Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

The iPad blinks at me, now showing a blue dot labeled ZULU-2591 near the center of the floor. Okay, that’s helpful. It must be a transponder tag. Or a magic spell.

There’s a thick yellow line painted on the floor in front of me. I edge one toe across, and the shelves nearby all swerve and recoil. That’s good. They know I’m here.

So then I push slowly into the maelstrom. Some shelves don’t slow down, but bend their trajectories to coast just behind or just ahead of me. I walk evenly, taking slow, deliberate steps. As they migrate around me, the shelves make a parade of wonders. There are huge urns glazed in blue and gold, strapped down and packed with foam; wide glass cylinders full of brown formaldehyde, tentacles inside dimly visible and undulating; slabs of crystal poking out of rough black rock glowing green in the darkness. One shelf holds a single oil painting, six feet tall: a portrait of a scowling merchant prince with a skinny mustache. His eyes seem to follow me as the painting curves out of sight.

I wonder if Mat’s miniature city—well, now Mat and Ashley’s—will end up on shelves like these one day. Will they strap it in sideways? Or will they carefully dismantle it and store all the buildings separately, each one wrapped in gauze? Will the shelves drift apart and go their separate ways? Will Matropolis spread out through the facility like so much stardust? So many people dream of getting something into a museum … is this what they have in mind?

The outer perimeter of the facility is like a highway; this must be where all the popular artifacts hang out. But as I follow the iPad and make my way toward the center of the floor, things slow down. Here, there are racks of wicker masks, tea sets packed in foam peanuts, thick metal panels crusted with dry barnacles. Here, there’s an airplane propeller and a three-piece suit. Here, things are weirder.

It’s not all shelves, either. There are rolling vaults—huge metal boxes set up on tank treads. Some of them crawl slowly forward; some sit in place. All of them have complicated locks and glinting black cameras perched on top. One has a bright biohazard warning splashed across the front; I make a wide path around it.

Suddenly there’s a hydraulic snap and one of the vaults heaves to life. It jerks forward, orange lamps flashing. I jump out of the way, and it trundles through the spot where I just stood. The shelves all move and make room as the vault begins its journey, slowly, toward the wide doors.

It occurs to me that if I’m flattened here, no one will find me for a while.

There’s a flicker of motion. The part of my brain that is devoted to the detection of other human beings (and especially muggers, murderers, and enemy ninjas) lights up like one of the orange lamps. There’s a person coming through the darkness. Hamster-mode: engage. Somebody’s running right at me, coming fast, and he looks like Corvina. I whirl to face him, put my hands up in front of me, and yell: “Ah!”

It’s that painting again—the mustachioed merchant prince. It’s come back around for another look. Is it following me? No—of course not. My heart is racing. Calm down, Fluff McFly.

*   *   *

In the very center of the facility, nothing moves. It’s hard to see in here; the shelves have shut off their lamps, maybe to save battery power or maybe just out of despair. It’s quiet—the eye of the storm. Bars of light from the busy perimeter poke through and briefly illuminate dented brown boxes, stacks of newsprint, slabs of stone. I check the iPad and find the blinking blue dot. I think it’s close, so I start checking the shelves.

They all have a thick layer of dust. Shelf by shelf, I wipe them off and check the labels. In tall black digits on shiny yellow, they read: BRAVO-3877. GAMMA-6173. I keep checking, using my phone as a flashlight. TANGO-5179. ULTRA-4549. Then: ZULU-2591.

I’m expecting a heavy case, some finely wrought ark for Gerritszoon’s great creation. Instead, it’s a cardboard box with the flaps folded in. Inside, each punch is wrapped in its own plastic bag with a rubber band to hold it tight. They look like old car parts.

But then I lift one out—it’s the X, and it’s heavy—and a bright wash of triumph floods through me. I can’t believe I’m holding this in my hand. I can’t believe I found them. I feel like Telemach Half-Blood with the Golden Horn of Griffo. I feel like the hero.

Nobody’s looking. I hoist the X high in the air like a mythic sword. I imagine lightning streaking down through the ceiling. I imagine the Wyrm Queen’s dark legion falling silent. I make a quiet energy-overload noise: pshowww!

Then I wrap both arms around the box, heave it up off the shelf, and wobble back out into the storm.

THE DRAGON-SONG CHRONICLES, VOLUME III