Steemjammer: Through the Verltgaat (27 page)

Hallucinations.

Now he understood. The sweet voice was danger. Answering it was death. He sealed his lips and waited for the next round of agony, fearing he’d be torn to shreds, anyway.

Chapter
26

to tell the truth

“Interesting,” Clyve muttered quietly to himself. “He’s hiding something.”

Leaning back in his chair and pressing his fingertips together, he studied the quivering boy who was bound by leather straps to a thick wooden table. Gouge marks and old stains that had never bleached clean marred the surface. Remnants, he thought, from other sessions. Such methods were satisfying but crude and often ineffective. Glass Dragon was so much better.

“Another dose,” he hissed softly at the black-haired nurse next to him.

Distantly related to the family and trusted, Dahlia Visser was his only assistant today, and the order made her balk. “Won’t it kill him?”

“You question me?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Harrow. It’s just that you told me at all cost to keep him alive.”

He sensed no rebelliousness in her tone and relaxed. “Some have more resistance than others. He’s young and healthy. Hit him.”

She inserted a syringe into an ornate crystal vial and sucked up half a thimbleful of the pale chartreuse drug. Steadying herself, she jabbed the needle deep into the young man’s shoulder.

As she slowly depressed the plunger, Clyve pressed a stethoscope on the boy’s chest. He signaled her to stop before administering the last bit. Visibly relieved, she withdrew the needle.

“That will do it,” he whispered faintly, signaling her to follow him across the room.

Various tools hung from racks on the bare stone walls: hammers, tongs, prods, cleavers, bone saws and axes. In the drawers lay rows of shiny steel razors, scalpels and scissors, while cabinets stored jars of acids, pain-inducing drugs and other horrific chemicals.

He noticed how she tried not to look at them and reflected that she must have very little Rasmussen ancestry. That was part of his plan. Having only a drop of true blood meant she held little value to the family. If he made a mistake, she could suffer an accident. No one would care that she was gone.

“A few minutes for the new dose to even out,” he whispered softly. “He can hear, so keep quiet.”

Nodding, she glanced at the boy and tried to put together what she was witnessing.

“It blinds his eyes?” she whispered.

Clyve tapped the vial of drug in her hand. “Glass Dragon alters the brain’s processing. Like when we sleep, we stop seeing and moving, except for dreams.”

“You said he still hears.”

“It allows that, but sounds become distorted. The effect is most disturbing. We use all these things to our advantage as we press the questions.”

“And he must answer?”

“That’s the beauty of Glass Dragon. Extreme fear and violent hallucinations cloud the mind. Only by getting out the complete truth does the victim stave off terror.”

“Is that why they can die? Frightened to death?”

Clyve nodded grimly. “The heart can beat so fast it stops pumping and only spasms. That’s why questioning starts indirectly and moves slowly toward desired answers.”

“Can’t they choose death over revealing secrets?”

“Impossible. The final beauty of Glass Dragon is that it splits the mind. The ability to reason is greatly reduced, much like the confusion we feel in dreams.”

“He failed to say his name because he’s confused?”

“Or resisting. That’s why I increased the dose. We’ll soon know. It’s almost time.”

***

After the stab of pain in his shoulder, Will lost consciousness but later heard the strange, muted ringing sound as he reawakened. He felt it wasn’t real, that he only hallucinated the noise. With no access to his memory, he floundered in confusion, and then it all came flooding back.

He cringed at the thought of coming pressure. Vainly he struggled for awareness and clarity, for some hint of what to do or how to escape, but he found nothing.

“Will,” the pleasant voice spoke. “You did say that was your name, right?”

The words surged out of him before he could even think. “Yes. I’m Will.”

Like before, a force bore down on him, hard and terrifying. He needed to say more, but his fear was so great that his mind momentarily seized up, instead.

“I’m curious,” the voice droned musically. “You were poisoned. I wonder how it happened.”

“Shadovecht!” he blurted like the word had been jerked from his chest, unable to stop himself.

The pressure mounted, and faster than before a pair of horrendous jaws bit down, crushing and tearing. He had to tell more or perish.

“I was cut,” he said. “On my side. I had to get remedy or die. They gave it to me, in a spoon.”

Only then did the force back off. He panted and felt his heart throbbing. Somehow he knew he had to stop talking, but the mere thought of resisting brought agony.

“Where did you encounter this Shadovecht?” the voice asked, and the illusion of niceness peeled away in Will’s mind, replaced by a dark face hidden in shadow.

“Basement,” Will muttered, knowing he had to say more as crushing power threatened from all sides. “I found a secret room, down in a deep basement.”

He wanted to say more but was too exhausted and confused to put words together. That, however, was enough for the moment. The pressure backed off.

“What else was in this room?” came the voice, and this time the face became clear in Will’s mind: a hideous skull with patches of dry, mummified skin. Somehow he felt he should know who this was, but he couldn’t push through for an answer. The more he fought, the greater the pressure, until he could bear no more.

“Secret things,” he gasped. “Machines. I was never supposed to find them.”

He knew the voice wanted more truth than that, and the force continued pressing. He felt his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest, like it was about to explode.

Silence!

His eyes darted around, looking for the source, but he saw only blackness and the horrible skull. Who was there? Was it a trick? Or was it something that could save him?

“Help me!” he pleaded with his mind to the other entity, and the skull faded somewhat. Somehow he knew it couldn’t hear him or the other voice in his head.

You know what to do.

He caught a wispy, ghost-like image of a boy of fifteen with gray eyes and triple-cowlicked hair speaking to him. He felt a quiver of hope as he realized he knew this person. Will Steemjammer. Slowly it dawned on his confused mind that somehow he talked with himself.

