by Henry Clark
“That’s just as well,” I said. “We don’t want to kill him.”
“We don’t?” said Modesty. “He’s trying to murder us. He isn’t even human. He’s a thing.”
“He knows the difference between right and wrong,” I said. “He apologized for not being able to ignore his programming. He can’t help what he’s doing.”
I turned around slowly, treading tomato juice, studying the walls of the tank. They were smooth with no handholds.
The tank was already half full. As the tomato juice got higher, the cascade had less far to fall, and the noise of the splash got quieter. We didn’t have to shout quite so loudly.
It got a little easier to think.
“We should have called in the military, the way Delleps told us to,” said Modesty. “They could have saved us by blowing this thing open with a bazooka.”
“What’s a bazooka?” asked Pre.
“It’s an anti-tank weapon. We’re in a tank. It’s what they’d use.”
“Delleps never said we should call in the military,” I reminded her. “She said we should… make time… for the army…” I trailed off. Something was nagging at me. “What time did Spalding say the DavyTron updates go out?”
“Twelve minutes past midnight,” said Pre.
“No,” I said, “he didn’t say midnight—”
“He said zero hour plus twelve,” said Modesty, and her eyes went wide as she realized the same thing I had. She reached across Spalding and grabbed my wrist. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why twelve past twelve is a Magic Minute!”
“Yes.” I was glad she saw it, too. “Twelve twelve isn’t twelve twelve; it’s zero twelve! It’s zero, one, two—consecutive numbers! Magic is on military time!”
“Military time?” asked Pre.
“It’s time for the army. You know how Congroo divides the day into three eight-hour segments? And in this part of our world, we divide it into two twelve-hour segments? The army doesn’t divide it at all.”
“They’re bad at arithmetic?”
“Who knows? But if you’re on military time, one o’clock in the afternoon isn’t one o’clock—it’s thirteen hundred hours. You hear it that way in war movies all the time. So one twenty-three isn’t one twenty-three; it’s thirteen twenty-three: Those numbers aren’t consecutive, so that’s why magic doesn’t work at one twenty-three in the afternoon but it works at one twenty-three in the morning!”
“Okay,” said Pre, “so zero twelve is a Magic Minute. How do we live long enough to use it?”
“Maybe we don’t have to,” said Modesty excitedly.
“No,” I agreed, catching her excitement. “We’re in the final hour of the day, but the final hour didn’t start at eleven o’clock. It started at—”
“Twenty-three hundred hours!” Modesty thrust her phone at my face. She had been rapidly tapping it as I spoke. Her time readout was 23:37.
“How’d you do that?”
“Settings. General. Date and Time.” She rattled it off in fluent phonespeak.
I followed the trail on my own phone and immediately got an option called 24-Hour Clock. I tapped it, and suddenly my phone also read 23:37. Except, as I watched, it changed to 23:38. I glanced at the walls. We were more than three-quarters of the way to the top.
“I have a hypothesis,” Pre declared happily. “Your world has more than six Magic Minutes. It has seven, and the seventh is—”
“Twenty-three forty-five!” Modesty and I shouted at once.
Then we all got very quiet.
“Even that’s too far away,” I said. “According to Spalding, the tank will be full by twenty-three forty-two. We can’t hold our breath for three minutes.”
“I might be able to,” said Modesty. “I’m on the swim team. The coach says most healthy people can hold their breath for about two minutes. Provided they’re not, you know, stressed or anything—”
Pre started wiggling out of my brother’s windbreaker.
“I’m not at all good at holding my breath,” he announced. “Maybe I can manage a minute—”
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
He had the jacket off and was zipping it up the front. “I’m… getting ready to test a hypothesis,” he said vaguely as he tied a knot in one of the sleeves.
I looked up. The top of the tank was only five feet above us. Around the hatch, I could see the vents Spalding had mentioned, the ones that allowed the juice to force the air out of the tank. The vents were tiny two-inch squares with screening over them. They were too small to offer any means of escape. You couldn’t even stick your nose into one.
