The Second Siege

  “Have you ever been, Cooper?” asked Max.

  The Agent nodded. Miss Boon’s head swiveled.

  “Dear God, please tell me you weren’t a valedictorian, too.”

  “No, Miss Boon,” said Cooper, scratching at a shiny patch of scalp. “Far from it, I’m afraid. You’re the only valedictorian here.”

  “Thank the Lord!” said Miss Boon, folding her arms and settling back contentedly.

  Max heard a thin wheeze followed by another. Cooper was laughing. His shoulders shook. Miss Boon turned red but managed to look mildly amused. Mr. McDaniels started chuckling, too. A moment later, the four of them were laughing together. Mum cracked her crocodile eye and glared at them, but David went right on sleeping.

  “What’s so funny?” demanded Mum, scrambling to her feet. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “No, Mum,” said Miss Boon. “We’re laughing at me.”

  “And I was having a nice dream, too,” said Mum crossly. “Bellagrog and I were making a big vat of our holiday eggnog. Three parts bourbon to one part nog, just the way she likes it. . . .”

  “Sounds like you miss her, Mum,” teased Max, poking the hag playfully in the ribs.

  “She’s a beast!” protested Mum, swatting weakly at Max’s hand. “But I do miss my cupboard and my cooking and the oven that works just so.”

  “And Bob?” chided Max.

  “Yes, yes, and Bob too . . . the stupid clumsy oaf,” grumbled the hag. “Half the school’s probably starved to death! He can’t do anything without me, you know.”

  “We know,” they said in unison.

  Cooper fished through David’s pack and produced a large bar of chocolate that he’d taken from the Erasmus.

  “I thought those were all gone!” said Mr. McDaniels, now very much awake.

  “Had to hide one from you,” replied Cooper. “For emergencies.”

  The Agent broke the bar into pieces and doled them out—even Nick received a small wedge, which he sniffed gingerly before swallowing.

  “What about you, Miss Boon?” asked Cooper, chewing his chocolate thoughtfully. “What do you miss?”

  “What don’t I miss?” said the Mystics instructor with a sigh. “I miss teaching. Fires in the great hall. Reading on Maggie’s steps. And, dear Lord, a regular bath!”

  “I miss my friends,” said Max. “And Hannah and the goslings. Geez, I wouldn’t even mind seeing Renard!”

  “Monsieur Renard,” corrected Miss Boon.

  “I miss Maya and the Archives,” David said, peeping from beneath the arm flung over his face.

  “What about you, Dad?” asked Max.

  Mr. McDaniels flushed. He drummed his fingers on his barrel chest.

  “The Beefmeister 2000.”

  Max and David howled with laughter.

  “I wonder if I’m still receiving monthly shipments of meat,” said Max.

  “Well, you should be,” huffed Scott McDaniels indignantly. “I paid for them in advance.”

  “Sorry, Mr. McDaniels,” giggled David. “I don’t think the deliverymen can find Rowan anymore.”

  Max envisioned the great veil of mist David had conjured from the sea. He tried to imagine what was happening at Rowan Academy, whether classes were continuing and the students were safe. He wondered how his own country was coping with the sudden changes in the world. Real news was so hard to come by—he did not even know if a president occupied the White House.

  A knock sounded at the door; a dark shape filled its small window.

  A vye was peering into the compartment. Yellow, feral eyes wandered from face to face.

  “Dear God!” gasped Mr. McDaniels, gripping his seat.

  “It doesn’t see you, Scott,” said Cooper evenly. “It sees six German diplomats. Just be still.”

  Cooper strode to the door and opened it.

  “Gute Nacht,” said Cooper, staring up at the vye.

  “Gute Nacht,” replied the blue-black vye. It ducked under the doorway, clutching a clipboard against its trench coat. Its matted fur was damp; one clawed hand was bandaged and bloodied. Max held his breath. He felt utterly exposed, as though he were hiding in plain sight. It seemed impossible that the vye would not see him for what he was—a thirteen-year-old boy clutching a lymrill that had instinctively balled into a defensive mass of bristling quills.

