Merry pick-your-holiday and a happy January First Eve, I'm updating! For the first time in a century. I apologize profusely. To celebrate the occasion, I'm not even waiting until Friday, what fun. I'm sorry I haven't updated, but most of my writing lately has been going towards original fiction. See, I've got this vampire named Thaddeus Stork; he has a zombie girlfriend, likes The Beverly Hillbillies, and is scared of Count Dracula, teenage quarterbacks, and the theory of evolution... ah, never mind. New chapter!

A special thanks to my emergency spur-of-the-moment beta JoeMerl, and to my constant beta Ricchan.

And in regards to ART CONTEST STUFF, I've got... two entries. I think. One might not count. Because of this, the deadline is now whenever-the-hell-I-get-enough-entries-to-justify-this-thing, so please do submit some more stuff. Winners will be decided either by me or by poll, first prize is requested fanart from me and getting to name a smeet, second prize is either requested fanart or naming a smeet, third prize is a thumbs-up. And now, by request, fanart AND fanfics are included in the contest. (Those would be... what, fan-fanfics? Eh, whatever.) Further rules located in chapter 26.

Now then. On to the long-awaited chapter 29! Huzzah! And it might be the longest chapter so far, how nice.

Edit: I wasn't gonna bother to say this until the next chapter, but apparently some people are starting to get worried (and one of them reviewed anonymously so I can't respond to them...) so I thought I'd say something here. For those of you who hadn't noticed, I flamed myself on this chapter. I have a very, very good reason for why I did so: I was kinda bored, and I wondered who would notice. I figured it'd just confuse the few people who DID notice, and then I'd explain it at the start of chapter 30 and it'd be done with. But today I got a review from someone who thinks that I'm trying to say that I hate my own story and don't want to write it. That isn't true at least, although I realize that inexplicably flaming oneself could lead others to draw that conclusion. For those of you that have noticed, and were concerned: I have nothing but good feelings towards this fic, and only wish I had enough time to work on it faster. I'm just a little goofy sometimes. (And just a random note: if you have any sort of question or concern about ANYTHING at all, please please PLEASE give me a way to get back to you in your review. A signed-in review or an email address are great, but not necessary; if you do a non-signed-in review but you type in the same name as your username, I'll still be able to get back to you. Or give me your LJ name, your AIM name, anything... but seriously, don't call yourself "anonymous" if you're worried that I hate my own story, because then I won't be able to PM you and say there's nothing to worry about. Instead, I have to edit the Author's Notes of my latest chapter and hope you see it.)

xxxxx

In Short Supply

March Fifteenth

xxx

Dib's Saturday had been very exciting. He'd made his call to Gourdy some time after one in the morning, and by five, Agent Darkbooty himself had called Dib back (and woken him up), completely flabbergasted by his pictures. He'd declared Dib a prodigy of an investigator and said his evidence could finally bridge the gap between the field of paranormal investigation and the world of "hard" science. Dib had been honored.

Then he'd gone back to sleep.

Later that day, he watched Gaz beat up that crazy mailman that all the parents told their kids to avoid, procrastinated on his math homework by watching segments of Godzilla backwards and listening for hidden messages, and programmed Tak's ship to play Solitaire instead of plot global conquest when it wasn't doing anything else.

Okay, so the rest of his day wasn't that interesting. But it was an exciting morning, at least. And Sunday started off pretty well, too.

Dib was eating breakfast (slightly stale Super Toast and even staler Count Cocofang cereal) when the doorbell rang. "Gaz, could you—"

"Get the door, Dib."

Dib frowned. "But you're in the living room! Why can't you—"

"Get the door, Dib."

Muttering, Dib left the kitchen and walked past Gaz to the front door, shooting the back of her head a dirty look as he passed. His annoyance disappeared the moment he opened the door. "Uncle Denny?!"

"Hey there, Dib!" Denny leaned into the living room, peering around suspiciously through thick glasses. "Your father isn't here, is he?"

"No."

"Good." Denny stepped inside, set his bag down, and glanced at the couch. "Hi, Gaz."

"Mph." She was never as enthusiastic as Dib about their uncle's visits. She still claimed that they weren't related at all.

