《Daughters of Cadia》


 Chapter 1

    The alarm clock danced silently across Sarah¡¯s beside table, the preposterous amount of cotton she¡¯d wrapped around the bells made sure of it. Tied to the arm of the clock was a thin piece of thread, which itself was attached to a knitting needle inserted through the bottom of a funnel she¡¯d haphazardly tied to the curtain rail during the night. The pin pulled loose and the red rubber ball it kept in situ rolled down a tube and onto a latch. This released a spring that sent a small metal figure hurtling through the air and into a sieve connected to a pulley. The sieve descended, and in doing so raised a small piece of wood that flipped the switch on the model train track suspended from the ceiling. After two circuits, the train nudged a pair of scissors that cut the cord that trailed beneath the bed below and, with a loud wumph, the small girl opposite her was promptly ejected through the open window.


    Sarah got out of bed and stretched, yawned into the back of her hand and padded over to the window in the slippers she retrieved from underneath her own bed. They weren''t her slippers and were in fact slightly too large, but there was no room under her sister''s bed for them on account of the very large spring she placed there the previous evening, and pieces of her own slippers were currently wrapped around an alarm clock, so would probably be very uncomfortable she reasoned. Erica was the oldest. She was also currently the most upside-down, the coldest and smelliest, and very definitely the most annoyed. She looked up from her makeshift landing-pad that was a pile of last week''s rubbish and blew a strand of long black hair out of her eyes. Sarah smiled down at her. ¡°Told you it¡¯d work,¡± she said, then she closed the window and went downstairs to get some breakfast.


    ***


    ¡°See this,¡± Erica said as she slammed the nobbled alarm clock down on the kitchen table. ¡°It''s a bloody alarm clock, and someone already invented it.¡± It¡¯d taken her an hour to get the smell out of her hair. She didn''t know what she''d landed in, but she¡¯d had to burn her favourite pyjamas in the fireplace.


    ¡°It¡¯s our job,¡± Sarah said, not stopping to look up from her fifth bowl of cereal.


    ¡°It¡¯s not! We¡¯re not dad. We don¡¯t have to be and I don¡¯t want to be. Stop it!¡±


    Sarah stood quietly and swiped her bowl onto the floor, which seemed like an appropriate response given the situation. Satisfied, she went back upstairs to work on her projects. Erica picked her way through and around the broken pieces of pottery and ever-expanding puddle of cereal and retrieved her toolbox from the bottom of the pantry. She looked at it and let out a resigned sigh, then headed out and slammed the door behind her. The village of Mayflight was hardly a village at all, it being only slightly larger than a hamlet, but what it lacked in size and correct nomenclature, however, it made up for in quite possibly everything else.


    ¡°Good morning!¡± Mr. Tirren bellowed unnecessarily from across the narrow street. His voice was as deep as any well and carried far further than he intended, which was nearly always the case. Bosco Tirren was the baker, doting father, sometimes blacksmith, but perhaps more interestingly, he was also a dog.


    ¡°Oh, good morning Mr. Tirren.¡± Erica tilted her head slightly to shield an ear from the one-dog sonic boom that was all of his greetings. ¡°Oven on the blink again, is it?¡± He gave her a smile. Each eye shone like an individual sun, and his jowls made his face look like a half-melted candle on a windy day. He ushered her inside and followed behind, turning sideways slightly to fit through the door.


    ¡°Is it the thermy-stat from last time?¡± he asked. He took Erica''s toolbox and carried it through to the kitchen with the urgency you might expect of a midwife rushing to an expectant mother.


    ¡°Just over on the counter, please, Mr. Tirren,¡± she replied as she rolled up her sleeves. ¡°And no, I don''t think it''s the thermostat again. At least I don''t think it will be. We replaced it, remember? Though I guess that doesn¡¯t mean it can¡¯t be ¨C you never know with this old thing.¡± She took a small notebook out of her toolbox and leafed through the pages of diagrams and notes that she¡¯d meticulously transcribed from her father''s schematics until she reached the section pertaining to the bread oven. She sighed inwardly and began the slow task of removing the dozen or so screws that kept the back panel on. ¡°It''s almost like someone didn''t intend for this to be opened,¡± she muttered to herself as one of the screws slipped and she scrabbled to catch it.


    Erica slid the back off and carefully set it aside. She held her notes in front of her and started the slow process of comparing them to the wiring while Mr. Tirren danced around behind her and asked every ten seconds if she¡¯d fixed it yet. She rolled her eyes and moved around the oven to start on the side panel. As she was halfway through removing it, a small voice drifted up from behind the kitchen counter. ¡°Ith eh bwulb,¡± it said. When asked to repeat itself, a second voice helpfully clarified, ¡°Ist jost we buwlb.¡± Sarah emerged from behind the counter, chewing on a large chunk of bread. She was followed closely by a small canine that clearly took after his father, mouth also very much full of bread. What followed was five minutes of Sarah doing that thing where you wave your arm around and point to let people know you''re about to finish eating in the next few seconds but really aren''t.


    Harry Tirren finished first but patiently waited for Sarah to catch up so they could tell them together. This lasted all of three seconds, and Harry blurted, ¡°It''s just the bulb!¡± This got him a side-eye and a smack on the shoulder from Sarah. He staggered around clutching his chest, sighing pitifully and rubbing his brow with the back of his hand. He checked if anyone was paying attention. They weren''t, so he waited for Sarah to finish eating and punched her in the arm.


    ¡°When you turn it on, what do you do?¡± Sarah asked. She rubbed the top of her arm and glared at Harry.


    ¡°Turn it back off because it isn''t working, the little light doesn''t-¡± Mr. Tirren turned the oven on and left it. Harry excitedly hopped from one foot to the other, beating his personal best by only falling over once, well, twice, but the second one didn''t count because no-one saw it. While the Tirrens stared longingly at the oven, Erica joined Sarah behind the counter and knelt to give her a hug. This seemed, to her at least, to be one of those things where nobody need say a word. ¡°Your hair smells of teabags,¡± Sarah said, then she closed her eyes and accepted the apology. Erica briefly considered strangling her.


    The Tirrens danced in circles as they basked in the heat of their never-stopped-working oven, while Sarah slipped free of the hug that was getting a little tight around the neckline, and removed a small bulb from her pocket. Mr. Tirren took the bulb and without stopping his dance replaced the old one. The oven display lit up, Mr. Tirren''s face along with it. He let out a howl of joy and scooped Harry off the ground, and they swirled and swirled until they were both dizzy and decided they had swirled quite enough for one morning. Maybe there would be room for a little more this afternoon, they hadn''t decided yet. Erica grabbed a loaf of bread and nodded towards Mr. Tirren as she left. She set off to finish her lap of the village, closely followed by Sarah who had, once again, managed to replace the lower half of her face with a large bun.


    ***


    The village square was lined with row after row of brightly-coloured stalls, each draped with a handcrafted banner that depicted its contents; between them they offered everything from handmade clothes and toys to food and books. There wasn''t any true need for this pea-cocking, as every villager had their own stall, which left no independent customers outside of Erica and Sarah Hubert. Thusly, everyone used this as an opportunity to chat and casually browse each other''s stalls in turn, being sure to meander past Mrs. Tirren''s cake stall once or thrice.


    On a rare occasion, someone would arrive from one of the southernmost settlements via way of boat. For a few hours at least, Mayflight would take on a real bustling market town vibe, with each stallholder reeling off the patter they''d practised in their front rooms for such a special occasion. All except Mrs. Tirren. Her banner was drawn by her son, and simply depicted him eating a rather nice piece of cake and quite enjoying it. Being the exacting artist that he was, Harry had insisted upon personally inspecting as many cakes as possible until he found his muse, finally settling upon a cherry sponge-cake with a layer of jam in the middle. The banner flew high and it flew deliciously, so Mrs. Tirren never found herself having to raise her voice for anything. She had a husband for that.


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    The upper part of the market was dominated by a very large stall that was arrayed as an art gallery. Villagers were free to contribute if they wished, but the majority of the art on display was contributed by the stallholder, a temperamental tortoise the colour of marmalade, called Tobias. Every time someone would walk past, or was enticed by a painting that was nearly never his, Tobias would desperately shuffle forward in his seat and attempt to make eye contact in a bid to start a conversation. The locals had grown wise to this ploy about thirty-eight minutes after the first time he tried it, but Tobias had ensnared a timid-looking beaver from out of town and was actively engaged in conversation apropos his own artistic brilliance. The word paintings, Erica thought, practically demanded air quotes even when not said aloud. Right at this moment, Tobias had reached the part about how he was painting the world as it really was, and if this beaver was as sophisticated and intelligent as he looked, he''d see things the same way and buy at least five, no six, paintings composed entirely of squares. Now she came to think of it, she had never seen him sell a single painting, but she supposed that was never the point.


    The sisters walked hand-in-hand through the market, patiently waiting for someone else to jump out and offer them food to fix something that possibly wasn¡¯t even broken, but the rest of the circuit passed uneventfully and they both came to rest upon the edge of the large copper fountain that occupied the centre of the marketplace. It was weather-worn to the point of being a beautiful pale green, and while some of its features had softened over the years, its subject was unmistakable ¨C it was their mother. Her long hair swept down over her shoulders and served to make an already long face look even longer. They both took after their mother, but Erica more so. The townsfolk endeavoured to keep the fountain as clean and tidy as they could, but it hadn''t functioned as such for as long as Erica could remember, and while she wasn''t sure she knew how to fix it, it remained that she had never really tried. Perhaps she would fix it tomorrow, or next Tuesday. From her toolbox she produced a small jar of butter along with a knife she had taken from the kitchen and wrapped in a napkin, and set about buttering a chunk she tore from the loaf. She handed it to Sarah, then started on her own chunk, one more suitable for someone that wasn¡¯t part wood-chipper.


    ¡°How did you know about the bulb, anyway?¡± Erica asked between bites.


    ¡°Harry,¡± Sarah replied during bites, spitting crumbs everywhere. ¡°Likes to stare at that bulb. Not healthy. Said it started to go dim, so I found him a bulb to be unhealthy at. I was going to tell you, but-¡±


    ¡°-I was a cow,¡± Erica finished.


    ¡°I was going to say angry, but yes, that, too.¡±


    When they¡¯d finished, Erica leaned across and ruffled Sarah''s hair, partly because she had the strange urge to do so but mostly because she knew it annoyed her more than she''d admit to. She rewrapped the knife with the same care and attention as she had earlier and returned it to her toolbox along with the empty jar of butter. ¡°And that bloody reminds me,¡± she grumbled. ¡°I need to screw those panels back on before I forget.¡± They stood and showered the town with a dust storm of bread crumbs, then turned to head home. Sarah ran on ahead of her sister, who¡¯d stopped to take a last look at the fountain before setting off. ¡°I''m trying,¡± she whispered, then she headed off to finish her last job of the morning.


    ***


    Erica rapped on the door and gently pushed it open, sliding her head around the side. ¡°Mr. Tirren? Are you there? It''s Erica, I forgot to screw the panels back on.¡±


    ¡°Mice!¡± bellowed Mr. Tirren from the kitchen. A saucer skimmed through the kitchen door and smashed on the wall next to her head.


    ¡°Mices!¡± Harry repeated excitedly, breaking a cup for no particular reason. Erica dropped her toolbox and ran to the kitchen, being wary of any further low-flying crockery. She found Mr. Tirren on all-fours, poking the end of a wooden spoon into the underside of the oven. With every thrust of the spoon, one of the mice that had taken up residence there would step forward and gnaw a chunk from the handle before retreating and uttering a choice obscenity that was as creative as it was vulgar and biologically impossible. The spoon handle was consequentially now much shorter but also sharpened into a makeshift spear, with which Mr. Tirren enthusiastically jabbed after one of the slower mice. Whenever he had one cornered, he''d hesitate briefly before letting it go to pursue the next slowest. When he finally drew blood, he shrieked, threw the spoon across the kitchen and apologised profusely.


    Sensing weakness, one of the larger mice ventured out and snapped viciously at Harry''s toes, a throng of smaller rodents at its flank. Harry no longer found this to be a game and frantically ran in circles to get away from its gnawing teeth, squealing desperately for his papa to come rescue him. Mr. Tirren swept his arm in a wide arc and sent the cavalcade of rodents flying in all directions. One of the mice landed in the sink with a splash and wildly pawed at a plastic cup to stay afloat. A mouse more fortunate in its landing desperately tried to coordinate his stunned and scattered brethren into a rescue effort. Mr. Tirren pushed up from the floor with an uncharacteristic growl and stomped towards the mouse now cornering his son.


    ¡°Right, you nasty little sods, I''ll fettle you.¡± Erica rushed back to her toolbox to grab some things before barging into the kitchen. As the ringleader, a jet black mouse with crooked teeth and a tail bent to almost the perfect right-angle, lunged to sink its teeth into one of Harry''s toes, Erica scooped it up and it sealed in the empty jar of butter. The other mice stopped abruptly and looked towards Erica, with the exception of the couple that were still busy hauling their waterlogged brother up onto the draining board of the sink. ¡°Right, you horrible little things. Mr. Tirren may be far too nice to squish you, but I''m not!¡± She emphasised this point by rattling the jar with the side of a mallet and giving it a little shake. But not too much of a shake, as she didn''t actually want to hurt the mouse, as ugly and as vicious as it was. ¡°Where do you think the butter comes from?¡± she said in a tone as manic as she could possibly summon. ¡°It''s mouse guts! And this jar is empty!¡± She banged the mallet on the counter and let the sound hang in the air.


    The ringleader spat out the mouthful of butter it had licked off the side of the jar and looked both much less ashamed than it should and considerably more confused than it really ought to be. ¡°If you promise to all leave right now, I won''t turn any of you into butter. Not even this one.¡± She held up the jar. ¡°Now get out!¡± The mice turned to each other and weighed up their options, then started for the door. As they went, faint murmurs rose up, excerpts of half-finished conversations in high-pitched tones as they pushed and shoved each other on their way out of the kitchen.


    ¡°I don''t want to be butter,¡± one said plaintively.


    ¡°Your face is butter,¡± snarked another.


    ¡°What''s butter?¡± asked a third.


    ¡°Your mum,¡± replied the second mouse. With this a fight broke out and the other mice quickly formed a spectators'' circle to watch that one get punched in the face repeatedly. This lasted for as long as it took Erica to attract their attention with a cough and mime splatting something with the mallet. The mice reorganised and shuffled out into the warm afternoon sun.


    ¡°And you, you''re not even a mouse at all. Are you?¡± Erica held the jar close to her face. ¡°You''re just a stinky, horrible rat.¡±


    ¡°All right. Leave it out, love,¡± the rat squeaked in a voice much deeper and gruffer than she expected. ¡°I will admit, my coup d''etat of this particular kitchen from those here flat-faces could be deemed, in part, a spectacular failure. I would, however, like to point out, seeing as I am a prisoner of war, all the appropriate conventions apply and-¡±


    ¡°-Oh, do bugger off,¡± Erica sighed, hardly containing her weariness at this point, and tipped the jar out of the kitchen window. The rat landed with a squelch in a bin filled with leftovers.


    ¡°Good, I see you have accepted the terms of my surrender,¡± he said as he crammed a piece of stale bread into his mouth and settled down for a nap in a pile of banana skins.


    ¡°I''m very sorry about that, Mr. Tirren, but I hardly think I can be blamed entirely for the coup staged in your kitchen.¡±


    Mr. Tirren shook his head. ¡°If they wanted bread,¡± he said. ¡°They could have just asked and I''d have given them some.¡± Harry hopped between them and counted the toes on his left foot. He tried to count the toes on his right foot, but forgot to put his left foot down first, so had to start again from the floor.


    ¡°I''ll go grab my screwdriver and fasten those panels back on, then I''ll let you finish clearing up. Unless you''d like me to help, that is.¡± Erica fully accepted that he might say yes, but she really very badly wanted to go home.


    ¡°No, no, don''t you worry,¡± Mr. Tirren said as he surveyed the carnage. ¡°They didn''t make too much mess anyway.¡±


    ¡°All present and correct!¡± Harry called up from the floor. Mr. Tirren smiled and scooped his boy up onto his shoulders with a large and powerful hand. Erica finished screwing the panels back onto the oven, only having to stop once or twice to shoo away the mice that were still hiding there.


    ¡°That''s me done, Mr. Tirren. But there is just one more thing, please don''t tell your wife I said her butter was mouse guts. I fear she''d never forgive me.¡± Her ears rang with the sound of Mr. Tirren''s laughter long after she got home.

 Chapter 2

    Erica woke with a start for the fifth time that night and, for the fifth time, crawled out of bed and slunk to the floor. Yes, the spring was still locked and yes, she was going to check again to be sure. If there was a reason why her father had such a very large spring, one with which you could very easily catapult a very small girl out of a medium-sized window at very high speed with, just lying around his workshop, she would have loved to hear it. She liked to imagine it was for a good reason, but she realised it was just as likely meant for firing small girls out of windows as it was anything else. For every invention she found in his workshop that served a use, there was another that would explode or fall to pieces at the push of a button. She thought that he probably would have been quite proud of this morning''s test flight.


    As she began to slip into a deep and well-earned sleep, she felt a gentle but persistent nudge to her shoulder. After thirty seconds, any pretence of gentle had, much like herself previously, been thrown out the window, and she was dragged out of bed by her arm.


    ¡°Hello, floor,¡± she slurred, as she felt her brain try to climb back into bed and pull the covers over it.


    ¡°You have to get up. Look!¡± urged Sarah with the kind of desperate intensity that would have surprised her, had she not been asleep at almost the exact moment she hit the floor. Sarah went to her night-stand and filled a glass with water, which she then carefully set down. She took the jug, and without walking the few feet back to her sister, threw the entire thing over her. Erica sat bolt upright with a gurgling inhalation of air.


    ¡°You little bitch!¡± she squealed. Before she had time to gather her thoughts and get to her feet and strangle her sister, Sarah had already grabbed her under one arm and had directed her stumbling, groggy form to the window.


    ¡°Look,¡± she repeated. The night air swept in through the window and hit Erica in the chest, causing her to shiver and splutter violently. Her eyes slowly focused on where her sister was pointing, but she could only make out the where, not the what. Her lips were about to form the words of something quite uncharitable that she¡¯d need to apologise for later, but as a cloud passed across the moon, there it was. There, in the middle of the woods, shone a faint light. ¡°He''s back!¡± Sarah bounced up and down in the boots she hadn''t yet fastened, hastily trying to zip her coat up in the intermittent light of the moon. ¡°We have to go.¡± Sarah brought Erica her coat and tried to get her arm through the sleeve with minimal success.


    ¡°We can''t, it¡¯s the middle of the night. If it''s him, he''ll come to us, sweetheart. Just listen, please,¡± Erica wearily pleaded. Sarah hadn''t paid heed to a single word, and was now sprinting out the door, her laces flapping behind her.


    ¡°Oh, you little sod,¡± Erica yelled out the window as her sister''s shadowy blur raced into the distance. She slipped her dress over her second favourite pair of pyjamas and scrabbled around for her boots.


    ***


    Sarah¡¯s pace slowed as she reached the mouth of the woods. The flickering light drifted through the trees and painted a sickly yellow glow at her feet. It wasn¡¯t as warm and inviting as it appeared from her bedroom window, but it was just a lantern light. She took a deep breath and continued running. More than once she fell to the ground, her foot catching a rock or an unseen tree root, or even her own laces. She rubbed her hand across her forehead and winced in pain, her fingers were slick with blood. It was that brief warmth upon her skin that suddenly made her realise how incredibly cold it was. She hadn''t fastened her coat, she hadn''t had time. She shivered and fumbled with the zip again, her fingers too cold to grip it.


    She wasn¡¯t sure where she was or exactly how far she¡¯d run. Time and space and distance hadn¡¯t been working quite the same as she remembered since she hit her head. That was when she saw the light again, this time it was coming to her. ¡°Daddy,¡± she called tearfully. ¡°Is that you?¡± The light flickered and, as it did, a pair flickered into existence next to it. Again and again, until there were so many pairs of lights that burned so brightly that she was unable to tell them apart. Sarah turned and raised her arm to shield her face and in doing so, she brushed against the gash on her forehead. Blood trickled into her eyes and returned the woods to abject darkness. The lights hummed in unison and rose to a high-pitched whine that seemed to come from all directions at once. That wasn¡¯t it. Her heart sank into her stomach. They were surrounding her. She screamed, drowning out the sound around her. The lights moved closer.


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    ***


    Erica stood at the mouth of the woods, doubled over, her hand clutched to her throat ¨C the cold night air burned in her chest and nostrils. She cupped her hands over her face and slowed her breathing to at least try and warm the air a little before it could enter her lungs. It was as her breathing began to take on a normal, only slightly painful rhythm, that she heard the sound ¨C a high-pitched electric hum. She raised her head and cupped her ear to see if she could pick up the direction it was coming from. She couldn¡¯t ¨C the noise sounded like it came from half the woods at once. The scream that followed, however, came from straight ahead. Erica stumbled forward in the dark, her sister¡¯s name repeatedly forming on her chilled lips but the sound always getting caught in her throat.


    Branches whipped at her face and the bracken ripped at her legs, but she couldn''t feel it. All she felt was the pounding of her heart in her chest as she increased her pace towards the source of the scream. She crested a small hill and gazed towards the clearing, it was illuminated faintly by the unnatural yellow glow of what looked to be a dozen or so lanterns. The lights surrounded Sarah in a semi-circle and slowly advanced on her. She lay curled in a ball, her forearms tucked over her face. Her body rocked gently in a soundless sob.


    Erica barrelled down the hill towards the closest light, screaming whatever invectives tore from her lips. She smashed into it with a heavy crunch that sent it spiralling into the one next to it, and that into the one next to that. They connected with a clank and the lights fell to the ground. She scooped up the still form of her sister and ran back towards the hill. Fingers brushed her leg as they made a grasp for her ankle, but she was too quick. For a time, the lights seemed to be following them, not really in a rush to catch up to them but staying close enough to be on her in seconds if she tripped. But she didn¡¯t. The lights behind them trailed off into the darkness only to be replaced by lights ahead of them. At the mouth of the woods, a crowd had gathered. At the front of it stood Mr. Tirren. He still wore his nightshirt, but the biting night air had decided it would much rather risk sinking its teeth into someone else. He stood with a burning torch in one hand and a large metal pole in the other, and dropped them both when he saw Erica stumble out of the woods carrying a barely-conscious Sarah. He scooped her up in much the same way she had scooped Sarah up and carried them both effortlessly back towards his house.


