Crucible Zero (21 page)

Foster grunted, and Abraham nodded. “What's the other very important piece of information?”

“He's created a substance that can kill galvanized.”

Foster shifted forward in his chair. Abraham didn't move, but I could tell he was keenly interested in what I'd just said.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. And I think we should use it on Slater.”

“Or we could use a gun,” he said.

“I'd feel better having a plan B. Slater isn't stupid. He's had three hundred years to engineer his takeover of the Houses. Hell, he was planning it for at least a hundred years before that. I think he's taken the necessary precautions against bullets.”

“But this . . . substance?”

“It's called Shelley dust.”

Foster made a small sound. He didn't look happy.

“Have you heard of it?” I asked. “Has it been invented before?”

“Yes,” Foster breathed.

Abraham nodded. “Before the asteroid storm, before all information systems crashed and the power grids were destroyed, there was a scientist who experimented with something he dubbed Shelley dust.”

“What happened to him and his information?”

“We killed him and burned his records.”

Oh.

“Did he test it on anyone?” I asked.

“No.” He said it in such a way that I knew Abraham had been the one behind both killing him and burning his records. “How did Quinten get his hands on records that don't exist?”

“I don't know, but he has some of the Shelley dust in his case. And I'm going to get that before we leave.”

“You seem to have set your mind on this. Where, exactly, are we going?” Abraham asked.

“To kill Slater. We'll need to break in and get our weapons. Also, we need to steal transportation.”

Abraham cleared his throat and held up one finger. “Your brother is suddenly fine with us breaking House Earth's laws and stealing their things?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I don't plan to tell him. He needs to stay here to make sure that plague cure works. There's too much of a chance he'll get hurt if he comes with us.”

“He's already gotten hurt,” Abraham said.

“Yeah, and that's all I can stand. This is my fight. Slater's angry at me. Quinten will just be collateral damage. I will not watch my brother die again. I won't. So, this is your chance. Are you coming to take out Slater with me, or am I doing this alone?”

“You aren't doing this alone,” he said.

Those words, from him, meant a lot to me. “Good,” I said. “We'll need to travel at night. I know that's dangerous, I know there are ferals—”

“It can be done,” he said. “Though it won't be comfortable. Are we leaving tonight?”

“Yes. I don't know when Quinten is coming back, so we'll have to wait until he does, so he won't know we're gone. We'll leave while he's sleeping.”

“You could drug him.”

“What? No. I'm not going to poison my brother.”

“Painkillers,” Abraham said. “So he sleeps more heavily. Although poison isn't a bad idea either.”

“I'll try the painkillers,” I said. “We'll need a vehicle.”

“Foster and I will take care of that. Shall we say midnight?”

“It's a date,” I said.

“I wish it were,” he mumbled.

I raised one eyebrow. “What?”

“I said I wish I were taking you on a date, Matilda Case.”

“Revenge makes you feel all warm and romantic?”

He smiled. “You have no idea.”

“All right,” I said. “If we make it out of this and if we kill that bastard, I'll take you out for a celebratory coffee.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Dream a little bigger. We could do so much more than coffee.”

“If we survive this—”

“And Slater dies,” he added.

“—and Slater dies,” I agreed, “I'll let you choose what we do to celebrate.”

“You really do like to live dangerously, don't you?”

“Pretty much every damn day of my life.” I walked to the door. “I'm trusting you on this, Abraham.”

“On which part?”

“All of it. Don't let me down.”

I let myself out and headed back to my room. I was twitchy and nervous. I decided to try to catch an hour of sleep before dinner. I needed to be as sharp and rested as I could be if we were going to survive the night.

Slater wants you dead. He wants all the galvanized dead—in every time. But he'll have to get through me to make that a reality.

—W.Y.

D
inner was a hearty serving of meat and squash and other vegetables that I didn't pay attention to, accompanied by tart rye rolls and sweet cider.

I tried to act like this was just a normal dinner, Neds and Abraham and Foster and me just enjoying our evening meal together, but my mind was turning a thousand reps a minute.

When will Quinten get home? Did it go well with Gloria? Will he go to sleep so I can steal the Shelley dust? Should I write him a note telling him not to worry? What kind of vehicle will Abraham and Foster steal? Can we get to our weapons without triggering any alarms?

And the one that terrified me:
What if this compound is next in Slater's line of bombings, and Quinten is killed?
What if I never saw him again?

“Something wrong with your mustard greens?” Right Ned asked.

I glanced up. A quick look at the table revealed that nearly everyone else had cleaned their plates, and I was sitting there holding a forkful of greens that I hadn't lifted to my mouth for I didn't know how long.

“No.” I stuffed the fork in my mouth. “They're good,” I said as I followed that with the rye roll. “Just drifted for a bit. Tired.”

“Got something on your mind you want to share with the table?” Left Ned asked.

“Nothing no one doesn't already know.”

Left Ned seemed to accept that as truth, but Right Ned narrowed the one eye that wasn't swollen from that bruise on his face. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I really am,” I really lied. “It's just been a rough . . . well, an extra rough couple of days. I think I'll turn in early. Though I was sort of hoping Quinten would be here for dinner.”

