They continued down a highway of well-trodden dirt, and the landscape transformed dramatically. It went from a dull gray to green within an hour of traveling. They left the land of death behind. Soon, Marcel caught the familiar scent of the ocean again. Eventually, the caravan was surrounded by the everyday life of what looked like a comfortable, coastal town, much to his relief.
They veered onto a narrow path. The engine of the locomobile roared and shook when they climbed uphill. The road seemed to snake, and Marcel felt himself getting a little motion sickness. When it seemed he might lose the contents of his belly, they came to a slow stop.
Kamau got to his feet and opened the door, allowing cooler and fresher air into the car. The rushing of the ocean breaking on the large rocks below was a welcome lullaby. Marcel longed for sleep, despite the bright sunshine.
Marcel jumped off the car railing, immediately in awe of the ancient castle towering in front of him. Two main towers with pointed roofs dominated the building, and in the center was the fortress' tall iron gates. Buildings like this in Francia existed, but they had either deteriorated or suffered extensive damage from the war. This castle, however, looked intact. Geller exited from the car directly behind him and gestured towards the old palace.
“This will be home for the next few days,” Geller said.
Behind Geller was a long line of boys, all of them older than Marcel. They appeared downtrodden and empty. With hollow eyes and blank stares, they followed the armed men through the front gates and disappeared behind the iron doors leading into the castle.
“Since you are the guest of honor, Kamau will give you a tour of my palace later if you'd like.” Geller's smile was full, showcasing his big, white teeth. “I have all kinds of machines inside. I'm sure some of them are so unique and rare, you will fail to find them in your books.”
Marcel tried to read Kamau. The warrior's face hardened, his stance like that of an alert guard. The talkative friend he had made during the last three days disappeared.
“Kamau.” Geller motioned with his hand. “Escort Marcel to his room. After he has bathed and changed his clothes, take him to the kitchen. Whatever he wants, give it to him. Take him through my private collection. That should keep him happy and busy the rest of the day.”
After an obedient bend at the waist, Kamau took Marcel by the shoulder and led him into Geller's palace.
EVERYTHING ABOUT THE CASTLE WAS extravagant. The ceiling stretched to the heavens; Marcel felt as if he had suddenly shrunk. Geller's guards were everywhere, and he decided to take a mental picture of every stairway and corridor that he and Kamau took.
His private room had enough space to house several families. It contained several sets of windows, but he was on the fourth level up. He couldn't survive such a fall if he were to try to climb down.
Kamau knocked before entering. He laid a bundle of new clothes on the bed and disrupted Marcel's thoughts of escape. “Get cleaned up, and I'll show you more food than you've ever seen in your life.”
The playful smirk returned to Kamau's face. Marcel rushed to clean his body in the regal bathroom and put on the new clothes. The warm water from the bath soothed his skin, and he lay in the tub until his fingertips wrinkled. Any remaining grease and grime from working on the spydread washed away.
Marcel put on the clothes. The shirt was too loose, but the black pants and shoes fit perfectly. When he opened the door to leave, Kamau was already waiting in the corridor.
The kitchen was on the first floor of the tower. It was lined with long, rectangular tables, and a handful of servants in white uniforms scrambled all around preparing various dishes that looked alien to Marcel. On the far table, the cooks had placed several silver platters, each showcasing a mountain of meats, fruit, and figs. Kamau did not sit down with him, nor did he eat anything during Marcel's quiet meal. After Marcel filled his belly with exotic foods, Kamau decided to give him a tour of the palace.
According to Kamau, Geller owned several galleries designated to house various ancient and rare collections up on the third floor. There were five chambers displaying various pieces of art. Another room displayed Geller's hunting trophies from all over the world. Geller was an avid hunter, and his prize kill was a monstrous white shark. That sounded intriguing, but Marcel chose to see the main gallery near the stairwell first. Kamau called it the ancient artifacts room, and it was filled mostly with antique weapons from all over the world.
With his belly full, he followed the bodyguard back up to the third floor.