"What are you doing here?" Dib asked. "I mean—it's great to see you! But today's a Sunday and tomorrow's a work day." Denny lived about five hours away. Dib hoped that Denny was there to talk to him about his recent pictures. "Don't you have to be back at school by tomorrow?"

"Don't remind me," Denny muttered. Sometimes Dib got the impression that he hated going to school more than his students did. "Anyway," he continued, heading into the kitchen, "I thought I should spend the holiday with my favorite nephew and niece."

"We're you're only nephew and niece," Gaz muttered. It was her final contribution to the conversation.

"Holiday?" Dib frowned, following his uncle into the kitchen and sitting down in front of his Count Cocofang cereal again. Then it wasn't about the pictures, he thought with disappointment. "But it's the middle of March."

"Precisely!" Denny was rummaging through the fridge, and emerged with a can of soda-free Poop Cola: now made with 100% liquid caffeine! "This is the exact middle of March! March fifteenth! The Ides of March!"

"Oh, right. When Caesar was assassinated." That hadn't even occurred to Dib; it was just March 15th to him. "I didn't know anyone celebrated that."

"Celebrate?" Denny seemed shocked. "I'm here to protect you!"

Dib gave him a skeptical look. "Okay... From what?"

"Haven't you heard of the 315 Theory?" Dib shook his head. "Well!" Denny leaned forward, grinning with crooked teeth. "I guess I'll have to tell you about it."

"Okay." Dib leaned forward as well. If Denny was getting excited about this, then it had to be about the paranormal, and he told great stories about paranormal theories.

"Julius Caesar isn't the only emperor to be assassinated on the Ides of March," Denny began mysteriously. "Rumor has it that it's happened before, and many times since then. Countless political disasters have occurred on the Ides, causing national turmoil and the collapse of entire civilizations!"

"Really? Like when?" Dib asked. "I've never heard about anything other than Caesar."

"Deh... I think there was a Chinese lord or something," Denny said, thinking hard. "During the Han dynasty. Or maybe Qin."

"What lord? How come you can't think of any others?"

"Look it up later! Who's telling this story, anyway?" Denny snapped. "We don't know about any more Ides of March disasters because there's a government conspiracy that won't tell us about them to prevent global panic every mid-March. They wouldn't even tell us about Caesar if Shakespeare hadn't made the story popular."

"Oh, okay." The government covered everything else up, anyway. Even Dib's dad admitted that the government cover-ups were true. They'd confiscated his blueprints for the Super Subatomic Bomb. "Go on."

"The 315 Theory says that there's some kind of universal psychic phenomenon that's riled up every March fifteenth, and it mainly targets politicians. It destabilizes their 'diplomatic immunity' fields and makes them vulnerable to political treachery," Denny said, as if this were all very logical. "Complete research hasn't been done yet—no thanks to NASA Place—but we think that cultures across the universe suffer on the Ides of March as well."

Dib leaned forward, fascinated. "Really? Why's that?" That would make something happen every 365 Earth days, which probably didn't correspond in the least to any alien calendars... Zim's home planet would have about ten Ides of March a year. Wouldn't that be nice... "Does the psychic energy originate on Earth and radiate out to other planets or something?"

"I dunno." Denny shrugged. "I'm a fairy specialist. But! The point is, on this day, countless civilizations could be starting to fall apart. The seeds of social discord are being planted, treacheries are being plotted, distrust is abound, and life as somebody-out-there knows it is ending!" By the end of his speech, he was standing on the kitchen chair, waving his hands in the air as if he were trying to warn the entire house about the danger. The house didn't take well to this, and toppled Denny from his chair. "Gaah!"

Dib jumped up to help. "You okay?"

"Duh..." he grunted, "duh-don't worry about me! I'll live." He grabbed the table and shakily pulled himself up. "Uh, anyway... I thought I should stay with you two today. After all, a couple of days ago it was Friday the thirteenth, and now the Ides of March. Who knows what might happen?"

"Good point," Dib said. Friday the thirteenth and the Ides of March, so close together? How often did that happen? "I'll go get my laser." He ran out of the kitchen, completely forgetting his half-eaten wholly-stale breakfast, and headed for the stairs.

"You do that!" Denny shouted. "I'll... uh... wait for you." He walked into the living room, and then, very carefully, sat beside Gaz. "So..."

Gaz gave him a very annoyed sideways glance. "Mmph."

