Nica of the New Yorks

by Sue Perry

  Again and again, Anya dissolved from view, became translucent, became solid again. During her translucent moments she'd say 'north flank, all, two beats,' or 'west center, half, six beats'. In this way she directed an attack on the Lobotomist marchers by jumping to other Frames to give orders to allies who waited, poised for attack.

  Small teams of allies would appear in the Lobotomists' Frame, stab or garrote Lobotomists, grab the contraptions, and vanish out of Frame. Lobotomist bodies lay as they fell and the living marched over them. A big pileup occurred when living Lobotomists tripped over their dead. The next allies to attack kicked writhing bodies aside to grab contraptions, then tossed an explosive into the tangle.

  Until then, I'd fantasized that when my side killed it would be noble.

  Lobotomists fought without regard for their safety. This made them easy to kill and Anya won Bleecker Street quickly. She led us toward the East River, which whimpered like an injured dog in this Frame.

  At the intersection of Bleecker and Bowery, Kelly Joe led a larger handful of allies in destroying Lobotomists as they exited from side streets. Similar fights were being waged at every intersection as far south as I could see, between here and Brooklyn Bridge. In every fight, the allies were outnumbered but it was Lobotomists who were dying.

  "From the river!" Anya shouted, and vanished from our observation Frame. She materialized beside Kelly Joe in the attack Frame.

  Over the East River, sunlight flashed on dust jackets as squadrons of soldier books flew toward us. Anya called to two clouds over the waterfront, "Swiftly, sound the retreat. Books arrive! Retreat!" The clouds scudded away in opposite directions and as they moved, they shredded into smaller slips of clouds that went to different intersections. The clouds repeated Anya's words and duplicated her voice, until it ricocheted, distorted, between buildings.

  Allies looked up from their battles, confirmed the approach of books, and disappeared out of Frame, leaving the streets to the Lobotomists.

  Except at Kelly Joe's intersection. He led his allies up into a building but, as soon as the books passed, they resumed attack on Lobotomists. The books began a slow circle–back. Anya aimed a flamethrower and shouted another order to retreat. Kelly Joe replied, "We can't stop now, we have them!" His jacket was soaked with gore and one sleeve was shredded. On his exposed arm, his tattoos were full of books.

  "We cannot stay. We will lose too many."

  After a long moment, Kelly Joe shouted orders for his allies to leave the Frame.

  The clouds continued to spread Anya's voice and message into the distance. "Retreat! Books arrive!"

  In every intersection, Lobotomists regrouped and resumed their march. They would soon destroy Brooklyn Bridge in another Frame.

  Jenn looked at me.

  "The books. I know. We have to."

  76. WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO DO

  Tee did fancy Frame maneuvering to get us beyond gridlock, then returned to Ma'Urth and stayed there for the trip uptown. Kelly Joe rode back to the Julian with us. He sprawled in Tee's truck bed, since the cab was full with Jenn, Zasu, and me.

  "Anya doesn't think I can get you home safely without—him." Tee sounded miffed. "I'm so relieved he stayed out of my cab," she stage–whispered. "You know who that is, right? The Pied Piper of –"

  "We know who he was and who he is," Zasu replied. It was the first time I'd heard her interrupt anyone.

  Faint harmonica notes. I opened Tee's back window and Kelly Joe's music filled the truck cab, bright and somber; sunshine on an avalanche. We listened in silence. Perhaps even Tee was moved.

  Or not. When Tee pulled in front of the Julian, she snipped, "I wouldn't trust him."

  As soon as Tee pulled away, Jenn muttered, "Hernandez needs to sell that bitch."

  "Tee seemed unusually stressed today," I said.

  My apartment smelled like trout simmered in paint thinner and neat stacks of handmade weapons lined the kitchen counter.

  "Glad you're here," Hernandez greeted Kelly Joe and Zasu. "Five is a good number for this operation."

  Everyone listened carefully as Hernandez explained his creations. He shook a steel tube with a rope wick; it sloshed and rattled. "These will burn hot, but take a few minutes to fully ignite. First thing we do is place these all around the perimeter, then... "

  Everyone except me. He would fill me in later, after my visit to the Halls of Shared Knowledge.

