Waking in Dreamland (20 page)

“Help me onto my bike, won’t you?” she asked.

Roan heard romantic music swell up in the distance.

“With all my heart,” he said.

Chapter 12

“Look at that!” Bolmer, riding ahead of Taboret, pointed to the side of the road in great excitement. “A
Camellia nutrans
! Absolutely one of the rarest plants in the world! Unmistakable. My hat! I haven’t seen one in ten years, and that was in the marshes of the fourth province.” He craned his head around to get a second look at the plant.

Taboret had half a second to glimpse the weird, vase-shaped flower among the reeds before she, too, had passed it.

“Incredible!” she said, but in the back of her mind she felt boredom. It told her “I’ve already seen that. And in a marsh, too.” But Taboret knew she never had seen a flower with four pointed blue petals spotted with pink. She had never been that enamored of botany. Among the apprentices, only Bolmer was such a plant freak.

Another twinge in her mind told her not to be so negative about other people’s interests.

It wasn’t fair. She was being nagged by Carina, without ever opening her mouth! Such things had been happening more and more frequently over the course of the day, at first subtly, so she hardly noticed it, then more insistently obvious, as now. Her memories, and even her conscious mind, were becoming combined with the others’.

Taboret felt a surge of fear, which she quickly suppressed. When a discovery was no longer new, if information could be immediately shared, or learned without one even knowing it, where was the joy? Where was the excitement? Was she losing her identity? Not even Brom’s promise of power was enough to make up for that!

Glinn noticed her inattention and nudged her bicycle from behind with his. Startled, she came out of her reverie and concentrated on riding in unison with the others. Right foot down, left foot down, right foot down. She glanced behind her and mouthed a “thank you” to him. He nodded back, and lowered his shell-shaped helmet so she couldn’t see his eyes. Right, left, right, left, right. The chief insisted on their maintaining identical paces. Why wouldn’t he allow them to explore the trail or run ahead of the group from time to time? Where was the harm? On her bike she could be back in the formation in seconds. But the chief insisted that this exercise would also make the apprentices more of a unit. When they moved in rhythm, it was only the next step until they
thought
in rhythm. Then they would be the most powerful single gestalt being in the insubstantial realm. Unless they ended said realm by accomplishing their experiment. Taboret shuddered. Right, left, right, left. . . .

“Time to change!” Brom announced. Basil and Carina gratefully brought their bicycles to a halt, and waited patiently while the others helped them unbuckle the Alarm Clock’s frame from their shoulders. Glinn and Taboret moved into place, and assumed the heavy burden between them. It was Taboret’s turn to ride at the back, which suited her because it meant that Brom couldn’t see her face. She wanted to think, while she still could, without having him suspect her of independence.

A sound like an everlasting raspberry began as a whine in the distance, and grew into a sky-filling roar.

Maniune, one of the hired musclemen, came racing up, and skidded to a stop, throwing up a cloud of debris. His

steed had been adapted into one of Brom’s new inventions, a motor-bicycle, making it ten times faster and a dozen times more aggressive than unaltered and unpowered transportation. Such things existed in the archives, and were becoming more common every day, but Brom’s motorcycles were guaranteed not to be affected by influence. They would stay permanently in that shape.

As if aware of its inalterable status, the motorbike danced and curvetted, intimidating the apprentices’ steeds. Gano’s green bike spooked and dumped her into the thornbushes that lined the road. Maniune grinned, teeth showing white through the black stubble on his chin.

“Stop that!” Brom ordered, and Maniune made his beast retreat to a decent distance. Carina swung off to help Gano up. The shorter woman had scratches on her hands and one side of her face, and was looking bloody murder at the mercenary. So were the rest of the apprentices. To Taboret, having mercenaries along did not seem appropriate to the task. And they behaved as crudely as the Countingsheep brothers, without being taciturn. They were openly offensive.

“Report!” Brom demanded.

“They’re still following us, sir,” Maniune said, pitching his voice over the roar of his mount. “Got a message. The diversion worked like a charm—took them all the way to the Forest—but they’re turned around.”

“How many?” Brom asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Ten. Four soldiers from the palace guards, including Captain Spar himself. Three historians.”

“Too many!” Brom scoffed. “They’ll tie themselves up in knots of protocol and indecision. Roan would have done better to follow us on his own. I have some respect for his tenacity. We will have to enact Plan B: speed up and deter pursuit.”