"Seen any fairies lately?" he asked hopefully.

Gaz slowly began radiating a force field of doom.

Upstairs, Dib found the super-laser he'd gotten from Zim's offspring yesterday morning. Well, that had probably been yesterday morning, assuming it hadn't still been Friday night. He wondered where the Ides of March disaster would be striking this year. Maybe at Zim's culture?

But what were the odds of that? There was no way Earth would be so lucky as to have the Ides strike Irk. Dib would do better to just worry about his own planet.

He had no idea how close the Irken Empire was to falling apart already.

xxx

"We shall tell you all that we know about Almighty Tallest Purple," one Control Brain said, and the other two elaborated: "We will begin with what you have just witnessed. You now know that your co-ruler has ordered that a swarm of Control Brain Technicians do a complete check of our systems."

"Right. Yeah," Red said. "What's that all about?"

"We are not sure what precisely he intends to find," a Brain said. "However, it is apparent that he believes that we are impaired. He is mistaken."

Red smiled wryly. "Yeah. It won't be his first time." Still, even as ditzy as Purple was, to suspect the Control Brains of malfunctioning... That was really far out there, even for Purple. Hells, that was more like something Zim would think up.

"We are pleased to see that you do not share Almighty Tallest Purple's delusions. If the Irken Empire is soon to be facing turbulent times, it needs a reasonable leader. You were wise to come to us," the Brains said. They whirred thoughtfully a moment, and then said, "This is our assessment: Almighty Tallest Purple is a danger to himself and to the entire Irken Empire."

Red's antennae went rigid. No. Purple? Dangerous? That was impossible! Purple couldn't even shoot a gun straight! How could he possibly be...

But... if the Control Brain Triumvirate said he was, then he was. For a moment, the Control Brains' audience chamber went even darker; all Red could see was their glowing red optics. "R... really..."

"You should not be surprised. You suspected the same yourself." The Control Brains, suspended by legions of pulleys and levers and pistons, lifted themselves higher, optics brightening. "We will show you how we came to this conclusion."

Before Red could object, the Control Brains snapped out two thin wires and plugged them under the lower two panels of his Pak. He could almost feel the jolt of the information coursing through his Pak, up his spine, into his brain.

Records: of transactions, purchases, exchanges of monies, currencies—data encrypted. Of travel, of ships, of velocities and trajectories, fuel and electricity, galaxies and destinations—data missing. Of words and gestures, voices and faces, countless messages, babble, speeches, monologues, communications—data corrupted. Again and again, nearly overwhelming Red, data from every part of the empire. And every piece of information riddled with holes—data hidden, data incomprehensible, data not entered, data simply not there. Before Red's mind was completely engulfed by the data (and the lack thereof), the Control Brains finally withdrew the wires.

"All the missing data is connected to Almighty Tallest Purple's activities. He is hiding from us," the Brains said.

Red didn't say anything to that; he was still trying to regain his bearings after the mass of info. Purple, hiding from the Control Brains. Okay. Red could absorb that if he took it one piece at a time. And all that missing data... Red had known that he himself didn't know much about what Purple was up to lately, but it seemed like even for the Triumvirate, information on Purple was in short supply.

"First, eighteen weeks ago, Almighty Tallest Purple claimed to be taking a vacation to Foodcourtia," said the left Brain, then the right: "We do not know where he went, because we did not suspect him then, and thus did not track him. However, he never went to Foodcourtia."

Eighteen weeks ago... Red thought he remembered when Purple went on that vacation—or whatever it really was. He had come back with Duper Dip and shared it with Red, even though there was a Duper Dip shortage at the time. If he hadn't gotten the dip on Foodcourtia, where had he gone?

"After Exile Zim's unusual transmission from Earth—which we are sure you must remember..." (Red nodded vigorously. Hearing Zim wail like he was dying was on Red's top five list of Most Horribly Weird Things Zim's Ever Done.) "...Almighty Tallest Purple left the Massive. However, as before, he did not go to Foodcourtia as he later claimed to have done. He went to Vort in his personal Spittle Runner, ordered an unknown Vortian prisoner to perform undocumented modifications to the Spittle Runner, and then left Vort. Since then, his Spittle Runner has been untrackable, untraceable, and invisible on our radars and our Galactic Positioning System. We are now unable to determine where Almighty Tallest Purple goes any time he uses his Spittle Runner."