“Quinten visiting Gloria?” Left Ned asked.

Right. I hadn't told him anything about that.

“Yes. I was just wondering if he'd be in tonight.”

“I'd guess so,” Right Ned said.

I finished up my food pretty quickly. “Well, I'll see you all in the morning.”

“Good night,” Abraham said as he poured himself an after-dinner coffee.

Right Ned was still giving me that look. Like I wasn't behaving normally. Which, considering that he hadn't known this version of me very long, was sort of disturbing.

“What?” I asked him.

“I don't know. I just thought you'd want to talk tonight. About our upcoming travel plans.”

He must mean our original plan of all going together to kill Slater. Yeah, well, that plan had changed. And just like I didn't want to see Quinten hurt, I didn't want to see Neds hurt either.

“Doesn't seem much need for talking about anything until Quinten shows up. Tell you what: when he comes in tonight, we can talk. If he stays with Gloria tonight, we'll all go see him tomorrow, early.”

“All right,” Right Ned drawled. Still didn't believe me, but he was willing to let it go for now.

I left the table and went right back to my room. I paced while trying to figure out what I should do, since I was definitely not tired. I decided to take stock of my supplies. I emptied my duffel on the bed and checked to make sure everything that wasn't a weapon was accounted for.

It appeared all there, even Evelyn's sewing kit and the medical supplies, including scalpels, syringes, clamps, balms, and bandages. Funny how they didn't consider a scalpel or the mix of medicines I carried weapons.

But I was thankful for that. I repacked the duffel and looked around the room for anything I could steal that might be useful. Unless I wanted to try to shove a blanket in there, I didn't think the books or framed pictures were going to help.

And, yes, I did consider stealing a couple books. They were a valuable commodity back in my time, but since I'd seen them in Foster and Abraham's room too, and Poppy had offered me additional titles, books must not be as rare here.

Which I liked. If I survived this, I was going to read every book I could get my hands on.

I was also, apparently, going to go on some kind of date with Abraham.

I frowned as I took off my boots. How had I let him talk me into that? Somehow our relationship had gotten all tangled up with our agreement to kill Slater.

Love and revenge make a heart grow fonder,
I supposed.

I lay down on the bed, pulling just the coverlet over me. I didn't sleep for a long while, too busy thinking through the improbability of our very sketchy plan to kill Slater. Might be crazy to head out with only the barest idea of how we would end him. But, then, not having a plan while simultaneously rushing into a dangerous situation had never stopped me before.

Sleep eluded me, so I got up, found some stationery in a drawer, and wrote Quinten a note.

It probably wasn't a very good note, but I told him I loved him and I wanted him to stay here and save Gloria. I apologized for running off to do this without him, and promised I'd see him back on the farm as soon as I could. I also mentioned that I wasn't being kidnapped, and even if Foster or Abraham had tried to do that, I would be able to hurt them. Not just because I was strong, but because when I touched them, they regained sensation.

I tucked the letter under my pillow, intending to put it under his after he was sleeping. And then I decided to try for a few hours of shut-eye myself.

I dreamed of Abraham. The Abraham of my past. Except he was also the tattooed Abraham in the hallway who had been smiling, offering me coffee, calling me love. I dreamed we were in my bed, lace curtains shifting in the morning breeze, his arms around me, fingertips gently drawing down my shoulder.

In my dream, everything was right. Our lives. Our time. Our home. In my dream, we were right together.

Then my dream slipped away, leaving behind the faint fragrance of roses.

*   *   *

Quinten opened the door to the room and slipped in. There was almost no light in the hall behind him, but I could see that he was carrying both his duffel and his wooden case. He set the case on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed to untie his boots. He took off his jacket and lay down on top of his covers, pulling up one of the blankets from the bottom of the bed to cover himself.

I waited a moment. His breathing hadn't changed yet.

“Quinten?” I whispered.

“Yes?” he whispered back.

“How did it go?”

“We'll know more by morning.”

“Did Gloria show any signs of improvement?”

He took several breaths before he answered, his voice burred with exhaustion. “Maybe. Her fever went down, and she was breathing easier.”

“We should stay here to make sure she gets better,” I said.

Again the pause, then: “I know we have to deal with Slater,” he whispered. “I know that bombs are aimed at innocent people. . . .”

“Gloria is an innocent person too,” I said. “Staying here is important. Making sure the cure works and that it can be manufactured is important.”

He took several breaths. I thought he might be asleep. Then he whispered. “Thank you, Matilda.”

I felt like pond scum for lying to him. Well, I hadn't lied about everything. Gloria was important to him, and I wanted her to have every chance to live. Quinten and his cure were her best chance. But I would not be staying with him.

I waited until his breathing went from an even rhythm to light snoring. When I was sure he was asleep, I got out of bed, put on my jacket, and slung my duffel over my shoulder, then took the note from under my pillow and set it on the nightstand next to his bed.

I knelt and as slowly and quietly as possible opened his wooden case.

He had told me the Shelley dust was very dangerous and that he didn't want me in it.

