Delrael looked at her and saw how torn she was inside. But a great fear seemed to underlie her anger. "I think we'll be safe now," he said, trying to be reassuring.
Mindar shook her head. "Until tonight." The dust in her hair stiffened the kinks from where she had braided it. "Out here we'll have no protection at all from the Cailee."
Chapter 15:
THE SITNALTAN WEAPON
"Our greatest treasure is our ideas. All of the inventors in Sitnalta share them freely, and we reward any visionary with a patent of his or her own. The greatest inventors are elevated to the exalted status of Professors.
The free exchange of information has made our city great ― not one of us would consider changing this."
― Dirac, Charter of the Sitnaltan Council of .
Patent Givers
The cot creaked beneath him as Professor Verne sat up sharply in the middle of the night. The musty smell of the room and his folded overcoat used as a pillow signalled that he was not in his own quarters back in Sitnalta. He blinked his eyes, astonished. He felt disoriented in the darkness ― too many fascinating ideas charged through his brain, clamoring to be put down on paper before he forgot them.
His heart pounded from the dream. The Outsider Scott had sent him another message.
The room was dim and cold. He noticed that the electrical heater had stopped functioning again. Outside, the wind rushed around the walls of the Slac fortress, stirring up drafts. Verne's eyes grew adjusted to the shadows, and he could see Frankenstein on the other side of the room also sitting on his cot, pulling socks on his feet. Frankenstein flung aside his blankets and began pacing the room.
Verne got up from his cot and wrapped the blankets around his shoulders. On bare feet, he hurried to the corner and flicked the electrical heater on and off, but it was no use. The device had failed again. He wished he had brought slippers along.
A sulfur match flared, and Frankenstein lit a candle. He waved the matchstick in the air until the flame went out, then he set it beside the paraphernalia on his makeshift worktable. Orange candlelight flickered in the room, disturbed by transient drafts.
"Did you dream it, too?" Verne said. Looking at the wide-eyed expression on the other inventor's face, he didn't really need to ask.
"What are we going to do about it?" Frankenstein ran his fingers through his dark hair. "How are we going to implement the construction? It's so complicated."
"First we must decide even if we should implement it," Verne said, pondering. He pursed his lips. He picked up the matchstick and relit its end from the candle flame, sucking the flame down into the bowl of his pipe. He puffed absently and kept his voice quiet. "The idea is so awesome. I sensed it might be an incomparable weapon ... but I never imagined anything so terrible."
Frankenstein snorted and ruffled through some papers on the table. He flattened a piece of parchment and picked up a scribing pencil. "Can you imagine what a buffoon like Dirac would do with such an idea?"
Verne swallowed. He had not thought of that aspect.
Frankenstein's voice became grave. "We want to do this one ourselves, Jules. And I don't think we should leave any blueprints behind. We won't even apply for a patent on this. Let's just build the weapon, make it do its task, and hope we never need to construct another one."
Verne began pacing. "This weapon is so powerful it might be worse than letting Gamearth surrender to its own fate. What if it cracks the map open, destroys us all, and backlashes to the Outside?"
"Then it serves the Outsiders right. Nothing is ever impossible, Jules.
You, of all characters, should know that. But when the power is so tremendous, I don't want to leave hints around so others can try."
Verne walked from his cot to the table. His feet were numb on the cold stone floor. "You are suggesting that we knowingly withhold scientific information from the people of Sitnalta."
Frankenstein tapped his teeth with the scribing pencil. "I am suggesting that we build this weapon ourselves, with the tools we have on hand here. Once it has destroyed Scartaris, we will never need to concern ourselves about such a weapon again. It will be an obsolete, useless invention that would serve no further purpose anyway."
Verne remained withdrawn. Frankenstein pointed to the parchment, impatient. "Come, I need your help. Is this the way you remember it from the dream?"
Within a few moments, Verne had become so caught up in the problem that he forgot about everything else.
