“You showed them how to make the Clones work,” he said.
“You put Enzyme Seven in the school’s water supply,” she said.
“I had to…”
“Fiddlesticks,” she said.
“There are things coming our way that…”
“Save the Boogeyman stories for you’re next investor meeting,” she said, “don’t ya owe me the truth just this once?”
“I had to try to fix the problems with the treatment protocols.”
“Why?”
“Because of what happened to me,” he said, “because of what happened to us.”
“Us?” she muttered, and then she remembered the awkward scene in the monastery’s courtyard, when what’s-her-name tried handing him the baby. His biological father was in the Transylvania Brigade. He was the son of a survivor. Enzyme Seven was his inheritance…
“You passed it on to your young ‘un,” she said, “Ya passed it on to your daughter.”
He looked down at his shoes like a child being scolded by his mother. “I warned her, but Vanessa wanted a baby so bad.”
She’d seen children like his hidden away in attics and carnival sideshows. They’d occupied every room she’d passed the night she broke into the Bixby Institute, the night she came for him.
Somehow, despite all he’d done, he’d made her feel sorry for him. “Shoulda left you right where I found you.”
“But you didn’t,” he said.
She couldn’t. But he knew that.
“There are others like her,” he said, “Survivors of the survivors…We can’t do anything for them. But we can stop what happened from happening again.”
***
The tunnel opened into a cavern, and the cavern into a gallery painted deep crimson by infrared lights positioned throughout. Stalactites and stalagmites growing out of the limestone closed in on them like incisors, guarding the interior from those unworthy to enter the hallowed ground.
Frost led her past the mining equipment parked within. “The local tribes called this place the Devil’s Nursery.”
“Wonder why?” Lazy-Eye Susan mumbled. “What was they digging for?”
He guided her gaze to the trickling water flowing through the cracks in the rock. “Can’t you smell it?”
She inhaled the faint scent of ammonia. “Enzyme Seven.”
“This is the source,” he said, “but there’s more.”
She followed him through a gauntlet of fossilized effigies fused to the living rock, guarding an open sepulcher like alien saints. She’d seen him wear the same kind of spacesuit when he was an astronaut, though the distinctive helmets were unique to the fossils.
“Pilots?” she muttered.
“Pilots,” he agreed.
The deeper they went, the stranger and more confused the architecture became. Arches and columns dissolved into fossilized ribs and cartilage, circuitry and piping connecting them like veins and arteries.
“How far up does all this reach?”
“Up and through the canyon walls,” he said. “Sandcastle City’s built on top of the ruins.”
“Must be old to be buried so deep,” she said.
“It is…”
“How old?”
“Any organic residue fossilized long ago,” Frost explained. “But we dated the crater.”
“How?” Susan said.
“We measured the radiometric ages of the impact melt rocks.”
“And?” she said.
“Three million years…Seventy years…two thousand years…three hundred years…”
“That don’t make no kinda sense,” she said.
“That’s right, it doesn’t.”
She paused before posing her next question. “You said impact. Does that mean this is from out there?”
“Not outer space, other space,” Frost said, “I don’t have time to explain the difference.”
She followed him into an alcove forking away from the main gallery. Deep grooves carved into the antechamber’s walls gave her the foreboding sensation she was marching into a rifled gun barrel.
“What is it?” she asked.
Because she’d never seen a Stinger before, she didn’t know how amazed to be. And though the machine lay folded into its cocoon state, she recognized the unifying intellect behind the monocycle’s engineering and the gallery’s architecture.
He ran his hand over a panel on the machine and the Stinger’s canopy opened. Blue running lights ignited in anticipation of the engine’s throaty buzz, bestowing the machine with a disconcerting sentience.
She felt the raw power displaced by the engine in the marrow of her bones. “How much horsepower does that thing crank out?”
“Enough.”
“Then Nancy won’t need no thunderstorm,” Susan said. “She’ll use the transformer up top to suck the juice outta your machine and channel the current to the pods.”
