Chapter XIX.
"I'm going out to help."
"No."
"I tell you, I'm goin' out to help!"
"And I told you to stay put, and that's an order! I still got a little rank even in retirement, you know."
"Bernard, I might'a spent the last handful of years in the lab-but I belong out there. Our friends need help, an' it's help I can give them!"
Rufus' hackles rose as Bernard stood his ground, and the molerat's prominent front teeth snapped in frustration.
"I can't just sit here."
"You'll sit here till Corky makes his play. If he can gum up the works at the Trifecta for a few days, it gives us time to strategize."
"Seems that's all we've done since you fellas broke me out."
"Maybe so, but they're tightening the noose every hour-every minute! I don't think Chip's in any position to mount another rescue."
"That's true, I guess."
"And neither am I, for that matter-I'm still working out the kinks from the last one."
A hint of a smile creased Rufus' face, and he chuckled lightly.
"I do forget you're a little longer in the tooth than I am."
He sat back, shuffling the pile of evening reports Bernard had stacked on the table.
"How do you get access to all this stuff?"
"Bianca, mostly. She still has her connections, even if they're not on paper. She doesn't tell me exactly how, sometimes."
Bernard looked down into a sheaf of papers and frowned.
"I expect she doesn't want to worry me."
"Well I'll do enough worryin' for us both. This thing is bigger than any one of us I think-an' for some reason I don't think we've uncovered just how big it really is."
"We're thinking on the same wavelength, or at least close to it."
Spreading out the reports over his kitchen table, Bernard pulled out a small, rolling chalkboard from the closet, wiping it clean with his sleeve.
"I believe the best thing for us to do, my old friend, is what we do best-dig. Dig deep. A healthy dose of what old Basil called armchair detection."
"I think I'd rather be trailin' leads on the street."
"Tell me then-how many naked mole rats are there in the RAS?"
"Umm...not that many. Just me and my cousin Rhonda, I think."
"And where is she assigned?"
"The South African bureau."
"So logically, if you're seen anywhere near this thing-do you have a snowball's chance in perdition of not being noticed?"
Rufus slumped.
"When y'put it that way."
"That's why I do. Now come on, all this stuff isn't going to sort itself out."
Snapping a piece of chalk in half, Bernard tossed one piece to his friend, and turned toward the empty black space thoughtfully.
"First, let's consider our cast of characters. Corylus Banastre."
"The big cheese."
"Quite. What do we know about him?"
"Powerful. Rich. Smooth and charismatic, draws a crowd wherever he goes. Real popular guy."
"True. But what do we really know about him?"
"I...huh. Y'know, when he showed up years ago, he started slingin' his money around at so many public projects and charities, he was an instant success story. I don't think anybody ever asked for his I.D."
"That kinda figures. He never appears on the RAS's radar until 2028, when he opened his first line of tourist shops on Broadway. After that it was a confections company, a cheese importers, fine clothing emporium-anything he touched went gold. Platinum even."
"Which begs the question," Rufus said. "Was he successful-or just well connected?"
"That's what I've been aiming to find out."
Turning his head slightly, Bernard perked up one ear, listening intently. Thrusting his feet into a pair of timeworn slippers, he padded across the room, easing back the curtains ever so slightly as he peered out into the evening murk. A slight sound had caught his attention; slight, only slight on the pebble-paved path outside his door. While his mousen hearing might not be quite as good as it once was, it was still better than the average creature's.
"We have company."
Rufus was up in a flash, the table lamp by his side extinguished in an instant.
"What d'you see?"
"Hard to tell yet. It's a firm footstep though...not that shuffle you'd expect from a rat's tail or any such. Somebody's just taking a leisurely stroll."
"That could be good, could be bad. They might just be confident they're gonna catch us."
"True enough, but if they were gonna do that surely they'd have been less conspicuous than the front door," Bernard mused quietly. "That's kinda the most obvious way to have a welcome prepared for you."
"It's a fair point. I'm always ready for salesmice when they knock. Fellas never see it coming."
Bernard looked back over his shoulder.
"Are you part Hackwrench that you didn't tell me about?"
"No, but I did have an uncle that lived in a junkyard, does that count?"
"Oy...my kingdom for a mousetrap. Be quiet, here they come."
A soft knock sounded at the door-followed by a loud thump, and three more soft knocks. The pattern repeated twice, and Bernard got to his feet anxiously.
"That's no assassin," he said, switching on the lights. "That's an old RAS code knock-from my time."
Unfastening the door's multiple locks, he swung it open, squinting into the night.
"Who's there?"
"The welcome of your hall is lessened somewhat of late, Theoden King."
The voice was familiar, and at once Bernard broke into a smile.
"Mr. Maplewood!"
"You were expecting Rat Capone?"
"Or somebody similar. Come in, please, come in! Quickly, there's eyes everywhere."
"After the things that I've been looking into, I wouldn't presume otherwise."
Birch stepped inside hastily, releasing Miriam from his arm as he checked behind himself, glancing down the timeworn pathway.
"Draw the shades tighter, Miriam my dear. We won't be long, but this does require the utmost privacy."
"I'm guessing you've got some intel for us, then."
"Astute as ever. Is that young Rufus I spy behind the couch?"
"Um...yes sir. I was just takin' no chances."
