by Sue Perry
We'd get back to Ma'Urth, the pain would ease. We'd dump our packs and duffel bags full of books, grab empty bags, and head back for more while Zasu unpacked our bags and stacked towers of books in the truck. Books tend to organize and each time we returned to Central Park crater, the remaining books had rearranged themselves on the sides of our trail within easy reach.
On the latest trip back to Ma'Urth, when I unshouldered my stuffed backpacks, an orange streak flashed past my feet. "Leon is protecting me but he's staying on Ma'Urth. I guess he doesn't understand where I need the most protection. Or maybe he can't Travel to Maelstrom's Frame."
"He can, but his energy would draw attention to his presence." Kelly Joe grabbed empty duffel bags and we returned to the Park.
I spoke loudly, hoping Leon would take this as an apology for questioning his behavior. "Seems like Leon understands everything we are doing."
"Only he can say for sure."
Every time we returned to Maelstrom's Frame, marching steps sounded closer to our crater. In the distorted echoes of that place, sometimes they marched from one direction and sometimes from another. The howls and clanks of clockwork dogs punctuated the steps.
On the latest trip, as we shouldered our filled backpacks, the lanyard stabbed me so violently that I stumbled and grabbed Kelly Joe's arm. I was surprised to find my shirt dry—with a stab like that, I expected blood. Above us came panting from rusty snapping jaws. The clockwork dogs were so close. The pavement sizzled with the drops of hot oil that they spewed as they galloped.
Damn. Our bags were full but we still had about a hundred books waiting along the trail. We couldn't get them all on this trip. I stuffed a few extra in the waist of my jeans, which made me so stiff I had to tilt backwards to walk.
The edges of the crater erupted with falling rock. Clockwork dogs clattered over the edges and inside, dogs slipping on the steep rubble, which slowed them. They must not sense our location, because they continued down into the crater, below where we stood. Kelly Joe gestured that we should get uphill, pronto. I turned my back to the dogs, then strained to listen for noises that would mean they had changed direction and were headed our way.
A thousand marching steps filled my ears, shook the ground. Boot toes appeared at the lip of the crater and rock avalanches slid around us. Kelly Joe grabbed my arm, ran us to the surface, and Traveled us to one hell of a far Frame. Spinning vision, instant retching, feet sinking in ooze. Then my knees scraped sidewalk outside our truck and books scattered around me. We were back on Ma'Urth.
"That has to be our last trip, we can't go back again," I told Zasu as we helped her stack the latest books. I hated to leave dozens of books behind to face a nasty fate that might someday include coming against us in battle. Still, it was with great relish that I slammed and bolted the truck doors, with thousands of freed books inside. "We can drive this truck to Bedlam, right? That's the safest place for these darlings."
Kelly Joe said, "No. We can't trust their loyalties. Bringing these books might invite evil to Frivolous Bedlam."
I hate reality checks. Kelly Joe was right. We dare not bring these books to Bedlam. They weren't slaves anymore. They joined the allies because my books persuaded them to do so; and, sure, some of these books wanted to protect the free Frames, but many wanted revenge against the enslaver. It doesn't matter what Frame you're from. Revenge is not a stable motivator.
So now what? We needed to stow this treasure and a truck this big was tough to park, much less hide. Should we take it out of the city? Who might we bribe to ignore it? Now that the books were safely locked in one place, it seemed like a vulnerability to keep them in one place.
And was anywhere on Ma'Urth safe for these books? A large number of cops and taxi drivers seemed unusually interested in activities near Central Park, today. Maybe they patrolled for the enemy. Or maybe my imagination was on the fritz after so much time in Maelstrom's domain.
"I know," I said eventually. "Let's get in the cab and I'll explain."
When Zasu opened the rental truck's door, she said with surprise, "Dizzy, you are a welcome visitor!" She slid the curl of fur onto her lap and made room for Kelly Joe, Leon, and me. As soon as we were settled, I told them my idea, tentatively at first, until Kelly Joe began to nod.
Step 1. Double–park the enormous rental truck in a quiet neighborhood like the deadend streets just north of the United Nations, on the bluff above the East River.
