. I swing out wide, avoiding Gears altogether, flying instead back over the lightly forested range just before her city limits, where the freak-show caravan is likely to have bedded down for the night. The plan is to commandeer the train and ride it into Brethren, creating a big-enough and long-enough diversion to give me time to break into the old stone jug and save Urlick.
According to C.L., the freakmaster travels the main road into Gears, so his train draws enough attention to lure potential customers out of their homes. He’d never arrive in the streets at night, always at break of day, when the most people will be out and about. They held one afternoon show for the people of Gears, then moved on to the higher-paying customers of Brethren, passing through the checkpoint and setting up in Brethren’s town square for an evening
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