  I changed Frames inside Julian's foyer but I couldn't walk outside into Monasterium. Julian held his front door closed.

  "Please stay inside, Nica, or depart this Frame. I hear war." His voice was tight.

  "You are right, the war has begun, Julian. But we can't stop it by hiding indoors. My visits to the Halls may help us change the outcome." For emphasis, I shoved my shoulder into his door but it wouldn't budge. "Inside buildings won't be safe, either, if you prevent me from doing what I'm supposed to do."

  He released the door.

  I jogged half a block toward the Halls of Shared Knowledge before I understood that the tightness in Julian's voice had been terror.

  Near the Halls, the air was so smoky that visibility was nil. My shoes stirred a gray ash that covered the sands. The ash was hot and I developed a high–stepped prance to minimize my feet's contact with it. Flecks of singed paper and scorched bark rained around me. My arm stung and I slapped an ember that ignited my arm hair.

  As I approached the Hudson River, my lanyard jolted. I backed away, preparing to flee out of Frame. The pain level dropped when I headed up the incline to the Halls. This wasn't an urgent level of pain, so I continued on my mission.

  Far away—probably across the river—were screams plus other noises I was sorry to recognize: the insistent revving of flying chainsaws and the mangled oily barks of clockwork dogs. What the hell? Were Warty Sebaceous Cysts attacking Monasterium? I tripled my pace. I had to finish my visit before they crossed the river.

  Triple my pace was not very fast, though. The smoke was thicker here and my eyes got a sting that blinking didn't clear. I stripped off my tank top, turned it into a mask to cover my nose and mouth, and zipped my sweatshirt over my skin. Usually I'd enjoy the touch of the fuzzy innards but now it made my skin crawl. My body already understood what my conscious mind was refusing to acknowledge.

  I couldn't see the Halls of Shared Knowledge but I should be close enough to touch them so I groped my way forward through raining embers. Damn, I must have taken a wrong turn. Ooof! I tripped in a pile of rocks. My movements got frantic as I scrambled to back away—the rocks were hot enough to scorch my clothes.

  The air never cleared but my understanding did, after I stubbed my toe on a rock that crackled like lizard skin. The scorched hot outer layer peeled away and the rock beneath was infinitely smooth and refreshingly cool. This rubble wasn't rocks, it was a collapsed pile of tree stones, formerly the walls of the Halls of Shared Knowledge.

  I couldn't find the Halls because they were no longer here. Or anyway this section was gone. How far did the destruction extend? I shuffled forward, fearful of tripping and losing what little sense of direction I could maintain in the opaque air. I monitored the lanyard's level of pain while blocking doubts like this one: if I had to run, how would I find Julian?

  A few minutes of searching brought me to a short section of wall, uncollapsed; and an entranceway. I stepped through the arch and a bookcase whispered, "Welcome, seeker."

  "Do you whisper because you are hurt, or because someone might hear us?"

  "Listen well, then flee and do not return. Maelstrom's minions sought you here. They demanded to know what you had learned in your visit. We were forced to relinquish those records and those records were destroyed. Destroyed!"

  "How bad is your damage?" Between words, I stuffed my tank top into my mouth. My need to cough was intense. But coughs can be heard much farther than whispers. How long would it take the flying chainsaws to cross the river?

  "Our damage is modest yet unfathomable. Never
before have the Halls been attacked. Never again will records be lost. Already we implement new procedures. Be reassured. Elsewhere the Halls survive and will be rebuilt here. But we remain a target so long as Maelstrom persists. We dare not assist you. And now you must flee."

  "Okay," I gasped. It took all my will to keep from coughing.

  The voice sounded smug. "The attackers knew of one visit. We were not forced to provide knowledge you gleaned on later visits."

  That almost counted as good news. The Cysts knew I knew about the imprinting press, but not how much I knew.

  I patted the stones in thanks, then swiveled so that my heels touched the remnant of wall. This faced me inland, toward Julian. I took off running with eyes closed, pictured myself running along a ruler. I kept the tank top stuffed in my mouth to muffle the coughs, which I could no longer control. Whenever I tripped, I sped up; that saved me from falling except twice.

