Chapter Ten
Shirley McLoon stood outside the street door of the K-ACME television studios, waiting for Mary Melody to finish her scheduled broadcast. She had taken off her nondescript green jacket, and wore a loose cotton gypsy-styled blouse. It suddenly felt strange to be out of uniform.
"Shirley!" She turned to see Mary coming out of the other door. "It's great to see you. I missed seeing you at Babs' sleepover. You're doing OK with your job?"
"Way strange." Shirley shivered slightly at that idea. "I'm actually getting used to it." She cast her mind back to the preceding month; serving in an Abnatural Forces unit, she had saved Acme Acres and a lot else from some decidedly inharmonious invaders. "We've kept the peace, cosmic-style. I couldn't have done it on my own. If I quit – that'd be awful karma. Now I know just how they need me."
Mary nodded sympathetically. Her parents were medics, and they had often discussed the same feelings towards their trade. "How's Plucky and the eggs?"
Shirley winced slightly. "That's the downside of this job, it like puts you totally up against some really heavy negative types. There's some ancient astral vampire or some junk, who's hunting them because of me." Her feathers drooped. "Plucky and my daughters are safe for now, but… that's the way it's going to be."
"Yes. Getting yourself in the public eye has its problems. I've seen your rock videos." Mary suddenly smiled. "Your boss wants to interview me. Afterwards, could I interview you both as rock stars? Making videos with Frank Sikosis and everything."
"Fer sure!" Shirley nodded happily, some of her tension evaporating as they walked towards the bus stop. "Colonel Fenix, he totally hides in plain sight. It's frightening, what people just don't see when you put it right in front of their beaks. You must like, see a lot of that in your job."
Mary pulled a face. "Too much. Especially since I'm covering WashingToon still. Concorde Condor's doing well. He gives good sound-bites." She had never managed to learn spin-changing, but she hunched her shoulders and her voice imitated the dopey buzzard nearly as well as Babs could have done. All that was missing was the drooping beak and the Lunatic Fringe haircut. "I, ah, done heard that whoever you votes for to be President Of The United States, some guy called POTUS always gets in instead. Well, t'ain't fair, nope, nope, nope. If I get in, you'd better look out Mister Potus, 'cause I'm taking your job, yup, yup, yup!"
Shirley snickered. "We could totally do worse."
Mary shivered. "Don't I know it. And we will, if Mister Hitcher gets in. He's got a good team of writers – and they know all the tricks." She changed her expression to a rigid, truculent stare to match the candidate, then back to the expression usually found on a cheerful, oily-looking political lobbyist. "Mister Hitcher supports all previously repressed minorities, many of whom have been shamefully locked away for simple acts of performing-arts style self-expression. Remember, kids – 'some people just are axe-murderers – get over it!'"
"Mondo bogus." Shirley shook her head in despair. According to her new comrades, she was the one who had joined the Dark Side of the Farce, with her repressive and reactionary ideas. By Calgari's opinion the New Age was already over, and he was voting for a president whose party motto was now 'chainsaw massacre - don't knock it if you haven't tried it.' Sales of high-security basement renovations including giant self-powered bacon-slicers and cheese-graters seemed likely to soar, stimulating that core component of the economy.
The bus arrived, and they headed towards the edge of town where Shirley's family home nestled at the foot of Mount Acme. They had only been going a few minutes when the bus halted, and the driver announced they had to make a detour. Large hoardings announcing 'Road closed due to gratuitous maintenance' blocked the road ahead.
"I sense a great disturbance in the Farce," Shirley suddenly sat up rigidly in her seat. "Mary – something like totally inharmonious is going down!"
"I'm on it. Let's get off and see." Mary hit the button to stop the bus. They hopped off at the next stop, and for a second Shirley stopped and concentrated.
"That way!" The loon's aura soared up to get a better view, and pointed urgently ahead.
"Looks like a reporter's life is always busy," Mary pulled out her video camera. Ahead they could see half a dozen Toons clustered round a camera truck, and a rather more serious barrier of barbed wire and fluorescent warning signs blocked the view ahead.
"Oh wow. That's us, my bunch. That's Mister Hansen, one of our scriptwriters." Shirley's feathers bristled in alarm. "The feline toon wearing the green retro celluloid eyeshade. Looks like a 1920's bank teller."
As they approached they could hear him talking to a crowd of members of the public, all eager for their fifteen seconds of fame on camera. With the massive worldwide surge in media content, nobody expected a full fifteen minutes any more. "Right – I need extras to go round that corner and try to rescue the vehicle crew. It's up to you – you can improvise and ad lib all you want. You'll either do it or look as if you go violently insane at the sight."
A squirrel toon put his hand up. "I've never acted that part before. Don't I need to rehearse or something?"
Mister Hansen's expression was suddenly sad, before he hid it with a cheerful smile. "Don't worry – with what's around that corner – it'll come naturally."
"Totally hold it!" Shirley stepped in front of him. "You're sending Toons straight in off the street?"
