But Reginald knew the mystery could be explained, all within the complex but perfectly understood realm of science. Still, the idea thrilled him. The boy had no idea what was at stake—he had something Reginald Chu wanted, and nothing in the world could be more dangerous than that.
Reginald walked over to the airlift which would ascend along the surface of the tall project device. He allowed his retina to be scanned, then stepped onto the small metal square of the hovervator. He pressed the button for the uppermost level. As the low whine of the lift kicked in, pushing him toward the false sky of the ridiculously large chamber, he heard the slightest beep from the nanophone nestled deep within the skin of his ear.
“Yes?” he said in a sharp clip, annoyed at being disturbed even though he’d told them to do so as soon as they returned. The microscopic particles of the device he’d invented took care of all communication needs with no effort on his part.
“We have him,” the soft voice of Benson replied, echoing in Reginald’s mind as though from a long-dead spirit. Benson had been the lead on the mission to Reality Prime.
“Good. Is he harmed? Did you raid his house, gather his . . . things?” The airlift came to a stop with a soft bump; Reginald stepped onto the metal-grid catwalk encircling his grandest scientific experiment to date. From here, all he could see was the shiny golden surface of the enormous cylinder, dozens of feet wide, reflecting back a distorted image of his face that made him look monstrous.
“Everything went exactly as planned,” Benson said. “No blips.”
Reginald stabbed a finger in the air even though he knew Benson couldn’t see him. “Don’t you dare bring that sorry excuse for a Chu near me—not even close. There’s no guarantee who’d flip into the Nonex. I want him locked away—”
“Done,” Benson barked.
Reginald frowned at his underling’s tone and interruption. He took note to watch Benson closely in case his lapse in judgment developed into something more akin to insubordination or treachery.
“Bring his belongings to me and ready him for the Darkin injection.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Reginald’s nanophone registered a faint quiver in Benson’s voice.
Ah-ha, Reginald thought. Benson had realized his mistake and was trying to make up for it with exaggerated respect. Stupid man.
“As soon as we inject him,” Reginald said, “we can begin phase two. You’ve checked and rechecked that the others are still together?”
“Yes, sir. All three of them, together for another two days. School starts after the weekend.”
“You’re sure?” Reginald didn’t want to waste any more time away from his project than he must.
“Seen them with my own eyes,” Benson said, the slightest hint of condescension in his voice. “They’ll have no reason to suspect anything. Your plan is flawless.”
Reginald laughed, a curt chortle that ended abruptly. “You always know what to say, Benson. A diplomat of diplomats—though one not afraid to squeeze a man’s throat until he sputters his last cough. A perfect combination.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Call me when you’re ready.” Reginald blinked hard, the preprogrammed signal to end his call with the synthesized sound of an old-fashioned phone slamming into its cradle.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Reginald continued pacing around the wide arc of the Darkin Project, his carnival-mirror reflection bobbing up and down in the polished, cold metal. He loved doing this, loved the feeling he got when the words that lay imprinted in large, black letters appeared on the other side. He slowed for dramatic effect, running his left hand lightly across the indentation of the first letter. A few more steps and he stopped, turning slowly toward the cylinder to look at the two words for the thousandth time—the thrill of it never ceased to amaze him.
Two words, spanning the length of his outstretched arms. Two words, black on gold. Two words that would change the Realities forever.
Dark Infinity.
Chapter
2
Spaghetti
Dude, that stuff smells like feet.”
Tick Higginbottom stifled a laugh, knowing his friend Paul’s brave statement would bring down the wrath of Sofia Pacini, who was hard at work kneading a big ball of dough in the Higginbottoms’ kitchen. Tick loved watching the two of them go at each other. He adjusted the red-and-black scarf around his neck, loosening it to let more air in, and settled back to enjoy the show.
“What?” Sofia said, using her pinky to push a strand of black hair behind her ear—the rest of her fingers were covered with flour and yellow goop. “What smells like feet?”
Paul pointed at the kitchen counter, where a mass of raw pasta dough rested like a bulbous alien growth. “That—the famous Pacini spaghetti recipe. If I wasn’t helping you make it, I’d swear my Uncle Bobby had just walked in with his shoes off.” He looked over at Tick and squinted his eyes in disgust, waving his hand in front of his nose. “That guy’s feet sweat like you wouldn’t believe—they smell like boiled cabbage.”
Sofia turned toward Paul and grabbed his shirt with both hands, obviously not concerned about how dirty they were. “One more word, Rogers. One more, and I’ll shove this dough down your throat. You’d probably choke and save Master George the trouble of firing your skinny Realitant hide. Plus, it’s the feta cheese that stinks, not the dough.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll eat it,” Paul said. “Just hurry—I’m starving.”