  Near the Halls, the hot ash deposits were so thick they singed my calves. I kept running and when my calves felt cool air, I opened my eyes. To the southeast was a tall dark lump that might be Julian. I adjusted direction and picked up my pace. The smoke was less thick here and it thinned with every block as I kept running.

  One good thing about the muck in the air: it had made me less visible.

  Maelstrom and the Cysts were on to me. How? Food for later thought. What mattered now was that Maelstrom cared. Sure, this destruction might be retribution because the Halls helped the allied cause. But my gut told me there was a different explanation: the Cysts destroyed the Halls to keep me from learning more about Maelstrom's press. Which meant there was something to learn. Something Maelstrom wanted to hide. Maybe I'd learned it already and maybe I hadn't. But he wouldn't bother if the press were indestructible.

  77. ALMOST AND NEARLY

  "Which tells me that the press can be destroyed."

  Back in my apartment on Ma'Urth, I concluded my summary of my visit to the Halls of Shared Knowledge. My four accomplices donned carpenter's belts packed with weapons, while I added the obvious. "Because of this, Maelstrom will deploy forces to protect the press. If we ever had a window of opportunity, this is it."

  Kelly Joe knew a Frame where we could carry our arsenals to Times Square without raising SWAT teams. He linked arms with Hernandez and Zasu and Traveled them there. I was supposed to bring Jenn but the weapons added a spiritual weight that exceeded my Travel powers. Kelly Joe came back for us, then we five walked through an empty Manhattan that was as bland as a pencil sketch left in the sun.

  On our trek to Times Square, I had too much time to think about the weak points in our plan. If anything happened to Kelly Joe, we couldn't all change Frames together or quickly. If anything happened to Hernandez, we wouldn't know how to deploy the plastic explosives; he refused to share these because they took time and training to use safely. If anything happened to me, my books might stop cooperating.

  My insides were in knots with every muscle kinked. We stood to win big, or lose most of the beings who mattered to me. Including me.

  We reached our reconnaissance room and Traveled to Maelstrom's Frame without incident. The room was almost as we had left it. My backpack was on the floor but the room was empty of books. Would I ever see them again? Presumably they were out there, trying to convert newly turned books. Unless –

  Now wasn't the time to finish that sentence.

  We erratic–walked to the windows.

  "Mmh!" The noise escaped me: the changes outside were startling.

  Not everything had changed. Crates of books continued to move along the conveyer belt to the imprinting press, where the mechanical hands continued to feed books into the press. The enormous netted tent still ran south along Broadway and was even more packed with newly enslaved, untrained books.

  Now, however, the conveyor belt and press were no longer accessible from the street. Around the book enslavement operation was a tall barricade, a lattice of razor wire. Outside the barricade, in all directions, were guards. Lobotomists with machetes and Entourage with three–barreled rifles prowled the streets. Soldier books patrolled every intersection and flying chainsaws buzzed between, with clockwork dogs gallumphing below.

  Surely ours was now a suicide mission. Success was about as likely as Maelstrom being struck by conscience and destroying the press on his own. I looked to my compadres to begin our retreat. They continued to study the scene outside from every angle the windows allowed.

  Maybe I was overreacting. No books or chainsaws flew over the conveyor belt or press—they patrolled outside the barricade. Almost all the guards were outside the barricade, which had no gate for easy egress. About a dozen Entourage were inside the barricade, but they were a block away, down where the conveyor belt exited the Connector. Their backs were to the press and they seemed to be watching for trouble that might come through the Connector with the crates of books, which now arrived lidless. All the safeguards were to prevent access to the conveyor belt and press, to protect what was inside the barricade.

  But we were already inside.

  If we were discovered, we'd have several seconds before the Entourage who were inside could get from the Connector to us; and at least half a minute before the full force of guards was upon us. That might be enough time to finish the job. And get away.

  My biggest regret was that I still wore my lanyard. I didn't need its stabbing reminders that danger was near. Here. Everywhere.