"Wise precaution, for the moment. Come on up here, this concerns you as well."
Making certain that no light would escape to the outside of Bernard's small apartment, Birch clicked on the tall, standing lamp by the utilitarian table, and drew out a fat, fraying yellow envelope from beneath his overcoat; the sides were splitting open from the volume of documents contained within.
"I've had my personal agents running some things to ground, as well as they've been able. This is the sum of their efforts. It isn't a complete biography by any means-but it's likely as close as you're going to get."
Rufus looked confused.
"Biography?"
"Oh get yourself back in the game, Rufus!" Bernard said in annoyance. "This is what we've been looking for!"
"Quite so," Birch replied. "What you see here, my young friends, is the dossier of one Corylus Banastre. As near as we can make it out."
"Rufus...go put the percolater on. I think you and I are gonna be here for a while."
Agent and lawyer each flipped through the stacks of reports, certificates and printouts, scanning the information with critical eyes as Bernard turned his thoughts inward.
"Have you been through all this, sir?"
"Not personally, I'm afraid, but I have been given a thorough report, from which I'll gladly give you the highlights if you like."
"We would be most grateful."
Birch gladly accepted a steaming mug from Rufus, sitting back in the straight kitchen chair and mulling through the facts as he'd been given.
"I must say it's a bit of a strange picture. Before the year 2027 we have found no record anywhere of Corylus Banastre. No legal papers, no business proceedings, nothing. This is after a thorough search of RAS records, and the various rodential agencies that preceded them in the boroughs. If the fellow was working to make a ghost of himself, he's done a proper job of it."
"Cover-up, you think?"
"Not that any of my fellows could ascertain. It's simply as if he didn't exist, until around six years ago. That's a legal trick even I've never been able to pull off."
"That means he has to've covered his tracks some other way," Rufus observed. "But how? There has to be a trail somewhere."
"One would think. As it is, Banastre's first business on the books is a touristy type restaurant, the Thomas & Sons Joyful Seafood Company. It might not sound like much, but that one small endeavor formed the basis of his entire empire-food service, imports, electronics. Banastre does it all. He changed the name of the business to Banastre Industries in 2029, and it has been flourishing ever since. The sidestep into virtual technology seems to be a recent development."
"Just a whim?" Rufus wondered. "Or somethin' darker than that?"
"I believe we must assume the latter, especially considering young Tammy's complaints. To what purpose I don't know, but I pray everything I've brought can help put you upon the hunt."
"I appreciate this Mr. Maplewood, more than you know," Bernard returned with gratitude. "If I'm going to be of any help to Chip at all, this might just be a start."
"That's my hope as well, son. And my errand tonight too, for that matter."
The mouse hadn't noticed Birch's attire up to this point, and he whistled at the well cut tuxedo and silver-tipped cane he sported.
"And just where are you and the lady off to, if I might ask?"
A sparkle lit the old chipmunk's eye.
"We are off, as you put it, to the Grand Ball of the Trifecta, to celebrate the candidates for office who will have declared today."
Bernard immediately picked up on the plural nature of candidate-s, and he made a sound of curiosity.
"I thought only one person had shown any interest in running for Secretary General. That's what the Grand Ball is usually all about."
"One might think that, yes."
Looking closely, Bernard could see the faint stirrings of a mischievous smile playing about the corners of Birch's moustaches, and he grinned.
"You've done something, haven't you?"
"Oh no, not me, my young sir. I beg to differ-I am far, far too old for such nonsense. However...I do know that someone else was planning to toss a Hack-em, a monkey wrench into the distinguished gentlemouse's plans."
Rufus laughed out loud, the shrill squeak echoing around the small space like coins dropped into a kettle at Christmas.
"Corky-he means Corky, Bernard! I don't believe it-that old gearhead just unscrewed a lug-nut off Bakerstreet's apple cart!"
"That he did, my boy," Birch chuckled, rising as he gathered his cane and overcoat. "By now the party should be getting quite interesting, so I hope to shake it up just a tad more by arriving fashionably late with yon lovely lady."
"Oh hush, you paper pushing fraud," Miriam giggled softly. "You've had this all worked out some space in advance, if I know you."
"Me? Why my dear lady, you seem to take me for some manner of circus charlatan! I've done nothing of the sort-although I may or may not have counseled a certain hotheaded pilot about which forms to fill out and how to file them for a last-minute entry. Perhaps."
"In other words he came up with a crazy plan, and you gave him the toolbox to pull it off," Bernard summed up, gathering all the scattered scraps and documents into an orderly pile.
"Something like that, yes. Now, mind what I say," the elder Maplewood cautioned. "I don't have any presuppositions about Corky's chance of actually winning the race. Our quarry will play hard, and he will play foul, as will his allies. Chip's situation will come out into the voting field, and it's likely as not the boy will get himself arrested when it's all over-but that's what you have me for, I suppose. At any rate, he's doing what he set out to do, and that is give us the one thing we so desperately need-time. Time, I say! Enough to hopefully connect all these dots and put the picture together, before it is too late."
Shouldering into his coat, he offered his arm to Miriam and checked around the edge of the curtain.
"I don't have to tell you boys to be careful. I believe after this night, our battle will grow quite a bit more dangerous. The lion is about to be bearded in his own den-and lions don't care for that at all. Not in the least."
