The Severed Tower (17 page)

She pulled the last handful of washers and nuts from the pouch. If she ran out, then finding the Condensers would be impossible.

But it wasn’t an issue.

She threw three washers forward, one after the other—and nothing happened. The air ahead of them was blank. She was clear.

Mira stepped forward quickly, getting out of the way of the pirates as they followed after her, one by one, quickly exiting the Grindhouse.

As they did, Mira realized, with the exception of the three that had died earlier because of the White Helix, she hadn’t lost any of them. They were all still alive.

But Mira felt a surge of frustration.

How many Freebooters could have done what she’d just done? Navigating the Grindhouse without a marked trail? Not to mention bringing almost thirty people behind her? She should be
proud.
She should have a feeling of confidence now, but she didn’t.

You don’t have it in you,
she heard Ben’s voice say in her mind.

“Not bad,” Ravan’s voice startled Mira. The Captain studied her evenly. “You can handle yourself under pressure.”

Mira looked at her. “Is what you told the White Helix true? Are you here to meet with them?” She hadn’t had time to really process that revelation until now. It seemed incredibly unlikely. What could two such radically different groups as the Menagerie and the White Helix want with one another?

“Everything I say is true, little dear,” Ravan replied. “I wonder if you can say the same? Finding out those pointy sticks are tracking our Assembly makes me think you haven’t been entirely honest. Just who
are
these friends of yours?”

Mira kept her eyes on Ravan’s. “No one special. Assembly never come here. It probably got the Helix curious. They’re very protective of the Strange Lands.”

Ravan studied Mira a long time, and there was no way to know if the black-haired girl believed her or not. Then she turned and looked behind them. They both watched the last of the Condenser Spheres go dark, as what was left of the Menagerie made it through. “Don’t know why anyone would be protective of this place.”

Mira was coming to agree. The longer she was here, the more she despised it. There was a time when it had seemed magical—but now all it did was frighten her. Just like the Helix leader had said.

“I wanna keep moving,” Ravan stated. “Unless you need a break?”

Mira shook her head. She was exhausted, but she wouldn’t let Ravan see that. She turned and started walking through the dark, past the eerie unending line of ruined vehicles. As she did she pulled the compass pendant out of her shirt. It still pointed northwest, in the direction of the Forlorn Passage.

They were still headed in the right direction. If you could call it that.

Something moved next to her. Max trotted at her side, sniffing the cars as he went.

Mira smiled. She scratched the spot between his ears as they walked. He didn’t seem to care.

15.
AWAKENINGS

ZOEY SAT IN A CIRCLE
of the Hunters. The one who had revealed itself to her before stood closest in its differently marked tripod, watching. She could feel its intense gaze without looking up. To the others, it wasn’t just a leader, it was something else.
Royalty
was the closest word Zoey had to describe it. They would fight and die at its bidding, and for them dying was something much less immediate than it was for humans. That dedication carried tremendous weight.

Arranged in front of Zoey were four mechanical toys: a car, a train, and two helicopters. Their dusty boxes lay forgotten a few feet away. The walkers had brought them to her from somewhere outside.

The “suggestions” she felt from the Royal were insistent and firm, and they filled her mind. She was exhausted from pushing back against them, but it seemed to be getting easier, as if that part of her was growing stronger. It had been the same suggestion for an hour now. If she were to piece them together into words, it would be …

Power. Control.

It had taken a while to understand that the Royal wanted her to “power” and “control” the toys that lay beneath her. Just as she had done with the dam at Midnight City, and the old truck. The Royal was testing her, as if that specific ability was important somehow. She could do it instantly, if she wanted, but she made no move to do so.

These things had hurt her friends, scared her, commanded her about like a slave. They had healed the pain in her head, true, but only when it suited them. They were not her friends, they were not Holt or Mira or the Max. So she just stared back up at the Royal, unmoving.

Power. Control.
The suggestions came again.