Pre glanced at the approaching ceiling and worked faster. He had only moments before he’d be forced from his perch on the logem’s stomach, and his project, whatever it was, would become much more difficult. He yanked on the cord that ran around the windbreaker’s waist until it cinched the bottom closed; then he used the excess cord to tie the bottom even tighter. He went to work on the drawstring in the hood, even as he slid off into the rising juice and found a way to support himself with his elbows against Spalding’s chest. Modesty slid off next to him.
The pipe spewing the juice went GLOOP, and the flow slowed down to about half what it had been. The splash got quieter, but the juice level continued to rise. It was a sure sign we were almost full.
I checked my phone: 23:39. I went to my list of Magic Bites and started scrolling.
“So which incantation will get us out of here?” I asked.
“To Open a Door, obviously!” Modesty was studying her own phone.
“No,” said Pre. “That only works with doors that aren’t locked.”
“It only—?” Modesty glared at Pre. “What is WRONG with you people? What do you use to open a door that’s locked?”
“A key.”
Modesty clutched her phone as if she was about to throw it. The light coming from it winked out.
“No! Don’t! Not now!” Modesty shook her phone. She drummed her fingers all over the screen. She pushed every button on the side. A couple of drops of tomato juice leaked out. “It’s dead. No, no, NO!”
“It’s all right.” I tried to sound reassuring. “We’ve still got mine.” I made my phone’s display as bright as I could. I suddenly realized I would have to read it through tomato juice.
“Maybe this will help,” said Pre, holding up his project. He had tied off the neck of the jacket. He gripped the unknotted sleeve tightly in one hand.
He had made a bag of air.
“Aqua-Lung,” he said. “Or maybe a Tomato-Juice-Lung. I figure it might keep some of the air in here with us. We can take turns breathing through the sleeve.”
“That’s… very scientifical,” said Modesty.
Pre flashed her a grateful look.
The airbag, if it didn’t collapse from the pressure of the liquid around it, would prevent the air inside it from being forced out through the vents. It might contain about a minute’s worth, shared out among the three of us. That wasn’t much, but it might do the trick. I turned my attention back to the list of Magic Bites.
“What about To Sop Up a Spill?” I suggested eagerly.
Pre shook his head. “The spill goes into the rag you’re holding.”
“So what good is the spell?” Modesty blurted.
“You don’t have to bend down.”
“Invented by the same guy who came up with To Undress the Feet?”
“Yes.”
“None of these is going to help us, then,” I said, reminding myself to stay calm but finding it more and more difficult. I flipped frantically up and down my list of Magic Bites. To Change the Color of a Room, To Tidy a Drawer, To Cast a Reflection…
I looked up and realized the overhead hatch was within reach. I handed my phone to Modesty, put a knee on Spalding’s face, extended my hands upward, and grabbed the wheel in the hatch’s center. I twisted it with all my might. It refused to budge.
“He said he put something t
hrough the other side,” Pre reminded me.
“Yeah. A crowbar.”
I dropped back into the juice.
“How about this?” said Modesty, handing my phone back to me. She had cued up the Magic Bite called Egg.
“That’s—?” I couldn’t remember what Egg was short for.
“To Empty an Egg without Breaking the Shell,” said Modesty. “I figure this tank is like an egg, and we’re what’s inside, and if you follow it up with Intensify, maybe it will get us out of here.” It wasn’t any more desperate than my hoping to fix the harvester with To Repair a Chimney. I looked at Pre for his reaction. He shook his head again.
“That’s a teleportation spell. It’s only good if you want your eggs scrambled.”
“Well, I think it’s the best chance we’ve got. You find something bet—Blah! Pooie! Yuck!” Modesty spat; tomato juice had sloshed into her mouth.
My phone said 23:41. We were within inches of the top of the tank. We all sank down as far into the juice as we could go and tilted our heads back. Pre centered himself between Modesty and me and held up his improvised airbag. We squeezed together so we’d be able to take turns sucking air out through the sleeve. I really wondered if that would work.
