‘These corridors look familiar,’ I said.
‘That’s because all the corridors in this place look the same,’ Bastille said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not just that. That lantern bracket looks like a cantaloupe.’
‘They’re all designed to look like one fruit or another,’ Bastille said.
‘And we’ve passed this one before,’ I said.
‘You think we’re going in circles?’ Bastille asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I think we passed it while chasing down Blackburn that first time. That’s the lantern I saw that made me ask you about electric lights. That means—’
Sing tripped.
I stood for just a brief moment. Then I dove for the ground. Sing didn’t even try to keep his balance, and he toppled like a felled tree. Bastille also threw herself down with a vengeance, as if determined to get to the floor first. All three of us hit, dropping as fast as a group of pathological martyrs at a grenade testing ground.
Nothing happened.
‘Well?’ I asked, glancing around.
‘I don’t see anything,’ Bastille whispered. ‘Sing?’
‘I think I bruised something,’ he muttered, rubbing his side. ‘One of these pistols jammed me in the tummy!’
I snorted quietly. ‘Be glad it didn’t go off. Now, why did you trip?’
‘Because my foot hit something,’ Sing said. ‘That’s usually how it works, Alcatraz.’
‘But there was nothing in this hallway to trip on!’ I said. ‘The floor is perfectly level.’
Sing nodded. ‘You have to have a real Talent to trip like I do.’
‘Which returns us to my original question,’ I said. ‘Is there a reason why we all had to hit the deck like that? This floor isn’t very comfortable.’
‘Floors rarely are,’ Sing said.
‘Hush!’ Bastille said, scanning the corridor. ‘I thought I heard something.’
We fell silent for a moment. Finally, Sing shrugged. ‘Sometimes a trip is just a trip, I guess. Maybe I—’
The wall exploded.
It really exploded. Rubble flew across the corridor, bits of shattered rock spraying against the wall just above me. I cried out, covering my head with my arms as chips and pebbles showered down.
The explosion opened up a large section in the wall to my left. I could see through the opening to where a hulking shadow stood in the clearing dust.
‘An Alivened!’ Bastille yelled, scrambling up.
I stood, bits of broken stone tumbling off my clothing. The creature obviously wasn’t human. It was misshapen – its arms were far too wide and long, and they jutted out of the body in a threatening posture. In a way, the upper half of its body looked like an enormous ‘M,’ though I had rarely seen a letter of the alphabet look quite so dangerous.
As the dust settled, I could see that the thing was pale white, with patterns of gray and black peppering its wrinkled skin. In fact, it looked like . . .
‘Paper?’ I asked. ‘That thing is made of wadded-up pieces of paper?’
Bastille cursed, then grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me down the corridor. ‘Run!’ she said.
The urgency in her voice made me obey, and I took off. Sing ran behind, and Bastille backed away from the broken wall, looking on warily as the lumbering paper monster pulled its way through the hole and into the corridor.
‘Bastille!’ I yelled.
‘Come on lad!’ Sing said from beside me. ‘Regular Aliveneds are bad enough – but a Codexian . . . well, they’re the most powerful of the lot.’
‘But Bastille!’
‘She’ll follow, lad. She’s just giving us a head start!’
I let myself get pulled along. However, I watched over my shoulder as I ran, keeping an eye on Bastille. She ducked a few swings from the massive creature. Then finally, she turned and began to run.
Fast.
You Hushlanders likely have never seen a Knight of Crystallia use her abilities to her fullest potential. People like Bastille spend years practicing inside of their city kingdom, training their bodies, bonding to their swords, learning to use Warrior’s Lenses, and finally being implanted with a certain magical crystal. (Though, again, the Free Kingdomers consider this to be technology, rather than magic.) Only the best trainees are given the title of knight. To this day, Bastille holds the record for attaining the rank at the youngest age.
Regardless, all of this training and special preparation means that when Crystins want to run, they can really run. I was shocked as I saw Bastille take off after us, dashing with a speed that would have made any Olympic sprinter give up and become an accountant.
