by Morgan Rice
Slowly and with great effort, Oliver shifted the composition of the atoms in each item, turning them from solids into gas. Then, employing remarkable concentration, he began to rearrange them, turning the gas into a swirling gray cloud. He spelled out a message to Armando: Let me in.
Armando turned back over his shoulder, gaping at Oliver through the window. From his expression, it was clear that he was rattled. Oliver prayed that he’d done enough to get Armando to listen to him.
The inventor seemed frozen on the spot, as he looked from the message to Oliver and back again, his face a combination of confusion, curiosity, and fear. Then, in one sudden movement, he shook his head, turned on his heel, scooped some schematics off his desk, and marched out the door.
Instantly deflating, Oliver exhaled, letting go of his visualization. The ruler, pencil, compass, and protractor returned to their normal structures and clattered to the tabletop.
He bent over, grasping his knees, spent from the effort of using his powers in the real world. He felt like he’d run a marathon. And it had all been in vain. Armando had refused to believe what was before his eyes.
He would have to find the bomb on his own.
From the outside, he grasped the bottom of the window and pulled it upward. He heaved himself up and crawled in through the open window, then plonked down onto the ground beneath it in a sprawled heap. He wished his powers were more easily accessed here; he could certainly do with some cushioning on his behind for all these tumbles he was taking. It would be black and blue before long.
He hurried out of the room and looked first left and then right down the corridor. It was empty.
Knowing that turning left would bring him back to the factory floor where the guards were positioned, Oliver headed right down the corridor.
He moved as quickly and quietly as possible. He reached a door and knelt down to peer in through the keyhole. It was just a storeroom. He moved on to the next door. This one stood ajar. But when Oliver peered inside, he just saw a room filled with wooden shelving and dusty old books.
Oliver went on and on, peering into each room he passed. Where could Lucas have hidden the bomb?
Finally, he reached the last room of the corridor. In the modern era, this room contained Armando’s time machine and the door was a huge steel barricade. But not so here. In the past, the door was wooden, just the same as the others.
Oliver tried the handle and it yielded. He looked inside. The disappointing sight of a room filled with old furniture awaited him.
Frustrated, Oliver closed the door and rested his back against it. His heart was hammering with nerves. Every second that passed felt like a second wasted, a second that he came closer to failing.
He searched his mind frantically, desperate for some kind of memory or clue to surface.
Suddenly, a thought struck Oliver. During the short time he’d been working alongside Lucas, he’d observed a peculiar tic in the old man; a place he often gravitated toward. It was nothing more than an alcove near the place his workbench was set up, but he would walk up to it several times a day, as though the spot brought him some kind of comfort. Oliver wondered, now, if the place had meaning to Lucas. It was worth a shot, since he’d hit a dead end.
Oliver hurried back along the corridor. He peered out to the main factory forecourt. It was still busy, with workmen hurrying all around the place, but the crowds had begun to thin out a little as the working day began to draw to an end. Oliver glanced over at the spot where Lucas’s workbench was situated in the modern factory. Though there was no workbench in this era, the alcove was indeed there. Oliver had only one shot to reach it without being spotted.
He waited until a group of workers began heading for the door, obscuring him from the view of the guards. Then he ran as fast as he could and ducked into the alcove, out of sight.
Now here, Oliver wasn’t sure what he was looking for. The wall appeared to be a straightforward wall. There was no trapdoor or anything beneath his feet. He felt around, touching the bricks in the wall. Then, suddenly, he felt the texture change beneath his fingertips.
At once, Oliver found that this particular brick was loose. He grappled with it, trying to hook his fingers beneath, and finally manage to wiggle it free. And there, behind the brick, was a lever.
Oliver didn’t waste a second. He pulled the lever. Immediately, the wall clicked backward. Could it just be another of Armando’s secret sections, hidden behind a fake wall? Or did something more sinister lurk the other side? Either way, there was only one way to find out. Oliver would have to enter.
