The Elevator

By Courtney Cantrell

Went Banning just wants to find his father. Not the cold-hearted authoritarian who raised him, but his real father: a being of cosmic myth and legend, Went's last chance at love and acceptance.

 

To find this man, all Went has to do is journey across infinity to the heart of the multiverse.

 

In an elevator.

 

This contraption of fanciful magic, futuristic science, or both, allows him to travel the vast reaches of stars and moons and planets, following the series of clues his real father left behind.

 

But Went runs afoul of Carrigan Bell, a brutish slave trader with a core of all-consuming chaos. Two guttersnipes and a cyborg also stumble into Bell's clutches. Went doesn't know if his fellow captives are help or hindrance.

 

But he must decide quickly. Carrigan Bell perverts everything he touches, and he's more than willing to spread his dark horror to his captives and across the universe.

 

Across every universe.

 

Went's search for his father will lead Bell right to the control room of Reality. From here, Bell's dark chaos could swallow all existence. The only way Went can stop him is to reach the heart of the multiverse first. But can Went bring himself to give up everything he's ever wanted in order to save everything that is?

104,000 words

 

Cover art: Steven Novak

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faeddra Books
• Release date: Nov 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540116109

Courtney Cantrell

Courtney Cantrell is the author of epic fantasy series Legends of the Light-Walkers, paranormal fantasy series Demons of Saltmarch, sci-fi epic The Elevator, and oodles of short stories. She was born in Texas and grew up in Germany. At age 12, she penned her first novel, a one-page murder mystery. (The gardener did it.) By age 17, she had finished two full-length YA sci-fi novels. Three transatlantic moves, thirty years, and countless shenanigans later, Courtney writes full-time as a stay-at-home mom. As of 2023, she has survived the collapse of modern civilization and completed 16 novels and two short story collections in multiple genres. Courtney lives with her husband, their daughter, two cats, and an assortment of cross-cultural doohickeys. She blogs haphazardly at courtcan.com and connects with her adoring fans as @courtcan on Mastodon.

Book preview

PART ONE

FETTERED

Chapter One

He was so close to finding his father.

Went’s heart raced too hard to let him simply stand there. He leaned his head against the opaque glass, gripped the elevator’s wooden railing, and grinned. This was it. Surely, this was it, the final step in his quest. Surely, when the elevator doors opened, he’d step out into the place that held the final code he needed. He’d find that code, the one that would direct the elevator to the Library...and in the Library, he’d find his father.

He glanced at the control panel, allowing himself to imagine punching in that final code. The elevator wouldn’t run without codes, and Went had sacrificed his entire life to find the ones that had gotten him this far. He needed only the one, now. And the Oracle Thane of Thaneos had all but guaranteed him that this next stop would harbor it.

And then this glorious, magical vehicle would take him...home.

Not home to East Lindenstead, Tyritalia. Not home to the household he’d been raised in. Not home to C. Kerslake, the cold and harsh man Went had grown up believing was his father, the man who’d hated the very sight of him probably since Went had squalled his first breath.

No. After twenty years of searching for the mythical, multiverse-traveling elevator; after half a year of travel in it; after dwarves and oracles and bird people; after all the heartache and loss and adventure, the elevator would take Went home to the elusive Mr. Banjo-Man: a true father, a man of daring feats and honor, a man who would welcome Went and teach him all the things of beauty and spirit that C. Kerslake could never possibly understand.

The elevator slowed. A pause. The silent doors slid open. Went patted his waistcoat where he’d stashed his list of codes in the inner pocket. Forcing himself not to bounce on the balls of his feet, he stepped out.

He had enough time to take in a dim, cavernous hall with sharp angles and rough planes. Tall pillars reached toward a vaulted ceiling. Rubble slumped  in piles. Broken glass and bits of twisted metal lay strewn about. Everything was gray stone and dust and abandoned.

This gods-forsaken place held the next clue in his journey?