    An aged simian hobbled from the crowd in a pair of silk pyjamas and a dressing gown. He passed the metal bar up his using his tail, then tucked it under his left arm like a newspaper. This was followed more carefully by the torch which he held out in front of him as he hobbled after them. Mr. Tirren nudged the front door open with one hip, carried the girls through to the lounge and set them both down on the rug by the fire. The crowd, which without Bosco or himself, now consisted of Tobias and a crane named Isla, had followed the old man to the door. He shooed them off as politely as he could manage at whatever ungodly hour it currently was and dipped the torch into the water butt by the door before he disappeared inside.


    He dropped the pole into an umbrella stand that contained everything but umbrellas and headed through into the lounge. The girls were tightly wrapped in as many blankets as Mrs. Tirren could find, including a couple of half-finished ones from her sowing room.


    ¡°Thank goodness you¡¯re here, Rasmus,¡± she said.


    ¡°You¡¯ve already done most of what can be done, Bridget. I can treat their wounds but the exposure has done the worst of it.¡± He washed his hands in the bowl that had expectantly been laid out for him by the fire, produced a fine needle from the first-aid kit that sat on the table next to it and began threading it by the light of the fire. He set the first-aid kit down on the armchair next to the girls and knelt beside them. As he swabbed Sarah¡¯s forehead with rubbing alcohol, her face contorted in pain but her eyes remained firmly closed, even as he stitched the wound shut. When he was satisfied that he hadn''t done a job he''d have to explain away when she woke up, he taped a gauze pad over the stitches and propped her head up on a pillow, facing her away from the fire and towards her sister. Harry sat by with his supply of emergency blankets and emergency cake. He was trying very hard not to cry but he was doing a very bad job of it. Whenever Sarah would cough or show discomfort, he would reach out and squeeze her shoulder to let her know she was safe, followed by his own shoulder for much the same reason. Rasmus cleaned Erica¡¯s wounds with warm water and rubbing alcohol and watched dejectedly as she didn''t flinch at all. Her wet clothes had been removed and she lay in one of Mr. Tirren¡¯s nightshirts, which in a pinch could have doubled for a tent.


    ¡°What are we going to do, Bosco?¡± Mrs. Tirren wiped away a tear and slid her hand down to her mouth to stop herself screaming from shear frustration. She rocked herself gently on the edge of the armchair, one hand across her mouth, the other tightly squeezing her chest.


    ¡°They''re our little girls,¡± he said. ¡°We do everything.¡±

 Chapter 3

    Harry awoke to find both his emergency cake and his emergency emergency cake had been eaten. He had been wrapped in his emergency blanket and was sleeping on his emergency pillow. On top of that, he was wearing his standard issue non-emergency pyjamas. He rubbed his eyes and hoped for no more emergencies.


    When he¡¯d chased the sleep from his eyes and blinked a few times to adjust them to the mid-morning sun, he was greeted by the tired and bruised face of Sarah. She sat on the edge of the non-emergency bed that his mother had carried him to after he fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. She was on her second slice of cake of the day, if you don''t count the emergency cake, which she didn''t. Mr. Rasmus had said the more calories the better, and she wasn''t one to argue with his sizeable wisdom and a near infinite supply of cake.


    Harry surged out from under his possibly-emergency duvet ¨C he wasn''t keeping track at this point ¨C and wrapped his arms around Sarah. ¡°How is Erica?¡± he asked.


    ¡°She''s awake, but she''s very weak. She''s putting all of her energy into getting better, and being angry at me. She''s putting most of her energy into angry, I think. After what I did, I don''t blame her.¡± Harry leaned in closer and tightened his hug. While he was there, he reasoned, it would be a shame to let the moment go to waste, and slowly moved his hand towards the plate of half-eaten cake.


    ***


    Harry danced into the kitchen while Sarah limped closely behind. Erica looked up from her breakfast and managed a meek smile. She was still pale and very weak, but her breathing had returned to normal and her temperature stabilised. Harry hugged both of his parents in turn, then danced over to the breakfast table and seated himself opposite Erica. She gave him a little nudge under the table with her foot, which brought him out of his revelry just in time to see her slide a piece of cake towards him. They¡¯d all been so very kind, she just wished the main currency of that kindness wasn¡¯t always cake.


    Rasmus entered from the lobby and sat at the table opposite the sisters and took a long sip from the cup of tea that had been awaiting his arrival. He shuddered, then casually moved the cup to the middle of the table with the back of his fingers. ¡°I think we should have a little chat,¡± he said.


    ¡°About the lights, I imagine. We¡¯re fine, by the way,¡± Erica replied.


    ¡°And I¡¯m all the happier for it, Ms. Erica.¡±


    ¡°But you need to know.¡±


    ¡°How many were there?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Maybe a dozen, can¡¯t say I remember much. You don¡¯t seem surprised. What do you know? Is it about father?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure it is,¡± he replied. ¡°You still look exhausted. It might be best if you forget about it for now at least.¡±


    Erica went to push her chair from the table, but the shooting pain that ran through her right shoulder decided otherwise. ¡°Bloody hell,¡± she growled through gritted teeth.


    ¡°It''s not broken,¡± Mr. Tirren said, turning from his task of washing the dishes.


    ¡°Indeed it is not, young lady. I suspect, however, you came very close to it. If you like, we can put that arm in a sling once you''re taken care of your ablutions. But certainly no more manual labour for a few days¡± Rasmus added.


    ¡°Oh dear,¡± said Erica. ¡°How will I ever cope?¡± Rasmus smiled and took another sip of disgusting tea. Erica took the path of least resistance and slid from the chair, forming a vague girl-like muddle of limbs below the breakfast table. Oh yes, this is much better, she thought. ¡°Firstly,¡± she said from her puddle. ¡°I''m going to go home and make myself presentable and, secondly, and this is the important part, Mr. Rasmus; I''m going to need you to not lie to me again. I¡¯m also going to need help getting off the floor because this was a terrible idea.¡±


    ***


    Sarah pushed open the door of their house and gently tried to nudge Erica down the small flight of stairs to the living room. ¡°Not there, upstairs. Help me upstairs. If I take another rest, you''re going to start feeding me cake again. I just know it.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t move you as it is,¡± Sarah said. ¡°Why would I feed you more cake?¡±


    ¡°The cheek of this one. Just get me to the stairs and I¡¯ll crawl the rest of the way.¡± Erica entered the bedroom and shuffled over to her bed, her eyes drawn to the rug.


    ¡°Sarah? Why is the floor all wet?¡±


    ¡°Um,¡± said Sarah.


    Erica opened her bedside draw and produced an ornate brass key. ¡°I''ll need you to help me back down in about half-an-hour, but first I really need to get changed out of this tent I appear to be wearing,¡± she said gesturing to the nightshirt. ¡°Also, bring a mop for the floor. It''s really wet.¡±


    ¡°Um,¡± said Sarah.


    Erica looked down at her heavily-padded legs and put the pair of work trousers she¡¯d picked out back in the draw. She looked as if she was going to bat an innings and didn''t much fancy her chances of getting anything over them, let alone back off again if she''d succeeded. Instead, she picked out a very sensible and boring dress and painfully kicked off her boots. They were still sodden from the night before, so she decided the best place for them was out the window. She hoped they wouldn''t hit anyone, but she neither had the strength to check nor apologise if they did. She just slung them underarm and hoped for the best. She''d get around to cleaning them later, or it''d rain, and if on the off-chance she did hit someone, they might be kind enough to take them home and clean them. After last night, the possibility of all these small victories overwhelmed her and she turned to go sit on the bed that wouldn¡¯t try to kill her.


    In the meantime, her sister had slunk into the room behind her with a mop and a large stack of paper towels. ¡°But why ever is the floor wet?¡± she mumbled as she picked her way through the minefield of paper towels. Sarah hunched her shoulders to appear smaller than she already was and started mopping more quickly. Erica set the equally sensible and boring canvas shoes she¡¯d picked out down on the bed and unceremoniously dropped herself down beside them. ¡°I''m sleeping in this one tonight,¡± she said. She slipped on the shoes and stood up and immediately experienced the disequilibrium that comes from wearing flats after years of nothing but heels. She wavered over to the stairs and waved for Sarah to help her back down.


    ***


    ¡°Right,¡± Erica said. ¡°We have some reading to do,¡± and slid the key into the workshop lock. Sarah groaned. The workshop spanned the entire height of the house, extending so far as the roof, and took up the entire back half. A single large chain hung down the centre of the workshop, down it were arrays of electric lights pointing in various directions and illuminating the numerous mezzanines and alcoves. The main floor was littered, in almost a maze-like fashion, with wooden crates of all sizes and row after row of filing cabinets filled with documentation relating to every one of their father''s inventions. Their father was many things, but organised wasn''t one of them, and his indexing system stood as testament to that. The bibliographical maelstrom wasn''t limited to the workshop floor and extended far up onto the first floor and even parts of the second and third.


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    Sarah clambered atop the nearest crate and hopped her way across, shouting out directions to her sister below as she manoeuvred her way through the maze. In the corner of the workshop lay an area that Erica had reclaimed from the wilderness of storage mediums and half-finished inventions and that lay relatively clean and tidy at least by workshop standards. A desk had been cleared, and laid out upon it was a selection of tools and spare parts that she reasoned she would find herself needing sooner rather than later, but this almost always consisted of replacement parts for Mr. Tirren''s oven. Erica pulled out a chair and gingerly sat down while Sarah sat on the edge of the desk beside her.


    ¡°This is going to take forever,¡± Sarah protested. She scuffed her boots on the side of the desk and watched as a satisfyingly large chunk of mud fell to the floor. Erica opened the desk draw and took out a small, old and tattered red leather-bound notebook. She slapped it on the table and unbound the mess of loose pages, some of which drifted to the floor like a flurry of snow This was the point where something was supposed to finally jump out and make sense, but it didn¡¯t. The pages were still littered with a strange language she didn''t understand. There were annotations here and there that she could understand perfectly, but they always descended into pictograms and symbology that bore no meaning no matter how hard she tried.


    ¡°We have two choices,¡± she said. ¡°We either suddenly work out what any of this bloody means.¡± She pointed at the book in an almost accusatory fashion. ¡°Or,¡± she let the word hang in the air long enough for Sarah to have a terrible thought. ¡°We search as best as we can and see what we can find. I¡¯m not sure how much help Mr. Rasmus is going to want to be, and I think it sensible to have some kind of back up. Even a terrible one.¡± Sarah slid off the desk and stepped in a chunk of mud.


    ¡°Goody. I''ll go get some help.¡±


    ***


    ¡°I''m glad you brought the children,¡± Erica said. She tried to push her chair out from the desk and failed. Mr. Tirren chased Harry around one of the smaller crates. He wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses, each lens replaced by a spring with a plastic eyeball on the end. As he stepped from side-to-side around the crate, they wobbled and danced in all manner of directions. They made it very hard to see, but he was clearly having a very fun time of it. Erica rolled her own eyes to not quite the same degree and turned back to Mr. Rasmus.


    ¡°It seems very much to me that we are never going to find what it is we''re looking for within a reasonable time frame. Not with my legs and their brains,¡± said Rasmus. He hunched over the desk and studiously examined the notebook.


    ¡°And we should give up right now? Is that it, Mr. Rasmus? Not on your life. Something is going on and you need to tell us. And if you don¡¯t, I guess we just won¡¯t leave. We¡¯ll stay here forever and you¡¯ll have to bring us food so we don¡¯t starve.¡± Rasmus turned his head towards the Tirrens and smiled. Harry chased after his father with a small wooden gun that seemed to exist for no reason other than to fire brightly-coloured rubber balls at things, whether they liked it or not. Mr. Tirren evidently liked it a lot, his low rumbling laugh echoed through the maze of crates and sounded like a localised thunderstorm.


    ¡°I''m going back there, Mr. Rasmus.¡±


    ¡°We,¡± Sarah corrected.


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk about it later,¡± Erica said. This was her code for we will absolutely not talk about it at all, so don¡¯t you even try it. Rasmus sighed and pulled over a chair to join Erica at the desk.


    ¡°When I said I wasn¡¯t sure, I meant it.¡± Rasmus took his spectacles off and set them down on the table next to him. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and without looking up, asked, ¡°Do you remember the day you first came to the village?¡±


    ¡°I was three, Sarah wasn''t born yet,¡± Erica said. ¡°There''s very little to remember. You were all so strange and so different, and oh so very kind. I don''t remember much, but I remember the kindness. We¡¯re not being ungrateful, we¡¯re not. But we need to know. If it has anything to do with father, we have to know.¡±


    ¡°It was a different time back then. I''m not going to say it was a dark time, but in a way.¡± He pointed to the electric lights strung from the ceiling. ¡°It was.¡± Rasmus put his spectacles back on and turned to Sarah. ¡°A lifetime of reading by candlelight is, as I found, not very good for you.¡±


    ¡°Tell us about mother, Mr. Rasmus,¡± said Sarah. ¡°Please.¡±


    ¡°Your mother was a beautiful soul and we all loved her dearly. She was, sadly, only with us for a short space of time, yet she lingers in our hearts as if it were a lifetime. Just look at her grave. It takes pride of place in the main square. We come out of our houses every morning, and there she is smiling at us. The fountain may not work now, but it''s beautiful all the same, and a symbol of our everlasting affection. You know who made it, don''t you?¡±


    ¡°Well, it must have been father,¡± replied Erica.


    ¡°Heavens no. You''ve seen his sketches, not an artistic bone in his body. No, it was Tobias. He''s a much better craftsman than he is an artist, I will say, but poor Tobias took your mother''s death harder than most. And believe me, we all took it exceptionally hard. Tobias poured everything he had into that fountain and never crafted again. We try to humour his change in artistic direction as best we can, but there is only so much to be said about brightly coloured squares.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t anyone say?¡±


    ¡°He was happy not talking about it and we were happy not asking. There¡¯s a lot to not feel proud about as far as how we handled things, but I digress. The first time we saw you, you were just there, stood in the middle of the square. All three of you, unusual in appearance but polite as any animal ever were. Sebastian asked for shelter in exchange for his imagineering skills. Of course, we¡¯d never even heard of the word or dreamt of the things he could do. After your mother- Well, after your mother, Sebastian drowned himself in his work. He toiled almost day and night to build Mayflight into what you grew up in. Four years passed and, one moonless night, we saw the lights just as you did. They danced and enticed, but they whined and shrieked and pushed us back when we approached. Sebastian told us they were dangerous but he could make them go away, but it meant he, too, would have to go away. It''s been five years since the lights vanished.¡±


    A bright flash rose up from inside the crate maze. Mr. Tirren wobbled out, and without saying a word, took a small crate and brought it over to the table to use in absence of a chair. Harry staggered out after him, the wibbly-wobbly eyeballs on springs going in a hundred different directions as he chased the patches of light that moved across his vision. He was still having a great time and seemed almost oblivious to the conversation going on around him. He clambered up his papa¡¯s back and perched himself on his shoulders.


    ¡°Short of tying your legs together,¡± Mr. Tirren mused. ¡°You''re going to do whatever you want anyway.¡±


    ¡°Even if, Mr. Tirren,¡± Erica said. She tried very hard to resist a smile. It hadn''t been at all long since their trip to the woods, but she started to think her face had quite forgotten how to do anything other than hurt.


    ¡°The lights have come back, and we have to do something. If Sebastian said they¡¯re dangerous, then they¡¯re dangerous. It''s just us now, no Sebastian. If they mean us harm,¡± Mr. Tirren said as he absent-mindedly squeezed Harry''s leg. ¡°We''ll make them go away again. If you''re going, I''m going. All family together.¡±


    ¡°All family together, Mr. Tirren,¡± Sarah repeated. At this point, she was almost as excited as she was terrified. Maybe they would find her father. With everyone working together, she deemed being able to do anything not an entirely unreasonable expectation.


    ¡°There''s a prototype lantern here in the workshop,¡± Erica said. ¡°It''s heavy and rather cumbersome, and at full charge it''ll only give us an hour or so of light, but we''ll be able to see far better than if we rely on torchlight, though we''ll need to at some point. I never could work out how to make the battery smaller, I''m afraid. The quality of my father''s things tend to vary by a large amount.¡± She looked at the wibbly-wobbly glasses.


    ¡°We''ll need weapons,¡± Rasmus said. ¡°For defence of course,¡± he hastily clarified. ¡°Bosco, I assume you can help with that?¡±


    ¡°I''ll help, but I won''t arm you. I won''t make soldiers of children, I won''t make one of the elderly.¡± Rasmus lightened the tone somewhat when he mock scoffed at the very notion of being called elderly. An overly-exaggerated ¡®piffle¡¯ would do the trick, he thought. Of course, he was elderly and he knew it. He didn''t, however, have to admit it. ¡°Weapons make you a danger, and danger makes you a target. I¡¯m sorry, I hope you understand.¡±


    ¡°We understand, Mr. Tirren,¡± Sarah said. She didn''t much like the idea of being armed herself and was absolutely in no hurry to have so much as a pointy stick placed in her hand.


    ¡°Well, then,¡± Rasmus said as he forced himself up from his chair. ¡°I will work on getting us some provisions. We need warm clothes for a start, we can''t have a repeat of last time.¡± He looked at Sarah. ¡°Then, I guess we''ll have to set to it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I guess we will,¡± said Erica, finally having managed to push her chair out from the table with an accompanying ugly grunt. ¡°But definitely tomorrow.¡±

 Chapter 4

    ¡°Well, I slept like a log,¡± Erica said as she stretched and swung her legs out of Sarah''s bed. ¡°How was the death trap, by the way?¡±


    ¡°It was great, you should definitely swap back.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I will, Sarah, dear. Just as soon as you unbolt the murder-spring from underneath my bed and drag it back down to the workshop. And after we melt it down and make something much safer out of it, like a nice sword.¡± She threw her dressing gown over her third favourite pair of pyjamas and put her hand under the bed to retrieve her slippers. ¡°Mine now,¡± Sarah said as she flopped past her sister. ¡°They come with the bed.¡±


    ¡°Your face comes with the bed,¡± Erica shouted as her sister rounded the corner. It was very early in the morning, and she thought it very reasonable to not expect biting wit from someone until at least early afternoon.


    ***


    ¡°I don''t want you to think you''re being forced to go. It''s likely going to be very dangerous. Mr. Rasmus and Mr. Tirren are going to be there, so I know it won''t be like last time, but I''d still prefer you not to come with us. If it is somehow father, he can come back with us. You don''t need to be there.¡± Sarah looked at her and said nothing. ¡°I''ll put that down as a maybe, then.¡± Erica knew if Sarah wanted to come, she would. In fact, it would be far safer for her to be there with them, than to wander off by herself again. She had to give her the chance, that''s what big sisters were supposed to do. She''d never actually met another big sister, but it at least seemed like that¡¯s what they were supposed to do, in theory. ¡°Where''s the cereal,¡± she asked, checking the cupboard. Sarah opened her mouth and pointed at the wheat-y disaster zone that was the last of the cornflakes. ¡°They do not come with the bed, don''t even say it.¡± Sarah made a mental note to say it and filed it away for later. ¡°Listen, I''m going to check in with Mr. Rasmus, see if he has everything ready for tonight,¡± Erica said as she made her way upstairs to get ready. ¡°Is it too much to ask that you don''t get yourself killed before I come back?¡±


    ¡°Yes, just a bit.¡±


    ¡°Okay, but do it quietly and stay out of the bloody workshop.¡±


    ***


    The swelling on Erica''s legs had gone down slightly and the scratches had started to scab over as nicely as anything could scab over, which definitely wasn''t nice, so she removed the padding and slipped on a comfortable old pair of work trousers. They hurt a little, but she expected she''d live with it. In an unusual act of fastidiousness, Sarah had brought Erica''s boots back into the house and given them something that came dangerously close to a clean and set them neatly in the corner by the dresser. Perhaps she was coming down with something. She slipped them on and gave each toecap and quick rub on the back of her trouser legs for good measure. She slid her dress over a plain white shirt and clipped on her least-hated tool belt and looked in the mirror. ¡°You look like you''ve been dug up and hit with the shovel, my dear girl. It''s on now, so it''ll have to do,¡± she said to herself as she ran a brush through her hair.


    It was a little frosty that morning, but it looked as if the sun was threatening to do its job for once, so she had somewhat high hopes of it being a little warmer than it was a couple of days ago. That said, she was still looking forward to seeing what outdoor wear Mr. Rasmus could scrounge up. Everything about Mayflight was idyllic, except for the weather, which seldom understood the general aesthetic that the town was going for. That was never really much of a concern for the Huberts, so they never felt the need to stock up on warm clothing. During Winter, their days were spent flitting from one house to the other, from one roaring fire to the next. They never actually spent a great amount of time outside, and they weren''t ones to complain about it. As for the rest of the villagers, anyone that worked outside would make sure they did everything they needed during the warmer months, or they''d simply close for the season, like with Mr. Tirren''s forge. He much preferred baking bread anyway, and he''d exhausted the demand for his supply of metalwork. This meant that his Summer months were still mostly spent making bread, with the occasional bit of repair going around to keep his arm in.


    Harry stood outside and hopped from one foot to the other, partly to resist the cold, but mostly, she suspected, due to his almost complete inability to do something quite as boring as stand perfectly still. Occasionally he''d sidle towards the door, then quickly back again, almost willing himself to knock this early in the morning. She headed downstairs and picked up the toy gun on the way out. She''d left it standing by the front door so she wouldn''t forget or make the mistake of leaving it in the workshop, where things just tended to disappear forever. She opened the front door and held both the gun and a small pouch out in front of her. ¡°I reckon you''ve a better use in mind for this than I do.¡± Harry gave her a hug, then delightedly accepted the gift. Even if you were to be generous, Erica couldn''t be described as tall, but Harry still managed to only come up to her waist.