Mister Hansen did a fine double-take, then sighed in relief. "Ensign McLoon! Glad you're here. I couldn't contact any of the… regular cast." He looked round nervously at the impatient 'extras' who were trying to peer round the corner. "They wouldn't last a minute with what's round there," he whispered in her ear-hole. "Deaf Mettle Foundry were covering for us, they ran into something… extreme. They defeated it but… now they need help."
Shirley nodded, taking a deep breath. This was her karma; where Plucky would have only have charged in if the cameras were rolling, she would go in regardless – knowing she had a better chance of getting the job done than any of the helpful 'extras' who probably would not get far. From what her aura could already detect, there was a major Psychiatric Hazard zone ahead – she reckoned the average Toon's mind might make it twenty yards. "I'm on it." She cast a wry glance at Mary. "If I like don't make it – it's been a good life, Mary. I'll see you another time round, 'kay?"
Mary nodded, her eyes wide. The irony of Shirley being the one taking the action-movie roles had not escaped her.
"All right." Shirley took a deep breath, concentrated a few seconds to centre her Chi energies, and cautiously edged through the barriers and round the corner.
It was the GRAVUS METALLICVS; she had expected to see Deaf Mettle Foundry's highly aggressive black spiky vehicle. From the traces left in the surroundings, it had almost met its match. There was the equivalent of a crater, or rather a splash for a hundred yards around it – except rather than smoking debris, the fading remains of a pulse of cuteness had hit the front armour and rebounded. Devastating cuteness was not just an idle phrase, she reflected – the total devastation radius had exceeded fifty yards, and only the grimmest structures were still standing at eighty.
I can't see anyone inside. It's mondo shielded, but then it'd have to be, her Aura strained to spot the auras of any survivors. We'll have to get in there.
"Ewwww…" Shirley winced, and summoned up a shield – where the damage done by technological ionising radiation doses were measured in Grays, this Kawaiionising radiation was measured in Pastels. Fortunately it was fading by the minute, but unshielded minds would not have lasted long exposed to it. "And walk, too. The local energy flows are too totally corrupted to levitate through." She waddled at her best speed towards the GRAVUS METALLICVS, feeling her ablative wardings burning off every second. In a minute she would either have to be inside the shielded vehicle or heading out to safety in a hurry; it was no place for a sane or healthy Toon to stand around.
"Hello! Anyone alive in there? Like, knock once for yes, twice for no." She paused, and added. "Three times if you're Undead." Pressing as close to the vehicle's spiky hull as she safely could, she recalled Plucky trying to impress her with his knowledge of Rock trivia – according to him, it was 'a new special laminate armour – a recursive laminate made up entirely of other laminates, repeated right down to QuanToon scale. And probably beyond.' She had told Plucky what a stupid idea that was – but right now, as her Aura looked hard at the material – she had an unpleasantly inharmonious feeling that somehow he just might have been right.
There was a knock – or rather a clang, from inside the vehicle as if someone had hit a heavy wrench against the outer plates. Ten seconds later, there came another one. Hearing a slight squeaking noise she looked up, to see a hatch wheel on top starting to turn. She scrambled up the rear armour – the front plates were still glowing a virulent pink – and knocked again. A periscope poked out and peered at her.
The hatch popped open, and an unfamiliar voice called "In, quick!" Shirley wasted no time in diving into the vehicle and slamming the rune-shielded hatch behind her. The air smelled of oil and ozone, but there was a strangely pleasant scent of sandalwood incense that she would not have expected at all.
"They're all out cold. Sugar-shock – with what they saw out there. The Cuteness." It was an unfamiliar voice from the back of the vehicle.
Shirley turned round, to see a white-feathered avian Toon. Her mind raced fast. She had met all of Deaf Mettle Foundry – except their agent, Mister DeVerre. She remembered Frank Sikosis mentioning him as someone who was far too disturbing to ever be filmed, and at the time had shuddered to imagine what that would take for a group who specialised in stage horror. Now she saw what the lead singer had meant.
"Like, harmonious kaftan," she looked at the tall loon male appraisingly. "It's a hand-made tie-dye?" She realised that extreme metal fans would find the idea of a Neo-Hippie in their iconic vehicle disturbing in the extreme.
"It is. I'm Drogo DeVerre. I'm pleased to meet you." The unknown member of the band extended a feather-hand – and Shirley reached over to shake it.
Their finger-feathers touched. An electrical thrill that had nothing to do with the broken wiring in the fighting compartment washed through them both, as if a door had suddenly opened that had been closed for lifetimes. "I know you!" Drogo gasped, his eyes wide. "King Gilgamesh's court, back in Ur of the Chaldes. The rainy season."
"Like total deja-vu." Shirley's mind whirled. "You were Court Magician. I was High Priestess of the goddess Ishtar. I remember. I remember everything. You died fighting a daemon." He had given his life to save the young King Gilgamesh and his family – after scores of incarnations it was suddenly as clear to Shirley as a flash-back. She could almost feel again on her bill the tears she had shed for him, as she remembered exactly why.
