Chapter Five
The scene was the topmost corridor of ACME Looniversity, where beneath the open hatchway leading to a resurrected space-time manipulation project (only possible due to a complete rejection of EinsToonian Physics and a firm belief by its carefully unnamed designers their version would be SO much better) Babs and Buster Bunny faced an enraged Major Shirley McLoon. The retro-costumed psychic warrior raised her glowing Sabre. "Like, get thee gone from the mortal world, uncool spirits!"
Babs parried with a ((Grin +6), (+4 to Hit, +2 to penetrating Disbelief Shielding)) although a drop of special-effect sweat beaded on her head-fur with the effort. "Heh. Pleased to see you too, Shirl. Long time no see, is right!"
"It's really us, Shirley, not doppelgangers or unlicensed rip-off Far Eastern copies. We're back." Buster paused. "And you can prove it. You can do mind-melds, can't you?"
Shirley hesitated. "I neither confirm or deny."
"Hey! You always used to. Remember that time I lost my phone, right before our graduation ceremony? I let you look in my head - you found the memory of where I'd left it, when I couldn't remember," Babs offered. "Take a look now."
"That's... accurate," Shirley said uneasily. "I did that with my classmate Babs Bunny, fer sure."
"Ma'am!" One of the troopers, a hulking bear wearing a sergeant's insignia, protested. "It could be a trap!"
"I know THAT, Sergeant Schwartzchild," Shirley snapped back. "You totally are the limit." She turned to her Toon platoon "If I get possessed - you know what to do, guys."
A dozen grim-faced Toons nodded, and levelled their blue glowing Psi-muskets.
"So... no pressure, then?" Buster asked nonchalantly, munching a carrot.
Shirley cast him a suspicious glare, and strode forward to arm's reach of Babs. "If you're the real Babs Bunny, open up. Like, if you're not, I'm coming in anyway!" She stood still, her eyes going unfocussed.
"Be my guest..." Babs relaxed, recalling the many sleepovers with Shirley and Fifi - and less commonly, the other girls in class. She felt the familiar loon presence in her mind, cautiously entering her memories as if checking every room in it for booby (or loon) traps.
A poor thing, but mine own... Babs stood in the middle of her mental garden, giving a flourishing gesture as if to show off blooming beds of flowers, that were her memories. Don't forget to stop and smell the roses...
Shirley's mental image gasped, looking around in recognition. HOW? She demanded. Of course I thought you were phony - you're all way too young!
How? Well, a funny thing happened on the way to the theatre... Babs opened up the memories to show her visitor directly.
A minute later, Shirley's physical form shook, and the light came back on in her eyes. She turned to her squad. "Like, stand down, dudes. They're totally fer real."
A dozen psychic pulse muskets were lowered, and Buster let out the deep breath he had been holding. "So... apart from still having to answer the phone when Evil Spirits show up, how's things?"
"And why the eye-patch?" Babs looked her old friend up and down critically. "And what's with the Napoleonic chic? Never thought I'd see you rocking a Dolman or shaking a shako."
"The Uniforms are, like, disguise. It's a Deniable Forces thing." Shirley snapped. Then her voice softened. "Fer sure. When I joined up, way back when, it was Park Ranger outfits. Then meter maids. Now…" She patted her sabre. "Dark times, Babs. Way dark. Most Toons think we're some cosplay group."
"That drummer-boy... I bet that's a stealth shamanic drum he's got," Babs winked knowingly, nodding to the young Toon spaniel. "That, or his kettledrum isn't really made from a kettle, but a sorcerous cauldron."
A loon's feathers bristled. "You are so NOT cleared to know that!"
"Looks like she's still in a M.S.T.Y.C.T.K. Unit, all right," Babs said innocently. "More Special Than You're Cleared To Know."
"And I'm guessing the eyepatch is a Dark Futures thing," Buster ventured.
"Correct-o-mundo!" Shirley's eyes gleamed. "Like you get familiar dudes suddenly wearing goatee beards, in the Evil versions. Kinda stuff you'd see if you turned up in the wrong timeline. I've done that before." She shuddered, recalling the dark timeline where Toon California's main cities were San Judas and Los Diabolos – but maddeningly, the junk food menus were exactly the same down to the last artificial flavouring additive.
"So have we. That's what we're trying to fix, Shirley." A doe looked a loon in the eyes. "Things didn't have to happen like this; we've seen how it was meant to go. We've got a chance to get back and fix history, with that time machine Calamity's trying to get working."
"Totally, no way!" Shirley jabbed her sabre upward, pointing towards the bell tower. "That… thing … it's like some gross cosmic dinner-bell for major dire Entities out there. We just might have got away with it this time but... ring it again and they go 'chow time, tables reserved, destination Earth!'"
That's what I've been trying to tell them, Calamity signed resignedly.
Shirley glowered at him. "You did a mondo poor job of THAT. Like, no big change there, carrion cruncher."
Calamity sniffed. Mother always told me, never argue with drunks, police or madmen. He paused. Or Toons who are likely all three, and pointing serious artillery at you.
The Bunnies exchanged worried glances. Although in their official class films the loon and coyote had never played against each other directly, they had never been friends. Considering one was 'Mister carnivore astronomer' versus 'Ms vegan astrologer', that was hardly amazing. Babs had always wondered if the 'opposites attract' trope would bring them together, but to her ongoing surprise it never had.
"Well, Shirley, that's what they pay you for, fighting off stuff that brings along its own special effect budgets," Babs shrugged. "Think of it as us keeping you and Ghost Division in a job."
"Ehhh… they don't look like Ghosts to me," Buster critiqued, casting an eye of Shirley's troop. "A bit too solid?"
