Story Thieves (25 page)

“But many would be hurt, maybe killed,” the boy said. “How can you think that's—”

“Those who would control the fates of others deserve no
less,” the Magister said. “But if you need further proof as to these people's treachery, I offer you this.”

The door flung open, and Bethany stumbled into the room.

“This girl,” the Magister said, pointing at Bethany. “It was
her
power I used to bring you here. Cast a spell on her mind, my new apprentice. Force her to tell you the truth. The others come from other worlds, but she was born here. She will know.
Make
her tell you.”

The boy, wearing a gray shirt and pants that looked like they came from the middle ages, gave Bethany a doubtful look. “I don't use my power like that.” He frowned. “At least, I don't
want
to. Part of me wishes I did, but . . . but that part isn't in control.”

The Magister smiled. “You can be whoever you want to be once they're gone, my friend. That is the
beauty
of freedom, and all it takes is seizing it!”

“He might be right,” Bethany admitted, standing up. “I can't honestly say that . . . Wait, what's your name?”

“Merlin,” the boy told her.

Bethany's eyes widened, and she lost her place for a second.
Merlin?
But she quickly pulled herself together and continued. “He could be telling you the truth, Merlin. Not about freeing
all the characters from stories, or trapping people in books—that part is insane. But writers here do somehow see into your minds, see your thoughts and your worlds, see other time periods and histories.” She shook her head. “Do they make them up? Are they just witnesses to a different reality? I don't know. I don't know that
anyone
knows.”

“That can't be!” the Magister roared. “The writers
must
hold us in their sway! You believe the people of Quanterium would try to wipe out all of Magisteria if they weren't being controlled somehow?”

“I think that people do horrible things when they're frightened,” Bethany said quietly. “And I don't just mean the people of Quanterium. Go back to your world, Magister. Leave this place in peace, and we can forget any of this ever happened. Literally. We'll use a forget spell, and you can go back to being a hero, a mentor, a teacher, whatever your world needs. Whatever
Kiel
needs.”

“Kiel
betrayed
me,” the Magister said.

“This isn't you,” Bethany said. “Not the real you. You're someone that people here look up to. Someone they wish taught them, even though they don't even believe you exist. Think about that. Think of what that means, that kind of
inspiration, that kind of wonder. How do you think they'd feel if they saw you now?”

The Magister narrowed his eyes. “Do not test me, girl of two worlds. I tried to give you a world of happiness, but you rejected it. I still need your power, and it's just as accessible if I leave you in my dungeon instead.”

“Hear that, Merlin?” Bethany said. “That the side you want to be on?”

Merlin dropped his head into his hands. “Part of me . . . yes.”

Bethany swallowed hard. Right. Merlin had some evil blood in him, if the stories were true. Which they were, if he was here. “Um, okay. Then listen to the other part. The part of you that you
want
to be, not the part of you you're afraid you are. Embrace that half.” She forced a smile. “Embrace the fictional, Merlin.”

“You would return to your book, living out their stories?” the Magister told Merlin. “You'd prefer that life to one where we live in freedom?”

Merlin stood up and looked the Magister right in the eye.

“There must be another way—” he started to say, then immediately disappeared.

“So be it then,” the Magister said, then turned back to Bethany, his eyes furious. “You seem to be making a habit of turning my apprentices against me, girl. I have grown tired of this game. It's time to end it.”

“What did you do with Jonathan Porterhouse?” she asked, eyeing him warily.

“I left him in a book, as I promised,” the Magister said. “First he wrote you a new life story for me, and now he will spend the rest of his days seeing if he can write his own. He cannot be left to control my world with his writing anymore!”

“Which book? There are thousands downstairs!”

The Magister glared at her. “The titles were meaningless to me.”

Bethany gritted her teeth. “He could die!”

“I . . . would hope not,” the Magister said. “But if so, would my world not be the better for it? And what about your friend Owen? Don't you wish to know where
he
is?”

Bethany's eyes widened. “What did you do with him?”

