It was glorious, and he thought it would probably take a lifetime to explore the forty square miles of hills, slopes, and vistas. Filled with the constantly new, the perpetually surprising, Skandor nonetheless kept his eyes and ears open for signs as to his destiny. Fate had led him to one of the world’s great cities: now what?
He soon found he would need to make new plans with regard to sleeping while in his cloaked form. By his fourth night at work, he discovered that whatever it was he did when he lay still and invisible, his body didn’t count it as sleep. He was yawning and had to drink six tiny cups of very bad coffee before his 2:30 AM lunch just to keep himself awake. At home, sure, he’d been sleepy after spending a night invisible, but he’d never spent more than a single night at a time invisible, so he’d never learned how tired it left a person.
Skandor did a bit of half-hearted searching for apartments before concluding that his grandmother’s sixty dollars would cover him for one night’s rent in a seedy part of town.
“What would Loki do?” he mused, inquiring aloud of his rows of video monitors. The monitors were silent. And empty of activity. Skandor began to hope someone would try to break in, just so he’d have something to do (call his boss and race to confront the intruder.) In addition to the standard video surveillance, a very expensive perimeter system was also in place in the event someone tried to tunnel through the walls, which Skandor thought would be remarkably stupid. Skandor had been assured that if this alarm was triggered, he would know it, but that someone else would handle the confronting-of-intruders. But night after night, the building was irritatingly intruder-free and Skandor had nothing to do. What would Loki do, in this situation?
Loki would get a better job.
Yawning broadly, Skandor also concluded Loki would acquire a place to get a good night’s rest. At this point, a clever solution presented itself. That morning when his shift ended at 7:00 AM, Skandor vanished from sight and unofficially checked into the Presidential Suite at one of San Francisco’s more exclusive hotels. He barricaded the door with a large piece of furniture, reasoning he’d wake up if anyone managed to shove over the chest of drawers blocking the door. By late afternoon, his “morning,” he rose, well-rested, and vanished again. It was remarkable how many hotels had Presidential Suites and how many of them were unoccupied on any given day. In time, he became acquainted with various Honeymoon Suites and Penthouse Suites as well. His favorite ones stocked M&M’s and Pringles in the mini bar.
From time to time, Skandor wondered what housekeeping or hotel security made of the stolen foods, the rumpled beds, the used basil-and-lime soaps and ginger-bay leaf shampoos. He grinned like a camper fresh off the flume at these times, more pleased with his recent mischief than he’d been with anything he’d pulled off at Midgard. And Odin knew Skandor needed something to act as a counter-balance to his dull night shifts at Geneses.
But then something happened to change “dull” into “considerably less dull.”
One morning just before sunrise, Skandor had been playing a favorite game of his. He called the game “Can I Cloak That Object?” To cloak an item and have it travel with him, he needed to lift it. Merely touching an item with a finger wasn’t enough, as he’d learned back when he’d been small and interested in stealing camper contraband.
As he entered the final hour of his work shift, he was running out of things in his office that were big enough to provide a challenge but not too big to prove impossible. His gaze settled on a cylinder that had arrived sometime between his shift yesterday and his shift today. The cylinder stood between four and five feet and had several warning stickers and a complicated looking valve on the top. It contained compressed oxygen. It looked heavy. It was secured upright with some sort of strap and buckle that attached to the wall. Skandor approached the cylinder, squatted, placed his arms around it, and lifted it an inch or two. It was heavy. The restraints holding it to the wall prevented him from actually lifting it, so Skandor fiddled with the buckle until he loosened it, and then he squatted again.
He was lucky, really, to have a job inside one of the few rooms in the building that wasn’t monitored with a camera, because of course he couldn’t play his cloaking game if there was a chance of being caught on camera.
These were his thoughts as he lifted the heavy cylinder. His thoughts as he accidentally dropped it just prior to becoming invisible were heavy on expletives. He stood invisibly helpless as the large canister thudded to the ground, tipped, and angled into the wall, gashing a chunk out of the wall as it came to rest.
