Read Online Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb by D. R. Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D. R. Martin
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had.
And she was quite, quite dead, Bao’s mysterious twin.
Finally, Bao understood. She screamed and shouted, but no one came. She tried and tried to cry, but no tears would form in her eyes.
For the little girl ghost the centuries crawled by as slowly as tortoises—every moment a torment. If there was anything like hell on earth, being in the ghost world was it. Nothing that was good was allowed.
Happiness.
Love.
Pleasure.
All impossible.
However, when the dead shaman found Bao up in the mountains, huddling by a rocky stream, he promised her something she wanted above all else.
“If you come with me,” he said, “I can end your suffering. I can send you to your gods.”
That is how Bao found herself flying eastward across the great ocean with hundreds of other wraiths—a great, ghastly gaggle of ghosts. For the first time in centuries she talked with someone in a friendly way. He was an odd sort of specter called Lord Hurley of Evansham, or “Evvie.” Bao had died at about the age of ten, Evvie at the age of sixteen. She liked him because he made her laugh, a rare treat for a ghost.
Toward noontime on the last day of their journey, Bao and the others spied something that made no sense, off toward the edge of the world’s curvature.
“Has an island sprouted a volcano?” shouted a woman ghost.
“The germ of a typhoon,” suggested Evvie.
“Perhaps the jungle is on fire,” someone yelled from the rear.
The phenomenon came from an atoll—a ring of small islands in the middle of the vast ocean. From the surface of one of the islands arose a ribbon of silver, gray, and white. It undulated and pulsated, floated from side to side, grew thin and tall, and then compressed itself down toward the ocean. It broke apart and came back together. Bao had never seen anything like it.
As they flew closer, everything became clear.
Thousands of ghosts had ascended into the clouds. They were trying to hold steady over the sandy outcropping of land beneath them. Wraiths had crowded the surface of the little island. There was barely any more room anywhere, but up.
Somehow, though, Bao and her new friend found a bare spot of sand near a clutch of barrel-roofed buildings made of some kind of metal that Evvie called “tin.” Scurrying between them were living humans in short white robes and broad-brimmed straw hats, carrying parchments and strange devices. In the center of the compound, a wooden tower a hundred feet high was crowned by a small, square hut with a thatched roof. Bao could make out a woman climbing up a long ladder attached to one of the tower’s supports. At the top, the woman crawled into the tiny hut.
Near the entrance to one of the tin shelters a fearsome-looking wraith warrior—with a black braid down his back and a pointed helmet on his head—held the reins of a ragged little ghost pony. Bao gasped when he turned around. The man had no eyes, only seeping, horrible eye sockets. How in the world, the girl ghost thought, could he see anything? But clearly he did—glaring malevolently at anyone who dared to stare at him.
Just then the door to the shelter burst open and out lurched a person who was not a ghost, but was a strange-looking creature nonetheless. Or so Bao thought.
His long, hard face, with its jutting jaw and dark burning eyes, swiveled around, surveying the legion of ghosts. He walked in an ungainly way—his body at odds with itself, as if it couldn’t quite decide how it wanted to move.
“My khan,” the eyeless warrior said, prostrating himself on the sand before this bizarre individual, “I bear tidings. Some for good, some for ill. Mongke Eng is dead, but Melanie Graphic lives.”
Chapter 16
Saturday, October 19, 1935
Zenith
Mel’s account of her saber duel with a wraith called Checheg made many a front page—along with Johnny’s picture of her after the fight, disheveled but triumphant. Exciting as their journalistic success was, it didn’t bring them any
And she was quite, quite dead, Bao’s mysterious twin.
Finally, Bao understood. She screamed and shouted, but no one came. She tried and tried to cry, but no tears would form in her eyes.
For the little girl ghost the centuries crawled by as slowly as tortoises—every moment a torment. If there was anything like hell on earth, being in the ghost world was it. Nothing that was good was allowed.
Happiness.
Love.
Pleasure.
All impossible.
However, when the dead shaman found Bao up in the mountains, huddling by a rocky stream, he promised her something she wanted above all else.
“If you come with me,” he said, “I can end your suffering. I can send you to your gods.”
That is how Bao found herself flying eastward across the great ocean with hundreds of other wraiths—a great, ghastly gaggle of ghosts. For the first time in centuries she talked with someone in a friendly way. He was an odd sort of specter called Lord Hurley of Evansham, or “Evvie.” Bao had died at about the age of ten, Evvie at the age of sixteen. She liked him because he made her laugh, a rare treat for a ghost.
Toward noontime on the last day of their journey, Bao and the others spied something that made no sense, off toward the edge of the world’s curvature.
“Has an island sprouted a volcano?” shouted a woman ghost.
“The germ of a typhoon,” suggested Evvie.
“Perhaps the jungle is on fire,” someone yelled from the rear.
The phenomenon came from an atoll—a ring of small islands in the middle of the vast ocean. From the surface of one of the islands arose a ribbon of silver, gray, and white. It undulated and pulsated, floated from side to side, grew thin and tall, and then compressed itself down toward the ocean. It broke apart and came back together. Bao had never seen anything like it.
As they flew closer, everything became clear.
Thousands of ghosts had ascended into the clouds. They were trying to hold steady over the sandy outcropping of land beneath them. Wraiths had crowded the surface of the little island. There was barely any more room anywhere, but up.
Somehow, though, Bao and her new friend found a bare spot of sand near a clutch of barrel-roofed buildings made of some kind of metal that Evvie called “tin.” Scurrying between them were living humans in short white robes and broad-brimmed straw hats, carrying parchments and strange devices. In the center of the compound, a wooden tower a hundred feet high was crowned by a small, square hut with a thatched roof. Bao could make out a woman climbing up a long ladder attached to one of the tower’s supports. At the top, the woman crawled into the tiny hut.
Near the entrance to one of the tin shelters a fearsome-looking wraith warrior—with a black braid down his back and a pointed helmet on his head—held the reins of a ragged little ghost pony. Bao gasped when he turned around. The man had no eyes, only seeping, horrible eye sockets. How in the world, the girl ghost thought, could he see anything? But clearly he did—glaring malevolently at anyone who dared to stare at him.
Just then the door to the shelter burst open and out lurched a person who was not a ghost, but was a strange-looking creature nonetheless. Or so Bao thought.
His long, hard face, with its jutting jaw and dark burning eyes, swiveled around, surveying the legion of ghosts. He walked in an ungainly way—his body at odds with itself, as if it couldn’t quite decide how it wanted to move.
“My khan,” the eyeless warrior said, prostrating himself on the sand before this bizarre individual, “I bear tidings. Some for good, some for ill. Mongke Eng is dead, but Melanie Graphic lives.”
Chapter 16
Saturday, October 19, 1935
Zenith
Mel’s account of her saber duel with a wraith called Checheg made many a front page—along with Johnny’s picture of her after the fight, disheveled but triumphant. Exciting as their journalistic success was, it didn’t bring them any
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