The League of Seven

by Alan Gratz

  Archie caught Hachi watching out the window too.

  “First time to New Rome?” he asked.

  Hachi pulled away from the window, trying to look uninterested. “I’ve seen better. The wheeled city of Cheyenne. Now that’s impressive.” Hachi went back to her hammock to wait, but Archie saw her still craning her neck to look outside as they flew into the city.

  That neck with the awful scar on it. She’d said her father had been killed. Did she get the scar at the same time?

  Mr. Rivets took the Hesperus in to moor at New Rome’s Central Park, the public parking green on Mannahatta Island where dozens more airships of various sizes and designs twisted in the wind. Grazing sheep scattered as they made anchor. Archie swapped Mr. Rivets’ Airship Pilot talent card out for his New Rome and Surrounding Areas Visitors Guide card—his parents had bought it specially for trips to the city—and one paid parking toll later they were on their way to find John Douglas.

  “I only know him as Uncle John,” Archie said as they walked, making sure to go slowly enough for Fergus to keep up. “He comes by our house in Philadelphia a couple times a year, and he always sits and talks with me.”

  “What about?” Hachi asked.

  Archie shrugged. “What I’ve learned in school, what I think about things. Nothing important.”

  “What’s he do?” Fergus asked.

  “He is a printer, Master Fergus,” said Mr. Rivets. “Both publicly, as a profession, and privately, for the Septemberists.”

  “This League you told us about, it’s different from the Septemberists?”

  “Yes,” said Archie. “A long time ago, so far back nobody really remembers when, seven heroes from different parts of the world came together to use their powers to defeat the Mangleborn.”

  “Powers?” Hachi asked. “What kind of powers?”

  “Superhuman powers. Oh! This is what I realized back in Jersey, when I saw you putting together your knee brace, Fergus! We’re like three new heroes!”

  “What?” Hachi asked.

  “See, the original League of Seven beat the Mangleborn and hid them away in prisons in the earth and under the sea. But then the world forgot, see? The Mangleborn were gone and the League went away, and all of it just became legends. Stories about heroes and titans and monsters. People forgot, and they discovered lektricity all over again, and the Mangleborn fed off it and broke free. So a new League of Seven had to come together to save the world!”

  “Heroes with superpowers,” Hachi said doubtfully.

  “Yes,” said Archie. “And it keeps happening over and over again. The League beats the Mangleborn and hides them away, centuries go by and everybody forgets, and then somebody starts experimenting with lektricity again.”

  “Like Edison,” Fergus said.

  “Right. But last time, after the Medieval League of Seven defeated the Mangleborn, the Septemberist Society was founded. It’s a secret society of regular people who work to keep the world safe from lektricity and the Mangleborn. That’s what my parents and Uncle John do, along with a bunch of other people, I guess. Is that right, Mr. Rivets?”

  “More or less, sir. The Dent family have been Septemberists for centuries, long before coming to the Americas.”

  “So what’s this about us being three new heroes?” Fergus asked.

  “Oh! Right,” said Archie. “So, the seven superhuman heroes, they only come together when the Mangleborn rise, when the world needs them most. But they’re always the same! I mean, not the same people, but the same kind of heroes. There’s always a tinker—a maker—like Huang Di or Wayland Smith or Kaveh. And that’s you, Fergus! There’s always a warrior too, the greatest fighter of the age, and the way you fought that machine man Mr. Shinobi, Hachi, it reminded me of those champions—Gilgamesh and Brynhildr and Hippolyta. And there’s always a law-bringer, a scholar, a strongman, a trickster—”

  “And … which one are you supposed to be, exactly?” Hachi asked. “What’s your superpower?”

  “I’m the leader! The Theseus. The Arthur. The Rama. The one who speaks for the League.”

  Hachi and Fergus looked at him skeptically.

  “Well, I’m the one who knows the most about the League and the Mangleborn,” Archie said, pouting.