Drogo nodded, his eyes locked on Shirley. "You're still wearing that amulet I gave you. Have you passed it on through all your incarnations?"
Shirley blushed. "I only found it again last month. When I saw it, I knew. It totally had my name on it." She touched the amulet, remembering how it had repelled the astral vampire. "It's totally weird that it should show up now, after all this time."
"Things don't happen by accident," Drogo's face was grim. "Everything has a cosmic Plot Reason. It's up to us to interpret it."
"I've always said that. Major harmony-ville" Shirley felt her mouth go dry as she looked at him. She shook her head angrily, forcing her attentions to the present and away from a memory of two loons walking feather-hand in feather-hand on the starlit Euphrates banks six thousand years before. She looked round at the other members of Deaf Mettle Foundry, slumped in their chairs unconscious. Her aura detected they had only just survived, protected from the Cuteness of the thing they had defeated only by the rune-inscribed inner layer of the armour and their spiked black stage outfits. "Like ewww – you survived by like a feather's worth?"
"Yes." Drogo reached out to her, proffering a mind-meld.
Shirley accepted it, and shuddered at the assault the vehicle had endured. Eighty-thousand KiloChans of Kawaiionising radiation – in a focussed bolt. She dredged up one of Plucky's memories about the new turret having a front angle specified to be six percent more brutal that the previous model – and even that had barely been enough. "I don't get it – how did your front plate bounce that? It'd have gone through like twenty inches of High Dourness steel."
Drogo winked conspiratorially, and looked around as if to check nobody else was listening. "Top Secret. I had the upgrades built in Europe. It doesn't matter how many inches something like that could get through – or yards, or miles for that matter. There's not an inch left on the whole vehicle. It uses centimetres instead."
"Mondo metric!" Shirley sat back, impressed. Drogo was certainly the one who had drawn the extra-sinister runes on the vehicle, wardings that were still keeping them safe at the moment. He had evidently made good use of his incarnations to learn his art. "But now we'd better like split the scene. Can we move?"
"Yes. With two of us. I can drive, if you can keep up the wardings? They're written in blood on the spall liner," Drogo gestured to the inner layer of the armour that had held as a last-ditch defence. "Can you? We've got time expired medical issue blood to use. It's not as sinister as it might be, but it works."
Shirley's bill wrinkled for a second in distaste, but she recalled watching her Mother perform far more sinister rituals – and sinister was what was needed here, with the residual Cuteness outside still corrupting the remaining black spiky bits like acid rain corroding the stonework of a gothic building. "'Kay. But this really stresses my aura out, to the max." She had picked up a lot of her Mother's arts, though they were not the kind of thing she liked to dabble in.
"Yes. There's two of you in there. I can see that now." Drogo smiled, and sketched a bow to the glowing blue aura. "Pleased to meet you. I don't think we've met before."
Shirley blinked in confusion, even as she began to retouch the extra-sinister runes that were beginning to fade. My aura… she's as much me as my feathers are. Isn't she? While she thought, her glowing energy form looked Drogo up and down with obvious approval. She'd have reincarnated alongside me every time. So why is it I don't remember her from back then? She had never doubted that her aura had been there all along, incarnation after incarnation – but until the past months she had never given it much thought, no more than most people would exactly remember whether or not they always had a shadow.
Drogo slid into the driver's seat, gently easing the unconscious band member 'Sparks' aside and firing up the engines. "Next stop, the cleaner bits of Acme Acres."
"You managed to send back – what tried to gate-crash our Universe?" Shirley put the finishing touches to an Aleph-class Sinister Rune, trying not to gag at the scent of blood on her paintbrush. She had learned that 'need to know' was in some circumstances a survival trait; she knew exactly many Sanity Points she had to spare. There really was such a thing as too much information, when it came at such a price.
"Yes." Drogo held the GRAVUS METALLICVS in fifteenth gear as they ground over the rubble. "It wasn't easy. They weren't from a place where Toon Physics works – their bodies weren't even made of chromoplasm. Their Stuffed Physics uses things like the Weak and Strong Cuddly Forces – that doesn't even exist here except when they bring their reality with them."
"Like, total H.P. Lovecraft-ville." Shirley tried not to think too much about that and looked instead at the sinister runes, as if earthing a dangerous static charge. "Hey! We're out of the devastated zone. Should be safe to open up."
"Yes…" Drogo checked the instruments. "Stay clear of the radiation off the front plates, they're still glowing ultra-pastel. About as cute as a Hello-Kitty convention." He reached up and popped the drummer's hatch, slipping out effortlessly like a trained athlete.
Shirley watched him move for a second, her eyes on his tail-feathers. There's someone with mind and body in total harmony, her aura commented admiringly. Unlike some we could mention.