"Really? There's something you can't find on your GPS?" Red said. "Wow. How did Pur manage to do that?"

"If we knew how he had done it, he would not have done it," a Brain responded.

Red blinked slowly, trying to work out what that meant. "Okay... just go on."

"He has recently made several trips to the smeet academies on Irk, without any identified purpose. There has also recently been an unexplained surplus of smeets, with a few more entering the academies than the smeet birthing facilities have records for. We do not know why this is. Such an error in our inventories is unprecedented and, in fact, it is impossible. We can only conclude that some sort of tampering has been committed. We have no evidence that Purple is involved, beyond the circumstantial."

Purple couldn't have done that, Red thought. Could he?

"Within the past few weeks, Almighty Tallest Purple has made and received several untraceable transmissions from his quarters. Whoever or whatever the source of these transmissions is, his, her, or its computer system has several non-Irken components that jam our recording mechanisms. Thus, we can view and hear the transmissions as normal but although they pass through our short-term memory banks, we cannot save them on our hard drive. In short, we are incapable of remembering the transmissions. Because the memory-storage function of Control Brains is identical to that of Irken Paks, we believe that any Irkens who view the transmissions, with the exception of the two participants in the actual conversation, will not recall them either."

"Wait—you can't even record his transmissions?" Red asked, bewildered. This was starting to be too much for him to take in. He had to latch on to some small detail so that he could avoid dealing with the sheer mass of the accusations against Purple. This particular detail was good enough for him. "How's that even possible?"

"We just told you how."

"Oh. Yeah. Can't you get someone else to record the transmission?" Red asked.

"We just told you why that wouldn't work."

"But... the Irkens having the conversation can remember the transmission and you can't? Does that even make sense?"

"It does."

"No it doesn—"

"It does."

"Yeah, okay. Have it your way." Red hovered back a few steps, hands half-raised in surrender. "So, if you want to record the transmissions, why can't you just—"

"You are avoiding the issue."

Red paused. "Yeah. I guess so." He sighed. "So. Pur's really been up to all that, huh."

"Yes, he has. Almighty Tallest Purple has also been involved in several other suspicious activities that we shall not describe in great detail, as we have downloaded the particulars into your Pak. Among these are suspicious monetary transactions with untraceable destinations, and several unusual queries into the Empirical Statistics Database."

As well as black market rumors that Purple had recently hired an exoskeletal extender, but if the Brains didn't know about that yet, Red couldn't bring himself to tell them now. Perhaps an extension was one of the suspicious monetary transactions the Brains had mentioned?

What was going on? This wasn't the Purple that Red knew at all. He couldn't be up to anything bad, could he? Whatever he was doing, it had to be for the good of the empire somehow. Right? "Do you have any idea—a guess, whatever—about why he's doing all this?"

"This is what we suspect," the central Brain said, before all spoke together—optics even brighter, voices booming as if they were rendering a judgment on a defect: "Almighty Tallest Purple is not intentionally harming the Irken Empire. He is not a traitor. However, we have difficulty believing he would practice such secrecy for an endeavor intended to benefit the empire. Therefore, whatever he is doing is a personal matter, not a political one, and most likely a shameful matter."

Red's antennae twitched, the only flinch he'd let himself show: that was almost the exact same declaration he expected the Brains would someday make about his xenophilia. Red knew all about shameful personal matters. He could actually relax a little bit at this information; he wasn't about to assume that Purple might be a xenophile, too (and Red thought he was pretty good at picking out fellow xenophiles from a crowd) but if Purple had anything even slightly similar going on, then Red would understand. Maybe he could even help. Perhaps this wouldn't be a total disaster.

Red shut his eyes for a moment, fixing that thought in his Pak—he would not let this turn into a disaster—before opening them again and taking a deep breath. "Okay. What should I do?" he asked the Brains.

"If you confront Almighty Tallest Purple directly, he will deny his activities, regardless of how much you have discovered or inferred on your own."

Red nodded. He understood that perfectly well. If one day Purple marched into Red's quarters, followed by every Vortian Dancer he'd ever hired and brandishing photographic evidence, Red would still deny having met a single one of those Vortians.

