2. Factory-19. Pavlyk has been there before. Once, with Éáś. Once alone. And—most importantly—with Iako. Three times. Pavlyk forces himself through the down-slanting tunnels and rat-maze corridors that border the peripheries of the Factory Zone. He can still smell the City's lowermost nestle of filtration strata. Enzyme reactors neutralize organic wastes bare meters above his head; and as he scrambles downward—between unwelcome islands of light—he is careful of noise, careful of wrong steps that may draw unwanted attention. He knows the circuitous way to and through Factory-19's crumbling, rusting core; he is careful, nonetheless. Mēdē's phantom and accusatory gaze follows him, though he knows that she hasn't seen him. Mēdē doesn't like it when I hang around you...it makes her paranoid; she thinks we're up to more than illegal affection. The memory of Iako's laughter trails the unbidden thought that filters through Pavlyk's mind. Maybe we are! Iako had said, winking. —And he swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. He felt it when he left the switchback corridors and avenues of Sub-3. He feels it again, now: as if Mēdē is close, suspicious eyes narrowed and alert, lips drawn into a thin, tight line. She is the ghost that haunts him: an angry, would-be conscience, ready to berate and condemn any infraction, no matter how minor, how flimsy. He shifts his pace, thankful for the shadows here, and his sure-footed awareness of Factory-19's famous disrepair. He pauses, neatly cloaked in inkwell blackness, and cocks a glance behind. Paused for a beat...two beats...three, he watches for movement that might speak of someone following him. Someone watching. There is nothing, but dim/dusty light, shadow, and the damp, smothering stench of rust. He moves again, feet skirting cracks and pebbled grit. Dead machinery looms around him: dark and metallic shapes he can scarcely discern. Some are cylindrical in overall form, others are squat, bulbous things that make him think of some giant's half-legal distillery. Gantries and walkways snake overhead, angling off in obscure directions. Wild things live there: vermin that scuttle and squeak and throw chills down Pavlyk's spine. Factory 19 is all that remains of the Hūlán Mar Combine—air manufacturers phased into redundancy in the most ancient days of City residency. City has grown in other directions, and—as Pavlyk remembers from the Histories, Isáëk Hūlán wrought the extinction of his family and holdings during the Purge Years. An industrialist with literary aspirations, Hūlán is known for his Apocryphal Journals, better known as the first City-citizen to stand against the Elders, the wardens, and City-order...best known as the first to bear Hūlán's Fate. Now, Hūlán's Fate is a curse spoken between enemies, and Factory-19 is the place where childhood monsters lurk in wait for children who disobey their parents/teachers/wardens. (Perhaps that is why it remains.) Pavlyk cringes at the thought. In this moment, he is such a monster: the lurking, nefarious villain in some child's nightmares. Good people have no reason in the bowels of Factory-19. Good people go no farther down-ground than the bio-reactors and sludge sumps one level up. Good people have reason to stay where wardens may see them, and where the blessings of the Elders keep the molds and vermin at bay. Pavlyk keeps to the main courseway, until he is well within the Factory core. Fewer lights gleam here. Shadows seem to move of their own accord—like enormous and silent beasts, shifting to avoid him. Or accommodate him; he is unsure of which. Iako is close. Pavlyk can feel him. He thinks if he had a dog's profound smell-sense, he'd find tinges of Iako in the air. And in moments, as Pavlyk moves into a tighter maze of walkways, between hulking shapes of unknown pedigree. Contact from behind— —a hand on his shoulder. Pavlyk spins on a heel, tensed and ready for a fight, butt of his hand jabbed forward, only to connect with empty air. He pivots to kick, his fists poised, but the welcome sound of familiar laughter relaxes him. His fight-tension bleeds out with an exhaled breath, and he imagines a pool of it, puddled about his feet. “Good,” Iako says from within a defensive crouch. “You're not so soft as some up-leveler.” “I could have hurt you,” Pavlyk says. “Yeah, you could have,” Iako says, straightening. A smile skewers the predatory set of his features, and he steps forward with silent, feline élan, pulling Pavlyk into an embrace that centers