Wheels (27 page)

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“Great Concentric!” exclaimed Principal Provost. “What do we have here?” It appeared as if his old mentor and McKenzie’s father had been involved in a hardy game of tsoot—only not with a pila, but a cortext! The two scientists were frozen in an awkward, half-up, half-down position, the cortext hovering above their heads.

Provost framed the figures with his hands, trying to figure out a way to extend his bubble of present time around Revolvos and the cortext, without having to include James Wu. There was no way to do it.

“Nevertheless,” he smiled, “Revolvos and a cortext—my, my! It appears my instincts are functioning perfectly.” With no idea how the cortext might influence the equation, Provost cautiously extended his bubble of present time, careful to weave it slowly and meticulously around all three of them.

Seconds later, Petré T. Revolvos toppled over, bumped his head on the side of the counter and landed smack on top of his great, grandson-in-law, James Wu. Principal Provost caught the cortext.

From their integrated position on the floor, the two men looked up, both clearly surprised to see B.R. Provost looking down at them.

“Bewfordios,” exclaimed Revolvos. “What on Circanthos are you doing here?”

Principal Provost grimaced. No one but Revolvos would dare call him Bewfordios. “Apparently, I’ve arrived just in time to rescue you.”

“Rescue me?” Revolvos laughed as if it were the most ridiculous notion he’d ever heard.

“Off,” moaned a voice from beneath Revolvos. “OFF! Please, get off me.”

“Bewfordios, give me a hand up.”

Principal Provost bid himself to remain calm and offered Revolvos his hand. As he helped his old mentor up, he noticed how aged the old cir looked—much older than he’d expected. Life on Earth had taken its toll.

Finally, James Wu rose shakily to his feet. Principal Provost could have removed him from the bubble at any moment, Revolvos was clear and they had the cortext, but something made him stop. James Wu was McKenzie’s father—the father of the Corona-Soter, the savior of the Circanthians—he deserved some sort of explanation.

“What the—what’s going on here?” James Wu demanded. “Who are you?”

“Remove him from our bubble,” said Revolvos.

“Not yet.”

“His job is finished,” said Revolvos, sounding like his bossy, old mentor self. “He’s completed the cortext, and now you and I may return home. I assume that’s why you’re here, to fetch me back. You needn’t have bothered; I did not need your help. In fact, had you not disrupted the time continuum of this pleasant little town, I would have collected my cortext from James, rewarded him exceedingly for his efforts, and returned to Circanthos—no human the wiser. Your attempts at rescue have mussed things up. It’s best we leave before the human gets any more confused.”

Provost was simmering. His bubble of present time began to blur.

“Bewfordios,” Revolvos said sternly, “it would not do to burst our bubble, now would it?”

Principal Provost took three quick breaths and stabilized the bubble. He took another three, slow-deep breaths. “Revolvos, Mr. Wu,” he said, “there are events taking place, as we speak, which I believe will be of interest to both of you. As there is a strong possibility my bubble of present time will burst, which would leave us stranded here for another 365 Earth days, I suggest you follow me to a location that is not under the influence of my time-disruptors.”

James Wu began firing questions at him. Revolvos began to protest.

Principal Provost lifted the cortext high above his head and shouted, “Silence! Now…if you wish to have all your questions answered, stay as close to me as possible.” He then turned, glancing back just once to make sure the two men were behind him, and rolled out of the laboratory.

Chapter 32

Excerpt from the personal log of Agent Wink Krumm

Tuesday, March 17th
Just outside Avondale

From the size and style of the clothes, the largest piece of luggage belongs to the older alien (i.e. no pants). Aside from assorted toiletries, several extra long shirts and suit coats, the aforementioned baggage contained the following:

A diary, personal in nature.

A file of business documents

A Last Will and Testament

***

CHECKMATE

Wednesday, March 18th
A Tsendi Prison Cell

H
ayes couldn’t stop thinking about his Aunt. It sucked how things always became clear when it was too late…
or too many solar systems away to do anything about them.
All these years he’d been telling himself Aunt Patty would be better off without him. She wouldn’t have to work two jobs. She’d have time to do whatever it was adults did when they had time; watch TV, go to the movies…
date?

