Dragons vs. Drones

by Wesley King

  One thing at a time, he told himself. First he had to try not to get arrested . . . or worse. He knew the soldiers wouldn’t be kind to them following the prison break.

  “Baby Hybrid,” he said. “Fly away if anyone but us approaches and go back to Lourdvang at the den. But if I call, come straight to us. Try not to kill anyone.”

  Dree snorted. “What do you want her to do? Bring them flowers?”

  “If it helps,” Marcus said, patting the hybrid’s wing. He was getting fond of her, lifeless though she was. Her eyes, locked on the city, blazed a fiery orange.

  “Do you guys want a moment?” Dree asked.

  “Shut up.”

  They started down the slope, being careful to avoid protruding rocks and crevices and any number of other hazards on the way. Marcus still stumbled on three separate occasions, twice relying on Dree to catch him and once face-planting on some shrubs. Scowling, he was still wiping the stinging thistles off of his face as they reached the bottom.

  “We probably could have parked a little closer,” he muttered.

  “And risk being spotted?” Dree asked. “You’re just not very graceful.”

  “Thanks.”

  She smiled. “Any time.”

  Dree led them into the untouched city, cutting through the ruined edges. The destruction was almost in a perfect ring, and as they passed into the downtown area, it looked like they were walking into the city exactly as it had been before the attacks. People were still out and about, lit by torchlight, and even the taverns were full. Dree saw a group of wealthy Draconians laughing and talking in front of a shop. Did these people not see what was happening around them? Didn’t they care?

  Dree felt her skin prickling and quickly looked away. An incident would not help them right now. But as they hurried toward the palace, her suspicions of the Prime Minister only grew. It looked like there wasn’t a single bullet hole in the streets near the palace. The buildings were pristine. The merchant stands were still set up on the side of the road. Perhaps things had been chaotic, but they were already settling down. The attacks had stopped, and the city would slowly grow, sweeping the ruins aside like dirt. She thought of her family’s home—nothing but wood and ash.

  Could Francis really have had a part in this?

  “There it is,” Marcus whispered, as the palace came into view.

  Torches lined its huge twenty-foot walls, flickering in the night. Soldiers stood at the barred entrance and on patrol around the perimeter, armed with swords and spears and bows. They could see at least thirty soldiers even from there—an impassable force.

  “Where are these sewers?” Marcus asked nervously.

  “They flow out toward the east end,” she said. “There’s a man-made trench there that goes out to a river in the mountains. Not pleasant, trust me.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  They hurried through the city, trying to stay out of view of the soldiers. The night air smelled of warm fires on the hearth, stewed pork, and, slightly fainter, something much worse. Something bad. It grew stronger as they headed east, circling the palace. The shops became dingier again, and Marcus saw many refugees huddled together in the streets, gathered around small fires and cooking what looked disturbingly like rats.

  “I guess this is where they sent the villagers,” Dree said, her voice thick with contempt.

  Soon the stench became stronger: sewage. Marcus felt his stomach turn at the prospect of climbing through anything making that kind of smell, but thankfully, Dree had a different plan in mind.

  “That’s our door,” she said, pointing at another trench flowing into the palace.

  That trench was filled with river water, obviously being diverted out of the mountains. It was only about ten feet away from the one leaving the palace—the source of the stench.

  “Whew,” Marcus said.

  “Yeah,” Dree said, grimacing. “Let’s go.”

  They followed the trench to the castle wall, both of them looking for soldiers, though it seemed they didn’t bother guarding the water and sewage systems, relying instead on the iron gates. Marcus and Dree huddled against the stone wall for a moment and then climbed down into the trench, the freezing water flowing right up to their waists. Marcus tried not to gasp. They both shivered as they moved with the strong current toward the gate. Dree kept her pack over the water, trembling violently.

  “It’s . . . so . . . cold,” Marcus said.

  “It’s better than sewage,” Dree retorted, removing her torch from the pack.

  Marcus paused. “Agreed.”

  They stopped at the gate, where Dree put her torch to the iron, softening each joint. Marcus anxiously kept a watch behind them, knowing they were trapped if anyone spotted them. They would never make it out of the tunnel in time.

  “Hurry,” he said tersely.

  “Working on it,” she replied.

  The torch was incredibly bright as it softened the iron joints, and finally, when they had melted enough, Dree took out her black hammer and pushed on them, welding at the same time. The softened iron folded inward. She did this to each joint, until a small opening was cut in the gate.

  “Let’s go,” she said, heading through.

  They moved quickly with the strong current, letting it carry them in. It was extremely dark in the tunnel, and Marcus was just starting to feel a little claustrophobic when they finally saw flickering torchlight in front of them. They stayed close to the tunnel walls as they walked, keeping an eye out for movement. There was a large, old-fashioned wheel ahead, moving the water into aqueducts and sending it streaming through the castle. The wheel was sloshing the cold water around, creating a lot of noise, and they snuck up behind it onto a slimy concrete ledge built to service the wheel. There was a torch slung on the wall there, illuminating the bricks and the many cracks and crevices that ran through the tunnel. Marcus saw small eyes reflecting the light in the darkness. The whole area was crawling with rats.

