Saving Thanehaven (24 page)

“For the train.”

“What train?” Reaching for the inner door, the operator says to Noble, “You’ll be heading for a base station, won’t you?”

“Will we?”

“You will if you want to reach another phone.” The door clanks open to reveal an expanse of flat gray pavement under a brooding sky. “That’s your ride over there,” the operator announces, pointing through the bronze-colored screen.

Noble stares at something that looks like a giant dragonfly. It has a bulbous head, a skinny abdomen, and four wings set high on its back. But unlike most dragonflies, this one is as big as a truck.

“What
is
that?” Lorellina exclaims.

“It’s your signal carrier.” With a heave and a
crash
the operator opens the cage door. “Just hop in and catch a connecting flight when you reach the base station.”

Noble blinks. “What do you mean, a connecting flight?” he demands. “Does that thing
fly
?”

“It’s a helicopter, sir.” There’s a hint of a drawl in the operator’s voice. “All helicopters fly.”

This is news to Noble. He eyes the odd-looking thing suspiciously, then pokes his head out of the elevator and scans the desolate space around it. There’s nothing much to see; just an endless, paved expanse disappearing into a light-gray mist. He’s occupying the only structure in sight, which is a small, square, almost featureless brick building.

“We should ask that person for help,” Lorellina says abruptly. She’s referring to the helicopter’s only occupant, who’s wearing orange overalls, black gloves, a helmet, a microphone, and something that looks to Noble like a black-glass eye mask. Only a straight nose and a chiseled, clean-shaven chin have been left uncovered.

“Good idea,” Yestin remarks, peering past Lorellina. “The pilot will know what to do.”

“What’s a pilot?” Noble isn’t familiar with the word.

“Pilots are like drivers,” Yestin explains, “only they drive things that fly.”

“What?”
Noble stares at him, appalled. “But how can the pilot see through that mask he’s wearing?”

“It’s not a mask. It’s sunglasses. He can see through those.”

“Are you two coming or not?” Lorellina sounds impatient. She flounces toward the pilot, whose expression doesn’t change as he turns his head to watch her approach the helicopter.

Noble suddenly recollects that he’s carrying the all-important message from Mikey. So he follows Lorellina to where the pilot is waiting patiently. Yestin catches up a moment later.

“We have a message for Rufus,” Noble declares, thrusting his crumpled sheet of paper under the pilot’s nose.

“We’re going to International Mobile Equipment
Identity number 466672739001277,” Yestin adds quickly.

The pilot nods. Then his head swivels until he’s gazing straight ahead once more. As his right hand moves, the wings overhead start to spin like spokes on a wheel, slowly at first, but with increasing speed.

“Everyone get in!” exclaims Yestin, pitching his voice high over the sudden roar of the helicopter. It seems like good advice to Noble. But he hangs back until his two friends are tucked into the rear of the helicopter, then climbs into the seat next to the pilot, who opens his mouth and says, “Buckle up.”

Noble gapes at him, confused.

“The harness!” Yestin shouts from the backseat. “Put on your harness!”

Realizing that there’s a tangle of belts and clips attached to his seat, Noble does as he’s told. By the time he’s all strapped in, the helicopter is already rising off the ground.

Gazing down at the rapidly shrinking brick box, Noble is surprised at how quickly it’s swallowed by a veil of fog. Or is it cloud? He feels deeply uncomfortable. The noise and vibration are unexpected; though he’s never tried to imagine what it would be like to fly, his experience with gargoyles has led him to believe that it must be a calm, quiet, graceful activity.

But this vehicle is so loud that talking is out of the question. Noble is forced to sit silently as they move through a white cloud that goes on and on, without a
break. Visibility is so poor that Noble worries about crashing into something—like a mountain, for instance. How can they avoid obstacles if they can’t see where they’re going?

He tries to catch the pilot’s eye, without success. The pilot simply stares through the window in front of him. His face is impossible to read. The bit that’s actually showing is as hard and controlled as a statue’s.

Then the helicopter starts to drop. Noble is about to ask if they’ve reached their destination when they emerge from the cloud into crystal-clear air. Noble gasps. Below them lies a landscape so busy and cluttered that he doesn’t know where to look first.