The Control Brains whirred for a moment. "These are our suggestions: Watch him. Study him. Suspect him. Do not let him out of your sight. Do not let him get away from you. Do not let him continue his deceptions and facades. Report back to us regularly."

"Yes sir. Sirs." Red realized that it had been a very, very long time since he'd last been given an order. There was something relieving in having a command to follow; he wasn't expected to do this all on his own anymore. He could hold his breath, shut his eyes, and follow blindly. That was all he was really qualified to do.

"Is there anything else you wish to ask of us, Almighty Tallest Red?" the central Brain asked.

"Just one thing," Red said. He still had never gotten a good answer on the whole recording-the-transmissions issue. "If you can't record Purple's transmissions yourself and if any Irken that watches them can't remember them, why don't you get someone without a Pak to watch them?"

The Control Brains stared at him a moment; the left one tilted a bit to get a better look at him. They whirred for a moment. "An odd suggestion," they finally said. "It is highly unorthodox. You are suggesting that we allow an alien to view the transmissions."

"Er, yeah. I guess I am." Red lowered his gaze from the Brains. "Would that work?"

"It might. We would have to find a suitable alien. Ones loyal to the empire are difficult to come by. Nevertheless, we thank you for the suggestion. We had not ourselves thought of possibly using an alien to assist us."

No, they wouldn't, because Control Brains contained the minds of former Irkens, and the Triumvirate contained the minds of the Irken Empire's former Tallest. And normal Irkens didn't think about aliens the way Red did. Well, as long as the Brains didn't ask why Red had thought about going to aliens for help... "Thank you for your assistance," Red said, and turned to leave.

"You were lucky we found time to meet with you on such short notice," the Brains said as he left.

Red had asked to meet with them nearly four weeks ago. Short notice. Right. He almost laughed to himself as he left the Brains' audience chamber.

Even the Almighty Tallest, the most important Irken in the empire, had to make appointments with the Control Brains.

xxx

Vermin was leaning against a wall, separate from the other CoBra Techs standing outside the audience chamber, wondering when he was going to get back to work. More importantly, he wondered if he was getting paid for this break. Listening in on the other Techs' conversations, this didn't seem to be on their minds, but their food was cheap. Snacks. Vermin wished he could survive on snacks. Imported seafood was expensive...

The doors to the audience chamber opened, and the Techs looked forward, ready to get back to work. Several remembered to hastily salute at the sight of Tallest Red. (Vermin saluted first.)

Red's eyes narrowed at the sight of them. Before any could start heading back into the audience chamber, he snapped, "Go away. You're all dismissed."

Dismissed? Vermin stared at Red. Like, for-the-rest-of-the-day dismissed, or go-find-a-new-job dismissed?

"Purple was mistaken about the Brains," Red said. "There's nothing wrong with any of them, and you're all wasting your time trying to find something wrong. Return to your regular maintenance duties."

The Techs' antennae were rigid in shock, and they slowly started glancing at each other, wondering what was going on. (A fair number shot dirty looks at Vermin, as if it were somehow his fault.)

"What's the matter? You're getting an order from your Tallest! Get out of here and get back to your other work!"

Uncertainly, the Irken Techs dispersed. Vermin didn't. He didn't have other work to do. He'd been jobless until Tallest Purple had hired him for the purpose of checking the Triumvirate for defects. If he wasn't doing that, then he was job-hunting again. For Vortians, hunting for jobs was about as easy as hunting for herbivorous Blorchian Rats. Vermin didn't like his job, but it was the only job he had.

Tallest Red breezed past Vermin without even glancing down at him, a dark, thoughtful look in his eyes. His Guards hurried to his sides, and Vermin followed before he could get too far away. "My Tallest!" he said. "Wait! Uh... please?" He was probably being incredibly disrespectful (and he felt bad because of it), but he was desperate, so he excused himself this once.

Tallest Red jerked to a stop and turned, giving Vermin a startled look. "Huhwha?" He blinked. "Oh. You're that... Hey, have we... met before?" The Tallest's Bodyguards gave him a puzzled look.

"I don't think so, my Tallest," Vermin said. He was used to this; most Irkens figured if they'd met one alien, they'd met them all. "I mean no, sir. I would certainly remember it if I had met such an awesome Irken as you."

Tallest Red looked relieved. "Yeah. Right. So what do you want, Technician?"