  The five of us stepped away from the window at the same moment. It was time and we knew our roles. Zasu wrapped her arms around us all, creating a quick group embrace. Then I stopped thinking and prepped my glue bundles, confident because Hernandez was a great military leader and I trusted this team to succeed despite the odds.

  Hernandez tapped Jenn's watch. Start timing. He, Kelly Joe, and Zasu lit the slow–burning incendiary tubes and distributed them so we each carried some outside. I lugged my glue bundles, dangling from clothesline.

  Jenn extended three fingers. We had three minutes to get the incendiary tubes in place. After that they would burn too hot to handle. The tubes made little noticeable smoke, especially compared to the diesel exhaust of the flying chainsaws.

  Downstairs outside, we stood tight against the building and moved as little as possible. We had practiced noiseless moving and we held to that, although Maelstrom's guards made such a racket, our stealth was lost in the commotion outside the barricade.

  Outside the barricade, commotion. Here by the press, hypnotic repetition. The squeaking of the conveyor belt, the scraping of the mechanical hands, the chunking of books into the press, the squawking of newly enslaved books. Every movement was predictable. This close to the press it smelled of greased steel, like Ben's street skating phase, an ordinary familiar smell which was comforting.

  Kelly Joe and Zasu went first. Kelly Joe erratic–walked into the open area beyond the press and crouched. From there, he could see all three mechanical hands, the base of the press, and Zasu. He became scenery. I could barely spot him and I knew where to look.

  He moved a finger to direct Zasu's arms. She stretched them out and around, to place incendiary tubes around the base of the press. On the far side, her arm didn't reach, so she stretched her torso until it did.

  The press blocked my view of the enormous tent full of newly turned books, but their twittering swept us in waves. I convinced myself that some book voices sounded familiar, calling in the queer sharp tones of bookspeak and Refrencian. I envisioned my books carrying out their assignment, letting the new slaves know they had a choice about whom they served.

  The incendiary wicks hissed like snakes on their deathbeds. How long would it take Maelstrom's eavesdroppers to locate that sound?

  Jenn extended two fingers. Two minutes left. We were right on time. Zasu and Kelly Joe got a thumbs–up from Jenn as they returned to the building facade. Now Hernandez slipped behind the press and snaked under the netting that created its enclosure. Distorted by the netting, his movemen
ts looked jerky like a silent movie. That close to the press, if the mechanical hands detected his presence he had no protection. And he couldn't even Travel on his own. He'll be fine. He'll be fine.

  The metal of the press had a top seam. Hernandez aligned plastic explosives along that seam then backed away and snaked out of the netting, all without turning his back on the mechanical hands. When he returned to the building, he gripped the detonator with one finger hovering above the switch that would detonate the explosives. The plastics would split the metal seam and get more air inside the press, to help the incendiaries burn hotter and faster.

  Jenn raised one finger. In one minute, the incendiary wicks would flame and the heat in the tubes would rise rapidly. That would be our cue to run close, lob grenades toward the maw and under the feet of the press and run like hell to the stairs that led to our reconnaissance room. We had enough firepower to obliterate ten presses, if they were made of Ma'Urth–ly steel. If.

  The concrete walls of our building might protect us from shrapnel. There should be just enough time for Kelly Joe to Travel us out of Frame before the guards arrived, drawn by the explosions.

  But that grand finale was a long minute away. Before the incendiaries flamed, we had to eliminate the threat posed by the mechanical hands. Disabling the hands was my contribution, and like the rest it went flawlessly. At first.

  Down the block, deep in the book tent, books squawked in tones that sounded taunting, like bar bullies. Step outside and say that. Other book voices replied and soon many books twittered at once. Outside the barricade, some guards headed down that way.

  Not now. I couldn't think about what all that meant.

  Zasu, Kelly Joe, and I dangled lengths of clothesline and erratic–walked to the conveyer belt. The clothesline ended in tubes of crazy–glue, sliced open then wrapped in thin foil so the glue wouldn't dry.

  On my periphery, Jenn's fingers counted down the seconds. Ten, nine, eight. We set the bundles on the conveyor belt and erratic–walked toward our building. Still right on time.