Chapter 5

It had been a lovely morning.

Except, of course, for the killer robotic lawnmower from hell.

"Honestly, I ask that kid to do one simple thing around here," Drake muttered to himself the next morning, surveying his wilting roses the way one might inspect the losing battalion after defeat. He dragged the garden hose from the side of the house irritably, turning the spigot on full blast and aiming the nozzle of the hose at the rose bush threateningly. "Any last words?" he growled playfully before opening the nozzle full tilt, dousing the flowers with the cool water.

"Well hey neighbor!"

Oh God, not this morning, Drake immediately thought to himself dourly. That voice could only belong to one person and one person only. Death and taxes might be the only constant in other people's lives. For Drake, it was death, taxes…and Herb Muddlefoot.

"Giving the girls a little drink this morning, hm?" Herb called cheerfully, one arm draped over the fence separating their yards.

"I think you'll find roses are genderless, Herb," Drake pointed out a little tersely as he fruitlessly wished the water would come out of the hose more quickly. A tidal wave would do nicely if it meant he could finish this up a little more expeditiously.

"Oh, I don't go in for politics there, Drakester," Herb prattled, scratching his expansive waistline. "So how 'bout that explosion at Nikomedes yesterday, eh? Heard it caused quite the excitement downtown."

"Chemical reactions happen, Herb. Was there something I could do for you?" Drake asked, with thinly veiled annoyance in his voice.

"Just couldn't help but notice your grass was getting a little long. I've got just the thing for it!"

"Always the salesman, eh?" Drake remarked wryly as he turned the water off. The malnourished roses would just have to wait. Drake dusted his hands off and shook his head. "I don't need anything, really, Herb. It's Jack's job to – "

"No sales, no gimmicks, and no fooling, Drake-o! My little Honkster whipped up something pretty special the other night. Did a beautiful job on my yard." Here Herb made a sweeping motion across the little piece of earth that was his backyard. "In under ten minutes, his little contraption did the job that takes me four or five hours to do!"

"Really?" Drake asked in confusion. "It takes four or five hours to mow your lawn?"

"Well," Herb admitted sheepishly, kicking the ground. "I gotta stop every few minutes to have some of Binkie's famous lemonade. Hydration is important, Drakester."

"Sure," Drake agreed drolly, crossing his arms in front of himself. Talking to Herb Muddlefoot was like talking to a puppy; entertaining at times, but not particularly enlightening.

"Anyway, I bet Honk wouldn't mind showing you. Let me get him."

Before Drake could protest, Herb had already turned to go inside. For a moment, Drake seriously pondered if he could make it back inside the house before Honker showed up with whatever nightmare contraption he'd managed to devise this time. For all of Herb's talk of his "little Honkster", Gosalyn's childhood buddy had grown into a tall, lanky adult, still sporting coke-bottle glasses and a dubious grasp on social interaction. He worked for Hercules Industries, a company that made things like vacuum cleaner motors and washing machine spindles, devices that weren't terribly interesting but would nevertheless throw the civilized world into chaos without them. For whatever reason, Honker had chosen to never leave home, which not only meant that he seemed to have a limited social life (and therefore copious amounts of time to work on side projects), but also had a captive, if unwilling, audience in his neighbor Drake. Drake couldn't help but detect a pattern in using Honker's inventions; it seemed every time he agreed to let his home be the guinea pig for some new gizmo created by Honker, Drake inevitably found himself filing a homeowner's insurance claim for something. If nothing else, his insurance agent had some interesting stories to tell.

"Hi, Mr. Mallard," a nasally voice came from over the fence.

"Honker, how many times do I have to tell you? Just call me Drake," Drake said in an exasperated voice as he turned to find Honker standing nearby, grasping something with his left hand. "You aren't ten anymore."

"Sorry, Mr. Mall – I mean, Drake. Old habits die hard."

"Well, so do vices. What is that thing?" Drake exclaimed, jumping back slightly when he caught sight of the demonic looking machine at Honker's feet. Black and bulky with a large antenna planted unceremoniously on top, it was the very picture of "not consumer friendly."