Glass cases protected the artifacts, said to be thousands of years old. Geller had bought many of them from markets during his travels to faraway lands. Relics ranged from pots and other handmade furniture, to various suits of metal armor and hand held weapons. From the chamber's main aisle, a labyrinth of displays filled the space from wall to wall.
A gigantic ax displayed on a far wall captured Marcel's attention when they approached the far end of the gallery.
“That weapon weighs more than you, little one.” Kamau approached the display. “An ancient weapon from Norde. Scholars believe that it belonged to a man they called The Ice King. Look at the carvings on the handle.”
The grip was at least three feet long; the images of strange animals were forged into the metal. Marcel's fingers danced, the urge to touch the weapon was unbearable. But he kept his hands to his sides. As he turned around, an intricate display to his left caught his eye.
Marcel turned and walked down the short corridor, ignoring the other display cases surrounding him. Gas lanterns hung on the walls and cast dancing light on the enclosed artifacts. The flickering lights created moving shadows in between the exhibits. Was someone moving behind them? After a few seconds of panic, Marcel realized that the light play had fooled him.
Marcel came to the end of the hall, and he felt drawn to one display near some large hanging tapestries. Kamau grinned and followed closely behind him.
Unlike the other weapons' protective casing, this glass case lay horizontally on top of an ornate wooden table. Inside were broken pieces of black metal. This was a strange thing to display, and he looked at Kamau for an explanation. Whatever was inside was the victim of both time and the elements.
“This is truly a strange relic.” Kamau's hands went to the glass, stopping short of touching it. “Master Geller found it at an old blacksmith's shop in the Orient.”
Marcel knew it had been some sort of weapon at one time, but it had degraded past the point of recognition. The metal pieces lay broken on the red velvet inside, entombed forever inside airtight glass.
“What is it?” he asked.
Kamau smiled. “It is the Xian king's magical sword. The Sky Blade.”
THERE WAS ONLY ONE ROAD suitable for the steam locomobile to get through Mexihco City, and Enapay drove down the empty street with heightened apprehension. He brought the lumbering locomobile down to a slow roll. Neva sat in the co-pilot chair while Zen held on to a metal bar behind them and bent down to look out the window.
Even in the dimming twilight, Zen could see that the city stood in disarray. Enapay said the massive war that erupted in Azincaya had spread as far north as the capital of Mexihco. Nothing grew from the ground, and all the stone buildings were still covered in thick brown dust.
Enapay had traveled through the old capital on only a few occasions, and he feared King Tlacatl, master of this forgotten nation. In order to secure safe passage through the city, one had to offer a significant tribute to the king. Zen suggested the bag of gold coins given to him by Chief Ohitekah, but Enapay dismissed the idea, saying the king was crazy.
Neva reminded them of the Iberian auto rifles and ammunition they had brought, and Enapay still wasn't satisfied. The crazy King Tlacatl would surely want to take their transport and the passenger car it towed, along with the gold and auto guns.
Zen caught movement somewhere on the perimeter of the dusty street, and the strong sensation that they were being scouted made him pull
his pistol from his belt. Neva noticed this and drew her own revolver.
“There's something up ahead,” Enapay whispered.
Zen kneeled between the two pilot seats and squinted his eyes. He gazed through the dirty windshield. It took only a few short moments to realize what Enapay had caught. Roughly fifty feet in front of them, towering tree trunks were stacked atop one another, forming a formidable wall blocking the only route through the city.
Neva pointed out the window with her pistol. “They are all around us.”
All along the decrepit buildings on both sides of the road, Zen spotted the silvery glint of rifle barrels pointed at them. Enapay cleared his throat and gave Zen a quick eye wink to acknowledge he must have detected the poorly concealed enemy too.
“Looks like Geller's been here for sure. Those are Iberian guns they're aiming at us.” Enapay grabbed a red lever in front of him. His grip tightened and he pulled it back, guiding the creeping vehicle to a halt.
