Broken Pixels: Broken Realms, #4

By D.W. Moneypenny

In a realm where people abandon their flesh for synthetic bodies, Mara Lantern must stop her arch enemy—and former best friend—from redesigning mankind.

To succeed she must expose the people she loves most to a deadly virus.

And be willing to give up her own humanity.

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Join Mara Lantern and her companions in a seven-volume science fiction adventure through reality, time and space, where they encounter everything from steampunk dream worlds to artificial humans, from dragons to disembodied spirits, where metaphysics is science and magic is just one belief from coming true.

Author's note: To fully enjoy the story, you should read this series in order.

Book 1: Broken Realms
Book 2: Broken Souls
Book 3: Broken Dragon
Book 4: Broken Pixels
Book 5: Broken Dreams
Book 6: Broken Spells
Book 7: Broken Talisman (Coming Soon)

This series was previously titled The Chronicles of Mara Lantern. Individual book titles and contents have not changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nevertheless Publishing
• Release date: Mar 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386964131

D.W. Moneypenny

D.W. Moneypenny is a former newspaper journalist and technology manager who lives in Portland, OR. Drop by his website to sign up for free reads, discounts and the latest book releases.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mara felt self-conscious rummaging around in Ping’s kitchen, but the urge for coffee overcame her reticence. After opening several cabinets without success, she spotted four black ceramic canisters lined up along the wall. The first two yielded flour and sugar. The third released the aroma she sought, but just a light dusting of dry coffee grounds lined the bottom. She groaned with frustration.

Ping’s out of coffee, Sam said, speaking into a pillow pressed into the arm of the couch in the living room adjacent the kitchen. After the most recent events, he’d spent the night there because Mara had slept in Ping’s only guest bedroom.

That won’t work at all, Mara said. She closed the canister and slid it in line with the others. I guess I’ll run out for a cup.

Sam rolled over and rubbed his eyes. He went to the bakery to get some coffee and something for breakfast—doughnuts or Danishes, I think he said. It seems like a long time ago when he left, so he should be back soon.

Mara slumped onto one of the bar stools, placed her elbows on the counter and cupped her chin in her hands. I hope he hurries. I really need the caffeine. After a moment she looked up and said, That doesn’t make sense. How can he return with coffee and breakfast after he opens the bakery?

It’s Sunday, sis. The bakery’s closed, Sam said, sitting up. You look like you didn’t get much sleep last night.

She straightened. I got a few hours, but it was stupid to think I’d be able to go to bed and forget everything that’s happening. It might have been better to talk it out last night and then get some sleep.

Ping wanted you to sleep on it before you made any decisions, Sam said.

The sound of a key inserted into the front door drew their attention. After a rattle, the knob turned, and Ping stepped into the house. When he looked up to see them staring at him, he smiled and said, Good morning! I’ve got breakfast.

Bag the food, hand me the coffee and let me make a pot, Mara said, approaching him at the door.

Ping held up a house-shaped cardboard carton with a plastic knob on its roof. That’s not necessary. I brewed a pot at the bakery. The heavy-duty urns there do a better job than my little drip machine. Don’t worry though. I did grab a bag of beans as well, so we don’t have to make a trip every time we want coffee.

You are a lifesaver, Mara said, taking the carton from him and rounding the counter into the kitchen. I was beginning to wonder if I would make it.

While she poured a cup of coffee each for her and Ping, plus a glass of milk for Sam, Ping handed a large bag of pastries to Sam and then hung up his coat. By the time Sam and Ping sat at the counter, Mara had arranged a drink and a napkin for each of them. She remained standing in the kitchen, sipping her cup, while they each pulled out a cheese Danish from the bag.

Licking frosting from his fingers, Ping eyed Mara and asked, How are you feeling this morning? Did you get some sleep?

Mara looked up from her cup. Howdy Doody here has already informed me that I look like death warmed over, if that’s what you are getting at.

