Chapter 11

Chapter 11 of Moebius

Chapter 11

 

Conner jogged down the hallway of one of the tower’s upper floors. He had ridden the elevator up some of the way, but then had decided that the elevator would be where someone would be most likely to notice a light boy where he wasn’t supposed to be, so he had sent the cleaning cart up on its own and taken the stairs. Then he’d met with Taea, and she’d volunteered to go up and watch for the cart. She’d seemed even more dead-eyed than usual. He hoped she would be all right.

He was thinking about how clever his idea was, when someone yanked him into a room and closed the door, shoving him away. Conner faced his assailant, and found himself looking at the face of a rival-turned-crush-turned-enemy, Senna, pointing a gun at him. Strange how this seemed to always be the way they met.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Hi!” Conner said cheerfully. “Nice to see you again too.”

“Answer the question,” Senna said with a wave of the gun barrel.

“I’m with the Aventari. I’m here to take out Spellcaster.”

Senna glared at him, then she deflated, sighing and lowering her gun, looking tired. “We don’t have time,” she muttered. Then she took a deep breath and stood up straight again. “We’re going to the top floor. Spellcaster is about to do his daily broadcast, but this time he’s using a new broadcast system that can reach all of yuman space, whether or not they have a receiver. If we don’t stop him, he’ll cast his spell over every yuman in the galaxy.”

“Every---how---”

“No time. As of now, you are my personal attendant. Act like it, and no one will question. Now be silent, and let’s go.” She threw open the door and strode out.

Conner hurried to catch up with her brisk pace. As it turned out, he found being ordered around by a hot, commanding girl to be rather exciting. He’d had a crush on Senna for a while back when they had first met as adversaries. He’d thought he’d gotten over it, but . . . He traced his eyes down her body. Yep, it was definitely back.

They went into the elevator and Senna typed the number of the top floor into the keypad. The door closed and Conner felt heavy as the elevator accelerated upward.

“So, uh, now that we have time,” Conner said, “do you think you could tell me what the deal is with Spellcaster’s broadcast?”

Senna glared at him, and then looked away. “Since he arrived, he’s been requisitioning large projects nobody knows the purpose of, using technology no one has heard of. One of them is an upgrade to the planetary broadcast system. I take it you know about the broadcasts?”

Conner nodded.

“With the upgrade, the word is he can reach every yuman in the galaxy, whether or not they have a receiver nearby. Don’t ask me how, I’m not a scientist.”

“Couldn’t we sabotage the device?” Conner asked.

“We don’t know where it is,” Senna replied, “and now we’re out of time.”

“Yeah,” Conner said. “If he succeeds, the victory at Mithra will have been for nothing.”

Senna glowered daggers at him.

“Oh, right,” Conner said, “you’re not happy about that.”

“Do not forget,” she said, enunciating every syllable, “I serve the Disassembler.”

“You know he disassembles people, right?”

Senna growled. “We’ve gotten off topic. Spellcaster is on the very top floor. The only way to get there is to use a special single-floor elevator only Spellcaster himself has access to, using a method we have not been able to hack.”

Conner pointed to the biggest number on the keypad. “So this isn’t the top floor?”

“No, it’s not. When we get there, you will follow me, no questions asked. Understood?”

“I have to get my cleaning cart from Taea. It has a weapon smuggled in it.”

“Fine.”

They reached the semi-top floor and the door opened. By the end of the row of elevators stood Taea, swabbing a mop back and forth on the ground. She looked up as they approached, her eyes darting to Senna. Conner gave her a thumbs up.

“Thanks for watching this for me,” Conner said, taking the cleaning cart.

Taea put the mop head back in its bucket. “Of all the floors in the galaxy,” she said, “none are as clean as this spot.”

A song began to play. An orchestral melody seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. “He’s begun the broadcast,” Senna said. “Hurry.”

They walked quickly, almost at a run, trying to remain slow enough not to draw attention. Conner was unsure about that, but no one they passed seemed interested in them. Senna scanned a card at a door, and they entered a room full of cupboards. A pantry? Conner supposed that made sense, since it would be unreasonable to expect everyone to take a ten minute elevator ride to the ground floor every time they wanted a snack.

Senna moved a stool from the corner and pushed down on the side of one of the floor tiles. It tilted, and she pulled it out. “It’s gone,” she said, looking at the space beneath the tile.

“What’s gone?” Conner asked.

“Plasma cutter,” Senna said. “Which means either it’s been discovered, or the other team has gotten here first.” She put the tile and stool back.

“Other team?” Conner asked. “You mean . . .” Blast it, he still couldn’t remember that boy’s name.

“Come,” Senna said, marching out the door.

“Will he accept me as part of the team?”

“We’ll see.”

