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“I’m guessing this ship doesn’t have any weapons on it,” I said with a sigh. “They never seem to—”
“Look at my ant farm!” Dif said, lifting up a glass-sided thin box and setting it on the dashboard between us.
“Uh…” I said.
Yes. An ant farm. Where had he been hiding the thing?
“It’s a metaphor,” Dif said, leaning down to look at the ants. “I gave them little machine guns.”
“What does it have to do with what we’re talking about now?” I asked.
“Nothing!” Dif said. “That’s the beauty of it. Interruptions are great attention-grabbers. The wackier and more bizarre, the better! ’Cuz we’re Smedrys! Awesowambasticly so! Right guys? Right?” He shook the ant farm to get the ants moving more quickly. Fortunately they seemed to be completely ignoring the little toy machine guns he’d dropped in.
I stared at Dif for an extended moment. Nearby, my mother seemed to be stifling laughter as she turned the next page in her book.
And suddenly I found myself hating Dif with a raw, insidious passion. It was completely unfair, completely uncharitable, and completely beneath me.* I felt it anyway.
I shoved down the emotion, ashamed. Why should I hate Dif? He was a little eccentric, but so were we all. We were … Smedrys … and …
Were the rest of us this bad?
Uncomfortable, I left him explaining the convoluted metaphor of his weaponized ant farm to Kaz.
Hopefully I was about to get weaponized myself.
Chapter
Mary
Now that we’re all annoyed at my annoying cousin, let me remind you that this is not a fable. Aesop didn’t write this story. Life did, and there isn’t always a point to life. Sometimes it simply is. My experiences aren’t a neat package with a pithy moral at the end.
That said, I’ve been pretty fixated on fables and fairy tales lately. The old ones are dark, dark, dark—yet the ones we tell ourselves these days always seem to need a happy ending. Go browse your bookstore. How many stories there end with the protagonist being eaten by a fox? None, I’d bet. Instead the endings involve marriages, parties, or kisses. Often all three.
Why are we different now? Is it because the Librarians are protecting us from stories with sad endings? Or is it something about who we are, who we have become as a society, that makes us need to see the good guys win?
We seem to crave proof that it can happen.
I trailed into my grandfather’s quarters in the ship. He’d marked the door with a bow tie. Kooky and individualistic, just like a Smedry should be, right?
Inside, Grandpa sat at a glass table, polishing his Lenses. He’d set them out before him in two double rows. “You met Cousin Dif?” he asked as I stepped up beside him.
“Yeah.”
He put the final Lenses down and tucked away his polishing cloth. “Don’t be too hard on the lad, Alcatraz,” Grandpa said. “He wants to fit in with us, and perhaps he tries a little too hard. He’s had a difficult life. It is good to show him kindness, and he really is quite knowledgeable.”
I didn’t reply, but to me Grandpa’s words seemed off. It wasn’t that Dif didn’t fit in. It was like … well, Dif seemed to fit in too well. Like a finger in a nostril.
Grandpa took a Lens with his finger and slid it across the table toward me. My Truthfinder’s Lens. The next one was of a purple and green tint; the single remaining Bestower’s Lens my grandfather had lent me. It had a big crack straight down the center. When I’d fallen unconscious at the end of the siege of Tuki Tuki, apparently I’d dropped the thing, ruining it.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Well, they are made of glass!” Grandpa said. “We can get this one melted down and remade. Don’t worry.” He debated for a moment, then slid a different Lens toward me. It was a deep maroon, and looked pretty cool—at the very least it wasn’t pink or baby blue or anything like that.
I took it and held it up. “Let me guess,” I said, “this shows me something important about the world, helping me gain a better appreciation for life and those around me.”
“Nope,” Grandpa said. “It blows stuff up.”
I started. “What, really?”
“Indeed.”
“But … I mean…” While I’d had offensive Lenses before, Grandpa usually didn’t think much of them. He preferred Lenses that were about information, as he claimed that knowledge was true power.