Sofia let go and turned back to her work. “You Americans—all you want is fast food. We still have to make the sauce while the pasta dries.”
“Tick,” Paul groaned, “can’t we just make some hot dogs?”
“Grab some chips out of the pantry,” Tick said, pointing. “I’m waiting for the world-famous Pacini spaghetti.”
More than six months ago, Sofia had won a bet to visit Tick. Since her family had more money than most movie stars, she not only paid for her trip from Italy, but she also paid for Paul to come from Florida at the same time. Tick had looked forward to the visit all summer, thinking every day about his friends and their crazy experience in the Thirteenth Reality where they’d all been lucky to escape alive. Although this was only the second time the three of them had been together, they were already friends for life, not
to mention members of a very important group—the Realitants.
“All right,” Sofia said. “Time to get busy. Help me spin out the strands.” She grabbed a small wad of dough and showed them how to shape it into a long, slender rope. Like soldiers following orders, Tick and Paul got to work while Sofia started on the sauce, chopping ingredients and pouring one thing after another into a huge metal pot.
“So is Master George going to call us or what?” Paul said. After stealing Mistress Jane’s Barrier Wand, they’d been assured from their leader that it wouldn’t be long before the Realitants would gather again.
“It’s been almost three stinkin’ months,” Tick replied. “I check the mailbox every day.”
Sofia snorted and shook her head. “He can track people all over the world using nanolocators, but he still sends messages in crumpled old envelopes.” She measured a teaspoon of something orange and dropped it in the pot. “You’d think the old man could figure out how to use e-mail.”
“Chill, Miss Italy,” Paul said, holding up a long strand of dough and swinging it back and forth, grinning like it was the grandest form of entertainment in the world. “It’s so he can’t be tracked down by all the bad guys. Don’t you ever watch TV?”
Tick spoke up before Sofia could reply—he was hungry and didn’t want any more delays from his friends’ bickering. “I just hope he’s figured out how we winked out of the Thirteenth with a broken Barrier Wand.”
“How?” Paul asked. “I’ll tell you how. You’re a regular Houdini—all you need is a cape and one of those funky black hats.”
“And a wand,” Sofia said as she began stirring her cauldron of blood-red sauce.
“He had a wand,” Paul said. “It was just broken.”
Tick’s spirits dampened a bit, his heart heavy at remembering the terror of that moment when the Barrier Wand hadn’t worked, when he’d pushed the button over and over again as hordes of screaming, sharp-toothed fangen rushed at them. Any reminder that such monsters existed in the world—or worlds—was enough to make a spaghetti feast not quite as appealing.
“He made it work somehow,” Sofia said, nodding at Tick as she stirred. “Magic Boy himself.”
Tick did his best to smile, but it didn’t last.
Two hours later, the homemade meal passed Sofia’s inspection—barely. She kept insisting the sauce needed to simmer the rest of the day to taste perfect, but finally gave in to the impatient hunger groans of Paul and Tick. It was worth every minute, Tick thought as he shoveled in the food, not caring that he’d already spilled sauce on his scarf once and his shirt twice. He felt much better about things now that he wasn’t starving.
“I’m not gonna lie to ya,” Paul said through a huge bite, a vampire-like drip of red sauce streaked on his chin. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in my entire life.”
Sofia sat back in her chair, pressing a hand to her heart. “Did you, Paul Rogers from Florida—King Smarty Pants himself—just say something nice to me?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did. And I meant every word of it. Dee-lish.”
“It’s really good,” Tick chimed in. “I’ll never doubt you again about your family’s claim to fame.”
Several moments passed, everyone too busy eating to talk. Sofia slurped her spaghetti, sounding like a renegade octopus trying to climb a slippery metal pole. Tick almost made a joke, but didn’t want to waste any breath when there were still noodles on his plate.
Paul wiped a big swath of sauce from his plate with a piece of garlic bread and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. “Man,” he mumbled as he chewed, “I can’t wait to visit more Realities so I can check out the ladies.”
Tick almost choked on a laugh. “Yeah, right. You’d be lucky to get a date with Rutger’s little sister.” Tick’s friend Rutger was an incredibly short and fat man from the Eleventh Reality. And full of pranks.
Paul shrugged. “As long as she’s not quite so . . . bowling-ballish, I’m cool with that. Paul ain’t picky.”
“Good thing, too,” Sofia said. “No girl I know would give you a second glance.”
“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?”
Sofia put down her fork and looked him square in the eyes, her face set in matter-of-fact stone. “Your ears are crooked.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your. Ears. Are. Crooked.” Sofia emphasized each word as if Paul spoke a foreign language, then folded her arms and raised her eyebrows.
“My ears are crooked,” Paul repeated, deadpan.