"I call it Mr. Whacker," Honker said proudly, pushing his glasses up his beak.

Drake stared at him flatly for a moment. "That's…certainly an evocative name. What does Mr. Wha – what does it do?"

"It's an automated lawnmower. I got the idea from my mom's robotic vacuum cleaner. I thought perhaps the same principle could apply to garden maintenance as carpet cleanliness. It was relatively simple to design and engineer. An autonomous convenience device such as this runs on the same components that make indoor cleaning appliances, such as vacuum cleaners, possible. Only, of course, we're talking blades instead of brushes."

"And that doesn't worry you?"

"Not at all. There are safety mechanisms, Mr. Ma – Drake. It isn't as though an automated machine sporting blades could conceivably be approved for consumer use without safeguards in place," Honker explained with a snorty laugh, as though the idea were preposterous and Drake even more so for suggesting it. Drake raised an eyebrow.

"All the same, Honker, I think I'll pass – "

"Please, Drake? It needs more dry runs before I can pitch the prototype to any agencies," Honker pleaded. "It's done our lawn successfully a half dozen times. The chance of failure is relatively low. I can show you the specifications if you like."

Drake never was particularly adept at ignoring puppy dog eyes from anyone. He nervously glanced at the Muddlefoots' yard. It did look well maintained, the grass cut evenly with no signs of horrible destruction anywhere. Drake sighed, some part of him knowing he would regret this. "All right, Honker," he conceded brusquely. "But only if you stick around to monitor it and shut the damn thing off if it's about to do anything it shouldn't. Agreed?"

"Absolutely!" Honker promised brightly.

Drake retreated into the house as Honker revved up Mr. Whacker. He poured himself a cup of coffee and resisted the urge to look outside, not wanting to witness anything that might send him into a homicidal rage. He settled down into his easy chair and sifted through the newspaper. When ten minutes had passed with no sounds of carnage coming from his backyard, Drake got up slowly and looked out the windows to find that his yard…actually looked pretty nice. Whereas Jack, with the impatience for chores inherited from his mother, normally left enormous swaths entirely unmowed, making it appear as though their backyard was just one huge mullet, Mr. Whacker seemed to have done a very good job. With as much astonishment that Honker's invention had worked as happiness that it had, Drake stepped out into the backyard and nodded to Honker.

"Very nice, Honker," Drake called to Honker above the noise emanating from Mr. Whacker.

Honker beamed in response. "Thank you, sir!"

Drake watched the box-like contraption move steadily across his yard, working its little heart out, and felt some sudden fondness for the strange looking apparatus. Perhaps Honker had, for once, stumbled across a good idea. It could be a boon to people like Drake, who found it difficult to mow the yard, and for people like Jack, who just plain hated doing it. Maybe now Honker could make his way in the world, get his own place, find a sweet girl –

Drake's musings were cut abruptly short as he heard Honker shout, "Rogue lawnmower! Drake, get out of the way!"

"Wha…?" Drake sputtered, looking up to find the sweet little device suddenly barreling down on him. If doohickeys had a face, surely this one would be wearing a maniacal grin. With a yelp, Drake stumbled out of the way, only to watch Mr. Whacker positively decimate the rose bushes he was so lovingly giving life-sustaining water to not twenty minutes before. It then began to batter the exterior wall of Drake's house, backing up and running into it repeatedly, as Drake watched it, expressionless. Honker darted to it and flipped the emergency shut-off switch and then carefully stole a glance at Drake.

With a heavy sigh, Drake stood up, brushed himself off, and said simply, "Back to the drawing board, kid."

"I'll replace the rose bushes, Drake, I swear – "

"It's 'Mr. Mallard' or 'sir', Honker," Drake reminded him crisply as he went through the back door and slammed it shut behind him. He slunk against the door and gritted his teeth, noting he was suddenly exhausted. His energy levels weren't what they used to be, and after that little rush of adrenaline stemming from the threat of imminent death-by-automated-lawnmower, all he wanted in the world was a short nap on a soft couch.

