The ice didn't sweat. It just sat on the workbench, humming like a bad fluorescent tube.
August was a wet blanket. It smothered the neighborhood. No breeze. Just thick, stagnant heat that made the asphalt soft. I dragged my sneakers across the pavement, leaving shallow scuffs. My phone was burning a hole in my palm. The battery was at fourteen percent. The screen was cracked diagonally across the middle, distorting the map on the augmented reality app.
The app was called Leyline Drifters. I downloaded it because I was nineteen, home for the summer, and slowly going insane from boredom. The objective was simple. Walk around. Find digital loot. Pretend the suburbs weren't a dead end.
I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. It didn't help. I just smeared dirt across my brow. The digital compass on my screen pointed down the alley behind Elm Street. The icon was flashing red. A Mythic Energy Core. The drop rate on those was zero point zero one percent. I wasn't going to let it despawn.
I turned down the alley. It smelled like hot garbage and wet dog. The trash cans were baking in the sun. Flies buzzed in thick clouds. I kept my eyes on the screen. The distance marker ticked down. Fifty feet. Forty feet.
I looked up. The signal was coming from a drainage ditch at the end of the alley. Someone was down there.
It was Arthur. He lived three houses down from me. He was retired. He used to be a mechanic, or an engineer, or something that required him to own three different air compressors. He was standing in ankle-deep mud, wearing heavy denim overalls and rubber boots. In August. The man was a masochist.
He was digging through the muck with a rusted garden trowel. He cursed under his breath. I couldn't hear the exact words, but the tone was loud and angry.
I stepped closer. The gravel crunched under my shoes. Arthur didn't look up. He just kept digging.
"Come on, you piece of junk," Arthur muttered.
He stopped. He dropped the trowel. He reached into the mud with both hands. He grunted. The muscles in his forearms locked up. He pulled something out of the earth.
I squinted. The sun was right behind him, creating a harsh glare. He was holding a sphere. It was about the size of a grapefruit. It was covered in thick, black mud. But underneath the dirt, it was glowing. A faint, pale blue light.
Arthur wiped the sphere on his overalls. The mud slid off. The object was perfectly smooth. It looked like solid ice.
In ninety-five-degree heat.
Arthur stared at it. He didn't move. He just held the frozen sphere in his bare hands. He didn't look cold. He looked confused.
I looked at my phone. The red icon was sitting directly on top of Arthur's GPS coordinate.
"Hey," I said.
Arthur jumped. He nearly dropped the sphere. He spun around, glaring at me. His face was red and covered in sweat. He had a thick white beard that looked like steel wool.
"What do you want, kid?" Arthur asked.
"Nothing," I said. "I'm just walking."
"Walk somewhere else," Arthur said. He shoved the sphere into the deep pocket of his overalls. It didn't fit perfectly. A rounded edge stuck out, glowing faintly against the denim.
He climbed out of the ditch. His boots made a sucking sound against the mud. He walked past me without another word. He smelled like motor oil, old coffee, and wet dirt. He headed straight for his detached garage at the back of his property.
I looked at my phone again. The Mythic Energy Core icon was moving. It was moving with Arthur.
This was stupid. It was a glitch. The app placed digital objects randomly. It didn't attach them to physical items. That wasn't how the code worked.
But the ice. I saw the ice. It wasn't melting. And it was glowing.
I followed him. I didn't think about it. I just walked up his driveway. The concrete was cracked. Weeds grew through the fissures. The garage door was wide open. Inside, it was a mess. Tools were scattered everywhere. Pegboards covered the walls, but nothing was hung up. Everything was piled on a long wooden workbench. A large, rusted box fan sat on the floor, pushing hot air around the room.
Arthur was standing at the workbench. He had the sphere sitting in the center of a rubber mat. He had a yellow multimeter in his hands.
I stopped at the edge of the driveway. I shouldn't go in. He was going to yell at me. But my phone buzzed. The app notified me that I was within interaction range of the core.
I stepped into the garage. The temperature dropped. Not a lot. Just a few degrees. But it was noticeable. The air felt heavy. It made my ears pop.
Arthur didn't hear me come in over the noise of the box fan. He took the red and black prongs of the multimeter. He pressed them against the smooth surface of the ice sphere.