  Max felt for the spearhead that he now kept in his sleeve. It was warm to the touch and hummed ever so slightly. The vye glanced at him; Max fidgeted and coughed. Snapping his fingers under the vye’s nose, Cooper reclaimed its attention with an authoritative stream of rapid-fire words. The vye bared black-gummed fangs and glared at the Agent for several long seconds. Affecting boredom, Cooper crossed his arms and tapped his shoe impatiently. A nearly subsonic growl rumbled in the vye’s throat as it fumbled for something in its coat. Their documents were stamped and returned to them. The vye muttered something to Cooper before stalking out of the compartment, shutting the door firmly behind it.

  “Is it really gone?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

  “It is,” said Cooper, slipping the documents back into his coat.

  “That’s the most god-awful thing I’ve ever seen,” sputtered Mr. McDaniels.

  “Why wasn’t it disguised?” asked Max.

  “Because they’re getting cocky,” said Cooper. “Vyes don’t like human form—makes their eyes itch. I told him we didn’t appreciate the sudden scare and that I’d speak to his superiors.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Mr. McDaniels.

  “No,” said Cooper, peering outside the window. “That was a good reminder to be on our toes. We’ve just passed Strasbourg and are crossing into Germany. We’ll be in Frankfurt by dawn.”

  The Agent spied the empty chocolate wrapper on the floor and stooped to snatch it up, thrusting it deep within his pocket before taking the seat nearest the door.

  Dawn arrived with a steel-gray sky and a sporadic drizzling of sleet that rattled on the roof. From a distance, Frankfurt seemed undamaged—no trails of black smoke rose into the air, as at Bilbao and Tours. The train pulled into a station of metal and glass with a great domed roof. Nick mewled unhappily as Max stowed him in David’s backpack. Cooper stood by the door and looked them over.

  “Stay close behind me as a group. Don’t speak to anyone. A receiving outpost of the Workshop isn’t far—we must hurry without drawing attention to ourselves.”

  They filed out after Cooper, squeezing through the narrow corridor past bleary-eyed officials. The station was nearly empty; just a few coffee-sipping men and women loitered near another track under the bored gaze of a slouching policeman.

  Cooper strode purposefully for the exit while they trailed behind him like dutiful aides. As they neared one of the exits, a middle-aged woman ran up to Cooper.

  “Oskar!” she said, embracing him. “Wie geht es Ihnen?”

  “Danke, gut,” replied Cooper stiffly, removing her hands. “Es tut mir leid, aber wir sind spät.”

  The woman’s smile faded. She turned and watched them go with a puzzled expression. In his peripheral vision, Max saw the policeman straighten and stare at them.

  “Cooper,” he hissed.

  “Keep walking; stay calm,” said the Agent without breaking stride.

  They stepped out the main exit into the cold gray morning. Hurrying past several commuters, Cooper led them to a street crossing, where they were forced to wait at a traffic light. An undisguised vye stood waiting across the street, looking utterly out of place amidst the automobiles and buildings.

  A car honked to their left. Max turned to see a sleek silver limousine idling at the curb. The driver stepped out and addressed them.

  “Guten Tag, Herren,” said the driver, holding open the door.

  Cooper stared at him. The light changed, and the vye began padding across the street.

  “Doktor Rasmussen sendet Grüβe,” said the driver, glancing nervously at the approaching vye. He beckoned at the open door. Offering a curt nod
, Cooper led them quickly to the car, where Max piled in after his father. The door was locked and they pulled away from the curb. The vye peered at the license plate but continued on toward the station.

  “Welcome to Frankfurt,” said the driver, accelerating past several cars with diplomatic plates. “I speak English and I can assure you that your disguises are no longer necessary.”

  “How do you know who we are?” asked Cooper quietly.

  “I don’t,” replied the driver. “I can only definitively say that Scott McDaniels is in this car. I assume the rest of you come from Rowan as well.”

  “The pill,” muttered David, nudging Mr. McDaniels. “That pill Rasmussen made you swallow . . . it must have been a—”

  “Homing device,” replied the driver with a satisfied smile. “Yes, we’ve been following your progress for quite some time.”

  In a blur, Cooper leaned forward and pressed his knife against the driver’s throat.

