Waking in Dreamland (41 page)

“Knew where we were,” Brom said, firmly. “Besides, that dolt of a police chief did not want to get involved. By the time word comes back to him from the Crown with definite orders to follow us, we will have finished our experiment.”

“Well, the steeds are doing all they can,” Glinn said. “They may have reached the limits of their ability.”

“Then it is time for the next stage,” Brom said. “Plan Sixteen. We will combine them into a single unit, capable of carrying all of us and the Alarm Clock, thereby putting less stress on any single unit. Let us get off the road and prepare the crucible.” They bumped off the road into the heavy, sweet-scented brush, rumbling over reeds and marshy patches. Surprised frogs jumped in every direction to get out of their way. As they rolled into a relatively dry clearing, Glinn raised his hand for them to halt.

“Everyone but Maniune and Acton,” Brom said. “We will need them to remain mobile to guard our passage.”

The mercenaries withdrew to a dry patch to watch, while the others dismounted and stood in a circle around the motorcycles. Taboret took the hands of the people on either side of her. Basil was very short today, standing only waist high to her, and Carina was very tall and bulky, like an oak tree made human. Taboret felt as if she might teeter over leftwards at any moment, but Carina’s strong arm held her upright.

“Plan Sixteen,” Glinn announced, giving them time to call up the memory of its specifications in their minds. No cribbing from notes now. “Mass transportation.”

A haze rose from the swampy ground to envelop the motorcycles, and quickly turned into a whirlwind. In Taboret’s mind’s eye, she saw a buslike vehicle, a horseless carriage with big wheels and padded seats. No, she had overstepped the specs. Someone else’s thoughts corrected hers. Plan Sixteen called for the very minimum of comfort and the maximum of efficiency. The seats had a thin layer of rubber on them to keep passengers from bouncing out. The spinning wind whipped at her cheeks, dragged at her clothes. Inside, the curved forms melded into one large, dark blob that shrunk, melded, then grew outward, acquiring protuberances and angles.

The power ceased to flow. Taboret sensed that someone had broken the circle. She let go of her companions and turned to look. The whirlwind died down at once, revealing a vehicle.

That was the only name she could give it. It wasn’t like anything else she had ever seen. Nor did it match the diagrams that Brom had had them learn before they left Mnemosyne. This was
similar
, in a perverse way.

On a bed of multiple wheels was a roofless platform on which were arranged leather seats. One would not sit down on them; rather, they would have to be straddled like the backs of rocking horses. In front of each was a kind of metal crossbar to hang onto—all that was left of the motorcycle handlebars. The seats were arranged with three pairs on either side of an empty aisle large enough for their luggage and the Alarm Clock. From a quick glance around, she knew she wasn’t the only one dismayed by its appearance.

“It will have to do. Load up, and we’ll be on our way,” Brom said, outwardly unaware of their disapproval. He hopped up on the platform. Hiking the skirts of his robe out of the way, he swung his trousered leg over the saddle at the front of the vehicle. “There is no time to lose. Our pursuers will be delayed only so long in Reverie.”

Taboret could tell at once that the vehicle wasn’t a success. It didn’t have the completed feel of any of their camps or even their artificial nuisances. She hated the way it looked as if it was constructed of spare parts. Instead of riding with dignity past other travelers, she’d be afraid they’d laugh at her.

She felt the faint discomfiture of the others as they took their places. Glinn sat down beside her on his hobby-horse seat, and grasped the metal handlebars. Taboret glanced up at him, and he smiled at her. She was glad he was nearby. He always seemed so confident. On Taboret’s other side, the Alarm Clock hunkered under its canvas covering, a malign lump.

Brom set his foot down on a large floor pedal. The combined engines below the platform jerked into a loud roar, and the vehicle lurched forward. It was so large it had to be turned in a wide circle, mowing down the marsh reeds. Taboret observed as the vehicle crossed its own path that it had four rows of tires underneath, suiting it for heavy duty, though not grace.

Sprays of murky water rose around the edge of the platform to either side. Brom had difficulty at first in steering the makeshift transport. Like the dozen bikes it comprised, it seemed to want to go in several directions at once. When he was finally able to direct it in a straight line, he aimed it back toward the road.

