Paul looked at Sofia. “Weapons? Sweet!”
Rutger spoke next. “In these boxes are samples of our latest inventions, most of them based on items taken from the Fourth. We have enough to equip an army of thirty-two Realitants, and we think that will be enough to get us to Tick and the Dark Infinity device. And, if I may be so bold as to express my professional opinion, these things are going to kick some serious . . . um . . . er . . .”
“Booty!” Paul shouted.
“Exactly!” Rutger pointed at Paul, grinning. “Now, shall we begin?” He plopped down onto his knees and opened the small shoebox. He reached in and pulled out a tiny, dark ball, about the size of a marble. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “This, my friends, is called a Static Rager, and it’s not something you’d want to use for playing catch with little nephew Tommy.”
“Unless you be wantin’ little Tommy to be eaten by a forty-ton ball of dirt,” Mothball added. “Nasty buggers, those are. Could’ve used ’em on the Bugaboo soldiers.”
Paul leaned over to Sofia. “Now this is what I’m talking about!”
Mothball pulled a silver device from her bigger box. It was several inches thick, cylindrical, about two-and-a-half feet long, and had several tubes running down the sides, all coming together in a tapered point at the front; two straps of cloth hung from it.
“This ’ere’s a Sonic Hurricaner,” she said, hefting it up for everyone to get a good look. “Call ’em Shurrics for short. Makes the old Sound Slicer look like a BB gun, it does. Come on, ’ave a look.”
“Yes, yes,” Master George said. “Come up, gather round. We have much more to show you and not enough time. Demonstrations will take place at the canyon bottom shortly. Departure for the Fourth is in three hours. Chop-chop!” He waved his arm toward Mothball and Rutger’s boxes.
Paul was the first one to get there.
Chapter
40
A Thin Sheet of Plastic
Tick’s eyes snapped open.
He shot into a sitting position, wondering what had awakened him. Had it been a noise? Did something touch him? He scanned the small room but saw nothing out of place—except for the lamp shining brightly on the dresser. That was it. Someone had turned the light on.
Man, he thought. My brain must still be asleep.
A tiny closet offered the only hiding place, and it was barely large enough to fit a little kid. He kicked off his blankets and walked over to the closet, then ripped the door open. Nothing but a pile of his old clothes and a few fresh shirts and pants.
Sighing, he stumbled backward and flopped onto the bed. Chu created something that controls people’s minds in other Realities, he thought. Making a lamp turn on to wake me up is nothing.
After another minute, he stood, rubbed his eyes and stretched, then started undressing to put on some of the fresh clothes in the closet. As he slipped into a long-sleeved gray shirt and black pants that were as comfortable as sweats, he felt an icy chill in his chest. He had absolutely no idea what to expect or what to do.
He put on his own tennis shoes, slung the leather satchel over his shoulder, and stepped up to the door. There was no handle, just a dull slab of smooth beige material. He reached out, but before his hand made contact, the door clicked and moved, swinging out into the narrow hall. Pale lights in the hall revealed that Mistress Jane’s door was also open; her room was dark.
Tick wanted to say something, ask for help, run. He expected someone to come for him, to summon him to Chu. But as far as he could tell, the whole place was deserted.
He stepped out of his room, then peeked around the door. The main door leading into the long hallway was open. It was dark out there, too—darker than it had been last night. He walked into the hall and glanced in both directions. Small emergency lights cast pale semicircles of red that didn’t even reach the floor—anything could be hiding in the shadows.
What’s going on? he thought.
He started walking to the right, sliding the tips of his fingers along the wall. He heard a faint buzzing from the lights; the air smelled like plastic and computer machinery. He’d only made it a hundred steps or so when a shadow formed ahead of him, the figure of a person leaning against the wall.
“Who’s there?” Tick asked.
“It’s me,” a female voice whispered. Mistress Jane.
Surprisingly, Tick felt a wave of relief splash over him. “What are you doing? What are we supposed to do?”
Jane pushed herself away from the wall and walked toward Tick, stopping beneath one of the emergency lights. It cast an eerie red glow on her black hair and down her face, creased with angled shadows under her eyes and nose and mouth. Tick pushed away the thought that she looked like she was covered in blood.
“What are we supposed to do?” she repeated. “We’re supposed to kill each other.”
Tick felt a chill at the simplicity of the statement, but he knew she was right. “That’s it? He’s just going to wait around until we follow his orders and fight to the death?”
“Looks like it,” Jane said. She held out a piece of paper. “This was taped to the front of both of our doors—looks like you missed yours.”
Tick took the note from her; the paper had an odd roughness to it. Jane tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear, staring at the floor. Tick’s gaze lingered on her for a second—and he thought for the first time that she was one of the prettiest women he’d ever seen. He snapped his eyes away, focusing on the note in his hands.
She’s evil, Tick, he told himself. Evil people aren’t supposed to be pretty.