“No,” she said. Speaking, itself, was a form of defiance. The Mas’Erinhah preferred she communicate with her thoughts. Judging from the sensations that bled from them every time she spoke, they seemed to consider it primitive and disdainful. “Honored” guest or not, she had been repeatedly punished whenever she spoke. The thought of another psychic lashing by the Royal made her cringe, but still she did nothing.

They were
not
her friends.

One of the Hunters lunged toward her. Zoey scooted away in fear …

… and the Royal rammed into the machine, sending it reeling backward.

The chastised tripod lowered itself, turning away its triangular eye. The menacing sensations that pulsed from the Royal suggested only
it
was “worthy” of disciplining the “Scion.”

Zoey still had no clue what that term meant. Any attempt to ask the Royal questions was met with punishment. All she knew was that she was important somehow. If she only knew why.

The Royal turned back to Zoey.
Power. Control.

“No.”

From across the room came an unusual sound. A human moan, weak and groggy. With wide eyes, Zoey looked to where Holt hung from the rafters.

“Holt!” Zoey shouted and stood up—but the Hunters moved in front of her, blocking her.

New suggestions, new feelings, poured from the Royal. It was considering, it had an idea, and Zoey watched as the machine leaped toward the other end of the room where Holt hung, coming to stand underneath his still form, almost tall enough to touch him with its metallic body. Holt moaned again.

Hope sprung inside Zoey. He was waking up.

From a diode on the Royal’s fuselage, a bright, tightly focused red beam erupted. It burned into the building’s wall, and where it hit, the bricks sparked and dissolved.

Slowly, Zoey noticed, the beam of energy tilted upward, cutting a deep fissure as it moved. She followed its path, and felt a chill as she came to a realization. If it continued to rise, the beam would stop cutting into the wall … and instead cut into Holt.

Power. Control.
The impressions came again.

The implication was clear. The Royal would hurt Holt unless she moved the toys. Zoey’s heart beat frantically.

Power. Control,
the Royal projected. The beam continued to rise. Zoey had no doubt the alien would follow through. It would hurt Holt. It would hurt him badly. It had no reason not to.

The walkers around Zoey watched eagerly. The Royal looked up, as the beam was about to cut into Holt’s shoulder. When it did, it would slice his arm completely—

“Stop!” Zoey shouted.

The Royal turned back, its red-green-and-blue “eye” buzzing as it focused on Zoey. The beam cut off instantly.

Underneath her, the car and train ran in circles around one another. The blades of the helicopters whirred rapidly, hovering just to the side of Zoey’s head.

Zoey could feel the tiny machines—everything about them—their plastic mechanics, the infinitesimal power in their circuits, the turning of their wheels, the spinning of blades.

She moved them effortlessly, feeling them bob and weave and spin. She wasn’t just
aware
of the toys. In that moment Zoey
was
the toys. Just as it had been before, and as always, it felt … amazing.

There was a rush of emotion from the Royal at the other end of the room. It was satisfaction again. Pride.

Holt moaned, stirred in his bonds, but this time Zoey didn’t notice.

*   *   *

THE WORLD SLOWLY BEGAN
to focus, and the first thing Holt saw was the burning, three-optic eye of one of the green-and-orange walkers. It was staring curiously up at him, which was odd in itself. Eventually he figured it out. He was
hanging
from something. He craned his neck to look up, and saw he was tied to the thick wooden beams that ran along a very high and long ceiling.

The walker under him emitted a brief, bored, distorted sound, then walked off. Holt quickly checked out the rest of the building.

A single, huge room made of crumbling brick walls. Rows and rows of pew-like seats stretched to an elevated area, where rested benches and high-backed tables, all of it falling apart where it stood.

Holt recognized the building immediately. A courthouse. A small one, probably in the middle of what remained of some little town.

The wall to his right had cracked and split, and through it he could see the remains of a street, the broken glass of store widows just on the other side.

And there was something else, something mind-boggling. The opposite wall was bursting inward, in a frozen explosion, where a huge tractor trailer truck was punching through. Bricks, debris and wood, it all hung suspended in the air.

He suddenly knew why, and he groaned out loud at the realization. He was in the Strange Lands now. Wonderful.

