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DOOMHOLD! Part 11: The Polite Bite

Stupid accidents are far more common than evil deeds, and they do just as much harm.

“Mum? What’s that?”

“A human.”

“And that?”

“A human child.”

“And that?”

“A place humans live. Now shush.”

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wasn’t the most obedient of their chicks, but he understood the importance of following instructions when they were in unfamiliar territory.

Unavoidably, his silence came at a price.

“Stop bullying Favourite!” snapped Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded, a few minutes later.

“But he’s so stupid!” Samuel Taylor Coleridge protested, spitting out one of his brother’s feathers. “Why can’t he talk? And why does he wear that fake tail? It makes him smell weird!”

“You are chicks. Ergo, you are all stupid. Behave yourself or I shall give you the smallest share of our next meal.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Could the human child be our next meal?” said one of the others, who were all called Mine. “It looks plump and juicy.”

“I decide what we eat and what we don’t eat,” they said, sternly.

Really, they couldn’t blame their offspring. The humans behaved as though they wanted to be snatched and devoured. Ever since the family had made land, the gormless mammals had been following them around, taking pictures and pushing each other aside to get a better view. Baring teeth and growling hadn’t made them flee, only retreat a few paces.

And there were more and more of them now that Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded and their chicks had left the beach and followed the stench of a carcass into the stone jungle. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

Memories arose of a hunt-brother lost, crushed, when a lumbering herd of herbivores had, without warning, started to stampede.

Perhaps leaving the fortress was a mistake.

“Do not tarry,” they said. “We’re almost there. As soon as we’ve eaten, we will return home.”

They moved onward. The crowd moved with them. The rich, alluring smell grew stronger, and it became apparent that it was emanating from…

‘Grill’. That’s called a ‘grill’. The structure it’s attached to is a ‘roadside food stall’. The strange marks on the sign mean ‘dhanya rolls’, ‘penny polonie’, ‘halaal’, and ‘on special today’. The old human standing next to it is ‘selling’ the items listed on the sign, which means that he wants to exchange them for ‘currency’, which is -...

Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded grimaced and pushed back the tide of information threatening to flood their brain. They would not end up like Snow and the others, talkative and contradictory and full of doubts and questions. Knowledge that wasn’t directly relevant to their family’s survival was to be discarded. This, before them, was food. That was all that mattered.

Before they could take the food, the chicks all chirped in excitement as Sky swooped down and landed on the ground before them.

“We have been worried sick,” she said.

“There was no need,” they replied, finding her perpetual haughtiness grating. “We’ve come to no harm. We were just exploring our new territory.”

“This is not your territory, you blasted fool! Good grief. Do you have any idea how badly this venture could have gone? How much danger you’ve put yourself in? Why didn’t you at least tell us where you were going? I’ve been flying all over town searching for you! Twitch is hysterical!”

Am I – I, faster than all my siblings, I, who have raised twenty-nine chicks to adulthood, I, who have dipped my snout into a felled brachiosaur’s opened chest and felt its blood stop pumping – being scolded? In front of my own children?

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Sky demanded.

“No,” said Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded. “Go away.”

Purposefully, they stepped around her and approached the meat merchant. A short growl was enough to make him back away, leaving his wares undefended.

Sky flew up to perch on the sign and announced, “I am here on sufferance, comrade. I had planned to spend today using Wimberley’s money to purchase a ship with which to house my future marine animal rescue society. Babysitting you was not on my schedule. And if the personal inconvenience weren’t enough, I find you stealing.”

“A human word.”

“We are guests in their home and should be respectful of their laws,” said Sky, watching disapprovingly as the children filled their bellies.

“Should we? Are their laws respectful of us? If a human stole food from you, would it be punished? Besides, we’ve already broken their laws by parking Doomhold in their bay. We’re planning to break more laws in pursuit of a better world. Or will you let a human judge decide whether or not you should be allowed to save imperilled dolphins?”

“Hmph. And what greater good is served by you frightening an innocent old man and pilfering his only source of income?”

Penny polonie was delicious. They swallowed two more before replying, “Would you prefer me and mine make do with the innocent old man himself?”

“I would prefer you to set a better example for your children!”

“I am teaching my children how to survive. That is my one and only duty.”

“You have a duty to the team! We’ve all been panicking since we realised you were missing. How did you even get to shore?”

“I swam, the chicks on my back. Then we chanced upon a boat and I persuaded its owner to take us the rest of the way.”

“By which you mean you intimidated some other poor human into obeying you with threats of violence. Eggs, that is not how we do things.”

“It’s how everyone does everything. And I’ve asked you not to call me that. Go away now, bird.”

How irritating. Now their return to the safety of Doomhold would have to be delayed for at least a few days, lest Sky think her insolent chiding had worked.

“Come,” they ordered the chicks, who were finishing off the sausages.

The mountain – they’d seek refuge there. Its lower slopes were gentle and grassy, and boasted fewer human dwellings. They’d be safe to digest their meal in peace.

“You’re mad if you think I’m leaving you out here unsupervised!” Sky squawked.

They ignored her.

***

“Aaaargh – hnngh – uueergh – God – gross. Gross!” Trench opined, covering her mouth with her hand.

Click-9 rolled past her. Swaggered past her. They’d given themselves a makeover that morning, adding new graffiti to the ten inches of available space below their solar panels; a row of pink ponies wearing leg warmers, prancing across a field of glass shards, and the words ‘THIS MACHINE SPILLS FAECES’ (which was clever and witty – fuck you, Ziklag) in a font that turned every ‘I’ into a dick.

They felt so pretty. Hopefully it would be enough to dampen the vicious dysphoria that was going to hit them in the next few minutes.

“Yeah. Mommy hasn’t gussied him up like she did her precious Val,” they acknowledged. “But to be honest, I don’t think he’d have wanted her to. He’s never cared about looking hot and the whole ‘Arnie at the end of Terminator 2’ thing is kinda badass. And your brother will probably be into it.”

Scoffing, she retorted, “That’s not saying much. Ziklag is into some stuff.”

As she spoke, she ran her thumb over her phone’s dark screen.

She’d been using it like a stim toy lately, fiddling with it without turning it on. Having gotten the worst of withdrawal out of the way back in Dinosaur Land, she’d decided to try deliberately abstaining for a while, just to see if it helped. Click-9 thought it would make more sense to lock her phone in a cupboard or throw it into the sea, but she’d insisted that having the option to turn it on was crucial to the task of training herself not to do so.

Trench stood guard at the door while Click-9 plugged one of their cords into a port on the left side of Wimberley’s head.

