The Fortress of Clouds Read online

  The Fortress of Clouds

  Micreants and Miracles Book One

  By J.A.J. Peters

  Copyright 2011 J.A.J. Peters

  Chapter One: We Have It

  Chapter Two: The Nastiness

  Chapter Three: One of These Days I’m Just Gonna Go

  Chapter Four: The Silver Men

  Chapter Five: The Blinking Spire

  Chapter Six: The Undiscovered City

  Chapter Seven: A Raw Heart

  Chapter Eight: Calling from the Abyss

  Chapter Nine: Into the Labyrinth

  Chapter Ten: Welcome to the Strand

  Chapter Eleven: You Owe Me Your Lives

  Chapter Twelve: Getting Pretty Hard to be Hard to Find

  Chapter Thirteen: The Dawnless Days

  Chapter Fourteen: A Pheasant and a Goat

  Chapter Fifteen: A Stupid Souvenir

  Chapter Sixteen: The Gleaming White Monster

  Chapter Seventeen: Count the Raindrops Falling on Your Head

  Chapter Eighteen: Broken Goodbyes

  Chapter Nineteen: Now is Not the Time

  Chapter Twenty: A Way Out

  Chapter Twenty-one: Fourteen Years of Waiting

  Chapter Twenty-two: The Crystal Hive

  Chapter Twenty-three: The Shadow Man

  Chapter Twenty-four: The Single, Muffled Syllable

  Chapter Twenty-five: You’re Not Going Anywhere

  Chapter Twenty-six: There was Only Supposed to be One

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Down We Go

  Chapter Twenty-eight: The Light through the Trees

  Chapter Twenty-nine: Fires Burning, Fires Burning

  Chapter Thirty: The Big House

  Chapter One: We Have It

  Los Angeles, 2037

  The elevator doors glided shut and the clatter and hustle of the lobby shrank away. Inside the little elevator (probably the only thing in the towering crystal pyramid that could be called “little”), the two men were blasted with jets of icy air. And yet they were sweating. Mouths dried up. Feet tapped involuntarily. Neither of them spoke. The sun coming through the building was refracted into infinite lines and webs. Outside, beyond the corporate boundary, waves of heat were shimmering above the city. Like it was a mirage. Like it was boiling.

  One of the men bit his lip. The other traced the buttons on the elevator control panel with his finger. It was good news, obviously, but no one ever knew how the boss would react. This was not “your car is ready” news. This was not “the Commissioner wants to talk about payments” news. This was not even “he’s been disposed of like you asked” news.

  This was the news everyone had been waiting for.

  It felt like they were being pushed upwards on a cushion of air. The elevator was a glass cube, almost invisible but for the guts of cogs and wires hanging below the floor. To the people scurrying down in the lobby, it would look as if the two men had been summoned to heaven.

  One of them cleared his throat and then they both turned around to look for distraction in the city spread out behind them. The mayhem of Los Angeles was beginning its evening blush. Rush hour traffic had solidified into immovable lines. In the distance, the skyscrapers of the downtown core were dusty fingers of steel poking through the yellow smog.

  Like all of the boss’s employees, the two men were dressed in silver uniforms halfway between business suits and space suits. The two of them were almost indistinguishable.

  Finally, one of them spoke.

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “What?” said his partner. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “He’s gonna love this.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, who woulda thought we’d get to tell him, to--you know--to be the ones to do it.”

  “Right.”

  This was the news the inner circle had always hoped for. Because, above all, they wanted the boss to be happy. Making money for him was easy. But no one had found a way to unburden his sighs, to untangle his neuroses, to make him smile. They knew he’d lost something valuable years ago. The weird story about the woman in the jungle, about some genetic code thing, was whispered in the staff room.

  The elevator slowed as it entered the final floor of the building. The doors swept open and the two men hesitated before stepping forward into the office. Violins filled the air like locusts. The furniture was warm brown wood. Deep, silent carpet swallowed their footsteps. The room felt more like an old bookstore than the office of the country’s most powerful individual.

