Dragon Sword Read online

  I start telling Charlie everything about Barnstormers, how these monsters play pickup games in local towns for food and money. I tell him everything except the part about playing it over the Comnet. The rest just spills out of me, like I’m talking to some new kid at school.

  “And it’s set way back in time, too, like the 1930s!”

  “Way back, huh? Two whole years ago!” Charlie’s laughing, “Never knew baseball could be so scary. I like those Seals, though!” He jerks his thumb at my cap. “They used to come and train in Hawaii, in a town called Hana. You ever hear of Hana?”

  I’ve heard of Hawaii.

  “Guy who owns ’em owns a sugar plantation there. On the island of Maui! Lotta free baseball in the spring. We stand around and watch. Saw DiMaggio there! Hey, he’s supposed to be here tonight, I think.”

  The cab rolls to a stop.

  DiMaggio?

  I look up, and there are rows of lanterns overhead, more bright lights, and people moving past my window in heavy overcoats and hats.

  We’re at the museum.

  “We’re here, kid. Happy holidays. Hope your parents stay safe. Have a good party.”

  I step out.

  “Forty cents.”

  “Did you say Joe DiMaggio is going to be here?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard. Cabbies hear things all the time, though.” I hand him a dollar and he glances at it — then the glance turns into a stare.

  Right. I just goofed. The money’s not from here. From this time. But that’s not what he says.

  “Po,” he whispers. “All over the place tonight. Watch out.” Then he winks at me and drives off.

  There are a bunch of people on the steps, waiting to get their invitations checked so they can get inside. I reach into my pocket for the one this Dan guy sent my mom…and it’s not there. It’s not there! I thought I stuffed it in my pocket.

  Now how am I going to get in?

  I stand with everybody on the museum steps. There’s a Santa Claus ringing a bell wishing everyone a very merry Christmas.

  Next to Santa is a man with a heavy gray overcoat and a hat, putting out a cigarette. DiMaggio dressed like that, and I think he did cigarette ads, too. I saw one, just a picture from an old paper magazine, somewhere on the Comnet.

  I guess in those days — these days — there were still a lot of places you could smoke in public. But why’d he need to do the ad at all? He was already a Yankee. Didn’t they pay him enough?

  “Mr. DiMaggio?” Even if I don’t get in, I want to meet him.

  The man laughs. He raises his head, and as the hat’s shadow lifts, I can see it isn’t DiMaggio at all.

  “Do I look like Joltin’ Joe, kid? I guess I’m flattered. But my name’s Caen.” He sticks out his hand. “Herb Caen. DiMaggio probably won’t come. He hates these dog-and-pony shows for the swells. I gotta go inside, though. See how the beautiful people of Baghdad-by-the-Bay try to make it through this war.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Baghdad’?” The fog still hadn’t lifted, and after Charlie Dang’s po talk, I’m feeling a little strange. And maybe, out here all alone, a little scared.

  This is still San Francisco, right?

  Caen laughs. “The Baghdad thing’s just a nickname I coined for our sweet little burg. In my job, I go back and forth between telling the absolute truth and making things sound a little better than they really are.”

  “What job is that?” It’s like I’m walking into a setup for a joke.

  “I’m a newspaper columnist. San Francisco Chronicle. You read it?”

  “Online.” Oops.

  “Yeah, I read it in line myself, sometimes. When I have to. Well, happy Yuletide, and hopefully this war will be over before you hit draft age.”

  He tips his hat and is about to leave, but stops and peers around. “Hey. Who are you here with, kid? Where are your folks?”

  “They’re…I’m supposed to meet them inside.” I shrug. I guess I don’t have to pretend my mom’s really my teacher if he doesn’t know who she is. “But I lost my ticket.”

  That’s not quite a lie. And anyway, after my “online” slip-up, does he really want to hear that my parents technically don’t even exist yet? “We’ll tell ’em you’re with me. Come on. A kid shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve.” Yeah, right.

