The Obsidian Blade by Pete Hautman

Author:Pete Hautman [Hautman, Pete]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Science Fiction, Young Adult
ISBN: 9780763654030
Google: LNJvDW5nGiQC
Amazon: B007L3P8A6
Barnesnoble: B007L3P8A6
Goodreads: 13555808
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2012-04-10T07:00:00+00:00

THE SKY WAS BLUE, THE TREES WERE THICK WITH GREEN needles and yellow leaves, and an incredibly old woman was bending over Tucker. Her pale eyes, muted jade, searched his face anxiously. Her hair was the color of cigarette ash. He thought he had never seen anyone so ancient, but at the same time she looked familiar, like the way he imagined his own grandmother, whom he had never met.

The air smelled of pine needles, rotting leaves, and wood smoke.

“Trackenspor? Septan? Deutsch?” The old woman pointed a gnarled finger at her mouth. Behind her, a disk shimmered and pulsed.

Tucker tried to speak, but something was squeezing his chest, giving him barely enough slack to breathe. He moved his head from side to side, saying no to whatever the woman was asking.

“Français? Non?” She held a knobby walking stick in her right hand.

Tucker shook his head. He remembered the blood, and being lifted from the altar, and then a familiar inside-out, falling moment. He understood that he had been thrown through a disk but remembered nothing after that until he opened his eyes and found this strange old woman mouthing unintelligible questions at him.

“¿Inglés?” Her eyes widened; her pupils dilated. “English!” Her lips peeled back to reveal a collection of small, even teeth. It took Tucker a moment to recognize the expression as a smile.

“¿Cómo está usted?”

Tucker shook his head.

The old woman rapped herself on top of the head with her stick. “English, English! Too many tongues.” She walked around him, using her walking stick but not seeming to really need it. “Leg coverings, the name, the name . . .” She pointed her stick at his legs. “Pantas? Genus?”

“Jeans,” Tucker managed to whisper.

“Jeans! And . . . and a blouson? Blouse? Prenumerary? Digital?”

Tucker shook his head helplessly. He felt weirdly disconnected from his body. In his head, he was terrified; his heart should be pounding, but his body felt relaxed. He sensed only a steady, calm rhythm from within his chest.

“Your heart has been damaged.” Her voice sounded more normal now. “The Lah Sept are efficient with their knives.” She rapped her stick against his chest. It made a dull clacking sound. Tucker lifted his head enough to see a convex metallic plate affixed to his chest.

“The cardiac support you are wearing is temporary.” She scooped him into her arms, carrying him as if he weighed no more than an infant. “If you wish to live, you must tell me now. Live? Or die?”

“Live,” Tucker croaked.

They climbed a low rise. A few yards to the side of the path, another disk hovered a few inches above the carpet of pine needles.

“I went . . . through,” said Tucker, gesturing weakly as they passed the disk.

“The diskos, yes.” The woman continued to walk.

Tucker drew in as much air as he was able, then said, “My dad . . . was . . . here?” The effort exhausted him.

“Do not speak,” said the woman. She stopped walking and looked at him sharply. “What is your name?”

Tucker took two shallow breaths, then managed to squeeze out, “Tucker.

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