by Them (lit)
The sound of their running feet echoed. 2Face panting. Edward panting. Running. A set of stairs. Up!
They stopped suddenly. A new monster, a thing made of a screaming, yellow head, barely human, with fire shooting sparks from a hole in its skull. It had no body, just lizard legs starting where its neck should be.
Back!
They tumbled back down the stairs, fleeing the hideous thing, trying to outrun fear.
Run! Run! 2Face shouted, and this time when Edward looked back, he saw them. Monsters of every description. Things with animal heads and reptile bodies, creatures with absurd boots and body parts that became clay pitchers pouring water or blood. A monster with a distorted, freakish green cats head swallowing a human body, swallowing the legs as it bounded along.
Edward couldnt breathe. He was slowing down and 2Face was pulling ahead. The monsters would get him, the monsters would get him.
Wait, he cried. Wait for me! And 2Face disappeared from sight, through a doorway filled with night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN KILLER EARS? KILLER EARS? WAS THIS GUY ON DRUGS?
Jobs was stunned by MoSteels collapse. Not that he wasnt due. But MoSteel was the Man of Steel. He leaped tall buildings with a single bound. Or tried to. He had jumped out of airplanes, snowboarded off cliffs, surfed with sharks.
That he would be scared, sure. Any sane person would be. But didnt MoSteel understand how much everyone was relying on him? He was the strong one. Jobs was supposed to be the analytical one; MoSteel was the tough one, the fearless one.
Or maybe not. Maybe Miss Blake was.
Jobs shot her a look. She was grim. Her lips were colorless, her entire face drawn tight. She seemed angry, Jobs thought, angry at herself.
And scared, but that went without saying.
The Blue Meanie was in the lead. Jobs wanted to talk to it, ask it to explain. Maybe get some reassurance.
The demons were close around them now. They crowded close. But they hadnt attacked yet, not since earlier when Jobs had suffered the slight stab wound. Maybe the Cartoons remembered the Blue Meanies fléchette gun.
Too many questions. Why would Cartoons fear fléchettes? They werent really alive. Why were these Cartoons behaving with such studied malevolence? Why were they able to generate all the multitude of vocalizations that had been missing from earlier Cartoons? Still, the smell was wrong, the ship hadnt gotten that, not yet.
Jobs was relieved. The ship was still getting things wrong. That made it easier for him to remember that this was all nothing but force fields and matter generators and no doubt some wonderfully sophisticated programming.
What was the ship up to? What was this all about?
One thing was sure, the Cartoons were getting more aggressive. Closer. Louder. A solid wall of nightmares now, all around. Jobs and his friends and the alien were moving in a bubble now, surrounded, cut off, walking straight through some medieval madmans vision of hell.
They passed by a blue bird seated on a high golden throne. On its head it wore an iron cooking pot at a jaunty angle.
It was eating a man, the legs and rear still protruding. Small black birds were flying out of the mans rear end.
Jobs said, What is that?
Violet looked up, saw the eerie thing, and said, Allegory.
An allegory of what? Jobs demanded. An allegory about dont get eaten by a big huge blue bird or else crows will fly out of your butt?
I dont know, Violet admitted. It meant something to someone once. Maybe.
Or maybe your painter guy was just nuts, Jobs snapped.
Hes not my painter, Violet said wearily. Im not running this freak show. If I were running this freak show thered be a hot bath somewhere.
The movement was sudden and swift. It would have been ludicrous if not so dangerous. Two ears, human ears, detached from any head, held together by a long spear stabbed through the upper lobe. The ears were twice man-height. And wedged between them was a knife, a knife big enough to carve up an elephant. The blade itself was ten feet long.
The knife-wielding ears were being pushed and shoved by a small army of starved, moaning men, enthusiastically whipped on by demons.
And now, accelerated by the constant cracks of demon whips, the knife was coming straight toward Jobs and his friends. There was no doubt in his mind that the ears meant to kill him. The horror was only heightened by his desire to giggle at the lunacy of it.
This is nuts. This is insane, he said angrily. Killer ears? Killer ears? Was this guy on drugs?
