So you play the same game as Yago.
No. Im one of the good guys, Jobs, just like you. I just dont like losing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN GOOD NIGHT, BEULAH.
It was strange to be happy, MoSteel realized. But there was no point in denying feelings. He was happy.
Jobs wasnt, that was the only crab. If Jobs was down, it was hard for MoSteel to feel too up.
Of course there were other problems: the infighting between Yago and 2Face; the tension between Miss Blake and her mother; and of course, the great crushing weight of tragedy that hung over them all.
Then there were the Riders.
But, man, riding the Big Balloon, bouncing across the exotic swampy wasteland, an alien wind in his face, the memory of thrills that had nearly ruptured his A gland . . . It was good.
The landscape had begun to change. The watery vistas had given way to a sea of yellow grass cut through by endless, wandering streams and dotted with clumps of shaky trees.
He perched as far forward on the Blimp as he could, spread his arms wide to feel the breeze, feel the speed, feel the weird slow bouncing, feel the unusual, the bizarre, the amazing, the never-seen-before, life-hanging-on-by-its-fingernails thrill.
You think well stop when it gets dark?
MoSteel opened his eyes and saw that the question had come from Tate.
I dont know, MoSteel said. Maybe the sky pilot back there knows. He indicated Billy Weir. Or maybe Beulah will tell us.
Beulah?
The Blimp. He grinned. The Big Balloon. Beulah the Bouncing Bag.
Tate smiled back at him, a nice smile. You get off on this, dont you?
You have to take it minute by minute, MoSteel answered. People mess up extending too far forward or back. You go far enough back, far enough forward, youre always going to find something to feel bad about. But if you keep it all on local time, stay present tense, hey, ninety percent of right now is good.
The threads of past and future run through the present, Tate said.
Who said that? MoSteel wondered.
Me. I said it.
It sounded good. Like maybe it was a famous quote. Anyway, though, its not right. The future doesnt exist, not yet. Neither does the past, not anymore. All you know for sure is right now, compañero . And right now, this is good, isnt it?
Tate looked skeptical. This plus a hot shower, food, a big glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, that would be good.
No, that would be perfect, MoSteel admitted with a laugh.
For a while they were silent, standing close but not very close. They rode the bounce, knees taking the rippling shock, absorbing the upswell, enjoying the slight sensation of weightlessness at the top of each low arc.
Mo? I can call you Mo, right?
Sure.
What do you think about her? Them.
MoSteel had to turn his head to see who Tate was talking about. She was looking at Tamara and the baby, who were riding comfortably toward the rear, behind the main knot of people.
I dont know, MoSteel admitted and felt a bit of his inner glow dim. The baby creeps me out.
Tate said nothing and seemed not to have heard. You know what I think? I mean, no, what I feel ?
MoSteel said nothing. Tate wanted to talk, hed let her. Although he regretted the loss of his carefree moment.
I feel theres a connection between Tamara and the baby thats not like anything anyone knows about. And I have the same feeling that theres a connection between the baby and Billy Weir. I cant . . . I cant touch it. Its like when you join a group of people who were already talking among themselves, and theyre polite to you, they talk to you and all, but its like you can feel an echo of a conversation that was going on before you showed up and is going to continue after you leave.
Billy worries the sergeant, MoSteel agreed.
Tamara and the baby on one end, Billy Weir on the other. But I dont feel like thats all of it. I dont feel like its a line, two sides. Its not a seesaw. I feel like its a triangle. I feel like theres a third person balancing things.
Yeah?
Tate aimed her dark eyes at MoSteel and he felt a squirming discomfort.
Yeah, Mo. You.
He shook his head. Im just me, Tate. Im not anything more or different or whatever. Im just me.
Tate winked. Yeah, I know. Everyone else has an agenda, even your friend Jobs. And everyone else has an ax to grind, another dimension to them. Only not you. Youre exactly what you are, arent you?
MoSteel laughed. I guess I am.
Tate shrugged. Hey, at least its not cold, huh? Nice and warm. Like any L.A. evening.