The digital display on the multimeter went crazy. The numbers spiked. They maxed out. The screen flashed an error code. The internal fuse of the meter made a sharp popping sound. A wisp of grey smoke curled out of the plastic casing.
Arthur dropped the prongs. He stepped back. He wiped his hands on his overalls.
"Well," Arthur said to the empty garage. "That is not normal."
"What is it?" I asked.
Arthur spun around again. He grabbed a heavy wrench off the bench. He pointed it at me.
"I told you to go away," Arthur said.
"My phone led me here," I said. I held up the cracked screen. "I'm playing a game. It says that thing is a Mythic Energy Core."
Arthur stared at me. He lowered the wrench. He looked at my phone, then at the ice sphere, then back at me.
"A game," Arthur said.
"Yes," I said. "It tracks digital items. But the signal is coming from your table."
Arthur frowned. He walked over to me. He snatched the phone out of my hand.
"Hey," I said.
"Quiet," Arthur said. He squinted at the screen. He tapped the glass with a thick, calloused finger. He read the text on the app.
"Energy Core," Arthur read aloud. "Outputs raw kinetic and electrical potential. Warning: Unstable."
He handed the phone back to me. He walked back to the workbench. He picked up the dead multimeter. He tossed it into a metal trash can. It hit the bottom with a loud clang.
"Your game is broken," Arthur said. "This is real. I found it in the dirt."
"I saw," I said. "But why isn't it melting?"
"I don't know," Arthur said. He leaned over the sphere. He didn't touch it. "It's cold. But it's not freezing the air around it. And it just blew out a meter rated for six hundred volts."
"Is it dangerous?" I asked.
"Probably," Arthur said. He didn't sound worried. He sounded excited. It was the first time I'd seen him look interested in anything since his wife died three years ago. Usually, he just sat on his porch and glared at the mail carrier.
"I need to crack it open," Arthur said.
"No, you don't," I said. "You just said it blew your meter. If you hit it with a hammer, it might explode."
"I am not going to hit it with a hammer," Arthur said. He sounded insulted. "I am going to run a controlled discharge. I need copper wire. And a grounding rod."
He started digging through a plastic bin under the bench. I stood there, watching him. I should have left. I should have gone back to my air-conditioned living room and played something on a console. But I couldn't stop looking at the ice.
It was beautiful. It didn't belong in this dirty, oil-stained garage. It looked like a piece of the sky, frozen solid.
The sound of tires crunching on gravel broke my concentration.
It wasn't a normal car. It was heavy. You could hear the weight of it pressing into the dirt alley behind the garage. I looked out the side window.
A black van was rolling slowly down the alley. It had no license plates. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like black mirrors. It stopped directly behind Arthur's property line.
A second van pulled up right behind it.
"Arthur," I said.
"I am busy," Arthur said. He was pulling a thick spool of copper wire out of the bin.
"There are vans outside," I said.
"Delivery drivers," Arthur muttered.
"No," I said. My stomach tightened. The heat in the garage suddenly felt suffocating. "They don't have plates."
Arthur stopped. He dropped the wire. He walked over to the window. He pushed me aside. He looked out through the dirty glass.
The doors of the first van slid open. Four men stepped out. They were wearing dark suits. They didn't look hot. They didn't sweat. They looked like they were made of plastic. One of them held a tablet. He looked down at it, then pointed directly at Arthur's garage.
"Well," Arthur said. His voice was very quiet. "That is a problem."
"Who are they?" I asked. My voice cracked. I felt like a little kid.
"They aren't selling cookies," Arthur said.
He turned around. He moved fast. Faster than I thought a guy with bad knees could move. He grabbed a heavy canvas bag off a hook. He walked to the workbench. He picked up the ice sphere with his bare hands. He dropped it into the bag. He pulled the drawstring tight.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"We are leaving," Arthur said.
"We?" I said. "I don't know you. I'm going home."
"They saw you through the window, kid," Arthur said. He walked over to a large tarp covering something in the corner of the garage. "You're an accomplice now."
"To what?" I yelled.
"Theft of government property, I assume," Arthur said. He grabbed the edge of the tarp and yanked it back.
I stared at the thing sitting under the tarp. I couldn't process it for a second.