He could barely see the paper so he held it up closer to the light. To his surprise, he saw it wasn’t paper at all, but rather an extremely thin piece of plastic. Electronic, glowing green letters scrawled across its face one by one, just like someone typing a message on a computer screen:
There are no instructions. No rules. Nothing is forbidden. When only one of you remains, please walk to the end of the hallway outside your dormitory. Go to the right. You have until noon, or you both die.
“We have three hours,” Jane said when Tick looked up from the note.
“Someone’s done lumped you over the ’ead with a teapot, they ’ave,” Mothball said, glaring down at Paul with her thin arms folded. “You’ve got a ruddy broken arm.”
“I don’t care,” Paul said. He flexed his fingers while moving his arm up and down. “It’s set. It feels fine. I’m going.”
They stood with Rutger and Sofia next to the armory door; the other Realitants going to the Fourth had already received all they needed.
“Now’s not a time for false bravery,” Rutger said. “This makes your trip to steal the Barrier Wand from Mistress Jane look like a nice stroll down a country lane. This is serious business, and it’s highly doubtful everyone will return alive—if anyone does.”
Paul opened his mouth then closed it, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. He looked over at Sofia. “You’re going, right?”
“Of course I am,” she replied, looking awfully bored considering what was about to happen.
Paul turned back to Mothball and Rutger. “Then I’m going too.”
Mothball surprised him with her booming laugh. “So be it, then. Won’t be me goin’ to tell yer mum you’ve been sliced to bits by one of Chu’s nasties. Come on.”
She stooped to enter the room; Rutger waved Paul and Sofia through before he followed.
The armory was large but cramped with several aisles of metal-grid shelves rising from floor to ceiling, packed with an odd assortment of menacing objects. Some looked like guns, but most resembled trinkets and gadgets from a futuristic toy store: metal shafts with glass spheres attached to one end; awkward chunks of machinery with no rhyme or reason, like 3-D puzzles; cool watches with all kinds of dials and switches, but no timepiece; countless small devices that gave no clue as to their purpose.
“Where was all this stuff when we went to the Thirteenth?” Sofia asked.
“Most of it’s junk,” Mothball replied. “Experiments and such that couldn’t hurt a fly on a toad paddie. Sound Slicers were our best bet then.”
“Over here,” Rutger called from a couple of aisles down.
Paul almost stumbled over Sofia as they both hurried toward Rutger. The short man pointed up to a shelf holding the same large cylindrical objects Mothball had shown them earlier, with several tubes that tapered to a point on the end, straps hanging off both sides.
“Those are the Shurrics,” Rutger said. “Sonic Hurricaners. Grab two of them, Paul.”
Paul reached out—the shelf was at his eye level—and pulled two of the weapons down. They were much lighter than he’d expected, and he handed one to Sofia before examining his own.
“The two straps go around your shoulders and across your back,” Rutger explained. “It keeps the wide end flat against your chest while you activate the trigger mechanism in your hand.” He pointed to a small plastic rod jutting from the bottom of the Shurric with a red button in the middle, just like a joystick. “It’ll leave your other hand free to throw nasty horrible things at the enemy. This way.”
He walked farther down the same aisle then turned left, where several large black boxes lined the bottom shelf. “Those little marbles are the Static Ragers. We just call them Ragers for short since Stragers is hard to say and sounds really stupid.”
“What do they do?” Paul asked.
“You won’t believe it until you see it,” Rutger said with
a huge smile of pride on his fat face. “They have static electricity compacted inside them under extreme pressure. After you squeeze the suckers with your fist, you have five seconds to throw them. Once unleashed, the Rager uses the lightning-strong static inside to gather hundreds of pounds of materials to it—dirt and rocks and plants, whatever—like the world’s worst snowball as it rolls, growing larger and larger until it smashes into something.”
“Nasty little things,” Mothball muttered. She pointed at Rutger. “This little ball of lard just about smushed me into a hotcake, he did, testin’ the buggers. Not much can stop ’em once they get movin’ and such.”
“How many times do I have to apologize!” Rutger said with a frown. “It wasn’t my fault you decided to relieve yourself in the weeds, now was it?”
Mothball’s face reddened, something Paul was sure he’d never seen before.
“What else do you have?” Sofia asked.
Rutger shook his head. “That’s it, I’m afraid, at least for you two. Some of the others have more . . . specialized weapons, prototypes and such.”
“Ah, dude, why can’t I have one of those?” Paul asked. “Specialized weapons are my speciality.” He grinned.
Mothball swatted Paul on the shoulder. “Zip it. You’re lucky you’re goin’ at all.”
“Before you leave,” Rutger said, “we’ll make sure the Shurrics get strapped on properly and give you a sturdy bag for your Ragers. But it’s time to go down to the canyon floor—Master George wants everyone to test things out before leaving, which gives us just over an hour.”