    He was still young, much younger than Sarah, and he hadn''t started to take much after his father yet, at least not in regard to his size. In every other respect, he was Bosco Tirren to a tee; he was kind and childish and silly and quite wonderful, and very much everything she had wanted her own father to be. Harry opened the pouch and produced the wibbly-wobbly glasses from in amongst the many rubber balls Erica had gathered. They were easy enough to make, and she quite expected at least one of the Tirrens to have fired them all into the river by the end of next week. Next week, she thought, that''s getting a bit ahead of yourself.


    Harry skipped down the path and back towards his own front garden, turning halfway to smile and wave, but never stopping his dance in between. She closed the door behind her and started off towards Mr. Rasmus'' house. When she arrived, Mr. Rasmus was fastening the last strap on an old burlap knapsack. Its many pouches and pockets seemed full to bursting, and what appeared to be an equally old bedroll was strapped to it.


    ¡°Camping, dear girl!¡±


    ¡°But we''re not camping, surely?¡± It seemed to her like a ridiculous notion. She''d only been playing down the danger of the whole thing in her mind, because if she dwelled on it, she knew she''d have never gotten this far. But camping? The whole thing sounded bloody ludicrous.


    ¡°Not if we can help it, but even without the lights, the woods are a dangerous place at night. We don''t know how far we''ll need to travel, but if things go badly, we may need these supplies.¡±


    ¡°So, how goes your part of our endeavour Ms. Erica?¡±


    ¡°It''s going well, Mr. Rasmus. As I said, the lantern is unfairly heavy, and it hasn''t been without issue.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡± Rasmus double-checked his list.


    ¡°Well, most of the weight of the lantern comes from the battery, and doing anything with that is beyond me, so I''ve had to save weight wherever I could. And that meant losing most of the housing. It''s much less protected against the elements, but I''ve made sure that the main components are at least waterproofed.¡±


    ¡°And what about transport?¡± Rasmus placed a tick at the bottom of the list, next to two more and neatly folded it. He placed it in his breast pocket and gave it a reassuring pat.


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    ¡°We''ve placed it in a small cart, which will hopefully work for most of the trip, but I expect we''ll have to carry it at some point. If these things won''t come out during the daytime, it would probably be a good idea to take the lantern into the woods now rather than in the dark. We can use the torches to reach it, get the most out of the battery.¡±


    ¡°A very good idea, but first on to more pressing matters. I have my own ideas, but what exactly do you intend to do when, or if, we find the lights again?¡±


    ¡°I don''t think they''re dangerous,¡± she said.


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°They were terrifying, yes, but they never hurt us. They could have hurt Sarah or worse, but they didn''t. And they were fast, Mr. Rasmus. I don''t think I could have outrun them even without being injured, and certainly not with Sarah. They followed us, of that I''m sure, but having thought about it, I''m not sure they chased us.¡±


    ¡°So we attempt to communicate with them, then?¡±


    ¡°Yes. And I want to ask you if you''d be willing to stay behind. Your help with this has been so important, but if this goes as badly as it could, and if I''ve been a complete idiot and misremembered everything, we could be in terrible, terrible danger. If we have to run, I''m so very afraid for your safety. You know your leg is getting worse, Mr. Rasmus.¡±


    ¡°And what about Sarah? Why are you bringing her?¡± he asked.


    ¡°You know what she''s like, Mr. Rasmus. Asking her to stay behind isn''t going to work. Her last trip didn''t put her off like I hoped it would and-¡±


    ¡°-You''re worried she''ll be a nuisance and get herself hurt,¡± Rasmus finished, though he knew Erica herself would never have used the word nuisance.


    ¡°Yes, I''m afraid so.¡±


    ¡°Well, then, if you try to leave me behind, I promise you I will be such a nuisance,¡± he said with a smile. ¡°Now be a dear and carry these packs up to the woods, my leg isn''t too good these days. Thank you for reminding me.¡± She didn''t know how exactly they were going to carry any of this equipment through the woods at any point of the day, quite frankly, but especially at night. It had taken her ten minutes to move the knapsacks from the house to the mouth of the woods, and that was less than a couple of hundred yards. Erica dropped off the last knapsack and crumpled unceremoniously to the ground, using it to prop up her exhausted form and give the impression to anyone watching that she was still borderline functional. Her muscles ached, her vision spun, and her stomach contemplated surrendering its contents. She closed her eyes.


    ***


    ¡°I have a question.¡± Erica awoke some time later to find Mr. Tirren knelt beside her, a puzzled look on his face.


    ¡°I was just resting my eyes, Mr. Tirren. Fire away.¡±


    ¡°Why are we carrying sacks full of rocks with us?¡±


    ¡°Rocks?¡± Erica asked, her tone filled with just a hint of really very bloody angry. Mr. Tirren opened the side pouches of each knapsack in turn and removed large rocks.


    ¡°Rocks!¡± he said, making no effort to be quiet. Rasmus put his teacup down and shut his book. ¡°Oh dear,¡± he said and made his way to the front door. Erica came raging down his front path, billowing forth a steam of invectives and epithets that made Mr. Tirren alternate between giggling and wanting to cover his ears. He¡¯d packed the rocks back into the knapsacks and was quite contentedly trundling along a pace behind Erica carrying all three.


    ¡°You get out here right now, you old sod!¡± Rasmus gave it a second, then opened his door ¨C just in time to see Erica unpack a rock and hurl it through his front window. The small ornate vase behind it shattered and scattered water and flowers across the floor.


    ¡°Please, there''s no need for that, Ms. Erica!¡± Rasmus protested.


    ¡°There''s every bloody need, now tell me why, because I quite fancy trying for an upstairs window this time.¡±


    Rasmus opened his door wider and beckoned them both inside. ¡°I''m sorry. I wanted you to change your mind, and you wouldn''t listen. Whether you want to hear it or not, you''re exactly like your father. I begged him, begged him, to not go chasing them, chasing those things. And he did, and now he''s gone. Why do you think I did it? I''m desperate.¡± He limped towards the kitchen table and poured himself a fresh cup of tea. ¡°This was without wit or decency, but I thought I could at least get you to wait a few days longer by convincing you that you still weren''t well enough. And you aren''t, you just can''t see it like we can. I''m scared for you.¡±


    ¡°And so am I,¡± Mr. Tirren said. ¡°But it''s not my place to stop her, or hurt her in the process.¡± A growl crept into his voice. ¡°Take them back,¡± he demanded, throwing open the front door and stomping over to retrieve the knapsacks. ¡°And do them properly or not at all.¡± Mr. Tirren collectively dropped all three on the porch. The boards groaned and cracked under their weight. ¡°I''m sorry about the porch, Emmanuel, I''ll repair it when I get back.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Tirren,¡± Erica said. ¡°For everything, but especially this. I''m sorry we''re both causing so much trouble for everyone.¡±


    ¡°Are you sorry about the window?¡± he asked, not a hint of intention in his voice.


    ¡°No, not particularly. I don''t think I am.¡±


    ¡°Me neither. Come on, let''s get this lantern into the clearing.¡± He grabbed the wagon by the handle and slowly pulled it behind him. Erica knew that he didn''t really need it. She also knew that he probably wouldn''t notice if she clambered on the back, at least for a little while. He didn''t.


    ***


    Erica serenely watched the world sedately move from one end of her vision to the other as the cart gently rattled its way through the woods on its thick rubber wheels. It was actually quite nice out here, she thought. A little dull, sure, but nothing to do for a change. That would change soon, of course it would, she knew that, but future Erica would have to deal with that. Present Erica was going to have a nap, and future Erica could just naff off if she had a problem with it. The cart rumbled to an abrupt halt and she found herself jostled against the lantern, her ribs pressed against one of the pointier bits of the exposed frame. She startled awake and tumbled out of the cart. ¡°I take it we''re here, then,¡± she said with an unobstructed view of the sky.


    ¡°Listen.¡± Mr. Tirren tilted his head from one direction to the other. Erica got to her feet and sat down on the edge of the wagon, and was just about to ask what was going on when through the trees came a faint and eerily familiar sound ¨C a whirring, crackling sound, starting almost imperceptibly and quickly rising to a high-pitched static. She could almost pick out something behind the noise, another sound entirely, but every time she could affix to it and focus long enough to hear something, it was almost like the overlaying sound would increase in intensity and frequency in response.


    ¡°I thought they only came out at night,¡± Erica shouted over the rising tide of white noise that filled her ears. The sound was becoming unbearable, she felt her gorge rise and her stomach once again threatened to push the button on her breakfast. Mr. Tirren sat on the ground, propped against the side of the wagon. He had his hands clamped to his ears, desperately trying to filter the sound that was assaulting his far more delicate ear drums. And then it stopped, and the woods were without sound. Not a tree bristled in the wind, not a bird chirped in the sky, not a stream bubbled or gurgled. Erica shook off the worst of her disorientation and crawled towards Mr. Tirren. She was on the ground, but she didn''t remember falling. Mr. Tirren''s eyes were bloodshot and he struggled to regain his balance. He could taste the iron tang of blood in his mouth. He¡¯d bitten his tongue, but he likewise didn''t remember doing it. He sat on the edge of the wagon, its rudimentary suspension sagged and protested under his weight. ¡°Mr. Tirren, I think we have a problem.¡±


    All around them, sections of the forest floor began to open at right-angles, props of wood keeping them open, giving view to tunnels below and the yellow lights that moved within the unnatural darkness of those confines. The lights pulsed in sequence, and a low-pitched beeping rose from out of the tunnels. She suspected this might have been the barely audible sound behind the static, but she wasn''t sure of much right now. Mr. Tirren rubbed his ears and rose shakily to his feet. He removed a short-handled blacksmiths'' hammer from his belt and held it aloft. From within the wall of static, he picked out the same sound that Erica had, but it wasn''t just one sound, it was several that overlapped, each distinct in tone and intensity. He wasn''t sure what they were, but he knew they were talking.

 Chapter 5

    ¡°Why do I have to be on the bottom?¡± Harry grumbled as he struggled to maintain his balance.


    ¡°Well, it''s because you have a lower centre of gravity. That''s what Mr. Rasmus says anyhow. Just don''t drop me until I look on this shelf. Come to think of it, don''t drop me then, either.¡± Sarah lightly grasped the shelf to steady herself, then stretched as far as she dared to inspect its contents.


    ¡°Do you see the key, Sarah?¡± The shelf mainly held books and assorted bric-a-brac, most of which Sarah happily scattered to the ground to get a better look. One such book, that she found very boring, was a dictionary.; it was a gift from Mr. Rasmus to aid her education. She knew what she liked, and what she liked was books with pictures, doing things and drawing things, and she especially liked knocking dusty old books off shelves in the hopes of finding the key to her father''s workshop.


    The dictionary twisted and turned as it fell, landing page up. The first word on the page, though neither of them had time to read it was this: Consequences n. the effect, result, or outcome of something occurring earlier. Harry yowled in pain as a very large book landed on his tiny foot. He lost his balance and fell backwards to the ground, letting go of Sarah entirely. Sarah, in a blind panic, now hung precipitously from the shelf, her legs desperately flailing to find something below her for footing. A large crack formed on the bedroom wall and rapidly spread along the ceiling. The shelf came loose and she landed with a bump atop the hill of books she¡¯d only just created, while the shelf itself came crashing down inches from her feet. ¡°Find the key, then?¡± Harry asked, covered from head-to-toe in dust and flecks of plaster from the ceiling.


    Sarah carefully got off the ground and tried not to step on any of the books she actually did like, and helped Harry to his feet. He gave his toes a wiggle and tested his foot by putting a little weight on it. It still hurt, but a person couldn''t have spare feet, he thought, so this will have to do. Sarah picked her way through the graveyard of books, giving the dictionary a boot as she passed by it, and picked up a box. It was small and wooden, and something that she wouldn''t have ever described as pretty, which was just as well, as there was now a large crack in the lid. Inside sat an old brass key, highly polished and festooned with ornate engravings. ¡°Found it,¡± she said. She straightened a misaligned table lamp, brushed the dust from her shoulders and pocketed the key.


    ***


    ¡°Are you sure we should really be doing this?¡± Harry asked. He scrabbled past Sarah as she opened the workshop door and rendered his own question somewhat redundant. As the door opened, lights clicked and hummed into life, illuminating the whole workshop floor-by-floor with a satisfying clack-clunk-clack. Sarah had never seen the workshop in any state of order or tidiness, and it was brilliant. If the workshop was neat and tidy and she knew where everything was and what everything did, it would be so incredibly dull. There was so much to explore and so much to find, and between them, the intrepid explorers were going to find everything. It was Sarah that had found the thermostats and assorted spare parts the last time the Tirren''s oven broke. She was especially proud of that, but not as proud as she was when she found the large spring just sitting out in the open, behind a stack of crates, inside its own unmarked crate that she''d had prise open with a crowbar.


    She took a small notebook out of her pocket and unfolded a piece of paper from it. On it was a crude sketch of the crate maze. Crates she had checked were marked with a number that corresponded to an inventory in her notebook. She¡¯d counted over seventy crates, both large and small, but so far had only found the time to search eight of them. Erica didn''t like her to be in the workshop, even accompanied, so finding the time to get anything done was getting harder and harder as her sister''s hiding places for the key were getting better. She held up the map above her head and allowed Harry to see from his perch atop the crates. ¡°That one,¡± she said and started navigating her way through the maze. Harry hopped from crate-to-crate, narrowly avoiding a tumble along the way, and arrived just before Sarah. It was one of the smallest crates in the workshop, as they both knew they had little time to work. It¡¯d taken them half-an-hour just to find the key this time, so they''d have to hurry.


    Sarah took a crowbar from off her belt and quickly set to work prying the lid off the crate, while Harry produced a pencil and a piece of paper from his back pocket. ¡°Ready,¡± he said. Sarah removed handfuls of straw and crumpled up paper from the crate and neatly piled them over by the lid. She reached in and removed the first item.


    ¡°Saucepan.¡±


    ¡°Saucepan!¡± Harry confirmed, writing it down on his list.


    ¡°Wicker basket.¡±


    ¡°Wicker basket!¡± Harry was starting to get a bad feeling about the crate. It didn''t seem like much fun at all. He marked it down on his list.


    ¡°Helmet,¡± Sarah said, still not looking up from the crate. The helmet was shaped like a teardrop and was designed to cover the top half of the head. It was made of a hard, shell-like material and from what Sarah could see, it was very well-padded on the inside. Harry covetously snatched it from her. By time she had looked up from the crate, he was carefully fastening the strap under his chin.


    He danced and glided around the workshop floor in celebration of this new find. His first thought was, ¡°I hope I don''t have to give it back.¡± This was quickly followed by his second thought, ¡°I wonder if this will go with my glasses.¡± And finally, his third thought, ¡°Why is the ground getting closer? Oh dear.¡± Harry''s head impacted the unforgiving stone floor of the workshop with a force that culminated in a sickening thud. ¡°This is great!¡± he yelled from the floor. He shook the saucepan off his foot and quickly got to his feet, he then threw himself to the ground again for good measure. Sarah moved from horror to mild bemusement, then onto a full-blown belly laugh faster than she assumed possible. By time Harry had moved on to experimentally headbutting things to see if it would hurt, it didn''t, Sarah''s side ached and she struggled to catch a breath.


    ¡°Whatever do you think you''re doing?¡± Erica called. Her voice echoed from within the maze of crates. Sarah and Harry stuffed the padding back into the crate and had started on replacing the lid when Erica called again. ¡°Whatever do you think you''re doing?¡± Though, this time, her voice was followed by a crackling rasp and a hum of static. They both held their breath and waited for the voice to come closer, but it didn''t, it just crackled and sputtered and repeated several more times before moving on. ¡°What are they?¡± Again, the voice repeated several times, again it originated from the exact same place ¨C the centre of the crate maze. Sarah stepped out from her hiding place and beckoned Harry to follow, who begrudgingly did.


    ¡°You have better ears than I do, come on.¡± She nudged Harry towards a crate and helped him up onto it. ¡°Which way is it coming from?¡± Harry tilted and twisted his head, his ears twitching as he tried to locate the source of the sound.


    ¡°Over there!¡± he said as he carefully hopped across the crates towards it.


    ¡°What are they?¡± repeated Erica. It contained the same exact tone and urgency, and Sarah was certain that it was the exact same sentence rather than the same sentence being repeated. Harry came to rest atop a large, square crate in the middle of the maze and pointed down to a smaller one below him, one sitting in the gap between several much larger crates. The sound repeated from inside the crate.


    ¡°Can you reach it, Harry?¡± He shook his head and dropped to the ground, his new helmet giving him a sense of invulnerability, and made his way around the surrounding crates to look for the lightest one.


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    ¡°This one, I think.¡± He pushed at the crate, which unfairly he thought, was refusing to cooperate. It was. Sarah slipped around the back of the crate and started pulling. Between them, they were able to spin it on one of its corners and create a large enough gap for her to squeeze through and grab the smaller one.


    ¡°This doesn''t make sense,¡± came the voice, the intensity and urgency had dropped to that of stunned bewilderment.


    Sarah weaved through the maze and back to the reclaimed wilderness that was Erica''s desk and swept aside her sister''s neatly organised belongings despite there being no reason to do so, sending papers and folders across the floor, and set the crate down on the table. She jimmied the lid and tossed the crowbar aside. Inside, along with the usual collection of straw and pieces of crumpled paper, was a small box. It, too, was made of wood, but in the centre of it was a circular piece of cardboard, and on the side of it was a small button that sat above a dial of some sort. Sarah held the box up to the light to get a better look. As she did, it said in Mr. Tirren''s voice, ¡°What do we do?¡± Harry took the box and held it to his chest. The box called out again, and Harry could feel a slight vibration rumble through his tiny body.


    ¡°I think we need to tell mum,¡± he said.


    Sarah nodded. ¡°But first, I think we need to tell Mr. Rasmus, he might know what this is.¡± They scrabbled up the stairs and shut the workshop door behind them, the lights going clunk-clack-clunk as they set about turning themselves off again. Harry bolted out the front door and ran to the end of the garden path, where he impatiently waited for Sarah to catch up and hopped from one foot to the other while he waited for the box to speak again. As they reached Mr. Rasmus'' house, he emerged from the door holding three tattered old knapsacks.


    ¡°Hello, my friends. I''ve finished the packing.¡± He lifted all three knapsacks with one arm. ¡°See, light as a feather. I suppose your sister told you of my little transgression with the rocks?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Sarah replied. ¡°I haven''t see her since this morning. We came to you because we think something is wrong.¡± Harry felt a low rumble in his chest, and held out the box a second before it spoke. It was his papa again, repeating the same thing he''d been saying for the last ten minutes. Rasmus gave the pair a puzzled look, then dropped the knapsacks and hobbled quickly towards Harry, one arm outstretched towards the box. He took the box and gently placed a finger on the cardboard circle, a small vibration ran through his hand as it spoke. ¡°Interesting,¡± he mumbled to no-one in particular, then he turned his attention to the buttons on the side. He turned the dial one way, it clicked into position with each turn, and listened carefully for any changes, making sure to return it to its starting position for several seconds before he turned it the other way and repeated the process. As the box repeated itself, he pressed the small button below the dial. The box crackled and buzzed and stopped speaking. He pressed it again and it buzzed into life.


    ¡°I see,¡± said Rasmus. ¡°I''m guessing you found this in the workshop.¡± He knew they weren''t allowed in there, but he kept his tone neutral and without reproach. Now certainly wasn''t the time for it, and if it was, he wasn''t in the mood for a hike to the moral high ground. Not with his hip. ¡°Sarah, wait for me inside. Harry, go fetch your mother, please.¡± Sarah collected up the knapsacks and carried them inside. She set them down in front of the boarded up window. Once all this was over with, she''d have to remind herself to ask how it happened. Harry sprinted off in the direction of his house, his new helmet making him at least forty-percent more aerodynamic than usual. Rasmus pressed the button on the device to silence its repetitious communications, then handed the box to Sarah, who was already seated at the kitchen table, and slumped into his chair.


    ¡°Do you know what this is, Mr. Rasmus?¡±


    ¡°I do, though I don''t exactly know how it''s going to help us. Your father called it a speaker-box, though I fear he may have been dumbing it down a little.¡± Sarah didn''t know what it did, but was suddenly all the more interested now that it had a name. She was slightly disappointed, though, that she didn''t get to name it herself.


    ¡°A speaker-box,¡± Rasmus continued. ¡°Is a device that can send sound across small distances-¡±


    ¡°-Like with a piece of string and two cups,¡± Sarah said.


    ¡°Yes, just like that but altogether less hazardous to my health. And this means that Ms. Erica and our Mr. Tirren are close to another such device.¡±


    ¡°So that means we can talk to them using this?¡±


    ¡°I don''t think so. From what I understand, and that is little, it appears to be broken. That''s the reason for the static and the repetition.¡±


    The door swung open. Harry wanted to see if he could open it with his head, and he could. He looked considerably happier than his mother, who followed in short order, her face was sullen and drawn. She wore her look of confusion and mild irritation like perfume.


    ¡°What''s going on, Emmanuel? Where''s my husband?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°Please, sit down, Bridget. We have much to explain, but please don''t worry. Sarah, would you care to start our explanation?¡± He didn''t wait for her answer and instead rose from his seat and ushered Harry outside. He shut the door and sat down on the step next to him. ¡°I have something else for you do to, because you did such a wonderful job last time,¡± he said. Harry nodded, beamed a smile and eagerly awaited his next mission. ¡°Please go and get Tobias and Ms. Kessler and bring them here.¡± Harry nodded and ran off, head down into the wind. Rasmus creakily got up off his step, not quite making as much noise as his front door, and headed back inside.


    ¡°And you see, Mrs. Tirren,¡± Sarah finished explaining. ¡°That''s why we think they might be in trouble.¡± Sarah had turned the speaker-box back on. It continued to repeat its message but it had, however, changed to a slightly different one; one of, ¡°I don''t understand any of this.¡± The panicked tone that left Erica''s voice earlier had slowly crept back into it.


