The Blade of Shattered Hope (The 13th Reality #3) (9 page)

Frazier squeezed his way through a clump of thin, gangly trees into a wide patch of vegetation. His spirits lifted slightly. Maybe they were past the thickest part of the forest. Kicking and pounding down with his foot, he pushed his way through the thick, clinging growth, leading the Alterant and moving ever closer toward the exact latitude and longitude of the Blade location. By the time he saw another grove of gigantic trees looming up ahead, his watch beeped, once, long and loud.

They’d reached the fifty-foot radius point.

If he hadn’t had a prisoner behind him, tied and bound to him and watching his every move, he would have dropped to his knees and howled at the sky in delirious joy. Of the now eleven times he’d made this journey, this one had been the most difficult. It was the heat; it had to be the heat. He felt utter dread knowing he still had one more Reality ahead of him. But, for now, he allowed himself some elation, at least a little. Even if he did keep it on the inside.

“We’re here,” he said, making sure he didn’t allow the relief to trickle into his voice. “I need a minute to set up. Don’t try anything. Or, um, I’ll have to, um, kill you.” Of course, not in a million years would he do that—the Blade operation was way too important, and it couldn’t happen if even one of the Alterants died—but
she
didn’t know that.

“Where’s here?” the woman asked, her voice hoarse and scratchy. “Why won’t you tell me anything?”

“Because you don’t need to know.” Frazier walked a little way farther until they were in the rough middle of the designated area. He let go of the rope, giving the prisoner the evil eye as he did so, knowing she’d get the message. He swung the Blade component off his shoulders, unhooked the leather straps, and let it thump to the ground in front of him.

“I’ve dealt with people a lot worse than you,” she said in a raw whisper.

Frazier barely heard her. He was down on his knees, studying the Blade. Or, more accurately, a
part
of the Blade. One of thirteen parts, it was a beautiful piece of work. Made of the blackest stone—a substance that did not even
exist
in any Reality, at least not naturally—it had no measurable shape or dimensions. Twisty, curvy, and slightly elongated, it was like a beautiful, abstract sculpture, with dozens of thin strands connecting two bulky end pieces, all of it harder and stronger than the toughest metal or stone. And blacker than the deepest, starless night.

Jane had
made
this. She’d created it. He’d begged her to explain how she’d done it, explain what the material was, explain the science behind it. But she always refused, saying it was on such a deep and complex level he’d never understand. A lot of it, she finally told him, came about purely on instinct, a result of her digging through the wonders of quantum physics and spacetime. But on several occasions, when she otherwise seemed asleep or lost in thought, he’d heard her whisper two words:

Dark matter.

He was sure of it. She’d said
dark matter.
Whether or not it had anything to do with the Blade, he couldn’t be sure. He certainly had no idea if what lay in front of him now was made of dark matter or contained it somehow. But his gut told him that his boss had stumbled upon a discovery that would alter the Realities forever if she ever chose to share it with her fellow scientists. But that, he knew, would never happen.

Dark matter.

He shivered, and feeling the chill in the brutal heat ripped him out of his wandering thoughts. He snapped his head up to look at the Alterant, who stood quietly, everything from her face to her hands to her clothes seeming to wilt toward the ground, a display of misery. He felt truly sorry for her, and knew it was because of how much she looked like Mistress Jane.

“I’m sorry this has been so rough on you,” he said, positive she’d think he was up to something and not being sincere. He didn’t care. “Sometimes I lose myself in the amazing things we’re trying to accomplish. Sometimes I . . . forget that the people we hurt along the way are human.”

The woman stared at him, disgust wrinkling up her face. Then she spat on the twisted black stone. “You can take your sick voodoo toys and shove ’em up your nose. Go ahead and kill me. Do whatever. I don’t care.”

Frazier couldn’t take his eyes off her for a long moment. She looked so much like his boss, it hurt his heart to hear her say such things. He felt a sudden surge of something between pain and love. He wanted to go to the woman, hold her, kiss her. In that instant, he didn’t want to hurt her like this.

“Get your ugly eyes off me,” she said. “I’ve seen rats who look more intelligent than you.”