Uh-oh.
Skandor punched an invisible fist at the wall. Because he was insubstantial, this wasn’t very satisfying. His fist went right through the wall. The lack of resistance compelled him to come back solid so that he could pound something real. But as he came solid, the very event he’d been hoping for finally occurred: the alarm indicating a perimeter breach sounded.
Skandor kicked the cylinder free from the wall, dislodging the nozzle in the process. Then he placed his hand on the phone receiver, working up the courage to call his superior and confess.
5
THE PRESENCE OF WARM BODIES
Checking for invisible intruders in the event of a perimeter breach had been one of the first real tasks Fritz had given Georg once a level of trust was established between the two. The alarm was meant to give Uncle Fritz the opportunity to assume his caméleon form. Georg was not to place himself in actual danger, not if it could be avoided, but there were some things only a solid individual could do, should the alarm go off. Fritz needed Georg to determine the location of the breach, and—most importantly—listen for inaudible conversations.
Georg might have exaggerated his ability to overhear such conversations. It was true that if he concentrated hard, he could catch things said nearby. Georg had, however, agreed to do these things for his uncle if the alarm ever sounded.
In explaining the task, Uncle Fritz had let Georg in on a few secrets regarding the perimeter system. Pass codes and schematics had opened up for Georg the opportunity to create a small hole in the perimeter so that Georg could enter and exit the building invisibly when he wished. Perhaps it was risky—if Georg could enter through the small breach on the fourth floor, then so could any other rippler. However, Georg thought the odds of a hostile rippler discovering the exact spot Georg had breached were pretty slim.
In any case, Georg didn’t live in the expectation that Sir Walter would come bursting in one day. Georg had seen no evidence that the goatee-stroking old man posed a real threat. He’d seen plenty of evidence, however, that his Uncle Fritz was paranoid.
Which meant that when the perimeter alarm woke him just before 7:00 AM, Georg was dumbfounded. Had Waldhart defied Georg’s expectations after all? There was no time to wonder, however: Uncle Fritz was at the door, shouting to Georg.
“Hurry! Confirm the source!” Having said this much, Fritz vanished.
Georg jumped out of bed and followed the protocol established for security breach events. First, he checked the computer in his room to determine where the breach had occurred, breathing a sigh of relief that it wasn’t anywhere near the small opening he’d created for his entries and exits. Strangely, the breach was in the security room on the first floor. Georg placed a call to the employee on duty—Skandor Dusselhoff.
“Security,” said Skandor, taking a breath as if eager to add something else.
Georg interrupted. “Do you see anything unusual on your floor?”
“The alarm is going crazy,” replied the guard. “I think it might be due to some damage to the wall down here.”
Georg felt his heart pounding faster. Wall damage? Could it be de Rochefort?
“A large cylinder of compressed oxygen tipped over and smashed a hole in the wall,” continued the guard.
“Is it leaking?”
“The wall?”
“No—the gas. Is the gas leaking from the cylinder?”
There was a slight pause as the
guard investigated. “Yes. I can hear it, now that you mention it. It’s hissing. Looks like the nozzle is all frosty, too.”
Georg laughed, hanging up. Compressed oxygen! That was more than cold enough to get the attention of the thermal detectors if there was a hole in the wall-barrier.
He called out to his invisible uncle. “It’s all right, Uncle. Some idiot knocked over a tank of compressed gas. I’ll go check it out and return once I’m certain that’s all it is.” Georg had no way to be certain Uncle Fritz was in hearing range and not on his way to the Canadian border, but Georg thought it would make him look like a concerned nephew if he said something to allay his uncle’s fears.
When Georg arrived in the security office, he saw the hole in the wall. He felt his shoulders relax. It was just a false alarm. To be sure, he questioned the security guard and logged into the system to examine the onset of the alarm. The fall of the tank coincided with the reported breach.
Next, Georg examined the cylinder of compressed oxygen. He turned the icy valve and the hissing stopped. Then he walked to the wall and grasped the strap that was supposed to secure the tank.