Step 2. Transfer some books to a van/car trunk.
Step 3. Park that van/car in an extended parking lot.
Step 4. Repeat steps 2 and 3 until the rental truck is emptied.
Zasu and Dizzy stayed in the rental truck. Kelly Joe led Leon and I on a swift walk. As we proceeded, I tried to figure how many vans we would need, and whether my savings account could cover so many rentals until we found a longer–term solution for book storage.
Kelly Joe walked on the street side of parked cars. Twice, we had to flatten against the cars to avoid becoming traffic statistics. "I assume there's a reason we're walking in the street?"
"Be mindful of open doors," he said. I thought he meant look for cars that aren't locked. Then a van door popped open as we drew near. No one was inside until Kelly Joe climbed behind the wheel and gestured for me to hurry. As soon as I got in the passenger side, he drove back to our rental truck. We crammed the volunteer van full of books then stored it in one of those multi–row stack–parking structures like vending machines for cars.
Does it count as theft if the vehicle is sentient and offers you a ride? When the vehicle alters its own license plates and paint color, does that make it an accessory?
I asked, "Is it your intent to steal all the vans we need?"
Kelly Joe replied, "We steal from thieves. I've requested help from cars that were previously stolen."
A sedan door popped open for us. We drove it back to the rental truck, loaded the trunk with books, stowed the sedan in a parking structure. And so it went, long past dusk.
As Kelly Joe and I packed a minivan, Zasu emerged from the rental truck cab, clutching Dizzy and silently sobbing. Whenever tears hit the cat's fur, Dizzy groomed herself furiously.
"Zasu, what's wrong?"
"I mourn my lost self. This Zasu is a bloodthirsty being who rejoices in the size of Nica's army."
"Don't call the books that. Let's call them our comrades in the fight to restore peace to the free Frames." This settled Zasu and unsettled me. Way too big a part of my ego liked the sound of that: Nica's army.
82. THE EVOLUTION OF MEANINGS
We distributed our arsenal of books in long–term parking across much of Manhattan and were down to our last loads of books when a horn tooted, a distinctive razz like a clown imitating a mockingbird. I knew that horn! Sure enough, up the hill roared Hernandez' battered red Toyota pickup.
"Tee has joined us!" This restored Zasu's spirits.
I had time to wonder what Hernandez was doing for transportation if he was back in L.A. but his truck was still in the New Yorks.
Tee triple–parked beside the van we were loading. "Yoo–hoo, Anya needs us. All hands on deck or should I say cab. Hop in." Kelly Joe and I exchanged looks. "Anya sent me, honestly, and it's serious."
"We believe you," I assured Tee. "But this van is parked less than legally and if it gets towed we'll lose irreplaceable cargo."
"I've got cargo space in back," Tee offered.
Yes. Her pickup bed might hold the remaining books. Soon, Tee's pickup bed, the latest volunteer van, Tee's cab, and our laps were full of books—not comfortable, but we managed to empty the giant rental truck.
Kelly Joe got in the van. "I'll catch up," he said, and drove that last cache of books to one final parking structure.
Tee revved her engine. "I can make up the time. Anya, here we come!" She peeled out—in reverse.
Inside Tee's cab, the floorboard books, Zasu, both cats, and I slid into a jumble as Tee accelerated backwards down the hill toward Fir
st Avenue. Fortunately, the red pickup changed Frames before she charged into the intersection. She raced us through a Frame without buildings, luminescent in moonlight. Fragrant silver meadows sloped to a shimmering East River that hummed melodically as it flowed. I'd never been anywhere where the East River could be called peaceful; and yet, this Frame felt familiar.
Zasu pressed hands against chest. "My heart swells," she cried, "Please stop this vehicle!"
"No can do. Anya said to hurry." Tee didn't slow down.
"We can take half a minute," I told Tee. Tee's brakes expressed her disapproval. I opened the door for Zasu.
Outside, Zasu stumbled in a circle, arms wide, embracing all: moon and sky as bright as faith, nightingale songs floating on a kiss of a breeze. We were in Halcyon, Zasu's home Frame. This was the first time she'd been home since genocide stranded her as the sole known survivor of the Gumby people.
