Really, it’s not the best thing for Helen, either. Just a way of coping.
Henry sits cross-legged under his covers, a flashlight creating a glow from beneath the blanket. His pencil scratches softly on the paper as he draws.
Finally, Helen has a chance to talk with her mom.
“Mom, Henry’s having a hard time. He drew a picture of you walking into a volcano.”
Kate considers this for a minute. “Well, that can’t be good,” she says.
“No mom, it’s not. He’s scared all the time. When you leave, he’s sure he’s not gonna see you again. And he’s getting worse. At school today he got into a fight with some girl. Tried to whack her in the head. He says she grabbed his sketchbook away and tried to look at it with some other girls. So he grabbed it back and then swung it at her head. Fortunately, he missed. Or we’d be looking for a new school on his fourth day there.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning,” Kate says.
“He says that people don’t understand what he’s drawing, and that they can’t ever understand,” Helen says. “He says that he can draw the future, mom. He says he can draw things that nobody else can see.”
“Great. So there’s a volcano in my future?” Kate asks.
“I don’t know, mom,” Helen says. “But there’s more. His drawings, some of them are pretty violent. I mean, that’s not really unusual for a kid his age, but if the teachers get a look at them, we might be getting some phone calls.”
Kate looks across at her daughter. Maybe it is time to explain everything, she thinks. But that’s a heavy load to lay on a couple of kids. Helen has no idea who she really is. Kate knows she’s clinging to the little girl that she can still see outlined in Helen’s features, the one who used to fit in her lap. But it may be time to put away the stories. Helen has a tough road ahead of her, and a lot to learn. So does Henry. Am I waiting too long? Am I protecting them now just to put her in more danger later? I wish their father were here…
“I promise I will talk to Henry in the morning,” Kate says, as she stands up, leans over, and kisses her daughter on the top of her head.
Helen smiles. “Okay. Goodnight, mom.”
“Goodnight.” Kate gets up to head for some rest before another job comes in. But before she leaves, she turns.
“Helen?”
“Yeah, mom.”
“Is anything in the apartment… . rewired? Reinvented? Anything I should know about so I don’t blow up anything or… ”
“Nope, mom. I was reading,” Helen says.
“Okay. Goodnight, kid,” Kate says.
“Goodnight, mom.”
Henry’s pencil lies still in his hand as he sleeps. He left his flashlight on under the covers, and it sends a triangle of light across a drawing of his sister standing, facing away, and next to her a detailed rendering of a Tromindox.
RECORDING
Dear Dad: It’s me again. Helen.
You would have laughed tonight. Mom asked me if I had reinvented anything in the apartment. I think she’s getting a little tired of me taking stuff apart.
She told me that my grandmother on your side was a legendary hacker, back when the only things available to hack were telegraph machines and horseless carriages. She told me that you used to tell stories about how Grandma could make anything out of anything else.
Well, I guess I’ve got some of the same blood in me.
The thing that’s strange is, it’s a compulsion. I’ll be looking at some object, like a calculator, or a remote control, or a toaster, and then I’ll really start looking at it, and it’s as if I can see right through it, like it has layers. And on each layer, there are things that can be taken apart and put together some other way. If I look at something long enough, it’s as if it peels apart in my head. I can see the components, and the spaces between, and everything just kind of opens up. The wiring in the walls, the circuit boards inside of a computer, it just happens.
Sometimes I get the urge to hack stuff in the apartment and this is where we run into problems. I try to put it back together the way it was, but sometimes hacking is a one-way ticket and things will never be the same.
I don’t think mom minds that I am a hacker, she just doesn’t like not knowing what is going to happen when she goes to make breakfast. Which I understand. I’ve noticed she especially doesn’t like loud noises in the morning. Those put her in a really bad mood. So I’ve learned, don’t hack the stuff in the kitchen. Don’t rig up the toaster or the fridge to play music. In fact, just stay away from everything in the kitchen. Because once I’ve gotten started, there’s no stopping. Also, don’t mess with anything that’s wired into the walls. That’s a hard and fast rule, usually.