    ¡°When do we leave?¡± Mrs. Tirren asked.


    ¡°As soon as the others get here, Bridget.¡± He squeezed her shoulder on the way back to his seat and eased himself down. Sarah turned the speaker-box off and slid it across the table to Mr. Rasmus.


    ¡°I''ve asked Tobias and Ms. Kessler to join us. Ms. Kessler will be our eyes, while Tobias- Well, you know how he''d feel about being left out.¡±


    Mrs. Tirren looked up from her malaise. ¡°Of course, he needs to know,¡± she said, then immediately let it envelop her again.


    There was a knock at the door, which came more as a warning of entry as opposed to asking permission. The door slid open and a slender wing emerged around the side of it, that was shortly followed by a slender leg that ended in three webbed toes, followed presently by the rest of Ms. Kessler. Isla Kessler stood impressively tall and impressively thin, having not needed to open the door all that much to be able to comfortably slip in. She wore three things; the first being a patchwork dress that she had proudly assembled herself out of pieces of much better dresses, a flower delicately tied to one of her head feathers, and an almost permanent look of bewilderment. Mrs. Tirren liked the second one, had offered to help with the first, and gave up all hope entirely with the third.


    ¡°Hello,¡± she said, needlessly drawing out the ''O'' sound. ¡°Need me to have a little fly, is it? People are always wanting me to have a little fly. ''Isla, why don''t you flap off somewhere, they say.'' They never say where, though, but I loves a fly, me.¡±


    ¡°We need your-¡± Rasmus began.


    ¡°-Is it style tip? Because I can do ¨C Oh, hello, Bridget ¨C style tips. Take this room for example-¡±


    ¡°-Finding our lost friends.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she said. The room descended into an awkward silence, broken almost immediately by Harry throwing open the door with his head. It quickly returned to awkward silence as they waited for Tobias to get up the steps and through the door.


    ¡°We were just saying, Tobias.¡± Rasmus made sure to start talking before Isla could fill the void with critiques of his d¨¦cor. ¡°Both Bosco and Erica have, it seems, gone missing.¡± He turned on the speaker-box again. It crackled and hissed and repeated the same sentence it had ten minutes prior. He didn''t pause for questions this time. ¡°So we''re rounding up all the help we can. Ms. Kessler, we need you to fly over the woods for us, in a north-easterly direction towards the large clearing. If you can see them, we''ll need you to guide us towards them. Tobias, please wait here with Harry in case they come back while we''re gone.¡± Sarah handed Mrs. Tirren one of the knapsacks and placed the other on the table for Mr. Rasmus. She already had the straps on hers fastened and was ready to leave when they were. She¡¯d prepared multiple arguments in her head for when Mr. Rasmus tried to tell her she shouldn''t and couldn''t come, but he just nodded towards the door and slung his rucksack over his shoulder. ¡°Ms. Kessler, ready when you are.¡±

 Chapter 6

    Mr. Tirren tightened his grip on the hammer and stepped in front of Erica. His ears still rang from the sonorous assault, and his nose was still filled with the metallic scent of his own blood. He turned his head slightly towards her but kept an eye fixed on as many of the trapdoors in front of them as he could. As he did, he caught a glimpse of yet more in his periphery. He was about to suggest they run, as much as that pained him, but it quickly became abundantly clear that they were surrounded. The beeps and clicks and chirps and buzzes continued between trapdoors. One would beep, buzz and click, while the others would repeat the pattern and add something of their own to the end.


    The air grew still and silent, and then they saw why. The glowing lights in the centre-most tunnel were moving closer ¨C they were coming towards them, coming towards the daylight. As it reached the very edge of the obsidian darkness, a slender grey arm extended beyond its shadowy confines - it shimmered dully in the early afternoon sun. The arm terminated in three clawed fingers that grasped at the forest floor for purchase, and up the arm itself ran a peculiar set of ridges and indentations. The creature dragged itself out of the tunnel, its burning yellow eyes not diminished even slightly by the light of day. The fiery orbs sat inside a cylindrical head, patches of rust and abrasions scarring its metallic skin. From the head itself hung a jaw filled with rusted metallic teeth that seemed more for show than anything else. The creature emerged from the tunnel and stood upright. Its feet were widely similar to its hands, its clawed toes somewhat resembled that of a bird''s. It jerkily moved towards them, its limbs giving an audible clunk with each small movement, and stopped when it was within five or so feet of them. Steam hissed out between the joints of its skin. Its eyes fluoresced through varying shades of yellow and onto other colours, until it settled on a vibrant blue. It squeaked and whistled and hooted in a way that reminded them both of an owl. One by one, each creature in each tunnel copied the message and repeated it, the air filled with a wall of noise. One by one, each set of, as they now came to understand it, eyes, cycled through every shade of every colour imaginable, again settling upon the same blue as the first.


    A second set of clawed hands emerged from the next tunnel along and another similar such creature hauled its body out into the light. This one wasn''t completely the same. Parts of its smooth metallic skin had peeled away to expose gears and springs and all sorts of mechanisms that Erica hadn''t seen before. Crudely carved sections of wood had been placed over some of them to act as makeshift plasters and served to make it look more horrifying than the one before. Over the course of the next few minutes, it was joined by another six, each in its own unique state of disrepair and decay.


    Mr. Tirren jostled in place, not quite sure whether or not he should strike out at the closest one or grab Erica and make a run for it. It was just a machine, he reasoned, a thing. Whatever he chose to do, he wouldn''t have to hold back, they weren''t that scary at all, in fact. Almost sensing his dilemma, Erica stepped in front of him and slowly pressed down on his arm. Begrudgingly, he lowered the hammer and returned it to his belt. Erica nervously addressed the closest mechanical man, robot she supposed she should call it. ¡°Hello. Can you understand me?¡± The top and bottom half of the robot''s head rotated independently to the centre section, its eyes remaining in place. It tweeted and squeaked affirmatively, then it beeped in a low tone, like a slide whistle. Slide whistles were just generally very disappointing things, so Erica understood quite clearly.


    ¡°They can understand us?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but I don''t think they can talk. Or at least not to us.¡± In response, the lead robot gave a high-pitched beep and nodded enthusiastically. ¡°Okay,¡± she said. Erica''s fear subsided, replaced by a sense of interest that she hadn''t experienced in a long time, and though she was still unbelievably confused, she no longer wanted to crawl out of her skin.


    ¡°One beep for yes,¡± Mr. Tirren said. ¡°Two for no. Like a guessing game.¡± The robot beeped once and rotated all of its head this time.


    ¡°Are you here to hurt us?¡± Erica asked nervously. The robot beeped twice and cycled its eyes through various shades of blue.


    ¡°Are you our friends?¡± The robot beeped twice, the second being the same low, dejected whistle from before.


    ¡°But will you be our friends?¡± Erica immediately added. The robot beeped once and the tension in the air dropped a little further, going from being thick enough to cut with a knife down to more of a fine soup. ¡°Of course, this doesn''t even begin to explain anything. They''re mechanical, certainly, and more advanced than anything I ever thought possible. Yes or no doesn''t really cut it, I''m afraid, Mr. Tirren. We know my father had to be involved, but we don''t know how or why, or even if-¡± Mr. Tirren wrapped a large, powerful arm around Erica and pulled her closer. She noticed his arms weren''t shaking, in stark contrast to her own, which she was having to hold down by her side to keep steady. She felt like a broomstick.


    ¡°Is Sebastian still alive?¡± he asked. The robot bent its knees slightly and looked at the ground as if caught in a deep wave of thought. Its eyes cycled through multiple colours and, as before, ended up at light blue. It beeped once. Well, that''s something, thought Erica. What would the people at home think when she told them? They''d probably be happier with the lights. She considered not telling them anything at all. ¡°Oh, we just got lost,¡± or, ¡°We stopped for a quick nap and, oh would you look at the time,¡± she''d say. She was very sure no-one would believe that, even Harry, and he always seemed so keen to believe anything.


    ¡°Hello!¡± shouted Isla. She replaced the E with an A and forgot exactly how many Os were required. When in doubt, add more, was her motto. She also forgot that you can''t really fly and wave at the same time. She clipped a tree and tumbled through it, making a whistle-stop tour of all the branches on the way down, and found herself upside-down in a bush. This was one of her better landings. In unison, the glowing blue eyes cycled to red and the metal men raised their arms. Each of their hands spun out in front of them, their taloned fingers thrown wide by centrifugal force, creating a swirling fan of metal as they turned their attention towards the bush and slowly began their approach.


    ¡°No! Wait!¡± Erica cried as she stepped forward. Mr. Tirren drew his hammer and weighed up his options. The lead robot turned its head towards them and stared. Much more slowly than before, it cycled its eyes through the spectrum and this time settled on a piercing green. It whistled and beeped and slowly lowered its arms. To their relief, the others followed suit.


    ¡°So''s I was sent to find you two,¡± Isla said, awkwardly trying to untangle her dress from the branches of the bush. ¡°Everyone said you might be in troub-¡± She looked at the phalanx of metal men. ¡°-Oh would you look at that? I''ll just be going, then.¡± She didn''t actually go anywhere, she just climbed back into the bush, curled into a ball and pulled the branches around her. It was a very effective tactic when employed by hedgehogs or pill bugs, or reasonably anything smaller than a six-foot wading bird in a pink, green, blue, orange, tie-dyed patchwork dress that she was very proud of but now immensely regretted making.


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    ¡°It''s all right, Isla. Come out and meet our new friends. They especially like it when you move slowly and don''t do anything that looks threatening,¡± Erica said. She looked at Mr. Tirren as she said this and kept her tone low and neutral. He shrugged because that was all he had the emotional energy for right now and put the hammer back into his belt for the second time. Isla stepped out of the bush as elegantly as she could, but the effect was ruined when she had to stop to remove twigs and leaves and one very angry caterpillar from her feathers. She looked down at her dress and lamented the new hole she¡¯d torn in it. She patched and replaced so many parts of it over the years, she wondered if it was even her dress any more.


    ¡°Isla, can you still fly?¡±


    ¡°I s''pose so,¡± she said. She tried not to think of her dress. She thought so hard about trying not to think about her dress that she thought about her dress, which annoyed her more than a little.


    ¡°Good. Well, could you please tell everyone we''re okay and we''ll be home soon. Tell them we''ve brought a friend, but leave the explaining to us.¡± Mr. Tirren shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.


    ¡°What are we going to do about these things?¡± He pointed without raising his arm. ¡°That very much depends on them, I''d say, Mr. Tirren.¡± She addressed the lead robot. ¡°I''d like to find out more. Would you be willing to come back with us? Just you. We don''t have room for all of you, and after that little stunt you just pulled with our friend Isla, Ms. Kessler to you, it would be dangerous for us to have you there. I hope you understand.¡± The metal men burst into a chorus of beeps and whistles, their eyes flashed in various colours and intensities as they, Erica assumed but not incorrectly, put it to a vote. The metal men briefly organised themselves into two rows. The robots in the row on the left adjusted their eyes to red, the robots on the right adjusted their eyes to blue. The lead robot stood in the middle, its eyes an emerald green. It turned to the row on the left and gave a series of three whistles, then turned to the robots on the right and gave a series of four whistles.


    ¡°That''s a yes, then,¡± Mr. Tirren mumbled. Erica couldn''t sense the disappointment in his voice quite as much as she was outright crushed into the ground by it.


    ¡°Of course, we have rules. Two, in fact.¡± The metal man beeped a solitary beep. ¡°One: you stay in our house and the only time you leave is if you want to come back here. No roaming the village and scaring people. And two: if you try to hurt anyone, Mr. Tirren here will be the last of you worries.¡± Erica knew that Mr. Tirren would, in fact, be the very first of their worries and subsequently the last of them. If there were somehow to be worries in between them, they would probably be shaped like Mr. Tirren as well. However, she felt it wouldn''t hurt to make them think there was something worse in store if they tried anything. ¡°There will be no violence,¡± she continued. ¡°Except our violence, I suppose, but that would only come in response to your violence, and would be all your own fault for being violent in the first place.¡± She¡¯d lost her thread a little, but she was glad that someone was still following it. The metal man inclined its head slightly and beeped.


    Isla flapped her wings and shook the final few twigs from her plumage. After an ungainly run up and a couple of test hops and flaps, Isla Kessler was essentially flying. When Isla flew, she did so without a care in the world or a thought in her head, not even a thought about flying. So it wasn''t exactly flying as much as it was an exercise in remembering periodically to not hit the ground at a terminal velocity. She soared shakily above the trees. Erica followed with her gaze and half an expectation that she''d hit one, or more of them, and they''d need to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to get her down. ¡°I suppose you''ll have a lot of questions of your own,¡± she said. ¡°But I''ve no idea how you''d begin to ask them.¡± They beeped. ¡°I''m sorry for all of this, Mr. Tirren. If we want answers, I think this is what we need to do.¡±


    ¡°I agree,¡± he sighed. He¡¯s resigned himself to this being the only way forward that didn''t involve his hammer. ¡°We should go, Erica. But that thing is in front of us.¡± The creature neither beeped nor whistled, and as casually as it possibly could, which wasn''t particularly casual considering what it was, started towards Mayflight.


    ***


    They¡¯d taken it upon themselves to sacrifice the lantern and wagon for the sake of speed. They weren''t going to need it now at any rate. This was a fact that didn''t escape Erica, and she shuddered at the thought of having to have done this in the diminishing electric glow of the lantern. Any time they may have saved was squandered easily as the robot shakily picked and stumbled its way up embankments and over tree roots, its arms flailing from side-to-side in an attempt to maintain its balance. Mr. Tirren¡¯s trepidation faded as he watched what had just half-an-hour ago been, in his mind, a significant threat, react to its surroundings like an unsteady child; vulnerable, na?ve, he didn''t know what to make of it any more. As they walked, its head pivoted widely and without coordination as it followed the chirps and tweets of birds high up in the canopy. It filled the silence between the chatter with its own chirps and whistles and, as far as they could both gather, seemed quite content in being there with them.


    The journey had taken far longer than they anticipated, but Mayflight was in sight. As with Erica''s previous trip to the woods, a crowd had gathered at the entrance.


    ¡°Is that it?¡± Tobias asked.


    ¡°I thought it would be taller,¡± said Mrs. Tirren. ¡°Isla said it was taller.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a baby,¡± Harry replied. ¡°Do they have babies? I bet they have babies.¡± Rasmus stepped forward, followed closely by Sarah. Harry sat excitedly upon Tobias'' shoulders and tried to pilot him towards the excitement. He was having very little success but it was certainly very fun.


    ¡°Isla got around to talking,¡± Erica said as Rasmus approached. It wasn''t a question.


    ¡°She did have some interesting things to say.¡±


    ¡°I bet she did,¡± Mr. Tirren chuffed. He patted Rasmus on the shoulder and walked off towards his family.


    ¡°Do they get any taller?¡± Rasmus asked.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°And that''s also a no to breathing fire?¡±


    ¡°That''s a no to probably everything Isla told you. Where is she now?¡±


    ¡°After we got her off the roof and inside in front of the fire, she had some stories to tell. After that, she retreated to Bridget''s sowing room to tend to her gravely wounded dress. And that is where I imagine she still is.¡± The robot turned towards Rasmus and took a few shaky steps forward, then slowly and deliberately extended its arm out in front of it and held it there. Rasmus regarded the creature for a moment, then put his hand out and carefully shook the robot by one of its deceptively sharp fingers,to which it beeped and chirruped ecstatically. The villagers collectively let out a sigh and inched a little closer to sate their curiosity, Sarah at the forefront, her pencil a manic whirl as she feverishly scribbled notes and diagrams onto every patch of blank paper; a perfectly passable likeness of the creature alongside her estimates of height, weight and what it may possibly be made of.


    Tobias did his best at humouring the young canine as he compelled him towards Sarah, and hopped very slowly from foot-to-foot at his instruction. The little one seemed very excited, but Tobias didn''t get it, and certainly wasn''t going to expend the energy to think about why he should get it, though by time he had expended the energy to think of all the reasons why he shouldn''t expend the energy by thinking about it, everyone had gone home and Tobias stood alone.


    ¡°Bugger,¡± he said.

 Chapter 7

    ¡°He can sleep in our room,¡± Sarah said in a tone so matter-of-factly that Erica almost believed it would happen.


    ¡°I don''t think it sleeps at all. And if it does, there''s a perfectly good pantry for that.¡± Sarah didn''t quite shoot her sister a look that could kill, but it certainly had the potential to require ointment.


    ¡°Look, if you saw it do what I did earlier, you''d want to be cautious, too.¡± To illustrate her point, Erica gestured at the robot by spinning her wrists in a clockwise fashion. It did the same in return, its hands a blur of metal as its blades sliced the air around them and created a whirring sound. Sarah produced her notebook and began furiously taking notes and drawing the framework for later sketches. She began listing all the possible applications for such a tool, but optimistically stopped short of writing ''bloody and violent murder.'' ¡°Why did I expect this to have a different result?¡± Erica gasped, unable to contain her incredulity.


    ¡°Of course, I''m going to need to examine him fully!¡± Sarah''s excitement had reached boiling point and the last part of her sentence had condensed into a barely-decipherable squeal.


    ¡°I''m happy for you. Really, but we can do this tomorrow.¡± She looked at the robot. ¡°Pantry''s there.¡± She removed her toolbox and gestured for the creature to get inside. She wasn''t sure if it was happy with the arrangement, but it obligingly pottered inside and waited for her to close the door behind it. ¡°See, now everyone is happy.¡± She wedged a chair under the handle. Sarah underlined an item from her list and held the notebook open for Erica to read. It said, ''cutting wood.'' Erica opened the cupboard next to the sink and produced a pair of oven gloves, then held them up triumphantly and went to un-wedge the chair. The robot still stood facing the wall where she left it. ¡°Turn around. Arms, please.¡± The robot turned and extended its arms. Erica wedged a glove over each clawed hand and tied the strings as tightly as they''d allow. ¡°Good night,¡± she said curtly, then closed the door in its face and re-wedged the chair. ¡°Crisis averted. Put that one in your notebook.¡± Sarah absolutely put that in her notebook. ''Thud thwud thwack'' came a noise from within the pantry. ¡°I heard that!¡± Erica yelled. The robot beeped and turned to face the wall again.


    ***


    Sarah couldn''t sleep; she tossed and she turned and she thought of all the things she would do in the morning. She thought of the experiments she would perform and the questions she would ask, she thought of the notes she would take and the sketches she would draw, but most importantly, she thought of how proud her father would be. And once this incredible metal person showed her where he was, it would only be right that he tell her himself. Secondarily to this, she thought about the giant and, if we''re being honest, slightly unreliable, spring bolted to the floor underneath the bed she¡¯d been relegated to sleeping in. She resisted the urge to get out and check if it was secure, but did come to realise that an alarm clock that stops you from sleeping in the first place wouldn''t actually make for a very good alarm clock. Sarah wasn''t about to step into the world of making torture devices, but she reckoned that if she ever banged her head one day and suddenly decided it was a good idea, this would make for a fantastic one. ¡°And it wouldn''t leave a mess,¡± she mumbled to the wall as she rolled over and went to sleep.


    ***


    The sun rose, as often was its wont, and Sarah slid out of bed as soon as the first ray of light tickled her nose. Before the light had reached any further than the middle of her pillow, she¡¯d snaked her way into her dressing gown without loosening the belt and donned her sister''s slightly-too-large-but-I-destroyed-mine-earlier slippers. She completed the look by slathering her toothbrush with far too much toothpaste and shoving it in the corner of her mouth. As she rushed downstairs, oblivious to how terrible an idea that was, she chewed on the brush and just generally moved it from side-to-side with her tongue. This definitely counts, she thought. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned and headed towards the kitchen, the toothbrush dropped in an old, battered umbrella stand as she went. During the short walk to the kitchen, she had both the time to swallow the toothpaste and regret it immensely for a duration of time that seemed to far outlast the length of the walk itself.


    When she entered the kitchen, she found two things; the first was the shredded remains of a pair of flower-patterned oven gloves, the second was a pantry door that had neatly had its hinges severed. It was placed carefully against the wall next to the chair. What she didn''t immediately find was her test subject where she expected to find it. The robot had let itself into the living room and was now examining a dirty plate it had taken from the sink as if in doing so it might unravel the mysteries of the universe. Thus far, it had yet to unravel the mysteries of last night''s dinner, but it was hopeful. The living room door hung at an awkward angle where the creature had sliced through the topmost hinge. At some point between that and entering the living room, it had clearly had an epiphany over the use of doorhandles.


    ¡°I thought you''d run away,¡± Sarah said, completely disregarding the natural disaster that had struck their kitchen. The metal person finished smearing what appeared to be the remnants of a pasta bake all over its face. Vast streams of data, made up of incalculable strings of ones and zeros zipped through its system at speeds well over the speed of thought of an organic nervous system. As soon as it had started processing, it had finished, and upon doing so, a file was created with clear instructions to not do that again because it seemed really very silly. There was a knock at the door. It whistled softly and dropped the plate to the ground that shattered and chipped a part of the stone floor, sending a gout of pasta sauce up a nearby skirting board. There was a knock at the door. It turned towards Sarah and immediately extended its arm. She grasped its clawed hand and shook it so enthusiastically that the creature''s cylindrical body wobbled ungracefully atop its pipe-cleaner legs. There was a knock at the door.


    ¡°I''ll just bloody get it, then, will I?¡± Erica stormed downstairs, her hair partly brushed, the brush still dangling painfully from a tangle at the back. She threw her boots into the corner by the door and forcefully swung it open. Rasmus stood in the doorway, his cane held under one arm and the speaker-box carefully clutched to his stomach as he stood precariously keeping the weight off his bad leg.


    ¡°I thought you might find yourself in need of this,¡± he said. He pointed down to the box with his chin. ¡°Also, I wonder if I might properly meet our friend today? Bosco has been more than a little vocal on the subject, as you may well know, and I do think that I must insist.¡±


    ¡°Of course, please come in, Mr. Rasmus.¡± Erica turned and set the speaker-box down on the hall table.