At the end of the hall stood a golden door decorated with large gemstones and flowing designs. Conner gawked. That must be the special elevator, he thought. But Senna turned them down another hall away from it.

A harsh blowing sound could be heard over the broadcast song. Senna approached one of the doors and knocked several times with an irregular rhythm. The door opened, and Conner expected to see the boy whose name he always forgot. Instead, an unfamiliar Tarran boy looked out. Wait no, it was Durgna. Conner realized he had never seen the captain or whatever his rank was without a helmet before, and the short curly hair on his head threw Conner for a loop.

Durgna stared at Conner. Then he pulled the door open and said, “I suppose things couldn’t get any weirder.”

Conner pushed the cart into the conference room, then froze at who he saw. Skipper stood there, looking at him, and not far away Core and the Disassembler were having a staring competition. In the side wall farthest from the door was a yuman-sized hole, the other side of which glowed faintly blue. Durgna closed the door.

“Hey Conner,” Skipper said, “didn’t know if you’d make it.”

“How did you get here?” Conner asked.

Skipper rolled his eyes and groaned. “It’s quite a story. I’ll tell you on the way back down.”

“It’s time to take your weapon from the cleaning cart,” Senna said.

“Oh, right.” Conner leaned over and rummaged under a pile of rags. His hand found the handle, and he smiled, withdrawing his trusty tennis racket.

“Really?” Senna said. “That’s the weapon you smuggled to the top of the Imperial Tower?”

“You bet.” Conner slung the racket over his back.

A very loud clatter came from behind the hole in the wall, startling Conner, along with everyone else in the room. “Done!” A boy called.

That must be the guy, Conner thought.

Durgna stepped in front of the hole and said, “All right. It is time for the Ah . . .” he faltered, looking at the strange comrades in the room. Then he collected himself and stood up straight. “It is time for the Aventari to strike.” He lifted his chin and scowled down his nose. “For the glory of the Tarran Empire, and for its rightful ruler, the Disassembler.”

“Are you done puking words,” Core said, “or can we go already? The song is going to end soon.”

The Disassembler leaped onto the table and shoved a tiny finger in her face. “When I reclaim my glory, you shall be the first one I disassemble.” He then ran to the end of the table and leaped onto Durgna’s back.

Durgna ducked through the hole in the wall, and the rest followed one by one. The other side was a large circular shaft that went up higher than Conner had been expecting, at least six meters, enough for two more stories rather than one. Several chunks of rubble lay beneath a set of metal rungs bolted to the wall, looking like they didn’t belong. Probably installed by what-was-his-face. They led up to a hole in the ceiling, which Conner assumed was Spellcaster’s special elevator car.

Durgna took the lead climbing the ladder, and the rest followed, the music rising toward its crescendo to the beat of their hands and feet on the rungs.

The elevator interior was gaudy, fit for the inside of those jeweled doors. The boy waiting for them was indeed the third member of the Durgna crew. “Drucan’s robes,” he said when he saw Conner, “The depths we have sunk to for our lord.”

Senna emerged last, and all eight of them stood in Spellcaster’s opulent elevator.

“Open it,” the Disassembler said.

“Won’t they know we’re here from the noise?” Skipper asked, as they took positions beside the doors.

Senna slapped the release button, which thankfully worked from the inside without Spellcaster’s authorization. The doors parted, and Skipper’s question was answered by a spray of bullets striking the opposite wall.

Durgna produced a small cylinder, tugged a pin out of it, and rolled it through the door. Conner didn’t know what it was, but he felt sure he should close his eyes and cover his ears.

He was right. Even like that, his eyelids flashed and a bang shook him.

Someone shoved Conner in the back, pushing him in front of the door. He stood there collecting his wits as Durgna’s gang ran through, firing their weapons.

They’re using me to draw fire, he realized. Good thing the enemies were stunned.

They wouldn’t be for long. Conner spared a glance down the majestic hall and ducked behind one of the dark brown pillars near the wall. He thumbed the blade release on his tennis racket and held it tight, his eyes darting back and forth between the sides of the pillar.

The music ended abruptly. A powerful and gruff voice rang out. “Let them live.”

The enemy stopped firing. Conner poked one eye out from behind the pillar and saw two guards at the end of the hall at the top of five stairs, one Tantalian and the other light-skinned, lowering their guns. In the middle stood a bearded old boy with piercing yellow eyes. His gray-brown skin was lighter than the usual Tantalian midnight black. He wore a thick star-studded robe and held a jeweled staff. Spellcaster.

Durgna and his crew fired at the figure, but the bullets smacked into an invisible barrier, sending ghostly ripples along it from where they struck.

“Erin!” Core cried.