I peered at the bottles and jars and medical instruments in the case. None of it was Shelley dust.

The longer I stayed here, the higher the chance he'd see me. But I didn't want to leave without that dust. My heart was pounding so hard, I was amazed it hadn't woken Quinten up yet. Finally, my fingers caught on what I had thought was a seam in the lining of the lid, but was, in fact, a slender false drawer. I pulled that free, and three thin vials of Shelley dust clinked softly.

I glanced up at Quinten.

He hadn't stirred.

I took the vials, replaced the drawer, and latched the case, setting it in the same position as he'd left it. I wrapped the Shelley dust in a handkerchief and tucked that in my jacket pocket, then picked up my boots and very quietly left the room.

I tapped on Abraham's door with the pads of my fingers.

He opened the door. He was dressed for travel, though the lack of weapons covering every inch of his body seemed a bit out of place.

“Where's Foster?” I whispered.

“Getting a vehicle. He'll meet us in the alley. Did you get the dust?”

“Yes.”

“Let me lead.”

We snuck down the hallway and out the door. I cringed when the hinge creaked, but Abraham adjusted his grip on the latch and lifted the door to ease the hinge.

The cool day had turned into a cooler night, and a cloud cover hid the moon. The night was dark, although here and there down the street a watery lantern burned.

Abraham and I jogged away from the house and down a street, where I made him wait while I put on my boots. That done, we hurried, hugging the shadows on the way to the alley.

He made a low, soft bird whistle that was answered from the end of the alley.

Foster.

We jogged down to him, and he kept walking, down another street and another. Every street we passed ticked up my worry. I had no idea what kind of alarms or sentries the compound employed. Surely they had something in place that would spot people sneaking around.

After the fifth block, Foster walked up to the driver's side of a boxy vehicle that looked like a cross between a van and a tank. The front of it was fitted with a wedge of metal that reminded me of the old cowcatchers on antique steam-engine locomotives.

He got in the van. Abraham ducked into the passenger's seat, so I took the back.

The sound of the engine roaring to life made sweat break out across my entire body, even though the night had moved on from cold to shivery cold.

“We have two choices,” Abraham said while Foster navigated the streets as if he knew the place. “Stop for our weapons here and trigger the alarms, or stop somewhere a few hours from here and reprovision.”

“Where is somewhere?”

“Better you don't know. But there are stashes of gear hidden in the wilds between civilizations. I know one that should be untapped.”

I bit my lip, thinking it over. I liked my knives and gun. Abraham and Foster treated their weapons better than I'd seen some people treat their family members. But we needed speed and stealth.

“Let's get to that stash,” I said.

“Foster,” Abraham said, “take the back door.”

Foster turned left and left again, and we were headed for the east end of town.

We hadn't come in this way, but I expected every road into the compound to be guarded just like the road we'd come in on.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

The gate in the wall here must have been one of the originals. No towers above it; no guard shack beside it. Just a plain metal doorway large enough to drive two buses through, side by side.

It was closed and, I assumed, locked.

I certainly didn't have the key.

Foster slowed the van and brought it to a stop. Abraham jumped out and strode to the gate. There were no lanterns here, so I couldn't see exactly what he did. There was no chance he had the key. I guessed he was going to bust the lock.

It took him a minute, two, before he tugged on the gate once, hard, then slid it to one side. He had to put his shoulder into it to make the old thing roll across the tracks, and I realized it hadn't been locked; it had been welded shut.

Foster eased the van through and then waited while Abraham set the gate back in place. I didn't know if he did that to cover our tracks or to make sure ferals didn't run wild through town. Probably both. Even though the wait was interminable, I agreed that our actions shouldn't bring any more harm to House Earth.

I already felt responsible for the bomb and the people who were dead and injured because of it. And while I knew that Slater would have bombed them even if I had decided to turn myself in, it all somehow felt like I was the one who should have stopped this, who should have stopped him a long time ago.

A lifetime ago.

Abraham swung back into the van. “Go—we're clear. I don't suppose you already found us a few weapons while you were stealing this van?” he asked Foster.

Foster grinned at Abraham like a kid. “In the back.”

“Foster, my friend”—Abraham patted him on the arm—“you are the most loyal, steady, and quietly devious man I've ever met.” He twisted back toward me. “Can you bring the weapons up here? We won't get far without them.”

I worked my way around the one bench seat into the back of the van, while Foster drove at speed down a road that was rough and full of holes. The van swayed and bucked, and I hit my shoulder against the sidewall a couple times.

A heavy blanket lay spread across the floor and was folded over once. I pulled that back and took stock of what Foster had gotten his hands on.

He must have left the inn quite a while before we did and broken into an armory.

Machine guns, rifles, grenades, knives, machetes, and two bulky tank-and-trigger hose setups that looked like flamethrowers nestled next to three splitting mauls and a bundle of rope.

Nice haul.

I tried to add up the value of what we'd just liberated from House Earth, and decided we'd left nearly the same value in the weapons they'd taken from us.

Not exactly a fair exchange if you threw in the van, but, then, we were trying to save their lives.