    ¡°Did you know you have-¡±


    ¡°Yes, thank you. It''s all the rage, fashionably speaking. Please follow the trail of abject carnage and giggling.¡± Erica ushered Mr. Rasmus towards the living room, then wrestled with the brush stuck to her head as soon as he was out of sight. Rasmus hobbled into the living room.


    The unsupported weight of the door had now torn the bottom hinge away from the frame, and it hung Damoclean by the tip of a heavily-bent screw. Sarah giggled, oblivious to his presence, as she tried to clean the remnants of last night''s dinner from her new friend''s face. It rotated its face and head at different speeds and in different directions, all while trying to avoid the slightly damp cloth Sarah chased it with. It stopped briefly to fix a look at Rasmus as he warily weaved his way around the door, allowing Sarah to remove the last piece of sauce from below its right eye. The creature beeped defeatedly. Sarah followed its diverted gaze to Mr. Rasmus, who stood quietly in awe.


    ¡°Hello. Mr. Rasmus! He''s great, isn''t he? And there are others!¡± She dropped the cloth on the floor in among the shattered crockery and bits of pasta.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Aren''t you going to-¡±


    ¡°-Later,¡± she said. ¡°We have lots to do. You positively must help, Mr. Rasmus. Please.¡± Rasmus hummed and hawed and made a point of stroking his chin in a way that he hoped signified deep contemplation rather than fleas. ¡°Yes, I do believe that would be acceptable. Lead the way.¡± The door''s last supporting screw finally succumbed to gravity and it came loose from its frame. It landed corner-first on the coffee table and cracked its glass top before sliding flat to the floor with a thud.


    ¡°Oh, bloody hell!¡± came a cry from down the hall. A similar unheard cry emanated from the family of termites inside the door itself. Rasmus placed a finger to his lips and quietly signalled for everyone to expedite their departure from the room.


    ¡°Later,¡± he whispered. Sarah led the robot out of the room by its hand as fast as its insubstantial legs would allow it to. Perhaps she would skip the speed test, though she really did want to use that treadmill for something today.


    ***


    ¡°Four-feet, eight inches,¡± Sarah mumbled to herself as she wrote in her notebook. She¡¯d sketched a perfectly competent likeness of her new friend slash test subject slash to be decided, and was filling in its various attributes alongside the sketch. The metal man stood an inch shorter than she was, but weighed decidedly more. In fact, she''d had to recalibrate the scale twice just to be sure, and both times it was said to weigh three-hundred pounds. Rasmus sat silently at the desk that had once again been reclaimed from the cluttered wilderness, a cup of tea in hand, and watched in fascination as Sarah worked.


    ¡°I''m not sure you realise how alike you and your father are.¡±


    ¡°I can''t wait to see for myself,¡± she said, as she took a momentary glance up from her notes.


    ¡°So you believe ¨C it really feels very rude to not give our guest a name ¨C is telling the truth?¡±


    ¡°He told us what I already knew ¨C my father is alive. I just have to find a way to let him tell me where he is. And you''re right, Mr. Rasmus ¨C I was thinking Peter. I''ve never met a Peter, I''d quite like to.¡± The robot beeped. Sarah didn''t understand what it meant, but it pleased her greatly to think it was a yes, so she thought exactly that.


    ¡°Very good, then. Very pleased to meet you, Peter.¡±


    ¡°Peter, is it?¡± Erica set the speaker-box down on the workbench across from the table. ¡°Well, Peter has destroyed two doors, not to mention my favourite pair of oven gloves by virtue of them being my only oven gloves, and smeared pasta sauce halfway up the living room wall.¡± She paused for a breath and poured herself a cup of tea.


    ¡°It''s stewed,¡± Rasmus said.


    ¡°That makes two us, then.¡± She gulped down the tea and gave a visible shudder.


    ¡°It''s not his fault,¡± Sarah protested. ¡°It¡¯s all new to him, like it was new to us.¡±


    ¡°You''re right, Sarah. I''m so sorry. I forgot all about the time I cut the hinges off the doors with my blade-hands as a child.¡± Rasmus stifled a chuckle with a cough, which then turned into an actual cough, so it worked out quite nicely for him. Then he remembered he was the only adult in the room, so did his best to mediate.


    ¡°Now, please, girls. Time spent arguing with one another is time that could be spent helping our friend here. The sooner we find our answers, the sooner Peter can go home, and the sooner the damage can be remedied.¡±


    ¡°I agree, Mr. Rasmus,¡± said Sarah.


    ¡°I suppose it makes sense,¡± her sister begrudgingly added.


    ¡°Peter agrees,¡± said Peter. The room fell silent. Peter stood with the speaker-box held up to his chest, a wire protruded from the nape of his neck and down into the back of the box. Peter looked at everyone in turn, his stoic metal face showed no sign of the confusion that dialled through his circuits at incalculable speeds.


    ¡°Peter said Peter concurs.¡±


    Silence. ¡°Well, I''m glad we''ve sorted that out,¡± his logic-board said to his processor. ¡°Crisis averted.¡±


    ¡°Brilliant!¡± Sarah cried, hastily leafing through her notebook for a blank page. Loose sheets flitted to the floor like leaves on a gentle breeze. She jotted something down, then immediately asked her first question.


    ¡°Where is my father, where is Sebastian Hubert?¡±


    ¡°Home,¡± Peter replied.


    ¡°Whose home?¡± Erica asked. ¡°Your home?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Rasmus sat forward in his chair, his chin propped on the handle of his cane ¨C it was his turn for a question, he fancied. ¡°And where is your home, Peter?¡±


    ¡°Classified. Mission data cannot be made available without authorisation. Please present authorisation,¡± Peter responded.


    ¡°I''ll authorise you, you useless bloody thing, you.¡± Erica reached for the nearest thing to hand and flung it at Peter. Her father¡¯s notebook harmlessly hit the back of Peter''s head and flopped to the floor in much the same way you''d expect a small bundle of a paper to do. Peter turned his head back towards Erica and looked down towards the notebook. It lay open, its pages face up. Peter observed the jumble of characters and pictograms that littered the pages, then systematically started to run them through his array of cyphers, compiling the results of each one in turn and discarding any that didn''t match a recognised routine.


    Peter''s eyes flashed. ¡°Authorisation granted.¡±


    ¡°If you''re hearing this,¡± the speaker-box crackled. ¡°You''re either very confused or you''re my daughters. You could actually be both. Anyway, I¡¯m rambling.¡±


    ¡°Daddy!¡± Sarah shouted excitedly.¡±


    ¡°This little metal man, its called a Pilot Fish. The chaps in R&D thought they were being clever with that one- You put those hands down!¡± A robotic whirring rose up and drowned out the sound of Sebastian¡¯s voice. ¡°Hands down!¡± he shouted. ¡°So rude, so rude. Rude! Is that what you came out the factory like, rude?¡±


    Rasmus shuffled closer and almost ran out of seat. ¡°Remarkable!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep it brief. The Pilot Fish were to send a signal when they found somewhere matching the requirements of life. They found one ¨C we called it Cadia. Our world is dying, this was a fresh start. Your mother and I fled here and closed the path behind us. If I had known this world were inhabited, I''d have never-- There! I¡¯ve rerouted the signal. I don¡¯t have the tools for anything else. I¡¯ve told them to wait, I¡¯ve told them to hide. If the signal ever starts transmitting again, I¡¯ve told them to find you. And I guess they have. Love you both, see you soon.¡± The speaker-box hissed and returned to silence. Sarah threw her arms around Peter and danced in a circle with hops of excitement while Peter¡¯s head bobbed up and down on a ratchet.


    ¡°See you soon!¡± she shrieked. ¡°Soon! How soon is soon?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand any of this. Mr. Rasmus, what¡¯s a Pilot Fish?¡± Erica asked.


    ¡°I think it might mean we¡¯re in trouble,¡± he said grimly. ¡°Small, mostly harmless.¡± He nodded towards Peter. ¡°They travel in the shadows of predators.¡±


    Sarah stopped her dance and looked towards Mr. Rasmus. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°It means-¡± Erica said.


    ¡°-A shark is coming,¡± Rasmus interrupted.

 Chapter 8

    A small, yellow light appeared in the clearing, around it in a semi-circle stood seven Pilot Fish, their eyes glowed the same vibrant yellow as the orb that hovered between them and cast sparking tendrils upon the ground. The orb shuddered and spread evenly and rapidly until it created a large, shimmering square that rested several feet above the ground. The square rippled like the surface of a pond, and slowly a vague image of a grey-clad man formed within. The image grew larger and larger until it broke the surface of the square and emerged from the other side. The man dropped to the ground, the thick rubber treads of his weather-worn boots leaving heavy impressions in the dry forest floor. He tapped a finger to the side of his helmet and spoke. ¡°Minus four on the Y,¡± he said. ¡°Copy,¡± crackled the voice in his earpiece. The square shimmered out of existence behind him, then reappeared four-feet lower. Three more men stepped from the gateway, each attired in the same dark grey environment suit as the first, an impressive array of equipment between them. The first man unclasped his helmet and tucked it under one arm.


    The early afternoon sun blazed over head; his eyes watered as they adjusted to the light outside of the tinted lenses of his helmet, the scent of pine wafted gently on the warm breeze and, though pleasant, he had idea what it was. The wind continued past him, the crispy top layer of leaves being shovelled along the forest floor and out of sight. He closed his eyes and ran his hand through his grey-flecked hair. Colonel Edevane stood and let the world wash by for several long moments, then put his helmet back on and locked it into place. ¡°Anchor it,¡± he ordered, his voice without tone or any particular interest. Two men broke from the line and unpacked a small device from each of their backpacks. Each device was an intricate metal pole with a series of buttons that ran along the length, affixed with a glass orb at one end and a spike at the other. The men spiked their respective devices into the soft ground at either side of the gateway and made doubly sure they were both straight and correctly aligned with one another. ¡°3, 2, 1, ignite,¡± they said in tandem, then pressed the same button on each device in unison.


    The gateway shimmered and twisted in place. Gone was the ethereal yellow glow, replaced by the crystalline image of a stark metal-lined room. Cold, sterile, and lined wall-to-wall with the cabinet-sized computers required to make sure everything functioned. The fourth man opened the large, metal flight case they¡¯d brought with them and produced a small drone that looked like a hastily assembled collection of cogs and gears that had been duct-taped together, and it mostly was. The majority of the case was taken up by a screen and, for such a small device, a complex set of controls that featured an assortment of dials and levers and a frightening amount of identical, unlabelled buttons and gauges; it was the sort of control panel that was invented by someone that knew they would never have to use it. ¡°Oh, there''s a spare button from that other thing,¡± they''d said, chastising themselves for having a spare button in the first place. ¡°Let''s just add it to this other thing.¡±


    Scientists could, for a time, often be identified by the extra buttons on their trousers. Enemy assassins found this so useful that High Command ordered the use of elastic waistbands as a counter-measure. The problem with such a design strategy is two-fold: firstly, the training time for drone operators vastly exceeded their estimated life-expectancy, on or off the battlefield and, secondly, even if they did pass the course with flying colours, the controls were still damn near impossible to use, though assuredly very good and cutting edge. Colonel Edevane had insisted that he be supplied with the most state of the art drone that money could buy, specifically money before the turn of the last century.


    It lacked many essential features, like a colour screen, thermal camera (which it actually had, but you couldn''t tell without the colour screen) or a long-life power cell, but it also lacked the best part of one-hundred extra buttons and a control unit the size of an obese eight-year old. Even with the increased ease-of-use, Lieutenant Martin, the drone operator, still struggled to keep the drone in an extended state of not being on the ground in pieces. As it pirouetted through the air, its internal gyroscope insisted vehemently that it fly in every position and direction except the correct one. After five minutes and a very stern talking to, Martin managed to right the drone and send it above the dense forest canopy. The drone''s antiquated cameras took a few seconds to calibrate to the brightness of the midday sun, bright spots still dotted the display monitor even after it had.


    ¡°Small settlement one klick south, sir. Seems unguarded,¡± he said. Martin saluted the back of his Colonel''s head just long enough for the drone to helplessly helix down into the canopy and become snagged irretrievably in a bird''s nest. ¡°Lost contact with the drone, sir. Atmospheric interference, sir. Very sorry, sir.¡±


    ¡°That''s quite alright, Lieutenant,¡± Edevane said. ¡°Expendable assets.¡± A low chuckle swept through the men behind him. Edevane adjusted the nylon strap hanging around his neck, the practically antique rifle that hung from it was the best he was able to requisition at very long notice and blackmail. He couldn''t remember which war it came from, because he found they all tended to run into one another after a while, like Sunday afternoons. Aesthetically, the gun looked like someone sneezed on a blueprint and called it a day. The barrel was made from unnecessarily polished copper that had a tendency to gleam in the sun and give away your position, though this was easily rectified with a piece of sandpaper or, failing that, a nice, technically uncomplicated rock. The guns were supplied in museum condition, because that was probably where they came from, so Edevane had Martin roll them in the mud and tarnish the metal a little before allowing the safeties off.


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    ¡°Lieutenant Martin, Private Brandon, with me. Lieutenant Bracknell, guard the extraction point. Pilot Fish are yours to command,¡± he ordered. Lieutenant Bracknell wasn''t just a large man, he was a very large man. If you were to trace his lineage and look up his family tree, you would find that he came from a long line of sheds, maybe even houses. Bracknell stood with his back to the Gate and looked much like an adult stood in front of a child''s football goal; he almost completely obscured the view of the scientists that had now gathered back in the control room and were loudly tutting and passive-aggressively stirring their coffee. ¡°Private Brandon, take point.¡±


    ¡°Me, sir? Not to question you, sir, but wouldn''t Lieutenant Martin do a better job, sir?¡± Brandon squeaked. He almost choked on his tongue from not just the very thought of insubordination but the very thought of the very thought of it. Like all good utilitarian sociopaths, Edevane had quickly come to the conclusion that the solution to his problem hinged upon yet another sacrifice to the greater good by somebody that very definitely wasn''t him.


    ¡°Landmines, Private,¡± he replied coldly. ¡°Now walk, please.¡± Edevane had developed the knack of saying ''please'' in such a way that it came out as ''or else.'' In fact, he had developed a knack of saying most things and having them come out as ''or else.'' Brandon moved cautiously and low to the ground, studiously observing his surroundings and avoiding any dry twigs or patches of leaves along the route. Edevane and Martin moved quickly along the weather-worn path and followed in single-file a dozen or so paces behind Brandon, not deviating from his exact route by a single hair. Edevane tapped the side of his helmet and spoke into the transmitter.


    ¡°Lieutenant Bracknell, report. Over.¡±


    ¡°All quiet, sir. Nothing to report. Over.¡±


    ¡°ETA three minutes. Commence radio silence. Over and out.¡±


    Private Brandon crested a small hill. He struggled to regain his footing after a cascade of rotten leaves and loose mud slid out from beneath him, but managed to steady himself against the hill with his free hand. He proceeded ape-like the rest of the way up and took a crouched stance at the top. Edevane and Martin waited at the foot of the hill and kept themselves low and obscured while Brandon reached into a pouch on his belt and produced a small pair of binoculars.


    ¡°Creatures, sir,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Village ahead. No sign of sentries or emplacements. Just as Lieutenant Martin said. Not even a watch tower, sir.¡± Edevane scrambled up the hill in more or less the same fashion Brandon had and took position next to him. Brandon offered Edevane his binoculars without needing to be asked and scooted over slightly so that he could observe from the same position he had. Edevane surveyed the village, then directed his attention to the path that led up to it.


    The village at this point was within one-hundred yards of them. The path was, for the most part, dotted with footprints ¨C at least three different sets, some kind of light vehicle tracks led their way, too, then veered off into the leaf-strewn undergrowth. He turned his attention to the creatures. In the middle of the village were two bipedal, he supposed, well, dogs. The largest of the two was only a slight bit smaller than Lieutenant Bracknell and was attired in civilian clothing. The smaller of the two, a child, clearly; it clumsily frolicked and danced around the other one without any particular concern for its own safety, as evidenced by its frequent trips to the ground. He signalled with a wave for Martin to join them.


    ¡°Non-combatants, spread out within line-of-sight, maintain radio silence. Hostages only, secure the perimeter ¨C those are our orders.¡± This world was unlike anything he''d seen before and, if he still had a sentimental bone left in his body, he might have called it beautiful. He remembered dogs, though not any like that, but he remembered them. They went extinct when he was still a child, along with the cats and the birds and the fish. He was always told that at the end of the world, there would only be cockroaches left, but even they had gone extinct. He approached the creatures cautiously and kept in the deep shadows thrown by nearby buildings, while Lieutenant Martin and Private Brandon kept just in the periphery.


    Brandon broke from formation and pressed forward. He pushed towards the larger of the two creatures with his gun raised in his trembling hands. ¡°Stop right there!¡± he growled. His voice broke mid-sentence and escaped his mouth like helium from a balloon. Bosco turned towards the source of the barely-coherent shout. The muzzle of the rifle ignited in a sulphurous burst and filled the air with a thick, foul-smelling smoke as Brandon pulled the trigger. He could feel the immense heat of the barrel even through his gloves, the damp protective layer of mud dryed instantly and flaked to the ground. A fraction of a second later, the bullet left the barrel, followed presently by the throaty roar of the sound barrier.

 Chapter 9

    ¡°What the hell was that?¡± Erica shrieked ¡°Peter! What''s going on?¡±


    ¡°It is open,¡± Peter replied.


    ¡°What does that even mean? Sodding great. Mr. Rasmus, wait here with Sarah, I''m going to have a look out the window.¡± Rasmus held Sarah tightly to his chest and nodded. Erica quickly and clumsily unlaced her boots and tossed them into a heap by the foot of the staircase. She took a deep breath and ran up the hard wooden stairs as fast as her legs would allow, her stockinged feet touching each stair for only a second and carrying her soundlessly to the door. She turned the handle so carefully and slowly that it hardly seemed like the door was going to open at all. Click. First she slid her hand around the side, then slowly widened the gap to allow her head to follow. The house was still and silent and all the clutter and ramshackle decorations lay undisturbed, or at least she thought that was the case ¨C it was genuinely hard to tell at times. Erica slipped out from behind the door and closed it just as carefully as she had opened it. Another deep breath took her upstairs, this time she took two stairs at a time and didn¡¯t slow down for the corner landing.


    ***


    A scarlet trickle snaked its way down Bosco¡¯s forehead, his fur quickly became matted and slick with blood and generally kept his eyes out of the whole sorry affair. Brandon stood in a panicked, breathless silence, his rifle shakily aimed at his target with one hand while he fumbled with a small canteen on his belt with the other. He unfastened the stopper and poured the entirety of the canteen along the length of the barrel, the water vaporised upon contact with the scalding metal. The copper hissed and groaned as it started to crack and contort from the extremes of temperature. He snarled and slammed the rifle to the ground and brought his hand across his chest in a jerky, unpractised motion, to pop open the press-stud that kept his knife in its sheathe. He gripped the hilt tightly and ran at the creature. It took him almost a full second to realise that the bestial snarling he could hear was in fact his own panicked screaming.


    Bosco swiped at the inside of Brandon''s arm, the blade carved a neat line up his own as he clasped his fingers around his attacker¡¯s wrist and tightened his grip. Brandon braced his feet and tried to disentangle himself from the creature with little effect. He felt two bones in his wrist break from his own futile effort before the creature further tightened its grip. Another four bones shattered and his hand momentarily went numb, that numbness rapidly being replaced by an agonising chorus of needles as splinters of bone struck his nerves and sent his hand into a violent spasm. Lost inside his own screams and overwhelmed by nausea, he didn''t hear the sound of his knife hitting the cobbles as it fell from his grasp. Bosco redoubled his effort and tightened his grip further still and turned his head towards Harry. ¡°Run, hide.¡± Harry ran backwards and forwards but could decide best where to run, one hand clasped over his mouth to stop the hysterical screams that tried to escape his chest and the other clasped even more tightly over the first in case it had any ideas of its own. Harry ran.


    Bosco clasped his free hand over Brandon''s helmet and extended his arm as he surged forward and pulled down on his attacker¡¯s own arm. Brandon¡¯s feet left the ground and his screaming abruptly stopped, the last thought that passed through his mind before his helmet impacted the cold, hard cobblestones and he lost consciousness was, ¡°Bugger.¡± He wasn''t proud of it, but it would have to do.


    ¡°Papa!¡± Bosco turned towards the cry. He snarled in raw fury as a combination of his own blood and saliva dripped from his face, he looked like a very angry surrealist painting about melted clocks. Edevane pressed the toe of his boot firmly into the diaphragm of the small dog creature, eliciting a pitiful squeak, and trained his rifle directly at its head. He looked towards the snarling, hellish beast and quietly compartmentalised his fear, loathing, and begrudging admiration. ¡°Surrender now, and it remains unharmed. Resist, and regardless of what you do to me afterwards.¡± He lifted one hand from his rifle and pointed to his forehead. Edevane smiled to himself as the creature slowly put its hands on its head and locked its fingers.


    Martin kicked Brandon in his mangled hand, the young man startled awake with a cascade of muffled screaming and vomiting. He awkwardly unclasped his helmet with his good hand and rolled to his knees, emptying both the remaining contents of his stomach and his helmet out onto the cobbles.


    ¡°If that''s the worst you get today, you''ll be lucky,¡± Martin said. ¡°But I doubt it.¡± Martin grabbed Brandon by the arm and wrenched him to his feet without any particular effort or concern for his well-being. The Private stood shaky-kneed and disorientated, the colour gradually making a return to his vomit-stained face. Brandon shook the vomit out of his short, blonde hair and wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. He was as fresh-faced as the world would allow a twenty-year old to reasonably look these days, but he had aged terribly within the last five minutes. He wasn''t dead ¨C regrettable choice, really.


    ¡°Private Brandon, attention!¡± Brandon straightened his spine and saluted, only hesitating slightly to change from his mangled hand.


