A Fortress of Pebbles

Take the book or leave it? Aissaba had flipped through it enough to see that the margins on almost every page were filled with handwriting in a language she couldn’t read. A form of code, perhaps. The actual text was in English, though, at least on the page where the bookmark had been:

The so-called Fortress “docking procedures”, however, refer to the dilation of space and time by decree of the Master of Virtue. This protocol synchronizes Fortress time with Earth time and binds the Fortress gates to an egress point on or beneath the surface of the planet. Carbon analysis of the third and fourth Fortress of Pebbles scrolls dates them to the Hellenistic period, lending support to the theory that the Fortress was docked at least once during this time frame.

“We need to take this with us,” said Aissaba. Her heart was pounding. Something told her that, as far as reconnaissance missions were concerned, they’d hit the jackpot.

Tassadu clicked the secret bookshelf shut and gently replaced the book that had covered the locking mechanism. “Can’t,” he said. “But maybe we can make a copy.” He wiggled the computer mouse. His scales flashed a frustrated orange when a password popup appeared.

(Blink: Cassandra’s phone informed her that Mom and Dad were on their way. No explanation of the alarm system message. Just a single word in the group chat: Coming.)

“Cassandra,” said Aissaba, “what is this book?”

(Blink: “I don’t really know,” whispered Cassandra. “But Mom keeps her password on a post-it behind the monitor.”)

Okay, that settled it. Cassandra was the coolest twelve year old Aissaba had ever met.

She dove for the post-it, and Tassadu typed it in. He was a surprisingly fast typist for someone with talons. Once he had access, he activated a webcam recording, pointed the book at it, and started flipping through the pages. It wasn’t perfect, but a well-crafted language pebble protocol should be able to reconstruct most of the text from the video frames. Information transformation and language magic were basically synonyms – as Tassadu’s not-dad liked to say.

Aissaba rummaged in a drawer and came back with a thumb drive. Tassadu transferred the file to it and deleted the original. The whole ordeal felt like it took an eternity but was actually over in ten minutes.

(Blink: Mom and Dad walked into the office. Cassandra’s emotional Geiger counter told her that they were more panicked than pissed, which was good – at least for her and Orion. Maybe the whole magic-show-turned-altercation would blow over and the inevitable doom of being grounded from the internet and the Sega would pass. At least until Orion’s next stunt. The principal’s triangular mustache and associated lips attempted to engage the grownups in an official conversation, but Dad cut it short with: “We’ll take care of them at home. Thanks, dude.” And with that, they left the office and climbed into the humvee, which Dad had left running in the pickup zone.)

By now, Aissaba and Tassadu were running across the dead grass toward the target at the edge of the field. They punched through the treeline and into the psychic distortion field. The bowers of the fruit tree welcomed them home, a sudden green amidst the wintry black and white.

They collapsed together in their cave, laughing with exhilaration. Aissaba was on top, Tassadu’s serpentine snout inches from her face. He could have licked her with his forked tongue. She could have kissed him.

But as usual, the moment ended. Tassadu cleared his throat and rolled her off of him. He attempted to make a joke – holding the thumb drive to his forehead like it was a pebble. She attempted to laugh. He attempted to blow life into the cold campfire. She attempted to avoid thinking of this futile wind upon the ashes as some kind of metaphor for what they’d become over the years.

***

Dad didn’t drive straight home. Instead, he took a back way through the neighbor’s easement. This connected with an old trail that ran through the Bureau of Land Management’s forest preserve that abutted their property.

As the humvee bounced along, Mom tried to explain things without explaining. “You know how I’ve been saying that everyone has a destiny?” she said to the mirror on her sun visor. There were tears in her eyes. “Well, did one of you wish upon a star last night?”

Cassandra never knew what to say when Mom got like this.

“By the way, you’re both grounded,” said Dad. “I don’t know exactly what happened at school today. But you’re definitely grounded.”

“Yes, no internet,” agreed Mom, apologetically. As if it hurt her more than it hurt them. Which it definitely didn’t. “And we’ll be reviewing your recent search history.”

“Internet access is privilege, not a right,” added Dad.

He parked the humvee and grabbed a pair of binoculars from under his seat. Out the window, through the trees, Cassandra could see Dad’s practice target. So much bigger up close. The house beyond it looked small and quiet – like an unassuming cottage in one of Mom’s Thomas Kincade coffee table books.

Aissaba and Tassadu were gone, no doubt. It would have been dumb to stay, and they were no dummies.

Dad moved quietly through the forest to the edge of the treeline. He liked to use military hand gestures at times like these – signaling stops and goes – the four of them flitting from tree to tree like silent owls.

At the edge of the treeline, he stopped and watched the house through his binoculars. Cassandra found herself looking at the target, riddled with holes and propped up by rotting two by fours. It made her shiver, and she pulled her jacket tighter.

“The other guy started it,” Orion said sullenly. “He spitballed Cassandra.”

“Also, no Sega for a year,” said Dad. “Now shut up.”

***

Aissaba was working up the courage to say things to Tassadu that she had bottled up long ago. Something about the chilly Montana winter was bringing it all back.

This was when she heard the whispers and froze. From seemingly just outside, came a gruff voice: “Also, no Sega for a year. Now shut up.”