Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “Oh my, oh my!” Dob cried, his face serious for once. “Do something, laddie boy! Help me! Hurry!”

  The boys leapt into action.

  “What should we do?” Conn asked, now panicking and becoming more frantic and dismayed with each passing moment. He reached for the professor, jumping to grab hold of Dob’s hanging robes. The professor started to laugh so hard that tears streaked down his cheeks.

  Only then did Conn realize it was all one big spectacular joke. One that probably had taken Dob’s a number of hours to conjure up the previous night.

  That was just one of a thousand scientific lessons Conn was sure not to forget. Now, gazing upward, he found there were still multi-colored chemical stains on the ceiling.

  ChemBurn heating elements were still burning at various workbench stations. They gave Conn the feeling that Dob had simply stepped out—that he would return at any moment. He wished that were true.

  Conn meandered along the row of Dob’s botany experiments—mostly mushrooms that had been coaxed to grow bigger and plumper. They easily were five times their typical growth size. Next came the entomology section. An upside-down dead cockroach lay beneath the multiple lenses of Dob’s most prized microscope. A nearby ChemBurn burner—its directed firelight magnified down to a pinpoint—was focused on the bug’s abdomen. Conn leaned over the heavy brass microscope, with all its knobs and gears, and peered into the viewing lens. Ah, that’s right, he recalled. We were studying the effects of Starlox on the digestive system of blattodea genre insects. He blinked, thinking he saw movement. There was movement—a kind of vibration of tissue—the cells impacted via molecular agitation. Excited, Conn looked up and said, “Dob! Come look at this . . .” But of course, Dob wasn’t there. He felt like there was a rock stuck in his throat, and knew that it was time to go. Maybe someday it wouldn’t hurt so much for Conn to be there. Upon leaving, he locked the door. He had his own key.

  Taking a shortcut to the other side of the Chrysler building, he passed through one of several open sparring areas. From a variety of clans, fifty young boys and girls, each about fourteen or fifteen years of age, were assembled in ten neat rows. They were swinging their lockwoods in fast, downward arcs, and then defending.

  “Step! Step! And Parry!” the instructor yelled. Hands on hips, he looked disgusted with his students’ lackluster performance. The bearded, gray-haired man caught Conn’s eye as he hurried along the far wall. “I’ve warned you, this isn’t a shortcut, Mr. Brataich!”

  “Sorry, sir!”

  “Best you come back later, ye ken. We can work together with that new rackstaff of yours.”

  Is nothing I do kept private anymore? “Yes, Master Donahue. I promise.” Conn noticed the students were watching him, all interest in posture and footwork procedures temporarily disrupted. Conn was famous among all the clans. As last year’s overall champion of the Skylander Games, he was expected to lead the Brataich Clan team to victory again this year. But Conn had serious doubts he’d be ready in time. That deep slice he’d taken across his back from that bandit’s knife was only days old. Rarely was there a time during the day when he wasn’t aware of just how much it hurt to even move.

  By the time Conn exited the Chrysler Building, the sun’s position told him it was pushing on one o’clock. In spite of the burning pain across his back, he doubled his pace along the narrow path leading north. He’d spent too much time moping in Dob’s rooms; he needed to catch the Folais Clan before they left.

  “Conn!”

  Brig, off in the distance, raised his hand, waving at him. Conn returned the wave then continued on his way.

  “Conn! Come over here!”

  “I cannae now, Brig. I’m in a hurry!”

  “Conn, please! Come here!”

  Conn knew the kid looked up to him, and he certainly appreciated that. But sometimes it was just too much. Annoyed, he slowed, glancing over to see what was so damn important. Standing close to the Drake building, the boy stood in the shadows next to a woman in shapeless dark clothing, clearly a Grounder. Crap! She’d obviously gotten separated from her flock. What is so difficult about following behind the person right in front of you? Irritation flooded through him. The stupid numpty.