Shirley shushed her, though she did remember all too clearly Plucky turning up at one of her exercise groups dressed in eye-patch, fake hook and cutlass – having misheard and thought she had told him she was deeply into Pirates. That had been embarrassing; her Pilates instructor had never quite forgiven her.
"Fresh air at last. Mondo cool…" Shirley followed Drogo out, closing the rune-shielded hatch behind her, mindful of the rest of the band still unconscious and vulnerable within. She took a deep breath of the afternoon air. It was strange the way one thing led to another. She suddenly recalled how the scheme to make Perfecto Prep carbon-zero had fortunately been blocked by one of Mary Melody's whistle-blowing investigations – fortunate in that one of their graduates owned an industrial plant producing huge quantities of crude sulphur as a waste product, and Perfecto's scheme had been to burn that for heating and power instead.
It really would have been zero-carbon, they had that bit right, her Aura commented snidely. Shirley cast her an annoyed glance. Since returning that June with Plucky from the astral plane, her Aura had not been the same, as if a taste of freedom had left it with independent ideas.
"And another daring rescue by Shirley McLoon, Acme Acres' all-action avian!" Mary walked forwards, her video camera running and a broad grin on her face. "Ms McLoon – rising young actress and supporting video star of neo-Undeath-metal group Deaf Mettle Foundry. Could you introduce me to your comrade?" She panned the camera over Drogo DeVere, who had grabbed a shovel lashed to the back of the vehicle and was throwing oil-stained mud over the front plates in an attempt to shield the general public from the corrupted material.
"Like, fer sure. This is the one member of Deaf Mettle Foundry they never show in public, Mister DeVere." Shirley cast Drogo a significant look.
"Oh." Mary had learned in her job not to show surprise outwardly, but her gaze lingered on the kaftan-wearing loon. "Pleased to meet you. You work backstage with the band?"
"I'm their songwriter." Drogo admitted. "But we'd better get them out – they were knocked out by the impact."
"You've got help coming in." Mary pointed to where four more of Unit Four Plus Two were getting off the bus. "Three buzzards and a black and white canine."
"That's Corporal Barnes. Major negative vibes incoming," Shirley felt her aura diving into her physical body like a soldier into a foxhole as she spotted the border collie. "He's like a walking mallet to any cosmic powers – and he's the only like uptight military-head in the team." Barnes had spent much of his time petitioning Colonel Fenix to put together a proper training course complete with pack-drill and parades. "He's major into route-marches and pack drill like Buster loves baseball. If Colonel Fenix wants to reward him, he gives him six hours of bayonet drill. Way uncool."
Whatever his faults, the border collie proved as good an organiser as most of his breed, and after a second's planning he crisply marshalled his buzzard team to haul the unconscious members of Deaf Mettle Foundry out of their vehicle and into the fresh air. Drogo revived them with stripped-down, amped-up Grindcore tracks played loud over emergency speakers. Shirley had been about to offer her usual emergency crystal healing or aromatherapy, but looking at the band's protectively black spiky suits she realised it would not have harmonised well with their style.
"Mister DeVere. You've known him before," Mary murmured, watching Shirley's eyes following the male loon's work. "And I mean, known him. I can tell. The way you look at him. The way you walked side by side, even."
Shirley blushed. "It was like, a mondo long time ago – in a past incarnation, you know? It's massively rare people meet up and remember each other this way. The chances of us both turning up again like this are – plain silly." She paused. "Plucky never really believes me about my past lives. He'd ask why people remember being Egyptian Pharaohs, Pirate Queens and junk, but never being most of the population of the planet - Indian or Chinese peasants who starved to death or died of Toonpox. So many did."
Mary winced. "Who'd want to remember a thing like that?"
Shirley cast her a grateful smile. "Like, totally."
"Then, Plucky believes all Pro wrestling matches are fought for real, so he can't talk about unbelievable." Mary filmed the band being revived, coming out of cuteness-induced sugar shock. "This'll make good footage, if they'll let me use it."
"I hope so. Colonel Fenix, he's a good toon." Shirley's mind flashed back to the nest her Mother was building. It was a hopeless violation of the Plot Codes that Melicent McLoon could just be carrying an egg like that, without any surrounding melodrama or the prospect of wedding bells – but Melicent had many strange powers and this was one Shirley had not seen before.
It happened all right, but we didn't see it – that's how we got here, her aura commented snidely. This time round Mother didn't even need the excuse of an Archies' gig. Every time she plays that Archies' track 'Sugar Sugar', you can see she remembers. As if we weren't reminder enough. Shirley and her aura both batted away the unasked-for association that came to mind – Angelina Angelique's parents by her account had for their romantic tune the tender ballad 'Holocaust in your head' as croonedby Extreme Noise Terror.
Shirley mentally shushed her. "There's the next bus – let's get on it. That canine Corporal like creeps my aura out. He's taken charge of the situation – that's his big thing." She waved shyly to Drogo DeVere, and gasped. "Drogo! He's a major Talent too! He just mentally contacted me. He said – like, the Ancient Chaldean for 'au revoir'. I've not heard that in – totally ages."