He half-turned to peer about. The shadows moved. Something slammed out of the half-light and into his gut. Went doubled over. He couldn’t even gasp. He barely glimpsed the fist that clocked him in the chin before he dropped to the ground. Rough pavement scraped the side of his face. Again and again, someone kicked him in the ribs to the tune of ugly laughter. He smelled them: cheap liquor and unwashed bodies. Black petals unfolded in the center of his vision.

Hands tugged at his clothing. Nails scraped his skin. Fingers rifled through the pockets of his trousers. Then they moved to his waistcoat. No. No! Not that! He groaned and tried to push the hands away. They hit him again. His arms felt limp. He coughed, choking on blood. They kicked him again and growled words he couldn’t understand. Metallic heels rang harshly against the pavement.

Went curled up on the cold, stone floor and listened to a guttural burbling from somewhere nearby. The strange gurgle drowned out every echo of heavy, receding footsteps before he recognized the sound of his own bitter chuckle. And after all, why shouldn’t he laugh? In the Spellaine household, effectively his previous life, wails of frustration and disappointment had been his heart’s constant companions. Hadn’t defiant laughter in the face of such grief always seen him through?

His acid mirth faded. He listened. Heard nothing. The great, stone hall with its massive, square pillars and its high, dim windows remained silent as a tomb. His attackers had retreated, taking with them their stench...and Went’s waistcoat and rucksack.

Ea-on-High. What did it matter that they’d left him his trousers and loose shirt? They’d taken his waistcoat. No waistcoat, no codes. No codes, no way to run the elevator.

No elevator, no escape from this Ea-forsaken, nameless world.

Back on Thaneos, the oracle had cast the bones, her beak flashing in the temple’s darkness, and her tenth cast had rendered the code for this place. But instead of the final step on his path to the Library and to the truth of his family, this world had proven itself his final stop, derailing his mission less than two minutes after his arrival.

This bleak place had destroyed his life’s purpose. Without the codes to run the elevator, he could see no way to reach the Library. In one awful moment, every clear future step had turned murky and dim.

In his lifelong quest to find his true father, Went had failed.

Yes, indeed! said the scornful voice of C. Kerslake. Another failure! Why am I not surprised?

A second sob turned into a groan. Went clenched his teeth. His memory delivered an all-too-accurate performance of C. Kerslake Spellaine, the Father whose approval he’d sought with desperation. The mocking voice rang with cold, calculating cruelty...and vicious truth. Went had certainly failed C. Kerslake plenty of times, much to his elder sister Brithwaite’s delight. As far as Went knew, she was legitimate, at least. No wonder C. Kerslake had always preferred her over his only son. Went had never felt equal to fighting either of them.

Even now, he hadn’t the heart to contradict the words ringing harsh in his memory. Another failure. But he had to get up. The ruffians might return at any moment to take his life. They or others like them. Went slid his knees up toward his chest and tried to roll sideways onto his hands and knees. His ribs screamed, and he gasped. Not just bruised. Broken? He forced his knees to cooperate and pushed himself up onto his elbows. The warm glow of light from the open elevator doors fell upon his face.

The elevator. He had to get back inside. Even without the hope of gaining a new and better life, there remained the elevator. In this darkling world so old and cold and deserted, the vehicle provided the only safe haven he knew...and it could heal.

He’d seen it before. The dwarves of Zeeliton had eventually shown themselves a friendly lot, but they’d met him with suspicion and hefty axes as he’d left the elevator and entered their realm. Their chieftain’s weapon had nearly taken a chunk out of his leg...but a day in the elevator had seen him nearly good as new. Now, all that remained of the axe-wound was a thin line of white scar tissue appearing decades old instead of months.

Whatever the injuries this grim world’s denizens had done him, the elevator could heal these, too. He only had to get back inside first. Went sucked his split lip and spat blood, then clenched his teeth against the pain as he planted one foot and pushed up. His world spun, a black and gray blur of rectangular pillars and twisted metal. He thrust out a hand and groped for the wall. His fingers met flesh.