  Conn stared toward the distant horizon, but couldn’t see the Folais contingent anywhere. With any luck, they hadn’t left the Midtown area yet. Reluctantly, he changed course and hurried toward Brig and the Grounder. He slowed his pace the last few yards and, after catching his breath, took in her black dress, made of worn thick fabric. Their eyes met. He knew this girl, but up here in the sunlight, she looked nothing like the pasty Grounder he’d met days earlier on the dark wet streets below the cloudbank.

  “Hello again. Um, do you remember me?” Misty asked.

  Unable to find his voice, Conn nodded. Now, seeing her in the light of day, her lustrous auburn hair looked windswept instead of wild, her green eyes clear and inquisitive rather than scared. She was absolutely radiant.

  “Aye, I remember you. What are you doing up here? What do you want?”

  Noticing some of the light dim from her eyes, he regretted being such an ass. “You just look like you’ve stepped onto another planet?” he said, backtracking. “All wide-eyed and bewildered looking.”

  “Bewildered? So, you’re saying what, I’m a simpleton? Ingrate Grounder girl can’t cope with being out in the sun. Little more than a troll, huh?”

  “I didnae say that. But now that you bring it up . . .”

  “Uh huh, well you’re just as cocky and obnoxious as you were before.”

  He saw her glance, irritated, over to Brig, who seemed to be enjoying the exchange.

  “If you’re any example of how women are treated above the cloudbank, I’ve clearly made a mistake coming here.” She stewed for a moment, then pointed off to the distance where a lone figure was slowly ambling across the cloudbank. “Brig, is that another Cloudwalker there, yonder? He looks like someone who would offer help to a person in need a bit of assistance.” She leaned forward and squinted. “I have to say, he’s a handsome one at that. “

  Conn snickered. “Aye, he’s a real charmer, too. That’s Billy O’Clark. He has all but five teeth remaining in his mouth, and breath that could topple a building. He’s also pushing seventy-five. But hey, let me call him over for you. Just a heads up, he’s also partially deaf.” Conn raised an arm high in the air and waved his hand back and forth in the direction of Billy O’Clark. He yelled, “Billy! Over here . . . Billy!”

  “Put your arm down!”

  Conn continued to wave at the elderly man who still hadn’t noticed he was being hailed.

  Misty stepped in closer to Conn and physically yanked his arm back down to his side. “You’re beyond aggravating!”

  “Just being of assistance. Isn’t that what you said you—”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  He realized he was enjoying this, whatever this was. He looked down at her, into those probing green eyes of hers. Judging by the close-mouthed smile on her face and the color in her cheeks, she too looked to be enjoying this.

  “She wants to ask you something,” Brig said, clearly fed up with their banter.

  Misty’s smile faltered, looking for just the right words.

  “Just spit it out, I won’t bite.”

  “You said,” she began, uncertain. “Your exact words down below were, ‘Someday, I’ll do you a favor back. Anything you want. Big or small.’ Do you remember saying that?”

  Unfortunately, he did. Conn nodded back.

  “So the real question now is . . . are you a man of your word?”

  “He is! Conn always keeps his word,” Brig interjected, ever Conn’s most staunch defender. “To say differently, it’s an insult to both him and his clan.”

  “Relax, Brig, take a breath. She meant no insult, I’m sure,” he responded as Misty continued to stare up with him with her captivating green eyes.

  “I’m at your service, Ma’am.”


  Misty’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’m sorry, I mean, Misty. What exactly is it you want me to do?”

  Nervously looking over at Brig, she said, “Maybe he shouldn’t hear this.”

  “You can trust the kid,” Conn said, even though he wasn’t all that sure about that. “Speak freely.”

  “I want you to help me save my mother. She’s been taken.”

  “Taken by whom.”

  “There’s a man. He is well known on the ground, and above the law. He is the law. But he’s bad—evil—though no one else would ever dare to say so. He damn near killed my father, whipped him to the bone. Then he took my mother against her will to make her his third wife.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Conn. “What is his name?”

  “He is a high deacon. His name is—”

  “Deacon Terrence Lasher.” Conn blurted out. “Say no more, I ken this man. His reputation is well kent here above the cloudbank. And you are right, he is a dark soul. I saw him no more than three or four days past, very near where we are standing now.”