  “Have you been sharing that information?” the Agent whispered.

  “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the driver replied in a steady voice. “We have already aided you twice now. Dr. Rasmussen is eagerly awaiting your safe arrival.”

  Cooper said nothing and kept the knife still. The driver did his best to appear calm, but Max saw tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Cooper muttered several words; Max felt a slight tingling as the illusion drained away. Sitting up in the backseat, Max saw his own face reflected in the rearview mirror.

  “Look at me,” said Cooper.

  The driver glanced at the Agent. His eyes widened in shock at the waxy, scarecrow face hovering inches from his own. Cooper’s voice was deadly calm; his Cockney accent thickened.

  “If I find that the Workshop is responsible for the death of Antonio de Lorca, I’m going to hold you personally responsible, mate. Do you understand me?”

  The driver swallowed hard and nodded. Miss Boon put a hand on Cooper’s arm and gently guided the knife away.

  “You said Dr. Rasmussen is awaiting us?” she asked.

  “Yes, madam,” said the driver, looking back at her gratefully. “You are to be his honored guests.”

  Mum made a disbelieving face, but Miss Boon shushed her. Max opened David’s pack; Nick practically leapt into his face. The lymrill nipped Max hard on the finger and circled into a peevish ball.

  “Is that the lymrill?” asked the driver, trying to glimpse Nick in the rearview mirror.

  “How do you know Nick’s a lymrill?” asked Max.

  “Dr. Rasmussen described him,” said the driver. “A most interesting creature.”

  The driver drove them past a government building and on a circuitous route through the city. They ended up, however, at a parking garage only a few blocks from the train station. The driver waved at the attendant, who promptly lifted the gate. The car plunged into the dimly lit structure and proceeded to wind its way down. When it reached the lowest level, the driver accelerated smoothly toward a dead end of gray concrete. The speed pushed Max back against his seat, but the car made no sound.

  Cooper fidgeted and gripped the backrest.

  “What are you doing?” he growled, leaning forward once again.

  “Please remain calm,” replied the driver. “The increased speed is necessary.”

  They raced past thick pylons and stalls filled with expensive automobiles. The speedometer crept past 120 kilometers per hour. Their acceleration was so smooth it seemed they were stationary and the wall was racing toward them. Mum shrieked and covered her eyes. Mr. McDaniels hugged Max and David to him.

  They sped right through the barrier.

  For a brief moment, the car went dark. When he could see again, Max whirled around in his seat and watched the wall rapidly receding in their wake.

  “So it was an illusion, then,” said Cooper, finally easing back in his seat.

  “Not at all, sir,” said the driver. “That wall’s solid enough to stop a tank.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Miss Boon, prying Mum off her.

  “Nanotechnology,” replied the driver. “We’ve adjusted its properties to admit objects traveling at the appropriate speed. A smidgeon slower and . . . splat!”

  “Cool!” said David, joining Max at the back window. The automobile was descending at a steep grade on what appeared to be a four-lane highway tunneled deep into the earth. Slim blue lights lined the rock walls at regular intervals.

  “You boys will like the Workshop,” said the driver, smiling. “There is lots to see, and Jason Barrett is anxious to get reacquainted.”

  “How is Jason?” asked Max, excited to see his friend, a recent graduate of Rowan.

  “Very well,” said the driver. “A most promising young man—working with our engineers in Applications. Altogether very thorough with his research.”

  “You’re doing research?” asked Miss Boon incredulously. “Now? Haven’t you been affected by all that’s happening?”

  “Self-sufficiency is our driving creed,” replied the driver. “We don’t need your food or power plants or communications networks. We’ve already solved those problems.”

  “I wonder why Dr. Rasmussen should eagerly await our arrival,” said Miss Boon with a prim smile. “It seems the Workshop has everything it needs.”

  “We are self-sufficient but not discourteous,” said the driver, expertly guiding them down a slow, spiraling descent. The car leveled out and he accelerated at a rate Max had never experienced before. They rocketed through the tunnel in a blur of polished rock and streaming lights. The speedometer read 350 kilometers per hour as they whirred through another wall, this one made of gleaming black metal. Then the car slowed to a purr, and the driver wheeled it toward a massive pyramid of smooth, sheer rock that was set at the center of an enormous cavern.