Zasu dropped to her knees, plowed her arms through the rich soil, inhaled its perfume.
Tee snipped, "It's been ninety–five seconds and she's still playing in the dirt."
I gave Zasu another half a minute, then called, "Anya's waiting."
Zasu stood as though she would return to the pickup, but then spun to stare east, to the far side of the Williamsburg Bridge, which glowed in the moonlight. Zasu exhaled. "Others are here. I am not alone."
Could it be? She sensed the existence of other Gumby people, across the river.
"I must." And she was gone, running, a shooting star across the Williamsburg Bridge.
"That's not our direction. We can't follow her," Tee revved in the dirt. "Now what? Oh. Him."
Tee's shocks sagged as Kelly Joe climbed inside her cab. Tee peeled out, making both doors slam. I explained about Zasu and for the rest of our journey, Kelly Joe stared across the river.
Tee skidded us to a stop in an area of rolling hills just north of Brooklyn Bridge, which was still standing here in Halcyon—although perhaps not for long.
By moonlight, war is ghosts and shadows. A line of allies—mostly Marzipani whose fur gleamed silver tonight—stretched across the entrance to Brooklyn Bridge. Behind them was another line of allies. And another. They brandished metal mesh shields that reflected so much light I had to squint. The light came from headlamps, worn by lines of Lobotomists, marching toward the allies. Between each line of Lobotomists was an empty space and in that space, the light dimmed and flickered. Dimmed, in rains of text. Flickered, as light hit the razor edges of the falling text—a deadly confetti. Enemy soldier books flew between each line of Lobotomists.
The front line of allies threw spears that stopped the front line of Lobotomists, then ignited flamethrowers and raised their shields against the books. They survived the first line of books but their shields took heavy damage and only reflected light in patchwork now. Those damaged shields wouldn't survive a second rain of text, but here came a second line of Lobotomist headlamps. And behind them, a second line of enemy books.
Tee had parked behind a hill. At the top of the hill stood Anwyl and Anya, directing the defense of Brooklyn Bridge. Without warning, Dizzy leaped through Tee's window and raced uphill. She sprang onto Anya's neck and shoulders, biting and scratching. Anya fell down the hill, flailing, with the cat on top of her.
Anwyl reacted fastest. He drew a sword and ran toward Dizzy—who now sat next to Anya and watched the top of the hill, where Anya had stood before the cat attacked her.
In the air above the hill, one of the Entourage hovered in a foot–powered helicopter, just arrived from another Frame. His sunglasses and wide smile glinted in moonlight. He pedaled to rotate two sets of steel blades. The blades on top powered the 'copter. The blades at the base held books suspended by their spines. As the books spun, they dumped volumes of text on the spot where Anya had stood and the text churned the dirt to silver mud. Had Anya remained in position, she would now be shredded.
It seemed that Dizzy had attacked Anya to prevent her assassination.
Kelly Joe yelled, "Stop, Anwyl! The cat saved Anya! Behind you!"
Anwyl spun and threw his sword. It split the 'copter. Before the 'copter hit the ground, the Entourage pilot vanished out of Frame.
When the 'copter fell, its blades snapped, which freed a dozen books. All but one took off across the East River, ignoring squawks from the remaining book. Deserters? The remaining book extended its razor–edged cover and shot toward Anwyl. Anya whipped off her shawl and snapped it at the book, which hit the ground with such force that it spit silver sparks. Kelly Joe put a hard boot on the book and stomped, which snapped the book's spine.
From the Bridge defense came a wail. The first line of shields and then the allies they protected had disintegrated in a rain of text. Lobotomists, their gray hoodies spectral in the moonlight, marched across the remains of those allies toward the second line of defenders, who hurled spears and brandished intact shields, which would protect them—until books reached them. Once again, the enemy's books made all the difference in a battle.
But this time we could respond in kind.
I ran to Tee's truck bed, unzipping my backpack as I went. I dropped the backpack and yelled, "Books! To me." My original books rose from my backpack and hovered beside me as I gave them orders.