"I'm sure you'll meet again," Mary waved down the bus, and they stepped onto it. "It's what they used to say – the prophecies are all coming together. Things don't just happen for no reason." She winked, and busied herself with editing her video footage as the bus pulled out.
She's right. I knew I'd seen him in our visions. More recently than in Ur Of The Chaldes, her aura commented. When we were looking at futures, back in Spring Break. You looked at our futures on timelines where we didn't end up with Plucky.
Like, so? Shirley blinked mentally.
Like, this. Exactly how she saw the myriad possibilities unfolding in her visions was always hard to put into words. She had once described it to Plucky in terms he knew – one of his uncool military flight simulators had a scrolling navigational map that unrolled as you flew – but never showed anywhere outside achievable range with speed, fuel and altitude factored in. This was like it in a broader way; decisions steered her destiny one way or another across the map of possibilities.
This one. A timeline where you let Plucky go. He ended up with Maria Mandarin, and you ended up with Drogo. Everyone turned out very happy with the plot. Her aura pointed to one of the myriad possibilities. It was only a memory; her current future was no longer pointing that way, and it had long since slipped out of range.
Shirley blinked. She remembered looking at that future and seeing a handsome loon – the world was full of fine-feathered fowls and back then she had not recognised just who Drogo really was. Well, fer sure. But that timeline is totally over. Some of the alternate possibilities she had once viewed were exceedingly Alternative, for want of a better word – there was a timeline where on his first Summer Vacation from Acme Loo, Buster Bunny had married three Southern Belles – powerful and ravenous alligator girls whose ancestry had already swallowed some mammal chromoplasm to judge by their non-reptillian figures and head-fur.
Her aura snickered, peeking at Shirley's thoughts. That version of Buster spends his whole time persuading them he can give them more fun than he'd make as one meal of Creole-style rabbit stew. And he has – he's filled three nests full of young gator-bunnies by them. Real quadruple threats - sharp wits, tunnelling skills, rabbit speed and carnivorous appetites… Louisiana's going to be a radically dangerous place on that timeline when they get out of the nest and go hunting.
Ewww… Shirley shook her head angrily. That timeline is over, out of range. It'll never happen now. Same as anything with me and Drogo. Since Plucky and me got our nest.
Her aura nodded, unconvinced. She looked out at the traffic signs. The last four turnoffs had all been signed to the Acme Bowl. They had not taken any of them – but there were more turnoffs coming up, and there was always more than one way to get where you were going.
"Ah. Ms Melody. We've not met since that time your friends managed to rupture a hole in existence with that kiloToon-yield Plot Device – but I've seen a few of your interviews on K-ACME TV." Half an hour later they had arrived at the McLoon household and Colonel Fenix had shown them in to his temporary office, the old military trailer cunningly disguised as a surplus military trailer.
Mary smiled, taking the offered seat. "Shirley's told me a lot about what you do, Colonel. You want to know about that chocolate bar company I interviewed last month?"
"Mmm. We're interested in these." Hal gestured to the pile of Luxovice Lightweight bars on the shelf. "In one way, they really are what they say. Zero fat. Zero calorie. No chemical test will show anything wrong with them. But eat one and you give something out there your aura's phone number, so to speak."
Mary winced. "Yes. Shirley said. And when it gets hungry, it dials for takeout. And you're on the menu."
"Quite. We don't know just how its victims are chosen, but everyone drained dry was snacking on these diet bars." Hal picked up a wrapped bar cautiously. "This Resorblus Inc – it's a company that doesn't exist. There's seven distributors for them all round the country, but they don't make the candy – and even they don't know who does."
Mary Melody looked at the phoenix, her eyes wide. "But… there must be paperwork … deliveries – traffic in and out. The bars can't just appear in their warehouse!"
"That's like wierdsville, Mary, because they totally did. As far as anyone there remembers." Shirley nodded significantly. "The toons in those companies spreading it, someone did an uncool erasing job on their minds. They just didn't think about it. They've always been handling Luxovice Lightweight bars – that's what they think. Even though it only started appearing last month."
"We've done the usual thing, tracing the money. The distributors get it all. This isn't about making money for Resorblus, whoever or whatever they may be." Hal steepled his feather-fingers together, and looked keenly at Mary. "You're the best lead we have. I'd be interested in what you can tell me about that interview."
"Interesting." Half an hour later, Hal waved Mary farewell and sat down to collect his thoughts. Melicent McLoon had been following through her growing mental link with him, and walked into the trailer. "So. She interviewed a rabbit. Adult, nondescript, just like all the rabbits you see on the street and don't look twice at." Babs and Buster were far from nondescript, but not just anyone qualified for Acme Looniversity. "She asked all the right questions for her interview, but nothing that gets us any further."
"Hardly amazing." Melicent pointed out. "Though he 'neither confirmed or denied' the raw materials really are recycled Styrofoam. And it's a fact there's no law banning raw ingredients like that, just as long as the finished product's safe."