It was not my intent to comment on your appearance. To be honest, I was more interested in your mental state than your physical one, Ping said.

She thinks she would have slept better if we had stayed up half the night discussing what to do about Cam’s message, Sam said.

Mara glared at her brother, decided to ignore him for the moment and turned to Ping. My mental state?

I suppose that sounds like I’m concerned about your psychological well-being—which I am not. Sometimes, when we’ve got a number of interrelated issues to resolve, it’s best to sleep on them instead of reacting to the last one that made a grab for our attention. I believe that is the situation in which you find yourself. After receiving the message from your robot friend, I thought it might be best that you sleep on it to see if your subconscious would help you put it in context with everything else you might need to consider.

Mara arched an eyebrow at him, while she took a sip of coffee.

Sam interjected, She’s hoping the caffeine will give her some kind of clue to what you’re talking about.

Mara set down her cup. No, I understand that Ping wants me to look at the big picture instead of just running off and helping Cam without considering everything.

Ping tore off a corner of his Danish and pointed with it before popping it in his mouth. What exactly do you mean by that?

"First off, we don’t even know what helping Cam means. As far as I can tell, when Abby—the Aphotis—took Cam’s head from our living room, she used it as a guide to Cam’s realm. The other people she kidnapped using the Chronicle were abandoned between realms and presumably died. I assumed Cam was lost as well."

Because his head was taken? Ping asked.

Mara nodded.

And without a brain, what good is the rest of him, correct?

Mara sat up straight. His brain ...

What? Ping and Sam asked simultaneously.

His brain isn’t in his head. It’s in his torso. He called it his core, and he connected to it wirelessly, while I was working on him at the hospital, she said.

Where is his body now? Ping asked.

It’s on a gurney in a locked storage room built beside the hospital’s parking garage.

Even if his head is lost between realms, it’s possible for this core of his to communicate with you wirelessly, even without a head?

I suppose. His head was communicating with his torso the whole time we were with him, so I guess it’s possible.

Assuming that is the case—that somehow Cam is still alive without a head and that his body reached out to you for help—it still begs the question, what can you do to help him?

I don’t know. My basic instinct would be to say that we could fabricate another head, but the technology involved is far beyond anything we have imagined in this realm. We don’t have the materials or the know-how to even attempt it.

You said you repaired him at the hospital? Ping asked.

Mara shook her head. Not really. He had me reattach his head, but then a circuit shorted, and I had to detach it again so he could talk.

Your ability to repair mechanisms didn’t manifest itself when you came in contact with him, like when you repaired the Tamagotchi during the exercise we did at the warehouse?

Remembering her introduction to Cam, Mara paused, cocked her head and said, Actually, when we first saw him, his faceplate was detached from his head, and he initially became conscious after I picked it up. He asked me at the time how I had repaired it, so I suppose it’s possible I did it inadvertently, metaphysically. It might be worth taking a closer look at his body, but replacing an entire head seems out there, even for someone with metaphysical abilities.

So let’s assume that Cam is alive and that you find a way to help him. What else have you to consider? Ping asked.

There’s the Aphotis, Mara said.

Your friend, Abby.

Mara shook her head. "I don’t like calling that thing Abby."

Very well, what is it that you wish to do concerning this Aphotis? Is it your intention to engage it?

If it shows up here again, yes. I’ll work with Detective Bohannon to get in touch with all the passengers to give them a heads-up about the danger she poses.

That’s quite a commitment, contacting all the passengers, explaining that they have crossed over to this realm during the crash of Flight 559 and warning them that this entity is now hunting them. Are you sure that is the best course of action? It strikes me as somewhat passive.

"How can you call doing all that work and coordination passive?" Mara asked.

Because it requires the Aphotis to come to you, to this realm, before you are willing to do something about it. Strategically do you think that is the best thing?

I get the feeling you are walking me to some kind of realization. Why don’t you just state the point you want to make?