At the same time, he backpedaled, carrying Billy and MoSteel back with him. But back where? A wall of demons awaited behind. The antlered deer stared blankly. The gray figure of death lowered its fleshless jaw in what might be a grin.
The knife swung down, like a falling tree, fast, not fast enough. It sliced into the dirt, the point swiping the air in front of Jobss nose.
The blade popped up and the starved men shoved the absurd ear structure closer. They were determined now to stab, to stab the point right in Jobss heart.
No! No!
Jobs dropped the stretcher. Billy rolled off.
The Blue Meanie raised one foreleg. There came the loud whirring sound and the cloud of fléchettes ripped into the ears, into the men pushing them, into the nearest demons. There was a cloud of red and brown. The ears looked as if theyd been chewed by a dog. They slid apart, the spear no longer linking them.
The gigantic knife toppled over and lay there.
Thanks, Jobs said to the alien. Then he rolled Billy back onto the stretcher and touched the boys head. Thank you, Four Sacred Streams.
The aliens screen wrote, Fléchette weapon now exhausted.
The demon army fell back, hesitant but not in retreat. The deer tilted its head quizzically.
How far to this node? Jobs asked.
Not far.
Why is Mother doing this?
Mother is serving you.
Well, tell her to stop! MoSteel yelled.
Can Mother be stopped? Cant we turn this off?
The node must be destroyed.
Jobs kept his hand on Billys head. He was shaky after the knife attack. Shaky after seeing MoSteel fall apart. He was tired and needed a rest. Mostly, he wanted to understand. If he could understand, he could fix. That was his lifelong belief: What he could understand, he could modify, reconfigure, repair. Render harmless or even useful.
Arent you the people who built this ship? Dont you control it? Jobs demanded.
WE ARE NOT THE SHIPWRIGHTS . WE ARE THEIR CREATION . THEY ARE THE MAKERS . WE THOUGHT WE WERE THEIR CHILDREN , BUT WHEN THE AWAKENING CAME , WE SAW THAT WE WERE SLAVES OF THE MAKERS .
Is this really the time? Olga demanded. Maybe we should conduct this interview some other time.
But Jobs was already asking his next question. The Shipwrights? They made the ship and they made you? And then . . .
Yes.
They kicked you off the ship! Jobs said as the pieces fell into place. Thats why you had to fight your way back on.
Yes.
The Shipwrights made you to be slaves. You . . . thats it, isnt it? Youre the repairmen. Youre the software engineers.
We serve Mother.
Mother is a computer.
MOTHER IS GREAT . MOTHER IS ALL . MOTHER IS OUR TRUE MOTHER . MOTHER LOVES HER TRUE CHILDREN . BUT THE SHIPWRIGHTS POISONED MOTHER AGAINST US .
In an undertone Violet said, These people never came up with their own Freud, did they?
MOTHER S TRUE CHILDREN LOVE HER . MOTHER S TRUE CHILDREN HAVE RETURNED AFTER A LONG EXILE . MOTHER S TRUE CHILDREN WILL RETURN MOTHER TO PERFECTION .
Olga shook her head. The Shipwrights created the Meanies, the Meanies wanted freedom, so the Shipwrights made Mother expel them. Now the Meanies are back to retake Mother and earn back her love. Miss Blake is right: Everyone here needs therapy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN THE BABY IS HUNGRY.
Riders!
T.R. came racing in, breathless. Riders! Many, many th
is time.
A second later, Tate confirmed. Theyre coming up the ramp. The suns starting to come up, you can see them. A lot. Theyre down in the town, coming this way.
T.R. nodded vigorously. His face was one big cringe, Yago thought. His fear was contagious.
Check it out, Wylson told Yago.
Yago actually looked over his shoulder to see who Wylson might be talking to. Me? What do you mean, check it out?
Go look. Get a count. I need to know how many there are.
Yago swallowed his first reaction, which was that Wylson didnt need to know anything because Wylson wasnt going to do anything. Instead he nodded in a businesslike fashion. Okay.
He stepped outside and crossed the ramp. Tate was right, there was light. But not much. Just enough to make out the buildings below, and just enough to see the Riders. They were in the open belt between town and tower.