They could feel his consciousness, half-aware and bewildered, and spoke to it in gentle tones. “Hey, Big W. It’s me. Click-9. I’m here with Trench. Ziklag’s not here – we figured he might not like what we’re about to do – might not trust us to get it right – but he’s okay. Know you’ve been through a lot, but are y’all up for a quick chinwag? A heart-to-heart? A brainstorming session?”

Haltingly, tentatively, Wimberley projected a wordless willingness to listen. Language was beyond him.

“Okay, cool. Here’s the sitch: You’re mostly fixed. You’ve been mostly fixed for a while now. Doomhold keeps tinkering with you, trying to make your bones stronger or your organs more efficient, but all the hard stuff’s done. And… and I think she’s stalling. I think she’s worried about you being back on the board now that you’re a nifty cyborg with, presumably, some of Valentina’s nifty cyborg powers. So she’s holding off on finishing you up. Capisce?”

A dim pulse of anger. He understood.

Click-9’s antennae wiggled with excitement. “So I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna get you back on your feet, right now!”

“What’s he saying?” asked Trench.

“He’s thrilled,” Click-9 replied, which wasn’t entirely truthful.

Shuffling forward, her arms wrapped tight around her waist, Trench said, “I know why I’m doing this. Why’re you doing this?”

“Fun. A chance to cause problems.”

“We’re friends, yeah? Friends don’t lie.”

“Ugh. Sappy,” said Click-9, before their body began a passable impression of a Rubik’s cube attempting mitosis while trying to build a Lego centipede – which is to say that it was bizarre, and not at all the sort of thing you wanted to see happen to an acquaintance. Trench was on the verge of calling for help when she grasped what was actually happening.

“Wow. Real dickish of you not to ever mention you could do that, Click.”

Click-9’s parts finally stopped shifting around. They looked down at their new shape with immense dislike. “I don’t do it. Hardly ever. Hate doing it. Wouldn’t be doing it now if I didn’t need fingers to finish putting Humpty Dumpty over here back together. You know what he said the first time he showed me how to do it? He said it was for my self-esteem. So that I could feel ‘normal’. Jackass.”

They made a gesture with their hand. Their metal took on the semblance of skin, while a messy clump of purple hair sprouted from their scalp. One more gesture, and they’d donned a holographic pair of jeans and a white T-shirt.

“The early versions of me were pathetic. ‘Bout as sturdy as a Swarovski bowling ball. And I’ve never been good at staying out of trouble. He’s had to rebuild me seventeen times,” said Click-9, turning to Wimberley. “You know what it’s like, owing that kind of debt to a mean old fuck-up like him? It sucks a big one! So I’m evening the score.”

***

No matter how many bloody battles survived, no matter how many monstrous enemies faced, no matter how noble one’s cause or murderous one’s grudges, no matter what horrors you have seen or what atrocities you have committed, no one – no single living soul – is ever really prepared for that bleak, inevitable morning when a mild-mannered man with a clipboard shows up and starts politely asking questions.

“What, specifically, are you planning to do, Ms Snow?”

He was a short distance beyond middle-aged, walked with a cane, sported an imperfectly-sculpted beard, and had introduced himself as Mr Naqvi.

Luckily, Valentina had warned Snow that someone like him would soon materialise. She’d had a little time to steel herself, and to plan.

She took him straight to the command centre.

“Here’s a map of your city,” she said, trying to sound relaxed and confident.

A detailed hologram appeared in the air overhead.

“And this is a map of the bay.”

The hologram flickered; changed.

“The areas we intend to work on are in red. As you can see, we’ll be starting out far away from the ports and the beaches – minimising disruption to your daily lives as much as we can.”

“Very considerate of you,” said Major Zandeki, who was escorting Mr Naqvi. She’d brought gifts; a variety of boxed meals prepared by the city’s best chefs, several hundred ‘Welcome To Earth!’ greeting cards from schoolchildren, and a letter from the president. She’d also brought treats for Parabola, who was rubbing against her ankles and purring.

The hologram flickered again and became a row of graphs.

“These,” said Snow, hitting her stride, “indicate levels of water pollution in different quadrants. Fish nets. Microplastics. Sewage. And these graphs over here indicate those levels after we’ve completed Phase One of our Ocean Restoration and Clean-up Activities, or ORCA.”

(It had been very, very important to Waddles that the name be a cool acronym. She’d had to work hard to persuade him that they shouldn’t call it the ‘Actionable Water and Environment Scheme of Mondo Excellence’.)

The graphs disappeared, replaced by a series of simple animations. “ORCA Phase One will involve deploying underwater drones, thousands of them, to clear litter – specifically, objects more than three centimetres in diameter – from the water. The litter will be transported back here and converted into more drones.”

Mr Naqvi wrote something down on his clipboard and said, “What will the drones do upon encountering entangled animals? Seals with string and plastic bags around their necks, and so forth?”

“Alert us.”

“And you will…?”

“Go help ‘em out, obviously,” said Twitch.

A slight wince. “Mm. Do any of you have formal training in caring for injured wild animals?”

Twitch squeaked in amusement. “Buddy! Look at us! We are wild animals!”

Further dour clipboarding ensued. “Thought you were aliens. Mmm. No qualifications from accredited institutions, then? No experience in the field? No internships, even? Hmm. No, see, that’s a problem. We don’t let just anyone handle our marine wildlife. And what will you do afterwards? When the litter’s gone – if you do manage to clear up the litter – frankly, I have doubts – not sure how well those drones of yours will stand up to our storms and choppy waters – nevertheless, let’s say you clear the litter. How do you stop it coming back? More than five million people living here now. You gonna follow every one of ‘em around with a bag? Why’re you starting with the bay, anyway? Got bigger problems on land.”

“Goodness!” said Major Zandeki, with a forced laugh. “Mr Naqvi, I – we – we talked about this, yes? Let’s not interrogate our new friends. They’re being extremely generous, after all.”

“We… didn’t talk about it, actually,” said Mr Naqvi, adjusting his spectacles. “The Deputy President dragged me into this because the Minister of Defence and the Minister of Home Affairs are having a furious row over which of their minions should be allowed to visit the spaceship first. Respectfully, ma’am, you didn’t once ask my opinion on anything. You gave me a list of questions I was and wasn’t allowed to ask, and another list of things I will and won’t be allowed to say at the press conference, and you told me to keep my reservations to myself. But Ms Snow seems to me like a fair-minded and reasonable young wom... bear, who will understand that I only want to help her and her allies with their important mission.”

Mr Naqvi was sick. Bad sick. Snow could smell it on him.

She could also smell two dogs whose heads he’d rubbed before leaving his home, three children who’d hugged his legs, and over twenty adults who’d patted his back and shaken his hand in the last day or so. Major Zandeki was respected and admired by her fellow humans. Mr Naqvi was cherished. Cherished, and near death. His family and friends couldn’t have wanted him to come here today, to venture into the frightful and uncanny structure looming over their city and argue with talking beasts. He’d come anyway. He’d thought this meeting was important.