It’s another flat gray expanse, but it’s dotted with broad roofs and large vehicles. Some of the vehicles are helicopters. Some are trucks and vans. Some are machines bigger than houses, sporting stiff, outstretched wings like a bird’s or a gargoyle’s.

Everything grows bigger and bigger as the helicopter sinks slowly to earth.

“Look!” Yestin cries. “It’s a rocket!”

Noble cranes around. “A what?” he yells back.

“A rocket! For space travel!” Yestin glances uncertainly at the pilot. “I guess they must have satellite signals coming through this base station.”

Noble is still none the wiser. He doesn’t bother asking any more questions, though, because the helicopter is about to land. Its spinning blades are churning up dust, causing people to scurry for cover.
Someone wearing orange overalls is waving a flag. Someone else uses a clipboard to shield his face from the windblown dirt.

As the helicopter settles onto solid ground, another, identical helicopter lifts into the air. There’s a lot of movement in every direction. There’s also a great deal of noise.

Whomp-whomp-whomp
. Gradually, the revolving wings above Noble start to lose speed. The seat underneath him stops shuddering. The engine sputters and dies.

The man with the clipboard approaches them. He’s dressed in gray overalls, wraparound sunglasses, and a knitted cap. His expression is so blank that he could be the pilot’s twin brother. “Destination?” he barks.

Noble has been unfastening his straps. As he hesitates, the pilot drones, “International Mobile Equipment Identity number 466672739001277.”

The man in gray scribbles something on his clipboard. “All of them?” he asks.

“All of them,” the pilot confirms.

His interrogator grunts, before gesturing at a nearby helicopter, which is yellow with black trim. “There’s your carrier,” he tells Noble, straining to be heard above the thunder of a gigantic winged machine that’s passing overhead. The sky seems to be full of these things, though some are so far away that they look more like insects than anything else. They
keep vanishing into the cloud cover, to be continually replaced by similar machines that drift down to earth and land on the wheels they’ve just disgorged from their bellies.

“What
is
that?” Lorellina demands, nodding at one of them.

“That’s a plane,” replies the man with the clipboard. “That’s for long-distance travel. You won’t be needing one of those—you’re in the same cell as your destination.” He turns on his heel and departs, leaving the princess more puzzled than ever.

“What cell?” she asks Noble plaintively. “Is he talking about a prison cell?”

“I don’t know,” mutters Noble, leading the other two toward the yellow helicopter. It’s parked inside a painted circle, its pilot an exact replica of the one they’ve just left behind. Noble pauses. He peers over his shoulder, wondering if the first pilot might have switched helicopters. But the first pilot hasn’t moved.

“We have a message for International Mobile Equipment Identity number 466672739001277,” Lorellina declares. She’s pushed in front of Noble to address the second pilot. “We were told you could take us there.”

The pilot nods. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t even glance at Noble’s proffered sheet of paper. He just fiddles with some of the switches in front of him as Yestin follows Lorellina into the backseat.

Noble takes the front seat again. This time, he
doesn’t have to be told to buckle up. This isn’t a repeat of the last trip. Not with all the flying objects roaring or whirring or zooming past.

It’s like flying through a cloud of gnats. Noble is feeling quite nervous, and when the spinning blades slice a hole in the cloud above him, he shoots an anxious look at the pilot. There must be dozens of machines lost inside the thick gray haze that’s just enfolded the yellow helicopter. How can
anyone
hope to plot a course through so many moving targets?

Yestin taps Noble on the shoulder.

“I was just thinking!” Yestin bawls. “The guy on the ground said we wouldn’t have to go far! Maybe that means Rufus is close to Mikey!”

Noble considers this for a moment. “They can’t be too close,” he yells back, “or Mikey would have talked to Rufus, instead of sending a message!” Suddenly, he has an idea. “I’ll wager Rufus is sitting at home right now, and Mikey, too!” he adds.

“Huh?” Yestin puts a hand to his ear.

“They live next door to each other!”

Before Yestin can respond, something rears out of the drifting cloud. It’s an enormous tower. Noble is goggle-eyed with awe and disbelief, because the tower is truly colossal. It’s so big that when they land, he can’t even see the edges of its wide, flat roof. All he
can
see is a man with a flag standing in front a small, windowless structure like a bunker or guardhouse.