He jerked his hand back. Momentum sent him tumbling away from the elevator. He slammed into one of the pillars. Rough, hard material slashed his palms as he rebounded. He dropped to the floor again, pain shooting through his ribs. He curled into a ball and moaned.

Heya! said a small, high voice. We a-help! Can you walk?

Went felt hands on his arms again. His attackers, returned? But no, these hands were smaller, their touch infinitely softer and more hesitant. He blinked. The face of a young girl wavered into view between him and the distant, gloomy ceiling.

Below dark, worried eyebrows, her darker eyes were enormous in her thin face. Her black hair puffed out around her head in a bird’s nest of tight curls and snarls. He glimpsed a ragged tunic the same grayish brown as her skin. She bit her bottom lip and shook his shoulder. We a-help, she said again. You a-get back in the cagey, yeah?

What? Went coughed, then spat blood again. His jaw hurt.

The cagey! The urchin threw a glance over her shoulder. Skee! Come ya over. Candles a-not skeerin’ back here awhile.

The girl turned back to Went and shook him again. A small shadow bobbed up next to her, and a second pair of small hands tugged at Went’s white cotton work shirt. The newcomer was a boy even thinner and dirtier than the girl. His wide, warm eyes seemed full of both the memory and the anticipation of some indecipherable darkness. Haunted eyes.

Before Went could feel surprise at this strange thought, both children pulled him toward the open elevator doors. He rubbed at his jaw and winced. I don’t understand most of what you’re saying. He nodded toward the elevator. But it were well I got back in there.

The girl gave a few quick, vigorous nods. The cagey, yeah. Come ya on, Skee. We a-help.

As Went grabbed the pillar and pulled himself upright again, he heard the boy’s tiny whisper. "We a-go?"

Hush-a, Skee. Maybe. The girl pulled at Went’s sleeve. Can you walk?

I believe so. I’m not as damaged as I look...I think. Went took a step and sucked in breath through clenched teeth. Children. The last thing he needed...although the calculating, Spellaine-ish part of him said to take full advantage of their help before sending them on their way. He certainly did not need the company or the burden of two street urchins. But another, more effective source of aid likely didn’t exist.

Yes, whispered the C. Kerslake of his memory. Away with them, but first discover their use. There is little sense in discarding perfectly serviceable tools.

Went cringed. Pleasing his ruthless surrogate father had always been impossible. But throughout Went’s childhood misery and teenhood search for clues to his true parentage, he’d had an ally : Nurse Arrah, always subtly countering the Spellaine patriarch. Ea only knew how, but her quiet compassion and sincerity had taken root and flourished in Went. Arrah’s influence had driven Went to pursue Mr. Banjo-Man of the Elevator, mythical hero of Arrah’s stories. The hunt had led went in a final flight from his hometown East Lindenstead, out of his home country Tyritalia...and off his homeworld Perandor entirely.

Even out of his home dimension, thanks to the mythical elevator, which wasn’t so mythical after all.

Still, though he couldn’t and wouldn’t deny the power of Nurse Arrah Banning’s benevolent sway over his heart, it wasn’t her voice that so often whispered in Went’s mind, mocking and prodding and subverting.

Now, he felt a pang of gratitude when the frizzy-haired girl steadied him against her shoulder. The men who’d attacked him had taken everything Arrah had bequeathed him: both his true purpose and his means for fulfilling it. As the shock of the attack wore off, he realized the assailants had even taken his shoes and stockings. He tottered toward the elevator, not leaning on the girl; her small frame wouldn’t bear his weight. She shuffled along at his side as they navigated piles of rubble and the twisted pieces of rusted metal that lay strewn about. Went backtracked his own footprints, stamped in thickest dust.

The little boy darted ahead to peer into the open elevator, then grinned back at Went and the girl. Cagey! Below those warm, haunted eyes, the boy’s smile revealed gaps instead of upper front teeth.

Shuffling along at Went’s side, the girl nodded. That’s aright, Skee. The cagey. Baby yoolers a-never see better, yeah?

They reached the wall as a wave of dizziness passed over Went. He put out a hand. Wait a moment.