Addressing the security officer, Georg said, “If you ever see this unattached, you are to secure it at once.” Georg pointed to the nozzle. “And lids are there for a purpose. If you see one that doesn’t look securely fastened, fix it. Or call for help.”
“So,” said Skandor, “the tank is what set off the alarm?”
Georg’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Yes. The perimeter is temperature sensitive.”
“Like, to detect the presence of warm bodies?” asked Skandor.
Georg laughed, a single barking sound. “Something like that.”
“I don’t know how it happened,” said Skandor. “The oxygen tank just fell and … boom! The alarm went off.”
“See to it you secure any loose tanks and check the lids in the future,” Georg said sternly.
“Yes, sir,” replied Skandor.
Georg left the security office, taking an elevator back to the corridor between his uncle’s office and Georg’s own chamber. “Uncle?” He looked around, hands on hips, for any sign of his uncle. “It was a false alarm.”
Georg was half in hopes Fritz was truly gone. The prospect of unlimited access to the Geneses building was tantalizing.
But Fritz came solid in the corridor. “You’ve done well, my boy,” he said.
Georg had done what was expected of him, forging another link of trust in the chain that bound him to his uncle. He felt a smile forming. He had done well.
6
MUD-SLINGING
Everyone showed up for the Housewarming Party. Everyone. Sam tried counting heads, but she gave up eventually, concluding all of Las Abs had accepted the invitation to check out Chez Ruiz, their brand new home (or at least its brand new incarnation.)
It was a blistering 108 degrees at four o’clock—hot even by San Joaquin Valley standards. The Ruiz’s pool was open, as was the bar, to the delight of Las Abuelitas. Also left in a state of semi-permanent openness were several doors. Mickie declared war on this state of affairs, engaging in single combat to keep the doors closed so as to prevent the Ruiz’s new air conditioner from air conditioning all of Las Abs. “Come on, people, have we not heard of living green?” was her battle cry.
It was a losing battle. Dave Ruiz gave up after the breaker threw itself seven times in a space of two hours. Even a brand new system couldn’t maintain a thirty degree temperature differential with open doors.
At 7:10 PM, Las Abuelitas excused itself in order to drive over to Bootjack for Friday night football—a “friendly” game (which was anything but) with the high school’s chief rival. The week before, Sam and Gwyn had taken Chrétien to his first football game in Fresno. Initially, he’d been impressed with the player’s “armor.”
“Will it prevail against the sword, also?” Chrétien had asked. “Or the oncoming ball of a musket?”
“They’re called guns, nowadays,” said Sam.
“And the answer is no,” added Gwyn. “You’d need a Kevlar vest to stop bullets.”
After learning of the deficiencies of the players’ armor, Chrétien had become disinterested and they’d left at half-time.
Now, it was the last Friday before school started. Labor Day weekend spread itself luxuriously between Sam, Will, Gwyn and the first day of backpacks, syllabi, and swamp coolers. Sam and Gwyn lay head-to-head, stretched out along one edge of the pool, occasionally splashing water on themselves. The temperature had dropped to 99 degrees, which felt blissfully cool.
Eschewing football were Sir Walter and Chrétien, Gwyn and Bridget Li, Mick and Will, and Sam’s parents, Dave and Sylvia. Martina and Matteo had disappeared with the earlier crowd, although Sam didn’t think it was to attend their first American football game.
“I can’t believe school’s starting again,” murmured Sam.
Gwyn sighed, splashed herself, and called to Chrétien. “School won’t be nearly as interesting without you walking the halls, mon coeur.” Her voice cut across the rumble of the final car to leave Chez Ruiz.
Chrétien was assisting Dave and Will in collecting a last few misplaced beer and soda bottles for the recycle bin.
“But I will be there at all times, Mademoiselle Gwyn,” replied Chrétien. “It is my sworn duty to remain invisibly at your side.”
Sam noted he didn’t add to protect you should my cousin Fritz turn up. It was on everyone’s mind, though: was Fritz coming for them?