  “Then you’ll help me?” Misty asked, her voice pleading. “Help me save my mother?”

  “How? What do you expect me to do? Swoop down like some kind of caped superhero?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anyone else who can help.”

  He saw the pain and desperation on her face as tears formed in her eyes. “Look, I didnae say I wouldn’t help you. I will, I just dinnae ken how yet.”

  She stared up at him, as if studying his features—deciding if he was telling the truth. And then she smiled. A smile so true and honest it carried up into her eyes. God, she’s beautiful. If Conn hadn’t already agreed to help the girl, he would have now.

  “I don’t know where the deacon lives. I’ve asked around, but no one does,” she said.

  “I think I can find out. From what I remember, he lives above the ground in a building.”

  “Up here?” she asked.

  “No, below the cloudbank. But rescuing your mother isn’t the only issue. What will you do after?”

  “I don’t know. We can’t go home and act like nothing happened. He’d come for her again. And for me, and for my father, too, this time.”

  Conn nodded. “You’d have to escape to one of the other quadrants beyond the local rampart. Are you prepared to do that?”

  Misty shrugged, resigned. “What other choice do we have?”

  “None that I can think of. Look, I’m going to have to think about this. Plan things out.”

  “I can’t go back, Conn. By now, they’re already looking for me. The deacon knows everything. People are willing to talk just to stay in his good graces.”

  “She can stay with me,” Brig offered. “There’s room in my place for her to hide.”

  Chapter 21

  Ten years earlier . . .

  He awoke with a start. Nine-year-old Conn Brataich continued to lie in bed for a long while, just listening. He knew what had awakened him were the far-off rumblings of another building dying. Tomorrow, another tower would be absent from view. The thought saddened him, and also scared him. Pulling aside his bedcovers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Conn descended into the Empire State’s elegant lobby, festooned with granite and marble adornments. As with all Midtown towers in the past hundreds of years, their original street-level lobbies, along with the adjoining establishments, had painstakingly been dismantled, then reconstructed—down to the smallest detail—up above. Even their street level entrance doors, often elaborate and massive, were nearly identical to the ones originally built below.

  Conn kept a low profile as he wound and wove his way through the throngs of mostly boisterous men. One particular Skylander, staggering about, was only saved from toppling over by his nearby mates, now bellied up to the bar. Ginny’s Trap smelled of strong Scottish whiskey, sour body odor, and flatulence.

  The boy found his mentor sitting in an overstuffed chair by the circular stacked-stone fireplace. A raging ChemBurn flame danced beneath a black ironworks hood that seemed to do little to exhume the pub’s ever-present thick layer of smoke.

  Although Conn found Professor Dob seated where he was most evenings—granted, usually inebriated—Conn didn’t expect to find him in the midst of entertaining a friend. Sitting upon his lap, her ample bosom seemed to be captivating his full attention. She tugged on his long beard, while whispering into his ear and giggling.

  Conn stood nearby and silently waited. Arms crossed, he coughed, then coughed again louder. The woman eyed Conn disapprovingly with a cold sideways glance. A full minute passed before she finally sat up, wiggling and tugging the fabric of her bodice. She then dismounted from his lap, which appeared to Conn to be a well-practiced motion. After giving the old professor an affectionate pat on the cheek, she turned away, disappearing into smoke and drunken laughter.

  “I suspect it is well past your bedtime, my young apprentice. Although I have little fathom of the actual time.” His words were slow and slurred as he reached for his pipe, lying upon the stacked stone seat that encircled the fire.

  “Dob?” Conn asked after a moment.

  “Yes, what is it my boy?” Dob asked, leaning somewhat in to light his pipe with a burning twig.

  “Why do the Midtown buildings fall?”

  “That is an excellent question. Short answer, erosion . . . from those nasty acid rains below the cloudbank.”

  “I already kent that. Everybody kens that.”

  “The detailed explanation is far more complex. I suspect my alcohol-saturated brain would hardly be up to the task. Tomorrow . . . let’s discuss tomorrow.”

