Read Online Dragon Sword by Mark London Williams - Free Book Online

before the particle beam
fires. Astonishingly, when it hits the ship, the vessel wobbles but
seems to…absorb the energy.
    All the guards, and Thirty, stand
still for a moment, wondering what’s just gone wrong. In that
pause, I top-stomp again, just make the open ledge of the ship,
holding on with my foreclaws.
    “ K’lion?”
    A mammal voice I know. It’s Thea.
She doesn’t pronounce my name quite right, either, but I don’t
mind.
    “ But how did you — ?” we ask each
other at the same moment.
    There’s no time for an answer, of
course. I pull myself in and the hatch slam-cracks shut behind me.
Thea then makes one of the most stomper-like piloting moves I’ve
ever witnessed: She tilts the ship vertically and shoots it out of
the gap in the top of the dome before the zoo staff can regroup and
start firing again.
    “ I don’t believe —” Once again, we
speak simultaneously. There’s so much to say, we can only start by
lapsing into silence.
     
     
     

Chapter Nine
     
    Eli: Yankee Clipper
    December 24, 1941 C.E.
     
    “ To tell you the truth, kid, in the
off-season I try to avoid crowds.” That’s Joe DiMaggio, and he’s
actually talking to me.
    We’re standing outside the de
Young, and the police are trying to interview everybody. The
antlers are gone. When the lights went out, somebody stole the
White Stag’s horns. So far nobody’s been able to tell the police
anything — no one saw who it was. When the cops get to me, I might
just tell them it was Dan the Oboe Man, on general principles. I
notice he managed to slip away, too, so why not?
    A lot of people are shivering in
their tuxedos and evening gowns. They’re anxious for the cops to
hurry up and let them back in for their coats.
    I’m cold, too, but I’m not in any
rush. After all, I’m standing next to a real live, famous, dead
baseball player. In his pre-dead days, of course.
    “ When you shut that music fella up,
you did me a favor,” DiMaggio cracked when I finally met him a few
minutes ago. It was dark, but the glow from his cigarette let me
see his face. He was trying to stand as far away from the street
lamps and the hanging lanterns around the museum as he could. “I
didn’t want to give a big speech.”
    “ How come?”
    “ It wouldn’t be me doing it,
it’d be ‘Joltin’ Joe,’ ‘the Yankee Clipper.’ See? Me, I really
don’t have anything in particular to say.”
    “ But, you are Joltin’
Joe.”
    “ Nah, Joltin’ Joe’s just my
disguise now. A character. If you ever get famous, you’ll know.
What’d you say your name was again, kid?”
    He blew out more smoke, and I
coughed. “Sorry. Guess you’re too young to puff ’em yourself. Let
me get a couple more drags and I’ll snuff it out.”
    I’m standing next to DiMaggio
thanks to that reporter, Caen.
    I was ushered outside with
everybody else after the police got here. I figured maybe my best
bet would be to find another cab, hope no one noticed the date on
my future money, and go back to the hotel.
    But Caen found me first. “Some
party, huh, kid? A little thin on Christmas spirit with that
robbery at the end.”
    “ I guess so.” I was starting to
feel a little sorry for myself again.
    “ Hey, what’s the matter? Stranded?
Parents never made it?”
    “ No,” I said.
    “ Well, where are they?”
    Then it occurred to me — I didn’t
necessarily have to go back to the hotel. Maybe I shouldn’t. With
the Oboe Man missing, maybe I should try to find Mom first. Just in
case.
    “ My mom’s at a fort, I think.” If
the Oboe creep was right.
    “ A fort, huh? Come over here.” Caen
motioned for me to follow, and I went with him right past the
police — he nodded and waved to one of the officers — to a little
area behind their squad cars, where a small handful of people were
waiting around. A few yards away from them, a man stood by some
trees, puffing a cigarette.
    “ The VIP lounge, kiddo. The cops
let the swellest of swells hang out back