And now he was gone…
maybe forever.
And it was all so clear;
he
was all the family she had and
she
was all the family he
had.

I should be trying to escape!

He tried to sit up. Whoever or whatever had occupied the cot before him needed a bath—and more than one!
Sour fruit and sumo size sweat, that’s what it smelled like.
The room began to sway and blur. Hayes pressed his hand against his forehead, and carefully, regretfully, lay down again. Apparently, the entire Avondale Drum Core was practicing in his head.

The cell they’d thrown him into was primitive, at best: no window or electricity, and only a cot covered with dried weeds, and a chair. Hayes peered at the open doorway through half closed eyes. Abacis and his friend had left maybe five minutes ago. He’d been spying on them all night…
or
day?
Or whatever they called it on this crazy planet…
while he pretended to be asleep.

Maybe this was all a dream—heck, he was probably still in Nurse Prickel’s office. Sure, he thought, McKenzie pinched me and it hurt, but that’s what dreams are like. The second you’re convinced everything is real, you wake up.

If only I could wake up.

Just then, H.G. Wells entered followed by Mallos, a Tsendi of enormous proportions: enormously big, enormously ugly, and as Hayes learned last night, enormously fond of inflicting pain. Mallos was carrying a small table covered with food. He set the table down and slapped a large shell-shaped object on the wall. It began to buzz and seconds later it produced a pale, pink glow.

The smell of the food was sickeningly sweet and surprisingly worse—
much worse
—than the smell of the cot. Hayes closed his eyes and hoped they wouldn’t notice his stomach lurching.

“Wake him,” Wells commanded.

Hayes held his breath. Maybe they would think he died in his sleep and leave him alone.

“You cannot wake someone who is only pretending to be asleep.”

Hayes’ eyes flew open—Abacis had returned.
Crap!
Abacis knew he was awake! How long had he known?

“So nice of you to join us,” droned Wells.

A long, tense silence followed in which Hayes, for lack of a better idea, pretended to be asleep again.

“I realize you’ve only been a prison guard for one day, but do you think leaving your post to go gallivanting about is a wise idea?”

“There was no danger of escape,” replied Abacis.

‘Only’ a prison guard?
Something must have happened between Abacis and Wells. It made sense. Hayes had overheard conversations between Abacis and another Tsendi.
Whispers of Wells, whispers of trouble, whispers of unrest.
Something was going on and it appeared Abacis had been demoted.

Hayes cracked open an eye. No one was looking, so he opened both of them and in the pale, pink light studied Abacis’ face in all its gory Tsendi detail. It was not as ugly as Mallos’, and maybe a little less frightening, certainly a tad less crazy—but not by much. And then it dawned on him; if Abacis had known all along he was awake—then he also knew that Hayes had been eavesdropping on their conversation.
Cripes!

Fingers with sharp nails dug into Hayes’ back, deep into open wounds, unceremoniously hoisting him into a sitting position. Hayes’ face contorted in pain, trying to suppress a scream that pressed against his lips, wanting to escape, threatening to implode—

“OW!”

Hayes’ exclamation was cut short as he found himself staring straight into Mallos’ bloodshot eyes. Quickly, he shifted his gaze only to find himself looking straight at Abacis; and worse yet, Abacis staring back.

“Human is awake,” said Mallos, releasing his grip and sending a new wave of pain shooting through Hayes’ body.

“Boy,” said Wells, “please refer to him as a boy. Do not forget that I too am human. That boy is at least ten times as intelligent as any Tsendi. You may out maneuver him physically, but he’d beat you to a bloody pulp in a game of chess.” 

“Chess is a curse upon man,” said Abacis.

Hayes couldn’t believe his ears. The comment had been so human,
so
random and so ‘smart-alecky’ as his aunt would say.

“Oh, you are the clever one,” snapped Wells, “parroting my words as if you knew anything about the game.” But he was clearly unnerved that a Tsendi would dare speak to him that way.