    ¡°Sir, yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Please help me escort our prisoners to extraction.¡± Edevane gestured for the large creature to start walking back in the direction of the woods, and in turn the large creature gestured to the smaller one. ¡°Lieutenant Martin,¡± Edevane said as they slowly filed past him. ¡°There''s someone in the upstairs window of the large house. Wait until we''re out of sight, then secure the premises.¡±


    ¡°Understood, sir.¡±


    Erica stood transfixed in the bedroom window as Harry and Mr. Tirren were escorted out of the village. The weapons the men had were pitifully unreliable, she thought, but still unfairly dangerous. Her initial idea of perhaps retrieving and repairing the broken one was dashed when the man that remained behind picked it up and slung the strap over his shoulder. She watched trepidatiously as he finished his circuit of the village centre and doubled back in her direction, straight for the house.


    She slipped away from the window as slowly and as carefully as she could, a task made more difficult by the multitude of books and pieces of shelving strewn across the floor, and moved towards the top of the stairs. Had someone made a noise in the workshop? Had they come upstairs and been seen. ¡°I bet it''s that bloody Peter,¡± she asserted to no-one in particular. The front door creaked open while Erica stood like a statue atop the stairs, afraid to even breath. Cupboards swung open on creaky hinges and then clicked shut. The man came back past her limited view through the balustrades, a moment later the workshop handle clicked. Erica consciously coughed, then ran back towards the bedroom, her really quite terrible plan had worked terribly well, and the man followed her. He made it to the top of the stairs just in time to see her disappear around the corner and into the bedroom. She ran to the window and reminded herself of exactly how far a drop it was, then immediately dismissed her next idea of jumping.


    ¡°Stop running, I''m not going to hurt you. I promise.¡± The man stood in the doorway, the broken gun slung over his shoulder and his own hung loosely from his neck. Erica backed away from him and stumbled onto her bed. She crawled backwards over it and dropped off the other side with a bump as her banged head against the wall. The man approached slowly and continued talking. ¡°What''s your name?¡± he asked. ¡°I just want to talk.¡± She grabbed her alarm clock off her night stand and pressed her back to the wall.


    ¡°You first, then,¡± she said.


    The man stood at the opposite side of the bed, his hands raised in a placating gesture. ¡°My name is Lieutenant Martin. Do you know what a Lieutenant is?¡±


    ¡°I''m scared,¡± she half-lied. ¡°Please help me, there are monsters everywhere.¡±


    Martin knelt on the bed and extended his hand towards her. ¡°I can help you. Just tell me your name and you can come with me.¡±


    ¡°Wumph,¡± said Erica. She threw the alarm clock under the bed.


    ¡°Wumph?¡± asked Martin. ¡®Wumph¡¯ went the bed. The spring under the bed uncoiled with such a display of force that it tore itself from its mountings and took large chunks of the floor with it. Martin was ejected suddenly and violently out of the window and to the ground below. Erica covered her mouth and tried hard not to scream at, well, everything about the last several minutes; the fear, the guilt, the absurdity of it all ¨C just all of it.


    She picked her way around the wreckage of what was once her bed and carefully avoided the sharp bits of debris that now littered the floor and looked out of the window. Lieutenant Martin lay in a crumpled heap, his limbs twisted into multiple anatomically impossible positions, his neck along with them. She retched out of the window and fell to her knees in an uncontrollable sob. She crawled to the top of the stairs, and deciding this made everything much easier, continued to crawl all the way to the workshop door. The basement door clicked behind her and she ploddingly headed down into the workshop. After a minute, Sarah cautiously poked her head up from her hiding place from within the crate maze, then signalled down to the others, who then emerged from their own. Peter quite liked his hiding place, so he left the lampshade on his head.


    ¡°We need to leave, we really need to leave right now,¡± Erica said. There wasn¡¯t a space between even a single letter. ¡°They took Mr. Tirren and Harry. Three men, with guns, I killed one. I didn¡¯t mean for it to happen, but I killed one.¡± Just saying it out loud was a punch to the stomach that would have taken her out of her boots had she been wearing them.


    ¡°What do you mean you killed one? How?¡± Rasmus gasped.


    ¡°The window, that stupid spring. He¡¯s outside, his neck is all horrible, and I did it,¡± she sobbed. Sarah wrapped her arms around her sister¡¯s neck and pulled her awkwardly towards her for a hug.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t your fault. I put it there. You told me to move it but I didn¡¯t. I¡¯m not sorry it saved you, but I am sorry,¡± she said.


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    Erica kissed Sarah on the forehead and stood up. ¡°We''re getting them back.¡±


    ¡°What''s the plan, then, Ms. Erica?¡± Rasmus stood propped up against Peter, his face etched in one-part grave concern and one-part agonising pain from where he forgot his age and tried to climb into a crate.


    ¡°I need you to warn everyone, though I suspect they already know something has happened. Those men will come back, maybe even more of them and-¡±


    ¡°-I understand, Ms. Erica. Please don''t fret. I assume you''re both presently heading to retrieve our dear friends?¡±


    ¡°Too bloody right we are. Peter, can you ask the other Pilot Fish for help? I don¡¯t know how much help they¡¯ll be, but you¡¯ll think of something, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°Peter says affirmative.¡±


    ¡°They headed to the woods, we can probably follow their tracks. There''s a gun outside with the-¡± she hesitated. ¡°-Man. I think you''d better have it, Mr. Rasmus. Just be careful, it gets very hot and you have to wait for it to cool.¡±


    Rasmus hobbled over to Erica and placed a hand on her shoulder. ¡°I''ll take care of our home, but you need to move quickly now. No more planning, action,¡± he said. Erica retrieved her boots from the foot of the stairs and laced them up, then she and Sarah left the workshop.


    ¡°When we leave the house, promise me you won''t look to the left. Keep looking to the right or just maybe keep your eyes closed, I don''t want you to see that poor man. Promise me,¡± Erica said. As she guided her sister down the path, she realised she had to be sure. What if she''d been wrong and the man had gotten up and walked off to tell the others? She turned her head just enough to see the grey-clad mangle of limbs in her peripheral vision, then snapped her head forward and continued walking. ¡°When we get there, I need you to be quiet. The men are very dangerous. Mr. Tirren hurt one of them very badly, but the other one is fine, and there may be others.¡±


    ¡°Then what are we going to do?¡±


    ¡°Unless you have a better plan, my plan is to find them and just run. If Mr. Rasmus can get the Pilot Fish to co-operate, all we need to do is get home and hide. They can take care of everything else. Probably.¡±


    ¡°I don''t have a plan, I just want Harry.¡±


    ¡°I know, sweetheart.¡±


    ***


    The sisters followed the tracks into the woods and kept their heads down and their bodies low to the ground as they went. This proved to be incredibly impractical and somewhat painful, but they supposed it was a lot better than the alternative. Erica was aware of just how dangerous those rifles could be, even when operated by a complete idiot that didn''t understand the Linear Thermal Expansion Coefficient of whatever shoddy material it was made of. The point was, she had to remind herself, that it would be very hard for the other man to be less competent without pointing it the wrong way by mistake. The half-wit had taken a sound thrashing, even with his rifle, but Erica thought it prudent to not discount him fully, though she reasoned it entirely possible he may just accidentally set himself on fire before they get there. He still had one hand to go with his one brain cell after all. There were four sets of tracks; a small set of boots, a very large set of boots, and two medium-sized sets of boots with enough treads and grips to donate to several less well off pairs of boots without missing them too much. After a quarter mile-or so, Harry''s footprints disappeared, in contrast, Mr. Tirren''s became noticeably heavier. Then the tracks disappeared altogether.


    ¡°They¡¯ve stopped,¡± Sarah said. She stopped herself abruptly and caused a one-Erica pile-up by a tree stump. ¡°The tracks have stopped.¡±


    ¡°They''ve been covered, they''ve bloody covered them.¡± Erica angrily flopped down onto the tree stump and tried to think. Well, there goes the other man being as incompetent as the first. She busied herself with the important task of staring intently at her boots. After she had satisfactorily completed that task, she moved on to scuffing a furrow deep in the decaying plant-matter and soft, damp mud of the forest floor, her lungs filled with the strangely pleasant petrichor. She completed the trifecta by unearthing the largest rock she could move with her toe ¨C this upset a very vocal woodlouse, who told her in no uncertain terms that she should piss right off and generally just stop being a nuisance. Erica took a deep breath and slowly redirected her eyes back towards her sister, who now stood at the crest of a nearby hill. Along the route Erica¡¯s eyes took, a bright red object glistened in the sun. Round, like a cherry, or a weird mushroom ¨C or a, ¡°Small rubber ball, you clever little sod!¡± she said aloud. She bounded towards it, the woodlouse left mid-lecture. ¡°Sarah,¡± she rasped to keep the sound from travelling too far. She held up the ball. Sarah gasped and immediately scanned the vicinity for more of the same.


    ¡°Yellow one!¡± she exclaimed. She dashed over to it and held it up as Erica had, it lay ten or so feet away from the first one, and a blue one twenty or so feet from that. The trail continued along the expected route for several more meters before it curved off to the right and down a steep embankment, any footprints being lost within the dense covering of leaves and rotting foliage.


    They followed the damp, generally unpleasantly smelly diversion for a further ten minutes. The trail sown by Harry brought them back onto the path half-a-mile or so from where they started, the footprints beginning anew. A small clearing ahead of them glimmered with a familiar yellow glow. It was almost like a painting surrounded by a burning, ethereal frame. They couldn''t quite make out everything from their heroic position of hiding in a bush, but between them, they were sure it was some kind of metal room filled with banks of glowing cabinets, and people.


    ¡°How are there people?¡± Sarah said.


    ¡°Maybe it''s a window.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make sense.¡±


    ¡°It doesn''t matter what it is, we need to get closer.¡± As they inched their way closer to the clearing, bush-by-bush, excruciating step-by-step, a man stepped into view.


    ¡°Look, there''s one of them from before.¡±


    ¡°How do you know?¡±


    ¡°His hand is all horrible. That was Mr. Tirren did that. That means the competent one is nearby, and so are the Tirrens.¡±


    ¡°Move, please.¡± The Tirrens moved into view, flanked by a man that Erica was almost sure was the other man from the village. Mr. Tirren, Harry sat atop his shoulders, approached the picture framed by the blinding yellow light. A large man stepped towards and, while attired as the others were, Erica was certain she could have gone camping in his shirt and still have had plenty of room for guests and a barbecue ¨C large didn''t really begin to cover it. He shoved Mr. Tirren in the shoulder and nudged him into the light, the other two stood with their guns pointed at his back. The Tirrens grew smaller and smaller, like they were trailing off into the distance, then emerged into the unusual room at the other side, surrounded by more men dressed like the ones they''d already encountered. It was hard to make out from where they were, but they saw the Tirrens led out of view by a grey-haired man in a white coat. Both the competent one and one-hand followed behind. The light of the frame flickered and disappeared out of view, eclipsed by the inexplicably large man. He stood in front of the frame, his rifle suspended like a child''s plaything around his neck, his hands clasped in front of him. He was a man that you shouldn''t, or indeed couldn''t, cross without a map and a compass.


    ¡°We need to get past him, into the, I don''t know, thing,¡± Sarah said. She moved closer to him and now sat in the last row of bushes before the clearing. Off to one side, the Pilot Fish sat like puppets with their strings cut; they busied themselves with important tasks, such as digging holes large enough to fit their head in, or feeding rocks to particularly dumb squirrels. Sarah picked up a rock and threw it at the man¡¯s helmet, it sailed over his shoulder and into the gateway behind him. There was no ripple, the rock simply disappeared.


    ¡°What do you think you''re doing?¡± Erica growled in her ear.


    Sarah picked up another rock. ¡°We need a distraction.¡±


    ¡°What we need is to not upset the bear-sized man.¡± Erica pushed Sarah¡¯s arm down and took the rock from her.


    ¡°Do you have a better idea?¡± Erica thought about it, then she threw the rock at the man''s head. The rock struck the side of Bracknell''s helmet with a clunk and bounced off towards the Pilot Fish.


    ¡°I told you not to do anything, you little shits!¡± he barked. He spun towards the Pilot Fish, who were in the midst of feeding each other rocks after having killed several dumb squirrels at this point, and marched towards them. ¡°Which one was it, then?¡± He brought his boot down on the closest Pilot Fish. It beep-booped in an alarmed fashion and pointed to the Pilot Fish next to it, that one in turn let out a shriek and pointed to the first one it saw. What followed was six Pilot Fish each pointing at one another, and one that was pointing at a pile of dead squirrels.


    Erica took Sarah by the wrist and ran for the gateway. The grey-haired man sat at a desk, old, haggard and tired, but he still took pride in his appearance, like Mr. Rasmus. His thin grey hair was neatly combed and his lab coat lay lovingly folded on the desk beside him. He tapped away on some kind of electronic typewriter, his eyes periodically drifted from the clipboard in front of him up to a screen. Then a rock struck him in the side of the head. The man spun from his chair and fell to the ground with a startled grunt. Unhurt, aside from a small gash on the left side of his head, he pulled himself to his feet. His eyes snapped towards the source of the rock, the coldest eyes they¡¯d ever seen, and they gazed unblinkingly in their direction. The man reached for a small speaker-box and screamed into it, his free arm flailed away at nothing and impotently visualised his soundless fury to an empty room.


    Bracknell pivoted towards the girls. He reached down towards his gun and fumblingly tried to get his finger through the tiny trigger guard, then fired. The bullet struck the ground at Sarah¡¯s feet and she stumbled towards the glowing window. Erica insistently pulled her forward and made it impossible to regain her balance. She fell to the ground, her limbs splayed in every direction before Erica gave her one last pull, to her feet into the gateway. With one last stumble, Sarah¡¯s leg brushed against the Anchor and unearthed it.


    The room that had just been in front of them trailed off into the distance, like they were in a race against it and were losing. What had been a few short steps quickly became a blinding, glowing abyss with no clear path forward or back. No matter how much Erica wanted to close her eyes or shield them, she couldn¡¯t; she couldn¡¯t feel her arms or her legs, and if she wasn¡¯t looking at them, it felt like they simply weren¡¯t there. Maybe they never had been, she couldn¡¯t tell.


    The room disappeared, in its place a silhouette of a person. It was like when someone is far away, and for a second you can¡¯t tell if they¡¯re walking towards or away from you. It was like that, Erica thought, but she was looking at herself doing it. ¡°Oh, that''s nice,¡± she tried to say as Sarah slowly spiralled past her, but it felt like her lungs were full of sand.


    Each strand of Sarah¡¯s hair floated in its own direction, as if she were underwater. She had never done a cartwheel before, nor had she ever been able to levitate, but here she was doing both. She was very proud of herself, though she couldn''t quite remember her own name or what the clasping things at the ends of her shoulder noodles were called. She couldn''t remember much of the reason she came here, but she was quite happy she did. And another thing, she thought, she¡¯d never taken a nap upside-down before, so she closed her eyes.

 Chapter 10

    Rasmus hobbled around to the side of the Tirren''s house and picked his way through the minefield of toys that Harry left strewn across almost every inch of the garden. He looked down at a patch of mud and smiled as he saw the toy soldiers he¡¯d carved for him one year as a birthday present. They were having a hard time of it, but most of them were still standing, and they were persevering. He knew how they felt. He took a banana skin from out of a small cloth bag, slowly approached the rubbish bins that sat below the kitchen window, then threw it into one of them and waited.


    ¡°''I''ve already got, well, several of these, in fact. I''m more banana skin than I am rat now. Got any grapes?¡± The rat lazily poked his head over the rim of the bin and regarded Rasmus with a curiosity that quickly descended into disappointment. ¡°Oh, it''s you. I thought it''d be the girl. She gave me butter and this here bin. If I''d known surrendering was so profitable, I''d have surrendered sooner and more often. Matter of fact, I''m surrendering to you right now. What am I getting?¡±


    ¡°A job.¡±


    ¡°Which is exactly what I''m trying to avoid by surrendering, mate. It''s like the subtle art of negotiation is lost to you.¡±


    ¡°There''s cake in it for you.¡±


    ¡°Now our boy gets it. I''m more management material, though. If I were to stretch my legs at this particular juncture of my life, there''s no telling how they''d react. Probably unfavourably.¡±


    ¡°I just need you to delegate, dear rat.¡±


    ¡°Terribly rude of me, I have failed to introduce myself. Johnny the rat; I''m a rat and I like bins.¡± Johnny spat on his paw, rubbed it against his side, and held it straight out in front of him. Rasmus took it between his thumb and forefinger and gently gave it a shake.


    ¡°Might want to wash those fingers afterwards, mate.¡±


    ¡°Noted. Now, what I need you to do is contact your mouse friends and have them keep an eye on the woods ¨C a perimeter of sorts.¡±


    ¡°You lost someone again? Heard about that. At some point that silly bird ended up in the sandpit over there. Look.¡± The wind had been at it, but the bird-shaped outline was unmistakable.


    ¡°Missing rather than lost this time, though that is hardly any better. For the time being, the girls will sadly have to fend for themselves. We have a more pressing matter, I''m afraid. Men arrived in the village a few hours ago and took Bosco Tirren and his son.¡±


    ¡°The big dopey one? Good. He poked poor Terry with a spear proper good. I won''t say where because I''m a gentleman, but I will say he''s having a hard time sitting down right now.¡± Johnny put his paw to his mouth conspiratorially and leant towards Rasmus, which closed the gap between them by an inch and achieved nothing but the appearance of subtlety. ¡°He poked him in the arse,¡± he whispered. ¡°His boy, though, that''s sad. I mean, I know I tried to bite his toes off, but what''s a few toes between friends, eh?¡±


    ¡°All I need is for you to report anything strange in the woods. Men in grey uniforms in particular.¡±


    ¡°We''re rodents, mate, we''re pretty much colour blind ¨C everything''s a bit grey.¡±


    ¡°They have rifles and unusual helmets.¡±


    ¡°Funny heads and bangers, got it.¡±


    ¡°We''ll deliver the cake to your bin-¡±


    ¡°-Habitation.¡±


    ¡°Habitation, and you won''t need move a muscle.¡±


    ***


    ¡°I don''t think they like me,¡± Tobias said. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Due to his peculiar body shape, Tobias never could be said to sit comfortably anywhere, though he was especially uncomfortable at this moment. The Pilot Fish, or rather the three that Peter had managed to coax from the woods, stood in phalanx in the middle of Rasmus'' living room, arranged from shortest to tallest, though no-one particularly remembered asking them to do that. Peter sat in an armchair across from the group. He hugged the speaker-box tightly with one tubular arm, while he devoted the other to very carefully holding a teacup he had acquired from Rasmus'' china cupboard when he had his back turned.


    ¡°Do you think you could have a word with him?¡± his processor asked his logic-board. ¡°Shan¡¯t,¡± came the reply. After a heated back-and-forth between various internal systems, some of which had no idea how they''d become involved because, ¡°Frankly all we do is change the colour of the bulb,¡± Peter decided what he needed was a pair of shoes.


    ¡°Here''s my idea,¡± Rasmus began. Peter got up, ambled past him and left the house via the boarded up window. The other Pilot Fish looked at one another, then grabbed a teacup in each hand and promptly hurled themselves out of the window that wasn''t already broken. ¡°Here''s my idea,¡± he repeated. ¡°We stick to one given location and stay together. There aren''t enough of us to mount a reasonable defence, so what we do is this, and it will be a squeeze ¨C we can hide in the Tirren''s basement. It has no outside access, and if you don''t know where the hatch is, you probably wouldn''t find it unless you were looking for it. We hide there and pretend we''ve fled.¡±


    ¡°And what if they find us?¡± Bridget walked into the room, her eyes red and swollen. She stood hunched forward, her arms locked tightly around a small woollen doll she knitted for Harry some years prior. She¡¯d lost track of how many times she''d had to sow individual limbs back on or re-stuff it. It was a gift made with love when it should have really been made with iron.


    ¡°And, um, what if they don¡¯t leave?¡± Tobias added.


    ¡°We have to hope that they don¡¯t and they do, in that order. They''re armed and very dangerous, we''re not, so we have to be clever. Or at least not complete fools about it. Now, please sit down, let me get you something to drink. It will have to be water, I''m afraid. Peter and his friends have apparently absconded with all of my china.¡±


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    ¡°I''ve done nothing but drink tea all day. I can go five minutes without.¡±


    Rasmus reseated himself by the fire. ¡°Well, then. Isla, I need you to take the old rowing boat downstream. Not too far, leave it somewhere it can be seen. It''s important they think we''ve left, and only you will be able to make it back here quickly. Given your experience of flying recently, I know it''s a lot to ask.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me, I¡¯m a very good flier, thank you very much. It¡¯s generally more of a landing thing that I has issue with, but I¡¯ll get it done.¡± Isla flounced out the front door. She flapped irritatedly across the window several times before she finally got into the air.


    ¡°And what will we do?¡± Tobias asked. He¡¯d already started for the door some minutes earlier.


    ¡°We need to pack some things, leave clothes lying around the place, doors open. And then we hide. I''m sorry I can''t fight, Bridget, but if it comes down to it, we have the rifle from the man outside. You must all run.¡± He looked at Tobias, then back to Bridget. ¡°You must run. I will endeavour to join you.¡±


    ¡°What happened to not being a complete fool, Emmanuel? You''d be throwing your life away and you know it. We can''t lose anybody else, do you hear me?¡± Bridget''s timidity and quiet restrain dyke found itself starting to crack from the torrent of anger that pushed against it.


    ¡°Mr. Rasmus!¡± came a squeak. In the window sat three mice, the largest of which had a sticking plaster wrapped around its midriff like a cummerbund.


    ¡°Terry? What have you seen?¡±


    ¡°How did you know my- Oh, that bloody rat. I''ll bite his toes off, I will. Just you watch me. The men, yeah, just showed up.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± Rasmus didn''t wait for the mouse''s response, and was already on his feet and trying to usher Tobias out the door. Tobias was, for his part, moving at full speed. The difference between full speed and an otherwise lazy Tuesday was, however, completely negligible.


    ¡°Big glowing thing in the middle of the woods,¡± Terry continued. ¡°I didn''t know we had one of those, but there you go.¡± Bridget joined Rasmus in barging Tobias outside. He couldn''t remember the last time he had moved quite this fast, and was frankly very dizzy.