Sing yelled suddenly, lurching to a halt. I, unfortunately, was following right behind him, and, as I turned, I was met by a chestful of Mokian posterior. Sing wasn’t a Crystin, but he was wearing Warrior’s Lenses, which probably helped him keep his balance as I bounced off of him and fell back into the hallway.
‘Sing?’ I said. ‘What—’
The large anthropologist reached to his waist, pulling out a pair of handguns. And then – with the flair of a man who had watched too many action movies – he began to unload them at something farther down the corridor. I twisted to the side and was met by the sight of another Alivened – also made completely from wadded-up pieces of paper – lumbering down the hallway in front of us.
Sing’s guns had little effect on the creature. Bits of paper flipped into the air as the bullets tore through the Alivened’s body. Each impact seemed to slow it a bit, but it still continued to move toward Sing at an unsteady pace.
Bastille pulled up beside me. ‘Shattered Glass!’ she cursed, turning. The Alivened behind us was quickly approaching. ‘You’d better do something, Smedry,’ she said, whipping her handbag off her shoulder. ‘I don’t know if I can handle these things on my own.’
With that, she reached into the purse and grabbed something inside. She whipped her hand out, throwing the bag aside as she drew forth a massive crystalline sword.
I blinked. Yes, the thing Bastille had pulled from her purse was, indeed, a sword. It was nearly as tall as Bastille was, and it glittered in the lantern light, refracting a spray of rainbow colors across the corridor.
The handbag, of course, couldn’t have held something so long. However, if the pulling of a sword from a handbag is the thing in this story that stops you, then you likely need therapy. I could recommend a good psychologist. Of course, he’s Librarian controlled. They all are.
It’s a union thing.
Bastille jumped forward, her sword glistening as she charged the Alivened. It swung at her, and she rolled, just barely ducking beneath its massive arm. Then she sliced, shearing the thing’s arm completely free.
The arm fell off, its wrinkled pages suddenly straightening and bursting into the air – like those of a book that had suddenly had its binding torn free. They fluttered as they fell. The Alivened, however, didn’t seem to mind the missing limb – and I soon saw why. The lumps of paper in its body surged forward, forming a new arm to replace the one that Bastille had cut free.
I finally shook myself from my daze, scrambling to my feet. Behind me, Sing pulled out twin uzis. He knelt, holding the weapons with meaty hands, and automatic weapon fire echoed in the corridor. His Alivened paused from the shock, a flurry of paper scraps exploding from its body. It stumbled for a moment, then continued on despite the rain of bullets.
‘Alcatraz!’ Sing yelled over the gunfire. ‘Do something!’
I ran to the side of the corridor, grabbing a lantern off the wall. The cantaloupe-shaped holder broke free easily beneath my Talent, and I turned, hurling it at Sing’s Alivened as Sing ran out of bullets.
The lantern crashed into the Alivened, then bounced free. The creature did not catch on fire.
‘Not like that!’ Sing said, reloading his uzis. ‘Nobody would build an Alivened out of paper without also making it resistant to a little fire!’
Sing raised the uzis an
d fired another spray of bullets. The thing slowed but pressed on, continuing its inevitable march.
Now, if you are ever writing a story such as this, you should know something. Never interrupt the flow of a good action scene by injecting needless explanations. I did this once, in Chapter Fourteen of an otherwise very exciting story. I regret it to this day.
Also, if you are ever attacked by unstoppable monsters created entirely from bad romance novels, you should do exactly what I did: Quickly reach into your pocket and pull free your Firebringer’s Lenses.
Resistant to a little fire, eh? I thought, yanking open the velvet pouch. What about a lot of fire?!
I reached into the pouch with desperate fingers, whipping out the Lenses – yet, as before, my touch was too unpracticed, and I was too powerful for my own good. The Lenses activated as soon as I touched them.
They began to glow dangerously.
‘Gak!’ I said. I tried to get the Lenses turned around. However, I fumbled, spinning the Lenses so they pointed backward at me instead.