His ears went right up as the nearest trooper, a tall bear, apparently split in two – that is, a glowing figure stepped out from where it had overlapped the Toon's body and waved cheerfully. But unlike Shirley and her aura, this translucent shape was evidently not a natural part of the bear – it was a fox, to start with. The historical outfits matched, more or less. What might have been the 'manitou' of a faithfully serving musket now long lost to rust or recycled through a hundred generations of weenie-cola cans was strapped to his back.
"Possession is nine tenths of the lore," Babs said dryly. "I thought you were against that kind of thing. You used to go around busting Possessed toons, like a cosmic Repo man."
Shirley sniffed. "It is SO not Possession." Then she hesitated. "Heavy-duty, military grade Channelling, fer sure. Like, totally justified."
"Ah. And saves time messing with Ouija boards. When the bear wants to call up his 'buddy' for military advice he's right there, with a lifetime's experience handy. A completed lifetime." Buster mused. "So that's why it's called Ghost Division."
Shirley smirked. "Correct-o-mundo." Then her feathers bristled again. "And we've got a mission. To shut that – Thing … down. Total permanent." She nodded upwards towards the bell tower, bill wrinkling at the scent of ozone drifting from the open hatch. "Everybody on this astral plane heard it. You go knocking holes in the Universe, stuff leaks out. And other stuff- leaks in."
Calamity shrugged, his nose twitching at the smell of burned insulation mixed with the ozone. Couldn't fire it again right now if we wanted to. That test-shot blew half the gimcrack, jury-rigged circuits I installed. I just couldn't get the right parts. He pulled out the ancient manual, itself printed on faded grey ersatz paper. Working fluid's meant to be something they call 'Xerum-525' – and that's not in any supply catalogue.
"For which we're totally thankful, fer sure," Shirley raised her feather-hand; they all noticed she still wore her Mood Ring. It was glowing a sullen, cooling-magma red. "Babs, I heard of that stuff. Totally toxic heavy metal and radioactive too? If 'gross' was in the Olympics that'd make the team!"
"Oh, come on, Shirl," Babs cajoled her. "Come and see what we're doing here! My class should be back by now to hand in their reports – we're scouring the archives of Mary Melody's newspaper. It was reporting everything when whatever started to go wrong, did. We're trying to find just where, when and how," She paused. "and maybe Who."
"And Mary's the last news-hound, of any species, who kept on telling the truth around here," Buster said, ears down. "They had to cancel her to shut her up. De-platformed, they called it."
"I heard about that," Extra-special Forces Officers were traditionally not supposed to look embarrassed, but Shirley apparently had an exemption. "I couldn't help her." She sighed. "Like, whatever, or some junk. Let's see what you've got." She gestured her platoon to follow at a distance.
Babs led her down through the echoing corridors towards Study Hall, where half a dozen of her class were diligently working with huge books from the Library's small Approved list (and using the classic gag of concealing something smaller and far more entertaining like a comic book in its pages, as Babs proudly noted).
Shirley snickered briefly, looking around the corridor. "Looks like comedy's not dead yet." One of the 'Not TOO much smoking' posters had been added to - in careful handwriting it continued 'All Toons currently on fire must combust with a clean blue smokeless flame.'
"Comedy lives. But it's gone – underground." Babs winked. "That's something you don't have 'need to know', Shirl." She paused, glad to see her old friend again. "So, how's life at the sharp end?"
"There's all sorts of dark-side stuff we get called out to these days," Shirley sighed as they walked towards Study Hall. "Last week, it was a haunted aquarium! Some grody voodoo Doctor had raised the ghost of a fish, to haunt its owner."
"Hmm. Haunted voodoo fish tanks. So, the guppy was a Duppy?" Babs wiggled her eyebrows Groucho Marx style. "That's new. Even prize-winning bootleggers never managed to make fish spirits. Bathtub gin, jacuzzi champagne with all the bubbles, yes."
"Fer sure!" Shirley nodded, relaxing a little. "It's way good to see you and Buster again. Even with the way things are around here." She looked around at the dilapidated building, shaking her head remembering better times.
Babs grinned, pointing into the study room. "I'll say. And here's the current crop of Toonsters for you. They have their own Amazing Three - like we were with Fifi. There's Suzie Scrapie, Gina Ericson and Maloo," she whispered excitedly as she looked through the doorway, seeing the trio sitting together.
Shirley looked in - her feathers bristled out in alarm at the sight of the skull-faced student, and her eye-patch snapped back into place. "You've got some grody Undead thing! She's sitting right there in class with people? And broad daylight doesn't banish her to where she belongs?" Her feather-hand went to the hilt of her sabre, which emitted a quiet humming as it began to charge up again. "Mondo Dire-ville!"
"Hey! Maloo's not undead," Babs objected. "She was born here and grew up like anyone else." She hesitated. "Well, sort of. She grew the same way as anyone; she can't help her looks."
"That's totally worse!" Shirley gasped, her bill falling right open in shock. "That makes her… like, some totally dire bridgehead – a spewing leak in the mortal world like some broken nightmare-fuel pipeline! All the banishing spells against Undead won't work on something born on this plane." She tapped her sabre, her expression hardening. "That's why Ghost Division pack more than spells."
"Maloo's a good girl!" Babs stepped in front of her old classmate and former best friend. "And she's MY student. Toon kids are pretty thin on the ground these days – we need them all."
"Except that one," Shirley gritted. "That way dark-side hellspawn's no kid, it's an Abomination. Stand aside."