“We are heading into the Highbrary,” Grandpa said, uncharacteristically subdued. “You’ll need to be able to defend yourself. The Shamefiller’s Lens is crude, but sometimes crude solutions are most effective. A monocular Lens; I don’t have two of those. You are growing skilled enough to properly use Lenses for just one eye.”
I smiled, tucking the Lens into the pocket of my tuxedo jacket. “Why is it called a Shamefiller’s Lens?”
“Well, it makes the subject really embarrassed before they explode.”
I chuckled, then looked at my grandfather. He was serious.*
“So it only works on people,” I said.
“What?” Grandpa said. “Of course not. That’s very sapientist of you, Alcatraz. I expected better of my grandson, yes I did!”
“I…” I frowned, looking at him. “You made that word up, didn’t you?”
“Simply try the Lens on something and you’ll see. Something far away, mind you, and not too valuable unless it belongs to someone annoying.” He tapped the table. “I debated a long time whether to give this to you, as it is so dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful with it,” I said, patting my pocket.
“What? No, not that one. That one’s for fun. I mean the next Lens I’m going to give you, the truly dangerous one.” He selected a Lens off the table. It had a spray of silver-white flakes in it, like the stars of a galaxy. He held it up before him appraisingly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Shaper’s Lens,” Grandpa said. “It lets you see someone’s heart, soul, and innermost desires.”
I raised an eyebrow. That was more like the type of Lens I’d been expecting. “An odd name as well.”
“I suspect it was deliberate,” Grandpa said, his face reflecting in the Lens. “Though Shaper’s Lenses can be unpredictable, an Oculator who holds one has great power over others. We are to use its abilities to inspire, to build up, to create. Not to tear down.” Grandpa proffered it.
I took the Lens carefully, feeling a little of Grandpa’s reverence, although it (still) didn’t seem as strong to me as one that made nice explosions.
“This gives you an advantage over others,” Grandpa said, “that maybe you should never have. You gain access to the hearts and dreams of those around you, Alcatraz. Do not abuse that knowledge, even against Librarians.”
“I’ll try.”
“There is no Try.”
“Excuse me?”
“Try,” Grandpa said. “The city. Blasted Librarians captured the thing and renamed it Dumptopia. Anyway, I trust you, lad. That’s why I gave you the Lens, after all! Just … do be careful, all right? Actually, be careful with all Lenses.”
“I’m always careful,” I said, tucking the Lenses away.
“Be extra careful. Lenses are acting strange. I charged one a few minutes ago, and it released far more energy than I’d expected.”
“Really?” I said. “So it’s not only me. You charge glass more powerfully now too.”
“Yes,” he said, handing me a last set of Lenses—a pair of Courier’s Lenses that would let us chat over distances. “Whatever happened with you and the Talents in Mokia was more … far-reaching than we had assumed.”
I sat, thoughtful. (Well, technically I was more bloodful than anything else. But there were a few thoughts in there too, along with a Mokian breakfast burrito.) Shortly thereafter, I heard clinking outside. Draulin knocked politely—even though the door was open—and then entered as Grandpa called for her.
“Did you finish—” Grandpa began.
>
Draulin gestured wildly and put a hand to her lips. She was apparently worried there was a Librarian listening device of some sort in the room.
“—learning to belly dance?” Grandpa finished.
Belly dance? I mouthed at him.
Had to think fast, he mouthed back.
“I…” Draulin gave my grandfather a suffering look. “Did.”
“Excellent!” Grandpa said. “And you belly danced in every room of the ship so far?”
“All but this one,” Draulin said.
“Well, on with it then!” Grandpa said.
Draulin clinked around the room, searching in glass closets and under glass counters, checking for bugs. I leaned back in my chair as Grandpa picked up his remaining Lenses to stow them.
“I have to say,” Grandpa noted, “that’s some of the most awful belly dancing I’ve ever seen.”
“Hard to do in full armor,” Draulin said, kneeling by our table. She looked up at us and pointed at the bottom of the table.
Sure enough, as I peeked down I found a small Librarian device stuck there. Draulin took a paper from the counter and wrote on it.
Shall I destroy it as I did the others?