  “Stairs?” he suggested.

  “Yes,” Dree said.

  It didn’t take long. They found a set of slick concrete steps that led up out of the tunnel, the entire area smelling of mildew and mold. Marcus followed Dree up to a door at the top of the staircase, warm light spilling beneath it. Dree stopped there, listening.

  Nothing.

  She nodded at Marcus and eased the door open, cringing as the rusted hinges squeaked. They were in a hallway—clearly in a less-used area of the palace. The faded green walls were mostly bare aside from a few ancient paintings, and the floor was covered with a hideous beige carpet stained almost brown. Dree was amazed that any part of the palace would be allowed to fall into such disrepair, considering Francis had plenty of staff. They started down the hallway, looking from door to door.

  “Where would the Egg even be?” Marcus asked, his eyes on a dusty portrait of an old man who seemed to be watching them. Marcus shuddered and looked away.

  “How am I supposed to know?” she said. “I’ve never been here either.”

  “So we’re going to look through the entire palace? What if the Egg’s in the Prime Minister’s bedroom or something?”

  “Then we’re in trouble,” Dree said. “So let’s hope it’s not.”

  The hallway was lined with doors, but they all led to empty pantries and rundown storerooms and dusty wine cellars, tucked away in the damp and cold. The whole floor seemed abandoned. Finally they came to a broad staircase that led up to a pair of large, ornate wooden doors. Dree suspected the doors led to the main areas of the palace, which were sure to be filled with servants and soldiers. This was about to get tricky.

  “Stay close,” Dree whispered. “We need to be quiet.”

  Dree started up the staircase, crouching low. She turned back and saw Marcus still standing at the bottom of the steps, his eyes locked on something farther down the hall.


  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Light,” he replied, heading down the hallway.

  Dree scowled and started after him. “What are you . . . a moth?”

  Marcus shook his head, pointing. “Not torchlight. Blue light.”

  Dree followed his gaze and saw a door at the other end of the hall—a rotting wooden door like all the rest. But beneath it, a strip of eerie blue light was shining through the small crack. She frowned. She had never seen light like that, apart from Marcus’s laptop. It wasn’t a light that belonged in Dracone.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s another storage room.”

  They crept down the hall and stopped in front of the large padlocked door. Marcus glanced at Dree.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said, pulling the pick out of her bag.

  Within a minute, she had popped the lock off the door and then stood back.

  “After you,” Dree said.

  Marcus pulled the door open, letting the blue light spill out into the hallway. He blinked against the sudden glare and saw another set of rough concrete stairs leading downward.

  With one last glance in Dree’s direction, Marcus started down the steps. He descended reluctantly, afraid of what he would find. . . . And when he finally reached the bottom of the concrete steps, he felt his knees buckle.

  The ancient stone walls shimmered with an electric blue, as if they were in the midst of a lightning storm. The air was warm and dry, thrumming with the heat of hundreds of machines. It was like a living spiderweb of computer screens, power lines, and massive generators, all of them intertwined in an intricate pattern.

  And there, sitting in the midst of the spiderweb, was George Brimley.

  Chapter

  26

  “It can’t be,” Marcus whispered. But there was no doubting it was his father . . . or at least something that used to be his father.

  His eyes were sunken and opaque, flicking across a row of screens flooded with numbers. His skin was pale and glowing the same luminescent blue as the machines, while his arms and legs were rope-thin and flaccid, propped up on a metal chair with unforgiving iron cuffs connected to his wrists and ankles. His hair was greasy and limp, falling over gaunt cheekbones like grasping vines that merged into a long, knotted chestnut beard. He was almost hidden behind the mess of hair, like a skeleton with a moth-eaten wig.

  Dree saw the recognition on Marcus’s face and put her hand over her mouth in horror. That was the father he had been trying so desperately to find? She went to reach out for Marcus’s shoulder, but he immediately stormed toward the web of machinery, heading straight for his father. He ducked under wires and power cells, his eyes welling.

  He reached the chair, fully expecting his father to not even recognize him—to keep his eyes on the screens and continue on like the machine he seemed to have become.

  But the second Marcus stepped in front of the chair, his father’s cloudy blue eyes flicked to him and widened. The wrinkles on his face pulled tight with the shadow of a smile. He knew Marcus. His fingers moved, as if he was trying to reach out for him.

  Marcus felt a flood of emotions: relief, despair, hope. He had been waiting for this moment for eight years, and to finally see his father now, like this, was almost too much to bear. But his father was in there, somewhere, and Marcus would save him.

  “Marcus?” George said, his voice a hoarse croak. “Look at you. All grown up.”

  Marcus felt Dree step up beside him as tears started to roll down his face, but he didn’t care. “I’ve come to bring you home,” he said, looking at the screens. They showed pictures of automated assembly lines—conveyor belts running through some windowless factory. There were many different images, but he thought he saw wings and guns. “What is this?”

  George’s smile disappeared, sinking back into wrinkles and ghostly skin. His lips were white and thin, as if they were of no use to him anymore and had died. “This is my folly.”

