A/N: I almost forgot to do one of these. Hmm...

Up until now, I haven't mentioned my two newer betas, one official and one unofficial; Alohilani on FFnet (the official) and Teufel-Hof on LJ (the unofficial). Thank you both SO much. You give awesome advice and you're awesome friends to boot.

So, now for chapter 21. I hope you enjoy, and please remember to review! (And really, I know there are a lot of you out there reading this. It doesn't hurt to leave a quick review.)

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In Short Supply

Glaring Anomaly

xxx

From a report written by Exile Bob on Tues. Feb. 2: Day 9 on Earth with Zim. I've learned that the human faction in control of the zone where our base is located calls its territory the "land of opportunity," which they claim means that anyone, regardless of their background, can do anything. That's probably a gross exaggeration, but by Slark, if Zim can claim to be an Invader again, then I can say I'm an Anthropologist! So I'm spending my free time on Earth anthropologing things.

Yes, it's true. I have some free time. It's AWESOME.

I've been studying human behavior through their teevy programs. Once you know how to sort out factual programs from fictional ones, it's really informative. Their religions are pretty interesting. I'll have to do a more formal documentation on them later.

Their most popular religion is devoted to the worship of a human that's supposedly descended from a god, who came to say something like all humans should give up their sins and when they die they'll go to a paradise. Somehow. That religion is related to two other religions that all think the universe was created with Earth at the center, and humanity was made in the god's image.

That's utterly stupid. I mean, really, who believes that? Even way out on Earth, the humans should know that Irk is the center of the universe and that the only race Slark cares about is the Irkens. Why would He have an offspring with some lowly human, anyway? Any offspring Slark has are going to be giant sea monsters, not humans. Period.

They say that snacking (they call it gluttony) and evil in general is bad: "ideal" human morality is pretty close to Virtuous Slarkist, with a few differences.

Here's the difference: almost all human religions say that dancing—or "sex," as they call it (silly name for dancing)—is sinful outside of some sort of union, which doesn't make sense to me. What kind of union are they talking about? Labor union? But anyway, the important part is that they treat it like a SIN. And say you SHOULDN'T do it. Except humans do anyway, but they still say it's bad.

But to them, there's no dividing line between miserable virtue and happy evil. Humans think that it's possible to be happy and virtuous at the same time, and that if you're evil, you'll eventually be miserable.

How does that make sense? Does that even work? I've never heard something so crazy before, but humans have plenty of fiction on teevy about virtuous characters defeating evil characters and being happy at the end, so they apparently think it does. I don't know. It sounds counterintuitive to me.

Maybe humans really can be virtuous and happy at once. It'd be neat if Irkens could do that. It's hard to be evil all the time. But the consequences of being virtuous are just too great.

xxx

It didn't take Bob long to learn Zim's schedule. From about 65° to 145°, five days out of seven, he was at the Joonier Hi Skool. From 205° until 50° the next morning, every day, he was at Bloaty's Pizza Hog. That meant on school days Zim was only at the base about 75°, less than thirty-five percent of the day; the rest of the time, Bob was in charge of handling the chaos.

He wondered how Zim had ever survived on his own.

In Bob's first three days in the base, he stopped a rogue Meekrob high on some ultraviolet-based hallucinogenic from stealing Zim's TV; found a hen pecking at several rather important wires in a subterranean level of the base and the computer recording the process (the computer claimed that this sort of thing was all the rage on the Internet among certain fetish sites); averted two nuclear meltdowns on the same day; and kept Gir from letting in the base a policeman, a rodeo clown, a door-to-door cocaine salesman, a hip-hop substitute teacher, a skinny crazy guy with red hair who claimed to have created the universe ("But only this HORRIBLE version of it," he said), a French maid, a Swedish maid, a Peruvian maid, and the Pope. Then Bob learned he had a malware program in his Pak.

"But it's okay, it doesn't hurt Paks. I got it from Zim and you got it from me and we're all okay," the computer said.

"It doesn't affect us? What about Gir, does he have it?"

"Uh... hard to tell. When he explodes it's usually got nothing to do with viruses."

"That's some lame malware," Bob said.

