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Sunglasses probably meant Warrior’s Lenses—one of the only kinds of Lenses that a non-Oculator can use. I stiffened; the man seemed to be muttering to himself.
Or talking into a radio receiver.
Shattering Glass! I thought, standing up and throwing on my backpack. I wove through the crowd, leaving the gate behind, and raised my hand to my eyes, intending to pull off the Courier’s Lenses.
But … what if Grandpa Smedry tried to contact me? There was no way he’d be able to find me in the crowded airport. I needed to keep those Lenses on.
I feel obligated to break the action here to warn you that I frequently break the action to mention trivial things. It’s one of my bad habits that, along with wearing mismatched socks, tends to make people rather annoyed at me. It’s not my fault, though, honestly. I blame society. (For the socks, I mean. That breaking-the-action thing is totally my own fault.)
I hastened my pace, keeping my head down and my Lenses on. I hadn’t gone far before I noticed a group of men in black suits and pink bow ties standing on a moving airport walkway a short distance ahead. They had several uniformed security guards with them.
I froze. So much for not having to worry about the police.… I tried to hold in my panic, turning—as covertly as I could—and hurrying in the other direction.
I should have realized that the rules would start changing. The Librarians had spent three months chasing Grandpa Smedry and me. They might hate the idea of involving local law enforcement, but they hated the idea of losing us even more.
A second group of Librarian agents were coming from the other direction. A good dozen warriors in Lenses, likely armed with glass swords and other advanced weapons. There was only one thing to do.
I stepped into the bathroom.
Numerous people were in there, doing their business. I rushed to the back wall. I let my backpack fall to the ground, then placed both hands against the wall’s tiles.
A couple of men in the bathroom gave me odd looks, but I’d gotten used to those. People had given me odd looks for most of my life—what else would you expect for a kid who routinely broke things which weren’t really that breakable? (Once, when I was seven, my Talent decided to break pieces of concrete as I stepped on them. I left a line of broken sidewalk squares behind me, like the footprints of some immense killer robot—one wearing size six sneakers.)
I closed my eyes, concentrating. Before, I’d let my Talent rule my life. I hadn’t known that I could control it—I hadn’t even been convinced that it was real.
Grandpa Smedry’s arrival three months earlier had changed all of that. While dragging me off to infiltrate a library and recover the Sands of Rashid, he’d helped me learn that I could use my Talent, rather than just be used by it.
I focused, and twin bursts of energy pulsed from my chest and down my arms. The tiles in front of me fell free, shattering as they hit the ground like a line of icicles knocked off a railing. I continued to focus. People behind me cried out. The Librarians would be upon me at any moment.
The entire wall broke, falling away from me. A water line began to spray into the air. I didn’t pause to look behind at the shouting men, but instead reached back and grabbed my bag.
The strap broke loose. I cursed quietly, grabbing the other one. It broke free too.
The Talent. Blessing and curse. I didn’t let it rule me anymore—but I wasn’t really in control either. It was as if the Talent and I had joint custody over my life; I got it on every other weekend and some holidays.
I left the backpack. I had my Lenses in the pockets of my jacket, and they were the only things of real value I owned. I leaped through the hole, scrambling over the rubble and into the bowels of the airport. (Hmm. Out of the bathroom and into the bowels—kind of opposite of the normal way.)
I was in some kind of service tunnel, poorly lit and even more poorly cleaned. I dashed down the tunnel for several minutes. I think I must have left the terminal behind, traveling through an access passageway to another building.
At the end, there were a few stairs leading to a large door. I heard shouts behind me and risked a glance. A group of men were barreling down the passage toward me.
I spun and tugged on the doorknob. The door was locked, but doors have always been one of my specialties. The knob came off; I tossed it over my shoulder in an off-handed motion. Then I kicked the door open, bursting out into a large hangar.
Massive airplanes towered over me, their windshields dark. I hesitated, looking up at the enormous vehicles, feeling dwarfed as if by large beasts.