  “What do you two idiots want?” said the boss without turning around. He was sitting in his glossy black leather chair in front of the huge window, watching the Pacific Ocean like it was reeling off the latest stock prices. Hanging in the air on either side of him were holographic projections of news headlines, market numbers, and surveillance camera feeds. On the corner of the desk sat a giant orchid plant, its vines wrapped around a gnarled and disfigured trunk. It was like the perfect flowers were strangling a monstrous, disfigured arm. Fist-sized white blossoms smiled and snarled down at the two men.

  “Ahem. Sir, we . . .” the tall one began.

  “What?” said the boss. “What is it?”

  “Well, we, uh . . .” said the short one.

  “Tell you what,” said the boss, still watching the waves. “On the count of three you can both say it together. Ready? One, two, thr--”

  “We have it,” said the two men.

  The boss swiveled around. He looked confused. “Say that again?”

  “The code,” said the tall man.

  “We have it,” added the short one.

  “You’re sure now?” said the boss. “Don’t mess with me here.”

  “We got it. A positive ID came through about thirty minutes ago. The intelligence guys told us to come tell you.”

  The boss exhaled and looked down at his desk. He pressed a button. The holographic projections disappeared and the violins ceased. His index fingers tapped on the wood. Then he started picking at one of his fingernails. Minutes passed.

  “Sir?”

  “Shut up. I heard you.” The boss looked up at the orchid blossoms. They were swaying slightly, the vibrations of his finger tapping making them look like perfect little ballet dancers. “Do you two fools know the significance of this?”

  “Yeah,” said the tall one. “It’s really important. You’ve been looking for this thing for, what, like over ten years.”

  “Right,” said the boss. He reached up and pinched off one of the orchid blossoms with his thumb and index finger. It sat in his open hand like a monstrous, angelic spider. “No, I mean do you know what it is?”

  “It’s that genetic code thing you’ve been looking for, right?” said the short man. “The thing that woman stole from you a long time ago.”

  “Yes, that’s what we’re talking about. But do either of you know exactly what this thing is? What it can do . . . what it can do for me?”

  Both men furrowed their brows. They shook their heads in perfect synchronicity.

  “Good,” said the boss. “It’s best that way. Okay then, bring it to me. In my office within the hour.”

  “Right,” said the tall man. “We’ll send a car to pick her up and we’ll bring her right--”

  “Her?” said the boss. “What are you talking about her? You said we had the code.”

  “Yeah, that’s what intelligence found,” said the short man. “The woman and her kids. She has the code, right? I thought that’s what you wanted to--”

  “You two are such utter and complete . . . Just because you found her doesn’t mean you found it. Okay, you listen to me and you listen good. You go get her. But when you find her, I want you to go through everything sh
e owns. Bring anything that looks like it belongs to me. Understand?”

  “Sure, no problem,” said the short man.

  “But what are we looking for exactly?” asked the tall man.

  “Shut up,” said the short one.

  “Look,” said the boss, massaging his scalp with both hands. “Just take everything electronic, okay? Mobiles, webglasses, tablets, whatever. She’s probably living in a filthy hovel. My property should be obvious.”

  “Right,” said the two men, and then they both hurried out of the office.

  The boss turned back to the window behind his desk and resumed his contemplation of the ocean. The waves were tiny white lines rippling towards shore. Peaceful and perfect. The frustration drained from his face and he was expressionless and lost in thought for a minute or so. His mouth hung open as if he had lost control of his facial muscles. He looked down at the orchid blossom still in his hand, feeling its almost total absence of mass. “Mine,” he said quietly. And then he crushed the flower into a sticky ball in his palm. A sour, almost rotten, perfume bled into the air. “It’s mine.”

  Chapter Two: The Nastiness

  Ben was halfway up the flight of stairs when the pressure hit him. His eyes struggled to focus on the chipped and bubbling concrete. A wave of confusion and anger clouded his brain and collapsed his lungs. He was too old for this game. The codenames, the disguises, the guns. It was getting harder and harder to play the role, to be the person they wanted him to be. Years ago, hunting down the bad guys had been fun. But he’d been a kid then.

