by C. A. Pack
“But we’ll still end up with less than we get now,” one herbalist called out. “So even though we can ‘barter,’ we end up with less to barter away.”
Hue the Elder took a deep, calming breath. “Every year, we all receive a portion of antimony. How much antimony do you use?”
“I use none!” the herbalist answered. “So, you see, I would end up with even less than everyone else.”
“What happens to your share of antimony?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I imagine it reverts back to the ruling council and is handed out again the following year.”
Hue nodded. “So you lose it.”
“Yes.”
“Under this new system, you would be given currency denoting your annual allotment of antimony, along with currency for everything else you’re entitled to. But now, instead of losing it, you could just hand it over as your share of taxes. You wouldn’t even notice the loss, yet you would satisfy your tax contribution.”
The herbalist’s head jerked back slightly. “Oh!”
“There are others here who have allotments they don’t use. The coal monger may have no need for herbs. The innkeeper may not use his ore allotment. We all have something we don’t use that could be contributed to the common good during wartime.”
“And yet,” Drace the Elder replied, “we have seen no signs of war. I believe this new currency system being rammed down our throats by the overseers is an unnecessary tactic to control us.”
“I do not believe the overseers would take such an action,” Hue replied.
“Really?” Drace countered. “You believe them because they are known to you. I do not know them, nor do most of the people here.” Loud murmuring replaced what had been total silence.
“Considering no one person will be forced to give up anything other than what they don’t currently use,” Hue replied, “I do not see the need for agitating the crowd.”
“I bring it up,” Drace said, “because they are trying to rob us blind without our realizing it.” The noise level continued to grow. “And this currency with a special chip—whatever that is—could be some kind of device that slowly robs us of our strength, or poisons our air, or tracks us where we would prefer privacy. Has anyone here ever heard of such a thing?”
The crowd became unruly. Clearly, selling the Mysterians on taxes and currency would be no easy task.
Ozzro did not sleep well, even though the Dramatican season had reached its most comfortable level. And when he did sleep, he dreamed of Dungen vaporizing his enemies one-by-one. He awakened haggard and grumpy.
“Tired, Ozzro, you seem. The problem, what is?” one of the Dramatican soldiers asked.
“Something horrendous, I may have witnessed. After me, the person may be, if he knows I saw him.”
The other soldier moved closer and lowered his voice. “See, what did you?”
Ozzro shook his head. “Tell you, I cannot. Too dangerous, it is.”
“Yet, tell Lenc, you would.”
“Lenc!” Ozzro said, not able to hide his surprise. He thought better of giving away too much information. “Seen him, have you?”
“No. But, looking for him, I know you are.”
“Yes. See me, tell him to, if see him, you do,” he said, even though he knew no one would ever see Lenc again.
Johanna checked her diary hourly but didn’t hear from Mal until much later. I am busy on Adventura, but have relayed your question to Ryden Simmdry. He will meet with you later.
No sooner did she read the message than the overseer appeared. She explained how the time machine had suddenly appeared and how she had shot at it without thinking.
Ryden Simmdry took a few moments before he answered. RS:⌘ I don’t know if a blast from the decimator could change the dynamics of the time machine. The decimator is a Terrorian weapon, and I regret to say I have not paid much attention to it, other than noting the devastating effect it has on the life force. I imagine a blast could reverse the polarity of the time machine and, like a slingshot, send it back to its point of origin, but I can’t say that with any certainty. It is merely speculation of a possibility.
“What about the oracle. Have you determined a way to propel the cube into the time machine?”
RS:⌘ There is a way, but it would require a very dire maneuver that would put one or more lives at stake. It is a solution only of last resort.
—LOI—
16
Each Bullaroot team captain simultaneously hurled a ball in his team’s color toward their target to signal the beginning of the game. The Juveniles cheered, stamping their feet in approval, and the mayhem that typified any Bullaroot game ensued.
Before Bullaroot, Juvenile sports usually pitted two teams against each other, but in many of those games, there were long scoreless stretches of time that bored the spectators. Then, someone got the idea that double the teams would mean double the excitement, and Bullaroot was born. Having one team defending itself against three others kept everyone on their toes and entertained the crowd. Today’s game was no different, and there wasn’t one Juvenile who wanted to be associated with the losing team, so they all cheered their teams to score and booed their missed chances.
Marbol played especially hard. He had been in the tunnels and didn’t want to return. Duddu, Pollo, and Guffle wanted to win but didn’t have that extra impetus to avoid losing at all costs.
Marbol’s red team scored first with a double-rebound play. The captain himself rocketed the ball toward his team’s red bullseye, where it hit dead-center for the highest number of points and bounced back toward the field with the maximum force provided by the spring action loaded behind each target. Pye was ready for the rebound and forcefully kicked the ball in an arc that missed scores of other players on the field and descended gracefully into the red team’s net to double their point score.