I really made a mistake when I reconfigured the coffee maker. The fact that it could shoot coffee grounds across the room—instead of making coffee—was not well received. Mom always says to say something positive, but she didn’t have anything positive to say about the coffee maker. Even though it was pretty cool. Like I said, I now stay away from the kitchen stuff. We pick up old appliances at thrift shops so I don’t destroy anything we need.
The way I see it, everything around us is made up of connections. Human beings, animals, buildings, mountains, oceans, hairdryers, everything. I just can’t help but see these connections all the time. And then I feel like I have to pull them apart, and reconnect them in another way. I wonder if that’s how my grandmother felt.
If you connect things together a new way, you get a new thing. Except the coffee maker. That’s off limits. I promise.
Bye dad, I hope we see you soon. We miss you.
END RECORDING
Doctor Julius Dinkle, esteemed member of the Council of Portals and renowned expert on Tromindox behavior and culture, stands straight as an arrow at one end of a long, gleaming conference table. The chamber of the Council of Portals is a rectangular cavern located far below the city, with a table and chairs running straight down the middle. The space is lit by torches set at even intervals along the walls. It’s quiet, it’s isolated, and it’s the perfect place for the Council to conduct lengthy discussions about nothing.
Doctor Dinkle is tense, and with good reason. He is Tromindox prey.
This morning he picked out an impeccable double-breasted dark suit and his favorite bowler hat, which now sits on the table in front of him. He fidgets with the hat, then reaches up to smooth back thinning, dark, already flattened strands of hair and to tug his starched collar away from his thin neck. He considers placing the hat back on his head, but doesn’t. He peers toward the entrance at the opposite end of the room through thick, round glasses that make his eyes look as if they are floating a couple of inches in front of his face.
The heavy door swings open and a figure enters.
Tromindox T-441 shuffles into the chamber and takes up a position at the opposite end of the table from Dinkle. His shape casts large and ominous shadows that gyrate every which way in the flickering torch light. Dinkle jumps when the door slams shut again.
441 is wrapped in grimy, shredded black robes. Thick leather gloves and boots cover his extremities, and atop his head he wears a blackened helmet fashioned from the crushed upper section of a human skull. Long strands of coarse dark hair hang in dense masses and braids down 441’s back.
The Book of the Future lands on the table with a heavy thud, shedding flakes of leather from its cover and releasing a cloud of dust into the air. With a shove, the Tromindox sends the book sliding down the entire length of the table. Doctor Dinkle watches as it comes closer and closer, and when it reaches him he puts his hand down and stops it just before it shoots onto the floor.
“There’s your stinking book,” 441 says. His deep growl resonates through the thick underground air.
“How do we know it’s complete?” Dinkle asks.
“It’s not complete. There’s a page missing. You know that,” 441 says.
“But the rest of it is intact?” Dinkle says, torch flames ref
lecting in his lenses as he looks the volume over. The pages crunch in his hands and more bits of the cover come loose.
“Yes, as far as I know. Now, where’s my portal? We had a deal.”
Doctor Dinkle—Councilmember Dinkle—lets out a barely-perceptible sigh. None of this is a good idea. This meeting, striking a deal with the Tromindox, and now what he has to do next... he turns to face the rear of the cavern behind him.
A stone cauldron occupies one corner of the chamber. It is simple in design, with thick walls and no embellishments, and sits about waist high. Doctor Dinkle steps before it and raises his hand to shoulder height. Shafts of light shine upward from inside the cauldron and illuminate the ceiling of the cavern with a circle of blue-grey light.
“You know, it’s lovely to no longer look down the barrel of extinction,” 441 says. “Of course, you humans wouldn’t know anything about it, you’ve populated the planet nearly out of existence. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Dr. Dinkle doesn’t respond. He tries to focus on the cauldron.