That ended his brief flare of weakness. He reached out and grabbed the rope around her neck. He stood up and made her sit on the roughly flat surface of the Blade’s top bulky section. The thin strands of hard, black stone twisted and curved their way down until they connected with the bottom section. They looked like a clump of wires. Maybe, he thought, somehow that’s what they were.

“Sit there and don’t say another word,” he said as he wrapped the rope around her body twice and then strung the rope through the tight spaces between those strings of dark rock. Once he’d tied that off, he took a set of metal shackles from his pack and clamped them around the Alterant’s ankles, securing them to a couple of strands that bent out more than the others. There was no way she could get away, and the stone was far too heavy for her to drag and shuffle along in tiny steps.

Everything was set.

“Are you going to leave me here?” she asked, having lost her bravery from a minute before. “Let me die?”

“Yes and no.” He loved giving that answer, loved seeing the perplexed look that came over the Alterant’s face when he said it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she responded.

Frazier placed the prepared sack of food and water next to her feet. “Just answering your question.” He stood up, then turned and started to walk away.

“Wait!”
she screamed. “Please! I can help you. I’m the best of the best! Please don’t leave me here!
Please!
”

Frazier didn’t respond. He found it was better that way. He just kept walking, knowing it’d be easier to make it to the winking point without a huge block of stone on his back and dragging a prisoner behind him. Ignoring her desperate pleas, he reached the end of the swatch of vegetation and reentered the vast forest.

The Blade of Shattered Hope was almost complete.

The Black Tree

~

Mothball had to grab Sato and physically pull him away from the spectacle. The sight was just too hard to believe and had put him in a daze. Luckily the fighting clowns didn’t seem to notice them.

“Come on,” she yelled at him, dragging him across the field as easily as a sack of raked leaves. “Soon as those lugs take notice we’ve got one the likes of you, we’ll be the ones they be fightin’, not themselves—bet your buttons. Come
on!
”

Sato finally got his feet under him and regained his composure, walking quickly alongside Mothball as Rutger struggled to keep up. “What
was
that? Who are those people?”

“Bugaboo soldiers,” she replied. “Nasty people, they are. Completely insane.”

Sato forced out a chuckle. “They’re dressed like
clowns
and trying to stab each other with sharp swords. What makes you think they’re crazy?”

Mothball seemed to miss his sarcasm. “Not right in the head. Been crazy ever since the war ended, not knowing what to do when there’s no one to fight. Rutger, chop-chop, little man!”

Sato turned to see Rutger a good twenty feet behind them, pumping his short little arms as he tried his best to run. “Slow
down!
” the short man yelled. “Before I croak!”

They topped a small, sparsely wooded rise and headed down the other side. Once they were out of sight from the odd group of battling clowns, Mothball finally stopped and allowed Rutger to catch up. The poor man’s face was blood red—a cherry on top of a black ball. Sato expected a blur of insults and smart remarks from Rutger, but it was all the guy could do to breathe, heaving air in and out.

“I still don’t get it,” Sato said. “Who
are
those people?”

Mothball rolled her eyes, in a rare bad mood. “’Tis a long story and no time to tell it. Once we make it to me mum’s house, you can ask your questions. Can we go now?” She loomed over Rutger with her hands on her hips.

The robust little man looked up at her. “How far?”

“Just ’round the bend up yonder,” she answered, pointing toward a small paved lane that came out of a forest to their right and went over the next hill. “We can stop runnin’, we can. I ’spect them Bugaboos’ll be quite occupied for a spell. Come on.” She headed off for the road.

Sato looked at Rutger. “Do
you
know anything about these Bugaboo soldiers?”

Rutger shrugged, a movement that shook his whole body. “Enough not to bug Mothball about it. She has a
long
history with those nutsos. Let’s just get to her house and then we can talk about it.”

“Whatever,” Sato muttered, consumed with curiosity. Sword-fighting clowns were bad enough, and the fact that Mothball was scared of them only made it worse. He felt a disturbing chill that made him shudder. “Let’s go.”

Rutger started off down the hill, and Sato followed.

