Page 11 of The Only Way Out Is Up

My opponent trundles forward like a pissed-off turtle. Not-Star just waits for my signal; an OBEY sigil can really only obey, after all. It takes me a moment to remember I have to speak out loud and not simply think.

“Circle left!” I tell the idiot. “Close in!”

It does, legs moving in careful steps to sidestep out of the other runic’s path. It gets to one side of the big shield, and there’s another heartbeat before I remember to shout, “Attack!”

[Cringe: this is painful to listen to.]

I’m forced to agree. The idiot lumbers forward in a brain-damaged parody of Star’s graceful pounce, rearing up and slamming two blade-legs down on the other runic’s carapace. The attack dents the metal skin without doing real damage, and I order not-Star to back off and try again. This time, though, my opponent shouts an order as it comes in.

“Left quarter!” she says. “Block and strike!”

The turtle-like runic spins in place, surprisingly fast—it has a stumpy post under its belly, I realize, so it can rotate like a top. Not-Star’s legs scrape against its shield ineffectively, while two new limbs whip out from the turtle-thing’s sides and close around my runic like a beetle’s mandibles. Armor creaks and there’s a flash of red sparks as a RESIST shatters deep inside, but not-Star braces its limbs against the shield and pushes back. For a moment there’s equilibrium as the two runics strain against each other, and the noise level from the crowd rises.

“Up!” I shout. “Reach over the top!”

Not-Star obeys, as always. Its two forelimbs are long enough to extend past the top edge of the shield and hinge down to stab behind it. There’s no great force behind the blow, but I hear metal scrape and catch the spray of sparks from a shattering sigil. The turtle-thing’s controller shouts at it to squeeze harder; pointless, of course, because a runic isn’t capable of giving less than its all. The idiot slashes again and again—it’ll have to hit something important sooner or later—

Something goes crack. Not-Star’s back right leg, one of the pair I bodged from whatever junk I had on hand. One of the long spars has snapped, leaving the end flailing spastically from misfiring MOVES. All the pressure of the turtle-thing’s beetle-jaws is suddenly on the next leg over; that’s one of the “good” ones, but the ball joint gives way, leaving it flopping loose. Not-Star’s carapace is pressed against the shield, its other legs losing their hold as the enemy tightens its grip. The beetle-pincers press inward, and armor starts to dimple. Red sparks erupt from cracks.

“Stop!” I shout hastily. “Yield—we yield—”

Too late. Those mandibles come together with a sickening crunch, crushing not-Star’s body to half its former size in a wild spray of bloody crimson. All eight limbs go suddenly limp, which means the foundation sigil itself has been destroyed. The woman across from me pumps her fist in triumph, and the crowd lets out a mix of groans and cheers. Mostly cheers; I guess I wasn’t the favorite.

[Query: well? Did we win?]

No. I watch with dull eyes as the turtle-runic drops not-Star’s twisted wreckage to the stone. We did not.

FIVE

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

[Puzzlement: I do not see how copulation will help matters.]

Sorry. I’m just… fuck!

I should have known. Too fucking proud of myself by half. Sure, my designs were better. And they are, they are, but they’re meant for Star, not some idiot OBEY that can barely waddle around. All the clever reversible joints and efficient threading in the world don’t matter if the brain of the thing doesn’t know how to use them.

And now I’m looking down at the mangled wreck of Star’s body. Moon alone knows how many sigils are still intact in there, but it can’t be a lot. Plus the armor, half the spars, some of the joints—

Fucked. Forget paying back Ekkeban, forget bailing out the bakery, I’m fucked.

I have to borrow a wheelbarrow to get the wreck as far as Ekkeban’s shop. The look he gives me is eloquent: irritation and pity rolled together with a healthy dose of What did I tell you? I want to tear my heart out and die on the spot. Instead I gruffly ask him to let me stash the broken corpse for a while, and he agrees with a dismissive wave.

He’s already written me off. Bastard.

But maybe he’s right. Without a fighting body for Star, I can’t hunt worth a damn, and then what am I going to do? Sell mash-bread?

Another possibility tickles the back of my mind. But I’d promised myself. Last time—I don’t even want to think about last time.

Long walk home, my leg burning, convinced everyone I pass in the street is staring at my failure. I can see Spike working with customers inside the front door, so I go around to the back. Pull the door open a little too hard, so it clatters against the wall. There’s a startled squeak from the kitchen, and I poke my head in.

Somi’s there with maybe the last person I want to see right now: Ameliana. They’re standing a little too close and looking a little too red in the face to conceal what they were up to before my arrival. Somi’s guilty expression only makes it more obvious. Not that I give a shit if they make out, more power to them, but Somi’s always been straitlaced and Ameliana’s mother is suspicious of anyone vaguely male, so they’ve gotten in the habit of secrecy. I put on a wicked grin, for the look of the thing.

“Sorry. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“What?” Somi’s eyes flick to Ameliana, and his flush deepens. My brother is utterly incapable of lying with a straight face. “No, it’s just—”

“Somi asked me to come over and take a look at you,” Ameliana says, only marginally less flustered. “At your leg, I mean.”