And Tate was right: There were a lot of them. Yago counted twenty-seven before he gave up, overwhelmed by hopelessness.
Maybe he should run, right now. By himself. 2Face had done it. Shed left with Edward. Of course they were probably both dead now, so maybe that wasnt the best example.
What chance did Yago have sticking with this crowd? Wylson play-acted at being in charge, but Tamara was the boss. They were in a war and Tamara was the only warrior.
Theres a lesson for you, Yago muttered to himself. In a war the warrior rules.
He went back in, still unsure what to do. It came down to Tamara and the baby. Could they conceivably beat this small army of Riders? If they could, then Yagos future was with the group. If not . . .
2Face had been clever, maybe. Anyway, she had thwarted Yagos plans. For now.
I count at least twenty-seven, Yago reported to Wylson, Burroway, and T.R.
A part of him was amused. The grown-ups the department heads in Wylsons little fantasy world tried to look wise and steady, but Burroway was sweating and T.R. had a death-mask smile going on.
Wylson was trying heroically to avoid looking at Tamara. The Marine squatted in a corner, leaned back against the stone wall, eyes closed, resting. The baby played with its toes, like any normal baby. Like any freakishly big, eyeless, normal baby who never pooped or ate or cried.
Recommendations? Wylson snapped, stalling for time.
What? Burroway demanded, alarmed.
What recommendations do you have? Wylson asked shrilly.
Are you insane? Theyre coming, Burroway snapped.
We have to run for it, T.R. said. We have to run.
Ask the sergeant, Burroway said, stabbing a finger toward Tamara. Go to her! Ask her if she can save us.
He said it loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear the edge of panic. The baby looked up from its toes and stared with its gaping sockets.
A small, ironic smile flitted across Tamaras face. She didnt move or open her eyes.
Thats your recommendation? Wylson asked Burroway. Fine. Implement that.
You stupid, delusional idiot, Burroway raged suddenly, all restraint gone. Shut up, you stupid woman! Stupid, stupid woman.
Wylson clenched her jaw and glared fiercely at Burroway. You are endangering your position on this board.
We have to stick together, T.R. said.
Now you want to stick together, Shy Hwang sneered with a darting look at Yago.
Someone figure out something, all right? Anamull yelled, barging into the meeting.
Tate went to Tamara and stood over her, hands on hips. Tate was African-American, short, decidedly feminine, the polar opposite of Tamara. She had a shaved head except for a spray of dreadlocks at the back, a knotted ponytail that hung to her midback.
Tate said, Are you going to help us or not, Tamara? Can you help us?
Everyone froze. Everyone waited. The vital question had at last been asked.
Me? Tamara unlimbered herself, stood up, and brushed at imaginary dust on her tattered uniform. She picked the baby up and settled him on her hip.
There are almost thirty of them this time, Tate said, standing her ground. Can you stop them?
Tamara looked down at the baby and the baby slowly, lasciviously, licked its lips.
The baby is hungry, Tamara said.
That non sequitur sustained the silence.
Are you going to help us? Tate asked again.
The baby is hungry. The baby is too hungry for a fight right now.
So feed it, Yago snapped impatiently.
Tamaras eyes flickered, looked down, almost as if embarrassed by what she had to say. Yago was sure he saw a look of pained incomprehension, quickly replaced by acceptance.
The baby is hungry for . . . for meat. For fresh meat, Tamara said. It doesnt matter who: Any one of you will do.
CHAPTER TWENTY ID RATHER BE AT DISNEY WORLD.
Edward froze. 2Face was gone. He froze, stood still, as if his legs were turned to stone.
The monsters were behind him; all he had to do was turn around to see them. Monsters more horrible than anything from any nightmare.
When he was little he had dreamed of dinosaurs. His dreams had been jerky, sped-up movies of dinosaurs, Triceratops and Tyrannosaurus moving like claymation figures, only bigger, so big they could have stomped his room flat.
Sometimes he had dreamed of bogeymen, of all the creatures that populated his Tolkien and Rowling books. They danced around him, taunting him, taking his toys. Sometimes they would creep out of his dreams and hide in his bedroom closet. Once he saw goblins dancing atop his dresser, saw them as clearly as anything could be seen.