“That’s her plan,” he said, “but I’ll be gone before she’s ready.”
“What do ya mean gone?”
“Launched,” he said. “And unless you’re hitching a ride, you should head for the exit.”
“Why?” she asked. “What’s gonna happen?”
“We’re right below the amphitheater,” he said, “Soon as the launch sequence starts, this thing’s gonna shoot a focused beam of exotic matter right through the roof.”
“We’re underground…You’ll collapse the cavern…bury everything.”
He mounted the Stinger and the machine’s profile reconfigured to fit him. “They never should have dug Enzyme Seven up in the first place.”
“Listen to me,” she said, “ya don’t have to do this.”
“The Pilots are coming to sanitize anything contaminated by Enzyme Seven,” he said, “I might not be able to stop what’s coming, but I can slow ‘em down.”
“Suicide,” she mumbled. “That’s suicide.”
“It’s risky,” he admitted, “but I don’t plan on becoming a martyr.”
“There’s gotta be another way,” Susan said, but her throat tightened and she barely got the words out.
“There isn’t,” he said, and started the launch sequence.
***
Seven of the eight bays were empty, but number eight was operational, so the bleary-eyed Driver eased the flat-bed truck into the garage.
He pulled his beret down low and climbed down from the cab. The Driver pulled the bay door down by hand, banishing the sun’s rays from within and letting the soothing blue darkness return.
The Sentry on duty was even more hung-over than his buddy, but at least he’d shaved. “You look like I feel.”
The Driver ran his fingers over his stubbled-chin. “Not so loud.”
The Sentry’s hissing laugh echoed off the corrugated steel walls, starting his head pounding again. Blue Beret’s engineers took advantage of Sandcastle City’s natural geography, building the garage into the hollowed rock, but the unique configuration amplified every sound.
He pulled himself together to check the load for damage. “What is this thing?”
“Some kinda blimp or something,” the Driver said.
The Moonclipper’s wreckage laid on its side, strapped to the flatbed to keep it from shifting on the way into the valley. The crash took out the airship’s right rotor, but the carbon fiber skeleton preserved the craft’s underlying structure.
The Driver signed off on the load and trudged up the stairs to the second level. “Didn’t think five o’clock would ever get here.”
“Let’s see if any of those Happy-Face chicks wanna party again,” the Sentry said.
The door closed behind them and their conversation faded. While their absence left the Moonclipper unguarded, the airship wasn’t unattended.
Newton cracked the hatch to get a better look at their surroundings. Convinced it was safe, he popped the door wide and locked it in its upright position. Diesel fuel and industrial solvents dizzied him, but he didn’t
plan on sticking around for long. He crawled out of the exit, cutlass in hand, and covered the others.
Grady tucked his blade beneath his arm to pick the lint from his tux. “Yeah bro, no way they thought we’d be hiding inside the bladders.”
Spider laughed, but realized he was just as affected by the helium.
“Keep it down,” Newton squeaked. Though they didn’t see anybody around, that didn’t mean there wasn’t anybody around. Steel plating covered as much of the rock as required and no more, leaving plenty of shadow-cloaked nooks and crannies to hide in.
“This is like the best idea we ever had,” Clementine said. Her voice was almost back to normal, though the helium’s effects lingered longer than she thought they would.
“They did it in Star Wars, dude.”
“What?” Clementine said.
“They did it in Star Wars,” Grady repeated.
“Which one?” Spider asked.
“The first one,” Grady said. “Remember when the Millennium Falcon got totally pulled inside the Death Star? Han Solo and ‘em hid inside like we did.”
Clementine liked it better when she thought it was her idea. “Star Wars, huh?”
“Guys…”
Newton twirled his cutlass like a cane. “The Ancient Greeks did it before ‘em. Hid inside a giant, wooden…”
“Guys…”
“Shut-up!” Clementine said. “Don’t matter who came up with it first. Let’s just find Lazy-Eye Susan and get outta here.”