They crept outside, careful not to wake the technicians asleep by the big fire pit in the Slac dining hall. Some of the workers had commandeered their own quarters in empty chambers, but they left the doors ajar.
The fortress was silent as Verne and Frankenstein slipped into the courtyard. Frost sparkled on the rocks, and smooth ice patches dotted the ground where standing puddles had frozen.
The ruined Outsider ship stood black and skeletal under the starlight.
Verne had stuffed candles in his pockets and several sulfur matches.
Frankenstein carried two electric illuminators powered by galvanic batteries.
He switched them on before the two of them entered the ship's main hatch.
The illuminators shone circles of yellow light, reflecting from the polished sections of the alien alloys. They walked down the sloping central passage, under the black girders. Wind whistled through holes and cracks in the hull.
Verne saw strange light shining from behind one of the sealed portholes. After a quick inspection, he unfastened a knob holding the metal covering in place, but before he could lift the shade to look through the glass, Frankenstein grabbed his wrist.
"I wouldn't do that, Jules." He paused while the metal sections creaked around them. Frosty breath came out of his mouth when he spoke. "We have no idea what those windows look out upon. Remember what we're dealing with here."
Verne froze and backed away, apologizing for his own curiosity, his lack of control. Frankenstein was perfectly correct, of course ― one glimpse of reality would be enough to blast them all into nonexistence.
It was conceivable that he could simply push a button, energize the motive apparatus, and propel them Outside ― some of the knobs and dials in the control room might still be functional. Verne wondered if perhaps he could develop some sort of protective goggles that would let them look upon reality and survive....
Unfortunately, they had other plans for the energy source trapped in its fragile containment below.
When they entered the excavated corridor of the ship and descended the groaning metal staircase to the control room, their electric illuminators both flickered and went out. Frankenstein tapped the lens and tried the switch several times before he set his device on the floor in disgust.
"I hate working on the technological fringe. Nothing functions the way it's supposed to."
Verne struck one of his matches against a corroded section of the hull.
He lit a candle and passed it to Frankenstein before lighting one of his own.
"I never imagined we would assemble a doomsday weapon by candlelight."
The control panels with their rows of dark indicator lights and color-coded buttons looked like the unblinking eyes of dead men. The air smelled dusty and metallic. Rags spotted with oils and solvents filled a container by the exterior hatch.
Outside, the girders creaked and shifted as wind whistled around the mountains. Verne knew they were alone, but he felt things watching them from the shadows. He recognized it as an irrational fear and tried to ignore it -but then he remembered the Outsiders probably were watching them.
"Come, Jules. We have to get started. Most of the tools we need are already here from the excavation and analysis work."
Verne blew cold air out of his nose, pondering how to put the pieces together. It all seemed so clear in his mind. "We should be able to lift enough other instrumentation from our devices at hand, especially some of the steam pumps and generator coils."
Frankenstein bent to t
he control-panel bulkhead. "Help me lift this cover plate off."
Working feverishly, Outsider-inspired, Professors Verne and Frankenstein hammered away at their contraption, using pieces of metal taken from the ship's hull, adapting equipment dismantled from other Sitnaltan apparatus.
They rarely spoke, but worked together, knowing what needed to be done.
Verne blew on his numb fingers and searched for another instrument. All the tools felt icy in the still air of the chamber. The candles made exaggerated shadows of their movements against the curved walls.
The delicate part was encapsulating the power source in a makeshift containment vessel. Verne hoped the new rivets would hold and that their sealant goop would keep the valves and control switches in place. Verne found he was trembling, not just from the chill air but from the fear of working with such a dangerous thing.
The candles burned down, one after another, and finally as dawn broke across the sky, Frankenstein rubbed his elbow against a bronze plate at the front of the weapon. He cracked his knuckles and sighed. When Verne looked at him, the other professor's eyes were bloodshot and weary. Verne knew he must look as haggard himself.