It was a mobility scooter. But it was wrong. The plastic casing had been ripped off. The frame was reinforced with welded steel pipes. The floorboard was covered in diamond-plate aluminum. A massive car battery was strapped to the back rack with bungee cords. The tires were thick and knobby, like dirt bike tires.
"Get on," Arthur said.
"You have to be joking," I said.
There was a loud knock on the front door of Arthur's house. The sound echoed across the driveway.
"Open up," a voice shouted from the porch. "Federal agents."
"Get on the scooter, Zack," Arthur said.
"How do you know my name?" I asked.
"You live three doors down. I get your mail sometimes. Now get on the damn scooter."
I didn't think. I just reacted. I climbed onto the back of the scooter. There was a small metal rack over the rear tires. I crouched on it, gripping the steel frame. My knees were practically touching my chin.
Arthur threw his leg over the wide leather seat. He dropped the canvas bag into the front basket. He turned a key in the ignition.
The scooter didn't whir like an electric motor. It growled. It sounded like a lawnmower on steroids.
"Hold on," Arthur said.
He twisted the throttle. The back tires spun, kicking up a cloud of dust and sawdust. The scooter lunged forward. We blasted out of the garage, heading straight for the alley.
The men in suits saw us immediately.
"Hey," one of them yelled. He dropped his tablet. He reached inside his jacket.
"Duck," Arthur yelled.
I pressed my face against Arthur's sweaty back. The scooter hit the lip of the driveway and launched into the alley. We landed hard. My teeth slammed together. I tasted blood.
Arthur cranked the handlebars. We took a sharp left, tearing down the alley away from the vans.
The alley was a narrow strip of broken pavement and overgrown weeds. It ran behind the houses on Elm Street, flanked by leaning wooden fences and rusted chain-link. We were moving at maybe twenty miles an hour, but on the back of a souped-up mobility scooter, it felt like a hundred. Every pothole was a brutal physical impact. My tailbone was taking a beating against the metal rack.
"Slow down," I yelled over the roar of the modified motor.
"Cannot comply," Arthur shouted back. The wind caught his white beard, making it whip around his face. "We lose momentum, we die."
"They aren't going to kill us," I screamed. I squeezed my eyes shut as we blasted through a massive puddle of stagnant water. Mud splashed up my legs, soaking my jeans.
"You want to stop and ask them?" Arthur asked.
I looked over my shoulder. The two black vans were already moving. They had backed out of the driveway and were turning into the alley. They were huge, taking up almost the entire width of the lane. Their tires crushed discarded soda cans and snapped fallen branches. They were gaining on us. Of course they were gaining on us. They had V8 engines. We had a car battery and a prayer.
"They're coming," I yelled.
"I see them in the mirror," Arthur said. He tapped a small circular mirror attached to the handlebars. It was covered in duct tape. "Hold on tighter."
I wrapped my arms around Arthur's waist. It felt like hugging a fire hydrant wrapped in wet denim. He smelled strongly of sweat and Old Spice.
The scooter whined as Arthur pushed the throttle to the absolute limit. We were bouncing violently. The canvas bag in the front basket shifted. A faint blue glow pulsed through the thick fabric. The ice sphere was reacting to the movement. Or maybe the heat. Or the electrical output of the scooter. I didn't know. My brain was a static mess of panic.
"Turn," I yelled. "Take a cross street."
"Too exposed," Arthur said. "They'll box us in on the main roads. We stay in the veins."
"The veins?" I repeated. "It's a suburban alley. It ends in two blocks at the community center."
"Exactly," Arthur said.
The lead van honked. It was a loud, aggressive sound that vibrated in my chest. The driver flashed his brights. The blinding white light washed over us, casting our elongated shadows down the alley.
"They want us to pull over," I said.
"They can want a pony," Arthur muttered. He reached down to the control panel on the dashboard. It was a mess of toggle switches and exposed wiring. He flipped a red switch.
"What did you just do?" I asked.
"Countermeasures," Arthur said.
I looked back. At the rear of the scooter, next to the car battery, a metal canister hissed. A thick, grey cloud of smoke erupted from the nozzle. It smelled like burning rubber, sulfur, and cheap fireworks. The smoke billowed out, filling the narrow alley entirely. It was a massive, opaque wall of grey.