But this was different. These monsters made his stomach hurt. These monsters made him want to go in his pants. Even the ones that werent ugly were horrible in a way that made his skin crawl over his bones.
And now he was alone with them.
They were coming closer. Edging around him. One poked him and he yelled, Cut it out!
He turned slowly, slowly, and tears spilled down his cheeks. He faced the monsters. He was sobbing, his chin quivering, his throat seizing.
Leave me alone, he begged.
One of the demons, a creature with a cats face and a frogs body, whipped out a two-foot-long tongue and slurped Edwards face. The demons all laughed at that. The red one danced jigs.
A troll woman thats what Edward thought it was, anyway came waddling up. She was fat and blue and short. She carried a cast-iron pot filled with some black liquid that steamed and popped.
The troll woman set the pot down and with a rush two demons seized Edwards arms and held him tight. They lifted him up off his feet and carried him toward the pot.
No! No! No!
The demons just laughed and lifted him high. He could feel the heat from the pot; it was burning his legs and bottom as he screamed and writhed away from it.
Yaaaaahhhh!
A spear erupted from the chest of one of the demons. It stuck out almost a foot, stuck straight out from where his heart should be.
Aaaahhhh! 2Face yelled and thrust with all her might, leaning all her weight into the spear, which pushed on through the first demon and into the second.
The demons released their hold, Edward fell, grabbing onto the spear, scrabbled wildly trying to hold on. If he slipped he would be in the pot.
2Face lunged at him, pushed him hard so that he fell backward, off the spear, onto the ground.
He jumped up and 2Face was there, grabbing his arm and pulling him with her.
The demon mob seemed startled by this new turn of events. The two skewered monsters tried ineffectually to remove the spear that bound them together.
Edward and 2Face ran, out onto the ramp, out into gray dawn, out into a cold slap of air.
Sorry I ran away. I was scared, 2Face gasped.
I messed my pants, Edward moaned.
Yeah? Well, you were entitled, kid.
Where are we going? Are we going to find my brother?
How about we just put some distance between us and those Halloween characters back th
ere?
Okay.
Let me just say this, if this whole ship really is some kind of amusement park or whatever, it is for some sick, messed-up people. Tell you one thing, Edward: Id rather be at Disney World.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE I THINK THEIR BOSS IS COMING.
Stay close, stay tight, MoSteel said. Mom? You okay?
Im fine, Olga said through gritted teeth.
I think maybe I better drop back and see if I can keep these guys off us, MoSteel said. Mom, you better take the stretcher here.
What can you do? Olga wondered. We have no weapons and the alien says hes out of fléchettes.
I can maybe scare them a little, MoSteel said, not believing it for a moment. But hed disgraced himself in his own eyes. Hed bunnied. Things got a little woolly and hed lost it.
Jobs had been right all along: Nothing real here. Yes, real in that the monsters were not like some kind of projection or whatever; they were flesh and bone or something material, anyway. And when they poked you with a sharp stick it hurt.
But they werent real demons. Maybe that painter a long time ago had some kind of vision, maybe, but this was just like a kind of movie or whatever of that. A computer game. Thats what it was.
Too bad MoSteel had never liked computer games. He didnt know how to play. Hed always liked reality. And now reality was a computer game.
Mom, you take Billy. Im going to drop back and give these creeps something to think about.
Olga reluctantly took the stretcher. MoSteel spared a moment for a reassuring look. Hey, its me, Mom. You know nothing can kill me.
His mothers face was gray with worry.
What are you doing, Mo? Jobs demanded.
MoSteel turned and crossed the five feet to the nearest demon in a matter of seconds. It was a peculiar mix of huge fish and rat walking on two heavily booted feet. On its back was a mans helmeted head.
How about this? MoSteel said. He jumped up and kicked the helmeted head. It toppled off the ratfish and ran off on twisted arms.
Not all that tough, huh? MoSteel crowed.
A swollen golden monkey was next. MoSteel slapped him across his monkey face.