Turning out the lamp by the window, Birch made to ease himself out into the night...but he stopped for a moment, looking back at Bernard and Rufus with saddened eyes
"I realize from some...abrupt soul searching of late, that I haven't always put my feelings onto the table properly, where they should be. And to that end I would say...thank you. Thank you both, my dear boys, for helping my son. It means much to me."
Both mouse and molerat were taken aback as Maplewood and his companion vanished out into the deepening darkness, the night covering their departure dutifully as Bernard watched the patch from his door, ensuring no one followed. It was a somber feeling that settled over them both as he locked the door, and a particular determination seized him, a deep-seated heat on the inside of him that he'd known of old.
"Come on, Rufus. Let's sort through the rest of this and find ourselves an angle. Somewhere, there's a thread just waitin' to be pulled-and that's the one that's gonna save our friends. And I do mean to save 'em, Banastre, or no."
"Patrol coming."
"How close?"
"I am not certain. Hold...hold..."
Reguba shaded his eyes, staring intently through the gleaming moonlight.
"We must move. Another moment and they may catch hold of our scent."
Chip's look was pained.
"They're trained to do that now?"
"Aye, that and much more, my lad. Those lot in Special Services hone a great many talents that we take for granted-some of which I should have made sure all of the Rangers were acquainted with deeply, but I was prevented by hubris, I suppose."
"Hindsight's twenty-twenty, my grandmother used to always say. Don't beat yourself up over it, old friend."
The leader of the Rescue Rangers crouched beside Reguba gingerly, ignoring the burning cramps that tried to creep into his knees. The brushtailed warrior's eyes were just as old as his own, but just as ever they were twice as sharp. Placing a hand on the chipmunk's shoulder, he pointed to a spot a short distance away just past the corner of a weather-beaten dumpster.
"There. I make it four-no, five of the vermin, and they are taking pains to not be seen. They know we are here, somewhere."
"Wind must be carrying. Spot check-are we visible?"
"Only if their eyes are more trained than my old pater's, which I highly doubt."
Reguba made a slashing motion across his throat, and the two receded into the deep shadows. It would be a great feat indeed to shake these new foot troops that the RAS had fielded-they operated with a level of sophistication Chip had not seen before, and it was worrisome.
"We're overdue, and we've got no way to contact the girls-I can't risk them putting themselves in danger looking for us. Suggestions?"
"Frontal conflict is out of the question, with their weaponry. They would roast us alive like so many clams in butter sauce."
Reguba risked a further look into the open, and nodded.
"They seem to be stymied for the moment. It has bought us a little time."
"Good," Dale grunted. "I'm kinda fond a' my fur."
"As much as I want to get this thing wrapped up too, I'm with Dale on this one," Sparky mouthed softly. "We're no good to anyone if we're fried."
"Agreed. A direct assault would never work, that much is certain. There's gotta be another way past them."
Chip looked up.
"What about the rooftops?"
"No good, I'm afraid," Reguba answered. Pointing to a large oak tree planted streetside a short distance away, he inclined his head, leading Chip's eyes to a branch almost hidden from view. In the dim light, two glowing, almost liquid orbs shone into the night, their gaze observing all.
"An owl. You've got to be joking. They have an owl?"
"So it would seem. A perfect guardian for such overnight maneuvers. The ideal sentry, with superior depth and field of vision."
"And one with talons like steak knives. You forgot that," Dale whimpered.
"Thank you for that, Watson," Chip said icily. "So we have a superior force, with superior intel, facing us from a superior position. What's the next best course of action?"
"Run?" Moira suggested. Reguba's voice however, was cold and firm.
"Never, madam. I am a warrior, and I am a Rescue Ranger. I have had nearly all of running that I can stomach, and I will not flee like a minnow before the pike just because evil rears its' head. There is a way here, and we must find it!"
"That's all well and good, but how? How, I ask ye? It's not overflowin' with options we are."
"Indeed not, dear lady, but of one thing we do still have plenty, and that is courage. Give me a doughty team of devoted friends at my back, and I am content to march into any storm, and assail any fortress. I know...because I have done so."
"So have we all," Sparky agreed. "And for this family I'd do it every bit again. I'm not afraid. But I would like to have a margin of a few percentage points leaning toward success."
"As would I, old friend. We may not be as educated in some of the newer ways as these creatures are, but I like to think that sometimes, the old ways are best. Perhaps in that line of thought there is some possibility."
Chip had said little during the conversation, holding his thoughts close, and his fears even closer. He'd struggled not to break into a grin when Reguba had given his speech-the old squirrel loved to hear himself talk, and his Shakespearean tones never failed to inspire those around him. It was a gift he had, and often he used it without even intending to.
Inspired, he thought. Now there's something I haven't felt for a long time. It's all seemed like such a rush just to survive, a journey just to remain free and able to fight. But when would the battle end? It ate at the inside of his heart like a parasite, wearing him down further each day as the shadow of Banastre and his allies grew longer. Was it even possible to win, now? Was there still some small chance for victory?
There's always a chance, Gadget had said often, when a case was hard and his spirits flagged. There's always hope. Don't give up on me now, big guy...there's always hope.