The van disappeared into the smoke. I heard the screech of heavy tires locking up. The van slammed into some trash cans. Metal crashed against wood. Someone yelled.
"It worked," I said. I couldn't believe it. I was riding on a James Bond mobility scooter.
"Of course it worked," Arthur said. He sounded offended that I doubted him. "It's military-grade smoke powder. I bought it at a surplus store in ninety-eight."
"Is that legal?" I asked.
"I don't care," Arthur said.
We burst out of the end of the alley. The smoke screen hung in the air behind us, a thick grey curtain blocking the pursuit. Arthur slammed on the brakes. The scooter skidded sideways, tires squealing on the hot asphalt of the cross street. We fishtailed, nearly tipping over. I planted my foot on the ground to stabilize us, scraping the toe of my sneaker.
We were at the edge of the community center parking lot. The lot was packed. Cars were parked on the grass. People were everywhere.
"What is going on here?" Arthur asked, breathing hard.
I looked at the massive banner hanging over the entrance to the brick building. It read: REGIONAL TALENT SEARCH - CANINE STARS.
"It's a dog audition," I said. "For a commercial or something. My mom mentioned it."
"Perfect," Arthur said.
"Perfect?" I said. "There are a hundred people in there. And a hundred dogs."
"Crowds mean witnesses," Arthur said. "They won't shoot us in front of a poodle."
"Shoot us?" I yelled. "You said they wouldn't kill us."
"I lied to keep you calm," Arthur said. He twisted the throttle again.
We rolled across the parking lot. We didn't look inconspicuous. An old man and a teenager riding a terrifying, naked scooter that smelled like explosives. People stared. A woman holding a golden retriever pulled her dog away as we passed.
Arthur drove the scooter right up to the front doors. He killed the engine. He grabbed the canvas bag from the basket.
"Inside," Arthur ordered.
I climbed off the metal rack. My legs felt like jelly. My knees shook. I looked back toward the alley. The smoke was starting to clear. The grill of the black van emerged from the grey haze.
"Go," Arthur pushed my shoulder.
We ran to the glass double doors. I pulled them open. A wave of noise and smell hit me. The community hall was a massive gymnasium. The air conditioning was broken, or at least severely losing the battle against the body heat of two hundred people and their pets. It smelled like wet fur, hot dog breath, and cheap perfume.
The noise was deafening. Barking, whining, owners yelling commands, folding chairs scraping against the wooden floor. It was pure chaos.
"Blend in," Arthur said loudly over the din.
"How?" I asked. "We don't have a dog."
Arthur looked around. He spotted a stray leash sitting on an empty folding chair. He grabbed it. He shoved the handle into my hand.
"Pretend he ran off," Arthur said.
"That's the dumbest plan I've ever heard," I said.
"Just walk," Arthur said.
We pushed our way into the crowd. The heat inside the hall was oppressive. Sweat dripped down my back, soaking my t-shirt. I held the empty leash, feeling like a complete idiot.
We moved toward the back of the gym, away from the main staging area where a judge was evaluating a bored-looking beagle.
Then, things got weird.
The canvas bag over Arthur's shoulder began to hum. It was a low frequency. I didn't hear it so much as I felt it in my teeth. It was a vibration that settled deep in my jaw.
The dogs heard it.
A german shepherd standing ten feet away suddenly stopped panting. Its ears pinned back. It let out a low, rumbling growl. It stared directly at Arthur's bag.
A pug in a stroller started shrieking. Not barking. Shrieking. Like a human child.
"Arthur," I whispered. "The bag."
"I know," Arthur said. He gripped the strap tighter.
The humming got louder. The blue light began to bleed through the thick canvas, projecting a faint aura onto Arthur's overalls.
Within ten seconds, every dog in a fifty-foot radius was losing its mind. They were lunging at their leashes, snapping at the air, howling. The owners were getting dragged across the polished wooden floor. Panic rippled through the crowd.
"Control your animals," a man with a megaphone shouted from the stage.
"It's the sphere," I said. "It's emitting something."
"It's a frequency," Arthur said. "It's ramping up. The battery must be charging itself."
"How is it doing that?" I asked.
"I have no idea," Arthur said. He looked genuinely thrilled.