“This was not my doing, I assure you,” the Magister said, then held up a book that Bethany had seen the cover of earlier that day, in a poster as big as a wall. “
Kiel Gnomenfoot
and the Source of Magic
,” the Magister read. “An advance copy, I'm told. It seems your friend didn't want the story to go on without its main character.” He glared at her. “Perhaps Jonathan Porterhouse neglected to mention that he murders Kiel at the end of this book? And now your friend Owen plays at being Kiel, following his story. This sort of thing cannot continue!”

“No,” she whispered.
“Give me that book.”

The Magister snapped, and flames burst into his hand, setting the book ablaze. “There are more,” he said calmly. “Down in the library, as well. Porterhouse had an entire box of them. But those will burn just as easily, my dear, if you continue to defy me.” He wiped the remaining ashes from his hand and raised an eyebrow. “So what now, Bethany? You have no protectors, no magic on your side. You've left behind your happiness, the only thing you wanted, and for what? To have your say here?” He shook his head. “Perhaps there really
is
no escaping our stories. It is not too late to help me. Kiel might listen to you. Join me, and together we will end these authors' power once and for all!”

Bethany couldn't stop staring at the ashes of the Kiel
Gnomenfoot book. Owen was trapped in there, and going to . . . die?

All of the fear, the worry, everything she'd felt the last day or two suddenly just disappeared. No more guilt or panic about books or changing their stories. Owen? The same Owen who'd looked at the Everlasting Gobstopper with so much excitement, who'd told her about the locating spell for her father? The Owen who loved Kiel Gnomenfoot so much that he'd messed up the entire series just to be a part of it?

“Protectors?” Bethany said softly. “Magic? You think I need those things to face you? A made-up character? Everything you were was in those books. Out here, you're nothing. A shadow. A
fiction
.”

Her mother, her father, everything just faded away in front of an all-consuming anger.
Be more fictional,
Kiel had said.

“You should not speak to me that way,” the Magister said, his voice low and cold.

“You talk a big game,” Bethany said, glaring at him with pure hatred. “Let's see what you've got, Mr. Imaginary Magician.”

His eyes widened, and both his hands rose. “So be it, then.
The dungeon it shall be for you, and this time, there will be no happy ending to your story!”

“Only if you catch me,” she whispered, holding up a page of a book that she'd taken from the library. “Come and get me, old man.”

And with that, she dove in.

O
wen opened his eyes to pain. Pain
everywhere
. He groaned, trying to figure out why he couldn't move most of his body. Everything was smoky, and the air just felt hot, way too hot.

“Charm?” he said, his voice croaking from the smoke.

And then he noticed why he couldn't move.

Charm lay on top of him, eerily still.

No. Oh please,
no
.

Most of her body had been blackened by the explosion, and she was missing her robotic arm and leg. “Charm?” Owen said, almost pleading, and gently tried to lift her off of himself. She weighed far more than she looked, and he could barely move her enough to slip out from under her.

All around them were the remains of popped plastic bubbles, what had to be some kind of protective crash mechanism.
Somehow, Charm had saved him both from the crash
and
the explosion.

“Charm?” he whispered, gently touching her shoulder.

Her robotic eye opened slowly, but didn't focus on him. “Kiel?” she whispered.

“Yeah, it's me,” Owen said softly. “You look . . . good.”

She tried to smile, but only half her mouth seemed to work correctly. “My robotic parts . . . They usually send damage reports. I'm not even . . . getting those. I . . . I don't think I can move.”

“You're going to be okay,” he lied. “Seriously. You'll be fine. You just need to rest.”

“I can't move,” she said, and the light in her eye began to fade. “Kiel . . . you have to go. Go now. Get out of here.”

“I can't just leave you here,” he whispered.

“You
need
to,” she said, her robotic eye fixed on him, finally, even as it grew dimmer. “The Science Soldiers will . . . be here any minute, if they're not . . . here already. They'll find you. . . . They'll capture you!”

Owen glanced around at the carnage from the spaceship crash and thought he made out more than a few robotic casings. “I think we have a few minutes.”