“I do understand,” Snow said, bowing her head. “And I’d like your advice, sir. Very much.”

He tucked his clipboard under his arm and clasped his hands at his waist. “We’ve been working on all this. You are aware of that? This is our home, and we’ve been hard at work for years. We already have the data, the plans. You’ll get farther if you help us and build on our accomplishments instead of doing everything by yourselves. Now – may I have a chair, please? I’d like to hear what else you have to say, but my knees aren’t what they were.”

They fetched him a chair, and Snow continued with her presentation.

***

Waddles had appointed himself Ziklag’s overseer, and was discharging his duties with courage, courtesy, conscientiousness, and the quiet seething hatred a person reserves for someone who, they secretly suspect, has the kind of life they would like to have themselves.

“Where the devil is my bucket?”

What a lame thing to say. If I was a supervillain – not that I ever would be – of course not – but if I was, I’d never say anything so uncool. Actually, I wouldn’t say anything at all! I’d be the strong, silent type. My orders would be conveyed to my henchmen via brief gestures. My only response to my enemies’ taunts would be swift and deadly retaliation. An aura of mystery would surround my every –

“And what did you do to my mop?” Ziklag whined, holding up what remained of it.

“The chicks like chewing on stuff. You should see what they did to Val’s spare boots. What d’you need a mop for, anyway? You said you were gonna do, like, repairs and upgrades and stuff.”

“I am not even going to contemplate repairs until I have a workspace that won’t give me ten different diseases! This whole deck is filthy! What happened to the sanitation drones?”

“Deactivated ‘em. One rolled over Twitch’s tail and another destroyed my best fish bone sculpture. And they kept wiping our smells off of everything! I know human noses are basically useless, but that’s a big deal for us!”

Ziklag threw the mop aside, took a small bottle of hand sanitiser from his dungarees, and applied it liberally, grumbling all the while.

Dungarees. Man, it’s so disappointing. If I was a supervillain, I’d wear black leather all the time, and I’d have cool sinister black shoes and a cool sinister car. I’d wear red sunglasses, even indoors.

Waddles thought back to Snow’s most recent lesson – ‘Authoritarianism and Tyranny in the 20th Century’ – a real downer, that one – and admitted to himself that none of the seriously hardcore evil people featured in it had worn badass red sunglasses. In fact, most of them had a notable lack of style and flare.

Which… makes sense, maybe. To dress real slick, you gotta use your brain. You gotta think about how other people think. About how they feel when they look at you, and what they like and don’t like. At a minimum, you gotta grasp that other people exist and have feelings. Which, right from the get-go, is gonna filter out a lot of evil types.

“Gloves,” said Ziklag, decisively. “If I am to work in these conditions, I insist on gloves.”

“Are you evil?” Waddles asked.

“What?”

“I mean… you’re evil. But do you know that you’re evil? And – like – isn’t it embarrassing? To be evil? Why do you do it?”

Ziklag squinted at him. “You’re a cretin.”

“Nah, c’mon. I’m genuinely curious! What’s so nifty about making everyone sad and angry?”

“I’m not. I’m making you and your friends sad and angry. It’s nifty because you’re in our way and undermining everything we’ve worked for. Also – this cannot be overstated – I simply do not like you.”

“I know! I don’t like you either!” Waddles squawked. “But I’m still curious about you! Aren’t you curious about me? You should be! When two people believe different things and do different things… isn’t that interesting? Isn’t that worth talking about? Look, here’s an idea. You give me one good reason for being a villain and I’ll give you one good reason for being a hero. I’ll go first: I’m a hero because making the world better feels nice. Now you.”

Scowling, Ziklag snapped, “That is perhaps the stupidest thing I’ve heard of late that didn’t come out of Dr Phlegmatic’s speakers. Making the world better is hard, slow, thankless, unpaid, unrewarding, miserable work. If you’re enjoying it, you’re not doing it right.”

Which was such a baldly illogical statement that Waddles had no response. It was as though Ziklag had told him that feet didn’t exist.

There was no time to get to the bottom of it, though, because someone had just lifted Waddles off the ground, swung him round in the air, and squeeeeeezed him to their chest, crying, “I missed hugging you so much!”

“Auntie?” he cried. “Auntie! You’re back! How? What happened?”

“What indeed? Where, might I ask, is Doomhold?” said Ziklag.

Valentina’s warm smile frosted over and Waddles was suddenly acutely aware that he was being clutched by a stranger. “Still here, Ziklag. Valentina and I have reached an agreement.”

Then she thawed and kissed Waddles on the head. “Yes. We’re trying something new. And it’s such a relief to feel like myself – I can’t tell you what a relief it is. I’ve been running laps around the deck for the last hour. I can move again, Waddles!”

“But are you really okay having that meanie stuck in the same head as you? Isn’t it gonna get super annoying?” asked Waddles, worriedly.

“Never mind that! If you’re both here, who’s controlling the fortress?” Ziklag demanded. “Who’s keeping an eye on Click-9 and Trench? Who’s monitoring Wimberley?”

Even now that she’d relaxed her grip, it was easy to tell when Doomhold was in the driver’s seat. Waddles didn’t even need to see her expression. Her voice was enough: “Ziklag, I have dedicated all my time and energy to Wimberley’s survival for the last three months. I have taken excellent care of him. Have no doubt that he would have died if not for me. As it stands, his recovery is nearly complete. Another week – another month, say. But if you dare chastise me every time I take a break and tend to other matters, you’ll be lucky if he wakes up before your eightieth birthday!”

***

Wimberley was in the corridor again.

Sometimes it was the car, sometimes it was the corridor. The corridor was worse. The car had blood, pathos, tragedy. The corridor was tawdry.

The corridor was where he’d put it all together.

The murmured conversations behind closed doors.

Their sudden loss of interest in his ongoing struggle to go outside, when at first they’d browbeaten him about overcoming his fears and frailty.

His mother’s no longer enjoying her regular evening glass of wine.

The improvement in both their moods.

And now, the final puzzle piece; sitting in the corridor, eavesdropping on a telephone conversation in which his father mentioned how surprisingly quick and easy the vasectomy reversal had been.

“I’ll run away!” Wimberley had bellowed at them both, aware that the threat was made even more impotent by his voice not having yet fully broken. “I’ll – I’ll kill it! I’ll throw it out a window!”

Which, if nothing else, had effectively severed the last threads of honest affection, especially after she’d lost the thing and he’d spent the whole week afterwards rolling merrily around the house blowing on a party streamer. (That particular memory was a comfort in the years to come: I wasn’t a teary-eyed victim. I was an active participant. I made her stop loving me. Not bad for a twelve-year-old, eh?)