I looked back at the front entrance. The glass doors swung open. Three men in dark suits walked in. They didn't look at the dogs. They didn't look at the stage. They scanned the crowd with cold, mechanical precision.
The lead agent had a small earpiece. He tapped it. He pointed straight into the middle of the chaos. He pointed straight at the blue glow emanating from Arthur's bag.
"They found us," I said. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"We need a barricade," Arthur said. He looked around the gym. His eyes locked onto the raised sound booth at the back corner of the room. It had solid walls and a heavy wooden door.
"Up there," Arthur said.
The Leyline Drifters app had a local proximity chat. It was usually filled with kids complaining about the weather or coordinating trades for digital junk. Right now, there were about forty active users within a one-mile radius.
My fingers were slick with sweat. I struggled to type on the shattered glass of the screen.
Zack_Attack99: Mythic Energy Core at the Community Center. Right now. First 50 people here get my entire vault. Free.
I hit send. It was a desperate move. I had spent two years building up my digital vault. Rare skins, upgraded avatars, premium currency. It was worth actual money on the secondary market. But none of that mattered if I got black-bagged by government agents.
SniperBoy01: Cap.
Zack_Attack99: No cap. I'm looking at it. It's glowing blue. Come to the gym. Hurry.
"Put the toy away," Arthur snapped. We reached the base of the wooden stairs leading up to the sound booth.
"It's not a toy," I said. "It's a distraction."
Arthur didn't argue. He climbed the stairs fast, clutching the bag to his chest. The humming was louder now. The blue light was intense, shining through the canvas like a high-powered flashlight.
We reached the landing. The heavy wooden door to the booth was locked.
"Move," Arthur said.
He didn't search for a key. He didn't pick the lock. He just kicked the door. He kicked it right next to the handle, planting his heavy rubber boot flat against the wood. The frame splintered. The lock gave way with a loud crack. The door swung open, hitting the inside wall.
We rushed in. Arthur slammed the door shut and dragged a heavy metal filing cabinet in front of it. The metal scraped loudly against the linoleum floor.
The sound booth was small and claustrophobic. It smelled like stale dust and old electronics. A large glass window looked out over the gymnasium. Below us, the chaos had escalated. The dogs were completely unmanageable. The judges on the stage had abandoned their clipboards and were trying to climb onto the folding tables to avoid the snapping teeth.
The three men in suits were pushing through the crowd. They weren't being polite. They were shoving people aside. One of the agents backhanded a golden retriever that jumped at him. The crowd gasped.
"They're coming up," I said. I pressed my hands against the glass.
Arthur ignored me. He dropped the canvas bag onto the main mixing console. He pulled the drawstring.
The ice sphere rolled out.
It was blindingly bright now. The pale blue had shifted to a harsh, neon blue. It hurt my eyes to look at it. It was humming so loudly that the plastic fader knobs on the mixing board were vibrating. Frost was forming on the metal surface of the console.
"It's getting colder," I said. I hugged my arms across my chest. The oppressive heat of the gym was instantly banished from the small booth. My breath plumed in the air.
"It's drawing thermal energy from the environment and converting it into electrical output," Arthur said. He was leaning over the board, staring at the sphere.
"In English, please," I said. My teeth were chattering.
"It's a battery," Arthur said. "An infinite thermal battery. It eats heat and spits out electricity. And right now, it's overcharging. The friction of the scooter, the heat of the gym. It's pulling in too much."
"Will it explode?" I asked.
"I don't know," Arthur said. "But we can't let them have it."
He looked at the massive rack of amplifiers mounted against the wall. Thick black cables ran from the amps down to the PA system speakers suspended from the gym ceiling.
Arthur grinned. It was a terrifying expression.
"Help me move this," Arthur said. He grabbed the heavy ice sphere. He grunted as he lifted it. It must have weighed forty pounds.
"What are you doing?" I asked, stepping back.
"We are going to drain the battery," Arthur said. "We are going to give it an outlet."
Heavy footsteps pounded on the wooden stairs outside the booth. Someone slammed a fist against the door. The wood shuddered, but the filing cabinet held.
"Open the door," a voice commanded. It was flat, calm, and terrifying.
"Hold this," Arthur shoved the sphere into my hands.