  His plan works. We go in, and it looks almost…magical inside. The whole museum’s decked out with Christmas decorations. There are candles and ornaments around all the displays, and a pair of musicians is playing in the corner. It’s all very festive.

  “I don’t think the fact we’re at war has sunk in yet,” Caen says. “Well, kid, enjoy yourself while you can.” He grabs a drink from a waiter and walks into the crowd.

  A huge banner says MYTHS, LEGENDS, & TRUTHS: FANTASTIC OBJECTS FROM HISTORY. There’s a “Haunted California” area, a “Mysteries of the East” display (I wonder if they have anything about po), but I’m closest to the “King Arthur’s Round Table” area, where the first thing I see is a large pair of white antlers in a display case.

  Next to that is something that I recognize from my childhood: the Dino Sword.

  But before I can even take a step toward it, some big kid with slick blond hair and a too- large suit plows into me and knocks me over.

  Chapter Six

  Thea: Plasmechanical Dawn

  10,271 S.E.

  The play was a success. All the Saurians appear to have enjoyed it, which they signified by stomping their large feet on the floor, or in some cases slapping their tails. I wonder if they understood it, though. From what I can tell of their history, they haven’t actually had a war in a very long time.

  They do, however, have Cacklaw, their ritual sporting event, which looks somewhat like a war at times. This is especially true during the period known as “free reign,” where the rules are suspended and alliances change. As far as I can gather, there has only ever been one, long single game of Cacklaw — passed along, generation after generation — knitting the whole culture together throughout its history. It’s as much a collection of myths to live by as it is an athletic competition.

  There is so much to learn about Cacklaw, about the Saurians, about this planet, its atmosphere, and the nearly familiar constellations in its night sky. I am especially enamored of the star formation they call the Gatherer, which reminds me somewhat of Osiris in our own sky, named for the god who represents hope in times of darkness.

  There is much to learn, and I wish someday to have the chance. But right now, the time has come to leave.

  The Saurians have been worried about K’lion since he failed to return to class. They have nothing against me particularly — but a mammal who can talk, write, and produce plays will always be peculiar to them.

  But still, as Kolomus, who appears to function as a kind of prelate of the city here, told me last night, “You have opened our eyes a little wider.”

  It was quite a compliment, though I am not sure I warrant it. And it was certainly unlike anything I heard in Alexandria from Brother Tiberius.

  Now the heavy-lidded eyes of Kolomus, Gandy, and hundreds of others are open and fixed on me.

  They’ve gathered around in “the reaching field,” a place dedicated to the dispatch and return of their journeying time-vessels.

  Mine is the only departure they have allowed, or will allow, for a while.

  They remain bothered that K’lion may be “stuck” somewhere in one of their histories, undoing or redoing events, which is always to be avoided. Except for the various “sorties” in Cacklaw, as they call each round, or contest, the Saurians like to avoid surprises. K’lion’s disappearance has proven too unpredictable for them. They are still trying to understand what went wrong with such a routine class assignment.

  In response, they set about changing the essential design of their time-ships, using plasmechanics. Plasmechanics form the basis of lingo-spot technology, which so effectively translates languages between members of different — I
was about to say cultures, but perhaps species is more accurate. Or even planet-dwellers.

  From what I can gather, plasmechanical devices are machines constructed on the level of the tiniest particles imaginable: living tissue made to “build” more of itself as it adapts to each new wearer, each new language, or in the case of ships, each new situation. Apparently, the Saurians have imbued plasmechanical material with an even greater intelligence than before.

  Which raises the question of whether such devices can still properly be considered “machines” at all.

  The Saurians seem to be undertaking a great experiment with self-perpetuating technology. I can only imagine that Mother would be fascinated — and concerned. “The soul of things,” she once told me, “is hard to quantify.”

  The Saurians had observed that left on its own, a plasmechanical device, such as a lingo- spot, would grow and change slightly, like a cell, before eventually becoming less effective. It would burn out and need to be replaced.

  Until I arrived.

  According to Gennt, a senior minister of engineering, one of the scrolls saved from the library, having to do with mummification, has been of great use.

