Sphereshifters: Aleph (Story Arcs 1, 2) Page 4

Brandi, right?--would you blame me if she dropped a match into a haystack and it converted your shed into a bonfire? I think not."

  Sanford said little more, because Jonathan wound up and punched him in the jaw. The shock of the strike, physical and mental, confused the reclusive toymaker. The man hit him again, and once more, favoring shoulder and chest this time, but when he returned for another attack Sanford regained his equilibrium.

  Spotting an iron smelting ladle on the floor, the Archaic kicked it into his hand, then thrust it into his assailants sternum. The wind knocked out of him, Jonathan crumpled to the floor. Wheezing, on his knees, the man's eyes held only hatred for the Archaic.

  Another shot to the side of his head brought Jonathan into unconsciousness.

  And this was how that went. Sanford deliberated on what to do with the fellow while keeping him tied in the corner with rope. Of course he fed him, because he didn't want the man to die, but after two days of entrapment he knew he needed to do somewhat more.

  Then, brilliance struck.

  "You're right about toys," Sanford said, conversationally. "Not that the fire was my fault, but perhaps there's room for improvement."

  Jonathan said something. The gag muffling his mouth shoved the words back into his throat.

  It began that day. Sanford tinkered, melding toys and sphereshifting knowledge to create the ultimate gift. No child could screw this up, not even the awful ones. It was perfect. He used Jonathan Douser as his test subject.

  First, he practiced with a sphereshift to alter the man's bodily water. The human body contained a remarkable amount inside it and he'd heard stories of sphereshifters using this to their advantage, transforming their own fluids into weapons. Sanford had never tried this, but he learned the basics soon enough.

  Water alone didn't suffice, but he formulated a hypothesis and course of action. He required one more step, though.

  Metal wouldn't work, was confusing to shift, but wood should suffice. A simple task, shifting spheres of earth and water together with a seed to influence life; plants, trees, and the like. He could use this. And he did.

  Finding an acorn from an oak tree, he coated it in chocolate and fed it to Jonathan, forcing him to swallow it whole. Using that as a base, and the man's fluids, he experimented with his new sphereshifting idea.

  It worked better than he imagined.

  With artful manipulation, he used Jonathan's body to grow a tree. Flesh and bodily water as soil and nourishment, he coaxed the tree to replace the man's current anatomy with wood. Some specialized shifting for joints, carving the tree to suit his needs, sending a jolt to halt the growth of leaves and roots, Sanford crafted his perfect toy.

  It went well, except Jonathan wasn't moving much now. Sanford left his heart alone, allowing it to pump nutrition to the tree, so he knew it still beat, but without body motion or movement it slowed to a quiet pace. A few beats a minute, if that. Jonathan felt cold and lifeless.

  He tried to fix this later, adding wind and light to the sphereshifted concoction. The wind was a spate of genius after noticing the branches of an umbrella tree swaying in the breeze, but the light was whim; it seemed apt.

  Jonathan didn't move much, but Sanford chalked it up to a stubborn disposition and unwillingness to adapt to change. Still, he moved, and with effort conversed, berating the Archaic for his magnificent efforts.

  Around that time Sanford took up ventriloquism and learn to spindle fine threads the likes of which puppeteers used for fantoccini.

  Jonathan never appreciated the puppet plays, but after a year as a toy he ceased functioning, anyways.

  The Archaic repeated his experiment with animals to ensure he understood the process. Finalizing that, he decided he'd best get to work on the children's toys. How long since his last batch of gifts?

  He couldn't recall, but that boy who'd visited, the only one in years--Lancer?--he seemed a good start. Rambling about his family and little sister, he'd lauded her as an angel. She would be the first to receive Sanford's wondrous gift.

  His plan went into motion.

  Addition and Subtraction, the Fantoccini

  Lancer stared at the false Archaic, the man's stony grin and crimson eyes.

  He felt useless. He'd come to save his sister, intent on figuring out the problem and solving it. The Archaic wasn't a bad person, merely misunderstood; or that's what he first thought. They would talk, discuss their conflict, and part ways with a friendly handshake. He imagined it going similarly to when he'd accidentally shattered a neighbor's window with faulty sphereshifting, promising to repay them with manual labor.