They now stood only a few feet from the elevator doors. He flattened both palms against the cold, jagged stone. The sting of cuts in his skin restored a little clarity. The world stopped spinning and instead only rocked slightly, as though he stood on the deck of a Spellaine Enterprises clipper ship.

Perfectly on cue, the echo of his counterfeit father spoke up. How very pathetic, mewling there like a kicked puppy. Get up, whelp. I raised you to more than this.

Nausea washed through Went’s gut. He sagged against the wall, groaning. He was up, damn it!

Besides, C. Kerslake Spellaine hadn’t raised Went to anything.

They’s all meanie-like, them Candles, said the girl. Skee and me, we a-stay clear of ’em. They’s the new dogs, and big ones. Rough-like, yeah?

Went turned his head left, then right. He couldn’t manage a more definite gesture. Candles?

New dogs, said the little boy from next to the open elevator. Bite.

Candles and Haggs, the girl said. All new since B-line fell in. All new and a-fight over the U. They a-want new digs, pall it? So Skee and me and the other yoolers, we all in the way.

Haggs bad. The little boy frowned. Candles...badder.

Went’s beaten body made him fight to think clearly, much less comprehend the children’s peculiar speech patterns. Then, these Candles are the ones who’ve robbed me?

The girl raised one skeptical eyebrow and looked him up and down. Well-a yeah. Candles a-pat anybody gets in their digs. Her expression hardened. "Our digs. Was, anyway. Now, we a-look for—"

Jop, said the little boy in a warning tone. Those eyes looked so haunted....

The girl shook her head. Well-a right, Skee! I a-not say, I a-not. She looked up at Went. Ready, yeah?

He took as deep a breath as he could without offending his ribs. At least the dizziness had abated a bit. Ready enough, I suppose.

The girl took slow, careful steps toward the elevator, urging him forward with gentle tugs on his arm. He used the wall for support, and the fabric of his shirt caught on tiny, rough protrusions as he staggered along. He thought of how the Spellaines would rail at him for his less-than-pristine clothing, and a burst of anger quickened his faltering steps.

It lasted until he reached the elevator doors. As he rounded the corner and staggered into the cabin, his legs gave out, and he slid to the floor. A golden glint caught his eye. He looked down. There on the forefinger of his left hand sparkled his ring.

So. In their zeal to divest him of clothing, the attackers had left him one precious treasure, after all.

His father’s ring.

Not C. Kerslake’s.

Mr. Banjo-Man’s. The only relic of his true father that Went had ever held in his possession.

Despair and relief washed through him in equal measure. The quest to find the Library and Mr. Banjo-Man was irrevocably wrecked. Not even a dragon’s hoard of gold rings could change that. But at least he had this to hold onto. He could see no clear steps for his immediate future or beyond, but least he had this.

There came an angry shout from behind. He saw the frizzy-haired girl’s mouth open in an O of horror. His ribs shrieked at him, but Went turned.

Rushing toward them from the darkness came a filthy, shrieking man. He came roughly from the other end of the vast hall. His yells echoed off rough stone and metal pipe. The burly stranger’s gaze fixed on the spot where Went’s left hand gripped the corner of the rough wall. Went’s golden ring flashed in the light spilling from the elevator.

The ring. They missed it the first time. Came back for it—

Rotten blagger’s back! yelled the little girl. The cagey’s it, ’less you a-want us all to get the scroby. Come ya on!

Went hardly understood a word but couldn’t have agreed more. He tried to get his feet under him, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. He couldn’t even pitch himself forward to fall headlong onto the elevator’s plush, red-and-gold carpet. A banker’s son had no business in a street brawl. He laughed.

With the approaching blagger not twenty feet away, the little girl scrambled behind Went and gave him a solid shove. Now, he did fall headlong, scraping his left hand on the edge of the door as he fell. His ring gave off a clear, bright tone as it hit. 

The doors, Skee! the girl yelled. She grabbed Went’s feet and pushed and pulled them into the elevator cab. Close ’em, or we a-get the scroby for sure!