There was now no question that they would have to stay on the main highways all the way to the mountains, Taboret thought. Lucky there were only small habitations between here and there. They’d be easy to follow, and hard to forget. She hoped to the Sleepers, if they existed, that the King’s Investigator would get free and catch up with them in time. But how would that be? When the scientists had pulled out of Reverie, the mob was howling for his blood for the supposed abduction of the princess. He might be lynched, or imprisoned forever. She had heard the legends about Roan, how he had escaped from some terrifying adventures in his time. She hoped he’d pull through this one, too, and quickly.

The platform lurched to the left, and Glinn was nearly thrown into her lap. Brom was still driving as if he was alone, taking sharp curves too fast, and braking hard around obstructions.

She wished she was riding her own bike, and imagined that she felt it calling to her to free it from the connection with the others. There shouldn’t be any residual possessiveness, she thought, chiding herself. This bike wasn’t a long-treasured possession. It had been bred up from a paperclip only days before. Why did she feel so uncomfortable about riding a multiple-passenger transport? She slept in camps that they used the crucible to construct for them all. It was because the bike had been made for her particular use, and conscripting it for the party was like taking away part of her individuality. She was more attached to the bike than to any section of a camp, like a stove, or a latrine.

She could tell from the
sub rosa
murmur that everyone else was thinking the same thing. They could all feel their identities leaching away into the gestalt, combining like this mass monstrosity under their feet, and they didn’t like it. It made them edgy.

Private thoughts were at a premium. The group would go through periods where each could hear everything the others were thinking, then a kind of reaction when everyone rebelled against the “togetherness,” blocking all other minds. Taboret used one of those precious moments to think that perhaps she should leave another sign for Roan to follow.

It worried her that it had seemed too easy to subvert those police officers back in Reverie. This journey no longer bore any semblance to a legitimate experiment. It was becoming . . . unlawful. She had felt truly upset by Roan’s accusations. Maybe Roan should be allowed to stop them until everyone could think things through. She was beginning, to her horror, to doubt what Brom said. She disliked having a role in a criminal action. The only way the King’s Investigator would find them was if she left another clue to mark their trail.

The appalling transport drew up to a crossroads, and Brom paused to allow a file of feathered honkers to cross. Taboret seized the moment of privacy in her own mind. Should she?

Brom caught the edge of her insecurity, and turned to look fully at her. His glowing eyes burned with suspicion. Taboret felt her heart pounding. She tried to look down, but her gaze was held firmly. Taboret felt as if she would faint with terror.

Fear was as catching as a yawn. Someone else in the link was touched by the edge of her fear, and sent out an emotional icicle of his own. Taboret gasped as an unfamiliar sense of fright came back to her, and swiveled her head to look. Was there something else threatening them? Everyone’s insecurities came out in a rush, adding to the emotional soup. What were they doing there? Who were these strangers they’d been traveling with? The experiment couldn’t really work, could it? The feedback of fear cycled through faster. If bicycles could be turned into one single vehicle by the crucible, couldn’t that happen to people? Them?

Brom sensed the buildup, and rose to his feet with his hands raised.

“Calm! I demand calm!” he shouted. But it was too late. The platform began to heave and shake under his feet.

Taboret was bucked out of her saddle-seat at the extreme left edge of the vehicle, and landed painfully in the low ditch next to the road. There was a loud crash behind her, and the unmistakable hum of an Alarm Clock bell. She covered her head with both her arms and lay there until the noise stopped. Taboret rolled up to her hands and knees, and rested there, shaking her head. The hair dangling around her face was red, not blonde, the way it had been since that morning. They must have run into another cloud of influence.

But, no. When she looked up, the vehicle had turned back into a clattering herd of single motorcycles, with the litter at a crazy angle in the middle of it, its cover askew. Acton and Maniune were on the scene in moments, helping to pull Brom and the others free. Some of them had been thrown clear, as she was, but the ones on the inside, near the Alarm Clock, were unlucky. They were stuck in the road, where the chiming of the bells had changed it to syrup.

The damage didn’t stop there. The plants around them had mutated from gum trees to . . . gum trees, complete with colored paper bark and foil leaves, and small animals fled through the brush, changed into who knew what.

Glinn put a hand out for help, and she and two of the others hurried to help him, turning over motorcycles, and carefully avoiding the litter. Everyone was bruised, and the motorcycles were all dented and scratched.