"A rabbit really isn't what I expected," Hal closed his eyes. "But they make good front Toons. Who'd suspect them?"
"Mary would have, if she'd tried for a second interview. All those contact details are bogus. She's getting famous as an honest journalist. If I wanted to advertise something, I'd try and convince her myself." Melicent winced slightly. "I just wish she hadn't eaten all those free samples he gave her."
"Millions do, but only a few get drained dry. She should be as safe as anyone." Hal rose, and his beak winced slightly. "All the same – I think some of us should keep a very careful watch over Ms Mary Melody."
Not far off in Acme Acres, Calamity Coyote and Marcia Martian were keeping an eye on Elmyra's business – in more ways than one. There was a water tower on top of a building overlooking Elmyra's home, and while Calamity surveyed the area Marcia floated in the cool water. A foam of bubbles surrounded her, courtesy of an ingenious device Calamity had put together involving a carbon dioxide cylinder and five aquarium aereators.
"Query," Marcia scratched her head, having picked up the meme from the Earth Toons "Exactly why are folk in Authority complaining about Elmyra and George? It is their business and nobody else's."
It's a trend-setting thing, Calamity's sign read. We're Acme Looniversity graduates, and one day we'll be famous ones. People look to film stars and celebrities for leadership.
"I didn't know THAT was how your Earth government worked." Marcia's eyes narrowed in concentration despite her alien biology; some things really were universal.
The coyote shrugged. Well, when you look at our politicians, you can't say you'd want to model yourself on them. He winced slightly, having heard from Rhubella that Perfecto had quite the opposite approach, and had Ethics and Philosophy classes admiringly studying the tactics and management skills of Vlad "The Impaler" Tepes, Ivan the Terrible and Genghiz Khan. Human Toons have always been a special case – if say, Fifi had married Hampton, nobody would have complained. He paused. In the Opposition's 'Beauty and the beast' film, both had to end up as humans before the critics could approve it.
"Or both could have ended up as furred Toons, that'd pass too. That's what Professor Le Pew said. And he should know, he married outside his species." Marcia nodded thoughtfully.
She looked at the hard-working coyote, and her unseen face invisibly smiled as she adjusted the aereators on her five special places. Despite his outlandish vertebrate biology, there was much that she approved of. His cold, wet nose was nice to nuzzle against – and its damp-sponge texture reminded her of when she had been a Type 5B, many Martian years ago. Type 5 Martians were an evolutionary option specified by the harsh conditions of her homeworld – Type 1 and 3 reproduced by releasing pollen-like spores that could be blowing in the wind for centuries. Where Earth species needed a certain minimum population to survive without inbreeding, on Mars things were better geared to recovering from almost total extinction. As a Type 5B her sponge-like parts had absorbed the chromoplasm of untold Type 1 and 3, like an exposed petri dish ready to grow bacteria from dust falling on it. She had enough stored chromoplasm to repopulate Mars all on her own if she had to, as soon as she became a Type Eight. "You Earth-types make everything so complicated. Considering your life-cycles are so… very simple." She bent over and kissed the coyote's nose.
Calamity blushed. It's complicated enough for us. Look, here. He tapped the screen of his pocket supercomputer. This Eleanor Vandensnaffel, of the League of Responsible Cartoons. She's caused a dozen couples to break up. Ruined dozens more who refused to quit. She can't stop Elmyra marrying George one day, but she can wreck their careers. That makes me so mad. The coyote's hackles raised, and his muzzle crested. A comic Toon he might be, but he was a carnivore without doubt. Biting her or dropping a ballistic anvil from high orbit wouldn't help, though – even if it'd feel good.
"I don't think she'd taste good." Marcia said. "And probably high cholesterol." Her own senses seemed to be getting keener as her form metamorphosed – and the one scent she was keenly aware of was that of other Martians – or more accurately, the complete lack of them. Even her Uncle Marvin was currently off-planet, and her metabolism was telling her she was the sole survivor of some catastrophe, and what she ought to start doing about that. It had been a long time since she had been exposed to Queen Tirranee's scent, the Type Eight suppressing the final development of every other Martian within range just by her very existence. She shook her head, concentrating on the problems in front of them. "So, what are we going to do?"
Calamity stood deep in thought. Something Mary said about when she met Cola Black. It's like we've got all the components, but just have to put them together. He paced round the water tank nervously, special-effects steam rising from his overclocked intellect.
Marcia playfully splashed cold water over his ears. She remembered how Plucky would react to Calamity explaining the fine details of QuanToon Physics to him – generally a water bucket would be handy when the green mallard's head caught light. "Brains beat brawn, daddy-o – and sounds like someone's in for a beating the Plot Balance says they deserve!"
Night was falling over Lake Acme, the silhouette of Mount Acme standing tall against clear skies innocent of jet contrails or urban skyglow. The view would have been better appreciated by two mallards if they were not going to bed hungry.