  “Odd things you mammals do with flesh. But useful,” he told me. The Saurians were especially fascinated by the use of oils and spices in conserving mummy skin. They found their own planetary equivalents of both myrrh and cinnamon, which were key ingredients in the mixture applied to the bodies. This simple, ancient formula has allowed the Saurians to preserve sheets of plasmechanical material. Thus they discovered that the nervelike connections that run through the devices could actually continue to grow, and the larger a sheet, or piece, of plasmechanical material, the more easily the machine — if it is still a machine — can begin repairing itself.

  Not only repairing itself, but learning, too. Subtly adapting for whatever task is at hand.

  So they set about designing a time-vessel to include large plasmechanical components. I’m to use the prototype in the search for K’lion.

  The initial plan is to allow the ship to serve as a kind of tracking device. They’ve given it a “scent,” as it were — a bit of K’lion’s DNA — which should allow the craft to hone in on him like a hunting dog, if the ship gets anywhere within range.

  Of course, no one has actually tested the ship yet. Since K’lion has yet to return, the Saurians worry that the Fifth Dimension has grown unsafe for travelers.

  But were there ever guarantees for any journey through time?

  “I’d t-ka! take it into the field myself,” Gennt told me, “but if mammals evolve so p-p-kh fast, and Saurians have vanished, maybe the field isn’t what it used to be.”

  By “field,” he meant the Fifth Dimension, which allows a voyager basically an infinite number of choices of where — or when — to go. Or sometimes, who to be. The Fifth Dimension can’t change, but the travelers that go through it — and the destinations it leads to — always do.

  Of course, most travelers don’t want infinite choices. They want an adventure, to be changed a little perhaps, then they want to return.

  Like me.

  So I volunteered to take the time-ship on her maiden voyage.

  At first they refused, insisting it would be too dangerous. But I told them the risk was my choice, and besides, K’lion was last seen on my planet. Perhaps it is I, the mammal, who should seek to undo what K’lion’s encounter with our species has begun.

  Of course, I am not completely sure that such an undoing is possible, but I am willing to try for a chance to return home. Or, given that my home in Alexandria was burned to the ground and my mother murdered, someplace simply familiar and safe.

  It’s that or live my life now as an explorer. Mother would appreciate that.

  Either way, it made sense to volunteer to try out the ship. I promised to send K’lion back home in it if I could.

  They have a tradition here of sending off “chronauts,”— a word I’ve fashioned for their time-explorers — at dawn.

  I believe this ritual has something to do with the time of day that the Saurians’ original king — the great Temm, who is said to have invented Cacklaw — set off on the journey in which he was to learn the rules of the game.

  In any case, I am honored. Gandy, Kolomus, Gennt, and so many others are here. And Gandy is even giving me a sklaan, a thin, gossamer-like garment made of special fibers designed to keep the wearer warm in almost any climate.

  Of course, originally designed for a Saurian, it’s a bit big for me.

  “For your journey, moonleaf. Be nourished.” Then Gandy hands me a basket filled with leaf jellies and animal purees — Saurian delicacies — for my voyage.

  I have never observed a Saurian cry before, but her eyes seem wet.

  My eyes are damp, too. After so many months here, I will miss these lizard folk. They have provided me a place to rest, to study, and to heal.

  And now, once their second, larger, orange sun rises to complement the smaller white one, I will climb into the plasmechanical ship that awaits me.

  And I will take leave of my new friends, to see if once lost, you can ever find anything like home again.

  Chapter Seven

  Eli: Sword and Oboe

  December 24, 1941 C.E.

  The Dino Sword. But that’s not what it’s called here. Here it’s called EXCALIBUR! KING ARTHUR’S “DRAGON SWORD,” WHICH LET HIM RULE OVER A KINGDOM. And then a smaller sign below that says REPLICA BASED ON HISTORICAL SOURCES.

  I’m looking right up at it, from my place on the floor. Up at the sword, the lights, and the big jerk who plowed into me.