"No. This is me, Shirl." Babs sat down next to her old friend on a bench in the corridor, looking up at her – and like Calamity, the loon looked much older than fifteen years should account for. "What happened to you? What happened to all the peace and harmony? All the tranquillity?"
Shirley winced. Then she sat too, her feather-hand coming off the sword hilt and a sigh escaping from her bill. "If you'd seen all the grody things I've had to do, Babs. And worse – everything I totally should have done but – couldn't. Or wasn't allowed to. It takes it out of you." She shook her head. "The New Age is, like, totally over, or some junk."
"It didn't have to be this way. That's what we're trying to change. I really, really need you on our side, Shirley." Babs squeezed a loon's feather-hand. "If only to keep quiet about who we really are."
Shirley took a deep breath. "Acme Hectares has no need-to-know about that. I'll do that much for you." Then her expression hardened again. "But that… that thing, in the bell tower, has got to go."
"One more shot with it, Shirl, just one?" Babs pleaded. "I know we rushed it, last time - without all the props it really wanted. We'll hold off till we're sure it ought to work. Kinda, sorta."
Shirley gritted her biologically hard-to-explain teeth. The loon shuddered. "I should totally NOT be doing this, 'kay? You ring that bell again, there'll be... stuff, entities coming through, fer sure. On the astral plane - it's not harmonious out there, anymore. It's a dark place. I go out there, and there's - something - dire, powerful, that sees me coming. It's gone before I ever see what it is. I just hear it... giggling in the dark."
"Sounds bad." Babs allowed. "We can fix this - I hope. And we'll need that Project professor Knott-Bormann had, to do it." She wondered what historical result the old Professor had wanted to re-roll the dice on.
Down in the basement of the abandoned newspaper headquarters, a class of Toons were working through dusty shelves of microfiche archives. A Looniversity packed lunch box apiece incorporating mock spam sandwiches made with margarine substitute had been issued to them that morning despite pleas for mercy.
Ricardo Rat made another note, and shook his head. "That's another thing that got worse. Conspiracy theories."
"Well, Fred Weishaupt IS sitting in Senior class, from a real Evil Reptilian Overlord clan. He's said, his family kept things working for centuries. For their own reasons, sure, but - things did used to work, sort of. And that theory turned out true," Gina pointed out.
"Well, yes. But look at this one." Ricardo's whiskers dropped. "From the non-toon plague a few years back. According to this, wear disposable face masks and you'll end up with a... disposable face. One that can just come right off. Permanently."
"Eww." Gina shivered.
"But you're right. Here's an article from just after Fred's family threw up the job in disgust – some folk said the 'revelations' were really a plot against conspiracy theorists themselves – there had to be a bigger one behind it." Ricardo said. "Any conspiracy that gets revealed is never the real one – just a front."
"But it was huge - they really DID mastermind Civilisation!" Gina burst out. She paused. "So if the real one's something else, how big would that have to be? Some Grand Unified Conspiracy Theory?"
Ricardo's teeth bared in a humourless grin, as he passed over an article. "Got it in one."
"And the evidence for that is…?" Gina frowned. "Oh. I get it. No evidence, so it has to be real. The fact that all the evidence is suppressed, proves just HOW big and powerful it'd have to be. To be able to do that."
They looked through the old microfilms of day-to-day events, searching for anything that might stand out. Ricardo shook his head. "Where do we start? This one here – the 'Wok the Hell!' restaurant chain won in court – sued by relatives of folk who tried its 'world ethnic cuisine special'. Everyone thought they'd get shut down." He paused. "The 'Inuit Supper Special' was 'polar bear liver surprise'."
"Instant vitamin A overdose!" Gina blinked. "That stuff is lethal! For non-Toons it's 'The Polar bear's revenge', or what?"
A set of rat chisel teeth bared again. "Sure was. That was their surprise." He had passed the questionable restaurant in question that morning, and would be steering well clear of its current world cuisine offering, 'Fugu Fish Surprise.'
Gina shook her head. "I don't know if it's weird enough. The ACME catalogue, that's always had stuff like explosive-tipped boomerangs in it. Like that's ever been a good idea."
"I know. And page ten, current catalogue. They wouldn't sell sulphuric-acid throwing machines if people didn't buy them," Ricardo shook his head. "It's a good thing California's had the Nortons at the helm – the rest of the country is – much, much worse."
"No question there!" Gina scrolled to a front-page from five years earlier – showing a border dispute in the desert. On one side was the familiar rangy figure with the stringy black hair and the spattered hockey mask, presumably snarling behind it as he swung the official Presidential Chainsaw. Standing on the Western side of the frontier (clearly visible as a dotted line on the ground, just like the map) was the tall, muscular Norton the Ninth. As befitted a practicing surrealist, he wielded a heavily overclocked spatula, parrying with inborn skill. "Emperor of California and Protector of Mexico – but there's only so much he can do." She tapped the dusty display screen thoughtfully. "I wonder. If there's someone really behind it all - they'd have to be against the dear Emperor. Let's look for those stories."
"I think you're onto something," Ricardo said cautiously. He blew the dust off an old film stack as he took it off the shelf, and looked around at the echoing cellar corridors. "Eww. This is a gross place to be working. I wonder how the rest of us are getting on?"
In the dim light of their torches Chastity and Fidela looked around the old locker room, and nodded as they disdainfully brushed the dust off their feathers. This seemed suitable.
"We have the carbolic soap. And the steel brushes." Chastity declared as she put her torch down to shine its beam into the nearest stall. "Cleanliness is next to godliness."
Her sister tried one of the old shower units; it turned with some effort, and a spray of frigid water rained out, washing four years of dust down the shower stall drain. "Very cold. And even if the mains water to the building is cut off like the power - should be enough left in the pipes for us."