  “If we’re a new League of Seven, where are the other four?” Hachi asked.

  Archie shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe we just haven’t found them yet.”

  “But, wait,” said Fergus. “I thought you said this League, the seven heroes, they only show up when the beasties rise and the world comes to an end.”

  “They do. My parents think that’s why we lost contact with the Old World. They think the Mangleborn have already risen there and taken over. And the Americas are next.”

  Fergus looked pale. “I think I’d rather there not be a new League for another hundred years, then. At least until I’m long gone.”

  “Here we are, Master Archie,” said Mr. Rivets.

  They stopped in front of a simple brownstone building with a sign over the door that said JOHN G. DOUGLAS, STEAM PRINTER AND TYPESETTER.

  “Remember, the Septemberists are a secret,” Archie told them. “Uncle John is probably the only person here who even knows they exist. Just let me do the talking.”

  Hachi rolled her eyes, but she said nothing.

  A bell on the top of the door jangled as Archie went inside. The reception area of the print shop was small, with three wooden chairs on one side and a bookshelf of newly printed and bound editions on the other. A fair-haired woman in a blue dress sat sideways at her desk, facing a smaller desk with a typewriter on it. She turned at the sound of the doorbell, giving them a big, fake smile.

  “Hello!” she said. “Welcome to the offices of John G. Douglas, steam printer, typesetter, and Septemberist.”

  “Some secret,” Hachi muttered behind him.

  The woman’s big smile worried Archie. “Um, hi,” he said. “We, uh—my name’s Archie Dent, and I, uh, we—oh!” The Septemberist pass phrase! He should use that first. “Thirty days hath September.…”

  “We need to see Mr. Douglas,” Hachi cut in. “Septemberist business.”

  “Thank you for your inquiry,” the receptionist said, still smiling. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you in just a moment.”

  “Look here, you smiling flange,” Hachi began.

  “Thank you for your inquiry,” the receptionist said again. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you in just a moment.”

  “Thanks! We’ll just wait over here,” Archie said. He grabbed Hachi and Fergus and pulled them over to the chairs along the wall, and the woman at the desk turned back around and put her hands on the typewriter.

  “What are you doing?” Hachi asked.

  “We’ve seen this before. Me and Mr. Rivets, back at the Septemberist headquarters. Look at her typewriter. There’s no paper in it. And the p-mail. Look at the tubes.”

  Archie nodded to the wall behind the woman’s desk, where half a dozen glass pneumatic tubes came down from the ceiling. Just about every business and home in the city had at least one p-mail line, in which rolled-up messages could be delivered in airtight capsules either to other rooms or to other buildings around the city—even the country—via a series of tubes called the Inter-Net. The capsules were pushed along the tubes by compressed air until they popped out at their final destination. But the print shop’s tubes were clogged. There were half a dozen capsules backed up in each.

  John G. Douglas’ inbox was full, and no one was answering the p-mails. Archie knew that wasn’t a good sign.

  “You’ve seen this before? When?” Hachi asked.

  Archie told Hachi and Fergus all about the thing in the catacombs of Septemberist Society headquarters, and how its little bug babies had affected his parents and the Septemberist council.

  “You knew this society of yours was being controlled by a monster and you brought us all the way back here anyway?” Hachi said.

/>   “Not all of them! I didn’t know if Uncle John was being controlled by it too! And he still might not be. We have to find him!”

  Hachi gave Archie an angry look before stalking off down the hall. Archie shot a glance at the receptionist, afraid she would stop them, but she still sat with her hands on the typewriter and not typing. She was probably still smiling too.

  “Hold on,” Archie whispered they caught up to Hachi. “What if somebody comes for us?”

  “Who?” Hachi asked. “She never told anyone we were here.”

  The hallway off the reception area was lined with offices, each of which had some print shop employee sitting at a desk doing nothing but smiling. They didn’t react at all as Archie and the others walked past.

  “This sure is one happy company,” Fergus said, “but I don’t think I’d want to work here.”