My phone advanced to 23:42.
“Everybody take a final deep bre—” I didn’t have time to get it out. I inhaled as much as I could, clamped my eyes shut, and then all our heads were under juice. It had risen all the way to the ceiling, without leaving an inch of space.
I wondered how accurate Modesty’s swim coach was. Could we really hold our breath for two minutes? I figured after a minute, we’d all be trying to get a gulp from Pre’s windbreaker.
I cracked my eyelids.
Tomato juice stung!
I forced my eyes open anyway. I brought my phone as close to my face as I could and saw a blob of light, without any details. I blinked. Then I blinked again. Fuzzy numbers appeared in front of me. It looked like they might be 23:43.
Two minutes to go.
My lungs started to ache. I fumbled at the phone screen and brought up the list of Magic Bites. I was pretty sure Egg was selected. I changed it. I didn’t think Modesty was right. Egg might get us out, but we’d be a pile of scrambled euphemera. I scrolled until I found what I was looking for. At least, it looked a little like what I was looking for. Then again, it might change the color of the room from tomato to cerulean.
My head hurt, and my chest felt about to burst. My jaw was clenched, and I was seconds away from trying to breathe. Suddenly someone grabbed my shoulder and forced something over my mouth. It was rubbery. It was the sleeve of the windbreaker. I reached up, held it more tightly around my lips, opened my mouth, and inhaled. Some liquid came in, and I almost gagged, but then I pulled a greedy lungful of air into myself. As I did, I felt the airbag collapse.
I had emptied it.
We had whatever air was in our lungs and no more.
Was I the last one to take a breath? Or was one of us still waiting for their turn? If one of us hadn’t already taken a breath, they weren’t going to make it.
I brought my phone back to my face.
23:44.
Was I about to make the right choice? Should I go back to Egg and trust Modesty’s judgment? Or should I stick with my decision? Why was it getting so hard to think? My lungs were about to explode.
Pre started thrashing violently.
Then he went limp.
That wasn’t good.
23:45.
I jabbed my thumb against the phone—
—and summoned the Forces of Torque.
CHAPTER 28
“I’M SO SORRY!”
Nothing happened.
I had guessed wrong.
Unless—
I wiggled my thumb against the face of my phone, trying desperately to move down the list of Magic Bites, but the list didn’t budge. I pressed harder. The list slid sluggishly upward. I squinted at a tiny blob of light that might have been the word Intensify and jabbed it.
A grinding, scraping noise made the top of the tank shudder. It grew louder until an earsplitting, metallic KA-BLANG ended it. I reached up blindly, trying to find the wheel on the hatch, and my fingers got knocked aside. The wheel was turning on its own.
Another moment, and a crescent of light appeared overhead. I gripped the shoulder of the sleeping logem and launched myself toward the light, hitting my head on the underside of the hatch but knocking it open at the same time. I grabbed the rim, pulled myself up, and I was out.
And dizzy. Hitting the hatch with my head hadn’t been a good idea. I clutched my chest and gulped air, then spun back to the hatch on all fours. Modesty’s face broke the surface. She opened her mouth and inhaled, then went under again. I reached for her, fished around frantically, and suddenly Pre was thrust into my hands. I got him under his chin and pulled him up while Modesty pushed from below.
Pre was deadweight.
I dragged him from the hatch and stretched him out on the floor.
“Hand!” hollered Modesty, and I caught her by the wrist and helped her out. She tried to get to her feet, staggered, and went down on her knees next to Pre. She jabbed her fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse, said “Call 911!” and started performing CPR, rhythmically pushing her clenched fists up and down on Pre’s chest.
I looked at my empty hands.
My phone was somewhere at the bottom of the tank.
Along with my chance to call for help.
Along with my hope of opening a door for Drew.