“And another thing,” Maniune said. “Princess Leonora is with them.”

“What?” Brom asked, his gaunt face going hollow-cheeked. “This is . . . unexpected.” He put his chin into his hand, and lowered his eyebrows until Taboret thought they’d brush his nose. “She did not figure in my calculations of risk. . . . However,” he raised his head defiantly, “we cannot let her presence stop us. Carry on with the plan. Deter pursuit. Everyone has their instructions. Where’s Acton?”

“Still guarding the road, sir,” Maniune said.

“Good! How far behind us is Roan?”

“Hours. They’re clear on the other side of Hark.”

“Excellent. Do not let them close the distance. Use what means you deem necessary, but only the minimum required. Lurry, you go with him.”

“Yes, sir.” The apprentice looked down at his bicycle, and up with a question at Brom, who nodded.

“Form the crucible,” the senior scientist ordered. “We will make another motorcycle, and then move on.”

Nobody said anything, but Taboret felt a collective groan go through the group. Brom certainly felt that; he sent a glare around at all of them. Obediently, everyone but Taboret and Glinn dismounted and put their right hands together.

“Gano, we will transform your steed,” Brom said. “Everyone is to focus upon the green animal. You all know the design parameters. Take your time. This is crucial work. We do not want the beast to die. There isn’t time to replace it. Slowly and carefully, now. We have no time to waste.”

“Wasn’t it a mistake to stop for supplies, then, sir?” Bolmer asked. “It slowed us down, and we left witnesses behind us.”

“Nonsense,” Brom said. “We confused their minds sufficiently. It will be difficult for anyone who saw us to describe us. We can use part of the crucible’s energy to slow Roan down.” He smiled, and that faraway light showed in his eyes. “We will see if we can create our own nuisance. Yes, we will do that first. Glinn, you will monitor.”

“Yes, sir,” Glinn said. The front of the litter shifted on Taboret’s shoulders as her partner reached into his pocket for the detector he carried.

Taboret felt her blue mount bounce impatiently under her, making a ratcheting noise. The combined weight of a human being and half a philosophical device was a lot to ask a new bike to carry. She looked wistfully in Maniune’s direction, wishing she had a motorcycle, too. Maniune, a dark-haired, coarse-featured ruffian, misunderstood her expression, and made a kissy-mouth toward her. She snarled and retired behind the Alarm Clock. If she wasn’t contributing every extra erg of influence, she’d bury him ankle deep in biting ants.

Brom snapped his fingers for attention. “Together, now!”

The young people closed their eyes and concentrated. Taboret felt the mental link form that joined her to the others. Being unable to touch them physically, she had no control over how her influence would be used, but she concentrated anyhow on creating a nuisance. What did a nuisance look like?

Fuzzy pictures began to form in her mind. A nuisance was a large, smelly person who kept poking one on the bus. A nuisance was a can tab whose key broke off in your fingers. A nuisance was a flat tire, a sudden gust of wind, a lost slip of directions, a bang over the funnybone. In short, and here Taboret sensed Brom’s more precise mind, a nuisance was a measure of annoyingly wasted time, and that was what was at stake here: time.

She peeked out of one eye at the crucible forming above the joined hands. Something formed there, all cloudy colors and indistinguishable, raucous noises, and flew off toward the south.

Without opening his eyes, Brom snapped his fingers again.

“Glinn! Report!”

Her fellow apprentice’s voice was hushed. “It is a nuisance, sir. I don’t know how stable it is, or if it will go where we send it, because it is. It really is a nuisance,” Glinn finished, with a gulp.

“Very good,” Brom said, not stopping for self-congratulations. He opened his eyes. “Now the motorcycle! Concentrate!”

For this transformation they did not need to use their imaginations. In Taboret’s mind the green bicycle went through precise step-by-step alterations, down to the bright lamp that replaced the removable lantern at the front of the head tube. The new motorcycle gave an excited roar, and revved its engine. Taboret opened her eyes at that sound.

The others had, too. Gano went over to touch her green steed with an expression of awe. It roared again, enjoying its new voice.

“Mechanical check,” Brom barked. Gano swung up on her mount, and rode it in a wide circle, followed by a series of maneuvers to test its reactions. She was grinning widely when she came back alongside the others.