She left MoSteel to ponder her words, but he didnt. Instead he wondered if he should go to sleep. The sun was plunging toward a horizon that was maybe not exactly real. He was tired. His mom was already curling up and resting her head on her arms. Billy was driving. Jobs was in one of his occasional contemplative funks, writing poetry in his head.
Might as well sleep, MoSteel decided. Good night, Beulah.
CHAPTER TWELVE ITS GOING TO END HERE.
The sun rose. A new day.
Violet Blake had slept surprisingly well. She was ravenous and thirsty. But the flabby, living balloon made a soft bed, and she had needed sleep even more than food or drink.
She woke and took stock of her fairly pitiful condition: Her dress was a wreck, literally falling apart, shredded and decayed. It was on the edge of being immodest.
There was dirt under her fingernails. And more troubling, she had only nine fingernails. The wound where her missing finger had been seemed finally to have stopped seeping blood. There was a hideous crust of scab, but when she looked at it she didnt see the pus or bright redness that would indicate infection. Nor did she feel feverish.
Her hair . . . Forget the hair, it was a dirty mop stuck on her head.
Shampoo, such a simple thing. Back home shed had about three different brands. Aveda. Thats what she wanted. A bottle of Aveda shampoo. Plus a new finger or at least a decent bandage.
Her mother was already awake, of course, and striding back and forth putting on a show of being in charge and concerned. Yago was sitting up, scratching his leaf-green hair till he realized he was being watched. He gave Violet an insolent leer and she looked away, simultaneously revolted and flattered.
Maybe her hair didnt look so bad.
Billy Weir sat still, eyes open, but with a stricken look of exhaustion. He was sweating despite a morning chill in the air. He looked as if he might at any moment lapse back into his coma.
Violet stood up, wobbled slightly as she missed the rhythm of the bounce, mistaking a bottoming for a rebound.
The Blimp felt strange. It shuddered. There was a gentle lurch, almost as if the beast had missed a step, almost tripped.
Then she stared, and blinked, and stared again.
The landscape had changed, all grass now, end-
less fields of grass, like unnaturally yellow wheat or sea grass. The streams no longer appeared.
But that wasnt what stopped her heart from beating. Two hundred Riders, maybe more, maybe less, but far more Riders than they had ever seen before, were following in their wake. They rode their boards at grass-top level, surfing the wheat.
So many. Far too many.
Tamara held the baby on her hip and glared back at them. There was tension in her every fiber. Her face was an angry mask, but anger covering fear. The languid cockiness Tamara had always shown when facing the Riders was gone.
Were in for it now, D-Caf remarked, then giggled nervously.
Yago spotted their pursuers and, Violet thought, nearly fainted.
Jobs had his hand on Edwards shoulder, comforting, reassuring. Edward was barely distinguishable, having long since adopted the coloration of the Blimp.
There are too many, Tate said. She cant do it. Not even she can fight this and win.
The rim of the sun popped over the horizon quite suddenly, and the dim dawn light blazed brighter.
The Riders screamed a fierce welcome. The noise was a wave that rippled through the exhausted skin of the Blimp.
I dont think were going to Blimp-fart our way out of this, Olga Gonzalez said in a flat attempt at humor.
Here they come, Burroway said without affect.
The Riders surged forward, picked up speed, leaned forward on their boards. It was a sea of mouth/heads, like ravenous worms, the main, insect-eyed heads intent, focused on their target.
Its going to end here, Violet thought with deep sadness. The human race died on this unknown date, in this unknown place, at the hands of these monstrous creatures.
Shes weakening. Billys voice was a harsh croak. Shes dying. Needs to rest.
Violet knelt beside him. Who? Beulah? I mean, the Blimp?
Ive pushed her too long. We wont make it. Another few minutes at most.
Ill tell . . . Who? Who should she tell? Her mother? Jobs? Billy, is there anything we can do?
Maybe. Go inside. Hide inside her.
What?
Make as small a hole as possible. The healing will draw strength away, but it may help.
Youre telling me we can crawl inside this Blimp?