Outside, a solitary figure walked in front of the barrier. He carried one of those deadly guns in his hands. “By the order of King Tlacatl, you must pay tribute to guarantee safe transit through the holy city!” The soldier was dressed like a peasant in his torn pants and a dirty shirt, and he whispered commands to unseen soldiers behind the log barrier.
Enapay gave Zen a determined look. Zen knew he had no intention of honoring the soldier's command. Enapay pulled a black lever on the control panel, and Zen noticed the building heat from the firebox behind him roar to life. Neva twirled her pistol anxiously.
“Ready?” said Enapay, his voice full of grit.
Neva nodded, and Zen got a solid grip on the metal bar on the wall near Enapay's pilot seat. Enapay wiped his forehead before leaning forward and took hold of a red lever coming up from the floor. Peering out the small side window, Zen noticed more frantic movement in the shadows. The Mexihcans were no longer attempting to stay hidden now; their restless stirring became bolder. The air was thick with boiling heat and anxiety.
The rapid flash of gunfire from Zen's side lit up the window, and he hit the floor. Enapay let out a yelp and pushed the red lever all the way forward, bringing the locomobile's pistons to full power. A flurry of bullets slammed into the locomobile's metal armor from all directions as Enapay got the vehicle to accelerate. Zen took a split second to look up through the front windshield and watched the menacing blockade of trees ahead rushing at them.
“Hold on!” Enapay screamed as the front windshield exploded in a shower of glass.
Zen's body tightened before impact. With clenched teeth, his head wobbled when the wedge-shaped prow of the locomobile punched through the barrier. The eardrum-blowing explosion of force threw him across the deck. Neva let out a scream when she flew out of her chair and tumbled onto the floor near Zen. The staccato blasts of bullets continued from behind, and Zen was relieved to see Enapay still in his pilot chair trying to regain control of their rumbling vehicle.
Neva did a quick check of her body. She winced and rubbed her left shoulder. Zen felt a sharp pain in his right thigh. The stitched up wound throbbed, and Zen was sure it was bleeding. The rumbling of the transport's engines sounded labored, and he watched Enapay fight the vibrating steering wheel.
“We're not in the clear yet,” yelled Enapay as he steadied himself in the chair.
The front of the locomobile burst with more ricocheting bullets, and Zen caught sight of the blossoms of muzzle sparks coming from at least two dozen rifles in the distance in front of them. Neva struggled to her feet and staggered towards the co-pilot seat, and Zen noticed the auto gun in her hands.
She lunged forward and got low to the ground next to Enapay. She raised her gun and fired a wave of bullets through the open front windshield. The force of the auto weapon threw her backwards, but Enapay grabbed her left arm and steadied her. She planted her feet and prepared to fire again. Neva's mouth stretched into a menacing grin as she unleashed a curtain of bullets.
Zen crawled to the rear of the cabin and found another Iberian rifle. When he took it, its heaviness surprised him. He staggered towards the blown-in side window. He stuck the rifle out and blindly squeezed off several shots. The power from the sudden bursts of the rifle took his breath away, his hand nearly losing its grip on the weapon. He took a deep breath, held the rifle in both hands, and emptied the entire magazine of bullets in mere seconds. Zen lost his footing when his boot stepped on a pile of empty brass rounds the auto gun had spilled onto the floor.
The lumbering locomobile continued its path down the dirt road, and Zen wondered why the Mexihcan guns fell silent all of a sudden. Enapay looked ready to celebrate while helping Neva back into her seat.
“Looks like we made it.” Enapay did a quick check of his controls. “All systems are still functional, believe it or not.”
Half of the the front windshield remained. Where it remained intact was covered with large cracks, but Enapay managed to dislodge the remaining glass by kicking it while keeping his hands on the steering wheel.
Zen stared through the now open front windows. “Something is up ahead.”
It took several moments until the sight of a Mexihcan soldier waiting for them up the road became clear. He held something in his hands. Either the man was suicidal, or he was preparing to unleash a terrible weapon in his possession.
“What the hell is he doing?” Neva asked.
“I believe he has a grenade.” Zen leaned forward. “That is my best guess.”