"Well, we've got shellfish. Raw like sushi. And there's no pollution, so they should be safe uncooked," Plucky looked down at the meagre pile of freshwater clams and water-snails he had gathered while Margot guarded the nest. He winced slightly. "That organic rice cake we had for breakfast – that might the last proper food we'll ever see. If you can call it proper."
"With shellfish at least, we won't starve. Until Winter comes, at least," Margot said firmly. "Tomorrow, we both go fishing. It'll take two of us working to keep us fed. Look – I can carry the eggs like this." She patted her sun-dress that she had sacrificed as a makeshift sling such as she had seen Native girls using in National Geographic. She hefted one of the four spears she had made that day, two sharp, barbed slender models and two heftier ones. "The light ones are for fish, the heavy ones – for other things. Some of them might have a try at hunting us."
Plucky gulped. "Oh. Right. Bears. Wolves. Mountain Lions." His eyes went wide in alarm. "Maybe direwolves, sabre-toothed tigers."
"Maybe, yes." Margot stroked one of the heavy-duty spears thoughtfully. "We don't know how far back in time we've gone. Toon Physics wasn't on the timetable at Perfecto – did they teach you anything we could use to find out?"
Plucky's green head-feathers wrinkled in concentration; it had never been his favourite subject and he had cribbed most of his notes from Calamity Coyote. He recalled the fundamental constants of such physics, such as Plank Length – the IEEE had defined it as six feet, the minimum effective length of a plank swung around unexpectedly against a stooge in the classic slapstick gag. "Toons can't go back further than Plank Time, the instant of the creation of Comedy – but Shirley remembers an incarnation she was a velociraptor, so that's way back." He scratched his head. According to Professor Wile-E Coyote, slapstick had been part of the very early Tooniverse, to judge by the signatures on Comic Rays detected from high-energy gags in distant galaxies. "I didn't know they even had actual planks back then – but they must have."
"Maybe it wasn't a sawn plank – just a plain branch being brought back to build the nest - if it's the gag rather than the prop that matters." Margot opened a clam with a knife ground down from a broken DVD of 'Ilse, She-wolf of the SS' that she rather doubted Plucky had ever shown to Shirley. She told herself that the raw clam was an oyster served in an exclusive restaurant, and swallowed the contents. "Hmm. Needs lemon, and maybe Tabasco. Though I'd better stop thinking like that. No lemon trees, no tabasco chillies growing round here either." She opened and shared out the rest of the shellfish, and for a few minutes they ate in silence.
Plucky looked up at Margot, relaxed on the nest. He blinked. "You really think we're stuck here forever?" The prospect of never watching TV or tasting pizza again was a terrifying one.
Margot sighed. "I'm facing facts. Doesn't matter that I don't like the idea of being Miss Cave-mallard, Six Million Years BC. I miss my FoulPlay Coffee in the morning. The nearest coffee is growing on a bush somewhere in Ethiopia."
"Maybe there's some Native American jackrabbits?" Plucky said hopefully "If Toon shticks are working already we might get them to burrow there and pick some? Before Shirley gets us back."
"I wouldn't recognise the plant if I saw it. Would you? But – face facts, Plucky. Why should she want to rescue us? You and Shirley are separated. She sent us here. Her decision." Margot held his gaze.
Plucky looked as if he was about to argue – then his expression changed. He looked around at the primordial landscape. There was not even a sniff of the famous primordial soup he had expected to be available. "I guess so."
"A few thousand years apart and no return ticket, I call that pretty well separated. Looks like this is the place she wanted us to be," Margot said.
"So what do we do?" Plucky's eyes were bleak as his gaze wandered over the primitive spears, their tips bound with copper wire from what had been his Numbmindo console – the very latest model, one he had bought for himself anticipating celebrating coming top of the class at Acme Loo. The only electrical power source in this landscape was the occasional lightning bolt, and he suspected that might do his games console more harm than good.
Margot shrugged. "Stay alive. What else? When the eggs hatch, keep the chicks alive. I think that'll take all our efforts. Yours and mine together."
"You'd stay and help look after them?" Plucky looked down at the eggs in the fabric that Margot had sacrificed her outfit to make. She was in nothing but her bare feathers, though as fully 'concealed' as Fifi had usually been seen in the streets of the Acme Acres that someday would be two miles down the road – a road that also was a thing of the future.
Margot's eyes locked onto his. "And where else would I go? There is nowhere out there. This hut's maybe the nearest thing to a five-star hotel on the planet. And – if there are locals out there, Native buffalo, wolves or coyotes say – we won't have much in common. A little difficult making small-talk if I don't speak Ancient Chippewa. Don't you think?" She relaxed in more comfort than Plucky had had recently; between fashioning improvised spears that day she had put in a lot of minor repairs to the nest. Her shed purple feathers now mixed with those of Plucky, while beneath them the white loon feathers lay like a layer of archaeology already buried by time.