Despite everything, this was the one thing, the one trait his late wife had possessed that he found himself missing with every day that passed-her ever present and inexhaustible optimism. No matter the problem, how big the challenge, how desperate the jam, Gadget could always see blue skies on the other side, beckoning a way out of the deepening darkness. If anything, that might have been her greatest skill, even surpassing her insurmountable genius. The simple ability to lift people's hearts.
You've got to learn to relax sometimes, sweetheart, she'd said on more than one occasion. Fighting with the situation won't make it get any better. If you don't learn that at some point, solutions could be sitting right there, ready to bite you in the bottom and you'd never see them.
Listening to his friends as they whispered in hushed tones, he sighed, sitting down dully. The cold bite of metal seeped up through his tail as he balanced his chin in his palm, letting his thoughts meander through all that they had learned, and all that they had seen this particular night. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be-
Wait a minute-metal?
"What is this thing?"
Hopping up to his feet, Chip rubbed his tail gingerly, urging circulation back into the joint underneath. Reguba eyed him curiously.
"Beg y'pardon, old lad?"
"This thing here, that I was sitting on-what is it?"
Moira knelt beside the box, and gently rubbed her sleeve across the embossed plate tag that was attached to the heavy steel, blowing on it with some force to dispel the grime and dust.
"New York City...Department of Power and Water," she read aloud. "Electrical distribution node, Office of Public Works."
She looked up in confusion.
"An' just what praytell is that?"
"That," Chip chattered excitedly, his heart beginning to warm just a bit, "could just be our ticket out of this jam. Sparky-how's your charge tonight?"
"About as good as it's ever been," the labrat said absently, generating several small arcs of electricity as he cracked his knuckles. "Why do you ask?"
"Because this," his friend said with a grin, patting the seat he had just vacated, "is the breaker junction for the streetlights on this entire block. The fuse box, as it were."
"Which if said junction were damaged...would plunge this whole neighborhood into the dark ages," Sparky realized, a smile spreading to his graying whiskers. "A short circuit perhaps, huh?"
"Now you're catching on."
"As am I,' Reguba rumbled, raising his nose to the air. "We are fortunate-our pursuers have not shifted position."
"If I'm right, in a minute they'll wish they had. Here, help me with this."
Chip grabbed hold of one corroded clip holding the hinged lid in place, as Reguba slid his hands under the opposite one, his muscles bulging under his fur as the two put all their strength against its' unwieldy clasps, silently praying that they would loosen without alerting the RAS patrol.
"I think we have it, lads-hold on-a little more-yes!"
First one clasp sprang free, then the second, as the front of the battered junction box fell open, exposing a jumble of wiring and old circuit boards."
"Sparky-can you give me a short in this thing strong enough to blow it? Without killing yourself or anything."
"I believe I can give it the old college try, fearless leader. If I can figure out which one of these is the hot lead."
A couple minutes tinkering was all it took for Sparky to locate the proper pins and hookups inside the junction, and he rubbed his palms together vigorously, feeling the hum of discharging current in his fur.
"If I'm reading this diagram correctly," he narrated, pointing to a weatherworn piece of paper glued inside the metal lid, "we should be just about ready to make a try. Whenever you are, Chipper."
"That's what I was hoping for. Where's our feathered friend?"
"Still monitoring the situation," Reguba returned. "If I've marked him well enough, he turns his gaze this way just about every thirty-eight seconds. A clean, even circuit of the street."
"That's just what we need-consistency. If he's that predictable, he's gonna go for the first evidence of trouble, no matter what it is."
Reaching down, he picked up a small, rough piece of gravel, testing its' weight in both hands. Shaking his head, he tried another, and another, until on the fourth try he clutched the jagged piece of stone tightly, nodding curtly.
"That'll do it. How far do you make the distance, Reg?"
"About thirty yards, unless I miss my guess."
"Good range, not too hard to make."
Looking at Dale, he tilted his head back, and the merest hint of a crafty gleam lit his gaze.
"Think you can still fling a fastball, partner?"
This was one of the reasons Chip made for a good leader-his enthusiasm could be infectious, when he began to rise to the challenge in a situation. The moment seized Dale with a sudden grip of hope, and he lit up with a loopy grin, much like his younger self.
"We'll just find out, won't we partner!"
"Atta boy. Sparky, when that owl hits mid-stride...you know what to do."
"On Fourth-of-July special, coming right up."
"Moira, Reg, follow my lead, and whatever you do keep your heads down. Keep your eyes closed till I signal!"
Picking up a stout stick from the sidewalk, Chip tossed the pebble to Dale and shouldered his impromptu bat.
"Ready?"
"As ever."
Dale took a deep breath, and thought back across the sea of years to an afternoon in the Park, facing this same simple situation. Chip was at bat, their respective teams were vying for the Central Park championship, and only one could triumph. One pitch would make all the difference, one opportunity to win the prize. Just one chance-one shot. That was all it would take to decide the contest, and all the pomp and glory that would come with it. The things that seemed so desperately important to a youngster, so life-changing and drastic in their scope and far-reaching implication. Yet now here he was again, on the mound and facing off against his best friend-but this time, a strike-out was an outcome none of them could afford.
"Right down the middle, Oakmont," he whispered. "Give it to 'im right down the middle."