  Max gazed in mute astonishment at the scale of the space and everything within it. The pyramid must have been a mile wide, with a pair of monstrous silver doors set into its face. A dozen other tunnels emptied into the cavern, feeding toward the great pyramid; some were hundreds of feet in diameter. The driver eased the car to a stop among a host of identical vehicles parked near the towering entrance.

  “How far down are we?” croaked Mr. McDaniels, following Max out the door and rocking back on his heels to survey the space.

  “Approximately seven kilometers below sea level,” responded the driver. “Nearly twice as deep as a diamond mine. But we have spaces deeper still.”

  Miss Boon waved her hand through the air and rubbed her fingers together.

  “But it’s cool here,” she said. “It should be hot—intolerably hot this far down.”

  “We learned long ago to harness the heat and pressures at such a depth,” chuckled the driver, leading them toward the towering silver doors. “Where you perceive a threat, we recognize an opportunity. The geothermal heat we capture and convert from this site alone could power a major city.”

  “I’ll bet Vincenti would love to see this place,” whispered Max to David, referring to Rowan’s technology specialist.

  “Your Joseph Vincenti would have little interest in what we do here,” echoed a voice ahead of them.

  Jesper Rasmussen stood at the threshold of an inconspicuous opening next to the gargantuan doors. A smile creased his skeletal, hairless features. “You see, your Joseph Vincenti makes Devices. We make machines. I think you can tell the difference.” He laughed and walked forward to greet them. “I’m sorry we cannot open them for you,” he said, waving at the colossal doors behind him. “It’s quite a sight, but I could hardly justify the energy expenditure. My colleagues would think I’m getting vain.” He stopped and gave a short bow to David and the McDanielses. “It is nice to see you under less dire circumstances. Welcome to the Frankfurt Workshop.”

  “Hmph,” said Mr. McDaniels, shaking the proffered hand.

  “What do you think of our little home?” asked Rasmussen, gesturing at the looming monolithic structure. ??
?What you see is ten times greater than the pyramid at Giza and you’re only glimpsing half.”

  Max imagined the gargantuan structure extending far below the smooth rock flooring at his feet. He felt infinitesimal.

  “Let’s get you settled, then,” said Rasmussen, dismissing the driver and steering David forward. Mum reached out and clutched Max’s hand as they followed Rasmussen through the small side door that might have been an entrance for insects.

  They were led into a dim white room with a steel door at the opposite end.

  “This will take but a moment,” said Rasmussen, closing the door to the outside. “A sterilization procedure. We’ve become very cautious about contamination from microorganisms. You won’t feel a thing.”

  As he locked the door, the room was illuminated with rapid pulses of light like thousands of camera flashes firing one after the other. Shapes swam before Max’s eyes; Nick howled and raced around the room’s perimeter. The flashes abruptly stopped, and a green light appeared on the steel door’s handle.

  “Your eyes will recover momentarily,” said Rasmussen. “My apologies for the duration, but we’ve never had to sterilize one of her kind before. I’m sure the hag understands.”

  “Oh, indeed I do, sir!” said Mum, clasping her hands and offering a low curtsy. “We hags are indeed a filthy lot! I’m much obliged to you for zapping me crawlies!”

  “Not at all,” said Rasmussen, strolling forward to have his iris scanned.

  As they filed out of the room, Max caught Mum scrabbling furiously at her nose. She dragged her finger along the wall, leaving a shiny trail. She shrugged at Max and waddled after the group, humming with satisfaction.

  “We’ll first get you settled,” said Rasmussen, leading them down a short corridor that opened into an enormous atrium. Max blinked and exchanged glances with his father; he could have sworn they were outside. Live redwood trees and sequoias rose hundreds of feet in the air, creating halos of shade from warm sunlight that filtered through glass panes far above. Dozens of people were sitting at circular tables, chatting over tea or huddled in quiet conversation around schematic drawings. Woven baskets of fresh fruit were arranged in neat rows beneath the open window of a cozy café built of rose-colored stone. Max breathed in deeply and felt the oxygen-rich air sharpen his senses.