“Hi Corcell.” Conner glanced back at the light guard, now noticing his red hair and freckles. The boy from the prison, Core’s brother. “Glad you could join us.”

Spellcaster spoke, his voice piercing into Conner’s mind. “Greetings,” he said. “I am the Spellcaster, Emperor of Tarran, and as of today, Emperor of yumanity.”

“He’s casting his spell!” Durgna cried, running toward him up the hall.

Taea collapsed the floor quivering. Conner and Core followed Durgna at a sprint. The hall seemed so long as he passed row after row of pillars.

Spellcaster held up his staff. “Every last yuman in the galaxy, I command you. Follow me. Bow before me.”

Durgna leaped up the steps, only to be blocked by the invisible shield. Conner drew back his arm and swung his racketblade in an arc. It struck the barrier and bounced off, sending shock up Conner’s arm. Core pressed herself up to the barrier in front of Erin and pounded on it with her fist, shouting.

“Serve me.” Spellcaster slammed his staff down.

The sound cracked in Conner’s mind like spiderweb fissures in a pane of glass. All sound and thought left him, and he found himself on his knees at the foot of the stairs.

Above him stood one greater than all the spirits. Everything Conner had ever known, everyone he had dreamed of shriveled in unworthiness when compared to this boy. Conner had no place in his presence. It was not meant for him to be among such honor and majesty. Him being here was a mistake. He fell forward, the bones of his arms and forehead cracking painfully against the stairs. It did not matter. His pain was insignificant beneath Spellcaster’s gaze.

Footfalls descended the stairs until they were right in front of him. “Whom do you serve?” the voice of power said.

“Spellcaster.” Conner’s response was immediate.

“Conner, no!” The voice belonged to Core, but she was far away, and didn’t seem to matter.

“Put down your weapon,” Spellcaster said, apparently talking to one of his guards. “These ones shall all be my servants, and all shall hear their confessions.”

The steps moved away, and Spellcaster spoke again. “Whom do you serve, little one?”

“I am not little,” the Disassembler said, his voice surprisingly strong, “and I serve myself.”

“Htumoc, Take him to a cell,” Spellcaster said. “Though it may take time, the Disassembler shall bow before me.”

The Disassembler’s cries of protest disappeared with the sound of the elevator doors closing.

Footsteps. And then Spellcaster spoke again. “Whom do you serve?”

“Spellcaster,” Senna said.

One by one, Spellcaster asked the people who had come to kill him whom they served, and one after another, they confessed their fealty to him. Conner was surprised to hear Durgna’s team say it, but they did. Core held out for a time, muttering over and over, “There’s always a choice. There’s always a choice.” But even she broke.

Taea was the last. Spellcaster’s footsteps rang out through the chamber as he approached her. “Whom do you serve?”

Taea whimpered, but said nothing.

“Whom do you serve?” Spellcaster repeated.

The floodgates opened, and Taea began to wail.

Why did she not confess? This boy was divinity incarnate, the personification of that which was meant to be followed. How could anyone possibly hold back? He knew her. She was a good person. It didn’t make sense not to hear her say their lord’s name. So why didn’t she?

Belief. Reality. Worthiness. In Truth, these three must be in alignment. But there was a contradiction. Which meant This was not Truth. Where was Truth? Perhaps memories would help. They were members of the Resistance, but that was wrong. No, the wrongness had to be questioned. Why was it wrong?

Conner remembered. He knew. The event that made him realize Spellcaster was worthy and that the Resistance was wrong was when Spellcaster had pounded his staff. And Conner remembered that he had known something like this would happen, though he hadn’t imagined what it would feel like. Surely he had been wrong before; the Shroud was not a manipulation, it revealed the Truth.

Contradiction. Taea refused to acknowledge Spellcaster.

Core’s mantra: “There’s always a choice.”

Conner lifted his head, becoming aware of the pain in his arms and the dark marble of the stair before him. He could stand up. He shouldn’t, of course, but it was possible.

The thought stole his breath and clutched at his heart with icy talons. Who was he to question Spellcaster? A worm. A t**d. In fact, he was a rotten person through and through. A coward. His loyalty so fickle he would change sides with a single command. And he liked girls way too much, always looking at them and thinking about them. So disgusting. No one would ever want to be around him. People only tolerated him because they had no choice. None of that was Spellcaster’s fault. He had nothing to do with it. It was simply true.

“Whom do you serve?” Spellcaster asked again.

Taea gagged, and there was a sound of splattering liquid. Was she throwing up? How could she resist Spellcaster still, despite all this?

And then Conner realized it didn’t matter. He was a piece of garbage, and that was that. So what? He could still do whatever he chose to do. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Nothing stopped him. He didn’t crumble to dust and bones. He faced Spellcaster, who stood over a trembling, weeping Taea half-drowning in a puddle of vomit, and found his voice. “Step away from her.”