At that moment, my Talent proactively broke the spectacles’ frames. Both Lenses fell to the ground, one shattering as it hit the stones, the other bouncing away and falling facedown. It fired, blasting a stream of concentrated light into the stones beneath it.
‘Alcatraz!’ Sing said desperately as his uzis ran out of bullets again. He dropped them, reaching over his shoulder to pull out the shotgun. He fired it with a loud boom. The Alivened’s chest exploded with a burst of paper, spraying confetti across the corridor.
The creature stumbled, nearly falling as Sing hit it again. However, it righted itself and continued to walk toward him.
I reached for the intact Firebringer’s Lens, but shied back from the heat. The Lens itself wasn’t hot, of course – that would make it fairly difficult to wear on the face. However, it was superheating the stones around it, and I couldn’t get close.
I turned urgently to check on Bastille, and I was just in time to see her ram her crystal sword directly into her opponent’s chest. The Alivened, however, slammed its bulky arm into her, tossing her backward. The sword remained jutting ineffectively from its chest, and Bastille crashed into the stone wall of the corridor, crumpling.
‘Bastille!’ I shouted.
She did not move. The creature loomed over her.
Now, as I’ve tried to explain, I wasn’t a particularly brave boy. But it has been my experience that doing something brave is much like saying something stupid.
You rarely plan on it happening.
I charged the Alivened monster. It turned toward me, stepping away from Bastille, and raised its arm to swing. I somehow managed to duck the blow. Stumbling, I reached up and grabbed the sword in the creature’s chest. I pulled it free.
Or, rather, I pulled the hilt free.
I stumbled back, raising the hilt to swing before I realized that the crystal blade was still sticking in the monster’s chest.
Behind me, Sing’s shotgun began to click, out of ammunition.
I lowered my hand, staring at the hilt. My Talent, unpredictable as always, had broken the sword. I stood for a long moment – far longer, undoubtedly, that I should have in those circumstances. I gripped the broken hilt.
And began to grow angry.
All my life, my Talent had ruled me. I’d pretended to go along with it, pretended that I was the one in control, but that had been a sham. I’d purposely driven my foster families away because I’d known that sooner or later, the Talent would do it for me – no matter what I wanted.
It was my master. It defined who I was. I couldn’t be myself – whoever that was – because I was too busy getting into trouble for breaking things.
Grandpa Smedry and the others called my Talent a blessing. Yet I had trouble seeing that. Even during the infiltration, it seemed like the Talent had been only accidentally useful. Power was nothing without control.
The Alivened stepped forward, and I looked up, teeth clenched in frustration. I gripped the sword hilt tightly.
I don’t want this, I thought. I never wanted any of this! Bastille wanted to be an Oculator . . . well, I just wanted one thing.
To be normal!
The hilt began to break in my hand, the carefully welded bits of steel falling free and clinking to the ground. ‘You want breaking?’ I yelled at the Alivened. ‘You want destruction?’
The creature swung at me, and I screamed, slamming my hand palm-forward to the floor. A surge of Talent electrified my body, focusing through my chest and then down my arm. It was a jolt of power like I’d never summoned before.
The floor broke. Or perhaps shattered would be a more appropriate word. Exploded would have worked, except that I just used that one a bit earlier.
The stone blocks shook violently. The Alivened stumbled, the floor beneath it surging like waves on an ocean. Then the blocks dropped. They fell away before me, tumbling toward the level beneath. Bookshelves in the massive library room below were smashed as blocks of stone rained down, accompanied by an enormous paper monster.
The Alivened hit the ground, and there was a distinct shattering noise. It did not rise.
I spun wildly, dropping the last bits of the sword hilt. Sing was furiously reloading the shotgun. I brushed by him, charging the second Alivened. I reached to touch the ground, but the massive beast jumped, moving quickly out of the way. It was obviously smart enough to see what I had just done to its companion.
I raised a hand, slamming it into the jumping creature’s chest. Then I released my Talent.