on the pink spark of a hungry, invasive kiss. Pavlyk's hands wander across the contours of Iako's back, seeking the lines and curves of familiar muscles, the hem of his shirt, and a brief taste of the flesh beneath. He presses forward, as if to draw all of Iako in, through his pores. And—all too quickly—the kiss ends. “Come on,” Iako says. “This way.” * * * * * “This is what I wanted you to see,” Iako says, moments after leading Pavlyk through the sharp, switchback convolutions of the hard, dead-industrial maze. He's chosen a spot beneath a tangle of girders and walkways and overhanging sheets of corrugated metal, like flaked skin peeled from some nameless leviathan. A flashlight is the only illumination. From beneath the cover of a rag—as dusty as the floor itself, and as corrupt with unknown stains—Iako draws a bound sheaf of yellowing paper into the open. Maps to the sky? Pavlyk wonders, as Iako rifles through pages thick with lines of illegible script and diagrams of obscure and arcane pedigree. “Thou shalt not fly in the manner of a thing that lives,” Iako quotes; his voice drips with mock solemnity. As he speaks, he flourishes a page for Pavlyk. As his voice trails into silence, Pavlyk leans forward, eyes scanning a meticulous schematic. Iako draws a shallow breath. “Powered flight is forbidden by the Elders...which explains why City is the only official human community in the entire world. There's no need to go anywhere else; there's nothing out there.” Pavlyk follows Iako's words, uncertain of why he speaks so obliquely now. And then... ...it strikes him: “This is a thing that flies?” Iako smiles, faintly, or maybe not-so-faintly. It is hard to tell in the poor light. But at any rate, his features settle into the cast of wry mirth. “It doesn't fly so much as it floats. Light gases make it rise. It goes high...very high, and this is how we'll top the clouds and see what's really up there.” “This...?” Pavlyk asks, taking in the strange schematics. On yellowing paper, sweet with the smell of slow oxidation and a waft of mildew and other fungi, a strange shape is resolved in narrow lines, sweeping parabolas, and tight, crisp loops. Pavlyk scarcely recognizes what he is looking it, though it is clear that this thing shares both shape and principle in common with a child's balloon. “We're going to make one of these?” Pavlyk asks. “No,” Iako answers behind a grin, behind a shake of the head. “We're going to borrow one.” “There's one here?” “Near here,” Iako says. “But we'll have to journey a bit to get to it.” “Journey...?” Pavlyk feels his left eyebrow cock, feels a blush of warmth riding up the flanks of his neck and over the crests of his cheeks. “Where?” The answer—when it comes—is wordless. A kiss. He feels Iako's hands, cradling his face, gently. An answer in words will come later. Iako pulls away. “It's best that you not know until later. There's a lot we have to do, and—strange as it may seem—the less you know, the better.” A chill dances down the center of Pavlyk's back, and the fine hairs at his neck stand at crackling attention. Iako's words echo through the dark spaces of his mind, touching on the well-remembered faces of wardens and Elders and whole gaggles of informant-citizens. The less you know, the better. “There's a lot more here,” Iako says, taking the book from Pavlyk's grasp and closing it. With deft motions, he hides it beneath its soiled and dusty rag-cover. He tucks it in a corner and motions Pavlyk from his crouch. “I'll show you more, later.” He glances at the chronometer strapped to his wrist. “If we hurry, we can catch last call at Cantina-712. Old Mēdē may even be there.” Pavlyk grimaces at the thought of Mēdē. He knows her tendencies, the manner in which her more lurid imaginings come to her as undeniable truths. It is likely that she, at Cantina-712, or anywhere, will fabricate a truth in regard to what she hasn't seen tonight. She will not suspect this particular downward journey, nor look too deeply into it's existence. She will simply act on suspicions far from Pavlyk's or Iako's particular shared truth. In her way, she'll maintain the safety of tonight's secret. Iako sees humor in this. He has seen this small measure of hilarity in the old warden for as long as Pavlyk has known him. But Pavlyk sees something else. And it makes him shiver. (...to be continued...) As always, thank you for reading and commenting on this and on past posts in whatever genres they may fall. Hopefully you're all haveing a great week.