“We’ve made some mistakes, but no more,” 441 continues. “Did you know we have been around longer than the sharks? Well of course you do. You’re an expert.”
Dinkle still does not look up. He is not interested in a lecture from this beast. The light from the cauldron intensifies. 441 moves around the table, slowly closing in on the doctor.
“We all do our job in the natural world,” 441 goes on, running a gloved hand along the surface of the table. “Predators and prey both, isn’t that right?” Look at you, with your weak little body and big skull. You couldn’t be more… appetizing.”
A coin-like object rises up out of the cauldron, coming to rest in mid-air in front of the doctor.
“I wonder if our species share a common ancestor,” 441 says. “We do share intelligence I suppose—although humans seem to use their smarts mostly to destroy things. And each other. You really are pros at senseless killing, and you are terribly persistent at it. That’s what makes you such—complex—prey. You are unlike any other species we have hunted in the past. We can’t just make our kill and move on to the next one. Kill a human, and the whole species swarm after you. They don’t stop until they have gotten their revenge.
“There was a time when I’m sure you thought you had us, didn’t you. You humans had finally wiped us from the planet.”
Dinkle frowns. Snatching the portal from the air, he turns and flings it in the direction of his visitor. T-441 effortlessly reaches out with one hand to intercept the projectile, closing a thick leather glove around it and stuffing it in a pocket somewhere amongst his robes.
“That was dramatic,” the Tromindox growls.
“Thank you,” the doctor says, sincerely hoping that this will be the shortest meeting ever held in this room.
“It would have been even more dramatic if this were a real portal,” the Tromindox says.
“Wha– what do you mean? That there is a perfectly good portal.” The doctor waves an unconvincing finger in front of him.
The Tromindox rests a fist on the table, lowers his head in exasperation, and heaves a sigh.
“For such an authority on our species, Dinkle, it seems as if you don’t know the first thing about us. We are far more perceptive than you give us credit for. It’s as if your own cleverness has clouded your judgment.”
“Listen, you overgrown squid,” Dinkle sneers, “You’ve got what you came for, now get out of my chamber.”
“Such bold talk from such a scrawny thing,” 441 says. “Squid, eh? Perhaps I ought to grow some spikes and teach you a lesson.”
“Your shape-shifting won’t work here,” Dinkle says. “I saw to that.”
“Oh you did,” 441 says. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”
441 lunges forward and liquefies into a mass of tentacles. He slides along the floor like a living oil slick, moving under the table and across the walls, snuffing out torches as he comes.
Dinkle scurries backward, falling to the floor in the process. He crawls behind the cauldron. This is it, I’m done for.
But when 441 reaches the opposite end of the table, he shows no interest in Dinkle. Instead he slides over the tabletop and scoops up—or rather absorbs—The Book of the Future into his body. Next he surges forward and right into the cauldron itself, helping himself to the twenty or so authentic portals he finds inside.
441 exits the cauldron and returns to a humanoid shape. He tucks the book under his arm and most of his tentacles convert back into ragged black robes that trail behind him.
Dinkle remains in the corner, his bowler hat on the floor.
“Look, Dinkle, you and I both know that you meant to trick me. You and your important Council held a meeting, and you said to yourselves, hey, this Tromindox fellow says he’s got The Book of the Future, and we really want it back, so let’s offer him something. Let’s fake him out with a pathetic piece of tin foil and call it a portal.”
Doctor Dinkle crawls out of his hiding place and retrieves his hat. He stands up. Don’t let this beast get the best of you. Stand your ground.
The Tromindox goes on. “We’re not stupid, you know. Just because we look like monsters to you doesn’t make us stupid. You—you are the stupid ones, with your meetings and your Council. You sit around a table and you talk. You don’t know the first thing about the world outside your dungeon. You sit in these chairs, you supposedly make portals and maybe you fill out forms or move papers around. Well, Councilmember, you bore me. Your fake portal bores me. I’ll come clean—All I really needed was to gain access to this place. You made that part easy. That field that was supposed to keep me from shape-shifting? We figured out how to turn those off a long time ago.