How, Jop? came the boy’s small voice.

She fought with Went’s feet. The little roundies!

Went raised his head. The little boy stood beneath the elevator’s control panel, eyes wide and lips askew in confusion. The panel’s brass buttons gleamed.

Push ’em, Skee!

Went reached out toward the boy. No, wait!

The onrushing Candle had almost reached the elevator. Little Skee turned, saw the blagger, and froze. Only his arm kept moving. His palm slapped the control panel, hitting several buttons at once.

Went’s panicked mind could barely keep up. But one clear thought remained.

Codes!

The boy’s hand depressed buttons again.

Wait! Went gasped. We don’t have any codes!

The girl gave Went’s legs one final heave, pulling them over the elevator’s threshold. The doors moved. The attacking Candle stretched out his arm in a desperate reach. Went caught a final glimpse of a snarling, mad-eyed, filth-caked face. The doors snicked shut.

Then the elevator whisked the three of them away.

And Went had no idea where they were going.

Chapter Two

Went coughed himself awake. His ribs woke up with him and protested loudly. He ignored them and rummaged through his trouser pockets. The children’s Candles had taken even his kerchief. His face throbbed. He cleared his throat and spat blood into his sleeve in lieu of soiling the red-and-gold swirls of the elevator’s plush carpet. Then he raised his eyes.

The two ragged children huddled motionless in a corner across the cab, watching him. The haunted gaze of the little boy struck Went just as hard as before. Shifting uncomfortably, Went glanced away. Above the elevator doors, the hand on the brass half-moon dial pointed to a tiny number he couldn’t read from the floor. But he knew the clock all too well; the hand hovered in the vicinity of K1231. Maybe B5917. Before he’d stepped from the elevator, the dial had read A7197. So he’d been unconscious maybe two hours.

By now, the children would’ve realized they couldn’t get out.

Went looked at them again. The girl had her arms around the boy. In the elevator’s soft light, away from the dark shadows where Went had lost everything, their faces looked filthier and younger than he’d realized. Now that he could see the girl’s brown eyes clearly, her gaze seemed far too old for her age. Not nearly innocent enough. Wariness crouched there, but no terror.

You a-got the scroby bad, fud, she said.

Went fingered a knot on his forehead. If you mean that your ‘Candles’ beat me within a hair of my life, you’re not far off.

His voice sounded stuffy. Everything ached. But his ribs no longer screamed, which meant the elevator had worked some of its magic already. Thank Ea-on-High.

The girl grimaced. "Not our Candles. Got any scran?"

Beg pardon?

She mimed putting something in her mouth. In the protective curve of her other arm, the little boy licked his lips and stared at Went. Scran, he whispered.

Ah. Food. Went let his fingers explore his nose. Last month’s encounter with some unhappy Senzarg nomads had taught him that the elevator could work wonders on damaged cartilage. Now, the marvellous contraption was knitting together his much-abused nose for the second time. Perhaps the job would prove imperfect and he wouldn’t look so much like a banker’s son anymore.

The thought made him smile, which hurt the left side of his face. He nodded at the wooden panel to the girl’s right. You’re in luck. Press that panel. I’ve got a few things left, at least, that the Candles didn’t get.

But not the most important thing. Damn. Damn!

The girl pressed the panel, and there came a click from behind it. It opened a hair, and she stuck her fingers into the gap to widen it. The little boy’s troubled eyes tracked her every move as she retrieved a small package. Went reached out, and she handed the bundle over. He unwrapped it, and the girl made a small, surprised noise at the lump of cheese and the quarter-loaf of bread.

Pall this, Skee? Toke! When we a-see good, clean toke, hey?

Went glanced at the food, then at the two scrawny children. He could practically see their mouths watering. Warm impulse nearly made him thrust the entire provender at them.

No, you fool! warned the memory of C. Kerslake, calculation personified. Not what scraps of food you have left! Do you want to starve?