I shook myself out of the stupor. The Librarians were still behind me. Fortunately, it appeared that this hangar was empty of people. I slammed the door, then placed my hand on the lock, using my Talent to break it so that the deadbolt jammed in place. I hopped over the railing and landed on a short line of steps leading down to the hangar’s floor.
When I reached the bottom, my feet left tracks on the dusty ground. Fleeing out onto the runway seemed like an easy way to get myself arrested, considering the current state of airport security. However, hiding seemed risky as well.
That was a good metaphor for my life, actually. It seemed that no matter what I did, I ended up in even more danger than I’d been in before. One might have said that I constantly went “out of the frying pan and into the fire,” which is a common Hushlands saying.
(Hushlanders, it might be noted, aren’t very imaginative with their idioms. Personally, I say, “Out of the frying pan and into the deadly pit filled with sharks who are wielding chainsaws with killer kittens stapled to them.” However, that one’s having a rough time catching on.)
Fists began to bang on the door. I glanced at it, then made my decision. I’d try hiding.
I ran toward a small doorway in the wall of the hangar. It had slivers of light shining in around it, and I figured it led out onto the runway. I was careful to leave big, long footprints in the dust. Then—my false trail made—I hopped onto some boxes, moved across them, then jumped onto the ground.
The door shook as the men pounded. It wouldn’t hold for long. I skidded down next to the wheel of a 747 and whipped off my Courier’s Lenses. Then I reached into my jacket. I had sewn a group of protective pockets onto the inside lining, and each one was cushioned with a special Free Kingdomer material to protect the Lenses.
I pulled out a pair of green-Lensed spectacles and shoved them on.
The door burst.
I ignored it, instead focusing on the floor of the hangar. Then I activated the Lenses. Immediately, a quick gust of wind blew from my face. It moved across the floor, erasing some of the footprints. Windstormer’s Lenses, a gift from Grandpa Smedry the week after our first Librarian infiltration.
By the time the Librarians got through the door, cursing and muttering, only the footprints I wanted them to see were still there. I huddled down beside my wheel, holding my breath and trying to still my thumping heart as I heard a fleet of soldiers and policemen pile down the
steps.
That’s when I remembered my Firebringer’s Lens.
I peeked up over the top of the 747 wheel. The Librarians had fallen for my trick and were moving along the floor toward the door out of the hangar. They weren’t walking as quickly as I would have wanted, though, and several were glancing around with suspicious eyes.
I ducked back down before I could be spotted. My fingers felt the Firebringer’s Lens—I had only one left—and I hesitantly brought it out. It was completely clear, with a single red dot in the center.
When activated, it shot forth a super-hot burst of energy, something like a laser. I could turn it on the Librarians. They had, after all, tried to kill me on several different occasions. They deserved it.
I sat for a moment, then quietly tucked the Lens back in its pocket and instead put my Courier’s Lenses back on. If you’ve read the previous volume of this autobiography, you’ll realize that I had some very particular ideas about heroism. A hero wasn’t the type of person who turned a laser of pure energy upon the backs of a bunch of soldiers, particularly when that bunch included innocent security guards.
Sentiments like this one eventually got me into a lot of trouble. You probably remember how I’m going to end up; I mentioned it in the first book. I’ll eventually be tied to an altar made from outdated encyclopedias, with cultists from the Librarian Order of the Shattered Lens preparing to spill my Oculator’s blood in an unholy ceremony.
Heroism is what landed me there. Ironically, it also saved my life that day in the airport hangar. You see, if I hadn’t put on my Courier’s Lenses, I would have missed what happened next.
Alcatraz? a voice suddenly asked in my mind.
The voice nearly made me cry out in surprise.
Uh, Alcatraz? Hello? Is anyone listening?
The voice was fuzzy and indistinct, and it wasn’t the voice of my grandfather. However, it was coming from the Courier’s Lenses.