"Not really. It pretty much destroys anything that isn't a Macintosh or a Pak. Or Gir."

And thus Bob learned the first and most important lesson of living with Zim: If you give emergencies the worry they deserve, you'll never survive with your sanity intact. Simply assume that everything is perfectly normal.

After that, managing Zim's base became much easier.

When Bob arrived, Zim still had three weeks before having the eggs. (He informed Bob ahead of time that he wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the med bay while the eggs were being laid, and Bob was more than happy to oblige.) In those few weeks, Bob tried to show his idol that he could be a useful assistant. He wanted Zim to see him not as mere Drone sent out here to do a duty, but as someone who really believed in Zim and wanted him to succeed.

In short, he completely sucked up to Zim.

Two weeks after Bob's arrival, Zim was starting to look quite big from the eggs. He claimed that he hadn't been this big a mere week before laying the eggs the last time around, and this worried him; Bob got the sense that Zim had already had some bad experiences with the eggs.

"Computer, Bella and Dorito were smaller, weren't they?" Zim asked, pacing the living room. "I'm sure I wasn't this big at three weeks with them!"

"Yeah, you're a little bigger than you were last time," the computer said.

"I knew it!" Zim turned to Bob, who was sitting on the living room couch. "Why is this different?" he demanded.

"Er..." Bob bit his lip, thinking hard. Most normal people would ignore Zim's random questions, basically because Zim would ignore their answers. Bob, however, was attempting to impress Zim. Even if he was completely ignored, he at least had to put some effort into an answer. "How many eggs did you have last time?" There was no response. "Zim, sir?"

"I mean there's got to be a reason—Eh?" Zim stopped, looking at Bob. "Did you say something?"

"How many eggs did you have last time, sir?" Bob repeated.

"Two. Why?"

"Four," the computer corrected. "Two died."

"Feh. Details!"

That wasn't very many eggs. "Maybe you have more this time?" Bob suggested. "I don't know much about this stuff, sir, but didn't most layers have about seven eggs at a time?"

"More eggs?" The suggestion seemed to worry Zim, who started pacing again. "What if it is? That could be horrible! What if I end up with twenty?!"

"I... think that's impossible, sir," Bob said. "An Irken can only make up to ten eggs at a time."

"Then I'm just amazing," Zim said proudly. Bob thought he was a little wacky if he really thought he could have twenty eggs at a time, but, then again, they'd called the Youngest Tallest wacky, too.

"Really, it will probably be about seven eggs, sir. I bet that's why you're bigger this time than last time." And he really was getting big, too. And round. Bob had only seen Irkens with their bodies shaped like Zim's in old historical pictures and diagrams, from back before Geneticists found a way to remove genitalia from the Irken genetic code. Looking at Zim made Bob feel like he was somehow talking to a historical figure, someone who had lived many eras ago. It made Exile Zim seem even more like the Youngest Tallest Zim. Except for the fact that the Youngest Tallest had supposedly been a fertilizer, but regardless...

"How do you know that stuff about eggs, anyway?" Zim asked, narrowing an eye suspiciously. (Bob wasn't sure what Zim had reason to be suspicious about, but a great many things Zim did never seemed to have a reason.)

"I'm an... I was supposed to be an Anthropologist, sir," Bob said. "I like studying Irken history, mainly the Antecontactum Period." The Antecontactum Period stretched from the birth of the Youngest Tallest (marking the advent of Slarkism and the end of the Wet Ages) to the first alien contact the Irkens received: a curious satellite that crashed on the planet with a video message from a race that called itself Vortian.

"Pfft. Big deal." Zim made a dismissive gesture. "Anthropology is for losers."

"Excuse me!" Bob said, hurt. "But I—"

"Why are you a Drone now?" Zim demanded, completely abandoning his previous train of thought.

"I... er..." Bob couldn't very well go back and defend his former career since Zim had just completely changed topics. So he sighed resignedly and said, "I had to quit training. My projected height is four units, so I'd never be allowed to be an actual Anthropologist. You know how it is for... for Irkens like us, don't you? Sir?"

Zim narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about," he hissed.

Bob bit his lip. He hadn't meant to offend Zim. "I'm sor—"

"I'd never be a Drone," Zim continued, sneering at the thought that any Irken would. Bob figured that was all he'd get out of Zim on that topic.