"You’ve left out one piece of your strategic puzzle—the haiku from your future self, Continuity now travels through other realms. Therefore, so must you," Ping said.

You’re telling me that I should use the Chronicle of Creation and visit other realms. Why? What am I supposed to accomplish?

Ping shrugged. I think that is something you should ascertain for yourself. However, I would recommend that you not ignore the advice. If you recall, the previous haikus gave you instructions that turned out to be beneficial, even when you followed them without initially understanding their meanings. Remember, the haikus said you didn’t need to do anything about the dragon, and it most likely would have been less troublesome to follow that advice. Also they told you how to find this realm’s Chronicle and how to track down what the Aphotis was up to by seeking out the passengers.

Mara raised her hands. Okay, okay. Other realms. I’ll consider it. At the fix-it shop. I do my best thinking there. She turned to Sam, stuffing a third Danish into his mouth. You’ve been awfully quiet. You have an opinion about me and other realms?

Through a mouthful of pastry, Sam said, Depends.

Depends on what?

Sam swallowed and said, On whether I get to have that last Danish.

CHAPTER 2

Mara returned to work and, by Wednesday, had restored the shop to its former glory and then resumed her repairs. The black candlestick phone from the 1920s emitted a high-pitched chirping sound just seconds after Mara attached it to the cable usually connected to the black rotary model on the counter of Mason Fix-It Shop. She chuckled in a self-satisfied way, picked up the bell-shaped receiver and held it to her ear while leaning forward to speak into the transmitter cup mounted atop the device.

Mason Fix-It Shop. This is Mara. How may I help you? she said, her voice raised slightly.

Hey, Mara. It’s Bohannon. You got a few minutes to talk?

Mara recognized the Portland detective’s Southern accent from the first word. Sure. What’s going on?

You remember, after your plane crashed in September, the investigation by the feds, right? The NTSB? They recovered the jet from the river and ran the whole thing from a hangar by the airport?

Yes. You and Suter arrested me and Ping for breaking in there. I remember. It’s where they kept a secret morgue to hide the bodies of the passengers who died in the crash, she said.

I had almost forgotten about all that. You know, it’s probably a good idea not to get into this on the phone. How about I stop by in about half an hour?

Mara frowned at the antique phone and said, No problem. Should I be worried?

Let’s talk when I get there. Bohannon hung up.

Replacing the receiver into the arm extending from the candlestick telephone’s neck, Mara stared up at the stained-glass light fixture suspended above the counter and wondered what could be happening now. After a moment she shook her head, deciding she didn’t have enough information to worry yet. She’d just wait the few minutes until the detective arrived. She lifted the repaired antique telephone, disconnected it from the shop’s phone line and placed it in the box used to transport it. Grabbing a roll of tape, she sealed the box and slid it under the counter.

She grabbed from the shelf nearby what looked like a small brown suitcase and placed it on the counter. After flipping open the metal clasp mounted under the plastic handle, she lifted the top half of the casing, revealing a vinyl record turntable centered in the bottom half. The old portable record player had been knocked around when the zombies possessed by Juaquin Prado’s dead spirit had broken through the shop’s front window. She was just now assessing the damage, if any.

At first glance the arm seemed bent which held the stylus—the needle that rested on the grooves of a record as it played. Mara wrapped her fingers around the aluminum arm and pressed it with her thumb against the angle of the bend. She rested the arm on the tiny stand that held it when not playing a record and lowered her head level with the countertop. Eyeballing the arm, she decided it was no longer warped. She focused on the needle itself, reaching out and touching it with a fingertip. It felt well-seated. It was time to give it a whirl.