Gwyn dragged her hand lazily through the pool. “It doesn’t count if I can’t see you.” So quietly only Sam could hear, Gwyn added, “A derrière that distinguished ought to be kept in view. Like the Mona Lisa.”
Sam snorted in quiet laughter. “Even the Mona Lisa has visiting hours.”
“I still don’t like it,” replied Gwyn. “He says we can talk telepathically whenever, to make up for his physical absence, but talking is, like, third or fourth on my list of preferred activities with Chrétien de Rock-My-Planet.”
Sam flushed.
Gwyn did not.
“I’m still trying to ripple, you know,” said Gwyn. A trace of sadness colored her voice. Sam knew Gwyn would have given her left ear (and possibly more) to be able to disappear at will.
“How’s it going?” Sam asked, trying to keep her tone encouraging.
“It’s not.”
Sam reached a hand over to Gwyn’s long black hair, trailing along the edge of the pool. She stroked Gwyn’s hair, once, twice, three times.
“And on top of everything else, you are more comfortable with public displays of affection than my own boyfriend is,” said Gwyn, sighing heavily. “My life sucks.”
Sam laughed.
“I know, I know,” continued Gwyn. “You’ll tell me I have the hottest boyfriend in the history of all time and I should be grateful those delicious lips belong to me.”
Sam smoothed a few hairs off Gwyn’s forehead.
“And,” Gwyn continued, “you’ll add that I can already ripple-with-assistance courtesy of said hot boyfriend. And that at least I can flipping talk to him telepathically which is more than you and Will can do.”
Sam sighed.
Gwyn turned her head to face Sam. “And that as far as the ‘live forever’ part of the rippling lifestyle goes, I’ve already got my free meal ticket ‘cause Chrétien can pop me into the Realm of Never Aging with him.”
Sam snorted softly.
“So,” said Gwyn, “basically what you’re saying is that I have all the benefits of full-blown Rippler’s Syndrome already, without having experienced the scarring trauma that would have triggered the ability.”
Sam nodded once.
Gwyn giggled. “Wow. I’m glad you were able to get all that off your chest. It must have been weighing on you terribly.”
“Oh, Gwyn,” Sam murmured, “I’m so sorry. Really. I understand—at least a little—how frustrating this is for you.”
“I’m
a whiner, Sam. Just tell me to stuff it, already.” Gwyn twisted and sat upright. “Well, it looks like the clean up is done. Shall we offer to help out?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Why, thank you, Sam. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me since Chrétien commented on the low cut of my—”
“Yeah, let’s see if we can help tidy,” said Sam, cutting off Gwyn’s remark.
Sam stood, stretched, and looked around the pool and deck. Things were remarkably tidy. Her dad had hired JV Cheer to keep the place clean during the party, and they’d evidently taken their job seriously. He’d tried to hire the cross country team, but the half of the team that hadn’t graduated last year had already been commandeered by Sylvia for other tasks. Which Sylvia agreed merited a contribution to the cross country team. But that evening uncovered a piece of bad news for high school aged competitive long distance runners.
“It’s official,” said Sylvia, sliding into one of the half-dozen loungers spread around the Ruiz’s pool. “Coach Fortini says the board voted against funding the cross country team in favor of assisting the football team.”
The handful of close family friends remaining gathered together, pulling chairs and cushions to where Sylvia had settled.
“Well, duh,” said Gwyn. “The football team needed new jock straps or personalized trading cards or something.”
“Gwyneth.” Her mom said it mechanically. Sam was pretty sure Bridget’s automatic response to anything her daughter said was to utter her given name aloud.
“Ma’s upset because it will look better on my college applications if I’m an athlete and a scholar,” said Gwyn.
“Gwyneth!” Bridget put a bit more force into the reprimand this time.
“You’ve got last year, though, right?” asked Mickie. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Things have changed since you applied to college, Mick,” said Will. “We’re out of the dark ages. Admissions officers want to see consistency. One year of participation looks like someone who’s afraid of commitment.”
Knavery: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 6) Page 4