  He stopped just before the landing and wiped the sweaty mess of brown hair from his face. This was going be the last time, he told himself. The crooks were somewhere above him, his partner somewhere below. He closed his eyes and felt the chill of the cement stairwell wash over him. Once more. You can do this. Breathe. You know who you really are. Let the story come back . . .

  He remembered he was Jeremy Finch. Though that name wouldn’t mean much to anyone, since he changed it so often, since he didn’t really exist in the way that normal people do. Only a handful of people knew him, and even they didn’t really know him. One of these days he was going to turn his back on this stupid cops and robbers crap.

  When they called on the secret pen phone a few days ago, it was the usual instructions. Meet your partner at this place at this time. And we need it done yesterday. No thanks for saving our asses again. They never told Jeremy his partner’s real name. Jeremy didn’t want to know. Like brothers, they needed each other and they tolerated each other. The same partner, the same crooks. How many times had they taken care of the AH gang? Jeremy had lost track. It was the exact same number as the number of prisons those two underhanded villains had sprung. Miscreants, that was what his mother used to call people like the AH gang.

  After gleaning tips from the usual suspects and contacts (a little blackmail, a little bribery), after countless dead-ends and near misses, a city-wide manhunt had led Jeremy and his partner to a dank and god-forsaken apartment building. AH was cornered. There would be no escape now.

  Jeremy put his hand against the stairwell door and pushed. The groan of old metal betrayed his presence. A single drop of sweat inched down his forehead as he stepped forward. He swallowed and readjusted his grip on the gun.

  The hallway in front of him was empty. And silence in the stairwell behind him. Where had his so-called “partner” gone? He’d been right behind Jeremy a few minutes ago as they ran up the stairs. What on earth was going on? Everyone--good guys and bad--had just disappeared into the dust.

  Threadbare, sun-bleached carpet. Rotten walls flaking off drywall chips. Overhead, florescent tube lights buzzed and snapped, illuminating a mist of dust particles hanging in the air. Behind each door in the hallway was the pedestrian noise of people going about their business: pots clanging, TVs cheering, laughter, arguments. Completely unaware of the drama unfolding right under their noses. Jeremy pitied the nobodies that lived there.

  The gun grew heavier as Jeremy inched step by step down the hall. The steel sweated in his hand. He felt completely exposed--AH could be behind any one of these doors, could leap out from anywhere, and in seconds it would all be over. And still no sign of his partner. Jeremy couldn’t count on him now. And then his stomach sank . . . maybe they had already got him. His finger danced on the trigger.

  A door cracked behind him. He spun around and was only a millisecond away from firing before he saw that his would-be assailant was not a duo of gun-toting lunatics, but a barrel-shaped old woman in a faded brown dress. She held a hammer in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. Her bulbous feet were jammed into a pair of stained pink slippers. She looked at Jeremy holding the gun, screamed, and slammed the door.

  “Leave me alone, you filthy wretches!” came a wail from behind the door.

  It was like a bubble being burst. The woman’s scream made everything disappear. Jeremy dissolved back into Ben’s imagination. The silly game floated away. The crumbling apartment building became his again. Ben’s life, once again, was boring and pathetic.

  Ben lowered the gun and sighed. It was only batcrap crazy Mrs. Brodsky, insane but mostly harmless.

  But in the brief second when their gazes met, Ben saw Mrs. Brodsky’s eyes dart up to the ceiling above him. Before Ben could look up, they were on him, falling from above in shrieks, pinning him to the ground with knees and elbows. Ben struggled to get free. One of them stood on his arms and the other sat on his legs.