Standing upright, she felt along the back side of the player’s lid for the cubbyhole that held the power cord. Finding it on the left side, she extracted the cord and pulled it over the edge of the counter and down to the floor, where she plugged it into a power strip. Straightening once again, she eyed the empty turntable and then glanced across the shop at a stack of albums on the floor under the shelves holding other record players and radios. She retrieved the record on the top of the stack—Bing Crosby’s Merry Christmas—and slid the black disc from its sleeve as she returned to the counter. Holding the record by the edges, she lowered it to the player and flipped the control lever to Play. The arm lifted and played what sounded to Mara to be a very tinny version of Silent Night.

Just as she decided to disassemble the player’s arm, the bells above the shop’s door jangled, and Detective Bohannon stepped through the entranceway, nodding in her direction. Mara manually lifted the stylus from the record and set the arm on its tiny stand again.

Detective, don’t tell me that it’s been a half hour already, she said.

Looks like traffic was flowing in my direction, and all the lights decided to be green today. I made good time, he said, walking up to the counter.

Mara sat on her stool. So what’s so sensitive that you didn’t want to talk on the phone?

George Pirelli, the guy who headed up the crash investigation looking into Flight 559, is on his way to Portland. He saw that video of you battling the dragon on the news a few days back, the detective said.

So the NTSB is investigating dragons now? she asked.

Bohannon chuckled. I probably don’t need to tell you this, but I don’t think Pirelli actually works for the NTSB. I’m not sure who he works for, but the fact that he could hide more than a hundred corpses and then make them disappear without it becoming public knowledge is a good indicator that his return to Portland might be trouble. Especially for you—and Mr. Ping if he gets connected to the dragon somehow.

So this Pirelli guy knows I’m the person in the video?

No, he only knows what my lieutenant has told him, and I haven’t told my lieutenant that you’re the one in the video—and I haven’t said anything about Ping being the dragon.

Why haven’t you told him?

Bohannon leaned against the counter. The lieutenant knows this whole situation is a little funky, to say the least, and doesn’t want to be in a position of reporting things that will make him look like a nut—stuff like there’s this Chinese baker who turns into a dragon. If Pirelli needs to know something with regard to public safety, something he can do to prevent people from getting hurt, then he’s all ears. Understand?

I guess that makes sense. So what’s this federal investigator up to?

I’m not sure, but he knew, when he left Portland the last time, that something strange had occurred on the flight, that the passengers had somehow been replaced with clones or doppelgängers or something. For whatever reason, he decided to ignore that and move on. If I know anything about bureaucrats, they like to paper over their mistakes. Given some of the things that have happened with the passengers—here in Portland and elsewhere—I’m sure Pirelli is feeling pressure to figure out what’s going on and deal with it somehow.

If he doesn’t know I’m the girl fighting the dragon, why should I be worried? Mara asked.

He’ll probably identify you eventually. I mean, you were arrested for breaking into his hangar-slash-morgue and don’t be surprised if he finds something to tie Ping to the dragon.

He won’t be able to prove anything about Ping and the dragon, Mara said.

Why not?

The dragon is gone. Sent back to its own realm Friday night, right after it burned down my mother’s house.

The detective’s eyes widened. What? How did that happen?

Mara held up a hand. It’s a long story. Just take my word. You won’t be hearing from the dragon again.

Okay, then what did you do with the robot?

Mara went blank for a moment. What?

You know, Cameron Lee, the robot passenger from another realm, whose head you were using as a tracking device to find your mother and the dragon?

Why do you ask?

Pirelli’s got a copy of the report we received from the hospital, when they asked us to come take a look at Cam. Remember how the administrators at the hospital were weirdly vague about the whole thing? Pirelli will want to take a look for himself.

Well, that might be a problem.

How so?

We lost his head.

Bohannon inhaled deeply, a look of exasperation on his face. You lost his head? How?

The Aphotis appeared in my living room and took it.

Come again?

Remember Stella Reese—the woman who shared her memory with me about the phenomenon that appeared in her kitchen and tried to evaporate her?

The detective nodded.

Same thing happened in my house, except it happened to Cam’s head, and we were in the other room when it did, she said.

What about the rest of his body? Is it still at the hospital?