“
Go
, Kiel,” she said, and the light in her eyes began to flicker. “Take the keys. They're in my pocket. I got them . . . from the ship. Get to the vault. Stop Verity.
Please.
”

He started to argue, but the light in her robotic eye went out as she fell unconscious, and he just nodded instead. “I will. I'll . . . I'll go. I'll take care of all of this. And I'll come back and find you, when I can. Okay? Don't worry about anything. I've got it.”

He wiped his eyes, then grabbed the six keys from her and pushed himself to his feet, his entire body screaming in pain. The sounds of Science Soldiers' metal footsteps began to echo through the rubble, and he realized he really
didn't
have any time. There had to be a hiding spot around here . . . but what would hide him from the robots' scanners? He remembered that their scanners could penetrate anything other than metal, but there was nothing left of the spaceship big enough to hide him, and—

He glanced down at the rubble and realized that maybe hiding wasn't the best idea. Maybe he needed a disguise, instead. And not one made from magic.

The first Science Soldier to arrive, a commander, clanked its way to the crash site and found Charm's unconscious body,
as well as Owen wearing the outer shell of a beat-up Science Soldier like a costume, standing over Charm with a laser rifle held at the ready.

“REPORT, 4329918,” the commander said.

“SPACESHIP CRASH-LANDED, SIR,” Owen said in his most robotic-sounding voice. “CRIMINAL CHARM MENTUM THE ONLY SURVIVOR.”

“SURVIVORS HAVE BEEN ORDERED TO BE TAKEN TO THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE FOR INSPECTION BY DR. VERITY,” the commander said. As more soldiers made their way into the crash area, the commander gestured for them to pick up Charm and carry her away. Owen began to follow, but the commander stopped him.

“REMAIN IN SURVEILLANCE MODE AT CRASH SITE, 4329918,” the Soldier said. “DR. VERITY ORDERED A THOROUGH REPORT. USE ALL AVAILABLE SCANNERS AND CHECK IN WHEN COMPLETE.”

Owen started to protest, then realized that robots weren't exactly known for arguing. “SCANNERS DAMAGED WHEN THE SPACESHIP CRASHED INTO MY UNIT, COMMANDER,” he said, flinching under the Science Soldier helmet
that he'd yanked circuitry out of in order to fit his head. “NEED REPAIRS BEFORE ANY FURTHER SURVEILLANCE CAN TAKE PLACE.”

The commander paused, tilting his head as if considering this. Or scanning Owen. Uh-oh. Owen slowly, subtly readied his laser rifle, just in case. But the commander just nodded. “SEE TO REPAIRS AT THE PALACE, THEN RETURN FOR SCANNING.” With that, the commander turned and marched away.

Well. That was easy. Robots might not argue, but they were pretty easy to lie to.

Owen fought the urge to sprint after the soldiers carrying Charm, and instead walked robotically after them toward the large troop transport that'd take them all back to the palace. He climbed in with the rest of the unit, each sitting frozen in their assigned seat as the transport began to move. Charm had been set on a stretcher that floated in midair within the transport, so at least she wasn't getting hurt as the transport bumped over the wreckage from the crash.

Soon the ride smoothed, and Owen noticed that they had hit the empty streets of Quanterium. He'd read about the city in
the books, of course, but the sight of it almost took his breath away, though that could have just been his lungs still feeling bruised from the crash.

Blue electrical energy crackled everywhere within transparent walls and beneath glass bridges over streets, filling each building with power. The buildings floated off the ground at varying heights, with trees and grass planted in perfect measured squares all around them.

Everything, everywhere was perfect. Quanterium had no sickness. Every known disease had been eradicated centuries ago, according to the books. No one was hungry, as food was created by specialized machines from the CO
₂
they breathed out. And with the Nalwork as a distraction, who needed money?

All in all, Quanterium would have been a paradise, if not for the robotic armies roaming the streets and the tyrant who was about to destroy a planet full of magic-users.