They circled the pickup and squawked commands. The books in the truck bed shot into the sky as though ejected by steam jets. The night got very dark as allied books flew to join the battle at Brooklyn Bridge.
On the bridge, the second line of allies were in trouble; their shields were so damaged they no longer glinted. The allies hunkered low and launched spears, preparing for death without surrender.
But it was not their night to die. The allied books flew high and fast to reach the front line of the battle. Briefly, a blanket of shadow blocked moonlight on Brooklyn Bridge and when the moon shadow thinned, the front–most line of Lobotomists was gone, leaving the terrible mush of flesh torn by text. One Lobotomist headlamp lay intact in the ooze, blazing light at an irrelevant angle.
Lobotomists continued to march forward and allies still hunkered beneath shields. Apparently both sides assumed the Lobotomist deaths had been collateral damage: that Maelstrom's books had shed text on the wrong line of fighters.
When a second line of Lobotomists fell, with no Marzipani injuries, the remaining Lobotomists faltered and the allied shields tilted up. The allies sought a better view of what was happening.
I couldn't translate the squawks of the enemy book leaders, yet the evolution of meanings was clear. Fools, take more care, you killed fellow soldiers. ... More dead?! Are you deaf as well as blind?... We are under attack! Our enemy has books!
The allies on Brooklyn Bridge were the last to realize that everything had changed. But once they understood, they charged, and attacked with ferocity. The Lobotomists stopped marching in sync. They pivoted, they turned, they ran into text from their own books.
Within minutes, the enemy books and troops were in pieces too small to identify.
The allies on Brooklyn Bridge clutched one another as though confirming they weren't dreaming in this surreal moonlight. Behind me, Tee's horn razzed victory toots. On the hill, Anya and Anwyl watched the allied books intently—yet without any sign of surprise. Beside me, Leon and Dizzy observed the cavorting of the two–legged beings.
I sent congrats to Jenn, wherever she was, beyond the Far Frames.
Kelly Joe shook my shoulders in a way to go! and sprinted to the top of the hill, where he clapped a hand on Anwyl's arm and spoke with more animation than I'd ever seen in him. When Anwyl responded, he turned in my direction. I stepped behind Tee. I wasn't ready to face Anwyl with my knowledge. That he stole the sentient lawn chair. That the lanyard warned against him.
The allies streamed from Brooklyn Bridge, cheering. They surrounded the hill, Tee, me. I think we all realized that we got lucky that night—our attack was a surprise and our books happened to outnumber the enemy's. Nonetheless, I added my cheers to the celebration.
<
br /> We had books. We were ready for war.
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The End of Book 2.
Acknowledgments
I appreciate everyone who ever liked my writing, and many people who didn't—you've all compelled me to keep going. Some members of the former group have helped me enormously in the development of Nica of the New Yorks: early reads, wise comments, inquiries (repeated) about when I'd have book 2 ready. I often wondered that myself.
I'd especially like to thank Christina McMullen, Julie Robitaille, Rebecca Stahl, Deborah Schneider, Louise G. White. Ma'Urth is a better Frame for your being in it.
About Sue Perry
Concert stage, dark except for a deep blue spotlight. Singer drops to one knee and his narration evolves from murmur to rant. "This is the story of a man who got what he wanted but he lost what he had. He got what he wanted but he lost what he had. He got –"
It goes on forever. It's mesmerizing. Uncomfortable. Confessional.
Pretty sure this memory is from the time I saw James Brown, decades ago, but the lost identity of the singer isn't the point.
I've spent my life gazing across some fence or other, admiring greener grass over yonder. I've acted on so many impulses to jump the fence. No complaints, but it has sure taken me a long time to appreciate where I'm standing right now. And nowadays that blue spotlight chant fills my head whenever I contemplate a new jump.
Sometimes I jump back.
I was a low–budget television producer until I wrote a psychological thriller, Was It A Rat I Saw, which Bantam–Doubleday–Dell published in hardcover in 1992. Soon after that I became the mother of twins, jumped into graduate school, and became a disaster scientist. I dabbled in academia, government research, and consulting.