I grabbed it. It was freezing. The cold burned my palms. It felt like holding dry ice. My muscles instantly cramped. The hum vibrated up my arms and settled in my chest. I felt sick.
Arthur grabbed a thick audio cable from a drawer. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket. He stripped the rubber casing off the end of the wire, exposing the raw copper underneath. He didn't use a tool. He just sliced it and yanked the rubber off with his teeth. He spit the casing onto the floor.
"Bring it here," Arthur said.
I shuffled forward, my arms shaking. Arthur took the raw copper wire and slapped it directly onto the surface of the ice sphere.
It stuck. The copper instantly frosted over, fusing to the ice.
Arthur grabbed the other end of the cable. It had a thick metal plug. He jammed it into the main input jack on the mixing console.
"Cover your ears," Arthur said.
Outside the booth, the agent hit the door again. The top hinge buckled.
"They're getting in," I yelled.
"Let them," Arthur said. He reached down to the main volume slider on the mixing board. He pushed it all the way up. To the absolute maximum.
Below us, the gym doors flew open.
I looked through the glass window. A flood of teenagers poured into the community hall. There were dozens of them. They were holding up their phones, screens glowing. The AR gamers. They had come for the digital loot.
"Where is it?" someone yelled.
"Look at the booth!" another kid screamed.
They pointed their cameras at us. The blue light from the sphere was illuminating the entire sound booth, making us look like we were standing inside a neon sign.
The agents on the stairs stopped. They looked down at the crowd. They were surrounded by fifty kids with cameras rolling.
"Now," Arthur said.
He slammed his fist down on the master power switch for the amplifier rack.
The noise was a physical object. It didn't just enter my ears; it hit me in the chest like a baseball bat.
It wasn't music. It wasn't static. It was a pure, unadulterated bass frequency, amplified by twenty thousand watts of community center audio equipment. The sound wave blasted out of the massive black speakers suspended from the ceiling.
The entire building shook. Dust rained down from the rafters.
I fell to my knees. I clamped my hands over my ears, but it didn't matter. The sound was traveling through the floorboards, up my shins, rattling my teeth in my skull. I squeezed my eyes shut. My vision blurred from the intense vibration.
Outside the booth, the agents collapsed. The lead agent dropped to the wooden landing, clutching the sides of his head. His earpiece popped out, dangling by a wire. The structural integrity of his calm facade shattered entirely. He opened his mouth to yell, but no sound came out over the deafening roar of the PA system.
Down in the gym, the reaction was instantaneous. The dogs stopped barking. They simply dropped to the floor, whining and covering their snouts with their paws. The crowd of teenagers and dog owners staggered backward, dropping phones, covering their ears, their faces twisted in pain.
Arthur didn't cover his ears. He stood over the mixing board, his hands gripping the edges of the console. He was staring at the ice sphere.
The sphere was screaming. The neon blue light pulsed in time with the deafening bass frequency. The copper wire attached to its surface glowed white-hot. The frost that had crept over the mixing board began to melt, turning into small puddles of water that sizzled against the electronics.
The sphere was dumping its massive payload of stored energy directly into the audio system.
I looked at the glass window of the sound booth. The thick pane was vibrating violently. Tiny spiderweb cracks appeared in the corners. The cracks spread outward, zigzagging across the glass like lightning bolts.
"Arthur," I screamed. I couldn't even hear my own voice.
Arthur looked at me. He smiled. It was a wild, unhinged smile. He looked twenty years younger. He looked alive.
The glass shattered.
It didn't break inward or outward. It just disintegrated. Thousands of tiny square fragments exploded into the air, raining down onto the floor of the booth and showering the agents on the stairs below.
A gust of freezing air blasted out of the shattered window frame, hitting the stifling heat of the gymnasium. A thick, white fog instantly formed, rolling over the edge of the booth like a waterfall.
The frequency hit a pitch that I couldn't hear anymore. It moved beyond human hearing. The vibration in my chest became a tight, painful pressure. I felt like I was underwater. My lungs burned. I couldn't breathe.
I looked at the ice sphere.
A loud, sharp crack cut through the heavy silence of the ultrasonic frequency.
A deep fissure appeared on the smooth surface of the sphere. The blue light flickered.
Another crack. Then another. The ice was fracturing.