He let out his breath, and straightened to his full height, wincing as joints and spine popped and cracked in protest. Straightening his glasses across his expansive nose, he gave Chip an almost imperceptible nod.
"Right down the middle."
In a smooth, fluid motion that would have made his old teammates proud, Dale rotated his shoulder and fired the pebble from his palm in a straight, true vector, no curves, no deception. It was a pitch intended for one thing only-a home run.
Crack!
At the impact from Chip's stick, the small stone sailed high, flying over the heads of the Rangers, across the small, grassy enclosure where a sidewalk oak sat planted, driving a line into the side of a dumpster near the patrol's position. The solid hit rung like a Sunday church bell, clear and loud in the still evening air, and cries of alarm rose from the RAS foot troops as they shouldered their weapons, standing back to back.
"HOOOOOOOOT!"
Across the little plaza, the sound reached their sleepless sentry, and with a cry of the hunter the great barn owl launched into the air, wings spread to dive with talons outstretched. Like a streak of lightning the raptor sped toward his charges, set for a capture and with one goal in mind-prey.
"Now, Sparky!"
Without a word, the old labrat thrust his hands into the jumble of electronics and seized the stripped red wires between his fingers. Bracing himself as electricity arced between his teeth, he let the charge flow, overheating the ancient, long overused capacitors in a near-instant. Wiring jackets melted, and a shower of sparks erupted from the junction box as its' connection to the city grid failed. One by one, the tiny LED bulbs popped with concussive force as the streetlights winked out, and the entire block was plunged into darkness.
"Go!"
It was the only word they needed to hear. Reguba had caught his friend's plan immediately-by keeping their eyes tight shut in the final moments, he and Moira found their night vision adjusted first. Grabbing Chip and Dale on either side of him as Moira led Sparky, they dashed directly up the sidewalk and through the swirling melee of RAS patrolmice, just in time to hear the screams of alarm and terror as the troop's suddenly blinded air support crashed through the storefront window above them, showering the sidewalk with shards of glass and the acrid aroma of burnt neon. A brief cloud of feathers dusted the windowpanes, as angry hoot-hoot's and shouts among the laser-wielding agents filled the night, pandemonium taking control quickly as two fast shots hissed overhead. Reguba laughed as they ran, his warrior's spirit surging with the adrenaline of battle.
"Good show chaps, that's one the old featherduster won't soon forget! As my lady was so fond of saying-if you can't fly, don't mess with the eagles!"
It wasn't eagles the squirrel should have been worried about, but one scratched, scarred and plucked owl that crawled out of the glass and wreckage, hopping wing over talon as he made his way free to the sidewalk. He was missing a great many feathers from his left wing, and there was no question that he wouldn't be flying with it for some time. Flight was the least of his concerns-that his radio link still worked was of prime importance.
"Hooot! The little devils have given us the slip, hooot! Requesting assistance from all teams!"
"Negative, Skywalker-we've just had a run on the Central Park North gate, the Rescue Rangers have broken the picket!"
"But I tell you they were here!"
"They must have split up into two groups-did you see their direction?!"
"Negative, we have a power outage streetside-hooot-we are as blind as bats!"
"Well figure it out and get yourselves after them, the other group may be heading for Codename Wisdom as we speak!"
They had nearly made it out of hearing, but Chip Maplewood's ears were still sharper than most, and the faint radio signal sent chills up his spine as his feet pounded the concrete.
"Codename Wisdom...the university, it has to be! Banastre has to be making his move!"
"An' it sounds like the girls are hot on his heels!" Dale panted, mopping his brow with his sleeve. "Why wouldn't she wait for us?"
"Because we were overdue," Chip hissed, angry not at his teammates but at his own inability. "When power went out on the Bolt we had no radio, no signal system-and I forgot!"
"Lawainie must have thought us captured," Reguba huffed, pulling Moira to her feet as she stumbled. "And she would be just the creature to undertake a move so bold!"
He drew up for a moment, stopping to lean against a tree.
"It sounded as if she gave them some considerable trouble."
"That's what worries me," Chip muttered. "We've got no way of knowing if they're all right...or if anyone got left behind."
The chipmunk felt torn. Concern for this team...for his family, was paramount. Were they all together? Monty and Geegaw would have stayed behind of course...but what about Tammy, the feisty youngster who had grown so much, becoming such a fast friend-what of her? Or Foxglove, or Mariel? His insides quaked at the very thought. Where was his baby? The instinct of the father in him burned hotly, and for a moment he was tempted to break ranks and search for her, to search and make sure she was unharmed.
And what about...her? he wondered, struggling against his own thoughts as he ran. For all that the memory of Gadget glowed brightly in his heart, the warmth and comfort of Lawainie's presence was something he had difficulty ignoring, that he couldn't dismiss. The thought that she might come to some harm filled him with an icy dread, and the fear of second loss gnawed at him.
Do I...do I love her?
His emotions did battle. He still longed for Gadget, each and every day-but yet...but yet he couldn't shake the happiness and depth of clarity he felt when the twin Hackwrench was with him. This was something he must deal with, he knew-and deal with soon. He had to...before it tore him apart. If that ever happened...he wasn't sure he could ever put himself back together again.
"It's the slip we've given them, I think!"
Moira's voice cut into his soliloquy, and he blinked.