Billy nodded, then his head slumped forward onto his chest and he might have been dead but for the fact that sweat still seeped from his forehead.
Violet jumped up. Jobs! Where are you?
A Rider boomerang sliced through the air, veered just inches from her face, and flit-flitted around on its return trip.
Theyll be in range soon, Jobs said grimly, appearing at her side.
Jobs. Listen to me. Billy says we can cut our way inside. Inside the Blimp. But the Blimp is dying.
Another boomerang fluttered by. They were clearly still at the extreme range of the Riders primitive weapons. But that situation wouldnt last.
Jobs yelled, Sergeant!
Tamara snapped her head around with a poisonous look that mirrored the babys expression.
Billy says we can get inside the Blimp, Violet told her.
Tamara nodded curtly, as if this was not news to her, but merely an unwelcome reminder. The Marine sergeant searched the forward horizon, seemed to be taking her bearings, then knelt to touch the skin of the Blimp. She glared at the pursuing Riders.
The baby stared daggers at Billy. The eyeless sockets aimed directly at him and the tiny mouth bared teeth in a snarl.
Okay, Tamara said. Get everyone here.
Tamara made the cut. It was a two-foot-long slit. The lips of the cut flapped as the gas began escaping.
Keep the opening spread or itll reseal itself, Tamara ordered. Then, without waiting, she slid down, feetfirst, through the hole, holding the baby up above her head. Once the baby was inside, Violet and Jobs each grabbed a side of the cut.
Everyone go! Jobs yelled. Go, go, go!
Anamull was next.
Then the Riders saw what was happening and set up a murderous shrieking. They no longer kept to a line the faster Riders surged forward, eating up the distance.
A dozen boomerangs flew.
Drop! 2Face shouted.
Most fell on their faces. Only Burroway and Edward failed to respond. Only by dumb luck did the boomerangs miss them. Jobs grabbed his brother and yanked him down. Burroway stood paralyzed, white-faced, realizing only belatedly how close hed come to being sliced up.
Down, you jackass! Olga shouted and rolled into him, collapsing his knees just as a new covey of boomerangs converged where he had stood.
Panic set in. Everyone wanted into the slit. Yago elbowed past Roger Dodger, pushing the smaller boy aside. They crawled over and around each other, grabbing at the slit.
One at a time, Violet yelled.
The Riders were closing in all around. And suddenly, there was one of them, face just peeking into view as he climbed the side of the Blimp.
MoSteel gave a wild yell and trampolined into the Rider. The Rider fell backward and almost carried MoSteel with him.
Wylson squirmed up next to Violet. Get in, Dallas, she said. Ill hold the flap.
Violet flinched at the use of her given name. No, Mom, you go.
Wylson rose up, wrapped her arms around her daughter from behind, and shoved hard. They fell together through the hole and into the Blimp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN DO THESE BOARDS ROCK, OR WHAT?
Three Riders appeared, climbing up the side of the Blimp. Jobs saw them. MoSteel was out of sight, maybe already fallen, maybe dead, Jobs didnt know. Things were happening too fast.
Jobs felt a moment of cold fear. He hesitated. Attack, he knew he had to attack, but he froze, unable to move, told himself he was a coward, told himself he was needed to hold open the flap for Billy and MoSteel, cursed himself for being weak, and then, in a rush that occurred before his brain had formed the decision, he was up and running full tilt at the Riders.
He ran on rubber legs, brain disconnected from his body, wrapped his arms around his head, and plowed blindly into where the Rider had been.
The Rider easily sidestepped him and Jobs barreled, unstoppable, off the side of the Blimp.
He shouted and hit facedown on something hard yet giving.
He saw a flash of sky, of the wildly agitated grass, of the wall-sided Blimp, all of it tumbling together.
He rolled and almost fell off the hoverboard.
Hoverboard? he asked.
Jobs grabbed at air, twisted over, and hugged the edges of the hoverboard as if his life depended on it.
Riders were suddenly zooming all around him, stabbing with their short spears.