He quickly glanced around the side of the alcove, looking at the nearly empty factory floor. The guards were busy ushering workers out the exit. While they were distracted, Oliver made his move. He pulled the fake wall fully open and slid quickly inside. Then he shut himself inside.
It was dark and smelled of dust. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Oliver noticed in front of him was a narrow, metal spiral staircase painted bright red. It looked familiar to hm. He recalled the red staircase his in his own era, the one where Lucas’s bedroom was located. Could it be that Lucas’s room was at the top of these stairs?
Oliver took a breath to steady his nerves. Then quietly tiptoeing, he began to ascend the stairs.
He went up and up for what felt like forever. When he finally emerged at the top, the ceiling was pointed. He must be right at the top of the factory, where there was an attic.
And there, ahead of him, was a door.
Oliver tried the handle. It was locked; a sure sign of secrecy.
Picking locks was a skill Oliver had perfected through the years of being Chris’s brother. He’d lost count of the number of times his bully brother had locked him out of the house, forcing him to learn to jimmy the windows or pick the locks. He’d gotten pretty good at it. It had been awful at the time, but now Oliver could see it had all been good training.
He fiddled with it now and heard the lock click open. He tried the handle. This time it yielded. Oliver entered the attic.
Right away, a chill went through Oliver as it dawned on him where he was standing. This was Lucas’s HQ.
By the desk at the window Oliver noticed notebooks and sketches.
He went over and studied the diagrams, trying to figure out what it was depicting. It was a large ovoid with a complex network of wires covering it and some kind of stabilizing base, like that of a rocket ship.
He turned the page to see a new design, a rework of the first. Then on the next page, yet more lines and shapes.
As he worked his way through the workbook, the feeling of anxiety built inside of him. The diagrams were becoming increasingly meticulous. No more did they look like the excited doodles of an imaginative mind. They were starting to look more and more like schematics: precise, ordered, and thorough. The handwriting was becoming neater, then shakier, as if the hand who’d written them had aged.
Dread crept up Oliver’s gullet. The truth hit him. He was holding Lucas’s finished designs.
This was the bomb.
But there was more to it than that. On the table were more documents. And they were not written in English.
Oliver had had language classes at school. He knew enough to know that the writing was in German. And his history classes had taught him that in 1944, the Germans were the enemies.
Oliver’s heart began to beat rapidly. He quickly thumbed through the paperwork. It was as thick as a dossier, filled with written correspondences. He desperately wished he could read what was being communicated.
But when he reached the last page, he didn’t need a translation to tell him how dangerous what he was holding in his hands really was. His heart clenched as he realized the last page was a contract, signed by Lucas. And there, stamped in the spot for the second signatory, was a swastika.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Oliver’s head spun. Had Lucas sold his bomb to the Nazis?
Oliver noticed then that amidst the paperwork was a ph
oto of Lucas. Not the young boy version of this timeline, but as the old man Oliver knew. And more chilling than seeing the elderly Lucas in the past where he did not belong was what he was wearing in the photo: a Nazi uniform.
The army in his dream. The uniforms matched!
Oliver drew back and gasped. But he had no time to let anything sink in, because suddenly he heard the sound of a revving engine. From the window, he saw a truck entering the shadowy lot of the factory. It drew to a halt and several men jumped out. They streaked across the courtyard. A small shadowy figure ushered them inside the factory. It was the young Lucas.
Oliver grabbed all the paperwork, shoving it hurriedly into his overall pockets. Then he darted out of the room, clattering down the spiral staircase.
He was just in the nick of time. The sound of heavy boots echoed down the corridor as Oliver backed into an alcove. He could hear whispering voices speaking in sharp, hurried German.
Up ahead, the exit stood open, letting in a sliver of moonlight. The men were coming out of another corridor. They were wheeling a large crate across the factory floor, heading for the exit. Lucas was guiding them.
Oliver’s heart clenched. Was the bomb inside the crate?