Spellcaster looked at him, his piercing eyes burning into Conner’s soul. “Get back on the ground.”

The urge to comply was like a boulder pressing down upon his shoulders. But Conner had tapped into something, and knew his knees wouldn’t bend if he didn’t bend them.

“Don’t you know who I am?” Conner said. His own voice rang inside his head, and he realized the broadcast was still going on. He grinned, feeling the opposite of a smile on the inside. “I’m the boy who saves the galaxy.” He reached over his shoulder and drew his weapon, thumbing the release of the blade. “With a tennis racket.”

“You don’t want to do that,” a boy’s voice sang.

Someone grabbed Conner’s wrist, preventing him from swinging the racket. Conner struggled, ready to fight, but then he saw it was Core. Her eyes were wide and frightened. “Look,” she said.

Conner followed her nod to see Erin, still at the top of the steps, holding a knife to his own neck. “Touch him,” Erin said, “and little brother goes bye-bye.”

“Come on, Erin,” Core said, her voice hollow, “don’t do this. I came here to free you.”

“No,” Erin said, “you came to have your eyes opened to the truth. You’re just refusing to see it. Step away from Spellcaster. You’ve already said you’d serve him.”

“Words can be broken,” Core said. “Truth is in actions. Listen to me, Erin. No matter what you’ve said or done, how much you feel like you’re committed or you owe, there is always a choice.”

“I know,” Erin said, “and you should join me in making the right one.”

“Thanks, Core,” someone said. Conner looked to see Skipper getting to his feet. “You’ve helped me remember.” He stumbled and grimaced, but then straightened.

Conner looked at Durgna’s crew, who remained on hands and knees with their heads bowed. “Come on Senna, Durgna, whatever-your-name-is, remember you serve the Disassembler.”

“We serve Spellcaster,” Durgna said sharply. The other two echoed him. They remained where they were.

Taea moaned and spit, but remained unable to say anything.

“I hate to be that guy,” Skipper said, “but millions of people around the galaxy are just like her right now. Every moment we wait prolongs an immense amount of suffering.

“Don’t” Erin said, pricking his skin and letting a bead of blood trickle down his neck. “I’ll do it, I swear.”

Conner looked at Taea, looking all but a lifeless heap on the floor. He looked at Erin, who threatened to take his own life, believing it to be of his own free will, but actually under manipulation. Spellcaster had to be stopped, but did Conner have the right to force the hand of the brother of the girl he loved---Geez, dramatic much?---had a thing for?

Conner jumped as his racketblade was yanked from his hand. Core let out an ear-splitting cry, and swung with all her might. There was a loud thunk as the blade sank into Spellcaster’s belly, knocking him to the ground. Core bounded up the stairs with the speed of a munkee as red spilled from Erin’s throat.

Something fell toward Conner, and he jumped, catching it by reflex. It was Spellcaster’s staff. Right there. In his hands.

“Our deepest thanks,” Durgna said, as he and his cronies rose to their feet pulling out their guns. “Now. Give us the staff.”

“Don’t shoot!” Conner cried, reflexively pulling the staff toward him as if to shield himself. Its end bounced on the ground.

To Conner’s surprise, the three Tarrans dropped their guns as if they were scalding hot. Durgna stared dumbly at where his firearm clattered on the ground. Skipper darted in and snatched the weapons before they could regain their wits.

Conner looked, awe-struck at the staff in his hands. What unfathomable power. “We have to destroy it,” he said.

“No!” The hoarse cry came from Spellcaster, who lay in a pool of red. Conner covered his line of sight to Spellcaster’s belly with his hand, deciding he never wanted to use that tennis racket again. “You can’t destroy it.” Spellcaster coughed a very disturbing cough. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Saved the galaxy,” Conner said.

“Don’t . . . under . . . stand,” Spellcaster said. “I did . . . what must . . .” He did his best to take a breath. “I . . . am not . . . yuman. I . . . am . . . Raquon.” His head rolled back, and he breathed no more.

An immense sorrow gripped Conner, and he fell to his knees before the hope and light of existence, lying dead on the ground. Such tragedy could not be. It was . . . He was . . .

I’m still under the Shroud, Conner realized. Killing Spellcaster didn’t break his spell.

“Give us the staff,” Durgna said, walking toward Conner slowly and with effort. It seemed Spellcaster’s death was taking a toll on him too.

“No,” Conner said, gripping the staff firmly. The way the words echoed in his mind told him the sound in this room was still being broadcast to the entire galaxy. “I need to end this.”

He held the staff up high, took a deep breath, and then yelled, “Freedom!” Then he slammed the staff onto the ground with all his might.