As far as I know. I haven’t been back, but I was planning to go there this afternoon and see if I could help Cam.

It might be best if you just kept your distance and let Pirelli take the body. If he runs into you again, it could turn into a real mess. Corpses may not be the only thing he can make disappear.

Mara leaned across the counter. I can’t do that. Cam needs my help.

What can you do for a headless robot?

He’s a real person, and he asked for my help. I’m the one who put him in this situation, and the least I can do is try to help him.

He’s asking for your help? I mean, how?

He sent me a text message.

From his headless body?

Yes.

Well then, you better get over to the hospital and move that body without anyone knowing it was you, because Pirelli will eventually make his way there, and, after that, you are not likely to see Cam again.

CHAPTER 3

Ping and Sam dashed out the back door of the bakery into the dark, drizzly alley, jogging through the headlight beams of Mara’s Subaru Outback before reaching the passenger doors and jumping inside. Ping sat on Mara’s backpack in the front passenger seat and had to lift his hips to extract it from beneath him.

Oh, sorry about that, Mara said, reaching for the backpack. I thought I should bring along some tools and things, in case I needed them while I worked on Cam, even though he specifically said I was not to use our archaic instruments on his body.

She handed the bag over the seatback to Sam, who was settling into the backseat. Turning around, she put the car in gear and slowly navigated from the alley into the slow-moving end-of-workday traffic on Woodstock Boulevard. After going less than half a block, heading east, they stopped at a traffic light.

I appreciate you coming with us, but I think Sam and I probably could have dealt with getting Cam’s body out of the hospital storage room, Mara said.

I’m sure that’s true, but I thought it might look odd if someone were to observe two teenagers removing a body from the hospital. It’s less likely to draw attention with an adult on hand. If nothing else, it can’t hurt to have an extra pair of hands or someone to act as a lookout. Besides, I feel a little responsible for putting you in this position. After all, I was the one who suggested you wait before doing something about Cam. Now that federal investigator is on his way, Ping said.

From the backseat, Sam extended his arm between them, holding out a paper coffee cup, its lid sealed with several layers of tape. Why do you have this old cup in your book bag? he asked.

Mara glanced into the rearview mirror to see Sam and said, I would appreciate it if you would not root through my belongings without my permission.

It’s just a bunch of tools, the Chronicle, a couple rocks and this cup. It’s not like it’s your underwear or something, he said. He shook the cup. It feels more like powder than liquid. What’s in it?

The traffic ahead cleared, and Mara pressed the gas hard enough to force Sam to sit back, thereby retracting the cup from the space between Mara and Ping. Keeping her eyes forward, she said, I think those are Juaquin Prado’s ashes. I found them on a shelf in the office at the shop when I was gathering some tools.

Gross. What are you doing with a dead man’s ashes in a cup? Sam asked.

Ping turned and said, Prado turned to ashes after being shot during a bank robbery, and Detective Bohannon brought them to us. Your sister used them to identify the correct node to select to travel to Prado’s realm via the Chronicle. That’s how she learned Prado’s spirit had gone viral and caused the shedding to spread.

Great. So why do you have them in the book bag? Sam caught Mara’s eye in the rearview mirror.

I had forgotten we even had them. I was just going to ask Ping how we should dispose of them. She looked to Ping. What do you think?

He shrugged and said, I suppose, technically, they are evidence in the bank robbery case. Perhaps you should return them to the detective.

Excellent idea. That’s why you’re the brains of this operation. I was thinking I would have to bury them or something. She glanced toward Sam in the backseat and added, Put the cup in the bag and stop snooping.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after circling the hospital once and accidently backing out onto Market Street in southeast Portland, Mara found her way to the entrance of the parking garage. She wondered why no signs pointed the way, at least until she pulled up to the tiny booth with a retractable gate arm in front of the building. A sign on the side of the booth read Employee Parking Only. Mara craned her neck to find a way in around the barrier but only saw an exit lane, which featured a barrier arm extending from the opposite side of the booth. When she turned to face forward again, an attendant exited the booth, pointing to an electronic card swipe mounted to a pole two feet behind Mara’s window. She had missed it when she pulled up. She rolled down her window.