Just then, Oliver heard the sound of thudding coming from the other end of the corridor, quickly followed by a muffled cry. Armando. Lucas must have locked him in his office!
Oliver felt immediately torn between freeing Armando and following the crate. As the men maneuvered the crate through the exit, he stood on the spot, glancing first down the corridor toward the pounding sound, then back out at the exit.
Sorry, Armando, Oliver muttered under his breath.
He made his move, heading not toward his trapped hero, but streaking instead across the forecourt, following the bomb. He slunk discreetly through the door, letting the darkness of the moonlit evening provide cover.
Oliver ducked down behind a stack of trash cans and watched the scene unfold before him. It was happening so fast; the men loading up their truck with cargo taken from the factory. He had to do something.
Oliver closed his eyes, focusing his mind in the way he needed to, to summon his powers. But a sudden a noise beside him broke his concentration.
He turned sharply to see a silhouette emerging from the shadows. The first thing that struck Oliver was the unearthly shade of blue eyes. The eyes of a cobalt Seer. Of his enemy.
The shadowy figure moved further into the moonlight. Oliver gasped. It was Lucas.
Lucas was a Seer! But he was a rogue one, an evil one with unmistakable flashing blue eyes.
“What have you done?” Oliver cried to the boy.
Lucas just smirked. “He told me everything. The man from the future. About you and how you become Armando’s favorite. How you take my place. He said all I had to do to win back Armando’s favor was deliver this crate.”
All the pieces fell into place in Oliver’s mind. Lucas from the future had gotten young Lucas to do his bidding, to sell his bomb to the Nazis, the only people crazy enough to actually set it off.
“He tricked you!” Oliver cried. “Can’t you see? These men are German soldiers! That’s a bomb inside!”
Lucas frowned. “Don’t be stupid. The Germans are the enemies.”
“That man from the future,” Oliver stammered. “He’s YOU. He’s tricked you into handing a bomb over to Hitler!”
But Lucas wasn’t going to be convinced. There was no time to explain it either. Oliver had to stop the bomb from reaching its destination.
Thinking nothing of his own safety, he ran. But Lucas lunged for him. Oliver dodged, leaping left, and felt Lucas’s fingertips brush his overalls.
“Stop!” the boy screamed. “You’re ruining everything!”
Recovering, Oliver darted forward, his feet pounding the asphalt. His legs ached from the effort of sprinting. But Lucas was right behind him. So close.
The engine of the truck was already running. Fumes came from the exhaust. Oliver pounced through the acrid cloud, using all his strength to leap through the air.
He landed with a hard thump onto the back of the truck, his feet balancing precariously on a small ledge. He tried to open the door but it was locked. He felt the engine rumbling beneath him as the truck accelerated. Oliver held on tightly as the truck began to pull out of the lot. Pebbles crunched beneath the tires, just a foot below him.
Oliver clutched on with all his might, still trying to prize open the lock. Lucas was bearing down on him. But the truck was picking up speed. The distance between them grew.
Suddenly, the lock yielded. Oliver heaved the door of the truck open and swung his body inside. Wind whipped through his hair as he looked out the back of the open truck at Lucas’s figure shrinking into the distance.
Oliver had no time to feel relieved. Lucas was a mere inconvenience, a small hurdle to overcome. The real challenge was the crate and the bomb it contained. He slammed the door shut behind him and turned to face it.
The truck picked up speed, surging forward and flinging Oliver backward. His back thudded against the closed doors. He sunk to his knees, winded. The truck jerked him roughly side to side, making his stomach flip. But he gritted his teeth and forced the unpleasant sensations away. He’d been on the back of an ostreagle, after all. This sensation was nothing in comparison to that. Switchit practice had been good training, he realized.
Drawing himself to unsteady knees, Oliver staggered through the truck toward the crate that contained the weapon. He had to get inside somehow. He was certain that if he could get his hands on the machine, he’d work out a way to dismantle it.
Oliver took hold of one of the planks of wood in his hands. He heaved as hard as he could. But no success. The planks were fixed in place with nails. He’d need a wrench to get inside.