Modesty broke off her compressions, pinched Pre’s nose shut, and pressed her lips over his. She blew hard enough to make his chest rise. It fell back. She tried again. Then she went back to pressing her fists into his chest.
Pre convulsed, spitting up a fountain of tomato juice. He heaved himself to one side and spewed more juice across the floor. He gave a final retch and started coughing.
“Yes!” I shouted, then knelt to one side and helped him sit. Modesty rubbed his back until the coughing finally stopped.
We were covered in red goop. We looked like the posters at the Disarray drive-in movie theater during the annual Gore-Fest-A-Rama. The main movie would have been The Kids Who Dripped Blood.
“How do you feel?” I couldn’t tell if a healthy green had returned to Pre’s cheeks.
“I’ve felt better,” he said wheezily. He lifted a hand. He was still clutching the SAFE windbreaker by one of its arms. “My Tomato-Juice-Lung worked!”
“Yes, it did,” I said. “Your idea saved our lives.”
“Do you think it was… science?” Pre looked at me hopefully.
“You bet it was science.” Modesty leaned in between us. “You came up with a hypothesis and you tested it. Fortunately for us, the results were positive.”
“Wow!” Pre looked impressed. “I’ve never in my life thought I’d be able to do science.”
“You’ve done it before,” I assured him. “That thing you came up with to measure air temperature—we call that a ‘mercury thermometer.’”
“Scientifical?”
“Highly. And I’m not sure, but I think you may also have invented a barometer. It’s a thing that measures air pressure and helps predict the weather. Not that you’d really need that in Congroo.”
Pre grabbed my forearm, and I helped him lever himself to his feet. “Oh, we could use it. We control the climate—mainly the temperature range—but the daily weather always takes us by surprise. Do you think I might be a scientist? Like Mary Potter? It would explain why I’m so lousy at magic.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe you were just born in the wrong place.”
“What Magic Bite did you use to do this?” asked Modesty. She was studying half of a crowbar embedded in one of the concrete pillars that held up the catwalk we were on. The end of the crowbar was jagged. She held the other half in her hand. “It twisted the wheel so hard, it snapped the bar. The pieces went flying.”
“
To Summon the Forces of Torque,” I said as Modesty brushed past me, kicked the hatch shut, and jammed the remaining half of the crowbar through the spokes of the wheel, catching one end on a knob at the hatch’s rim.
“That should keep Spalding in the tank until the lower hatches unlock,” she said. “Spalding said they were set to open after an hour, which I’d guess would be about a quarter past midnight. What time is it now?” She directed the question at me.
I looked away.
“Where’s your phone?”
I pointed downward.
“So you didn’t dial 911?”
“Only in my head,” I admitted sheepishly.
“Great. Okay—we have to get to Davy’s house in the lobby, free him from the basement, and get him to stop the DavyTron update from going out at twelve twelve. Whatever the time is—we don’t have much of it. Let’s go!”
We didn’t exactly run. None of us, not even Modesty, felt up to it, but we moved as swiftly as we could.
The catwalk stretched across the tops of the tanks, all the way back to tank number one, where a spiral staircase took us down to ground level. Once there, helpful signs on the walls guided us to the lobby.
We passed a restroom, and I asked Pre, “You’ve been here two nights; how come you didn’t realize eleven forty-five was a Magic Minute?”
“Why would I have?”
“That first day, you ate two apple pies. I’m thinking about the Jupiter thing. Wouldn’t you have, uh, felt something?”
“Maybe I did.” He shrugged. “But both days, I was sound asleep. Hey, there’s a clock!”
A digital display at the reception desk said 11:56.
Four minutes until the logem woke up.
Sixteen minutes until the DavyTron update.
Nineteen minutes until the hatches on the tomato-juice tank unlocked.
We clambered up the front steps of the house and let ourselves in. It had taken us maybe five minutes to get there—Pre kept lagging behind; he was easily winded—but once in the house, we wasted no time finding the door to the basement. It was around a corner, hidden from visitors who might be on the house tour. The door had no knob and no hinges.