  “Well, well, well. Look what we’ve caught here,” said the older one. “Jeremy Finch, a.k.a. Ben Graham. How nice to run into you. I’m sorry to have to do this, Ben, but you know the rules.” They both had their guns pointed at him. The smaller girl had green and red paint smeared over her face in odd tribal patterns. The elder wore purple swimming goggles and a blue wool ski hat. And both had the same sweep of dusty brown hair that united them all as siblings.

  “You’re done, Benji,” said the younger one. Then she drenched him with her water gun. “Ha ha! I mean, how dumb can you guys be? What was that, like the millionth time we’ve won? Team AlisonHannah are, like, world champions.”

  “Whatever. Just get off of me, Hannah,” muttered Ben. It probably was about the millionth time Alison and Hannah had won, not only in the current game of Spy Hunter 3000, but also in the Apartment Block Grand Prix, and the Abandoned Seventh Floor Scavenger Hunt. “I said, get off me. And I thought I told you to never call me Benji. I’m never playing this stupid game again.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. How ‘bout this: when you win, then you can call the shots, mmmkay? But that isn’t going to be for a long time, now is it? And why is it that when you and Thomas win, all of a sudden you like the games, but when we win, the games are boring? Huh?”

  “They’re always stupid and boring, Hannah.” Alison helped Ben to his feet, but Ben didn’t think the gesture warranted a thank you. He had clearly been disadvantaged by being paired with his dripping-nose little brother.

  “Well, maybe you should complain to the genius who thinks them up,” said Alison. “So where is that amazing partner of yours anyway?”

  “I dunno,” said Ben as he wiped the water from his face. “He’s around here somewhere. Probably curled up with his math textbook or something.”

  “Well, you’ve got to find him,” said Alison. “Mom would kill us if she came home and found us looking like this.”

  Ben looked down at his soaking wet cowboy costume and felt silly and angry.

  Behind Alison, Hannah was dancing to some imaginary victory song in her head. They really weren’t supposed to be running up and down the halls playing games, but as long as they were all back by the time their mom got home from work, what they did during their day was their own business. Or at least that was how the four of them explained it to themselves.

  “How should I know where that idiot is?” said Ben. “Ten bucks he’s already wandered back home.”

  “You were supposed to look after him, B
en. It’s your job to watch Thomas--you know how he always wanders off.”

  “Why is it always my job, Alison?” Ben felt his voice rising. “When is it your turn?”

  “We’re not going to fight about this now, Ben. We’ll discuss this later with Mom. But now, you need to find him. Mom’s going to be home any minute.”

  “He said he was going back to the apartment.” It was a lie, but it would get Alison off his case. She was right, though. It was time to be getting back.

  They walked down the hall, listening to the screaming, sing-song voices of various TV shows creeping out like poison gas from under each door. The apartment building contained at least a million old people who were apparently just watching TV while they waited around to die. “Euthanasia by voyeuristic entertainment,” their mother would say, always with a small smile and a shake of her head. There were no other children or families in the building, only these yellowing bags of bones who didn’t seem to care very much for the presence of children.

  “It’s like they can’t handle the fact that they’re going to die,” Ben had once observed. “And seeing us just reminds them of how they wasted their lives.”

  Their mother had given her usual stern warning. “You can never, ever, bother the elderly residents.”

  “But, Mom, the fossils--”

  “Ben, don’t call them that.”

  “Yeah, but they make way more noise than we do, and when they actually do turn off their stupid soap operas and hear any noise coming from us, it’s like a nuclear bomb has gone off. So shouldn’t the foss--I mean the elderly residents--be as considerate of us as we’re expected to be of them?” Whenever Ben tried this sort of logic, their mother would do that closed-eye, finger against the temple thing.

  But a few nights ago, after the landlord had pounded his fat fist on their apartment door, they had received the sternest and scariest lecture they had ever heard their mother deliver.

  “Even though they are old and cruel, you must be nice to them. We cannot afford to be kicked out of this building. We are an inch--one inch--away from living down there on the streets, do you understand? All of you--look at me, Thomas--do you understand how serious this is?” None of them had been able to speak a word in defense. The memory of that talk ached like a punch in the gut.