“And some to bring home to the others,” interjected Elsie, who couldn’t help but think of the hungry lot they’d left behind.
“Anything for friends of Nico’s,” said Augustin, standing back from the doorway. “Come on in, Unadoptables. Welcome to chez Chapeaux Noirs. Don’t mind wiping your feet, it’s plenty dirty in here.”
They crossed over the threshold, all seven of the Unadoptables, following Nico and Augustin. The door let onto a hallway, which itself was broken up by narrow black doorways that branched off to either side every ten feet or so. As they walked, Elsie peered into the open doors and saw an incredible variety of activity taking place within them: black-bereted men standing at a table, poring over a large map held flat by empty green wine bottles; a man wearing a strange pair of goggles, carefully appending wires to a cannonball-like object; a group of men piling those selfsame bomblike objects in a box for storage; a long room filled with the black-clad men, drinking wine and throwing knives at the wall. When Elsie passed this latter scene, the men paused and watched as the congregation in the hallway walked by; they stared at Elsie with suspicious eyes.
The hallway ended at a large room, similar to the one they’d entered from the pipe; it seemed to have been intended at some point to contain a large amount of water. Massive bladed turbines were stacked against one of the walls, somewhat haphazardly, rusted in their discarded state, long-lying evidence of the room’s formerly intended function. A simple round table was set up in the center of the room, and several other members of the Chapeaux Noirs—near-identical in their uniform of black slacks, black turtlenecks, and black berets—sat around it, talking. When they saw Nico and the Unadoptables enter, they stood up, amazed.
“Nico Posholsky,” exclaimed one of the men. “As I’m standing here. I thought you were mort.”
“That means dead,” whispered Rachel to her sister.
“Quite the opposite,” replied Nico, “thanks to my friends here. Committee, meet the Unadoptables.”
One of the men, a tall man with a shaved head and a little downward-pointing arrow of a graying beard gracing his long chin, pushed himself away from the table and walked toward Nico, his arms extended. “Comrade Posholsky. You diable,” he swore under his breath.
The two men embraced mightily.
“How could you escape?” asked the older man. “You were cornered.”
“I blasted my way out, Jacques,” said Nico. “I still had two explosives. Managed to make a screen and I was able to open up an escape route. They chased me to the old S & R Division, where I found these kids, holed up in one of the old warehouses. They hid me. Saved my life.”
The man, Jacques, slowly shifted his gaze to fall on the children who surrounded Nico. “Children?” he said. “In that wasteland?”
“They were Unthank’s kids, Jacques,” said Nico. “The ones who overthrew the machine-parts factory. The ones who burned it to the ground.”
“Incroyable,” the man mused. And then: “Please, children,” he said, waving his long hands out in front of him. “Sit. If you’ve come from the old Science and Research Division, you’ve traveled a long way.”
Several benches lining the brick walls of the room were soon filled with tired Unadoptables, sitting and studying the strange layout of the room: the rusty turbines, the vast arched ceiling, the unused piping jutting in from some outside source. Jacques returned to his chair and, reclining, waited for the children to get comfortable before he began talking again. “It’s funny, drôle, that Nico should find you—or, rather, you should find Nico—in the S & R Division, of all places. I don’t suppose you know what that area is, do you?”
“The Forgotten Place,” said Elsie.
Michael interjected, “That’s what we started calling it. It’s our new home.”
Jacques smiled. “As it was once mine.”
“Yours?” asked Cynthia Schmidt.
“My name is Jacques Chruschiel, proud founding member of the Chapeaux Noirs. Sworn and committed to the destruction of the oppressive industrial state. But before I took on that name, my nom de guerre, I was Jack Kressel, head of development for the Science and Research Division of the Industrial Wastes. I was a Titan of Industry, as they say.”
Michael gasped. “You were a Titan?” As one of the older orphans, he’d been partially aware of the structure of the Wastes.
The man nodded. “Back when it was the Sextet: Shippin
g, Petrochemical, Nuclear, Mining, Machine Parts, and Science and Research. This”—here he gestured to the large, strange room—“this was my work. I designed this refinery, among many other things.”
Several other members of the Chapeaux Noirs had left their grottos in the hallway and had joined the growing crowd in the brick room, quietly watching the new arrivals.
“But you must be hungry, mes amis,” said Jacques.
“I did promise them food,” said Nico. “It’s the least of what I owe them.”
“And eat you shall,” said Jacques. “Comrade Posholsky, why don’t you bring some food for the children? I believe there’s some chocolate cake left over from the party last night, don’t you think?” He winked at Elsie, saying, “It was Xavier’s birthday.”
At the mention of chocolate cake, Elsie’s mouth began to water. She hadn’t had chocolate in months, not since her parents had left and she and her sister had been entrusted to the guardianship of the Unthank Home for Wayward Youth. The idea of it alone was enough to make her heartbeat quicken. She looked over at Rachel, expecting to share a celebratory smile, but Rachel’s attention was fixed on Jacques.
“We want more than chocolate cake,” said Rachel. “We need your help.”
Jacques seemed unflustered by the girl’s sudden impatience. “But chocolate cake is a good starting point, oui?”