    ¡°Terry,¡± Rasmus said. He looked over his shoulder at the mice. ¡°We need you to keep track of them.¡± Terry squeaked and disappeared from the window, followed quickly by the one mouse that hadn''t fallen asleep in the sun.


    ¡°What about Isla?¡±


    ¡°She''ll get back in time, she has to. Unlike those bloody Pilot Fish. We can only worry about so much at once, Bridget.¡±


    ***


    Tobias barrelled through the door to the Tirren''s house and collapsed into his shell. He skidded to an abrupt halt at the kitchen door. The impact dislodged several ornate plates from their shelf above the doorway. Bridget shuddered as they rained down upon Tobias and sent shards of jagged china bouncing across the floor. ¡°They were my mother''s,¡± she sighed, not giving up her own momentum and heading straight to the broom cupboard.


    ¡°Come on, Tobias, we have no time for one of your moods.¡± Rasmus thwacked Tobias across the shell with his cane, then hobbled across to Bridget to help with the trapdoor. It was a thick oak construction that was clearly built by someone that didn''t realise how heavy it actually was. Between them, they heaved it open and propped it against the wall of the cramped cupboard. Tobias had gotten over his initial speed-related exhilaration and recouped enough energy to crawl over to the trapdoor.


    ¡°Mr. Rasmus!¡± Terry''s voice barely carried over the chorus of exhausted panting, and he had to repeat himself. ¡°Mr. Rasmus, they''re here!¡±


    ¡°How many?¡± Rasmus asked as he pushed Tobias into the hole and down the ladder. Terry thought about it for a second, then started counting using his toes. He held up his two front paws and balanced on a back leg, holding up his other one. There were three men, it¡¯s just Terry didn¡¯t have many toes.


    ¡°Thank you, Terry ¨C get somewhere safe, and thank the others for us.¡± Rasmus grabbed the rope on the underside of the trapdoor and dropped from the ladder, using his entire body weight to slam the trapdoor shut behind him. It slammed with such force that even down in the cellar, they could hear the windows rattling in their frames. If any of them lived to see morning, he was going to regret doing that.


    ***


    ¡°Right, then. What are you doing now, Isla?¡± Isla''s mind wandered along with the ripples in the river around her. She wasn''t used to sailing, or flying for that matter, and it took her every ounce of concentration she had to not simply run the boat aground. Of course, this is exactly what she had done the very moment she told herself she''d quite gotten the hang of it and it wasn''t very hard, really. Her mind wandered to what kind of dress she''d wear or how she''d look in a hat, and the next thing she knew was being wrong-side-up in the bottom of a rowing boat that was rapidly taking on water. The boat bore a small hole in the side where it ran foul of an unfortunately jagged rock. Isla scrambled to shore and shook the water from her plumage. She pulled furiously on the guide rope to get the boat at least partially ashore.


    She watched as the bow of the boat sank below the cool crystalline surface of the river despite her best efforts. The river was neither wide nor deep, but today Isla learned that it was just wide enough and deep enough to perfectly accommodate a rowing boat that, barring a small hole, was in an otherwise reasonable condition and probably deserved better. She took the guide rope and tied it around a nearby tree, wincing slightly at how ludicrous it seemed to be trying to stop it floating away now. She hoped she would be asked if she remembered to tie the boat up rather than whether or not she had inadvertently scuppered it and made a mess of the plan. This way she''d at least get to tell the truth. Isla wasn''t sure she disliked lying because it was wrong or because she was universally bad at it. The trouble with lying, she thought, is that you have to remember exactly what you told people, sometimes even minutes later.


    Isla rang the water out of the hem of her dress and sighed. She hadn''t had time to check to see if her newest patch was colour-fast, she just grabbed the nicest looking piece of material from her sowing box. She watched in horror as the bright red square openly wept across the rest of her dress and created a discordant blur of colour. She felt like joining in, so she did. She kicked the sand from her feet and began the ungainly and very particular set of leg and wing movements required to get her off the ground and into the air. For a time, gravity seemed quite happy to allow her transgression against it and she soared high above the trees. She could see for miles ¨C she didn''t quite know how many, she''d never thought of counting before.


    It was only supposed to be a quick trip downstream, a mile or so, but it looked to her that she''d travelled at least a couple more than she''d meant to. The thought of how she would explain everything to Rasmus drifted out of her head as quickly as it entered, and she was content to live in that one perpetual second, undisturbed by the trivialities of her nautical misadventure, or indeed how she''d land. Mayflight looked beautiful from any angle, but from the sky it took on a whole new level of magnificence that she knew that out of this moment, she''d never have the words to explain, or even begin to try. She''d just mumble and point and giggle, then everyone would roll their eyes and she''d feel small again.


    For all Mayflight''s beauty, it felt empty without the Tirrens, even from so very high up. It just felt wrong in all the ways that trying to fly backwards would, and she should know, she''d tried. She traced a path through the village with her eyes, starting at the Hubert''s house and winding her way up towards Rasmus'' house. She watched as the statue that sat atop the plinth in the middle of the fountain glistened in the sun, she watched as a group of grey-clad men moved upon the village, she watched as the wind gently tickled the small windmill in the Tirren''s back garden. Isla''s brain paused for a second, then diverted much-needed energy from less important parts of her body, like her legs and wings, then considered what it had just seen. ¡°They''re here,¡± she said. Then the ground spiralled towards her.

 Chapter 11

    There was nothing dramatic about their arrival. They didn''t slowly fade into existence, there were no flashing lights or a symbolic crash of thunder; they simply didn''t exist and then they did. Sarah opened her eyes, then immediately closed them again. Rain drummed down onto sheet-metal rooftops and washed down through the walkways above them. She opened her eyes again. Erica stood atop a small set of concrete steps below a circular light, the intermittent glow of a dying bulb silhouetted her against a faded red door as she wrestled with the handle. The ground was uneven and rough, pale and unnatural, or at least the parts of it that could be seen through the carpet of filth and detritus were. Rats tunnelled their way through mounds of rotting food and discarded packaging, occasionally stopping to pay some mind to the strangers in front of them.


    The almost soothing patter of rain was interspersed with the clank of waste bouncing down the large pipes on the buildings at either side of them, though the large metal containers the pipes aimed at had long since become full. The waste slopped to the ground and created stalagmites of filth and grime that the rats happily used as ladders. Erica shoved the door with both hands and turned back towards her sister. ¡°We need to get inside,¡± she said. ¡°We''ll catch our deaths if we don''t.¡± Sarah turned and addressed the nearest rat.


    ¡°Um, excuse me. Could you tell us where we are, please?¡± The rat looked at her and angled its head slightly, then it went back to ignoring her.


    ¡°Rude little thing,¡± Erica muttered as she wandered towards the opening of the alleyway. She tugged at the rusted chain that secured the gate; it clattered into the slop and disappeared from view. The gate carved a neat path through the filth, which then oozed its way out into the street. The sky burned a dull and disconcerting shade of orange and cast an eerie, hellish light upon the landscape.


    They watched both beguiled and horrified as row after row of brightly-coloured metal carriages screamed past them at tremendous speeds, plumes of vomitus smoke left in their wake. Each shiny metal carriage held a single human, and each face of each human held the same expression ¨C impatient anger. Or constipation, they couldn¡¯t be sure. The air hung with smoke, both from the carriages and the large chimneys situated on almost every building as far as the eyes could see, which in itself wasn¡¯t an easy task. It swirled about their heads and stung their eyes, filled their lungs with its burning, acrid stench and made them cough until their throats were raw.


    Buildings dominated the skyline, and billboards and screens in turn dominated the red brickwork and loomed down upon passers-by. Advertisements that glorified consumption sat juxtaposed with ones that urged against it and offered a non-confidential phone-line to report friends and neighbours for it. Blimps flitted through the sky like ungainly birds and dictated the mood of the populace with news of air-raids, storms, or famine warnings. Closer to ground level, shop displays and signs blazed in varying hues and intensities and added their own equally abhorrent contribution to the area''s colour palette. They covered their mouths and noses with their hands and set off towards the source of the odorous, offensive people-boxes on wheels.


    Sarah gazed wide-eyed through the rows of shop windows as they went, one in particular caught her eye. She stared in awe, her hands and nose pressed firmly to the glass. The window was, for the most part, so filthy as to render the interior of the shop unobservable to passers-by, but the owner had endeavoured to keep a small patch clean so as to not defeat the entire purpose of having a window in the first place. In it stood a neatly stacked pyramid of boxes, and each box displayed a separate moving image. ¡°Television,¡± she cooed as she read the display. One box immediately drew her attention; it showed lines of metal carriages driving around a large oval section of road. They were covered in various logos and signs, like the stalls back in Mayflight market, and they were smashing into each other so very fast. It was all terribly exciting ¨C some of them were even on fire!


    Her eyes darted from display-to-display but returned every few seconds to the numbered carriages. One such box held two people sat upon a frightfully-coloured sofa, another a rather stern-looking man in a suit. There was no sound coming from any of the boxes, though she assumed that must be a thing they could do.


    Erica kept one hand clamped firmly over her face and tugged at Sarah¡¯s dress with the other. The images on the box flickered away, as did those on the billboards and screens above them. The ones that hung from the blimps, too. An image of a blonde woman with a sharp suit and a worried look on her face faded into view. She read from a sheet of paper in front of her. Sarah''s attention waned in response and she somewhat begrudgingly pushed away from the window. The words ''Breaking: Alien Invasion!'' flashed across the screen in bright red capital letters. This was accompanied by an unflattering picture of the Tirrens. Studious-looking men in neatly pressed lab coats poked and prodded at them, then eagerly jotted their findings down. At the forefront stood the smartly dressed grey-haired man from earlier.


    Erica pushed open the door and walked into the shop. Sarah eagerly followed. The interior of the shop felt like something they were more used to, or at least something they could live through. Fans in the ceiling rattled and whirred as they circulated and filtered the air around them. It had an odd kind of smell that you could, but definitely didn''t want to, taste; a stale, sweaty odour, but it was an improvement over the stench and drizzle of outside. They closed the door behind them and stood for several joyous moments below a metal vent that blew hot air down at them before they venture further inside the shop.


    Pieces of electronics flashed and buzzed and vied for their attention, time and money. Movies, games, hardware, software; every wall and nearly every surface plastered with signs and labels, ludicrous prices and indecipherable payment plans that seemed to nearly always involve organ donation. Sarah ran her hand covetously across the rows of electronics as she walked through the shop, and stopped at each one in turn and jotted down the name and description in her notebook.


    A balding, middle-aged man looked up from his newspaper and pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. He rose gingerly and tucked the end of his tie into his trousers at a jaunty angle to disguise the pasta stain on his shirt. The saffron shirt had been his wife''s idea, and she''d insisted it made him look ten years younger. He''d insisted it made him look like an idiot and the only way he''d look younger was if he wore it on his face, but she insisted he stop insisting or else he''d have to make his own dinner. He stalked confidently towards the wide-eyed yokels. How did it go again?


    ¡°Hello and welcome to Electric Depot; look at our things. My name is Clark, how may I help you?¡± he said in the sort of calm yet enthusiastic tone that people that want to sell you pyramid schemes use. That wasn''t quite how it went, but it was Friday afternoon, and it would just have to do.


    ¡°Um, oh, yes. The boxes in the window,¡± Erica said.


    ¡°Colour televisions,¡± Sarah corrected.


    ¡°Colour televisions. We need to hear what the people inside them are saying. It''s very important.¡± Erica spoke slowly and deliberately to get her point across, quite like how tourists think speaking their own language slowly and with an O at the end of every word will make the locals understand them.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Is she normally like this?¡±


    ¡°This is her on a good day.¡± Sarah patted her sister¡¯s shoulder and turned back to Clark. ¡°We need you to adjust the noise on the televisions, it''s very important.¡± She pointed towards the long shelf of televisions behind him, they were all showed the same broadcast as the ones in the window.


    Clark turned towards the array of unaffordable televisions of not-lasting quality and slowly removed his glasses. He leant across and turned the dial ¨C it was the same broadcast on every channel. He adjusted a separate knob on the central television and shakily reclined against the counter behind him.


    ¡°And now we go live to our correspondent on the street,¡± the newsreader said.


    ¡°Thank you, Kathryn. We are live outside of Trinity Park, where in the early hours of this morning, it was said that two extraterrestrial beings ¨C and I stress official reports do not refer to them as aliens ¨C were brought for interrogation. We''ve been told that we can expect some kind of official briefing within the next hour or so. Back to the studio.¡±


    ¡°How do we get there?¡± Sarah asked.


    ¡°The base? They won''t let you in. Now are you going to rent something? Because I need to get home.¡± He pointed at the television. ¡°I don''t know if you noticed.¡±


    ¡°Can you tell us where the base is?¡±


    ¡°Phone a taxi,¡± Clark snapped.


    ¡°Okay, but I have two questions.¡±


    Clark rolled his eyes. ¡°If you promise to leave, I will phone you a taxi to take you there.¡± He carefully enunciated every word and spoke very slowly, like how locals deal with tourists that come up to them and speak slowly in their own language while adding an O to the end of everything. It was a zero sum game, where each side would think the other less and less intelligent until one side would be reduced to grunting to get their point across. At which point, they would lose the game entirely. Clark had won this game, and the small girl seemed equal parts delighted and mystified when he picked up the telephone and called for a taxi. ¡°Ten minutes,¡± he said. ¡°It''s stopped raining, so you can wait outside. And for heaven''s sake, cover your faces. There¡¯s so much filth out there that you could inhale a whole dinosaur before lunch.¡± He held the door open and gave the girls a weary smile as he waved them out.


    Ten minutes passed like ten hours as their eyes watered and their noses ran a marathon down their faces. They secured a handkerchief over their noses, but it didn''t make them feel any better, only like they were waiting to rob someone. A bright yellow carriage pulled up in front of them and flashed its lights. The dim, slightly cracked sign on the top of it read ''Taxi''. A corpulent man with a face like a bar of soap opened the side window and spoke very politely in a confusingly aggressive tone.


    ¡°You the ones Clark called for?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that''s us,¡± Erica said.


    ¡°All right, get in, then.¡±


    Erica opened the door and crawled across the seat. The interior of the taxi was tattered and had mostly given up on trying to look like anything at all really, especially the interior of a taxi. The material lining the roof had begun to wear away and revealed unpainted slithers of the framework and hints of what the material looked like before more than decade of nicotine was a thing. It might not have been a problem had the wiring for the lighting not been hanging down like murderous strands of spaghetti that required a constant awareness, especially when going around corners.


    The seats were covered in a fabric that looked like a large tarantula died and some industrious soul had found a use for it. It was foul, smelly and quite sadly bordering on indestructible. When the end of the world really did come, all that would be left were tardigrades and the seat covers of every taxi ever made. Sarah clambered in and shut the door behind her. It gave a satisfying click-clack sound as it did.


    ¡°What are these?¡± she asked. She held up a thick nylon strap.


    ¡°They''re, er, seat-belts. You fasten them over you so you don''t break my window if I have to stop all sudden-like.¡±


    ¡°Oh, okay.¡± Sarah wrestled back and forth with the belt but managed admirably.


    ¡°Where to, then?¡±


    ¡°Do you know where the base is?¡± Erica asked. ¡°There.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you''re army brats. That would explain literally everything. Erica looked out the window as the car pulled away. Whole social ecosystems crammed inside tiny metal boxes zoomed by for destinations and adventures unknown. She stared intently at each one and tried to get a feel for the people around her. Aside from her own family, she had never seen another human before, and here there were thousands of them speeding along uneven stretches of tarmac to indeterminate destinations in metal boxes that belched filth and smoke into the sky.


    How many people in each building, she wondered, how many millions more were there? If it hadn''t been for the smell and very much everything else about the taxi, she could have seen herself getting used to the travelling. Sarah watched the counter that took pride of place in the centre of dashboard. As they travelled, the numbers gradually increased ¨C something she noted next to the rough sketch she¡¯d drawn in her notebook.


    ¡°What are the numbers for?¡± she asked.


    ¡°It''s the, uh, meter. You really are from out of town, aren''t you? Clark said you was. It keeps track of how much the ride will cost.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I see,¡± she said. She returned to her notebook and wrote, ¡®Oh, bugger, what are we going to do?¡¯ then passed it across to her sister. Eric nodded, then closed the notebook and passed it back.


    ¡°So, how do you know Uncle Clark?¡±


    The man adjusted the rear-view mirror and focused on Erica. ¡°We have the odd drink down the pub. He never mentioned having a-¡±


    ¡°-Sister. Isla. Lives out of town. Haven''t spoken in years, trying to patch things up.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I see. Hope everything works out for him. Clark''s not a bad guy, really.¡±


    ¡°He''s really not, which is why he said he''d pay for our fare. He''s a very kind man that just wants the best for his only nieces. He said he''d pay you next time he saw you, if that¡¯s all right.¡±


    ¡°Typical bloody Clark, if you''ll pardon the language. Army base, then? You believe this alien nonsense?¡±


    ¡°The people on the television seem adamant, but what do they know?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, don¡¯t get me started on that lot. I mean, look at them.¡± He raised a single finger from the steering wheel and pointed to the crowd that snaked its way around the hill in front of them. ¡°That¡¯s the base there. Good luck getting anywhere with those rats in the way.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Sarah said. ¡°We¡¯re usually good with rats.¡±

 Chapter 12

    The hill wasn''t really that steep, but it had been decided by the people who were paid to decide such things that it could save money if they put the base there. A steep, wending road would mean nothing could ever build up the speed required to ram the gate, and this meant they could save a lot of money by coating a large wooden gate in metallic paint and calling it a day. The whole base was built to the same exacting standard but with a high production value. It was large and imposing, surrounded by concrete and sharpened strands of occasionally bloodied wire, with a square tower at the corner of each wall that served as an individual barracks as well as a lookout tower.


    The taxi pulled into the car park behind the crowd. The press jostled and vied for position, each and every person desperate to be at the front. The people that made up the swaying throng of humanity were mostly very well dressed and carried expensive pieces of recording equipment. In amongst them, however, several more shabbily dressed people held handmade signs above their heads, each emblazoned with a phrase or slogan that the creator thought of over breakfast and found very clever. One such example read, ''Let them E.T. cake!'' Other more coherent signs called for the release of the aliens, the execution of the aliens, the release and execution of the aliens, or the execution and then subsequent release of the aliens because they''ll have probably learned their lesson.


    ¡°Here we are. Don''t know what you''ll expect to see.¡±


    ¡°We''re not exactly sure ourselves,¡± Sarah said.


    ¡°Thank you very much for the ride. Please give our love to Uncle Clark when you see him in the, pub, was it?¡± Erica unclipped her seat-belt, then violently swatted at Sarah¡¯s to make it let her go. As soon as she took her first breath outside, she longed for the indecipherable-smelling air of the taxi. Everyone else around them had brought with them face-masks that ranged from simple cloth to ones with valves and filters. Erica reached into her pocket and produced the two handkerchiefs from earlier; the thin strips of cloth had done little for them before and, like those in the crowd with more basic masks, they still had a hard time breathing.


    Sarah ducked and weaved her way through the crowd, at times having to avoid being kicked in the face by excited people sat atop the shoulders of far more tolerant people than herself. The gaps and intermittent pathways she followed through the crowd were too small for Erica to attempt, so she skirted around the outside of the crowd and satisfied herself with a position close enough to the front where she could see if she was willing to hop up and down.


    After fifteen minutes of standing around and regretting having come, the crowd grew silent. A man that looked like a slug that had turned up to a fancy dress party as a human and won second prize oozed towards the stage. His dark blue suit was far too small for his frame and over the hushed crowd, it let out an audible groan in protest of his every movement. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and handed the soaking strip of cloth to the young woman that walked beside him. The man stepped up to the podium and started to speak as sweat hit the microphone like drops of rain.


    ¡°Members of the esteemed press,¡± he began. His voice was silky smooth in contrast to the way he looked, acted and generally was. ¡°Thank you for joining me today for this momentous, and dare I say, almost unbelievably monumental announcement.¡± He let his words hang in the air, both for effect and because he needed to talc his face and didn''t want to get any in his mouth. The gaggle of career journalists held their breath and generally diverted their gaze from the spectacle, except for one photographer that decided to snap a picture. He was dragged off and summarily beaten by security, as was the photographer that took a picture of that. After the third or fourth photographer, a general agreement was reached to not take pictures without permission.


    Erica slipped to the front of then crowd while the first photographer was still limping back, and took position next to her sister. Sarah politely tugged at the jacket of the woman next to her.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± she said. ¡°Could you please tell me who that is?¡± The woman turned to her, brushed a strand of stray hair out of her eyes and smiled a smile that some people in journalism would scornfully call dangerously close to genuine.


    ¡°Don''t you know, love? That''s Casper Corelious, Minister for Information and lard. If you didn''t know that beforehand, I''m sorry you do now.¡± Minister Corelious started to speak again, and the hushed conversations that had risen up to mask the awkwardness of the beatings and any additional beatings that awkwardness had caused, died down into silence.


    ¡°Aliens, my good people; I regret to inform you that they exist and we have seen them. And even more than that, we have foiled an as of yet unidentified, but assuredly dastardly, scheme.¡± The crowd erupted into a deafening roar of questions and incoherent chatter. Camera flashes filled the air and the Minister''s aides in vain appealed for calm as the reporters pushed and shoved and shouted over one another to be the first to get an answer. The Minister pointed to a middle-aged man in the middle of the throng and the crowd grew hushed. ¡°Minister Corelious, sir,¡± he began, not quite sure how to phrase the question. ¡°When you say aliens, do you mean illegal aliens? From what country?¡±


    ¡°Oh, they''re illegal, my good boy, but they''re not from any country. They''re from space! And not just the one between your ears, outer space!¡± The crowd continued its passable impersonation of a circus and the air filled with desperate cries for attention.