He looked around the truck frantically, searching for a tool that could help him in his endeavor. But the truck was moving too quickly. He kept getting tossed from side to side. Try as he might, he couldn’t get to his feet long enough to fully search the inside of the truck for anything he may be able to use.
Suddenly, Oliver felt the sensation of moving upward. The truck was being driven up a ramp.
He ran to the back and looked out the small, blacked out window in the door. To his shock he saw that they had driven right up inside the back of a big military cargo plane!
With complete terror, Oliver realized what was happening. The truck containing the weapon was on its way to Nazi-controlled Germany. And he was going with it.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Oliver’s heart hammered with terror. It was very noisy in the back of the plane with the engines roaring. It was also very dark. So dark, Oliver could hardly see his hands in front of his face.
He tried to collect this thoughts. But there was no time because Oliver suddenly felt the horrible swooshing sensation of the plane gaining speed along the runway. All around him, everything began to shake. There was nothing to hold on to, no seat to clip himself into. He was going to take to the sky in the back of a truck! Panic overcame him.
From beneath he felt the angle change. The plane was beginning to lift from the runway. Oliver started to slide backward and felt the strange heavy sensation of lift as the plane’s wings countered the effects of gravity. He groped forward, searching for some kind of handhold. But there was nothing. He rolled, colliding with the back doors of the truck. There was nothing to do but close his eyes, grit his teeth, and wait for the plane’s rapid ascension to be complete.
It seemed to last forever. The plane kept climbing and climbing, turning as it went in a sort of rollercoaster-like fashion. Unlike the passenger planes Oliver was used to, this military cargo plane had no need to make passengers comfortable, and the pilot was clearly pushing it to the very edge of its physical capabilities. Its steep angle remained, pushing Oliver into an uncomfortable, sprawled position against the locked back doors of the truck. It must be ascending to a very high altitude, he realized, far, far above the
clouds in order to avoid detection from the enemies below.
But finally, he felt it even out. At last, Oliver was able to collect himself.
He peeled himself from the uncomfortable position he’d been forced into against the back of the truck doors and heaved himself up on to unsteady legs. The plane was actually much smoother than it had been bumping around in the back of the truck.
Once more, he stood face to face with the crate. Inside was its dangerous cargo. The bomb. He had to get inside and destroy the bomb.
He searched around in the back of the truck, through the gloom, looking for some kind of tool to help him. Wedged amongst the other wooden boxes in the truck, he found a crowbar. He grabbed it, relieved.
Oliver hurried to the crate and squinted to find the nails. It was hard in the darkness to find the small glint of metal, but finally he did, and he worked quickly, prizing out the nails and discarding the planks to the side. He worked feverishly, the darkness making his task even harder. But one by one he managed to tear off the planks. Until, finally, he stepped back.
He was staring at the bomb.
Seeing it in reality was more bone-chilling than he’d ever expected. This wasn’t just a plan or design anymore. This was the real thing. The real bomb. A complex machine of burnished metal. Six feet tall. Egg-shaped. Covered in wires. Filled with deathly power.
Oliver shuddered at the thought of the twisted mind that had created it—Lucas. Oliver’s determination to destroy the bomb before it could destroy anyone grew even stronger.
Quickly, he reached into his overalls pocket and pulled out all the plans he’d stolen from Lucas’s secret room. It was so dark he had to hold them very close to his face. He studied them, comparing what was on the page to what he was looking at, trying to figure out how it had been designed and in turn, how it could be dismantled.
To his distress he found that it had been extremely well designed. Impeccably. Clearly, Lucas had poached ideas from Armando and twisted them for his dark means. The bomb was born not from the mind of a brilliant human, but from the disturbed mind of a terrifyingly evil Seer. It was filled with tricks—extra wires and switches—that made it near impossible to decipher, as well as shields like Esther’s and the invisible wall around the school. One wrong move and the whole thing would blow right here, right now.