Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

I’d eventually realize I didn’t like what I found. But for the moment, I felt good. And—despite the glass beneath me showing a drop straight down, despite my hunger, despite our destination—I found myself feeling relaxed. I drifted off, curling up on the mattress and falling asleep.

I woke up when a missile exploded a few feet from my head.

Chapter 4

You think you’ve figured it out, have you? My logical dilemma? My argumentative lapse? My brain freeze of rationality? My … uh … traffic jam of lucidity?

Let’s just forget that last one.

Anyway, there is—as you’ve probably noticed—a flaw in my logic. I claim to be a liar. Outright, without any guile, and straightforward.

Yet after declaring myself to be a liar, I have proceeded to write a book about my life. So therefore, how can you trust the story itself? If it’s being told by a liar, won’t it all be false? In fact, how can you trust that I’m a liar? If I always lie, then wouldn’t I have had to be lying about saying that I’m a liar?

Now you see why I mentioned brain freezes, eh? Let me clarify. I have been a liar. Most of my life is a sham—the heroics I’m known for, the life I’ve led, the fame I’ve enjoyed. Those are the lies.

The things I’m telling you here are factual. In this case, I can only prove that I’m a liar by telling the truth, though I will also include some lies—which I will point out—to act as object lessons proving the truth that I’m a liar.

Got that?

I was thrown off the bedroll and rammed against the glass wall as Dragonaut shook, twisting away from the explosion that was still visible in the darkness outside my wall. Our vessel didn’t appear to have been damaged, but it had been a close call.

I rubbed my head, coming awake. Then cursed quietly and scrambled out the door. At that moment, Dragonaut lurched again, moving to the right. I was thrown off my feet as a flaring missile barely missed our ship. It trailed a glow of flaming smoke behind it, then exploded off in the distance.

I righted myself in time to see something else shoot past Dragonaut—not another missile, but something with roaring engines. It looked alarmingly like an F-15 fighter jet.

“Shattering Glass!” I exclaimed, forcing myself to my feet and pulling out my Oculator’s Lenses. I shoved them on and rushed to the cockpit.

I arrived, stumbling through the doorway as Bastille pointed. “Left!” she yelled. “Bank left!”

I could see sweat on Australia’s face as she turned Dragonaut out of the way of the approaching fighter. I barely managed to stay on my feet as the ship dodged another missile.

I groaned, shaking my head. Kaz stood on a seat, hands leaning against the control dash, looking out the other eyeball. “Now this,” the short man proclaimed, “is more like it! It’s been ages since anyone shot missiles at me!”

Bastille gave him a harsh stare, then glanced toward me as I rushed up, grabbing a chair to steady myself.

Ahead, the fighter launched another missile.

I focused, trying to get my Talent to engage at a distance and destroy the jet like it did guns. Nothing happened.

Australia twisted Dragonaut just in time, throwing me to the side, my hands slipping free of the chair. That’s one problem with making everything out of glass. Handholds become rather difficult to maintain.

Bastille managed to stay up, but she had on her Warrior’s Lenses, which enhanced her physical abilities. Kaz didn’t have any Lenses on, but he seemed to have an excellent sense of balance.

I rubbed my head as the missile exploded off in the distance. “This shouldn’t be possible!” I said. “That jet has so many moving parts, my Talent should have been able to stop it easy.”

Bastille shook her head, glancing at me. “Glass missiles, Alcatraz.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Australia agreed, glancing over her shoulder, watching the jet’s fire trails. “That ship isn’t Hushlander technology—or, well, not completely. It’s some kind of fusion. Parts of the jet body look like they’re metal, but others look like they’re glass.”

Bastille gave me a hand to help me back up to my feet.

“Aw, birchnuts!” Kaz swore, pointing. I squinted, leaning against the chair, watching the jet bank and turn back toward us. It seemed more maneuverable, more precise, than an ordinary jet. As it turned toward us, its cockpit started to glow.

Not the whole cockpit. Just the glass covering it. I frowned, and my friends seemed equally confused.

The jet’s glass canopy shot forth a beam of glowing white power, directed at us. It hit one of the dragon’s wings, spraying out shards of ice and snow. The wing, caught in the grip of the cold, froze in place. Then, as its mechanisms tried to force it to move, the wing shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Frostbringer’s Lens!” Bastille shouted as Dragonaut rocked.

“That was no Lens!” Australia said. “That fired from the canopy glass!”

“Amazing!” Kaz said, holding on to his seat as the ship rocked.

We’re going to die, I thought.