  “But I’m here now. Can I hear it, anyway?”

  Dob blinked at the boy through a wispy-gray funnel of rising smoke. “Well, I told you about Strongzine, right?”

  “Sure, one of the three elements that arrived on Earth at the start of the Ruin Event.”

  “Aye, the meteor shower: Strongzine, Stradamine, and Starlox. Well, Strongzine formed what’s called coordination complexes with the primary molecules of Earth’s air . . . nitrogen (N2) and oxygen (O2). In addition, Strongzine absorbed the UV light from the Sun. Are you following?”

  “Pretty much.” Conn sat down on the rock-topped ledge and let the fire warm his back.

  “So this absorbed energy was transferred to those newly coordinated molecules; made them far more reactive. As a result, nitrogen and oxygen underwent what we call an intramolecular reaction. This formed a new chemical entity . . . nitrogen oxide. Strongzine functioned as a kind of catalyst for this transformation. Nitrogen oxide quickly reacted with the oxygen and water vapor in the air and formed nitric acid. Nitric acid is extremely corrosive. It dissolves, well . . . just about everything, including most metals and, of course, organic materials.”

  “Organic materials, like people?”

  “Yes . . . people, plants, animals. It’s why our Grounder friends live below ground.”

  “But not Ragoon trees? Nitric acid doesn’t dissolve Ragoon trees?”

  “Oddly, no . . .” Professor Dob said, taking a long drag on his pipe.

  Chapter 22

  It was another sleepless night filled with restless dreams of Dob, and well into the following evening before Conn could slip away from his Brataich Clan obligations, as well his scheduled cicerones duties. Now, walking beside Brig, he discovered there was another, potentially big problem. For the last two days, the Dorcha Poileas had posted additional guards at the top entrance to the Drake Building. According to Brig, five guards were there last night, while this afternoon it looked like six. Getting past them had not been easy.

  “How did you get out of there unnoticed?” Conn asked.

  “I had to listen inside the door for close to an hour, waiting for the guard to change. Even then, I was almost spotted dashing out of there.”

  “So what is Misty doing now?”

  “Doing?”

 
; “With you here now, talking to me, is she—I don’t know—keeping busy?”

  Brig shrugged, an exasperated expression on his face. “I have no idea. Who cares what she’s doing?”

  “Well, I certainly don’t,” Conn said back, laying on his indifference a little too much.

  Brig appeared not to notice, and said, “We may have to go down the top south access entrance of the MetLife Building, then proceed all the way down to street level. From there, we can cross onto East 43rd, then head up 5th Avenue and catch East 37th to get to the Drake.”

  “Jeez, how much time do you spend down there, boy?”

  “I dinnae ken. I guess quite a bit.”

  “How do you manage it? If the bandits and scalawags down there aren’t bad enough, the air . . . it’s unbreathable,” Conn said.

  “Who are you? My momma now?”

  “Doing all that, using another building, would take us an extra hour, maybe more. And I’m a bit worn out,” Conn volunteered. He figured Brig already knew about his ongoing lack of sleep. Approaching the Drake, he tried to make out who was on sentry duty. Fortunately, Captain Bryant Peirce did not seem to be among them. “I ken several of those guys, let me try to talk us past.”

  Two of the Dorcha Poileas had disappeared around the other side of the building, while the other four lingered just ahead. At their approach, the guards stood up a bit straighter, several puffing out their chests in an attempt to look more authoritarian. Conn remembered one of the men’s names, the one now clearly in charge: Sergeant Brock Dresden. Getting on in years, he was maybe in his mid-seventies. Conn wondered why he hadn’t hung up his Poileas cloak yet.

  “Hey, Sergeant!”

  “Hold up,” she silver-haired guard said. “Building’s off-limits for the rest of the week.”

  “Aye, I heard as much. It’s good you’re here. Damn Grounders are sneaking up right and left these days.”

  “That they are,” the older man said, giving Conn a sideways glance. “So what is your business here?”