Went’s hand twitched. Irritation rose. The children must have read it in his face, for they shrank away. Irritation blossomed into anger. Damn C. Kerslake Spellaine for his insidious influence even across Ea-only-knew how many dimensions!

And damn the man for being right. Went no longer possessed any codes to send the elevator to specific locations. Every code on his list, he’d received from such as the oracle Thane or the chieftain Zeeliton chieftain: elders who had assessed the codes in their possession for dangers and advantages. Went himself had chosen only those codes that had promised, through word-of-mouth or legend or myth, a connection to the elusive Mr. Banjo-Man. On Thaneos, his stop before the children’s world, the oracle of the bird-like Thanes had revealed the legend of Mr. Banjo-Man and the Library. And then, the bones of her Sacred Tenth Cast had clattered to a stop in a pattern she said would eventually lead him to the Library.

In all his travels, in all the stories and histories he’d studied, every mention of the oracle Thane had been paired with trustworthy, steadfast, wise.

So, whatever the Library might be, because the oracle Thane proclaimed it the correct course, Went had entered it into the elevator’s control panel and let the elevator speed him away.

Into disaster, as it turned out. Apparently, the Oracle of Thaneos was either not as trustworthy or not as wise as her reputation claimed.

But that was all water under a burned bridge. Vetted codes or no, Went’s only recourse now was to enter a random code into the elevator—as the little boy had done when he’d slapped the buttons on the control panel.

A random code led to a random, unappraised world. One which might or might not provide shelter and nourishment.

If Went gave the children all the rest of his food, he could conceivably starve to death before finding a hospitable world.

Damn the memory of his counterfeit father for correctly identifying the dilemma.

With slow movements so as not to startle the two waifs, he tore the bread in two and offered the larger hunk to the girl, who sat nearest. Not taking her gaze from his, she grabbed the food and immediately ripped off a large chunk. She handed it to the boy, pulled off another piece for herself, and laid the rest aside. Then she tore into her share with a fierceness that told Went the whole story—especially considering the fact that the boy ate in bites that were measured if not slow.

As the children chewed, Went pulled himself upright and pressed his back against the elevator wall. Further assessment of his injuries revealed skinned palms, a gash in his upper right arm, a host of scratches and contusions covering his torso, and a scratch on his left wrist.

All in the process of healing, thanks to the elevator. He’d been traveling in it approximately six months—it was difficult to keep track of the length of time he actually spent inside it between worlds—and he still had no inkling of most of its mechanisms. Out of curiosity during his second day of travel, he’d tried prying up the carpet, but it was stuck fast. Overhead, the brass light fixture seemed one with the metal ceiling. The brass control panel equally refused to yield up its inner workings. In addition to the panel that opened onto his food storage, he’d discovered one other, shallower recess, as well as tiny openings behind two of the decorative clock faces. If any of the other wooden panels or decorations hid the engines or computational devices that made the elevator function, Went had yet to unlock them.

Another wall panel concealed a toilet and a small sink that dispensed fresh water. Went could in no way say where the water came from, but in half a year it hadn’t run out, so at least he and the children wouldn’t die of dehydration.

Water would keep them alive more than long enough to enjoy the process of starving to death. All because Went had lost his codes list to a pack of lowlifes.

The whole situation was laughable, really. He’d given up everything for this quest to find Mr. Banjo-Man, and now he’d lost what little he’d had left. Before his thoughts could take him down an unpleasant path of self-recrimination, the girl ducked into his line of sight.

Fud a-got aytchtoe? She mimed drinking something.

Went nodded at the open wall panel. There’s a flask in the back. Although I’ve no notion of ‘aytchtoe.’ It might not be what you hope for.

She poked her head back into the dark recess behind the open panel, then emerged with the flask and surprised Went by tossing it to him. In return, he broke his lump of cheese in half and plopped it into her brown hand. He unstoppered the flask and pretended not to watch her over the rim as he sipped the water. Easier to use the flask at this point than try introducing them to the lavatory. He had a fair idea they’d never seen one.