Chastity nodded primly. Facing away from each other, the sisters pulled off their starched white bonnets and all-concealing black gowns, and folded them neatly. What looked like several yards of medical compression bandage apiece followed. A pair of something like medieval styled metal bikini briefs stayed resolutely on, as ever; the scent of rust gave a clue that neat and shiny stainless steel versions would be definitely condemned for promoting Vanity and Luxury.
"Very... suitable. Chastening." Fidela gasped as she stepped into the frigid spray.
Behind her, Chastity nodded unseen. She ran the strong lye and carbolic soap over her feathers, and felt it sting as she plied the steel feather-brush vigorously. "And no vanity mirrors here. Lest we see ourselves. And fall victim to Pride. Or Temptation." Stepping into the still powerful shower with her eyes wide open, she felt it scour herself harshly.
Still facing away from her, Fidela frowned. "Do you think we'll ever get any of our classmates to see the rightful ways? I asked Gina Ericson yesterday if she ever properly 'mortified the flesh' and she..." She broke off, confused.
"Yes?" Chastity snapped.
"She... said it 'didn't sound like fun'." Fidela shook her head. "Fun. How can she even think like that?"
Chastity sniffed. "That is typical wrong-thinking, from a wrong-thinking person. Shun them. Touch not the unclean lest you too be soiled."
"But - we're about the only correct Toons in town!" Fidela burst out. "Gina even - said she envied my... bodily figure!"
Chastity stopped, and in a moment of instantly regretted weakness, looked down at her own matching shape. Freed of the compression bandages, her unfortunate legacy from Margot Mallard's side was... very disturbing to her and getting worse by the year. "It is a burden we must bear in humility. A constant reminder of our ancestors' vices. Birds of clean ancestry should not look this way; Gina is at least a mammal by proper nature. Forgive her that one particular sin."
"I wish I was a proper bird. And had - only what a bird should have." Fidela looked further down, and wished she had a handful of her killjoy pills to hand. "Like Salome."
"Don't mention her!" Chastity retorted, trying hard (and without success) to not think of their youngest half-sister - now in her first year at Perfecto, and the last Toon to be delivered by a stork in the Acme Acres area (as it had been then.) "A proper bird shape she may have but - she's nearly as bad as Mother - in her way."
"Forgive me - I can't help it..." Fidela moaned - and even with her eyes tight shut, projected a flashback in the cold abandoned shower room...
The scene from a year and a half before was the old Crowninshield Mansion, evidently in a state of upheaval with packing crates and half-empty rooms suggesting an imminent house move. One corner of the main room was still in its usual decadently luxurious form (19th C baronial style - railroad baronial, in this case) where Margot Mallard relaxed over a Foulplay coffee with her long-time ally Rhubella Rat. The view was through a peephole in one of the paintings - Margot had always liked the idea of having classic features such as secret passages in her home, and had paid a discreet specialist architect to install some. Chastity and Fidela evidently found nothing in their principles against putting them to righteous use.
"So, you're getting out too?" Rhubella asked dryly, looking at the packing in progress as she sipped her not-just-skinny-but-anorexic latte. "Can't blame you. Fifi's waiting for me in Toulouse with our daughters. I'm winding things up here myself, after Victor settles in to ACME Loo."
"Yes... dear Plucky's little side-line in philosophy turned out rather profitably. We bought the Bahamas." Margot stretched languidly, savouring one of the last Morbidly Obese Mochas to be had in the area. "As for my contribution - I struck rather a good deal with Perfecto. They're moving into one of the Tax Shelters on the main island, I've leased to them." The twenty storey deep, reinforced concrete Tax Shelters had been built years ago by the same specialist engineering firm that converted surplus volcanoes into Super-villain's lairs, and enjoyed many of the same luxurious features. Perfecto students had always wanted an indoor piranha pool of their very own, and Margot had gifted (for tax reasons) that fine establishment an outdoor shark pool to go with it. Trespassers such as paparazzi and IRS expeditionary forces were not prosecuted but welcomed - it cut down the fish food bills.
"And Salome's joining them?" Rhubella nodded. "Family tradition for you, like Victor following Fifi to ACME."
"Well, it's traditions from both sides of the family. Douglas wants to go to Plucky's old place, what's left of it - and the starched squabs insist on following him, for their sins. Which they claim to have plenty of." Margot said. "They worship the ground their 'only legitimate sibling' walks on, oddly enough. But Salome's off to Perfecto, she's keen on the idea."
Rhubella caught a glimpse of the girl in question directing the removal Toons - a slender, brown-feathered duckling with long, jet-black head-feathers and a plumage pattern totally unlike any other of the household. She wielded a customised (clipboard of Organising (+ 2 Dπ)) * and projected an air of Ruthless Efficiency that would stand her in good stead at her new school. "I always wondered about your youngest," she admitted. "She looks so - different." Margot's household was, as the mallard often put it, 'one big, happy family' and chromoplasm tests would probably yield some surprising results about exact parentage. Salome did not resemble anyone in the house.
( * Editor's note: most people believed exactly Pi-sided dice were geometrically impossible to make. Margot, however, is far too wealthy to let such little things get in her way…)
Margot snickered. "There's a most amusing reason for that. Do you remember Selina Sheldrake? Two years below us in class?"
"Oh, yes," Rhubella nodded. "Specialised in ultra-hostile takeover bids. Won a major award for it, even." She paused, remembering. "She dropped out of view a few years ago."
"Mmm. She tried it on with my little enterprise - if you can believe that?" Margot raised an eyebrow. "I could have swatted her flat, just like that - but instead..."
