Game Play (28 page)

It was conceivable
that he could simply push a button, energize the motive apparatus, and propel
them Outside
―
some of the knobs and dials in the control room
might still be functional. Verne wondered if perhaps he could develop some sort
of protective goggles that would let them look upon
reality
and survive....

Unfortunately, they
had other plans for the energy source trapped in its fragile containment below.

When they entered
the excavated corridor of the ship and descended the groaning metal staircase
to the control room, their electric illuminators both flickered and went out.
Frankenstein tapped the lens and tried the switch several times before he set
his device on the floor in disgust.

"I hate
working on the technological fringe. Nothing functions the way it's supposed
to."

Verne struck one of
his matches against a corroded section of the hull.

He lit a candle and
passed it to Frankenstein before lighting one of his own.

"I never
imagined we would assemble a doomsday weapon by candlelight."

The control panels
with their rows of dark indicator lights and color-coded buttons looked like
the unblinking eyes of dead men. The air smelled dusty and metallic. Rags
spotted with oils and solvents filled a container by the exterior hatch.

Outside, the
girders creaked and shifted as wind whistled around the mountains. Verne knew
they were alone, but he felt things watching them from the shadows. He
recognized it as an irrational fear and tried to ignore it -but then he
remembered the Outsiders probably
were
watching them.

"Come, Jules.
We have to get started. Most of the tools we need are already here from the
excavation and analysis work."

Verne blew cold air
out of his nose, pondering how to put the pieces together. It all seemed so
clear in his mind. "We should be able to lift enough other instrumentation
from our devices at hand, especially some of the steam pumps and generator
coils."

Frankenstein bent
to the control-panel bulkhead. "Help me lift this cover plate off."

Working feverishly,
Outsider-inspired, Professors Verne and Frankenstein hammered away at their
contraption, using pieces of metal taken from the ship's hull, adapting
equipment dismantled from other Sitnaltan apparatus.

They rarely spoke,
but worked together, knowing what needed to be done.

Verne blew on his
numb fingers and searched for another instrument. All the tools felt icy in the
still air of the chamber. The candles made exaggerated shadows of their
movements against the curved walls.

The delicate part
was encapsulating the power source in a makeshift containment vessel. Verne
hoped the new rivets would hold and that their sealant goop would keep the
valves and control switches in place. Verne found he was trembling, not just
from the chill air but from the fear of working with such a dangerous thing.

The candles burned
down, one after another, and finally as dawn broke across the sky, Frankenstein
rubbed his elbow against a bronze plate at the front of the weapon. He cracked
his knuckles and sighed. When Verne looked at him, the other professor's eyes
were bloodshot and weary. Verne knew he must look as haggard himself.

Frankenstein
sighed. "With a device so important, I think we should make this official,
even if only between ourselves." He withdrew a black grease pencil and
bent over the smooth cylindrical body of the weapon.

Pondering a moment
with the pencil against his lips, Frankenstein scrawled a number on the
silvery-white metal. "17/2."

"I think this
counts as a patentable invention, don't you, Jules?" He straightened.
"Even though we dare not ever tell how we created it."

Verne forced a
smile, trying to lighten the mood. "I will never know how you keep track
of all the numbers."

"A simple
matter of concentration. Last month we ran out of certificate numbers from the
Council of Patent Givers. We forced them to create a second series, all our
own. This weapon is our seventeenth invention in the second series. Such a
weapon," Frankenstein said, letting his voice trail off.

He looked up at
Verne with a hard light in his eyes. "It is the most powerful thing ever
to come of Sitnaltan technology. But now we have to take it to Scartaris
―
and detonate it."

Frankenstein looked
at Verne. Their eyes met in the uncertain candlelight, but neither spoke until
Verne finally lowered his gaze.

"One of us
will have to do it, of course."

"Yes. We must
roll for it."

Verne reached deep
into the folds of his woolen coat and withdrew a hand-held device. In his other
hand he found two red dice with painted white numbers. "We'll use the
random generator."

He placed it on a
level surface of the gutted control panel, brushing dust aside. "High roll
makes the journey?" He raised his eyebrows.

Frankenstein
nodded.

Verne inserted the
two dice into the opening at the top of the device.

"You roll
first."

Frankenstein pushed
down the spring-loaded lever on the side. The dice fell, scrambled and bouncing
around inside the machine, and then tumbled out the opening in the bottom. A
"5" and a "4."

Verne picked up the
dice and tossed them into the top. He reset the lever, then pushed it down. He
heard the dice clattering, but he felt a cold hand in his stomach. He
knew
before the dice rolled out.

Boxcars
―
two sixes.

Frankenstein put
his hands behind his back, blinking. Verne couldn't tell if he was relieved or
disappointed.

"I will help
you load the weapon into one of our steam-engine cars. It will take the two of
us to carry it."

Professor Verne
nodded. Frankenstein hesitated a moment and then turned to extend his hand.

"Luck, Jules.
Our future rides on this."

"We cannot
hide from anything the Outsiders send against us. They know our fears better
than we know ourselves. If we are to win this Game, we must face our greatest
enemies and hope the dice roll in our favor."

―
Enrod of Taire

Gairoth did not
like the Taire city walls around him. He sniffed the air, flaring the nostrils
in his potato-sized nose. He did not like the tall buildings, he did not like
the feel of flagstones under his big bare feet. The buildings were too close,
the alleys too narrow as he lumbered down them. The sharp spikes of his club
clinked against the street. The smell of the air was dry and bland, too
human
for him.