He sometimes dreamed of his failed replacement. They’d be the spitting image of his great-grandfather, who’d made the family fortune. Slick. Sleek. Charismatic and handsome. A sportsman, no doubt, and a lady’s man, the sort who starred in novels with titles like ‘The Billionaire Alpha Bad Boy’s Secret Steamy Sex Games’.

But more often, he dreamed of the corridor.

“Aaaargh – okay, no,” said Click-9, who was there for some reason. “This is activating all my angst allergies. Your crummy childhood’s giving me robo-hives.”

“A man’s allowed to wallow now and then,” Wimberley grumbled.

“Not when there’s work to do! Get it together, your malignant majesty. I’m gonna wake you up now, but it’s gonna be hard work and you’re gonna need to do your part.”

“Click-9, I’m not malingering… I honestly don’t know that I have the capacity for any more hard work at this time. My tank feels empty.”

They gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Do your best. You wanna come home, yeah?”

Home. Cold, gleaming walls. Serpentine pipes. Engines humming and fans spinning and elevators sliding softly from deck to deck. A swimming pool. Fresh laundry. Yes, yes, yes. Bring me home.

He expected it to feel like being lifted from a dark, chilly pit and into the sunlight. It was more akin to being pulled free of a thorny thicket, new wounds opening up with every inch of progress. He tried to cooperate, but instinct told him to freeze in place, to keep as still as possible until the agony went away.

“Almost there!” said Click-9.

It took all Wimberley’s willpower not to beg them to stop.

The first thing he noticed upon returning to the waking world was that his screaming sounded peculiar. Not that one’s own screams were ever charming to one’s own ears – nonetheless, he knew at once that something had changed.

Ah. I don’t have a tongue anymore. Or a jaw.

He stopped screaming and started taking stock.

The entire lower half of his face was metal. No lips, no mouth, no chin, really, just a cold grid running from philtrum to collarbone, from which the screams had been broadcast.

What else? His left shoulder and… huh. His left arm was now three left arms, all metal, one ending in a hand-shape, the other two in a nozzle and a drill, respectively.

And lower… he lifted his hands, the flesh one and the metal one, and patted about… yes, skin from collarbone to sternum, then a combination of metal and plastic from sternum to groin.

What had happened to his dick? He’d wait until he was alone to check.

As ever, thoughts of genitals only ever lead in one direction.

Oh, crumbs. Ziklag’s going to be furious with me, isn’t he? He’ll think I did this on purpose. And I didn’t! Perhaps I was going to – perhaps I was toying with the idea – but I didn’t! I absolutely don’t deserve-…

“Wimberley! Hello? Hi? You there?” shouted a teenager with purple hair who Wimberley belatedly recognised as Click-9 in their hated human mode.

“Give him a second, damn,” said Trench, tugging her friend back. “He’s got, like, trauma and stuff.”

Wimberley tried to sit up, and found he could. He tried to turn to face them, and found he could. Legs were still mostly dead weight, though they seemed to have regained some feeling, but his arms were as strong as ever – stronger, perhaps. He still had a belly. It was covered by something slightly tougher and colder than skin, and there were interesting tubes running in and out of it. Nonetheless, it bulged and sagged and squished in all the usual ways.

Maybe Ziklag will forgive me.

“Thank you,” he said to Click-9 and Trench, through his new speakers. Humility didn’t come naturally to him, but he recognised the magnitude of the moment. “You – er – you’ve done well. Gone above and beyond the call of duty. I’m in your debt.”

“We want promotions,” Click-9 informed him, as they folded back into their normal shape. “I wanna be our organisation’s Director of Communications, Chief Marketing Officer, General Manager, Compliance Officer, Head of Human Resources, and Deputy Chairman of the Board. And Trench can be our comptroller.”

Trench frowned. “So I’m in charge of… computers? Trollies?”

“You make charts about money that no one looks at.”

“Yes, yes. Choose any titles you like,” said Wimberley, looking around for his cat. “Does anyone else know you’ve woken me up?”

“No, but -…”

“Keep it that way, for now. And get me up to date, quickly.”

***

Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded sighed in contentment as the noonday sun beat down on their scales.

Life was good.

Not perfect. Not with the ever-present crowd of humans huddled behind a hastily-erected fence, holding up their phones and cameras while armed guards stood watch and tour guides hissed at them to keep their voices down.

But the rock below them was warm, the terrain surrounding them rough but not especially steep or perilous, and they’d found a nice flat spot all to themselves. Even though the mountain didn’t offer much in the way of prey, their belly was full – they’d instructed guards and guides both to allow their visitors to throw them the steaks, sausages, roast chickens, lamb cutlets, and biltong they routinely brought along in bulging shopping bags.

Humans, it turned out, had one redeeming quality; they were marvels when it came to food. They grilled it, fried it, steamed it, salted it, seasoned it – they had thousands of clever tricks, and all of them resulted in meals more sumptuous than Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded had ever believed possible.

My siblings are dead – my species is dust – the world I came from is long gone, and I shall never see its like again. On the other hand: fish fingers!

The humans gasped, cheered, and pointed as Sky descended.

She’d visited at least once a day over the last two weeks, sometimes just to check in, sometimes bringing a message from Snow that was invariably along the lines of: ‘Hope you’re well, wish you’d return to the fortress but I suppose it’s your life and not my place to tell you how to live it, please be terribly, terribly careful and we all hope to see you again soon’.

Occasionally, she’d acknowledged one of the dozens of questions the excited humans threw her way – ‘Where did you come from?’ – ‘Why are you here?’ – ‘Are you really aliens?’ – by launching into a lecture on recycling and eating less red meat. (Which, given the wonderful things humans could do with red meat, seemed like sheer wickedness to Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded, who told their audience as much every time Sky was out of earshot.)

Today, she’d brought Twitch.

“Hey there, kiddos!” the rat cried as he hopped off Sky’s back.

“Uncle!” chirped Samuel Taylor Coleridge, pushing the other chicks aside so he could head the welcoming committee. “Did you bring presents? Did you bring me presents? Will you come and live with us? Look how big I’ve grown! I chased down a spider yesterday, come see the corpse! I’ve pulled off five of its legs!”

“Ahem,” said Sky.

The young dinosaur flinched and hung his head. “Good morning, Miss Sky. It’s very nice to see you. I hope you’re well.”

“Thank you, little fellow. I am, indeed, well,” she said, turning to Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded. “Any problems? No? Good. If you’ll forgive me, I’ve no time to linger and chat today. Make sure Twitch stays out of trouble. I’ll be back before sunset.”

“Where are you going?” they asked.

“On a date.”

They watched as she flew off in the direction of the bay, where a second, larger albatross was riding the thermals.