But despite his scorn, he added, almost angrily, "The Control Brains said I'd be a Frylord."

"They... did? Really?" Bob had never heard of Zim being in Food Service before, except during his banishment after Operation Impending Doom I.

"What? You doubt my frycooky skills?" Zim glared at Bob.

"No sir, I'd never—"

"Well, I could have been great!" he said indignantly. "But I switched to Soldier training when I figured out I'd be... not all... tallishy. Ya know?"

Bob nodded enthusiastically. "I understand, I really do! And—I think it was great that you became an Invader, sir! You're like a..." He paused to rub at his eyes; he was getting too enthusiastic, which always choked him up. "You're a... hero, Zim. To all of us."

Corny as he sounded, he wasn't exaggerating. The media villainized Zim, that was true: Announcers and Correspondents loved finding new ways to enhance the infamy of Zim, the smallest Irken and the largest danger the empire had ever known. But Announcers and Correspondents, given their jobs, were the news media faces of the Irken Empire. They were the Irkens that everyone saw, which meant they had to be the best Irkens that could be produced, so they had to be tall. Bob doubted there was a single Announcer alive under 130 units—of course they hated Zim.

They hated Zim for the same reason the Drones tentatively praised him: he didn't fit in the strict Irken hierarchy. Even after being exiled, he still made the news every few dozen days, apparently as determined to remain a part of the Irken Empire as he was to mess it up. After all, Zim was a short Irken, but he wasn't a Drone or Janitor or Menial Mechanic; he aspired to power and fame, to Inventor and Invader, but he wasn't tall. He was not merely a defect, but a glaring anomaly in an otherwise flawless social system.

Sure, he had some destructive tendencies, but while the elite of Irk thought it was just part of his nature as a short Irken, the undersized underclass thought differently. Destruction was the only way Zim could make himself known. Whether or not he realized it consciously, if he wanted attention, then becoming Irk's unintentional enemy was a far better method of attracting it than being another of Irk's quiet followers. Zim couldn't have hit on a better strategy to make his name known.

Zim wasn't scary just because of the flood of disasters that seemed to follow him from world to world. There was also a suggestion in his actions, an evil idea as welcome to the short Irkens as the Youngest Tallest's sinful suggestion had been welcome to the Irken race at large: the suggestion that the gap between tall and short Irkens could be crossed.

The more infamy Zim amassed, the closer he came to representing evil incarnate. True, that evil was more often aimed at the Irken Empire than wielded by it, but evil is evil.

To Bob, if Zim could achieve that power, then any Irken could, regardless of height. To Bob, Zim was hope.

"Of course I'm a hero! I am Zim!" he said, and then abruptly switched topics again. "So you know about eggs, huh? Is it safe for an Irken my height to have that many at once?"

"Seven-ish? It should be," Bob said uncertainly. He'd heard somewhere that there was a lower limit of safety in height for laying eggs, but was fairly sure that Zim was now above that height. (Bob would admit that it was a slight disappointment that Zim was no longer the shortest Irken alive; it took away something of his notorious reputation. Then again, Zim was still pretty short. A lot taller than Bob would ever be, but nevertheless, still short.) "Yeah, it's fine. You'll be okay, sir."

"I'd better be," Zim muttered.

xxx

A week later, Zim laid his eggs. There were indeed seven; one, however, had YY chromosomes, which meant it was dead from the start. That's how the computer explained it to Bob, who was sitting in the kitchen while Zim was in the med bay. The computer kept up a running commentary of the process of egg-extraction, which was graphic enough that Bob had to fill a cup with water from the kitchen sink and pour it over his head to keep from getting too nauseous. He wondered why that creeped out most Irkens when he did it; the Slarkists really had the right idea when they said that pain was a welcome alternative to misery.

Virtuous Slarkists, to remain virtuous, were allowed to dance but not to snack; Zimish Slarkists, to irk the Virtuous Slarkists, were allowed to snack but not to dance. Bob was mostly fine with this since not many people wanted to dance with someone his size anyway. (Besides, since the Youngest Tallest promoted sin, most transgressions of Zimish commandments were smiled upon anyway. A win-win situation.) Luckily, Zim had some pretty good snacks, so Bob could use them to calm himself down from the far too detailed descriptions, although he did have to dump a couple more cups of water on his head. He had to give that up when he started forming rashes on his head.