Pictures covered
the walls. He stared at them but did not understand the rituals depicted, the
games, the gatherings of characters all standing side by side.

Gairoth squinted
his one eye, baffled at the thought. It was repellent for ogres to work
together. When he had been in Delroth's Stronghold and used the shiny rock to
make illusion ogres, he could tolerate them only because he knew they weren't
real. But these pictures showed human characters staying by each other because
they
wanted
to.

One of the crudely
drawn figures reminded him of the man Delroth. The ogre made a snarling noise
and smacked the end of his club against the plaster. Great chunks of the fresco
broke off and pattered onto the flagstones, exposing a jagged blot of fresh
white plaster, like a wound.

"Haw!"
Gairoth stomped down the zig-zagging streets, satisfied. He had forgotten why
he was chasing Delroth, but that didn't matter.

Everything was so
quiet around him. He banged his club against the wall just to keep himself
company. He wished Rognoth were there. The stupid little dragon had been a
convenient companion, and now he was gone. Another dragon, a big dragon, chased
him far away. Gairoth knew Delroth had something to do with that, too.

When he heard the
explosion and saw gouts of smoke gush into the sky from the burning tannery, he
had to see what was going on. Delroth might be there.

Puffing through his
dry, flabby lips, he heaved himself into motion. He got lost in several dead-ends,
but with the curling smoke showing the way he could always find his way back to
the right path.

Gairoth stumbled
upon the wreckage of the tannery. The foul-smelling debris reminded him of his
long-lost cesspools, now drowned under the Barrier River. He drew in a deep
breath. Milling Tairans stood sluggishly around the burning building, then they
moved and drifted away, funnelling down a side street. They didn't even react
to Gairoth.

Being ignored
annoyed him, and he stomped after them. The Tairans did not seem uneasy from
each others' presence, from the closeness of their packed bodies. They did not
get lost in the winding streets. They led Gairoth to a larger crowd, sluggish
like a swarm of smoke-stunned bees. Many Tairans bled from wounds, but they
didn't take care of themselves.

Gairoth elbowed the
characters aside, shoving them away as he stormed forward to see the focus of
their attention.

A ragged hole had
been smashed in the tall Tairan wall. The ogre saw the Tairans looking out at
the desolate terrain, but none of them said a word.

Gairoth grabbed a
man by the front of his tunic. The brownish-gray cloth ripped in the ogre's
fingers, but he lifted the man high enough to stare into his eyes. The man's
feet dangled in the air; his arms went limp. He didn't struggle. Gairoth shook
him a bit, just to make him squirm.

The Tairan blinked
and gurgled. His eyes were milky white, without pupils.

"Where is
Delroth?" Gairoth demanded.

The Tairan turned
his head toward the hole in the wall and the sprawling desert. Gairoth saw
fresh tracks, hoofprints plowed up in the dust.

His heart leaped.
Delroth had been here! He was close!

Gairoth released
the Tairan and let him fall. The man's arms and legs did not react quickly
enough, and his knees buckled sideways. He landed on his hip on the flagstones.

The ogre bounded
through the opening, bumping his head on one of the stone blocks. He ignored
the pain and charged across the flat ground.

The blasted terrain
flowed like magic under the horses' hooves. Vailret was amazed at how fast they
approached the next hexagon of forested hills. He rode, gripping the mane in
front of him because it seemed like the thing to do. He had never traveled so
swiftly over land before, except in Professor Verne's balloon. At any moment he
felt as if he was going to fall off and crash on the dusty ground.

The sudden release
of tension from their near death at the hands of the Tairans made him feel
exhausted. Vailret's lips were dry and cracked from breathing the dusty air.
When he held Bryl's frail form in front of him, he could feel the old
half-Sorcerer's ribs through his blue cloak. Bryl seemed so frightened he
couldn't say anything.

At the hex-line the
forested hills rose in front of them. They had left the quest-path behind for
fear of what might be on the road from Taire to Scartaris. Now the horses
picked their way among the haunted-looking slopes.

The thick trees
stood black and gnarled in death. They were all relatively young, planted in
neat rows in the turns that had passed since Enrod began to rebuild the land.
But here the Tairans' work had come to an end.

The horses stumbled
upon a path made by the tree-planters and followed that up the slope. The dead
trees scrabbled like arthritic fingers in front of their eyes. The close
branches snapped and left black stains on the clothes they touched. The smell
of sharp, dry death hung in the air, depressing and stifling.

Mindar rode in the
lead, scowling. Her face looked full of anger and determination. The sight of
each dead tree seemed like a slap in the face to her.

Vailret thought of
the Tairans and their dream of rebuilding the landscape. The half-breeds had
magic to renew the terrain, and the human characters used straightforward
farming techniques to plant sturdy grass and stands of trees such as these.
Then Scartaris came and destroyed everything again
―
and this time
the ancient Tairan hero, the Stranger Unlooked-For, had not reappeared to save
them.

The trees thinned
as they rose in the hills, letting them look back at Taire and the surrounding
devastation. Squinting, Vailret could still see fading smoke in the air from
the destroyed tannery.

Mindar's face bore
a stunned expression. "Delrael, what did you bring upon us?"

"It's still
there!" Bryl cried, pointing.

Vailret couldn't
make out details with his poor eyesight, but he could discern the boiling black
mass that crept along the ground, the dark swarm they had seen following them
from when they fled the Anteds. The unfocused, milling mass seemed to be
skirting Taire to the south.

Delrael scowled.
"We don't know what it is."