Ridley Pearson - Power Play

Charlene was looking down on a head of dark hair surrounded by a crown. The Evil Queen. Charlene reared back as the Queen looked up. A diving blue jay suddenly altered course and flew past Charlene-the Queen had redirected it. It landed on an electrical conduit below. The wounded jay atop the turbine managed to fly off.

The jays cawed furiously.

Over the roar of the turbines, a woman’s low voice shouted, “Hurry up! There’s no time to waste!”

Charlene moved quickly lower, down the pipes, using clamps and valves as toeholds. With speed and agility she descended, desperate to overhear more of what was being said.

How she regretted having separated from Maybeck. They could be working together; worse, Maybeck was something of a wild horse without a bit or bridle when left on his own.

She slid down the final few feet of pipe, arriving onto the facility floor-concrete with a thick layer of gray epoxy paint. She settled herself and dared to look past the pipe she hid behind.

Directly in front of her were more pipes and machinery. Just past these was a walkway designated by wide lines of bright yellow paint, one side of which was a concrete wall with windows looking in on a control room, the door to which was propped open, its center glass pane broken; cubes of safety glass littered the floor. Inside, she saw a bald guy in a chair, who looked either asleep or dead. There was a redheaded woman in a similar condition next to him. Cruella De Vil, the Evil Queen. And a… kid! Charlene could only see the back of his head-he was hunched over a computer-but there was no mistaking him for anything but a teenager. She couldn’t see his face.

Charlene was distracted by movement to her right-the jays flying like jets in formation. They banked right and disappeared behind the machinery. Something moved in the shadows, escaping.

Maybeck.

The Evil Queen sensed Maybeck and abruptly turned around. She and Maybeck were on opposite sides of a cinder block wall.

Charlene ducked behind the pipe, her back to its warmth. She had no way to warn Maybeck, no way to monitor what was happening. Then, overhead, a blue flash-the jays diving for Maybeck again.

She heard a series of caws. Maybeck shouting.

Then, the Evil Queen growling, “Bring him to me!”

It took Philby time to settle down. He’d never seen his mother quite like that. She’d stayed a few feet behind him and had marched him to his room like he was a convict. He’d wanted to ask her for the computer back but thought she’d have probably hit him with it-definitely not worth the risk.

His bedside clock read 12:51.

He couldn’t leave his friends stuck in Epcot and the Cogeneration Facility as DHIs. He needed Web access-and he needed it now. He possessed a dirty secret: a fifth DHI had been added to the Queen’s growing team. He’d spotted the addition in the log-it was still rocking him with aftershocks.

Mind racing, he thought of his father’s desktop Mac in his study. The trouble was, his study was an extra bedroom, and to get to it Philby would have to pass his parents’ bedroom. He doubted his mother would actually kill him, but he knew that to be caught was not an option.

Philby paced his room, frustrated and guilt-ridden. He stopped and looked at the lowered shade and thought about Hugo attacking him. His world was upside down: friends were enemies; family members were enemies. His only friends were asleep in their beds and would never wake up until and unless he Returned them. The success or failure of their attempt to free Amanda fell onto him. Their survival fell onto him.

Was he really supposed to just climb into bed and go to sleep?

As if!

He sneaked down the hall on tiptoe, a shaft of yellow light playing from his parents’ bedroom. His mother would be propped up in bed reading. He knew how difficult it was for her to get back to sleep. If he moved too quickly, she’d spot him. The trick was to slip by incredibly slowly, back to the wall so he could watch her . If she moved even a tweak, he’d jump across and she wouldn’t know if she’d seen him or not.

Step by step, his back to the opposite wall of the hallway, Philby edged into and through the patch of yellow light. He was right out where his mother could have seen him, but she never raised her head. At last-it seemed like several minutes-he was back into shadow and out of her sight.

He made it to the study door, and turned the handle incredibly gently to avoid her hearing.

Locked!

He didn’t know the door could be locked. He stared at it in disbelief.

“Not a chance,” she said.

He startled and nearly screamed. Didn’t dare turn around, but finally gathered the courage. She was in her pajamas, her reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

“That you would even try this is such a disappointment. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking of my friends. I’m thinking of that time I was caught in the Syndrome and how awful it was on you and Dad. The hospital. Nothing working. They are counting on me.” He was a grown boy, he reminded himself, fighting back the tears. Embarrassed by them. “Do you know what that feels like?”

“I think I might have a slight idea. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a mother? To love another so, so much that you can’t breathe?”

“I cannot let them down. I will not let them down. I don’t care what the consequences are. It has nothing to do with Disney. Nothing to do with magic or entertainment. It’s about friendship, Mom. It’s about being reliable and responsible and all the stuff you and Dad preach but never let me live.”

He watched her nostrils flare, which was not a good sign. Most times, that was the signal the time bomb was ticking. But her eyes glassed over and her lips trembled and she moved toward him.

“You’re such a good boy,” she said, her arms outstretched. “I am so proud of you.”

“You…what?”

She embraced him in a way he’d never felt before. More than a hug. It felt like she might never let go.

“You’re so grown-up.”

“Mom?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was only thinking of myself. It makes me…I get so scared for you and the others. I never want to lose you. I’d never, ever, forgive myself.”

“But that’s exactly-”

“Yes,” she said. “I know. I understand.”

“You do? Seriously?”

“I want to help. I want to know everything. Everything , you understand?”

He nodded.

“Go on. Do whatever it is you need to do. I’ll be along in a minute. I want to turn off the light so we don’t wake your father.”

“How’s it going?”

Jeannie Puckett’s grating voice. Jess had nodded off while sitting with her back to the wall next to the bunk bed. She blinked repeatedly while orienting herself. She immediately realized the impact of the dream she’d just been living . She reached for her diary.

“Give me a few minutes,” she said, her pen already at work.

She drew the picture in her head, allowing it to flow out of her hand rather than force it onto the page. It was almost as if the pen were alive and she was there only to keep it upright. Something miraculous transpired between her hand and the paper, a power far beyond anything she would lay claim to.

Lines appeared, like a gate or maybe the teeth of a comb. Shadows. Behind the teeth of the comb were bookshelves, or perhaps a bench. The pen kept moving. Jess looked for what was there, what was coming. A box-no, a window-in the center of the wall between the bookshelves. Or were the bookshelves church pews? Was the window really a frame hanging on the wall? Not bookshelves at all, but a cot or a bunk. A priest laying on the bunk. No, a woman. A bench on the floor between the bunks. They were bunks. Not a comb, but prison bars.