It’s a trap.

“I know,” he silently communicated. “If they find out who I am, they’ll kill me. But if I don’t talk, I’ll be crushed.”

His vigor drained away, and he felt a black curtain of despair coming down to smother him. He felt trapped. Either way led to destruction.

Know the truth.

He’d heard that somewhere before. An image of his mother flickered in his memory. Had she told him that?

Seek the deeper truth.

This time a man’s face with sky blue eyes flashed before him. Father, he recognized.

“What is it?” his mind begged desperately. “Please, you have to tell me!”

***

Doubt crept into Clyve’s mind like an unwelcome rat gnawing its way through the wall of a house. He’d almost killed the boy, almost forced his heart into beating so fast that it would have become a blur of useless twitching, no longer pumping blood. Thankful that he’d stopped his assistant from giving the last of the dose, he backed off and let his victim recover.

“Have you noticed his shoes?” Dahlia whispered.

Caught off guard, he glanced at the boy’s feet. She was right. There was something odd about them.

“Have you ever seen such bad stitching?” she whispered. “If he’s a Steemjammer, couldn’t he afford better?”

Clyve was genuinely puzzled. “They lost everything. I suppose it reduced them to poverty.”

“I heard they escaped to the old world, where they have a stronghold. They’re really this poor?”

He had no good answer, and she pointed at his clothes.

“Mended rips,” she whispered, “ill-fitting, and such a plain fabric. This is working class attire, and well worn. Not for the elite and powerful.”

Clyve frowned. He’d been dreaming about a fabulous reward for the capture of a major enemy, and now he saw it vanishing before his eyes. Thinking back to the time before the fall of Beverkenfort, he tried remembering what Steemjammers looked like. Their clothing, from what he recalled, wasn’t like this.

“They had no style,” he admitted, “but their clothes were very high quality.” He realized something. “Of course. A disguise.”

“Ah,” she whispered. “That would explain it. If he’s Will Steemjammer, he thought he’d sneak past us in his shabby clothing and shoes.”

Clyve wanted to believe that, but doubt still clouded his mind. Could this really be, he wondered, some ordinary, impoverished kid?

He studied the boy and, to his annoyance, found his uncertainty growing. Straight nose and fairly normal eyes, he was too attractive for a Steemjammer. Did he favor his mother? Clyve had seen Hendrelmus and Muriel years ago, but he couldn’t remember her face.

He’d been so sure this was Will Steemjammer that he’d already worked out what to say to Zander Rasmussen, how he’d give all credit to the man’s “brilliant son.” He’d hint that he’d guided Bram from afar, and when it’d become clear an adult needed to step in, he’d taken over to finish Bram’s “amazing start.” Zander would be so pleased that the rewards and promotions might never end, except, Clyve realized to his vexation, this might not be the right boy.

But they’d found a drawing of verltgaat machine control panel in his pocket. Also, Clyve knew that two Shadovecht had gone through a world hole. How else could this boy have been cut, unless he was a Steemjammer? He’d obviously come to New Amsterdam for a remedy.

But to Clyve’s horror, another possibility arose. Hadn’t that fool Staas told him that a verltgaat had been opened in New Amsterdam after the attack? What if that was to bring pieces of a broken Shadovecht to the Museum? This boy, he realized, could be a common thief.

Hadn’t he just described his parents abandoning him? This was typical of the lower classes, Clyve grudgingly admitted. Shabby clothes and the fact that he had something to hide – it all started to come together.

Perhaps the boy was only a desperate, retched criminal who’d used the volunteer program as an excuse to prowl the Museum and steal hidden treasures. What if he’d located a secret room where the Steemjammers had hidden a ruined Shadovecht, only to cut himself on it?

“I have to risk pushing him,” he whispered to Dahlia. “Keep a stethoscope over his heart. If he goes over four beats per second, signal with your hand.” He made a chopping motion. “At five per second, he’ll die.”

***

Will felt time passing like a rushing river, and then it slowed to a snail’s pace. Part of him feared he was already dead, but another part struggled desperately to find a way out.

“What is the deeper truth?” he asked silently.

It will set you free.

Panic burned like a flame in his head. This made no sense. At least, he thought, the fog that had been hampering his thinking had lifted somewhat. But he needed to know what this truth was, not what it would do.

“He wants to know who I am,” Will thought.

Never.

“But I have to say something.”

No response came.

“If I don’t, I’ll die.”

If you do, you’ll die.

“What do I do?”

Seek deeper truth.

A ghostlike memory of his Tante Stefana’s face flashed before him. He remembered things she’d told him, how it was almost impossible for him to lie and that she could say he needed to bend the truth without being able to do so, herself. Finally, he recalled her warning, that knowing truth and hating lies was quite possibly the source of Steemjammer power, the reason for goot steem. If he lied, she’d said, he could lose it forever.

“I can’t tell him I’m Will Stevens,” he thought. “It’s a lie.”

No answer came, and he wanted to scream.

“Is that the deeper truth? That I have to lie?”

Even barely misleading people or letting them believe half-truths had caused him great anguish. Would telling a brazen, direct lie, he wondered, destroy him?

As he fought for answers, he began to remember. He could open verltgaats. That more than anything was what his enemy wanted. If they knew who he was, they could force him to operate their machine. He could resist, he thought, but he was haunted by a horrifying image of them capturing his sister, cousins, and great aunt.

If they threatened his family, could he refuse? What if they drugged him? Wasn’t he drugged now?

With a dreadful, sinking feeling he realized he wouldn’t be able to resist, that they really could force him to open verltgaats. The calamity of pain, chaos and destruction that would follow was too great to imagine.