“So now, I’ll just take what I came for and you can have yet another Council meeting after I’ve left and say, ‘That Tromindox, he took our portals and our book, what are we going to do now, blah blah blah.’
“Meanwhile, we will be helping ourselves to the most plentiful food source ever to exist: the future overpopulation of the human race.”
Dinkle stands dumbfounded. His mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.
“In conclusion, Dinkle, it has been a real pleasure doing business with you.”
The Tromindox tosses the fake portal back onto the table, where it lands with a clank, spins around a few times and comes to rest. He leaves the chamber.
Once outside, the Tromindox pulls out a small piece of paper. He unfolds the missing page from The Book of the Future and slides it into place. The page lights up and bonds seamlessly with the binding. The entire volume is transformed, the pages no longer torn and the cover newer and shinier. The book is complete.
Twenty working portals, and The Book of the Future. This has been a very productive afternoon. Time to make good use of these shiny new prizes; 441 has worked up quite an appetite.
The chamber of the Council of Portals buzzes with anxious voices talking over one another. Doctor Dinkle is not in the chamber.
The Grand Magistrate General, Chairman of the Council of Portals, Doctor Egeaklv—everyone calls him “Judge” or “Magistrate” or “Doctor” or “Chairman” because absolutely no one can pronounce his name—stands in the same spot at the head of the table that Doctor Dinkle had occupied the day before. The Chairman is tall, elegant, and very unimpressed. His charcoal-grey suit fits his shoulders perfectly. His pocket square is an otherworldly shade of purple. His shoes shine like mirrors. His hair is parted and swept back from his face. He holds his gold-rimmed reading glasses between his long fingers. He rests his knuckles on the table, and waits.
The blathering up and down the chamber continues unabated, so the Chairman takes this moment to unroll a clear, square sheet onto the table. Once fully flattened the sheet lights up with an elaborate display of data, maps and pictures. He pokes at it here and there, slides a few items around, and pulls up the particulars on Doctor Dinkle. He cancels Dinkle’s membership in the Council, revokes his citizensh
ip in the city, deletes his mortgage on his apartment, eradicates his credit, and erases his birth records. Doctor Dinkle will be living in the woods on his own, for he has ceased to exist in the civilized world. The Chairman, and the Council, are finished with him.
Having finished that chore, the Chairman looks up again. He slides the sheet to one side, places his glasses onto his face, sits down, and folds his hands in front of him on the table. Eventually the others in the room heed his silent signal to be seated and cease speaking.
“So,” a stocky man in an ill-fitting brown suit barks, “It would seem we’ve got a real mess to clean up.”
The Chairman glares at Stocky Man, and then looks back down at the display. On the map, circles representing the stolen portals move away from headquarters with their new owner. It’s only a matter of time now before the Tromindox jump forward in time and find themselves a new batch of victims. The only option now is to retrieve the portals, one by one if necessary.
“We’ll have to retrieve them one by one, if necessary,” the Chairman says.
“What about the book?” another Councilmember asks, from within a voluminous robes. Various heads, some topped with bowler hats and others covered in elaborate headgear ornamented with gold threads, nod.
“The book complicates things,” the Chairman says. “It’s missing the one page we need, so we’ll have to make do and only work with hunters and agents who have the skills to travel through time without using it.”
“Or people who are already in the right time frame,” someone suggests.
“How the hell are we supposed to know what time frame the Tromindox have gone to?” says another Councilmember, gesturing with bony hands. “They took the damn book. Not that it’s worth anything any more, as far as we know… ” The room erupts again as everyone shares opinions, solicited or not, with everyone else around them all at once. Each member of the Council secretly—or not so secretly—holds the firm opinion that every other member is an idiot, and that the shortcomings of their colleagues are why these types of disasters continue to plague their organization.
Silverwood Page 3