Go! Jobs screamed and the board shot forward. Not fast enough the Riders were everywhere. He slid to the right and the board veered wildly. It plowed into the close-packed ranks of Riders. It was dominoes tumbling. The Riders ran into one another and at least three ended up hitting the grass, unboarded.
The board stabilized but not in a good way. Jobs caught a glimpse of a Rider hanging on the side of the Blimp. The Rider had one hand extended toward Jobs, and the board was veering swiftly back toward him.
Mind control, Jobs realized. The hoverboards were mind-controlled. As long as the boards owner lived, no one else could control his board.
The hoverboard carried Jobs swiftly to the waiting spear of its owner.
Then MoSteel appeared, running, bounding, and stabbed a spear through the Rider, back to front.
Jobs had the weird thought that now he knew what a Rider looked like when he was surprised. The skewered Rider fell away, and hit the grass.
MoSteel took a bounce on the Blimps side, somersaulted through the air, and slammed with bone-crunching force into a Rider keeping pace with the Blimp.
The Rider tumbled off his board, fell backward, and MoSteel held on by his fingernails. He hauled himself aboard the hoverboard, knelt to get his balance, then jumped upright.
Good idea, Duck! MoSteel yelled. Take their boards! Yaaaaaah!
Jobs, who was still clinging to his own board, could only groan.
The Riders had all but forgotten the Blimp now, focused as they were on eliminating the two hoverboard thieves.
MoSteels mount was fighting him, moving to return to its owner. Jobss board now belonged to him. He tried to stand but he was trembling too much and could only crouch on his knees. Still, he found he could shift his weight and turn the machine left or right, and that he could think, Faster or Slower , and get the desired result.
He tried to intercept MoSteels board, which was now zooming at top speed back to its injured but living owner.
Jobs could see the injured Rider standing tall, spear held forward. He was calling his board to him and would impale MoSteel.
Jobs aimed for the Rider and called for all the speed the board could handle. A surge of Riders raced to cut him off. No, hed make it, no, he wouldnt, yes, no the injured Rider had spotted him!
Jobs scooted, inches away from pursuers, and slammed the injured Rider at neck level. The jolt sent Jobs flying. He tumbled, arms and legs everywhere, a
nd hit the ground shoulder first. The hoverboard kept flying.
The grass softened the landing but he was winded and decided to pretty much just crouch there and hope no one saw him.
Jump! a voice bellowed and Jobs, for once in his life, reacted instantly.
He jumped straight up, like he was going for a jump shot. MoSteels arm caught him around the chest, crushed the last of the air from his lungs, and yanked him up and away.
Do these boards rock, or what? MoSteel yelled, his mouth right at Jobss ear.
They zoomed away, running parallel again with the Blimp and millimeters ahead of the whole angry swarm of Riders.
Jobs didnt feel exultant. The Riders would inevitably catch them. The Blimp was failing, sagging, slowing.
And there was no way they would make it to the open, blue sea. . . .
The what? Jobs wondered stupidly.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN I THINK WHATEVERS IN HERE IS GETTING TO US.
2Face slid facedown into the slit. She felt the breeze of the boomerangs on her legs and then she was in.
The inside of the Blimp was not quite what she expected. It was not a single, vast gasbag. It was more like a human lung. She and most of the others huddled within a roughly spherical chamber perhaps twenty feet in diameter. The chamber was open at the bottom and to one side, open through what could only be described as sphincters.
In fact, 2Face realized with the beginning of a giggle, they were definitely sphincters. Theyd open and close, allowing more gas in or out, each time squeezing shut like a . . . well, like a sphincter.
Sphincter, 2Face said in a weird, mouse voice. She laughed.
Yago erupted in high-pitched Munchkin laughter. Total sphincter.
I thought you were the biggest sphincter Id ever seen, Yago, but these are bigger, 2Face said. Then, listening to the weird quality of her own voice she added, Follow the yellow brick road.
Yago laughed. Everyone laughed. In fact, every face was split by a big, idiot grin. The only exceptions were Tamara and the baby.
We represent the Lollipop Guild, Burroway sang, off-key.