Free Waybound by Cam Baity

to protect yourself with,” he muttered as he dug around in his pack, trying with all his might to continue as if nothing had happened.
    Phoebe’s self-consciousness gave way to concern for Micah’s health. He was turning as red as a boiling lobster—how was he even breathing? It looked like he might burst.
    â€œSince you ain’t all that into guns,” he said, thrusting a stout piece of metal in her direction. His hand was trembling.
    She fought an unwelcome urge to burst into laughter. Well, now she knew his greatest weakness. All she had to do to win the next argument was give him a kiss.
    Then Phoebe noticed that she was shaking too.
    â€œThanks,” she said, trying to grab the thing nonchalantly.
    It was a survival knife in a matte black case, and much lighter than it looked. Phoebe slid open the magnetic snap, and a dark steel blade hissed out. The weapon was layered in pleated geometric patterns like a feather.
    It probably
was
a feather,
Phoebe thought ominously.
    â€œMulti-Edge,” Micah mumbled, taking the knife from her. He adjusted a ring marked with little icons around the base of the hilt. With a series of clicks, the tiny layered plates of its blade danced into a new shape. In half a second, the Multi-Edge had become a hacksaw. Then with another twist of the knob, it became a pair of scissors.
Click
—a fork.
Click
—a trowel.
    She fished around in the hidden pockets of her skirt. Phoebe’s hand grazed her old sniping supplies, but now they felt childish to her, as if they belonged to some distant stranger.
    â€œNot bad,” she smiled. “But it’s no match for…a needle and thread, a packet of itching powder, a ball of rubber bands. Oh, and a receipt for…a self-counting coin purse from T&S Finch.”
    Micah’s volcano of a face was going dormant, and he chuckled. She couldn’t help but notice the shiny smudge on his filthy cheek—an excruciating reminder of her regrettable gush.
    The guttural chug of an Aero-copter got louder, and the red-bladed jungle canopy shivered. Phoebe and Micah took cover beneath the nearest tahnik sphere.
    They stood still until the sound faded.
    â€œSeriously,” Micah whispered, “we gotta move.”
    Phoebe was about to ask him where, when she looked down at her oversized boots. The trickle of vesper ran between their feet. She followed it with her eyes as it slithered through the jungle like a strand of orange yarn.
    â€œIn our world, people gather where there is water,” she said.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œMaybe it’s the same in Mehk. Maybe if we follow this,” she wondered, pointing at the stream, “it’ll lead us to a river.”
    â€œWhere there might be a buncha mehkies.”
    â€œWhich isn’t necessarily a good thing.”
    â€œConsiderin’ our options…” Micah pondered, screwing up his face, “I say it’s our best bet. ’Cause we ain’t stayin’ here.”
    He whipped a couple of Wackers bars out of his pack before strapping it on again. Tossing one to Phoebe, he marched off.
    â€œGood work, Plumm,” he said over his shoulder.
    Phoebe wiped the dirt from Micah’s cheek off her lips and tucked into the candy bar. A savory-sweet taste of home.
    Home,
she thought.
    â€œYou too, Tanner.”

“I t be running subterraneally along this thoroughfare,” Mr. Pynch said, his disc of nostrils ticking. “Me nozzle never lies.”
    He and the Marquis were three blocks from an imposing Foundry compound that was protected by a glowing barricade. The cluster of buildings stuck out like a buzzing purple cyst in the heart of Sen Ta’rine. Its powerful magnetic field had affected the growth of the nearest mehkan skyscrapers so that the golden sendrite trunks bowed away.
    The Marquis was on lookout, twirling his umbrella in an attempt to appear nonchalant to the passersby, swiveling his lenses on their