The other teams scrambled, but three of Marbol’s defensemen had been instructed to thwart scoring by the competition at all costs. So instead of trying to gain control of their own ball and score, those three players roamed the other teams’ quarter fields, and they did whatever they could to disrupt the flow of competing games.
The red team scored a second time, hitting the target. Moments later, Duddu’s blue team scored when they successfully kicked their ball into the net. This caused frenzied action by Guffle’s green team and Pollo’s yellow team, who didn’t want to lose the day. But their nervous energy caused them to make mistakes, while the red and blue teams each scored additional points.
Marbol focused all his energy on scoring. He threw hard, intercepted with agility, and kicked ferociously. By the end of the first tri-match, the red team was firmly in first place, while the yellow and green teams had failed to score.
“So, are you going to ask Emily out or not?”
Jackson looked at Logan like he was a thorn in his side. “I’ll ask her when I’m ready.”
“No, you won’t. You may have broken up with Johanna, but she still possesses your heart.”
“You sound like a freakin’ poet.”
“That’s why I have a girlfriend who loves me.” He pushed Jackson toward Emily Brent. “Make your move. She just broke up with Zach Maybrecht. She’s running for prom queen. She needs a king. You can be her king.”
Jackson sighed but didn’t move.
“What if it’s a double date? Dinner and a movie. Cassie and I will go, too.”
“Yeah? You’d do that for me?”
“Yes.” Logan gave Jackson a push. “Just go ask her.”
Emily gasped when she shut her locker door and found Jackson standing on the other side, waiting for her.
“Hi, Emily.” That sounded so lame.
“Jackson. You startled me.” She smiled.
Jackson could feel Logan’s stare boring into the back of his head. “I was wondering if you’re doing anything Wednesday night? We don’t have classes on Thursday, and I thought if you’re not busy, maybe we could go out?
On a double date? Dinner and a movie?”
She paused before answering.
Jackson could feel himself deflating.
“I’d love to.”
“You would?” He was totally surprised by this turn of events.
“Yes, I would.” She linked her arm in his. “Walk me to class?”
“Sure.” He felt someone bump into him. What the…. It was Logan. It would be a long time before Jackson forgot the smirk on Logan’s face.
That afternoon, Jackson stopped at Logan’s house after he walked Emily home. “I need to go to a cell phone store.”
Logan’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you didn’t have space in your life for ‘frivolities’ because you’re saving for a car?”
“Emily asked for my phone number. I can’t have her calling me on the library phone. Besides, I’ve been meaning to get one for months.”
“Little Jackson Roth is finally growing up.”
Jackson punched Logan’s arm.
“Watch it, bud. If you’re not nice to me, I’ll let out all your secrets when we double date tomorrow night.”
Jackson groaned.
Logan smiled as he unlocked the car. “That’s what I like to hear. Total capitulation.”
The Romantican militairres moved with ease in their new uniforms as they practiced their specialties. The militairres were neither strong nor stealthy, but they developed great precision and could think quickly in the face of adversity.
Still, no one could be sure how they would react when battling a real enemy.
Natalia approached the dean. “I would like to take a small contingent of militairres inside the library.”
HB:✠ Absolutely not.
“I need to take my library back, Horatio Blastoe.”
HB:✠ And very well sacrifice your group’s lives in the process? He gently placed his hand on her shoulder. HB:✠ You’re not ready. Continue to practice fighting. Hone your skills. When the time comes, you’ll need to be razor-sharp, not only in your specified skill, but also in the other military disciplines. Natalia walked away, shoulders sagging, and joined her platoon.
“Why so glum?” one of the militairres asked.
“I think we’re ready to fight the Terrorians in the library. The dean doesn’t agree with me.”
Felicia overheard Natalia’s comment and spun around. “The dean is right. My team is doing well playing nice with each other. But I don’t know if they’re ready to handle deadly force. They still need to toughen up.”
Arraba joined the discussion. “The militairres don’t want to hurt each other, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that they’re all extremely competitive.
“What if we initiate a series of games?” the eldest Jolen sister continued. “Maybe if our militairres are fighting to win, there will be more fire in them.”
Milencia, the youngest sister, shook her head. “What kind of competition could we have with decimators? They’re already pulverizing rocks. I don’t want them pulverizing each other.”
Natalia’s eyes lit up. “The decimators have a force field setting. As the leader of your platoon, it would be your duty to make sure each militairre’s weapon is locked on the lower setting. But then they could shoot at each other. They’ll be moving targets. And the spirit of competition will sharpen their wits.”
“We can’t do that with archers,” Arraba pointed out. “It’s a shame we don’t have access to the library. We could travel inside one of the books and shoot at fictional animals to improve our aim on moving targets.”
“We could bake clay and feather mud balls and catapult them into the air as targets,” Felicia said. “That would work.”
“Okay.” Natalia nodded slowly. “That takes care of archery and weaponry. What about stick fighting and grappling?”
HB:✠ May I join this conversation?
Natalia turned to the dean. “Horatio Blastoe. Of course.”