Frankenstein sighed. "With a device so important, I think we should make this official, even if only between ourselves." He withdrew a black grease pencil and bent over the smooth cylindrical body of the weapon.
Pondering a moment with the pencil against his lips, Frankenstein scrawled a number on the silvery-white metal. "17/2."
"I think this counts as a patentable invention, don't you, Jules?" He straightened. "Even though we dare not ever tell how we created it."
Verne forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. "I will never know how you keep track of all the numbers."
"A simple matter of concentration. Last month we ran out of certificate numbers from the Council of Patent Givers. We forced them to create a second series, all our own. This weapon is our seventeenth invention in the second series. Such a weapon," Frankenstein said, letting his voice trail off.
He looked up at Verne with a hard light in his eyes. "It is the most powerful thing ever to come of Sitnaltan technology. But now we have to take it to Scartaris ― and detonate it."
Frankenstein looked at Verne. Their eyes met in the uncertain candlelight, but neither spoke until Verne finally lowered his gaze.
"One of us will have to do it, of course."
"Yes. We must roll for it."
Verne reached deep into the folds of his woolen coat and withdrew a hand-held device. In his other hand he found two red dice with painted white numbers. "We'll use the random generator."
He placed it on a level surface of the gutted control panel, brushing dust aside. "High roll makes the journey?" He raised his eyebrows.
Frankenstein nodded.
Verne inserted the two dice into the opening at the top of the device.
"You roll first."
Frankenstein pushed down the spring-loaded lever on the side. The dice fell, scrambled and bouncing around inside the machine, and then tumbled out the opening in the bottom. A "5" and a "4."
Verne picked up the dice and tossed them into the top. He reset the lever, then pushed it down. He heard the dice clattering, but he felt a cold hand in his stomach. He knew before the dice rolled out.
Boxcars ― two sixes.
Frankenstein put his hands behind his back, blinking. Verne couldn't tell if he was relieved or disappointed.
"I will help you load the weapon into one of our steam-engine cars. It will take the two of us to carry it."
Professor Verne nodded. Frankenstein hesitated a moment and then turned to extend his hand.
"Luck, Jules. Our future rides on this."
Chapter 16:
NIGHT OF THE CAILEE
"We cannot hide from anything the Outsiders send against us. They know our fears better than we know ourselves. If we are to win this Game, we must face our greatest enemies and hope the dice roll in our favor."
― Enrod of Taire
Gairoth did not like the Taire city walls around him. He sniffed the air, flaring the nostrils in his potato-sized nose. He did not like the tall buildings, he did not like the feel of flagstones under his big bare feet. The buildings were too close, the alleys too narrow as he lumbered down them. The sharp spikes of his club clinked against the street. The smell of the air was dry and bland, too human for him.
Pictures covered the walls. He stared at them but did not understand the rituals depicted, the games, the gatherings of characters all standing side by side.
Gairoth squinted his one eye, baffled at the thought. It was repellent for ogres to work together. When he had been in Delroth's Stronghold and used the shiny rock to make illusion ogres, he could tolerate them only because he knew they weren't real. But these pictures showed human characters staying by each other because they wanted to.
One of the crudely drawn figures reminded him of the man Delroth. The ogre made a snarling noise and smacked the end of his club against the plaster. Great chunks of the fresco broke off and pattered onto the flagstones, exposing a jagged blot of fresh white plaster, like a wound.
"Haw!" Gairoth stomped down the zig-zagging streets, satisfied. He had forgotten why he was chasing Delroth, but that didn't matter.
Everything was so quiet around him. He banged his club against the wall just to keep himself company. He wished Rognoth were there. The stupid little dragon had been a convenient companion, and now he was gone. Another dragon, a big dragon, chased him far away. Gairoth knew Delroth had something to do with that, too.
When he heard the explosion and saw gouts of smoke gush into the sky from the burning tannery, he had to see what was going on. Delroth might be there.