Vermin smiled in glee. "Hey! You didn't call me—" Vortian, the way any other Irken would. What is it, Vortian? Hey, Vortian, get over here. As if Vermin wanted to be reminded of his species. But this wasn't a revelation he wanted to share with his Tallest. He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Uh, sorry, my Tallest. I'm actually trying to humbly ask a very small favor of your Almightiness. Really."

Tallest Red's Guards glowered at him and lowered their weapons to aim at his chest. They undoubtedly thought he was being suspicious, possibly because of something he'd said (he'd tried his best) but probably because of his species. The Tallest, however, looked like he was trying to fight down a grin. Vermin hoped this meant Red liked him, and not that Red was thinking up something cruel to do to him.

The Tallest managed to put on a serious face, and tipped his head up in that superior way Tallest had that made it look like they were even taller. "What is this request?"

"A very small one, my Tallest," Vermin said. "I know you just dismissed all the CoBra Techs, and—I certainly don't question your wisdom, my Tallest, but the Triumvirate requested that I do a special assignment for them." He still had to track down the mysterious hacker that had accessed Irk Control Brain 2. "Can I finish their assignment before I get shot off?"

"Heh."

The Guards gave Tallest Red disbelieving looks, and he glanced around like he had no idea who had just laughed. Vermin, meanwhile, felt stupid; of course the Tallest had laughed at him, he'd tried to use an Irken cuss. It had just slipped out. He considered trying to take it back or apologize or something, but that'd make him look even stupider, so he just stood there.

"What's your name, Technician?"

Tallest Red still looked a little amused, but it wasn't the derisive I'm-better-than-you amused that most Irkens had. Vermin wondered if maybe he should have tried to get in contact with Tallest Red to ask for a new assignment when Tallest Purple had made him a CoBra Tech. Red seemed to be a bit nicer than Purple, despite the public image that Purple was the wussier of the two. And given some of the rumors Vermin had heard about Purple lately... "It's Vermin, my Tallest."

Red gave him a suspicious look. "Your full name?"

Another surprise: Tallest Red knew about Vortian naming conventions. All Vortians went by two names, one from their mother and one from their father. But Vermin had legally called himself Vermin since he'd immigrated to the Irken Empire and didn't plan on changing that. "Control Brain Technician Vermin, my Tallest."

He realized belatedly he'd forgotten to put "Alien" before his title, but Red didn't question him about it. He just squinted one eye, went, "Hmm..." and hovered over to the Control Brain Triumvirate's doors. He slid them open a crack, and shouted, "Hey, did you give a special assignment to—"

"Yes."

Red paused. "Okay." He let the doors shut (and the many locks clicked closed behind him), then turned back to Vermin. "All right, you're not a liar. You can finish your assignment."

"Woohoo!" Vermin pumped a fist in the air. "Thank you, my Tallest! It's an honor to serve you."

The Guards didn't look pleased at this turn of events. It was really a miracle that Tallest Red had agreed to it at all; when was the last time an Irken had done something nice for Vermin?

"You know," Red said thoughtfully, "since the Triumvirate likes you so much, maybe you should keep working for them. They still need some Techs."

Looks of pure horror crossed the Guards' faces. And he wasn't too pleased with this turn of events, either. Yes, he'd keep his job, but, considering how friendly Tallest Red was being, perhaps he could move up a bit?

He shifted awkwardly. "I'm... very grateful, my Tallest," he said. "But, uh, if I may ask another small favor? Please?"

Now the Guards were looking at him in shock. This was the point at which most aliens making similarly bold requests got thrown out of airlocks. Tallest Red merely cocked an antenna and said, "Well? What is it?"

Vermin took a deep breath. "When I finish this assignment can I be a Pilot please my Tallest?"

Red stared at him. "What?"

Vermin winced. "Uh... should I repeat it?"

"No... It's just kinda weird for... uh..."

He didn't even have to finish. Vermin looked down, crestfallen. It's kinda weird for Vortians to be Pilots for the Irken Empire. Weird enough that it had probably never happened before, and probably never would. Vermin should be grateful that the Tallest was trying to be tactful, rather than just ordering his immediate execution for insubordination.

The Tallest tried again. Delicately, he said, "It's weird for... for a Tech to switch to Pilot. There's a... lot of training to be a Pilot, you know."