"You let her get close. For entertainment value," Rhubella suggested. Her rodent teeth bared in the kind of predatory smile her own family never saw. "I know you."
"I suppose I may have done..." Margot languidly waved a feather-hand. "I even invited her over for a week, to stay here. Keep your friends close..."
"And your enemies - closer," Rhubella finished, recalling their Perfecto education. "So, what happened? She had a very bad reputation. Carpet-bagger by trade, homewrecker by inclination."
"Oh, yes. Tried very hard to seduce my dear husband. With a finely nuanced display of incredibly subtle wiles. Far too subtle for a certain green-feathered lunk I'm surprisingly fond of." Margot reminisced. "Dear Plucky - he didn't even notice. Very amusing for me. Very annoying for her. So, in a fit of pique, Selina tried the same on my lovely ladies, trying to woo them away instead, knowing how I value them. And they DID notice."
"Right. Gladys and Gracie. Married couple, a '2-for-1 deal' for her. I'll bet that went well," Rhubella smiled, her eyes narrow.
"It was a great success, just not for her. I had warned G and G , of course. They were rather keen on the idea. Made the most of their opportunity. Poor Selina. She hadn't researched just what those lovely ladies are into. And what they're capable of." Margot's eyes shone.
Rhubella's naked tail twitched. "I remember! Ms. Sheldrake was at a press conference when a stork dropped an Announcement feather right on her - in front of the cameras and everything! Around here, that was the last stork delivery ever!" She recalled the crowd cheering wildly, mixed with snide comments about how the extremely rich really could get Anything.
"Yes. She didn't dare refuse it, with everyone watching – the ultimate PR disaster, that would have been. An exquisite little punishment, don't you think?" Margot gave a heavy sigh, though her eyes gleamed. "So. We weren't surprised to find an anonymous egg in a basket on our doorstep the next month. That's our little Salome. Gladys and Gracie were thrilled. They'd always wanted a matching daughter. And now they have; with Selina's plumage but Mark One Avian biology - just like them." Margot's own part-mammal chromoplasm, as that worthy reflected, had turned out to be completely dominant on any ducklings she had a part in. And certain features passed wholly down the female line, as her own very mammalian female lines attested.
"Ohhh... I'm remembering Ms Sheldrake's looks, now. Very proud of her figure - another feathered type whose ancestress dated fur." Rhubella smiled a predatory smile. "That chromoplasm line's all gone. Cleaned and scrubbed out of Salome by those hard-working maids of yours…"
"Yes." Margot managed not to look smug with a force of will that, applied elsewhere, would psychically bend not just teaspoons but bridge girders. "Salome has hollow bird bones and a practical tail, like G and G. She can naturally fly." She paused. "And that's not all that's rubbed off from them. If we hadn't packed it all away, I'd show you my sons' bedrooms. Some lovely art studies on the walls - they have an inspired taste in ladies already. And on Salome's walls... guess."
Rhubella nodded knowingly. "She does too? Ms. Sheldrake prided herself at being a seductress. Perfecto girls are going to get a She-Ducktress unleashed on them instead!"
With an outraged squawk, Chastity tore her gaze away from the flashback and swiped her sister with a wet towel, the projection dissolving as she did so. "That is more than enough of THAT!"
"Well, she IS our sister," Fidela protested. "Despite her faults."
Chastity's eyes narrowed. She grabbed the industrial lye soap and steel brush, and advanced towards the only sister of hers in range. "Cleanliness is next to godliness," she repeated sternly. "And you evidently have a LOT of hard scrubbing still needed! Mortify the sinful flesh!"
The sound of avian squeals of distress echoed through the cellars of the old building. Many ears pricked up, until they realised just who was in distress - then with a collective shrug, all the other Toons went on with something, anything, more worthwhile.
An hour later, back at the Looniversity Marcus 'Eddson' galloped in to deliver the morning's research. The jet-black stallion nickered a greeting to Jenny and Harry, before using his 'handy' to hit the quick release and drop off the bags of notes.
Jenny smiled and waved him farewell. "Here's the loot, 'Arry. Time to get sorting it."
The hole-in-the-film black, obviously Martian prince shook his head disbelievingly at the size of the delivery. "Do wot? Cor blimey, stone the crows guvnor, would you Adam and Eve it? Talk about news? Them bleedin' kids must 'ave dug up 'alf of Fleet Street for this. That is right out of order, squire."
While her half-brother * fulminated in what he was convinced was authentic cockney, Jenny sighed and shared out the new material with the teams her class had divided into. She looked at the covering notes. "George and Myrela – one for you. Gina and Ricardo think – there's a link here." She tapped the sheaf of notes thoughtfully. "Whoever's behind it probably wouldn't like our Emperor at all; he's managed to protect California from the worst of things. Maybe they show up that way."
( * Editor's note: technically, Jenny Melody shared no chromoplasm with [the Prince known as 'Harold Stokrazi']. On the other hand, Harold's mother Queen Tyranee would not have produced an [unprecedented since the Green Times of Mars] apparently male Type Eight, without the loving attentions of Jenny's father. And others. Martian genetics and life cycles are strange; just having 14 2/3 genders is the simple part of it….)
"A possibility." George Clumper-Duff bowed thoughtfully, as he took the folder. "Definitely something to investigate."
Four hours later, the results of the second-years' labours came to Buster and Calamity, while Babs busily washed and fed (then washed again) little Blitz.
Interesting, Calamity mused as he pored over the documents. There's no one name that stands out. There's half a dozen. Look – starting fifteen years ago with this Media Influencer here. Another the leading light of the 'Too Cool For School' movement. Another the loudest voice in the 'broke' campaign. The only other thing in common is … same species, and... all have really wild hairdos?