If you don’t have an employee pass, ma’am, you can’t enter the garage. Back out before someone pulls in behind you, the attendant said.

We’ve got to pick up a large package, and I was told to come in this entrance, Mara said.

The attendant shook his head. I don’t know who told you that, but there are no pickups in the garage. You might want to check at the rear of the building. A couple vendor loading areas are there. That’s the only place I know of where you can make a pick up. Now please back out.

Mara put the car in Reverse, but Sam reached over her seat and tapped her on the shoulder. He opened the back passenger window, leaned out and called to the attendant. Excuse me, sir. Could you help me with something?

The attendant looked put out but sauntered closer to the car.

Locking gazes with the man as he approached the side of the car, Sam nodded and said, She swiped her card, and it didn’t work.

The attendant nodded in sync with the boy. Yeah, I saw her swipe it, and the gate didn’t go up.

When she showed you the card, it might have had a scratch on the back, but it was definitely a valid pass to get into the parking garage.

The attendant continued to nod. Happens all the time.

What do you normally do when that happens? Sam asked.

I just open the gate manually.

That sounds like a good idea. Why don’t you go to the booth and open the gate manually? After we enter, you won’t even remember the problem.

The man turned on his heel and returned to the gate, muttering, No problem at all.

Sam sat back and closed his window.

As the barrier arm rose in front of the car, Mara said, You know, I’m beginning to think being a prompter might be better than all this progenitor stuff I’ve got to deal with.

She drove into the garage and followed the signs pointing to level P2. After executing two tight turns on narrow ramps leading deeper underground, she pulled up to a yellow curb next to a wide sidewalk, along a concrete wall running the length of the garage and featuring doors spaced about thirty feet apart—the storage rooms. Mara cut the car’s ignition, opened her window and leaned out.

Okay, that’s the elevator alcove back there, she said, looking behind them. Pointing to the second door from that direction, she added, That’s the room he was in on Friday, before all the dragon business started up. Let’s go.

Ping exited his car door and stood. Over the hood, he said to Mara, Those doors have a keypad lock. I assume you know the code to get in.

Not exactly, she said. She peered at Sam. Bring my book bag.

Do I look like a bellhop or something? he said. Mara made a move to open the back door. He raised a hand and grinned at her. Just yanking your chain, sis. Mellow out. I’ll get it.

The garage seemed more foreboding at night. A pinkish light cast weak shadows on the concrete walls and asphalt surface. Footsteps and squealing tires echoed from the level above, but Mara couldn’t detect any sound or movement from here, the lowest level of the garage. She heard only their own footfalls as they approached the storage room door. When they stopped in front of it, Sam handed the book bag to her, but she shook her head.

Don’t you need your tools? I figured, without the code, you could probably take apart the keypad and hot-wire it or something, Sam said.

I suppose if I had an hour or two to figure it out, that might work, she said. Just hold on to the bag. I want you and Ping to lean against the wall on either side of the door and keep an eye on things behind me. I’m doing something a little different here.

Sam glanced over to Ping, as if he might know what Mara was up to, but he simply shrugged and leaned his backside against the wall on the left side of the door. Sam said, Okay, and slouched on the right side.

Standing directly before the door, Mara cupped her right hand in front of the doorknob and narrowed her eyes in concentration. Her fingers loosened and extended slightly as if she expected a ball to land in her palm.

Sam looked up from her hand and frowned. What are you trying to do?

Shut up, she said through tight lips.

Her fingers flexed again. The doorknob blurred.

She’s pixelating it, Sam said.

Shush.

Mara’s eyes tightened into a squint, and her fingers opened. The doorknob vanished in a flash of light. A