“No way he’s good enough for her,” remarked Twitch. “But hey, glad she’s having fun for once.”

He approached, gave them a greeting sniff, and was sniffed in turn.

“I’m happy to see you,” they said.

Eyeing the restless crowd, he muttered, “Yeesh. Those guys bothering you?”

“No. If they do, I can easily frighten them off.”

“Nah – let me handle it if someone steps outta line. We’re celebrities now. Gotta think about our public image. There’s brats and moms with babies over there.”

“Mmm. Yes, perhaps you’re right,” they said, thinking back to their trampled brother. “By the way, Favourite needs a new tail. Again.”

“Growing up fast, huh? Lemme take a look. Maybe we can just make a few adjustments instead of replacing it.”

They dipped their head. “You are a worthy addition to this family.”

It was the highest praise they had ever offered anyone.

***

Snow dove into the ocean.

Oooooooooaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh.

So much better than the sterile, lukewarm water in Wimberley’s swimming pool, or the murky, muddy water of the pre-historic river.

This was what her body was made for. The surge, the churn, the chill – this was home.

And it already smelled better, only two weeks after they’d released the drones and turned on the fortress’s great filters.

“Doomhold says that they pose no threat to the bay’s ecosystem,” Valentina had told her. “She’s used them to remove contaminants and poisons from entire oceans – although it does tend to take a few hundred years. She says that, on other planets, she’s sped up the process by recruiting marine wildlife. Imagine – millions of fish on patrol, alerting us whenever there’s an oil spill or a ship in peril. Not that I think it’s a good idea… it feels wrong to meddle with so many lives just to make things easier for ourselves. But still. It would be a sight.”

“I’m – er – glad you two are getting on better lately,” said Snow.

(And she really was. It was obvious how much happier Val was now. Snow’s private discomfort with the situation – the awareness that every time she spoke to Valentina, she was also speaking to Doomhold – was her own problem and she was determined not to make a whole thing of it.)

“Does she…” Snow began, then fell silent.

“Does she what?”

“It’s stupid. I was going to ask if she thinks I’m doing well. If we’re doing well. Since she’s, you know, the expert. I’ve never tried to fix a planet before and I suppose I want some reassurance that I’m not making big mistakes without noticing. But it wouldn’t matter what her answer was, would it? I couldn’t trust it. Doomhold doesn’t want to be here. She wanted to retire and enjoy her cave in peace, and then she wanted to help Wimberley and Ziklag with their schemes. We’ve basically kidnapped her. Can’t do that and then ask for her approval.”

Val patted her shoulder and ran her fingers through her fur. “Perhaps not. Still, for what it’s worth, I have asked her, and she thinks you’re doing alright.”

We are. We really are, thought Snow as she broke surface. Major Zandeki says far less litter’s been washing up on the beach. Sky says she’s met far fewer seagulls with plastic around their necks. Mr Naqvi and his people ran those tests yesterday, and he smiled when he told me the results. I don’t think he smiles very often. We’re doing it. And yes, it’s just one bay, just one city, just a few hundred square miles of ocean – for now.

What might we do next?

She refused to entertain the thought for more than a second. As her mother had always said, you couldn’t hunt two seals at once and if you tried you’d lose both of them.

Focus on the present. Fixing things here might take years. It probably will, if we do it properly. Mr Naqvi’s right. Just cleaning up won’t mean anything in the long term if we can’t come to an agreement with the humans about how to keep it clean, and I’ve no idea how we’re going to do that.

The room in which Wimberley stored his many, many missiles flickered through her head.

I’ve no good, ethical, diplomatic ideas, she amended.

***

“I’ve brought you a book,” Waddles said, using his telekinesis to hand over a wodge of pages stapled messily together. “Got it from Snow, who got it from the internet. She’s been teaching us about this stuff for the last couple months and I think you might find it useful in your quest to become a less gross, stinky person.”

Ziklag took it, and read aloud: “‘Principles and Practicality from Socrates to Fanon: An Introduction to Moral Philosophy’. I’m assuming the last word is ‘philosophy’. Most of it’s covered by… is that tartar sauce?”

“It is! Major Zandeki came by today for another meeting and brought us even more presents, and a whole lotta food. She’s the best. Last time I mentioned to her that we all like fish, and she told the other humans, and now all the best chefs want us to try their recipes and say which one we like the most. Also the President of China’s giving us a plane so we can fly over there and visit, which is nice of him.”

“He’s not a president, you preposterous puffin, and he’s going to make political mincemeat of you. Him and every other autocrat alive.”

“Hey, gimme some credit. I only put three smiley faces in the thank-you letter, and only one heart. I know a lotta humans are bad. I’ve met you. But it’s nice they think we’re worth sucking up to.”

A piece of unstapled paper slipped from the book. Ziklag picked it up. It contained a series of multiple-choice questions.

“Fill that in when you’re done reading,” Waddles told him. “It’ll help you retain the information better.”

Crouching down to look him in the eye, Ziklag said, “When I noticed slackers trying to trick other students into doing their homework for them, I was always quick to report them to the principal. It didn’t make me any friends, but I had none to begin with.”

“Because you were a snitchin’ jerk?”

“Being a jerk who does his own homework pays off far more, in the long run, than being a cool, popular rebel who doesn’t. Hmm – your team leader put this test together, I assume? It must have taken her some time. And here you are, wasting all her hard work, because you don’t want to make an effort. Tell me, bird; is that how friends should be treated?”

Waddles left with an air of decided sullenness.

It was, thus far, the highlight of Ziklag’s month.

For two weeks now – ever since Valentina had announced her new arrangement with Doomhold – he’d been queasy. Wimberley still lay unconscious downstairs, his newly-augmented parts whirring and humming away while the rest of him remained disturbingly corpse-like. He didn’t have a heartbeat and he didn’t breathe. His skin, at least, was warm, and blood was moving around in there (Ziklag had checked), but these were small comforts.

And Doomhold wouldn’t finish the job.

Ziklag pestered her whenever he could find her, which had become harder and harder. She and Valentina seemed intent on making up for lost time. They went swimming in the morning and spent the afternoon taking long walks on the nearby beaches. Valentina helped the animals with their stupid clean-the-bay project, and Doomhold let her. Whenever Ziklag found them, they insisted that they needed to rush off to deal with some or other emergency and that they’d talk to him later.

I knew. I always knew. Wimberley was convinced he’d won her over. But I knew right from the beginning that she only ever considered us poor substitutes for her favourite.

Fear had taken root in Ziklag’s gut. What would he do if Doomhold decided not to revive Wimberley? If she no longer cared enough, or if Valentina convinced her it was for the best to leave him comatose forever?

What would he do?

The answer was currently in his pocket.