Holt struggled against his bonds, trying to break them loose, but the strands of strange material holding him were too strong. He looked at the other end of the building. The elevated part of the room contained an old judge’s bench, and the rest of the walkers were gathered around it, standing in a circle, looking down at something underneath them.

It was Zoey.

She was here, too, he saw with relief. She was okay.

Then Holt looked closer. In front of her were four small toys. A train and a car were doing figure eights around each other, helicopters were zigzagging in between the walkers that circled Zoey. She appeared to be concentrating intensely. The little girl’s eyes were shut, and her hands were covered in the same glowing, wavering golden energy Holt had seen at the dam.

She was controlling the toys—but why?

“Zoey?” he asked softly.

The girl’s concentration broke. The golden energy vanished. Her eyes ripped open.

“Holt!”
Zoey yelled. The car and train slowed to a stop. The small helicopters crashed to the floor.

The group of Hunters watched as Zoey rushed to Holt and stared up at him, beaming. Then the smile vanished. The little girl turned, looked back toward the tripod that had been underneath him—the one with the different markings, the Royal.

Holt watched the little girl and the alien machine stare at each other intently. Though no words passed between them, they held themselves as if speaking to one another. The thought was chilling.

“It says I can talk to you. For a second,” Zoey said. “It says it’s my reward.”

“Reward for what?” Holt asked warily.

Zoey told him everything, and most of it came back to him as she did. The death of the Crossroads, how he was shot, his wounds. These walkers had carried them both a long way, ventured into the Strange Lands to avoid other Assembly clans that were looking for her, had taken up inside this old ruin. They were waiting for a ship to come and pick them up, to take them back across the sea.

“The sea?” Holt asked.

“The one to the east,” Zoey said. “Their land’s on the other side.”

Did she mean the
Atlantic?
Was their “land” Europe? Africa? It implied the Assembly had divided the planet between clans of some sort. If so, it meant these green-and-orange walkers had come a long way to find
her.

“Zoey,” Holt continued. “Did they … fix me where I was hurt?”

Zoey nodded.

“Why? Why not just kill me? Why bring me along?”

“You impressed it, the Royal liked the way you did things in the flooded place, and how you escaped it the other times, too. It thinks you’re good enough for…” Zoey paused as she tried to put words to something, as if translating a foreign language. “The ‘Criterion,’ I think is right. The Mas’Erinhah are more picky about who they test than the others.”

“Mas’ what?” Holt stared down at her like a complete stranger.

Zoey looked at the green-and-orange tripod walkers behind her. “It’s the name of their clan, or at least the best I can pronounce it. They don’t really use words to talk with. I have to make my own up sometimes, to fit what they show me.”

Holt felt the same chill at her words.

“It’s not really talking; it’s hard to explain. But … I understand them. And they understand me.” She looked back up at him and he could see the fear in her eyes. “They make me … remember things, Holt. The things they teach me, it’s like I’ve done them before. Like I forgot how to do them and now I’m remembering again.” Her voice had a haunted tone to it. “I remember more and more, the longer I stay near them. I don’t understand why, I don’t like what they show me. It scares me. They call me the Scion.”

The word bothered Holt for all kinds of reasons. It wasn’t just that they had a name for Zoey, a label, or that she was something specific to them. It was also that the word itself had a sense of menace to it, somehow.

He had to get them both out of this. Quick—before whatever dropship these “Mas’Erinhah” were waiting for showed up.

Holt looked and followed the thin line of cable that held him to the rafter. It looked like the same strange, fibrous material the aliens used to tie Zoey inside that crashed ship so long ago. From what Holt remembered, it was thin and cut easily, but it was also incredibly strong. He wouldn’t be able to simply snap it, and he had no way to sever it.

But the rafter the line he was tied to was a different story. Holt could make out the cracks that ran through it. It had been weakened, probably by that truck plowing into the building. If he could use his weight somehow, shake that rafter hard enough—it might break. He’d hit the floor pretty hard, but he should be okay.