Arthur stepped back. He finally looked worried. He reached for the master power switch, but before his hand could touch the console, the sphere failed.
It didn't explode. It imploded.
The light collapsed inward, sucking the neon blue aura into a single, blinding pinpoint at the center of the ice. The intense cold in the room vanished in a fraction of a second.
Then, the sphere shattered.
A spectacular burst of glowing white vapor erupted from the console. It washed over us, smelling like ozone and fresh rain. It wasn't hot or cold. It was completely neutral.
The heavy, crushing pressure in the room disappeared. The PA system let out a pathetic squeal, followed by the loud pop of blown fuses. The massive amplifiers on the wall sparked once and died.
Silence slammed into the room. It was heavier than the noise.
My ears rang violently. A high-pitched whine dominated my senses. I slowly lowered my hands from my head. I opened my eyes.
The glowing vapor dissipated, drawn out the shattered window by the draft.
I looked at the mixing console. The copper wire lay limp on the plastic surface. The ice sphere was gone.
In its place was a puddle of water.
It wasn't glowing. It wasn't freezing. It was just a cup's worth of perfectly clear water, slowly dripping off the edge of the console onto the floor. I reached out a shaking hand and touched the puddle.
It was warm. Like tap water sitting in the sun.
I looked at Arthur. He was staring at the puddle, his chest heaving. His white beard was covered in tiny shards of safety glass.
"It's gone," I whispered. My voice sounded thin and raspy.
"Burned out," Arthur said. He sounded out of breath, but strangely calm. "Completely discharged. The structural matrix couldn't hold the output without the thermal core."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means it's just water now, kid," Arthur said.
We heard groaning from outside the door. The lead agent was pulling himself up by the doorframe. He looked through the shattered window. His face was pale. A thin line of blood trickled from his left nostril.
He looked at Arthur. He looked at the puddle of water.
Then, he looked down at the gym floor.
The teenagers had recovered. They were standing in the fog, holding their phones up. Fifty cameras were pointed directly at the sound booth. Fifty live streams were capturing the men in suits, the shattered glass, the ruined community hall.
The agent touched his earpiece. It was dead. He looked at the other two men, who were struggling to stand up on the stairs.
"Asset destroyed," the lead agent said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his thumb.
He didn't say another word. He turned around and walked down the stairs. The other two followed him. They pushed their way through the crowd of teenagers, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the questions being shouted at them. They pushed through the glass double doors and walked out into the bright, hot summer afternoon.
I stood up. My knees popped. My back ached from the scooter ride. I looked at my phone. The screen was still cracked, but the Leyline Drifters app was open. The red icon for the Mythic Energy Core was gone. The map was empty.
"They're gone," I said.
Arthur grabbed a towel from a chair in the corner of the booth. He wiped the water off the mixing console. He tossed the towel onto the floor.
"They won't come back," Arthur said. "There's nothing left for them to take. And they hate paperwork. Fifty kids with cell phones is a lot of paperwork."
"You knew that," I said. "You knew the flash mob would scare them off."
"I know how the government works," Arthur said. He walked over to me. He held up a thick, calloused hand.
I looked at it. I was shaking. I was sweaty, dirty, and exhausted. I raised my hand and slapped his palm. A high-five. The sound echoed in the quiet booth.
"Good work, Zack," Arthur said.
"That was the craziest thing I've ever seen," I said.
"It was alright," Arthur said. He looked out the shattered window at the confused crowd below. He took a deep breath. The smell of ozone was already fading, replaced by the damp, hot smell of the summer day creeping back in.
"I have a riding mower at the house," Arthur said slowly. "Engine is shot. But the chassis is solid."
"Okay," I said, not following.
"I bet if we mounted a turbine to it, we could get it up to sixty on the straightaways," Arthur said. He looked at me, his eyes bright. He looked more alive than I had ever seen him.
I looked down at my dead phone, then back at Arthur. I smiled.
"I have nothing else to do today," I said.
Arthur clapped me on the shoulder. It hurt, but I didn't care.
"Let's go home, kid," Arthur said. We stepped out of the ruined booth, leaving the puddle of warm tap water behind to evaporate in the heat.
“We stepped out of the ruined booth, leaving the puddle of warm tap water behind to evaporate in the heat.”