It was, he admitted, crude. He wasn’t a genius, like Wimberley. He couldn’t build wonders.

Breaking them – that was easy. You didn’t need to be a genius to do that. You just needed to understand, more or less, how a thing worked, what parts it needed, and what would happen when you removed them.

So down he’d gone, down and down and down, to the quiet, uninhabited deck where he and his sister had almost drowned not long ago, to the room with the crystals.

Doomhold would have stopped him. Valentina would have stopped him. But both of them were currently distracted with each other, and no one was captaining the ship.

The device in Ziklag’s pocket was a detonator. If pressed, a small explosion would knock the calefaction crystals on Sublevel D out of alignment. They would overheat, shutting down the hitch-swimmer turbines and causing a power surge that would ignite the fuel in the Verrain-Skarr pipes. And the last time that had happened…

“…widespread damage throughout core systems, including data loss, contamination of my coolant supplies, the severing of Drill C-3’s primary command lines, and the rupturing of the base of my hull… My hull has been torn open in twelve separate places, all below the water line. Unless the situation is rectified, I will be fully submerged in precisely twenty-two hours and six minutes.”

Except this time, it wouldn’t take that long. Major Zandeki had been ordered by her president to give the animals anything they needed, and last week she’d overseen the delivery of enough fuel to keep the fortress up and running for the next millennium. The hull wouldn’t be damaged. It would be obliterated.

Not that it would come to that. Putting a knife to Doomhold’s throat would be a last, last, last resort.

But I’ll do it. If she doesn’t bring him back, I’ll do it.

Ziklag squared his shoulders, picked up his toolbox, and continued repairs on what he now had the power to destroy.

***

For all that his brother mocked him, Favourite was a sensible child and knew by now to keep still as his prosthetic was tweaked and tightened. He gave one of Twitch’s soft, delicate grey ears a perfectly polite bite, holding it between his teeth without tearing it, which demonstrated excellent self-control.

He’s not stupid just because he can’t talk. He’s not weak just because the end of his tail is detachable. He’s made it this far – adulthood is months away – he only needs a little more help, a little more encouragement…

“You have hundreds of living relatives, Twitch. Are any of them like him?” Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded asked. “Do they need devices to move properly?”

“Talk louder! We can’t hear you!” called one of the humans, holding up their phone. Several others repeated the demand, until the tour guides and guards shushed them.

Ignoring the crowd, Twitch said, “Dunno. Been a while since I hung out with ‘em.”

“Ah. Yes, you’ve quarrelled.”

(Over what, they weren’t sure. The rats had allied with Ziklag and fought Twitch and his friends, briefly, true – but it was perfectly normal for family members to fight one another. Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded had, in their youth, clawed out their larger, bullying sister’s left eye to teach her a lesson. They’d gone hunting together the next day. Life was too short and too dangerous to hold grudges.)

“It’s not just that!” said Twitch. “They’ve all been such jerks since Doomhold turbo-charged their brains. They’ve got opinions now. They’ve got politics. Yesterday I ran into a couple of my cousins and they wanted to know what I thought about representative democracy, and whether presidential republics are better than parliamentary republics, because they’re thinking of forming a government. I said I’d never thought about it much. That got ‘em real snippy. They said I was ‘complacent’. I’m like: ‘Assholes, did you almost get stepped on by a brontosaurus?’”

As he’d spoken, a human child had pushed its way to the front of the crowd.

Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded knew almost nothing about human children. But they were a parent, and had been a parent for many years. Every experienced, halfway competent parent, regardless of species, can recognise the tell-tale signs of a child who is bored and about to cause problems for fun.

The child’s wandering gaze fell on Twitch.

“Ew!” it cried. “A rat! Gross!”

It picked up a rock, and threw it.

***

Snow and Valentina were planning the team’s next lesson – tentatively titled ‘A Brief History of Propaganda and Reputation Laundering’, because Waddles had been asking if they could accept one or two of the invitations they’d received from world leaders, particularly those from leaders of those parts of the world where his favourite movies were made, and while they couldn’t hope to hold back their teammate’s dreams forever they could at least ensure that he went in with his eyes open – when the call came in.

“We can’t risk using the teleporter,” said Valentina, breaking into a run. “Might send us back to the Jurassic, or into the sun. Gotta be a boat.”

A quick, urgent message to Major Zandeki resulted in a boat becoming available mere minutes later.

No one wanted to leave Ziklag alone and unsupervised in the fortress, so they took him along.

“Behave yourself,” Snow snapped. “Don’t test me. Not today.”

“What about the others? His sister and the robots?” asked Waddles.

There wasn’t much room on the boat, and Snow didn’t want extra weight to slow them down, so she said, “They’re less dangerous than he is. And they’re still confined to the lower decks. All the doors are sealed.”

“Where are you?” Sky shouted over the com. “Hurry! There’s blood everywhere!”

“There are excellent vets in the city,” Zandeki told Snow as they shot across the water. “They can get there before we can.”

“No! No one touches him but us!” Waddles shouted.

“Don’t be stupid, Waddles,” Valentina scolded him. “Major – please, send over anyone who can help. Doomhold can fix even very serious injuries, but Twitch needs to be alive when we get there.”

“So does the boy,” noted Ziklag, “if you don’t want an angry mob on your hands. How badly hurt is he, Zandeki?”

Phone to her ear, she shook her head. “My people aren’t there yet, and everyone who is is giving me a different story. He’s alive, for the moment.”

Waddles flapped his flippers in agitation. “Who cares? If Twitch doesn’t make it, I’m gonna kill that evil brat myself!”

“Everyone, shut up!” Snow roared. “I’m trying to hear Sky! Sky, say that again, please?”

“An ambulance just arrived. Paramedics are getting out. Faster Eggs is growling at them.”

“No! No growling! Tell them to stay calm, stay quiet, and do absolutely nothing until we get there!”

In any other circumstances, Snow would have been excited to experience a real human city for the very first time. Real roads. Real taxis. Real skyscrapers. She’d been looking forward to it.

But this was a rescue mission, not the fun excursion she’d hoped for, and all she could process were the parts directly relevant to their goal. They made it ashore. A truck was waiting. They climbed into the back while Zandeki shouted instructions to the driver. A dozen cars with flashing red lights escorted them away from the port, through the towering buildings, and up the mountainside. The minutes ticked by. Snow started to plan for worst-case scenarios.

I’ve gotten better at this, she thought. I should be a wreck. Shaking with guilt and fear. Instead, all I really feel is impatient. Everything else is locked up in a glacier. Is that what leadership means? Being able to decide what you feel, and when you let yourself feel it? Is that maturity? Can Val do it, too? I suppose she can. When I was poisoned, she didn’t go to pieces. She kept it together. Got the job done. Saved me.