He sank down onto the plush sofa in the living room, grateful for a quiet respite before Jack arrived home from school, wherein his peaceful house would transform into a giant stereo system blaring music whose lyrics Drake couldn't even begin to fathom – What on earth does a milkshake have to do with sexual provocation of males in a courtyard? Drake wondered to himself as he lay down comfortably, shutting his eyes and allowing himself to drift off.

The dream began as it always did. He was back in the cavern on that horrible night when Gosalyn and Thad lost their lives, standing in front of the panel next to the heavy metal door that had sealed their fate. Immediately, as if thrown into the scene from a great height, Drake was back in place, the rush of emotions coming fast and strong as he tried every combination he could think of.

"Thad! Thad! What is the entry code?" Drake screamed into his wrist walkie-talkie.

"Dad, you have to listen to me!" Gosalyn's voice shouted back to him. "The explosion is not what everyone thinks it is!"

"It'll still blow you to bits, kid!" Drake shouted back, furiously punching in any number he could think of – birthdays, holidays, the date he'd signed the adoption papers for Gosalyn.

"No, Dad, listen! The explosion at the chemical laboratory! The one downtown!"

"What?" Drake yelled back as the countdown over the intercom continued its march towards the inevitable.

"You need to look into it, Dad! Hear me? You need to find out what's going on before it's too late!"

"It is too late!" Drake cried deliriously. "No matter what combination I try, it's always too late! It always ends the same way!"

"Five seconds."

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry…"

"I love you, Dad."

Drake sat straight up in a cold sweat, breathing raggedly. The dream always ended like that, with Gosalyn's final words and a sense of monumental failure on Drake's part. He put his face in his hands, biting back a frustrated sob. He sat, straight and tense as a rail, for a good five minutes before his breathing returned to normal and his heart stopped racing. He hated that dream. He hated it with everything he had in him. And yet, each time he had it, it was slightly different. Gosalyn's words weren't ever the same except for the last four.

Gosalyn tells me things, Drake had said to Launchpad. That isn't normal, is it?

He got up off the couch, standing shakily, his palms sweaty. Jack chose that moment to explode through the door, already shouting up a storm.

"Gramps, you'll never believe what I found out today! I met some girl in my chem class that's interning at Nikomedes, and she says that no one in the company is giving them a straight answer as to why there was that explosion yesterday! Nothing! Nada! It's hush-hush! Gramps! Are you even listening to me?"

Jack finally glanced in the direction of Drake and his face fell.

"Gramps, what – are you all right?" he asked, rushing to Drake and placing his hands on Drake's shoulders. "What's wrong?" Comprehension dawned on him. "The dream again?"

"It's all right. I'm fine, I'm fine," Drake answered falteringly, not looking his grandson in the eyes. "Just – Just having one of my pains again, that's all. Some aspirin and I'll be right as rain."

"Are you sure?" Jack said, looking worriedly at Drake. "Do you want to sit down? I'll get some aspirin. Want coffee?"

"Sure, sure," Drake answered, sinking back down onto the couch, more to give Jack something to do other than fuss over him rather than anything else. "That's great, kid. Thanks."

Jack disappeared into the kitchen to get coffee and painkillers, two staples in Drake's life, as Drake exhaled slowly from his seated position. If dream-Gosalyn wanted him to look into Nikomedes then he would, although even if he'd stumbled across anything significant there wasn't much he could do about it. He was about as useful as Honker's inventions, but maybe he could forward the information onto someone in a position to do something about it.

His mind began to churn through its old pathways of pondering motive, means and opportunity for the criminal element. It had been a long time since he'd attempted it, and no doubt he would be a little rusty. But a preliminary investigation wouldn't hurt, even if it was just to make his subconscious mind shut up. As Jack handed him a mug of coffee and a few aspirin, Drake silently decided it was time to use the old crime lab in the tower for exactly what it was – his own private research facility.