  Marcus, who was inspecting the cuffs to see if they could be ripped off, looked up at him and frowned. “What?”

  Dree was examining the machinery, amazed that all of this existed in the bowels of the centuries-old palace. She ran her hands along a black wire, feeling the energy inside.

  George nodded at the screens. “I built my own prison, I’m afraid.” He glanced at Marcus, and now his clouded eyes were watering. “I thought I could make things better.”

  Marcus knelt down in front of him. “I don’t understand. I thought . . . I thought you came here to close the portal. To stop the government from harvesting Dracone and killing everyone. Why else would the CIA call you a traitor?”

  “Because I am one,” George said simply.

  Marcus stood up, trying to make sense of this. He had spent so much time convincing himself that his father was a victim—anything else seemed impossible. “A traitor to whom?”

  “Myself,” he said. “I stole something from the CIA. Something very valuable. The plans for those drones . . . many years ago. I took them here, where I knew they could never find me. I have many secrets, Marcus. And for you, they will not be easy to hear.”

  “Maybe we should get you out of here,” Dree suggested uneasily.

  “No,” George said. “Marcus deserves to know the truth first.” He paused. “In case he wants to leave me here with my many mistakes.”

  “What truth?” Marcus asked.

  George met his eyes. “I was not born in the United States, Marcus. I was born and raised in a town just outside of this city. I was a loner growing up, more interested in machinery than games. It was my only passion. Well, that and a girl named Lenda Faller, who lived two houses over.” He smiled, but it was pained. “She wasn’t interested in me, of course—she was of a wealthy family—but I pursued her anyway, and one day, when we were seventeen, she finally agreed to a date. We were married two years later in a beautiful ceremony in town.”

  His eyes glazed over even more, as if he was looking at something long ago. Dree glanced at Marcus, some pieces falling into place. He had Draconian blood in his veins.

  “Was that . . . Mom?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes. I loved her dearly,” George whispered. “And then I killed her.”

  George tried to reach out to take Marcus’s hand, but he pulled it away.

  “What do you mean?” Marcus said.

  George sighed. “I was vain. Your mother was a dragon rider, one of the best. She had a dragon named Sera, a Sage. When you were born, I knew immediately that you had her blood. You would be a rider too. I wanted to become one as well.”

  His sunken eyes flicked to Marcus.

  “I was already the leading engineer in Dracone. I was close with Francis Xidorne, and when he came to power, he let me work on new projects. There was one I kept from him, though. A mechanical dragon . . . a mount for a rider who would never be chosen.”

  Dree and Marcus exchanged a knowing look.

  “I was successful enough,” George said, “but it wasn’t quite right. It would never match a real dragon. And so I set off for the one thing that would help.”

  “The Egg,” Dree whispered.

  George nodded. “I stole it and brought it back to my town. I was going to use it.”

  “You’re from Toloth,” Dree said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” George whispered. “Helvath came out of the mountain that night, along with two other Flames. They destroyed my town and killed everyone in it. My wife tried to fight them with Sera, but they were both slain. The only survivors were Marcus and me.”

  Marcus frowned. “But how did you . . . we . . . end up in the other world?”

  “I was lost without Lenda,” George said. “I sat with you in the smoking ruins, wondering how I would protect you if the Flames returned. We
were powerless against such creatures, and they had a vendetta against me. At any moment, they might return for my only son . . . the only thing of value I had left. A year earlier I had started a new project, spatial distortions. Even then I believed that a land existed parallel to Dracone, and that it could only be accessed with energy.”

  “The storms,” Marcus said softly.

  “Precisely. By creating energy disruptions I found a way to open a portal, and we used it to escape. I started a new life in the new world, taking a job with the CIA and raising you. But as the years passed, my guilt grew for what I had done. I decided to go back and help Francis safeguard our people against the Flames and build a better world. I stole the drone technology I had been working on, and I asked Jack to watch you so I could return to Dracone.”

  Dree looked at him, frowning. “You worked on the drones?”

  “I helped design them,” he said. “I built the first ones here five years ago.” He paused. “I tried to leave you clues. The symbol . . . I had hoped it would lead you to me.”

  “The symbol on the drones?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes. The three rectangles. The place we always wanted to go.”

  “Oz,” Marcus whispered. “The towers. That’s what you wrote on your desk.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Marcus shook his head. “But it wasn’t just the towers on the drone wings. There were two eyes above them as well.”

  “Eyes?” George asked. He sighed. “Of course. Those must have been added later.”

  Marcus sat down on the stone floor, his mind reeling. He felt like he might be sick. Dree knelt down beside him, rubbing his back. Her eyes were locked on George, disturbed. Who was this man? Why would he build machines that killed innocent people?

  “What happened?” Marcus whispered.

  George looked away. “I put my trust in the wrong person. Francis changed over the years. He wanted more and more power—not just to defend against the Flames, but to destroy all of the dragons. To destroy the revolutionaries. To destroy anyone who didn’t agree with him. He wanted to become an emperor.”