“I’ve made it quite clear that I could never understand how grown men whittled away hours playing chess as if the entire state of the country depended upon it; lately though, I’ve come to wish I had someone civilized enough to challenge me.” He turned toward Hayes. “So you are awake and hungry too, I wager. A strapping boy like you needs proper nourishment.”

Dizzy with pain, disoriented by Wells’ sudden change of attitude, Hayes looked at Abacis standing in the doorway, not watching anyone at the moment, and it occurred to him—maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely helpless. After all, he did have certain…information, certain…overheard conversations that might come in handy. If there was one thing Hayes could do, it was negotiate; a talent which had come in handy many times in his dealings with old Principal Provost.

Mallos lifted Hayes to his feet, dragged him over to the table and left him standing there. Hayes legs were like Jell-O, his stomach nauseous and the pain almost unbearable.

I am—NOT—going to cry!

Right before he collapsed, Mallos shoved a chair against Hayes’ knees forcing him to fall into it. His back, covered with scabbing wounds and bruises, smacked against the unforgiving surface. Hayes groaned. Wells was right about one thing; if he was going to survive, he would need nourishment. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Hayes raised the 3-pronged fork and began to eat.

Chapter 33

Excerpt from the personal log of Agent Wink Krumm

Tuesday, March 17th
Just outside Avondale

…older alien would appear to be Petré T. Revolvos, a.k.a., Peter Anderson, a.k.a. Professor R., the owner of several businesses worldwide, including a factory that manufactures chairs (among other things) called SPHAERA Technologies, located (surprise, surprise!) in Avondale. According to his Last Will and Testament, upon Professor R.’s demise the ownership of the American companies will revert to a James R. Wu of Avondale.

***

WAR GAMES & BAD RELATIONS

Wednesday, March 18th
A shaft in the Arelo Mines, Circanthos

M
cKenzie rolled out of the portal into darkness so complete she feared she’d become a circoombra; but then, of course, she realized a ghost wouldn’t need a wheelchair. “Where are we?” she whispered, terrified there’d be no reply.

“The Arelo Mines,” came the disembodied reply. Suddenly, a light appeared. Light, courtesy of Pietas’ hand, her fingers glowing like candles and casting eerie shadows across the wrinkled crevasses of her face. Seconds later, a small pile of stones at the base of a crumbling wall became a pile of glowing embers.

“It’s been a long time,” Pietas said, her hand returning to normal. “I explored these mines as a child. She leaned over as if to whisper in McKenzie’s ear, but instead exclaimed, rather too loudly, “Ah ha!” and surprised McKenzie by grabbing her chair and turning it around.

Etched into the wall in front of them was a faint set of lines—a map, perhaps.

“This is familiar,” said Pietas, sounding pleased with herself. “I could not have been more precise. Unfortunately, we cannot remain here long.”

“I’m all for leaving as soon as possible.” The air was cold, stale and difficult to breathe. McKenzie was already shivering. “So, why are we here?”

“It is close to the forest, but safe from the Tsendi.”

McKenzie was shivering like crazy now.

“You have the ability to fix that,” Pietas said. “Adjust the particles around your body, speed them up and you’ll—”

“I’m fine!” McKenzie’s reply echoed throughout the darkness.
“fine, fine, fine…!”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“No! No, I’m sorry. It’s just…” McKenzie stared at the glowing rocks until she felt in control again. In her nightmare, she’d been cold.
Cold and then hot—then too hot.
She shook her head. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. So, what do you dig for?”

It took Pietas a few seconds to comprehend the change of topics. “I don’t—oh, I see. No, these are Tsendi mines. Abandoned long before I was born. Before the Veni Commotos, remember?”

“Right.” McKenzie tucked a curl behind her ear. “They dug for copper.”

“Coraltea.”

“The color of my hair.”

Pietas smiled. “Yes, and it was found in rivers that run deep under ground here. Rivers filled with coraltea and creatures that prefer darkness to the constant light of two sans. Very beautiful.”

“But there’s no light.”

“Ah, but the creatures provide their own light.” Pietas held up her hand, it was glowing again. “Like this,” she said, “only theirs is permanent. Much like your stars I imagine.”