She glanced at Ziklag, who was gazing out the back of the truck at the city.

It’s a dangerous skill to have. If you can teach yourself to turn off your regrets, you become capable of all sorts of awful things.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, sweetheart,” Val was telling Waddles, stroking his feathers gently. “You don’t have to leave the truck when we get there, if you’re frightened.”

Burying his beak in her shirt, he said, “I’ve seen my friends die before. I’m not scared. Just mad. Why would a human do something so cruel, when we’re trying to help them? Twitch wasn’t even bothering the kid! He didn’t do anything wrong! And it’s not like the kid was hungry and wanted to eat him! I’d get that! Being hungry sucks! But he wasn’t!”

“If it’s any consolation, the boy’s life is ruined,” Ziklag commented.

“What, because Eggs bit him? Pfft! They didn’t even take off the whole arm!”

“No. Because everyone saw him throw the rock. Dozens of people recorded it on their phones. Whatever he might have wanted to grow up to be, whatever future his parents may have dreamed of for him, it’s all over now. He’ll only ever be ‘that awful child who made the aliens hate us’. I’ll lay odds he swallows a bullet before thirty.”

“Good!” Waddles snarled.

When they got there, and found that Twitch was still alive, the first thing Waddles did was shuffle over to the ambulance where Twitch’s assailant sat, bracketed by his mother and father while a paramedic examined his wound, and asked if they were all alright and if he could do anything to help.

“I’m sure you weren’t just being nice,” Snow said to Ziklag, “but thank you, nonetheless. Whatever your sinister ulterior motives.”

“You think I want him joining the dark side? Another feral adolescent? I already have my hands full dealing with Click-9,” Ziklag retorted.

Twitch, trying to keep as still as he could while Valentina looked at his leg, said, “What’s the douchebag doing here? And where’s our douchebag?”

“Here,” answered Sky, landing beside him, a bag full of medical supplies hanging from her beak. “The paramedics gave me these, in case we were short.”

They weren’t short, but Snow appreciated the gesture.

Though the vets had arrived speedily, none of them wanted to approach their patient, because Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded was coiled around their chicks, who were in turn coiled around Twitch. As per Snow’s instructions, they weren’t growling. This did not in any way lessen the impression that the huddled, frightened family would readily maim any human who came an inch too close.

“Hey – are you okay?” Snow asked.

“It wasn’t the rock,” they said, uncharacteristically subdued.

“What?”

“I saw the rock coming at him. Moved to block it. Succeeded – and, in the process, I accidentally stepped on him. I crushed his leg beneath my foot.”

“Oh… oh, that… you can’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t, Snow. Though I do regret biting the hateful child. The adults reacted with unexpected ferocity. They rushed at me. Threw things at the chicks. I thought they’d overwhelm and kill us. Even though I didn’t do permanent harm! A few drops of blood, that was all. Maybe a scar. The child won’t even lose the arm, which seems unfair given that Twitch will most certainly lose his leg.”

From what Snow had seen, the leg was already lost. All that remained was cutting away the bloody bag of pulverised muscle and bone it had become.

“You -…” Snow began.

“I shouldn’t have left the fortress. Yes. I realise this. The bird has already expressed her contempt for my actions in very plain language, you need not -…”

“You kept Twitch safe. Thank you. Thank you for protecting my friend. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help. I should’ve been. Should have realised what might happen. Shouldn’t have left you alone. Now stand up. We’re going to talk to the humans. We’re going to apologise.”

Their face-feathers flared. “No! Intolerable!”

“Now,” Snow growled. “Use your brain. See how many of them there are? See all the tools they have – all the things they’ve built? If they decide we’re their enemies, we will die. All of us. I won’t let that happen, certainly not just to spare your pride.”

“They threw the rock! They were in the wrong! Demanding I apologise is unjust!”

“Yes. It is. Justice isn’t what I care about. Waddles is the one who wants to live in a comic book. I just want to get things done. Up. Now.”

***

Back at the fortress, in the cold, dark room where he’d been feigning unconsciousness for two weeks, Wimberley risked cracking an eye open and whispered across the com link he shared with Click-9, “Have they gone?”

“Affirmative, my lard-assed liege. They left some drones on patrol in the hallways, but I’m disabling ‘em as we speak. Arise!”

Parabola strutted in with a happily question-marked-shaped tail and went ‘raa-aarp!’ in greeting. He settled into his chair before picking her up and stroking her firmly, kissing her little head and cooing words of love and devotion.

***

The stars were out by the time the boat carried them all home.

“We’ll build you a replacement,” Valentina told Twitch, cradling him. “Doomhold revived me after I drowned – fixed Wimberley after the acid dissolved his whole left side – replacing one leg will be easy. You won’t even notice the difference.”

“Nope,” said Twitch, the painkillers slurring his speech. “Not for me, thanks. I’ve got maybe a year and a half left to live and I ain’t spending it learning how to use brand new robot parts. Plenty of my relatives have three legs. I’ll be fine.”

“Can I have robot parts?” Samuel Taylor Coleridge asked his parent.

“No,” said Faster Than The Others Who Once Killed A Shark And Whose Eggs Are Always Well-Guarded, grooming him.

“Unfair! Favourite gets to have robot parts!”

Eating a gourmet vegan burger – one of many gifts from the crowd on the beach who’d seen them off – Ziklag said to Snow, “You’ve a talent for public speaking, bear. Not that I expected them to throw rotten tomatoes with all the soldiers present, but the applause was a surprise.”

“I suppose you and Wimberley would have killed the boy,” she replied. “If we hadn’t beat you – if you were the ones running things, and someone had defied you. You’d want to make an example of them. Hmph. Won’t pretend it’s not appealing. I felt like a total idiot, standing there begging everyone to forgive one another and try to get along. They felt sorry for me, I could tell. I could hear them snickering. They wouldn’t have snickered if I’d eaten that kid in front of them.”

“You are badly in need of a holiday,” Sky opined. “Let’s do something fun tomorrow. That tiny island in the bay – let’s visit it. You can meet my boyfriend and hunt seals.”

Sourly, feeling that she’d earned a sulk, Snow replied, “Don’t like the seals here. Too furry. And they’ve got ears. That’s just wrong. Seals shouldn’t have ears.”

“They weren’t snickering,” said Valentina… only it wasn’t Valentina, not anymore. Snow instinctively straightened up. “They were whispering amongst themselves, it’s true. They didn’t know what to make of you. But there was no mockery and certainly no pity. You made an impression, child. It was a good speech. My congratulations. Keep charming them like that and they’ll give you no trouble.”

Crikey. Crumbs. “Er – that’s – you – thanks.”

Doomhold gazed across the water at her true body. “Wimberley wouldn’t have bothered talking to them. Apologising wouldn’t have occurred to him.”