The girl held up the hunk of white cheese, frowning at it. She chewed a mouthful of bread, swallowed part, then spoke around the rest. What’s a-this, then?

Went squinted, lowering the flask. Cheese.

What’s a-that?

Eat it. It’s good.

Her eyes narrowed again. What’s in it, then? Handling the cheese with a ginger touch, she moved it out of Skee’s eager reach. Your scran, fud. Why a-give it to us, not eat for yourself?

I’m not trying to poison you, if that’s what you mean. You saved my life, I believe. Went tried to shrug, then gave up when his shoulder complained. I have nothing else left, so the food is my way of saying thanks.

She didn’t budge. What’s ‘thanks?’

Went tried not to imagine what could create a world that turned gratitude into a foreign concept for a child. You did something for me. Now I do something for you.

She cocked her head.

Then we’re even.

A shrewd gleam glittered in her eye. Ain’t no even, not ever.

There is where I come from. Went snorted, wincing at the pain in his nose. Unless you’re a Spellaine and don’t want to be one.

The girl cocked her head again.

A sigh wanted to escape Went, but he suppressed it. The elevator might be working on his injuries, but he didn’t need to irritate cracked or broken ribs in addition to annoying his nose. Never mind, he said. He held up his portion of cheese. Look, I’ll eat some, too. Will that be well?

She lifted a single eyebrow and in that moment looked so much like his elder sister Brithwaite that Went didn’t know whether to laugh or vomit.

Instead, he went for the third option, breaking off a generous piece of the crumbly cheese and popping it into his mouth. Chewing, he broke his mother Winnifred’s favorite table rule. This cheese is the last of my supplies from the dwarves of Zeeliton. They certainly would never try to poison anyone.

The girl cocked her head again.

Went swallowed, then shook his head. By her conversation thus far, he should’ve known she’d never heard of Zeeliton. Thus far. He handed the cheese back to the girl. Her too-wise eyes never left his face as she sniffed the food and then stuck a piece into her mouth. Thus far signified his assumption there would be further conversation—which also implied the assumption that the two children would be with him for the duration.

Well, of course they would be. They were in the elevator. They had nowhere else to go.

Went scrubbed a hand through his hair. After six months of travel, the straight, dark strands hung down past his chin. During his disastrous moments on the children’s homeworld, he’d lost the strip of cloth he used to tie the hair back. He tugged it out of the way, wished he could return these children to the place they called home, and suspected it wouldn’t be the last time he made that wish.

Cold Spellaine calculation. Nasty, but no less the truth.

The girl had given the rest of the cheese to the boy, who now alternated between licking it and nibbling off tiny bits. Went offered the water flask to the girl. She made sure the little boy drank, then downed a generous swallow herself. He wondered if the two had any concept of their predicament.

Tell them the truth.

But he’d never needed to explain matters of life and death to a pair of street foundlings before. He looked at them and felt more helpless than at any other point on his journey. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to explain their doom.

Who are you? the girl asked.

The clear question so abruptly interrupted his thoughts that Went sputtered to a halt before he had even begun. I—what?

Staring out from her too-thin face, her dark eyes held him. Who are you? she repeated.

Went. He swallowed. My name is Went Banning. And then, because it seemed like the right thing to ask, What’s yours?

The girl lifted her chin. Joplin Corrine Muskowic. But all the yoolers, they a-call me Jop. She jerked a thumb at the boy. He’s Skee. You a-work the cagey, then?

Went’s thumb and forefinger reached to rub the bridge of his nose. He stopped himself just in time and quelled another sigh. You’ll have to forgive me, Joplin, but I hardly understand what you’re saying.

She all but rolled her eyes, then gestured at the elevator walls and ceiling. "The cagey. You a-work it?"

Oh! Do I operate the elevator? She nodded, and he went on. Yes, I suppose I do. As much as anyone can, I wager.

She wouldn’t understand that, either. But what did it matter? He could tell her every secret he’d discovered about the blasted thing and every secret about himself as well, and it wouldn’t matter one whit. She could do nothing with the information, even if she comprehended any of