"Aye, I believe we are well and clear, I see no pursuit," Reguba said, with a cursory look behind. Smiling widely, he clapped Sparky on the back.
"Well done, old thing. Well done indeed!"
"Th-thanks!" the rat replied, coughing at the ham-fisted shock to his lungs. "All in a day's-hrrrk-day's work!"
"Quite so. Now however...we have another problem which we must untangle."
He made eye contact with Chip, and the expression was filled with sorrow, knowing what the other Ranger must be feeling.
"Do we regroup-or do we go to the girls' aid?"
"I vote we run," Moira breathed heavily. "The blackguards are everywhere, so they are-what chance are we havin'? We can't help anyone if we're captured."
"While the idea has some merit, Lawainie and the ladies are in trouble. They may know not what they face...and I feel for m'self, that even if it is the end of the Rescue Rangers...we still must go. Even if the lot of you should choose not, I do not hold you honorless-but I will go to their aid alone. For my beloved-and for who we are."
"There's no question about going."
Chip's voice was steely and defiant.
"Like you said Reg. Even if it means the end of us-we go and back Lawainie's play. Whatever Banastre and Desiree are planning, we stop it here."
Pulling down his hat, Chip helped Dale back to his feet from where he had sat, and checked their position. If they could catch the bumper of a city hoverbus, the university was only a few minutes away. It might be a hustle, but if they pushed hard enough, they might make it in time, maybe with a moment to spare.
"We're going," he repeated. "This madness has to end-we stop them, however we have to. Stop them...or we die trying."
"My dear Madam Secretary-how long has it been, the conference in Munich back in '28, surely?"
"Surely it must, my lord. You vere quite charming, as I recall."
"I do hope that is a quality which I have retained in the advancing years, good lady."
"I believe in reserving judgement until I have all facts in my hands, so that vill remain to be seen."
Tugging at the collar of his tuxedo, Birchbriar Bakerstreet cringed. This interaction was the one which he had dreaded...dare he even say, feared? While age had begun to rob her of her physical grace, the indomitable Miss Bianca had lost none of her tenacious wit, or instinct. If he should make a slip in his ointment now, all might be lost indeed, for she would not be the doddering fool that some surmised. To his trained, searching view, her eyes held the look of a predator-calm, sedate and at ease...but yet cunning, swift, and ever vigilant. If anyone should guess his intent this night, it would be Miss Bianca, and with events running already so hard against him, it was a chance he could ill ignore.
"A capital offense to theorize without data, I believe was how great-grandfather so eloquently put it. It is a wise philosophy in any eventuality."
"I have found it to be so, especially vhen considering matters of such grave importance as appointing a mouse who would be Prince."
The nerves at the base of his neck tingled, touched by alarm and apprehension as the old eyes bore into his own, searching it seemed the depth of his being, prying into the private corners of his inner thoughts in a quest for truth. If she only knew."
"My dear lady, I am afraid I don't understand."
"Hmm. Perhaps not."
The practical, innocent smile that played at the corners of his lips was a skill bred by the politician inside him, and effortless shield long perfected to keep his true self from shining through to those with whom he would do intellectual combat. Why then did it seem, that with seemingly little effort and no evidence of conscious will, Bianca Moskevitz was able to strip back the layers of his defenses and peer inside them, as a spy leafing through pages of sensitive documents left carelessly on an untended desk.
"I vill say that I vas somewhat surprised by your arrival. I had thought you somevhat removed from the world of...true influence."
Oh, but she was sharp, this one. Sharp, yet smooth and deadly, circling for a kill that she was sure must come. Bakerstreet blinked, and steeled his resolve. Come it may...but he would not surrender the game without giving these peasants a true taste of the chore.
"You seem remarkably informed, for one who has spent her declining years in such seclusion. I might be able to use someone of such resource in my administration, if you do not mind an office without a view. I am afraid I already have plans for redecorating yours."
He was rewarded with a subtle flickering of emotion that crossed Bianca's face, and inwardly Bakerstreet congratulated himself. He had scored a hit, a fine hit, and now his enemy might begin to question the high ground upon which she had arrived. Yes, he must count Bianca among his enemies, for he was fully aware of her relationship to his opponent. In the hours since the opening of the Trifecta, he had exerted all his considerable powers in a call for intelligence, and the picture which had constructed itself from his efforts only deepened his indignity. That Bianca and her allies were the basis of power behind Corkscrew Hackwrench's bid to supplant him was blatantly obvious. More disturbing was the fact his own hubris had prevented him from considering this possibility, and now he was left to fight for what would be his own.
"Might I ask after your husband? I know that Agent Bernard is getting well on in years himself, I do hope all is at peace with him."
"Bernard keeps busy. He has many little hobbies that keep his attention occupied during his second childhood. He finds strength in them, I believe."
There! Had it been-a brief flash of insight flickering momentarily in the deep brown pools of her serene composure? Good she might be, but perfect Bianca was not, and as the other guests milled about them across the grand ballroom of Rescue Aid Society Headquarters, Bakerstreet went on the offensive, searching for a crack in her hard forged armor.
"You have some acquaintance with my rival, I believe. Is there anything special that I should know?"
"Only that his sense of duty is eclipsed by but vone thing, and that is his sense of justice. He is a mouse who suffers not evil and deceit to pass him by vithout challenge."