“He’s not a natural orator. So what?” Ziklag spat. “Are you suggesting that matters more than intellect? More than drive and ambition? He’s bled for you. He let you strip-mine his brain. Would the bear do that?”

Coolly, Doomhold replied, “The point is moot. Whatever his ambitions, he’s not presently capable of pursuing them.”

“Because you haven’t finished healing him, you battered old box!”

“I’ve made considerable progress. But you must understand that he was very badly injured. The acid melted through his skull. It could be months until it’s safe to wake him up – maybe years…”

Ziklag’s fists clenched. “And in the meantime, you’ll give Valentina’s pets free rein to pursue their stupid, pointless, after-school-special dreams! Saving the whales and picking up garbage and ultimately changing nothing, while every army in the world develops ways to defend itself against the fortress’s power, until ultimately you lose your leverage entirely. Is that what you want? To end up as an impotent tourist attraction, on a nice clean beach with nice clean waters, while the world dies around you?”

“The world won’t die, Ziklag. Worlds are very resilient. Some humans may die, yes, if your species’ failures keep stacking up and your governments don’t change course. But why should Snow prioritize saving humans? You got yourselves into this mess.”

“I’m not prioritizing anyone!” Snow protested, hotly. “I want to help everybody – and sorry, I don’t agree that picking up garbage changes nothing. It’s a way in. It’ll prove to the humans that we have their best interests at heart. We can only bring about real, lasting change by working with them. There’s no better option. Ziklag, do you truly believe you can point a gun at eight billion people and force them to behave?”

“In the short term? Yes! And the short term is what matters!” Ziklag replied. “We’ve left it too late to be polite and persuasive! You and your team of Care Bears can win their hearts and minds after I’ve ensured that the entire global agriculture system isn’t going to fucking collapse!”

“Ziklag, you and Wimberley had your chance,” said Doomhold, firmly. “I’m grateful to you, make no mistake. I’d given up. No longer saw the point in saving things. You two – you roused my interest. Your enthusiasm was infectious. Your plan was… well, it might have worked. But I’m just not convinced you have what it takes. So now it’s my step-daughter’s turn,” said Doomhold, and gave Snow something close to Valentina’s warm smile, except worse in every way. “And I have confidence in her.”

***

“I need to prove that I can do better,” said Wimberley, as they approached the elevator.

Scratching at her burn scars – he made a mental note to ask if she’d like cosmetic surgery – Trench replied, “Why? Prove to who?”

“He means Doomhold,” Click-9 told her.

Wimberley nodded. “Quite. I fear she’s given up on me. On us. One too many failures – and we never could hold a candle to her Valiant. That’s why she didn’t wake me up, and why she’s been content to let us languish in the basement. She’s decided to let the bloody animals try to fix things. A damning indictment indeed. So! Time to be bold. We’re going to show her what we’re made of, my accomplices.”

“Ziklag’s gonna be so mad we didn’t tell him you’re back,” Trench said, grimacing.

“Couldn’t risk it. Your brother can’t lie to save his life. What if he’d accidentally spilled the beans to the bear or the penguin?”

“Still gonna be mad.”

“He’ll understand. He always understands.”

Wimberley was pleased and surprised to discover that Click-9 had learned some new tricks in his absence, including overriding Valentina’s commands to keep the elevator doors from opening.

“Not like I’ve had much else to do while we’ve been stuck down here,” they said. “I tried teaching Dr Phlegmatic to play Scrabble, but he kept letting me win. I tried to read War and Peace – couldn’t make it past Page Three. So instead I started making a list of how many of Mom’s systems I could screw with while her back’s turned. Guess what? It’s a lot! I could probably take us into space right now if I felt like it. You guys wanna go to space?”

“No,” said Wimberley, grinning. “I want to go to the command centre.”

***

Everyone aboard the boat gasped, cried out, or dove for cover as the fortress suddenly blazed with light. Red lights, green lights, white lights, gold lights, dozens of shades shining from every corner of every deck. It was brighter than the moon, brighter than the metropolis behind them.

“Why’s it doing that? What is it doing?” demanded Major Zandeki.

She was thrown off her feet as the boat rocked violently in waves created by the fortress’s rising from the ocean, its mighty anti-gravity engines roaring like an awakened beast.

“You!” shouted Snow, turning to Ziklag. “This is some scheme of yours, isn’t it? You told Trench and Click-9 to do this!”

But he looked as baffled as everyone else, and only shook his head.

“Whoever’s doing it hasn’t sealed down the fortress yet,” said Sky. “Snow – I’m going in.”

“Alone?”

“Look at it! It’s already too high up for any of you! And if they do shut down all the entry points, we’re stuffed! They’ll be in full control and we’ll be stuck out here!”

“Sky, it’s dangerous.”

“I won’t engage. I’ll just find out who’s doing this and how, then report back.”

“What if it locks down while you’re in there and you get trapped?”

“Then at least you’ll have one agent on the inside. Our coms are working – I’ll tell you our enemy’s movements so you can plan a counterattack. Snow, I don’t think we have time to argue about this. What if it’s not Trench and Click-9? What if someone dangerous found their way in there, somehow – mercenaries sent by a government that covets the fortress’s power, or common thieves? This might be our only chance to stop them before they use it to start World War Three! Do I have your permission?”

“Damn it – yes. Yes. Go. Be careful!”

Sky flew off.

“What’re you all arguing about?” slurred Twitch. “Where’s she going?”

“Will someone please explain what’s happening?” Major Zandeki pleaded.

“Right now, we know about as much as you do,” Snow told her.

The floating fortress was changing shape, from a cube to a diamond. From its smooth, symmetrical sides, fang-like protrusions were emerging, the biggest of which tilted until it was pointing directly towards the city.

“Sky!” Snow shouted.

“Yes, I see it,” came Sky’s voice over the com. “Don’t worry, I’ll – ah!”

Snow, distantly aware that Val was screaming, watched as her friend bounced off the fortress’s newly-activated forcefield and plummeted.

“Hold on – I can catch her,” said Waddles, the device that controlled his telekinesis starting to hum.

The fortress’s primary cannon fired.

A red line split the starscape in two, and Sky was gone.

The water shimmered. Settled. The boat stopped rocking. Favourite was cheeping and chirping in confusion and distress.

In the mountain looming over the city was a perfectly circular hole, at least three hundred metres in diameter.

A phone rang.

It was Major Zandeki’s.

She took it out of her pocket, stared at it, then turned it around so everyone could see what was on the screen.

“Wimberley?” Ziklag gasped.

“Greetings, fellow inhabitants of Planet Earth!” said Wimberley. “I’ll keep this brief. My name is Wimberley and I am now in charge.”

The end

Thanks for reading! More soon.

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