  In another room down the hall a woman ran a hand-cranked printing machine. She turned the drum as mechanically as one of those cheap, single-purpose Tik Toks the Emartha Corporation sold for cleaning dishes. Ka-chunk-chunk. Ka-chunk-chunk. Ka-chunk-chunk. But the woman wasn’t making copies of anything. She was just running the machine.

  “We’ve got to find Uncle John,” Archie whispered, and he started off again down the hall.

  Hachi grabbed his arm and pointed. “Look at her neck.”

  Beneath the tight bun of the woman’s hair, just visible above her high collar, was a bug just like the ones on Archie’s parents. Just like the ones on the Septemberist council members.

  “I told you,” Archie whispered.

  Schnik. Hachi drew her dagger.

  “No, don’t,” Archie said. He pointed to a door at the end of the hall marked “John G. Douglas, Printer.” They crept down the hall, and Archie put his hand on the knob and turned it. Don’t be smiling, don’t be smiling, don’t be smiling—

  Uncle John sat behind his desk, smiling.

  Archie wilted. Uncle John was his last, best hope for rescuing his parents. If John couldn’t help them—

  “Hello, Archie Dent,” John said.

  “Uncle John!” Archie hurried to the desk. He must have just been smiling to see him! “Uncle John, I’m so glad you’re all right. All the other people here and at Septemberist headquarters, they have these bugs on the back of their necks, and—”

  “Hello, Archie Dent,” John said. “There’s something in the basement I’d like you to see.”

  “We don’t have time,” Archie told him. “You have to help us. My parents, they’re prisoners of Malacar Ahasherat, the Swarm Queen. You have to call the rest of the Septemberists.”

  Uncle John stood. “Hello, Archie Dent. There’s something in the basement I’d like you to see.”

  Archie’s skin grew cold as he realized what Uncle John was saying. It was the same thing the Septemberist council had told him, over and over again. He felt sick. Uncle John must have one of those bug things on him too. Archie took a step back.

  “Hello, Archie Dent. There’s something in the basement I’d like you to see,” John said again.

  “Um, no thanks,” Archie said.

  Hachi stepped behind Uncle John. “There’s a bug on him, just like the rest.”

  “There can’t be,” Archie said. “We need him!”

  Uncle John came around the desk toward Archie.

  “Hello, Archie Dent. There’s something in the basement I’d like you to see.”

  “Okay,” Fergus said. “That’s just creepy.”

  “Uncle John, please. It’s me. Archie. I need your help,” Archie said.

  “Hello, Archie Dent. There’s something in the basement I’d like you to see.”

  Hachi jumped onto Uncle John’s back and rode him to the ground.

  “Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!” Archie told her.

  “I’m not going to hurt him. I’m going to get this bug off him. Help me hold him down.”

  “Hello, Archie Dent. There’s something in the basement I’d like you to see,” Uncle John said into the rug. Archie, Fergus, and Mr. Rivets held John still while Hachi slid her knife under the throbbing, bulbous insect on the back of his neck.

  “Careful—taking it out’s going to hurt him. He’s going to scream and cry,” Archie told her.

  “Has to be better than having this thing in him,” Hachi said through gritted teeth. The sucking insect slurched as she pried it out. Beneath her, John shuddered and screamed.

  The bug wrapped its little legs around Hachi’s dagger as she lifted it away, the tail sliding out inch by painful inch. Archie felt sick just looking at the thing, especially knowing there were two of them buried in his parents’ necks.

  The bug finally came free, and Uncle John screamed again and then went slack, sobbing into the rug. Hachi flipped the insect away and leaped on it, driving her dagger into it. Pltttt. It popped like a balloon, splattering everything around it with a filmy green pus.

  “Uncle John?” Archie said. “Uncle John? It’s me. Archie Dent. Can you understand me?”

  “Archie?” John said, still blubbering. He kicked and thrashed. “No!… shouldn’t be here. Go. Now. You have to run. Get away.”