  Though picking weeds for a neighbor might diplomatically resolve that issue, the one he dealt with now lacked such simple recourse. The Archaic's copy stated Rei was almost finished, almost transformed into a doll. Perhaps if Lancer could stop the process now, halt transmogrification and realize a way to revert it, he could save her.

  But he'd never been good at that. Rei knew sphereshifting. She knew how to channel it, control it, manipulate it to suit her needs. While Lancer suffered through lighting the burner on their stove with a primitive set of flint and firesteel, Rei snapped her fingers and set the starter aflame.

  Kanin would've helped her. Their older brother would do nothing more than walk into the room and the issue would resolve itself to his liking. That's always how it worked, always how Lancer remembered it.

  Lancer didn't want to remember it like that anymore. Perhaps he was too late, perhaps there was nothing he could do, but he refused to accept that.

  Peeling Francine's fingers from his arm and giving her a stern look, Lancer smiled at the Archaic in front of him. The metal man sat in his chair, oblivious and carefree, unconcerned. With practiced efficiency, like playing stickball, Lancer swiped a long-handled metal pan from a hook on the wall and swung it at the replica's head. The man still grinned even after the clunk from the pan brought him crashing to the ground. With a hiss and a groan, the red-jeweled eyes set into the golem's head blinked away their last remnants of living light.

  Francine shivered as she watched Lancer topple their host. As callous as it was, he thought, at least this kept her out of his way. Lancer rushed to the smelting room. He hoped to find another doorway, a hallway or somewhat to the room holding Rei. Instead, he saw nothing new; the smelting station, bellows, a bench, and no more.

  On his way back to Francine, he spotted it. A little latched door under the table, barely visible, caught his eye. He shoved the table out of the way and grabbed Francine's arm.

  "Do you want to save Rei?" he asked.

  Francine looked ready to cry, her whole body quivering, thin mucus dripping out her nose and down to her lips. She wiped her nose with her shirt sleeve and nodded.

  Lancer unlatched and flung open the trapdoor at his feet.

  He didn't remember how far down the ladder went. The hallway at the bottom was all but forgotten. For all he knew, they ran for days. His lungs breathed hard, but he hardly felt it. He was running, or so the strain in his muscles told him, but he lived for nothing but the telltale end of the tunnel, the light of a crowded set of hanging lanterns.

  The underground room devoured them as he and Francine entered it. The tunnel, small in comparison to this room, seemed nothing more than a crack in the wall. This new room's domed roof rose up high in the air, tiled with widgets and doodads galore.

  Rei lay in the center, resting on a wooden altar, with a man meticulously attaching what looked like fishing line to each of her joints. The Archaic didn't look up, didn't even acknowledge Lancer and Francine's presence.

  Lancer stepped forward and caught his breath. He wasn't too late. Rei was fine. Why was it so difficult to breathe? He needed to hurry.

  As he moved closer, he re-evaluated his stance on Rei's well-being.

  Glassy eyes replaced her previous vivid blue ones. Flesh transmuted into wood, her ball and joint sockets had prominent indented demarcations separating each limb, the articulations held clos
e with subtle elastics. Getting closer still, hurrying now, he saw her hair: too shiny by far, and absolutely artificial looking.

  The Archaic looked up when Lancer approached. "I'm nearly finished," he said.

  Lancer refused. He wouldn't acknowledge the loss of his sister. She lay there, unblinking, unbreathing, no signs of life or soul wiggling through her body.

  Enraged, Lancer bull rushed the Archaic. His shoulder slammed into the man's side, sending him smashing onto the hard packed dirt floor.

  Unacceptance fused with crazed obsession made Lancer cradle Rei in his arms. She weighed as much as the bundles of firewood he carried inside for their parents on wintry days. One piercing glance towards Francine, and they ran to the hallway to escape.

  The Madman's Pursuit

  The sound of Lancer's footsteps pounded through the tunnel connecting the Archaic's hidden laboratory and his workshop. Rei's body was light, lighter than it should be, but every extra minute of carrying her was taking its toll on his stamina.

  How long was this tunnel? Too long. Why hadn't he noticed before? Every motion he made, every stretch of his legs to move forward, felt slowed as if someone were holding him back, restricting him from reaching his goal.

  He prevailed, though. A faint light on the roof of the tunnel signaled his arrival at the ladder that led upwards and to the halfway point of safety. Francine clambered up the ladder, scampering like a chipmunk up a tree. She leaned