Puffing through his dry, flabby lips, he heaved himself into motion. He got lost in several dead-ends, but with the curling smoke showing the way he could always find his way back to the right path.
Gairoth stumbled upon the wreckage of the tannery. The foul-smelling debris reminded him of his long-lost cesspools, now drowned under the Barrier River. He drew in a deep breath. Milling Tairans stood sluggishly around the burning building, then they moved and drifted away, funnelling down a side street. They didn't even react to Gairoth.
Being ignored annoyed him, and he stomped after them. The Tairans did not seem uneasy from each others' presence, from the closeness of their packed bodies. They did not get lost in the winding streets. They led Gairoth to a larger crowd, sluggish like a swarm of smoke-stunned bees. Many Tairans bled from wounds, but they didn't take care of themselves.
Gairoth elbowed the characters aside, shoving them away as he stormed forward to see the focus of their attention.
A ragged hole had been smashed in the tall Tairan wall. The ogre saw the Tairans looking out at the desolate terrain, but none of them said a word.
Gairoth grabbed a man by the front of his tunic. The brownish-gray cloth ripped in the ogre's fingers, but he lifted the man high enough to stare into his eyes. The man's feet dangled in the air; his arms went limp. He didn't struggle. Gairoth shook him a bit, just to make him squirm.
The Tairan blinked and gurgled. His eyes were milky white, without pupils.
"Where is Delroth?" Gairoth demanded.
The Tairan turned his head toward the hole in the wall and the sprawling desert. Gairoth saw fresh tracks, hoofprints plowed up in the dust.
His heart leaped. Delroth had been here! He was close!
Gairoth released the Tairan and let him fall. The man's arms and legs did not react quickly enough, and his knees buckled sideways. He landed on his hip on the flagstones.
The ogre bounded through the opening, bumping his head on one of the stone blocks. He ignored the pain and charged across the flat ground.
The blasted terrain flowed like magic under the horses' hooves. Vailret was amazed at how fast they approached the next hexagon of forested hills. He rode, gripping the mane in front of him because it seemed like the thing to do. He had never
traveled so swiftly over land before, except in Professor Verne's balloon. At any moment he felt as if he was going to fall off and crash on the dusty ground.
The sudden release of tension from their near death at the hands of the Tairans made him feel exhausted. Vailret's lips were dry and cracked from breathing the dusty air. When he held Bryl's frail form in front of him, he could feel the old half-Sorcerer's ribs through his blue cloak. Bryl seemed so frightened he couldn't say anything.
At the hex-line the forested hills rose in front of them. They had left the quest-path behind for fear of what might be on the road from Taire to Scartaris. Now the horses picked their way among the haunted-looking slopes.
The thick trees stood black and gnarled in death. They were all relatively young, planted in neat rows in the turns that had passed since Enrod began to rebuild the land. But here the Tairans' work had come to an end.
The horses stumbled upon a path made by the tree-planters and followed that up the slope. The dead trees scrabbled like arthritic fingers in front of their eyes. The close branches snapped and left black stains on the clothes they touched. The smell of sharp, dry death hung in the air, depressing and stifling.
Mindar rode in the lead, scowling. Her face looked full of anger and determination. The sight of each dead tree seemed like a slap in the face to her.
Vailret thought of the Tairans and their dream of rebuilding the landscape. The half-breeds had magic to renew the terrain, and the human characters used straightforward farming techniques to plant sturdy grass and stands of trees such as these. Then Scartaris came and destroyed everything again ― and this time the ancient Tairan hero, the Stranger Unlooked-For, had not reappeared to save them.
The trees thinned as they rose in the hills, letting them look back at Taire and the surrounding devastation. Squinting, Vailret could still see fading smoke in the air from the destroyed tannery.
Mindar's face bore a stunned expression. "Delrael, what did you bring upon us?"
"It's still there!" Bryl cried, pointing.
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