There was a strange, instant backlash – like hitting something solid with a baseball bat. I was thrown backward, my arm blazing with sudden pain.
The Alivened landed in a stumble. It stood for a moment, teetering. Then it exploded with a whooshing sound, a thousand crumpled sheets of paper erupting in an enormous, confetti-like burst.
I sat for a moment, staring. I blinked a few times, then lifted my hurt arm, wincing. Paper filled the corridor, bits fluttering around us.
‘Wow,’ Sing said, standing up. He turned around, looking at the massive pit I had created. ‘Wow.’
‘I . . . didn’t really do that intentionally,’ I said. ‘I just kind of let my power go, and that’s what happened.’
‘I’ll take it, either way,’ Sing said, resting the shotgun on his shoulder.
I climbed to my feet, shaking my arm. It didn’t seem broken. ‘Bastille,’ I said, stumbling over to her. She was moving, fortunately, and as I arrived she groaned, then managed to sit up. Her jacket looked . . . shattered. Like the windshield of a car after it collides with a giant penguin.
Blasted giant penguins.
I tried to help Bastille to her feet, but she shook off my hands with annoyance. She stumbled a bit as she stood, then pulled off her jacket, looking at the spiderweb of lines. ‘Well, I guess that’s useless now.’
‘Probably saved your life, Bastille,’ Sing said.
She shrugged, dropping it to the floor. It crackled like glass as it hit the stones.
‘Your jacket was made of glass?’ I asked, frowning.
‘Of course,’ Bastille said. ‘Defender’s Glass. Yours isn’t?’
‘Uh . . . no,’ I said.
‘Then why wear something so atrocious?’ she said, stumbling over to the hole in the floor. ‘You did this?’ she asked, looking over at me.
I nodded.
‘And . . . is that my sword down there, broken and shattered in a pile of books?’
‘Afraid so,’ I said.
‘Lovely,’ she grumbled.
‘I was trying to save your life, Bastille,’ I said. ‘Which, I might point out, I succeeded in doing.’
‘Yeah, well, next time try not to bring down half the building when you do.’
But I detected the barest hint of a smile on her lips when she said it.
15
Moron.
It has been my experience that most problems in life are caused by a lack of information.
Many people just don’t know the things they need to know.
Some ignore the truth; others never understand it.
When two friends get mad at each other, they usually do it because they lack information about each other’s feelings. Americans lack information about Librarian control of their government. The people who pass this book on the shelf and don’t buy it lack information about how wonderful, exciting, and useful it is.
Take, for instance, the word that started this chapter. You lacked information when you read it. You likely assumed that I was calling you an insulting name. You assumed wrong. Moron is actually a village in Switzerland located near the Jura mountain range. It’s a nice place to live if you hate Librarians, for there is a well-hidden underground rebellion there.
Information. Perhaps you Hushlanders have read about Bastille and the others referring to guns as ‘primitive,’ and have been offended. Or, perhaps, you simply thought the text was being silly. In either case, maybe you should re-evaluate.
The Free Kingdoms moved beyond the use of guns many centuries ago. The weapons became impractical for several reasons – some of which should be growing apparent from this narrative. Smedry Talents and Oculator abilities are not the only strange powers in the Free Kingdoms – and most of these abilities work better on items with large numbers of moving parts or breakable circuits. Using a gun against a Smedry, or one similarly talented, is usually a bad idea.
(This comes down to simple probability. The more that can go wrong with an item, the more that will. My computer – when I used to use one – was always about one click away from serious meltdown. My pencil, however, remains to this day remarkably virus-free.)
And so, many of the world’s soldiers and warriors have moved on from guns, instead choosing weapons and armors created from Oculatory sands or silimatic technology. They don’t often associate these items with their ancient counterparts – the people of the Free Kingdoms never got much beyond muskets before they moved on to using sand-based weapons – and so they think that guns are the primitive weapons. It makes sense, if you look at it from their perspective.
And anyone who’s not willing to do that . . . well, they might just be a moron. Whether or not they live there.
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