“Guys…”
Annoyed by his persistence, Newton turned to see what was bothering Spider so... “Clark Bent…”
The Botkin they’d cut up like a chicken back at the Windmill stood between them and the stairs, blocking the only way in or out. There was something wrong with him even before the train hit him, a nervous tick almost passing for a personality. But a personality implied emotions, and emotions allowed for grudges, which explained why he looked angry even through the distortion field generated by his Hypno-Specs.
“He musta seen Star Wars, too,” Grady said.
“S-s-somebody put him back together,” Clementine stuttered.
Newton recognized the prosthetics strapped to the Botkin’s cauterized stumps and came to a different conclusion; “He put himself back together.”
Clementine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How’d he know to do that?”
“He musta been awake the whole time,” Newton said. “He musta seen us trying the wooden leg and the hook hand on for size.”
“But how’d he get here?” Clementine asked.
“Dude, he musta hid in the trunks,” Grady said. “He musta folded himself up. We musta carried him on board and not ever knowed it.”
“Hey…It works!” Newton said. “The Nike Pro Combat Loin Guard works.”
Neither Grady nor Spider knew what he meant. Clementine was just sorry she did.
Newton whipped his cutlass back and forth, carving his initials into the air. “Remember how we did it the last time.”
They spaced themselves out, forcing the Botkin to come to them. Only one of them had the real blade, but Clark Bent didn’t know that. As long as they sliced and didn’t stab, the props might hold up.
“One at a time,” Clementine said, “we don’t wanna cut each other to...”
“What’s that buzzing?” Spider asked. “That him?”
Grady stopped to answer him. “Dude, that’s me.”
“What are ya doing?” Clementine asked.
“Getting all inside his head,” Grady explained.
She had no idea what he was talking about.
“Dude, what scares a plant more than anything?” Grady asked.
“You want me to say bee?” Clementine said.
“Bees are the pimps of the insect kingdom,” Grady said, “and nobody messes with a pimp.”
“Didn’t you get like a D in biology?” Clementine said.
“Bees swoop in and grab the pollen, sharing it with as many fine lady plants as they can,” Grady said. “And nobody messes with ‘em or else they get stung.”
Newton shifted his blade from one hand to the other. “He’s like twice your size. He ain’t gonna run just ‘cause your buzzing around his head.”
“Don’t want him to run,” Grady said, “want him to think there’s some fine lady plants nearby.”
“What if he unzips?” Spider asked. “To share his…pollen.”
“That ain’t how it works,” Newton insisted.
“Its instinct,” Grady said. “He won’t be able to help himself. And when his pants are down around his ankles…boom!”
Spider waved his cutlass in support. “Maybe it’ll work. And we already got the stingers.”
“If you wanna get it right, you should be waving that blade with the other end of your body,” Clementine said. “The same end you’re talking out of now.”
They waited for Clark Bent to show some sign he was affected by the buzzing, and then he did. The Botkin turned toward the stairs and vaulted over the railing, landing on the second level with ease, and was through the door before anyone could react.
Their disappointment was palpable.
“That didn’t go down like I expected,” Newton said.
Grady agreed. “Clark Bent might not be as gangsta as I thought.”
“He sure ain’t no Michael Corleone,” Spider said. “This guy’s more like Fredo.”
Clementine tracked Clark Bent’s green splatter trail up the steps. “He’s bleeding.”
She pushed past them, taking the stairs two at a time. She yanked the door to the second level open. “Come on…He’s getting away!”
CHAPTER 15
Drew eased off the throttle, but they didn’t stop, instead the Stinger rolled along the highway, suspended a few meters above the pale desolation. Whoever sent the Stinger to Bixby had called it back just as suddenly.
“Where we at?” Drew whispered.
“Where ya think?” Deneese answered.