"Different Toons, different names. At first sight. But – Myrela found photos. Not easy – they're all very camera-shy." Buster had skipped to the end of the report. "And then she did – this.' He put a finger over the hairline of one of the pictures – then another one, and compared. "Different Toons? Or the same one – with different wigs?"
"Sounds like the kind of cheesy plot we'd come up with," Babs offered, re-joining them with a freshly washed and fed cub lying sleepy in her arms. "It's an old trick… but it just might work."
Looks like it has. A coyote's muzzle crested. Here's what George Junior came up with. There really isn't a name. As if they just… appeared fifteen years ago from – nowhere.
"Or from somewhere they couldn't get to here from, before," Buster nodded significantly. "About the time we reckon those Anime scientists would have started messing around with that wacky Gate." He paused. "Of course, it COULD be a Coincidence…" He looked around at Babs, his eyebrows waggling.
"NOT!" Both bunnies chorused, with perfect timing.
Agreed. Calamity signed. George Clumper writes that he's on the case. For a rabbit, he's quite some Legal Eagle.
"He is. And Calamity? About this weird "Xerum-525" you're trying to find? He found a clue!" Buster grinned. "Of course, the trail's about eighty years old but… the stuff exists!"
"Did exist," Babs qualified, looking at the report Buster handed to her. "We found who had some, and where."
The coyote blinked in amazement. How? He signed.
The bunnies exchanged satisfied glances.
"George had the thousand-IQ-point idea of where some might be. And told the Juniors just where to dig in the newspaper archives. 'X' marks the spot." Buster flourished a photocopy of a faded, typed paper bearing the title 'ACME War-surplus Disposals Supplement #4, March 1948: Miscellaneous and unidentified stuff, special Edition." He tapped one line. "It's listed in here, three big cannisters of it. Nobody knew what it was or what to do with it. It was sent for sale at Site 19."
"And Myrela cracked the codes; found out where Site 19 was. The disposals lot of Grand Sporks Air Force base. Ta-dahh!" Babs twirled round triumphantly. "Let's go take a quick tunnel trip to Grand Sporks, wherever that is. If nobody knew what it was, maybe it never got sold. Maybe it's still there!"
Maybe, Calamity signed. But even if it is… there's a problem.
"Hey! You've rabbits on your team. Name a spot, we can tunnel there, pretty quick," Babs objected. "Even if it's near Albuquerque - we can always surface and do the rest on foot."
Calamity winced. I know where Grand Sporks Air Force base is. Just happens to be – the one place you CAN'T get to, at all. It's now in Nordak – the breakaway Grand Duchy of North Dakota.
"Ah." Buster blinked. "And an intercontinental burrowing bunny can't get there - why? We've burrowed clear to Japan from here before now."
"Good thing we go through Hammerspace. Otherwise you have to go REALLY deep under the Pacific," Babs chipped in. "One mistake – and you'd get Shelley's relatives from the Marianas Trench dropping in through the burrow roof. A bit damp, too."
Most of the military we have left is the Dakota Liberation Force, camped out in a ring around there – nobody gets within miles of the frontier, Calamity signed, sighing. That includes Toons. Shirley's not the only one of us in the army; they know all the tricks. Including rabbit burrowing. His sign flashed up a picture of the 'aristocracy containment zone' – oddly enough, all the defences were pointed to stop people getting in, not out.
Buster looked at the aerial photographs the coyote handed him from a well-indexed Hammerspace pocket, which showed a perfectly normal, open Northern frontier to the embattled Grand Dutchy with cars and lorries driving in and out. "Even through Canada?"
Calamity froze. He blinked slowly. Through Canada? I… I never thought of that!
The bunnies exchanged glances. Bab's ears semaphored in Lepine private code. Super-geniuses. Meh.
Miss the super-obvious every time, Buster agreed in the same mode. It's an 'absent-minded scientist' thing.
Suddenly Buster frowned, as what Calamity had said fully registered. "You said 'most of the military we have left,' is out there. What happened to all the rest? Budget Cuts?"
"I imagine, when President Hitcher makes 'cuts' in WashingToon, it's extreme, up close and personal," Babs said dryly. "Like the old phrase 'heads will roll' – that's more literal these days."
"Capitol Hill is Capital Punishment Hill, sounds like," Buster agreed.
No, no. Calamity signed. We had to give most of it up as part of the Peace Treaty six years ago with Eastern Molvania. They were generous to us, considering.
"Eastern Molvania… beat us somehow?" Buster blinked in amazement. "But they're on the far side of the world – and talk about poor, they've not got two cabbages to rub together!"
Yes. And they had just one, ancient ballistic Anvil, so rusty even they didn't know if it'd still launch. We had thousands. But… they didn't have our disadvantages. Calamity sighed as he signed.
Buster recalled Plucky's 'Peace through superior Anvil-Power' T-shirts, and winced. "Let's guess. We had huge advantages. But we found a way to shoot ourselves in the foot?"
Sort of. We couldn't shoot anything else… and had to surrender. Calamity signed. It was like this…. A black-and-white 1950's military film trope flashed up of second hands rapidly sweeping around the dial like the signal on an old radar screen, as the Bunnies sat down to watch…
The scene in the Anvil silo was one of hurried professionalism, where two Toons went through a ritual they had obviously rehearsed a hundred times before. But as the special-effect sweat drops on their faces hinted, this time it was no drill.
"We need the keys and authentication documents at this time,' The Commander, a gaunt wolf, snapped out as he read from a checklist. His name tag identified him as 'Major Roger Copy.'
