BY GRAY WINSLER | ART BY CHRIS TOPPER They spoke in hushed tones, careful that the birds above could not hear. “I’m going to see the Oracle,” Mole whispered. “Don’t be a fool,” Jed husked, keeping an eye on the sky. They were not real birds, of course. They were not made of feather and bone as those of antiquity believed. They were machines, had No. 137 always been machines. “Even if it was not forbidden, you have nothing to offer the Oracle,” Jed said. “It would be a foolish endeavor even for you.” Mole reached into his robe and pulled out a metallic disc. Jed open his mouth to gasp, but Mole covered it before the air could escape. They eyed each other in the quiet, standing at the edge of
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