HB:✠ Since I’ve been told that listening in on others’ conversations is commonplace on Romantica, I couldn’t help but exercise that option after I saw how defeated you looked when I said I wouldn’t let you inside the library. I believe the idea for a series of competitions is a good one. But it needs a motivator. I think there has to be something in it for the winner, like co-command.
Felicia folded her arms. “What do you mean?”
HB:✠ Each platoon has a leader—the four of you—and your responsibilities will continue to grow. The competition could be to assign troop leaders. Start with two in each division. The top two grapplers would each take over half the platoon. They would then report directly to Natalia. The four of you would retain command of your unit, but you would each gain two assistants to work with. Perhaps while the top assistants work on your group’s specialty, the second assistants could work on a different form of fighting with her troop of militairres.
“Two co-captains to boss around,” Milencia said. “I like it.”
HB:✠ They would allow for more mixed practices. And, you, as platoon leaders, would have more time to either practice yourselves, strategize like you’re doing right now, or view your militairres’ practice in other specialties.
“That could work,” Natalia said. “And we have nothing to lose trying it.”
Felicia frowned. “If they’re going to be co-captains, what are we? The word ‘leader’ doesn’t sound as impressive as ‘co-captain.’”
HB:✠ How about “commander?”
“Ooh. I like the sound of that.” Arraba saluted. “Commander Arraba Jolen at your service.”
The others laughed.
“I’ll make up signs,” Felicia volunteered, “to announce the competition. When do we want to have it?”
HB:✠ I would suggest you give yourselves two days’ time. One day to make sure everyone knows about the competition in advance; a second day to give people time to get fired up about it and practice.
“This sounds exciting.” Milencia grabbed her sister Felicia’s arm. “I’ll help you make the signs.”
HB:✠ What about your platoons?
“I’ll take care of that.” Milencia walked over to the militairres who were waiting for their team leaders to return. “Let’s all break for lunch. Afterward, we have something exciting to tell you.”
“What?” one of the militairres called out.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
During the Bullaroot game on Juvenilia, Duddu noticed Fibber, one of Marbol’s players, trying to anticipate the path of his team’s ball. The infiltrator constantly interfered with it. Duddu refused to play second fiddle. He called aside two of his people. “Boxer. The red team’s messing with us. Patrol their quarter field and knock their ball out of play.” He turned to the other player. “Elmie. Shadow the filcher who’s boogering our plays and prevent him from interfering.”
The next tri-match was more heated than the first. While the red and blue teams concentrated on getting in each other’s way, the yellow team managed to score a target shot, and the green team scored a net shot. The red team remained in the lead, but only by a point.
The teams broke for a small intermission. The captains strategized with their players while the crowd traded trinkets for cotton candy and sweet water.
The last match of the game would prove to be intense. Now that all four teams were on the board, the crowd anticipated bloodlust.
Johanna pushed her food around her plate, not really eating. Ryden Simmdry had not been very specific about the meaning of “dire maneuver.” He’d left her alone in the library, saying only that he needed to give the problem more thought.
Worse, he said there was a possibility that the blast from her decimator may have reversed the polarization of the time machine, allowing it to escape the portals.
What am I doing, eating, when I should be guarding the cupola?
She pushed herself away from the table and dumped what was left of her salad in the trash. She grabbed a bottle of water and a protein bar to hold her until on
e of the Roths came to take over for her. I used to be curator of one of the most exciting places in the world. Now, I’ve been demoted to guard duty.
She hoped something exciting would happen just to break the tension she felt.
Nero 51 did not notice the barely perceptible swish of air that followed him down to level 333—his private lair. He saluted his grandfather’s picture when he entered. “Garpa, we have encountered a small problem, but it is nothing we cannot overcome in time. The overseers will do everything in their power to thwart us, but I will not let them. I will unite the libraries under the Terrorian flag once and for all. For you, Garpa.” He settled down in a corner to meditate. While he did, he felt so attuned with life, he could hear the walls hum.
Two hours later, when Nero 51 opened his eyes, Odyon was standing in front of Garpa’s picture, studying it.
“How did you get in here?” the curator roared.
“I came in with you, of course. I was just studying, what did you call him, Garpa? He resembles you, but then again, all you Terrorians look alike.”
Nero 51 huffed. “How is it you even speak Terrorian?”
“I don’t. I created a translation charm many millennia ago that is still in use by the College of Overseers. I am speaking English—a language I learned after centuries of living on Fantasia. I’m originally from Mysteriose and can speak several of those dialects, as well. You are speaking Terrorian. With the translation charm, it doesn’t matter what either of us are speaking, we’ll still understand each other.”
“You created the translation charm?” Nero 51 felt chilled. Whatever this entity was, it either had more power than Nero 51 anticipated, or it was lying.
“Yes. Does that surprise you? I’m not as young as I look.”
“Apparently.”
“I need to get off this realm.”
Nero 51 closed his eyes. After several minutes, he opened them again. Odyon was still standing there.