So...there it was, at last. It was now without doubt that the former Secretary General suspected his motives, or had at least some inkling of what he had designed. There must be leaks somewhere, tiny openings in the fortress walls of his world that were hemorrhaging information, and now that the die had been cast he must needs exert his will toward sealing them.
"I assure you madam, in that regard Mr. Hackwrench and I are...of a kind," the younger mouse replied with a forced smile, resisting the urge to vomit at the thought of placing himself on the same level as the hated offspring of his family's bane. "I intend all the best toward our people, and my desire is to protect them and defend them from all great existential threats to our society. Including those who have some apparent difficulty adjusting to life in our great order."
"I take it you refer to the Rescue Rangers."
"Do I? I did not recall considering...them," he said with plainly displayed distaste. "But, as they have placed themselves firmly at odds with this august body's appointed authority, I should gladly make it a point to draw them out and deal with them, wherever they might have themselves secreted away. No creature is above the law, after all."
"This is truth you have spoken, just now-and I vould bid you remember it. While the Rescue Rangers might appear on the surface to be enemies of the state...things are not always what they seem. Should any creature play our families and neighbors falsely...I am sure they vould be the first to cast their own safety aside in pursuit of him."
The depth of Bianca's words was cavernous, but it was the enormous complexity of what she had not said that spoke volumes. It was now laid plainly bare that certain secrets were not so carefully guarded as he had deemed, and now the danger to both his own design and that of his ill-met partner were made manifest. They were not truly discovered...not yet. But the gameplay had now taken a more challenging turn than he could have imagined when landing in the city. Perhaps there might at last be a contest worthy of his gifts. So be it-and let the chips fall where they may.
"I do beg your pardon, I hope this isn't a private conversation?"
Bianca's eyes cut to the side, and the strain and tension melted from her features as she identified the owner of the voice.
"Charles! I had not expected to see you dahling, this is a great pleasure!"
Making his way through several other small clutches of conversing creatures, Birch Maplewood allowed his ordinarily dour expression to slip even more sourly.
"Bianca please-you know I hate that."
"Oh don't be so melodramatic dahling, you know I always found your given name so charming, and even a bit distinguished! You should have some small experience with that, yourself."
"I bow as always to the logic of the great lady representing Hungary. May her radiance never dim."
Bianca blushed slightly, flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Birch might be old, and gruff and weatherworn, but when necessary he could be charming and disarmingly genteel, just as could his son when in a moment demanding it. It was a quality in him that she admired, for he did not use it loosely.
"Introduce us to your friend?"
She caught the roguish twinkle in his eye, and played her part willingly.
"Oh! How rude of me, my dears! Allow me to level our playing field, so to speak. Lord Birchbriar Bakerstreet-Mr. Charles B. Maplewood Senior, Esquire."
"Ah, your Excellency. I've followed some of your political accomplishments in the international press, but I didn't connect the face. I do beg your pardon."
The expression on the haughty peer's face was tight-lipped and disdainful, his gaze raking up and down Birch's evening clothes with a pointed sniff; his social proprieties demanded that he at least respond with some poise.
"Charmed, I am sure. I am gratified that my work meets the approval of one of such long-standing respect."
His emphasis on the word 'long' didn't escape Birch's attention, and inwardly he was amused. So that was how it was going to be, was it? Very well-he had practiced such verbal sparring in the courtroom since he was wet behind the ears, and his skills were well honed and sharp enough to split a molecule, when need be.
"I didn't say I approved of it, but I have followed it. It pays to keep abreast of those in positions of social power, gaffes and all."
Bakerstreet said nothing, for a few seconds. His face was inscrutible, a mask of unreleased emotions and tightly controlled inner turmoil hidden by an almost perfect veneer of tight, gracefully polished mental gloss. He seemed almost at peace, as if seeking solace inwardly in deciding his next move.
"I understand your son has been of keen interest to our organization of late. You have my condolences, sir...I'm sure it was a career well spent."
"Has he? I haven't seen Junior face to face for quite some time. I will admit to being a smidge out of touch."
"Oh come, come now, Counselor. Surely you keep your fingers on the pulse of many things, as you've said."
"I did say that, didn't I. I must be getting a trifle forgetful in my old age."
Bakerstreet studied Birch's face carefully, trying as he might to penetrate the exterior shield firmly guarding the chipmunk's thoughts. If it was a contest of wills he wished, then a contest he could have, and his lordship was woefully unequipped.
"Considering the overarching seriousness of what we're doing here however, I am still acquainted with a few facts. A few simple trifles that give me some pause. How a low-ranking British peer of a disgraced house with only designs on social importance, suddenly buys himself into the sphere of political influence and mints a resurgent career when most mice are considering their impending retirement. I think I'd have a few questions about that fact."
The mouse's silence was pronounced and stony, and Birch warmed to the hunt, his blood rising as he felt the pull of battle calling to him, like the entrancing melody of the contest in a courtroom.
"Secondly, how comes such a mouse into such close friendship with such a wealthy and on-the-move financier, seemingly a partnership of long-standing acquaintance, whereas I am well aware that neither of you knew the other two weeks ago. Curious, isn't it."
"I fail to see the effect of such a question. I am naturally a creature who draws allies to himself."