    The Minister''s hand hovered backwards and forwards as he scanned the crowd until it stopped on a young man just across from the sisters. As he shuffled forward notebook in hand, the woman Sarah had just spoken to stepped in front of him and delivered a backhand that split his lip and made him drive a tooth through his own tongue. The man yowled in protest and leaned forward in an attempt to keep the not inconsiderable flow of blood from touching his suit. ¡°Bith!¡± he yelled as she began to speak.


    ¡°Do you really expect the people at home to believe this horse shit of a story about space aliens without evidence? They''re not stupid, and they''re gonna to start asking the obvious question: what¡¯re you really hiding, Minister Corelious?¡±


    ¡°Ms. Ostler, how utterly splendid to see you again,¡± he lied. ¡°I''m sure your peers are equally delighted to see you here today as I am.¡± She swept a broad smile across the crowd and turned back towards Casper Corelious, who had in the interim signalled for a projector and screen to be brought in behind him. ¡°A good question as always, Ms. Ostler, though I resent the implication that the government would have something to hide. If we were in the habit of hiding things, then I assure you, we would have hidden this. You¡¯ve seen the preliminary footage we sent to your offices, I¡¯m sure, but this is really something else.¡±


    With a dramatic flourish of an arm, the projector whirred into life and a grainy image filled the screen, followed by several more from different angles; it was Mr. Tirren, no mistaking it. He looked haggard and wore the expression of tired confusion, though his eyes still shone with an intensity that eclipsed the lights around him. He was no longer in his favourite apron or his comfy clothes and he wore what looked like a suit made of kitchen foil.


    ¡°Oh, Mr. Tirren,¡± Sarah whispered.


    ¡°You see,¡± Minister Corelious boomed above the roar of the crowd. ¡°Your government would never lie to you over a matter of such grave import. These monsters have come from beyond our stars, and we intend to find out why! But please, don''t panic ¨C we have everything in hand. In order to ensure your safety and the safety of others in these trying times, there will, of course, be a mandatory curfew until tomorrow morning. If there are more aliens in our midst, we will find them! Long live the High Lord, ladies and gentlemen. Curfew starts in an hour, so you¡¯d better run along.¡±


    The crowd dissipated into smaller groups that surged towards the car park in an attempt to be the first to slash everyone else¡¯s tires on the way out. Minister Corelious wiped furiously at his sweat-drenched brow and pulled at his collar as he departed the stage. Ms. Ostler remained exactly where she had been standing.


    ¡°Who''s Mr. Tirren?¡± she asked without taking her eyes off Corelious and his circus-like entourage.


    ¡°He''s our friend,¡± Erica replied in a hushed tone. ¡°But I''m not sure that means anything here.¡±


    ¡°It doesn''t mean a great deal, but information goes a long way. Where are you staying? I can swing by later and talk to your parents.¡±


    ¡°We have nowhere to stay,¡± Sarah said. ¡°Or parents,¡± she glibly added. Erica nudged her in the ribs hard. ¡°Oi!¡± she squeaked. ¡°She asked.¡± Sarah returned fire with a kick to the shin.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t hit you that hard, you little cow! And it didn¡¯t mean you had to tell her.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re orphans?¡± Ms. Ostler asked.


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    ¡°Not really,¡± Sarah replied. ¡°We still have our dad. He¡¯s just, sort of, missing.¡±


    ¡°I see. Do you have a place to stay?¡±


    ¡°No, I guess not.¡± Erica conceded.


    ¡°Then you need to come with me.¡±


    ¡°And why ever would we do that?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s a curfew?¡± Ms. Ostler said. ¡°If they see you on the streets, they¡¯ll start shooting. How the hell do you not know this?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re from out of town.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh. You coming or not?¡±


    ¡°She''s right, you know ¨C we have nowhere to stay,¡± Sarah said.


    ¡°I know, but that doesn''t mean I have to like any of this.¡± Erica turned towards Ms. Ostler and extended her arm. ¡°We accept.¡±


    She smiled and vigorously shook Erica''s hand. ¡°You''re really not from around here, are you? And it''s Danielle, you make me sound like a school teacher.¡±


    ¡°I''m Erica, and this is Sarah. It''s nice to meet you.¡±


    ¡°Car''s over there.¡± Danielle pointed at the only car left in the car park, though car was a generous term for it.


    It was old and rusted and mostly held together with sticky tape and good intentions. Underneath the rust, she vaguely remembered the paintwork being blue, though she wouldn''t have sworn to it under oath. ¡°Hop in back, I''ll get her started.¡± She retrieved a small hexagonal crank from underneath the driver''s seat and inserted it into the front of the car. With every successful crank of the handle, the car threatened to start, and after the fifth revolution or so, the engine sputtered into action and the windscreen wipers came on, as they had a habit of doing, except when they were needed. Danielle cheered triumphantly and flicked a thumbs-up through the windscreen. ¡°See, still works,¡± she said as she returned the crank to where it lived. The door was another couple of minute''s hard work, but she finally got it closed, more or less.


    ¡°Where''s the seat-belt?¡± Sarah asked.


    ¡°One of them is holding the U-bend up on my sink and the other ones are, don''t know; they¡¯re there somewhere. No harm done, we just won''t crash.¡± It was much easier to get down the hill than it was up it and rather than risk any unnecessarily sharp turns on the decent, she drove straight down the middle and across the grass.


    ¡°Your friend on the screen ¨C that some kind of makeup? Is he an actor?¡±


    ¡°Eyes on the road!¡± Erica pointed towards the oncoming car with a horrified expression.


    ¡°I saw it,¡± Danielle lied. She shifted back into the correct lane and waved her index finger at the red-faced driver of the passing car.


    ¡°He doesn''t wear makeup, but we did paint his face once when he was sleeping,¡± Sarah said, oblivious to the near miss.


    ¡°Your friend is a dog? I thought they went extinct. They dressed a dog up as an alien? That makes surprising sense, not everyone knows what a dog looks like these days. Wonder which private zoo they got that from.¡±


    ¡°He lives in a house with his family, and what''s a zoo?¡±


    ¡°You don''t seem to know much about much, Sarah. Where did you say you were from again?¡±


    ¡°Out of town,¡± Erica interjected. ¡°We¡¯re just here for our friend.¡±


    ¡°Your friend the extinct animal that lives in a house?¡±


    ¡°Yes, do keep up. How much longer until we get there?¡±


    ¡°About ten minutes, thirty if we break down, never if we crash. Plenty of time for questions.¡±


    ¡°Why did you hit that man?¡± Sarah asked.


    ¡°My questions, I meant.¡±


    ¡°You didn''t specify, so why did you hit that man?¡±


    ¡°His name is Darren ¨C that¡¯s almost reason enough. We don''t get along; he''s a bootlicker, couldn''t lie straight in his coffin. Most people are, but we''re supposed to be better than that.¡±


    ¡°And punching him made you better?¡± Erica asked.


    ¡°No, but it shut him the hell up, so I''ll take being a hypocrite.¡±


    The car pulled down the off-ramp and disappeared under the sprawling mess of roadways that writhed across the skyline like enormous concrete boa constrictors wrapping themselves around the sun, blotting it out for miles, if not tens of miles, at a time. Danielle set the headlights to the lowest beam possible and slowed to a crawl. The residential building in which she lived was more or less two miles in a straight line from where they were, though there hadn¡¯t be a serviceable road in that direction for a long time. She navigated a circuitous route that often cut back in the direction she just came from, and by time she turned off the street and down into the parking garage below the residential building, the two miles had become five or six. The lights flickered meekly and gave scant glimpses of the filthy, potholed garage floor that lay beyond the barrier, while the rear section of the garage sat veiled in darkness.


    Danielle leant across the passenger seat and opened the glove box, and from retrieved a wrench that she then attached to the remains of a small handle on her door. She cranked the wrench and the window slowly slid open. She produced a plastic card from her pocket, then leant out and swiped it through the device on the wall. The gate creakily rose out of the way and Danielle pulled into the space closest to the entrance. She did her best to ignore the scraping sounds and the sparks that danced like fireworks in the gloom.


    ¡°You live in a cave?¡± Erica asked.


    ¡°The car lives in a cave, the cavewoman lives upstairs, smart arse.¡± The doors at some point in their lives had been lockable, but Danielle couldn''t remember how long ago that was. A year back, a couple of teenagers stole it for a joyride. She remembered vividly one of them coming back and asking for a push, and had seriously considered doing it. ¡°Not far now. Just follow me, and if you step in something on the way, try not to think about it too much. Probably a rat.¡± Danielle pointed at a dim light that highlighted a set of lift doors on the back wall. She walked towards it without checking to see if the girls were behind her.


    ¡°Why don''t you just ask them what they want?¡± Sarah said


    ¡°I''ll just get my human-to-rat dictionary.¡±


    ¡°Oh, do they not speak here? I thought they were just being rude.¡± Danielle wasn''t in the business of not knowing what to say, but it felt like she''d just taken out a small loan and bought into one.


    The lift doors closed in the sort of way that gave the impression that the only way they''d open again is with the jaws of life. She pressed the button for the seventeenth floor and the lift, with no great urgency, began to move upwards. Sarah¡¯s stomach rose up and formally introduced itself to her lungs.


    ¡°How do you reckon this works?¡± she said queasily. ¡°Counter-weight?¡±


    ¡°How would it know how many people there were? Some kind of pulley, maybe.¡±


    ¡°I could probably make one.¡±


    ¡°Not in my bloody house you''re not.¡±


    ¡°It''s my house, too!¡±


    ¡°Then maybe you should clean it.¡± The lift stopped and the bell made a noise that sounded like a cat caught in a washing machine. The doors slid open, then did that thing where they forget why they opened in the first place and close on the first person that tries to get out.


    ¡°I''m telling you, I could make one better than this,¡± Sarah said as she struggled to free Erica''s leg from the door.


    ¡°By better, you mean it would have had my leg off by now?¡±


    Danielle watched as the sister''s bickered. She pressed a button on the control panel, the doors opened and the sisters landed in a crumpled heap in the hallway. Said hallway was long and narrow and contained scarcely enough room for two people to pass side-by-side, and was lit by several rows of candles. The dim lighting seemed to only serve to highlight the many faults of the d¨¦cor while obfuscating the more presentable parts. From their position on the floor, the girls noted that the carpet wasn''t one of them. It was dark red with the texture of Velcro, and there were several squares of it missing, all optimistically stacked in the corner. They¡¯d been stacked there for the better part of seven years of ''I''m sure someone will do it at the weekend.'' The adhesive on the floor shared the same optimism, and Sarah wrestled to free her hand from its grasp.


    Danielle stepped over the still-bickering heap and slid the same plastic card from earlier through a device on the door handle. Nothing happened. She tried it again but slower, then faster, then at the exact same speed as the first time while swearing. The door clicked open. She stepped inside and pressed the light-switch; the lights didn''t flicker on as much as they gradually came into existence. The bulbs were designed to be energy efficient and environmentally friendly, but all that really meant was you had to stand around in the dark for longer. She scooted from alcove-to-alcove, shelving unit-to-unit and lit row upon row of candles, then she turned the lights back off. ¡°Oh, I see,¡± Erica said, taking time away from being stuck to her sister''s hair. ¡°I didn''t expect that.¡±

 Chapter 13

    Danielle''s home existed in stark contrast to the building that surrounded it, like it was a much more high-end living space that had gotten lost and ended up in the wrong building but didn¡¯t want to admit that to its wife so ended up staying. It consisted of one large living area, the centre of which dominated by a large bed that, Sarah noted with unbridled glee, looked as if it could fold up into the wall behind it. Erica came to the exact same conclusion and was met more by the feeling that this was probably how she was going to die. ¡°Just don''t,¡± she said. To the left of the bed was a curved work surface that denoted the start of the kitchen. It was small, but every appliance, both conceivable and inconceivable, had been fully integrated. Danielle had never actually figured out how half of them worked, and only recently realised she was using the dishwasher to store tea towels.


    The work surfaces hinted at the kitchen never having been used, but the large pile of neatly stacked dishes in the sink and on the draining board politely disagreed. Just off from the kitchen was a small living area that had long since grown into a vastly disorganised office space with manilla folders scattered across, and under, the sofa. One of the armchairs had been co-opted into a desk, with a typewriter balanced precariously on a large chopping board that rested across the arms. The parts of the coffee table that weren''t covered in papers and half-finished articles were instead covered in used coffee cups and empty packets of chocolate biscuits, and over on the right of the room was the only door that wasn''t the front door. Sarah assumed this might be the bathroom, but if Danielle told her the toilet came out of the ceiling on wires, she would have believed it immediately.


    ¡°I''m sorry for the mess, I didn''t expect, you know, today.¡± Danielle straightened the liberally arranged papers and relocated the typewriter to the kitchen. This freed up the living area just enough to meet the requirements of the name. The cups went in the sink and added to the growing tower of dishes that somehow defied several known laws of physics and a couple that weren''t, and the biscuit wrappers were thoroughly searched for survivors. ¡°Sit down, the chairs won''t bite. Can I get you anything?¡± Erica''s stomach grumbled and started making plans to mutiny. She hadn''t eaten since this morning, and up until now, she hadn''t had time to even think about making the time to think about eating.


    ¡°Yes, please,¡± Sarah answered for her. ¡°Anything will do, really.¡±


    Danielle opened the fridge and looked across twenty thousand miles of empty shelving. She found half a box of eggs, a tin of something that was doing its best impression of meat and failing spectacularly, and a couple of tomatoes that had been there long enough for the UN to classify them as a new life form.


    ¡°Anything it is,¡± she said. She explored her culinary options, which amounted to what pan she was going to burn everything in until it tasted like fire rather than what it was when it went in. This was clearly a large frying pan job. She started by cracking the eggs into the pan and scooping out the less than egg-coloured bits that just tended to form when they were a week out. Then she chopped the tomatoes finely, made sure to leave some of the greener bits for variety, and finally emptied in the tin of masquerade meat. It came pre-minced, because that was the only way anyone would be willing to swallow it. Focus groups had determined that having to chew it was the number one reason, other than the taste, texture, and terrible nutritional value, for the low rate of repeat purchases in people with functioning taste buds. She finished it off by stirring it with a wooden spoon that had seen better days until it was an amorphous puddle of vaguely food, then seasoned to taste with half a bottle of Tabasco sauce.


    Danielle busied her left hand with poking the food puddle with the spoon to stop it sticking to the bottom of the pan, or possibly crawling off to make a life for itself, and turned to address the girls who were now patiently hunched over the remaining clutter-free spots of the coffee table. ¡°Food,¡± she said in a tone that made it sound like a question. ¡°Is nearly ready. Your friend in the costume, who is he?¡±


    ¡°It''s not a costume,¡± Erica said. ¡°Well, it is, but it isn''t. He doesn''t normally dress like he''s been rolling in kitchen foil, but he does always look like that.¡±


    ¡°Your friend is a man-sized dog? You¡¯ve told that joke already.¡± Child protection or care in the community, Danielle pondered.


    ¡°He was taken, I don''t know how long ago, really. Keeping track of time has been a little hard lately. Men in grey uniforms, they had guns.¡±


    Danielle stopped poking the food blob just long enough for it to think things were on the up, and went to fetch the last clean plates in the cupboard. ¡°Uh huh, go on,¡± she said while she struggled to serve up three plates of edible food mush. ¡°Do you remember anything else?¡±


    The girls looked to be dead on their feet, she could wait until they slipped off to sleep before she started phoning around, poor things. Sarah hurled herself face first into her plate and shovelled great globs of could-be food into her mouth. On average, this was slightly better than her own cooking, though it could have probably used a tad more hot sauce. Erica prodded at her food, almost tempting it to attack. When it didn''t, she trepidatiously took a small bite of it. It was as disgusting as she expected it to be, but her stomach thought her throat had been cut, so she carried on regardless. After several minutes and many regrettable mouthfuls of air quotes food later, Erica answered the question with one of her own.


    ¡°Do you know what Pilot Fish are?¡±


    ¡°Industrial worker drones; landmine clearance, search and rescue, that sort of thing. Why?¡±


    ¡°Well, we found some out in the woods this morning ¨C or yesterday, I don''t even know what day it is now. The next thing we know, those lot, the army bastards, were in our village rounding up our friend and his son. He''s only four. Who takes a four-year old?¡± Erica held her breath and bit down on her lip. She tried not to scream and shout and storm out of the front door and just bloody well do something.


    ¡°Just take your time, I''ll get you some water,¡± Danielle said, already on her way to the sink. She handed the glass to Erica, who took a small sip and spat it back into the glass in the same movement. The water tasted like chemicals, some of which she could have probably named had she been in the mood ¨C all of which she''d have preferred to not drink.


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    ¡°Mr. Tirren gave the first one a good seeing to, but he couldn''t fight them all, and they threatened poor Harry, his son. They took them away and we followed, into the woods. The rest of it sounds insane, as if it already didn''t.¡±


    ¡°If it helps, I think you''re both insane already¨C you can tell me, I can''t think worse of you.¡± Danielle smiled and wrapped her hands around one of Erica¡¯s and gave it a little squeeze.


    ¡°There was a light in a clearing and behind it was a metal room, a workshop of some kind. We saw the same grey-haired man that made the news. I don¡¯t know his name.¡±


    ¡°Face like a murderer?¡± Danielle asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Sykes. Works up at Trinity.¡±


    ¡°We followed the men into the light, and somehow we ended up here. It''s mad, and maybe we''ve gone mad. I''m sorry, I don''t know.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about your parents again.¡±


    ¡°Father left, and mother. She-¡± In her head, she said something along the lines of, ¡°Our mother is dead and I''m being very grown up about it all, and I''m coping, thank you very much.¡± What actually came out of her mouth was a series of stutters and half-formed thoughts, all of which she was seemingly unaware of.


    ¡°I''m sorry.¡± Danielle squeezed Erica''s hand a little harder. ¡°I have contacts in the government, I could see if you have any relatives. Just tell me your name, then go take a nap. You look exhausted.¡±


    ¡°I should hardly think it would do any good. It''s Hubert.¡± Danielle let go of Erica''s hand and sat back in her chair. She found a sudden and infinite interest in her shoes and the dust bunnies that frolicked under the coffee table.


    ¡°Sebastian Hubert?¡±


    ¡°You know daddy?¡± Sarah emerged from her food torpor and shuffled so close to the edge of her seat that the rest of the chair was barely a consideration at that point.


    ¡°Hubert? Sebastian Hubert? The war criminal?¡±


    ¡°What? How can he be a war criminal? Don''t be ridiculous. What war? There hasn''t been a war!¡±


    Sarah balled her fists and wanted very much to add to the indignant chorus of her sister, but her words called a strike in the back of her throat and she wretched whenever she tried. She settled for a compromise between anger and the vocalisation of said anger, and threw a plate square at Danielle''s face while grunting. Being a career reporter, Danielle was used to people spontaneously hurling objects, or indeed themselves, in the rough direction of her face. Mind you, she hadn''t ever had a small girl skim a dinner plate at her in the comfort of her own home before. The plate clipped the side of her head and veered off into the wall behind her and shattered.


    ¡°That''s one less to wash, then.¡± Danielle got up and inspected the damage to her wall, then gathered up the pieces of plate and dropped them into the kitchen bin. ¡°I''d much prefer we use words,¡± she called from behind the kitchen counter as she raked through that one cupboard in every kitchen where you place the things you don''t want in other cupboards but can''t throw out because you might need them in six months. She produced a small first-aid kit and scooped a handful of loose plasters out and dumped them on the counter. A small trickle of blood made its way down her face, cascaded off her right ear and awkwardly ran down the back of it and into her hair. She¡¯d long since used all the normal-sized plasters and was only left with ones that would still look exceedingly small on an exceedingly small child. She pulled the cut closed with her thumb and forefinger and criss-crossed the diminutive plasters as best she could. Danielle felt like a cartoon character.


    She crossed the small room soundlessly and produced a cardboard box from underneath her bed, and without an explanation any greater or more considered than holding the box aloft, she returned to Sarah and dropped it in her lap.


    ¡°What''s this?¡± Sarah asked.


    ¡°The start of your apology. Open it.¡± Sarah slid the lid off the box and let it fall to the floor. Inside were yet more documents and unordered pieces of paper, at the top of which sat a newspaper article. It was crinkled and yellowed and served as the cap to an obsessional iceberg that Danielle euphemistically described to friends and colleagues as ¡®more of a hobby, really.¡¯ Sarah held the scrap of paper up and squinted at it in the half-light.


    ¡°Suspected war criminal hunted.¡± She took a deep breath and continued reading. ¡°Sebastian Hubert, 34 [pictured left], and his wife Helena, 33 [third from right], were last night still being hunted in connection with the Windstadt massacre. The couple are suspected to have fled across the border with their three-year old daughter during the early hours of yesterday morning.¡±


    ¡°See our friend in the middle of the photo there?¡±


    ¡°Sykes,¡± Erica replied, contempt wrapped around every word. ¡°Father would never do, well, whatever it is that man is accusing him of. If this Sykes person can kidnap innocent people, he can easily lie.¡±


    Sarah struggled against the words that squeezed their way out of her mouth. ¡°What did he do?¡± she asked


    ¡°You''d be happier if you didn''t know.¡±


    ¡°I think that''s for us to decide, Danielle, don''t you? We''ve dealt with everything else, we can deal with this.¡± Sarah nodded and scooted closer to her sister.


    ¡°Your parents worked for the government. All the reports have been fuzzy on the specifics, but everything points to a nerve agent. He killed a lot of people, Sarah ¨C some of them probably your age. Your mother wasn''t proven to be involved, but when she fled with him, it seemed obvious.¡±


    ¡°And what, you just thought you''d keep a box full of this rubbish like some kind of sick person? Because that''s what you are for believing any of this. Sick.¡± Erica rose from her chair and knocked the box off her sister''s lap. Its contents scattered across the towers of paperwork that took near-permanent residence on the coffee table, and toppled them to the floor. ¡°Thank you for the-¡± Erica''s brain struggled to think of a way to describe it that didn''t use the word food. ¡°-Food,¡± she reluctantly settled on. ¡°But I think we ought to go.¡±


    ¡°Where? We¡¯re locked-down until tomorrow morning. There¡¯s something not right about any of this, and maybe we can work this out. Together. Just sit down and listen to me.¡±