He looked back over his shoulder but the site of the earth rising across the lunar horizon didn’t panic him like he expected. “Maybe I’m still in the chair.”
“The chair?” Deneese said.
“Messed with me last time,” he said, “Might be messing with me now. Thought I saw the Moonclipper flying ‘round back there over the desert but that can’t be, either.”
“If you’re in the chair, what’s that make me?” Deneese asked. “Some kinda day dream?”
“You’re real,” he decided, “but maybe we’re just driving ‘round on some interstate or road or something and I’m trippin’ on the scenery because of some kinda side effects from the chair or something.”
“We’re trippin’ on the scenery,” Deneese said, “because I see the same things as you.”
“We gotta get back.”
“Then take us back,” she said.
“I ain’t in control,” he said, “think the road moves us…like an escalator or something.”
He didn’t know why they were whispering. Maybe it was the solemnity of the vast emptiness before them flattening their egos. They rolled along the highway for a few seconds more in suffocating silence before Deneese finally loosened her grip on him. “Sorry…Guess I’m still a little freaked out by all of this.”
He wanted to say something reassuring, but he kept replaying the last few moments of Bixby’s fiery destruction over and over again. “Think whoever sent the Stinger was gunning for Cryptos.”
“You mean those things in the glass tubes?” she said.
“Yeah…They must be homing in on ‘em somehow.”
“But why?” she asked.
“Dunno,” he admitted, “but the Stinger blew Bixby up.”
“But how’d it know to blow Bixby up?”
“Frost put Enzyme Seven in the water tower,” Drew said. “And those soldiers in the tubes had it inside ‘em. Enzyme Seven is the only thing they all got in common. Bet this mac
hine can sniff it out like a bloodhound.”
“What about the song?”
“What about it?”
“Did you hear the song?” she asked. “The song started playin’ before this thing fired.”
“Came on automatically,” he said. “Must be some kinda signal…Like sonar or something.”
“Hearing the song gives away the element of surprise,” she said. “Why give the Cryptos a chance to run?”
“Maybe they can’t hear it,” he said. “Maybe it’s like a reverse dog whistle.”
They approached a jagged peak jutting out from the surface, but the highway adjusted, looping around the protrusion with room to spare.
“You got it backward,” she said, “the song’s meant for Cryptos.”
“What do ya mean?”
“You saw the sewer workers at the school?”
“Yeah…”
“They didn’t flinch when the song started, even as loud as it was blasting…”
“Because they couldn’t hear it,” he realized. “But how come we could?”
“You can’t hear it, Enzyme Seven can.”
He’d been dosed with the others when Frost introduced Enzyme Seven into Bixby’s water supply years before, but unlike Harley, he didn’t change. He’d assumed he was immune. Was it possible some trace remained, inoculating him from mutation while letting him channel the song’s frequency?
Drew watched the dismal scenery scroll by for a moment. “There were two Stingers back in Silverwood…”
“Yeah…”
“Why send two Stingers to the same place?” he said. “You saw what just one can do.”
“It was a mid-air collision,” she said, “an accident.”
“Don’t think it was an accident,” he said, “think it was a dogfight.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No parachutes,” he said, “And anybody that can make something advanced as a Stinger can keep it from smacking into another one without too much trouble. Whatever happened, happened fast. Bang-bang fast.”
“Why do you think there were two Stingers in the same place?”
“If the song really is a warning, then I think one pilot was hunting Cryptos and the other was protecting ‘em,” he decided.
“But both pilots died,” Deneese said. “We found the suits in the…”
“We found the suits,” Drew agreed, “but we didn’t find the bodies. We didn’t bother checking.”
“You think one lived?” Deneese asked.
“The Stinger made it,” he said. “Maybe the pilot did, too.”
Deneese started to say something, but stopped to let him continue.
“Who wanted to keep the names of the survivors safe?” he asked. “The survivors of the survivors, I mean.”