"Yes Sir! Roger, copy." The Lieutenant, a skinny grey vixen, responded. They took keys from around their necks and unlocked the twin padlocks from an armoured red box set in the wall someone had jokingly graffitied 'His 'n Hers' on. They each pulled out a sheaf of papers and sat at their desks, a look of grim determination on their faces as they stepped through the ritual.
"Confirming incoming code letters A, X, E, M, A, N," The commander read a screen on front of him, and looked down at the documents. "Confirm today's authentication codes match." He swapped his results with the vixen, and they compared notes.
"Confirmed codes match. It's from the President, all right," The Lieutenant replied, staring at her own screen. "Proceeding to Stage Three." They inserted their keys in their consoles, twenty feet apart, and looked at the changing status lights on their consoles. "Anvil booster systems on internal power, launch authority confirmed. Silo door light reads green." She entered the 10 digit confirmation code (which had always been all zeros – on the grounds that no hacker would believe it) and watched the status lights turning green.
Both Toons worked at well-drilled speed, knowing that any delay would mean the enemy anvil might be arcing over the horizon aimed at flattening them before their own 400 ferrotonne yield 'bird' could clear the silo.
"Commencing final stage before launch… hold on, this is new! This wasn't here last time!" The Commander blinked, looking at the Manhattan phone-book sized document that lurked at the bottom of the pile. "Lieutenant – read and confirm what it says on the front page."
The fox's eyes went wide and her tail fluffed out in shock as she read the title page. "All staff must complete and sign in triplicate all sections of form M1776552 bis, Environmental (Anvil) Impact Assessment, before proceeding. The completed documents to be posted to WashingToon using economy-class envelopes provided, for discussion by the relevant sub-committees at their next meeting..."
The scene faded. Babs sat back, with a contemplative expression. "I remember Plucky used to play 'Retro Rocket Rumble'; there's that bit where the first stage booster separates at about forty miles downrange – you see metal fairings falling off." She paused. "They're sure to hit the ground somewhere. I mean, someone could get hurt!"
Buster pulled a face. "No wonder Shirley was so down. What did Eastern Molvania want from us, after they won?"
They came with a big shopping list. Then they took a look at the way things are now, shook their heads, tore up the lists and went home. With nothing but the keys to our Anvil silos. Calamity shook his head. Theirs is still aimed at WashingToon.
"And President-for-life Hitcher. Couldn't happen to a better Toon!" Babs quipped. "Now. Better get the mittens and mukluks ready, if we're heading to Canada."
"It is May, Babsy," Buster pointed out. "Springtime, nearly Summer."
"And it is Canada! Snowshoes too, then, and sleigh bells for the dog sleighs. Mush! Mush!" She cracked a suddenly-materialised whip and paused, contemplatively. "Mush. I always thought it was some kind of Arctic mashed potato dish."
"Unhappy Shopper brand mashed potato - that we've got. It's perfectly good - except as food," Buster said dryly. "Tiling grout, maybe."
"So, that's settled," Babs declared. "Tomorrow. As soon as we've packed our students off for their news-hunting for the day – we'll head North. Want to join us, Cal?"
"You might get to meet Professor Wile-E, catch up and compare notes and stuff," Buster suggested. "While we're in the neighbourhood, why not?"
I might! Calamity signed with a sudden eagerness. It's been years! He's still their Science Minister, I know.
"He might have a new angle on the problem," Buster suggested.
Babs spin-changed into the trench-coated and heavily armed form of a classic 1920's Eldritch Investigator from MiskaToonic University, her coat warded with runic armour of Elder (and Younger) Signs. "The angles... the angles are all wrong..." she groaned, gingerly testing the sharpness of her remaining Sanity Points.
"So we'd better make sure we get the right one," Buster said, as Babs spun back to normal.
"Right! From Canada we get the maple syrup, from Nordak we pick up the McGuffin juice – Xerum X, I mean. Probably find it on the shelf next to all the discounted Red Mercury and Allotropic Iron," Babs enthused. "Plus ineffable wisdom from our grand grey-furred guru. Road trip, enlightenment journey and shopping trip combined! What could be finer?"
"Hmm." Buster looked down at the ancient ACME catalogue supplement. "Sounds like a good place for shopping, all right. Says here, you can get a crated WW2 surplus jeep for just $50! Maybe there's some left."
Fifty dollar jeep?That's an Urban Myth, a scam. Even back then, it never happened, Calamity sniffed. Everyone knows that.
Buster grinned back. "But is the air base in an urban area?" At seeing the coyote's head shake, he nodded meaningfully. "Right. That means it just might be a Rural Truth. Let's go see!"
The next morning, as soon as everyone was assembled 'Buffy' addressed her class, noting that Fidela seemed to be in some discomfort sitting down. Had it been anyone else (except Chastity) she would have cared, and discreetly asked why. "As you've all discovered, hard, pointless work is its own reward. So for the rest of the week - expected to get even more rewarded. Keep on with the job, and report what you find to Professor Calamity Coyote by T-mail." She nodded meaningfully and looked around the class. "When we return, expect some changes."
"Changes, Ms Vanderbunny?" Maloo put her hand up cautiously.
"Yes. Addressing anyone by title - or name of any sort - is just spreading unconscious bias. Because a name may have associations with it, one way or another. And that is sure to be prejudicial." 'Buffy' turned her nose up at the idea. "To promote politeness and equality, in future address everyone directly by pointing at them and shouting 'OI!' You'll find being Representationally De-Gendered is SO much fairer for everyone."