Enapay's knuckles cracked from gripping the steering wheel tightly. “This locomobile has decent armor, but if he somehow tosses that thing into the cockpit, we're dead.”
Neva opened her pistol's cylinder before slapping it shut. “I'll have to take care of him.” She went back to the open side window and swept away any remaining broken glass. “Try to keep this thing steady,” she said to Enapay.
“I'll try.”
Neva climbed up and wiggled through the opening while Zen held onto her boots to keep her from falling out. The road was rocky, and she struggled to keep her arm steady. Zen clutched her feet and watched the ominous figure of the Mexihcan growing larger in front of them until he was sure he saw the man pull the pin.
Zen was about to tell Neva to hurry when she fired her revolver. The soldier cocked his arm back, ready to launch the bomb at them. Neva cursed and fired again. Her second bullet hit its mark. The Mexihcan fell backwards and collapsed to the ground.
“This is going to be close!” Enapay pushed the throttle lever all the way down.
Zen pulled Neva back into the cockpit and pushed her down onto the hard floor. Three seconds later, a metallic explosion rocked the other side of the locomobile, nearly tipping it. Neva let out a shriek, and Zen's tailbone struck the metal floor when the entire cockpit shook.
Enapay dared to turn around. “You two okay?”
The locomobile steadied, and Neva holstered her sidearm as she stood up.
“Only you could have made that shot,” Zen said. He rubbed his sore back. It felt bruised, but he was relieved to leave Mexihco behind them.
Neva took her place in the co-pilot's seat and thanked Zen with a smile. “I know.”
THE TRITON'S COCKPIT CONTAINED ALMOST enough room for at least seven people, but since the submersible boat needed only two pilots, it easily became the group's meeting room. Technically, it was Shannon McMillan's downtime. She assumed the Professor was finally prepared to brief the entire crew on the details of their mission.
Piloting the underwater boat at the moment were the two other mercenaries, Orsini and Lopez, joking around as usual when the group filed in one at a time. Orsini was a short and stocky man, and although he was normally jovial, he looked irked that his shift was being interrupted by the meeting.
Lopez, who could easily be mistaken for Orsini's brother, sat next to him at the controls. Both were always ornery and boisterous, and McMillan enjoyed their ability to find levity in any situation. This time, however, their laught
er stopped when the old man entered.
The Professor shuffled to the center of the control room while Simon and McMillan stood near the rear door. The old man looked rather uncomfortable when he revealed his real name, Lionel DePaul, but if the crew wanted to continue to call him “Professor,” that was fine with him. He also confirmed that Simon was DePaul's nephew, and the young man was a military surgeon.
“With that out of the way,” DePaul continued, “I must now reveal our mission.” He looked across the small table at Simon before wiping his large forehead. “We are rescuing a boy.”
The control room was silent except for the constant low humming of the Triton's rear screw propellers whirling. DePaul studied McMillan's face as if expecting a reply. She wasn't quite sure how to respond, and before she could start asking questions, someone else spoke up finally.
“All of this for one boy?” Orsini turned around in his pilot seat and stroked his curly mustache. “Seems like overkill.”
DePaul took a deep breath, his face droopy and solemn. “The boy, Marcel Bouvier, has a special ability. He can communicate with any kind of machinery. Even if the machine is unknown to the boy, he is able to sense exactly what is wrong and how to fix it. I call it mechapathy.”
Lopez, still seated next to Orsini, laughed weakly. “This Marcel can do such a thing? Sounds crazy, Professor. Are you sure somebody isn't playing a cruel joke on you?”
“I know for a fact this child possesses such a gift. I knew his father, and he had the power as well.” DePaul tapped the table in the center of the room to emphasize his point. “In the wrong hands, the boy's abilities could be dangerous. Imagine the monstrosities someone might build with that kind of power.”
McMillan felt like laughing. She had traveled to nearly every single continent on the planet, and she'd seen many mysterious things. Anything even remotely resembling mechapathy sounded like a farce. “Professor, I believe you.”