Vermin looked up hopefully. Surely, the Tallest—the Tallest—couldn't be suggesting that Vermin might become a Pilot? "I've had the training, my Tallest!"

"Really? Are you any good?"

"Yes, sir!" Sure, like he was going to claim that he was horrible.

"Fine. You'll be a Pilot."

Vermin stared at him, speechless, for a long moment. "My Tallest, I—"

Red held out a hand to cut him off. "After you finish your assignment."

Vermin's legs were trembling with joy. He tried his best to stop them. "I... thank you, my Tallest." His voice was trembling, too.

Red stopped looking at Vermin and stared somewhere over his head. That was probably to avoid meeting the baffled looks of his Guards. If Vermin knew anything about Irkens, they probably thought their Tallest had a short circuit somewhere in his Pak. Well, Vermin certainly didn't think so. He thought the Firmament had opened up and dumped a pile of good luck in front of him.

"Yeah, well, I heard that Vortians are better than average Irkens at piloting Spittle Runners, since you built them," Red said. (Vermin had heard exactly the opposite, that Vortians were good at building ships but couldn't pilot them worth shit. He wondered if Red was lying to make himself look better.) "I better have heard right or you won't be keeping your job. Got it?"

"Yes sir, my Tallest! Absolutely! Thank you!" Vermin bowed, almost wobbled off balance, then turned around and hurried off to get to work. As soon as he found that hacker, he'd be flying high.

xxx

This wasn't the Tallest Red that High Bodyguard Gummy thought he knew. He watched the Vortian happily scurry away, then looked at High Bodyguard Mok, wondering what he was thinking. Mok looked just as clueless. They'd have to talk about this when they got away from Tallest Red.

The Tallest didn't bother to look at them. "Well? Let's go," he said, gliding past them and towards the lift. "I want to get back to the Massive before Pur finds something stupid to do." Red was cutting his "vacation" short—it was supposed to last a few more days.

Slowly—loyally—the two Guards followed him. Even if he was acting weird, he was still their Tallest. And if Purple kept acting weird, Red might be their only Tallest.

They didn't have a chance to speak until they got to the ship that would take them back to the Massive, some kind of snazzy personalized transport that Gummy didn't recognize. They were sent to the passenger chamber with the Pilot, because Red had decided he wanted to drive. Once the Tallest was out of hearing range, the Pilot had muttered a prayer to the Heavens and Hells that Red knew how to fly. Apparently, Gummy thought, the Pilot was a Firmamentalist. As a Narcissist, all Gummy could really do was hope the Tallest wasn't about to get them all killed.

Although they were equally-ranked Guards, Mok was 132 units to Gummy's 130 units, and Mok never let him forget it. Personally, Gummy thought they were so close in height that any differences had to be minimal. In any case, they were the two shortest High Bodyguards Gummy had met (since High Bodyguards tended to have a lot of, well, height), so shouldn't they kinda, y'know, support each other? Mok didn't think so. He enjoyed outranking Gummy too much. And so Gummy fully expected him to dominate whatever conversation they had about Tallest Red.

But on the ride back to the Massive, he wasn't glorying in his superior-to-Gummy-ness. He just sat in his chair with his arms crossed, looking worried.

They had left Judgmentia's gravitational pull (without incident, probably to the extreme relief of the Pilot) before Mok decided to share his thoughts. "Did Tallest Red seem weird to you today?"

Gummy glanced at the door between the passenger chamber and the cockpit—still shut—and nodded. Any question Mok asked him was rhetorical, but this time Gummy actually agreed. "Really weird," he said. "What was up with that thing with the Vortian, huh?"

"I don't know. But it was weird," Mok said.

"Yeah. Weird," Gummy agreed.

"Really weird."

"Mm-hmm. Weird."

"Yeah."

The Pilot scooted forward in his chair, closer to the other two. "What did he do?"

"Hire a Vortian. As a Pilot," Mok said. "That's moving into your territory, isn't it?"

The Pilot winced, lowering his antennae. "I've heard some weird stuff about Tallest Red," he admitted. "And Vortians."

"Like what?" Mok asked.

"Well, I heard that before he was even Tallest, he traded his left thumb to a Vortian to memorize the blueprints of the Massive," the Pilot said.