“Now, if we can do that so well, why not an airship?” Taboret asked, forgetting to be tired in her envy. “Air travel to . . . to our destination would take only hours.”

“No!” Brom said, wheeling to aim a long, skinny finger at her. “Too risky. We would have to make one that could not fail. That would take too much time to design. I will not guess. I will not risk my precious Device in
mid-air
. Bicycles are reliable. They exist everywhere, a true design. Motorcycles are an improvement on bicycles. We shall all have them very soon.”

“Hope so,” Carina said, rubbing her shoulders. “My legs are getting worn out from pedaling. I sure hope we hit a change where this thing grows its own motive power.”

“You have to feed horses,” Basil reminded her. “And rest them.”

“You have to feed and rest me, too,” she said acerbically.

“I knew you were going to say that,” Taboret said, in surprise.

“And I knew you were going to say
that
,” Carina snapped. “Mind your own business. Stay out of my head!”

“Wish I could,” Taboret said. She was now aware of an undertone of a hum that were the thoughts of her fellow apprentices. Brom’s mind was a loud booming over them all, not clearly distinguishable as words or thoughts yet. She hunched unhappily behind the Alarm Clock.

“The bickering will cease!” Brom announced, waving a hand over the handlebars of his elegant conveyance. His was more than a bicycle, but still less than a motorbike, and yet he did not seem to have to pedal it very often. Probably, Taboret thought, it was a design in process he would tell them about when the time came. “Lurry, bring your beast forward!”

Under Brom’s direction, they formed his bicycle into a sidecar to fit against Maniune’s motorcycle. Taboret cringed inwardly when the steed cried out as it was squished and squeezed into its new shape.

“We must increase our pace,” Brom said when the crucible broke. “That is all for now. We will make more motorcycles when we can. For the moment, we must move on. Maniune, you will report back at our next stop. You have your instructions. Keep them from closing the distance. Lurry is empowered with a certain amount of influence for you to use. I will not be disturbed.”

“But his rotten dirty tricks could hurt the princess!” Taboret protested, and knew that her concerns were shared by the others. “Or . . . or kill her.”

Brom turned an unconcerned face to her. “If they do not wish to be hurt, they will turn back.”

Chapter 13

“Did you see that?” Lum demanded, goggling.

“Yes,” Bergold said, very pleased, watching the big, square vehicle vanish into the middle distance. “A streetcar just went by. We must be getting closer to civilization.”

“But there’s no tracks.”

“Doesn’t need any,” Bergold said, cheerfully. “Just a street, and that we have.” He unfolded the map on his handlebars as he rode. “Now, let me see. Unless I am quite wrong, we must be near Hark.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Colenna said.

“Not a big place,” Misha said, peering over Bergold’s shoulder at the map. “Looks like it’s about the size of its name. Wha— Whoa!”

The young man rose high into the air on his bicycle’s saddle. Wobbling madly, he flailed at the air for a moment, then desperately clutched at the handlebars, trying not to fall off. For a moment, it seemed as if Misha’s placid mount was about to buck him off. Instead, the front wheel grew until it was double its normal diameter, and the rear wheel shrank down to the size of a dinner plate. Misha kept his grip, and wiggled forward with his feet on the pedals, now placed at the front wheel’s axle, while the bicycle’s shape struggled to stabilize.

“Stop, everyone!” Roan commanded. “Dismount, quickly!”

Roan’s warning was just in time. Within moments, all of the other steeds were transforming into pennyfarthing bicycles. Spar stared up at his mount in dismay. The saddle was on a level with his head.

“Someone change this thing back,” he complained. “I can’t ride it. It’s undignified.”

“Gladly,” said Bergold, who now wore his hair sleeked back on his head and sported a handsome handlebar mustache with waxed and curled ends. He left his own beast in Lum’s care and laid hands on Spar’s bike. Roan felt the waves of influence pouring out of his friend’s aura, enough to divert the course of a stream, but they had no effect upon the bicycle. Instead, some of the plants and rocks beyond the bicycle grew shorter and more symmetrical.

“Sorry, my friend,” the historian said, ruefully, twirling one spiraled mustachio. “Sleeper’s will. I would have to say that the design must be in keeping with the mood of whomever is dreaming Hark today.”