Brom sprang up and pulled the cover off the Alarm Clock. It seemed intact, apart from a slight scratch on the brass casing, but that small mark seemed to drive the chief scientist into a frenzy.

“You fools!” he exclaimed, steam spouting out of his ears. “Do you realize what your emotional outburst could have done? Look at that!”

“We can buff that out, sir,” Glinn said, waiting patiently while Basil and Carina lifted a motorcycle off his leg. “We have the metal polish and cloths with us in the repair kit.” His calm voice seemed to placate Brom momentarily, but not before the chief had turned and glared at Taboret. She quailed, knowing she had been responsible for the collapse. Glinn must have sensed her fear, because he reached out and put a hand on her arm, keeping her from withdrawing any farther. “There are no broken bones or cogs. It is only a temporary setback, sir. We can be ready to proceed in just a few minutes.”

“All right,” Brom said, unappeased, his eyes half-lidded. “But we will have to start over. And this time, everyone will concentrate fully. There must be no more dissension.” His eyes met Taboret’s, but Glinn’s warm grasp kept her from panicking. “No, sir,” Taboret said, evenly. In fact, she didn’t even feel frightened by Brom. The moment Glinn touched her, she experienced that near-telepathic sharing that followed the gestalt link, and she knew that he liked her and thought she was intelligent and attractive. He felt-thought that sitting next to her on the short-lived bus was more than pleasant. He yearned to have that experience repeated, if possible. Taboret tried to conceal her feelings of pleasure from the others, and admitted that she liked him, too. She enjoyed his presence and support, and knew in that moment he had picked up on her thought-feelings to that effect. When Brom turned away to scold someone else, Glinn caught her eye, and smiled warmly. The deep brown eyes he had today were good for soul-searching. Taboret felt a little tingle of pleasure as she bent to work again.

Once the motorcycles were all upright, the Alarm Clock yanked out of the syrup, and the apprentices’ bruises seen to, Brom had them form the gestalt.

“Plan Sixteen,” he said. “This time, get it right. You know the specifications.”

But the plans didn’t work this time, either. Taboret watched in dismay as the motorcycles huddled together, looking weary. The more the gestalt tried to force them to meld and change shape, the more they wilted.

“We will have to carry on on individual steeds as before, sir,” Glinn said, breaking the circle. Taboret felt the white haze fade with relief, echoed by the others through the link. “They can’t change again so drastically so soon. They’re only matter, after all. They have only minimal energy of their own to bind them. If we overstress them, we may lose them entirely.”

Brom checked the motorcycles for himself, and assumed a bored expression that masked his irritation, still palpable in the air. “Oh, very well. We shall try again later.”

Everyone pulled his or her growling bike out of the mass of steeds, and mounted up. Almost everyone had a bruise or two. Every bike had a dent. Basil had been almost behind the Alarm Clock. He was moving very slowly, favoring his right leg. Bolmer clutched his left forearm with his right hand. This was his second big accident, and he was snappish.

“If the rest of you had really been concentrating,” he snarled, massaging the swelling down, “that would have held together, and none of us would have gotten hurt.”

“As if you’re the tower of strength,” Carina said, with a sneer.

“It was her fault,” Lurry said, pointing at Taboret. “She started it.”

“Friends, please!” Glinn said, distracting them. “Is anyone seriously injured? No? Then, shall we go on? We want to cover more ground before dark.”

“Yes,” Gano said, with a sympathetic look for Taboret. “It’s not like anyone has to pedal. Come on.”

Taboret was grateful, but she pulled back toward the end of the line, hoping to ride by herself, as far away from everyone’s tempers as she could get. Her bruises were mostly on her left side. A good thing indeed that they did not have to pedal. To her dismay, Bolmer elected to limp along beside her on his dented bike.

The engines started up, not without some protesting sputters, and the party rolled on. At the front of the line, flanked by the pair of mercenaries, Brom sat on his steed with his back straight and his head craned forward. Taboret knew he wasn’t thinking about them any more. His mind was far away, probably solving the mass-transportation problem. Bolmer began some carping complaint, which Taboret immediately allowed to enter one ear and leave by the other. Quick, her brain said, feeling the weight of the chief ’s regard leave her, what about that clue?