sleeve of interconnected NRG nodes
that a surgeon had once used to fuse Hatter’s shattered
shoulder
back together. But also inside the kit, smashed as if with a rock or other blunt object: Weaver’s Millinery ID chip. She must have removed it from under the skin of her forearm to aid in her survival, destroyed it to prevent Redd from tracking her. It was a tiny thing, roughly the same size as the mole Weaver had had on the nape of her neck, but one of the chip’s circuits wasn’t adequately destroyed. It had probably been enough to betray her location to Redd’s assassins. He should have trusted his instincts. Originally against the idea, put forward by the Millinery’s board, of hiring a carefully vetted civilian to handle the facility’s alchemistic needs, he had changed his mind only after he considered: better to have every Milliner out in the field than in a lab. Besides, none had Weaver’s gift, her ability to discover and exploit the hidden properties of things; she could take some secret mixture of liquid metals, combine it with a beaker full of who knew what, and produce the strongest, most responsive of Millinery blades. Weaver was no ordinary civilian. But he should not have let her work there. He might never have known her, never have fallen in love with her or even known that he was capable of such love—he’d have lost these things, but she’d still be alive, filling her civilian days with civilian concerns.
He thoroughly crushed the ID chip against a rock, returned it to the first-aid kit. He upended the satchel and let the lone item it still contained drop into his palm. As slim and compact as a playing card, it resembled a typical book from Earth in every detail except size: Weaver’s diary. What he’d hoped and feared to find.
Mustering his courage, Hatter pressed the sides of the diminutive book, the covers sprang open and— More than three lunar cycles after arriving here, the man who had fought too many battles to remember, who had faced a thousand different deaths and come away from all of them more or less intact, suffered the blow of his life when the 3-D image of Weaver materialized and he heard the sound of her voice. “Hatter, my love, we never got a chance to say good-bye.” CHAPTER 10
W HOOMP!
Most continuum travelers had to concentrate on their destinations to keep from being projected out of a looking glass portal at some undesired location. Portals were stationed throughout Wonderland; the interlinked channels they created could prove slow going for inexperienced travelers who might enter a portal with the intention of visiting the Unnatural History Museum across town only to find themselves projected out of one at the end of their block. Navigating the continuum took time and practice. But on this particular day, at this particular hour, even the most skilled travelers were helpless. Commuters streaming home after a long day at work, families returning from visits with friends or relatives: One moment they were traveling along the continuum’s network of crystalline byways, the next they were shot out of the nearest looking glass like cannon fodder, their limbs flailing desperately for purchase on something, anything.
Wondertropolis descended into tumult: the cries of the injured; the breathless reassurances and urgent calls of those rendering first aid; the bawling of frightened children; the moans and prayers of the superstitious who thought a sky raining Wonderlanders signified the end of the world. All was shock, confusion, pain, in the midst of which lay the girl who had caused it, unconscious, untended to, and unnoticed by everyone save two Boarderlanders on an illicit errand for their King.
back together. But also inside the kit, smashed as if with a rock or other blunt object: Weaver’s Millinery ID chip. She must have removed it from under the skin of her forearm to aid in her survival, destroyed it to prevent Redd from tracking her. It was a tiny thing, roughly the same size as the mole Weaver had had on the nape of her neck, but one of the chip’s circuits wasn’t adequately destroyed. It had probably been enough to betray her location to Redd’s assassins. He should have trusted his instincts. Originally against the idea, put forward by the Millinery’s board, of hiring a carefully vetted civilian to handle the facility’s alchemistic needs, he had changed his mind only after he considered: better to have every Milliner out in the field than in a lab. Besides, none had Weaver’s gift, her ability to discover and exploit the hidden properties of things; she could take some secret mixture of liquid metals, combine it with a beaker full of who knew what, and produce the strongest, most responsive of Millinery blades. Weaver was no ordinary civilian. But he should not have let her work there. He might never have known her, never have fallen in love with her or even known that he was capable of such love—he’d have lost these things, but she’d still be alive, filling her civilian days with civilian concerns.
He thoroughly crushed the ID chip against a rock, returned it to the first-aid kit. He upended the satchel and let the lone item it still contained drop into his palm. As slim and compact as a playing card, it resembled a typical book from Earth in every detail except size: Weaver’s diary. What he’d hoped and feared to find.
Mustering his courage, Hatter pressed the sides of the diminutive book, the covers sprang open and— More than three lunar cycles after arriving here, the man who had fought too many battles to remember, who had faced a thousand different deaths and come away from all of them more or less intact, suffered the blow of his life when the 3-D image of Weaver materialized and he heard the sound of her voice. “Hatter, my love, we never got a chance to say good-bye.” CHAPTER 10
W HOOMP!
Most continuum travelers had to concentrate on their destinations to keep from being projected out of a looking glass portal at some undesired location. Portals were stationed throughout Wonderland; the interlinked channels they created could prove slow going for inexperienced travelers who might enter a portal with the intention of visiting the Unnatural History Museum across town only to find themselves projected out of one at the end of their block. Navigating the continuum took time and practice. But on this particular day, at this particular hour, even the most skilled travelers were helpless. Commuters streaming home after a long day at work, families returning from visits with friends or relatives: One moment they were traveling along the continuum’s network of crystalline byways, the next they were shot out of the nearest looking glass like cannon fodder, their limbs flailing desperately for purchase on something, anything.
Wondertropolis descended into tumult: the cries of the injured; the breathless reassurances and urgent calls of those rendering first aid; the bawling of frightened children; the moans and prayers of the superstitious who thought a sky raining Wonderlanders signified the end of the world. All was shock, confusion, pain, in the midst of which lay the girl who had caused it, unconscious, untended to, and unnoticed by everyone save two Boarderlanders on an illicit errand for their King.