"Perhaps. And I suppose the sudden appearance of a Hackwrench in this contest has little relevance, either. Come on, sir. I may be old, but don't presume to insult my intelligence."
Bakerstreet considered this newcomer carefully. As proud as he might be of the gifts he had inherited from old Basil, he was not yet so consumed by his own self-worth that he could overlook the presence of a danger to him. Birch Maplewood represented just that-not a rival but a kindred intellect of a sort, capable of uprooting him, with ease should he not take care.
"Your information does you justice, sir."
"I make it my business to know what others don't know," Birch replied with a rolling shrug of his shoulders. "I've spent my life defending justice before the dock, as you'd put it. A lifetime thusly spent doesn't come without resources-or insight."
The corners of Lord Bakerstreet's lips turned upward with a cruel slant.
"I see. Was it such an insight then, when allowing your son to wed the bush pilot's brat?"
Bianca drew in her breath sharply, and Birch felt Miriam go tense at his side. Until now the conversation had kept the appearance of two gentlecreatures sparring at debate, but with one deep cut Bakerstreet had swept his blade low, swiping not only at the Maplewood family's reputation but at Gadget's as well, reducing her memory to the level of a pawn used for leverage. As a younger chipmunk, Birch might have forsaken propriety and given the stern, polished noblemouse quite something else to think about, but his age and his skill had taught him to master his temperament, and to turn the ire of his opponents against them. Given the proper impetus, an enemy would hang themselves in time, with very little assistance.
"That 'brat', as you so indelicately put it, carried some of your own blood, I believe. How does it feel, the knowledge that the 'bush pilot's daughter' possessed an intellect that could have disarmed you like swatting a flea?"
A vein visibly bulged in Bakerstreet's neck, and the old lawyer knew immediately that he had scored on the gameboard. Now he would press his advantage, and see if there was anything to be learned from the offensive.
"Oh she was good at that, was my Gabby. I often wondered if I should have invited her to read for the law with my practice, but I believe she had too much of a desire in her to take on the threats directly. That was old Basil coming out in her, I suppose-I dare say she received the lion's share of his talent."
The change was immediate. Bakerstreet showed his teeth, and his brown eyes seemed to glow an almost golden hue, as if on fire from some storm within.
"Have a care, moth-eaten relic! Do not presume that I am constrained to endure insult and ire endlessly, nomination or not. The heirs of Basil of Baker Street do not forget injury nor dishonor!"
Birch kept his face still, but allowed his lip to curl slightly in a subtle expression of disgust.
"Funny. Considering how much you appear to indulge in both, that would seem rather obvious."
The quip had its' desired effect, bringing Lord Bakerstreet springing toward him with a snarl, all sense of culture and propriety forgotten. His fingers curled themselves into almost feral claws, and several bystanders shrank back in fright, unable to comprehend what had brought out such a beast in someone so poised and reserved.
"I'll rip you in two, slimy spawn of a sewer rat!"
Birch's hard-set gaze never wavered-moving with a smoothness and speed that belied his age, he pushed Miriam aside, and took a half step back. Locking eyes with Bakerstreet, he waited one second, two, three, until the anger-crazed rodent was almost upon him.
And now the clincher, he thought briefly, reaching to his side. With one fluid sweep, he brought his heavy cane up before him, and planted the weighted silver cap directly in the center of Bakerstreet's chest with a solid thunk.
"Hrrrnnnkk!"
With that, all thought of fight and fury left Basil's heir, and he collapsed into a seat, gasping as he clutched at his breastbone, the wind firmly knocked out of him. The entire exchange had taken but a moment, and through the Ball's crowds and background music almost no one had observed the rising action that had taken place. As for Lord Bakerstreet himself, he sat back heavily, looking distinctly blue as he struggled to recover his breath. Birch pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and polished the cane's cap gently, and then leaned forward on it.
"You know, I would be very careful with that asthma were I you, your Excellency. I wouldn't want you to run out of puff in the middle of campaigning, now."
Replacing his top hat, he offered Miriam his arm once more, tipping the brim as he made for his reserved table.
"Good evening, Bianca. Please call on me anytime-the office can always benefit from that cheery sparkle of yours."
"I vill consider it a social invitation, dahling. Do take good care."
"Believe me, my old friend-I never take anything else."
Raising the head of his cane to his hat brim, he saluted Bakerstreet as they passed, keeping his eyes straight ahead and purposefully ignoring the murderous glare that now threatened to burn a hole in his back. It was a job well done-while he might not have aided Corky's bold move all that much, he had planted a seed of doubt in his opponent's mind, and now he would begin to wonder, and find himself the victim of second thoughts. He had seen it play out thousands of times in dozens of courtrooms throughout his life, and rarely had been the case when a guilty conscience had not been beset by it. Yes, it was a job well done, indeed.
"That was wicked you know," Miriam admonished him softly. "Goading him on like that. He didn't stand a chance in a sparring match with you, and you knew it," she said with a soft giggle.
"That may be true my dear, but what's more important is that he believed it. I've placed myself firmly against him now, and he will be wondering after what cards I hold."
"But do you actually hold any?"
"Not yet. But that's the point of all this, tonight. All I've done is rattle the bushes. Now, if I've rattled the proper one...we'll see what falls out."