The whole ordeal took just over fifty degrees. The computer's commentary finally ended, and a couple of degrees later a very weary-looking Zim emerged from the toilet, stumbled to the table, and wordlessly snatched Bob's box of cookies for himself. Bob watched helplessly as his snack was devoured, then sighed and got another box.

Zim managed to swallow a couple of huge mouthfuls before stopping and squinting at Bob's burn-covered face. Zim's eyes were dull from whatever weird painkillers that human boy had supplied him with, and his eyelids were puffy from exhaustion. His limbs were trembling, and his exoskeleton was still arched funny in the back from having to conform to the weight of seven eggs, so he looked slightly hunchbacked. His right antenna lay limp along the top of his head, as if it were broken, while his left antenna twitched erratically from the painkillers. Zim blearily surveyed Bob's face, and then croaked, "You look horrible."

Bob chuckled wearily. "Yeah? Well, you should see what you... ah, never mind." It wasn't worth the trouble.

Zim didn't even acknowledge that Bob had spoken before turning back to his snack. It took only three more mouthfuls for him to finish off the box of cookies. He dropped the empty box on the table, straightened his back as well as he could, and then headed for the trash can. "I'll have to call the Tallest later," he mumbled. "He needs to know that—"

Zim promptly fell to the ground in a dead faint.

"S-sir?" Bob leaped down from his chair. Oh, Irk's Savior, this wasn't good. He had to wake Zim. Bob ran to the sink, filled up a cup of water, and ran back to Zim's side to dump it on his head.

"I wouldn't do that," the computer said. "Master won't like it, and then he'll yell at both of us."

"Huh? Oh, right." Zim wasn't Slarkist, unfortunately. He probably wouldn't appreciate a cupful of water in his face. But Zim's Pak was whirring now as it filtered air for him, so he obviously wasn't in any immediate danger. It seemed Bob would just have to wait for Zim to wake up.

Bob set his cup of water on the kitchen table and sighed. "Why are you going through so much for the Tallest?" he asked Zim's unconscious form. "They hate us, you know. They'd gladly kill Irkens like us, if they didn't need someone to serve them drinks and stuff."

Zim didn't stir. This was the first time Bob had ever seen Zim completely quiet. His face was still, though not quite calm; even unconscious, Zim's eyelids were scrunched closed like he was consciously holding them shut, and was just preparing to snap his eyes wide open.

"How can you be so loyal, after what they've done to us?" Bob demanded. "Why don't you hate them?! You of ALL Irkens should know how cruel the Tallest can—"

"Master can't hear you, you know."

Bob paused. "Uh, yeah. I know."

Zim wouldn't be happy if he woke up and found no progress had been made on his mission, so Bob figured he was the one who had to call the Tallest—no matter how much the Tallest hated Bob and Zim. He gave Zim's exhausted form one last, concerned look, before he climbed into the trashcan and descended into the subterranean base.

xxx

It was sheer coincidence that Purple was in his quarters when he received a transmission from Earth. It was nowhere near 160°. The time, in fact, was 63°. Couldn't Zim remember anything about his instructions?

Purple had left the door to his quarters open because he'd planned on just grabbing some snacks (Red ALWAYS made Purple get more snacks) and leaving again. He shut and locked the door before answering the transmission. "Zim, you idiot, what do you think..." Purple stared at Bob. "Oh. You."

Bob's eyes immediately glimmered with outraged tears. "Idiot?! You'd call Zim that after all he's gone through—"

"Yeah yeah yeah, what do you want?" Purple snapped. He didn't feel like putting up with a melodramatic Drone. "Why are you calling so early? Did something go wrong?"

It was about the day Zim was supposed to have his eggs, after all. But with Dorito and Bella, he'd at least waited until the correct time to contact Purple. Why not this time? And why had he sent Bob to contact Purple instead of taking the opportunity to brag himself? And why had Bob gotten upset so easily when Purple had said something bad about Zim? Did something happen?