  I’m a little dizzy. A memory of being about four years old, and watching a cartoon on an early Comnet screen comes floating back. The Adventures of King Arthur and Laddy.

  Laddy was a sidekick. A little boy, not much older than I was then. Arthur had an enchanted sword, which Laddy would sometimes try to use, getting himself into a jam when he did. Together, the king and Laddy would chase dragons. But the dragons all looked like dinosaurs to me. When Mom would come in the afternoons, after the show was over, I’d sit in her lap and tell about the Dino Sword.

  They called it “Dragon Sword” on the show, but I always called it “Dino Sword” instead. And so did Mom.

  “You stupid little kid.” It’s the blond guy who crashed into me. He’s not even that much older than me. Maybe around fifteen or so. Maybe he thinks the suit and tie make him look like a hotshot.

  And he pronounces kid like “kit.”

  “Hey, you crashed into me!”

  He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even offer me a hand up, just continues on his way. Which turns out to be straight through the front door.

  I’m glad he’s gone.

  I get up and brush myself off. No one seems to notice. There’s a crowd nearby, but they aren’t paying much attention to the Dino Sword. They’re looking at the exhibit next to it, a pair of white antlers in another display case. The horns are like thick spider webs made of knives — or maybe icicles.

  A waiter comes by. “Crepe?”

  I don’t know what a crepe is, exactly, but I take one so that I’ll blend in better. It turns out to be sort of like a folded pancake, or a sweet burrito.

  “Thanks. Say, do you know why everyone’s crowded around those deer horns? What makes them so special?”

  “I don’t know, young sir. They’re supposed to have some mysterious powers. But that applies to most of the things here. I just hope they have the power to let me earn a little overtime tonight.”

  He nods and is gone, but not before I take another crepe.

  I head over to the antlers. I’m having kind of a bad night — especially for a Christmas

  Eve — and I could use a little magic.

  “Everyone wants to see the White Stag, kid.” I turn around. It’s Caen. He’s drinking some champagne. “I’d offer you a sip, but I might get in trouble.” He winks at me and tilts his glass toward the case. “The de Young is cl
aiming the antlers are real, straight from King Arthur’s forest, but they won’t tell anyone how they got ’em. Even the British embassy wants to know. The mystery makes ’em more valuable as a fundraising device, I guess. But they’re splitting half the money —”

  “Don’t tell me. With war bonds.”

  “Right. I guess that’s the kind of thing you do when there’s a big war on. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe people realize what’s happening, after all. Say, you still want to meet DiMaggio?”

  “Yeah!” Suddenly I’m feeling a little less gloomy.

  “He’s over there, near the back. Apparently the Yankee front office thought it would be a swell thing if he came and, you know, spoke a few words about our boys in uniform.”

  “He’ll have to say them pretty loudly.” Between the music and the crowd noise, I’m almost shouting myself.

  “It’s only noisy, kid, because tonight this isn’t a museum, it’s the ‘Last Chance Saloon.’”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There aren’t going to be too many more parties like this for a while. With the war here, people are afraid. That’s why everyone’s a little extra loud tonight. Keep the ghosts at bay.”

  I wonder if he knows Charlie Dang.

  He finishes his champagne and sets the empty glass down on a display case. Inside is one of the “Haunted California” items — a whip used by an outlaw named Joaquin who became a ghost himself. A headless one, even. According to the sign.

  “Spooky stuff, huh?” Caen says. “The replica of his pickled head is right over there.” He points around the corner of the case. “At least, they claim it’s a replica. Either way, that oughtta cheer everyone up. Say, kid, did your mom and pop ever get here?”

  “No, not yet.” I look around the room, wondering if my mom is going to find out about this and show up after all.

  “Too bad, they’ll miss out on Joltin’ Joe.”

  I turn to follow him, when a voice booms across the room: There’s a man up near the musicians, talking into one of those giant voice amplifiers like the radio actors were using at the hotel. It’s amazing how big all the electronic equipment is back here.