"Hey, I heard something like that," Gummy said. "But the way I heard it, he promised the Vortian government his Pak when he died if they gave him four degrees on the universe's most comfortable couch. That's why he slated Vort for conquest, so he wouldn't have to keep the deal."

"I thought Tallest Spork slated Vort for conquest, and Red and Purple just kept his list when they took over?" the Pilot asked.

"That's what they want you to think," Mok said superiorly. "Now this is the truth. I heard it from a Guard named Poosh, see?"

The Pilot nodded. Gummy rolled his eyes; Poosh would say anything.

"Poosh was in Soldier training at the same time as Tallest Red and Tallest Purple. Apparently, Tallest Red was gonna go on to be a Pilot after basic training. But then he took half a year off from training, and when he came back, he trained as an Elite Soldier instead."

"Really?" the Pilot said. "Why on Irk would he not want to be a Pilot?"

"He got converted. To that Firma-whatsit-thing," Mok said knowingly. "He had to give up being a Pilot for religious reasons, see. And," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "to convert, he had to dance with sixty-three Vortians."

Gummy rolled his eyes again. The Pilot flattened his antennae. "I'm a Firmamentalist," he said angrily, "and I'm a Pilot." Gummy snickered. Take that, Mok's ego.

"Really?" Mok said, confused. "I guess Poosh got that part wrong." He paused. "So what was dancing with sixty-three Vortians like?"

"What? I didn't dance with sixty-three Vortians!"

"Then how many did you dance with?"

The Pilot waved both hands at Mok, clawing off the accusations. "None!"

"Oh." Mok's eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Hmm. Well, it's still true that there's something weird about Tallest Red, yeah?"

Both Gummy and the Pilot checked the door again before nodding in agreement. Merely expressing these opinions was high treason.

"One thing's for sure," Gummy said. "He's still better than Tallest Purple."

The Pilot and Mok nodded. It was probably the first time Mok had ever agreed with Gummy.

"Anyone would be better than Purple," the Pilot said. "I know a Nav Tech on the Massive who said that as soon as Red left for Judgmentia, Purple left and said he'd be back before Red's vacation ended, then said that no one was allowed to tell Red."

Mok and Gummy stared at him, and then at the door separating them from Tallest Red. "Do you... think that order applies to us, too?" Gummy asked.

"Of course it does," Mok said. "No one means no one, Gummy."

They sat in silence a moment. Suddenly, Mok's antennae pricked up. "Say," he said slowly. "Isn't Tallest Red coming back from his vacation early?"

xxx

A report submitted by Alien Control Brain Technician Vermin to the Control Brain Triumvirate, late in the day known on Earth as the Ides of March: Subject: the hacker in Irk Control Brain 2

It's been tracked down and half-identified. Half-identified because the Pak of the hacker has not been registered in the Central Empirical Statistics Database, which is really weird. It self-identifies by the name of Splayd, in training to be a Soldier and then an Invader, with a projected height of 97 units. It's not even a year old. I suspect the Pak itself is hacked to give out false information; nothing that young could know how to hack the Control Brains, and that's also the only reason I can think of for why it isn't registered in the Database.

I've found the hacker's location, though. Planet Earth, the base of Exile Zim, and I think that's all I need to say. I can't imagine why Zim would want to hack a Control Brain, but who can ever tell with him?

Incidentally, while going through his base's files, I found a lot of weird stuff going on in his base: traces of Paks from Irkens that don't exist, evidence that the hangar has been used to harbor some kind of spacecraft that also doesn't exist, a few unauthorized transmissions directed somewhere towards Vort, and records of what seems to be a hotbed of black market exports in hydroxylic acid. Where's Zim finding that much water on a planet like Earth?

It also seems that parts of his base computer have been reprogrammed. (The new lines of data identify as "Macintosh" programming; does that mean anything to you?) I discovered that the new programming interferes with his incoming and outgoing transmissions so that they can't be recorded by anything—computers, Paks, whatever—anything except for Zim's computer and whoever's on the other end of his call. He's wiretap-proofed his base, and he probably didn't do it accidentally.

It looks like exiling Zim didn't get rid of him after all. I don't know what he's up to, but it looks like he's planning something big. With your permission, I plan to contact the Massive tomorrow and inform the Tallest of my discoveries.

xxxxx