  “I can’t. Uncle John, my parents are in trouble. They went to Florida. To Malacar Ahasherat’s prison. She has them. They have bug things in their necks, just like you. Just like everybody here.”

  Uncle John cried into the rug. “Run, Archie,” he said through his tears. “Please. Run. The basement. Everywhere. Bugs are everywhere. Can’t—can’t let them have you.”

  Hachi hurried over to John’s desk and started rifling through the drawers.

  “What are you doing?” Archie asked her.

  “He’s useless. I’m trying to find who his other Septemberist contacts are.”

  Fergus got up and went to help her. Archie stayed with Uncle John.

  “Please, Uncle John. You’re the only Septemberist I know. You have to help us.”

  John shook his head, still weeping.

  “Then tell me who to go to! Uncle John, my parents are in trouble!”

  “Shouldn’t be here…” John burbled. “Too soon. Not ready.”

  “What do you mean too soon?” Archie asked. “What’s not ready?”

  “There’s just a bunch of pages of nursery rhymes,” Hachi said, pulling papers out of a drawer.

  “Wait, I’ve got something,” Fergus said. “Um, Archie? You better take a look at this.”

  Fergus laid a scrapbook on the desk. It was filled with sepia-toned daguerreotypes and handwritten notes and letters.

  All about Archie.

  “What is this?” Archie asked.

  “I found it in a hidden compartment in the bottom drawer,” Fergus said. “Had a spring mechanism that activated it. Simple, really. You just put a tension rod in the … But, you don’t care about that right now, do you?”

  No, Archie didn’t care about the hidden compartment. All of his attention was focused on the book about him hidden in Uncle John’s desk. Pictures of him as a baby, as a toddler. A picture of him from just last year, when John had visited. He hadn’t even known a picture had been taken of him. And the papers—letters about his academic progress, graphs of his height and weight, charts plotting his reaction speeds and strength. When had all this been written? Why had all this been written?

  “Uncle John, what is this? Why do you have a book about me in your desk?” Archie asked.

  John just cried into the carpet.

  “Mr. Rivets, why does Uncle John have a book about me?” Archie asked.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t say, Master Archie,” the machine man told him.

  Archie almost didn’t hear it, almost didn’t make the connection, but then it hit him like a blast of steam. “What did you say?” Archie asked.

  “I said, ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say, Master Archie.’”

  I’m afraid I couldn’t say. That was what Tik Toks said when they’d been ordered to keep a secret.

  What did Mr. Rivets
know that he wasn’t telling him? “Mr. Rivets—”

  “Archie!” Hachi said. More bugs like the one she had pulled off Uncle John’s neck were squeezing their way under the door.

  “Twisted pistons!” Fergus said, and he tried to climb up on top of the desk.

  Hachi was already moving. She grabbed a small wooden step stool from the foot of a bookcase and flipped it over, using it like a mallet to flatten the things as they came. Splurch. Splurch. Splurch. Splurch. Mr. Rivets waded in among them too, stepping on as many as he could, but there were more of them than they could ever hope to kill.

  “What do we do now? How do we get out?” Archie cried.

  “Window!” Hachi said without turning around. Archie hadn’t even noticed it, but there was one, right behind John’s desk. He was as thick as clinker. He ran to it and yanked on it to open it, but the handle snapped off in his hand. He shook it, angry, like it was the handle’s fault he was such a clacking klutz.

  “I broke it! I can’t open it!”

  “Hang on, I can fix it!” Fergus said. He dug into the pouch on his belt for his tools.

  Hachi gave the boys an exasperated huff and tossed the stool through the window, showering the fire escape outside with glass.

  “Or we could do that,” said Fergus.

  Archie ran for Uncle John as Hachi climbed out the window. The door splintered and cracked, and more smiling, enthralled people from the office began to push their way inside. The bugs were coming fast and furious now too, their back ends raised like scorpion tails.