Visions of Zim half-dead, sprawled in a shallow pool of his own blood, body split open and peeled back, internal exoskeleton cracked apart, cold metal blades moving in and out—the images seared through Purple's mind. In a flash of panic, Purple leaned over the screen. "Bob! What's wrong? What happened to Zim?!"

"Uh—he had the eggs," Bob said, startled.

"What else? Is he hurt?"

"Nooo..." Bob shook his head slowly, giving Purple an odd look.

Purple relaxed. Slightly. "Then why are you contacting me right now?"

"To... tell you about the eggs?" Bob said. "What, am I not supposed to contact you now?"

"Yes! Didn't Zim tell you?" Purple said, exasperated. "You're only supposed to contact me between 160 and 180 degrees."

"Oh." Bob's antennae drooped sheepishly. "I didn't know that."

"You do now. So remember it!" Purple sighed, trying not to show how nervous he'd been. "If you EVER scare me like that again, I'll..." He couldn't think of a suitable punishment. "I'll cut off one of your antennae or something. Something worse. Yeah."

Bob nodded slowly. "You were... scared for Zim?"

"Shut up. Where is he, anyway?" Purple had thought Zim would never pass up an opportunity to contact his Tallest.

"Passed out from exhaustion after laying the eggs," Bob said coldly, eyes fixed accusatorily on Purple's face.

"What? I thought you said he was okay!"

"He is." Bob suddenly looked uncertain. "I think."

"What do you mean, 'I think'? Is Zim okay or not?!"

"Uh..."

Purple heard an automatic door whoosh open behind Bob, and a moment later a bleary-eyed Zim trudged into view. He blinked at Bob, mumbled, "Wrong floor," and turned to leave.

"Zim? You alright?" Purple asked.

"Eh?" Zim stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Purple, puzzled. His left antenna was jerking around oddly, but his right one was currently limp; Purple wondered if Zim could hear right. (Well, he wondered that a lot of the time, but now more so than usual.) "There's six," Zim said, and trudged off again. "Recharge..."

That had been a random and completely useless encounter. "He's okay," Purple concluded. "You, Bob. I'm going to be on Earth in a few degrees. If Zim's not up yet, you let me in. Understood?"

"Okay," Bob said. "Er, before you go, I'm just wondering... were you really that worried about Zim?"

"He's a walking disaster, who wouldn't be worried?" Purple said, before realizing what Bob was hinting at. "I mean—NO! That's stupid! Zim's stupid! You're stupid! Not that way! It's for the mission! None of your business! Nosy Drone!"

"Okay, okay, sorry!" Bob said, cowering fearfully, just like a typical Drone.

"I hope you are," Purple hissed, then ended the transmission. Of all the idiotic questions...

Of course Purple didn't actually care about Zim. They were simply working on this mission together, and that meant they happened to currently be dance partners. Purple's concern for Zim was because he was necessary for the mission—there was no correlation between the dancing and the worry.

Maybe Zim wasn't as horrible as Purple used to think, but there were billions of non-horrible Irkens in the empire and Purple didn't care all that much about any of them, so why should he care about Zim? His list of friends was quite exclusive, and Zim wasn't on it.

In fact, that list was pretty much limited to Red, huh? Oh well, Purple figured that made sense. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer and all that... wait, what in the Firmament did that have to do with anything?

Okay, well, Purple had been a bit detached from Red lately, hadn't he? And he'd certainly been very close to Zim in the past few weeks, in a physical sense. Which meant Red was close and Zim was closer, so Zim was still an enemy. Hah. Sometimes Purple could have a smart thought.

Never mind that Purple had been worried for Zim—and ridiculously defensive the moment Bob suggested that Purple might, just a little bit, like Zim. He could worry about all that later.

Right now, he had to come up an excuse that his single friend might accept for why he'd gone to his room to get snacks and ended up having to leave the Massive again. Could he use Foodcourtia for an excuse again? He'd been using Foodcourtia a lot lately. Then again, there was something to be said for consistent stories. Purple would have an easier time remembering them. So, Foodcourtia. He could say he'd just gotten a transmission that said some extra-good Sintillate candies had just been imported and he wanted to grab some before they sold out. Yeah, that would work on Red...

