determined to elbow a space for herself in the adult world. He repeated the fact to convince himself of its reality: Homburg Molly is my daughter, Homburg Molly is my daughter. How could he act the recluse, pining away on a mountaintop for a woman who would never return, while her daughter—their daughter—lived? Because it’s in Molly that Weaver most lives. Yes, and for Weaver’s sake, for his and Molly’s sake, he had to return to Wondertropolis. He got to his feet, would prepare immediately.
Blooooachchch! Kablooooomshkkrkkkrk!
He’d been hearing explosions outside the cave for some time, he realized. He stepped out onto the ridge and saw, on the nearby mountain below, the comet streaks of orb generators, the fiery blossoms of exploded barracks and munitions caches; a Wonderland military post was under attack. In an instant, he returned to the depths of the cave. From the dust-covered pile of Millinery gear, and with the skill of a footballer chipping the ball into the goal, he kicked up his top hat, sent it flipping onto his head.
Shoulder to shoulder and ankle to ankle,
the card soldiers locked themselves together to form a shield
around the communications bunker. How many of their deck were still
alive they had no way of knowing. Perhaps only the pair of Ten
Cards inside the bunker. And themselves. It had been a while since
they’d sighted anyone else. Yet they would defend the bunker so
long as they had breath left in them. Not a single soldier harbored
any illusions: The attack had caught the base unprepared; they were
outnumbered; they would not survive.
Too much smoke in the air to see the enemy, but suddenly— A series
of whishing sounds like something repeatedly cutting the air, then
a lull, the quiet that inevitably precedes the wind-shriek of an
incoming orb generator. The card soldiers braced themselves for
impact, but instead of the expected explosion—
Thump. Thump thump. Thump thump thump.
“What the…?” one of the soldiers said.
The limbs of Glass Eyes clomped down around them. Arms chopped off
at the shoulder joint, legs ending at the top of the thigh, hands
and feet and torsos, all with a spaghetti of wires and lab-grown
veins spilling from holes where no holes should have been. From the
direction the card soldiers had expected their death to come, the
silhouette of a Wonderlander appeared out of the smoke—a
Wonderlander they would have recognized anywhere. The hat, the
dramatic swing of the coat, the spinning blades on his wrists:
Hatter Madigan. CHAPTER 15
F OR A manufactured species with questionable brain power, the
Glass Eyes were fighting with surprising intelligence. Rather than
face Wonderland forces in the open of wide avenues, squares and
parks, they used the cityscape to their advantage, as defensive
cover. They moved purposefully from building to building, sheltered
position to sheltered position, battling card soldiers as they
converged on Genevieve Square.