There was an untraceable seething noise as of a large, in fact classroom-sized, pot imminently about to messily boil over. Behind her facade, Babs grinned exultantly. As the class trooped out on their daily mission, she joined her husband and Calamity outside in the Looniversity grounds where Buster was setting up an exact compass bearing for their next scene.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" An hour later, Babs looked out of the tunnel entrance that had brought them a long way North from Acme Hectares. "It's not what I expected." The Not-So-Great-Plains stretched around them, so featureless it was hard to tell if they had been drawn with reference material or not.
What did you expect? Calamity queried, checking his GPS watch. That's the Canadian Border, right ahead.
"Well… the border, it's a straight line on the map, this part of the continent," Babs objected. "I imagined a ten-foot wall of snow, all across the horizon."
Buster shook earth out of his ears. "Global warming? Maybe the glacier doesn't start till a mile into Canada, these days."
"Oh. That explains it." Babs gently lifted Blitz in his cub carrier out of the tunnel. "Well – Go North, young Bunny! We've been West, and it's not what it used to be." She frowned. "Do the Canadians have the same sense of humour as ours?"
"Sure," Buster reassured her as they walked towards the frontier. "It's mostly cultural stuff that's different. I heard their big sports are Ice Hockey and Curling."
Babs spin-changed to a form with a riotous mane of head-fur curls, not unlike Margot Mallard's style. "I'll fit right in – eh? Naturally curly hare. No curling irons, I mean sticks, required." She patted her curls indulgently.
Buster just grinned. He looked around at the empty landscape. "These not-so-great-plains are… pretty empty. Not a Toon to be seen for miles."
Reason for that, Calamity signed bleakly. Most of the States apart from California, they stopped teaching any History that didn't start with George WashingToon. And you know… 'those who refuse to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them.'
"Heh. They got overrun by the Romans and the Vikings?" Babs suggested, her ears drooping. "With fire and sword?"
And the Aztecs, the Huns and the Mongols – plus the Black Death. Also Pompeii, the Lisbon Earthquake and the 1660's Plague, in exact historical detail, Calamity shook his head. And all in one year! Not many folk left around here.
"Hmm. Seems like that's a few lessons learned, at least," Babs conceded.
"As we used to say about Elmyra – 'experience is a dear teacher but fools will learn from no other'" Buster reminisced. "Like she did."
Calamity shouldered his pack and looked down at the transcendentally fuzzy cub determinedly crawling towards the frontier across the short, clean prairie grass. It's a long way for him. Aren't you going to carry him?
Babs and Buster exchanged glances. "Sure, when he's tired – but he's practicing his abilities." Babs said mysteriously. She pointed Southwards. "Look away, Dixie land!"
Calamity blinked, looking away to scan the empty plains Southwards. There was nothing particular in sight. Puzzled, he turned back to ask Babs to explain – and noticed a second later Blitz was suddenly a hundred yards North, with a surf-like sound effect of collapsing wave functions. How'd he DO that? His sign flashed up in astonished fonts.
"You're the scientist, Cal – you work it out," Buster suggested. "Clue: nobody was observing him. His schtick is 'fuzzy' and 'indeterminate'."
"And remember where we... got him." Babs' eyes flashed warmly, remembering their first trip to camp out in the Grand Unified Field, nine months before Blitz was born. "A place that gives honeymooning a whole new dimension."
"Several, you said," Buster agreed, hugging his pink-and-white furred wife. "Extra Space-like and Time-like ones, too."
Babs nuzzled back, happily recalling things she and Buster could do there that needed rather more than three spatial and one temporal dimension. From somewhere undefined came the familiar anguished screams of animators and story-boarders tasked with showing such things on a 2-D screen of un-warped space.
Ah. Calamity pulled out his slate and the heavily overclocked stick of chalk he always carried since the computers quit; the cooling vanes glowed orange as he scribbled calculations on it. Suddenly his eyebrows rose as realisation dawned. Unobserved, Blitz doesn't really HAVE a defined position, does he? QuanToon Uncertainty. When nobody's watching – he only has a probability?
"Probably." Buster winked. "That's what he's practicing, being just where he wants to be, out of all the possibilities. Any Toon might learn it in advanced class, but our son – he just does it."
"Like a bird's hatched just knowing how to fly," Babs declared dramatically. She paused. "Or maybe he just crawls through the sixth dimension. For him, maybe it's quicker."
Calamity nodded ruefully. He had tried in the past few days to measure exactly how Indeterminate Blitz truly was, and came to an unhappy conclusion for any scientist – that too was indeterminate, and always would be. Probably.
For twenty minutes they took turns to walk and look pointedly away while the youngest bunny alternately crawled and simply… became, closer to the border. It was marked only by a line of white concrete pillars two hundred yards apart, rather than the razor-wire thickets, fuming Dip moat and super-lethal attack robot zone they had been expecting.
Babs took a deep breath. Passport in hand, she put one record-breakingly adorable set of toes over the borderline, then the other as she looked back at Buster and Calamity. "Doesn't feel any different," she complained as they joined her. All around was the same kind of short-grass prairie they had crossed already, with nobody in sight.
"Well, it's definitely Canada," Buster shrugged, catching a glimpse of Calamity's GPS watch. "What did you expect, a welcoming committee just for us?"
"Heh." Babs grinned with embarrassment as she looked around at the dozen red jacketed Mounties who had suddenly appeared from nowhere to surround them. "Sorry, Buster, I did. Expect exactly that. Turns out that old Special Effect still works, over here." She paused. "Who knew?"
Buster sighed, and put his hands up as he looked at the stern faces of the uniformed Mounties around him. "First Shirley's bunch, now this. Isn't ANYONE pleased to see us these days?"
End Chapter Five