~

The road led to a cluster of homes surrounded by an enormously tall wall of roughly mortared stones. In fact, everything about the neighborhood was tall: the houses, the trees, the carriages and their horses. And once he got past the sheer size of it all, Sato was amazed at how medieval everything looked.

What kind of a world had Mothball grown up in?

She seemed to sense his thoughts. “Don’t ya worry, Master Sato. Plenty of fancy things in this Reality—cars and tellies and the like. We just enjoy livin’ the old-
fashioned way ’round these parts.”

“Just be glad they have fridges and real toilets,” Rutger muttered.

They made it to the wide opening of the border wall, where a massive iron gate was closed and locked to prevent anyone from entering.

“Can’t be lettin’ in the Bugaboos,” Mothball said. “Gate stays closed every minute, ’less you say the password.” She took a deep breath, then yelled in a slow, booming voice, “Donkey hoe tea!”

Sato wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Did you just say
Don Quixote?
Like the book?”

Groans and creaks of metal filled the air as the gate swung inward.

“No, never ’eard of that one,” Mothball responded as she stepped forward to enter. “I said
donkey . . . hoe . . . tea.
Chooses three random words, it does, and every day’s different.”

Sato hurried to keep up with her, Rutger hustling along right behind him. “It? What is
it?
” A loud clang announced the gate had closed again.

“Old Billy’s fancy ’puter that runs the place. The gate, the lights, the whole bit.”

Sato couldn’t help but be fascinated by this Reality. Up until now, he’d seen only the cemeteries of Tick’s Alterants, and he was excited to have a break and meet more people, see if they were a lot like Mothball.

A gravel path led them from the entrance through a greener than green patch of grass, speckled with red and yellow and purple wildflowers. A slight breeze picked up, running across the grass in waves, bringing a sweet scent along with it. It hit Sato that the temperature was perfect here—not too cold and not too hot. For the first time in awhile, he had the urge to kick back and relax, take a long vacation. And right here in his tall friend’s neighborhood seemed like the perfect place.

With a deep sigh, surprised at his sudden good mood, he followed Mothball as the path intersected a wide, cobblestone road, running away from them for at least half a mile, both sides of the road lined with those ancient-styled houses. Made of large rocks and roughly hewn brick, the homes would have looked almost like natural formations that had stood for a thousand years, except for the countless boxes of flowers hanging here and there, the roofs thatched with bundles of long grasses, the multi-colored windows, and the brightly painted wooden doors—mostly reds and yellows.

And the yards. Sato was used to his home country of Japan, where the small homes sat almost on top of the streets and had maybe just enough room for a tiny tree and a single bush. But these houses had huge yards, filled with green grass and finely groomed bushes and majestic trees. And gardens. Lots and lots of gardens, growing every veggie and fruit known to man, by the looks of it.

As they walked down the street in silence, Sato had the feeling that if he’d been born in this Reality instead of his own, he would’ve grown up the happiest person ever. How could anyone be grumpy in a place like this?

Then he remembered those psycho people dressed up like clowns and fighting each other with swords. The big stone wall and locked iron gate. Maybe life here wasn’t so blissful after all.

“Which one’s yours?” Sato asked. “And where is everybody?” He’d yet to see one other person.

Mothball absently pointed somewhere up ahead. “Just a bit farther. And most folks are off to town, doin’ their jobs and such. Thems that ain’t are havin’ afternoon tea in their parlor, I ’spect.”

“I don’t think my feet will ever forgive you,” Rutger said through heavy breaths. “We need to bury a bunch of dead people in your backyard so we can wink straight there next time.”

“Mayhaps we’ll start with you,” Mothball replied.

Rutger barked a fake laugh. “Well, the way my heart’s beating, you just might be right! I’ve probably lost ten pounds already.”

“Walk another few weeks straight, and maybe you can fit through me mum’s door without me kickin’ ya in the ruddy bottoms.” She laughed, a rolling stutter of thunder that lifted Sato’s spirits even more.

“You guys are the weirdest best friends I’ve ever met,” Sato said. “Maybe you should just go ahead and get married.”