Then, to Earth, where he'd have to deal with Bob until Zim had recharged. Purple also needed to explain to Bob exactly what he had to do to take care of the eggs, now that he had some in his care. Purple scowled at the thought as he left his quarters. "I hate short Irkens," he muttered.

xxx

Bob sighed in relief as the transmission ended. That could have gone a lot better. Starting with contacting the Tallest at the right time. 160° to 180°. Why had no one told him about that?

He supposed this meant he was in charge of the base until Zim had recharged. "Computer, are the eggs safe?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Thank you."

"And you," the computer said proudly, "are very welcome." Bob had the sense that the computer didn't get the chance to say "you're welcome" very often.

He got on the lift. "Take me to the hangar, please."

"Sure." While the lift rose, Bob wondered what he'd say when he saw Tallest Purple. He'd have to deal with him until Zim woke up, wouldn't he? Great.

As he stepped off the lift, Bob muttered, "I hate tall Irkens."

xxx

Red didn't ask any questions as Purple explained why he was leaving the Massive again. He said bye, wished Purple luck with the Sintillate snacks, and nothing else. Of course, procuring snacks from Sintillia was a worthy goal, but something about Purple's explanation had seemed off.

First, Red was pretty sure he would have heard before Purple if there were any rare Sintillate candies to be had. Second, as dopey as Purple could be, there was no way it wouldn't occur to him to simply contact the merchant with the snacks and order him to ship some of the snacks to the Massive. There was no need for Purple to go to Foodcourtia himself.

Something was up with Purple. He'd been acting strange for too long—first running off after Zim's freaky transmission, now all these trips off the Massive without giving Red any real information. He couldn't think of more than three or four times in their past six years as Tallest that they'd been apart, until the past few weeks.

Then there was the fact that Purple hadn't danced with Red in Irk knew how long; he wasn't sure if Pur had been dancing at all recently. Purple was secretive, suspicious, bordering on paranoid, almost jumping at every transmission.

And speaking of transmissions, it occurred to Red that Zim had been weird lately, too. Weirder than usual. In the two transmissions he'd sent recently, he was dying in the first one and had ended the transmission after two sentences in the second one. Plus, he usually bothered the Massive every three days at least. Why hadn't he been making so many transmissions lately?

That didn't have anything to do with Purple, Red knew that. And yet... Zim's freaky transmission had been on the same day Purple vanished. It didn't mean anything, of course it didn't, yet Red couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, it was significant.

Either way, he had to do something about Purple.

But he had no idea what. He knew he wasn't much of a Tallest—he'd be clueless without Purple to help him. However, he couldn't exactly ask Purple for help this time, could he? So what else was he supposed to do? His Advisors were stupid, he didn't trust anyone shorter than them, he certainly couldn't handle this himself... Voids, why did Red have to be a Tallest to begin with?! The Control Brains had said he'd never be a good leader—

Wait. Why hadn't Red thought of that?

Red turned to a random Taller Advisor (what was his name, again?) and said, "Hey you. When's my next vacation?"

"Uh..." The Advisor quickly pulled a digital planner from his Pak. "You're scheduled for a five-day vacation in twenty-six days."

"I see." Right, Red had been planning to spend the vacation on Cheaphookeria, which he'd heard was already turning into a wonderfully seedy planet. There were rumors that the Planet had quite a few businesses set up for xenophiles, with the strictest confidentiality contracts. It had been far too long since Red had been with a Vortian... But, that would have to wait until his next vacation. For this one, he was going to Judgmentia. Turning to one of the Comm Techs, he said, "You, contact the Control Brains. Give them the days of my vacation and tell them to clear a space in that time for me to speak with them."

"Yes, sir."

Red wished he'd thought of that before. Of course the Control Brains would be able to help. They recorded every trip of every ship in the Irken Empire, every transaction of every money, every recharge cycle of every Pak, every query and command of every computer, every transcript of every transmission. They would know where Purple went, what he was doing, whom he was with, why he was with them.

If anyone would be able to help Red figure out what Purple had been up to, the Control Brains would.

xxxxx