This man is another pilot look-alike. He’s wearing
the same sunglasses over the same strong, expressionless face. Like the man with the clipboard, however, he’s dressed in gray overalls.

He calls out, “Incoming?”

The pilot raises a thumb in acknowledgment. Meanwhile, Noble has peeled off his straps. “We have a message!” he declares, scrambling out of the helicopter. “A message for Mikey!”

“Level One,” the man with the clipboard replies in a montotone. He jerks his chin at the guardhouse.

“In there?” asks Noble, surprised. The building isn’t much bigger than a truck. But then Yestin says, “Is there an elevator?” And the man in gray nods.

“Level One,” he repeats.

As Noble leads the way to the guardhouse, Yestin mutters, “Maybe they’re all clones. Maybe that’s why they look the same.”

Noble ignores him. There’s too much else to worry about. The guardhouse, for instance, seems like the perfect setting for an ambush. Noble approaches it cautiously, wondering if he’s about to be attacked. But there’s no one inside. It’s empty except for a very large metal box with a door in it.

“Here’s the elevator,” Noble announces. He pushes a wall-mounted button and the elevator soon arrives: a smooth, silvery cupboard containing no buttons and no operator.

But when Noble steps inside for a better look, a disembodied female voice says, “Level, please.”

Noble can’t help jumping.

“Level One!” Yestin exclaims. He hurls himself across the threshold, pulling Lorellina with him. “It must be voice activated,” he mutters. “I guess Rufus has a
really
cutting-edge phone.”

“Is that where we are now? In Rufus’s phone?” asks Lorellina.

“I think so,” Yestin replies. And Noble adds, “The
other
Rufus’s phone.”

They’re already moving. Noble recognizes the sensation, though this particular elevator doesn’t shudder and jerk like the others. Its passage is as smooth as its walls, marked only by a slight lift of his stomach and a gentle pressure on the soles of his feet. There isn’t even a bounce or a wobble when they arrive—just a chiming noise and the musical announcement, “Level One.” Then the door slides open.

Yestin gasps. Even the princess looks amazed. As for Noble, he’s dazzled by the room beyond the door. Its floor is like a sheet of wet ice. Its high, glass ceiling is supported by a complex network of gleaming steel beams. Two square ponds lie on either side of a desk constructed from polished marble, above which hang several gigantic globes that shine with a pearly radiance. The atmosphere is hushed, with only a quiet ripple of background music disturbing the stillness.

Noble can’t understand it. Where are all the people? Mikey’s phone was crammed with busy women
and clattering machines, but the only visible occupant of Rufus’s phone is the girl sitting behind the desk. And if she’s busy, she’s disguising it very well.

“May I help you?” she inquires, her tone pleasant enough, though slightly cool. She has a pale complexion, a level blue gaze, and straight blonde hair that sits close to her skull like a shiny helmet.

“We have a message for Mikey,” Noble announces, producing his sheet of paper. Then he pads toward the desk, his bare feet leaving dull patches on the polished floor. Yestin and Lorellina are close behind him.

“What’s your International Mobile Equipment Identity number?” the girl queries, as Noble hands her the message.

“We don’t have one,” Lorellina snaps. But Yestin quickly says, “Yes, we do.” And he recites the number for Mikey’s phone.

The girl nods. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her attention shifting to the computer on her desk. She starts tapping at its screen.

Noble has to clear his throat before she’ll look up again.

“We want to add another message,” he reveals. “For Rufus.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“On the bottom of that message,” Noble continues, “we want to add
IF YOU DON’T FIX MIKEY’S COMPUTER, THE SAME FATE WILL BEFALL YOUR OWN
.” Seeing the girl’s blank expression, Noble admits that he’s unable
to write this postscript himself. “But
you
can,” he says. “Can’t you? There’s enough room on the paper.”

“Oh, no.” The girl shakes her perfectly groomed head. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Yestin pipes up. “Don’t you have a pen?”

“I can’t just
write a message
,” the girl rejoins crisply. “That would be against the rules!”

“But—”

“All messages must be cleared by the dispatcher.” She flicks the piece of paper with one lacquered fingernail. “All messages must be stamped, signed, and formally processed.”