There was a silence. The sunset was turning the Spring skies to reddish gold; Margot realised this was the time of day she would normally have planned her evening somewhere up-market and entertaining. She drew a deep breath, and smiled. Up-market it was not, but this world was not without things to look forward to. As her grand-mother had sometimes said, before television and radio Toons had to make their own entertainment. "Oh, Plucky…" she asked in a small voice as she relaxed, lying back in the opposite corner of the nest, looking at the mallard male. There was the quiet pop of a Toon unconcealing. "I've not got a fortune awaiting me, on this timeline. All I have to give – is what you see. If you're interested."
Plucky's eyes bulged in a Wild Take. "M…Margot?" His gaze locked on her as if his eyeballs were glued to her figure – a not uncommon Toon shtick.
Margot sighed. "This isn't quite the way I'd planned things. But it looks like it's just you and me, Plucky. If there's anything you like the look of…" She snickered, remembering the time they had raced each other to a bridge that this world had not built yet. "Bring it on, Acme."
There was a second pop of an unconcealing Toon. Margot's eyes went wide in turn at the view. She smiled. Shirley must have been more into spiritual than physical achievements, to ever abandon this drake. "I think getting stuck here… is going to have its compensations."
The morning sun shone bright through unpolluted skies. A small plume of grey wood-smoke rose above a temporary camp on the shores of Lake Acme. It had taken a week, but between their memories of Discovery Channel and National Geographic articles, two mallards had worked out how to make a more-or-less effective fish trap by driving willow poles into the sandy shallows at the exit of the lake. Now they were eating at least one meal a day.
"Fish is ready!" Margot called out, poking the trout with a peeled green twig and watching the juices running clear.
"Ready! Oh boy." Plucky had been standing poised with a fish-spear over the trap, careful not to let his shadow fall over the water. That had been another lesson that had cost them a few meals at first. He waddled over and carefully laid the spear down within reach. They had not run into any large predators yet, but the first time could be the last if they were caught by surprise.
Margot took the spitted trout from its place above the glowing coals, and divided it up. "Some for you, some for me." Hunger really was the best spice, she reflected – since mealtimes had become a matter of luck and skill she certainly appreciated them more.
Just at that second there came a quiet cracking. Nothing louder than the crackling of a piece of cellophane, but it was where it was coming from that had them both springing to alert – the sun-dress now padded with dry moss, that held two large eggs.
"They're hatching! They're hatching! Call the hospital – someone boil up lots of hot water! Towels! We need big clean towels!" Plucky shouted, running round in small panic-stricken circles as every deeply ingrained cliché reaction suddenly triggered in him.
Margot smiled, watching him for a few seconds. She gently unwrapped the fabric to let the warm sunlight shine on the eggs. One had already shed a triangular piece of shell, and the other had a crack showing. "They just decided to show up for lunchtime, is all. Sit down, Plucky. Eat your fish. They'll come out when they're ready." She fished for her T-pad and looked critically at the battery level – about ten minutes of charge remained. Well enough, she nodded silently as she went to camera mode and captured the scene for posterity. Whether anyone would ever turn up with a spare battery and get to see the footage was another story.
As they watched, the eggs hatched. In ten minutes two pure white loon chicks were blinking in the sunlight, their flat bills gleaming like polished golden amber. Margot looked them over, appraisingly. Well. No trace of green mallard in these. I thought so. Very clever to have them take after her entirely. Perhaps she had a psychic way of scrubbing all signs of the real father from their chromoplasm. By Plucky's account, Shirley had said almost nothing about the eggs – Margot recalled her Perfecto Ethics classes and a quote from the Spanish philosopher and leader Francisco Franco – "we are the slaves of what we have said, but the masters of our silences."
"At last – my sons are here – well, one of them's sure to be a boy." Plucky looked from one chick to the other hopefully. It seemed unlikely he could ever take them to the park or the American Football matches as most fathers in Acme Acres did, but certainly they could spend a lot of quality time together fishing. "Which one is it?"
Margot held his gaze steady. "Congratulations. You've a fine, healthy-looking pair of daughters."
"Daughters? Both? But… but… it can't be. It can't be!" Plucky went rigid in shock, keeled over and fell flat on his back in a classic dead faint. Broad webbed feet vibrated like tuning-forks.
Margot looked at him fondly. She gathered the chicks to her, and two sets of bright eyes looked up into hers for the first time. A feeling she had never imagined passed through her as the new-hatched chicks bonded with her. This went both ways, she realised. "Oh my. So this is what it's like. Sorry, Shirley – whatever happens, it's too late now. And they really did arrive for lunchtime." She stroked the chicks' still damp white feathers, and smiled. At least Plucky won't have to throw up his breakfast for these two. I can manage. The timing turned out just right though I hadn't had anything so – practical in mind.
She remembered one of Babs Bunny's favourite lines, as she gently let them explore her mammalian heritage. It was a good thing there had been only two eggs in the clutch, when there might have been half a dozen. "Well, isn't THAT convenient?"
End Chapter Ten