Game Play (27 page)

The red
S
-scar on
Mindar's forehead glowed a flaming red with unnatural light. She worked her jaw
convulsively and stared to the east. "I curse you, Scartaris. I will use
every resource to destroy you."

Then the Tairans
arrived.

Gray-clad, mindless
people surged out of the buildings and moved down the streets toward them,
shoulder to shoulder, a massed wall of flesh like a living, unthinking vise.

"We've got to
get out of here!" Delrael cried. He grabbed his horse.

Mindar stood unable
to move. Her eyes looked devastated.

"Show us the
way out of here!" Delrael grabbed her by the shoulders, and she seemed to
snap out of her confusion. She saw the Tairans coming.

Mindar hustled them
down a narrow alley, leading the horses and shouldering aside three Tairans who
blocked their way. At the end of the alley, another group of characters moved
into place to block off their escape.

Mindar stopped and
looked at a large pavilion to their left.

"This way. We
can cut through here." Grabbing her mare's reins, Mindar ran up the steps
to the pavilion and into the wide interior. Delrael and the others followed.

The stone roof
overhead echoed the sounds of the horses. They passed under lattices strung
with decorated clay pots from which hung curtains of dead vines. The vines must
have once been lush and cool, but now the brittle strands were like dangling
claws trying to scratch down.

"Quick, we can
go out the other side!"

They reached the
side door where polished steps spilled down onto another street. An obsidian
trough that had once served as a reflection pool sat empty, caked with a ring
of lime from the evaporated water.

The street in front
of them looked deserted. But as they charged down the steps, Tairans moved into
the area, crowding at the intersections.

"We've got to
hurry," Mindar said. They turned right and ran down the only street still
open to them.

"I wish I'd
had a chance to study the map of Taire," Delrael said, breathing hard.
"I don't know where we're going. I don't know how to get out of
this."

"I don't know
either
," Mindar said, "But we're going to find a way."

The haunted
buildings around them stood tall, disorienting. The sun hung straight up in the
sky, giving no indication of direction. Delrael followed Mindar, feeling that
he could trust her instincts. She fought like he did.

They led the
horses, running around one corner, and came abruptly to the tall, smooth stone
barrier of the Taire city walls, blocking them off from the desolation terrain.

"Now what do
we do?" Bryl said.

Vailret moved to the
wall and put his fingers against the cracks of the hexagonal stone blocks. He
looked up, frowning. "We can't climb this. We can't get over."

A wave of Tairans
closed in from all sides, moving in a bizarre lockstep, rippling as they
pushed forward. Their eyes were all empty, cold and pupilless.

Delrael pulled out
his sword. Mindar crouched with her back to the wall, holding the rippled blade
in front of her. Delrael could feel her tension, flicking her dark gaze from
side to side. They would fight together here, to avenge the ghosts in their
pasts.

Without warning,
Mindar let out a cry and lunged into the approaching crowd, swinging her sword.
Some of the unresisting Tairans staggered from their wounds, but the others
continued forward without heeding their injuries.

They took no notice
of Mindar's attack. They folded around her and kept pushing toward Delrael and
the others.

She took out the
whip instead, lashing out. The Tairans moved away from her, but did not stop.
Mindar whipped a Tairan woman in the head, leaving a bright streak of blood
across her temple.

"Scartaris! I
will make you notice me!"

The horses backed
and reared, closed in by the stone wall behind them.

"Mindar!"
Delrael called.

The Tairans moved
slower, as if Scartaris wanted to relish the victory.

Mindar fought her
way back to the wall. Delrael used the flat of his blade to drive the people
away from her. He grabbed Mindar's arm and yanked her to him.

The Tairans formed
a semicircle around them.

Journeyman turned
to face the wall, spreading his clay hands out against the stone. His flexible
face bore an exaggerated, perplexed frown. "If we can't go over the wall
―
" He drew his arm back. The clay flowed, making a giant bulldozer fist.
"Why can't we just go ... through it?"

With the force of a
thunderclap, he smashed his arm into the wall blocks. Dust trickled down. He
slammed again, and the blocks, not held together by any mortar, jumbled loose.

The Tairans let out
a unanimous hiss of anger and pushed forward.

Journeyman struck
one more time and, with a rumble, the blocks toppled outward. "Look
out!" he said and reached out to deflect a stone block that would have
struck Bryl's head.

The horses reared.

The Tairans grasped
at them. Their fingers bore dirty, broken nails.

Many of them gushed
blood from wounds made by Mindar's sword.

The dust from the
rupture in the wall stung Delrael's eyes. He coughed.

"Let's get out
of here!" He leaped on the back of his horse. "Come on, Mindar!"

Vailret grabbed
Bryl and they both scrambled onto their horse.

Journeyman, looking
immensely pleased with himself, pushed around the rubble and let out a strange,
primitive yell
―
"Yabba dabba doo!"
―
and
crashed into the Tairans, knocking many over, cracking some ribs. He picked up
bodies to fling them against each other.

"If you can't
beat 'em, join 'em!" he said.

Delrael and Mindar
rode side by side through the opening in the wall.

Vailret led his
horse over the rubble.

They galloped out
into the desolation. After a moment, Journeyman leaped after them, bounding
with great resilient strides and following them into the desert. "Thank
you, come again!" he called back at the city.

The air was hot,
and reflected sunlight rippled up from the broken stone and caked dust. The sun
had just begun to dip into afternoon.

"We have to
ride
―
get as far away from here as we can." Mindar's voice
came in gasping, clipped phrases.

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."

"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.